Tales From a Broad (5 page)

“Um, excuse me,” I said loudly.

Unfortunately, for me, at that very same
moment “Penny” was desperately needed in the stock room. The
intercom blared through the store and completely drowned my words.
I watched him throw on a Yankee baseball hat and disappear through
the double doors, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Feeling silly, I waited for him to disappear
before my dead Mac and I walked out with my tail between my legs.
On a different day, I probably would’ve laughed at this classic
example of cultural differences. But unfortunately for me,
embarrassment is the same worldwide. And today, I just wasn’t in
the mood to laugh at myself with a better-looking member of the
opposite sex.

That drink with Tess was sounding better and
better. I stepped onto the sidewalk and drew in a breath of not so
fresh air. The repugnant smell of body odor and Petrulli oil filled
my lungs and its culprit, a young hippie, blocked my path. He shook
a cup of loose change in my face, and too nauseated to take another
sip of air, I held my breath and walked around him.

An ambulance whizzed by with a siren so
unexpectedly loud, I was startled and jumped backwards into a
puddle. I shook each foot, hoping to drain the water from my new
sandals and listened to the stinky hippie guffaw in the process.
Deciding I needed to make that drink a double, I bee-lined to the
pub.

The heavy, dark wooden door to the pub made
me strain from its weight as I pulled it open. Once inside, the
smell of fried food enveloped me. My mouth immediately filled with
water. I hadn’t eaten a thing since that morning’s
all-you-could-eat bread buffet.

The establishment was everything I had always
pictured an English pub to be. Worn oak flooring, wood paneling,
gas lamps, and etched glass windows. I looked over at the bar and
saw a dozen beers on tap, greasy potato chips, and jars of
hard-boiled eggs. Since egg breath isn’t exactly a turn-on across
the Atlantic, I wondered whether people actually ate the eggs.
That’s when I heard Tess calling my name.

I followed the sound of her voice and saw her
waving at me from a table in the corner. She was sitting with three
guys, and yes, I had to admit, they were pretty cute. I pulled my
hair into a pony and walked towards the group. Of course our
never-ending travel day hadn’t taken a toll on her. Tess’s glossy
hair was still shining, and she looked like she should be on the
cover of a travel magazine. The guys were hanging on her every word
as she sat there like Princess Kate holding court.

When I got closer, I realized with dismay
that I was old enough to be the young men’s mother. They were
around Tess’s age, and I suddenly felt ancient. There I was, in my
Burberry shoes, leggings, and cardigan, which were perfect for
afternoon tea at the Savoy. Then there was Tess and the rest of the
pub, dressed in skinny jeans and graphic print tees.

One of the guys looked over at me and made a
guttural sound that truly frightened me. I wasn’t sure if he was
choking or if there was a dog with a Midwest accent being strangled
inside of his body.

“Are you okay?” I said. For reasons
unbeknownst to me, his friends burst out laughing. Tess had to bite
her lip to keep from laughing herself.

“I would imagine that was supposed to be a
purr,” Tess translated. “Aunt Lucy, this is Chaz.”

Ah. That explained a lot. I’ve never met a
Chaz, but he was exactly what I would have expected to go along
with the name. He seemed to be fueled by their laughter, too
pompous to even realize they were laughing
at
him.

“Aunt Lucy,” Chaz said, giving me the
once-over. “You are much hotter than I would have expected an aunt
to be. A Brit would probably call you shagtastic, but I prefer the
term cougar,” he said, with a wink.

I raised an eyebrow. “I may look like one,
sweetie, but I don’t date younger men.”

“Who said anything about dating?” he
challenged.

I gave him my best fake smile and turned to
Tess. “Um,” I mumbled under my breath, “what do you say we lose the
aunt title for this trip?”

“Good idea,” Tess said. She smiled and handed
me a Carl’s Lager. “Let me introduce you to the
nice
guys. I
had no idea,” she said under her breath. “He hadn’t really said
much before you got here.”

I waved my hand dismissively and took a big
gulp of the beer. I hadn’t expected it to be so bitter, and I
forced myself to swallow.

One guy jumped to his feet and held out his
hand. “Hi, I’m Mark, this is Sam, and that’s an acquired taste.” He
made a face and gestured to my beer.

I shook their hands and smiled. “I’d heard
English beer tasted a bit different, but ...wait, are you talking
about the beer or your friend?” I pointed my thumb in Chaz’s
direction.

“Hey!” Chaz cried. “I take offense to
that.”

Sam snickered, and Mark held up his bottle to
mine. “Good one.”

“I’ll clink to that,” I returned.

“They have American beers on tap.” Mark
laughed and motioned to the bartender. “No offense, Chaz, but you
do leave a bit of an aftertaste. He may be one of our friends,”
Mark said, with a hand on his chest, “but please don’t hold it
against us.”

“I’m actually a fraternity brother,” Chaz
corrected with pride.

“And you think that helps your case?” I
said.

My kind audience laughed again, and though I
was serious, the reaction lifted my spirits. I might be old, but I
could still hang.

“So you guys are from Chicago,” I said. “For
how long are you travelling?”

“These guys,” Mark said, motioning to the
others, “have been backpacking for a few weeks already. Can’t you
smell?” He winked at me and took a sip of his beer. “This is only
my first stop. I’m traveling with my older brother, who you
actually just missed. He went off in search of a converter. Anyway,
he and I are planning to spend a week in Paris and a couple of
weeks in Italy.”

Tess rested her hand on his shoulder. “Aunt
... I mean, Lucy, you and Mark are cut from the same mold. He’s
doing the hotel thing.”

“Ah,” I said. “I’m jealous.”

“Err ... excuse me,” said a deep voice with a
British accent, from behind us.

I turned around and came face-to-face with a
young man. He had the whole rocker thing going on—long bangs,
skinny jeans, and the tightest t-shirt I’d ever seen in my life. I
was starting to doubt I’d be bumping into the Colin Firth type on
this trip.

“I’m with a local British network, and we’re
currently recruiting for a new reality series. It’s kind of like
“The Real World,” only cooler,” he boasted.

Tess squeezed my arm so hard she actually
left nail marks.

“Your mother would kill you,” I whispered in
her ear.

“Sweet,” said Chaz. “Where’s it gonna
be?”

“I’m afraid it’s still up in the air, but
Amsterdam looks like a front runner.”

“Dude, three months in Amsterdam. Sign me
up,” Chaz exclaimed.

“That actually sounds pretty cool,” I
admitted.

“Well, not you,” the guy said. He gave me a
strange look and scratched his chin. “Unless... Well, maybe we can
use you, after all.” He paused to look at me thoughtfully.

“No.” I chuckled and held my hand up in
protest. It never occurred to me I would be included in this. I
hoped this trip would bring me more excitement than I had expected.
However, I had been thinking more along the lines of a class act.
Not a shit show.

“Yeah ... wait ... the more I think about
this...” He slowly nodded his head.

“Are you kidding me?” I narrowed my eyes and
wondered if I was getting Punk’d. I half expected Ashton Kutcher to
pop up from behind the jars of pickled eggs, but the guy didn’t
seem to be joking in the slightest.

“Absobloodylutely not!” he exclaimed. “In
fact, you may add a good twist to the season.” He appeared to be
getting rather excited, and although there was no way in hell I
would ever allow myself to appear in a reality show, there was a
tiny piece of me that enjoyed the attention. I may not have been a
frontrunner, but it was nice to even be considered for a show with
a young demographic.

“Well, I
am
a twisted sister,” I
joked, laughing awkwardly. Tess subtly held out her hand to me and
wore an alarmed expression on her face.

The guy glanced down at his clipboard as I
leaned towards Tess. “What’s with the look?” I whispered.

“Twisted sister?” She cocked her head to the
side and gave me a pointed look.

“It’s a hip show,” I hissed. “I was trying to
sound...”

“Eighties?”

I feigned a hurt expression and was caught
off guard when the guy looked up at me expectantly.

“Are you around tomorrow to pop in for an
interview?” he said.

“Yes she is!” Tess shrieked. “We’ll
make
her available.”

I smiled modestly and shook my head
good-naturedly. “Guys, I really don’t think this is my thing.” I
placed a hand on my chest. Boy, did it feel good to be
flattered.

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I’m really liking
this dynamic.” He waved his hand around the group.

“What dynamic?” I said, fishing for
compliments.

“Ya know ... you hangin’ with the younger
blokes. It’s brilliant! Most of the older women I come across are
all fur coat and no knickers. You seem to have a little more depth.
You got the whole fresh face thing working...”

I looked at Tess who grimaced. “I see,” I
said quietly, feeling suddenly foolish.

“Dude, I get it. Like a hot den mother type
o’ thing?” Chaz said, foaming at the mouth.

“Something like that, man,” he replied
enthusiastically. “We never had a season where the ages were
totally mixed, and I think having a
mature
woman in the
house could be interesting. A shag here and there...”

The network visionary continued on with his
grand ole plan to make a spectacle out of me and I felt
increasingly like a little girl who had been busted for playing
dress up, but in reverse. I was an older woman who had been busted
for dressing down. It wasn’t my clothes, but rather my
surroundings. What had I been thinking, trying to pass myself off
as a carefree traveler? It wasn’t as if I had deliberately tried to
fit in with the younger, happy-go-lucky crowd, but still. I
certainly wished I could.

“Helloooo, Mrs. Robinson!” Chaz exclaimed,
snapping me out of my reverie.

“That’s not my style,” I said curtly. “I
don’t do younger.”

“Oh, rubbish,” the guy dismissed. “This is a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“Not for me.” I turned my back on him.

“It’s a TV show, for shit’s sake!” he cried.
“Don’t be an arse.”

“I don’t think so,” I smiled through gritted
teeth and muttered, “arsehole” under my breath. A raucous crowd of
young men and women came through the door, and nobody protested
when he walked off to make an introduction.

The group felt just as sorry for me as I felt
for myself. What was I thinking, even engaging him in such a
ridiculous conversation? There has never been anyone over thirty on
a show like “The Real World” and I certainly didn’t intend to be
the first.

* * * *

The following evening, Tess and I waited in
Covent Garden Plaza for a taxi to take us to the train station. The
next Eurostar was scheduled to leave for Brussels in an hour, and
we were still a forty-five minute cab ride away. It was starting to
rain, so when one pulled over, naturally I ran to it and jumped in.
I slid my bag across the seat to make room for Tess and was
startled by the sound of frantic knocking on my window.

I saw an attractive young woman, and I
cautiously unrolled the window. “Can I help you?”

“Oh sure,
now
you want to help,” she
spat, her face scrunched into a look of disdain. “Now that your
ass
is sitting on the seat I was supposed to have,” she
growled, poking herself in the chest. A big raindrop plopped onto
her cheek, and I watched mascara run down her painted face.

“What are you talking about? My niece and I
have been waiting for...”

“I was here before you!” she shouted.

“Noooo,” I said slowly.

“Ladies, where are you going?” the driver
called over his shoulder.

“Victoria Station,” Tess replied. “Aunt Lu,
roll up the window,” she pleaded.

Tess didn’t have to twist my arm. I rolled
the window up as the car began to move.

The woman began to pound on the window fast
and furiously. “Chav,” she yelled. “You low-life, American
chav.”

The driver made a groaning sound. Tess and I
looked at each other quizzically.

“Chav?
Is that the best she could do?
Is that even a word?” I demanded.

The driver looked at us in his rear view
mirror. “She looked a bit dodgy. Pay her no mind. She’s talking
bollocks.”

Tess had been fiddling around on her phone.
“Give me a break... It says here that a chav is a term for an
uneducated hoodlum in the United Kingdom. What an idiot.” She shook
her head.

I clicked my tongue. “Ew. Ignoramus. What
else does it say?”

“A chav can be a juvenile delinquent who is
amoral, vandalizes, paints graffiti, and speaks in slang. Or...”
Tess gasped, “She can come in an older version and be a trashy,
classless cheeseball.” Tess winced and looked at me apologetically.
“Aunt Lu, I really think we’ve read enough.”

“No,” I said through gritted teeth. “Go
on.”

Tess groaned and reluctantly looked down at
her phone. “In London, the chav trademark is none other than
Burberry.” She pressed a button on her phone and tossed it into her
bag.

My mouth fell agape. “Wow.” I paused and
swallowed. “
Wow
. The hat and shoes I’ve been proudly
sporting all over London basically has marked me, a forty-two year
old woman, as a certified chavberry
.
”