What on earth is he doing here?
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here. I hope you weren’t too bored,” he says.
“I…” I don’t know what to say. I am so confused. Were he and I supposed to meet up tonight?
Before anything coherent can even begin to form, he grabs me and pulls me into a passionate kiss. Okay, Cary has obviously gone mad. But my God, what a kisser. It can’t hurt to just go along with it. I throw my arms around his neck as he wraps his arms around my waist.
I’m so going on vacation more often.
When he finally comes up for air, he turns and holds his hand out to Oliver.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Lucy’s husband,” he explains.
Yes. He’s my…
Wait, what?
Oh. Dear. Lord. I’m not sure who looks more surprised, Oliver or me. Or Polly, for that matter, who’s looking from Cary to me repeatedly, clearly thinking, “He married her?”
And really, who can blame her? Cary looks like James Bond. He’s the kind of guy that my mother used to warn me and my sisters about. He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome.
But I am not exactly one of Bond’s famous girls, at least not today. Ever since I arrived in London, my curls have been out of control. My untrimmed copper-colored ringlets are all over the place. After trips up and down the stairs (thanks to the forgotten room key), I’m not-so-gently perspiring under the several layers I’d put on this morning to combat the wet cold of London. I’m just praying that it all comes across as a rosy-hued glow instead of a sloppy mess.
In my experience, guys like Cary never look twice at me. But if he wants to kiss me like that again, I could go along with it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask him, the moment the door to my flat is closed. Or is it our flat? Oh God.
“It came to me all at once. Why didn’t we think of this when we were chatting earlier? Okay.” He sits down on the love seat and turns on the fireplace, making himself at home. He looks at me. “I’m stuck in my hostel with three guys. One pees in his suitcase. One is an aspiring opera singer who likes to practice. A lot. And the other guy’s name is Gorilla. Gorilla. I have to take my suitcase with me everywhere lest my clothing be pee-washed. I mean everywhere, too - the bathroom, restaurants, coffee shops, acting class, phone booths. It’s absolutely insane.”
“That is kind of insane,” I murmur, my mind a blur of rom-com fantasies and mind-blowing kisses, the kind that can stop time.
“And you,” he continues. “You’re pretending to be a honeymooner at the most famous London honeymooning spot and you have no groom. You said there was someone who was onto you. I am guessing it was that guy downstairs who asked me all those questions?”
“Oliver, yes. By the way, smart move storming in here like that, not knowing anything about the guy you decided to pretend to be. I almost died on the spot when Oliver asked you what your name was and you answered, ‘Right now just call me Tired because I have the worst jet lag.’ Real smooth.”
“It’s called improv. We’re spending this whole week in class on it.” He aims one of his most disarming smiles my way and I feel short of breath. “So you, my dear, are in luck.”
“Yay,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. I sit down in a dramatic huff. Crossing my arms, I look up at him.
“Hey,” he says. “If it makes you uncomfortable, it’s off. I just thought it was a decent solution for both of us. And I’ll obviously pay you. I can give you what I would have otherwise spent on my hostel and work toward adding a bit more to that. Because this,” he says, looking around at everything – the kitchen, the fireplace, the king-sized bed and love seat, “is obviously a bit more expensive than that.”
I’m quiet for a moment, taking it all in. I came here to vacate my comfort zone. But this – sharing a flat with someone I barely know – is really, really far outside of my comfort zone.
“And I’ll sleep on the couch here, obviously,” Cary adds, as if reading my train of thought. “But again…if you’re uncomfortable, just say the word and I’ll go.”
I watch the fire crackle and roll the whole situation over in my head. It does makes sense. It’s an easy solution for me, that’s for sure. Finally, Oliver will have to leave me alone. That is a good thing, anyway. Plus, I’ll get to stay in a honeymoon flat with a guy that looks like 007 himself. I may even get to see him shirtless.
“Alright,” I say, like it was a hard decision for me to come to.
“You sure?”
I look at him and picture him shirtless. Oh, I’m sure.
“No funny business,” I joke.
He chuckles and I feel just a little offended. “I’ll try my best.”
* * *
Has anyone heard from Lucy…
Posted by @Charles at 9:53 AM on December 22 on TheGrayBlog
…since the night she called? If you hear from her, tell her to call me RIGHT AWAY. And Courtney, I am not sure you’re reading this but I have a feeling that Lucy’s asinine decision to run off to London like she’s Bridget Fucking Jones stems from you having walked off with her date to Marian’s wedding. I was annoyed then, but now I’m pissed. You are her cousin and he was not some guy….he was her date. So, I better hear that it was love at first sight and the two of you are marrying. Because if this was just for a meaningless roll in the…you know what? I’m going to stop there.
Remember, whoever hears from Lucy first - one message. Call me.
* * *
Charles, the role of Officer Ass has already been filled.
Posted by @JakeG at 11:04 AM on december 22 on TheGrayBlog
Courtney just called me wondering if she should change her locks or just move altogether. Leave her alone. I’m sure she’s only partially responsible for Lucy leaving.
Lucy, if you’re reading this, you should come home. Charles has gone to the bad place. Remember when he made your seventh grade boyfriend cry and then that kid told all the boys in your class not to go anywhere near you because your big brother was ‘postal’? Yeah - that place. Anyway, I’m heading to your apartment in a little while to fix your sink - in case it was feelings of family neglect that made you leave.
* * *
kay, when London calls, it beckons. Cary – my old classmate, new roommate or new husband, depending on who you ask – gave me two great pieces of advice last night before drifting happily into dreamland, far away from roommates named Gorilla or aspiring opera singers.
“Number One: a trip to London is worth nothing without a trip to Abbey Road and a picture taken on the zebra crossing to document it.”
Cary is a big Beatles fan. I’m not sure if it was when he asked me to pass the salt and Sgt. Pepper to him this morning or when he offered me a Penny Lane for my thoughts that tipped me off.
I stored that advice away for another day. Walking across a landmark in musical history is not number one on my London to-do list. Cool as it would be. Now his other piece of advice –
“Number Two,” he said, as he placed his pillow down on the love seat, preparing to go to sleep, “if you want to get all of the major sightseeing done in one fell swoop, sit on the top deck of a red two-decker bus and buy the hop on/hop off pass. You’ll see everything.”
– is why I am freezing my butt off. I am sitting on top of this stop sign red tourist bus and it’s only thirty-two degrees outside. No one else is up here. At the last stop, a woman who couldn’t get a seat downstairs came up here, sat down, and before the bus could even start moving, she hopped right off to wait for another one. I stopped feeling my nose about an hour ago. My eyes are so watery, I feel like I’m watching Titanic. I’m so cold, I feel like I’m on the Titanic. I feel like the wind is seeping right through my skin like osmosis practically refrigerating – no freezing – my bones, muscles, ligaments and basic internal makeup.
I’m wearing my favorite red hat that my grandmother knitted for me twelve years ago. Donning two scarves (one red, one green) on over two sweaters – I em
body Christmas spirit in my efforts to keep warm. My granite-colored trench coat is buttoned up to my neck. With all these layers, I am still completely frozen to the spot.
I think my brain is frozen too. I cannot for the life of me focus on what the guide is saying. I know some cute market is to my left and some political building or old palace (or both) is to my right. I know it’s all important but I can’t focus on anything other than the wonderful feeling that accompanies the knowledge that I am on a red, open bus in London – the same kind I have seen in movies and on television. White Christmas lights twinkle from stands in the local markets and I spot a few carolers making rounds throughout the city. Somehow, right now, the scenery seems less important than the scene.
I get off the bus at Buckingham Palace – also known as Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth the Second’s house. As I approach the main gates, I feel my blood thawing a little. I spot the famed guards standing outside in their high bearskin hats and long red coats, keeping watch over the Queen. I wonder if they’re as cold as I am. Suddenly, music starts to play and I realize I’m about to witness the Changing of the Guards. They are playing “Yellow Submarine.” Cary would love this. I’m sure he has done this before, though. For the first time since arriving, I really wish I had my phone back. Not to call home and tell everyone I’ve ever met about everything I’m seeing. But for the camera app! My life is completely undocumented without my phone and now I have no idea how to capture any of the great moments I’m about to encounter. I know I’ll never forget this moment, but without a video camera, I can never relive it over and over again to remind myself that I was here and witnessed a piece of history.
I walk for a couple of blocks and enter a quaint coffee shop, determined to defrost. This place – Hugging Mugs – is most definitely not part of any chain. It’s so tiny and homey, definitely a mom and pop shop. Each brown and lavender chair is shaped like a large round coffee mug. Locals seem to be right in the middle of business – stopping at this neighborhood hangout to refuel.
Today, I am in no mood for two iced coffees sans sugar. I order a caramel mocha latte with a dash of cinnamon. I want something steaming and sweet. I sit down in a dark brown mug, relishing in the warmth of the drink and the indoors as jazz music buzzes softly in the background. My ears ache with relief at being away from the bitter cold.
I glance down at my map. Where to next? More of Cary’s winning advice streams into my mind.
“Ride the tube. It’ll make you feel like a local. Oh, and visit Hyde Park. That’s where the Beatles shot their photography for the album Beatles for Sale. It was the autumn of ’64…”
You’d think he’d been at the photo shoot with them. Or alive at the time.
I look at my map of the London Underground. It sounds so much cooler than The T in Boston. I’ve never been very good at reading maps. Another drawback to not having my phone is that I have to actually read a map. I turn it sideways, pull it closer to my face, then further away again, like I’m doing a Magic Eye exercise. How do I get over to Hyde Park?
I walk to the nearest tube station and decide to kill two birds with one stone. I will ride the tube to Hyde Park.
It’s a good plan, but unfortunately my inability to read a map properly and the fact that I am in a foreign country add up to me jumping on the wrong tube line heading in the wrong direction. At least that is what the old woman next to me is telling me.
“You clearly needed to go the other way.” she says, pointing emphatically at my map.
“I was intimidated,” I explain. “I was being yelled at about this gap, and it kind of scared me so I just hopped on – “
“Americans can never handle the overhead announcing ‘mind the gap.’ It’s that announcement that prevents you all from dying,” she says, waving a finger in my face. She eventually begins talking about her granddaughter who apparently looks about my age.
“ – But she’s very good with maps. And married. Are you married? You look single.”
I look single? Fantastic.
“I’m actually on my honeymoon,” I say. Part of me wants to put her in her place for assuming I’m single on sight – and for making singlehood sound like a disease. The other part of me wants to get used to saying it, so the next time I see Oliver and he asks me a bazillion questions, I won’t stammer and turn completely red again.
“Oh. Where is the lucky young man?” the woman asks.
“Oh…he’s…working,” I say lamely.
“On your honeymoon?” she asks, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. She’s certainly not impressed by me.
I sigh. It seems everyone in London has a real opinion about my fake marriage. We sit in awkward silence until I get off the tube. After I get on the wrong line one more time, I realize it’s easier from my new destination to just walk to the park.
After getting lost on foot, I eventually spot another red open bus and jump on, making the most of my all-day hop on/hop off pass. The bus driver seems completely astounded that I got that lost trying to get to Hyde Park from Buckingham Palace. Apparently I could have walked there in about twenty minutes.
An hour and ten minutes and three pounds after I first set off to find the park, I walk in through the Grand Entrance. It definitely lives up to its name. Three massive archways are separated by gorgeous columns, looking like something you might find in Ancient Greece. Trees line the outskirts of this vast and massive stretch of park. Children are running around, their parents yelling for them not to run too far. In the freezing cold, couples, friends, families and those going solo like me are here, enjoying the open arms of the park. It’s hard to believe it’s right in the middle of such a busy city.
I sit down against a tree and look around. I spot a couple that looks like actual newlyweds, or at the very least, a couple in love. The man dips his head to plant a tender kiss on the woman’s lips and then they smile and he takes her hand. I think back to the kiss I shared with Cary last night. He’s every bit as good a kisser as he appears to be. You don’t often get the opportunity to know something like that for sure. I haven’t really allowed myself to think too much about the new situation I’m in now.
I’m “married” to Cary, someone I knew in another world, another time and place. Back then, he didn’t know I was alive and I thought he was a complete jerk.
But now my mind is running away from me and I can’t help but think about it for a second, in the words of Mary at my future hypothetical wedding:
It was so sweet. They pretended to be newlyweds. They pretended to be in love. And then…they realized they were not pretending anymore, that somewhere along the lines, they really did fall in love.
I sigh, smiling to myself. I did not come to London to fall in love. I came here to try something new. I came here for me.
Besides, Cary is pretending to be my husband for one reason and one reason only.
He doesn’t want some weirdo to pee in his suitcase.
Back on Kensington High Street, I pop into a little camera shop. A woman with yellow and pink hair and a black leather coat walks up to me and smiles.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Something cheap,” I say. “I just need something that takes pictures.”
“Lucy, this is Anne Benedict,” Cary says, when I meet him outside of the school building his class is in. “My teacher.” He recommended after my tour de Beatles that we meet up and hang out a little. He didn’t really mention meeting up with his classmates though…
“I think it is just wonderful what you and Cary are doing,” she says, before I can even shake her hand. She’s beaming at me, her long, golden-blonde hair in a messy braid.
“I told her about me being your husband,” he explains, raising his eyebrows with a look of intrigue.
“Just fantastic,” she says, shaking her head in seeming awe.
“Lying?” I ask. I just want to clarify so she realizes what it is she is so happy about.
“Oh, it’s not lying, dea
r. This is pure acting at its best. Improvisation. Living the scene.”
“She says this is the perfect exercise for me,” Cary says, smiling. “I’ve recently struggled a bit really getting into my characters.”
Great. My ultimate fantasy is the perfect classroom activity for him. I am trying to get a lifetime of love out of this whole thing and he is trying to get a little gold star next to his name on the bulletin board.
“I’ve made a list of things for him to try to do for the remainder of your time here.”
When Cary and I arrive at Emerson’s, a quaint little restaurant near The Chaizer, I browse the list. Hand-holding, PDA, date nights…okay, it’s a little weird, but it’ll be nice to have company for some of my trip. Then I notice another list item. “We have to stage a public falling out?”
“Yes, but look at the next item.”
“Stage a public make-up.” That, I can deal with.
“I want you to come with me tomorrow,” he says. “To my class. Everyone wants to meet you.”
“They do?” I ask.
“Of course. You’re my wife.”
I take a swig of my beer. This is all getting very strange, very fast. Normally right now I’d be Christmas shopping with one of my brothers or sisters or Mary. I’d be decorating the loft. I’d be pretend-boxing with Ricky and yelling at him for trying to bite the tiny lights around my window. And then he’d hide under the tree, looking cute. But I am in London sitting with my fake husband on my fake honeymoon and I’m his Show And Tell project.
“Okay, fine. I’ll stop by your class,” I say, popping a French fry into my mouth. “After my sightseeing.”
“I wouldn’t stand in the way of you and London.”
“You couldn’t. We’re in love.”
He laughs and takes a sip of his beer, the same dark local brew I’m drinking. It has a kick and just a hint of the winter season in its flavor. “So, what will our public falling out be over?”
Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 7
