“Do you have your camera?” he asks. “I’ve always wanted a picture in one of these things.” Cary runs quickly over to one of those old-fashioned red London phone booths.
Laughing, I pull out my camera to capture the magic of Cary pretending to be Clark Kent changing into Superman.
“Excuse me,” I say to a passerby. “Can you take a picture of my friend and me?”
The older man sighs but nods resignedly.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“Well, I’ve already stopped, haven’t I?” he asks in a grumpy, impatient tone.
“Fantastic point.”
I laugh, handing my camera over to him, explaining how it works. I rush over to Cary, who’s smiling in amusement at the whole exchange.
“I have a feeling we’re going to be beheaded in this picture,” he mutters in my ear. I elbow him gently and tell him to smile at Grumpy.
“Watch the birdie,” the man says before snapping the picture. “Okay,” he says the moment he’s done, “please come and retrieve your camera now.” He’s grumpy but efficient.
Once I have my camera back, Cary and I continue taking pictures of each other in the phone booth – pretending to have the most intense transcontinental conversations, hanging out of the doorway, staring at the phone itself in shock. The whole thing makes me feel like I’m thirteen. It’s so silly, and somehow that’s why it’s so fun.
“You know, I almost didn’t come this year,” Cary says quietly a little while later, sitting on the stony steps at Hyde Park, across the street from Royal Albert Hall.
“What do you mean?” I ask, staring at the Hall, wondering what kinds of music have filled this air before. Maybe someday I’ll return and see a show there.
“To London,” he explains. “To the workshop.”
“Why?” I ask, still gazing at the round, dominating structure before me that is as much a staple of London as the queen. “Everything here is so incredible. The history, the theater, the music, the squares, the posh neighborhoods, the parks,” I finish, glancing behind me. Even in winter, not cast in glorious colors, this place looks so peaceful and nice. “Don’t you love it?” I wonder.
“Of course,” he says with a shrug. “But I’ve seen all of this a thousand times. These places you’re seeing for the first time, I’ve seen them before. For me the pull here was not about the scenery or about touring around. It was about love. And you know – as time goes by, it just hurts more. Why would I put myself through that again?”
“So why’d you come?” I finally ask.
He looks at me. Studies my eyes, my expression. “I had a feeling that maybe this year would be different.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “A feeling?” I ask skeptically.
“Yes.” He looks at me very seriously then, all humor from before gone from his expression. “And I’m glad I went with it.”
“Well, aren’t we a pair?” I ask, chuckling. “You had a feeling and I came all the way here because a psychic basically told me that I needed a life.”
Cary pulls closer to me as he laughs. Really laughs. I honestly feel like I’ve known him forever. Well, I guess I nearly have. Though I never really knew him back in our school days. I thought he was a conceited jerk. But my God, he’s a complete sweetheart. A romantic and a naturally good person.
“Who knows, Cary? Maybe this time things will turn out differently.”
He shrugs, absentmindedly playing with a tear on the knee of his jeans. “Sure. And maybe this time the classes will pay off and when I get back to New York I’ll land more than just supporting roles in off-off-Broadway shows.”
“A lot of actors would kill to get work off-off-Broadway,” I say encouragingly. “Anyway, you’re doing it right. You’re taking classes, improving, and you’re following your heart. It’s what you want to do, and you’re going after it. Plus, you aren’t starving, or on the streets, so that’s a good sign,” I joke, knocking my knees lightly against his.
He drops his head and laughs quietly. “Told you that you were an optimist,” he says.
“Look, you’ve successfully convinced a lot of people that we’re married and you’re not even attracted to me. If that’s not the sign of a good actor–”
“I find you very attractive,” he says, almost sounding offended.
“You have known me since the second grade and you barely knew that I was alive before this trip,” I point out.
“Maybe so,” he says. “But just trust me on this one. Once I finally got to know you, you honestly drew me in. I think you’re beautiful and funny. Though as far as we go,” he says, gesturing between himself and me, “I feel this is exactly right, like we were always meant to be friends.”
I nod because I feel the exact same way. Handsome, sweet, and charming as he is, I have nothing but friendly feelings for him.
“And just so you know,” he continues, “there is someone you’ve met here that is attracted to you, who might act on it if he didn’t think you were married.”
That gets my attention. I look at him again. “Who?”
He offers me an impatient look in lieu of an answer.
I balk out loud as comprehension dawns. He’s talking about Oliver. “Cary, Oliver Burke thinks that I’m a complete liar – and okay, he’s kind of right about that, although usually I’m very truthful – an identity thief, and he seems to want to find me out and, I don’t know, put me in jail. Plus, I nearly burnt his sister’s bathroom down. Let’s not forget that.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that,” he says. “I just think that despite all of those very tiny details, there might be something there.” He’s enjoying this too much. “I see it in his eyes.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” I stand up, suddenly feeling cagey.
“Try not to be so upset about it,” Cary says, following suit and standing too. “There are worse things than me being right about this. He seems like an okay guy.”
“He is,” I say. Too quickly. But Oliver is a good guy, despite some of his frustrating tendencies. The way he is with his sister…the way he’s helped me out more than once since I arrived, going clearly beyond the expectations of his job. And he is a good looking guy. With his unruly dark curls, constant five o’clock shadow, scruffy style and soft brown eyes….
Cary chuckles softly beside me as we head into Hyde Park. A little girl in a pale blue petticoat walks hand-in-hand with her father. Runners and bicyclists battle the cold for their sport. Three young teenage girls are sitting on a bench a little ways away, bundled up in sweaters, hats and scarves of the brightest colors – the golden memorial behind them glistening in the sunlight – gabbing a mile a minute about life and love.
“You know, nearly every time I look at you, you have this look on your face, like you’re blown away by every sight. Except half the views aren’t that fascinating. Like those girls on the bench, for instance,” he points out, following my stare.
“They just remind me of my sisters and me.”
“How many sisters do you have?”
“Two. Julie and Marian.”
“Ahh, the infamous Marian, who just married Tom,” he says, coyly.
I sigh and look at the girls again. The older of the three is telling her sisters to shut up because they’re giving her a headache. “We used to walk down to Faneuil Hall and sit there for hours on the steps, drinking iced coffees. We had to drink them away from home because my mom told us coffee would stunt our growth. She said she didn’t want people thinking she was in the business of raising hyper midgets.”
He laughs and then bites his lower lip, studying me. “You miss them, don’t you?”
“My sisters?”
“Your whole family.”
“We yell at each other. Everyone is always in everyone else’s business. Sometimes there are so many of us, it’s work just to feel visible. I am constantly told what I should do to better my career and my dating prospects. And my wardrobe. They’re all overachievers which can be so annoying—�
�
Cary just stares at me intently, solemnly, and waits.
“I miss them a lot,” I finally admit. Because I do. Warts and all, my family is one large and in charge brood. Life is too quiet without them.
We stare ahead at miles of park. Shifting the conversation to Cary’s own wacky family, we walk past the park’s famous Peter Pan statue, Diana Memorial, the flower gardens, the Serpentine Pond, and then back to the Royal Albert Hall. Things I never thought I’d see in a million years are at my fingertips, before my eyes, and all around me. It won’t be long before this is what I miss.
“You know what happens at the Serpentine Pond on New Years, right?” Polly asks, after I’ve told her all about my day at Hyde Park with Cary. She is prepping decorations to put up in The Chaizer’s ballroom for the New Year’s party tomorrow. She grabs a bag full of black and silver stars and breaks it open like it’s some kind of personal enemy of hers.
“What?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the counter of the reception desk.
“At midnight on the new year exactly, all these people jump into the Serpentine – many of them naked – and go swimming,” she explains.
“That sounds really fun actually,” I say. “The swimming part, not the naked part. Although in this weather, you couldn’t pay me to partake.”
“It’s disgusting,” Polly says, staring at me until I make a face that she clearly takes for concession to her side of the argument. “And it’s mostly these old, wrinkled men that do it.”
I laugh as a mental image comes to me. “I may have to venture over there after midnight to check it out for myself.”
“Why? Are you some kind of pervert? Are wrinkly old men your…your preference?”
“What?”
“Hi, ladies,” a familiar voice interrupts before I can even grace her asinine question with an answer.
I turn to see Oliver walking, hands in his pockets, towards us. I take a deep breath, realizing that for the first time since I met him, I’m actually nervous to see him. And not at the thought that he might question me nonstop about my husband and my marriage, or ask where Cary is again. No. I’m nervous because…well, he looks nice. As always, his dark, wavy locks are falling carelessly in all directions, grazing his forehead just above his left brow. He’s wearing a dark grey sweater over a tee shirt with dark jeans, and something in his walk just says “I don’t care” in a way that’s kind of….
I close my eyes, cursing Cary and his big mouth for planting this seed in my mind.
“Aren’t you two chummy now?” Oliver asks, looking pointedly at Polly.
“She came up to the desk and just started yammering on about her day with that hot hubby of hers,” Polly explains, beginning to string the black and silver stars on a long clear wire.
“Listen,” Oliver says to me, aside. “Can I talk to you?”
He walks away from Polly towards the concierge desk that he never seems to sit at. I follow, waiting expectantly for him to say something once we’ve stopped. Anything. Instead, he looks around, almost like he’s looking for something – or someone. He seems uncomfortable and extremely unhappy. Finally, he stares down at me, his dark eyes blazing.
“Okay,” he begins in a tight voice. “I know I’m not your favorite person. And, well, you’re not exactly mine either, Miss Gray. So I don’t know why I’m even here right now. I shouldn’t be,” he says quietly. Conspiratorially. All of it in a rush.
In all, it isn’t shaping up to sound like an admission that he just can’t stop thinking about me or has a maddening crush on me. Yet, I still have knots in my stomach because, well – he’s speaking with such urgency. He seems so tense and conflicted.
Kind of how I’m starting to feel.
“Okay,” I say encouragingly. Because I honestly have no idea what else to say to him at this point.
“I’m not sure if you’re…who you say you are,” he mutters carefully. Slowly. He stares at me, waiting for something. A look, perhaps. I try to keep my gaze steady, to keep him from finding whatever he is searching my face for. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“I think so,” I say, deliberately. Even though I am positive I have no clue what he’s talking about right now.
“This whole thing is just…it’s a problem,” he says. “I have a job to do, and I’m not supposed to care one way or the other how it turns out.” His gaze falls to the ground and he shakes his head almost sadly. “I really can’t believe I’m here right now. This could screw up everything. And I’ll definitely be sacked.”
“You know, the last thing you said that made any sense was ‘can I talk to you,’” I point out.
“Have you been honest with me?” he asks, suddenly.
I stare at him. I didn’t expect that. Such a bold, blunt question. And of course I haven’t been honest with him for one millisecond that I’ve known him. I open my mouth to say something, but don’t know what to say. All I can manage to do is chew on my lower lip.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think so,” he says softly.
My heart is hammering so loudly in my chest, I wonder if he can hear it. This conversation is spiraling out of my control. The instinct to run is becoming strong.
Plus, this man completely unnerves me every time I am near him. Suddenly all of it just seems so stupid. Every lie – pretending to be a honeymooner to stay in this hotel, pretending Cary is my husband – it all just seems so dumb. I want to get it over with, tell him that I’ve been lying since we met. And then add casually that I’m single and ready to mingle.
No matter how many times I open my mouth to tell him, it won’t come out. I guess when you tell a lie long enough, it seems impossible to ever just admit the truth. Even when it’s a harmless little white lie. And especially when you sort of care about the person you’ve lied to, and what they think of you.
“Here’s what I think,” Oliver continues, looking at me again. His cheeks are flushed. “You are in way over your head and….” He trails off, looking at some space between us, shaking his head. I can almost see his mind racing.
I just stare at him numbly, trying to figure out what he is possibly talking about. The conversation has actually gotten stranger than when it started. I didn’t think that was even possible.
“I can’t help you,” he finally spits out, seeming almost bowled over with some kind of inner torment.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and I freeze. I am almost positive my heart has stopped beating altogether. How pathetic is that? He is touching me on my shoulders, for God’s sake. For the way I feel at this very moment, he may as well be making out with me.
He searches my face intensely. “Just be careful,” he says, almost in a whisper.
And then he is gone.
I stare after him as he leaves The Chaizer, wondering what on earth just happened. “What was that all about?” Polly asks, rushing out from behind the desk and making her way to the concierge desk to the get the scoop. “I tried to listen in, of course, but I didn’t get a thing.”
I just stare at her, shocked she’s admitting to eavesdropping. Or attempting to eavesdrop.
Instead of answering her, though, I just continue staring at the door, squinting my eyes, Polly’s voice becoming no more than an echo inside a loud ambient vacuum.
Suddenly I think of everything – my promise to Mary to own this adventure and be Marian, my worry about being kicked out for checking in with a fake ID, the Chaizer’s policy about exclusivity for honeymooners, and Oliver’s strange, ominous words. And I wonder, for the first time, what would happen if I decided to tell the truth.
he next day, Oliver’s words are still ringing in my ears. They have all but put me in a tizzy. Warnings to be careful, assertions that I’m in over my head and allusions to my lie – it’s a wonder I got any sleep last night. For safe measure, I call my brother, Charles, for some legal perspective from Cary’s cell phone. It’s immediately obvious, however, that he can’t remove the Big Brothe
r cap long enough to think like a lawyer.
“I told you that you shouldn’t have stayed there alone.” Somehow even now, at twenty six years old, I do not merit an adult tone from my older siblings. Or my parents. “You should have come straight home when I said to.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, Charles’s deep vibrato hurting my eardrums. “Charles,” I say, putting the phone cautiously back up to my ear. “Calm down. Nothing’s happened.” Yet, I add silently so Charles doesn’t have an aneurism.
“Really?” he asks disbelievingly. “Nothing? That’s why you’re calling me for legal counsel?”
I count to five to myself just as I do in class before dealing with the kids in particularly stressful situations – like when Liam put gum in Hannah’s hair or when Liam pulled the fire alarm causing the whole school to evacuate and the fire department to visit. Once I’m calm, I ask my brother, “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’ve made a few friends and I’m just seeking advice to pass on to them, since it would be free of charge coming from my brother, instead of, you know, a strange lawyer?”
“Friends.” I can practically hear the air quotes over the line. “I’ve heard that a million times, Lucy. Cora has ‘friends’, too, that wanted to know at dinner – last night, in fact – why parents ‘wrestle with their door closed’ on Saturday mornings. So don’t pull that with me. You don’t have friends.”
“Well, now you’re just being mean,” I say, grabbing the red nail polish I tucked away in my makeup bag’s side pocket and pulling the cap off. I prop my feet up on the bed and begin prettifying my toes to distract myself from Charles’s needless worrying.
“You know what I mean,” Charles says, his voice a mix of apology and impatience.
“I’m just curious, Charles, about what happens when a person gets caught for, um, identity theft.”
“Identity theft.” Now he sounds horrified. I don’t think I’ve helped my case at all.
I roll my eyes as he laments that I was such a good kid, and never gave him so much as a worry in high school, unlike Julie and Marian. There. Left foot done. “But I knew you were too easy,” he says insistently. “I knew your drama would just come later.”
Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 16
