Honeymoon Alone: A Novel

by Nicole Macaulay

  “You know what?” I ask, cutting him off after I’ve painted the toes on my right foot, too. Cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, I screw the cap back on the nail polish. “Forget I called.”

  Honestly, I’m beginning to worry that Charles might hurt himself obsessing like this. I once overheard two teachers talking in the teacher’s lounge about how it was possible to actually induce a stroke on yourself. I don’t know much about it – or if it is even true for that matter – but Charles is the perfect candidate for such a thing. And I am not exactly helping. “I’ll be home in a couple of days and then you can rest easy.”

  He sighs. I imagine him massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, eyes closed – possibly counting to five like I was a few minutes ago. “Lucy, what do you need to know?” he asks after a moment, sounding defeated but much calmer. I smile. No matter how often he flies off the handle, he always comes through for me. And for everyone. He really is the best big brother. I just hope I don’t give him an ulcer because of it.

  An hour later, Cary and I head to the lobby – which, like the ballroom, is fully decked out in black and silver shimmery decorations for the New Year’s Eve bash tomorrow – for another day of touring. At least that was the plan. As we near the exit, I notice someone walking toward us from the couch area and turn to face her. Anne Benedict.

  I nudge Cary gently and tilt my head in her direction as she strides up to us, a nervous smile plastered on her face, her eyes never leaving Cary’s bewildered face.

  “Anne,” he says. He looks very thrown seeing her here. “Did I miss a class or something?” he asks. “I thought we were off until the last class on the third.”

  “Oh,” she says, shrugging.

  I could swear she’s blushing. Maybe I should walk away.

  “That’s not it,” she explains. “I mean, I’m not here about anything to do with class.”

  Now Cary’s perplexed expression turns to one of concern. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  She nods and rolls her eyes in self-deprecation. “I have these tickets to a show tonight,” she explains quickly.

  Cary still looks confused, though I’m starting to see what’s happening here. And I’m delighted.

  “Two tickets to be exact,” she says.

  Cary looks down at the tickets in her hands in interest. “Billy Elliot,” he enthuses. “Great show.” He still doesn’t quite get it.

  “I thought maybe we could go together,” she finally says. She throws a desperate look my way, like she’s asking for help, and I can’t blame her. Cary is being completely thick right now.

  He blinks a couple of times and looks at me in confusion. “To study spatial blocking or style?” he asks, turning back to her. I try very hard not to just kick him into understanding.

  She shakes her head. “No. Just…to go,” she says quietly. Her face is completely flushed.

  “That sounds nice,” I say encouragingly to Cary.

  He finally gets it. I know because he looks like he’s been sucker punched. And sometimes that is exactly how love should feel. He looks from her to me. “But we were going to—“

  “We,” I interrupt him, “were going to do some things that I can definitely do on my own.”

  I smile at Anne and she smiles back appreciatively.

  “What kind of wife would I be if I kept you from a possibly wonderful date?”

  Cary bends to kiss my cheek and whispers a very sincere “thank you” in my ear before finally putting Anne out of her misery and leaving The Chaizer with her.

  At Hugging Mugs, sipping my caramel latte, I ponder what Charles said. Basically I haven’t done anything wrong. I am not charging a credit card that is not mine. I am not trying to get any kind of monetary gain by pretending to be married at this resort. I haven’t committed a crime and attached Marian’s name to it. In short, I’m just a liar. And that’s reassuring. You know, in a humiliating sort of way.

  I turn the copy of the London Times that was left at my table – the same table that I’ve now sat at a few times – and peer at it casually as I drink. Another article about the Honeymooners grabs my attention. It’s just a small article stating all the countries they’ve hit so far – France, Germany, and Spain. They are now rumored to be in Italy.

  “So,” I hear Oliver’s voice say.

  I turn in my seat and look up at him, feeling a touch of anxiety at the sight of him. The last time I saw him, I basically admitted that I am lying about something. What if he’s coming in for his closing? “So,” I say back. I gesture towards the empty seat across from me in silent invitation.

  “How many more days are you here for?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

  At my quizzical look, he smiles and I just stare at him. How can this be the same guy from yesterday? Yesterday he acted beyond intense and incredibly cryptic. He was almost…protective toward me. Worried. Torn.

  Now I look at the man sitting before me. He is smiling in that particular, knowing way of his. His eyes twinkle. Just a bit. Kind of like they had in Paris when he found me after the “A Vendre” debacle.

  “I leave on the third,” I finally say.

  “Let’s see,” he says, placing his coffee down and folding his arms atop the table. “You’ve seen Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park, the Tower of London—“

  “And here I thought that it was just in my head that you were following me all this time,” I say, though I can’t help smiling.

  “You do tend to get chatty about all things London, Miss Gray. You’ve mentioned your whereabouts to me in that excitable way of yours. You know, in passing.”

  “Fair enough. Though you have tended to follow me. In passing,” I shoot back, casually.

  “And you’ve been to Piccadilly Circus,” he barrels on, ignoring my last remark. “And on a red double-decker bus, and—“

  “—and let’s not forget Paris,” I add, resting my elbows on the table, my gaze meeting his.

  “Of course,” he agrees. “Paris is unforgettable.”

  I’m not sure if he means that the city is unforgettable or our time there was. Or both. “What are you getting at, Oliver?” I press.

  “You don’t have much time left here,” he says as an imperceptible look passes over his features. “And I’m just wondering if you’ve really seen the city.”

  I shrug. “I’ve walked it. Ridden it. Shopped it.” I lean forward and pierce him with a suspicious look because I know he’s getting at something. “You tell me.”

  “If you have some free time today, I’d like to show you a few more spots is all,” he says. He rests back in his chair and shoots a smug look my way. “Unless you and your husband—“

  I hold a hand up, for once cutting him off at the pass. “If I agree, will you shut up?”

  Two hours later, we’re still strolling the corridors of the National Portrait Gallery – our first stop on the Oliver Burke Tour of London – and my mind is racing. It’s an absolute dream in here. Some of the art looks like something my students could have created. Apparently the content of the painting was the draw when the gallery assembled their collections, not the actual quality of the work. But in general, I’m flabbergasted. Some of the portraits are stunning. And the photography collection mesmerized me. As expected, there are many royal likenesses including, of course, Princess Diana and Queen Elizabeth I.

  What I especially adore are the portraits depicting literary legends like T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, Shakespeare, and so much more.

  A Brontë sisters’ portrait stops me. It was painted by their brother, and I just stare at it, absorbing that fact, and marveling that so much artistic ingenuity existed in this one family. The girls that brought the world the love and angst of legendary characters – characters continuously revered thanks to the BBC – happened to also have a brother with sizable talent, too.

  “What, your family doesn’t compare?” Oliver teases, leaning against the wall and staring down at me.

&
nbsp; “I just find all of this fascinating. Though what literary buff doesn’t?”

  “Literary buff?” he asks, looking shocked as he pushes himself forward and stands tall again.

  “I majored in literature,” I explain defensively, crossing my arms. “I wanted to teach because—” I look around me at the many people milling about, looking in awe, like me, at various works. “I want kids to want to learn and to understand who these women are,” I exclaim, gesturing toward the Brontë sisters painting. “Who Heathcliff and Catherine are, for that matter. And Jane and Mr. Rochester.”

  “Easy there,” Oliver says, laughing gently. “I just wasn’t expecting someone who spouts about literature to currently be taking up The Cat Who Went to Paris.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks flush as I smile. I look away from his amused stare and look into the earnest faces of the three Brontë sisters once more. “Well, I’m not some literary snob who can’t sit down occasionally with a breezy read,” I say with a casual shrug.

  “I see,” he says in an interested tone as we make our way out of the gallery.

  As we exit, I gaze up at the sky and smile and shiver all at once. It’s flurrying. It’s not exactly a London rain, but right now it’ll do. It’s quite a bit colder than it was when we headed into the gallery. I put the hood of my raincoat on my head, happy for an excuse to finally use it.

  “I’m glad you aren’t a literary snob,” Oliver says, though I can see he’s stifling a laugh, looking at me hooded in my turquoise parka.

  “My old college boyfriend,” I say, ignoring his look, “wouldn’t be caught dead with The Cat Who Went to Paris.” I laugh as Colin Randall’s image flickers to life in my memory like an old VHS tape – not sharp, a little snowy, but very loud and almost too clear on the details that matter. I can picture his low ponytail, wire-framed glasses, button-down-collar-shirt-over-tee-shirt-and-cargo-pants look. I can hear his deep voice and often-snide laughter. And I can easily recall his eventually annoying inability to talk about anything other than our major. Wow…I honestly haven’t thought of him in years.

  “Real catch?” Oliver says easily as we make our way toward the Underground, the tube, at Charing Cross Station.

  I laugh, still lost in hazy movies of my college days. “He would play these games – like which siblings would you rather spend an afternoon with, the Brontë sisters or the Brothers Grimm?” I say, in a faux-snobbish voice.

  Oliver throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Ouch,” he says, putting his gloves on and buttoning up his coat. It’s gotten a great deal colder since we went into the gallery. “He must have been fun at college parties.”

  I smile and look up at Oliver. “Actually he was,” I admit. “When he’d drink, it was like a happy little vacation from reality. His major was suddenly flip cup and I can’t say I minded all too much.”

  He nods, considering this. “So you did not enjoy his literary games?”

  “God, no,” I say, too quickly. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved reading classics and poetry, getting lost in worlds of propriety and hierarchies that defined everything – even love – for men and women. Analyzing the customs that used to navigate society. I mean, I got to read Jane Austen as homework!”

  Oliver nods, but seems more amused than understanding exactly what a privilege that actually was.

  As we descend the stairs to the tube station, I rub my gloved hands together hoping they get warmer faster if I do this. “After writing a twenty page paper on a twelve word haiku, I just wanted nothing more than to drink a cold beer and watch I Dream of Jeannie or Gidget like a normal girl.”

  As we board the train, Oliver is laughing. After a little prodding, he says, “I just wouldn’t imagine the ‘normal’ viewing habits for American college girls to include sitcoms from the 1960s.”

  “I threw in an episode of Sex and the City every now and then, too,” I add, to which he twists his mouth and looks down in consideration, but says nothing more.

  The train is so crowded, we have to stand. I hold onto a pole for balance as Oliver steps aside to make way for a woman with a young child in tow before resuming his stance as the train begins rolling along.

  “Thank you, Oliver,” I say.

  He looks over at me in surprise. “For what?” he asks.

  “For taking me there. I am not sure how it is possible that I missed it since I arrived.”

  Oliver grins widely and leans toward me, his grip on the pole still tightly securing his steady footing. “I thought you might feel that way given your behavior at the Eiffel Tower and Arc du Triomphe.”

  “My behavior?” I ask. “I took a few photos of iconic landmarks.”

  “You dropped to the freezing ground and took about a thousand photos. And I’m sure you’ll only frame one,” he adds, shaking his head.

  “Probably,” I admit, smiling. “I’m sure one will be perfect.”

  “Anyway,” he says eventually, leaning away again. “You’re welcome.”

  It’s not the perfect day for an outdoor stroll. To be honest, it’s so frigid that my chest burns every time I inhale. Every word out of our mouths, every breath we take leaves a little trail marking the frostiness in the air.

  Cold as it is, I don’t mind our ramble down the Queen’s Walk, a quaint pedestrian-only path thrilling with energy today. It’s lined with traditional dolphin lamp posts. The Waterloo Bridge is now behind us. Oliver knew, considering the die-hard ABBA fan that I am, that I might enjoy that bit of scenery. This path, flanked by the Thames River, leads us now into Green Park, the reason for our visit.

  “Being that its name is Green Park, you’ll have to imagine it in the warmer weather,” Oliver says, smiling as we take in the scene before it. The dusting of snow covering the ground has footsteps traipsing through in every direction. The trees and bushes are barren, and it all feels very subdued and quiet. Very un-green.

  “It actually used to be called Upper St. James here,” Oliver continues. “This is my favorite of the London parks.” He stops just past the park’s entrance and looks around almost nostalgically before shivering and fastening his collar a little higher on his neck. He doesn’t seem at all ready to head indoors, though he’s obviously freezing. I know I am.

  “It’s rumored this park got its name,” Oliver is saying, as we continue walking through the winter wonderland, “because the clever wife of King Charles the second thought her dear husband had picked flowers here and given them to a woman who was not her. To cast her revenge, the Queen had every flower in the park pulled and no more flower beds were planted. Ever.”

  I grin widely because Oliver makes it all sound like a fairy-tale. The flowers were all banished from the land by the wicked queen! “She sounds like a very strong, independent, absolutely frightening woman,” I say and he laughs, though I’m not sure it’s at my joke. “You know, you should have been a tour guide, Oliver,” I say, peering up at him. He rolls his eyes playfully and looks down at me.

  “What?” I exclaim at his look. “You seem to love the city’s history. Plus, you’re really not a very good concierge.”

  He shoots me a reproving look at that, but ignores my jibe as he barrels on. “My mother was a city guide, actually.” We walk in silence as I wait for him to continue. “She loved London’s history and took her turn doing different types of tours all while we were growing up. She did walking tours, tours of the Tower of London, of St. Paul’s – even the big red bus you seem so fond of,” he finishes.

  “That explains it,” I say.

  “What?”

  “When you are talking about this stuff, you’re very animated. Like you’re perfectly happy.”

  He shrugs and gazes far off into the distance, his expression clouding briefly. It clears almost instantly, though.

  “Maybe it’s time to head indoors.”

  This whole day has just flown by. Oliver’s still picking at his fish and chips as I push my plate away, stuffed to the brim, and lean back. I had the best shepherd’s p
ie, though it was called cottage pie. Why don’t we call it that at home? It’s so much quainter and more appealing! Oliver holds a finger up to the bartender who nods. We’re getting another round of pints.

  Who knew a pub in a tiny alley off Kensington High Street called Filthy McGee’s could be so adorable? Because it is. Old photographs from the 1800’s line the walls. The barmaids from back then look fierce and serious, staring out at me while the men look round and jolly. Dark, ancient-looking wallpaper with faded gray roses lines the walls, darkening the room which seems to be lit mostly by candlelight and lanterns. There’s an empty gin bottle on every table with a single flower in it beside an empty wine bottle that’s being used as a candelabra. It’s possibly the coolest establishment I’ve ever stepped foot in!

  In the corner, a man plays piano, singing a surprising number of American classics. Right now, he’s rocking “Piano Man” as the rest of the band is setting up. Oliver glances at the band and then at his watch, a small smile twisting at the corners of his mouth as he looks back toward me.

  “Do you know that guy?” I ask, nodding toward the piano player.

  Oliver shakes his head and puts more malted vinegar on his French fries. “I come here sometimes,” he says. “He’s very good.”

  The waiter brings our new round and I tap glasses with Oliver before taking a sip. The froth sticks to my upper lip and I try to wipe it away casually though Oliver eyes me with that amused look of his and I know my attempts at sophistication are all for naught.

  “How often do you get to see your sister?” I ask.

  He looks surprised by the question as he sips his beer. “I don’t know,” he says, his brow creasing slightly. “Three, four times a year, I suppose.”

  “That’s it?” I ask incredulously. I can’t imagine seeing anyone in my immediate family only a couple of times a year.

  He smiles and tilts his head at me. “Not everyone lives as close to their family as you do,” he points out.