Mind the Gap, Dash and Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  “The fact that you even know what a square root is bodes well,” I observed.

  “It’s not like when I first met you,” Lily said. “It doesn’t hit me as hard. It just makes me a little”—here she paused to yawn—“sleepy.”

  “I guess you’ve built up something of a tolerance,” I said.

  Suddenly Lily made a retching noise. I couldn’t tell whether it was a reaction to the liquor or to what I’d said.

  “Hairball?” I inquired.

  “That word!” Lily spat out. “Tolerance. How can it apply to both how I handle my drinking and how my family handles you?!”

  I hoped the question was rhetorical, because it left me speechless.

  Azra stepped in. “Her family has been texting incessantly. Telling her Christmas is canceled this year because she jetted off. Not fair, if you ask me.”

  “I should text them back!” Lily proclaimed, taking out her phone. “I really should!”

  “No!” Azra and I said at the same time, both of us lunging for the phone. Lily snapped it away from us … then put it back in her pocket.

  “Okay okay okay,” she said. “Now what?”

  “I think we should call it a night,” I said. It wasn’t long past nine, but I knew that if Lily had been up all day, the jet lag would be having something to say on top of the blood-alcohol level.

  Azra nodded. “Her bags are already at Claridge’s.”

  I was very relieved to hear I wouldn’t have to deal with Mark.

  “Also,” Azra added, “you should know that your texts to her aren’t coming through. You’ll need to get your mobiles sorted out. Or maybe it was just a glitch. See what happens when you’re on wifi.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “And thanks for tipping us off about where you were. I am sorry to hear about you and Olivier. Even if the two of you together were pretty—”

  “Insufferable?”

  “Well, yeah. But you alone. You’re—”

  “Sufferable?”

  Probably for the first time ever, Azra had made me smile. “Exactly.”

  And, lo and behold, I had made her smile back. “I’m going to call my family’s driver and have him take you to Claridge’s. I’m going to meet up with some people a short walk away, so won’t need him for a bit.”

  “I mean, if you have an extra driver just sitting around …” I said.

  “Thank you,” Lily chimed in.

  “Yeah, that too.”

  Azra said to call her tomorrow and that hopefully we could make more plans. Then she walked us to the street and introduced us to her driver, who was wearing a suit and cap like he’d just come from being an extra in an episode of The Crown. He did not question who we were or why he had to take us. He barely gave us any expression at all.

  Once we were ensconced in the back of the car, I could tell there was a string of sorrys about to unfurl from Lily’s lips.

  “I’m sorry too,” I said before she could get any of her own out. “Bygones?”

  Lily thought about it for a moment, then rested her head on my shoulder.

  “Bygones,” she murmured.

  In less than a minute, she was asleep.

  I had to wake her when we got to the hotel.

  “Are we there?” she asked, opening her eyes.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if she had any idea where there was.

  This wondering was soon dismissed, because when Lily stepped out of the car, she did so as if she was returning home. She thanked the driver with such sweet gratitude that he almost melted into an expression. Then she said hello to the doormen like she’d been coming here for years.

  When we got inside the lobby, I started to wonder if I was the one dreaming, and if we’d stepped back into the Jazz Age. There were chandeliers aplenty, and black-and-white tile floors that just begged for a big tap-dance number to play across them. A huge Christmas tree made of crystals and light presided by a grand staircase. It was, in the word of Cole Porter, a swellegant place to be.

  “Not bad, huh?” Lily asked, a glint in her eye.

  “Wow,” I admitted.

  As we rode the elevator up to our floor, I could see Lily’s burst of energy start to dissipate. She took off her coat, and by the time we were walking to our room, she was practically dragging it on the ground.

  “Here,” I said, picking it up. “Allow me.”

  It took another minute for her to find the room key and open the door.

  The room itself was as deco as the lobby, on a much smaller scale. A king-size bed was the sovereign of the space.

  “I want to start kissing you,” Lily said with a yawn, “but I’m just”—another yawn—“so”—yawn—“tired.”

  “One now, many more later?” I offered.

  She nodded. We kissed. And as she pulled away, she declared, “I think I want to sleep in that robe.”

  Before I could ask, “What robe?” she had disengaged a very plush robe from the closet and stepped into the bathroom. I noticed her bags had yet to be unpacked, then went and checked out the view from the window, over nighttime Mayfair.

  When Lily returned from the bathroom, she was indeed only wearing the robe. Which would have been sorely enticing in other circumstances, but now every ounce of her being was radiating sleepiness.

  She came over to me, kissed me on the cheek, then kept walking and collapsed onto the bed.

  Once again, she was asleep within a minute. First gently, and then with a snoring crescendo.

  I turned off the lights, kicked off my shoes, and stepped into the bathroom. Lily’s clothes were sprawled over the floor, left wherever she’d dropped them.

  I sent a text to Gem.

  Staying over at Claridge’s with Lily. See you tomorrow.

  About two seconds after I hit Send, Gem called.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Just making sure that the only thing you’re under the influence of is love, dear,” Gem said.

  “Nothing but love, I assure you.”

  “Okay, then. As long as I get to see you tomorrow at some point, and as long as I get to spend time with Lily as well. It’s very strange—I’d gotten quite used to solitary Christmases, but now that you’re here … I guess it changes things, doesn’t it? So yes. I have some things to do during the day, but maybe an early supper? You don’t have to answer now. In the meantime, I’m going to give Katarina a call. She’s a concierge at Claridge’s. We go way back—arguably, her meddling caused me to lose out on a date with Prince Charles. So she owes me. I’ll make sure you have provisions within ten minutes. There will be a knock on the door.”

  Before I could tell her that wasn’t necessary, she was signing off and wishing me a good night. Ten minutes later there was a soft knock on the door; I answered and found a bellhop, who offered me a neatly folded pair of silk pajamas and a toiletry kit. I thanked her, then went into the bathroom to change, leave my clothes alongside Lily’s.

  I had never understood silk pajamas conceptually before. But now I understood them a little more. Whereas flannel felt like a warm blanket, this felt like gliding within gossamer sheets.

  When I got into bed, Lily shifted, her snores abating at least momentarily.

  “Hey, you,” she said.

  I cuddled in, and together we fell into a sound, luxurious sleep.

  thirteen

  December 23rd

  “Are you hungover?” Dash asked me as I squinted at the morning light streaming in through the windows whose curtains he’d just opened. “You look blinded.”

  “I’m blinded by your pajamas!”

  He grasped the hem of his pajama top. “You don’t like them?”

  “I LOVE them!” I said. “I just never imagined you in purple silk pajamas. You’re like a magnificent Prince dreamscape. Where did you get them?”

  “The concierge sent them up for me. She’s a friend of Gem’s.”

  “I’d love to have heard that conversation last night between your grandmother and
the concierge about your sleep needs, because I’m pretty sure you’re wearing ladies’ pajamas.”

  “If I’d known how comfortable they were, I’d have started wearing ladies’ pajamas years ago.”

  “Can I take a photo of you?” Honestly, he’d never looked hotter to me.

  “Yes. But don’t send it to Langston. It’ll only give him ammunition in his suspicions about my sexual orientation.”

  “The pajamas won’t do that. Your love of Cate Blanchett and Carly Rae Jepsen does.” Dash laughed. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and snapped a photo of him. I was already thinking about how to photoshop it into some kind of sexy Valentine’s Day card that I’d send to myself. “Please, come closer so I can run my hands across that purple silk.”

  With no warning, he jumped back into bed, causing me to go flying from his bounce. My head banged against the bed’s headboard. “Now I might have a hangover,” I said. “But it’s a happy headache. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  He came in for a kiss, which I eagerly delivered to him. Then I pulled back. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  “You don’t need to be sorry. I always enjoy your caroling, even drunk.”

  “Not about that. I’m sorry for jumping ship when I did.”

  “Oh, yes, you should be sorry about that. Apology accepted. What was that all about, anyway?”

  I told him about feeling overwhelmed after announcing to my family that I had no intention to go to Barnard next year. Dash said, “That’s big. When you told me about the dog school in Twickenham, I realized you were seriously reconsidering Barnard, but I didn’t know you’d made a definitive decision. How’d it go over?”

  “Not well.” I turned on the wifi on my phone to show him the angry texts from my mother. And of course, once the wifi was on, I started receiving texts from Dash from after I’d gotten off the boat yesterday, and the ones I’d been trying to send him afterward started going through. “Hey, our phones are finally talking to each other. The texts I tried sending you yesterday kept bouncing back.”

  Dash took my phone from my hand and tossed it to the floor. “Let’s forget about our phones today. About our families. About—”

  “—Yes!” I beckoned him toward me for what I really wanted to focus on today. Kissing him.

  But—

  Ring.

  It was the doorbell to the hotel room. It sounded so politely British, not like an aggressive New York doorbell’s RING RING RIIIIIIIING. “Did you call for something?” I asked Dash, who shook his head.

  He got up and answered the door. “Compliments of the concierge, sir,” said a uniformed waiter outside in the hall. Dash opened the door to him. The waiter carted in a silver tray. “Where would you like it?”

  “On the desk, I guess?” said Dash. “What is it?”

  “Morning coffee and pastries.” The waiter placed the tray on the desk alongside a white pot that smelled like just the delicious antidote to my slight hangover.

  Dash signed for the delivery, and the waiter left.

  “Coffee?” Dash asked me.

  “Yes, please!” He poured me a coffee. As he delivered it to me in his purple pajamas, I added, “Then I want to devour you.”

  But coffee first. I sat up in bed, leaning against the headboard, and Dash sat alongside me. We each took our first sips of coffee. It was perfection—strong, smooth, and not at all bitter.

  Dash said, “I have to admit I was wrong about your hotel choice. I thought it was a terrible idea to spend so much money, but now that I’ve stayed here, I appreciate you being a dog-walking mogul who can spring for it.”

  “Thank you. And agreed!”

  “I used to dismiss my mother when she talked about nonsense like the thread count of sheets, but I get it now. These sheets are amazing.”

  “Right? So soft and yet crisp at the same time. I thought I was fancy when my mom bought me the most expensive sheets at Target. They’re sandpaper in comparison to Claridge’s sheets.”

  “The marble bathroom!” Dash said.

  “The fresh flowers on the nightstand!”

  “This coffee is so good! All other hotels are officially dead to me.”

  “We should come here for our honeymoon,” I joked.

  “You’re really going to have to step up your dog crafts business, then,” Dash teased. “I’ll expect the finest honeymoon suite. I doubt my future English literature degree will land me the job to finance a Claridge’s honeymoon.”

  “This room even smells good!” I said.

  “I know! I thought it was just my imagination. It smells like lavender and mint and clotted-cream scones. Speaking of which …”

  Dash got up and returned to the bed with the tray. He took the silver dome off it, revealing an assortment of freshly baked scones next to a bowl of clotted cream and tiny jars of jam. He spread some clotted cream and raspberry jam (my favorite—I loved that he didn’t need to ask) onto one and handed it to me. I took a bite, then sighed. “Best. Breakfast. Ever.”

  “We can never leave.”

  “Please let’s never leave.” I took another bite. “Do you think Boris could come live here with us?”

  Dash shook his head. “It was such a nice fantasy, Lily. Don’t ruin it. These sheets were probably woven by Egyptian cotton fairies. Boris would destroy them within seconds.”

  My sweet Boris! I ached from missing him. But the coffee had removed the speck of headache, and all the deliciousness had given me a moment of clarity. “I know what I want to do,” I told Dash.

  “Do you mean, like, which scone you want next, or with your life?”

  “I want the lemon-glazed scone next. But I meant with my life. I want to be a dogpreneur.”

  “Is that actually a thing?”

  “Of course it is. I want to be with dogs, train dogs, and design dog crafts. I want to make a business out of dogs. A serious business. Not just a ‘gap year distraction,’ as my mother calls it. I don’t see why that should be a disappointment as a life’s calling.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “I know. My parents will. I guess I’m rehearsing what I’m going to say to them.”

  “Would you like some advice?”

  “Generally, no. But from you and your magnificent purple-pajama’d self, yes.”

  “The talk with your parents will go better if you have an alternative to Barnard in mind.”

  “I just told you what the alternative is. I want to be a dogpreneur.”

  “Lily.” Dash set aside his coffee and looked at me intently. “I say this with all the love I have for you in my heart. Please tell me you want more from your life than just being around dogs.”

  I was glad I was having this practice talk with Dash, because I knew what he’d just said was exactly the argument my parents would make. Somehow, if they said it, I knew I’d react angrily and defensively. But hearing it from Dash made me consider it reasonably.

  I said, “Of course I want more from my life. I’d like to be involved in volunteer rescue work for all animals, not just dogs. I’d like to work with the elderly—maybe by bringing therapy animals to visit with them. And I really enjoy crafting clothes and accessories. For dogs and humans. I would love to get better at sketching and sewing—”

  “Have you ever considered FIT?” Dash asked me.

  “No. Why?”

  “Where’s your laptop?”

  “In my backpack.”

  Dash retrieved my laptop and returned to the bed. He navigated to the website for the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan. We perused its course selections. There were so many subjects I was actually interested in! (Sorry, Barnard.) Accessories design. Entrepreneurship. Illustration. Packaging design. Textile development and marketing. TOY DESIGN!

  “I had no idea I could feel so excited about going to college,” I said. “I want to take all those courses!”

  Dash said, “The application deadline is a week away. You could get it done in time.”

/>   “But you’re supposed to submit a portfolio, too. I can’t—” “You have enough photos from the crafts you sell on Instagram to use as a portfolio. You know I find chasing social media likes to be disingenuous, but in this case, I’d say all the likes on your photos are testament to how good your work is.”

  “You really think I should apply to FIT?” I didn’t need his answer. I already knew I wanted to do it.

  “I do. It seems like a much better fit for you.” He waited for me to laugh at his pun. I didn’t. He could do so much better than low-level dad jokes. “And I think turning down Barnard would go down a lot better with your parents if you had an alternative education plan in mind, and not just a desire to be a dogpreneur.” He paused. “I feel ridiculous when I say that word.”

  “I love you when you’re ridiculous.” I programmed my laptop to stream a playlist courtesy of the original Purple One. It started exactly where I planned to spend the rest of the morning—with the song: “Kiss.”

  “This is kinkier than I expected,” Dash whispered into my ear.

  “I know!” I whispered back. “It’s so perfect in its awfulness.”

  We were at the matinee performance of Happy Chrimbo, Dick Whittington, tickets for which we’d been given the previous day by the actor on The Thames of Our Lives.

  I knew the British were famous for the theater. That guy Shakespeare, he was pretty good. Their movie actors who came from the theater are the best of the best, like those X-Men old guys, and my favorite Helen Mirren, the voice of the Queen in my favorite movie last Christmas, Corgi & Bess. Plus, two words: Idris Elba.

  But this pantomime showcased an over-the-top acting style that seemed like a very distant cousin to the grand West End British theater tradition. It was strictly high camp, with cross-dressing actors wearing outrageous costumes, and filled with a (sadly sparse) audience of people who behaved exactly the opposite of how I’d expect a proper British audience to respond. They yelled things like “Sod off!” when a villain appeared, and “He’s behind you!” to warn the good guy, Dick Whittington, when the villain approached. They hooted and hollered when Dick Whittington finally got his Chrimbo (British slang for Christmas) wish fulfilled: The King Rat was destroyed by London’s wiliest cat (played by a D-list reality-TV star from a British show called Telly Me Everything, Mate).