by Rachel Cohn
It was like going to an audience sing-along of Moulin Rouge!, but more bonkers, more glitter, more confetti, and definitely more beer being drunk by attendees than I’d ever seen, well, ever.
“This was totally worth leaving Claridge’s,” I whispered to Dash.
“Was it?” he whispered back.
“Shush!” said an intoxicated audience member behind us who, minutes earlier, had shouted “Telly me everything!” to the corpulent, blustering actor playing Alice Fitzwarren, Dick Whittington’s wife.
Dash ignored the shushing, and the request to turn off cell phones. He showed me a message on his phone. “We’re being summoned back to Claridge’s for afternoon tea,” he said, not bothering to whisper anymore.
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Katarina just said we needed to be back by half three.”
“I don’t know what half three means.”
“Three-thirty!” the audience member behind us bellowed. “Go on, then. We’re trying to enjoy the show.”
“Glad to oblige,” said Dash. He got up, and so did I.
Once outside the theater showing the pantomime, I asked Dash, “How relieved are you?”
“So relieved.”
“I loved it,” I admitted. Between burning letters to that patron saint of patriarchy, Father Christmas, the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland, and now the Christmas “panto,” I was seriously enamored of British holiday merrymaking. Big fan.
“Have you ever been to a proper British afternoon tea?” Dash asked me.
“No.”
“Trust me, you’ll love it more.”
Returning to Claridge’s that afternoon gave me my first opportunity to really appreciate the spectacle of the Art Deco hotel. It was a redbrick building decorated with flags billowing above its entrance; inside its main foyer was a dazzling display of crystal chandeliers, checkerboard tiles, paneled walls, antique gilt mirrors, and flower arrangements taller than me. Piano music and the sound of teaspoon clinks drifted through the elegant lobby.
Dash and I found the host at the tearoom and gave him our names. “Right this way, sir,” said the host. He led us away from the foyer, which almost made me want to cry until I saw the next room, which was our destination. “Your reservation is in the Reading Room, and the first member of your party is already seated.”
I didn’t need to ask who our mystery tea companion was, because I knew by the faint aroma of Chanel No19 (“No5 is so boring”) wafting from the velvet-upholstered banquette where the host directed us.
Mrs. Basil E. stood up when she saw us. She nodded to the host. “Thank you, Geoffrey.”
He bowed to her before leaving. “Lovely to have you here again, madam.”
Mrs. Basil E. placed a kiss on my cheek and a pat on Dash’s shoulder. “You’re late,” she told us as she returned to her seat.
“It’s three-forty,” Dash said. “We only got your invitation an hour ago.”
“Punctuality is a virtue,” she said.
“So is fair warning of an ambush,” said Dash.
Mrs. Basil E. laughed. “You are a delight, in your inimitably snarly way.”
“Thank you,” said Dash. “Vice versa.”
My great-aunt was my one family member who not just tolerated Dash, but actually enjoyed him. And vice versa.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was jealous when I heard you’d skipped town to come here. So I decided to join you.”
“Any other reason?” Dash asked.
Mrs. Basil E. said, “There’s a rumor going around that Lily is dropping out of college.”
“I knew it,” said Dash, affirmed once again in his conviction of my family’s overcontrolling nature.
“I never started college!” I said.
Dash said, “And we may have resolved the issue. Perhaps the problem was not that Lily was not in college, but that she chose the wrong one to attend … next year, not this year, by the way.”
Mrs. Basil E. fixed her gaze on me. “My mother, your great-grandmother, went to Barnard! I went to Barnard! Your grandmother went to Barnard. How do you think she met Grandpa? Because I introduced them. When we were at Barnard.”
Dash said, “Am I the only one who realizes the complete absurdity of Lily planning her future based on that logic?”
“Being a legacy doesn’t mean I should go there,” I said.
“Then why did you apply?” Mrs. Basil E. asked.
“Because it was near Grandpa’s home and because everyone else besides me seemed confident it was where I belonged.”
“And an exceptional amount of family pressure,” Dash added.
“Those are all good reasons,” said Mrs. Basil E.
Dash offered, “Lily’s thinking about applying to FIT to study design and entrepreneurship.”
Mrs. Basil E. nodded. “Not a bad option, actually. But Barnard. No one in our family has ever gone to FIT.”
Dash’s hand made the motion of an airplane. He said, “This family. Once again, logic flies away.”
Then it occurred to me: “Didn’t you drop out of Barnard?” I asked Mrs. Basil E.
“Indeed. I only lasted a year.”
“Why’d you drop out?” Dash asked.
She smiled. “His name was Henri. I met him when I did nude modeling for a figure-drawing program at Pratt. We took off to wander Europe for a year—maybe it was two?—afterward. Glorious time of my life.”
I didn’t say aloud what I was thinking but I psychically telegraphed it to Dash: Hypocrite! His lips upturned slightly into one of his rare smiles, which make me swoon. I patted his knee under the table. To Mrs. Basil E., I said, “So you didn’t regret dropping out?”
“God, no.”
“Then why shouldn’t Lily also exercise her right not to go?” Dash asked Mrs. Basil E.
To me, she said, “You may, I suppose. But you need purpose if you opt out. Dogs are not enough. I may be swayed by the idea of FIT, but I’ll need to think on it.” She began inspecting the afternoon tea menu. “Where are you staying, by the way? With Mark and his terrible Ikea couch collection? I’d really hoped marriage would improve his design aesthetic.”
“I’m staying at Claridge’s,” I said. “I thought that’s why you summoned us here.”
She laughed, then saw that I was serious. “I summoned you here because it’s where I’m staying. I gave the concierge your names and told her to send you the invitation. I didn’t realize you were already here.”
“You telling me about it is why I always wanted to stay here!” I said.
“Who paid for it?” she asked.
“I paid for it.”
“With what money?”
“My own! I sold a lot more dog crafts than I expected, and I got a big windfall from Christmas tips from my clients.”
“You couldn’t have possibly earned enough to pay for this hotel at peak holiday rates.”
“I did. I paid for it mostly using the bonus from one very wealthy and grateful dog-walking client who said I added years of life to his arthritic dog. That dog never used to want to leave the apartment and now she’s chasing pigeons in Tompkins Square Park again like a puppy. Also, he bought a ton of the dog sweaters I designed.”
“You must be very good at what you do,” said Mrs. Basil E.
“I am,” I said, as Dash said, “She is.”
“That’s an admirable purpose,” Mrs. Basil E. said. “Perhaps you do have a future in it that does not require a Barnard education.” The waiter came by to take our orders. “Shall I order for us?”
Dash and I both nodded. She’d order for us regardless.
Mrs. Basil E. told the waiter, “We’ll have the Claridge’s Blend for my Oxford friend here, who I recall is partial to English breakfast teas. And the vegetarian sandwich options for my niece, who insists on compassion for animals and the earth, despite how delicious bacon is.”
My love affair with England deepened when the tea service started. It was
n’t just the beauty of the porcelain and the delicious aroma coming from the teapot. It was the precision with which the waiter poured the tea into our cups, like a master circus performer walking a tightrope with complete focus and yet complete ease. It almost didn’t matter how the tea tasted; I was so impressed by the artful dome of the pour, ending with our cups filled to exactly the right proportion, with no splash whatsoever. The pour alone was its own kind of art.
“Do you take milk with your tea?” Mrs. Basil E. asked Dash.
“There’s no need to offend me,” said Dash.
“Good man,” said Mrs. Basil E. approvingly.
Dash took his first sip, requiring no milk or sugar additions, as I did for my tea. After he swallowed, he said, “That’s the best tea I’ve ever tasted.”
I felt the same about the assortment of sandwiches that accompanied the tea. English cucumber with lemon and watercress cream on white bread. Peppered goat cheese with pumpkin and sage. The delicate sandwiches were served on a three-tiered china stand that I wanted to cover in a napkin before I left and steal back to America. (Shoplifters of the world unite, as that Morrissey once crooned. Don’t listen to that rapscallion, Lily, I reminded myself.) “Whoever thought up these sandwiches should get a statue in Trafalgar Square,” I said.
Mrs. Basil E. said, “I’m glad you approve, although I’m appalled by the way you drink your tea, Lily. Now, Dashiell. Tell me about Oxford. Is it everything you’d hoped?”
“I like England very much,” said Dash. “Not so sure about Oxford.”
“Why is that?” she asked him.
“There’s the fantasy and there’s the reality. I coasted on the fantasy since I was a kid. The reality as an adult is disappointing. Like, I always knew I wanted to study English literature. But that’s all I study there. I might have liked to also study psychology, and Asian history, and African art, and South American magical realism. I feel more restricted than I anticipated.”
“So perhaps it’s not Oxford that’s the problem,” said Mrs. Basil E. “It’s that the British university system is not a match for you. Perhaps it’s you who should take a gap year, to figure out exactly what it is you’d like to study, and where.”
“I miss New York,” Dash admitted.
“Of course you do,” she said.
“I like it here!” I chimed in. “I got into a dog school just outside of London. So that’s also an option I’m considering.”
Mrs. Basil E. set her raisin scone back down on her plate and glared at me. “I have only just gotten used to the idea that you won’t attend Barnard. I will not hear of you moving here to go to dog school. That’s preposterous. YOU ARE A NEW YORKER. England is a dalliance. Not the real love affair.” She took a sip of her tea and turned to Dash. “The same goes for you.” Then: “Did I tell you Gerta has finally retired to Scottsdale, Arizona?”
“What does Gerta have to do with where Dash and I belong?” I asked her, confused. Gerta was my great-aunt’s longtime housekeeper, who’d been living for the last year in a very dark, very small basement apartment in Mrs. Basil E.’s town house and had never once been the subject of our meal conversations.
“She’s gone to live with her sister and to reunite with the sun. So here is what I think.” Mrs. Basil E. took one of my hands, and one of Dash’s hands, and placed our hands together. “The solution is clear. I will deny it was my suggestion to your respective parents, of course. But I think you two should move into the basement apartment. Find your purpose there, together.”
I almost spat my tea out of my mouth but would never sully the sanctity of Claridge’s Reading Room with my American buffoonery, so I didn’t.
Dash sweetly squeezed my hand but told my great-aunt, “You know how much I love your niece. But I don’t think Lily and I are in any position at this stage of our lives to talk about moving in together.”
“Agreed,” I said. Was she insane?
Mrs. Basil E. said, “I’m not talking about just being roommates of convenience because Lily’s great-aunt owns a choice piece of real estate. I’m saying you two should get married. Elope!”
My poor, beloved great-aunt. She’d indeed gone insane.
fourteen
December 23rd
“What are you talking about?” Lily yelled, surprised and outraged.
I was calmer … because I know a bluff when I see one.
“She’s not serious,” I assured Lily. “I’m sure there’s a psychological term for what she’s doing … but I don’t know it, since I wasn’t allowed to take a psych course. In any case, she’s saying these things so we’ll go on the record as not wanting them. We establish that we don’t want to run off together. Then we establish that we don’t need to live together, or even be in the same city in order to be a couple. Which leads to the conclusion …” I turned to Mrs. Basil E. “It’s your line.”
Mrs. Basil E. sighed. “You might as well go to Barnard.”
“Are you kidding me?” Lily asked.
I continued to talk to her great-aunt. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs. Basil E., but your files are seriously mixed up right now.”
Mrs. Basil E. dropped the subject then, but it was hard for us to pick any other subject back up. We sipped and savored in silence until the plates were cleared and the tiered tower of teatime delicacies was returned to the kitchen, no doubt to be polished by house elves.
I looked at my watch.
“We should probably get going,” I said. “My grandmother will be waiting for us. Thank you for the tea, if not the sympathy.”
As we stood up to leave, Mrs. Basil E. said, “Lily, I have some evening engagements, but I should be back in my room by ten o’clock. I expect you to join me for a nightcap. Alone.”
“Okay,” Lily said quietly.
“Don’t act like it’s a walk to the gallows,” Mrs. Basil E. chided.
“I’ll be sure we’ve married and taken out a mortgage on a dream home by the time you next see her,” I said.
I was trying to draw some of Mrs. Basil E.’s withering glances my way, and in this I was highly successful.
“You can stop being so irascible,” she said to me. “You are threatening to bring out the harm that lies within your charm. I promise you, I have not crossed the Atlantic just for the sake of pithy banter. You are both at very important crossroads, and I fear you are going to take the wrong paths.”
“Right now our only path is to the nearest Tube station,” I told her.
“I’ll see you later,” Lily added, hugging her great-aunt goodbye.
Lily and I didn’t say anything to each other until we were out of the hotel; it was not unreasonable to think Mrs. Basil E. would have spies throughout the lobby, alert to any sarcasm on my part, and any regret on Lily’s. It was only as we were walking to the Tube that I let out a “What just happened?!” and Lily released an “I have no idea!”
All the talk of elopement put Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Run Away with Me” in my head. I shared this fact with Lily as we stepped on the kilometer-long escalator to get to the heart of the Underground.
“I really wasn’t expecting those words to come out of her mouth,” Lily said. “Ever.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s the remedy your parents would have wanted her to propose,” I said. “Even if it was just to steer you back toward Barnard.”
“I’m not going to Barnard.”
“I know.”
“Thank you.”
She was on the step above me on the escalator, so we were practically the same height. I leaned in and kissed her.
“What was that for?” she asked.
“For not going to Barnard.”
As the escalator neared the end of its run, we could hear a busker take up the opening strains of Joni Mitchell’s “River,” a maudlin holiday song that was one of Lily’s favorites. But then, after the opening strains, something remarkable happened—the busker changed the tune so that she was using Joni’s overture to lead to
a piano version of … “Run Away with Me.”
“No way,” I said.
The busker looked strangely like Carly Rae Jepsen. But it couldn’t be. Could it?
I was not the only person curious and enchanted. Others were stopping to sway to the song.
“One sec,” I told Lily. “I have to do this.”
And Lily smiled and said, “I know.”
Of course she knew. I’d told her before of my vow: If I ever heard a busker who happened to be playing the song playing in my head, I would empty all the cash in my wallet into their guitar case.
I’d always assumed I’d get snagged by a Beatles song. It meant more that it was Carly Rae Jepsen.
As the busker sang, I took out my wallet, removed all the bills, and put them in a tinsel-decorated cookie tin that the busker was using in lieu of a guitar case. Then, for good measure, I emptied out all my change.
The busker looked a mix of confused and appreciative as she plunged into the chorus—
Hey, run away with me
Run away with me… .
As commuters pushed around us, I spun Lily around. A few other couples and singles joined in, singing along when the next chorus graced us.
Lily grabbed my hand and pulled me away, so the song could be the wind behind our back as we made our way forward. We were both grinning when we got onto the train, and we weren’t the only ones.
By the time we got to the stop near Gem’s flat, normalcy had reasserted itself.
“I’m nervous,” Lily admitted as we walked through Waterloo. “I don’t think I made the best first impression.”
“Trust me,” I said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
When we got to the door, Lily went to knock, and I gently pointed out that I had a key. I let us in, then called out to Gem when we were in the foyer. The flat smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. A Tom Jones Christmas album was playing over the speakers.
Gem came out of the kitchen wearing an apron—not her usual look.
