by Rachel Cohn
“There you are!” she said, hugging me and then hugging Lily. “I’ve been busy making your great-great-grandmother’s Christmas Cake. Which is really just a glorified coffee cake … but it’s still tradition.”
“I had no idea Dash had a family Christmas Cake,” Lily said.
“Neither did I!” I admitted.
This surprised Gem. At least at first. “Did your father never—no, I imagine he didn’t. Well, I’ll have to give you the recipe. We’ll just say it skipped a generation.”
“It smells wonderful,” Lily said.
“Thank you, dear. I do enjoy throwing a dinner party. During the lean years, by which I mean the years of nouvelle cuisine, people always loved coming here because they knew they’d get to eat heartily. Never underestimate the power of a well-dressed coffee cake to make even Londoners happy. Now, Dash, give her a tour and settle into your room for a bit. Dinner will be ready in an hour or so. Be sure to dress for it.” “Any particular dress code?” I asked.
“Oh, you’ll see,” Gem answered, without further explanation.
She went back into the kitchen, and I commenced the tour. When we poked our heads into the dining room, I discovered that Gem had transformed it into a holiday wonderland, complete with a centerpiece that was a Christmas tree made entirely of flowers.
“None of this was here twenty-four hours ago,” I told Lily, who was utterly delighted by it. I called out to the kitchen, “Where did you get all this?”
“My friends at Liberty were very appreciative of my help!” Gem called back.
Lily lifted one of the floral cloth napkins from one of the place settings. “Nice friends to have,” she observed.
I took in the whole sight. “I’ll say.”
After showing her more of the ground floor, I took her up to my room.
“Welcome to my home away from my home away from home,” I told her.
“Books, books, more books, some clothes, a few photos … looks a lot like your home to me,” she said.
“Plus an Advent calendar,” I pointed out.
“Yes, I noticed.”
She walked over to the closet, where two Liberty garment bags were dangling from the door.
“What are these?” Lily asked.
“I have no idea,” I answered.
One of them had Lily’s name on it. The other had my name on it.
Lily unzipped hers first, unveiling a fabulous frock.
“This is … wow,” was her reaction.
I found a dapper suit inside my bag, a little less elaborate than the one I’d worn to Daunt, but still rather extravagant.
“I must say, I like her friends at Liberty,” I commented.
Lily hung the dress back where it had been on the door. Then she sat on my bed and looked at me earnestly.
“What are we going to do, Dash?” she asked.
And I understood: A lot had been thrown at us in the past couple of days. This was our first sober pause.
I hung my suit beside her dress.
I knew she was asking the question about our lives, but I decided to answer about our next hour instead.
“Well,” I told her, “I think we’ll be taking off some clothing, and then putting on different clothing. Perhaps with some activity in between. How does that sound?”
“It doesn’t sound like a future,” she said. “But it definitely sounds like a plan.”
An hour later, when Gem called us down for dinner, we were just a few buttons short of being ready.
Amy Winehouse was sounding winedrunk in the speakers as we settled in—at least until Gem mentioned Nick Drake and saw that neither Lily nor I knew who that was. The record player soon fell into a bucolic groove that seemed to fit the December evening perfectly.
Gem asked about our day, and we gave her some of the better details. Our recounting of the pantomime spurred her to tell us about the time she worked with Monty Python on a holiday special that the BBC had refused to air … which then became a story about the time Maggie Smith, Angela Lansbury, and Gem had broken into a studio in order to record a ribald version of “You’re the Top” for Richard Burton’s birthday.
“You must understand, he wasn’t with Liz at the time,” Gem assured us.
We nodded as if we understood.
“But enough about me,” Gem said. “We left off at the pantomime. Tell me about the rest of your day.”
I wasn’t sure whether Lily would want to talk about Mrs. Basil E.’s surprise visit and the way she turned into a Tearex upon Lily’s resistance to the collegial path. But Lily told the whole story, using phrases like sneak attack and complete disregard for what I want and they just don’t understand. She finished by sharing Mrs. Basil E.’s final words about going down the wrong path.
“Presumably that’s the path away from Barnard?” Gem asked.
“I think it’s safe to assume that,” Lily replied.
“Okay, then,” Gem said, putting down her wineglass before she’d taken another sip. “I have a question for both of you. I’m asking you because, frankly, nobody ever asked it of me when I was your age. And then I made the same mistake and didn’t ask it of my son when the time came, because I was too angry at him and at the world to notice that it needed to be asked. Lily, I know I’m a stranger to you, and Dash, I know that even though I am less than a stranger to you, we also haven’t truly known each other long enough for me to be invested one way or the other in the answer. So, that said, let me ask… . If I were to ask you what you want to do with your life, going forward—what would your heart answer?”
Lily didn’t hesitate. “I want to work with dogs. Not just because I’m good at it. But because I’m good for them. I love doing it, and I also know it helps in some way.”
“Excellent,” Gem said. “Now, Dash—how about you?”
My answer was I don’t know. But I wasn’t satisfied by that answer. I felt there was another answer underneath. The answer, in Gem’s words, that my heart would give.
“I want to work with books,” I said. “That’s what I want to do. Like Lily wants to work with dogs. I want to work with books. My future is books.”
It felt so presumptuous to say it out loud.
But it also felt right.
Lily and Gem must have sensed this. They were both nodding.
“Good,” Gem said. “Now we know.”
Yes. Now we knew.
Gem surprised me by slapping the table—an American gesture amidst the British settings.
“Of course!” she said. Then she stood up. “I’ll be back in a second. I need to make a phone call.”
“So,” Lily said, reaching across the table for my hand. “Books.”
I took her hand. “Yes, books. And dogs.”
She smiled at me. “Yes, dogs.”
“You’ll apply to that program at FIT.”
“Let ’em try to stop me.”
“They’re just barking at the moon.”
It felt like only a minute later that Gem was back at the table, looking very satisfied.
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow,” she told me, sitting.
“What about it?” I asked.
“You’ll be interviewing with St. John Blakemore.”
“WHAT?!” I inquired. St. John Blakemore was perhaps the most famous literary editor in New York City.
“Blakey’s here in town for the holidays, visiting his parents. I rang up and he said he’ll see you at eleven.”
Blakey?!
“Oh, I took care of him for a spot in the eighties when his parents had to go underground for a bit because of the whole Rushdie thing. I’ve written a few things for him over the years.”
“You have?”
“Oh, yes. Just some ghostwriting on a few memoirs. We who are celebrity-adjacent remember so much more than the celebrities themselves!”
“This is insane! I can’t just have an interview with St. John Blakemore tomorrow.”
“An interview for what?” Lily asked.
“Whatever you make of it,” she answered. “I’m sure you’ll make quite an impression.”
I felt like I was about to hyperventilate.
“Okay,” I said. “This is happening.”
“Meanwhile,” Gem continued, “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone commensurate in the canine world.”
“That’s all right,” Lily said. “I think I have it figured out.”
The rest of the meal consisted of me explaining to Lily who St. John Blakemore was, and of Gem skirting around all the nondisclosure agreements she’d signed to hint at whose memoirs she’d written.
Then came the Christmas cake, which was entirely delectable.
“Where have you been all my life?” I asked it.
“I’d love to know the same thing,” Gem said.
“You said this was my great-great-grandmother’s recipe. What was her name? What was she like?”
Gem smiled. “Her name was Anna, and when I was a kid, I called her Granna, because I was always throwing Grandma and Anna together. She loved to bake, but she didn’t particularly love to eat. The joy came from seeing other people eat and enjoy whatever she’d made. We always told her she could open a bakery, but she didn’t like the idea of charging people. She’d much rather show up at friends’ doorways with some cookies she’d made, or a cake just out of the oven.”
“Did my father know her?”
“A little. I’m not sure he’d remember. But she made him cookies in the shape of his favorite truck.”
This made me laugh. “My father had a favorite truck?”
“Oh, yes!” Gem said. “Its name was Paul—Paul was the man at the toy store. Such a nice man! Anyway, Paul—the truck, not the man—is about the size of my hand. Your father was always losing him. I probably spent half his childhood looking between couch cushions or under the bed for where Paul had gone. Your father loved Paul so much. Even when he got older, he kept Paul by the side of his bed. If I ever moved it to a shelf, he’d always put Paul back there. Into high school, this was.”
I found it very hard to imagine my father cherishing a toy truck like this.
“And where’s Paul now?” I asked.
“Oh,” Gem said. “I still have him. Up in my room. I guess he watches over me now.”
Tears came into her eyes then, and her happiness wavered.
“Oh, Gem,” I said, this time reaching over for her hand.
“It’s all right,” she said. “If I had to do it all over again, I’d definitely do it better. But we all say that, don’t we? Or at least we should.”
I looked over to Lily, who was also looking sad now.
“I miss my family,” she said. “Being here with you two is great. But it also makes me miss my family. I wish there was a way to have Christmas in both places.”
“But, Lily,” Gem said. “There is. Of course there is.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are only twenty-four hours in the day,” Gem said. “Unless you’re flying from east to west.”
“Are you saying—?” I began.
“I’m saying let’s celebrate Christmas here,” Gem said. “And then let’s celebrate it there. All of us.”
“All of us?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gem said purposefully. “It’s time that we had a family Christmas too. Even if we don’t have much of a family left. It’s about time we all got together.”
I tried to wrap my mind around this. Lily was clearly doing the same.
“You don’t have to answer right away,” Gem hastened to add. “I have a dear friend at Virgin. I’ll just drop her a line and see if we can reserve some last-minute seats.”
“Okay,” Lily said.
“Sounds right,” I said.
“Everyone done? If so, let’s clear. Lily, will you be staying with us tonight?”
“No, I—oh, goodness. What time is it?”
“Half past nine. Why?”
“Mrs. Basil E. will be waiting for me!”
Lily decided to do a quick change back into her old clothes, rather than try to explain to Mrs. Basil E. why she was wearing something new. Gem ordered her a car and invited her back tomorrow night for “a Christmas Eve surprise.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I asked Lily right before she went. “I don’t have to come for the nightcap; I could just be waiting in your room for after.”
“No, I need to do this myself,” Lily said. “I mean, by myself in the room with her. I know you’ll be there too, in spirit.”
“We’re in this together,” I said, both a statement and a vow.
“Yes, we are,” she said, kissing me goodbye.
“Good luck” was the last thing I said before she got in the car and headed out into the night.
fifteen
December 23rd and December 24th
Dash must love his grandmother because that Christmas cake was so mediocre—dry, baked about three minutes too long, the frosting a bit lumpy because Gem probably didn’t sift the powdered sugar. But it was exactly what made me finally love Gem. It had so much heart, just like her.
It was official. I totally called it wrong.
I loved Gem. I loved her flat, I loved her music collection, I loved the bowls of Cadbury chocolates in every room, and I loved her warmth. Mostly, I loved how much she adored Dash. Not because she was biologically connected to him, but because she truly got him.
I was already thinking about what kind of dog she should get and how I could help make that connection. She should be paired with a breed whose qualities matched hers—friendly, alert, cheerful, courageous. *Pauses for Google matchmaking* I got it! A Westie would be ideal for Gem. They were going to be such great mates, whenever I found her future canine best friend.
I loved London, too. As the car from Gem’s took me back to my hotel, I relished watching the city go by, bustling with energy like New York, but such a different energy. Where New York was raw and hurried, London was dignified and in no rush to please and impress, as if to tell visitors, I’ve survived more than you could ever imagine. I do things my way—the proper way. Be dazzled by me or not; I’m not worried about your judgment.
For the first time in my life at this time of year, Christmas was an afterthought. I savored the decorations and anticipation, of course, but the big day was secondary to my primary objective: enjoying the time in England with Dash. As much as I hoped he would return to New York permanently, I couldn’t deny the charm of this place and of the family he’d found there. It was a good fit.
Because of that, I hadn’t entirely ruled out the dog school in Twickenham, although I would definitely put in an application to FIT. A few days in December at the holidays was not enough time with Dash. I knew I was greedy, but I wanted the magic to last longer than a holiday interlude. I tried to focus on my present happiness and not speculate on my future loneliness, but I wasn’t sure I could go back to how it was—me in New York and Dash at Oxford, an ocean and too many time zones between us.
I’d have to get back to work in New York ASAP, though, because I’d blown through a significant amount of my savings to fly here, and my hotel splurge was completely irresponsible.
There was so much to see and do in London and I’d never get to it all before my flight home, but that was fine. Because, Claridge’s. As I stepped out of the car and into the hotel lobby, I didn’t regret my financially reckless whim at all. From the gracious staff who welcomed me back and remembered my name, to the jazz quartet playing in the foyer, to the rich sounds of lively conversations and smells of delicious food and drink, I knew I’d stepped into a fantasy that would soon end, but I’d enjoy it as long as I could. For sure I’d never be able to afford it again.
“You look too happy for a girl who’s broken her family’s heart,” Mrs. Basil E. said to me as she greeted me in her hotel suite. I chose not to answer but instead inspected her “room.” Hol
y moly! If hotel rooms were Broadway show tickets, then my single room was the back corner of the nosebleed seats, and Mrs. Basil E.’s palatial suite was private box seats just above the stage.
“Is this place even for real?” I asked her as I took a quick spin through the two-bedroom suite that had—wait for it—a GRAND PIANO in its living room. I sat down at the piano. “Is a grand piano a requirement for all your hotel bookings?”
Mrs. Basil E. said, “I prefer the Empress Eugenie Suite, which has no piano, but it was booked. I was only able to get this suite because of a last-minute cancellation.”
“So this is a downgrade from your usual accommodations?”
“It’s an even exchange. It’s fine, but I prefer the décor in the Eugenie. The fabrics in this one are too modern for my tastes. But I’m hoping Mark will come over and use the piano.”
“I forgot he played piano.” It had been a welcome memory lapse. I imagined Mark playing what Grandpa called his Melancholy Piano Elegies—Mahler, Chopin, snooooze—on this suite’s grand piano, and felt sad. Poor piano, I thought. You deserve Ellington and Gershwin. Then I remembered that was what my mother used to say in private at Mark’s recitals and I remembered I was a schmuck.
Mrs. Basil E. said, “Hopefully this piano will be a good incentive for Mark to renew that talent. I didn’t pay for all those years of his piano lessons with the expectation that he’d drop that interest for … books.” She said that last word as if it was diarrhea.
“I thought you liked books.”
“I love books. But piano playing can be shared by everyone. Particularly at my parties.”
I stepped over to the couch. “I heard you canceled your big Christmas party this year.”
“I heard you got Christmas canceled this year,” she said. “What other choice did I have?”
“Touché,” said I.
The doorbell rang. “That must be Adwin.” She called to the door. “Please come in!”
“Who’s Edwin?” I whispered. Who could possibly be calling on her so late in the evening?
We could hear the door opening in the foyer as Mrs. Basil E. quietly said to me, “It’s Adwin, not Edwin. He’s originally from Ghana and it was also his father’s, grandfather’s, and great-grandfather’s name.”
