Falling in Love with English Boys

by Melissa Jensen

  “He’s not so bad!”

  “He’s over thirty,” she shot back, “and looks like Draco Malfoy’s squib uncle.”

  She was right, I fear. I have no idea what Elizabeth said to the Malfoy, but I didn’t see him again.

  I am slightly embarrassed to admit the evening ended a little earlier than expected. That’s what happens when you have several mojitos on top of Vietnamese pho and then bounce around under strobe lights. Believe me, you don’t want the details. Suffice it to say there was no false alarm the second time, and there will be no more alcohol, lime juice, or bean sprouts in my foreseeable future.

  They got me back to the flat and into bed. It’s all a little hazy at that point. But when I got up this morning and staggered into the bathroom to see if there really was fur growing on my tongue, I found Happy Birthday, Yank written across my forehead (backward, no less, so I could read it in the mirror) in black eyeliner pencil.

  I love them. Mojitos, not so much, but these three English girls, I love.

  Mom offered to stay home from the BM and spend the day with me. Didn’t want her to. I had other plans, and she’s taking me out to dinner tonight anyway. The Kashmiri place.

  I don’t know how much of my return she heard last night. Enough, probably. I remember Consuelo singing “Live Your Life” (that’s “Lev Din Liv” in Norwegian, in case you missed that) on the way out of the club, in the taxi, and in front of the flat. Mom didn’t come out of her room. I’m guessing she’ll have something lengthy to say on the subject. But after my b-day is over. The note she left propped in front of the king-size glass of orange juice this morning said only: Happy Birthday, C—I know this is your day, but I just have to tell you—it’s my favorite day of the year, every year, for the last eighteen and the next fifty. Love you.—Mom

  I think there’s the iPod of my dreams in that box. I’ll open it when she gets home. I opened everything else as it arrived. I am not good at delayed gratification. GM gave me a whopping eBay gift card. And another one for Fourbucks. She likes to stick it to Mom every once in a while. Now who’s the child in that scenario?

  Dad and Samantha sent a card. There’s a pair of fuzzy ducklings wearing party hats on the front. Inside it says, Quacking Great Birthday Wishes from Both of Us. She signs her name in pink ink with little hearts after it. She’s twenty-seven. My father is marrying a woman almost twenty years younger than he is, who signs her name with hearts. There is so much wrong with that that I can’t even be bothered to list it.

  I looked twice, even shook the envelope, just in case, but there was nothing else there. I gave him a birthday present, a thumb drive with his name engraved on it. So who’s the child in this scenario? I know if I remind him, he’ll take me shopping for a guilt gift. It’s happened before. So here’s the question of the (b-)day, My Beloveds: What’s worth more, a pair of expensive jeans or my pride?

  Anyway.

  What I did on my seventeenth birthday day: I went to Hampstead Heath. I took the plaid blanket, a little one-person picnic, and Mary Percival’s book, and sat overlooking London until I needed to come back and get ready for dinner.

  It’s a pretty short book. It’s a pretty sad book.

  In a nutshell: Girl, Susannah, meets boy, George. Parents object (George has no money and not a particularly good rep). But Susannah won’t listen. After a hundred-odd pages of secret meetings and coded messages, she climbs out a window and they run away together. For another hundred-odd pages, they make a run for Scotland, her father hot on their heels. They get there. A blacksmith marries them.

  Yep, a blacksmith. Apparently they were allowed.

  By the time her father catches them, it’s too late. They’re married and have spent a night together. Daddy disowns Susannah on the spot. She knows he won’t change his mind.

  The lines my mother read in the radio interview were from almost the very end. That was it; that was the story. George abandons Susannah as soon as there’s no chance of getting her inheritance. She spends the rest of her life living alone in a tiny stone cottage, surviving by embroidering tablecloths and cushion covers and whatever she can sell.

  There’s a river near the cottage where Susannah walks, each time picking up a stone and putting it in her cloak pocket. She leaves them there, adding one each time. Mary doesn’t tell us what happens. This is how it ends.

  How sad, how sorry to have lost a lover and at such a cost, but the crime she never could condone was giving up a soul—her own.

  I think maybe I’m ready to go back to Katherine’s diary. Soon.

  (Late. Not soon.)

  At the moment, I’m digesting. Food, yeah, the food was fab. Ambience, sure. The place looked like every good Indian restaurant in West Philly. Dark red tablecloths, elephant candleholders, big-ass Shiva statue inside the door. All perfectly lovely. Mom and I ordered everything Russell Tarrant suggested. I spilled saffron rice everywhere. We ate too much and I tried to undo the top button of my jeans while the cute guy from Coronation Street and the toupeed presenter from one of the BBC morning shows pretended not to be looking, Celebs shelebs. Yawn.

  And then.

  Orlando Bloom came in just as our last plate came out. Phool-Gobi Rogan-Josh. Seriously. Phool-Gobi . . . No, no. Orlando. And nobody seemed to care. Or everyone was doing a really good job at pretending not to care. He was with three other guys, all pretty unattractive, and four gorgeous girls. They looked like Bella: yards of shiny hair, big white English teeth. Actually, I amend that. Three of the girls were gorgeous. The fourth was . . . well, average. Curly blond hair, big nose, upper arms that were substantially bigger around than the toothpicks of the other three. She had a really great laugh. So does Orlando Bloom. They laughed together a lot. I wish I knew what they were saying.

  I was so busy trying to listen and watch without looking like I was watching and listening that I wasn’t listening to Mom. So all I caught was:

  “You okay with that?”

  Orlando said something to the girl. She playfully tugged at his hair (yes, he really does have hair as gorgeous as it looks on-screen; he’s as gorgeous as he looks on-screen).

  “Mmm-hmm. Yeah, sure, Mom.”

  “. . . you and Will.”

  Okay, that succeeded in getting my attention. A little more of it anyway. “What about Will?”

  She sighed. “You haven’t been listening to a thing I’ve been saying, have—” She followed my lustful gaze then. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t that . . . ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, no, I mean it. Wow.

  “Okay, Ma, stop drooling. He’s half your age.”

  “He is not. He is, however, twice yours.”

  “He is n—” I did the math. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Now about going to Percy’s Vale . . .”

  Apparently Will’s parents have invited Mom to visit Mary Percival’s house. They live there. Will had never mentioned that. Either bit.

  “No,” I said flatly when I got the info I’d missed first round.

  Mom didn’t snap back. Instead, she rested her elbows on the table, propped her chin on her hands, and studied me over the confetti remains of cauliflower, lotus root, and basmati rice. “I was right. Something did happen between you and Will.”

  “Did not.”

  “Oh, Cat. Please. I have been your human lie detector since the moment you were old enough to deny having just pooped in the closet.”

  “Mom!” My head slewed around. No one, most especially Orlando, was paying any attention to us.

  “I’m just saying. So . . . ?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “ ‘ Nothing,’ as in, ‘Everything is just peachy keen between Will and me, nothing wrong at all’? Or ‘nothing,’ as in, ‘You are old, intrusive, clueless, and occasionally evil, and I will share nothing with you’?”

  “ ‘ Peachy keen,’ Ma? Old and clueless a
s you may be, even you postdate ‘peachy keen.’ ”

  “You are not the only one to have watched Scooby-Doo as a child, smart-ass. Now answer the question.”

  And, much to my surprise, I did. “Nothing happened. Like really nothing. No snogging, no smooching, no ing whatsoever. But I liked him. I really liked him. And I kinda maybe thought . . .”

  “He liked you, too. As well he should.” Sometimes having one’s (s)mother as your Number One Fan isn’t all bad. “And? But?”

  “But. He has a girlfriend. She’s gorgeous.”

  “You’re gorgeous!”

  “Mom.”

  “Well, you are”—she sighed—“but I get it. So you don’t want to come with me to Percy’s Vale?”

  “No, I don’t think I do.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I need to go. Mary’s letters from the last year of her life aren’t at the BM; I’m hoping they’re in Somerset. You don’t have to come.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a minute. Almost not staring at the demigod nearby. Then: “You know,” Mom said thoughtfully, “I bet if I told the waiter that it’s your birthday, everyone would sing. Including Tall, Dark, and Mind-numbingly Handsome over there—”

  “Mom!”

  She laughed. Then I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Across the room, Orlando Bloom looked over at us and grinned.

  Wow.

  13 June

  Mama was not well enough to come with me to the Quinns’ country house party. It does not matter. Lady Hartnell is keeping an eagle eye on me as well as on Luisa. For two days, I shall have another mother. I do not mind; she is sweet and cheerful, and lent me her beautiful garnet chain to wear with my dress tonight.

  It is a pleasant party thus far. We all arrived this afternoon and had tea on the lawns. There were archery targets set up on the hill below. What fun! I do not think it was entirely fair of Nicholas to scold me as he did. My loose arrow came nowhere near him.

  I do not know why he is even here. I suppose he and Frederick Quinn are friends; they are of an age and were at school together, with Charles, but still. I suppose, too, Nicholas is considered a rather eligible fellow, a good catch. Both Mrs. Quinn and Mrs. Hartnell seem altogether too pleased with him. For Luisa’s sake, I hope her mother does not imply anything foolish. I really cannot imagine he would even think twice of Luisa, no matter how beautiful and clever and sweet she might be. Why would he?

  Thomas is to come tomorrow.

  I should very much have rather he came today. I was joined in performing charades with Eleanor Quinn, her brother, and Mr. Davison. We were given “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Mr. Davison would insist on lying in the centre of the floor, pretending to snore. It was a dismally insufficient clue! I was gratified to see that Miss Northrop (why must she be invited everywhere these days?) fared no better with Henrietta and her brother and Winnie Stuart. They had to enact “A School for Scandal,” and Winnie, while certainly dramatic, was not a convincing student, nor Henrietta a pupil. I thought it far less scandalous of Miss Northrop to display much of her silk stockings than merely crass.

  Nicholas, Luisa, Lady Victoria West, and Mr. Troughton trounced us all soundly. It was not at all fair. Their charade was far easier than ours. It involved the ladies stealing the gentlemen’s dice from their gaming table and hiding them. The men proceeded to bumble about in hapless search while Lady Victoria followed them around the room, making mocking faces behind their backs. Luisa laughed so hard, she could barely choke out “Paradise Lost!”

  Lady Victoria is a widow. She is very elegant; she stands and sits so very prettily, and when she moves from one resting place to the next, one cannot help but notice her fine figure and manners. I wish I had such ease and unaffected grace. She is the daughter of a duke, and cannot be more than six-and-twenty. Her husband fell from his yacht last year while sailing around Ireland and succumbed to a chill. I overheard Mrs. Quinn telling Lady Hartnell that it was not a happy marriage. He was fond of sporting, whisky, and ladies not his wife, in that order.

  How sad it must be to have made such a poor match, and then to find oneself alone at such a young age! I believe I shall make an effort to befriend Lady Victoria tomorrow. She seems a lively, amiable, delightful creature, and I’m sure would be glad of the camaraderie.

  Luisa is yawning and grumbling at me to extinguish the candle. I am happy enough to bring an end to the day. After all, Thomas is to come tomorrow. Papa cannot know that, and there is no one who would spy upon me for him.

  I cannot help but think that whatever happens in the next two days shall tell a great deal about the rest of my life.

  14 June

  The Fates are against me. One of them, I fear, is named Mrs. Quinn. Another is called Weather. The third is my Luck.

  It has rained since morning. Even now, past midnight, it patters and splashes against the windows, mocking me relentlessly. It was a very long day. Thomas did not come. The rain, I am certain, made travel too arduous, even only twenty miles from Town.

  We had a long breakfast, hoping the storm might cease and we should at least be able to walk the grounds, or perhaps take carriages and explore some castle ruins. I ate too much. I do not believe I shall be having scrambled eggs or mushrooms for a while, and there is little I care to say about cold toast.

  When it became clear that there would be no morning out-of-doors, Mrs. Quinn arranged a scavenger hunt throughout the house. Now, had I been partnered with Thomas, or even Luisa for that matter, I should have been perfectly content. But there was no Thomas, and Luisa went off happily with Freddie Quinn. Mrs. Quinn had me paired with Winnie. I suppose it might have been Julia Northrop. Or Nicholas, who went on his way with Lady Victoria on his arm.

  To be fair, Winnie is a good partner. She adores such entertainments. I suppose there is not a great deal to do in Scotland, especially in inclement weather. She made quick work of the first three clues, finding them in a sideboard, a suit of armor, and within the fronds of a potted plant. I followed along, helping very little and saying less. Puzzles, after all, are not my forte.

  “ ‘Mrs. Quinn has but one place,’ ” Winnie read the card attached to a ribbon around the plant. “ ‘Mr. Quinn has three. Though her presence is much stronger, his has been here longer.’ I suppose it might mean chairs, perhaps in a drawing room. Or perhaps it refers to sets of china. After all, this is his family’s ancestral home . . .”

  We had left the senior Quinns in the dining room with each other and a great deal of hot chocolate. They seem equally content in large groups and alone. I rather think they are in love. There are certainly enough junior Quinns running about. Freddie is the oldest. The youngest are still in the schoolroom. We encountered them while struggling with the suit of armor’s visor. They thought it most amusing and I suspect they might have had a hand in the difficulty.

  I think I should like to have a house full of lively children.

  “Of course! It must be a portrait. How silly of me not to have gotten that sooner.” Winnie huffed and pulled my arm. “Well, come along. I believe the long gallery is this way. At this rate, we shall not be the first there.”

  It was, and we were not. Nicholas and Lady Victoria were ahead of us. We entered the gallery just in time to see them tucking a paper back into a gilded frame. “Sluggards!” she called over her shoulder. She was still clinging to Nicholas’s arm. “Do not think you can defeat two intellects such as ours!” We could hear her laughing all the way down the hall.

  “I do not care for her,” Winnie said simply as she reached for the puzzle card. “She twitters.”

  In the end, we did indeed come second to Lady Victoria and Nicholas. The prize was a box of Turkish Delight. I rather hoped it would stick her teeth together. I have decided I do not care for her, either.

  After luncheon, the first moment they possibly could, the gentlemen closeted themselves in the billiards room, where even Lady Victoria did not venture. We ladies settled ourselves
in the drawing room with our books or embroidery or quiet thoughts. Miss Northrop plunked herself down and played loudly and not terribly well on Mrs. Quinn’s piano. Waverley lay unopened in my lap. I had a very good view of the drive from my window and watched it for a long time, willing a carriage to appear.

  Nothing did, but rain and more rain.

  Lady Victoria continued to twitter throughout the afternoon and evening. When she was not twittering, she was posing. Draping herself over one settee, perching upon the arm of another. It was all very practised and contrived. In deference to my wits, I did not watch her before, during, or after supper. The men, of course, did.

  When supper ended, the familiar pattern began. The gentlemen prepared to go off—again—to drink and smoke and whatever else they do; the ladies would retire to the drawing room to stare at each other until the gentlemen were finished drinking and smoking and whatever else they do. I did not think I could bear it, another hour of watching Lady V. arrange herself on furniture to the accompaniment of Miss Northrop’s plinking. I was on the verge of pleading a headache when a flustered maid rushed into the room and whispered to Mrs. Quinn.

  It transpired that the youngest Quinns, while playing at siege in the drawing room, had built themselves a model catapult. With which they launched a real lead ball through the largest window. As the only tuned instrument was there, we would have no dancing.

  Not that it mattered overmuch. Without Thomas, I did not much care to dance. Still, we were a subdued group as we filed from the room. I wandered wearily over to the farthest window and waited to be told where to go. Nicholas stopped beside me on his way to his manly entertainments. “Are you sulking over the rain or absence of poetic swain?”

  I was in no mood for his amusement or his mock sympathy. I was cross. No Thomas, no moonlight walk, and no indication that either was forthcoming.

  “Save your appalling poetry for her,” I muttered.

  “Her?”

  “Oh, please. Should you not be by her side? Two intellects such as yours could not have much to say to us sluggards.”