You tell me. Why are you acting so strange and stiff?
“Everything’s fine.” I gave him a bright smile. “We just found some great airfares and decided to take advantage of them. Gordon’s idea, actually. We got in yesterday.”
Alex chuckled. “How is old Gordon? And everyone else in Barley?”
The mystery blonde gave me a speculative look that lingered on my sweater. I pulled my jacket tighter. She was even more gorgeous up close and personal, with cascading Jessica Simpson hair but a much-smarter- than-Jessica look on her heart-shaped face. And she was teeny-tiny to boot—
No whispering thighs on that woman.
—and she barely came up to Alex’s chin, while my Manolos gave me a bird’s-eye view of the top of his curly head.
Next to her, I felt like Pinocchio. Only instead of my nose growing, it was my thighs that were getting larger by the second.
“Alex?” a deep voice intoned. “Are you going to introduce us?”
He whirled around. “Oh. Sorry. Dad, Mum, these are my friends Phoebe and Mary Jo from Barley. You’ve heard me speak of them.” He turned back to us. “Phoebe, Mary Jo, these are my parents, David and Grace Spencer. And this is my sister, Corde—” He stopped short when he saw her grinning face. “You little minx. Why do I have the feeling you’ve already met?”
Delia fluttered her eyelashes at him as she hugged first me, then Mary Jo. “Someone had to help with the surprise on this end, brother dear.”
“Well, you certainly surprised me.” Alex finished up the introductions by gesturing to the gorgeous blonde. “And this is George—Georgina—Fairchild, Dad’s right arm and mine.”
My mouth dropped open. “This is George?”
Open mouth; insert big, ungainly foot.
I shook her tiny proffered hand and was instantly back in junior high again, the wallflower at the school dance. I felt like a wide-hipped, thunder-thighed Amazon next to this doll-like vision.
“Let me guess. Dear Alex never said I was a woman, right?” She gave him a playful punch on the arm. “Thank you very much indeed.”
“Go on, George. Give him what for,” Alex’s father said, bestowing a fond smile on the two of them. He turned to me, still smiling.
“George is practically one of us. Our families have been friends and neighbors for years. And these two were at university together.”
Well, isn’t that special? The old Saturday Night Live church lady took up residence in my head.
“Was journalism your major as well?” I asked George politely.
“Oh, good Lord, no.” She laughed—not a rich, full-bodied guffaw like mine, but one of those lovely, petite, musical laughs that sounded like expensive crystal clinking together.
Crystal I’d like to break.
“There’s no money in journalism unless you’re part of the Spencer dynasty,” she added, giving Alex a playful poke in the side this time. “I studied law.”
My smile stuck to my lips. And I longed to give her a not-so-playful poke.
Now I knew how Kate Winslet felt in Sense and Sensibility when she entered the glittering society party and saw the man she adored standing beside a wealthy, glittering debutante-type.
“What was your concentration, Phoebe?” Gorgeous George asked me.
“Journalism.”
Her tiny hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, sorry! I’ve gone and put my foot into it, haven’t I?” But her contrition didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No offense meant. Really.”
“None taken.” I meant to give her a subtle but dismissive once-over, with a cool glance from head to toe. But that intention fell apart when I glanced down at her little feet. And died.
She was wearing the same Manolos as I was—the very model Alex had given to me as a Christmas present. Only on her they looked dainty and demure. I haven’t been dainty or demure since I came out of the womb.
“Great boots.” I croaked past the lump in my throat.
“Thank you,” she said, trying not to preen. “I just love my Manolos.”
“Me too.”
Then George looked down and noticed that our feet were twins. Or quadruplets.
So did Alex, who flushed and tugged at his collar. “I thought they looked familiar.”
“Well, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Alex’s father clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder and grinned.
His gracious, Anglicized mother saved the day. “Phoebe, it’s so lovely to meet you,” Grace said. “Alex has told us such wonderful things about you and your family. How long will you be here? You must come round for dinner. Or tea, perhaps?”
Alex cast her a grateful look. “Absolutely. Yes. Phoebe, Mary Jo, if you don’t have plans for tomorrow night, let’s all have dinner together.”
“I’m afraid we have that dinner meeting with the board,” George reminded him.
He frowned. “Blast. I’d forgotten.”
“Oh, and your father and I are leaving for the country tomorrow afternoon, dear,” his mother said with a chagrined look.
“Right. Of course. Don’t know where my head is tonight. Sorry.”
Poor man. He’s totally flustered. I should have listened to Mary Jo and given him some warning.
“Oh, please—don’t worry about it.” With a monumental effort I adopted a nonchalant, free-spirited air. “We know this was spur of the moment, and we certainly don’t expect you to rearrange your schedules for us. We’re flexible. Right, MJ?”
“Right. We’ll be in England a couple of weeks. We can always get together later.”
His mother laid her soft, manicured hand on my arm and offered a welcoming look that included Mary Jo. “You must both come visit us in the country. We would love to get to know you better. Besides, you can’t leave without seeing the Cotswolds. They’re considered one of the most picturesque spots in all of England.”
Her husband grunted. “Don’t let a Yorkshireman hear you say that, my dear.”
Mary Jo’s face creased into a huge smile. “Hey! We’re planning to visit both Yorkshire and the Cotswolds. I’m a big James Herriot fan,” she added.
“Are you?” David Spencer gave her a meaningful nod. “I rather enjoy his horse stories myself.”
Mary Jo followed his gaze down at her green sweatshirt with the horses scampering across the front. She’d added her orange turtleneck underneath to dress it up.
A flicker of disdain crossed Georgina’s face as she took in Mary Jo’s outfit. Then she turned her fashion attention to me. “That’s a rather special top, Phoebe. Dior, isn’t it?”
I nodded, pleased anew at my thrift-store find.
“My mother used to have one just like it.” Her eyes narrowed as she fake-smiled. “It was her favorite, but she tore it riding one day, so we gave it to a charity shop. It was just a tiny tear near the bottom, and we figured some lucky woman handy with a needle wouldn’t mind.”
Alex cleared his throat. “Speaking of riding . . . Mary Jo has a stable in Barley and gives riding lessons.”
“Well then, we’ll have to arrange for a ride when you come out to the house.” Alex’s dad exchanged another fond when-are-you-going-to-become-my-daughter-in-law smile with his colleague. “Nothing like a nice, brisk morning ride in the country, eh, George?”
“It’s one of the things I miss most when I’m in London,” Georgina said, returning his smile. She turned to me with an innocent look. “Do you ride as well, Phoebe?”
As well as what? The kids on the plastic vending horse in front of the market?
Mary Jo started to snort, but turned the snort into a cough when she caught my eye.
“A little,” I told George just as innocently.
Alex raised his eyebrows.
Delia jumped into the mix. “Just so you don’t take them on one of those barbaric fox hunts, Dad.”
Her father’s face flushed. “Cordelia, riding to the hounds is an English institution.”
“That doesn’t make it any less cruel
—the poor little defenseless fox against all those snapping beasts waiting to tear it apart.”
“Defenseless fox indeed. Do you know the damage those creatures do to our chickens?”
“Well, then, set a humane trap.” Delia’s nostrils flared. “But don’t make a festive sporting event out of it and say it’s to protect the chickens.”
“All right, you two—enough,” Grace said gently. “This isn’t the time nor the place to rehash that old family squabble.” She turned to MJ and me. “You’ll have to forgive my husband and daughter; they’re always arguing about something.”
She softened her rebuke with a fond look at both of them. “That’s because they’re both so much alike.”
Delia smiled at her father, who returned it with a gruff one of his own. I noticed he was looking rather pale and remembered his heart attack just a few months ago.
Grace then changed the subject. “So what have you girls planned for tomorrow?”
I glanced at MJ and smiled. “We need to do a little shopping—Mary Jo’s favorite sport. But we also want to go to St. Paul’s and then maybe afternoon tea somewhere. I’ve heard the Ritz is fabulous.”
Please let the money be in my account tomorrow.
“Yes, the Ritz is quite nice,” Grace said, “but if you want the quintessential English afternoon-tea experience, you must go to Brown’s. It’s one of the oldest five-star hotels in London and has lots of lovely dark paneling and wonderful antiques. Agatha Christie used it as a model for her mystery At Bertram’s Hotel.” She looked at her daughter. “What do you have on for tomorrow afternoon, Delia? Can you take them to tea?”
Delia pulled her planner from her purse. “Actually, I have meetings ’til around twoish, but we could meet there at three o’clock, if that’s all right with you?”
“MJ?” I asked.
“Fine by me.”
“Right. I’ll make reservations then.” Delia glanced apologetically at our outfits. “I’m afraid jeans and sweatshirts are frowned upon.” She lifted her nose toward the ceiling and gave an exaggerated sniff. “All very posh and civilized, don’t you know?”
“That’s okay.” I smiled. “We have no problem doing posh. Right, MJ?” Just as long as my suitcase arrives.
“Right.”
Grace returned her attention to us. “Where are you girls staying?”
“King’s Cross,” we replied in unison.
George’s perfectly arched eyebrows lifted, and she exchanged a telling look with Alex’s father.
“King’s Cross?” His mother frowned. “Are you sure that’s safe, dear?”
“Oh, it’s fine. No problem.”
“How are you getting home?”
“Same way we came,” MJ said. “The tube.”
Alex looked at his watch. “Not this time of night, you’re not. The last train left ten minutes ago.”
I gulped, thinking of the cost. “Oh well, we’ll just take a taxi then.”
Grace glanced at her husband, who by now was looking very peaked. “Darling, shall we go? I’m getting a bit tired.” She kissed Mary Jo, then me, on the cheek. “Lovely to meet you. I’m so sorry I won’t be able to join you for tea tomorrow, but Delia will make sure you’re taken care of.” She reached in her purse. “Here’s my card. Please do ring and let us know when you’ll be in the Cotswolds, so we can have a longer visit.”
“And go for that ride,” David added, nodding his farewell as he linked his wife’s arm in his.
Delia hugged us both. “See you tomorrow at three then. Just tell your taxi driver Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair. He’ll know right where it is.”
Georgina gave us a brisk shake of her little claw, then stood waiting for Alex, who gave each of us another awkward hug—no kiss—before bidding us good-night.
This is just like in The Parent Trap when that money-hungry, high-maintenance Joanna Barnes—also a skinny blonde—wormed her way into Brian Keith’s life while daughter Hayley Mills was away at camp . . .and tried to shut out his real love, the voluptuous Maureen O’Hara . . .
“Wonder why Alex never mentioned Gorgeous George was a woman,” I said, unlocking our door.
“It just never came up,” Mary Jo said, wheezing from the climb. “He’s a guy. He’s oblivious. Don’t read anything more into it.”
“Then why was she hanging all over him?” I yanked the door shut behind me. “Maybe she’s why he’s not hurrying home.”
She sighed and sank onto her bed. “Alex hasn’t hurried home because this is home for him. His dad had a heart attack, and he needs to be here to help out with the family business. You know he’s not the kind of guy to dangle two women at once.”
“You’re right.” I struggled out of my jacket, turning my back to Mary Jo so she wouldn’t spot the sweater rip. “Although I’ll bet George wouldn’t mind being dangled. And his dad would certainly be thrilled if they got together.” I bit my lip. “Did you notice how awkward Alex was at the theater? He didn’t seem himself at all.”
He didn’t even notice that I’m growing my hair out!
“True.” She frowned. “He wasn’t his normal happy-go-lucky self. But then again, he’s been worried about his dad—and we did surprise him. Maybe it’s just that famous English reserve. When he comes back here it automatically slips into place, especially when he’s around his father. He gets all stuffy and proper.”
I sat down on my bed and took off my boots. The infamous boots. I didn’t know if I ever wanted to wear them again now. Even though they were Manolos—probably the only pair I’d ever own . . .
I shrugged. I’d have to wear them again. They were the only footwear I had to my name here in England, and until my money came in, I couldn’t afford to buy more. And they were Manolos, after all.
“Alex feels very beholden to his dad for all that he’s done for him and his mom, and he doesn’t want to disappoint him or let him down.”
I removed my socks. “But still, I’m not crazy about that George. Bit of a snob, don’t you think?”
Mary Jo pulled down her covers. “Just a little.” She grinned. “I noticed how impressed she was by my sweatshirt.”
“You saw that? I thought I was the only one.”
“I work with kids, remember? You learn to grow eyes in the back of your head.”
“So what’s your take on Alex, MJ? What do you think’s going on with him? He sure didn’t hug me very long. It was almost like we were total strangers.” I took off my earrings. “Did I make a mistake coming here to surprise him? And is it just me, or does he seem to have cooled down in his feelings toward me? He sure didn’t say much . . .”
“You know, I’m not too good at all this dissecting of every little thing guys say and do, Pheebs.” She yawned. “Never have been. Too hard to figure out, and not sure it helps anyway or makes all that much difference in the long run.”
“Are you kidding? This is a critical female need. How else can we let out our neuroses and figure out a plan?”
Lins, where are you when I need you?
“Why don’t we just pray about it instead?” She yawned again and rubbed her eyes.
“Well, there’s a novel idea.” I sat cross-legged on the bed, suddenly aware that since getting to London I had completely reneged on my quiet-time resolution. “Go for it.”
“Father, thank You for bringing us here safely to London,” Mary Jo prayed. “And right now I lift up Alex to You. We don’t know what’s going on with him or what path You have for him, but we pray for Your wisdom and discernment. I pray too for Phoebe and that You would protect her”—she paused, and I could hear the smile in her voice—“neurotic heart and give her peace. And if this relationship is not Your will at this time, then please shut the—”
My eyes flew open. “Hey! I don’t want Him to shut the doors. Don’t pray for that! That’s like praying for patience.” All the admonitions I’d heard about being careful what you prayed for came rushing back to me. “Before you know it, you find yourself wait
ing in every single area of your life.” I shook my head. “Tough way to learn patience.”
“But effective.”
There you go, being all wise and spiritually mature again. “Knock it off, will ya?” I smiled to show her I was teasing—sort of—and picked up my copy of Jane Eyre. “Heading for the tub now, MJ. I need a long, hot bath. Sweet dreams. Oh, and by the way—amen.”
“Uh-huh.” Mary Jo snored her good-night.
Unable to find any cleanser, I scrubbed the dingy tub with some bath salts I found on the grimy window ledge. I turned on the taps and dumped in a liberal amount of the muscle-relaxing Radox salts.
And while the tub filled, I had a little one-on-one with God.
“Hi, Lord. It’s me, Phoebe. Uh, about Mary Jo’s prayer . . . I’m really not at the point of wanting You to shut the door on Alex, so do You think You could maybe please just leave it open? Wide would be good. If it’s Your will, of course. Thanks.”
I lowered myself into the narrow, claustrophobic tub, my thighs wedging tightly up against the sides.
Definitely time to start exercising again.
In something other than stiletto-heeled boots.
[chapter eleven]
Not in Kansas Anymore
rise and shine Cinderella.” I flung the covers off my jet-lagged roommate. “It’s time for your posh makeover from your fairy godmother.”
These days, the glass slipper appeared to be on the other foot. Back home, I was never a morning person, and Mary Jo was up at the crack of dawn to feed her horses and read her Bible. But here in England I was wide awake and eager to begin our day . . . only I couldn’t get MJ out of bed.
“I’m on vacation,” she grumbled. “And I don’t want to be made over.” She pulled the covers over her head. “I’m perfectly happy the way I am.”
“Yes, I know. And that works great in casual California, MJ. But we’re in England now and need to dress up a bit more.” I donned my mostly dry and now rather itchy sweater. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do one of those extreme makeover things where they dye your hair, shoot you full of Botox, and bleach and straighten your teeth. This is just a little wardrobe adjustment.”
Dreaming in Technicolor Page 12
