Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Close, but not quite.”

  Delia’s face flamed. “I’m so sorry. How rude—”

  Mary Jo waved off her apology and returned to more pressing matters. “So, does George love movies?”

  “Not the way Alex does. In that respect they’re totally different.”

  I felt a glimmer of romantic hope. But I sucked down another truffle anyway.

  “Right,” Delia said, brushing some crumbs off her trousers. “So what about this hotel you’re staying in then? What’s it like?” She frowned. “King’s Cross isn’t the best area, you know. Are you all right staying there?”

  Before either of us had a chance to answer, she added, “I’d invite you to stay in our flat, but it’s a bit crowded these days with Alex and my parents all there. Besides,” she shot a sly glance at me, “Mum and Dad will be heading back to the country, and I’m going back to my flat in Oxford. So after today it’ll just be Alex, and we wouldn’t want to give the appearance of evil and all that, right?”

  Mary Jo stared at her. “You’re a Christian?”

  She smiled. “Yes, believe it or not. We do still have some here in England. Quite a few, as a matter of fact. We even have a few churches here and there.”

  It was Mary Jo’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry. I’d just heard that even with all the historic churches, it’s . . . well, pretty dead, spiritually.”

  “I’m just teasing you.” Delia chuckled again. “I suppose from an American evangelical standpoint, it might seem that way. We’re certainly not as outgoing as you—that whole British reserve and all. And our faith is definitely not as vocally or politically on display here the way it is in the States.” She smiled in remembrance. “At university, Charlotte, one of my flat mates, said to me when we first met, ‘All the Christians I’ve ever seen dress badly and have spots.’”

  “Spautz?” I asked.

  “Pimples.”

  Mary Jo snorted. “You Brits can make even a zit sound elegant.”

  “We try, darling. After all, we do have our upper-crust reputation to maintain.” She set her cup down and leaned in conspiratorially. “Any rate, Charlotte went on in this whole Christians-are-daft tirade, saying, ‘They all buy manor houses out in the country, turn them into communes, and do all sorts of strange cult things—singing and getting these glassy-eyed expressions and everything.’”

  “What did you say to that?” I picked up my scone again.

  “I just said I’d give her fair warning before I made a sacrifice in the lounge.”

  We laughed.

  I drained my tea and tried to make my next question sound like an afterthought. “So, is George a Christian?”

  “Good question.” Delia frowned. “I think so. She’s always gone to the local parish church at least, but I have a feeling she may be just going through the motions. Hard to say for certain. But back to your hotel—sorry, I have a tendency to get sidetracked sometimes.” She sighed. “Mum’s always on at me about it. So how is it, honestly?”

  “Doesn’t bother me, other than those fifty-nine steps,” Mary Jo said, “but the stained bedspreads and dusty curtains rather offend Phoebe’s aesthetic sensibilities.”

  Delia crinkled her nose. “They would mine as well. Right. Let’s get that sorted out then.” She punched a number into her cell and said while it was ringing, “There’s a lovely little hotel we use for our business clients in central London. With our family discount, you can probably get a nice room for about the same price you’re paying.”

  I protested. “We don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “No trouble.”

  “Besides, we’re still booked for tonight.” I threw a helpless glance at Mary Jo.

  “Yeah,” MJ said. “We’d have to pay—”

  Delia held up her hand for silence as she spoke into the phone.

  Then Mary Jo and I exchanged amazed looks as we listened to Delia get us out of our cheesy hotel without penalties.

  She flipped her phone shut and shot us a brisk smile. “Right. No worries. Shall we go then and collect your things?”

  “How’d you do that?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Delia replied with a beatific smile. “Perhaps a spot of divine intervention?”

  [chapter twelve]

  Notes from Abroad

  ask your mom how my horses are doing,” MJ said.

  I scrolled through e-mail at another Internet cafe while she and Delia chatted away about horses and the other four-legged friends they had in common.

  There were three messages from Lindsey, which I skimmed to make sure there was nothing urgent. But it was all trivial wedding-related stuff, so I just sent her a quick Reader’s Digest update about what we’d seen and done in London thus far and said I hoped all the wedding plans were going along well.

  I clicked open a message from my oldest niece, which turned out to be a message from my whole family as well:

  To: Movielovr

  From: AshGrant

  Hi, Aunt Phoebe! Have you seen Prince William or Harry yet? What about the Queen? How’s Alex? Are you in L-O-V-E yet? Wait a sec, Lexie just came in and wants to say hello.

  hI Ant Phoebe, when r u coming HOME? I miss u. Can u come tomorrow? Then u could meet my turtle. His name is Jack. oK, bye. I love u.

  Lexie insisted that I let her type, so we started that way, but then she got frustrated since it took so long. (Me too.) Anyway, I have to run. Elizabeth and Jacob say hi too. And Mom says to tell you that Baby Gloria is cooing and rolling over a lot now. (She’s laughing too.) Dad didn’t say anything ’cause he’s never home, but I’ll say it for him, for all of us: We love and miss you, but we’re not jealous. Not so much. (That’s a lie. I’m super jealous! Wish it were me.)

  Love u lots! Ash

  P.S. Hi, daughter, this is your mother. Ashley said she was writing you, so I wanted to add in my two cents. I hope you and Mary Jo are having a wonderful time and taking lots of pictures! And yes, we all miss you, but I’m thrilled you have this opportunity. How’s Alex? And his father? Please give him and his family my regards and tell them they’re in our prayers. All’s well here, although your brother’s working way too hard. I know you’re busy, so I’ll sign off now. Say hi to Mary Jo. I love you and pray God’s blessings on you as you travel. Love, Mom.

  P.S.S. This is Ashley again. I think this really cool guy in my English class likes me! Can’t wait to tell you all about him, but I’d rather do it in person if you know what I mean. We all miss you and can’t wait for you to come home! Luv ya lots! Ashley

  I felt a little wistful as I read my niece’s postscript. No, not homesick exactly, but realizing she had never written me anything like that when I lived in Cleveland. And it was nice to feel I had my mom’s blessing, that she saw the trip as an opportunity. That hadn’t always been the case with us. Far from it. But we had a better relationship now. Something about living together for six weeks after she’d broken both her arms and bonding over chocolate and makeovers.

  Going home to Barley really had been a good thing, even if my job was less than perfect. Even without Alex—though that was pushing it.

  I pushed the button to respond to Ash’s e-mail, but since the café charged by the hour, I kept my response brief.

  To: AshGrant

  From: Movielovr

  Hi, everyone. Haven’t seen William or Harry yet, but just finished having this la-di-dah tea at a posh hotel. I’ll have to make you a proper tea when I get home.. And yes, we’ve ridden a double-deckah (that’s how they pronounce it). Took lots of pictures from up top. We haven’t been to a castle yet, but inside Westminster Abbey we saw cool statues of dead kings, queens, soldiers, and stuff. Saw Alex too and met his family—his dad looks good, altho a little tired. Mary Jo wants to know how her horses are. And you’ll never guess: she bought some new clothes. She looks hot! Gotta run.

  Love and miss you all, Aunt Phoebe

  “Pheebs, check it out. They have an elevator! I mean lift. A
nd we’re only on the second—uh, first—floor.” MJ grinned. “Already I’m a happy camper.”

  Inside the pristine lobby of our new hotel, an impeccably dressed older man who looked a lot like Alec Guinness welcomed us in his well-modulated British tones.

  It took every bit of movie restraint I had to refrain from saying, “Help me, Obi-Wan. You’re our only hope.”

  We rode the lift to the second floor and opened the door to our room with some trepidation.

  Huge sigh of relief. It was tastefully furnished with two double beds (no stained bedspreads), a rich walnut antique armoire, the requisite sink (but this one a gleaming, white-pedestal confection), and a plush Oriental carpet. In the far corner, two cushy chintz chairs and a small table holding a tea tray, kettle, and basket of assorted tea biscuits and chocolate welcomed us. And on the antique nightstand between the two beds . . . a glorious bouquet of daffodils and purple irises.

  I squealed with delight. “Daffodils—just like he sent me for Valentine’s Day. Ha! Looks like I was worried about this Georgy Girl for nothing.” I shot MJ a triumphant smile and reached for the card.

  “Phoebe and Mary Jo,” I read aloud, “hope this hotel makes your stay in London more pleasant. Lovely to meet you and hope to see you soon, Grace Spencer.”

  “Classy lady, his mom,” Mary Jo said into the disappointed void.

  Note to self: Practice adopting English reserve in place of jump-to-conclusions American exuberance.

  While I stood there chiding myself, MJ checked out the bathroom and pumped her fist. “Yes! There’s a walk-in shower!” She danced with glee. “First dibs.”

  While MJ took her shower, I unpacked my small suitcase, my carryon, and my department-store shopping bags. If my large suitcase doesn’t show up soon, I’d have to buy a new one to put my new clothes in. That is, if my money ever comes through. Hope I hear from Gordon tomorrow . . .

  I sighed and turned on the small electric kettle to make tea. While it brewed, I pulled out my new journal, which I had bought especially for this. (I pulled out my devotional and skinny travel Bible, too, a little ashamed that I hadn’t even cracked the covers since coming to England.)

  There was something so comforting about a steaming hot cup of English tea, particularly with milk and sugar. And I was definitely in need of comfort. So I sipped my tea and munched on a chocolate biscuit as I began to journal all the things we’d seen and done on our trip thus far. Odd thing though; I found myself writing with an English accent.

  Alex’s mother is lovely. I quite like her. And Delia’s darling. His father seems bit of a stick, though one musn’t forget that he had a heart attack recently. One must make allowances. But what I can’t quite make out is Alex. Rather distant and remote, I’d say. Although, to be fair, I’ve only seen him once. Seems he might have called, though . . .

  Why hasn’t he called, anyway? I mean, I know he’s busy, but it just takes a minute to phone. Unless he’s busy with a certain blonde . . .

  I wasn’t ready to face those possibilities. Instead, I asked MJ, who had just emerged from the bathroom, whether we should go out for dinner.

  “Dinner? I’m still stuffed from that artery-clogging tea stuff. But I suppose we should get a little something before all the restaurants close. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ve actually been thinking we should have some curry. I read that Indian food is really popular here, and it’s pretty cheap.”

  Mary Jo hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly an ethnic-food person. I’m not all that culturally sophisticated like you are.”

  “C’mon, where’s your pioneer spirit?”

  “All the pioneers I’m familiar with ate steak.” But at last she allowed me to talk her into it. We found a small, out-of-the-way Indian restaurant redolent with spices and ordered two small chicken curries—“your mildest, please.”

  But their mild was hotter than the spiciest Mexican food either of us had ever eaten. Eye-watering, mouth-searing hot. And the funny thing was, Mary Jo ended up really liking it. Whereas I gulped down glass after glass of water and vowed never to look another curry in the face.

  “Hey, that was great,” my pioneer friend said as I staggered from the restaurant, my eyes still streaming.

  “So tell me, what’s our next adventure?”

  The next morning we were finishing breakfast in the antiques-filled dining room when a waitress approached. “Miss Grant? You have a phone call in the lobby.”

  My eyes widened at MJ. “Whoever could be calling?” I wiped my mouth and stood up. “Probably Delia, the darling. Or the airport calling about my things.”

  Mary Jo chuckled. “You do realize you’re beginning to sound like that woman on the English TV show. The one that keeps putting on airs. Hyacinth something . . .”

  “I do not sound like her,” I huffed. “I merely have a good ear for the nuances of language.”

  “Right,” she deadpanned. “Well, you’d better go see who the darling is that’s on the phone.”

  I stuck out my tongue at her—nothing nuanced about that—then followed the waitress across the dining room and into the lobby. “Good morning. Phoebe Grant here,” I trilled, then winced, realizing I did sound a little like Hyacinth Bucket. Or “boo-kay,” as she was always telling people to pronounce it.

  But the voice on the phone drove all thoughts of Hyacinth from my mind.

  “Morning, Phoebe.” Alex’s long-lost voice was music to my ears.

  I looked up at MJ, who’d followed me into the lobby with a quizzical expression on her face. “It’s Alex,” I mouthed, beaming. “He wants to know if we have plans for tonight.”

  He wants to see me, he wants to see me. Thank you, Lord. He wants to take me out! Um, I mean take us out . . .

  Very nice, my conscience scolded. Just leave your friend out in the cold in a foreign country so far away from home where she knows practically no one. And after she bought you that lovely bunch of clothes too.

  MJ shook her head. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d really love to just stay in tonight.”

  My face fell.

  She hurried to explain. “No, I mean just me. You guys go on.” She grinned. “No offense, but I’d enjoy a little alone time. All I want to do tonight is stay in, order something to eat—pizza, hopefully—and watch a little TV.”

  I relayed this to Alex. “Really? You’re kidding! That would be great. Uh-huh. I’d love it. Okay, see you then.”

  I hung up, eyes shining. “Alex has another dinner business meeting tonight, but afterwards we’re going to see Les Miz! How romantic is that? He knows it’s my favorite musical; he took me to see it in San Francisco, and I loved it. This will be almost like an anniversary or something.”

  My excitement faded as I looked at my friend. “Sure you don’t want to go? I’d hate for you to miss Les Miz in London.”

  “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t care for musicals.”

  I stared at her. “But you sang ‘Feed the Birds’ with me and went to Oklahoma in Barley.”

  “That’s different. I knew lots of people in Oklahoma—including you, Ms. Ado Annie. Wouldn’t have missed that for the world.” She chortled. “That flying girdle was one for the record books. And Mary Poppins is from my childhood. I also like The Wizard of Oz,” she said dryly, “but after that I draw the musical line. I’m a Beatles/Motown girl. Remember?”

  I remembered, although it was beyond me how anyone could pass up Les Miz in London. And I have to admit—I didn’t argue with her. The prospect of an evening alone with Alex was way too tempting.

  I pasted on a regretful look. “Well, if that’s what you really want . . .”

  Which didn’t fool Mary Jo for a minute.

  “It’s what we both want, romance girl.” She grinned. “Now, Louise. Are you all set for this morning’s adventure?”

  “Can’t wait, Thelma.” I linked arms with her and set off toward the elevator.

  “We’re off to
see the Tower,” I sang in my best Judy Garland voice.

  Only it came off sounding more like the happy scarecrow.

  It was a great morning. Not even the aching of my still-stilettoed feet could diminish the excitement of seeing the Tower of London and the British Library. The prospect of seeing Alex that night didn’t hurt either. I sailed through the morning on clouds of anticipation.

  Back at the hotel, our gracious Alec Guinness host overheard me say I was going in search of an Internet café and offered to let me use their computer instead.

  I could almost hear him say, “Use the force, Obi-Wan. Use the force.”

  Hoping and praying there’d be a message from Gordon with happy direct-deposit news, I breathed a sigh of relief when I logged on and saw his e-mail address.

  To: Movielovr

  From: GGreen

  Dear Phoebe, Rest easy; your funds will be in your account by tomorrow. Sure hope this hasn’t messed up your trip too much. Liked your e-mails though. Glad to hear you’re having such a wonderful time in England. Pretty funny stuff about the food.

  Hey, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use some of your e-mails as a column for the Bulletin—sort of a ‘dispatches from abroad.’ (No, not ‘a broad.’ I don’t want to get sued for sexual harassment.) You’d be in great company—Mark Twain did the same thing for the Sacramento Union more than a century ago. Think you could send me some England-through-your-eyes columns every couple of days? That way I can post them on our Web site and folks can have the chance to read them more than once a week.

  Hate to make you work on your vacation, but you’re a fast writer, so it’d be a piece of cake. Needless to say, we’d pay the going rate. What do you say?

  Give Alex my best and tell him all’s fine here with the paper.

  Gordon

  P.S. Your mother sends her love.

  Relieved to know my cash would start flowing again, I immediately fired off a reply:

  To: GGreen

  From: Movielovr