Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  I was definitely liking this idea. “I wonder if I could afford—”

  Delia nudged me.

  I blinked and saw MJ heading our way.

  “Shh. Don’t say anything. She’d have an absolute cow.”

  Back at the flat, Delia suddenly decided to get some takeaway for late lunch.

  “How about curry?” MJ asked, plopping down on the blue squashy couch and flipping through a magazine.

  “No,” I said, my eyes watering at the very thought. “No curry.”

  “Right, then. I’ll just pop down to the corner and get some Chinese.” Delia raised her eyebrows and tilted her head in a tell-her-about- it gesture behind Mary Jo’s back. “Back soon.”

  “Hey Thelma, I just found the most interesting thing at Blackwell’s.” I handed MJ the brochure with the Jane Austen class marked. “Doesn’t that one sound brilliant?” Turning and heading for the kitchen, I added casually over my shoulder. “I’m thinking of staying over a few more weeks to take it. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Mary Jo’s voice rose. “Please tell me you’re kidding. Have you even prayed about this?”

  “Yes . . . well, sort of.” I fidgeted as I turned to face her. “I mean I’m going to. But surely it’s not just coincidence that I happened to see that brochure for classes at Oxford . . . on film, no less—and Jane Austen. When one of my favorite movies of all time is Sense and Sensibility. I mean, what are the chances of that? This could be a total God thing.”

  “Uh-huh. And what about Alex?”

  “What about him?” I put the kettle on. “This has nothing to do with him.”

  She shot me a penetrating look. “Doesn’t it?”

  “No! This is just an incredible opportunity. I mean, Oxford University? Come on. How cool is that? Who’d have ever thought that little Phoebe Grant from Barley would get the chance to go to Oxford?”

  “But how could you even afford it?”

  Go ahead, just pop my fantasy bubble with boring reality.

  “It’s really not all that expensive.” Yeah—in whose universe? “And Delia said I could stay here with her for free.” My mouth set in a mutinous line. “I’ll bet Esther would be all for it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” MJ gave me a patient look. “Pheebs, I know you want to have a relationship with Alex, but he’s already made it clear that you can’t. Not at this time.”

  “But that’s just on account of geography.” I sank down next to her on the couch, eyes sparkling. “If I’m here, we don’t have the whole long-distance thing to worry about, and we could just pick up right where we left off in Barley.”

  And I could still get that kiss.

  Mary Jo gave me a curious look. “What’s it like?”

  “What?”

  “To live where you do?”

  “What are you talking about?” I looked at her, puzzled. “I live the same place as you.”

  “No, you don’t, Peter Pan. You live in a dream world—your very own personal Neverland.” She sighed. “Pheebs, life isn’t like the movies. You can’t just do things like this on a whim. Sure, it’s great to be spontaneous, but—”

  I filled in the rest for her. “But other people are involved . . . What about your job . . . your family? . . . Don’t you have responsibilities?” My voice rose, and I began to pace. “I came to Barley because of family responsibilities. And I never really wanted to work at the Bulletin in the first place, but I took the job because of my family. And yes, because of Alex. But now that he’s—”

  “Darlings, I’m back.” A musical voice interrupted us as the door opened to reveal Delia with the takeaway and a tall sandy-haired guy she introduced as her friend Ian.

  Ian shook my hand while Mary Jo sprang up to help Delia with the food. “Lovely to meet you,” he said, fixing me with gorgeous Paul Newman eyes.

  “And you.” I shook his hand and caught Delia’s smile out of the corner of my eye.

  I know what this is: it’s a setup. Delia brought him round to help take my mind off Alex. How sweet of her. He is kind of cute . . .

  Clueless Phoebe strikes again.

  It was Ian and MJ who got along great, sharing a mutual interest in history, music, and horses. Having never been to the United States, he was fascinated to learn of her stable in California, and his electric blue eyes sparkled as she shared some funny kid riding mishaps with him.

  That’s all right, I told myself as I watched them laughing together. It’s about time somebody noticed all that Mary Jo has to offer.

  Besides, I added to myself only, maybe there’s still a chance for Alex and me.

  When it was about time for him to leave, Ian invited us all to breakfast the next day, and we gladly accepted. “But we can’t linger too late,” Delia warned, “if we’re to drive up to the Cotswolds tomorrow.”

  “Delia’s offered to give us a personal tour,” I added helpfully. But I don’t think he even heard me.

  “Right, then,” he said to Mary Jo. “Shall I knock you up in the morning, then?”

  Her eyes grew huge. “I don’t think so.”

  Delia threw back her head and laughed. “Careful, Ian. Mary Jo doesn’t know all our slang yet. She most definitely doesn’t want to wind up preggers.”

  His face flamed red. “What?! I never said . . .” Then a look of comprehension dawned. “Oh. Sorry. I take it there’s a different meaning in the States?”

  “Um”—MJ and I looked at each other—“you could say that.”

  I snorted with laughter, MJ joined me, and we were all still laughing like crazy when Ian left . . . and when the phone rang a few minutes later.

  “Hello?” Delia said in her lovely, lilting British accent while Mary Jo and I continued to snort in the background. “Yes, just a moment, please. Phoebe, it’s for you.” She handed me the phone.

  Still trying to control my giggles, I said, “Hello?”

  “Sounds like you’re having a party or something,” the voice on the other end said.

  “Lins! How are you? Sure wish you were here.” I giggled again. “No party, just Delia, MJ, and I having a little girl time.”

  “MJ?”

  “That’s what I call Mary Jo.”

  “Oh. Well, if I’m interrupting, I can call back later,” she said in a hurt tone.

  “Don’t be silly. You called all the way from Cleveland. It must be important. What’s up?”

  Lindsey sniffled across the miles. “Phil and I had a f-fight last night about the wedding, and I wanted to talk to you, but you’re all the way over in England, and there’s that stupid time difference, so I couldn’t call and . . .” She began to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Lins. What was the fight about?”

  “He said he couldn’t care less what colors I picked”—she blew her nose—“but there was no way he was going to wear a pink cummerbund.”

  “Pink?” I rolled my eyes. “I thought you were ‘so over’ pink.”

  “I was. But then I saw this beautiful bridesmaid dress in this great cotton-candy pink—it will look absolutely gorgeous on you—and this cake with baby pink roses all cascading down it, and changed my mind. I was telling Phil about it, and we ended up in this horrible fight, and he yelled and said he didn’t care about party favors or centerpieces or flowers or food.”

  “Lins,” I said gently, “most guys don’t care about all the little details. They just want to get married. That’s why you have your girlfriends to talk to.”

  “But I don’t have my best friend,” she wailed. “You’re way over there in England.” She sniffled again. “Besides, I’ve been waiting for this day my whole life. I want everything to be just perfect!”

  “I know you do.” I sighed. “But you have to remember, guys don’t feel the same way. It’s not as big a deal to them. They’re a little more—a lot more—focused on the wedding night.” I grinned into the phone. “Especially when they’re good, upright Christian guys like Phil. He’s been waiting a long ti
me for that.”

  “So have I,” Lindsey said. “But that doesn’t give him an excuse to slam out of here like he did. He said he couldn’t care less what colors I chose or whether we had salmon or chicken at the reception. There were just three things he refused to have: a pink cummerbund, cauliflower, and a plastic bride and groom on top of the cake. Just tell him where and when to show up . . .” She began to cry all over again. “What’s wrong with cauliflower? It looks so pretty on a vegetable tray . . .”

  “Lins—”

  Delia gave a discreet cough, and I glanced over at her. She mouthed “sorry,” then pointed to her watch.

  “I’m sorry, Lins, but I’m afraid I have to go. We’ll be late for Evensong if we don’t hurry.”

  Her voice turned to frost. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you, Ms. Busy World Traveler.” I jumped at the sound of the receiver slamming down on her end.

  When we returned to the flat later that night, I sent Lindsey an apologetic e-mail and then checked my messages. There was a darling e-card from Lexie with a puppy on the front that wagged its tail while my niece’s message appeared: “I love you and miss you, Aunt Phoebe.

  Please come home soon.”

  Her mom had sent an accompanying e-mail:

  To: Movielovr

  From: Kgrants7

  Hi, Pheebs. How’s it going? Did you like Lexie’s card? She picked it out, but I did the typing for her. Hey, guess what Ash and I did today in homage to you? Went to afternoon tea. One of my girlfriends told me about this elegant tearoom up in Sacramento, so I took Ashley there, and we had a fun girls-only day. It was great. Lots of china and lace and girly stuff to ooh and aah over. And the food! Little sandwiches and scones and sweets . . . I didn’t think those things could fill me up, but we were stuffed afterward. It was nice to have the time together, especially since we haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye much lately. Ashley has a huge crush on this boy in her class—not a Christian—and is starting to behave like a typical teenager. Ah, the joys of motherhood. Hope you’re still having a great time. Sure do miss you. See you soon.

  Love, Karen

  I hit reply.

  To: Kgrants7

  From: Movielovr

  Hi, Karen. Loved Lexie’s card! Please tell her I said so. Sure do miss that little munchkin. The rest of you too. Isn’t teatime a kick? Don’t worry about Ashley too much; I went through the same thing when I was her age and look at me—I turned out okay. Gotta dash. Love to all. —P.

  But did I turn out okay? Or is Mary Jo right and I’m too much of a dreamer for my own good? No time to think about that right now; need to write my column. So much more fun than writing about emus and Christy Sharp’s salt-and-pepper–shaker collection.

  NOTES FROM ABROAD

  For years, the Brits have gotten a bad rap for their food. And I have to admit that so far, it’s been a bit hit-and-miss: The sausage is far too soft and squishy for my Jimmy Dean taste buds. The scrambled eggs are either too runny or powdery (one morning I’m sure we were served instant eggs from a box!). And don’t even get me started on the curries (can you say incendiary?).

  Ah, but those English cheeses—especially the Double Gloucester cheddar. Sheer bliss.

  And the one aspect of England’s culinary offerings that has never been a miss for me is the tea. I have been enjoying several “cuppas” a day, with milk and sugar, of course, and am enamored not only with the beverage, but with all the customs that attend its service.

  I’ve also discovered, however—in a very inconvenient time and place—that tea is a diuretic.

  I’m sure the other passengers in the Underground car with me that day wondered what strange American dance ritual I was practicing. They didn’t have to wonder long. At the very next stop, I pushed my way out, my traveling pal Mary Jo hard on my heels—only to discover there were no loos to be found anywhere in the entire station!

  Just what is it with this country and public restrooms—or the lack of them? I can understand Westminster Abbey’s not having one, since it’s so old and a national monument. But a subway station that thousands of people pass through daily? Seems like that would be a no-brainer.

  In the end, I had to race up three flights of stairs and down an entire city block before finding a zero-star restaurant with loo accommodations that harkened back to the reign of Henry VIII. And don’t even get me started on the toilet paper. I have only two words to say on that subject: waxed paper.

  English bathtubs are another interesting phenomenon. Can you say narrow? I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that one should be very careful to stand up before letting out all the water—to avoid winding up like that kid at the flagpole in A Christmas Story.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m head over heels, totally in love with this land of kings and castles, churches and cathedrals, Shakespeare and sonnets. The great lexicographer Samuel Johnson once said, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” and I couldn’t agree more. I’m just going to go a little easy on the tea from here on out.

  Either that, or skip the subway.

  Cheerio!

  Your Overseas Correspondent

  [chapter fifteen]

  Clueless in the Cotswolds

  bright and early the next morning, Ian appeared to take us out to breakfast, but Delia and I might just as well have remained behind in the flat. The tall, young Englishman had eyes only for Mary Jo and hung on her every word.

  The funny thing was: she couldn’t see it.

  “That Ian’s sure a nice kid,” she said as we headed west toward the Cotswolds in Delia’s BMW.

  “A nice kid with a crush,” I said with a grin.

  “On who?” she asked, turning to face Delia. “You?”

  “Not hardly.” Delia met my laughing eyes in the rearview mirror.

  MJ swiveled around to look at me. “You, Pheebs? That’s great! He’s very smart. Knows loads about horses. Sweet, too.”

  “Yeah. Sweet on you, Ms. Hasn’t Got a Clue.”

  “What?” She gave me an incredulous look. “You’re crazy.”

  “And you’re clueless, Alicia Silverstone. The guy is smitten.”

  She turned to Delia. “Will you please tell Phoebe that she’s lost her mind?”

  “Can’t do that, MJ,” Delia said. “I’m afraid you’re the one whose mind isn’t working properly. Once he met you, he hardly said a word to anyone else.”

  “You’ve both lost it.” Mary Jo shook her head. “I think you inhaled too much of that Marmite goop and it’s done something to your brains.”

  “Not true,” Delia said. “I’ve known Ian a long time, and you had him mesmerized.”

  “Right.” Mary Jo snorted. “With my stimulating conversation about oat mash, snaffle bits, and manure.”

  “Ian would eat all that up.” Delia tore open a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps. “He majored in business with me and did quite well, but he’s decided what he really wants is to be a vet. He’s researching veterinary schools at present.”

  “Well, that explains it. He’s just interested in my horse tales.”

  “He was interested in a lot more than your horse tales,” I said. “Trust me on that.”

  MJ pushed her maple-colored hair behind her ears. “But he’s just a kid—must be at least ten years younger than me.”

  “How old are you?” Delia asked.

  “Same as Phoebe—thirty-two.”

  “Hey,” I protested from the backseat, “I still have a couple more months until I’m that old. I’m only thirty-one.”

  “And Ian’s twenty-five.” Delia slid a sideways smirk at Mary Jo. “Which makes him only seven years younger than you.”

  “Like I said. A kid.” Mary Jo dismissed the subject and glanced out the window. “Ooh, look! Reminds me of a Thomas Kinkade painting.”

  “Only so much better because it’s real.” I drank in the pastoral tableau of honey-colored stone cottages nestled amid lush green hills.? “Now I see why everyone
insists this area of England is a must. It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

  The fairy tale continued as we visited the first stop on Delia’s tour: Bourton-on-the-Water, pronounced “Burton” and nicknamed “the Venice of the Cotswolds” because the River Windrush flowed through the center of town.

  “You call that a river?” Mary Jo looked down at the gentle meandering water and grinned. “Definitely no whitewater rafting here.”

  “Who cares?” I looked around in wonderment. “This reminds me of Brigadoon.”

  Delia and Mary Jo both gave me blank looks.

  “The mystical Scottish village in the musical of the same name. The movie starred Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse?”

  More blank looks.

  “With the gorgeous song, ‘The Heather on the Hill’?”

  Shrugged shoulders accompanied the blank looks now.

  I sighed. Alex would have gotten the old-movie reference.

  The only downside to the whole day was the weather—misty and in the high thirties, which MJ’s thin California blood couldn’t tolerate. Mine, although thickened by years in the Midwest, was also having a difficult time of it. We shivered through our first few stops, then at the Cotswold shopping paradise of Broadway, made a beeline to the Edinburgh Woolen Mill—with Delia laughing at us the whole way.

  MJ had barely made it through the doors before she clapped a red knit hat over her icy ears. And try as I might, I couldn’t talk MJ out of a sky-blue fleece jacket dotted with cutesy sheep on a green hill. (I picked up a Scottish plaid scarf that went well with my gray tweed blazer.)

  Once outside again, I pulled my blazer tighter as the wind sliced through me. “Hang on a second.” Two minutes later I returned with my own fleece jacket.

  Minus the sheep.

  Yes, the extra bulk made me look fat, but at this point, warmth was more important than my vanity. Besides, it was just us girls, so who cared?

  Later that afternoon, we ended our Cotswolds minitour with a cuppa in the tranquil village of Lower Slaughter. MJ leaned back in her chair, looked out the tearoom window at the live sheep grazing on the hillside, and took a big gulp of fresh country air enhanced with the scents of tea, butter, and chocolate. “It doesn’t get much better than this,” she sighed. “Sure, London’s exciting, and Oxford’s fascinating, but at the end of the day, this is really what I like.” She stretched. “The only thing that would make it complete is a good, long ride.”