Super Host

by Kate Russo

  She takes a deep breath and presses Send, before looking up to see the maroon-shirted man watching her, disapprovingly. She piles white sticky rice onto her chopsticks and wraps her mouth around the large bite. She smiles at him, as best she can with her mouth full, nodding encouragingly.

  * * *

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  After finishing her sushi, Alicia wanders up to Royal College Street, past her old flat, but she feels stupid. She doesn’t even stop, she just glances up at her old bedroom window and keeps moving. Crossing the street, she heads back in the other direction, studying the flat one more time from the other side of the road. What is she supposed to do? Talk to a building? She hasn’t even visited her father’s grave back home since he died twelve years ago, because she wouldn’t know what to do once she got there. This old block of flats is nothing but a stack of bricks now, just as her dad’s gravestone is just a slab of granite. No spirits, no answers, just masonry and stone.

  When she planned this trip, Alicia thought she and her Brooklyn friends would spend their days hopping from neighborhood to neighborhood, museum to pub to restaurant to more pubs and then, who knows, maybe a nightclub. Everyone’s energy would be endless, their spirits high. To say this was an absurd fantasy is an understatement. She’d been confusing her actual friends with TV friends, those people who continuously wander in and out of each other’s apartments and have boozy brunches together every Sunday. Mythical friendships. She hasn’t really gotten close to anybody in the five years since she’s been back in the States. Her friends are actually Liz’s friends. Even if they had come with her to London, it wouldn’t have been the trip she’d imagined, for the simple reason that they weren’t the people she imagined them to be. Odds are she would feel just as lost and lonely if they were here.

  Her high-top sneakers scraping the pavement of Camden Road, she hasn’t got a clue what to do next. Feeling lost in a place you know by heart is one of life’s more disconcerting feelings, she thinks. She thought she’d be happy to be back; truth is, all it’s done is prove that she hasn’t been happy since the year she lived here. In Brooklyn, when she’s having a bad day, she closes her eyes and walks the streets of London in her mind: down Royal College Street, left onto Camden Road, down Camden Road and left onto Camden High Street. Camden High Street until it becomes Eversholt Road, across Euston Road, following it past Tavistock Square, onto Woburn Place, and then onto Russell Square until it becomes Southampton Row, past Holborn Station and it’s now Kingsway, left on Portugal Street and there is LSE. It’s all there in her mind. She could do it with her eyes closed; her feet are already heading that way, but she won’t let them go. She’ll need her happy place intact in her mind when she gets home. She can’t risk losing it to this current funk of hers. If her mind can’t go there, where can it go?

  * * *

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  She heads south on the Tube thinking only vaguely of getting off at London Bridge, a ten-minute walk from Tate Modern and Kiera’s office. Like Camden, the neighborhood is full of memories of William, memories she should be trying to avoid, so she tells herself that she’ll only get off if it feels right. If it doesn’t, she’ll ride it to the end of the line to Morden; maybe it’s amazing.

  Seven stops later, longing proves stronger than discovery and she steps out of the Underground at London Bridge, straight into Borough Market where she used to take her fancy SLR camera for walks around the foodie market on Saturday mornings. She loved to photograph all the weird mushrooms, funky cheeses, and fish eyeballs. She often wonders, if she had a life where making money wasn’t the necessary objective, maybe she might’ve been a food photographer. Five years ago she had entertained thoughts of being married to William, the two of them traveling the globe together, and how she’d document all the world’s peculiarities with her Hasselblad medium format camera (the camera that he would buy her as a wedding present). Recalling dreams like this, she feels foolish. She tells herself that she never really thought any of it would happen. William, however, did travel the world after they broke up. He took pictures, too, but they were the people-smiling-in-front-of-things variety. Not the kind she would have taken. For this trip, she hadn’t even bothered bringing her camera.

  She makes it into the market as it’s closing down. It’s only four but the sun is nearly set. The vendors have been hawking since the early hours of the morning. Evening has brought a definite chill to the air, as well as a breeze that threatens to blow away whatever hasn’t sold. The crowds will soon shift from the stalls into the pubs. She and William used to come down to the market on Tuesday afternoons. They’d buy fancy cheese and crackers at end-of-the-day prices, then settle, pints in hand, into a coveted table at one of the pubs and watch as the market men packed up. By the time the pubs shut, they’d be hammered but fortified against hunger with stinky cheese and quince. They’d ride the Tube back up to Islington and devour époisse the way others would a late-night kebab.

  On busy Stoney Street, a fog starts to roll in as the temperature drops. She stands in front of the Market Tavern feeling moisture collect under the collar of her wool coat, causing her to shiver. Or maybe it’s the memory of the terrorist attack that happened just outside these doors less than a year ago. Although, it’s not really her memory to shudder over; she wasn’t here. She was back in Brooklyn, watching in horror as the drama unfolded on CNN. As the screaming crowds spilled out of the pubs, a strange feeling came over her, one she wouldn’t want to admit to—she wished she and William were in Borough Market that night. Her feelings for the place, for William, and for that warm feeling of being with your friends in a crowded pub, were so strong she wanted to be there to defend them. Those drunken revelers were fleeing all the pubs she recognized: the Granary, the Market Tavern, the Rose. Her pubs. The attack had felt personal. She was deeply ashamed of these thoughts then, and she’s deeply ashamed of them now as they come flooding back. She knows how stupid and insensitive it would sound out loud, but what pissed her off more than anything was that it felt like London wasn’t hers anymore. In the days after the attack, nobody understood how upset she was. Her strong connection to London was apparent to no one else but her, and the very thing she thought defined her, didn’t. Sometimes she wonders if she and William had survived such an event together, maybe they would still be together.

  She makes her way to the Rose, her favorite pub. A little set back into the darkness of the market, it doesn’t draw as much tourist trade as the others. In late afternoon the outside looks quiet and secluded, particularly in the fog. The inside glows with the twinkle of Christmas lights that they haven’t gotten around to taking down. If she squints, she could be in Victorian London. She imagines the men in the pub wearing three-piece suits. There could be a piano player, sawdust on the floors, and women in long flowing skirts and corsets, or some such ridiculous nonsense.

  As she lingers in her fantasy, a man in a shiny grey suit stumbles out of the pub, releasing its shouting and laughter into the cold air. It’s not even dinnertime and this guy is hammered. He sees Alicia near the entrance and struggles not to sway. He can’t be that old, mid-thirties, maybe, balding—bordering on just plain bald. He spins around to catch the door before it closes behind him. Alicia can tell that he shaves his own head, but can’t quite reach the hairs on his neck, so they’ve grown wild. His facial hair is somewhere between stubble and beard. The hairs are unruly, pointing at strange angles. His suit is well-fitting, though the shininess makes it look cheap. He props himself on the door and regards Alicia while fishing through his pockets.

  “Coming in, doll?” he slurs.

  She looks down at her feet. She wasn’t really planning to go in.

  “It’s fuckin’ cold out here,” he says, pulling a cigarette out of his jacket. “I gotta smoke this before my cock freezes to the side of my leg.”

  She smirks, glancing down at his crotch, a knee-jerk reaction. His trousers
are the skinny-fit kind, so they don’t leave much to the imagination. All his manhood is scrunched up in the shiny fabric, held captive slightly to the left. She immediately regrets looking; thankfully, he appears too drunk to notice.

  He struggles to get the cigarette lit. “You want to share this with me?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.” She finds herself inching toward the pub entrance.

  “Smart choice,” he says. “Strange man and all that.”

  She steps past him and into the doorway. His cologne is strong.

  “I’m celebrating,” he blurts out, his head pivoting to catch her eye before she disappears inside.

  “Congratulations,” she says, hoping that will suffice.

  Clearly proud of himself, he smiles, but then the penny drops. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

  He loses his balance turning around, hoping to prop himself on his other shoulder, facing Alicia. When his arm hits the door a little harder than intended, he offers her an embarrassed smile, one that she can’t help but find endearing.

  “Alright. Why are you celebrating?”

  “Commission.” The cigarette bounces around in his lips as he talks. He chases it with his lighter. “A big commission.”

  “Lucky you.” She could ask, A big commission for what? But she’s enjoying torturing him. Just a little bit.

  “It’s not luck. It’s hard work.” He’s dead serious.

  “Right. Of course.”

  “I’m not so popular at the office. Other blokes get jealous when I make big commissions.” He gives up lighting the cigarette. Removing it from his lips, he holds it out to his side as though it’s lit. “It happens a lot.”

  He’s cocky, she thinks, the kind of cocky that suggests low self-esteem at its core.

  “Do you want me to light that for you?” she’s surprised to hear herself ask.

  He smiles again. This is luck. He takes his weight off the door and backs into the nearly empty market. She follows, the pub door closing behind them, its warmth and laughter replaced by cold and silence. He puts the lighter in the palm of her hand, caressing her fingers as he pulls away. She feels a tingle in her spine as their hands touch. Whether it’s attraction or fear or both, she’s not sure. She ignites the lighter and lifts the flame up to the cigarette between his lips. It catches immediately and starts to glow. He takes a long drag before blowing the smoke up into the roof of the market. Moving closer to Alicia, he again offers her the cigarette. This time, he lifts it to her lips with the hope of inserting it himself, but she steps back. She shared cigarettes with William sometimes when they’d been drinking. Even though smoking killed her father, she loves the way cigarettes smell, particularly in the rain.

  “Come on, now. One won’t kill you.”

  “No, thank you,” she says, quietly confident, holding out the lighter to him. Instead of taking it, he looks her up and down.

  “You meeting your fella?”

  “Don’t you want your lighter?” She shakes it at him.

  “No fella?”

  “None of your business.” She smiles as she says this, not wanting to be a bitch.

  “You’re American,” he adds menacingly, as though she were a spy or a mercenary.

  She tries to stand her ground, but it’s obvious he interprets this as flirting. “This is your lighter.”

  “You can put it in my pocket,” he suggests. Pushing back his jacket with his hand, he motions to the front pocket of his trousers.

  She doesn’t look at his crotch this time. Instead, she forces her gaze over to the pub and the door she unwisely let shut. Next to it is a wide windowsill, littered with empty pint glasses. She steps back and sets the lighter down next to the empties. “It’s here when you want it.” She continues backing up deeper into the market.

  “Ah, come on! It was worth a try, love.”

  “Have a good night,” she says. “Congratulations, again.”

  “Come back!” he shouts, falling forward.

  She keeps going. It would be a bad idea to get sucked back in. She has to tell herself this a couple of times. You have terrible taste in men, Alicia, Liz’s words sting.

  On the other side of the market, the fog rolls in off the river. In the distance, Alicia can spot the tall chimney of the old Bankside Power Station that now houses Tate Modern. She crosses under the steel Millennium Bridge, just as a large group of students descends the footbridge’s sloping ramp onto the pavement. They move chaotically, with their matching backpacks, toward the museum’s sliding glass doors. Rather than follow them into the vast concrete entrance hall, Alicia keeps walking. She has her eyes out for Southwark Street. When she finds it, it’s populated mostly by hotels and sandwich shops. Printed Palette, Kiera’s company, is halfway down, visible only by a small brass plaque outside a modern, unassuming, four-story building. Maybe she could try ringing the buzzer and say she’s an old mate of Kiera’s who just happens to be in the neighborhood. No, that would be weird, Alicia is weird. Pulling out her phone, she’s hopeful that maybe Kiera has responded to her message, but no. She turns back and regards Tate Modern. She doesn’t want to go in. The advertised exhibition is some guy she’d never heard of. Still, she can’t head back to the house now, not with Bennett painting away in his studio. She doesn’t want him to see her return so early, so pitifully. She noticed a Starbucks along the river. She’ll go there first. Maybe look up the Tate artist or maybe wait to see if Kiera writes back.

  Inside, she sits down in a plush velvet chair next to a group of Italian tourists, selfie-sticks at their sides. They’re scrolling through their phones and laughing loudly at the photographic evidence of a brilliant day. Alicia sugars her coffee—the coffee she doesn’t even want—which will, inevitably, keep her awake and prolong this already difficult day. She thinks about flipping through the photos on her phone, only to realize she hasn’t taken a photo all day. The Italians are in hysterics, as one of them holds out his phone horizontally to the group—the contents of which is so funny, one of the other guys falls out of his chair. Alicia snaps her stirring stick in half and stabs her phone screen with the jagged edge.

  She takes a swig of the hot coffee, burning the back of her throat. She wishes she could go back in time and delete that drunken New York evening when she proposed the idea of a trip to London in the first place. Her Brooklyn friends were never going to come with her. They aren’t even her friends; they’re acquaintances at best. They are always ignoring her invitations or, worse, agreeing and then ditching her over text. Fucking pathetic. And Kiera’s not going to write back, either. She’s regretting the message she sent her earlier. It will likely appear out of the blue, maybe even desperate, to her old classmate. They weren’t even friends after that first week. What reason does Kiera have to respond? That they shared a quiet, mutual respect is probably a fabrication. Heck, she abandoned Kiera after that first week. Maybe if, just once, she had asked Kiera to study rather than running off to the pub with William and the trust-fund gang, Kiera would have reason to think of her fondly. Furthermore, why did Alicia believe that Kiera had any respect for her? She had done nothing to deserve it. How was Kiera to know that Alicia believed in ethical business practices when she spent the year gallivanting around London with the heir to a mediocre French bistro chain, the very presence of which predicted the death of every community it entered?

  She looks down at her stirring stick, broken into twenty or so wooden chips in her lap. The Italian tourists aren’t laughing anymore; they are staring at her, nervously. Picking up her phone, she goes back on Facebook, where she systematically removes all of her Brooklyn friends. Next, she moves on to every person she knew while she was living in London, deleting Kiera first and ending on William. There, she thinks. She’s no longer living a lie. These people are not her friends. They never were. Unfriended.

  “Fuckers.” She stands up, defiantly, brushi
ng the shards of the stirring stick onto the floor. Everyone in the coffee shop awaits her next move.

  She looks around, embarrassed, realizing that she’s left the virtual world and is now back in the real one. She picks up her coffee and smiles weakly at the Italians, hoping to convey she’s kinder than the wooden stirrer suggests. She makes her way to the door, where she waits awkwardly for a group of American teenagers to file in—all of them thrilled and relieved at the sight of a Starbucks in this foreign land. They don’t even prop the door open for her. Alicia hates them but smiles at them anyway.

  The Tate is looming outside the door, uninviting. She never looked up the exhibiting artist, maybe she never had any intention of doing so. Blackfriars Station is only a couple minutes away. From there she can get the Tube back to West London, earlier than she planned, yes, but walking the streets of memory-less Chiswick feels smarter than walking, wounded, around Southwark.

  Why then, she wonders, is she heading the opposite way—back in the direction of the Rose pub?

  * * *

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  He’s no longer standing outside the pub when she returns. Despite having felt the impulse to flee earlier, she’s now embarrassed by the disappointment that washes over her when she sees he’s gone. She can’t help feeling that maybe she shrugged him off too quickly. Yes, he was drunk. Yes, he was forward, but he also had those long hairs on the back of his neck, signaling he must be living alone and therefore, likely, lonely. If he had a girlfriend, she’d trim those hairs for him, as Alicia has done for every guy she’s ever dated.

  With the sun now set, the fog is getting thicker, frostier. London’s winter air is like being wrapped in a cold, wet blanket, not at all like the dry cold she is used to in New York. Moisture beads on the sleeves of her wool peacoat. She swears she can feel it soaking into her jeans. Only smokers would stand outside on a night like tonight. There are a couple of these lingering outside the pub, two businessmen, probably in their sixties, discussing Brexit. They don’t notice her hovering by the window, wiping off the condensation to peer inside. It looks warm and cozy. Maybe he’s in there. If so, maybe she’s meant to make friends with him. So what if he’s a cocky drunk? All guys are. Besides, she could see it was all a facade. This guy has some self-esteem issues. He was overcompensating before. When he was drunk, William would do that, too. There must be some positives about this guy. For starters, he has good taste in pubs. Plus, he just got a big commission. For what, she doesn’t know, but still, that’s good. It means he’s not a total fuck-up. And he seemed to like her. Nobody else has paid that much attention to her in a long time. Fuck it, she’s going in.