Desperate times call for desperate measures. The desperate measure in this case being my Mom's credit card, which was given to me with a stern warning about "emergency usage only." In my book, this qualifies as an emergency. After all, I'm about to have a life-changing night.
Still outside, I peer farther into the store. There's a banner announcing the arrival of the summer collection, and a dozen or so pairs of heels on little acrylic perches. I spot a pair of lavender platform pumps that makes my heart jump — the heel is painted to look like little flowers. But then I think about what Angela would say, and I realize they're too showy.
That's when I see them: a pair of shiny red patent leather pumps with sky-high heels and a cute buckle detail. They're totally classic, and yet there's no way anyone could mistake them for another brand. My mind made up, I shove open the door and step inside. I'm not even going to try them on; they're mine.
As it turns out, I probably should have tried them on because they definitely feel too big, now that I'm actually standing in them. But I'm sure I can figure out a way to stuff some tissue in the front. It'll be fine. I just have to get back to the hotel.
Which is, unfortunately, at least a mile away, back by the Chelsea Bridge and the Thames.
I stand precariously in the tallest heels I've ever worn,determined to make it back to my room. The good thing is that by the time I get there, they'll have lost a little bit of their brand-new look, and then when Angela compliments me on them, I can be all, "Oh, these old things?"
I take a few clumsy steps, and that's when it happens: the heel snags a grate, my ankle twists, and I'm free falling. My breath catches in my throat because I know whatever happens next is going to hurt. The cement is rushing up at me so fast I can't even protect my head. The last thing I see is a well-dressed guy with salt-and-pepper hair staring at me with wide eyes as my arms fly out like chicken wings.
Pain screams in my temple as I slam to the pavement, and then the world goes black.
Chapter 3
There's a pounding inside my skull, like a jackhammer is drilling out my eyeballs.
Nausea wells up, but I sit still for a few long moments, keeping my eyes closed until it abates, and the pounding in my head fades to a drumbeat in the background.
I ease one eye open, waiting for the pounding to resume, but it doesn't. I open my other eye, but the headache is gone. Whew.
Once my eyes are open, however, a new problem presents itself: I'm sitting in dirt.
Damp, mucky dirt. My left hand, the one I'm leaning on, is sinking in it. I snap my head upward.
My pulse quickens and a scream catches in my throat.
I'm surrounded by trees. And not a few trees, like I might have been moved from the sidewalk to a nearby park — this is big enough to be a national forest. The sun is setting, and all I can see are tree trunks and shadows and more dirt. Some birds have the nerve to chirp, like this is just another day in their lives.
This makes no sense. None at all.
My hand shakes as I reach up to rub my eyes, sure I'm hallucinating. When I open them again, nothing has changed.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is wrong. All wrong.
I look around, forcing myself to take several long, slow breaths.
Do. Not. Panic.
There has to be a simple explanation for this.
My shopping bags are gone. All three of them. Have I been robbed? My purse is still gripped tightly in my hand, and a quick glance tells me the contents are still intact. So where's the rest of my stuff? I glance down at my feet and am relieved to see my four-hundred-dollar Prada shoes. Whew.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead on them. My left temple is tender and sore where it hit the concrete.
I chew on my lip and look around again. What on earth is going on?
I bought these shoes. Took a few steps. Fell down.
And now I'm... in the middle of nowhere?
This can't be right. I don't remember seeing any trees like this. Maybe they were behind the shops. Maybe someone moved me out of the way of traffic.
But as I look in each direction, all I see are more trees. There must be hundreds. No, thousands. The more I see, the more I want to take off running. What the heck is going on?
How is it that I smack my head in the middle of London and wake up in the forest?
Something howls in the distance, and I scramble to my feet. Oh God. Does England have wolves? Maybe it was just a dog. But it sounded huge. Really, really huge.
I start walking briskly in the opposite direction, my heels sinking in the dirt. I have to hold my arms out to balance myself; it feels like I'm walking in quick sand. It is going to take forever to get anywhere. And the sun is already falling in the sky. That's bad. That's really bad. I don't want to be out here in the dark.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my heart, which has gone crazy in my chest. This is the kind of bizarre thing that happens on the news. Not to me.
I trip on some tree roots and land on my knees, the mud quickly seeping through my jeans. Tears spring to my eyes as I scramble back to my feet. This is marvelous. Exactly how I wanted to spend my evening. I should be at a party, dancing and exchanging witty barbs with Angela and Mindy. But no, I'm walking around in England's National Forest. Alone. As darkness falls.
I still don't get it. Why am I here?
What if I'm not even walking in a straight line? I could be circling! I could be out here forever!
It's cold and way too silent. The canopy of the forest is blocking most of the remaining light, making it way too dark for my comfort. Did something just move? No, that was just a leaf falling. I'm being paranoid.
Ten minutes of walking, cursing England and everything in it, and I hear something.
It's like a roaring, almost like a train, except not quite as loud. And then there's a horse whinny. What the heck? That can't be good.
I duck behind a giant oak tree, well obscured by the wide trunk, and watch. Please don't be an ax murderer.
A carriage appears, pulled by four gray horses. Have I woken up in some kind of fairy tale? I stare as the wheels roll by and the ground shakes beneath my feet. The thundering noise quiets as the carriage rolls away, and I realize maybe I should have asked for help.
Maybe they were nice people and they could have helped me.
A sinking feeling comes over me. What if I'm really really far away? What if I'm lost forever? They could find my body or something, deep in the woods. And they won't know what happened to me. Because I don't know what happened to me.
This is so not good. So not good.
I have no choice. I have to keep walking. I can't see any sign of civilization, but I can't be that far from the hotel. Or at least a house and someone with a phone. I can call Mrs. Bentley, but how am I going to explain this? She doesn't want us leaving the hotel unaccompanied, and I inexplicably end up lost in the woods? She's not going to buy that.
At least the carriage has shown me the road paralleling the path I'm walking, so I move over fifty feet and use that instead. It's only moderately better than the trees — there are deep ruts on both sides of the road, and no gravel, just mud and compact dirt.
Thankfully, my heels don't sink here, so I can walk faster. The light is a little better too, so at least I'm not tripping as much.
It's incredibly silent. The only sound is my heels scraping the road, a steady noise that seems far too loud. The sun hasn't disappeared yet, but the moon is rising behind me and the stars are already glittering. The light glints across the scattered mud puddles. I try not to notice that there seem to be so many more stars than there were last night.
I walk until the sun is just a sliver on the horizon, wishing I had stopped the carriage and asked for help. My toes are blistered and the back of my feet are raw where the heel keeps rubbing on them. My head spins.
Could this be a dream? Maybe I was knocked unconscious and I'm really sitting in a hospital bed coming up with this wh
ole crazy story. That's plausible. Sort of.
Argh! I can't believe this. Tears spring to my eyes again, only this time, I let them roll down my cheeks. This isn't fair. I didn't do anything to deserve this. Angela should be the one showcasing her survival skills. She made fun of me. Karma is supposed to catch up with things like that, not kick me when I'm down.
Today is officially the worst day of my life. Why did I have to talk my mom into letting me go to England? She was right. I wasn't ready for a foreign country. If my mom was here right now, I'd tell her that and beg her to take me home. I'd spend the rest of the summer doing my usual stuff: movies, surfing the internet, magazines, junk food. Maybe that stuff will never make up for the things I really want, but it won't get me stuck in England's wilderness either.
There's something ahead of me. I duck behind a tree again, trying to figure out what it is. I squint. There's a glowing in the distance. Lights! I must be close to someone's house! I jump out from behind the tree and scurry toward the lights, as quickly as my blister-clad toes will let me.
My shoes must be ruined by now. Four-hundred dollars down the drain. How am I going to explain that one to my mom? I consider ditching the heels altogether, but being barefoot doesn't seem any better, so I keep them on.
As I get within fifty feet of the lights, I realize that they're lanterns. Real, flaming, oil-filled lanterns.
But it's a house! Or at least, I can make out a rooftop amidst the shadows.
When I reach the crest of a small hill, I'm shocked to see the house that belongs to the rooftop. Calling it a house seems silly. It's a castle. It stretches out before me, perched on a grassy knoll, two big wings on either side of the main entry. Ivy is climbing up one side, its green vines covering the east wing. The entire building is made of stone, like a castle you'd imagine in a fairy tale, and in the dusk it looks both stately and scary. I stare at it for a long moment, wondering what kind of people are inside. They must be super rich. Will they help me? Or will they think I'm some crazy runaway teen or something?
With no other choice, I limp toward the front door as the rocks transition to cobblestones. My feet are pounding and I'm shivering. It had seemed so warm earlier, but the dampness from the mud has taken all that away. In the last twenty minutes, the wind has kicked up, and it's whistling through the trees. If they don't help me... I can't bear to think of what I'll be faced with.
I pass a big pond with a few geese paddling merrily on its surface and make my way to the entry. The door is huge — twice as tall as it needs to be. It's big enough to be the door to the Emerald City.
I close my eyes as I knock. You will help me. You will help me. You will help me.
Chapter 4
The door of the mansion swings open before I can even drop my fist, like someone has been standing on the other side the entire time. The elderly man staring back at me is thin and frail, with a sneer and a hard glare that makes me want to step back. My stomach twists. He doesn't look very friendly. He's dressed in a really old fashioned way, wearing a starched white shirt and black jacket, and get this — he's wearing a powdered wig like George Washington or something. He looks down at my dirty jeans and T-shirt, and then moves to shut the door in my face.
"Wait!" I say, and stick my foot into the entry. The door bounces off my aching toes and sends a wave of pain up my leg. Yes, my shoes are most definitely trashed now. "Please, I, uh, I n-need your help," I stutter. Is it crazy to even want help from a guy wearing a powdered wig? "I'm lost and—"
"Rebecca?" a girl's voice calls, in one of those pure, melodic British accents.
I crane my neck around the still half-closed door, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever the girl is, hut she barrels at me so quickly I barely get a glimpse of her brown hair and beautiful pale skin before she's throwing her arms around me.
"It is you!" she squeals. "I knew it must be by your American accent! We hadn't expected you for a month yet! I've only just received your last letter stating that you were soon to purchase your tickets for the sea voyage." She envelops me in a hug so tight I can't breathe. I squish against her, and I can tell she's wearing a corset underneath her old fashioned dress, because the ribbing pokes me through my T-shirt. I think she's close to my age, probably less than eighteen, but with the clothes she seems older.
The lanterns, the old-fashioned clothes, the carriage... the size of those trees... and the way the stars look . ..
No, that's crazy. England just looks a lot different from America, that's all. England probably has better environmental regulations.
I realize I'm staring at the girl when she laughs awkwardly. "It's me, Emily! It's truly been along time, has it not? I believe we were seven when we last saw each other! Oh, how I missed my best friend!"
"Oh, no, I'm not—" And then I stop myself. I need help, right? Would it be totally wrong for me to let her think I'm this Rebecca girl? Just for an hour or so. What's the harm?
"I'm happy to be here," I finish. Guilt fills me, but I have no choice. If someone doesn't help me soon, I'm going to be spending the night in the woods, alone and scared.
"Come in from the cold! Oh, I'm so pleased that you've arrived! My visit at Harksbury has been quite dull, you see. I've been here just three weeks and am weary of the monotony. Where are your things?" She talks with her hands a lot, throwing them all over in her enthusiasm.
"Huh?" I see that she's looking behind me, and I turn around to see an empty stoop.
Oh, right. If I had come straight from America, I'd have luggage. "They, er, washed overboard in a storm. I lost everything."
"Such a pity! Well, no matter, we appear to be the same size. Are you wearing men's clothing? How embarrassed you must be!"
I blush, even though I'm not sure why. She's wearing a lavender dress with ruffles, and I'm the one who should be embarrassed? Who is this girl? And why is she dressed like that? British people are really odd. I bet this is one of those really formal, old-fashioned families. Maybe aristocrats or something.
"Can I use your telephone?" I blurt out. If I can get a hold of Mrs. Bentley, all this will be over soon. I'll be back in my room, taking a shower and putting on my warm fuzzy slippers.
The girl stops and tips her head to the side as she looks at me, like a dog would when it is trying to hear you better. Her brown curls bounce around like a shampoo commercial.
"A what?"
"Telephone." I try to keep my voice from sounding as desperate as I feel.
She scrunches her cute little nose. "I don't think so."
Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them back. She probably has some fancy iPhone she doesn't want me to use. She probably thinks I'd steal it.
"How about, uh, a ride into town?" I say. "For, uh, clothes. Since I lost all mine." The lump in my throat grows until the last few words come out as a mere squeak.
"Town? At this hour? We'll go together first thing in the morning. I've a mind to buy some new ribbon. Until then you shall rest! His Grace has already retired for the evening, and I was only just on my way to my quarters myself, when I heard your voice. Let us get you settled and we shall go to town together in the morn."
"But — it's important. Please. It will be a quick trip." I hate myself, but my lip actually trembles like a little kid, until I bite it so hard I can taste blood.
The girl looks confused. She stares at me with a furrowed brow, and I don't like it; I get the feeling she knows something's up, that I'm not really Rebecca. If she realizes I'm a fraud, I'll be back on the road, walking — and trying to figure out what this girl, and her weird act, is all about. "I couldn't possibly send for the carriage at this hour without His Grace's permission. He may be my cousin, but I wouldn't dare wake him. You'll have to wait for the morn."
I don't even care that she said carriage and not car. I swallow, biting back the urge to beg and plead, and instead nod. I'm going to miss the whole thing tonight. I was really going to get the guts to go to that club.
What's worse is I kn
ow by the time I get back to the hotel tomorrow, Mrs. Bentley will probably have an entire search and rescue team looking for me, but it's not like I have other options.
"Okay, it can wait until tomorrow," I say. "I'm, uh, happy to be here."
She smiles and grabs my hand and drags me into the entry, and all I can think is ow,ow, ow with each step, until I'm inside and my mind goes completely blank, I'm so mesmerized. The foyer is huge, with thirty-foot arched ceilings and a grand staircase so big it could fit a hundred people. On the wall behind the steps is a mural at least twenty feet across, some kind of woodsy scene with leaping horses. The steps split on a landing halfway up, and then turn in opposite directions, toward separate wings.
This place is like a museum. Except bigger and fancier. The expansive floor is marble or granite or something, with an inlaid pattern that leads in all different directions, down long hallways and up to impressive oak doors. There's elegant oak molding and carved wood details all over the walls and ceilings, and huge portraits in gold frames hanging so far up the walls it would take a twenty-foot ladder to hang them. The toe of my Prada heel is resting on a colorful patterned rug, complete with tassels at two ends.
These people have money. With a capital M. More than necessary. I bet they have a private jet somewhere out back and their own airstrip.
"Come. Follow me."
I half expect her voice to echo in the cavernous space, but it doesn't. I follow her toward the stairs, but as I climb the first step, my heel catches and I go down, landing hard on my knees.
That's all it takes. I burst into tears in a heap on the second step. This is too much. I don't understand any of this and I don't want to. I just want it to he over. I want to he home and comfortable and happy, and I'm so far away I don't even know where I am. Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?
Prada and Prejudice Page 2
