by Pamela Ann
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Why?”
Tucker snorts. Yes, he snorted. “Because I was tired of waiting.”
Before I realize what’s happened I’m pulled back into his arms, his finger hooked in my belt loop. Tucker lifts my chin so my eyes look directly into his. He lowers his head toward mine and I think he is going to kiss me. But instead, he touches his forehead to mine.
“What are you doing next weekend?”
“Nothing, besides maybe studying. Why?”
“I’d like to come and see you.” he says in a soft voice.
“I think I’d like that.”
Tucker lightly grazes his lips across mine. No more, no less. Just a soft, sweet brush of his lips before he wraps his arms around me and hugs me like he’ll never let me go.
“Come on,” he says. “It’s getting late and you have a long drive tomorrow.” He runs his hands down my arms and laces his fingers with mine as we begin our walk to my SUV.
As I open my door, Tucker hands me his phone and tells me to enter my number and call my phone so I have his number as well. I do and he hugs me one more time before he tells me goodnight. I watch as he walks back across the lane and opens his door on his truck. I wave as I drive past him and see a smile on his face. I already can’t wait to see him next weekend.
It’s Him
MGM Villar
Part I
Chapter One
Georgina Wallace
This is it! I am finally going to London! When I next set foot in LA, it'll be with a British accent and an MFA in scriptwriting. —at LAX
@ginawallace23
London bound! #London #lovingLondon #iloveLondon
Georgina64 listened to
London Calling—The Clash
My new apartment was a university accommodation in the area made famous by Sherlock Holmes, just a few steps from Baker Street Station. Even more exciting than that, I was going to be living close to the gorgeous Regent’s Park and just a stone’s throw from the southern end of Edgware Road, renowned for its unique Middle-Eastern atmosphere. The flat, as the Brits call them, was also walking distance from Oxford Street, where the lights during the holiday season are to die for. Or at least that’s what the guidebooks said. I read half a dozen of them on the ten-hour flight.
It was raining when my plane landed in London. I know they say the Big Smoke wouldn’t be as charming without a welcoming rain, but we’re not talking about a light drizzle or even gentle raindrops, but a heavy downpour. I took the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station, but found myself obliged to take a black cab the rest of the way.
“Whereabouts are you from, luv?” The cabbie asked in a thick Essex accent as I climbed into the cab. My pants and coat were soaked, and I was dripping all over the backseat.
“California,” I replied, “Los Angeles.”
“You traded your beautiful weather for this?” He asked with a chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Well, I'm doing my postgraduate studies at University College London,” I answered, remembering to use the British term for a master’s program.
“Ah, I see. Well, luv, better get used to the rain. It's been goin’ like this for days. The weather report is always wrong; listenin’ to it is doin’ me ‘ead in.”
I smiled politely and gave a small nod of agreement when his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
“They say winter is comin’ early this year, so I hope you ‘ave enough warm clothes wiv you.”
“Me too! But I guess I can always go shopping if not.” I was already noticing that British people really seemed to like talking about the weather. The English guy sitting next to me on the plane had also warned me, at length, about the unpredictable and often dreary London climate. We pulled up in front of my flat a few minutes later and the cabbie got out to unload my luggage.
“That’ll be a tenner,” the cabbie said, straightening up after setting my last suitcase on the sidewalk.
I handed him a bill. “Thank you.”
“Any time, luv. Good luck wiv your studies. I never did ask what you’re studyin’?”
“Scriptwriting.”
“Ah. Well, enjoy London.” The cabbie smiled warmly before climbing back into the driver’s seat and pulling away.
I turned to the building, where a handsome guy about my age leaned against the doorframe smoking a cigarette. He stared at my luggage. “I hope you're not on the sixth floor, because the lift’s not working at the moment.”
“Lift? Oh, you mean the elevator.”
“Yes, elevator,” he teased, mimicking my accent.
“Well, I’m on the fourth floor, so it shouldn’t be so bad.”
“If you’d like, I can help you carry your things up. I live on the fourth floor as well.”
“Really? Thank you so much. My name’s Georgina Wallace, by the way. You may call me Gina, or Georgie, if you like,” I said brightly, extending my right hand.
He shook it, his grip strong and firm. “I’m Antony de Lucca. Call me Tony. So where are you from, Gina?” He asked, picking up my two largest suitcases as I took the smaller ones. “Wait, let me guess. California?”
“How did you know?” I asked, genuinely curious. He pulled open the door and ushered me into the building ahead of him, pointing to the staircase.
“Your accent. I have a few friends from California.”
During the climb to the fourth floor, I learned that Tony was from Sicily and was studying to be an architect. He had a job at a café nearby. I also learned that the fourth floor was actually the fifth—by American standards.
“What you call the first floor is the ground floor here. Then the numbers start,” Tony explained cheerfully as we rounded the third floor landing and kept climbing. “You’d think for the price we pay in this place, we would have a working elevator,” again he mimicked my pronunciation. “It’s supposed to be fixed by tomorrow, though.”
“A lot of good that does me,” I quipped, breathless.
“Where I lived in Italy, my apartment was on the twelfth floor. After a week of going up and down, I had legs like Arnie.”
“Who?”
“Come on, California girl, your former Gubernator.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Though I think you mean Governator.” We reached my door and Tony set my luggage down as I fished for my key. “Tony, thank you so much for your help. I don't know how I would have managed to carry all these without your help. I hope to bump into you again.”
“Of course! And you have to meet my flatmate. You’ll like each other. He’s American too, and he’s studying cinematography. Maybe you’ll be in some of the same classes. We should all hang out some time.”
“Oh? Okay.” I unlocked the door and set the bag I was carrying inside, then turned back to Tony. “Grazie mille.”
“You speak Italian?”
“Cosi cosi,” I answered shyly.
“Bene! Well, I’ll let you settle in. Welcome to London, Gina.”
“Thank you, Tony. See you soon!” I pulled my last suitcase inside and shut the door, waving as Tony strolled down the hall to his own apartment. And that is how I met my first new friend.
Chapter Two
Georgina Wallace
I am finally here! London is such an incredible city. And I’ve already made new friends. —in London, England
@ginawallace23
Unpacking in my new flat in #foggyLondontown
Georgina64 listened to
A Foggy Day (in London Town)—Michael Bublé
Baker Street—Gerry Rafferty
Hours later, after lengthy phone conversations with my father and best friend Mel, I was finally unpacking my things and setting up my room when a knock came at the door.
“Yes?” I called. “Come in.”
The door opened a crack and a pretty girl with long brown hair and dark eyes poked her head in. She smiled and held out a hand. “Hi, you must be the American. I’m Ashley Worthington
, the Australian. I’m your flatmate. Which I guess is rather obvious. Why else would I be inside the flat?”
“Hi, I’m Georgina Wallace,” I smiled back and stood, reaching out to shake. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you wanted to join me for dinner in about an hour? I’m making pork chops and roast potatoes. I hope you’re not vegetarian. Are you? Or perhaps you follow a religious prohibition that won’t allow you to eat pork?” She asked, seeming genuinely concerned about the possibilities.
“Me?” I laughed, overwhelmed by her rapid speech and the slur of her charming Australian accent. “No, I love meat. Pork chops sound delicious. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Well, Gina—can I call you that?” I nodded as she continued talking. “I like you already. My last flatmate was vegan, and she gave me weird looks every time I cooked meat.”
“You won’t hear any complaints from me on that front,” I reassured her.
She flashed another grin and turned to head back to the kitchen. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready, okay?”
Over supper, Ashley told me about her family and her love of fashion. “I grew up in Australia, but my grandparents are English. That’s how I ended up in London. For my thirteenth birthday, my grandmother gave me a Louis Vuitton baguette and a dress from Missoni. That’s when I knew I wanted to be a fashion designer. My grandmother is a big fan of Valentino. She bought my mom a Valentino wedding gown when she married my father. And someday, I will wear that gown,” she gushed dreamily. “How about you? Who’s your favorite designer?”
“Me? Honestly, I don’t really wear designer clothes much. My dad gave me a Chanel bag for my last birthday. And I fell in love with this Rafe clutch once. I purchased one of his minaudieres last time I was in New York.”
“Oh, I love his collections! I should write to the buyers at Harvey Nicholls or Selfridges about stocking them. They’re so chic and trendy. But go on,” she prompted.
“I like classic outfits and comfy material, but I’m not really willing to spend an arm and a leg.”
She looked at me intently, as if I were a mannequin she had to dress for class. “Georgina,” she said at last, her face breaking into a wide, excited smile, “I think I’m your fairy godmother in human form. You have to let me take you shopping!”
“I don’t know, Ashley. My dad wants me to focus on my studies, so I’m not supposed to get a job or anything. I really shouldn’t spend the money.”
“Credit cards?” She asked with one raised eyebrow.
“For emergencies, not shopping.”
“Come on, Gina,” she pleaded. “Think of it as your uniform. It’s part of your university fee.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Well…maybe just a couple of things. Like rain gear,” I added practically.
Ashley clapped her hands in delight. “I know exactly where to go,” she informed me with great confidence. “You’ve got to visit New Bond Street for the uber chic stores like Hermes, Burberry, Anya…d’you know her? She made those ‘I am not a plastic’ bags? And don’t forget Harrods. It’s a British institution; a landmark, if you ask me. You have to get lost in there and pretend you’re an Egyptian princess, and we simply must visit a café. You have to try the macaroons from Ladurée especially, and the isaphan is divine! But we can skip the café if you’re on a diet or have a date. Hey, d’you have a boyfriend back home?”
“No…to be honest, I’ve never really dated.”
“Never?” She asked skeptically. I shook my head.
Ashley’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you serious?”
I shrugged. “I guess I’ve been…waiting for Prince Charming?”
She took my hand and patted it sympathetically. “Well, honey, London is the perfect place to find romance! There’re tons of hot guys in your department. In fact, there’s that guy Josh who lives across the hall. But I have first dibs on him. Then there’s Aaron. He lives on the sixth floor. Blue eyes, blonde hair. He has a flair for fashion that makes me wonder sometimes, but…” She squeezed my hand and smiled warmly. “You just wait. Prince Charming is sure to show up sooner or later.”
Chapter Three
Georgina Wallace
It’s the first week of classes, and guess where I’m already hanging out? —at Library - University College London
@ginawallace23
Library time! #geek #iamanerd #booksarefun #studyingiscool
Georgina64 listened to
Hello, Goodbye—The Beatles
I scanned the titles in the films and screenplays section, looking for the supplementary readings on the syllabus my professor had sent around via email a few days earlier. I grabbed a book on the rise of indie films in the 90s and began scanning the first page. I didn’t even notice that my free hand had begun to walk across the spines of the books on the shelf until my fingers grazed something unfamiliar.
I jerked and froze, as if caught doing something bad, then slowly looked up and into the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen. They were bright but pale, almost translucent, like the blue of glacial ice. I glanced away quickly, blushing, but not before noticing his dark hair, cheeky smile, and adorable cleft chin.
“May I just say, that is the lousiest book you will ever have to read in your whole academic life,” he said. A fellow American, I noted by his accent.
Our eyes locked, and I could feel my blush deepening. He smiled, grabbed a book from the shelf, then turned and walked away. I stared after him with my mouth hanging open, realized what I was doing, and turned quickly back to the bookshelf. Who was that?
I didn't have to wonder for long, because library guy was in my next class. Beginning acting was taught by Professor Greer—a tall, slender, middle-aged English woman who truly belonged to the theatre. She was animated, dramatic, and strict.
“Hello, everyone. I know it’s rather juvenile, but let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. State your name, your undergraduate degree, perhaps a favorite movie or an interesting detail about yourself. So long as you don’t bore us with a monologue. Starting from over here,” she pointed to the girl on her far left.
“Hi, I’m Lisa Yoon. I’m from South Korea, and I have a degree in journalism. My favorite movie is Eat, Pray, Love and I once worked as a volunteer translator for a charity in Mexico.”
Lisa was followed by Albert from Bedfordshire. He liked Pirates of the Caribbean and had a degree in videography. There was Ana from Spain with a degree in theatre and Ruth from Hong Kong with a degree in cinematic arts. There was a guy from Sweden whose name I forgot and Gareth Egerton from Wales. The girl next to me stood up to introduce herself. She looked like a porcelain doll with pale, creamy, perfect skin and long, shiny auburn hair.
“Hello everyone. My name is Victoria Ledbury. I graduated from Cambridge University with a degree in modern drama and theatre, first honours.” Her accent was so affected, I swear she pronounced the u. “My great-grandfather is Sir Michael Ledbury. I was understudy to the role of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz at the London Palladium last year.”
Okay, so what are you doing in a beginning acting class? I though, instantly deciding that this girl was not the sort of person I wanted to get to know.
As if reading my mind, she continued, “I’m taking this class as a prerequisite.” Victoria Ledbury flashed her perfect white teeth like a celebrity posing for the Paparazzi. Except we were in class—not at a press conference.
My turn. “I’m Georgina Wallace, but my friends call me Georgie or Gina. I’m from Los Angeles. My favorite movie is My Fair Lady. I have a degree in English literature, and no acting experience—unless you count ‘barnyard animal’ in a nativity play,” I blurted out in a rush. There were a few chuckles, and then the next person was speaking. I breathed a sigh of relief and let myself relax. My thoughts had begun to wander when library boy’s turn came.
“Hi, name’s Joshua Lawson. Got a degree in cinematography. My favorite movie is The Go
dfather: Part I. I like to work behind the scenes and I wanna be a director. And as you can probably tell, I’m American like Georgie here,” he winked at me. I just gazed at him like a toddler waiting to be spoon-fed.
Get a grip, Georgina, I scolded, forcing myself to look away.
At the end of class, Professor Greer assigned us each a monologue to memorize and recite at the end of the month, plus a mountain of reading for the class discussion two days later. Lisa, the journalism student from South Korea, caught me on the way out the door and invited me to join her for lunch at a nearby café.
“I can’t believe how much coursework I have already—and it’s only the first week!” Lisa exclaimed as we walked across campus together.
“I know! It’s way more intense than undergrad.”
“Where did you get your degree?”
“UCLA. You?”
“University of Victoria. In Canada. So you’ve never lived anywhere but Los Angeles, then?” Lisa asked in mild surprise.
“No, but I’ve traveled. With my dad. I’m an only child, and my mother died in childbirth, so it’s always been just the two of us.”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” she offered, her voice warm with sympathy.
“Thanks,” I answered automatically. It was always such an awkward subject. Of course it was sad that my mom was gone, but I’d never known her so it wasn’t like I missed her as a person, you know? More as a concept. I missed having a mother, but I couldn’t miss the woman who had been my mother because I’d never even met her. I quickly changed the subject. “So what made you choose to study here in London?”
“Well, after undergrad in Canada and volunteering in Mexico, I guess I caught the travel bug. When I got back to Korea, there were so many more places I wanted to go. Plus, going back to school in a different country keeps my parents from hounding me about getting married. All their friends’ kids are married or engaged, and of course they want me to marry some nice Korean boy,” she rolled her eyes. “Even though my mother thinks I won’t make a good Korean wife anyway because I can’t make homemade kimchi.”
