The Accidental Socialite

by Stephanie Wahlstrom

  Next to him, I poised myself on my hands and knees, still kissing him. In one graceful swoop, I flicked my head back, hoping my hair was tousled and shiny in the moonlight just like the model in Fashionista. As my hair swayed wildly, I swung my left leg over Jason’s body and threw my head down for a passionate kiss. I never made it to his lips. Halfway through the downward movement, my chin connected with what felt like concrete.

  Crack!

  “Ahhggggg,” I moaned, my eyes rolling back in my head in pain.

  “Ow babe, that sounded like it hurt. Are you OK?”

  NO! “Ya, I think so. What is your wall made of?” Fucking granite?

  Jason turned on his bedside lamp.

  “You’re not OK.” He ran to the bathroom. I was confused for a second, and then saw the blood all over my hands. My chin was busted open and I was bleeding on his very expensive Egyptian cotton sheets.

  “Get off the bed! You’re bleeding everywhere. Jesus.” He threw a hand towel in my direction.

  Um, what?

  “I’m really sorry.” I tried to spit out an apology, but as I did my face just bled more.

  He shook his head angrily. “You should probably go to the hospital.”

  “No, no, I think I’m ok.” The towel had stopped most of the bleeding and I went into the bathroom to see how disfigured I was. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d first thought. The cut was actually really small and the blood flow was being assisted by the copious amount of alcohol I’d drunk.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Really really sorry for ruining the night.”

  Jason seemed very irritated and not at all sympathetic to my situation.

  “You should probably leave. I’ll order you a cab.”

  Excuse me? Now I was annoyed. He was all manners and understanding when I was calling him a racist, but I bang my chin and bleed ever so slightly on his sheets and he was kicking me out of his place?

  “It’s fine. I can walk home.”

  I handed him the towel and stormed out, hopefully making a point and saving what was left of my face.

  I walked into my dark flat, straight into my room, and downed a glass of water and my last two Advil. Angling the small mirror from my powder compact into the moonlight, I checked closer for any serious damage and found myself looking at Jay Leno’s ugly sister.

  Over the next few days my chin became more swollen and bruised, to the point that when I finally agreed to see her, Lucinda insisted I go to the hospital.

  It was drizzling as I walked to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and no matter how tightly I held my jacket, the damp cold pushed through right to my bones. I hadn’t heard from Jason since I left his place, possibly mortally injured. The last half of my week in London wasn’t going to be quite as fabulous as the first, especially considering my face looked like I had a chin implant that went horribly wrong.

  Once I signed myself into the emergency room and sat down, I glanced around the room to find several people staring at me. I couldn’t tell if it was because they had read the paper or because my face was smashed up. One of the girls staring went back to her OK magazine with me on the cover proclaiming I was the new “it” girl. Guess there was my answer.

  I picked up the same copy of OK on the table next to me and started to read about my fabulous life. There it was, so plausible and cleverly written that I almost believed it myself. There was a full-page spread of photos from different angles of me falling outside of The Box, shoving fries into my mouth outside of McDonald’s, and the picture from Balans. I turned to the next page only to be greeted by a picture of Jason and I having dinner. A chill ran up my spine. Not only did I not see any photographers that night, but I also couldn’t understand how they knew how to find me.

  The article had a bolded quote from a “close friend” assuring everyone that I have moved on from my controversial relationship with Stuart. Controversial? Didn’t they mean non-existent? Some friend.

  A nurse appeared in front of me. “Miss Crawford, would you like to see the doctor?” Apparently she’d called my name several times and the waiting room was now very obviously staring at me.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, yes please.”

  Taking the magazine with me, I followed the nurse through the double doors and down the hallway where she put me in a room and shut the door.

  While I was waiting, I poked my head out of the room to snoop in other people’s problems. All I could see was what appeared to be a couple of sprained ankles or wrists and a big female doctor whipping from bed to bed who seemed very unlikely to read tabloids. Part of the reason I had been avoiding seeing the doctor about this increasingly painful situation on my chin was the fear that it would end up in some headline. A nurse caught me being nosey so I ducked back into my room.

  Several minutes later, the door opened. Apparently, the lucky cow with the twisted ankle and a totally plausible story gets English-is-my-second-language-and-I-don’t-give-a-crap-how-you-smashed-your-face Dr. Olga, and I get Orlando Bloom’s better-looking brother. His name badge said Dr. Chase, but the surprisingly flattering scrubs, his slightly messy dark brown hair, and chestnut eyes said “come hither.” He walked in and flashed me his “I can fix anything and I also happen to love puppies and babies” smile, so I gazed up with my big brown Bambi eyes. Unfortunately, he broke this fairytale moment with the stupidest question I have ever heard in the sexiest English accent.

  “So, what happened?”

  Should I lie to him? Should I begin what could be the most beautiful and meaningful relationship of my life with a lie? Or should I come clean, and because of my humility and willingness to try new things he loves me more?

  “I slipped on Oxford Street.”

  There was no way I was telling him I busted my chin during a botched sex move with an uber douche Richard Gere wannabe.

  And then it started, the incessant and completely unnecessary questions I was not prepared to answer: When did it happen? How did it happen? Did I lose consciousness? How bad did it bleed? Did anyone help me? What was the angle at which I hit the ground?

  Why was he ruining this thing we obviously had going on? Seriously, if I was going to be poked and prodded at this much by a hot doctor, it better be a pelvic exam.

  As I awkwardly lied, Dr. Dreamboat awkwardly pretended he believed me and then sent me for x-rays. About an hour later he came back in the room.

  “Well, Miss Crawford, you haven’t broken your jaw, but you did bruise the bone quite badly. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what really happened?” He stared right through my soul and then glanced at the OK magazine next to my coat.

  “Honestly, it was nothing. So I’m all good?”

  “Yes, you’re fine to go. Here is a prescription for some pain tablets. You need to come back and see me again in about a week,” he said in a way that made me think the follow up wasn’t to check on my chin.

  “Why?” I said in my I’m-not-flirting-but-really-I-am voice.

  He smiled shyly and said, “I need to make sure it’s healing properly. Come back a week from today, same time. Promise?” His eyes flickered with the slightest hint of “let’s do it in the on-call room.” That was definitely flirting.

  “Promise.”

  Just as I was walking out the door, he picked up my chart.

  “And Paige, if you don’t show up, remember I have your address and mobile number.” He tapped the chart and winked. My heart fluttered. I was definitely coming back.

  Despite the rain and not quite broken jaw, I skipped all the way home. People stared, but this time I knew it was because I was acting bat-shit crazy and I didn’t care. This man knew my flaws but wanted to be with me anyway (stop me if I’m reading way too much into this follow up doctor’s appointment). Dr. Dreamboat was what I needed, not some jerk who was happy to parade me around when I wasn’t bleeding profusely from my face. No, if you love me you have to love all of me, including the fact that I’m a bit of a klutz, a condition that seems
to have some pretty drastic consequences on this side of the Atlantic.

  I got back home to find an email from Peter’s friend at Fashionista.

  From: Carlos Rivera

  Sent: February 6th

  To: Paige Crawford

  Subject: Re: Job Opportunities

  Hey Hun,

  Hope you’ve sorted everything with Stuart. Footballers are such knobs. We have a position that’s just opened up as a Junior Assistant Promotions Copywriter for Fashionista. It doesn’t pay that well, but it’s a start. Can you come by tomorrow at 11am for an interview? Make sure you bring your portfolio.

  Carlos xx

  Carlos Rivera

  Media Sales Assistant

  FASHIONISTA

  I had no idea what a Junior Assistant Promotions Copywriter did, but I knew that the job offered had the word writer in it and it was for a magazine so that justified a little happy dance in my room. The dance conjured up a musty smell, so I went upstairs for some celebratory ice cream, which I was hoping to borrow from one of my flatmates. As usual, Guillermo was upstairs in his underwear.

  “Hey, Paige. Oooh! Your face looks better.”

  “Thanks.” Complete lie, but finally a normal conversation. Maybe he was the only non-freak in the house. “How’s things with you?”

  Guillermo went quiet and was very thoughtful for a moment. And then he came out with this gem.

  “Well, you know, I, uh, went out with my friend and, you know, we were watching some porn at his house and he, uh, put his hand on my leg and, uh, I didn’t know what to think so I, uh, you know, let him blow me.”

  “Did you return the favor?”

  “No! I’m not gay! As soon as I came I was so disgusted with myself I could not do it.” Well of course not. That made perfect sense.

  Here was how my flatmates currently stood in order of craziness, 1 being the most psycho:

  1. I’m not gay but I let guys blow me, Guillermo

  2. Fun in a box, Philip

  3. Watching Wedding Crashers over and over to learn English, Natalie

  4. Never here, Gemma

  I was somewhere in the middle, probably after Philip, but before Natalie.

  Philip suddenly burst through the door into the living room carrying two large suitcases, which likely contained human bodies. Guillermo took one look at the suitcases and left for his room.

  Philip laid the suitcases down in the middle of the living room and unzipped them. One was filled with twenty cartons of chocolate-flavored soymilk. The other was filled with ten packages of raw chicken, six boxes of rice, ten pounds of broccoli, and five bottles of soy sauce. Trying very hard not to laugh, I took a seat. I needed something to take my mind off of what was a growing obsession with Dr. Dreamboat and we didn’t have cable.

  As Natalie came upstairs and once again put on Wedding Crashers with the subtitles, Philip carefully made his dinner with an uncomfortable level of OCD. Once he was finished cooking, he plated the food onto two plates, put the plates inside two grocery bags, placed them in the fridge, and then went into his room. He came out a few minutes later dressed in full workout gear, including specialist sunglasses. It was still raining and now very dark outside so I was surprised he was going for a run, but there he was, walking out the front door. Natalie smiled and offered me a drink.

  “Yes, please!” The painkillers were wearing off and Philip was really creeping me out. We sat on the couch for a while, watching the movie, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something passing our large bay window over and over. I went to see what it was and saw Philip outside in the rain running from our front step, up two houses and back. After two more passes, he ran slightly farther up and out of sight. Several minutes later he appeared, dragging a dirty wet mattress and proceeded to bring it into the house.

  Philip popped his head into the living room.

  “Can you believe someone was going to throw this out?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a perfectly good mattress, it just needs to dry out a bit.”

  It was too dirty for a crack house. He left the smelly wet mattress in the hallway, came into the kitchen, heated up one of the bagged plates for eleven seconds, and took the plate into his room.

  “He is going to kill us, no?” Natalie looked at me with equal parts concern and irony.

  “Probably.” I laughed and clinked glasses with her.

  Well, Guillermo should be happy. Philip was officially the craziest person in the flat.

  The next morning, after I had thoroughly locked myself in my room that evening, I got up to get ready for my interview. What do you wear for an interview at a fashion magazine? I wasn’t at all prepared because, not only was I not exactly qualified, I did my laundry in the kitchen—yes that’s right, the kitchen—and learned that nobody in London has a dryer in their home. Everything was done the same way it had been since the beginning of time: you just hung it on something and waited three days for it to dry.

  Since I didn’t find this out until after I had washed everything, all of my interview-appropriate clothes were still wet and hanging on every surface in my room I could find. I was frantically flipping through Fashionista magazine to find a solution when I saw a very beautiful woman named Cheryl Cole in a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg jeans and a red plaid fitted top. It wasn’t exactly the most appropriate interview outfit, but I had almost that exact same shirt and it was hanging up nice and dry in my closet. Plus, it showed that I actually read the magazine.

  I got off the tube and sprinted into Primark, a Target-esque clothing store Lucinda told me about. I had less than thirty minutes to find the jeans, change, and get to my interview, which was still a few blocks away. It was 10:30 A.M. on a Wednesday when I walked into the store and Primark was busier than Grand Central. I tapped the first employee I saw, a man who must have been leaning into his eighties, on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, could you please show me where the pants are?” I asked breathlessly as he turned around slowly.

  The old man shrugged his shoulders and motioned for me to follow him. After we went up the escalator we took a sharp left where he stopped abruptly. There I was, standing with an eighty-year-old man in the men’s underwear section. I raised an eyebrow because I was pretty sure he was hitting on me.

  “Right, there you are, miss.” He dismissed me with a nod and started to walk away.

  “Um—I—I was looking for women’s pants actually, like jeans?”

  “Then why didn’t you say that?” He held up a pair of XXL tighty whities. “These are pants. Women’s trousers are back downstairs.”

  He turned in a huff (as much as an ancient man could) and left me there, still a little confused. That UK Wikipedia page saying they spoke English was very misleading. But of course I didn’t have time for a cultural lesson; I needed to be at my interview in twenty minutes.

  I ran down the escalator and found the jeans in the back corner of the store and there they were, under the flickering tungsten light acting like a beacon of hope: a whole rack of high-waisted, wide-leg jeans, just like Cheryl Cole’s.

  Panicking, I practically ripped the whole rack apart. It seemed like the smallest size they had was an eight and back home I was a four. I held the jeans up to my hips in desperation and then ran into the change room. The jeans fit perfectly, which although provided some relief about the interview situation, was incredibly depressing, because I had inexplicably gone up several sizes.

  The line subsided and I was out of Primark with ten minutes to get to my interview. Beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip even though it must have been only ten degrees outside. A black cab came towards me and his little yellow light was on. Oh thank god! I waved him down and hopped in.

  “I’m going to Vogue House please, Hanover Square.” I was panting like a dog in heat.

  “Paddington Station,” the driver confirmed.

  “No, no sorry, I said Vogue House, Hanover Square?”

  “Miss, I can’t
understand yuh. Is that Paddington yuh want?”

  This, I really didn’t have time for.

  “No, Voooouuugggeee Houuuuse. H-A-N-O-V-E-R S-Q-U-A-R-E,” I said as loudly and clearly as I could. Come on, my accent wasn’t that thick.

  He finally began to drive. “Right, ’Anover Square. Shoulda said that in the first place.”

  One fabulous thing about London cabs was that once they understood where you wanted to go, they could get you there super quick, and with about three minutes to spare I was in front of Vogue House.

  I paid my fare and hopped out of the taxi. In my best I’m-running-but-I’m-not walk I dashed through the doors to see the receptionist waiting for me expectantly.

  “Hi, I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Miss Crawford.” She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to decide if I was a home wrecker or simply a damsel in distress. Predictably, she also looked me up and down, lingering at my shoes and back up to my handbag where she furrowed her brows disapprovingly.

  “Carlos is upstairs waiting for you. Take the elevator to the second floor.” She went back to Facebook or whatever else she was staring at inanely.

  The elevator was shiny and full of mirrors. Judging myself like I assumed everyone else would be, I stared at my outfit. Not quite as put together as Cheryl Cole was in the magazine, but at least I didn’t look like I got dressed in the dark … or in Primark for that matter. Besides, it should be about my writing, right?

  My heart was racing as the elevator doors opened to the second floor and it didn’t help that I was totally unqualified. I felt like everything was riding on this and I wanted to walk in with a clean slate, but I knew better and all of them would have read the paper and gossip sites, each already forming their own opinion.