The Accidental Socialite

by Stephanie Wahlstrom

  My stomach turned.

  “You’re right. I don’t belong somewhere that hires judgmental bitches whose primary news source is The Sun.”

  She held the “open door” button, staring me down until I got out and then hit the close button. I stood staring at the elevator for a second, congratulating myself for not punching her in the face, and then saw another girl dressed more like me get into another elevator. That one had a button directly to Roka and when I walked in I felt more at ease. The hostess at the front greeted me with a smile and I walked towards her while scanning the room for signs of Jason. Once I gave his name, she led me to a large, oddly shaped table in natural wood. At least Jason didn’t seem mad.

  “Hey, babe, are you ok? We heard about the trains. Sorry you had to come through that.”

  He was so sweet and totally made me forget about the cow in the elevator.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that big of a deal. So sorry I’m late. Will you excuse me for a second to freshen up?”

  “Of course. I ordered you a cosmo, it should be here by the time you get back.”

  It was so nice to walk into a restaurant and be greeted by perfection in the shape of an almost-boyfriend. The bathroom was modern Asian and had terrible lighting. But, so did the restaurant and in my situation low lighting could only be an asset. I added lip gloss and touched up what I could from the small emergency makeup bag I carried in my Mulberry. The smell of the tube still hung heavy in the air and I wasn’t sure if it was me, or a smell that was etched in my mind and would be there for the rest of my life. I took out my handbag-sized bottle of Miss Dior Cherie and spritzed twice, and then once more just to be safe.

  When I returned to the table, a cosmo was waiting for me, as was a group of men with their better halves, the women tipsy and the men looking hopeful their WAGs would stay sober enough not to embarrass them.

  “So, Paige. How has the celebrity circuit been in London?” asked the man to Jason’s left. “I saw that you were out last night; I’m surprised you made this dinner.”

  Jason turned towards me expectantly, like it was a perfectly acceptable question.

  “I wasn’t out that late actually, I was at a launch party. For work,” I answered carefully, with just enough caution to let him know this wasn’t a topic I wanted to dwell on.

  “What do you do?” I asked his girlfriend.

  “I’m a lady of leisure,” she responded coolly with an Eastern European accent. She was beautiful, far too pretty for her partner without being paid to be with him, especially since he was clearly an asshole.

  The rest of the night was spent dodging creepy looks and inappropriate questions from Jason’s colleagues, as he played deaf and dumb.

  After some delicious sushi and far too much sake, Jason and I stood outside the restaurant to hail a taxi.

  “Really? Those are the types of people you choose to hang out with?” I asked.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized quietly. At least he knew that wasn’t my idea of a great evening. “These guys really get hung up on the fact that you are a celebrity.”

  “Jason, I’m not a celebrity, I’m Canadian. That’s it. Just a normal girl who obviously has some sort of inner ear problem or something. People trip all the time and mine ended up on the cover of The Sun. I didn’t ask for any of it, and quite frankly I really hope it will just go away.”

  “Really, you hate it that much? You hate the free clothes, champagne, parties?”

  Well, last night was fun, but my moral stance would always be that it isn’t right. I didn’t choose this situation. I was just making the best of it. “Yes, I do and if I could figure out how to make it all stop and just be a normal person again, I would do it in a second.”

  Jason shook his head and I weirdly felt like I’d let him down. “Finborough Road then Brompton Road, please,” he directed the driver as we got into the taxi.

  Guess tonight wasn’t going to be a sleepover then?

  Jason held my hand lightly without saying anything for the entire ride home.

  “I’m sorry tonight was uncomfortable, Canada. I couldn’t really say anything because he was a client. I promise I won’t make you hang out with guys like that again.” He kissed me on the cheek, but still had disappointment lingering behind his eyes.

  “It’s fine. Sorry I wasn’t a good sport. Have a good sleep.” I walked up the stairs to my place and waved goodbye as I closed the door.

  Things between Jason and I were tense for the next few weeks. Neither of us really knew where we were going and there is a certain point in a relationship where you have to make some tough calls. In the last few months there hadn’t even been a conversation about exclusivity. This was in part because I wasn’t pushing the subject; I still wanted to keep my options open here.

  On the other hand, Jason hadn’t breeched the subject either, and for all I knew he had a girl in every London postcode. The problem was now that both of us had let this go on for so long without any clarification, changing the game would probably ruin things. I decided to bring it up after it took me five minutes to answer a simple yes or no question from Gisele: “Are you single?”

  We were at an amazing hole in the wall Polish restaurant in Southwark called Baltic. Walking by it you would never know that inside is a modern, New York style bar and dining room with exposed brick, great cocktails, and even better food. We were sitting in a corner booth and I was having Gravadlax, which is basically smoked salmon and potato cakes with sour cream and added yumminess. I was struggling to decide on my third cocktail (I know, I have real problems, right?) when for some reason between talking about the elderflower and raspberry cocktail and sucking down the ginger and strawberry I was already drinking, I had verbal diarrhea. It went something like this:

  “Canada, what’s the next drink going to be?”

  “So, like, what are we?” Slurp.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever had elderflower before? When did it become, like, a ‘thing?’” I said with crooked air quotes.

  “Do you want to meet my parents?” he asked with the fourth cocktail haze over his eyes and suddenly made a face, which I took to mean he wanted to immediately take back what he just said.

  “But, I don’t even know what we ‘are.’” And out came the air quotes again. I think I was subconsciously trying to show off my homemade manicure. “Like seriously, it took me forever to answer this girl who I want to be my boss’s question. All she asked was if I was single.” I sighed, drunk and exhausted from trying to make a coherent sentence out of the nonsense running through my head.

  “Paige, my parents are in town this week and I thought maybe you’d want to come out for dinner with us. No pressure. I haven’t told them what we ‘are.’” Jason also used air quotes to make me feel better. Why was it cute when he did it? And how did he manage to still not answer the question?

  I ordered my elderflower concoction and stared sheepishly at the empty place where my plate was moments ago. They need to stop trying to do all this useless space satellite stuff and find a way to go back in time and undo drunken conversations. That’s something I think everyone could get behind.

  “Paige, the reservation is for tomorrow night at seven at The Woseley. It will be fun, I promise.”

  I looked up and he was suddenly serious. “Hey, ever since I saw you scrambling to pick up your underwear off the sidewalk on that busy road, you were the only one for me, and considering most of the people I’ve seen you with in the papers are gay men, I assumed you thought we were exclusive as well … that or you were really confused.” He nudged me with his foot under the table and grinned from ear to ear. My brain said “Yay!” and did a small happy dance, but my heart was being aloof. I chalked it up to too much vodka and cured seafood.

  I got up fifteen minutes early the next morning because I knew I would have wardrobe issues. London was in a ridiculous heat wave and nobody was in a rush to turn on the air conditioning, if they even had it. What d
oes one wear to a last minute meet-the-parents date of an almost, but maybe not really, boyfriend?

  Besides spending the morning writing yet another article for a high-end jeweler about engagement rings and the top signs that he’s about to propose, I tried to work on my fanny pack article. Unfortunately, it seemed to be just a good headline and I was having serious writer’s block. It physically hurt.

  Carlos did his part by sending me pictures of kittens in precarious situations with captions like “Over It” and “Piss Off.” They were cute but, as I repeatedly told him, not really helpful. He sent me a picture of one of those hairless cats in a wig with “Emma” written in the subject line. I rolled my eyes.

  “Stop being so Canadian,” pouted Carlos. “It doesn’t impress me.”

  “What, so that’s a thing now? We are just going to ignore that you used my nationality in a derogatory way?”

  “Listen, hun. All Canada has given us in the last few years is Justin Bieber. Until you contribute something more substantial than a five foot two pre-pubescent tween heartthrob, you are fair play.”

  “Friendship over. Like, five minutes ago.”

  “Come on, Paige. Stressed out you isn’t fun at all and I don’t want to sit next to someone with fine lines and spots.” He pointed at the pimple threatening to break free on my chin.

  “Fine.” I spun my chair to face him with my arms crossed like a teenager. “I know I’m not getting anything else done today sitting next to you. What do you suggest we do?” Clearly I had forgotten the whole almost getting fired thing because Carlos and I spent the next hour playing in The Cupboard with Louis. Apparently they got back together at work drinks the other week. When I protested because I hadn’t been invited, it turned out that “work drinks” was actually just the two of them getting wasted at a gay bar in Soho and then hooking up.

  I started to linger around some Stella McCartney dresses.

  “Your little yellow fifties number is fabulous,” said Louis.

  Clearly a lie, but it was still sweet of him to give me that false sense of confidence. Doubtful, I continued to mill around the couture. It’s amazing how quickly a girl can go from never having heard any of these designer names to coveting every single one of them.

  When I got back to my desk with a mahogany cuff, the outline for the fanny article didn’t seem so daunting. I managed to get a substantial amount of work done for the rest of the day, including finding a cute, yet hilarious picture of a very fluffy kitten with the caption “Who Are You Calling a Puff?” Carlos printed it out and put it on the divider in between our desks. Obviously I was fine with wasting company time and resources every once in a while, but I felt the picture screamed “we don’t do anything all day!” Carlos respectfully disagreed and the picture stayed up.

  Lucinda emailed me that afternoon and asked if I wanted to meet at a café before my big date with Jason’s parents. I had just over an hour to kill and my bank account was dangerously close to the red, so I agreed on the condition that we wouldn’t drink alcohol. This wasn’t something I wanted to walk into impaired.

  “Chicken, I love the dress!” Lucinda was bubbly and happy to see me, exactly what I needed to calm down. There were two cappuccinos waiting on the table, exactly what I didn’t need for my already racing heart.

  “What have I gotten myself into? Is it rude for me to cancel now?” I asked Lucinda, hoping she would back me up and we could go shoe shopping.

  “No, doll, you can’t cancel, but just make sure you know what you’re doing with Jason. I’m supportive of you shagging a hot banker—or whatever he does, but I’m not supportive of him being a jerk. Just make sure he appreciates the real you.”

  “I know you’re just watching out for me, but he does know the real me, Luc. Remember the mac and cheese and coffee? That’s someone who knows me and cares about me.”

  “Yes, darling, I do remember that and it was very sweet, but I also remember him kicking you out of his house when you were bleeding from your face and his friends only caring about what the tabloids say about you.”

  She was right, which was kind of the annoying part of having Lucinda as a friend: not only beautiful and charming, she was smart and practical.

  “I know. I should cancel,” I sighed.

  “Don’t cancel, but just make sure you don’t get so into sex and trips to Paris that you forget that you deserve to be with someone who likes you for you.”

  See what I mean about almost being too perfect? Love and hate her at the same time.

  “Lucinda, it’s really not like that. Jason likes me for who I am. He asked me out before all of this happened, when I was jet-lagged and hadn’t showered in twenty-four hours. But thanks for looking out for me.” I took the last sip of my coffee.

  Lucinda fluttered her eyelashes and two more cappuccinos appeared. She must have noticed that I wasn’t feeling any better about the impending meeting because she said the exact right thing again.

  “And chicken, even if you cock this up, which you won’t, and turn into a doormat, I’ll still like you because you are the most unique and honest person I know.”

  My confidence boosted and energy infused with far too much caffeine, Lucinda sent me off with a hug and two kisses. I can do this, I thought to myself over and over. Jason did like me for me, and if he didn’t, no biggie, I still got to see the sun set from the Eiffel Tower and learned some pretty valuable lessons about wall construction in the UK.

  The Woseley was a British institution. Impossible to get a reservation, it was situated in the Ritz near Green Park. I sent a text before I left the café to see where Jason was and he texted back immediately, promising he would be there a few minutes early so I wouldn’t have to stand there by myself, trying to guess which couple in the restaurant was his parents.

  Jason was waiting near the front door of the Ritz and haphazardly ran his hand through his hair when he saw me approach. He gave me a quick kiss as he held the door open.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. How much did you tell—” I bumped into the back of a broad-shouldered man in a white short-sleeved polo shirt.

  “Hey, Dad! Mom, this is Paige,” Jason said to the man I’d bumped into and the woman to his left. “Paige, this is my mom and dad, Carol and Steve.”

  I smiled brightly as if I was on the cover of I’m Totally Awesome magazine.

  “So, Paige, Jason tells me you’re a celebrity in these parts. How’d you get to do that?” asked Jason’s dad. He was looking straight at me and my heart began to pound at breakneck speed, assisted by the two totally unnecessary cappuccinos I’d just had.

  “Yes, it sounds very glamorous,” added his mother.

  “I actually just moved here from Canada a few months ago. I’m really not famous, the whole paper thing was just a misunderstanding.”

  His mom seemed disappointed. “Well, Jason sure is proud of you. He sends us the articles almost every week.”

  “Really?” I squeaked out through my clenched teeth.

  “Oh come on, Mom, not every week. I just wanted to show you guys how amazing and beautiful my girlfriend is,” said Jason as he reassuringly moved his hand to the small of my back. The butterflies in my stomach had taken over my whole body and I couldn’t tell if it was because I was nervous, had too much coffee, or it was caused by Jason’s touch. As angry as I was with him, there was just something about him that I couldn’t let go.

  The maître d’ escorted us to our table, in the center of the restaurant, putting me in perfect view of everyone around.

  “The table you requested, sir,” the maître d’ said, nodding to Jason. I glared at both of them.

  The menu was once again full of things I’d never heard of before, made more complicated with the odd French word or an Alannah Myles hit. Seriously, what does one get when they order a Tankard of Black Velvet? I Googled it discreetly under the table and … nothing. They were just making shit up and all these posh people were all like, “oh, come now,
don’t you know?” No, as a matter of fact I don’t, and neither does Google and if Google doesn’t know, it’s not a real thing.

  They also had eggs benedict, but I didn’t want to seem strange, or risk a hollandaise sauce wardrobe malfunction, so I ordered the chopped chicken salad and wiener schnitzel, mostly because it sounded funny when the French waiter repeated back my order.

  All fame-oriented conversation was avoided until the entrée arrived and Jason’s mom asked me if I’d met any of the royals. I had, but I wasn’t about to tell her that and shook my head no. I took a very large and unflattering bite out of my wiener so as to deter any follow-up questions.

  “Oh she’s just being modest. Paige was able to find her way around London as soon as she moved here, going to all of the most exclusive places, hanging out with other celebs. She even has a column coming out soon in Fashionista magazine; it’s going to be on the cover,” Jason boasted.

  I choked on my schnitzel. I couldn’t believe those words had just come out of his mouth. How many times did we need to have to have the “I’m not really famous” conversation?

  “So, Mrs. Frost, what was Jason like as a kid?”

  “Please, call me Carol. Our little Jason was always quite the go-getter. We still have a room full of his trophies back home, don’t we, David?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Oh, I miss getting all those trophies, but Jason moved right up the corporate ladder, hasn’t he, David?”

  “Sure has.”

  “If they gave out trophies for making your parents proud, Jason would have all of them.”

  “Alright, Mom, that’s enough,” interrupted Jason, but he clearly didn’t want her to stop.

  “Come on, Carol, we know all about Jason. I want to know more about this lovely lady sitting in front of me.” Jason’s dad smiled wide at me. “Who is the most famous person you’ve met so far, darlin’?”

  “I’m sorry, but would you excuse me for a moment? I had too much coffee today.” I got up and gave Jason a look that said under no uncertain terms “that is enough.” I thought he said he hadn’t mentioned anything about me to them?