“She’s free; she doesn’t have any plans.” Carlos unhinged himself from Nicholas long enough to squash my game. Adrian laughed.
“Great, I’ll book it in with your secretary.”
He let go of my hand and moved it underneath my hair between my shoulder blades, and then slowly to the back of my neck while his arm around my waist lifted me so my lips met his. I don’t know how long we kissed for, but the cursing of a disapproving elderly Italian woman broke it up. I was suddenly shy thinking that my grandmother would probably have the same reaction.
“See you Wednesday.” Adrian kissed me once more and began to walk back towards the Pantheon, leaving Nicholas to say goodbye to Carlos.
It was hard to sleep mid-day with the sun streaming through the chiffon curtain, but Carlos and I managed to get in four solid hours. Our flight was at three, and once we packed and got ready, we had two hours left in Rome to do some last-minute sightseeing. Hungover, the only thing really left to do was eat gelato. So we did, sitting on the edge of a statue, staring at the Pantheon. It was not only the best ice cream I’d ever had (vanilla with chocolate pieces they called strachitella), but also one of my favorite moments since moving to London.
We collected our luggage from the room and boarded the bus back to the airport. This time, I wore wedges and remembered to bring socks, but they didn’t even ask me to take off my shoes. I knew that woman was just being difficult.
I was asleep on Carlos’s shoulder as the plane started to taxi down the runway and woke up as the horn went off over the speakers indicating we had once again arrived on time. I collected my bag from the overhead compartment and went through immigration where everyone had English accents again.
I was home.
Dragging my bag from Earls Court was a chore made more difficult because not only was I carrying more shoes than I had actually worn, I was also praying I wouldn’t run into Jason. I hadn’t anticipated the logistics of avoiding him when he lived down the street from me while delivering that oh so juicy douche bag line. It was causing me a massive amount of paranoia. By the time I finally arrived at home avoiding all of the uncomfortable scenarios that plagued me the entire tube ride, I felt as though I needed to wind down, relax, and treat myself.
Once my shoes were in their rightful places, I went digging through my press box where I kept all of the free stuff I received at work and events. Most of it was lipstick a shade off what I would normally wear, brown black mascara (who even wears that?), and B-list celebrity perfume, but every once in a while there was a hidden treasure. Near the bottom, I found the facemask I’d been looking for and opened the pink metallic box to read the directions on the back of the small bottle inside.
I went upstairs in my housecoat to get a bowl and realized the house was empty. Resisting my urge to run through the house naked because I assumed Philip had hidden cameras, I took my bowl back downstairs to the bathroom and shut the door. The mask was a tranquil sky blue and smelled like minerals that would visibly reduce my wrinkles, not that I had any.
The mask was expertly spread over my face and was already starting to dry; I could feel the stress and tension being pulled out of my face by the clay. The instructions said to leave the mask on for twenty minutes and I had a book waiting for me in the other room.
When I went to open the door, it seemed to be stuck. So I tugged on the doorknob harder and it came off in my hand. Then it was definitely stuck. I kicked and screamed in vain until I remembered I was the only one home.
I had been stuck for at least half an hour when I heard my phone ring.
“Oh god! Please, help me! Whoever you are, please have a hunch I’m in trouble and break into my house and save me, please!” My phone stopped ringing.
Boredom took over and I thought this would be a great time to have a bath as well, since I was already there. I opened the shower curtain and was greeted with a thick layer of soap scum and hair, courtesy of one of my disgusting flatmates. I backed away and my leg touched the toilet bowl, which suddenly felt like it was crawling with germs.
I stood in the middle of the bathroom for another hour ensuring I wasn’t touching anything but the small square of tile I felt wouldn’t give me scabies. I also resolved that I would demand we get a cleaner if my flatmates ever came home to let me out of this prison.
I woke up with a start, having no idea how I managed to get on the floor or how long I’d been there, never mind how I’d made myself a fairly comfortable bed out of towels. Hopefully my flatmates were home. I screamed and banged on the door.
“Hello? Is anyone home? Hello? Guys? It’s Paige. I’m stuck in the bathroom. The doorknob is broken. Hey guys? Can someone let me out, please? SOMEONE HELP ME!”
The last shout elicited a response from upstairs. F my life, it was Philip. I considered being quiet in the hopes he would go away. If the other option was him, I was taking my bets with the bathroom.
“Hello?” Philip sounded scared.
“Hey, Phil, it’s Paige.”
“Paige, my name is Philip, not Phil.” He said “Phil” in a badly impersonated American accent.
“Sorry, Philip,” I punctuated “Philip” with an equally rude English accent. “The doorknob came off and I’m stuck in here. Can you open the door please?”
“What were you doing in there?”
“I was putting on a face mask, but I’m not sure that’s pertinent information at the moment.”
He pulled at the door. “How long have you been in there?”
“I don’t know, Philip. What time is it now?”
“One in the morning.”
“Then I guess I’ve been in here for a few hours.”
“Have you had the lights on the whole time? I noticed you left the light on in your bedroom as well.”
“Well, I didn’t plan on getting stuck, so yes I left the light on in my room. And of course I left the light on in here. I wasn’t going to sit in the bathroom in the dark for hours.”
“Well, you know, Paige, I don’t mean to bring it up at an inconvenient time, but I only think it’s fair that you should pay a little extra on the next electric bill.”
I’d never wanted to punch someone in the face so much in my life.
“Fine, Philip, I will pay extra. But can you just please help me out of here? Please?” I was knocking my head against the door softly in frustration.
Philip twisted the doorknob gently and I heard a click. I was free! The door opened to reveal pasty white Philip in his old tighty whities, which were a sickly shade of grey. I couldn’t even bring myself to say thank you. With the mask still on my face I turned off the bathroom light, pushed past him, and shut my bedroom door. Why do I live in a mental hospital?
***
Later that week I was at home, putting on the final touches for my date with Adrian. My bright purple day dress from Smashion PR and nude heels were set out on my bed, and although it was almost 8 P.M., the sun was still bright.
I was meeting him at the Anglesea Arms, a nearby pub known more for its scene than any of the food or drinks they serve there. Then the plan was to take a cab to a sushi restaurant on Oxford Street. Why we were going back into the city was beyond me since Chelsea provided some of the best eating in London. But I wasn’t paying and a girl’s gotta eat.
As I walked up to The Anglesea I heard the familiar whispers from the punters drinking on the sidewalk.
“Is that ... ”
“She’s fatter in person.”
“I bet you her hair is fake.”
I tried to ignore them but nobody was making an effort to be discreet. I saw Adrian standing on the street with a jug of Pimms. It was nearly impossible to get a table in the summer unless you were here from mid-afternoon, so the best one could hope for was a section of the hip-height wall that surrounded the courtyard to rest your jug on. Either that, or you give up on glasses altogether and drink out of the jug with a straw.
This was a first and a half date and I wasn’t ready t
o show him what a hillbilly I could be so I resolved to use my reputation to my advantage. I walked confidently to the wall and the crowd of people stared and made way as I did. Once I was close enough to the wall, I laughed loudly. The girl hogging three spaces with her yellow Hermes handbag glared and moved so there was just enough room for me, Adrian, and the jug.
I know many people say that some of the best stuff to come out of Britain is things like Industrialization, toilet paper, and the Spice Girls, but personally I think it’s Pimms. Take one shot of Pimms, a dark brown, gin-based liqueur, and pour over ice. Then add carbonated lemonade, fresh strawberry, orange, lemon, apple slices, and fresh mint and you have what might possibly be the best drink ever in history. That’s why most people drink it by the jug; it goes down like water.
Adrian poured the glasses and the fresh fruit sent splashes of iced-tea-like liquid on my hand.
“Sorry.” As he apologized, sounding like the guy from the Ikea ads, he licked the drops off my hand, which is super creepy when you aren’t drunk.
“Don’t worry about it.” I pulled my hand away and we stood in silence. Why was this so weird now?
“So, how was work today?” I knew it was a lame question, but I was trying to get past the licking thing.
“It was good. We finally got budget approval for a new project I am working on. It’s top secret, but should be really fun.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to Pimms o’clock!” We clinked plastic glasses a tad too hard and mine gave a little, splashing the sticky liquid all over my hand again. I quickly wiped it on my dress before he had a chance to lick it. He looked around nervously with a strained smile.
“Are you ok?” I didn’t know what else to say, he clearly wasn’t having a good time, and I didn’t want to trek all the way into central London if it was going to be like this the whole night.
“Yes, sorry, Paige, I’m fine.” He shuffled his feet and avoided eye contact with me. “It’s just that, you know, you dated that football guy and everyone is staring.”
“First off, never dated that guy, just fell when walking out of a club and he caught me. True story. Second of all, you weren’t like this in Rome. What happened?”
“I had several glasses of wine in Rome.” He shrugged his shoulders and seemed a little defeated, which was actually pretty cute.
“Adrian, this doesn’t need to be weird. And if all else fails, Pimms can get us through the night.” I purposely clinked his cup hard and spilled it on his hand. “You need me to lick it off?”
He smiled, shook his head, and wiped his hand on his jeans.
I excused myself and made a quick trip to the ladies’ room to wash off the sticky Pimms residue on my hand. When I came back, Adrian was speaking to a very familiar back of the head. As I got closer, I realized it was Jason.
That’s it; this date was already way too much trouble. I should just call it a night.
In my haste, I misjudged the steep ramp that led up to the courtyard and tripped. This time there wasn’t an infamous footballer around to catch me so I grabbed onto the wall and knocked over a jug of Pimms.
“Oh my god! Is she drunk?” yelled some posh English girl dressed as a pineapple with bad teeth.
I wish.
Adrian rushed over and helped me up.
“These stupid shoes,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“Are you sure you’re ok?” Adrian seemed genuinely concerned and I think Jason left. Maybe it wasn’t him.
“Yes, I’m fine. But now do you believe me that I fell outside of The Box?” I said that loud enough so everyone in the general area could hear me.
“I definitely believe you.” He smiled and ushered me back to our unspilled jug of Pimms where he poured me another glass.
“Who were you talking to earlier?” Please don’t say Jason.
“I don’t know, he was asking if there was room on the wall.” Adrian looked around. “Guess not.”
We finished the jug and Adrian hailed a cab to take us to dinner. When we arrived at the restaurant, he held open the small wooden front door for me. It was nice to go on a date for once where I knew his name and also knew he wasn’t interested in parading me around like a monkey dressed as Marilyn Monroe.
The waiter came by and Adrian ordered a bottle of sake while I tried to discreetly undo my napkin origami. He handed Adrian and I the menu, which despite its generous size only held two pieces of paper. I scanned the menu for things I could pronounce. I was from a landlocked province and very picky about what fish I ate, never mind raw fish. There were the usual spicy tuna and salmon rolls, so I planned on sticking with those.
“Would you like me to order for the table?” asked Adrian, as if there were other people sitting there with us. I looked for our invisible friends briefly before I remembered we didn’t have any.
“Sure,” I said in politeness although I really didn’t want anyone else ordering for me. I knew what I wanted and eel wasn’t on that list.
Adrian was still scanning the menu while I nervously followed his eyes to see what they lingered on. He caught me staring.
“Is there anything you really want?”
“No, not really,” I lied in an attempt to be a proper girl and not a loudmouth.
“Is there anything you don’t want?” he offered, indicating I should pick up my menu.
“Well, I’m not really a big fan of strange food. So, like, no eel, octopus, fish eggs of any kind, you know what I mean?”
“Tuna and salmon it is!” He laughed. “You just made my job much easier.”
The waiter came back with our sake and took the order for the table, which consisted mainly of tuna and salmon rolls and a wasabi waygu beef that I was very excited about.
We finished off the bottle of sake quickly. It was served chilled and poured into small shot glasses made out of fresh bamboo.
Our food arrived.
“How is everything?”
“Oh, it’s great.” But it wasn’t. Well, the food was, but the conversation and chemistry? That was all just fine. But did I move to another country for “fine?” I remembered the butterflies from Jason and Alex, and then remembered how well those had worked out. Maybe fine was what I needed right now; no drama, maybe not as much excitement, but, in the end, stable.
Once all the plates were cleared and the bill paid we made our way towards Oxford Circus. It was a rare mild London night, which meant the streets were filled with people. We weren’t ready to go home so I texted a few promoters to see what was going on tonight.
It was only ten thirty so most places were still empty, but I had a response from one of the guys saying we could meet him at Mahiki in an hour. I thought it would be nice to take a quick walk down Oxford Street first, so we made our way towards Selfridges.
They had a fantastic yellow shoe display with hundreds of designer shoes all presented together in the shape of a sun. I was having a rousing game of name the designer with myself when Adrian started to get bored.
“As much as I love watching your eyes light up when you win this … shoe game, can we go to Mahiki?”
“Oh, sorry, of course.” At first I was offended. Then I remembered that the only guys I had ever been out with who had as much interest in shoes as I did were Carlos and Nicholas and, well, they were gay.
We were standing on the street for several minutes and still hadn’t been able to catch a taxi. Then I saw one start to turn the corner but a group of girls tried to run past us to steal it so my competitive streak took over and I ran for the taxi as well. I was winning and had passed all of them when my heel got caught on a piece of cracked pavement. I went down hard, and this time there was no way to catch myself.
I felt my head connect with the sidewalk and heard the collective gasps and a few laughs from the girls as they got into the taxi. I was sure I saw one of them take a picture with her iPhone.
“Paige! Are you ok?”
“Ya, I’m fine.” I tried to get up. Nope, not fine.
“Paige, your head is bleeding. We need to go to the hospital.”
“I am definitely not going to the hospital.” I tried to focus on Adrian but he was upside down.
“Yes, you are.” He held down my shoulders in an effort to stop me from running away, which I was trying to do but failing miserably.
A crowd began to form.
“Is that Paige Crawford?”
“Has someone called an ambulance?”
I could see flashes out of the corner of my eye and realized I couldn’t stay here.
“Adrian, please take me home. I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow, but just get me out of here.” I was totally lying. I wasn’t going to any hospital, but was ready to say anything to make this stop.
He found another cab and helped me up. I stumbled again. Everything seemed to be moving really slowly and began to mush together like a watercolor painting. I totally had a concussion.
“Chelsea and Westminster hospital,” Adrian told the driver confidently.
“What? Why are we going there? That can’t be the closest hospital.”
“It’s the one near your place right?”
“Ya, but—”
“You want to go home, I want to take you to the hospital. It’s a fair compromise. All you need is a few stitches. You put up a pretty good fight out there, I’m sure you’re ok.”
What was it with these guys and their nonchalant attitude when I was bleeding from my head?
The taxi pulled up in front of Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. While Adrian paid him I got out and tried to run away, which doesn’t work as well as you would imagine when you have a head injury and are wearing five-inch heels. He caught up to me, picked me up by the waist, and carried me into the emergency room despite the fact that I kept hitting him in the head with my bag.
He was still carrying me when he checked me in with the triage nurse. I was still putting up a fight.
“Miss, do I need to call security?”
“Yes, please do. Please get me out of this hospital.” I’ll admit I was being a little dramatic.
The Accidental Socialite Page 17
