“So, where are we going to go? The Tower of London? The British Museum? Parliament?” I asked as we munched on the scones, which were surprisingly good.
“Absolutely. All of it. I have a surprise first, and then we’ll start hitting all of the places you most want to see,” he said.
“What surprise?” I asked. I couldn’t keep the suspicion out of my voice. I hate surprises, which is entirely understandable given that my parents decided that Christmas morning was a good time to spring it on my sister and me that they were divorcing. I’d thought when they said they had something to tell us, that the punch line was going to be the revelation of a fabulous present—the kind that’s so over-the-top, it doesn’t even fit under a tree, like a Mediterranean cruise or a pair of new cars. In the midst of such high hopes, there was instead the perfunctory announcement that our family was being dissolved.
“Don’t worry. You’ll love it, I promise,” Jack said, popping the last of his scone into his mouth. He checked his watch. “In fact, we should get going, or we’re going to be late.”
“Late? Come on, just tell me where we’re going,” I said.
“You’ll just have to trust me,” Jack said, and although his tone was light and teasing, I felt a stab of fear.
Jack seemed to read my thoughts, since he placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun,” he promised.
I nodded, suddenly excited at the prospect of the day before me. It was that birthday morning feeling, full of anticipation of the cake and presents and balloons and fun ahead. I decided that for once, I wasn’t going to spend the day worrying about what could go wrong.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I said, surprising myself by feeling almost as enthusiastic as I sounded.
“It” turned out to be the biggest damned Ferris wheel I’d ever seen in my life. Called the British Airways London Eye, it stretched four hundred and fifty feet into the sky. Groups of passengers soared over the London skyline in glass-encased pods that somehow stayed upright, even as the Eye rotated slowly around.
“There’s no way in hell I’m getting on that thing,” I said, shaking my head and backing away.
Jack placed his hand on my lower back, preventing an escape. “It’s perfectly safe, and it gives you the most amazing view of the city,” he said. “Besides, I already have the tickets, so you can’t back out now.”
“Nope, uh-uh, not gonna happen. I have a fear of heights and of small spaces, so putting me in a coffin that dangles from the sky is pretty much a worst-case scenario for me,” I said, shaking my head, although despite my protestations, Jack continued to lead me to the entrance line.
“I think each capsule fits about twenty-five people, so it’s hardly coffinlike. Come on, I promise I’ll hold your hand the entire time,” Jack murmured in my ear.
“Fat lot of good that will do us as we plunge to our deaths,” I retorted, but finally I allowed myself to be coaxed onto the pod.
For the first ten minutes of the ride, I was terrified. We stood at the far end of the capsule, opposite the door, my hand clutching Jack’s, as we looked out at the spectacular sight of Big Ben nestled next to Parliament on the bank of the river Thames. It was a gloriously bright day, and the sun danced over the water. Despite the fact that the ride continued to climb slowly upward, I started to relax. The pod felt safe and secure, and I was so entranced by the view of London, vast and wide, that I forgot to be afraid. I even loosened up my grip on Jack’s hand in order to lean forward and point excitedly at Tower Bridge as it came into view.
Jack laughed, and shook his hand with comedic exaggeration. “I thought you were going to break it, you were holding on so tightly,” he said.
I flushed and turned away, completely mortified and ruing my large, clunky, manlike hands. Why couldn’t I have dainty little hands that no one would ever accuse of being able to break anything? I wasn’t aware that Jack had stepped behind me until he spoke, his breath so warm and ticklish against my ear, it caused me to shiver.
“Where’re you going? You’re not still afraid, are you?” he asked, and then he lightly held the sides of my waist, and leaned me back toward him, so that my back was resting against his chest. My embarrassment disappeared, replaced by a strangely contradictory combination of out-and-out lust and tranquility. Jack’s close presence calmed and reassured me, but at the same time, I was so aware of his physicality, of the muscles in his chest, the strength of his arms, the gentle touch of his fingers, that I had a strong urge to wrestle him down onto the bench and have my way with him. That would certainly shock the throng of German tourists riding in the pod with us, I thought, and laughed out loud at the idea.
“What’s so funny?” Jack asked, turning me around toward him.
“Nothing. I’m just having a really good time,” I said, smiling up at him.
“Well, the day’s just begun. We have a lot to see,” he replied.
Next on our sightseeing tour was the Tower of London, where we spent the remainder of our morning. Jack and I took a tour of the complex led by a rosy-cheeked Beefeater who related the bloody history of the Tower with a dramatic flare and was particularly fond of detailing the ghoulish executions. I’d brought my camera, and despite my laughing protest, Jack made me stand between two of the Beefeaters, both wearing the traditional costume—just like the drawing on the gin bottle—and took a corny picture of us. We dutifully trooped through the display of the crown jewels and through the armament, but to me the most incredible building was the little chapel where Anne Boleyn’s beheaded body was interred. The chapel was small and lovely, but had a melancholy ambiance to it, heightened by the knowledge of all of the people who were put to their grisly deaths only a few yards away.
After we left the Tower, we stopped for lunch at one of the restaurants on my list—a pizzeria chain not too far away from the Tower. We shared a thin-crusted pizza topped with pesto, goat cheese, and tomato slices and then studded with walnut halves. It was gooey and decadent and absolutely delicious. Walking around in the cold weather always perks up my appetite, and I scarfed down my food, while Jack derided one of my favorite guilty pleasures—musicals.
“I hate musicals,” Jack insisted, and then puffed out his chest in mock machismo. “That’s girly entertainment.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Everyone pretends to hate musicals, but secretly loves them. It’s like watching The Brady Bunch on Nick at Night—everyone does it, but no one actually admits to it.”
“I don’t think we get Nick at Night here,” Jack interrupted.
“You know what I mean. Tell me you haven’t seen The Lion King? Phantom? Les Mis?”
“No, no, and God no. I did see an incredibly annoying one, where all of the actors—are the stars of those things called actors?—were dressed up like cats and pranced around the stage like idiots,” he said. “I can’t remember the name.”
“You mean Cats?” I asked.
“Mmmm, sounds about right.” Jack smiled. “That was more than enough for me.”
“Okay, well then, you probably wouldn’t like The Lion King,” I agreed. “But you should really give Les Mis a try. I know, it’s touristy and dorky, but I swear, it’s surprisingly good.”
“I just let you take my picture next to one of those crows at the Tower,” Jack began.
“Ravens,” I corrected.
“Whatever. I think it proves that I’m not above looking like a dorky tourist,” he pointed out. “In fact, if you’re done, we should probably get going. Where do you want to go next? St. Paul’s Cathedral? Westminster Abbey?”
We went to both, and then finished up the afternoon with a tour of the underground headquarters from which Winston Churchill ran the British forces during World War II.
“I can’t believe Churchill’s bunker is just right there, smack in the middle of Westminster, but completely underground. You’d never know it was there,” I remarked as we walked from the Tube stop back to my hotel.
“I think tha
t was sort of the point. Can you imagine how foul it must have smelled, what with everyone living in such close quarters?”
“You think?”
“Dozens of men, packed together in those tiny rooms, probably eating disgustingly large amounts of cabbage,” Jack said, comically wrinkling his nose.
I laughed, despite myself. Jack was refreshingly complete, and seemed to have emerged into manhood without the scars that most men my age carry. I’d only known him for a short time, but I just didn’t get the sense that he was damaged in any way, and I’m a fairly good judge of character (okay, okay, besides Sawyer, I mean). But even this stellar example of modern manhood couldn’t resist making fart jokes.
We arrived at my hotel, a squat white building in South Kensington with a colorful set of flags flying out in front and a uniformed doorman standing in front of the revolving door. It was already dark, and the city was drawing itself up, quieting for the night. I paused, not knowing what to do. It had been an extraordinary day—really, the best first date I’d ever had in my life. And although I was tired and my feet were aching from hours of walking, I didn’t want to say good-bye to Jack. It was just my luck. I’d finally met a guy who had everything I’d ever wanted—sex appeal, intelligence, a great sense of humor—and he lived on a different continent. And, I had to remind myself, he’d just gotten out of a semi-serious relationship with another woman, even though he hadn’t once mentioned her or their too-recent-for-comfort breakup.
“So,” I said.
“So,” Jack agreed.
“Here we are,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
What I wanted to do was invite him up to my room. In fact, ever since the kiss we’d shared that morning, the promise of something more had not been far from my mind. Jack was a sort of slacker yuppie, with his shaggy hair and relaxed style, but there was a distinct, sinewy heat to him—the flicker in his eyes, the set to his mouth, the soft yet insistent pressure when he held my hand. But other than one unmemorable fling while on vacation at a Club Med in Cancún, I just don’t do the one-night-stand thing. Maybe that sounds a little prudish, but once sex has entered the picture, it’s hard for me to stay detached. When I sleep with someone, I tend to imprint on them, sort of like those orphaned baby birds who become attached to a nanny-minded dog (not the most flattering comparison, I know), and I certainly wouldn’t want to imprint on someone who only saw sleeping with me as a one-time deal. Jack didn’t seem like that kind of a guy, but then again, what did I really know about him, other than that he was funny and smart and was a good sightseeing companion, and that he had no qualms whatsoever about going on a seven-hour date the day after breaking up with his girlfriend? Those qualities alone do not recommend someone as a person to hand your heart over to.
Jack smiled his amazing smile and reached out to brush a hair from the side of my face. “I’m not ready to say good night,” he said softly, and took my hand in his.
Kiss me, I silently willed him. No way, no how could I make the first move. Could I? No, I absolutely could not. It would be just my luck to swan in, lips puckered, and have him dive to one side to avoid making contact. And then I’d have to die of embarrassment.
But as Jack looked down at me, his greenish brown eyes intent on my face, I was suddenly sure he was going to save me the trouble by asking if he could come up to my room. This just cleared the way for a new and even fiercer debate between the part of me that wanted to drag him off like a hormonally charged cavewoman and the part that was sounding an alarm, warning me not to risk it. But before one of the two sides could claim victory, Jack smiled and glanced down at his watch.
“Are you up for getting some dinner, or are you too tired?” he asked.
“That sounds like fun,” I said, relieved, although I did feel a twinge of guilt over abandoning Maddy, even though we didn’t have firm plans to get together that evening, since she hadn’t returned my calls.
I debated for a minute whether I should check with her before accepting, or at least ask Jack if he’d mind if I brought a friend along with us (which would have the added benefit of getting a second opinion on Jack). But then—and I’m not proud of this—a small, mean, insecure little voice in my head said, Do you really want to introduce your beyond gorgeous friend to this amazing guy? One look at her, and he’ll lose all interest in you.
And just like that, my decision to ditch Maddy for the night was made.
“Give me a chance to freshen up,” I said, rationalizing wildly that Maddy would want me to make this date. And besides, she and I still had a whole day left to spend together before I returned home.
“What time should I pick you up? Let’s say we meet back here in the lobby at seven?” he asked.
“Perfect,” I said.
Jack kissed me on the cheek before he left, his lips lingering, feeling hot against my windblown skin. I smiled all the way up to my room, and after I let myself in—it took me four attempts, I absolutely hate those stupid card key things, and made a quick mental note to mention this in my next column—I checked my messages. There were none. I was glad that Robert wasn’t hounding me with last-minute directives to review the Ye Olde Tacky Tourist Trap, but where the hell was Maddy? This truly wasn’t like her, and I was starting to worry. I called her apartment, got her machine again, and so left another message to please call me as soon as possible.
After hanging up, I had just enough time to take a hot shower, curl my deflated hair into hot rollers, and figure out what I was going to wear. I don’t normally bring formal clothes with me on these business trips—one does not need to dress for dinner to go to the Shoney’s in Tempe, Arizona, after all—but since Maddy has a habit of dragging me to cocktail parties where everyone’s clad in black Prada, this trip I’d thought to throw the standard LBD (little black dress) into my suitcase. I’d hung it in the bathroom while I showered to steam out the wrinkles, and now, curlers still in my hair and makeup freshly reapplied, I held it out at arm’s length to scrutinize it.
The truth is, I have a hard time dressing. I always have. It’s one thing to pull on sexy little slips of clothing when you have no boobs, and everything looks as good on you as it does on the mannequin. But when you have large breasts and the hips to match, it’s harder to pull off the casually sexy thing without putting a lot of thought into it, as well as procuring the kind of undergarments that hold everything in place. My fear of a wayward breast popping out has always kept me from wearing strapless dresses. Plus it’s hard enough to get any respect at work by virtue of the fact that I’m the youngest person on staff by about twenty-five years and most of my male colleagues come from a generation where it’s perfectly acceptable to call women “gals,” so at the office I normally lean toward heavily tailored clothing, and nothing low-cut or stretchy.
My new LBD was one of the few risks I’d taken in my wardrobe. It was made of a knit material and was a knockoff of a Diane von Furstenberg belted wrap dress. It wasn’t that the dress showed off a particularly large amount of skin, with its long sleeves and knee-length hem, but it draped on my body without leaving much to the imagination. It emphasized my waist, while hugging every other curve, as well as exposing enough cleavage to make me uncomfortable. I would only consider wearing the dress if supported by a heavy-duty bra and a pair of those gut-cinching girdle panties, but once everything was sucked in and pushed up, it was pretty sexy.
“Va-va-va-voom,” Max had said approvingly when I tried it on for him, anxious for approval before wearing it in public. “Very Marilyn Monroe meets Jackie O.”
Still, I felt a wave of anxiety as I tried it on, and examined my reflection in the full-length mirror the hotel had thoughtfully provided. Would it look as if I was trying too hard? Would it be too dressy for wherever we were going to dinner? And, most important, did it make me look fat? I checked my watch and saw that I was running late, so I didn’t have time to second-guess it. I pulled the rollers out of my hair, shook out the curls so that I didn’t look like a French p
oodle, pulled on my long winter coat, and headed out the door.
The swarm of butterflies in my stomach began to take off, flapping their wings and roaring around, and for the second time that day, I felt slightly nauseated as the elevator descended to the lobby. This time I wasn’t worried that Jack wouldn’t show up . . . I was worried that he would. The carefree attitude that had buoyed me earlier in the day vanished, and I was now terrified that I might lose myself in something that was quickly growing beyond my ability to control.
Of course, that could only happen if I believed in love at first sight, I reminded myself.
Which I don’t.
When the elevator doors opened, Jack was again waiting there, this time standing, and again looking anxious. When he saw me, his face relaxed into its brilliant smile, and he came forward to take my hand.
“For some reason, I’m always a little nervous that you’re not going to show up,” he said, gently squeezing my hand as we walked out of the hotel. The cold November air swirled up around me, nipping at my stocking-covered legs. Despite all the walking we’d done, I felt wide awake, revived by both the frigid wind and my nervous anticipation of what the night before us held.
“Why?” I asked, genuinely confused.
Jack shrugged. “I just get that feeling,” he said, and then nodded at a black car waiting at the side of the curb. “Here we go.”
He opened the back door for me, and I climbed in and sat on the leather seat. The interior had that great new-car smell, and there was a minibar and phone built into the back of the driver’s seat. The last time I’d ridden in a car that had a minibar, it had been a limo that I’d shared with eleven other high school seniors on our way to the prom. This was decidedly less tacky.
“Wow, your taxis here are amazing,” I said, admiring how clean and luxurious the cab was. And the driver was so discreet; he didn’t even have a visible meter or radio.
True Love (and Other Lies) Page 4
