Foreign Exposure

by Lauren Mechling

  You have no idea, I thought, as inside the office Charlie said, “How were you to know? I thought she had potential myself, but she doesn’t understand a twig about personal connections. D’you know, I heard she and the Foxes had a fantastic row, and now she’s camping out in Peckham!”

  “That right?” Anthony drawled. “A bit clumsy, that one is.”

  Perfect Plan

  IN THAT AWFUL WEEK AFTER THE BAMYS, two of A-ha!’s top competitors had cover exclusives on Jacquetta Schloss. Sizzle broke the story of her stealth visits to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. Right had a two-page account of a screaming match between the singer and her mustached manager, Desmond, at a BAMYs afterparty. And for the coverage in A-ha!? A single red-carpet shot of Jacquetta and a little graphic speculating on her choice of paint color in her new house.

  I was responsible for this oversight and everybody knew it. But my punishment was less dramatic than I’d expected. After the confrontation in Charlie’s office, no one directly criticized me again. Instead, my colleagues just treated me as if I were invisible, and suddenly I was excluded from any and all afterwork events. Anthony steered clear of me, approaching Penny’s cubicle only when he needed to borrow my stapler. Charlie Lappin, more to the point, ignored me altogether.

  Rebecca had been surprisingly blasé about the wrecked dress. When I apologized to her in the hallway the day after returning the soiled garment, she’d merely shrugged and said, “Oh, well, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that rag, anyway.” Her comment was so offhand I wanted to scream.

  I was now stuck with the most thankless job at A-ha!, compiling the “Say What???” page, A-ha!’s collection of regurgitated celebrity wit and wisdom. Every day, I had to comb dozens of newspapers for quotations that we could lift and run next to pictures of the stars. The task was beyond boring—and it never seemed to end. There was always one newspaper or gossip Web site left to read.

  That Wednesday, to cheer myself up, I went to see Sabrina, Quinn’s favorite Audrey Hepburn movie, at a repertory theater in Leicester Square. But all the scenes between Sabrina and her wonderful father left me even more homesick than before, as did the constant hubbub and chaos of the Cassidy household. Though Ian and Colleen made sure to include me in every aspect of family life, I couldn’t stop worrying that I was beginning to wear out my welcome.

  When I got to work on Thursday morning, gloomy as usual, I logged on to my e-mail account and opened a message marked Highest Priority from Dad. He’d forwarded his Expedia itinerary for travel—the very next day. It was a miracle! I read the message three times before understanding Dad had been assigned to take pictures of New York’s mayor accepting some award from the prime minister’s office, and would be landing in London the following morning. “Hope you still need a date to Lily’s play,” he’d typed above the itinerary. “I’m planning to sleep a few hours, but come find me at the Sanderson after work.” He included the hotel’s address, and a million x’s and o’s.

  How weird that Dad would be staying at the Sanderson—the same swanky hotel where just last week Ian, Anthony, and I had celebrated the Egyptian Travel Council’s new promotional blitz. The images of my sweet dad snoring in his hotel bed and Anthony astride a prosthetic camel were irreconcilable, but I was too ecstatic to dwell on it.

  The next day, I tried to plow through my work quickly, but my mind kept straying from the celebrity interviews piled ever higher on my desk. Instead, I found myself reading more human interest articles, like “Britain’s Most Dangerous Bus Shelters” or “East Anglia Mail Carrier Caught Feeding Dog Ecstasy Tablets.” I was never going to finish my required reading by the end of the day.

  For lunch, Sophie and I bought plastic-wrapped sandwiches and ate them by the waterfront. Sophie was acting a little strange, sweeter than usual but also slightly shifty. When I pressed her, she reluctantly admitted she’d covered a film premiere with Anthony the previous night. As she spoke, she covered her face with her hands, as if unable to bear my reaction. “You must be furious,” she said through netted fingers. “I feel simply awful.”

  I did indeed experience a little wave of envy, but it soon passed. Putting down my mayonnaise-rich prawn cocktail sandwich, I told Sophie to look at me. “I don’t mind at all,” I said honestly. “I swear. Was it fun?”

  Sophie couldn’t prevent a great smile from spreading across her face. “I had a chat with Robbie Norfolk, and Gemma Gaines-Bristle came by, too. I know you think these people are wankers, so it’s quite embarrassing to go on about it, but Mimi, I used to write Gemma Gaines-Bristle fan letters when I was a little girl—I’d decorate them with lace and stickers. And last night I actually met her, and she repeated my name! It was”—her eyes fluttered shut—“extraordinary.”

  And right then, sitting out on East India Quay with Sophie, I felt certain that A-ha! would carry on fine without me. “Listen, Soph,” I said, “I’m seriously happy for you. I’ve never heard of Gemma Gaines-Bristle, so the experience would’ve been totally lost on me. I ask just one favor from you, OK?”

  Sophie nodded expectantly, still a little scared.

  “Promise you’ll invite me back to London to celebrate when you make editor in chief.” And then I reached forward and hugged her, and the two of us burst out laughing. I added, “And when I figure out what it is I want to do, and then I do it, you’d better take the next flight to New York.”

  Back upstairs in Penny’s cubicle, I still had plenty of interviews to read for “Say What???” but I no longer even pretended to focus on the task. After staring dumbly at an article on the musical theater adaptation of Madonna’s English years, I found Rebecca in her office, reading a book called Saying Yes to Yes: How to Stop Dating and Start Mating. Probably best not to interrupt her, I decided. And, with no further deliberation, I left the office for what might well be the last time.

  The train ride to Oxford Circus seemed to drag on for hours. I couldn’t wait to see Dad, and when I got to the Sanderson Hotel, I bounded into the lobby like a puppy just let out of its cage. While waiting behind a Japanese businessman for use of the in-house phone, I thought about how different the Sanderson was from the Great Briton, the dump Mom had chosen for her London visit. As anybody who’s stepped foot inside our cushy apartment can attest, Dad tended to live beyond his means, especially when I directly benefited from his extravagances.

  I couldn’t believe Dad and I were in the same building. My head was dancing with pictures of the two of us running around town as I waited for him to pick up the phone. “It’s me!” I practically bellowed when he answered on the seventh ring.

  Minutes later, the elevator opened on the sixth floor to my bleary-eyed father outfitted in jeans, slippers, and a hotel robe.

  “Mimi!” “Dad!” we cried simultaneously, throwing our arms around each other and rocking back and forth.

  While Dad showered and I checked out the Sanderson’s deluxe cable options, I noticed the latest issue of A-ha! on the nightstand—the one with the Jacquetta Schloss nonstory in it. Though A-ha! was the last thing I wanted to discuss that night, I was touched that Dad had bought it. However confiding Mom had been on our weekend together, she’d expressed absolutely no interest in my internship.

  “You don’t look so tired,” I told him when at last he emerged from the bathroom, dressed and shaved and ready to rumble.

  “Well, I’m seeing my daughter for the first time in several lifetimes, so that helps,” Dad said, crossing the room. He mussed my hair. “It’s longer. I like it.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon catching up in the Sanderson’s outdoor lounge, eating chicken and sweet corn sandwiches. Dad updated me on New York life, and I learned more in that one conversation than from all of our phone calls and e-mails. He told me Quinn was getting serious about his photography, and might even land a gallery show in the fall. Dad’s own career was booming as well. He’d reconnected with a woman named Victoria Eastwood, whom he and Mom used to know well. Victoria was now the photo edit
or of Buzz, a glossy culture magazine with a budget that rivaled the gross national product of most European countries. After just two assignments, Victoria had made Dad a regular contributor. “We have Vicky to thank for my plane ticket,” he said. “She’s been throwing more work at me than I can handle.”

  “Work?” I repeated. “Is that all she’s throwing at you?”

  “Must you always be such a teenage girl?” Dad shook his head, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

  That afternoon, I never mentioned my parents’ visits to Dr. Rudemeyer—I was too happy to being it up. But as I sat listening to Dad talk, I couldn’t help wondering what other personal information he chose not to discuss with me. I had, I knew, quite a lot to learn about both of my parents. And I realized I might not always know what was best for them.

  Around dusk, we took a cab over to St. Botolph’s Theatre Academy in Covent Garden. Lily was starring in Blithe Spirit, a 1940s comedy that my seventh-grade drama teacher had taken us to see in Houston. Given all I knew about Lily’s actor friends, I was expecting some arty and confusing interpretation of the play. It was a welcome surprise to see how straightforward the production was—and how excellent.

  By far the most mesmerizing actor up there was none other than Lily Morton, and that’s not my bias speaking. Seeing her on the stage, I almost wondered why she wasted her time in the Bugle office when she could be auditioning on Broadway instead. During a scene in which Lily was prowling tigerlike around the kitchen, spooking a woman who can’t see her, Dad leaned over to me to whisper: “She’s got it.”

  When the lights came up, I saw the Foxes seated in the second row. I looked at Robin and wondered sadly if he knew the truth about his wife and Mario. I pointed my former hosts out to Dad and he offered to give Pippa a wedgie. “Though she looks like she already has one,” he added. At this, I laughed so hard I almost choked. I still wasn’t eager to reunite with my host family, though, so we waited in our seats for a good ten minutes before presenting Lily with the bouquet of irises Dad had made sure we bring.

  “Thank you!” she said, handing the flowers to the guy at her side. Like my dad, he was tall, lanky, and pale, but unlike my dad, he wore a tight-fitting suit and tie. Doing a double take, I realized this man was a cleaned-up version of Harry, the philosopher-playwright of Lily’s dreams.

  “I’m amazed, Lils,” I said, talking about both the play and her romantic conquest. “You make me proud.”

  “I do try!” Lily said, flushed and beaming. Then, turning to my father, she said, “I’m so happy you’re here! There’s a cast and crew party and you’re more than welcome to come.”

  But Dad declined, citing jet lag. “These old bones don’t travel like they used to. You should go, Mimi. I’ll leave a key at the front desk for you.”

  I would hear of no such thing. Knowing Lily would understand, I explained that my dad and I had a dinner date. “We do?” He looked pleased but still tried to protest. “You couldn’t possibly be hungry again.”

  I jabbed him; Lily and Harry laughed. “Listen,” she said, “we’ve gotta run—but thank you guys so much for coming. I hope you enjoyed it.” We assured her that we had, enormously, and watched them hurry over to join their fellow drama students.

  “So where next?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know—let’s play it by ear.”

  As we walked through Covent Garden, I considered, and quickly rejected, all the places-of-the-moment I’d visited as an A-ha! intern. In the end, we wandered into The Elk and Cheese, the one quiet pub within walking distance of St. Botolph’s. It was refreshingly untrendy, with most of its patrons sitting alone on pincushion seats, watching a televised horse race.

  “I love it,” Dad said. So did I; in fact, I couldn’t remember feeling this comfortable in my whirlwind month in London. “Remind me—how much longer are you here?” he asked after we placed our identical orders for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

  “As if you weren’t counting down the days!”

  Dad blushed. “Well, I mean . . . I was just thinking. Two weeks isn’t too long at all, is it?”

  “No, not really.” I bit my lip, abruptly realizing how long it would feel after Dad left. London had been amazing, but it was not my home and never would be. It was time to move on. I’d been suspecting this since the BAMYs debacle, but now, as I sat across from my father, the truth hit me with a startling clarity. “But I was actually thinking,” I said after a pause, “maybe it could just be two days?”

  “Two days?” Dad put down his fork and took a sip of water. He held the glass up to his face and slowly exhaled before saying, “So, um, you’re thinking of going back to Berlin?”

  I shook my head. “What would I do in Berlin? Mom and I are on pretty good terms right now, Dad, and I don’t want to mess that up. No, I want to come back to Barrow Street -—the sooner, the better.”

  Dad, evidently trying to strike a balance between saying what he felt and saying what he thought a good parent should say, swallowed and asked, “But what would you do until school starts? I’m teaching the intensive course at the Open School, and Quinn’s my TA, so we won’t be around much.”

  “I promise to take good care of myself,” I said, thinking of everything I could do back in New York: brush up on photography techniques, or volunteer at a community newspaper, or explore outer-borough ethnic restaurants with Sam. “Oh, pretty please, Daddy?” I asked in the sugary voice that always got to him. “I’d just really like to do something that doesn’t involve the cast of Lonsdale.”

  “The cast of what?”

  “Exactly.”

  Back to the Wilderness

  I GRIPPED THE LADDER HARD and pictured myself plummeting headfirst to the floor. Terror must have streaked across my face, for Ed called up reassuringly, “You’re almost there—one more step and you’re golden.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, grabbed the rails, and climbed another rung. The day before, Ed had painted the sunroom a warm yellow, and now he needed my extra height to finish the job. “Perfect,” he told me. “Now you need to open your eyes. I’m going to hand you the roller brush.”

  Steadier now, I took the brush and smiled down at Ed’s shiny bald head.

  Only a week after dinner with Dad at The Elk and Cheese pub, I was tucked away in New York’s Catskill Mountains, helping Ed and Harriet prepare their country house for their September wedding. London felt very, very far away, and with my career as a troublemaker behind me, I welcomed this less scandalous chapter of my summer. Since arriving upstate, I’d refinished a dining table and three chairs and chipped away the upstairs bathroom’s ugly moss-colored tiles, and that morning, when Ed was at his fly-fishing course, Harriet and I had beautified the fungus-infested garden pond.

  It was funny how things worked out, I thought, angling forward to apply a final dab of yellow paint. When I’d first arranged this trip upstate, Harriet had suggested Boris join me, little suspecting I hadn’t heard from my so-called boyfriend in more than a month and had no idea what our current status was. Neither of my female friends in the city could come up, since Jess was still at the investment bank and Viv at the record company. Only Sam readily accepted my invitation. After a family trip to visit his grandmother in Florida, he was all too eager to get a break from his parents.

  “Tremendous,” Ed said of my handiwork when I descended the ladder. “Now you only need to go around the room and do that about twenty more times.”

  No complaints from me. I loved working on Ed and Harriet’s rural retreat, which felt less like a chore than an ambitious art project—somehow, the perfect antidote to my London adventure.

  Given what I knew of Ed’s finances, I’d expected a huge mansion, and when I’d first arrived I could barely conceal my surprise when Harriet took me inside a modest, almost ramshackle farmhouse—a hodgepodge of uneven ceiling beams, peeling wainscoting, furry bathroom tiles, and rickety cabinets. Ed and Harriet had a ridiculous amount of work on their hands. Or, I guess, al
l three of us did.

  Downstairs was a large kitchen, screened-in porch, cramped living room, and their bedroom, which had cedar walls and an excellent stone fireplace. A narrow staircase led to a bathroom with faulty plumbing and two tiny bedrooms divided by an oblong hallway. The walls were thin, and conversations were easily overheard, but for Ed and Harriet, this only enhanced the place’s cozy charm.

  Two hours later, Ed and I surveyed the room. Outside, the clouds shifted, and afternoon sunlight filtered through the window, casting a glow on the yellow walls. I clapped, Ed whistled, and then together we called Harriet in to admire our work. “Perfecto!” she cried, inserting herself between us. “Excellent timing, too—Sam’s bus gets in soon.”

  “How soon?” I asked.

  “Now soon, so let’s get moving.”

  I persuaded myself I didn’t care that I had no time to shower or change from my disgustingly sweaty work clothes—it was only Sam, after all. Even so, as Ed’s Land Rover chugged down the steep driveway, tree branches scratching against the windows, I felt jittery and couldn’t stop wiping my palms on my cargo shorts. Sam and I had spoken on the phone several times since I’d returned—and for hours, too—but because he left for Florida the day I got back, we hadn’t yet seen each other face-to-face. I wondered how our first meeting would pan out. Though I’d come to rely on him in e-mail and on the phone this summer, our in-person relationship might be as awkward and awful as it had been at the end of last semester.

  A fifteen-minute ride down dusty roads took us to the Phoenicia bus station—or rather, to the bench outside of a fishing supply shop where buses occasionally stopped. While Harriet and Ed discussed dinner—Ed was impatient to inaugurate the Ulta-Flame 5000, a state-of-the-art barbecue he’d installed in the backyard—I ran inside the shop to use the bathroom. The toilet was sealed with red duct tape, so I contented myself with washing my hands and splashing cold water on my face.