Sid and Teddy

by H. D. Knightley

  He led me up the steps to his apartment, arm around my shoulder, foggy breaths on my cheek, kisses on my temple. This was going to be a fun visit.

  His apartment was upscale. Small, but well decorated, not at all like how I imagined a bachelor-rocker’s apartment. The style was modern and spare—dark gray, chrome and steel, with a low-slung, sprawling couch. He asked, “What do you think so far?”

  “It’s a great apartment.”

  “Silly, I meant London?”

  I grinned. “Oh, yeah. So far I only met the chauffeur, and the city was dark . . .”

  “We’ll sightsee tomorrow, I’m thinking Tower of London. I haven’t been in about fifteen years.”

  “That sounds good.” My stomach growled.

  He asked, “Flight food? You need real food?” I nodded and he said, “We’ll walk to a restaurant around the corner. Do you have another coat?”

  “No, actually, I thought this would be enough.”

  He screwed his face up incredulously. “You don’t have The Weather Channel? I told you it would be cold.”

  “I know, I read the temperature, but seriously, I had a hard time imagining it.”

  He shook his head sadly, mockingly, “Okay, coat.” He disappeared into a hall closet and returned with a dark grey thick wool overcoat and slung it around my shoulders. As I pushed my arms into the sleeves, he pulled a knit hat onto my head, and kissed me on the tip of my nose. We stepped out to the street and Gavin said, “I had hoped that bringing you here would bring some California sun too.”

  “I can’t believe it’s so dark!”

  He pointed out places while we walked arm in arm, “That’s a stationer, there’s a flower shop, youth hostel, Chinese food, and here’s my favorite restaurant, steps away from my front door.”

  We ate delicious Indian food. And he was charming and sweet, but I yawned through the last twenty minutes of our meal. Then I stumbled home close to falling asleep in his arms.

  Somehow I managed to play around with Gavin before I passed out. Sleeping for eleven hours, waking up at 6:00 a.m.

  One Hundred

  Sid

  It was dark and gloomy outside of the windows. Everything inside was difficult, from finding the light switches, to getting my toiletries bag from my backpack, quietly. I spent forty-five minutes trying to work Gavin’s coffee machine. Then tried to decide whether to make breakfast or not. I located a frying pan and eggs, but the kitchen was sparkling clean, and my heart wasn’t in it. What if he planned to take me out for pancakes, my favorite? I poured a bowl of Frosted Flakes and ate it while watching the clock. I took a shower. I read a few pages of my book.

  Around 8:30 I heard Gavin’s voice in his bedroom. I went to check and found him holding his head talking on the phone.

  When he hung up he noticed me in the doorway. Staring at his feet he said, “Change of plans, I have to attend a function with Dad today.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry, Sid, I wanted to spend the day with you at the Tower.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Man.” He shook his head, but then he smiled his most charming smile, put his hand on his heart before extending it toward me. I gave him my hand and he dropped back pulling me down to the bed beside him. He raised up on an elbow, kissed me, and looked down into my eyes. “What I want is to spend the day with you in bed. You’re already up though?” He pushed his hand up my shirt.

  “I ate cereal.”

  He kissed across my cheek, down my neck, to my shoulder, and then my chest. “My favorite.” He stopped, groaned, kissed me, and groaned again. “I have to get dressed, I can’t stay here,” he pulled my shirt back down, “and you have sights to see.”

  He jumped up and left for the shower.

  An hour later I stood outside his apartment while he explained how to use public transportation to travel around, which station was closest to his apartment, and what time he would be done. He gave me a stack of money and a card for riding the Tube, and then he left, on foot, the opposite direction.

  I was on my own in London for the day. I looked up and down the street. Whoa, this was all new.

  The Tower of London was amazing. I walked around with my mouth hanging open. I followed tour guides, and asked lots of questions, causing other tourists to furrow their brows. Everyone knows the appropriate response to, “Any questions?” was, “No.” But not me, I was on fire to know more. And sometimes their explanations just led to more questions.

  I think part of it was I was just so freaking proud of myself. I had walked numerous blocks to a Tube station, figured out which train to take, rode it, got out, walked to the Tower, and paid. I did that all by myself. In a foreign country.

  Sure they spoke English, but barely.

  I kid.

  Their accents were awesome.

  I had to stop myself from repeating everyone in a pretend, not good, British accent. It was like I was bubbling over.

  And you know what else? Mom did this, before I was born. Backpacked around England. Maybe she was a big part of my bubbling enthusiasm.

  But could you blame me? There was literally a stone that marked the spot where Henry the Eighth’s second and fifth wives were beheaded. Oh I had a lot of questions about that place.

  Also, the Crown Jewels were there. And a tiny armor suit.

  And then the sun went down and I had to figure out how to retrace my steps to Gavin’s apartment. By myself in the dark. But I did it, yay me!

  When I knocked, he answered with a beer in his hand. “How was your day?”

  “It was amazing, so cool. Did you know there are crows that . . .”

  His brow furrowed. He looked irritated.

  I faltered. “You okay?”

  He rubbed his face, “My dad was on one of his tirades. I have to go to a Thing tonight, at six. Do you have something to wear?”

  I looked down at my jeans and boots. Most of the clothes I brought were casual. “I have a black shirt I think would look good.”

  He nodded, seeming uninterested. “I have to get dressed. I’ll be out in a bit.” He disappeared into his bedroom while I sat awkwardly on the couch, trying to keep from falling asleep.

  A while later he came out looking so great—black dress pants, shiny shoes, a black collared shirt. His hair brushed. His face clean shaven. Uh oh. I had a lot of work to do to get anywhere close to that level of good-looking.

  He said, “We’ve only got twenty minutes.”

  “Oh.” I scurried to the bathroom to make myself presentable, though I looked and felt like I had crashed with that train I rode earlier. It might have dragged me a ways too. I was exhausted. I had walked a long, long way, and no matter how ridiculous it sounds, there really wasn’t a reason to walk in Los Angeles. Unless you owned a dog. I didn’t.

  I put my hair up in a messy bun and left tendrils down, aiming for casual confidence. I changed my earrings to large hoops, put on some eyeliner and mascara and made my eyebrows zing. The black shirt had a low ballet collar, which accentuated my collarbones and fit well, so my boobs looked great. It was sexy on me and almost made my jeans passable as going-out clothes. But still I looked like an American who hadn’t packed well.

  When I emerged Gavin looked at me blankly. “Ready? Okay, we better get it.” We left for the street.

  One Hundred One

  Sid

  The Thing was at an art gallery. It was crowded and loud. For me. Gavin seemed not to notice the heat and noise and press because the swarm of fabulous London art-lovers parted for him. People stared. They whispered and stood on tiptoes trying to see him. And he wasn’t the only gawk-worthy celebrity. There was a lot of aura in that room.

  Gavin was profusely welcomed, kissed on his cheeks, called Darling. He called fabulous people by their first names. I was super impressed. He steered me through the crowds, then planted in the middle of the room, and a circle formed around him. I stood at the outer edge, my fingers hooked through my belt loops. I tried to blend in.

&n
bsp; Gavin introduced me to two people, Janice and Tony, but then seemed to forget I was in the room, which was just as well. I was too tired to smile anymore. My face pulled into a frown. I wandered away to look at the paintings, finding instead a blank space along a wall to lean on and people watch. It sucked though, I didn’t know enough about British music or culture to pick any of them out. I wanted to take pictures, but that seemed like a tourist move, and guess who I needed to identify those photos—my mom.

  After a long time of being alone and looking at the same art over and over, I thought, maybe I’ll curl up to sleep over there in the corner. Like a little puppy. Gavin could nudge me with his foot when he was ready to go. And that was why I figured I better tell him it was time to take me home. Before I fell down on the floor in a heap.

  He was talking to five people I hadn’t met. Beautiful people. But not the kind of beautiful that made you want to talk to them or touch them. These people had that kind of beauty that had crossed over into Don’t-Approach and Give-Them-Space. Like they were a little dangerous. Like anyone who would go through that many procedures, tightenings and pullings and twistings and scrapings, was probably not a friendly person. Or kind. But I had to go, so I sauntered up to the circle, and when no one made space for me, I stood just behind.

  Gavin didn’t turn.

  After a moment a man in the circle said, “I believe this young lady wants a word?”

  Gavin slowly turned. “Oh, Sid, you sidled up.” The frightening beautiful people in his circle chuckled.

  I kind of felt like crying. Scratch that. I a lot felt like crying. “Gavin I think I need to go home, I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day.”

  He took a long swig of a drink, his brow knit, watching me over the rim of his glass. He lowered it and said, “It’s early yet.”

  I tried to laugh casually. “Jet lag,” I said, in a joking tone, but my voice broke, tears were definitely coming.

  He scowled. “Looks like I have to go.”

  One of the older women in his circle said, “Don’t go Gavvy, stay. She can get herself home, no?”

  I looked away, blinking, please don’t cry, please don’t cry.

  Gavin placed his beer onto a passing waiter’s empty tray and led me by the elbow away.

  One Hundred Two

  Sid

  In the car Gavin didn’t speak. I tried not to cry, and was successful for a few minutes, but finally my sad tiredness won and tears slid down my cheeks. I turned to the window and tried not to sniffle or wipe at my eyes, but Gavin noticed anyway. He asked, his voice flat, “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m really tired, and that was awful . . .”

  “What was awful, that art gallery? Those people that are friends of mine? London? What part of this is awful because I think from where you’re sitting you should be grateful that you get to be a part of it.”

  The car slid in front of his house and Gavin stepped out to the street. He held the door for me and then stalked up his steps to his front door with me following a step behind. I was freaking out; what the hell was going on with Gavin?

  As he unlocked his door, I said, “I didn’t mean it that way, I meant I’m exhausted, that’s all I meant. I don’t know why you’re taking it like this.”

  He let us in through the front door, tossed his keys to the counter, and ran his fingers through this hair. He put his hands on his head. “Aargh.”

  I blinked away the second round of tears. I dropped my purse to the counter and took my coat off and put it on the back of a chair. “I just had a really long day and I haven’t slept well and I walked a lot and I just need some sleep.”

  “Yeah, well isn’t that great? Sid’s had a long day. Sid needs to leave early. Sid, Sid, Sid.”

  “I don’t know why you think you get to talk to me like that.”

  He stared at me through squinted eyes, his hands still on his head, then he dropped them and came around the counter, fast, his chest bowed out. “I get to talk to you however I want to.”

  “No you don’t.”

  He jerked at me with his shoulder.

  I took a step back, my heart racing. “Stop it Gavin.”

  He jerked his other shoulder forward. “Stop what? You’re in my house, last I checked I bought your plane ticket—” His head was cocked, chin up, leaning into my space.

  I took another step back. “You’re scaring me, stop it!”

  His fists clenched—his chest bowed out. “What, you bitch, stop what?” And then his right arm hooked, swung, and connected on my cheekbone with a blinding pain.

  I screamed as my head slammed to the side crashing hard into the wall. I dropped to the floor, holding the back of my head, tucked under my arms.

  He lunged, grabbed my shirt, yanked me closer, and swung again, this time hitting me really, really, really hard on my nose. The weird part was the sound of the crack was inside my head. Loud.

  I threw my arms across my face, dug in my heels, and shoved away, my shirt stretching from his clutch. I scrambled into a corner and sat there for a second, arms up, breathing heavy, eyes closed, taking stock of the searing pain that was bursting up the bridge of my nose, and the ache that was spreading on the back of my head. Warm blood rolled down my chest and there were stars all around. I was going to pass out. Shit, I was going to pass out, here on the floor, in Gavin’s apartment—he hit me, and I was bleeding, and I was sliding away. But no.

  Gavin said, “Fuck,” and then louder, “Fuck!” And then “Get up.” His voice had that even tone to it again that scared the crap out of me.

  I wanted out. I wanted out fast. I stood up, my sight blurred and spinning. I tried to pass him to the left, to the kitchen, to get my things, but he stepped in front and blocked me.

  So I went to the right, walked along the edge of the room to the front door. Out. That’s all I wanted was out. He grabbed my sleeve, “Where are you going?”

  I yanked out of his grasp, flung the front door open, and made it to the stairs as Gavin slammed the door shut behind me. Loud. I stumbled down the stairs and out to the street.

  One Hundred Three

  Sid

  It was only about 9:00 p.m. I was on the edge of hyperventilating. The streets were crowded and everyone was staring at me. Oh, and it was freezing. My arms clamped across my chest, my hands in my armpits. I said, “Shhhhhhh,” trying to calm my mind, my body, but I was seizing up and my blood splashed in droplets to the sidewalk. From my face.

  I tried to use the front of my shirt to stopper the flow, but that exposed my stomach to the freezing air.

  An older woman rushed me with a wad of napkins. I held them to my nose. She asked, “Do you need help, dear?”

  I nodded. My chin trembling, body shivering, face bleeding.

  She said, “I’ll take you down the street to the hospital.”

  And that was when it dawned on me that my pockets were empty. My passport, my money and my phone were sitting in the warmth of Gavin’s apartment. “I can’t, I—” My breath was ragged, not enough, shallow, gasping, bordering on painful. I couldn’t think about this woman, the blood, my phone, Gavin, I could only think, Out. Of. Cold.

  I turned my attention to the storefronts—closed, closed, an open restaurant full of people, too many people, the fourth door seemed good—I rushed past the woman (who now wanted to call the police) and shoved my way into a lobby of sorts.

  The door closed behind me, shutting out the cold. A young man perched on a stool behind a motel-style front desk with piles and displays of brochures all around him. Two young women stood at the desk. Three other people stood in a huddle to the side of what I assumed must be a lobby. Everyone stopped talking and stared at me, eyes wide.

  The young man said, “Can I help you? Do you have a reservation? Because without one—”

  I burst into tears.

  One Hundred Four

  Sid

  This was what I knew:

  I had no coat.

  No passpor
t.

  No money.

  No bank card.

  No phone.

  I would have to go back to Gavin’s apartment.

  One Hundred Five

  Cassie

  This was my fifth day in London and I was going out to a club with my friends, getting directions from Chris at the counter, when the front door of the hostel opened. A burst of freezing wind blew in with a girl, huddled, shivering, her eye swollen almost shut, her cheekbone busted open, disgusting wads of Kleenex clutched in her hand, blood literally everywhere. Down her face and chest, like the movie Carrie, except it looked painful, because this blood was supposed to be on her inside.

  I stared at her for a few beats. She was a disaster. A fricking stranger having a catastrophe, slamming into the middle of my good time.

  When that happens there’s a moment where you’re tempted to think, not my problem, but then Chris saved me from saying, It’s not my problem, by acting like it wasn’t his problem. He said, “Seriously, do you have a reservation or an ID? Without one or the other you can’t stand in this lobby.”

  The young woman shook her head, sobbing, the kind of sobbing that comes from deep inside, and sounds like a Big Crisis of Epic Proportions. She turned to the door which set me in motion, because now I was a party to further catastrophe.

  I put my hand on her shoulder, “What’s happening? Who did this to you?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  She was American. I put my arm around her shoulder. “Where are you from?”

  “Los Angeles, I got here yester—” She sobbed into her bloody hand