by Unknown
‘But why wouldn’t I be? He’s perfect.’
‘On paper. But does he make you laugh? Not really. Is he interesting? Not really, by your own admission. Does he tear your clothes off and have wild, passionate monkey sex with you?’
Not ever. But I’m not willing to give up. What if there isn’t another man out there who thinks I’m as fabulous?
Not even liquoring up before shopping or gossiping about my lack of sex life did much to improve Chloe’s mood, so I really appreciate that she still offered to get us into the club tonight. Chalk one up for the British sense of obligation above all else; they spend so much time doing what they ‘should do’ that they might not even miss not doing what they want to do.
Stacy would like an aristo-rat to be her souvenir of London. So naturally we’re going to stalk one tonight. I just hope the bar is air-conditioned. Summer in London is killing me. I don’t do well in the heat. Or the cold. My ideal temperature runs between sixty-eight and seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit (with relative humidity less than 20 per cent, high barometric pressure and light winds, preferably from the north-east). It doesn’t actually get that hot here, although whenever the temperature hits about seventy-five you’d think the ozone layer has burned off over the city. To be fair, the English aren’t exactly equipped for the sun. I thought I was white until I saw these people. Some are translucent. Honest to god, you can practically see their organs. After the first sunny weekend, they acquire the patina of bacon after a few minutes in the pan. The city just isn’t designed for hot weather. Air-conditioning is a real luxury (one that doesn’t extend to the Tube). Apparently, despite the fact that it exists on the trains in New York, and Chicago, and Atlanta, and Washington, air-conditioning cannot be installed underground. The best the London Underground can do for us is to place helpful advisory notices in the stations that say things like ‘It’s hot. We know it’s hot. We’re sorry about that but we really can’t be expected to control the weather. It’s not in our union contracts, for one thing. So carry water with you in case you begin to dehydrate in our stinking metal tubes, and if you do feel faint, try not to fall down inside the carriage. Make your way to the platform and faint there. Eventually someone might come along to help, if they’re not on a tea break.’
Well, they don’t use those exact words, but that’s the sentiment.
‘Do I look okay?’ Stacy wants to know. This is unprecedented. She never asks if she looks okay. London is really throwing her off her game.
‘You look great. Those shoes are perfect.’
‘Not too much?’
‘Perfect. Ready?’
I didn’t expect Boujis to be so small, or so shabby. Or in a basement. But I suppose after Hakkasan I shouldn’t be surprised that Londoners revel in subterranean amusements.
‘Is everyone blonde in this city?’ Stacy is eyeing Chloe’s tresses accusingly. To be fair, the entire bar is a sea of glossy blonde locks.
‘Those of us who don’t come from immigrants probably are,’ Chloe shoots back at my brown-haired friend. Mee-ow.
Stacy puts a hand to her ear. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say? I can’t understand you.’
‘I said–Excuse me, Hannah, I see a friend I want to say a quick hello to.’
‘Sure thing, Chloe, see you in a minute.’ There was no hint of British disdain for Americans when I met Chloe. Now, I have to admit it’s there and being unleashed on Stacy in all its gory glory. I also have to confess that I can see her point of view. Stacy does seem louder than necessary, and her constant comparisons with home are getting monotonous. Plus she’s being a real bitch.
‘What a bitch.’
‘Stace, cut her some slack. You haven’t exactly been friendly.’
‘Well, neither has she.’
This has the potential to degenerate into a hair-pulling fight. ‘Just, for me, please try to be nice to her? I’ll ask the same of her.’
‘I really can’t understand her. I wasn’t just saying that.’
‘Really?’
‘Can you?’
‘Yeah. Huh, I wonder if my ear is getting used to the accent.’ I even understand Siobhan, though my flatmates are still linguistically baffling.
‘So what, you think you’re English now?’
‘No, no. God, do you remember that stupid barmaid at the Pub, the fake Australian?’
‘She’s still there. And her accent is getting stronger, if you can believe it.’
‘She probably topped it up watching Hugh Jackman in the outback.’
‘Did I tell you I asked her about it once? She claimed some sort of Australian ancestry.’
‘Right, like an accent is genetically programmed.’
‘She’s such a loser.’
‘And who’s she kidding with those boobs?’ It’s so nice to trash-talk with my best friend, knowing I can be as bitchy as I want and she won’t judge me…So why am I judging her? Friends don’t do that.
‘Ohmygod, there’s Harry! Look!’
She’s right. He’s just come out of that side room with a couple girls.
‘I’m going to talk to him.’
‘Stace, hold on. He’s probably got bodyguards. You could get shot.’ Admittedly there don’t appear to be any goons packing heat nearby.
‘Are you coming with me or not?’
‘Of course.’
I can’t believe she’s really charging over to introduce herself to a royal. I suppose, as they say, in for a penny…
‘Hi, ’scuse me.’ She edges one of the girls out of the way. ‘I’m Stacy. And you are?’
He’s actually wavering. Brilliant!
‘I’m Harry, how’dyodo?’ He takes her offered hand.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Are you American?’
‘Yep.’
‘Thank you. I’m going to dance for a bit.’
‘Okay.’ She starts dancing. She’s actually dancing with a guy who’s third in line to the British throne…
Until a rather serious man taps her on the shoulder. Behind him stands the girl she hip-checked to get at the ginger prince. ‘I’m sorry, but the prince is with his friends this evening. I’m sure you’d like to get back to yours.’
‘Sure thing. Bye, Harry, nice to meet you.’
Who does these things? I love her. I truly do.
I think Chloe has ducked out in humiliation. At least she wasn’t an obvious participant in the ambush, so they won’t suspend her membership. My mother would be so ashamed, having spent the better part of my childhood fretting over invitations and reminding me to be a ‘good guest’. She meant making my bed and saying please and thank you, but I’m sure that stretches to not harassing the other guests, particularly when they may wear a crown some day. I’ll certainly call Chloe first thing tomorrow to apologize for pestering her monarch.
I can tell Stacy is glad that she’s gone. It’s safe to say these two aren’t destined for friendship. But she’s gone quiet again. She was uncharacteristically restrained all day too, not even drawn out to ridicule the women with white pants and terrible VPL35 that have started to populate Oxford Street now that the sun is shining.
‘Stace, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure? Do you miss Tye?’
‘Wha–? No, no. I’m pretty much done with him. He’s boring, Han. I just can’t get around the fact that he’s too nice. He’d do anything I asked him to. You can’t respect that. It’s never gonna be a real relationship, no matter how much he goes down on me.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ I say, thinking guiltily of Barry. ‘You don’t seem yourself though. Sure nothing’s wrong?’
…‘Maybe I’m just getting sad.’
‘How come?’
‘Because I don’t want to leave!’
I put my arm around her. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t want you to go either. But we still have a few days left. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and it’s supposed to be sunny, so we’ll go drinking with the Aussies.�
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‘Do they always go together? Sunday, and sunny, and drinking?’
‘And Aussies. They seem to.’
‘Sounds fun,’ she says glumly.
‘Come on, Stace–what is it really?’
‘It’s stupid.’
‘What is?’
She slugs back her vodka and cranberry. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to drift apart.’
‘What? Of course we aren’t.’
‘I think we have a little already.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well,’ she sniffs, ‘suddenly you hate The Gap. You think American styles are “too conservative”…I’m not even sure what you think of me any more.’
I know I look guilty, having had unkind thoughts along the same lines. Still, you don’t flush a lifetime of friendship down the toilet just because you realize your best friend isn’t perfect. ‘Aw, Stace–I hate The Gap here, because all they’ve done is change the dollar sign to a pound sign. I’m not stupid. I refuse to pay ninety dollars for a pair of chinos.’
‘You insulted our style,’ she says petulantly.
Honestly. ‘I did not. I simply pointed out that when I got here I didn’t fit in with London’s styles. That’s an observation, not an insult.’
She sighs. ‘I know I’m being ridiculous. Really I do. I can hear myself. Never mind. I’m just being petty. I’m jealous, that’s all, because you did it. Everybody talks about doing something huge, but you actually went out and did it. Meanwhile I’m stuck in Hartford, without you, living my same old life. I was never dissatisfied when you were there, but now…it’s not the same. It’s not as much fun and I feel like I’m stagnating. I’ve been wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. Maybe it’s contagious. And now you get to have all these new experiences…with new friends.’
I see what all this is about. ‘Stace, you know that Chloe won’t ever replace you, right?’
‘I don’t know. How do you know that? You guys are together all the time. What if you become best friends?’
‘What? You can only have one best friend. And you’re it, Stace, for ever. End of story.’
‘Okay. I’m being overemotional. PMS. It just seems like you’re having so much fun in London. I’m really jealous of your life. I want it too.’
Suddenly I’m so excited I can hardly breathe. ‘Then why don’t you move here!’ How great would it be to have my very best friend in London? ‘You could live with me till you found a place. Or we could move in together somewhere! I bet your company would even transfer you…Would you think about it?’
‘Sure I’ll think about it.’ I can see that she’s thinking already. ‘Hey, do I get to meet Barry?’
‘Let’s just have a nice time together. Just the two of us, okay?’
‘I’d like that.’ She’s grinning now. ‘Though if you’re going to meet his parents, I should get to know him, don’t you think?’
‘What are you, my father? Let’s take one step at a time. Another drink?’
‘Er, let’s dance first.’
‘Stacy, you may not talk to the prince again.’
‘Oh fine. Double vodka and cranberry, then.’
The best way to prevent a hangover, my dad always said, is not to drink in the first place. Spoken like someone with willpower. I clearly didn’t inherit my self-control from him. ‘’Nother Advil?’ I offer to Stacy, who’s rubbing her temples to clear her head on this, the morning after the night before.
‘Can you overdose on Advil?’
‘Not here. They only come in these little packs, not in bottles.’ The time it would take to pop each pill out of its plastic-and-foil blister must, in itself, be a deterrent.
‘Not even mini bottles for your purse?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Stacy harbours a pharmacy in her handbag. As a result, she’s usually accompanied by the sound of maracas, giving her walk a certain festive beat.
It’s so nice to lounge here on the sofa, nursing our sore heads and rehashing every moment of last night. It’s exactly what we always did back home. Except that one of us would have ventured out for bagels, and milk for our coffee (and probably coffee), instead of having stuffed ourselves at 3 a.m. on the kebabs that are now lodged in our colons. Having her here has really made me miss our old life together. I don’t want her to go back now. I know I’ve been annoyed at times, but those are tiny mosquito bites in the scheme of things. Sure, if you focus on them, they’ll drive you crazy, but I’ll take a little itching any day to have the wonderful comfort of her friendship too. New friends are exciting, and fun, but old ones are where the real value lies.
‘Hey, Stace, do you remember that girl-scout song we used to sing? “Make new friends, but keep the old…” ’
‘ “One is silver and the other is gold.” ’ She sings, equally off-key, with me. Exactly. We were thrown out of the scouts soon after learning that song, for teaching the troop to swear in Spanish. But we were thrown out together.
‘I wish you could stay here. Will you really think about moving over?’
‘I will, really,’ she says. ‘And I’d bring big bottles of Advil. I think we’re going to need them!’
Partially recovered, partially believing in the veracity of the hair-of-the-dog theory, we’re in the midst of the well-worn tradition known as the Sunday drinking session. ‘Here you go, girls.’ Adam hands us each a pint. Like the Church, it may have started with a couple of bored expats. But unlike the Church, it’s wholeheartedly embraced by the British public. We’re surrounded by men and women slurring in a variety of English accents.
‘It looks like Amherst College,’ Stacy observes. She means because the men are wearing loafers and at least three shirts each. ‘I didn’t realize they had preppy here too.’
‘Aw, yeah, I was even preppy in Sydney,’ Sarah says. I’ve loved my flatmates even more since Stacy arrived. They’ve welcomed her like one of their own. Plus they hate this pub, yet happily came along when I said I wanted to show it to her.
I can tell from Stacy’s dumbfounded expression that the polo shirt’s global appeal is something she’s never considered before. ‘We probably all wore the exact same clothes at opposite ends of the world.’
‘And listened to the same music and watched the same movies and played the same games. Makes the world seem kinda small, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ I can see Stacy knows exactly what I mean. That’s the beauty of being with my best friend. We always get each other, and can count on the other, no matter what. Take this weekend for instance. She knew absolutely 100 per cent that I’d be right behind her when she approached the prince, ready to share a cell with her if necessary. Just like I know absolutely 100 per cent that she’s not even going to flirt with Adam or Nathan. We never get off with a guy the other introduces us to (unless we’re being introduced in a wing-man capacity). And through our long years together, Stacy has had more chances to go off with a man than a hooker at a Vegas convention, yet she’s never taken the bait. To me, that’s a critical characteristic in someone you have to rely on when drunk to get you home.
‘Whaddya do there in Hartford, Stace?’ Sarah wants to know.
‘Oh, it’s boring. I’m just an analyst for a bank.’
‘Well, I guess it pays the bills. Cheers, I hope you’ll come back to visit soon!’
I don’t blame Sarah for not pursuing her line of questioning; Stacy’s never been one to dwell on her career in polite conversation. This is pure modesty since I know for a fact that she’s one of the super-analysts of her industry, a pure-hearted Svengali for the business world. And that’s not just what her mother says; she’s been on TV and everything. In fact, though she’d never tell anyone, Stacy is actually a genius. I mean an honest-to-god genius. We took IQ tests when we were kids, our parents having got caught up in their friends’ I’d-send-my-child-to-regular-school-but-she’s-just-too-bright boasting competition. While I was decidedly average, destined for neither rocket science nor the short
bus, Stacy tested off the charts. Her mother even tried to send her to smart camp when we were eleven. Unfortunately, she didn’t think through the conundrum of sending someone smart enough to figure a way out of anything to a place she wanted to get out of. Stacy was back to play in my front yard the next day and her mom put the whole summer camp idea behind her. I’m no psychologist but I suspect a link between my friend’s underachieving track record and her mom’s efforts to bask in some of the glow of her offspring’s accomplishments. You can imagine her reaction when she found out Stacy applied to UConn instead of Harvard and Princeton. Families can sometimes be your worst nightmare when they’re trying to be your biggest advocate.
21
I’m trapped in meet-the-family hell at least a half-hour walk from a Tube station, god knows in what direction…This is what I get for letting myself be lured to North London’s suburbs. I’ve just answered Mrs Kaplan’s first question. You’d think I’ve told her that I’m a table dancer for fun and profit.
‘But you’re not Jewish?’
‘Mum, please.’ Barry grasps my hand, looking like he regrets this invitation as much as I do.
‘Well, anyway, welcome to our home, Hannah.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Kaplan.’
‘You’re American?’ Mr Kaplan has at least two inches of hair hanging out of his nose. Actually it balances him out–otherwise the stuff sprouting from his ears would look odd. I know that men are concerned about glimpsing their married future in their girlfriend’s mother, but I wonder if they realize we make the same comparison with their fathers. They ought to think long and hard about that before introducing us to the family.
‘Yes, I’m from Connecticut.’
‘Good!’ he proclaims, as if I’ve chosen the perfect state to be from. Maybe there’s a Jewish connection to Connecticut that I don’t know about.
In the corner, a dark-haired man is rubbing the pregnant belly of the woman next to him. ‘This is my brother, Gabe, and sister-in-law, Eliza. This is Hannah.’
These don’t strike me as air-kissing sort of people. ‘So you’re the brother that Barry beat up,’ I say after shaking his rather damp hand.
