by Meg Cabot
Still, it’s wrong to think of yourself when the person next to you is in so much agony and pain. I can’t imagine how Andrew must be feeling.
Feeling very bad for him, I kiss him and ask, “Well, is there anything I can do to help?”
I soon learn that there is. At least if the way Andrew starts pushing my head in a southerly direction is any indication.
The thing is, I’ve never given one of those before. I’m not even sure I know how…although that girl Brianna from my dorm floor did try to teach me once, using a banana.
Still. This is really not how I pictured the two of us consummating our relationship.
And yet these are the kinds of things you do for the people you love when they are in need.
I make him change the condom first, though. I don’t love anybody THAT much. Not even Andrew.
The Crusades weren’t all about one culture trying to inflict their religious views on another. They were also about fashion! Returning Crusaders brought back to their womenfolk not only their vanquished enemy’s gold, but also beauty tips from the ladies of the Orient, including pubic shaving (not heard of in most parts of Europe since the age of the early Roman Empire).
Whether or not English ladies adopted this practice from their sisters in the Far East can be left to the imagination of the reader, but we do know from portraits of that era that many of them took matters a little too far, plucking and shaving all the hair from their heads—including eyelashes and eyebrows. As most of them could not read or write at the time, it is no small wonder they got the message wrong.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 7
Keep your own secret, and get out other people’s.
—Philip Dormer Stanhope, fourth Earl of Chesterfield (1694–1773),
British statesman
I wake up with a feeling of deep and utter contentment, even though I’m sleeping alone, Andrew having stumbled to his own bed after an attempt at sleeping together in the narrow MDF bed failed miserably, thanks to his long legs and my tendency to sleep with my knees curled up to my chest.
Still, he left grateful and happy. I saw to that. I may be a beginner, but I learn quickly.
As I stretch, I replay the night before over in my head. Andrew is lovely. Well, not lovely, because you can’t really call a guy lovely. But sweet. All that worry over him thinking I was fat…I can’t believe I wasted so much time over something so silly! Of course he never thought I was fat, or said anything about that to his family. His brother probably got me mixed up with some other girl.
No, Andrew is the perfect boyfriend. And I’ll soon have him weaned off the red leather jacket. Maybe, to make it up to him, I’ll even get him a new one while we’re out shopping today—because this is what Andrew had promised me (during our postcoital chitchat last night) that we’d do today—shop and see the sights (once he’d completed a quick errand he had to do in the city).
Of course, the sights I’m most interested in seeing—besides Andrew, of course—are the Oxfams where I can find some undiscovered treasure, and maybe this place I’ve heard about called Topshop, which is like the British equivalent of T.J. Maxx, or maybe H&M, which we don’t actually have in Michigan, but that I’ve heard about, of course, as a fashion lover’s mecca.
Only I don’t mention this to Andrew, because of course I want to seem more intellectual than that. I should be interested in his country’s history, which is incredibly rich and goes back many thousands of years…or at least two hundred, as far as interesting fashion goes. Andrew is so sweet. All of his family has been so lovely, fatty remark aside—I wish there were some way I could show my appreciation for their kindness to me…
And then it comes to me, as I’m shaving my legs in the bathtub a little while later, Andrew not being up yet, and the rest of the family appearing to have gone off to their various jobs: I’ll do it with food! Yes! Tonight I’ll show my appreciation to the Marshall family for all their hospitality by making them my mother’s famous spaghetti due! I’m sure they probably have all the ingredients right here in the house—it’s just pasta, garlic, oil, Parmesan, and hot pepper flakes, after all.
And if there’s something they don’t have—like a nice crusty baguette, which you really need, to sop up the delicious oil—Andrew and I can stop on our way home from sightseeing to pick it up!
Imagine how surprised and happy Mr. and Mrs. Marshall will be to come home from a long day of work to find supper already waiting for them!
Superpleased with my scheme, I put on my makeup, and am just applying an extra layer of topcoat to my pedicure—since I’ll be traipsing around the city in open-toed shoes, and I want to protect my French tips—when Andrew finally stumbles down the stairs, blinking groggily. We have a very nice good-morning lovemaking session in the MDF bed before I throw on my fun 1960s Alex Colman sundress with the leaf pattern (I have a cashmere sweater that matches…thank God I brought it along at the last minute, since I’m going to need it) and urge Andrew to get dressed so we can get started on our many activities for the day. I still have to change money, and he has his appointment downtown.
My first proper day in London—yesterday doesn’t count, because I was so sleepy I hardly remember any of it—has already started out so well (a tomato-free breakfast; a leisurely bath; sex) that I can hardly hope for it to get better, but it does: the sun is shining, and it’s too hot for Andrew to wear his break-dancing jacket!
We leave the Marshalls’ house hand in hand—Geronimo gazing sadly after us (“That dog really likes you,” Andrew observes. Yes! I’ve won over the family pet through the surreptitious slipping of food! Can the actual family be far behind?) through the glass door—and head for the Tube. I am traveling on the London Tube for the very first time!
And I am not at all frightened of being blown up, because if you let that kind of fear consume you, you have allowed the terrorists to win.
Still, I keep a sharp eye out for young men (and women—it’s as wrong to profile by sex as it is by race) wearing bulky coats on such a gorgeous day. While I look for terrorists, I can’t help noticing how much better dressed everyone in London is than they are back in Ann Arbor. It is a terrible thing to say about one’s own country, but it appears that Londoners simply care about how they look more than people back home. I haven’t seen a single person—except for Alistair, who is, after all, a teenager—in sweats, or even an elastic waistband.
Granted, no one appears to be as vastly overweight here as many people back in America are. What makes Londoners so slim? Could it be all the tea?
And the ads! The ads they have on the walls of the Tube station! They’re so…interesting. I don’t really understand what it is they’re advertising in many cases. But this might be because I have never seen topless women used to sell orange juice before.
I guess Shari is right. The British are much less inhibited about their bodies—although they dress them better—than we are.
When we finally reach the stop where Andrew’s got his appointment—he says there’s a bank close by where I can change money—we scramble back out into the sunshine—and I catch my breath…
I’m in London! The town center! The place where so many significant historical events have taken place, including the introduction of the punk movement (where would we be today if Madonna hadn’t donned that first bustier, and Seditionaries on Kings Road hadn’t introduced the world to Vivienne Westwood?) and that black evening gown Princess Diana (still only Lady Diana then) wore the night of her engagement party?
But before I can really absorb the richness of it all, Andrew drags me into a bank, where I stand in line (or in the queue, as Andrew calls it) to exchange some of my traveler’s checks for British pounds. When I get to the teller, she asks to see my passport and I hand it over, and she eyes my photo suspiciously.
Well, and why not? I was thirty pounds heavier when I had that photo taken.
When she return
s my passport to me, Andrew asks to see it, and he has a good chuckle over the photo.
“I can’t believe you were ever that fat,” he says. “Look at you now! You look like a model. Doesn’t she look like a model?” he asks the teller.
The teller says, “Uh, yuh,” in a noncommittal way.
It is always nice, of course, to be told you look like a model. But I can’t help wondering—did I really look that bad before? I mean, when Andrew first saw me that night of the fire, I was thirty pounds heavier than I am now, but he was still attracted to me. I know. I felt his stiffy.
And okay, I was dressed in a towel since the fire department wouldn’t let us back into the building. But still.
I am distracted from thinking about all this when the teller finally hands me my money—it’s so pretty! So much prettier than American money, which is just so…green. And it comes in so many sizes—the British pound coin looks and feels like gold in my hand.
I am completely excited to go out and spend some of my new British money, so I urge Andrew to hurry up and get his appointment over with so we can get to Harrods (I’ve already mentioned that this is where I want to go first. I don’t want to buy anything there, though…I just want to see the shrine the owner, Mohamed Al Fayed, has erected to his son, who was killed in the car crash with Princess Diana).
Andrew says, “Let’s go then,” and we head toward a very dull-looking office building with Job Centre (it’s so cute how the British spell everything wrong!) written across the entrance, where Andrew gets in a long line with a lot of other people because, he says, he has to “sign on” for work, or something like that.
I am very interested in all things British, of course, because once Andrew and I are married, this could become my adopted country, the way Madonna has made it hers, so I pay attention to the signs we are passing as the line moves along. The signs all say things like: Ask Us About New Deal for Jobseekers—Part of the Department for Work and Pensions and Thought About Working in Europe? Ask Us How.
And I think how strange it is that in England they call Europe Europe like they aren’t a part of it, but in the U.S. we all think of England as part of Europe. Probably incorrectly.
And that the man behind the counter is asking Andrew if he’s looked for work, and Andrew says he has but he hasn’t found any.
What? What is he talking about, hasn’t found work? That’s all he’s been doing since I got here: working.
“But, Andrew,” I hear myself cry, “what about your waitering job?”
Andrew goes pale. Which is an accomplishment for him since he’s already so pasty. In a sexy way…like Hugh Grant.
“Ha,” Andrew says to the man behind the counter. “She’s kidding.”
Kidding? What is he talking about?
“You were there all day yesterday,” I remind him. “Eleven to eleven.”
“Liz,” Andrew says in a strained voice, “don’t joke with the nice man. He’s busy working, can’t you see?”
Of course I can see that. The question is, why can’t Andrew?
“Right,” I say. “Like you were busy yesterday at the waitering job you had to get because the school thing didn’t pay enough. Remember?”
Could Andrew be on drugs? How could he not remember the fact that the very day I arrived for my first-ever trip to England, he was working?
A glance at his face, however, reveals that he not only remembers but doesn’t seem to be on drugs. Not if the look he gives me—a look that could kill—is any indication.
Well. It’s clear I’ve done something wrong. But what? I’m only telling the truth.
So I say, to Andrew, “Wait. What’s going on here?”
That’s when the man behind the counter at the Job Centre picks up a phone and says, “Mr. Williams, I have a problem. Yeah, be right there.”
Then he plops a Closed sign down in front of him and says, “Come with me, please, Mr. Marshall, miss,” while holding up the partition in the counter so we can pass through it.
Then he escorts us into a little room—empty except for a desk, some shelves with nothing on them, and a chair—in the back of the Job Centre office.
On the way there, I can feel the gazes of everyone else—both in line and working behind the counter—burning into the back of my neck. Some people are whispering. Some of them are laughing.
It takes a good five seconds before I finally realize why.
And when I do, my cheeks go as red as Andrew’s had gone pale a minute earlier.
Because that’s when I know that I’ve done it again. Yes. Opened my big, fat, stupid mouth when I should have kept it closed.
But how was I to know that a Job Centre is where British people go to sign up for unemployment benefits?
And what is Andrew doing, anyway, signing up for unemployment benefits when he ISN’T UNEMPLOYED?
Except that Andrew doesn’t seem to see it that way—you know, as illegal. He keeps opening his mouth to bleat, “But everybody does it!”
But that’s not how the Job Centre people seem to feel, if the look the man gives us before he leaves to find his “superior” is any indication.
“Look, Liz,” Andrew says to me the minute the Job Centre man is out of the room, “I know you didn’t mean to, but you’ve completely cocked things up for me. It’ll be all right, though, if, when the bloke comes back, you just tell him you made a mistake. That we had a little misunderstanding and I wasn’t working yesterday. All right?”
I stare at him, confused.
“But Andrew—” I can’t believe this is happening. There has to be some mistake. Andrew—MY Andrew, who’s going to teach the children to read?—can’t be a welfare cheat. That’s just not possible.
“You were working yesterday,” I say. “I mean…weren’t you? That’s where you told me you were. That’s why you left me alone with your family for the whole day and most of the night. Because you were waitering. Right?”
“Right,” Andrew says. He is, I notice, sweating. I’ve never seen Andrew sweat before. But there is a definite sheen along his hairline. Which, I notice, is receding just a little. Will he be as bald as his father someday? “Right, Liz. But you’ve got to tell a little lie for me.”
“Lie for you,” I say confusedly. It’s like…I realize what he’s saying. I understand the words.
I just can’t believe Andrew—MY Andrew—is saying them.
“It’s just a white lie,” Andrew elaborates. “I mean, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking, really, Liz. Waiters make SHIT here, it’s not like back in the States, where they’re guaranteed a fifteen percent tip. I swear to you, every single waiter I know is on the dole as well—”
“Still,” I say. I can’t believe this is happening. I really can’t. “That doesn’t make it right. I mean, it’s still…it’s kind of dishonest, Andrew. You’re taking money from people who actually NEED it.”
How could he not realize this? He wants to teach underprivileged children…the very people that welfare money he seems to feel so entitled to is actually for. How could he not know this? His mother is a social worker, for crying out loud! Does she know how her son comes by his extra cash?
“I need it,” Andrew insists. He’s sweating harder now, even though it’s actually quite pleasant, temperaturewise, in the little office. “I’m one of those people. I mean, I’ve got to live, Liz. And it’s not easy, finding a decent-paying job when everyone knows you’re going to be leaving in a few months to go back to school, anyway—”
Well…he’s right about that. I mean, the only way I managed to work my way up to assistant manager at Vintage to Vavoom is because I live in town year-round.
Also because I’m so good at what I do.
But still…
“And I wasn’t doing it just for me, you know. I wanted to show you a nice time while you were here,” he goes on, darting a nervous glace at the open office door. “Take you nice places, have some nice meals. Maybe even take you…I dunno. On a cruise or something.
”
“Oh, Andrew!” My heart swells with love for him. How could I have thought—well, what I was thinking about him? He may have gone about it the wrong way, but his intentions were in the right place.
“But Andrew,” I say, “I have tons of money saved up. You don’t have to do this for me—work all these hours, and…um, collect the dole, or whatever it is. I have plenty of money. For the both of us.”
Suddenly he doesn’t look quite so sweaty.
“You do? More than what you changed today, at the bank?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve been saving my earnings from the shop for ages. I’m happy to share.” I really mean it, too. After all, I’m a feminist. I have no problem supporting the man I love. No problem at all.
“How much?” Andrew asks quickly.
“How much have I got?” I blink at him. “Well, a couple thousand—”
“Honestly? Brilliant! Can I borrow a bit, then?”
“Andrew, I told you,” I say. “I’m more than happy to pay for us to go out—”
“No, I mean, can I borrow a bit in advance?” Andrew wants to know. He’s stopped sweating, but his face has taken on a bit of a pinched look. He keeps looking at the doorway where the man behind the counter’s supervisor is due to appear at any moment. “See, I haven’t paid my matriculation fees for school yet—”
“Matriculation fees?” I echo.
“Right,” Andrew says. Now he’s grinning sort of sheepishly, in the manner of a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar. “See, I had a bit of a cock-up myself just before you got here. Did you ever go to any of the Friday poker nights, back at McCracken Hall?”
My head is spinning. Seriously. “Poker nights? McCracken Hall?” What is he talking about?
“Yeah, there was a whole group of residents who played Texas Hold’em every Friday night. I used to play with them, and I got to be quite good…”
