by Amy Daws
More muffled giggles.
“Frank, I can bang looooong and hard all day if I need to. I’ll keep hitting this wood, that’s how firmly I am committed to this friendship. I’ll come to you anytime, day or night.”
I know I’m making sexual innuendos in a desperate shot to get Frank to warm up to me, but I am in damage-control mode and have to make amends with my poor, apparently scarred for life, Frank and Beans.
Suddenly, Frank creaks open the door and looks at me with a naughty smirk on his face.
“Said the actress to the bishop,” he titters in response to my clearly understood word emphasis.
I have no clue what that phrase means, but I surmise it means something similar to the American version of that’s what she said. I’ve grown accustomed to asking Frank what a lot of his interesting British phrases mean.
Frank is dressed in loose flannel pants and a white knit sweater, his hair an orange rumpled mess, as usual. He looks a bit pale and mopey, obviously milking his disposition for all it’s worth.
“You don’t play fair, Finley. You know dick jokes are my kryptonite,” he adds, idly scratching at the doorframe.
I smile at him, “Frank, I’m sorry. I was drunk. I was stupid. I didn’t mean to waltz around your house naked last night. And I sure as heck didn’t mean to scare you into hibernation.”
“I’ve never seen a girl’s wobbly bits before, Finley! It was quite shocking,” he states deadpan, but I see a sliver of a smirk on his lips.
I smile and grab his arm to lead him out of his bedroom, “Just consider it a test that you passed with flying colors.”
He brightens at that, “Not that I needed a test to know my preference but I was always crap at school, so it’s nice to know I aced something!”
“Leslie is downstairs preparing for tomorrow night’s party. There’s going to be a lot of scantily clad girls floating around here then too you know. So really, now you’re just better primed,” I coo.
“They better not be butt-naked and showing all their slits like you last night. I’m not sure my heart can take much more of that,” he says, scratching his head thoughtfully.
As we make our way down the steps, I hear Leslie and Mitch arguing.
“Bridget Jones did not invent the tarts and vicars party theme! You’re a bloody moron!” Mitch crows at Leslie from the living room as she works feverishly at the dining room table putting decorations together.
“I’m not saying she invented it, I’m just saying she is what made it famous!” Leslie replies snappily.
“That’s such an American thing to assume,” Mitch scoffs.
Leslie’s eyes turn to me as I come down the last step, “You look quite a bit better than earlier!”
After the Epic Bathroom Floor Pukefest of 2014, I was ready for some fresh air. Despite the brisk fall London weather, I figured my hoodie would keep me warm enough to run around town and pick up necessary party supplies. I feel good in the shorts and I want to be proud of my appearance, the way Leslie was of hers earlier. I even applied some mascara to bring a bit of my confidence back.
I nod a thanks to Leslie and look over to Mitch, whose scowl lightens as he looks at me. He gives me a small half smile, like he’s deduced I didn’t listen to his advice about taking it easy on his liquor.
“What are you making?” I inquire, noticing the bits of construction paper speckled all over the dining room table.
“Crosses!” Leslie declares proudly.
Frank sashays over and begins helping, “Heaven help us. These are shit. Glad to see you’re holding the fort down in my hour of need, Lezbo! We best get cracking or we’ll never make this place presentable in time.”
Leslie scowls at him and mumbles, “More like eight hours of need. You’ve been moping all damn day since Finley flashed you last night. I’ve been down here doing all the work for our party! You really can be a dramatic queen sometimes Frank.”
Frank shoots me a wink as he draws his hand back and cracks Leslie on the butt. She screeches and punches him on the shoulder.
“Ouch, Lez! You hit like a bloody footballer!” he cries. I laugh and saddle up to the table to dig in and help.
In two hours, we have linked together hundreds of crosses and draped them across the entire dining room ceiling. They remind me of the links we used to make for our Christmas tree as kids. I laugh happily, listening to Frank and Leslie bicker like an old married couple over the various links of chains they intend to hang from the living room ceiling. Leslie borrowed them from one of her factory retailer’s supply closets, and was yelling at Frank to not put tape on them or they would get all sticky and she’d get into trouble. Then he told her he would show her sticky, and that was when I snuck out quietly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I pull my phone out of my pocket as I scamper across the busy street to the skate park to sit on the bleachers. I shudder at the cold temperature of the metal bleacher on my bare legs. I pull up my mom’s phone number and click Send without thinking what time it is back home.
“Uh, hello?” my mom answers, sleepily.
“Crap! Sorry Mom! Is it nighttime there? I didn’t even think!” I silently reprimand myself.
“It’s fine, honey. I’m fine. I’m glad you called,” she replies.
I picture her getting up out of bed and shaking my dad to put me on speaker.
“Don’t put Dad on speakerphone, Mom,” I interject, while eyeing three boys sitting at the top of a ramp, blatantly smoking something that was most definitely not a cigarette.
“Why, honey? I’m sure he’d love to talk to you.”
“I know, but I just want to talk to you right now. I’ll call back at a better time to talk to dad, okay?” I reason, hoping she hadn’t already nudged him. He is a heavy sleeper, so even if she had, he probably still didn’t wake up.
“Spill it,” my mom surmises.
I let out a heavy sigh at my mother’s intuition. She can always tell when something is eating at me. When I was younger, I spent so many nights in the kitchen, sitting at the bar top watching her bake. She loved to bake; she told me I opened up to her the most about my problems when she was baking.
I picture her now, pulling something out of the oven. My mother is a tall, slender woman with curves. I definitely received her figure. If you saw us from behind, you wouldn’t know who’s who. She has slightly darker brown hair, but she’s been dying it for a few years now; I don’t really remember her natural color. She has large round aqua blue eyes just like mine, but hers are bigger, more prominent on her face. We share the typical soft, curved, Midwestern facial features. Slightly rounded nose, face, and chin.
Cadence looks more like my dad. He has brown hair too but with smaller, less striking facial features. Cadence looks just like him, aside from her dirty-blonde hair she accentuates with highlights.
“Is it about Brody?” my mom asks, growing restless at my delay in response.
My mom has known that Brody and I were trying to have a baby, but she doesn’t know I found out it’s next to impossible, or that I came to London to run away from my problems; I only told Cadence that part. Before I left, I told my mom Brody and I have grown apart and I need a fresh start somewhere else.
Thankfully, she loves Leslie; she seems almost envious of my courage to move overseas and move in with her. Her supportive response was a huge reason I had the guts to book the trip.
“Well, no. Kind of—I don’t know,” I stammer. “I’ve met another guy. Liam. He seems really great, Mom. Really nice, and cute, and funny, and has a good job.”
“But…” she speculates.
“But, it just feels, so…so…”
“Strange?” she questions.
“Yeah, strange. Different. I mean, one minute I’m doing this huge thing with a guy. You know, trying to have a baby. Trying to be just like Cadence. And the next minute, I’m in a foreign country, flirting like I’m in college again.”
“That would be a strange feeling,” sh
e offers. “Are you doubting your decision to move?”
“No! No. No.” I assess. “I love it here, Mom. Leslie and Frank are great and Mitch and Julie are even warming to me, I think. The city is amazing, there’s life all around me I’ve never even dreamed about, but…”
“It’s not home?” she asks. “Or…it’s not Brody?”
Ugh! She just freaking read my mind without me even knowing that’s what my mind was thinking. How does she do that?
“That’s the million dollar question, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there’s only one way to figure it out,” she offers.
“How?” I ask.
“Give this Liam guy a chance. A real chance. If you can’t get over the fact that he’s not Brody, then you’ll have your answer.”
“Spell it out for me, mom. I’m freaking blank here.” And hung over.
“If Liam sweeps you off your feet and you feel nothing but excitement and passion with him, you’ll know you’re probably just homesick. But, if you give Liam a good chance, and really try with him, and something still feels off…well, then, that’s a Brody problem.”
I nod my head, thankful for sage advice I can wrap my brain around. Give Liam a chance, and if it’s fireworks, I made the right choice. If it’s not, I have much bigger fish to fry.
“But Mom, what if…what if it’s a Brody problem and it’s too late because Brody has moved on? Or what if it doesn’t even matter because nothing has changed and all the previous issues I had before are still there?” I ask her, hesitantly.
“Well, that’s a pretty cryptic what if. I think if I knew the whole story, it would help. But either way, you’ve got yourself a Finley Problem, babe. And you’ve been getting yourself out of Finley Problems for twenty-five years now, I’m sure you can do it again.”
I smile after we hang up, wishing I could have my mom here so I could watch her bake and she could talk me through my feelings some more. But she is right. I’ve been following my own rules for quite some time now and I’ve managed to get myself a great job, great friends, and now a great experience as a result.
I can figure this out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Our house has been legitimately buffed, polished, vacuumed, and sanitized within an inch of its life. Leslie and Frank really outdid themselves, lining three long rows of red tea-light candles down the beautiful dining-room table, with five tall, red tapered candles in the middle. It has a very catholic candlelight vigil feel to it, which partners well with the vicar party.
I asked Frank why there were five tapered candles and he got really awkward and said there was one for each five of us roommates. He really can be sweet when he isn’t being horribly obnoxious. The red construction paper cutout cross-links hang from the ceiling and cast a thick red glow to everything as it masks the dimmed overhead lighting. Frank and Leslie had to redo the crosses on the ceiling three times before they felt safe enough to not be considered a fire hazard. Just in case, they set a fire extinguisher in a basket in the corner. For being the token religious room, it has a very sexy feel to it.
The living room chains look amazing and shiny, hanging and clinking in short bunches from the ceiling. The overhead fan is on, so there’s a constant motion to the chains as Julie lines a square design of black votive candles on the large refurbished barn-wood coffee table. She finishes forming a perfect rectangle just as Mitch turns up the music dock on the fireplace mantle. He bobs his head slightly to the beat, examining the dance-lighting machine currently spinning around the room. This house definitely knows how to throw a party. I don’t recognize the song but Julie does because she quickly dashes away from her project and begins dancing with Mitch.
The music is booming and I can feel the party atmosphere bubbling from everyone in anticipation of our guests. I’m excited to meet more of Frank, Julie, Mitch, and Leslie’s friends; the only other person I’ve met in London so far, is Liam. I am worried Liam might attach himself to my hip all night and look at this party as a date, so I texted him earlier and told him to bring some friends if he felt like it. He texted back a weird reply of Okay? with a question mark. I wasn’t sure what it meant so I just ignored it and hoped it was a typo.
Frank suddenly bellows down the stairs, “Finley, my pet! It’s time for your big transformation!”
I look over to Julie and Mitch with a heaven help me look and Julie smiles brightly at me; even Mitch looks slightly amused.
I make my way up the creaky wooden staircase, dragging my feet slightly as the nerves regarding what Frank has in mind for me to wear settles over top of me.
I enter his open door and see a few items draped over his large cheetah bedspread.
“Finley! Why do you look like you’re about to be put down like an old dog?” he questions, buzzing around his room, grabbing more supplies.
“I’m scared, Frank.” I have to admit, “I feel like you’re still mad at me about the naked staircase climb and this is how you’re going to get me back.”
He looks at me and scratches his wooly orange hair, “I will admit, the thought had crossed my mind to dress you up like a frumpy, dumpy old vicar and keep all your nasty wobbly-bits completely concealed so no one could see them.”
I perk up at that thought.
“But I thought better of it. Despite being scarred for life with the image of you naked forever being burned into my head, I did discover one thing,” he offers.
I look at him questioningly.
“You are covering up way too much of yourself in all those nasty university hoodies. Seriously! Look at your legs right now! You have got killer legs, my pet.”
I beam back at him with this wonderful change of conversation.
“We’re going to accentuate those long legs and make you the life of the party tonight. You won’t steal the spotlight from me…that I’m sure of. My costume is one no one will miss.” He smiles a bit devilishly.
“Let’s sexify you, Fin-Fin.”
After what feels like hours but in fact is only forty-five minutes, I am tarted-up to the nines. Frank had gone consignment shopping and found a ridiculously tight lace dress. At first glance, I thought it was completely see-through and freaked out on him. But then he showed me that there was a nude layer underneath and that I was a fool to think he wanted to see those parts again.
On an average-height person, this dress would be short. On me, it was completely scandalous. I begged him to let me wear some tights underneath and he told me he already had something in mind for my legs. And boy did he. Sheer, black thigh-highs. They do not go up to the bottom of the skirt, so I have a good three inches of bare thigh showing between the hem of my skirt and the top of the stockings.
After rummaging through my shoes for a while, he selects my black suede wedge pumps. They have a rounded toe and are actually really comfortable. But they make me enormously tall. I am always leery of wearing them because they are one of my tallest heels and tend to make me feel like an Amazon woman around people of normal height.
As I inspect myself in the mirror, I realize this dress really is quite pretty. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline. The hem is scalloped with the black lace overlay and the nude color underneath gives it definite wow factor. If it had been knee length instead of hitting just below my butt, I would wear this to a wedding for sure.
The thigh-highs, provocative heels, dramatic eyelashes and red matte lipstick are what really give me a high-end hooker look. My long brown hair lays long and loose down my back. Frank runs the straightener through it a few times to give it a sexy, sleek look. No jewelry necessary, this dress and my makeup give it enough pizazz all its own.
Leslie bounds into Frank’s room as I finish inspecting my look in the mirror.
“Holy crap, Fin-Bin! You look hot! You’re the most expensive looking hooker I’ve ever seen!” she says, her eyes wide.
“Where did you find that top, Leslie? It’s so cool!” I reply, unable to accept her compliment because I’m too busy a
dmiring the splendor of her outfit.
She looks like a hooker from the Twenties, a vintage tart through and through. She has on a skintight pleather skirt with a loose-fitting white blousy-tank. The tank has some shabby looking lace along the edges, which reminds me of what women wore in the old west as under garments. It’s the type of top you’d see on the cover of a Western romance novel, but she has on a red lacy bra peeking out at the bust. She even manages to do pinup curls with her pixie bangs. She looks stunning.
“I rented it from a costume shop, actually. The skirt is mine! Leave it to me to have hooker-gear hanging in the closet,” she laughs.
“Where’s Frank?” she asks.
“He said he was just going to change into his costume. I think he’s in the bathroom.”
Suddenly, I hear a throat clear from behind Leslie. I look around her and see Frank standing in the doorway dressed as…The Pope…enormous headpiece and all.
Leslie and I pause for a beat to take in his full ensemble. We then look at each other and burst out laughing, uncontrollably. Frank stares at us solemnly, waiting for us to gain control of ourselves.
“Are you quite done?” he asks, with a grave expression on his face.
Leslie and I continue cackling, in response to not only his outfit, but the serious tone he is taking with us.
“I should hope you could show me a bit more respect. I am a man of the cloth now,” he says, walking over to the full-length mirror inside his closet door as he adjusts his hat.
Frank has on a long white robe with a short, hooded cape wrapped around his shoulders. Hanging around his neck is a large gold cross, and on his ring finger is a large golden ring. His hat is what makes the ensemble look truly remarkable. I’m not Catholic, so I’m not sure what it’s called, but I know I’ve seen the Pope wear it in photos before. It’s shaped like a spade you’d see on a deck of cards and sits nearly two feet high.
“I don’t even want to know where you found such an outfit, but it’s the bomb dot-com. Bravo, my dear friend. Bravo,” I say, giving Frank a quick round of applause.
