“Right, how are we getting back then?” he asked, looking around to see if I’d hidden a car or a jetpack somewhere in the shrubs.
My heart sank: in all of my frantic menu preparing, I’d forgotten about the whole “getting back” thing.
Bike Guy read the look on my face. “Fuck the canoe: I’ll buy the bloke a new one.” He grabbed my hand and started pulling me up the embankment. “Let’s find a cab and get home.” I had to hand it to him: for a pothead, he could be remarkably clear-sighted.
October 13
I woke up covered in a fine layer of silt, with a godawful hangover and a sudden acute awareness that we’d left Lucy’s cousin’s canoe in Paddington Basin, where it had presumably now been commandeered by a bunch of tramps.
I pressed my face into the pillow and then took a peek at Bike Guy, who was starfished across the majority of the bed. I had a quick look around and saw an ashtray heaped with cigarette butts and half-finished joints, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s propped up against a framed photo of Bike Guy with little Poppy balanced on his shoulders.
This definitely wasn’t what Mrs. Humphry had in mind.
I pulled on my still-damp clothes and crept out of the flat. Thankfully it was early enough that Poppy and parents had yet to stir. I slipped out the front door, closed it as quietly as I could behind me and hurried down the street to the bus stop.
It was strange: I was dating someone well over a decade older than me, and yet I’d never lived like more of a teenager. As fun as Bike Guy was, I wasn’t sure how much more my liver could handle. And I definitely wasn’t keen on doing another walk of shame through middle-class bliss.
I got back to my flat by 7:30 and went immediately back to bed. I woke up to the sound of Lucy shutting the door behind her as she left and heaved a sigh of relief; at least I wouldn’t have to explain the canoe yet.
I checked the time on my phone—11:34 a.m.—and saw I had six missed calls, all from Meghan. I sat up and hit redial. It was still incredibly early in Maine, so it must have been an emergency.
She picked up on the first ring. “Kid? That you?” Her voice was thick and choked.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“It’s Sue. She’s gone.”
My heart dropped. “What do you mean?” An image of a car crash flashed through my head.
“I mean she’s gone.” I heard her stifle a sob on the end of the line. “She left.” I felt a little twinge of relief knowing she wasn’t dead. “We had a huge fight and she packed her stuff and left and now she’s gone.” Meghan broke down and started to quietly cry. “What am I gonna do, bub?”
“Oh, Meg. Don’t worry, she’ll come back! She’s probably just gone somewhere to cool off for the day. It’s you guys! You guys are solid.”
Meghan made a noise that sounded like a wounded animal. “We’re not solid, though. She’s been working super long hours at the hospital, so we never see each other anymore, and when we do, we just argue. And last night, I found all these texts between her and some nurse and when I confronted her about it, she said she’d been having a flirtation or some bullshit. She promised me nothing had happened but how am I supposed to believe that when she’s never fucking home? We had this huge blowout, and we said all these awful things to each other and now she’s fucking gone.”
It sounded like she’d started to hyperventilate. “Meg, you’ve got to calm down. Deep breaths. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
I listened to her cry and felt a helplessness I had never experienced before. What the fuck was I doing here, in this shitty flat in this godforsaken rainy city, while my sister had her heart stamped on? Why wasn’t I there to give her a hug? I was useless here: a disembodied voice murmuring platitudes down a piece of plastic. I made my mind up immediately.
“I’m coming home. I’ll tell work on Monday and I’ll book the first flight I can get. I haven’t had a vacation yet this year so they can’t get pissed off about it.”
“You don’t have to do that, kid. I’ll be okay.”
“No. I want to. It’s been too long and I miss your Meghan-face.”
Meghan sniffed and took a deep breath. “Really?”
“Really. Now, go to bed—it’s too fucking early where you are—and when you wake up, take a hot shower and go for a run. And call me. Call me whenever you want and as much as you want. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
I hung up the phone and hoped to God that what I’d said would be true.
Home meant a whole lot of shit I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with. But home also meant my sister, and that’s where I had to be.
October 25
I packed a bag this morning. My flight wasn’t until late afternoon, so I went for a run, wandered around the empty flat, drank too much coffee, smoked too many cigarettes and, when I had checked and double-checked that I had my passport, locked the door behind me and set out.
I’d booked a return flight for two weeks later, but something heavy inside me suggested that date could be stretched and stretched. It scared me.
I’d spoken to Meghan every night, just letting her cry on the phone and murmuring what I hoped were comforting words. She still hadn’t heard from Sue, and I found that the little seed of hatred I’d felt toward her the moment Meghan told me she’d left had now blossomed into a full-blown arboretum. Sue was now Public Enemy Number One.
Work had been totally fine about me taking time off—Cathryn gave me a hug (our first) and practically pushed me out the door, chattering about how pale and exhausted I looked and how a break would do me good. I wasn’t proving to be much use at work under the circumstances, anyway. Yesterday, I’d completely forgotten about the group of twenty-five fourteen-year-olds coming in for a tour of the Large Hadron Collider exhibition and it fell to Cathryn to lead them around. Apparently she’d found two of them doing some heavy petting in one of the detector caverns. I’d bought her a bottle of wine to say thank you, but I think she was still a little shaken by the experience.
Lucy had been great about it, too. After reading Dylan’s letter, she seemed convinced that my destiny was to get back together with him, so she could hardly contain her glee when I told her that I was going home for a few weeks. When I went to get the milk this morning, I found a note from her taped to the fridge: an enormous GOOD LUCK surrounded by little hearts. I tore it off and stuck it in my wallet: I figured I needed all the luck I could get.
Bike Guy and I had our final date last night: a long cycle along Regent’s Canal and a pint at the Palm in Victoria Park. I told him I was going home for a few weeks, and when I talked about meeting up when I got back he started getting all hazy-eyed and evasive.
“Let’s not make any promises,” he’d said. “Two weeks is a long time.”
I’d rolled my eyes and explained that I wasn’t looking for a betrothal, just a pint or two when I was back in London, but it was too late: he’d been infected with The Fear.
“I think you’re ace,” he’d said, “but I’m not looking for anything serious.”
So apparently neither prostitution nor Victoriana put him off, but the thought of making a vague plan two weeks in advance was enough to send him running for the hills. I cut my losses and mentally detached, though I still took him back to my place for a good-bye roll in the hay. He didn’t spend the night. I told him I had to pack (which was true) but, really, I just wanted the bed to myself.
I got off the tube at South Ken and made a pit stop at the bookshop to buy something to read on the plane.
It had been sunny when I left the flat, but by the time I surfaced onto Onslow Square, the skies had darkened and fat raindrops had started attacking the earth. I ran into the bookshop, closing the door behind me just before the hail began.
The young bookseller was sitting, as ever, at his little desk in the back of the shop, engrossed in a tattered old paperback.
He was wearing an enormous gray knit cardigan and baggy reddish corduroys, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses balanced carefully on his nose. I paused in the doorway and watched as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. Looking at him like this, I could almost forget all his withering comments and grumpy demeanor. In fact, from where I stood, he looked sort of . . . adorable. My mind started wandering. Take off the glasses and maybe . . . I leaned on a stack of Penguin Classics and sent them flying to the ground. He started out of his chair and scowled at me. The spell was abruptly broken and I felt myself blush deeply.
“You’re dripping all over my floor!”
I looked down at my sodden jacket. “It’s not exactly like I can help it.”
He tutted to himself and got up. “Let me get you a towel. But stay where you are and don’t touch anything! You’ll make everything damp.”
I followed his orders, turning only slightly to the left so I could look at the first edition of Black Beauty that was under glass. One day, I thought, you will be mine. Even if I have to steal you.
The bookseller emerged from the back of the shop carrying a surprisingly fluffy towel. “Here, sort yourself out.”
“Thanks,” I said, toweling myself dry.
“So what tome from the literary canon are you after today? Bastards and the Women Who Love Them? Barbara Cartland’s Twenty Rules for Love?”
“Actually, I’m looking for a novel that was written in 1897.”
“Oh?” he said, softening slightly. “Can you remember the title? The author?”
“Oh, no. I don’t care what it is—I just want any novel that was written in 1897.” I knew it was unlikely I’d be able to continue following Mrs. Humphry’s advice when I was in Maine, but I figured I could at least maintain the Victorian spirit through my literature choices.
He furrowed his brow. “How very specific of you. Let me see what I’ve got.” He moved toward the classics section, running a hand through his unruly hair and tutting again. “Right. Well, there’s this . . . and this . . . and this.” He collected three books in his arms and shoved them toward me. “The Invisible Man’s quite good, though I do think Wells can be a bit silly at times. Dracula is fairly self-explanatory. And then there’s What Maisie Knew, which is what I’d recommend. James is an expert at dysfunction, and poor little Maisie’s parents are truly loathsome. It’s good fun.”
“I’m just impressed that you knew three books that had been published in 1897 off the top of your head like that.”
“I do own this bookshop, you know. I’m not a total philistine.”
I took his advice and chose the Henry James. I was fishing around in my bag for my wallet when he spotted my suitcase.
“Going somewhere?”
I nodded. “I’m going home. To Maine.” The word “home” slightly stuck in my throat.
He looked at me sharply. “For good?”
“I don’t think so. My sister is going through—” To my horror, I started to tear up. “My sister is—” I began again, only to find my throat tightening. It had been a terrible ten days. It was nearly impossible to find a flight home at such short notice, and the few seats that were available had been astronomical. I’d finally grabbed a place on a Delta flight after a last-minute cancellation, but it had been a nail-biting wait. Every night, I’d listened to Meg cry on the phone, knowing it would still be days before I got to her. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. And now it appeared that all of the strain of the past week and a half was about to be unleashed in the most awkward place possible. A tear slipped down my cheek and my shoulders started to shake.
“Oh God. Oh dear.” The bookseller was looking at me like I might spontaneously combust. I expected him to phone in the bomb squad at any minute.
“Sorry, it’s just . . .” I tried to pull myself together, but something had been shaken loose and it was proving hard to push back down into place. Stupid, traitorous tears: there was no stopping them now. Oh God. Oh gross.
The bookseller stood stock-still for a minute, looking as if he’d been mildly electrocuted, and then took me by the elbow and guided me into a chair. “Right. I’ll get you a cup of tea,” he said, hurrying to the back of the shop. He returned a few minutes later holding a chipped enamel mug and a few tissues.
“Here you are,” he said, gingerly handing me the cup of tea. He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder as my sobs grew louder. I couldn’t tell who was more mortified in that moment, him or me.
He kneeled down in front of my chair. “Now, what’s all this about your sister? She’s not ill, is she?” There was genuine concern etched on his face, which only made me cry harder.
After a few excruciating minutes, I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “Her wife left her,” I said. “And I wasn’t there to help her and it took me forever to get a flight and she’s been all on her own and now I’m going home and everyone there hates me and I’m probably going to have to see my ex-husband and he probably hates me the most but he’s being all nice about everything, which makes it a million times worse and my parents . . . my parents . . .” I started up again and the bookseller silently passed me a tissue.
Eventually I managed to calm myself down. “Sorry, this definitely doesn’t come under your purview,” I said with a weak smile.
“Nonsense. Every good bookseller is always armed with tea and tissues. These shops are hotbeds of emotional activity, you know,” he said with a wry smile.
I laughed. “Well, thanks. Sorry I’m kind of a mess.”
He shook his head. “It’s no wonder you’re a bit overwhelmed. I’m sure it will be all right. Surely no one could really hate you?” He placed his hand gently on my shoulder. Our eyes met and a jolt passed through me; I could tell by his eyes that he’d felt it, too. He pulled his hand away and jumped to his feet. “Well,” he said, staring firmly at the floor, “you’d better be off or you’ll miss your flight.”
I wiped the errant mascara from under my eyes and got to my feet. “Of course. Sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”
He shook his head. “Please, don’t mention it. The foliage is meant to be lovely at this time of year.”
“It is.” I’d forgotten about the leaves turning color, and suddenly felt a deep longing to be in my parents’ backyard beneath the multicolored maples. “Well, thanks again for . . . everything.”
The mortification had crept back in and the two of us started backing away slowly, nodding and smiling at each other like a pair of bobblehead dolls.
I was nearly out the door when I heard him shout out. “Hang on!” he called. “Just one moment!” I turned back and he pressed a book into my hands. “I think you might like this,” he said.
I stared dumbly at the cover, my feet glued in place. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton.
I looked at him blankly but he just shooed me out the door. “Off you go!” he called, waving me away.
I lugged my suitcase down the stairs of the tube station, turning over our conversation in my mind. I had no idea what the hell had just happened in there, but I did know that I had two industrial-strength sleeping pills for the plane that would ensure I wouldn’t think about it until I was far, far away.
• • •
An hour-long tube journey, seven-hour plane ride and forty-five-minute wait at customs later, I was charging through the arrivals gate toward a waving Meghan. I vaulted over a baggage trolley and enveloped her in a hug.
“I am so sorry it’s taken me so long to get here,” I said, squeezing her tightly. “Everything’s going to be okay. I know it’s still raw, but believe me when I say that one day you’ll look back on this and be thankful that she left. I never liked Sue, anyway—always going on and on about saving lives and boring us all to death with—”
“Lauren, stop.” Meghan pulled away from me and I noticed that she wasn’t nearly as pale or puffy-eyed as I�
�d expected. She looked almost . . . happy. “A lot has happened in the last nine hours,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . Sue came back this morning.”
I was indignant. “Oh, come on! You mean I just flew 3,500 miles into the belly of my emotional past and you guys are all hunky-dory now? What about the big blowout? She thinks she can disappear for ten days and then just waltz back in like nothing happened?”
“She didn’t just waltz back in!” Meghan put her arm around me and started guiding me toward the parking lot. “Look, I’ll explain on the drive home.”
I shook her off. “This wasn’t just some elaborate scheme to get me to come home, was it?”
Meghan rolled her eyes. “No, you narcissist. I promise you that my emotional distress was completely genuine at the time.” She pulled me in for a hug. “I’m so glad you’re home, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you came. It’s just—” she started to laugh—“your timing is a little off.”
I tried to remain indignant, but the sound of Meghan laughing was such a relief that I felt my anger melting away.
“Timing has never been my specialty,” I said. “I’m still pissed at Sue, though. Just for the record.”
“Duly noted. Now let’s get you home,” she said, taking my suitcase in one hand and me in the other.
October 26
I woke up to the sight of the Beatles poster hanging on the wall next to my bed. An alarm clock in the shape of a cartoon rabbit was perched on the nightstand: 6:56 a.m.
I could hear my parents talking downstairs. As they got older, they’d become more and more like wombats, napping by day and waking in the early hours, usually before dawn. I knew from years of experience that it was pointless trying to go back to sleep: once they were up, you were up, and you might as well go down and enjoy the coffee.
I pulled on a pair of track pants and a T-shirt from my high school soccer days and padded downstairs.
Love by the Book Page 24
