by Amy Daws
Leslie moved overseas on her own and was a legitimate, proper, freelance designer. She is currently working on a big project for Nikon designing a camera-bag line. She’s been living in London for a year now, traveling back and forth between London and China, teaching factory workers how to create her designs. What an amazing life. She was seeing the world and thriving, she wasn’t worried about babies and fertility cycles.
I’m full of nervous energy as I board my international flight at JFK. I find my seat and recline. There’s no turning back now. I try to convince myself I’ve ruined Brody’s sweet and perfect idea of me, and even if I wanted to go back, I’m certain he wouldn’t accept me.
I can do this, I can be alone. I can be without us. Brody is the love of my life, I know and feel it in my core, but I will find happiness elsewhere. Maybe even with another guy. At the very least, I can find someone to have a fling with—someone to take my mind off us. Maybe I’ll find a nice Brit to settle down with who doesn’t want children. But first I want to be wild and crazy and forget about getting serious with anyone for quite some time. London can be my lover.
I’ve dreamed about living in London ever since I developed a huge love for British Chick-Lit novels. I never used to be a big reader but my sister, Cadence, handed me a book and said, “Just try it, you’ll like it! When you finish, you can watch Debra Messing in the movie version!”
I immediately asked her the name of the movie, because I was an avid movie watcher and I loved Debra Messing. When she said Wedding Date, I couldn’t believe it. One of my all-time favorites! How could the book ever compare?
It didn’t compare. Not at all. It was a thousand times better! It gave me so many more details about a story I’d already loved. The book was called Asking for Trouble by Elizabeth Young. Her funny, quirky British sense of humor and writing style resonated so strongly with me, I immediately purchased paperbacks of all of her novels. They were all wonderfully fun and romantic; they are now my most prized possessions in my book collection. They are books I frequently reread; it’s like visiting an old friend each and every time. I know I love a book if the moment I read the final page, I quickly turn back to reread all my favorite parts again—which are almost always the romantic scenes. My novels are an escape for me when I need it most; a great distraction to ease the fear of being barren; and so began—and continues—my love affair with British Chick-Lit. For years, I’ve been reading Elizabeth Young, Sophie Kinsella, Jill Mansell, Marianne Keyes, and Samantha Young. It’s all so interesting to me, being from the boring old United States. Anything across the ocean is a place I have never seen. The UK is a country with fascinating history and vibrant fictional characters I instantly fell in love with. What better place to run and hide from a life I’m scared to live?
I can be a new version of us with my pal, Leslie. She doesn’t want to make a baby with me! Thank God, because that’d be an awkward conversation to have.
I know she can show me a world that will make me forget all about babies, marriage, and us.
CHAPTER Three
I feel butterflies in my belly as the plane finally hits the tarmac at Heathrow Airport. I nervously tuck away A Girl’s Best Friend, my favorite Elizabeth Young book, into my oversized carry-on. The flight has been long and arduous, with a three-hour layover in New York. I have been traveling for fourteen hours and I feel like crap. I want to brush my teeth and change my clothes. But holy shitballs, I’m in London!
Just hearing the different dialects of British accents on the plane gets my blood pumping. The flight attendant is giving her final directions to us in this gorgeously posh tone that simply melts in my ears like butter.
As I make my way over to luggage claim, I turn my phone on and a slew of texts begin popping up on the screen.
Leslie: What gate are you at?
Mom: Did you land safely?
Cadence: George and I picked up your car. I can’t believe you are flying to London right now! Call me and tell me everything when you get settled.
The last one from my sister makes me smile. I’m really going to miss her. She’s married with three daughters and a baby boy on the way. She’s totally living vicariously through my adventures. She is settled down now with kids; she knows this is an adventure she could never take.
Not to mention, she is one-hundred percent Team Brody. Regardless, she’s happy for this big change in my life and feels a large sense of pride being the one to spark my love affair with London by giving me that book so many years ago.
My heart drops in my chest as I see Brody’s name pop up.
Brody: Not that I give a fuck, but I hope you’re alive and shit. I have no clue where you are or who you are staying with. Hope you’re having a ball. I’m in hell.
A lump forms in my throat as his obvious pain and anger exudes through the text. That does not sound like my Brody. Yes, he is candid and curses frequently, but he’s always treated me like a prized possession he would forever love, adore, and protect. I did this to him. I brought out this ugliness.
I quickly open Leslie’s message and text her my gate number. After what feels like an hour, my four gigantic luggage bags come rolling toward me. I struggle to grab them, then realize I’ll need a cart to carry everything. After some finagling, I’m able to roll all four pieces of luggage at once with my carry-on purse draped over my shoulder. I’m a big girl, I can handle these without a man.
I slowly and carefully make my way outside, searching the crowds of people, taxis, and buses, looking for my long-lost childhood friend. I swear the people here even look different. They all have a different style of dress than I’m used to seeing in the Midwest. In Kansas, you see plenty of people with cute style and clothes, but it’s not common. The majority stick to classic jeans and tee shirts. Here, nearly everyone is wearing different colored pants, leggings, or slacks. Even the facial features here seem different than the people I grew up around.
A loud, obnoxiously long whistle overpowers the noise of the traffic and people. I scrunch my brow and look over to see a flamboyantly dressed redhead sauntering toward me.
“Leeeeeez?” I screech, hardly able to contain my excitement. “Leslie!” I finish loudly before I let go of my four suitcase handles. She bounds into my arms animatedly. I am so freaking excited I lift her off the ground.
“Fin-fin!” she declares fondly, smiling at me with tears in her eyes. “You made it, you lil’ world-traveling-whipper-snapper, you!”
“Me? A world traveler? Schyeah, right—Miss Big-important-worldly-designer, dashing between London and China to big important meetings,” I goad, in a smug British accent.
“’Tis true! ‘Tis I! I am designer extraordinaire, straight outta’ London, love! Why, I oughta…aww, crap! I think I went Australian there. My roommates would kill me if they heard me talking like this!” she laughs at her own feeble attempt at a British accent.
As I take Leslie in, I see that while her clothes, style, and hair have changed dramatically, she is still the same old Lez that used to pedal her bicycle down the gravel roads to meet me in my sister’s car. I was easily a good year younger than legal driving age, so I’d make her ride her bike; I was too chicken to cross the highway and pick her up. We never did anything particularly bad. We would stuff her bike in the trunk—make a failed attempt to close it—then cruise the gravel roads with the windows down and our hair blowing wildly. We just savored in the rebellious act of driving without a license.
Back then, our clothes were pretty standard: jeans, flip-flops, and t-shirts. But standing before me now is a stylish, artistic creator. Leslie’s thick, auburn hair is chopped short into a bob with short pixie bangs. The Brits call it fringe. She’s wearing loud-print leggings with multi-colored swirls all over and a deco-checkered sleeveless blouse with a collar. It doesn’t match by any standard, but she’s rocking it with ferocity.
I feel rather plain in comparison in my black leggings with my loose, cream-colored, off-the-shoulder top.
“Oo
oo, God, that’s ceeeeuuute!” Leslie drawls as she gently touches the Native American-style statement necklace around my neck.
“Oh, thanks,” I reply, my hands touching the same place, “I bought it at the airport in Kansas before I left. I knew I’d need to dress this outfit up somehow with you coming to pick me up at the airport. I feel like Humpty Dumpty next to you right now!” I tease, while playfully smacking her ass.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Fin!” she states, with a huge wave of her hand. “You couldn’t be more fabulous if you were carrying eight suitcases. Speaking of which, what the bloody hell are you thinking, bringing four ginormous suitcases for a one-week vacay? I told you to pack light!”
Her eyes bore into me with indignation. I know she’s not really pissed, but I also know I need to explain my plan for staying here longer. I decide to avoid the question; telling her at the airport is not ideal.
“What can I say? I have to have options to keep up with you!” she laughs and reaches around me to drag two of the suitcases behind me.
“This is so unlike you, we’ll have to take a cab now, you know. We can’t bring this kind of luggage on the tube. We’ll get mugged, raped, and sold into international sex-trafficking,” Leslie says, deadpan.
My eyes bug out of my head as I take in what she just said.
“Kidding, Fin! Good Lord, you better brush up on your British dry sense of humor or you’ll never have any fun here!” she laughs as we make our way over to the next available cab driver waiting at the curb.
The driver stows away three suitcases in the trunk and sets one in the passenger seat next to him. Before I know it, Leslie and I are out on the streets of London in a proper, historical-looking, black, English taxicab.
CHAPTER FOUR
After I get over the initial odd feeling of the driver being on the opposite side of the car, and driving on the wrong side of the road, I take in the scenery. I’m even checking out the small pubs located on every other block, daydreaming about what those people do for a living that allows them to be in an old English pub at this time of day. It’s all enthralling to me! Sure, there are bars in Kansas and Missouri, but they are more extravagant here—more excitement, more hustle and bustle—there’s an overall charm to everything.
Leslie turns to me in the back of the cab, “So, my neighborhood isn’t real posh or exciting, but it’s cool. It’s located in Brixton, which I suppose you would say is like South Central London. It’s a pretty diverse community. There are definitely some sketchy areas but the house we live in is cool. It’s a large Victorian townhouse. It reminds me of the brownstones you’d see in, like, Brooklyn or something—but older.”
I have no idea what brownstones in Brooklyn look like, but I can imagine. I’ve watched Sex in the City for Christ’s sake! I’m not a complete loser. Or should I be saying wanker now? Tosser?
“We could never afford it on our own,” Leslie continues, “One of my flatmate’s parents own it, but they never stay there anymore. They live in some villa in Italy almost year-round. Occasionally, they come back to the city, but thankfully, they get a hotel so there’s enough room for all of us!”
I’m floored. Villas in Italy, Victorian mansions in South London, I have no clue where the hell we’re going; I don’t care. It’s new and different. Exactly what I need.
The cab driver pulls up alongside a big beautiful brick house on the corner of a busy narrow street. Traffic whizzes by as I take in the Rapunzel-type tower on the corner of the block. “Is this it?” I ask Leslie as we clamor out of the cab.
“You bet yer ass it is! We’re gonna rock this house the whole week you’re here! Get ready, sista’, I’m getting you naked-wasted tonight!”
Leslie heads to the back of the cab to grab the rest of the bags while I take in the grandeur of the home. Even the door handle looks exquisite. I can’t help but notice the entry; the door is painted a bright purple with ivy vines growing all around it onto the beautifully shaded patio area to the right. The rest of the house looks old and important—maybe a little ominous, but this vibrant-colored door practically screams, WELCOME!
I help Leslie with my bags as we make our way up the steps into the old house. It even smells British. What the hell does British smell like? Like I have any freaking clue. Jesus, I better not say that crap out loud or people will think I’m mentally deranged. But if I had to guess what British smells like, I’d bet it would smell just like this house—old and interesting.
I glance up the staircase just past the foyer, and see what looks like three stories. The main floor consists of a tiny living room on the left with a neat fireplace. Connected off of that room is a long hallway leading toward the back of the house. There’s a big dining room to the right of the foyer, with ten plush chairs seated all around it. The greatness of the large expensive-looking table is a bit lost amongst the clutter scattered all over it. Covering almost every surface are various books, papers, pens, CDs, and mail, right next to two large packing boxes with packing peanuts spilling out of them.
“Gotta run to the loo. Sit tight, Fin!” Leslie squeals as she dashes past me to the hallway off of the living room.
“Fucking magazines. Magazines! Can you fucking believe it?”
A tall and uncomfortably skinny redhead ambles into the dining room from the kitchen and looks at me pointedly.
“The cow sends me boxes of fucking magazines when all I bloody-well want are my damn clothes!” he barks and gives a box a shove across the table.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask, confused.
“I don’t see anyone else in the room, so yeah, you’ll do.” He roughly tousles his bright orange hair. I’d never seen hair like his. It was cut short along the sides and sat high on top of his head with a natural frizz, seeming to help it stay afloat without product. Almost like…a rooster. I conceal my smirk as a side-by-side comparison pops into my head.
“Oi, Frank! Stop being a bitch to Finley!” Leslie shouts, coming into the foyer again. “For Christ’s Sake, she just got off an incredibly long flight. She doesn’t give a fuck about your ex-whore’s magazines.”
“He was a whore. The bitch. Probably wiped his arse with these magazines, too. I can’t imagine what it cost to post these bastards. What a bloody waste of money. Money that could have been better spent on booze! Speaking of which, who’s up for a drink? I’ve about had it with this bollocks all day,” Frank looks at us expectantly with his hands on his tiny hips.
“Sounds great to me,” Leslie replies. “You’re up for it, aren’t ya, Fin? Only way to beat the jet-lag!”
“Um, okay!” I answer, excitedly. Was this really how my first night in London was going to be? Leslie’s roommate, Frank, seems a bit out there, but I have a feeling I’m going to have a lot of laughs with him.
“Fuck your kit and let’s roll,” Frank says, coming out of the dining room and into the foyer. “Christ! How many bloody bags did you pack? Are you moving the fuck in?”
“I know!” Leslie adds, “I still can’t get over it, Fin. What the hell? It’s so unlike you. I’ve traveled with you before and you’ve never even needed to check a bag!”
I know I can’t let this question slide again, so I decide to get it over with and see what happens. “Actually, yeah,” I say.
“Yeah, what?” Leslie replies, curiously.
“I’d like to…um…move the fuck in, if that’s okay.” I query, self-consciously, adjusting my necklace and looking around the house to see if any of the other roommates are around to hear this request.
“Blimey,” Frank replies, “I thought you were trying to get up the duff with your bloke back in Chicago.”
“Chicago? What?” I question.
“FRANK!” Leslie bites, “Shut the fuck up, you loud cow! Sorry, Fin. Frank knows everything…he’s my gay boyfriend. We talk—it can’t be helped.”
“What does he know, exactly?” I question, still totally confused.
“He knows you’re trying to have a baby with Brod
y,” she says, glaring at Frank. “Back in Kansas—not Chicago, Frank!” Leslie finishes, looking at me, apologetically.
It’s like a cold bucket of ice-water has been dumped on top of my head. I’m not prepared for this conversation. I knew I’d have to have it eventually, but I feel sideswiped. I’m still trying to decipher the odd jumble of words that came out of Frank’s mouth. Even if he is Leslie’s gay boyfriend, a little word of warning would have been nice.
Frank interrupts my shock and says the only logical thing anyone could in this moment, “This seems like a chat best had over drinkies. Come along, loves!”
Frank grabs my arm and pulls me out the door and down the concrete steps. I follow them around the corner to a pub just two blocks away. The pub is dark, with old wood and hunter-green carpet all over. It smells like musty beers have been spilled on it for centuries and never been properly cleaned.
“Zoey, three pints of our usual, please. On the double—we got trouble over here!” Frank states, grandly, to the room full of strangers. No one appears to give a damn what this lanky redhead is talking about, so I don’t lose much thought over it.
“Spill, Fin. Now!” Leslie demands, looking at me with earnest eyes.
“Christ, Lezzie, at least let the bitch have a drink first,” Frank replies.
Frank is like no one I’ve met before. His sharp tongue and dry wit are extremely appealing to me. I find people with no filters refreshing; I always know where I stand with them. I think I’ve heard him say more curse words than anything else so far, and I’ve only known him five minutes, but he has a way about him that makes me feel comfortable.
The waitress brings over three large glasses of dark beer; I grab mine, nervously. Do I like dark beer? I’m not sure I’ve ever tried it.
