“You’re kidding.” I look at the lining of my trench coat and try to imagine a whole car painted like that.
“They called it a Chavrolet.” She chuckles.
We’re going over a bridge now. “Is this the Thames River?” I ask as I peer at the rather gray-looking water, which merely seems to be reflecting the gray dreary day.
“It is,” Fran confirms.
“But, please, Erin,” Paige says to me, “don’t mention a word about the chav business when we’re at Horseferry House.”
“Horseferry House?”
“That’s Burberry headquarters,” Fran tells me as she looks up from her map. “It looks like we’re almost there.”
“Now, remember,” Paige directs me as the car pulls up to a large structure. “This is Great Britain, where good etiquette is expected.”
“What are you saying?” I ask as I reach for my Birkin bag.
“Just that manners matter.”
I frown at her, but refrain from voicing my thoughts. But, seriously, does she think I’m going to pick my nose or belch or something?
This time we need to use our umbrellas, but soon we’re inside where our crew is already set up and ready to go. Soon we are given the tour of what seems a never-ending building, and during a brief lull I inquire as to the size of Horseferry House.
“We’re about twenty thousand square meters,” our guide tells me.
“Oh …” I nod as I attempt to convert that to square feet in my mind.
“Or for you Yanks, about one hundred and sixty thousand square feet.”
“Wow, that’s huge.”
He just smiles in that understated British sort of way, but I can tell he likes the idea that we’re impressed.
We finally wind up in the showroom and I must admit that I really do like Burberry’s style. “These are exactly the kinds of clothes that I feel comfortable wearing,” I say as we wait for one of the designers to join us for Paige’s final interview. “Stylish but sensible.”
“I like that,” says a British voice from behind me. “Stylish but sensible.”
I turn to see a good-looking guy coming in. Lanky and thin, he has serious eyes and his hair has that mussed-up look, but it only adds to his overall attractiveness.
“Christopher Bailey,” Paige says, and with a bright smile, she moves past me to where she takes his hand. “Thank you for allowing us to visit Horseferry House today. And thank you so much for taking time to meet with us now.”
“Ah, the renowned Paige Forrester.” He returns her smile. “I heard we’re having the American Fashion Invasion.”
Paige looks slightly off guard, but quickly recovers. “Oh, we’ve simply come over to study British design.” She tilts her head coyly. “I think we could learn a lot about style here.”
He chuckles. “So you’re not actually here to educate us then?”
“No, of course not.” She shakes her head.
“I think your style is brilliant,” I tell him, still trying to figure out my role in this new little game we’re playing. “I was just telling Paige that you design the kinds of clothes I like to wear.”
He nods. “Stylish but sensible.”
“This is my sister, Erin Forrester,” Paige takes the reins again.
“Tell me, Erin Forrester …” He studies me with curiosity. “What brought you into the world of fashion?”
“I … uh … mostly my sister,” I admit.
He looks amused.
“She’s the true fashionista of the family,” I continue. “But I do have some interest in fashion.” Okay, this is probably an overstatement.
“Such as?”
“Well … I care about environmentally conscious fashions,” I begin. “And I appreciate creative designers who come up with new ways to communicate fashion.” I glance at Paige, hoping she’ll jump in now.
But he nods as if he appreciates my slightly lame contribution. “Perhaps you’ve heard of our foundation then …” Naturally, I am blank.
“Oh, yes,” Paige says quickly. “The Burberry Foundation.” She turns to me now. “Christopher was instrumental in setting up this foundation. The purpose is to dedicate global resources to help young people realize their creative dreams. It’s really a wonderful program with a focus on the future of fashion.”
He looks both intrigued and impressed. “Someone’s been doing her homework.”
“I always appreciate hearing about designers who give back to the community,” she continues, “whether local or global. Burberry does both.”
Again, I can’t help but be impressed with my savvy sister. Also, I’m relieved to have her back in the driver’s seat. I can tell that she’s pleased with herself too. She and Christopher chat amicably for a few more minutes, and then when it’s time for him to go, she gracefully wraps it up.
“Nice work,” Fran tells her as the cameras shut down.
“Thanks.”
“You too,” Fran tells me.
“Thanks,” I say with less enthusiasm. “But I have a feeling that I should follow my sister’s example and start doing my homework.”
Paige laughs. “Oh, that’s okay, Erin. You keep being yourself and I’ll be me, and I think we’ll be just fine.”
In other words, I think she’s telling me to watch out—warning me that she wants to remain in control of the show and, hey, I’m okay with that.
“Next stop is Stella McCartney,” Fran informs us almost apologetically. “Sorry to pack so much into your first day but, as you know, the payoff is a free day tomorrow. The only time we could tour Stella’s was after-hours today, so we decided to jump on it.”
“Now here’s someone I know a little about,” I admit as we ride through London, where the rain has stopped and the city seems to be shining in the sunlight.
“Do tell,” my sister says in a challenging tone. “I suppose you’ve heard of her famous father.”
I give her a duh look. “Yes, I’m sure everyone has heard of Sir Paul McCartney from the Beatles. But not everyone knows that Stella’s mother, the late Linda McCartney, was an animal rights activist and probably the reason Stella is a strict vegetarian and uses no fur or leather in her designs.”
“Bravo.” Paige nods. “Tell me more.”
“Uh …” I’m trying to remember what else I read about her when I was doing a bit of research at home. Apparently not enough. “Stella also designs sportswear for Adidas and someone else … I think.”
“Yes, as well as her own full line of clothes,” Paige supplements. “She used to work for Chloé and Gucci. She designs for icons like Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow and she even has a skin-care line called CARE.”
“Bravo,” I say back to her.
She nods in a queenly sort of way.
“You know we have a bit of time to kill before six,” Fran tells us. She glances down at her map and notes then calls up to the driver. “Let’s stop at Bar Italia in Soho.”
“We’re going to a bar?” I ask.
“A coffee bar,” she tells me.
“Yes, this is London.” Paige uses a tutorial tone. “If we wanted something more than coffee, we would go to a pub.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, yes, wise one,” I say with sarcasm. “Thank you for straightening me out.”
Bar Italia turns out to be an interesting place. According to Fran, it’s the most popular all-night coffee bar in London. Why anyone wants to drink coffee in the middle of the night is beyond me, but I suppose some might come for the food. I’ll admit it smells delicious, but since we only have about forty minutes to spare, we settle for coffees and pastries.
Then we clean crumbs from our faces and freshen our makeup, and we’re off to Stella McCartney. The shop is very chic and impressive. While Paige, in top form, does a quick interview, I mostly just listen, somewhat in awe of this woman who seems much younger than her late thirties. Not only is she pretty and creative, it’s like she has a youthful spirit. And, once again, I’m surprised at how much I like most
of her designs. Maybe I am secretly a British fashion freak and I just never knew it before now.
But as Paige is wrapping it up, I can tell that we’re all feeling pretty tired. When we return to the hotel it’s past seven and all I want to do is order some room service and crash. But, once again, we are met by some media thugs as we attempt to enter our hotel.
“We don’t have time for this,” Fran says as they literally block the door.
Paige is back in her Gucci shades and pink scarf disguise. Very effective. I’m controlling myself from yelling at them to get out of our way.
“Just a quick question,” a guy says to Paige.
“You and Benjamin Kross were—”
“Benjamin is just my friend,” Paige practically shouts at him.
“But photos of you two kissing are already circulating the Internet,” he continues. “And rumors of your pregnancy are—”
“I am not pregnant!”
Fran is waving to a doorman over by a taxi. “Please, call security,” she yells at him.
“When is the wedding date?” another paparazzo calls out.
“Get out of our way,” I shout as I push past the rude man.
Just then the doorman rushes over and takes charge, threatening the paparazzi with legal action if they don’t leave. Suddenly we are free of them and inside the lobby.
“If this doesn’t stop we might have to change hotels,” Fran says with irritation.
Paige groans. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, maybe we can spread a new rumor,” I say as we get in the elevator. “That we’ve switched hotels.”
“Or maybe I can get a better disguise,” Paige suggests as she removes her scarf and shades. “Like a long black wig.”
Fran nods. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
“I suppose that means I’ll need a wig too,” I say without enthusiasm.
“Or else we just come and go separately,” Paige says dismally.
I consider this. In some ways, I wouldn’t mind separating myself from my sister a bit. Fending off paparazzi and hearing those kinds of accusations isn’t exactly fun. Especially when I’m not totally sure what is and is not actually true. I wouldn’t be surprised if there really are photos of Ben and Paige kissing circulating on the Internet right now. Really, for all I know, they may be secretly planning a wedding. Not that I plan on asking Paige about this. Because, the truth is, I’m not sure I totally trust her right now. I get the feeling that not only is she protecting her place on the show, as she clearly showed me this morning with her airport ambush (and possibly her choice of clothing for me today), but that she’s not being totally honest with me either.
Chapter
14
We agree to go our separate ways on our day off. Paige wants to sleep in and then do some shopping, and I want to do some typical sightseeing that she’s not interested in. I decide to get an early start, but once I’m down in the lobby, I have no idea what I should do. So I consult with the concierge, a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and a neat bowtie. He reminds me of the stereotype of an English butler.
“How much time have you got?” he asks me quickly, studying his computer screen as if it’s of more interest to him than I am.
“All day,” I tell him.
“What are your primary interests?” He looks up from his screen and studies me closely as if trying to determine who I am and where I came from.
“I’m not sure. I do like to take photos.”
“Have you any interest in Shakespeare?” he asks suddenly.
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Absolutely.”
“Have you a car?”
I shake my head no.
“Are you are on your own?”
“Today I am.”
“But you say you have all day?”
I nod, wondering where he’s going with this inquisition.
“Then, if I were you, I’d nab a seat on the Gray Line tour of Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“Gray Line? Is that a bus?”
“Yes. But I promise you, it’s a good tour. You’ll see Shakespeare’s birthplace and Anne Hathaway’s cottage. If you’re at all interested in literature, I think you’ll find it charming.”
I’m still not sure. “It’s an all-day tour?”
“Yes. If you decide right now there’s a chance I can get you on it.”
I’m thinking about it. Do I really want to spend the day on a bus?
“Of course, there are some Shakespearean sights one can see right here in London,” he says offhandedly. “The Globe Theater and such. You can easily catch those on another day. But truly, if you want to experience Shakespeare, to walk where he walked, to see the sights that the great Bard saw, you should capitalize on this tour. Also, you might snatch some brilliant photos this time of year. Stratford-upon-Avon is spectacularly beautiful in May.”
“All right.” I nod. “Please see if you can get me on this tour.”
He looks back down at his computer screen, clicks a few times, then picks up the phone, has a quick conversation, and finally hangs up. “You’re in luck,” he announces.
Soon we have it all squared away and he tells me the bus will be by to pick me up in about an hour, which gives me just enough time to sample the “full English” breakfast. I’m guessing it is rarely served in this hotel because the waiter seems delighted when I order it. This traditional meal comes complete with grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, eggs, sausages, and “rashers,” which is actually bacon and rather tasty. Of course, I can’t eat the whole thing and I suspect the reason they call it the “full English” breakfast is because you become quite full upon consuming it.
By the time I’m stuffed and making my way through the lobby, telling myself that now I had better skip lunch, I see the concierge waving toward me.
“Your chariot awaits,” he calls out, pointing to the entrance. I thank him and wave, hurrying out the door and onto a bus that is full of—old people. Not terribly old-old, like one foot in the graveyard old, but around my grandma’s age. To my surprise, they all cheer when I step onto the bus. Feeling conspicuous and wondering if I’ve just made a huge mistake, I give them a feeble smile and take a seat near the front.
“I hope you don’t mind,” a middle-aged woman seated opposite me says, “but I took the liberty to tell everyone that we’ve got a real celebrity on board.”
I blink. “A celebrity?”
She glances down at a notepad. “You are Erin Forrester, correct?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what the concierge told me.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Harriet Barstow, your tour guide.”
“Nice to meet you and thanks for waiting.”
She peers curiously at me. “Now is it true that you’re a star of some American television show?”
“Not exactly a star,” I say quickly. “My sister, Paige Forrester, is the real star. I’m just her costar. Our show is called On the Runway.”
“Because the other tourists, also Americans, were eager to have a young star in their midst, they tolerated your lateness just now.” She smiles patiently. “But I hope you won’t make a habit of it.” She stands as the driver pulls out into traffic, getting her microphone ready.
“I’ll do my best to keep you from waiting.” I assure her.
“So, we’re off now,” she announces to the rest of the bus. “We welcome Erin Forrester to our group. She has informed me that her television show is called On the Runway. We will be traveling northwest for a bit. For our entertainment, I have a little quiz for you. Since I know you are mostly retired school teachers, I will attempt to make the questions a bit more challenging than usual.” She begins to ask questions about Shakespeare, his history, his works, and even some quotes. Several of the retired teachers seem to be serious Shakespeare buffs. I even get one right when she asks who the main character’s daughter was in The Tempest.
“Prospero’s daughter was Miranda,” I call out before anyone else, which wins me a
Cadbury chocolate bar. I stick this in my bag for later—just in case I ever get hungry again.
It’s around eleven when the bus stops in the quaint-looking town of Stratford-upon-Avon. As we get out and mill around, waiting for our tour guide, I learn that the retired teachers are all from Madison, Wisconsin. It seems they are mostly women, and for the most part seem very chatty and friendly. A few, to my surprise, have actually seen On the Runway.
“My granddaughter Elsie loves your show,” a woman who told me to call her Mildred informs me as Harriet shepherds us across a street. “She lives with me and we’ve been watching it together. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that your sister is such a good example to these young girls.” She shakes her head. “I would get so tired of some of the trashy shows that Elsie used to watch. Shopping with her used to be a nightmare. It seemed the poor girl was determined to look like a call girl.” She chuckles as we get in line again. “Although I have to admit Paige’s influence comes at a price.”
“What do you mean?” Suddenly I’m worried that Mildred has already seen the latest tabloids.
“Now Elsie wants expensive designer clothes. I finally had to put her on a budget before she drags me to the poor house.” She laughs. “But I must say I’d rather spend money on those nice clothes then the horrid rags poor Elsie used to wear. That is an improvement.”
The line is moving again and I put my focus on the words of our tour guide and the charming buildings. After we’ve seen the home of Shakespeare’s birth and Nash’s, the place where he died in 1616, we visit Hall’s Croft, the house where his daughter and her wealthy husband lived. It has a lovely photogenic garden where I get a number of good photos. Then we visit Holy Trinity Church, and finally get on the bus and continue on to the cottage of Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare’s wife.
By the time we finish it’s not even one and I’m wondering how this can be an all-day tour, but to my surprise Stratford-upon-Avon is just the beginning. We also stop in Oxford where I take a full card’s worth of photos, and then we stop at Windsor Castle, which is perfectly lit by a gorgeous dusky sky, translating into another card’s worth of photos. Finally we return to London around eight and I tell all my new teacher friends good-bye. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the kind of day I would brag about to anyone my age—I mean, hanging with a bunch of retired teachers probably sounds pretty lame. But I actually had a good time. I feel like I experienced more of England than I thought would be possible on this trip.
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