Bella Summer Takes a Chance

by Michele Gorman

  ‘Because I don’t want to get thrashed for chatting up another man’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I say. ‘So it’s self-preservation.’

  ‘Well, it’s what makes the world go round.’

  ‘I thought love made the world go round.’

  ‘Maybe love makes self-preservation go round. Do I detect an American accent?’

  ‘You do. I’m from Connecticut.’ His bemused expression isn’t an uncommon reaction to the whereabouts of my home state. ‘It’s near New York. But I moved here a few days ago.’

  ‘Welcome to our country.’ He raises his glass, clinking it with mine. ‘I’m glad to see that you’re already familiar with one of our great British institutions.’

  ‘I’m a very quick learner,’ I say, sipping my beer. ‘What are the others?’

  ‘Fish and chips, cricket, and the seductive powers of the finest lovers in the world.’

  Mmm, a cocky, great-looking man. ‘I haven’t had fish and chips yet. And isn’t cricket just lazy man’s baseball?’

  ‘It’s blasphemy to say that about the greatest sport on earth. They can deport you for it.’

  ‘Psh! How is standing in a field all day a sport?’

  He ponders. ‘Cricket is a thinking man’s game. It’s like chess, with sunshine and drink.’

  ‘Is it as interesting as watching chess?’ I’d rather watch my nails dry.

  ‘It’s not even comparable. We spend days sitting in the sun, drinking and watching the game we love.’

  ‘So you’re in it for the tan.’

  ‘And the drink.’

  ‘Hmm, back to drinking.’ A theme is beginning to emerge.

  ‘As I’ve mentioned, it’s one of our great traditions.’

  ‘That’s right, and something about being seduced by the world’s greatest lovers. Can I assume there are there a lot of Italians in London?’

  ‘I am, of course, referring to the British gentleman.’

  I’d be more tempted to believe his description if we weren’t interrupted by a man loudly referring to the TV by that much-maligned female body part. ‘I have to say I hadn’t heard that,’ I say.

  ‘Really? I’m sure it’s printed in the handbook.’

  ‘Is that required reading on arrival? Maybe they’re out of stock in Terminal Five.’

  ‘I’ll ask my people to have a word with their people.’

  ‘You have people?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Ah, but you can make your own people.’

  Oh dear. My virtue, such as it is, may be seriously compromised. Who’s not a sucker for a witty man? They are the Saabs of the dating world, often with drab exteriors but a range of interesting features inside. He’s giving me the prickly sweats. My scalp has gone hot and feel a little puddle forming on my top lip. It’s doing nothing for me in the seduction stakes. Unless he prefers his women with a seal-like sheen. One of his friends asks if he wants another beer. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your friends,’ I say. Of course I hope I keep him from his friends.

  ‘Let them find their own girls. Fancy another drink?’

  I’m not one to go against tradition, though I’d better make this round non-alcoholic.

  ‘So,’ he says over our full glasses, ‘here’s the obvious question, Hannah from Connecticut: why did you move to London?’

  ‘I was looking for a change.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s a bold change.’

  ‘Well, uh, I –’ Is this the time for warts-and-all honesty? Of course not. ‘I came to a realization. . . Have you ever woken up and wondered what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘Are you saying you black out often?’

  ‘Hah, hah. No. Well . . . sometimes. No, I mean I realized I was on autopilot. And I’m too young to be my mother.’

  ‘I understand completely,’ he says. ‘You want to be a participant in your life.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘I think you’re brave to move.’

  ‘Or stupid.’

  ‘Quite possibly it’s the most stupid thing you’ll ever do.’

  Huh. And just when I thought this might be going somewhere.

  ‘But so what?’ He smiles. ‘At least you’ll have done it.’

  Exactly, at least I’ll have done it. This guy gets me. His insight, not to mention his gorgeousness, are improving his chances by the minute . . . Except that I’m getting way ahead of myself. He could be a psycho. He might be a bum. He may be happily married with kids. I need much more detail. Subtle questioning can peel back the layers of this lovely onion. ‘So, aside from beer drinking, sun worshipping and cricket-loving, what’s your story?’

  Or I could just chop it in half and see what’s inside.

  ‘My stah-ry? . . . Sorry, sorry! Actually, I really like an American accent.’

  ‘You do?’ This is hard to believe.

  ‘I do. I went out with an American girl once. I was absolutely head over heels in love.’

  ‘What happened?’ Hopefully she betrayed him, then dumped him, then died. As with vampires, it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes to the specter of fabulous ex-girlfriends.

  ‘She married someone else.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not. We’d have made each other miserable.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ Because you love sex and she was frigid? You’re rich and generous and she didn’t like jewelry or fancy hotels?

  ‘I guess I thought she was a little neurotic. But I was very immature. When you’re young, everything is a big deal, isn’t it? That was an age ago. Now it’d probably be different. I wish her nothing but the best. What about you? Is there someone back home?’

  ‘Nope, I’m single. You?’

  ‘Would I be here with you if I weren’t?’ He grins.

  ‘You’d be surprised how many men would.’

  ‘I’m not at all surprised,’ he continues. ‘Always remember, most men are bastards at heart. We’re hard-wired like that. Are you working here?’

  ‘No, not yet. What about you? Where do you work?’

  ‘You’re intriguing, Hannah ‒ a woman who doesn’t want to talk about herself. Every time I ask about you, you ask about me.’

  ‘Maybe I’d just rather talk about you,’ I smile. To see if you’re insane, I don’t add.

  ‘Flattery will get you very far indeed.’ He raises his glass to me.

  I’m a bit breathless, definitely not used to guys this hot flirting back. Oh, I dream about them. I hope that they will. But they usually don’t. ‘So,’ I say, trying to keep my composure. ‘You were about to tell me something interesting about yourself.’

  ‘You’re like a dog with a bone. Something interesting . . . Well, I’ve worked my arse off over the last ten years to build my company. I started in my back bedroom with one account, which was a family friend, and a thousand-pound overdraft. I was so nervous at my first event that I was physically sick.’

  Why, when I ask about a man, does he think telling me what he does counts as interesting? ‘I see. Interesting.’ And why do I pretend it is?

  ‘Not really, but you’re kind to say so. I know what you’re asking. You want to know my deepest darkest secret.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘All right, since you asked.’ He’s gazing right into my eyes. ‘I’m afraid of being lonely. I don’t mean being by myself. I mean having people all around me, but nobody to connect with. I’m afraid of living my entire life like that, and I’m afraid of dying without ever having made that connection.’

  A man with feelings and fears, and the willingness to disclose both? Now that is interesting.

  ‘Incidentally, my other fear is to be taken advantage of by women who are only looking for a spectacularly endowed man with epic love-making skills.’

  Time flies when a sexy man plies you with drinks. Much later, the barman rings a big bell and shouts something.

  ‘Last orders,’ Mark says.
r />   ‘Is that for a tip? At home, when someone leaves a big tip, the bartender rings a bell.’

  ‘We don’t tip barmen here.’

  Lucky Brits. If we don’t tip barmen, they ignore us for the night or spit in our next round.

  ‘It’s the call for last orders,’ he explains. ‘If we want another drink, we have to place our order now. Would you like another pint, or a Hoff?’

  ‘What’s a Hoff?’

  ‘Hoff a pint.’

  Ah, I get it.

  The bouncer is sweeping the night’s debris over my shoes to let me know I’m welcome to stay as long as I’d like. ‘I guess we’d better go.’

  ‘Probably so,’ he says. ‘Do I get to see you again?’

  He wants to see me again! If I play my cards right, he may even want to see more of me tonight. ‘Sure, I’d like that, only . . .’

  ‘Only . . . you really do have a boyfriend, and he’s a bodyguard with a jealous streak and a fondness for assault weapons?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only . . . you’ve sworn off men?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  . . . ‘You fear I like men? Hannah, those are the only acceptable reasons not to see me again.’

  ‘What if I don’t like you?’ This is technically possible. Not true, but technically possible.

  ‘Ah, but you do like me.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You’re holding my hand.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ That is rather watertight evidence.

  ‘So . . . ?’ He looks expectant.

  So, the only phone where I can be reached is in the hotel hallway beside what might be a needle-exchange bin, and I barely remember how to get back there, let alone what it’s called. ‘This is embarrassing, but I don’t know the name of my hotel.’

  ‘Do you remember where it is?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Sort of. These streets all look the same – buses, taxis, people and shops selling something called doner kebabs.

  ‘Then I’ll walk you there.’

  Hand in hand we walk, and walk. After the second time around the block, I can faithfully report that my hotel isn’t there. Luckily it is on the next street. I may seem to be better-looking in the UK but there’s only so much patience a guy I just met can be expected to have.

  A sudden terrible thought strikes as we arrive at the hotel’s steps. What if he’s a bad kisser? This amazing streak of beginner’s luck may end in tears. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, but a man this good-looking who can’t kiss would be tragic, like ordering the double-chocolate fudge brownie only to find out that it’s not moist and delicious at all.

  At least the awkwardness of a first kiss is universal. After a brief staring contest, the moment of truth arrives. Mmm. He’s off to a good start, hand stroking my hair. Deep eye contact tempered with cheeky smile, so not creepy. The lean-in. Ahh. He’s a good ‒ no, he’s a great kisser. Rule Britannia!

  ‘Should we go somewhere more private?’ he says. ‘I fear we’re making a spectacle here.’

  Oh how I’d like to invite him upstairs. Would that be slutty? Yes, probably. Be strong, walk away. ‘It’s late. Maybe we should say good night.’ Wouldn’t mom be proud of me.

  ‘You’re killing me!’ he laughs, kissing me again. And again. I could do this till sunrise. ‘But you’re right, what a sensible girl. I have to get up for work tomorrow, while you laze under the duvet. Oh how I’d love to see that.’

  I grin. ‘I’ll think of you while I have my coffee. So, good night then.’ It takes all my willpower to stop talking, for the next thing to come out of my mouth will surely kill this perfect evening.

  ‘Good night Hannah,’ he smiles as he kisses me again. ‘And welcome to London.’

  2

  As much as I’d love to be sightseeing rather than walking into yet another employment agency’s lobby, without a job I’ll have to go home in a month, a failure living five time zones from the one man who’s offered to see me naked in the better part of a year. I’ve got a good feeling about this place. Unlike most of the others I’ve tried in the last few days, its office isn’t in a storefront beside the kebab shop. It must be successful at placing candidates in order to afford offices with a bird’s-eye view over the city. I’m perched on a real Barcelona chair and I think the paintings are originals. Surely they’ve got something on their books for me. A city the size of London must need a lot of PR bods. Granted, the little stamp in my passport says I’m not supposed to work, but given that I’m college educated, I have experience, I speak the language . . .

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I say when the receptionist makes her request.

  ‘Your CV,’ she repeats. ‘May I have your CV, please?’

  ‘My CD? I don’t have a CD.’ Does she think I’m a rapper or something?

  ‘Then please detail your work experience on the form.’

  ‘Why don’t I just give you my résumé?’

  She looks it over. She looks me over. She’s not impressed with either of us. ‘You haven’t fully listed your education.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I didn’t go to grad school.’ I won’t be bullied by the receptionist, not while wearing my most confidence-building suit (black Ralph Lauren boiled-wool skirt suit with fishtail pleat and patent skinny belt. It’s perfect with my moss-green knock-off Jimmy Choo kitten heels with tiny studs – which are comfortable as long as I scrunch up my toes when I walk).

  ‘Where did you do your sixth form?’ she asks. My bewilderment must be obvious. ‘College?’ she tries.

  ‘University of Connecticut.’

  ‘Isn’t that university?’ she asks. I nod, making her sigh again. ‘You haven’t listed your GCSEs. We need to know your grades before university.’

  ‘That’s right here,’ I say, pointing to my mediocre high school performance.

  ‘Are those your A-levels?’

  ‘Well, they weren’t all As,’ I say truthfully. They weren’t even mostly As.

  Her look says she loves this kind of variety in her job. ‘We need the grades from the papers you sat at sixteen.’

  I’m getting as frustrated with the language barrier as she is. ‘Do you mean my middle-school grades?’

  ‘Perhaps. Employers will want to see all your grades before university.’

  Fine. In kindergarten I excelled at naps and snack-time, rose to top of the class for coloring inside the lines and always remembered to raise my hand for the bathroom before I wet my pants.

  ‘And please fill this out as well.’ She hands me another form. Am I applying for work or donating a kidney?

  Name, okay. Address, I’ve now memorized. Previous position, PR Junior Account Executive (glamorous-sounding, I know). Age and marital status . . . What are they running, a dating agency? There’s no box for none of your business.

  ‘Now, if you’ll just stand against that wall.’ The camera’s flash temporarily blinds me. This can’t be a coincidence; the guy at the first agency did the same thing. I told him to fuck off in plain English (that translates perfectly, by the way) and stormed out.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘It’s so we can put a face with the name. We have a lot of candidates and find this is a good way to be sure we give them personalized attention.’

  I’m such a fool. I’ve happily provided bodily fluids at home to prove that I don’t have any illegal habits, and yet I freak out about having my picture taken. I fear my sense of employee rights is out of whack. Maybe I should send a snapshot to the first agency to make amends.

  I know I have no choice if I want to find a job, but I absolutely hate having to go through this process. I’m not great at selling myself. Even my college’s recruitment drive failed to unearth a willing employer, and we all know complete losers who’ve managed to get hired that way. Naturally I’d prefer to blame someone else, but I know that my own laziness plays a part. Evidence: my one and only job came through a friend introducing me to her boss in a bar. And don’t get me started on my dating record. Be
ing an opportunist at heart, I’ve always settled for the good-enough that comes my way. It’s worked pretty well so far. I think that the Taoists are on to something (I once dated a t’ai chi instructor, so I know a little about it). They believe that the universe works harmoniously and when man exerts his will against the world, that harmony is disrupted. Which can’t be a good thing. So maybe I’m not lazy, I’m simply the unwitting disciple of an ancient Chinese philosophy.

  I’m not suggesting that I’ve never been motivated to exert my will against the world. There are women still nursing wounds from past sample sales. But fashion aside, little has the power to overcome my natural inertia. Until now. There’s no settling for second best here. Either I find a job or I go home with nothing but a stamp in my passport that cost me 5,000 dollars. That’s not much of a choice.

  Eventually a smiling young woman emerges from a long hallway. ‘Hi, I’m Chloe,’ she says, sticking her hand out to me. ‘Come through, please.’ She’s really pretty. And even without the ability to label spot here, I can tell that she’s very stylish. She’s got long, straight honey-blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin. London seems to harbor more than its fair share of dewy-skinned blonds. It’s not quite Sweden, but I’m finding it demoralizing. A petty girl might say that most of this golden hue is chemically induced, ergo, the carpet won’t match the curtains. But that’s no comfort when you realize that men don’t know a broadloom from a valance. What’s more, they don’t care.

  ‘So you come from Connecticut,’ she says, glancing at my résumé.

  ‘Uh-huh. Have you been there?’ I know this is a stretch. Nine out of ten people outside the US can’t point to Connecticut on a map. Five out of ten Americans have a hard time finding it.

  ‘No, I’ve only been to New York City.’

  ‘I like New York. I used to get down there a lot. There’s so much going on.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ she confides, ‘I really go for the shopping.’

  ‘Me too!’ Here is a kindred spirit, not afraid to admit that Missoni is more interesting than the Met.