‘There’s that shop down by the World Trade Center memorial –’
‘Century 21!’ What are the chances that this woman, from a different country, knows my favorite store on the planet?
‘That’s the one! The designer section is incredible.’
‘I love the jeans. So cheap!’
‘Especially in pounds. And the cashmere ‒’
‘What about shoes?’
‘IT’S AMAZING!’ we chorus.
We observe a moment of silence to give this cathedral to discount shopping the respect it deserves. Without wanting to get ahead of myself (which I’ve been known to do), Chloe could be my new best friend in London. As she talks through my scant work experience, the loneliness lifts just a bit.
Within about two minutes it’s obvious that I’m unfit for most of the positions she’s trying to fill, so I can’t really hold it against her when she starts making small talk. Interview over, let the friendship commence.
‘How long have you been in London?’ She’s more relaxed now that we’ve established she isn’t going to find me a job.
‘Just over a week. It’s harder than I thought.’
‘I lived in France for a year, so I know what it’s like.’
‘Did you . . . did you feel like everything was very foreign?’ Yes, I realize how stupid I sound.
‘Huh, I did. I spoke a bit of French, but living there was a completely different story.’
‘No kidding. I thought I spoke the language here but . . . I guess I didn’t expect you all to be so different.’
‘Really? Different how?’
Uh-uh, I’m not falling for that. No doubt it’s intriguing to see how others perceive your culture, but surely I’m not qualified to pass judgment on the English. I’ve been here about five minutes . . . On the other hand, a fresh view is often illuminating. After all, we don’t realize we’re loud until some soft-spoken European, cringing and clutching his bleeding ears, points it out to us. But on the other, other hand, telling Chloe that I think her people are scantily dressed alcoholics probably isn’t the best way to cement our friendship.
‘It’s all pretty different,’ I say lamely.
‘I guess so. Have you got friends here?’
‘Nope. But I talk to Stacy, that’s my best friend, every day.’ Every couple of hours, every day.
‘That must get expensive.’
‘Nah, I’ve got one of those prepaid calling cards. It’s probably cheaper than calling across town. It’s a good thing too . . . it’s kind of lonely here.’
‘I remember what that was like too. It gets better though . . . If you ever want to meet for a drink . . .’
‘That’d be great!’ I say. ‘In fact I’m free tonight.’ I think I have a little crush on Chloe. You know how you get excited when you meet a potential friend, one that you really click with? You trade phone numbers and make plans to see each other again. You plan what you’ll wear and spend your time searching out common points of interest. Except for the kissing, it’s no different than a date. In fact, it’s just as much fun, often with more promising long-term prospects.
‘Er, okay.’
She sounds anything but okay. I’ve just cornered the poor girl into a social engagement with a complete stranger. I must sound desperate.
‘I’m done around six,’ she continues gamely. ‘We could meet somewhere near here.’
Desperation be damned, I get to go for drinks tonight!
I know by the unladylike belly rumbles punctuating our goodbyes that this was a fateful meeting. It could be the start of something great. You see, unlike those whippet-thin girls whose high spirits kill their hunger pangs, my happy-appetite is legendary. Food only loses its magic when I’m low. And while it’s been nice these past few months shedding pounds on a diet of forgotten dreams, my belly is obviously about to make up for lost calories. There certainly is a lot of choice in this city, but then, it does have to feed ten million people. I’ll have to get the hang of it eventually. After all, ordering lunch is a simple process. Order. Pay. Leave. No need for a panic attack.
The deli looks like it’s been here since sandwiches were invented. So does the rotund, thickly mustachioed man peeking over the deli case. ‘Next, please,’ he says.
‘Turkey and cheese, please,’ I tell him, trying not to look too closely at the stains on his white shirt.
‘Bap?’ he challenges. I nod. ‘Which cheese?’
I point. ‘That one.’
‘Butta?’
‘No, just salad cream.’ So far, so good.
‘Salad?’
Oh god, oh god. ‘Just tomahdoes, please.’ As in Awesome, man. I’d like some tomahdoes, heh, heh. Pass the bong.
I swear he smirks. Is there a medical term for fear of delis? Label or not, I’m developing the condition. If I could turn back time, I’d apologize to all the foreigners I’ve ever been impatient with, and banish all the ‘Why can’t you just speak English?’ thoughts I’ve ever had. Hah, that’s ironic, considering that apparently I don’t speak English. Our cultural blunders may not exactly endear us to the Brits, but they should cut us some slack. We don’t expect them to tip generously or drawl in American upon landing at JFK.
Outside, someone grabs my coat, yanking me backwards on to the sidewalk. ‘WACHOUT!’
‘Wha‒?!’
The van blasts its horn as it ricochets off the curb and speeds off into the distance.
‘You haff to look the other way,’ my savior advises. ‘Well, both ways. Those white vans are shoeisheidal.’
Suicidal vans, got it. I’d thank him if my heart wasn’t pounding in my throat.
‘Where do you come from?’ he asks as we cross together.
Deep breaths. ‘The States.’
‘Ah, I come from Espain. We drive on the right too. Iss very confusing.’
I knew that. It’s just hard to unlearn a lifetime of looking left for danger. Sorry, Mom, all your years of training were for nothing here.
‘Tha’s why they write in the roads.’ He points to the tarmac.
Sure enough, it says LOOK RIGHT in big white letters. So I’m not the first pedestrian to have been targeted. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He’s smiling as he trots away.
‘Wait . . .’ It’s too late. He’s been swallowed up in the lunchtime throng. I wanted to ask him about the crosswalks. Sometimes cars stop, sometimes they don’t. Some people walk across them without breaking their stride, others wait at the edge for cars to stop. I don’t know how I’m supposed to cross one without ending up in the hospital.
At the next crosswalk, a man rushes past, practically knocking me out of the way. I’m not kidding. If we were playing hockey, there’d be a penalty. Or a fight.
‘You cross in the zebra.’ The lady next to me rhymes ‘zebra’ with ‘Debra’ as she strides past.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You might want to cross the road,’ she snaps. ‘You’re holding up the traffic.’
Her look, as if she’s just remembered the time she stepped in a rather large and steaming pile of something, reassures me that I’m very welcome in her city.
For all their supposed reserve, Brits can be astonishingly aggressive to newcomers. I vow to walk unafraid across the zeb-ra and to practice saying ‘tomahto’ so they’ll stop sniggering at me. At the risk of sounding insane as I repeat the word on the way to the bar (‘tamahto, tamah‒ . . . tomaahto, toemaahhto’), it seems the least I can do to try to embrace my new culture. I think Chloe, as my first potential friend within the country’s borders, will appreciate the effort.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this sneak peek at Single in the City, the first of three books in the series, which is available globally in paperback and all eBook formats
About the Author
Michele Gorman is the best-selling author of Single in the City, Misfortune Cookie and The Twelve Days to Christmas. She also writes upmarket commercial fiction under the pen name Jamie Scott.
Born and raised in the US, Michele has lived in London for 16 years.
And since she loves to chat with readers, please do add her as a facebook friend and follow her on twitter.
www.michelegorman.co.uk
www.michelegormanwriter.blogspot.co.uk
Twitter: @expatdiaries
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