by Jen McConnel
Drawn by the clock tower, I strolled across a wide pedestrian bridge, lined with a wrought iron railing that looked more like it should have been the fence around a royal mansion. The black metal was tipped in gold, and just walking across the bridge made me feel important.
On the other side of the bridge, Big Ben was even more impressive in person than I’d imagined, and a sense of giddiness stole over me. I was in London! It was kind of amazing to realize that, at least temporarily, I had escaped from my life.
A stream of people moved around me, and I allowed myself to get swept into the crowd. Across the street from the clock, I recognized the white spires of Westminster Abbey. Mom had always been a fan of the royals, and she’d recorded the last two royal weddings. Whenever she was in a particularly romantic mood, she’d put on Diana’s wedding, or Kate’s, and we’d watch the spectacle together, commenting on the beautiful dresses and the ugly hats. Some girls watched chick flicks with their moms, but I’d grown up on real life fairy tales. Sometimes, I’d wondered if she had needed the escape as much as I had.
I crossed the lawn to the church and purchased a ticket. Suddenly disappointed that I didn’t have a camera, I made a mental note to take some of my extra money and buy one before the day was over.
Following the quiet crowd through the huge wooden doors, I felt a sense of calm steal over me. The floor of the church was worn smooth from centuries of passing feet, and as I looked at the stone walls, I realized that this church was older than anything I’d ever seen before. I almost imagined I could hear the whispers of the ghosts of England as I walked through the space, staring at the sweeping ceiling and drinking in the details of the abbey.
I bought an audio tour from a smiling old woman with blue hair at the booth in front of the church, and I pressed the headset to my ear, punching in numbers as I explored the layers of the church. By the time I finally passed through the gift shop, the sky had started to turn orange, and hazy clouds had closed over the city.
Suddenly tired, I began the long walk across the river back to my hostel. Along the way, I stopped to buy a sandwich from a street vendor, and I sat on the same brick wall where I’d noticed the smokers earlier, eating my dinner and looking out at the dark water of the Thames. Even though I was starving, I forced myself to eat slowly. No one likes to see a heavy girl being gluttonous, according to my dad. Well, what he’d actually said was, “Nobody wants to watch a cow like you chewing her cud, fatty!”
I shivered in the deepening twilight. When I’d taken the job in London, I thought I would never have to deal with my father again. Sure, I had enough money to travel around for a while, maybe even the whole summer, but sooner or later, I’d have to figure out what to do, and returning home might be my only option.
I shook my head, brushing the crumbs off my lap. There was no point worrying about all that now. I hopped down off the wall and headed back to the hostel.
The bar was packed when I slipped through the door, and even though I tried to get to the stairs at the back without being noticed, I heard a couple of whistles behind me. One man called out, “Hey, gingersnap!” and his companions laughed uproariously. Flushed, I made my way upstairs.
A girl in a glittery gold top was standing next to one of the beds, rooting around in her suitcase. She looked up at me as I entered, and she flashed a friendly smile. “You’re new.” I couldn’t quite place her accent, but I could tell she wasn’t from the US.
I nodded. “My name’s Sarah.”
“Rachel. Want to come out with some of us tonight?”
Even though the dorm was empty except for us, I assumed she had a crowd of slender, perky girls waiting to hit the London party scene. Rachel seemed nice enough, but the way her Barbie-doll figure looked in the gold top made me feel like an awkward blimp, so I shook my head. “I’m tired. But thanks!”
She nodded, heading for the door. “Any time you want to tag along, just holler!”
I forced a smile. “Have fun.”
She chuckled as she left the room. “Always!”
After Rachel and her glittery outfit had left, the dorm felt drab and depressing. For a minute, I considered rushing after her and asking her to wait up, to let me come, but then I realized I didn’t have anything to wear to a club. I’d packed nanny clothes, not party clothes. I sat down on my bed with a sigh.
I tried to sleep, but the noises from the bar filtered through the old floorboards, and I tossed and turned for what feel like hours before I finally passed out.
Chapter Seven
I woke up way too early the next morning with a throbbing head. My internal clock was still on nanny time, which sucked, but I couldn’t fall back asleep. The way I was feeling, I wished I had gone out drinking the night before when Rachel invited me; at least then I’d have an excuse to be miserable.
Moving quietly so I didn’t wake any of the other girls in the dorm, I took a change of clothes and my toiletries with me down the hall to the shower. I remembered what the girl who checked me in said about the hot water, but I stood under the stream a little bit longer than five minutes. The heat felt good on my groggy head, and I hoped it was early enough that none of the other hostel guests would notice.
I toweled off as fast as I could and got dressed, pulling on the same jeans I’d worn yesterday and slipping into a soft, faded navy peasant blouse. It was old, but comfy, and it was one of the few things I owned that I didn’t feel like made me look fat.
Trying to move as silently as possible down the old stairs, I poked my head in the bar. The girl had said there was breakfast in the mornings, and I was hungry. A pile of croissants and biscuits sat at one end of the bar, and I grabbed a couple of rolls and wandered out into the street.
Without really knowing what I planned, I took the Underground back to Piccadilly Circus. It was crowded with morning commuters and a couple of tired-looking old men who might have been homeless, but I found a seat by the window and I stared into the darkness, watching the tunnel walls and stations rush past. When the train slowed, I pushed my way through the crowd and climbed the steps into the sunlight.
There were fewer people around than there had been yesterday, but the street was still busier than I would have thought, considering how early it was. I held onto my bag and wandered aimlessly, but I kept glancing toward the familiar bookstore as I walked by. What are the odds I might run into Carson again?
Someone bumped into me from behind, and I suddenly realized how stupid it was that I’d come back here. Carson probably wasn’t at work yet, and even if he were, why would he want to see me again? I felt like some kind of stalker, and for a minute I considered going back down to the train and heading somewhere else in the massive city. Despite myself, I crossed the street to the bookstore and peered in the windows, trying to spot his lanky frame.
“Looking for someone?”
I whirled around, embarrassed. Carson stood behind me, leaning casually on a light post. He wasn’t wearing black today; his tattered gray corduroys and ugly plaid shirt made him look like he was trying way too hard not to be cool, and the brown canvas satchel slung over his shoulder completed the look. He grinned at me, and I felt my face heat up.
“No, not really. Just window-shopping.”
“At a bookstore?” He cocked one eyebrow, and I felt like an idiot.
“Maybe.”
He grinned. “I’m glad you came by, Sarah. Did you reconsider my offer?”
“What? Oh, no. I already ate.” Stupid Sarah. Stop talking now.
Carson didn’t look offended. “Me, too, actually, and you’re too late.”
I stared at him, confused.
“Too late for dinner; I hoped you’d come back yesterday.”
I shrugged. “I’m here now.”
He flashed his brilliant smile. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t come back to see you,” I stammered, feeling like an idiot.
“But you’re here now.”
&nb
sp; “I—” I stared at him, completely at a loss, and Carson chuckled.
“Come on, Sarah. Let’s have some fun.”
~
Carson led me down a crowded street and stopped in front of a sweeping stone building and a wide plaza.
“What is it?”
“What’s it look like?”
I hesitated. “A museum?”
Carson grinned, nodding. “The National Portrait Gallery. Clearly, you haven’t been here yet.”
I shrugged. “I haven’t done much sightseeing.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
I wasn’t; how much fun could it possibly be to stare at old portraits of dead people? But I didn’t want to tell Carson that, so I just raised my shoulder noncommittally. “I guess this isn’t what I think of when I think of having fun in London.”
Carson smiled. “Trust me.”
“Okay . . .” I followed him to the ticket counter in the entryway, but when Carson asked for two tickets, I shook my head at him. “I can pay for my own.”
“I know. But my uncle works for the National Trust, so I get a huge discount at all the museums and historical exhibits.”
“Oh.” I paused. “Thank you.”
He grinned at me. “You can always figure out a way to pay me back, you know.”
I flushed. If this was flirting, I was way out of my league.
We wandered through the doors, and I gasped. Carson looked at me and smiled. “Still think it’s not worth it?”
I shook my head, trying to get a better look at the ceiling. We were inside the museum, but the curved glass overhead made it feel like a private courtyard. Morning light streamed in, bouncing off the reflecting pool in the center of the space, and I turned to Carson, stunned. “This is beautiful!”
He chuckled. “More surprises inside.”
Still gaping at the ceiling, I followed him into the first gallery. There was a wide array of artwork, with Renaissance works cozied up alongside a portrait of the newest princess, and I realized that Carson had been right. The portrait gallery was really cool; it was like getting the entire history of England just through the faces and clothes of people. It felt very intimate, more so than any other museum I’d ever visited.
Carson led me into another long gallery flooded with natural light, and I glanced up. It wasn’t just the cool courtyard entrance that had a skylight for a ceiling; many of the gallery rooms were roofed in glass, and the effect was light and airy. It didn’t feel anything like the stuffy art museum I’d been expecting.
“Titian is one of my favorite artists to sketch.” Carson gestured to a startling portrait of a man with flaming-red hair.
“You’re an artist?”
He shrugged. “Sort of. I’m better at music, actually, but I just like to draw.”
“I’d love to see your stuff sometime.”
Carson shook his head. “I’m not that good yet, but I’m trying to get better. It helps, sketching masters like him.” He glanced back at the portrait before his eyes shifted to my face. “Actually, you would have been his perfect model.”
I snorted. “What, since I’m a fat girl with red hair?”
He shook his head, his eyes serious. “You’re beautiful.”
Self-conscious, I fiddled with the bottom of my top. “I remember what his models looked like from art class. They were all heavy and plain.”
Carson reached for my hand, pulling it away from the hem of my shirt, and my heart started to thump.
“No. They were curvy goddesses with fire for hair.” His lips stretched into a slow smile.
Electricity crackled between us for a moment as I met his eyes, but then I dropped his hand and looked away. “Eye of the beholder and all that, I guess,” I muttered, staring at another portrait without seeing it.
I couldn’t focus on the gallery after that. I kept replaying his words over and over again, trying to figure out if he really meant what he said. Who in the world would call me a curvy goddess? My dad’s insults rattled around in my brain, killing the flicker of warmth I’d felt when Carson held my hand, and I trailed after him, dejected.
Chapter Eight
Carson didn’t mention Titian again, and by the time we stepped outside into the warm air, it was close to noon. I figured he was ready to get rid of me, but he surprised me.
“Where to next?”
I looked around, uncertain. “I don’t know.”
“What about lunch? I’m starved.”
I shrugged. After my comment about being a fat redhead, I was sort of hesitant to share a meal with this guy. “I don’t know if I’m hungry.”
“Come on, Sarah, you have to eat. Or at least you have to watch me eat.” He reached for my hand and pulled me along.
Tingles raced up my arm, and I realized I was smiling. “Okay. Food sounds good.”
He grinned at me. “That’s the spirit. Besides, you have to buy me lunch to get me back for the museum tickets.”
I laughed. “Jerk.” I teased, trying to figure out how to flirt.
“Nope. Just trying to be a modern man!”
Since we were still pretty close to Piccadilly Circus, Carson led the way back toward the bookstore and around a corner to an alley. A green neon sign in a window declared Sheba Palace, and Carson didn’t let go of my hand until we were inside.
He waved to the people behind the counter and led the way to a funny table that looked like an oversized mushroom made out of grass.
I hesitated for a minute. “That’s the table?”
He pulled out the rickety wooden chair with a flourish. “It’s a basket table. Traditional Ethiopian flavor.”
I laughed and sat down gingerly on the chair. It didn’t look like it could hold a kid, much less my bulk, but I didn’t break it.
Carson winked at me. “I’ll order my favorites for us, if that’s okay?”
I nodded. “How much do you need?”
“Twenty pounds should do it.”
I couldn’t help myself from doing the mental math, converting pounds to dollars. That seemed really expensive for lunch, but I shrugged. Digging the money out of my purse, I handed the bill to Carson. “Here.”
“Back in a few.”
He sauntered over to the counter, leaving me to look around the narrow little restaurant. The walls were covered with blingy mirrors and wooden carvings, and the only other people dining in were an elderly black couple sitting near the door. A few people came in for takeout while I was waiting for Carson to order, though; the place seemed pretty popular. I hoped it was as good as he said.
Finally, he headed back to the table. “It’ll be up soon. In the meantime, I brought tea.”
He handed me a clear glass mug with a slender handle, and I took a cautious sip. Sugar and cinnamon exploded on my tongue, and I looked up in surprise. “This isn’t tea. It’s a religious experience!”
Carson burst out laughing. “A girl after my own heart. I’ve always said their tea is addictive.”
We sipped in silence for a few minutes, and then Carson put his tea down and looked at me.
“So, what’s your story?”
I shrugged. “I’m just traveling, I guess.”
“But what about work? Yesterday in the bookstore, I got the impression you maybe came here for a job.”
I hesitated, but then I nodded. “I was an au pair for three months. It didn’t exactly work out.”
He rested his chin on one hand. “How come?”
“I don’t know. The mom thought I wasn’t right for the job.”
“That’s pretty harsh, especially after you came all the way over here.”
“Well, she paid for my ticket, and I’ve got a ticket home, too, whenever I want to use it,” I added in a rush. I didn’t want him to think Mrs. Johnson was some kind of awful bitch, even though I wanted to hate her for firing me.
“Wasn’t it hard work?”
I paused. “It was, but I really enjoyed it. And she paid me pretty well, even after
she fired me.”
He looked intrigued. “How much did you make as a nanny?”
I shifted in my seat. It felt like a really personal question. “I don’t know. Enough that I can travel around for a bit before I figure out what to do next, I guess.”
“That sounds like a dream come true.”
I shook my head. “I never really thought I’d be the type to travel. I mean, I wanted to get away from home, but . . .” I trailed off and took a sip of tea. “I guess I’m just not very adventurous.”
Carson tipped his head to one side. “What was at home?”
I bit my lip. I’d hoped he hadn’t noticed what I said. I didn’t really want to dump all my personal baggage on this cute guy, even if he did sound interested. “I don’t get along with my dad,” I said finally, deciding to be vague.
Carson nodded sympathetically. “My old man’s a bit gobby, too.”
“Gobby? What, like a turkey?”
Carson laughed. “Loudmouthed jerk.”
“Oh.” I made a mental note not to ask stupid questions the next time he used any weird British slang. “Yeah, I guess gobby is a good way to describe my dad, too.”
Just then, a short waiter with a stained apron appeared, carrying a huge platter. A piece of spongy looking flat bread filled the entire thing. The waiter set it down with a flourish, and then he whisked behind the counter, reappearing with a tray with five small bowls brimming with an unidentifiable rainbow of mush. Silently, spooned the contents of the bowls onto the flat bread, and then he backed away from the table. I looked around for some silverware, and Carson laughed.
“You eat it with your hands. Like this.” He ripped a piece of the flat bread off the platter and used it like a napkin, covering the yellow paste pile and scooping it into his mouth. “Try it.”
Feeling a little bit silly, I ripped off a piece of the bread plate in front of me and reached for the red paste. “Oh my God, it’s spicy!” I tried to swallow quickly, but my mouth was burning.
Carson chuckled. “Drink the tea. The sugar cuts the spice.”
