The Long-Lost Jules

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  An hour later, we were all splashing and shrieking in the YMCA’s indoor community pool. The girls’ burkinis didn’t slow them down one bit. I taught everyone Marco Polo, and we played pool basketball until Amal, who had watched his entire family drown in the Aegean Sea on their desperate flight from the horrors of Aleppo, shouted with glee like the thirteen-year-old boy he really was and won the game with a perfect shot. “Swish!” he shouted, his favorite new English word. “Swish! Swish! Swish, Ah-mee!”

  Osama, whose father had been tortured to death by Syrian soldiers, slapped him on the back, and they high-fived exultantly. Layla’s sweet, round face was creased into an ear-to-ear smile—Layla, whose little brothers had been gunned down while foraging for food amid the devastation of Homs—and she said to me, “The boys are so silly.” It was the first time I had ever heard her speak, after six months of our Sunday excursions, and I glowed inside. Then I realized that my fingers were wrinkled like prunes and that Layla was shivering under her black burkini.

  “Out of the pool,” I announced. “Time for ice cream.”

  The debate over ice cream flavors was loud and enthusiastic. The two most religious boys argued strenuously over whether chocolate was halal (“It looks so delicious,” Osama said wistfully), while the girls hesitated between strawberry and coconut, finally agreeing to a half scoop of each. I had spent enough time in war-torn hellholes like Syria that as I watched these kids dither, so free of fear and grief, my heart warmed. Then a voice in my ear said, “Um . . . I think I’ll have peach melba,” and I turned with a start to see Leo standing behind me.

  “Shit!” I said, all the small pleasures of the day giving way to annoyance. How on earth had he tracked me down?

  “No peach melba?” he asked. “Perhaps lemon sorbet, then?”

  “How the hell . . .” How on earth had he found me at this small ice cream shop on the gritty backstreets of Bradford?

  “So, this is how you spend your Sundays?” he asked. “That’s not what I would expect of a private banker.”

  I shrugged. This was the real me, not the private banker Amy.

  “You’re really enjoying yourself,” he said thoughtfully. Once again, he examined me closely, and I wondered what he was seeing. I knew I was reasonably pretty—well, at least, I had thought I was pretty until I joined the PYTs at Atlantic Bank. But I wore no makeup, having been raised mostly by a father who had no patience for such female fripperies; I dressed in simple, casual, Gap-style clothes. In my banker’s uniform, I was forgettable. But in my skinny jeans and silky blouse, I wondered if Leo thought I was pretty.

  Well, that could be useful.

  “Where are your glasses?” he asked unexpectedly.

  “I only need them at work.”

  He looked politely skeptical. “Sorry—your eyesight is fine when you’re not at work?” Put that way, it did sound absurd; I couldn’t tell him that the glasses were part of my private-banker persona.

  Leo exchanged some words in what sounded like fluent Arabic with a couple of the Syrian boys and then turned back to me.

  “Why Syrian refugees?” he asked. “And why Bradford?”

  I ran quickly through my options. The truth wouldn’t do; perhaps a partial truth would suffice. “I’ve traveled a lot,” I said. “Seen a lot. I wanted to help—and there aren’t a lot of people lining up to work with Syrian refugees in Bradford.”

  “Hmm,” Leo said. I could almost see his too-quick, too-inquisitive mind at work and wondered again how he’d tracked me down. But then Osama bounced over and asked Leo a question in Arabic, and soon all the males were chatting together. The girls were deferentially quiet behind them, licking their ice cream and listening closely. I couldn’t understand a word.

  I let Leo drive me back to London—how could I not, faced with the alternative of another three-hour train ride and a late-night arrival at King’s Cross? His car turned out to be a surprisingly smart Audi with a luscious-smelling, buttery leather interior and seats that cushioned me like a featherbed. I briefly pondered how he could afford such a car on an Oxford don’s salary, then shrugged.

  Leo said, “So, tell me again why you spend your Sundays traveling six hours on a train to hang out with a bunch of Syrian teenagers.”

  “Why not?” I countered, absurdly defensive.

  He paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You’re right—why not?”

  I smiled.

  “You don’t speak Arabic,” he said. “If you’re going to work with refugees, why not Russians?”

  “Jeez, Leo,” I said. “You go where the need is, not where it’s easiest to go.”

  “You are so right,” he said warmly, and for just a moment there was a flash of camaraderie between us. Then the moment passed, and I could have kicked myself for, once again, revealing too much.

  “Besides, I get to go to glamorous Bradford every week,” I added lightly.

  “It just doesn’t fit with . . . It doesn’t fit. You don’t fit, somehow.” He was clearly puzzled, and I was suddenly wary.

  “We have to do mandatory volunteer work for the bank,” I explained. “Forty hours a year.”

  “Mandatory volunteer work?” he repeated, grinning. “Has anyone noticed that that’s an oxymoron?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said. Sometimes we seemed to be in perfect sync; it was worrisome.

  Leo looked pensive. “Does anyone else work with refugees?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “No, they build villages in Costa Rica and houses for Habitat for Humanity. And play with puppies at the SPCA.”

  He laughed out loud, and I couldn’t help but join in. “Costa Rica is a very prosperous country,” he said, in a perfect echo of my own thoughts, “and I’ll bet those spoiled kids with their manicured hands are remarkably ineffective at building houses.”

  “You should have seen Jake’s thumb,” I told him, and he laughed again.

  A more comfortable silence fell between us. Then Leo said, “You surprise me.”

  Warning signs flashed in my mind, and I sat up straighter. “I’m not surprising. I’m dull. I’m a private banker who arranges vacations and personal shoppers for my clients.”

  “Who also heli-skis and spends her weekends teaching refugee kids how to swim,” he replied. “And wants to be Dora the Explorer.”

  I cursed myself for allowing him these glimpses into my inner life. “Mostly, I like to be alone,” I said. “When I’m not working.”

  “And what do you do when you’re alone?”

  “I like to do crossword puzzles. In Russian.”

  “Impressive,” he said.

  “I like to read a lot too,” I said, with perfect truth.

  “What do you like to read?”

  “Oh, spy novels; books about explorers or Everest expeditions; anything set in Russia—except for Anna Karenina. What a wimp!”

  He was smiling again, and I throttled myself silent. “I rest my case,” he said.

  I decided to turn the tables. “How did you find me today, anyway?”

  “Oh! Sheer coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was on the northbound train, planning to visit with some old friends, when I saw you—so, naturally, I changed my plans.”

  “Naturally,” I said dryly. We exchanged mutually suspicious glances—I didn’t believe in coincidences, and he didn’t expect me to believe in coincidences—but we appeared to be at a stalemate. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep for the remainder of the drive into London.

  Chapter 7

  On Saturday night, I had dinner with my old pals. Two of them were going to Afghanistan for six months, so the plan was to help them consume enough alcohol to carry them through their entire assignment—make them into “alcohol camels,” as Stephen put it. When I had worked at IDC with the gang, I too had traveled to exotic places, like Myanmar and Egypt and Yemen. As international development consultants, we went only to poor countries that were just this side
of lawlessness. There were never any boring, safe destinations—no Paris or Taiwan on our airline tickets.

  In fact, I admitted to myself, I was bitterly jealous of Dorcas and Will. I loved a good adventure. I loved the heady thrill of fear and excitement and sheer adrenaline when I walked the dusty streets of a foreign—very foreign—city and soaked in the otherworldly smells, the strange language, the openly curious and suspicious glances of passersby as I cast equally curious glances their way. Living in safe, boring London was like being exiled to a convent. Being with Dorcas and Will, now on the eve of their latest adventure, was like having my nose pressed up against the window of a fragrant French patisserie, never to be allowed inside.

  Also, I hated that everyone teased me about selling out and leaving the international development world for a cushy, high-paying job in private banking. I was a solitary soul by nature—and by my father’s upbringing—but I had rarely felt so isolated as I did in this job.

  I was doing my first tequila shot with Dorcas when Bob the Bear sauntered in. I couldn’t hide my dismay to see his hairy, meaty arm slung around Leo as if Leo were his prisoner rather than his soon-to-be drinking buddy. “Look what I found lurking outside,” he announced. “Says he’s yours, Ames.”

  I glared at Leo, who shrugged back at me. “Sorry for busting in,” he said apologetically. “But once I told Bob I knew you, he insisted I come in.”

  The rest of the group glared too. We were a tight group, our little gang of eight, and outsiders were not welcome. Four of the gang were married couples: Dorcas and Will, Tom and Meryl. Bob had gone through two wives and was in no hurry to find a third. Stephen had left his wife at home with their new baby, and Lydia never brought a date, possibly so that she could flirt with all the men simultaneously. We never brought—what on earth was Leo to me, anyway? A casual acquaintance?—casual acquaintances to these gatherings. We even met in our homes rather than pubs, for privacy.

  “Two-drink limit on everyone tonight,” Bob boomed, looking sternly at Will and Stephen, our biggest drinkers. They groaned, but Bob insisted, “No spilling of Amy’s embarrassing secrets. Let’s give the poor girl some cover. Now, Leo”—he slapped Leo on the back so hard that his not-insignificant frame shuddered—“can drink all he wants.” And he steered the bemused Leo over to the makeshift bar on Dorcas and Will’s kitchen table.

  Will winked at me. “So, we shouldn’t admit that Ames really is—what’s the name? Julia?—in deep disguise?”

  “Jesus, Will,” I said. “Don’t encourage him.”

  “Do we know Leo?” Dorcas asked, peering over the top of her glass at me.

  “Yes, actually, I mentioned him to you last week,” I admitted.

  Meryl, my closest confidante in the group, looked confused.

  “The guy who thought I was his long-lost friend, Jules,” I explained to her.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Monsieur le Docteur, n’est-ce pas?” Lydia asked coquettishly, sidling up to Leo.

  Leo winced, even more than he had from Bob’s hearty slap. “God, no. I mean, sorry, yes, but please don’t call me that.”

  Bob put another tequila sunrise in his hand. “Drink up, Monsieur le Docteur,” he commanded. “Zen ve vill learn all your secrets.”

  This was, I knew, exactly what Bob was planning; I wondered if Leo knew it too.

  Leo, with an expressive glance at me, drank.

  I sighed and took a big swallow of my own drink.

  But soon Leo was sitting at the piano, pounding out old Beatles favorites while seven of the eight gathered around, singing lustily along to “I Saw Her Standing There.” Bob shouted triumphantly, and Leo said, “Er . . . quite.” With a pang, I realized that my friends liked him.

  Then he looked at me, and our eyes met for a second. Quietly, Leo played the opening chords of “Hey Jude,” and everyone began to sing. But after a moment I realized that Leo was singing “Hey, Jules” instead, and my face flamed. That bastard. Using my very favorite song against me.

  Despite Bob’s best efforts and his best tequila sunrises, we didn’t really learn anything about Leo except that he could play piano and sing hits from the ’60s. And, despite Lydia’s best efforts, Leo insisted on seeing me home. Stephen, drunk as a skunk, hugged me goodbye and whispered, “You go, girl!” in my ear. But Meryl hugged me too and murmured, “Be careful” as I turned to go.

  Meryl’s judgment was generally much more sound than Stephen’s.

  As we slid into the Uber together, Leo said, “I like your friends.”

  “We’ve been through a lot together,” I said.

  “Yes we have, motek,” Leo said.

  “Not you and me! My friends and me.” I paused. “What’s motek?”

  He grinned. “Look it up.”

  Well, two could play this game. “Vyidiot,” I said, in my best Russian accent.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. And since when do you speak Russian?”

  “There are beaucoup de Russian Jews in Israel, let alone Russian crooks in London. One picks up the odd phrase or two.”

  I thought “you are an idiot” was an extremely odd phrase to pick up.

  “You,” Leo said, “have a very interesting group of friends. And you are a very interesting woman.”

  I had to stop this. So I said, “Sorry, but we’re just a bunch of boring people with boring jobs who drink to forget our boring lives.”

  Leo shook his head. “I beg to differ.”

  The Uber stopped in front of my building, and Leo got out to open the door for me—a surprisingly old-world gesture. I wondered if he was expecting me to invite him up. I was still pondering the idea of an affair with him, but I was leaning against; he saw too much to be a comfortable lover.

  “Well,” I said.

  “Lunch Wednesday?”

  I hesitated. “If you promise to leave me alone until then.”

  “Hand to heart.”

  “Well, then,” I said ungraciously, “I guess so.”

  “I’ll text you then. Good night.”

  And he hopped back into the Uber without giving me the opportunity to ask how he would obtain my cell phone number.

  Of course I Googled motek as soon as I got in the door. It meant “sweetheart” in Hebrew.

  Well, if Leo thought he could wheedle something out of me with a few sweet words and smoldering smiles, he didn’t know me at all.

  Chapter 8

  Divorced, beheaded, died.

  Divorced, beheaded, survived.

  On Sunday morning, I settled in with my computer and a giant Mr. Goodbar to try to figure out why Leo was so obsessed with Katherine Parr and her long-lost great-great-whatever-granddaughter.

  This little ditty summed up the fate of Henry VIII’s six wives.

  Divorced: That was Catherine of Aragon, who was married to Henry for nearly two decades but bore him only a daughter, the future Queen Mary. To Henry, who was a man of his times, plus an utter boor (to my disappointment), the lack of a son was obviously Catherine’s fault, not his. So he broke from the Catholic Church, divorced the aging Catherine, and pensioned her off so that he could marry . . .

  Beheaded: Anne Boleyn, of course. The high-spirited, high-stepping Anne had been raised at the French court, which gave her that Parisian je ne sais quoi, a superiority of taste, and sensuality and secretive knowledge. Henry fell head over heels, and Anne was smart enough to keep him out of her bed until she had reeled him in. But she too bore him only a girl, the future Queen Elizabeth I, and Henry accused her of sleeping with other men (including her own brother). Poor Anne lost her head over her inability to give the hateful Henry a healthy son, clearing the way so that he could marry . . .

  Died: Jane Seymour. (Aha! The Seymours enter the picture, I thought). Jane was a prim, rather boring little missy—Anne’s polar opposite—who had the great good fortune to bear Henry, at last, that all-important son, the future King Edward VI. But then Jane’s luck ran out and she died of
childbed fever, leaving Henry so grief-stricken that he made the terrible mistake of marrying . . .

  Divorced: Anne of Cleves. This Anne was nothing like the first. She was a doughy-faced, unlovely, ungraceful foreign princess whose relations fooled Henry into marrying her by sending him a much-Photoshopped (or whatever the equivalent was in those days) portrait. Charmed by the woman in the image, Henry was appalled by the real-life version, whose lack of hygiene and good looks made it impossible for him to bed her. Fortunately for this Anne, Henry didn’t care enough to behead her. He simply divorced her and sent her away so he could lose his head over . . .

  Beheaded: Pretty little Catherine Howard (the one who Leo had said wasn’t particularly interesting, I remembered). Flighty, giddy, silly, tragically young, Catherine forsook the gouty old king to gambol with various men of the court, almost certainly sleeping with several. Henry was humiliated and, for perhaps the first time, agonizingly aware of the loss of his youth and vitality. So he sent this Catherine to the executioner rather than the nunnery. The poor, empty-headed girl spent the night before her death practicing with a makeshift block in her cell so that she would look her best when she laid her head on the real thing. And this paved the way for Henry to take his final wife . . .

  Survived: Katherine Parr. This Katherine, unlike her two namesakes, had very little interest in marrying Henry when his fancy turned her way. Already twice wedded and widowed, Katherine was in love, for probably the first time in her life, with the dashing, handsome Thomas Seymour. (The plot thickens! I thought.) Tom was the brother of Henry’s favorite wife, Jane Seymour, so he was the King’s brother-in-law and uncle to the little Prince Edward.

  But Henry decided on Katherine, and his will was not to be denied. (“My dear girl, one didn’t refuse the King,” I remembered Leo saying.) Unlike the handsome, athletic monarch of the TV series, Henry by this time was a huge, bloated mass of illness and ill temper. I could only imagine Katherine’s dismay at contemplating him, rather than the sexy Tom Seymour, as a bed partner. She was a woman of good sense, though, so she made the best of her marriage and tended Henry both carefully and conscientiously.