Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 15

  “Oh, Paris is one of my favorite cities,” she says, nearly bubbling over with enthusiasm. “We’ve never been on Christmas, of course, so it was a plus. I hate the city in summertime. Too many people. This was just right.” I smile, thinking of the calm and quiet emanating the streets of Paris on Christmas, trying to imagine it hot, sticky and filled with people. “I was just about to head out and do some shopping on my own because my new hubby is a complete workaholic and even though he said he wouldn’t do any work on this trip he…” she trails off, as if remembering she’s venting to someone she barely knows. She rolls her eyes and smiles. “I bet your husband is the same way. Is that why he’s never with you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Well – if you want to come, it’d be a lot more fun with company.”

  I glance at the front picture window of The Chaizer that overlooks Kensington High Street. “I was going to jump on the tube, go downtown, walk around, maybe take in a show later.”

  “That’s perfect,” she says excitedly. “I’m going to the West End. The theater district is over there. I think.” She gazes skyward. “Anyway,” she says, shrugging, returning to our conversation. “You can shop with me and go see your show later.”

  An hour later, I find myself in Piccadilly Circus. Shopping. Well, window-shopping, in my case. No need to go broke because of my vacation and inability to calculate the exchange rate. I gaze around this plaza reveling in its character, its charm that reminds me a little bit of home. A thousand miles from home, I feel for a moment like I am in New York City. I used to go to the city once a year at Christmastime when I was growing up, one destination in mind: FAO Schwarz. I had to see what new developments there were in Toyland. Even then, I understood what a hip metropolis the Big Apple was.

  Twenty years later in London’s Piccadilly Circus, I am struck with that same kind of awe. Everyone is so stylish. All the trends that will no doubt make their way westward in about six months are sported in high style. It seems like giant buckles and patterned fedoras are making a comeback. Everyone looks classy, smart and just so worldly. And they all seem very important, like they are on their way to merge mega-corporations or solve global warming. And the stores are huge here.

  Aside from the energy of this city and the look of the people it is instantly obvious that this is a different place entirely. Everything seems brighter and bolder. Signs in bright orange and blue decorate my line of vision. Those famous bright red phone booths are scattered all around. The streets look cleaner than those of New York. On the labyrinthine side streets, where people live, charming balconies rest right outside the windows on every storey of apartment complexes boasting adorable flower baskets. Yes, this city is a vibrant place. I’m even happy that it’s sunny. Much as I crave getting soaked in a London rain, these bold, bright colors would not beckon this American in the same way on a gray, dreary day.

  “You do that a lot,” a voice says, breaking me out of my reverie.

  “What?” I look up, seeing Kiki waving a hand in front of my face, a strange grin on her face.

  “Zone out. You look like you’ve never left your house before.”

  I smile feeling my cheeks redden. “I’ve never been to London.”

  “I’ve been everywhere and believe me, this isn’t that special,” she says, laughing like that was the best joke ever. “If you’d ever been to Venice or Buenos Aires or oh, Vienna, you’d know what I mean.”

  I smile and shrug, because really, what do you say to that?

  “Oh God,” she says, horrified. She places a strand of her pretty brown locks behind her ear. “I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to say you’re not…or that you are…that you’re not…um….”

  I laugh. “Well-traveled?” I offer. “I’m not.” I laugh and she visibly relaxes. “This is the beginning, I think, of me changing that about myself.”

  She smiles shyly at me. I glance down at a bag in her hands, a purchase from the store we just left.

  “So, what was the final verdict?”

  “I bought the best pair of jeans,” she squeals. “These babies cost two-hundred buckaroos.”

  My mouth falls open. First of all, who in the world still says the word buckaroos? Secondly, is she referring to dollars or pounds? Because the latter would be laughable for a pair of jeans.

  “That’s in American dollars,” she says, reading my expression.

  “Well, don’t ever put them in the dryer,” I say.

  “Or gain weight,” Kiki adds.

  I laugh at that, which seems to make Kiki really happy. She links her elbow with mine and sighs. “I’m so glad you came out with me, Lucy,” she says. “This is fun.”

  “I agree,” I say honestly.

  “Anyway,” Kiki says, rolling her eyes playfully. “I’m going to need a pair of pumps to wear with these babies.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward a hole-in-the-wall shoe boutique near the shop we just came from. “And I’m going to need your opinion.”

  Kiki tries on nearly every high heel shoe the store has on display. From too high to too brown to too pretty, I learn quickly that she is very indecisive.

  I sit, my gaze transfixed on a pair of boots hiding against the back wall of the shop. Knee-length, black leather. Think Julia Roberts circa 1990. When I first saw Pretty Woman, once upon a time, I always wanted high boots. Black boots. Woman of the World boots. My mom told me I couldn’t have them because as the movie illustrated, they were hooker’s wear. And I’d never gotten around to buying them myself. I couldn’t buy them now. What would I even wear them with? In my teen years, I could’ve pulled off the short skirt and high boots look. But now, I’d be laughed out of Boston if I tried to walk around looking like that. My chocolate brown Uggs are the only boots I can really trust.

  “You should buy them,” Kiki says, sauntering up to me, following the line of my eyes.

  “What would I wear them with?” I ask, still looking longingly at the boots, reminding myself of the budget that I really should be on at this point.

  “Jeans, a long skirt, a short skirt, a dress…”

  “What wouldn’t I wear them with?” I joke.

  “Pajamas,” she answers coyly. “They’re hot,” she concludes, pretend-slapping my arm. “Seriously, do it.”

  “They’re not really me.”

  She places both hands on my shoulders and turns me toward her, holding my gaze for a few moments. “Sometimes it’s really great to just not be yourself.” Something passes over her expression just as she closes her eyes for a moment. “Besides,” she adds. “When in London, right?”

  That night, I walk into The Chaizer wearing my new boots with my most comfortable dark jeans and a silvery-colored sweater, smiling. I swear, since I arrived, I think a grin may have actually become a permanent fixture on my face. Humming ABBA, still feeling enlivened by the magic of Mamma Mia I am blissfully unaware of anything as I head toward my flat.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” a deep, familiar voice asks.

  I stop in my tracks and look over toward the concierge desk, as Oliver walks around and leans casually against its back. As I get closer, he smiles and pulls a hand from his pocket, revealing a penny.

  “That’s just a saying, you know,” I say, feeling, for the first time since I met him, actually happy to see him. It’s been nearly two days. And the last day we spent together was probably the best day, well, ever.

  He pockets the penny. “I know,” he says. “I was just engaging in a childish ritual stemming from pure boredom.”

  “If you’re referring to flipping pennies to see if they land on heads, that is not childish.”

  “Ah. My mistake.” He thrusts his hands back into his pockets and stands up straighter, clearing his throat. He eyes me closely and for once, I don’t feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

  “Did you just get back?” I ask, unraveling my scarf. “From Paris,” I clarify.

  “A little while ago,” he says, nodding. “Where did you just come fr
om that put such a massive smile on your face?” he asks. “You didn’t even notice me when you walked in, and when you did see me, you didn’t even grimace.”

  “I don’t always grimace when I see you.”

  He considers this, but seems doubtful.

  “Well, you usually have it coming to you,” I amend. “I went to see Mamma Mia.”

  “That musical about the disco band?”

  “Disco band?” I ask, appalled. “KC and the Sunshine Band was a disco band. ABBA is legendary – and the musical was amazing,” I gush. Oliver seems a little taken aback by my enthusiasm, but I barrel on because, well, I need to tell someone how great this show was. “It more than made up for the Meryl Streep version. They wove all the songs into the story so effortlessly. They even worked in ‘Super Trouper’. That’s not easy, believe me. If only they could have worked ‘Fernando’ into the playlist. I mean, ‘there was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando.’ That’s good stuff. But,” I sigh. “Alas. Well, at least ‘Fernando’ is in the second movie.”

  He shakes his head, pressing on. “Who’d you go with?”

  “I went alone,” I mutter, staring up at him. “How tall are you?”

  “What?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. It could be the wine I enjoyed at the show. Or the new sense of comfort I feel around Oliver. Maybe it’s the boots. All I know is that suddenly I am hyper-aware that he is actually kind of tall.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how tall you are,” I explain. “You look tall. Taller than Charles, and he’s six feet tall.”

  He shakes his head. “Who’s Charles?”

  “My brother.”

  “Ah,” he says, just as his cell phone rings. “About six-two,” he answers me, flipping open his phone. “Burke,” he says into the mouthpiece. “I am, yes…very good, very good,” he says, a dark shadow passing over his expression. Whatever he is hearing on the other end doesn’t seem to be good news. “See you then,” he says, tapping the phone to end the call. He squeezes it tightly in his palm as he stares at the ground intently.

  He’s going all weird again, I can tell. He has that look like he’s about to ask me a bunch of pointless questions.

  “I’m actually going to turn in for the night.”

  I turn and begin heading to my room, knowing he’ll follow me even before he actually starts to. “Look,” he says quickly. “I’m not trying to…I’m just trying to….”

  “Make up your mind, Oliver,” I say, forcing a smile. “Are you trying to or not?” I throw a glance over my shoulder at him.

  “Can we just talk about a few things?” he asks quietly, seeming suddenly both serious and nervous. And he has that look – like he wants to bombard me with a thousand questions again. After our day in Paris, I kind of thought we were past that.

  “When Jessie visits, take her to see Mamma Mia,” I offer. “You won’t waste your money.”

  “Lucy.”

  Can he stop saying my name? As it is, I feel like a fourteen-year-old girl with a schoolyard crush when he says it. Or when he speaks French. Or smiles. How can a man that does nothing but get under my skin manage to make me feel this way?

  “Sleep well, Oliver,” I say, reaching the door to my flat.

  Just as I pull my key out to unlock the door, it opens.

  “Hey, Babycakes,” Cary says seductively. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at him in front of Oliver. “I’ve got the champagne and strawberries and…” He straightens, pretending to just notice Oliver. “I should have known.” Oh, he’s laying it on thick.

  Cary looks at me accusingly. I look back at Oliver who is looking at Cary like…well, if looks could kill, Cary would be sprawled out on the floor right now.

  Cary tugs at my sleeve to get my attention back. He smiles and nods his head in silent invitation. I walk into the flat. The two men exchange one more scathing look, before Cary closes the door.

  “Babycakes?” I look at him incredulously. “You know, when you finally make it as an actor, you’re going to be one of the ones that spends most of his time in rehab.”

  Cary smiles innocently.

  “What was that about?” I demand, taking off my earrings. After a night at the theater, walking around in my new boots, I can’t wait to pull on sweats and relax. “Oliver looked at you like you were vermin.”

  “I’m assuming he didn’t follow you around today,” he says, walking toward the tiny kitchenette, grabbing a banana.

  “I didn’t see him at all, for once.” I sit at the table in the nook, removing the new boots and massaging my sore feet. “How did you know?”

  “He didn’t follow you today, because he was busy following me.”

  My hands freeze mid-massage and I drop my foot, looking intently at Cary.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he says smoothly, biting into the banana and taking a seat beside me at the table. He hands me a bottle of water. “He doesn’t know that I saw him. I was wearing sunglasses and was very nonchalant about it.”

  I sit back and consider this. “He followed you today?” Something tightens in my stomach as a bad feeling washes over me. Oliver definitely suspects us of something. “He was outside Anne’s studio when we walked out at the end of class,” he explains. “I filled her in and she acted cool and collected.” Suddenly, Cary breaks out into a wide grin. “She was more than willing to play along.”

  “Play along?”

  “You see,” he continues, “I’ve given him a little distraction from this whole lying about our identities thing.”

  “And what would that be?” I can tell that he’s excited to tell me something. I can’t imagine what. It seems like this whole situation just amuses him. It doesn’t seem to aggravate him like it does me.

  “He thinks I’m having an affair with Anne.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  He smiles shyly and excitedly as his cheeks immediately flush. “Because he saw me kiss her,” he says quietly, his gaze meeting mine.

  I nearly choke on my water at that. “You kissed Anne?” I squeal, delighted. Because as much as Anne’s been tormenting Cary emotionally for the past few days – or years – he is obviously just so in love with her. This kiss was a dream come true for him. Finally.

  “Part of the act,” he assures me, coolly, waving a hand like this was merely an acting exercise and not a monumental moment in his life.

  “How was it? What did she says afterward? Was this the beginning of something? Of a relationship? Are you going out on a date finally?” I ask, not caring that I’m bombarding the man.

  He laughs, half-shrugging and tilts his head at me. “I have no idea,” he admits. “And honestly, tonight, I don’t care.”

  I smile, happy that he looks so happy.

  “So,” Cary says, shifting his tone as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and fixes me with a serious look. “Did you see how he looked at me just now?”

  At my confused look, he gestures toward the door to our flat. “Oliver?” I ask. “He looked mad.” His expression was pure poison. “That doesn’t make much sense,” I wonder aloud. I sit back in my chair and fold my hands in my lap. “Why should he care? He doesn’t even know Anne.”

  Cary opens his mouth, but seems to think better of it. He just searches my expression, places his hands on his hips, and finally utters, “let’s just sleep on that one.”

  * * *

  Fuzzy little bastard

  Posted by @Jake at 10:17 PM on december 27 on TheGrayBlog

  Well, Lucy, the cat is out of the bag. And I’m not talking about Ricky. No, I’m referring to the reason you went to London. And I’m telling you…Prince William is taken. Prince Harry is taken. Kate and Meghan pretty much won that one. The whole world watched their weddings, they’ve created new life. It’s not happening. So come back, okay?

  Okay, okay…the real cat that’s out of the bag: me & Mary. And…I can explain. It’s not what you
think.

  Hope you’re having fun. I know you’re taking lots of pictures. I expect to see them all.

  -Jake

  PS: I don’t think Charles has released the breath he’s been holding since you left. I’ve explained, you know, that you’re 37 or something. Ouch. Mary just slapped my arm. Apparently you’re 26. Well Charles doesn’t seem to care how old you are. Yes, that was my point……

  * * *

  here are actually many great things about going on a honeymoon alone. So there are no crazy lovemaking sessions. Or romantic kisses by sunset in an exotic, foreign locale. Okay, in many ways, a honeymoon alone is actually just a regular vacation that anyone could take.

  But this “on your own” thing has its merits. Last night, standing outside the theater Mamma Mia played at, I felt nervous. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never even gone to a movie by myself before. But there I stood, frozen at the entranceway to the Prince of Wales Theatre on Coventry Street. Families rushed in from the cold, couples, their hands intertwined, excitedly embarked on a date night that no doubt began with dinner and wine, friends laughed together heartily as they bustled right past me. Finally, I walked in, my head held high. After my ticket was scanned, a feeling of relief and confidence washed over me. And at the precise moment the first familiar notes of ABBA strummed, a total sense of rightness filled me. Everyone in the theater faded into the darkness. Being alone didn’t matter. Being there did. As the character of Sophie sang “I Have a Dream,” it was suddenly clear why I was on this journey at all.

  “Earth to Lucy,” Cary says, waving a hand in front of my face. I blink quickly and snap fully back to the present.

  “Sorry. Still reeling about ABBA,” I say with a smile as we walk together down Prince Consort Road en route to Royal Albert Hall. While yesterday was mine alone, today is ours – mine and Cary’s. We’re taking on London in a big, very touristy way.