Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 4

  She pulls her car into an open spot by my boarding gate. “Okay, do you have your fake ID?”

  I shake my head, grabbing the ID and Marian’s credit card. I clutch them in my hand tightly. “I do.” I sigh. “And it seemed like a great idea last night, but I’ve slept on it and decided that I should just look into a hostel or find some kind of alternative—“

  “You are not taking this trip and staying in a hostel. You deserve this. And anyway, I looked online last night. London at Christmas – all the hotels, even the crappy ones, cost an arm and a leg last minute. Marian booked this nearly a year ago. It probably costs as much as a hotel half as nice at this point. You’ve been saving for something like this for years.”

  “But—“

  “Lucy, you need this. You basically handled every detail of Marian’s wedding because her wedding planner was completely worthless. Your date made out with your cousin in front of the entire reception and now he’s dating her.” She folds my hands around the little pieces of plastic. “No one deserves this more than you.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I say quietly, tucking the cards back into a pocket on the inner lining of my purse.

  “Just remember, it won’t matter on check-out day. They don’t charge anything until check out unless you order room service or whatever. So don’t do that, and just use your own card when you check out.” She grabs my shoulders. “This will be fine.”

  Mary pushes the button to open her trunk and gets out of her car. I follow.

  “Thank you for cat-sitting for me.” I grab my bag from the trunk and look at her. “I owe you one.”

  “How about a few promises and we’ll call it even?”

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  “Look up Cary Stewart when you’re there. Maybe he can show you around so that you’re not alone.”

  “Cary Stewart, the drama snob from high school? I haven’t seen him since graduation. Why would I look him up?”

  “Because he is in London,” Mary says excitedly. “When I was researching all of the men that I already know, I checked out his profile. He studies acting in London on and off all year and he’s there again now.”

  “That’s nice that you’re Facebook friends with the guy,” I say, beginning to step away from Mary. “But I’m not, so it would just be weird if I called on him to show me around.” I smile at her. “I’ll be okay.”

  “He’s really nice,” Mary continues, like she didn’t hear me.

  “He laughed at me when I auditioned for Our Town in ninth grade.”

  “He takes his craft really seriously. And I’m sure now that he’s an adult, he doesn’t laugh at people.”

  I grab Mary by the shoulders and look into her eyes. “I can’t make any promises on that. What else have you got?”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you will call me when you get there and at least a few times after that.”

  “If you promise me that you’ll play with Ricky every day and if he wants to sit on your lap, you won’t do what you normally do.” Which is throw him off.

  “Fine. Deal.”

  “Deal,” I say back.

  “If he chooses to sit on my lap, I’ll let him.”

  “And you’ll cuddle him.”

  “Like he’s a teddy bear.”

  “Okay, don’t overdo it.” I take my bag and look at Mary.

  “Promise to relax a little. After everything lately, you deserve to take a deep breath and really relax.”

  “I relax.”

  “You’re a planner. Read up a bit, jot down some ideas – but don’t plan out every minute that you’re there. Let things just happen for once.”

  I nod. “I can try.”

  “One more promise,” she says. “When you check in using this ID to stay at the nice hotel – which you’d better do because I’m telling you, a park bench seems to be the only other affordable option – then when you’re in that hotel, you’re Marian. The minute you leave that place, you can be anyone you want to be. But when you’re inside that place, just keep it simple and be Marian, okay?”

  I look at her uncertainly.

  She tilts her head, her face knowing and determined. “Promise.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I promise.”

  Sitting at the gate, I mentally check and re-check my list to make sure I packed everything. I have coffee and magazines for the flight, and now the very last thing (the one thing I’ve been dreading) left to do is call my mom and tell her I’m, well, honeymooning solo.

  She answers her phone with a loving, “What is it, Lucy?”

  “Is that any way to greet your own flesh and blood?”

  “Well, when it’s 6:45 in the morning it is. Is everything okay? You don’t usually call anyone in the morning until you’ve had at least two coffees.”

  “GATE B2 IS READY TO BOARD,” the speaker directly above me blares.

  “Where are you?” my mom asks.

  I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “I’m just calling to say goodbye actually because my plane for London – you know, the one in England – is about to board, and please don’t send me to the mental hospital when I get back. I’m honestly just trying to do what that old psychic lady at the wedding said and take my life into my own hands and make it happen. You know…seize the bull and all that. So, anyway, give everyone a hug and kiss for me and tell them I love them and Merry Christmas.”

  I don’t do well under pressure. So what? There are lots of things I’m very good at. I put a hand against my free ear, to block out the noise of the airport, and pull the phone tighter against my other ear, straining to hear my mother.

  “Lucy,” my mother shrills, finally. “You are joking, right?”

  “Actually, no. I’m really at Logan, about to take off. I’m going on a holiday for the holidays.” I pause. “It’s poetic, don’t you think?”

  “You’re leaving your family for Christmas?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say quietly. I mean, there’s really no sugar coating that one fact.

  Through ambient airport bustle, cellular air waves and motherly silence, I can hear, loud and clear, her total incredulity, practically feel her nerves shredding.

  “NOW BOARDING GATE B2.”

  “Okay, Mom. I love you. I’ll…call you when I get there!”

  Once I get into my seat and get comfortable, I take out my iPod and switch on the playlist I made for Marian’s wedding. Belinda Carlisle booms in my ears, “Heaven is a Place On Earth” becoming the anthem to the beginning of my adventure.

  ’m tired, and it’s late. I check my phone. 10:25 PM. That’s London time. I’m here. I’m in London! The woman at Customs most likely thinks I am certifiably insane, because as she stamps my passport, I gasp and tears - actual tears - fill my eyes. I purse my lips tightly, gripping the countertop, in a feeble attempt at trying to keep my emotions in check. But she sees me. In all of my blubbering idiocy. The goofy smile, the tear-filled eyes…I look crazy.

  “Welcome to the UK,” she says, still eyeing me curiously.

  I open my mouth to thank her, but – and I’m not sure how it happens – what ends up coming out is, “You have the best accent. And thank you so much for the stamp. It’s my first stamp.”

  I take the proffered passport back and put it in my purse. “Thank you,” I say casually, before clearing my throat and looking around, trying to seem important – cool – like I am here on business all the time. Like I didn’t just make a complete idiot of myself two seconds ago. But when I walk away, I can’t stop the smile from taking over my face. I’m in London.

  The taxi line is long, but, tired as I am, I’m fine with it. For one thing – the taxi line is in London—and for another, there is a truly beautiful man standing not ten feet away from me, scanning the line, completely oblivious to the fact that I am staring at him. I imagine his gorgeous accent and glamorous British life. He’s most likely looking for his fiancée, who’s just arrived back from her business trip to Rome. Or Mila
n. She’s probably a fashion designer. He looks like someone who’d be in love with someone who owns her own clothing line. He has black hair and tanned, golden skin. He’s pretty tall – definitely a little over six feet. He seems to be in excellent shape. There’s a familiarity about him, too. Like he’s someone I’ve known my whole life.

  Suddenly, the man looks my way and our eyes lock. In embarrassment, I close my gaping mouth and stare at a puddle on the ground with immense interest.

  “Lucy?”

  “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to stare…” I trail off. “Do I know you?” I ask foolishly. I mean, obviously he knows me. He knows my name. The person behind me makes an awful noise to alert me, I guess, to take a few steps forward in line. The man walks over to me and stops, smiling.

  “Well, we did go to high school together,” he says easily and I suddenly realize that his inherent familiarity is because, well, I’m actually familiar with him.

  “Cary?” I say, gazing up at him, my eyes wide—I’m incredulous. He was good looking in high school, but he wasn’t exactly a Greek Adonis back then. He was just a cute theater snob who had the nerve to laugh at a little ninth grader during an audition preventing her from ever getting the courage up to try out for another production.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” he says, chuckling at my bewildered face, obviously amused. “I thought it was you in that line.” He clears his throat and gestures toward the Heathrow terminal behind us. “I’m just here coming back from a trip myself.” He stares down at the ground for a moment before lifting his head to catch my eyes. “Can I offer you a ride?” he asks casually.

  The pieces begin falling into place instantly, and my cheeks burn with humiliation. I note his distinct lack of suitcase, his very unruffled attire, and his shifty disposition. He may have studied acting for the past ten years, but he’s not that good. “You just came back from a trip…or Mary called you and told you to make sure I didn’t naively hitch a ride to my hotel with a murderer?”

  He says nothing but smiles softly, his eyes glowing in acknowledgement.

  “I’m going to kill her,” I mutter. She told me to go have myself an adventure and then hired a babysitter? I look back up at him. “I’m really sorry she put you out…but you really don’t need to give me a ride. I was just going to take a cab.” My cheeks actually feel hot. It may be cold out, but I am sweating profusely. “Thank you, though, for agreeing to come,” I add hastily. “I mean, you barely know me.” I look up at him and smile, blushing. “It was really nice of you.”

  Cary shrugs and smiles. I do not remember his smile ever having an effect on me in high school, which could have been because of his bitter teasing. But here, in the cold London air, under the blinking lights of passing taxis, his smile sends warmth coursing through every part of my body. “I always thought Mary was the sweetest girl. I got her Facebook message and wrote back saying I’d give you a ride, welcome you to London.”

  “You probably don’t even remember me.” I peer up at him. Everyone knew Mary, who had actually been crowned Miss Congeniality. At our ten year reunion, I realized that while everyone remembered her, no one outside of our closest friends remembered me. I participated in everything, but…I guess I just blended in well.

  He chuckles a little. “To be honest, you’re right. But when I saw you, you looked familiar. I figured it must be you.”

  I really wish the ground would just open up and swallow me whole. “I’m really okay on my own,” I say desperately. I cannot stand to extend this awkward interaction any longer than necessary.

  “Miss?” the taxi attendant calls to me.

  I look up. It’s my turn. I take a step forward and move to grab my suitcase, but Cary beats me to it. He takes the suitcase and steps out of the line.

  “It would be my honor to give you a ride,” he says. “I don’t often get to catch up with an old high school acquaintance on this side of the pond. This will be nice.”

  I glance at my suitcase – the little betrayer that it is, sitting there in his hands. I’m beaten. “Okay,” I agree, and step out of the line.

  “So is this your first time in London?” Cary asks as he merges his car onto the motorway.

  “Actually, it’s my first time anywhere.” Seeing Cary may have jolted me from my adventure for a bit, but the shock is wearing off. I’m here in London now. And it is kind of nice to share that with someone.

  He smiles and continues staring at the road. “Well, you picked a great place to start. This is my ninth time here.”

  “Wow,” I say, and glance at him, looking for a sign that he’s showing off or something. But as he smiles kindly at me before turning his gaze back to the road, I realize he’s just making conversation.

  “I’m an actor,” he explains after a moment. “During the holidays, I head to London for a three-week workshop. Summers too, for these five-week workshops that I have been part of for a couple years now.” He sighs wistfully. “There’s an energy here. And a great history for the arts. Shakespeare, Tolkien, Laurence Olivier, Richard Burton, Charlie Chaplin, J.K. Rowling –”

  “I know what you mean,” I say honestly. “I was an English major in college and fell in love with so many British authors.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “I teach. Third grade,” I add. “We don’t exactly read Shakespeare, but…I love the grade. I feel like it’s a definite turning point in growing up. It’s a pivotal year.”

  Cary lifts his eyebrows and smiles, shrugging. He peeks sideways at me. “What do you plan to do while you’re here?”

  I open my mouth to answer him but close it as realization dawns. I don’t have a clue what I will do now that I’m actually here. I’ve just been so focused on getting here, I neglected to think of anything else. “I guess I will do all the touristy things.”

  “Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey…all that?”

  “All that.” My eyes are starting to get heavy and a calm washes over me. The peaceful sound of the motor mixed with the quiet streets…I could take a nap right now.

  “I’m a little envious of you, actually,” Cary says, breaking through the quiet.

  I look at him, confused.

  “You’re seeing this for the first time,” he explains, looking wistfully out the window. He turns back to the road and squints. “I love coming back, but I know what to expect. Not much surprises me at this point. Not much fun in that.”

  I smile into the darkness, pleased and humbled. This man may have laughed at me in the ninth grade and made me cry. But he’s turned out to be pretty nice.

  We ride in a companionable silence for a few minutes more, while I look out the window, seeing the city lights of this foreign place stream by as we sail down the road on the left side. I wince as cars pass and assume we are going to die, because we’re clearly on the wrong side of the road.

  “Here we are,” Cary says, as his GPS signals our arrival at The Chaizer. His cell phone rings as the car comes to a stop and I look happily at the sign for my hotel: The Chaizer: Honeymoon Suites.

  Wait, honeymoon suites? As in all of the guests are honeymooners? Okay, I feel like I should have known that. “Oh God,” I mutter.

  I look at Cary nervously. Surely he’ll think it’s odd that I’m at a hotel for honeymooners. Fortunately, he’s too busy staring at his phone to notice. When he puts the phone down, he leaps from the car and quickly pulls my suitcase from the trunk.

  “If you need anything, I am staying at Kensington Hostel,” he says. He pulls out his wallet and retrieves a business card. “Here’s my cell phone number as well. Call for anything. Tips on where to eat, what shows to see…” He catches my gaze and smiles. “Anything.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, smiling ear-to-ear. “For that and for the ride,” I add. I look down at his card. Cary Stewart. Actor. I smile. “And the card.”

  “Any time,” he says.

  As Cary drives away, I look around and remember that I am standing outsi
de of a honeymoon resort. What am I supposed to do now? It’s one thing to check in as Marian to stay at a nice hotel. It’s another thing to walk into a couples’ resort completely alone.

  A man dressed in a suit emblazoned with Chaizer Honeymoon Suites on its front pocket walks out through the hotel’s revolving door and looks around the premises, regarding me curiously when his eyes land on me. And why not? I’ve just spent a couple of minutes staring absently at the hotel’s sign. I roll my bag over to him.

  “Hi,” I say brightly, standing in front of the man now. “I’m a new guest– “

  “I’m not a bellboy,” he says, before walking back up the front steps and disappearing inside the hotel, leaving me standing there, gaping.

  I glance around, flabbergasted, but there doesn’t seem to be a bellboy in sight. I grab my bag and drag it up the twelve steps that lead to the lobby. The bag and I get a little stuck in the revolving door, but we eventually manage with a shove.

  When I enter the lobby, I notice the man from outside, sitting at the concierge desk engrossed in a magazine sporting Victoria and David Beckham on its cover.

  “I hope you get paid the big bucks for all the work you do,” I say. Exhaustion mixed with irritation definitely seem to lower my inhibitions.

  He never glances up from his magazine. “Actually, not nearly enough.”

  I roll my eyes and walk over to the reception desk. I lean in to talk to the man behind the counter quietly, my eyes darting back over to the hotel’s sad excuse for a concierge.

  “He isn’t very nice,” I whisper. I look back at the receptionist. “And I don’t mean for a concierge. For a person.”

  “Please just ignore him,” the man says, and I realize that it’s Michael Caine! Not the actual actor, but the man from the phone call yesterday. He looks more like Mr. Bean than Michael Caine.

  “He’s only here temporarily. A concierge, uh, for the moment.” He glances over at the rude guy, looking like he can’t wait for that moment to be over. “Anyhow.” He looks back at me, his smile wavering but never leaving his face. “How are you this evening?”