Bella Summer Takes a Chance (36 page)

            ‘I’d like a beer, please.’ Cute bartender nods expectantly. ‘Er, I’ll have an Old Speckled Hen.’ It sounds more like an entrée than a drink.

            ‘A pint or a Hoff?’ he asks.

            The Hoff makes beer? ‘Uh, the pint, please.’

            This isn’t bad at all. Safely seated, with a half dozen magazines to give me purpose, I’m insulated from the glare of unwanted attention (read: pity). In fact, it’s perfect. If they haven’t noticed me, then I’m free to observe them in their natural environment. I’m like Jane Goodall living with chimps.

            It may have seemed like home at first, but now I see there are important differences. Living here may be like staring at those
Where’s Waldo?
books – the more you look, the more you see. The first thing I notice is that everyone is drinking beer from a glass. How civilized. I vow never to drink from the bottle here. Aside from the obvious hazard of chipping a recently whitened tooth (my Christmas gift to myself, and they do look fabulous), it’ll mark me out as a foreigner. I also notice that most of the men are wearing suits, so either they dressed up to come here or they’re drinking on the job. Even in my Michael Kors black wool belted trench coat that I got half-price last year, I’m a little underdressed. Or, to be more accurate, I’m overdressed. Because the third thing I notice is that the women are showing a lot more décolletage than I’m used to. Having come from possibly the most preppy part of the United States, a place where Ralph Lauren and Lilly Pulitzerare spoken of in reverential tones, this display of chesty flesh is unsettling. Tugging my top down in the vain hope that it won’t look so nunnish exposes an inch of skin below my collarbone. Sex-y.

            Within an hour, a more urgent mission cuts short my field observations. I have to go to the bathroom. This is unfortunate because the pub’s designers showed no concern for their clientele’s coordination. The ladies room is down a dim, narrow flight of stairs way at the back of the bar.

            I’ve never seen such stalls. The toilets are fortressed with six-foot walls, real walls, not flimsy barriers with big gaps where they’re bolted together. Here, there’s absolutely no risk of spotting a stranger’s nether parts between the cracks or standing up only to make eye contact with the girl waiting in front of the sinks. I’m sure it’s a superb experience inside, and I’ll enjoy knowing that it’d take a commando abseiling down the wall to get to me.

            ‘Sorry!’ shouts an occupant as I push the stall door into her.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ I shout back. ‘It wasn’t locked.’ Hang on. Why’d she apologize to the woman who just kneecapped her? Come to think of it, that’s the second apology I’ve had from someone I’ve physically harmed. At the airport, I accidentally ran my suitcase into a woman’s heel and she said she was sorry, as if she’d carelessly left her foot on the floor to be run over.

            Back upstairs, my cozy little spot has been invaded. I’m not gone five minutes and some man has piled his coat on my chair. His coat! On my chair! The nerve. He and his friends must have seen my pint there. It doesn’t matter that it’s empty, it’s obviously still holding my place. And my magazine is clearly – well, I put it in my bag to go downstairs. But even so, he must have seen me there. I will not be intimidated. No, sir. ‘Um, excuse me. I was using that chair.’

            ‘I’m terribly sorry!’ he says. And I can see that he really is, terribly. He practically throws his coat on the floor to make room for me, shuffling his friends back a few feet in the process. Wow, he’s good-looking.

            Now I feel bad about saying anything. It was probably an honest mistake, and it is their country. ‘Um, you’re welcome to use my chair, for your coat, if you want.’

            ‘Cheers.’ He carefully arranges his coat over the back of the chair. There’s a slightly spicy aroma coming from the wool. He keeps turning around to look at me. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll steal from his pockets. Or perhaps I’m better-looking here than at home. I’m not saying I’m ugly or fat or anything. In fact, thanks to genetics, I’ve got boobs and hips without having to shop in the curvy department. People describe me as ‘at-trac-tive’, with that little dip in the middle of the word that makes it sound like there’s a ‘but’ coming in the next breath. That’s probably because of my hair. It’s fuzzy dark blond if you’re being generous and fuzzy light brown if you’re not.

            ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ he finally asks. I shake my head. ‘Good. Hello, I’m Mark.’

            It’s happening. Someone outside the service industry is talking to me! He’s got amazing dark-blue eyes and black eyelashes. And full, Brad Pitt lips. He looks older, in his thirties, which is perfect because everybody knows that men need a big head start in the race for emotional maturity. ‘I’m Hannah. Why’s that good?’

            ‘Because I don’t want to get thrashed for chatting up another man’s girlfriend.’

            ‘Ah, I see,’ I say. ‘So it’s self-preservation.’

            ‘Well, it’s what makes the world go round.’

            ‘I thought love made the world go round.’

            ‘Maybe love makes self-preservation go round. Do I detect an American accent?’

            ‘You do. I’m from Connecticut.’ His bemused expression isn’t an uncommon reaction to the whereabouts of my home state. ‘It’s near New York. But I moved here a few days ago.’

            ‘Welcome to our country.’ He raises his glass, clinking it with mine. ‘I’m glad to see that you’re already familiar with one of our great British institutions.’

            ‘I’m a very quick learner,’ I say, sipping my beer. ‘What are the others?’

            ‘Fish and chips, cricket, and the seductive powers of the finest lovers in the world.’

            Mmm, a cocky, great-looking man. ‘I haven’t had fish and chips yet. And isn’t cricket just lazy man’s baseball?’

            ‘It’s blasphemy to say that about the greatest sport on earth. They can deport you for it.’

            ‘Psh! How is standing in a field all day a sport?’

            He ponders. ‘Cricket is a thinking man’s game. It’s like chess, with sunshine and drink.’

            ‘Is it as interesting as watching chess?’ I’d rather watch my nails dry.

            ‘It’s not even comparable. We spend days sitting in the sun, drinking and watching the game we love.’

            ‘So you’re in it for the tan.’

            ‘And the drink.’

            ‘Hmm, back to drinking.’ A theme is beginning to emerge.

            ‘As I’ve mentioned, it’s one of our great traditions.’

            ‘That’s right, and something about being seduced by the world’s greatest lovers. Can I assume there are there a lot of Italians in London?’

            ‘I am, of course, referring to the British gentleman.’

            I’d be more tempted to believe his description if we weren’t interrupted by a man loudly referring to the TV by that much-maligned female body part. ‘I have to say I hadn’t heard that,’ I say.

            ‘Really? I’m sure it’s printed in the handbook.’

            ‘Is that required reading on arrival? Maybe they’re out of stock in Terminal Five.’

            ‘I’ll ask my people to have a word with their people.’

            ‘You have people?’

            ‘Don’t you?’

            ‘Nope.’

            ‘Ah, but you can make your own people.’

            Oh dear. My virtue, such as it is, may be seriously compromised. Who’s not a sucker for a witty man? They are the Saabs of the dating world, often with drab exteriors but a range of interesting features inside. He’s giving me the prickly sweats. My scalp has gone hot and feel a little puddle forming on my top lip. It’s doing nothing for me in the seduction stakes. Unless he prefers his women with a seal-like sheen. One of his friends asks if he wants another beer. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your friends,’ I say. Of course I hope I keep him from his friends.

            ‘Let them find their own girls. Fancy another drink?’

            I’m not one to go against tradition, though I’d better make this round non-alcoholic.

            ‘So,’ he says over our full glasses, ‘here’s the obvious question, Hannah from Connecticut: why did you move to London?’

            ‘I was looking for a change.’

            ‘That’s it? That’s a bold change.’

            ‘Well, uh, I –’ Is this the time for warts-and-all honesty? Of course not. ‘I came to a realization. . . Have you ever woken up and wondered what you’ve been doing?’

            ‘Are you saying you black out often?’

            ‘Hah, hah. No. Well . . . sometimes. No, I mean I realized I was on autopilot. And I’m too young to be my mother.’

            ‘I understand completely,’ he says. ‘You want to be a participant in your life.’

            ‘Exactly!’

            ‘I think you’re brave to move.’

            ‘Or stupid.’

            ‘Quite possibly it’s the most stupid thing you’ll ever do.’

            Huh. And just when I thought this might be going somewhere.

            ‘But so what?’ He smiles. ‘At least you’ll have done it.’

            Exactly, at least I’ll have done it. This guy gets me. His insight, not to mention his gorgeousness, are improving his chances by the minute . . . Except that I’m getting way ahead of myself. He could be a psycho. He might be a bum. He may be happily married with kids. I need much more detail. Subtle questioning can peel back the layers of this lovely onion. ‘So, aside from beer drinking, sun worshipping and cricket-loving, what’s your story?’

            Or I could just chop it in half and see what’s inside.

            ‘My stah-ry? . . . Sorry, sorry! Actually, I really like an American accent.’

            ‘You do?’ This is hard to believe.

            ‘I do. I went out with an American girl once. I was absolutely head over heels in love.’

            ‘What happened?’ Hopefully she betrayed him, then dumped him, then died. As with vampires, it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes to the specter of fabulous ex-girlfriends.

            ‘She married someone else.’

            ‘I’m sorry.’

            ‘I’m not. We’d have made each other miserable.’

            ‘Really? Why?’ Because you love sex and she was frigid? You’re rich and generous and she didn’t like jewelry or fancy hotels?

            ‘I guess I thought she was a little neurotic. But I was very immature. When you’re young, everything is a big deal, isn’t it? That was an age ago. Now it’d probably be different. I wish her nothing but the best. What about you? Is there someone back home?’

            ‘Nope, I’m single. You?’

            ‘Would I be here with you if I weren’t?’ He grins.

            ‘You’d be surprised how many men would.’

            ‘I’m not at all surprised,’ he continues. ‘Always remember, most men are bastards at heart. We’re hard-wired like that. Are you working here?’

            ‘No, not yet. What about you? Where do you work?’

            ‘You’re intriguing, Hannah ‒ a woman who doesn’t want to talk about herself. Every time I ask about you, you ask about me.’

            ‘Maybe I’d just rather talk about you,’ I smile. To see if you’re insane, I don’t add.

            ‘Flattery will get you very far indeed.’ He raises his glass to me.

            I’m a bit breathless, definitely not used to guys this hot flirting back. Oh, I dream about them. I hope that they will. But they usually don’t. ‘So,’ I say, trying to keep my composure. ‘You were about to tell me something interesting about yourself.’

            ‘You’re like a dog with a bone. Something interesting . . . Well, I’ve worked my arse off over the last ten years to build my company. I started in my back bedroom with one account, which was a family friend, and a thousand-pound overdraft. I was so nervous at my first event that I was physically sick.’

            Why, when I ask about a man, does he think telling me what he does counts as interesting? ‘I see. Interesting.’ And why do I pretend it is?

            ‘Not really, but you’re kind to say so. I know what you’re asking. You want to know my deepest darkest secret.’

            ‘Go on.’

            ‘All right, since you asked.’ He’s gazing right into my eyes. ‘I’m afraid of being lonely. I don’t mean being by myself. I mean having people all around me, but nobody to connect with. I’m afraid of living my entire life like that, and I’m afraid of dying without ever having made that connection.’

            A man with feelings and fears, and the willingness to disclose both? Now that
is
interesting.

            ‘Incidentally, my other fear is to be taken advantage of by women who are only looking for a spectacularly endowed man with epic love-making skills.’

            Time flies when a sexy man plies you with drinks. Much later, the barman rings a big bell and shouts something.

            ‘Last orders,’ Mark says.

            ‘Is that for a tip? At home, when someone leaves a big tip, the bartender rings a bell.’

            ‘We don’t tip barmen here.’

            Lucky Brits. If we don’t tip barmen, they ignore us for the night or spit in our next round.

            ‘It’s the call for last orders,’ he explains. ‘If we want another drink, we have to place our order now. Would you like another pint, or a Hoff?’

            ‘What’s a Hoff?’

            ‘Hoff a pint.’

            Ah, I get it.

            The bouncer is sweeping the night’s debris over my shoes to let me know I’m welcome to stay as long as I’d like. ‘I guess we’d better go.’

            ‘Probably so,’ he says. ‘Do I get to see you again?’

            He wants to see me again! If I play my cards right, he may even want to see more of me tonight. ‘Sure, I’d like that, only . . .’

            ‘Only . . . you really do have a boyfriend, and he’s a bodyguard with a jealous streak and a fondness for assault weapons?’