Dreaming in Technicolor (16 page)

“This is only our first night here,” my practical pal piped up. “Don't you think you should wait? We're bound to see lots more cool things. Don't blow all your money at the first store we go into. We'll have plenty of chances to buy stuff.”

“Good thing I brought you along.” I patted her arm. “You can be my voice of reason on this trip.”

“In
all
things?” She quirked a knowing eyebrow at me.

I thought of Alex and how I couldn't wait to see him. And not just see . . .

“Well, maybe not all.”

I was practically asleep on my (aching) feet by the time we made it back to our grungy hotel room. But we'd agreed to unpack before going to bed so our clothes wouldn't get too wrinkled, so I wrestled my bags onto the bed.

I winced as Mary Jo—definitely
not
MJ in this instance—removed items from her lone suitcase: a pair of screaming orange sweat pants, two turtlenecks, a plaid flannel shirt, one sweatshirt with horses galloping across the front, a nightshirt, a brown wool sweater, and her favorite pair of tan cord jeans—“in case we have to dress up a little.”

The only thing she bought new for the trip was a pair of bright white Easy Spirit walking shoes, since “we'd be on our feet so much.” I'd tried (but failed) to talk her into a more subtle, continental-looking black.

“You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl.” I shook my head in affection.

“And never want to.” Mary Jo grinned, pulling on her
Shrek
nightshirt—the only article of clothing I approved of.

Unpacking my delicates (folded in equal thirds, of course) and toiletries from my smaller case, I then unzipped the larger suitcase containing all my new clothes.

And shrieked.

MJ jumped. “What's wrong?”

“I've got the wrong suitcase,” I said, slowly removing a pinstriped suit for what had to be a very large businessman.

My searching fingers flipped frantically through the suitcase for all the gorgeous clothes I'd put on plastic to give me that chic, cosmopolitan look I craved.

Instead, I found a couple of massive white shirts, some socks, a robe, and . . . a pair of the most humongous boxer shorts ever—black satin with red hearts.

[chapter nine]

Traveling Light

e
ew!” I jerked my hand away and slammed the suitcase shut.

Then I looked down at the black sweater and jeans I'd been wearing for the past sixteen hours. “This is the only set of clothes I have.”

MJ jumped in before I could let loose with another scream. “Calm down. Remember, you just said I would be your voice of reason on the trip. Listen to the voice.”

I scowled, but decided to listen.

“It's elementary, dear Watson. Right now, somewhere in London, there's a very large businessman wondering where his suitcase is.” She adjusted her imaginary deerstalker hat and began rummaging in the outer pockets of the wrong case. “He must have ID in here somewhere . . . ha! Here it is!” She held up a white business card.

Examining it, her Sherlock Holmes bravura slipped a notch.

“What?”

“Looks like our businessman, a Mr. Klaus Schmidt, lives in Frankfurt. Germany.”

I wailed.

But my voice-of-reason friend was not so easily put off. “We'll just call the airport and tell them what happened.”

Mary Jo gave me an encouraging smile and checked her watch. “It's almost nine thirty, which means we've been in London nearly seven hours. Probably Mr. Schmidt has already called and turned in your suitcase.” She looked around for the phone, then snapped her fingers. “That's right. I forgot. Nigel said there's a phone in the lobby for guests to use. Let's run down and call right now.” She started to open the door.

“Um, I think you're forgetting something.”

She shot me a puzzled look, and then followed the direction of my gaze. “Oops.” After she pulled her clothes back on over her nightshirt, we headed downstairs.

Only problem was, I couldn't get a dial tone from the phone tucked away in an alcove beneath the stairs. Nothing. Nada. Zip. “What is it with phones in this city?”

“Maybe there's another one somewhere,” Mary Jo said. “At the desk, probably.” She returned moments later, shrugging her shoulders. “No luck. And no one at the desk either. Guess Nigel's called it a night.” “That's okay. I figured it out,” I said, pointing to some slots at the top of the phone that we hadn't noticed. “You don't happen to have any coins, do you?”

She dug into her jeans pockets but came up empty. She looked askance up at the winding staircase.

“Don't worry, MJ. This is a hotel, after all, such as it is. Someone should be on duty twenty-four hours.” I marched over to the chipped laminate counter and poked my head through the open window into the office. “Hello?”

Total silence.

“Never mind, Pheebs. I'll go back up.” She grimaced. “Notice I didn't say ‘run up.'”

Seven minutes later she returned, jingling change. We inserted the coins in the phone and dialed.

Still nothing.

At last we heard a sound behind the counter. I looked up to see a shock of burgundy hair above a plump, lined face. Stifling a yawn, burgundy-hair lowered her hand from her mouth, leaving a smear of chocolate on one of her chins.

This must be Mavis.

“Sorry. I was takin' a bit of a nap. Did you need somethin' then, luv?”

“Yes, please. Could you show us how to use the phone? We can't get it to work.”

“You won't.” She unwrapped a Caramello. “That phone's broken.”

“Well, can we use yours then?” Mary Jo asked.

Mavis gave a regretful shake of her burgundy head. “Sorry, luv. Nigel keeps it locked up at night.” She scowled. “'e don't want no one running up the bill.”

“But what if there's an emergency?” I ran my fingers through my hair.

“Then I push this buzzer under the counter to wake 'im up and 'e makes the call.” Her Bordeaux-penciled eyebrows lifted. “Is this an emergency, then?”

Yes. A fashion emergency.

“Not exactly.” Mary Jo shot her a winning smile. “But it is important. My friend has the wrong luggage, and we need to call the airport.”

Mavis jerked her head toward the exit. “Phone box down the corner.”

Well, finally. For all the help it was.

The airline couldn't do anything over the phone. We'd have to schlep all the way back out to Heathrow tomorrow to turn in the large mystery man's suitcase and hopefully retrieve mine at the same time.

Racing to the red phone box without our coats, we'd gotten chilled, but by the time we reached our fifty-ninth stair, we'd more than warmed up. I know they say that women don't sweat, but “glisten”— but “they” would be wrong. Sticky sweat was now trickling down my back and underarms.

Peeling off my ripe sweater, I washed it out in the ancient sink and laid it on the radiator to dry overnight. I really needed a bath too, but I just didn't have the energy. Instead, I just did a fast face scrub and quick swipe under my arms before I donned my pajamas, which fortunately had been in the small bag. I slipped between the sheets just as Mary Jo began to snore lightly.

It could be worse, you know,
I told myself
. You still have your
Manolos—good thing you wore them on the plane. And you'll still be seeing
the man of your dreams tomorrow night. At last . . .

Images of Alex's surprised face . . . his arms open wide . . . and our subsequent, inevitable, unforgettable kiss played through my mind in a continual loop as I fell asleep.

Drying my sweater on the radiator had been a good idea, really—except that sometime during the night, the radiator turned off. So when I went to dress after showering—don't even get me started on the ineffectual shower—

Remember it's all part of the traveling adventure. It's all part of the
adventure . . .

—my thick sweater, though no longer dripping wet, was still damp.

Very damp.

“Good thing I didn't wash my jeans,” I grumbled, grabbing my blow dryer and aiming it at my now-very-heavy black V-neck.

Mary Jo's stomach emitted its familiar loud rumble. “Pheebs, you're welcome to wear one of my shirts. I know I'm not the fashion plate you are, but it's just to breakfast and out to the airport, then you can change into your clothes.”

She held up her two turtlenecks. “Take your pick.” Then she grinned. “Unless of course you'd rather wear my sweatshirt?”

I took one look at the horses galloping across the front of her olive-drab sweatshirt and opted for the lesser of two evils.

Even though yellow always makes me look washed-out.

“Beans for breakfast?” Mary Jo looked askance at the full plate set before her. “I feel like I'm in a western. Only thing missing is the campfire and tin coffeepot.”

“Remember; when in Rome . . .” But even I had to admit that our traditional English breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, beans, toast, and fried tomato (or as they say, “to-mah-to”) was a bit daunting.

“What is this?” she hissed, poking at the round red blob on her plate. “It looks like a blood clot.”

“Shh. Remember
Fried Green Tomatoes
? This is just a grilled red tomato cut in half rather than sliced thin.” I pushed up the yellow turtleneck's too-long sleeves and looked down at my overflowing plate.
And they say Americans do everything big . . .

The streaky bacon was a revelation—delicious and more like ham or Canadian bacon. And the eggs and toast were equally as good. But when I cut into my tomato, it bled all over
the plate.

“Thanks, MJ.”

I gulped my tea, which was perfection.

No one can make a cup of tea like the Brits. Steaming hot—no little metal pitcher full of tepid water there—full-bodied, and rich. With milk and sugar, of course.

MJ had allowed me to coax her away from her normal morning coffee, but she balked at “milky” tea.

“I like my tea plain.”

“C'mon. Have you ever tried it this way? When in England . . .”

She scowled and took a cautious sip. “Hmmm. This
is
pretty good.”

When we rolled out of the dining room twenty minutes later, we agreed that the next day we'd forego the full breakfast in favor of toast and yogurt. And maybe a little fresh fruit.

Careful to mind the gap, we headed back to Heathrow to make the suitcase swap. I pulled my leather jacket close to hide as much of the baggy yellow turtleneck as possible, happy I wouldn't be wearing it much longer.

An hour later, I wasn't as happy.

My suitcase was nowhere to be found. Today of all days, when I'd at long last be seeing Alex.

My lip quivered, but before I managed to go into major meltdown mode, the baggage guy said hastily, “Don't worry, luv. Check back tomorrow. It'll most likely show up by then—maybe even later today.” He handed me a piece of paper with a number to call.