Meant to Be (32 page)

We don’t go very far before he reaches his destination. Harrods. Famous like Macy’s but expensive like Bendel’s. Looming over an entire city block, the ornate building just
screams
“money.” If the Gossip Girls came to London, this is where they’d shop. In fact, I’d be willing to bet all the books in my bedroom that this is where Evie and Sarah have been spending their cultural hours.

Jason disappears through one of the brass-and-glass doors, and I scurry after him. I pause by the door, though, and give myself a quick once-over in one of the spotless store windows. I remember vividly the passage in my guidebook detailing the Harrods dress code. There are stories about the staff denying entrance to all manner of famous people for even attempting to enter in flip-flops, no matter how diamond-studded. I am not about to be thrown out of here looking “unkempt,” as the vague language stipulates.

Unfortunately, one look at my reflection, and I realize that “unkempt” seems to be my personal style. I run my fingers through my tangle of curls in a failed attempt to tame the frizz, and press my hands along my shirt. My sweaty palms do have a sort of steamer/iron effect on the wrinkles, and I feel satisfied that I’m probably not going to get booted from the store.

Once inside, I’m assaulted by an oppressively spicy smell. I’ve entered right into the men’s fragrance department, and sexy suited men are all around, offering squirts of the latest designer scent.

“Craving by David Beckham?” a thick, syrupy British voice asks.

“What?”

Apparently, that’s the magic word, because a spritz of something ends up right in my face and up my nose and in my eyes and on my tongue. I hack and gag and nearly spit right on the floor of Harrods.

“So sorry, sir,” the clerk says.
Sir?
I stop coughing long enough to give him the nastiest look I can muster, and he hops back in shock. “Oh, dear me. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I, uh, didn’t realize.”

“Whatever,” I mumble, brushing past him. Great. Now I’m dressed like a homeless person and I smell like a gigolo. They’re going to have bloodhounds on my trail to get me out of here, and thanks to this stupid cologne, I’m going to be way too easy to find.

I wander away, rubbing my eyes to rid myself of David Beckham’s latest celebrity scent. I blink hard a few times to clear up my foggy vision, and I have a brief moment of burning panic when I think I’ve lost Jason. But I quickly spot his rusty mop bobbing up the escalator. I scurry through the dense crowd of shoppers and hop on, trailing him slowly, mechanically, to the next floor.

I keep my focus trained on Jason’s back, noting that when he reaches the top, he makes a quick U-turn off the escalator. Seconds later I emerge into the most glorious displays of designer shoes I’ve ever seen. Phoebe would be in heaven.

I see a flash of red hair underneath a navy Sox cap; Jason has hopped another escalator. I tuck my shoulders and duck my head as I follow him onto the escalator, positioning myself directly behind a blue-haired old lady in an enormous honey-colored fur coat. She’s got a fluffy little yip of a dog tucked under her arm, and the color of the pup’s fur is so close to the color of the coat that I worry she’s destined to become a matching hat.

Safely hidden behind Cruella de Vil, I am able to follow Jason up three floors, past towers of luggage fit for a jaunt on the
Titanic
, mountains of fluffy towels I’d never dream of washing my face with, something
called the Bed Studio. I immediately imagine Jason using all the beds as a personal trampoline; then, as soon as I have
Jason
and
beds
in the same thought, visions of wet grass start to snake into my brain. I lift my right foot and stomp down hard on the left to rid myself of the image.

We finally arrive at the fourth floor, where Jason steps off the escalator and pauses to look around. I have to perform a complicated shimmy-hop off the top of the escalator to avoid crashing into his back, and I duck behind a Juicy Couture—clad mannequin.

I count to ten, then peek out from behind the swaths of candy-colored terry cloth. Jason is on the move again and once again I follow him, ducking low behind dresses and blouses until he hangs a sharp left. I pop up from behind a display of Burberry trenches. He’s headed into the Pet Kingdom, an opening flanked by two large porcelain Dalmatians on pedestals. I wait a moment until he’s safe inside, then hurry across the crowded hallway to follow him. I’m temporarily distracted by the glass cases filled with dog shoes.

That’s when Jason turns around. Maybe he’s lost for a moment, or maybe he senses he’s being followed. Whatever the reason, he throws a quick glance over his shoulder. Fortunately, I have just enough time to dive behind the counter of the doggie bakery in the corner. I crouch behind the pink-and-white striped counter, trying to block out the smells of liver and bacon by nestling into my David Beckham—sprayed hoodie. When I’m satisfied that Jason hasn’t seen me, I slowly peek my head up over the counter and peer through the display of biscuits shaped like signs of the zodiac. I see the back of his head disappear out the opposite end of the Pet Kingdom, and breathe a deep sign of relief.

“Miss? Excuse me?” A perfectly coifed middle-aged woman in a navy suit is looking down at me. “Is there some kind of a
problem
?”

“Oh no, I’m okay,” I reply, sighing. “I just need a moment. You know, to rest.”

“Well, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says with her
clipped British accent. All of a sudden, she sounds exactly like that evil headmistress from
A Little Princess
, and I feel the same cold terror I felt when I was first introduced to the character when I was five. I look up to meet a gaze so icy I feel like she’s shoved me into the Charles River in the middle of January. “We simply don’t tolerate this kind of behavior at
Harrods
.”

I mutter a quick apology and bolt for the exit before she can take my arm like some schoolmarm and march me out to the nearest Wal-Mart. I can escort
myself
out, thankyouverymuch.

Be careful. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt —S

G
reat. I follow Jason halfway across London and then lose him in Doggie Heaven.

I start circling back toward the elevator that leads to the street. I wind my way through maternity, baby, children’s, and juniors, an entire luxury life cycle unfolding before my eyes. It seems like I’m nearly back to where I started, and I have yet to find the escalator that brought me here.

By this point, it’s a familiar feeling. Ever since that party and Jason and my little texting exploration, I’ve been trying to get back to the Julia Lichtenstein who boarded the flight in Boston. Heck, I’d give anything just to be Book Licker again. But as soon as I think I’ve found her again, she’s gone, replaced by this crazy girl who leaves a field trip to follow Jason Lippincott.

Up ahead is something simply called the Diner, where I can see that the Brits have decided to approximate a real American diner experience. Red vinyl booths, gleaming white Formica countertops, and shiny
chrome as far as the eye can see. Of course, the luxury version of a classic American diner gets one very important thing wrong: it’s all too clean, too shiny, too perfect. My favorite diner back home, the Deluxe, features tarnished chrome, chipped counters, and duct-taped stools at the bar.

Still, for a moment, I feel a sharp stab of homesickness. Deluxe was Dad’s place, and as soon as I was born, he made it
our
place. He used to take me there every Sunday morning for breakfast, even when I was an infant. He loved to tell me how he’d put my car seat right on the counter next to his bacon and eggs. It was Mom’s morning, he said, for her to sleep. But it was also our morning.

As I grew older—old enough to sit on my own stool, my little legs swinging below the counter, old enough to order my own pancakes—it became less about Mom sleeping in and more about me and Dad.

I spot Jason, his Sox cap resting on a tabletop, his red hair running wild across his forehead. He’s sitting across the table from a blond girl, though “blond” isn’t enough to describe her shiny, luxurious, perfectly straightened locks. Her flawless skin looks like a team of angels has been standing around spritzing her all day. She’s wearing a perfect swipe of ruby-red lipstick. This girl is so classy she can wear what my mother refers to as “hooker lips” at midday and not look a bit like she’s charging. A pair of milk shakes sits between them, Jason’s half gone and hers nearly untouched.

They lean over the table at each other, talking conspiratorially. She pushes a slip of paper across the table, and Jason gives it a quick read, then shoves it into his pocket. He pulls the straw out of his milk shake and tosses it onto the table, tips the glass back, and finishes it in one long gulp. She laughs and reaches out and touches his hand. For some reason, seeing that—the gentle way she brushes his skin with her fingertips—makes my stomach dive all the way to my toes.

When they stand, I see she’s nearly as tall as he is.

She leans in closer to him, and my heart stops.…

Are they going to kiss?

Just then a very large Hawaiian-print monstrosity slips in front of my view. A large man in pleat-front khaki shorts and a silk shirt in an abomination of colors points a fat finger toward the diner. “Honey, look! I bet I can get a cheeseburger just like at home!” Of course a guy like that travels thousands of miles to eat the same crap he’d eat at home … for twenty dollars more a plate. I lower my gaze, and it’s what I suspected: he’s wearing socks and sandals. I hop left, then right, finally getting a clear shot around Mr. Hawaii, but Jason is already giving the girl’s hand a final squeeze and turning to go. Whatever happened, I missed it.

Then, abruptly, he turns in my direction. Now that Hawaii has moved on, I realize I’m standing right out in the open. There’s nothing for me to hide behind, so I simply spin around and walk quickly in the opposite direction, my sneakers squeaking on the marble floor as I scurry. I spot a sign for the “Ladies’ Lounge,” which I assume must be a bathroom, and make my way straight for it.

Inside, I’m greeted by a gleaming entryway, a luxurious gilded sofa against one wall. I sink into it and take some deep breaths, willing myself to stay calm. My brain won’t stop firing questions at me, though:
Who was she? Is that who Jason’s been texting all day? Where did he meet her? Did they kiss? He kissed me. Now he uses me as his alibi so he can go kiss her?

As quickly as the questions come, my brain provides the answers:
She’s a supermodel. She met Jason at that house party. She was charmed by his American sense of humor and brash behavior. They’ve been carrying on an elaborate affair via text message. They met up to cement their newfound relationship. He wants her. Bad
.

“Ugh,” I groan before bending over and placing my forehead on my knees.

“Can I get you anything, miss?” I look up to see a grandmotherly attendant in a Harrods uniform looking concerned.

“No thank you, I just need a moment,” I reply. I try to arrange my mouth into some approximation of a smile. What appears must look more pathetic than anything else, because she pats me on the shoulder.

“I understand, dear,” she says. “Take as long as you need.”

I thank her, then drop my head back into my lap. I wish I could drop to the floor to do some push-ups, but somehow I do not think Harrods tolerates
that
kind of behavior, either. All my muscles are tight, and that spot between my shoulder blades starts to ache. I take a deep breath, rolling my head to loosen my neck.
Quiet, quiet
, I repeat to myself, and after a few more deep breaths, I finally feel ready to leave. I thank the attendant on the way out, dropping some coins into the silver bowl by the door, and head back for the escalator. This time, Jason really
is
nowhere to be found, thank God.

I ride the series of escalators back down to the street, and with each floor, I descend deeper into a foul mood. He was supposed to be helping me; that was our deal. But I don’t have Chris, and he’s done nothing but sabotage things with Mark. He’s been playing me all along, and I have no idea why. He flirts with girls to get room keys and Internet access and also, apparently, just for sport! And he’s good at it, which is what really kills me. He’s managed to find out enough about me to manipulate me (like playing on my love for the Beatles) so that he can get exactly what he wants, from a kiss to a cover to a pile of reflection papers. He’s not helping me; he’s helping himself. And now he’s helping himself to the most gorgeous girl in Britain. Jason has been carrying on some kind of secret romance? All this time I’ve been confiding in him,
kissing him
, and he hasn’t even bothered to mention the supermodel he’s got in his pocket? I mean, sure, I’ve been asking for his help with Chris … and it’s not like Jason
owes
me anything.…

I feel like I’ve swallowed a bunch of live eels. It’s true. Jason doesn’t owe me anything.