Chapter 3
three
ASTRID
I burst with excitement after arriving at my doorstep. I was on my own in the world— abroad and in graduate school. A cheerful set of rose bushes and a chalky white facade greeted me. I’d been charmed in pictures by the bright blue door to the row house. It was even better in person. This abode off a quiet street would be my home base for the next year.
As if I were a girl in a period drama arriving at the door of her long-lost relatives, I waited to meet my new roommates. Our communications began as emails and then, eventually, chat messages. We mostly shared memes, but that was fair material for bonding, wasn’t it?
Amara Ayedi, the daughter of a cabinet minister, greeted me exuberantly at the front door. She was almost as I imagined—perky and dressed in a fabulous fuchsia sweater dress with bell sleeves. Hair in tight curls bounced on her shoulders, adding to the excitement on her face, which was warmed by impeccable contouring makeup. Even her simple nude lipstick was chic. I took style notes.
“Oh my God! Astrid! You're here!”
She gave me a massive hug and kiss on both cheeks .
“Hello,” I said.
“Do you love it here?”
I didn't know how to answer. I only just arrived at the airport with all my luggage—brought here by a car service. It’s not like I knew this place or could form an opinion from my drive from Heathrow.
“I have no idea.” I laughed nervously. “I hope? I don't know yet. I want to go out and get to know the place.”
“Oh, go out and explore! I've got to meet with my business tutor, but I'll join you in town later.”
I nodded. She was probably right. I should take a walk and explore with my newfound freedom.
“Ole is in the kitchen. He's making some awful fish thing, though. Avoid, avoid!”
“Noted,” I said.
“I must run, darling, but have the best time! Let’s catch up later!”
She rushed out the door as I went upstairs to my room. It was lovely—a bright room overlooking the garden. I directed the driver to deposit my mountain of baggage by my bed. It wasn't a palace, but this space was mine. I valued liberty over luxury, and this allowed me the freedom to find myself. I was a single woman living her own life.
I left to explore, not wanting to deal with bags. I never unpacked for myself, but how hard could it be? Venturing downstairs, I found a tall, thin, blonde man in the kitchen. This was my outer housemate, Ole Jorgensen. Ole was the son of a Danish-born actor and a Danish model. He was less handsome than I expected but hadn't fallen from the ugly tree, either.
“Hello,” he said. “Are you Astrid?”
I nodded yes.
“Great,” he said. “You like it here?”
“Seems alright. I'm about to go out and explore.”
“Good, good. You want some fish?”
“No,” I answered. “Thanks.”
“You found the room?”
“Yes, thanks. Left my bags. I'll get to them later.”
He nodded. “Good, good. ”
Ole barely said anything, while Amara was talkative. I expected it. Since Rick arrived, we'd had to coexist with a Scandinavian. Ole was a man of few words, and I suspected he'd be quiet and leave us girls alone.
I stepped out, leaving the house Amara had deemed “Nepo-baby Station” for what Brits called the high street. The city centre was filled with Saturday shoppers. I had a week to adjust to Shalestone before term began. Everywhere I turned, pensioners sported warm smiles, and children excitedly skipped alongside their mothers. Shalestone was synonymous with country air, quaint pedestrian rows, and thatched roofs. I ducked into a coffee shop first, needing a wake-up before I crashed this afternoon. I hadn't slept properly in days—too excited to rest.
I ordered a latte and prayed it was adequately strong. I didn’t drink tea and wasn’t about to start. I looked around as I waited for my drink. Students laughed and chatted. University parents fought tears at the thought of leaving their children for the first time. Professors typed furiously, no doubt trying to pack in last-minute work on research papers or syllabi before the autumn term began.
“Astrid!“ A barista called.
The fact that I could just be Astrid put a big smile on my face.
I beamed, taking the drink. “Cheers.”
I was trying to fit in, using any British phrases I knew from television. I wanted to assimilate, to be one of these people.
I turned to find a table. But before I could move, a man holding a computer ran into me, spilling my drink all over the floor.
“Oh my God!” I sputtered as I picked up my nearly-empty cup.
“You weren't looking where you were headed!” He protested.
“I am sorry, but you were on your laptop ignoring me!”
“Oh, sorry, I was trying to find a goddamn wifi signal, princess. Sorry to be in your way. Maybe you should have stepped aside?”
Indignant, I debated chucking the remaining coffee at him. No one got to call me princess!
“I had the right of way!”
His tone was so awful. He was in the wrong, but I was the problem!? What a dick!
“You did not. I was paying attention, and you were not.”
“I hope you don’t drive, you know? You’d run into everyone else!”
I didn’t feel the need to say I could not drive—not legally yet. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to look where you are going when you drive, sir!”
With annoyance, he set his laptop down and pulled out his wallet.
“I don't want your fucking money! I want a new latte. I can pay?—”
He ignored me and angrily strode to the till, ordering another latte. I tossed my to-go cup in the trash and cleaned the spilt coffee.
“Happy, Latte Girl?” He picked his laptop up and left.
“What a fucking prat!” I said to myself.
I'd be glad never to run into that asshole again!