Chapter 32 Now
Now
“Like it?” Maren asks, beaming as she takes my suitcase handle from me. It’s Friday night, and we’re standing in the entryway of her Soho flat.
“Love,” I say, taking everything in. I’m thirty-five hundred miles and a seven-hour flight from home, but the apartment I’m standing in doesn’t feel foreign at all: It feels exactly like a place my best friend would live.
The kitchen—filled with the delicious scent of whatever Maren has in the oven—is small but pretty, with a green-tile backsplash and white appliances on one side and a freestanding, wood-topped island on the other, a rack of copper cookware suspended above it.
The kitchen opens into a living room with a leather love seat, a mosaic coffee table and an assortment of pillows and throws that don’t match but somehow go together.
There’s no TV, the focal point of the room instead the array of colorful abstract artwork and designer fashion sketches on the walls. “It’s so you.”
I follow Maren down the narrow hallway, which is lined with more art, to the spare bedroom to get settled.
It’s almost 10:00 p.m. (my usual bedtime) in London but only 5:00 in my body clock, and Maren is a lifelong night owl. So, after I’ve showered and changed, I sit at the island, where she plates roast chicken and potatoes and pours us each a glass of prosecco.
“What are we celebrating?” I ask.
Maren places a hand on her chin, swirling her glass with the other as she dramatically ponders my question.
“Us,” she says finally. “We’re celebrating the fact that no matter where we live or work, no matter who else comes in or out of our lives, we’ll always have each other. That’s no small thing.”
I blink back the sting of threatening tears as we raise our glasses. “To us.”
If the change of scenery isn’t already enough to distract me from unwanted thoughts, our jam-packed itinerary certainly is.
Maren wants us to get all the touristy stuff out of the way so that we can spend the rest of my weeklong trip like locals.
So, that weekend we cover as much ground as we can—tours of the National Gallery and Tower of London, lunch at Borough Market, shopping on the closed blocks of Portobello Road, pints in Shoreditch, a West End show and, of course, our coveted afternoon at Fortnum & Mason, a high-end department store with a tea salon on the top floor, where we gorge ourselves on Earl Grey, scones and clotted cream.
Maren had warned me to prepare for London’s gloomy gray days, but the weekend turns out to be one of the sunniest she can remember since moving here.
We tie our jackets around our waists, marveling at the clear blue skies.
She tells every shopkeeper and tour guide and server we meet that I brought the sunshine with me.
On Monday, Maren has to go to the office for a few meetings, so I spend the day perusing bookstores and boutiques. We meet up again for dinner at her favorite Indian restaurant, then roll ourselves over to a pub having trivia night.
The place is packed, the announcer already rattling off the team names. We’re about to duck back outside when someone calls out, “You’re all right! We’ll take two more on our team.”
Maren tugs me toward a booth in the corner of the pub right next to the bar, where the voice had come from.
Two guys sit on one side, and a third stands and pulls up a chair, gesturing for us to take his side of the booth.
I’d have been hesitant to join a table of strange men, but earlier that day a woman had helped herself to the second chair at my small table at the café where I’d grabbed lunch without uttering a word.
I’d texted Maren about it, and she’d sent me a crying/laughing emoji in reply.
Apparently, my hesitation to share a table in a public space is so very American.
“Thanks for letting us join you guys,” I say, sliding into the booth after Maren.
The men across from us look harmless enough, if a little nerdy.
(As someone with her own nerdy tendencies, I’m allowed to think this.) One is bald, with a reddish-brown beard and round wire glasses.
The other has light brown skin and pale blue eyes, and he’s wearing an anime T-shirt.
“Isn’t it a bit strange how every time we try to be accommodating, we wind up with Americans on our team?” This is the third guy, the one who had called out to us. He’s now leaning against the counter and gesturing for the bartender to pour us a round.
“Pay no mind to Krish,” says the bearded one. “He gets cheeky when he’s nervous for pub quiz. I’m Rory. This here’s Jordan.”
“Pleasure,” says Jordan. “We’ll pray they have one of those Hollywood categories. I can never keep all those American actors’ names straight.”
Krish returns to his seat and deposits five pint glasses of pale gold ale on the table.
I shift to get a better look at him. He’s well over six feet tall, with golden-brown eyes and thick black hair that he pushes off his forehead, only for it to fall back again.
Handsome. The smirk on Maren’s face tells me she agrees.
“I’m Maren,” she says, pulling one of the glasses toward her and passing another to me. “American, yes, but I’ve been living here for about six years. Lina’s my best friend. She’s visiting.”
Krish asked, “Where in the States are you from?”
“New Jersey,” Maren says.
“We grew up in a small town on the Shore,” I add. Maren winces.
“Is that right?” Jordan straightens up in his seat. “I can’t get enough of that show!”
It takes me a beat to realize he’s talking about Jersey Shore, the one reality show I refuse to watch on principle.
Maren’s wince makes perfect sense now. I remember all the times I got this response in college from anyone not from the tristate area.
I’ve been asked more than once if I personally know Snooki.
Maren scoffs. “Don’t even get me started with those people. They’re from New York!” She clinks her glass against mine. “You’ve got a couple of real Jersey girls here.”
The guys let out a few hoots over this and raise their glasses to us. Then the announcer comes around, handing Krish a pen and an answer sheet.
The guys lean in, and Maren and I follow suit. Krish slings one arm across Rory’s shoulders and the other across mine, scanning our huddle like he’s about to deliver a pregame pep talk.
“Lina—you should know that this is no American trivia night. This …” Krish’s voice is grave as he lifts his arms, gesturing around us. “This is pub quiz.”
“It’s proper serious,” Jordan adds.
Rory nods. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Tell us, ladies,” says Krish. “What are your specialties?”
I glance sidelong at Maren, finding a slightly wary expression that I’m sure reflects my own.
“Um,” I say. “I’m pretty good with pop culture?”
“I’m not the worst at geography. …” Maren offers, sounding uncertain for perhaps the first time in her life.
The guys look at each other, the disappointment in their expressions palpable.
And then they burst out laughing.
“Oh, piss off!” Maren says, but she’s laughing, too, and so am I.
“We’re shit,” Krish says between laughs.
“Total rubbish!” Jordan agrees.
“You just come for the cheap pints, then?” I ask once I’ve caught my breath.
Krish locks eyes with me and flashes a dazzling smile. “She gets it, lads.”
Under the table, Maren squeezes my knee. I place my palm over hers and squeeze back. A wave of gratitude for my best friend washes over me because this night—this whole trip—is exactly what I need.
Krish is right: They’re rubbish at trivia.
Which isn’t to say they aren’t smart. Quite the opposite: Over the course of the night, we learn that Rory is getting his PhD in environmental science, Jordan is an engineer and Krish is in specialty training—the UK equivalent of residency—for neurology.
The Achilles’ heel for this particular trivia team is that they can never seem to agree on which answer to put on the paper, and they often run the clock down while heatedly arguing about it.
For ninety percent of the questions tonight, whoever the majority ruled against wound up being right.
I can’t remember a night I’ve laughed this much.
After a crushing final round—Maren proved her geography chops after all by supplying the names of two Mesopotamian rivers, but we tanked the photo challenge and the debate over which artist to put down for the musical bonus got so contentious I wondered if Jordan and Rory would still be on speaking terms tomorrow—we all stumble to a wine bar across the street.
Maren, Rory and Jordan huddle around one of the two available high-top tables and quickly become engrossed in a good-natured argument about whether Friends or Seinfeld is the best American sitcom.
(The boys groan when Maren also makes a pitch for Sex and the City.) Which leaves Krish and me at the other.
“Tell me, Jersey. What is it you write about?” Krish asks me. When we’d talked about our occupations earlier, Maren had wrapped an arm around me and exclaimed proudly, “She’s a writer! A great one.” I’d blushed but left it at that.
“I mostly write about weddings,” I say, twirling the stem of my wineglass. “Sorry to disappoint, if Maren made you think I’m a literary genius or something.”
I expect Krish to smile, nod and change the subject, but when I look up I see his expression has brightened. “A wedding writer! I imagine that’d be quite nice—to write stories about love every day.”
I offer a weak smile. “It certainly beats the news cycle most days.”
“Do you believe in soulmates, then?” Krish cocks his head. “Fate and all that?”
I think about it for a moment. And surprise myself by saying, “No. I don’t think I do.”
He eyes me curiously. “That’s not very romantic for a wedding writer to admit,” he says, mouth curled in a playful half smirk. I shrug, meeting his eyes.
“I don’t either,” he admits. Good, I think. Cynics love company.