Chapter Twenty-Two Julia
Chapter Twenty-Two
Julia
When Julia and Harry arrived at the Four Seasons London, Abby was already at the bar.
“You’re here!” Abby rushed forward and threw her arms around her. Julia closed her eyes for a moment, relishing the sensation of someone familiar when everything in her life felt uprooted and strange.
Belatedly, Abby acknowledged Harry with a smile. “Good to see you, too, Harry. Are you staying?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t dream of crashing girls’ night.” He grinned, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I’m just delivering her to you.”
“Thank you,” Julia murmured as he gave her a quick goodbye kiss. “I love you.”
She and Abby settled at a high-top in the hotel’s bar area, all gleaming wood and leather.
Julia took a moment to study her friend.
Abby looked impossibly chic in winged eyeliner and sandals that revealed dark purple toenails, her chestnut hair chopped into a sleek bob.
“You’re so European now. I remember the days your closet was full of argyle sweaters and Hunter boots,” she remarked.
Abby tipped her head back and laughed, a delightfully unladylike sound. “We all have things we regret from college.”
Julia had been to the UK once before, to visit Abby when her friend moved here two years ago.
That trip had left her completely unprepared for the Ellenes’ house in Mayfair: an estate that stared smugly down at its neighbors, windows winking in the setting sun.
When they saw the house, complete with a uniformed butler and housekeeper, Julia’s aunt and uncle had grown quiet with awe—and perhaps a touch of unease.
“I know you said he was rich, but I didn’t realize how rich,” her uncle Daniel had murmured, casting Julia a sidelong look. She’d just smiled encouragingly. What could she say? I didn’t realize, either?
Over the past few days, the tidal wave of Harry’s extended family had begun arriving in London.
Julia had been surprised at how many of them were attending the party—they had all seen one another in Greece.
Did they really need another excuse to get together?
At least most of them were staying at hotels.
“We rented out the Connaught, of course,” Tara had explained, as if there were no other suitable option in the entire city.
But Harry’s siblings and a number of cousins were all staying in the sprawling Mayfair house, which left Julia feeling slightly claustrophobic.
She couldn’t step into the hallway without running into men in smoking jackets or women in impeccably tailored dresses.
Thank god she’d been able to escape the Ellene madness to see Abby.
A waitress with a high ponytail came to take their order. “A ginger margarita,” Abby requested, so eagerly that Julia laughed and ordered the same.
Abby grinned. “That’s one of my favorite things about Four Seasons hotels. No matter what country you’re in, the ginger margarita is always the same.”
“Margaritas, the universal language,” Julia agreed. “If only we’d known when we first started this tradition.”
Abby snorted. “Probably for the best. We would have had too many and puked up ginger syrup in the dorm bathrooms.”
The tradition—and really, their friendship—had started when they were both at Harvard over Thanksgiving break their freshman year.
Julia had stayed because she could only afford one flight home a semester and was waiting until Christmas, Abby because her parents were doing Thanksgiving in St. Bart’s and she refused to join them.
Abby and Julia didn’t really meet until they were the only people left in the dining hall on Thanksgiving morning.
“Hi. You’re Peale’s roommate, right?” Abby had asked, sliding into the chair across from Julia. “I’m Abby. What are you doing tonight?”
Julia had mumbled an excuse, too embarrassed to admit that she’d been planning to start The Brothers Karamazov for her world literature class and bake her aunt Jess’s oatmeal cookies.
“I want to go out,” Abby had declared, encouraged by Julia’s vague response. “Come with me?”
“No one’s on campus,” Julia said slowly. Was there a party she didn’t know about? Not that she went to many parties in the first place.
“We’re going out to the only place open on a holiday. A hotel. You have a fake ID, right?” Abby asked cheerfully. At Julia’s stricken expression, she just laughed. “Don’t worry, I have my cousin’s expired ID. She looks a bit like you. And they probably won’t card anyway.”
That night, the two of them put on red lipstick and marched through the cold streets of Cambridge, bracing themselves against the wind. Abby led them to the boutique hotel across from campus, where they commandeered two spots at the near-empty bar. Abby had been right; no one carded them.
They ordered beers and truffle fries and stayed there all night, exchanging stories.
At one point, a group of young men with loosened ties tried to approach them.
“HBS losers,” Abby muttered, “here over break and out to troll college girls, so lame.” She’d spoken imperious French and pretended not to understand them, until the business school guys wandered away, bewildered.
On paper, Julia and Abby didn’t make much sense as best friends.
Abby was actively trying to shake off her Upper East Side upbringing: she snuck away to get her cartilage pierced, refused to wear the clothes her mother sent her—all tailored dresses and crisp silk blouses—and ignored the other girls from her all-girls high school, which had sent no fewer than six students to their freshman class.
Julia, on the other hand, was still figuring herself out.
She’d put a corkboard above her desk, but so far the only things on it were photos of her aunt and uncle, an old picture of her mom, and a few concert ticket stubs.
From that Thanksgiving onward, she and Abby were inseparable.
They stayed up watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy; they linked arms and walked across the snowy courtyards to off-campus parties; they camped out in the student center during finals, passing Swedish Fish and headphones back and forth while Julia wrote prelaw essays and Abby tapped away at some mathematical model.
They entered the housing lottery together as sophomores, and as Abby liked to say, the rest was history.
Their margaritas arrived in lowball glasses, with ginger sugar arranged artfully along the rim. “Cheers to you and Harry,” Abby said, clinking their glasses.
Julia shook her head. “Cheers to us. Reunited.”
She’d forgotten how it felt, being with someone she didn’t have to pretend around or prove anything to.
She had Harry, of course, but it was different with a best friend.
Harry loved Julia as she was now, but Abby had loved many versions of Julia—her confused eighteen-year-old self as much as the woman she’d become.
Abby tucked a hair behind one ear, revealing a pair of earrings shaped like shooting stars.
How wonderful that Abby was even more completely Abby than she had been in college.
Perhaps this was what happened to some people as they got older: instead of trying to mimic others, they settled more deeply into their personalities, whittled away the excess until all that was left was their true selves.
“I feel like I’ve shown a great deal of restraint in not asking until now,” Abby asked, “but can you please show me the ring?”
Julia reached her left hand across the table, and Abby’s eyes widened as she studied the ancient Mycenaean ring.
“It’s so perfectly you. Beautiful yet understated.
Well done, Harry,” she said emphatically, and smiled.
“He obviously understands you, if he chose this instead of some enormous rock from Harry Winston.”
“Actually…” Julia tugged her hand back. “Harry didn’t pick out the ring. I did.”
Abby shrugged, unconcerned. “So you went ring shopping together. That’s pretty common these days.”
“Except that I went ring shopping with his mother.” Haltingly, Julia explained how Tara had summoned Martin and his cart of priceless jewelry all the way to Greece, then instructed Julia to select one.
“Okay, that’s a bit much,” Abby declared. “It’s not Tara’s ring. Or her wedding.”
“Except that it is her wedding, sort of, since she and Bruce are paying for the whole thing.” Julia couldn’t stop talking; the words kept pouring out of her, as if a dam had burst now that she was with her best friend. “I just wish it all felt like it had more to do with me.”
“You’re the bride,” Abby said adamantly.
“It has everything to do with you. Well, you and Harry,” she amended, “but mostly you. If you’re not happy with Tara’s interference, then push back.
You’re going to be stuck with her a long time,” Abby added softly.
“You know what they say: begin as you mean to continue. Don’t let your future mother-in-law walk all over you, or she’ll keep doing so. ”
“If it gets bad, I promise I’ll say something. I’m just venting right now.” Julia forced a smile. She could see how much it meant to Harry that he and his family had reconciled. The last thing she wanted was to rock the boat, at least not over something as trivial as a party.
“I’ve been meaning to bring this up, but you’ll be my maid of honor, right?” Julia asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“Thank god! I thought you’d never ask.” Abby leaned forward. “Vegas for the bachelorette? Or what about Charleston? I know you think those places are cheesy, but—”
“No bachelorette,” Julia said quickly. “I don’t want to make a fuss. Really.”
She didn’t have a bunch of girlfriends to celebrate with, anyway. Just Abby. And Harry’s family would find the whole thing unbearably tacky; she felt certain of it.
“Fine. I’m just excited to be part of your big day. But be warned, I am not wearing a pink chiffon bridesmaid’s dress.”
“I was thinking a lime-green one, actually. With giant puffed sleeves and layered skirts,” Julia informed her, and they both laughed.
“How’s New York?” Abby asked. “Are you and Harry feeling settled yet?”
“We’re starting to. Harry’s job involves a lot of local travel, but we’re finding time to do our own thing. He took me to a rock-climbing gym a few weeks ago.” Julia hesitated. “Something weird happened there, actually. The gym’s belayer dropped my rope, and Harry saved me from falling.”
“Julia!” Abby exclaimed, so loudly that a few people glanced over from the bar. “Why didn’t you tell me! Are you okay?”
Julia tried her best to explain what had happened: how she’d been terrified, clutching at the wall, only for Harry to appear next to her when she thought he’d been yards away.
“Good thing Harry is so strong,” Abby said earnestly, and shook her head. “Saving your life, wow. It’s like you’re marrying Superman. Or one of the Jane Austen heroes you always used to gush about.”
Right, Julia told herself. Harry saving her wasn’t strange; it was swoon-worthy.
Abby turned to face the waitress who lingered awkwardly near their table, and the waitress shifted. “Oh, sorry! Another round?”
“We’re good, thanks.” Abby waited for the waitress to leave before resuming their conversation. “Honestly, though, I’m still shocked that your Harry is an Ellene. He’s so…”
“Grubby?” Julia supplied.
“I was going to say ‘low-maintenance,’ but yes, he was distinctly grubby when I visited you two. He wore athletic shorts with a drawstring that was so frayed, the little fibers of the drawstring kept falling all over the floor.”
Julia smiled at the observation. “That was a fun trip.”
Abby had visited her last year, ostensibly because she’d never seen New Zealand, but Julia knew she really wanted to meet the man that her best friend couldn’t shut up about.
It had been a whirlwind week: the three of them went jet boating down the Dart River, drank too much in Queenstown and ate late-night pizza from a street cart, went up to Waikato to see the Hobbit houses.
It was on the long drive back, when they were engaged in a passionate debate about which Lord of the Rings movie was best, that Abby turned to Julia and whispered, This one is a keeper.
Julia hadn’t realized until that moment just how desperately she’d hoped Abby would like Harry.
“Though to be fair,” Abby mused, “if I were a secret billionaire trying to go unnoticed, I would wear worn-out athletic shorts, too.”
Julia swirled the watery remains of her margarita.
“I know Harry had his reasons for keeping it from me, but I still wish I’d known.
It’s just a lot. You know, the money, the…
” She waved a hand in a vague attempt to indicate the houses, the snobbery, the vast carelessness of these people who took everything for granted.
Abby sighed. “Look, Julia, I will be the first to admit that I never thought you would end up with a trust-fund guy. I always thought you would marry someone like Sam.”
“Sam?” Julia blinked, caught off guard. “We never even dated!” He’d been her best friend back in Marietta, her mainstay through middle school and high school. Even back then, Julia hadn’t been the type to seek comfort in a clique of girls.
She and Sam had remained friends through college. He’d gone to Williams and had visited Julia a few times at Harvard, to Abby’s delight. A part of Julia had always wondered if something might happen between them—until it did, and their entire relationship imploded.
“I’m just saying that you and Sam made sense, on paper at least!” Abby held out her hands in a placating gesture. “It goes to show that making sense on paper is not the foundation for a good relationship. Is he coming to the wedding, by the way?” she added.
“Sam? We haven’t kept in touch.” Julia wasn’t even sure where he was living these days.
“I wonder where he ended up,” Abby mused. “Though if we’re talking about your exes, it’s not Sam that we should focus on. It’s Preston.”
“I told you, Sam and I never dated! He’s not an ex!”
“Semantics,” Abby said airily, waving a hand. “Really, don’t you think some of your anxiety about Harry is because of Preston? You’re punishing Harry for Preston’s sins.”
Preston. Julia didn’t like the notion that he still held any sway over her. “I don’t know.”
Abby winced. “Hang on, I really have to pee, and then we can discuss it all in more detail. Grab another round while I’m gone?”
Julia glanced about for their waitress, but after hovering awkwardly nearby for far too long, she seemed to have vanished.
She pulled her phone from her handbag—a new one, another lavish gift from Harry’s family, which she would have returned except that the leather felt so deliciously buttery in her hands.
Where are you? Tara had texted. And then, The florist is here, can you come meet with him?
Julia left the messages unanswered and dropped her phone in her bag. She didn’t want to meet with the florist. She wanted to stay here with her best friend, far from the tentacles of Harry and his family.
For just one night, she wanted to forget all about the Ellenes.