Dreaming in Technicolor (15 page)

I could live here. Easily. Behind a house with a blue door, like Hugh
Grant in Notting Hill. Or at least commute between here and the States.

Note to self: Make sure to subtly weave this realization into conversation
with Alex so he doesn't worry about my being homesick. That could
be what's holding him back.

Suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks, all my Gwyneth Paltrow sophistication falling away to reveal my all-American tourist self. “Scarlett O'Hara lived here! We have to get a picture of this!”

“I thought she lived in a Southern mansion in Georgia somewhere.”

“Very funny. No, I mean, the fabulous actress who played her.” I stared at the round blue plaque on the white house front. “Do you know that every actress in Hollywood wanted that
Gone with the Wind
role—from Bette Davis to Katharine Hepburn?”

I'm a huge Scarlett O'Hara fan, having always admired her strength and tenacity. Until recently, in fact, when faced with a perplexing conundrum or sticky situation in my life, I used to ask myself,
What
would Scarlett do?
I'd stopped doing that when I watched the movie with new eyes and realized Scarlett could be selfish and hurtful as well as plucky. But that didn't stop me from admiring the talented actress who brought her so vividly to life on the silver screen.

“Vivien Leigh also played Blanche DuBois in
A Streetcar Named
Desire
.” I turned to MJ. “Did you know she was married to Laurence Olivier? They had a turbulent marriage, though. She was bipolar or something.”

She shook her head as we continued walking. “You really need to get a life.”

“Says the woman who's addicted to horses and anything on four feet.”

Feet . . .

Mine were really starting to ache.
Should have changed shoes back in
the hotel room. I'll wear my Skechers tomorrow.

“. . . least I stick to the ones that are still alive.”

Alive?
I smacked my forehead. I was supposed to let both my mom and Cordelia know we'd arrived safely. I reached for the international phone card I'd bought back in the States, then we started looking for one of those adorable red phone booths.

And couldn't find one anywhere.

We couldn't find a phone of any sort.
Guess everyone's using cell
phones here too.

We had about decided we'd have to go back to our hotel and call when I spotted a glassed-in storefront with several touristy-looking people inside seated at computers. “That looks like one of those Internet cafés Esther was talking about. We can e-mail home and maybe even get in touch with Cordelia.”

Luckily, when I logged on to the Internet, I was able to send an Instant Message to Alex's sister, who suggested meeting for dinner. She named a place near the Internet café and gave me directions, which I scribbled down in my new travel journal. Since I knew what she looked like from a family photo on Alex's desk at the
Bulletin,
I knew there'd be no problem recognizing her.

After that, I dashed off a quick “we're safe!” note to Mom, then wrote Lindsey.

To: LinsRog
Movielovr

I did it! I'm here in England with Mary Jo, and it's everything they said it was and more. You'd love London! Talk about an exciting city. We just saw Buckingham Palace! Can you believe it? And we're about to have our very first English meal—fish and chips in a pub, no less. Tomorrow we might go to the Tower of London. (I'll think of you when we see the crown jewels, although I doubt I'll be able to bring you any back.) Any minute now I expect to see Hugh Grant or Colin Firth come riding up on a white horse.

Oops. Gotta fly. Miss you. Hope all's going well with the wedding plans. And give Phillie a big hug for me. —Love, P.

MJ, who doesn't share my e-mail addiction, was waiting outside for me when I finished.

“Any luck?”

“We're meeting Cordelia for dinner at a pub called the Hangman's Noose. She said it wasn't too far from here.”

“That's good,” she said. “I'm starving, and think I'm about walked out too . . .”

She looked down at my elegant boots and shook her head. “I still don't understand how you can walk a step in those things. Your feet must be killing you.”

I wasn't about to let her know she was right.

“I don't think we're in California anymore, Dorothy.” Mary Jo coughed through the cloud of smoke in the crowded pub. “Doesn't the word
cancer
mean anything over here?”

“Guess not. But they must have smoke-free zones somewhere.”

As it turned out, we were fifteen minutes early for our dinner date with Cordelia. We made our way cautiously through the raucous haze past a bar where several people sat smoking and downing beers while cheering on their favorite soccer team. Mary Jo pointed to a small table near the back that still had a good view of the front door, and I headed in that direction, marveling at the ancient beams overhead dotted with horse brasses. I should have been looking down. Halfway to our table, I nearly tripped over a thick rolled-up rug in our path.

Only it wasn't a rug.

The large dog moved lazily away when I bumped into it, giving me a fright.

“Haven't they heard of health codes?” I whispered to MJ.

A grizzled old-timer nearby caught my eye and grinned. “Yanks, eh?”

Mary Jo reached down and scratched behind the golden lab's ears. “Aren't you a good boy?” The dog rolled over and thumped his tail on the ancient floorboards, so she obliged him by scratching his stomach.

Eew. Wonder if he has fleas? Hope MJ washes her hands . . .

While we waited for Cordelia, we ordered a couple of packages of “crisps”—potato chips, actually—and two Cokes from a hot-looking young guy in jeans and a T-shirt. Well, he would have been hot except for that whole pale, anemic thing he had going on.

Haven't they heard of tanning booths over here?

Setting down our drinks, anemic guy leaned toward us. “So, where in the States do you two gorgeous girls come from?”

“California.”

“With all the film stars? D'ya know Jennifer Aniston, then? Or Cameron Diaz?” His eyes took on a lusty gleam. “Or J.Lo?”

“No.” Then MJ asked with a similar lusty gleam, “But do you happen to know Prince Wil—”

“Phoebe? Mary Jo?”

I looked up in surprise at the slim, dark-haired young woman in a conservative navy business suit, who'd materialized in front of us.
“Cordelia?”

A smile creased her flawless Nicole Kidman complexion, and she extended her hand. “The same. Lovely to meet you at last.”

“But I saw your pic—I was looking for a girl with fuchsia hair, multiple pierced ears, and funky clothes!”

She threw her head back—looking remarkably like her half brother when she did—and laughed, a rather hearty laugh for someone so petite and refined. “That was when I was at university. Now that I'm part of the family firm, I must look the part.” She lifted her hair to reveal three diamond studs and a tiny silver hoop near the top of her ear. “But I still wear my funky bits on the weekend,” she said with a sassy grin.

I just love English accents. Don't you? Especially the way they add emphasis to the final syllable with that lovely, musical lilt: Week
end
.

Mary Jo thrust her hand across the table. “Great to meet you, Cordelia.”

“Actually, you can just call me Delia.”

My Thelma traveling companion grinned and shot a wink my way. “And you can call me MJ. Now that I'm in London, Phoebe thinks I need to at least
sound
a little less hicksville.” Her stomach grumbled at just that moment, surprising us all. MJ shrugged. “Guess my stomach just didn't get the message.”

Delia laughed again, the pale waiter returned, and we ordered dinner. She was filling us in on all the details of the plan to surprise Alex when our fish and chips arrived, nestled alongside a pile of the brightest green peas we'd ever seen in our lives.

“That green is a color not to be found in nature,” MJ said.

“Uh-huh. And since I don't eat peas, natural or un—want mine?” I shoved my plate her way.

Delia sent a curious look my way. “Why don't you like peas, Phoebe?”

“It's a whole texture thing.” I scraped the little neon green BBs onto MJ's plate and shuddered. “I hate it when they squish in your mouth.”

“We'll have to get you some mushy peas then.” She signaled the waiter.

“Excuse me?”

“Mushy. They're squashed together into a mass—sort of like mashed potatoes.”

She gave the order, then leaned in to tell us the details of her plan. She and Alex and their family would be going to the theater tomorrow night, and we would surprise him there. MJ wasn't too sure that was a good idea—especially
after all this time apart—but Delia thought it would be “brilliant.” She reached in her bag and came up with two pairs of opera glasses, plus tickets for a production by The Reduced Shakespeare Company.

Then she noticed Mary Jo's face. “What's wrong?”

“Well, I don't mean to be rude since he's your greatest playwright and all . . .” Mary Jo squirmed. “I just think Shakespeare's so hard to understand, with all those
yon
s and
methink
s and stuff.”

I stared at her. “But you love history, MJ! And you liked Kenneth Branagh's
Much Ado About Nothing
when we watched it.”

She snorted. “I could
understand
that. Besides, that hunka burnin' love Denzel Washington was in it. And Michael Keaton, who was really funny.”

“This will be too,” Delia assured her. “I promise. It's hysterical.” At that moment my mushy peas arrived, looking very much like Gerber strained peas. Or little Gloria's diaper after she'd eaten them. Which was just one stimulus too many. The sight of those peas teamed with smoke and jet lag turned my face the same color as the roadkill vegetable in front of me. “Uh, Delia, if you don't mind, I think I'll pass on the peas altogether.” I excused myself and fled to the loo.

And what an experience that was. Can you say toilet paper with the consistency of waxed paper? So far, England wasn't exactly living up to my old-world, upper-crust expectations. But I remembered what Esther had said and determined to be a little less wussy and critical and a lot more adventurous and accepting of different cultures.

Besides, it was only our first night.

When I returned to the table—devoid of the mushy peas, thank goodness—Mary Jo was saying to the waiter, “Could I have a glass of water please?”

Delia teased her. “MJ, it's not wa-derrr,” she said, imitating Mary Jo's flat, nasal California accent. “It's wau-tuh. You want to sound like you have plums in your mouth.”

“Plums in your mouth?”

“Yes. To speak posh, you need to sound like you're talking around a plum in your mouth.” She pursed her lips to demonstrate.

We practiced our plummy accents. “Wau-tuh,” “Right, then,” “Ack-shwully . . .”

Delia grinned. “No chance of your being mistaken for the upper crust.”

MJ poured ketchup on her chips. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Upper crust.”

I spit out my Coke.

Delia laughed again. “By birth, not by preference.” She made a face. “But the family is a bit, as you'll see when you meet them tomorrow night.”

Monarchs swooped through my stomach.
How am I ever going to
impress Alex's posh parents?

Note to self: Be sure to brush up on diction and etiquette and wear best
outfit. Including Manolos, of course.
I flexed my Manolo-clad right foot, which was developing a blister.

Until then, switch to flats to give feet a rest.

“. . . Mother's lovely—she's American, you know. And Dad's a dear, though he can be a bit intimidating—all that boarding school and landed gentry background.” Delia rolled her eyes and then smiled.

“But Mum balances him out nicely.”

Hmm. Wonder if I'll have time to go to the library and read up on the
Spencer heritage before meeting Alex's dad tomorrow night? If nothing else,
maybe I can find another Internet café and Google them . . .

MJ yawned. “I don't know about you, Pheebs, but I don't think I can stay awake much longer.”

“Oh, sorry! I've forgotten all about your jet lag.” Delia was instantly contrite. “Let's get you back to your hotel.”

She wanted to accompany us to our hotel to make sure we got there safely, but when we discovered she lived quite a ways in the opposite direction, we assured her that we could navigate the Underground without difficulty now.

Walking—well, limping—back to Victoria Station with MJ, something called my name—row upon row of Cadbury's chocolate bars in a little crowded shop that reminded me of a minimart without the gas pumps. We each grabbed one, but at the register something else caught my eye. “Look.” I giggled. “Here's some Union Jack boxer shorts in a can. How cheesy is that? I just have to get this for my brother. And check out these great mini pub signs.”