Dreaming in Technicolor (19 page)

“And go for that ride,” David added, nodding his farewell as he linked his wife's arm in his.

Delia hugged us both. “See you tomorrow at three then. Just tell your taxi driver Brown's Hotel in Mayfair. He'll know right where it is.”

Georgina gave us a brisk shake of her little claw, then stood waiting for Alex, who gave each of us another awkward hug—no kiss—before bidding us good-night.

This is just like in
The Parent Trap
when that money-hungry, high-maintenance
Joanna Barnes—also a skinny blonde—wormed her way
into Brian Keith's life while daughter Hayley Mills was away at camp . . .
and tried to shut out his real love, the voluptuous Maureen O'Hara . . .

“Wonder why Alex never mentioned Gorgeous George was a woman,” I said, unlocking our door.

“It just never came up,” Mary Jo said, wheezing from the climb. “He's a guy. He's oblivious. Don't read anything more into it.”

“Then why was she hanging all over him?” I yanked the door shut behind me. “Maybe she's why he's not hurrying home.”

She sighed and sank onto her bed. “Alex hasn't hurried home because this
is
home for him. His dad had a heart attack, and he needs to be here to help out with the family business. You know he's not the kind of guy to dangle two women at once.”

“You're right.” I struggled out of my jacket, turning my back to Mary Jo so she wouldn't spot the sweater rip. “Although I'll bet George wouldn't mind being dangled. And his dad would certainly be thrilled if they got together.” I bit my lip. “Did you notice how awkward Alex was at the theater? He didn't seem himself at all.”

He didn't even notice that I'm growing my hair out!

“True.” She frowned. “He wasn't his normal happy-go-lucky self. But then again, he's been worried about his dad—and we did surprise him. Maybe it's just that famous English reserve. When he comes back here it automatically slips into place, especially when he's around his father. He gets all stuffy and proper.”

I sat down on my bed and took off my boots. The infamous boots. I didn't know if I ever wanted to wear them again now. Even though they were Manolos—probably the only pair I'd ever own . . .

I shrugged. I'd have to wear them again. They were the only footwear I had to my name here in England, and until my money came in, I couldn't afford to buy more. And they
were
Manolos, after all.

“Alex feels very beholden to his dad for all that he's done for him and his mom, and he doesn't want to disappoint him or let him down.”

I removed my socks. “But still, I'm not crazy about that George. Bit of a snob, don't you think?”

Mary Jo pulled down her covers. “Just a little.” She grinned. “I noticed how impressed she was by my sweatshirt.”

“You saw that? I thought I was the only one.”

“I work with kids, remember? You learn to grow eyes in the back of your head.”

“So what's your take on Alex, MJ? What do you think's going on with him? He sure didn't hug me very long. It was almost like we were total strangers.” I took off my earrings. “Did I make a mistake coming here to surprise him? And is it just me, or does he seem to have cooled down in his feelings toward me? He sure didn't say much . . .”

“You know, I'm not too good at all this dissecting of every little thing guys say and do, Pheebs.” She yawned. “Never have been. Too hard to figure out, and not sure it helps anyway or makes all that much difference in the long run.”

“Are you
kidding
? This is a critical female need. How else can we let out our neuroses and figure out a plan?”

Lins, where are you when I need you?

“Why don't we just pray about it instead?” She yawned again and rubbed her eyes.

“Well, there's a novel idea.” I sat cross-legged on the bed, suddenly aware that since getting to London I had completely reneged on my quiet-time resolution. “Go for it.”

“Father, thank You for bringing us here safely to London,” Mary Jo prayed. “And right now I lift up Alex to You. We don't know what's going on with him or what path You have for him, but we pray for Your wisdom and discernment. I pray too for Phoebe and that You would protect her”—she paused, and I could hear the smile in her voice—“neurotic heart and give her peace. And if this relationship is not Your will at this time, then please shut the—”

My eyes flew open. “Hey! I don't want Him to shut the doors. Don't pray for that! That's like praying for patience.” All the admonitions I'd heard about being careful what you prayed for came rushing back to me. “Before you know it, you find yourself waiting in every single area of your life.” I shook my head. “Tough way to learn patience.”

“But effective.”

There you go, being all wise and spiritually mature again.
“Knock it off, will ya?” I smiled to show her I was teasing—sort of—and picked up my copy of
Jane Eyre
. “Heading for the tub now, MJ. I need a long, hot bath. Sweet dreams. Oh, and by the way—amen.”

“Uh-huh.” Mary Jo snored her good-night.

Unable to find any cleanser, I scrubbed the dingy tub with some bath salts I found on the grimy window ledge. I turned on the taps and dumped in a liberal amount of the muscle-relaxing Radox salts.

And while the tub filled, I had a little one-on-one with God.

“Hi, Lord. It's me, Phoebe. Uh, about Mary Jo's prayer . . . I'm really not at the point of wanting You to shut the door on Alex, so do You think You could maybe please just leave it open? Wide would be good. If it's Your will, of course. Thanks.”

I lowered myself into the narrow, claustrophobic tub, my thighs wedging tightly up against the sides.

Definitely time to start exercising again.

In something other than stiletto-heeled boots.

[chapter eleven]

Not in Kansas Anymore

r
ise and shine Cinderella.” I flung the covers off my jet-lagged roommate. “It's time for your posh makeover from your fairy godmother.”

These days, the glass slipper appeared to be on the other foot. Back home, I was never a morning person, and Mary Jo was up at the crack of dawn to feed her horses and read her Bible. But here in England I was wide awake and eager to begin our day . . . only I couldn't get MJ out of bed.

“I'm on vacation,” she grumbled. “And I don't want to be made over.” She pulled the covers over her head. “I'm perfectly happy the way I am.”

“Yes, I know. And that works great in casual California, MJ. But we're in England now and need to dress up a bit more.” I donned my mostly dry and now rather itchy sweater. “Don't worry, I'm not going to do one of those extreme makeover things where they dye your hair, shoot you full of Botox, and bleach and straighten your teeth. This is just a little wardrobe adjustment.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed with reluctance. “Okay. But just for this fancy-schmancy tea thing today. When we're walking around checking out the sights, I'm wearing my comfy jeans.” Her frugal eyes bored into mine. “And I'm not going to spend a lot of money on clothes I'll probably only wear once, either.”

I'm counting on that.

Before waking MJ up, I'd run out and tried the phone and a nearby ATM, but my cash hadn't shown up yet. Nor had my suitcase.

“Not a problem, MJ. I know just the place.”

After breakfast—canned grapefruit sections and a cold cereal called Weetabix—I herded Mary Jo to the same charity shop where I'd bought George's mother's discarded sweater. Once inside, I headed straight to the familiar rack of coats and jackets. “You can never go wrong with a blazer, MJ.” Flipping through, I was delighted to find a nice navy jacket as well as a black wool one that I hoped would fit my friend's bulkier frame. I also spotted a nice gray tweed I wanted to try on, especially since it was less than ten pounds.

She kept gravitating toward sweaters and “cute” tops with animals on them, and I kept pulling her away.

“We're going for classic and understated,” I said, handing her a pair of black trousers. “Not cutesy. Every woman needs at least one pair of black pants. You can wear them anywhere—church, dinner, the theater—”

“A funeral,” grumbled Mary Jo, who preferred bright rainbow hues and whose favorite color was orange.

“That too.”

We left with two blazers—the black wool for MJ and the gray tweed for me. No pants though; the nice-looking ones were too tight.

Our next stop was Marks & Spencer, which I'd learned yesterday was having a sale. Immediately we found Mary Jo a pair of slimming black trousers that fit—and were half-off.

Much to my regret, a similar pair in my size weren't on sale.

I scratched my shoulder blade, where my uncomfortable, still-damp sweater was itching, hoping to find another charity shop before teatime. “MJ?” I turned around looking for my friend, who had disappeared.

“Here I am, Pheebs. So what's next?” She shivered. “I'm not used to this cold weather. Why don't we go look at sweaters—I mean jumpers?”

I stared at my newly compliant friend in surprise and nodded.

She settled on a fuchsia pullover, also on sale, that gave her the color she craved. And as we passed by the shoe department, a pair of hot pink stilettos called to me. “MJ, these would go perfectly with your new outfit!” I held them up against her sweater. “See how they
almost
match without looking too much like a canned outfit?”

Mary Jo looked at the spiky heel and snorted. “I don't care how well they almost match. You'll never catch me in a pair of heels that high. Or that skinny. I'd fall flat on my face. And there I put my foot down.”

Which she did, ten minutes later—right into a pair of soft black leather, low-heeled boots.

Mary Jo walked by the mirror, admiring the fit. “Now, good boots I'm willing to spend money on.”

Her eyes caught mine in the mirror. “Okay. Your turn.”

“Uh, I didn't see anything that was really me.”

“I did.” She linked her arm through mine. “Come on. My turn to choose for you.” Mary Jo steered me back to the sweaters. “I know how much you like yellow, so how about this yellow-and-purple-checked turtleneck?”

I tried not to shudder. Then I noticed her smirk. “Cute. Very cute. Okay, shall we go now?”

She plucked at my damp, itchy sweater. “You need something besides that to wear. You're going to get sick.” She grew serious. “Phoebe, you've been a wonderful friend, inviting me along on this trip and everything, so I'd like to give you a gift as a thank-you.” She extended a shopping bag my way. I hadn't even noticed she was carrying it.

“MJ, you didn't have to do that.”

“I know I didn't have to. I
wanted
to. Open it.”

Inside was a black turtleneck and the pair of black trousers I'd tried on earlier; along with a matching pair in a delicious soft gray.

I stared at her.

“I thought those might go with that gray tweed jacket you just got.” Mary Jo shot me an anxious look. “Do they? I'm no fashion maven like you.”

“They're perfect, MJ, but I can't let you buy me clo—”

“Just say thank you and shut up.” She grinned.

“Thank you.”

She looked down at my Manolos. “And now we're going to get you some more comfortable shoes for trudging all around this city.”

And at that I couldn't keep quiet any longer. I had to 'fess up to my mistake. But Mary Jo had already guessed. And it didn't matter.

Guess that's part of being a spiritual giant, huh, God? Not rubbing
someone's nose in it?

“Uh, MJ. Now that you know . . . my little secret, I need to—”

She grinned again and pointed to my feet. “Are you ready to stop walking around on those torture machines?”

I straightened. After three days of walking around in heels, my feet were truly killing me, but I still had my pride. I was not going to tea with Alex's sister wearing sensible shoes. Or flat broke, for that matter.

“I'll think about it,” I promised her. “But I need to ask . . . can you spot me for a flower and some tea?”