Dreaming in Technicolor (22 page)

There was something so comforting about a steaming hot cup of English tea, particularly with milk and sugar. And I was definitely in need of comfort. So I sipped my tea and munched on a chocolate biscuit as I began to journal all the things we'd seen and done on our trip thus far. Odd thing though; I found myself writing with an English accent.

Alex's mother is lovely. I quite like her. And Delia's darling. His father seems bit of a stick, though one musn't forget that he had a heart attack recently. One must make allowances. But what I can't quite make out is Alex. Rather distant and remote, I'd say. Although, to be fair, I've only seen him once. Seems he might have called, though . . .

Why hasn't he called, anyway? I mean, I know he's busy, but it just
takes a minute to phone. Unless he's busy with a certain blonde . . .

I wasn't ready to face those possibilities. Instead, I asked MJ, who had just emerged from the bathroom, whether we should go out for dinner.

“Dinner? I'm still stuffed from that artery-clogging tea stuff. But I suppose we should get a little something before all the restaurants close. What do you have in mind?”

“I've actually been thinking we should have some curry. I read that Indian food is really popular here, and it's pretty cheap.”

Mary Jo hesitated. “I don't know. I'm not exactly an ethnic-food person. I'm not all that culturally sophisticated like you are.”

“C'mon, where's your pioneer spirit?”

“All the pioneers I'm familiar with ate steak.” But at last she allowed me to talk her into it. We found a small, out-of-the-way Indian restaurant redolent with spices and ordered two small chicken curries—“your mildest, please.”

But their mild was hotter than the spiciest Mexican food either of us had ever eaten. Eye-watering, mouth-searing hot. And the funny thing was, Mary Jo ended up really liking it. Whereas I gulped down glass after glass of water and vowed never to look another curry in the face.

“Hey, that was great,” my pioneer friend said as I staggered from the restaurant, my eyes still streaming.

“So tell me, what's our next adventure?”

The next morning we were finishing breakfast in the antiques-filled dining room when a waitress approached. “Miss Grant? You have a phone call in the lobby.”

My eyes widened at MJ. “Whoever could be calling?” I wiped my mouth and stood up. “Probably Delia, the darling. Or the airport calling about my things.”

Mary Jo chuckled. “You do realize you're beginning to sound like that woman on the English TV show. The one that keeps putting on airs. Hyacinth something . . .”

“I do not sound like her,” I huffed. “I merely have a good ear for the nuances of language.”

“Right,” she deadpanned. “Well, you'd better go see who the darling is that's on the phone.”

I stuck out my tongue at her—nothing nuanced about that—then followed the waitress across the dining room and into the lobby. “Good morning. Phoebe Grant here,” I trilled, then winced, realizing I
did
sound a little like Hyacinth Bucket. Or “boo-kay,” as she was always telling people to pronounce it.

But the voice on the phone drove all thoughts of Hyacinth from my mind.

“Morning, Phoebe.” Alex's long-lost voice was music to my ears.

I looked up at MJ, who'd followed me into the lobby with a quizzical expression on her face. “It's Alex,” I mouthed, beaming. “He wants to know if we have plans for tonight.”

He wants to see me, he wants to see me. Thank you, Lord. He wants
to take me out! Um, I mean take
us
out . . .

Very nice,
my conscience scolded.
Just leave your friend out in the
cold in a foreign country so far away from home where she knows practically
no one. And after she bought you that lovely bunch of clothes too.

MJ shook her head. “Actually, if you don't mind, I'd really love to just stay in tonight.”

My face fell.

She hurried to explain. “No, I mean just me. You guys go on.” She grinned. “No offense, but I'd enjoy a little alone time. All I want to do tonight is stay in, order something to eat—pizza, hopefully—and watch a little TV.”

I relayed this to Alex. “Really? You're kidding! That would be great. Uh-huh. I'd love it. Okay, see you then.”

I hung up, eyes shining. “Alex has another dinner business meeting tonight, but afterwards we're going to see
Les Miz
! How romantic is that? He knows it's my favorite musical; he took me to see it in San Francisco, and I loved it. This will be almost like an anniversary or something.”

My excitement faded as I looked at my friend. “Sure you don't want to go? I'd hate for you to miss
Les Miz
in London.”

“You must have me confused with someone else. I don't care for musicals.”

I stared at her. “But you sang ‘Feed the Birds' with me and went to
Oklahoma
in Barley.”

“That's different. I knew lots of people in
Oklahoma
—including you, Ms. Ado Annie. Wouldn't have missed that for the world.” She chortled. “That flying girdle was one for the record books. And
Mary
Poppins
is from my childhood. I also like
The Wizard of Oz
,” she said dryly, “but after that I draw the musical line. I'm a Beatles/Motown girl. Remember?”

I remembered, although it was beyond me how
anyone
could pass up
Les Miz
in London
.
And I have to admit—I didn't argue with her. The prospect of an evening alone with Alex was way too tempting.

I pasted on a regretful look. “Well, if that's what you really want . . .”

Which didn't fool Mary Jo for a minute.

“It's what we both want, romance girl.” She grinned. “Now, Louise. Are you all set for this morning's adventure?”

“Can't wait, Thelma.” I linked arms with her and set off toward the elevator.

“We're off to see the Tower,” I sang in my best Judy Garland voice.

Only it came off sounding more like the happy scarecrow.

It was a great morning. Not even the aching of my still-stilettoed feet could diminish the excitement of seeing the Tower of London and the British Library. The prospect of seeing Alex that night didn't hurt either. I sailed through the morning on clouds of anticipation.

Back at the hotel, our gracious Alec Guinness host overheard me say I was going in search of an Internet café and offered to let me use their computer instead.

I could almost hear him say, “Use the force, Obi-Wan. Use the force.”

Hoping and praying there'd be a message from Gordon with happy direct-deposit news, I breathed a sigh of relief when I logged on and saw his e-mail address.

To: Movielovr
From: GGreen

Dear Phoebe, Rest easy; your funds will be in your account by tomorrow. Sure hope this hasn't messed up your trip too much. Liked your e-mails though. Glad to hear you're having such a wonderful time in England. Pretty funny stuff about the food.

Hey, if you don't mind, I'd like to use some of your e-mails as a column for the Bulletin—sort of a ‘dispatches from abroad.' (No, not ‘a broad.' I don't want to get sued for sexual harassment.) You'd be in great company—Mark Twain did the same thing for the Sacramento Union more than a century ago. Think you could send me some England-through-your-eyes columns every couple of days? That way I can post them on our Web site and folks can have the chance to read them more than once a week.

Hate to make you work on your vacation, but you're a fast writer, so it'd be a piece of cake. Needless to say, we'd pay the going rate. What do you say?

Give Alex my best and tell him all's fine here with the paper.

Gordon

P.S. Your mother sends her love.

Relieved to know my cash would start flowing again, I immediately fired off a reply:

To: GGreen
From: Movielovr

Hey, Gordon. I love the idea of writing a column. I've started keeping a travel journal, so it wouldn't be hard to come up with ideas. I'll try to put together something today or tomorrow.

By the way, thanks for taking care of my paycheck issue. And for keeping things going back on the home front.

Going to see Les Miz tonight with Alex! —P.

I sat there for a long minute before I began to type again. But when I started writing, the words just seemed to flow.

Gordon was right.

The column
was
a piece of cake.

N
OTES FROM
A
BROAD

London is an exciting, fascinating city and I'm learning a lot over here in Merrie Olde. For instance, that you really
can't
judge a book by its cover.

Take the British Library. I'm a bibliophile from way back, so the words
British Library
alone conjured up this idyllic vision of an ancient stone building, perhaps with columns and portals, maybe a few gargoyles and some flying buttresses. Something classic and beautiful in an aged sort of way to house all the sacred texts and well-loved words from this venerable culture.

Instead, what greeted my dismayed and disappointed eyes was this hideous, contemporary [modern] and
orange
monstrosity. No columns, no portals, and no lovely, ancient gray stone. I hurried inside before the orange could leave a permanent bad taste in my mouth. But then the
inside
of the museum made me forget the outside in a London minute.

Talk about beauty. All those books—miles and miles of them. We saw a Gutenberg Bible, Handel's
Messiah,
an early folio of some of Shakespeare's handwritten plays, Virginia Woolf 's
Mrs. Dalloway
scribblings, even original Beatles lyrics (which made my traveling companion swoon).

But this California girl is sure glad she didn't live back in Tudor times! Who knows? I might have lost my head to old Henry VIII. Not that I fancy him or anything. Definitely
not
my type. But that wouldn't have mattered. Back then, the king got whatever and whoever he wanted,
whenever
he wanted them. And what he wanted didn't seem to last very long. Especially wives.

So I don't think even those crown jewels in the Tower of London could tempt me to be a Tudor babe. Sure, they're drop-dead gorgeous, especially that giant Star of India diamond in the royal scepter. But I don't care how huge they are or how much they sparkle; diamonds are not this girl's best friend. I'd rather keep my head, thank you very much.

Think I'll just stick with the silver toe ring I bought for ten bucks at the
mall.

Another interesting thing about the Tower. Legend has it that if the ravens were ever to leave, the monarchy would crumble. But not to worry. They keep the black birds' wings clipped to prevent that from happening. Sounds like they took a lesson from old Henry, huh?

I signed it with a flourish—“Cheerio! Your Overseas Correspondent,” then shot it back to Gordon as an e-mail attachment. Then I sat at the computer for a long time, dreaming of possibilities.

I only left because Obi-Wan needed to use his computer.