Dreaming in Technicolor (26 page)

“Sorry. All gone. But there's plenty of Marmite left,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Actually, you know what? I just realized I'm quite full after all.” I gulped down my tea. “Shall we go?”

Delia spent the rest of the morning leading us on an insider's tour of her famed university and all its different colleges—Magdalen, Trinity, Christ Church, and more. I managed to snag a couple of Oxford sweatshirts for Jordy and Karen before she herded us to Blackwell's, one of the largest bookshops in the world.

“Whoa.” MJ's eyes widened. “Books 'n' Brew is nothing like this.”

“That's for sure.” Enraptured, we wandered from floor to floor in the large multilevel store. Grateful that my paycheck had at last been straightened out, I used my ATM card to buy a gorgeous set of The Chronicles of Narnia for the kids, Lewis's
Surprised by Joy
for me, and the Lord of the Rings trilogy for Jordy before meeting back up with Delia in the coffee shop on the second level.

“Where's MJ?”

“In the loo,” Delia said, absorbed in the sweets case. “She'll be back directly.”

While she paid for some shortbread, I picked up a brochure from the counter and thumbed through it. “Wow, look at this cool class:

‘Jane Austen in Film.' I'd love to take something like that.”

“Why don't you?”

“Aside from the money issue, you mean? Hel-looo . . . not a student at Oxford, remember?”

Delia examined the brochure. “This isn't for regular students. It's with University Vacations, which means any adult can go.” She looked at the date. “It starts in two weeks.” Her eyes widened. “You should do it. That would be brilliant! And you could stay in my flat to save money. We'd have a blast. Plus,” she shot me an innocent look, “that would give you more time with my idiot brother. I just know he'd come to his senses.”

“True . . .” I chewed my lower lip.

The classroom lights brightened as the
Emma
credits roll. And when
discussion began, I quickly realized I could more than hold my own. Though my academic background can't match those of my classmates and
professor (who looked remarkably like Michael Caine), there's no denying
my extensive knowledge of all things film. Everyone is awed by my brilliant
and well-expressed insights; it's a real
Educating Rita
moment. And
afterward, as I jog down the stone college steps surrounded by an admiring
throng of mostly male classmates, I see Alex waiting for me at the base
of the stairs, a bunch of daffodils in his hand. “Darling . . .”

I was definitely liking this idea. “I wonder if I could afford—”

Delia nudged me.

I blinked and saw MJ heading our way.

“Shh. Don't say anything. She'd have an absolute cow.”

Back at the flat, Delia suddenly decided to get some takeaway for late lunch.

“How about curry?” MJ asked, plopping down on the blue squashy couch and flipping through a magazine.

“No,” I said, my eyes watering at the very thought. “No curry.”

“Right, then. I'll just pop down to the corner and get some Chinese.” Delia raised her eyebrows and tilted her head in a tell-her-about- it gesture behind Mary Jo's back. “Back soon.”

“Hey
Thelma, I just found the most interesting thing at Blackwell's.” I handed MJ the brochure with the Jane Austen class marked. “Doesn't that one sound brilliant?” Turning and heading for the kitchen, I added casually over my shoulder. “I'm thinking of staying over a few more weeks to take it. Wouldn't that be fantastic?”

“You're kidding, right?” Mary Jo's voice rose. “Please tell me you're kidding. Have you even prayed about this?”

“Yes . . . well, sort of.” I fidgeted as I turned to face her. “I mean I'm going to. But surely it's not just coincidence that I happened to see that brochure for classes at Oxford . . . on film, no less—and Jane Austen. When one of my favorite movies of all time is
Sense and
Sensibility
. I mean, what are the chances of that? This could be a total God thing.”

“Uh-huh. And what about Alex?”

“What about him?” I put the kettle on. “This has nothing to do with him.”

She shot me a penetrating look. “Doesn't it?”

“No! This is just an incredible opportunity. I mean,
Oxford University
? Come on. How cool is that? Who'd have ever thought that little Phoebe Grant from Barley would get the chance to go to
Oxford
?”

“But how could you even afford it?”

Go ahead, just pop my fantasy bubble with boring reality.

“It's really not all that expensive.”
Yeah—in whose universe?
“And Delia said I could stay here with her for free.” My mouth set in a mutinous line. “I'll bet Esther would be all for it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” MJ gave me a patient look. “Pheebs, I know you want to have a relationship with Alex, but he's already made it clear that you can't. Not at this time.”

“But that's just on account of geography.” I sank down next to her on the couch, eyes sparkling. “If I'm here, we don't have the whole long-distance thing to worry about, and we could just pick up right where we left off in Barley.”

And I could still get that kiss.

Mary Jo gave me a curious look. “What's it like?”

“What?”

“To live where you do?”

“What are you talking about?” I looked at her, puzzled. “I live the same place as you.”

“No, you don't, Peter Pan. You live in a dream world—your very own personal Neverland.” She sighed. “Pheebs, life isn't like the movies. You can't just do things like this on a whim. Sure, it's great to be spontaneous, but—”

I filled in the rest for her. “But other people are involved . . . What about your job . . . your family? . . . Don't you have responsibilities?” My voice rose, and I began to pace. “I came to Barley because of family responsibilities. And I never really wanted to work at the
Bulletin
in the first place, but I took the job because of my family. And yes, because of Alex. But now that he's—”

“Darlings, I'm back.” A musical voice interrupted us as the door opened to reveal Delia with the takeaway and a tall sandy-haired guy she introduced as her friend Ian.

Ian shook my hand while Mary Jo sprang up to help Delia with the food. “Lovely to meet you,” he said, fixing me with gorgeous Paul Newman eyes.

“And you.” I shook his hand and caught Delia's smile out of the corner of my eye.

I know what this is: it's a setup. Delia brought him round to help take
my mind off Alex. How sweet of her. He is kind of cute . . .

Clueless Phoebe strikes again.

It was Ian and MJ who got along great, sharing a mutual interest in history, music, and horses. Having never been to the United States, he was fascinated to learn of her stable in California, and his electric blue eyes sparkled as she shared some funny kid riding mishaps with him.

That's all right
, I told myself as I watched them laughing together.
It's about time somebody noticed all that Mary Jo has to offer.

Besides,
I added to myself only,
maybe there's still a chance for Alex
and me.

When it was about time for him to leave, Ian invited us all to breakfast the next day, and we gladly accepted. “But we can't linger too late,” Delia warned, “if we're to drive up to the Cotswolds tomorrow.”

“Delia's offered to give us a personal tour,” I added helpfully. But I don't think he even heard me.

“Right, then,” he said to Mary Jo. “Shall I knock you up in the morning, then?”

Her eyes grew huge. “I don't think so.”

Delia threw back her head and laughed. “Careful, Ian. Mary Jo doesn't know all our slang yet. She most definitely doesn't want to wind up preggers.”

His face flamed red. “What?! I never said . . .” Then a look of comprehension dawned. “Oh. Sorry. I take it there's a different meaning in the States?”

“Um”—MJ and I looked at each other—“you could say that.”

I snorted with laughter, MJ joined me, and we were all still laughing like crazy when Ian left . . . and when the phone rang a few minutes later.

“Hello?” Delia said in her lovely, lilting British accent while Mary Jo and I continued to snort in the background. “Yes, just a moment, please. Phoebe, it's for you.” She handed me the phone.

Still trying to control my giggles, I said, “Hello?”

“Sounds like you're having a party or something,” the voice on the other end said.

“Lins! How are you? Sure wish you were here.” I giggled again. “No party, just Delia, MJ, and I having a little girl time.”

“MJ?”

“That's what I call Mary Jo.”

“Oh. Well, if I'm interrupting, I can call back later,” she said in a hurt tone.

“Don't be silly. You called all the way from Cleveland. It must be important. What's up?”

Lindsey sniffled across the miles. “Phil and I had a f-fight last night about the wedding, and I wanted to talk to you, but you're all the way over in England, and there's that stupid time difference, so I couldn't call and . . .” She began to cry.

“I'm sorry, Lins. What was the fight about?”

“He said he couldn't care less what colors I picked”—she blew her nose—“but there was no way he was going to wear a pink cummerbund.”

“Pink?” I rolled my eyes. “I thought you were ‘so over' pink.”

“I was. But then I saw this beautiful bridesmaid dress in this great cotton-candy pink—it will look absolutely gorgeous on you—and this cake with baby pink roses all cascading down it, and changed my mind. I was telling Phil about it, and we ended up in this horrible fight, and he
yelled
and said he didn't care about party favors or centerpieces or flowers or food.”

“Lins,” I said gently, “
most
guys don't care about all the little details. They just want to get married. That's why you have your girlfriends to talk to.”

“But I don't have my
best
friend,” she wailed. “You're way over there in England.” She sniffled again. “Besides, I've
been waiting for this day my whole life. I want everything to be just perfect!”

“I know you do.” I sighed. “But you have to remember, guys don't feel the same way. It's not as big a deal to them. They're a little more—a lot more—focused on the wedding night.” I grinned into the phone. “Especially when they're good, upright Christian guys like Phil. He's been waiting a
long
time for that.”

“So have I,” Lindsey said. “But that doesn't give him an excuse to slam out of here like he did. He said he couldn't care less what colors I chose or whether we had salmon or chicken at the reception. There were just three things he refused to have: a pink cummerbund, cauliflower, and a plastic bride and groom on top of the cake. Just tell him where and when to show up . . .” She began to cry all over again. “What's
wrong
with cauliflower? It looks so pretty on a vegetable tray . . .”

“Lins—”

Delia gave a discreet cough, and I glanced over at her. She mouthed “sorry,” then pointed to her watch.

“I'm sorry, Lins, but I'm afraid I have to go. We'll be late for Evensong if we don't hurry.”

Her voice turned to frost. “Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you, Ms. Busy World Traveler.” I jumped at the sound of the receiver slamming down on her end.