Authors: Leah Marie Brown
I remember the Wikipedia entry about Poppy dating Tristan Kent and Sir Richard Blanchard and wonder if those are the frogs she’s referencing.
“Did you really date Tristan Kent?”
“Come sit down and we will have a proper chin wag.” She takes a seat in one of two chairs on either side of the table. “I ordered dinner while you were in the bath. I do hope you like herb-roasted chicken.”
“I love roasted chicken, but I don’t remember seeing it on the room service menu.”
I sit across from Poppy, lift one of the silver domes, and inhale curls of herb scented steam.
“I didn’t order it from room service. I thought you needed a proper meal, not quail eggs on rye toast, so I phoned my favorite bistro.”
Poppy’s generosity and thoughtfulness bring tears to my eyes. Of course, discovering I had run out of smoothing serum for my hair brought tears to my eyes, too. So I’m thinking I am pretty much an emotional wreck.
“Thank you, Poppy. I can’t tell you how much your kindness means to me right now.”
“Nonsense.”
She moves her hand as if brushing crumbs from the table. Stiff-upper lip, no hugs Poppy has returned.
The herb-roasted chicken is a thing of beauty, and if I weren’t starving, I would whip out my iPhone and snap some food porn for my Instagram feed. The chicken rests on a mound of smashed red potatoes surrounded by a moat of creamy gravy. A bowl of mushy peas accompanies the chicken.
Between bites of chicken and sips of iced lemon water, Poppy tells me about her brief romance with the only man who could rock tights and pointy ears. When I ask her if Tristan was a good kisser, she dabs her lips with her napkin and changes the subject. If our friendship weren’t still in its infancy, I would ask her if the Wood Elf ever showed her his wood or if he ever used his arrow to make her quiver. Ha! The raunchy double-entendres could roll of my tongue for hours.
We’re nibbling blackberry tartlets when Poppy says, “I found the article exonerating you on the newspaper’s website. What if we send a link to Jean-Luc?”
I shrug. “I don’t think it will matter.”
“We could try.”
“He probably wouldn’t even open my e-mail.”
“What if I send it? Would that help?”
“I don’t think so.” I push my dessert plate away in an effort to stop the muffin-top spread. “Fanny says French men are slow to commit and even slower to forgive when they believe they have been betrayed.”
“Where is the plucky, eternally optimistic, glass-half-full, Vivia? The audacious Prince Harry-stalking Vivia who cycles from Provence to Tuscany, parties with Jett Jericho, goes to Kyoto to learn how to be a geisha?
“Vivia Perpetua Grant of San Francisco, California died this morning after being stabbed in the heart with gossip columnist Steven Schpiel’s poison pen.” I speak in a low, soft voice and press my hands together in prayer. “In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Victims of Media Bias and the North American Spinster Society.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Poppy rolls her eyes. “Schpiel hasn’t killed you, only momentarily wounded you. You’re down and stunned, but you will come back stronger because you are fierce. Fierce Vivia.”
“I don’t feel fierce.”
“Shake it off.”
“Excuse me?”
“Shake it off,” Poppy sings, giving me jazz hands and performing a strange little seated twerk. “Ah ah ah.”
I snort with laughter. “What was that?”
“My Taylor Swift impersonation.”
“Hold up! Back that little twerk train up, Miley. Did you just say Taylor ‘Bubblegum and Ponytails’ Swift?”
“What’s wrong with Taylor Swift? I love Tay Tay!”
“Oh my God!” I slap a hand over my eyes and groan. “Did you just call her Tay Tay?”
“It’s an affectionate nickname coined by the Swifties.”
“The
Swifties
?” I drop my hand and stare at my new friend as if she just confessed to being a foot fetishist. “Who are the Swifties?”
“Taylor Swift fans.”
I let out a whistle and widen my eyes.
“Ooookay then.”
“All right Judgmental Judy”—Poppy puts her hands on her hips—“what’s wrong with Taylor Swift?”
“What’s wrong?” I laugh hysterically. “Her music is little whiny bubblegum country-pop about her myriad of bad love relationships.”
“Have you ever actually listened to her songs?”
“Pfft,” I roll my eyes in a spot-on Fanny imitation. “Have I listened to her songs?”
“Have you?”
“How could I not listen to her songs? We are never, ever, ever, ever, like ever, ever, ever getting back together, like ever, ever must have played on the radio six trillion times the first month the song was released.”
Poppy holds up a finger. “That’s one song. Name another of her songs.”
“What is this Tay Tay Trivia?”
“One. Name just one song.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Think. Think. I think so hard my brain aches, but I can’t remember a single Taylor Swift song.
“Ha!” I open my eyes and snap my fingers. “She sang that song about Jesus being the co-pilot.”
“Jesus Take the Wheel?”
“Yeah, that’s it!”
“Wrong. That was Carrie Underwood.”
“They’re both blond country singers. Gimme a break.”
“You’ve never actually listened to her music, have you?”
“Not by choice,” I admit. “And you can add that to my obit.”
“When I am melancholy, I make a pot of tea and listen to Taylor Swift songs. What do you do, Vivia?”
“I eat gourmet junk food like Mr. Foo’s Noodles and Torchy’s Tacos and crank Black Veil Brides, Falling in Reverse, Tempting Fate, or Countless Good-byes.”
“Countless Good-byes? That sounds so sad.”
“They’re an awesome Finnish Metalcore band with a crazy hot drummer.”
“Awesome?” Poppy laughs. “You are so American.”
“Yes, yes I am!”
“Well nothing is more American than Taylor Swift.” Poppy grabs her iPhone. “Just listen to four songs. If it doesn’t change your feelings about her, I will never mention her name again. Deal?”
“Four?”
“Three.”
“Deal.” I hold my hand out and Poppy shakes it. “Three songs. Cue ’em up.”
Poppy starts with “Back to December,” a mournful, haunting song about a girl begging forgiveness for taking her ex-boyfriend for granted. It’s a swift, sharp jab to the heart. “Love Story” comes next, a sweet musical tale about ill-fated teen romance. It’s a roundhouse to the head. The breezy, in-your-face-fun “Shake it Off” rounds out the mini Tay Tay Playlist. It’s an empowering shot of adrenaline that lifts me up off the mats before the final bell rings.
We are up, jumping around my room, shaking our hands, and laughing until the very last jazzy trumpet note. We flop onto the couch, giggling like a couple of giddy, girly Beliebers.
“Are you ready to admit Tay Tay is the voice of a generation of pretty, popular, empowered nerd girls?” Poppy drops her iPhone in her bag. “She is an adorkable woman coming into her own and yearning for a storybook love.”
“I don’t know if I am ready to bestow her with the title of Warbler of Wisdom, but I dig that she is a good girl in love with bad boys. I get that.”
“So you can tolerate my membership in the Swifties?”
I laugh again. “I will permit it, as long as you don’t tell me you have a Demi Lovato ringtone.”
“As if,” Poppy snorts. “Iggy Azalea’s Fancy.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Jessica Simpson!” I make the sign of the cross. “You might need to atone for your musical taste transgressions. Bubblegum Pop-py!”
“I like that name!”
“Very well.” I dip my fingers in my glass of ice water and flick it onto Poppy’s forehead. “I christen you Bubblegum Pop-py. Henceforth, you shall be referred by your Vivia-given moniker.”
We laugh.
“You’re a cool chick, Poppy Worthington.”
“Thanks.”
Iggy Azalea suddenly blasts from Poppy’s iPhone. She grabs the phone and frowns when she looks at the screen. She jabs the button to mute Iggy. Thank God.
“Everything okay?”
“What?” Poppy looks up. “Oh, yes. It’s just my mum. She must have realized she failed to meet her daily Poppy texts and is making up for it with a call.”
“You have one of those, too?”
“Do I?” Poppy slides the phone back into her purse and affects a clipped, nasally British upper-crust tone. “
’What is this one heaaars about you spending the night drinking in a dodgy pub? A Worthington does not behave in such a common way. Poorly done, Poppy Whitney.’
”
I whistle. “I feel ya, sister. I got my own text-happy mum.”
Poppy inhales and clasps her hands neatly in her lap. Bubblegum Pop-py has left the building, ladies and gentlemen. Perfectly Pressed Poppy has returned.
“Have you heard from your editor yet?”
“Yes.”
“No problems there, I hope.”
“All good.” I lean back and prop my feet on the table. “Except she’s sending me to some sheep farm in Scotland.”
“Really?”
I tell Poppy about the new rage in all girl getaways: working chick trips. I expect her eyes to glaze over and her lips press together to stifle a yawn, but she leans forward, listening with rapt attention.
“Big Boss Lady—” I have never publicly referred to Louanne by her nickname. I am not sure if Poppy will appreciate my chest-thumping, one-of-the-people joke since she is technically “The Man.” “My boss wanted me to invite a few of my friends, but it is a big imposition to ask someone to cash in their vacation days to shovel sheep ca-ca.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You will?”
I play it off all cool, but I’d hoped Poppy would toss her hat into the ring. Stiff-Upper Lip Poppy is a bit off-putting, but beneath the pricey pants suits, she’s a chair twerking, wise-cracking bubblegum girl just waiting to bust out.
“Sh-yeah!”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You would really come to Scotland with me? We are going to be living on a farm…shoveling sheep shit.”
“I love sheep!”
“Shut up.”
“I do.”
Poppy tells me about her childhood summers spent at the Worthington’s country estate—how she shadowed their gruff old Scottish groundskeeper, traipsing through the spongy fields and forests as he performed his duties.
“I would follow him to his cottage and help him tend the sheep.” Poppy stares into space, lost in happy memories. “My happiest childhood memories include spending time with Liam. I even wanted to be a sheep farmer.”
I try to conjure an image of Miss Boutique Hotels traipsing over mucky hills in search of a lost sheep, her Wellies smeared with sheep shit.
“Shut up.”
“Serious.” Poppy tips her head, looking at me shyly from behind her bangs. “So can I come with you?”
“Are you kidding? I would love you to be the Thelma to my Louise, the Samantha to my Carrie.”
“I would prefer to be your Charlotte.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, you’re in?”
“I’m abso-bloody-lutely in!”
“Sweet sauce!”
“What’s the schedule?” She pronounces it the British way, with a beginning
sh
not
sk
sound. “I would like to send it to my assistant just in case she needs to contact me.”
“We leave for Edinburgh day after tomorrow.”
“Plane or automobile?”
“I am not sure yet, but I was thinking it might be fun to take the train, roll through the English countryside like Harry Potter on the Hogwarts Express.”
“Ooooooor”—she draws the small word out far longer than I thought possible—“we could drive, like Thelma and Louise!”
“Maybe snag ourselves a Brad Pitt?”
“Pre-parenthood and unsightly facial hair.”
“
Legends of the Fall
Brad Pitt.”
“Now you’re talking, my Colonial Friend.”
“Colonial? We haven’t been a colony for over two hundred and thirty-five years.”
“Pishaw,” Poppy says, waving her hand. “You’ll always be our dear Colonials.”
I laugh. I love that Poppy feels comfortable enough already to flip me some shit.
“Okay, let’s do this thing.”
“Road trip?”
“Road trip!” I squeal.
“We can take the backroads…”
“Maybe stop off in Chawton and retrace Jane Austen’s footsteps…”
“Wrong direction.”
“Then we can meander over the mist-shrouded moors of North Yorkshire in search of our own ill-fated, violent love.”
Poppy stares at me with wide eyes and slack mouth, clearly perplexed by my literary reference.
“Emily Brontë.”
Poppy doesn’t blink.
“Heathcliff and Catherine, the ill-fated lovers in Brontë’s
Wuthering Heights
?”
Poppy finally blinks. “I am British, Vivia.
Wuthering Heights
is included in our first school primer. I am trying to understand why you would want a lover as barking mad and downright bloody cruel as Heathcliff.”
“Easy girlfriend.” I pop a hand on my hip and wag my finger at her. “Don’t diss my boy, H-Cliff.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“As serious as Churchill on D-Day, as Victoria Beckham on a cleanse, as Queen Elizabeth at the opening ceremonies of the…”
“Okay, okay.” Poppy holds her hands up and laughs. “I get it. Your affections for Heathcliff are quite serious. You really must learn to curb your proclivity for over-statements.”
“Does that mean you’re with me? We’re going to meander around the moors in search of our very own Heathcliffs?”
“As appealing as that sounds, I am afraid a trip to the moors would be quite a detour. Our route takes us through the Lakes District, though. Perhaps the epic grandeur of Wordsworth’s former stomping grounds will move you to poetry.”
The Lakes District’s verdant valleys and tumbling fells inspired Lord Tennyson, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley—the world’s most famous poets. Maybe a visit would inspire me to pen a sonnet stirring enough to recapture Luc’s heart.
“That sounds epic, Poppy. As long as we are in Edinburgh by Thursday.”
“What happens Thursday?”
“Fanny arrives.”
“Fanny? Your best friend?”
“Yes!” I grin. “She is flying over to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you daft?” Poppy beams. “I am excited to meet the infamous Fanny.”
“This is gonna be fab!” I stop myself from giving Poppy another hug and settle for a hand squeeze instead. “I know you’re going to be great friends.”