Finding It (3 page)

“Are you satisfied?” I smile sweetly. “Maybe not as satisfied as those peeping pervos at Buckingham Palace, but satisfied enough to release me? I still have a job to do.”

“No, you don’t.”

My heart drops. “What do you mean I don’t?”

“Ms. Collins-London assured me you would remain a safe distance from the royal family. Your article has been terminated.”

I exhale. For a frightening second I thought Man Parts was going to say that Louanne Collins-London fired me.

“Right,” Man Parts says, sliding the manila envelope toward me. “You will find inside this envelope the personal artifacts we confiscated from you upon apprehension—your mobile, watch, passport, wallet...”

Man Parts is still speaking, but all I hear is Charlie Brown Teacher Speak—
Wha wha whaaaa wha wha
. I seize the envelope, tear it open, and retrieve my iPhone, stopping short of rubbing the device and murmuring, “My precious.”

“…after you sign the requisite paperwork, you are free to go.”

While Man Parts retrieves the paperwork to parole me from the pokey, I snap a few prison selfies for my Twitter Feed and check my texts.

Text from Jean-Luc:

See you at the train station, mon cœur.

My phone rings, and the words Big Boss Woman flash on the screen. I jab the volume button and wait for the call to go to voicemail. I don’t want to have a conversation with my editor with the po-po listening. Besides, I need a little time to do some damage control. Maybe if I think of a scathingly brilliant idea for a new story, Big Boss Lady won’t pull a Henry VIII and axe my ass.

I slip the phone into the pocket of my trench and wait for Man Parts to spring me from the pokey.

Petting a Bitch

Text from Camilla Grant:

It's Mum. News of your arrest is going epidemic. It’s all over the Facebook. Anna Johnson brought over a casserole and a business card of the lawyer who represented Amanda Knox. Is it as bad as all that, Luv?

Text to Camilla Grant:

By “‘that bad,” are you asking if I am accused of stabbing my roommate in a pot-and-porn-fueled frenzy? If so, I must plead the fifth on the grounds my answer might incriminate me.

Text from Camilla Grant:

Don’t get cheeky with me, Vivia Perpetua Grant! Anna Johnson said she read on the Twitter you were arrested for stalking Prince Harry. My daughter arrested! What will I tell Father Escobar?

Text to Camilla Grant:

Tell Father Escobar I am like the apostle Peter, wrongfully imprisoned by a cruel, heartless authority, freed from my shackles through the power of prayer! And there was much rejoicing!

My mother spends an inordinate amount of time worrying about what the neighbors think, especially that sanctimonious busybody, Anna Johnson. My mum transferred her appearances neurosis to me. I am pretty sure this occurred while I was still in the embryonic stage; however, my lack of shame after the aforementioned Wonder Woman Bathing Suit Incident pokes a hole in the nature over nurture argument.

Second, American English is not my mum’s first language. She was born and raised in Manchester, so her comprehension and application of American slang and sarcasm is woeful. She thinks a video or picture that becomes popular via Internet sharing is called “going epidemic.” She is indiscriminate in her use of the word
the
. For instance, my mum calls it “the Facebook” and “the cancer,” but she drops the from sentences containing the word hospital, university, or museum
. Anna Johnson has the cancer and has to go to hospital. I read the news on the Facebook.

Finally, although I take delight in tormenting her, my mum is the sweetest, most supportive mother in the world. She’s a neurotic, kooky mess, and I love her.

I send my mum a reassuring text, sign the requisite paperwork authorizing my release, bid Man Parts a chipper cheerio, and exit Belgravia Police Station through a brightly painted blue door, squinting against the watery morning light. My eyes tear up, and I stand for a moment with my face turned to the sky. This must be what it’s like for prisoners released from solitary confinement. Doing time has given me an appreciation for the psychological and physiological effects of incarceration.

My eyes finally adjust to the daylight. I look around, but don’t see any familiar landmarks. I am on a narrow street facing a small park.

I could whip out my iPhone and use the CityMappers app to navigate my way back to the hotel, but walking would require more energy than I can muster. The stress of the last twenty-four hours has definitely taken its toll. I’m exhausted, humiliated, hungry, and in desperate need of hand sanitizer—the police cruiser that transported me from the Rubens to Belgravia Station reeked of piss and salt and vinegar potato chips, an unforgettably odiferous emanation that has attached itself to my trench coat.

I just want to take a shower, pack my bags, and retreat to the safety of France so I can lick my wounded professional pride—or a cone of
chocolat noir et noix de coco
from Berthillon, this fab ice cream shop on the Île Saint-Louis.

It’s starting to rain as I cross the street. I follow the sidewalk bordering the park until I come to an intersection. The British might have crap air conditioning, but they are bloody brilliant when it comes to signage. Two large signs affixed to the building on the corner announce my arrival at Ebury Square and Semley Place. I haven’t the slightest idea where Ebury Square and Semley Place are in relation to my hotel, but I somehow feel more empowered by the knowledge. I’m not hopelessly lost. I am at Ebury Square and Semley Place!

The rain is really coming down now, so I flip up the collar of my trench and run across the intersection to seek shelter beneath a green Europcar awning.

I look down Semley Place and see a larger intersection not too far away, so I make a run for it.

When I finally reach the busy intersection, I am soaking wet and wheezing like an asthmatic. I have lost the belt to my faux Burberry, and my leather boots are waterlogged. Without even glancing in a shop window, I know my previously straightened hair is now a giant kinky ginger Afro. My friend G said girls in London aim for an artfully disheveled look. Think bed-head style meets vintage store find. So I chose my wardrobe accordingly. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that cool girly-but-with-an-edge image is now merely a figment of my imagination.

I walk to the curb, notice one of London’s iconic black cabs headed in my direction, and wave my arms in the air. The cab drives on.

I repeat the process. Several times.

I am standing on my tippy toes, waving my arms in furious, slightly psychotic circles, shrilly crying out, “Taxi! Taxi!” when a beautiful blonde grabs one of my arms.

“I simply cawn’t bear to watch this ghastly display,” she says. “Please, do stop before you hurt yourself.”

As if to mock my
Soul Train
meets
Little House on the Prairie
look, Lady Posh is wearing chic black trousers and a Burberry trench. An authentic Burberry trench.

“I am trying to hail a cab.”

“Obviously,” she says, pulling me away from the curb and leading me to a spot farther down the sidewalk. “However, you are going about it all wrong. Did you notice those zig-zaggy lines painted on the road where you were standing? They indicated a pedestrian crosswalk. Drivers won’t pick you up if you are standing at a bus stop or crosswalk.”

I am about to respond with a self-deprecating joke when Lady Posh resumes her lesson on cab etiquette.

“Additionally, the cabs you were attempting to hail had their lights turned off. An extinguished light means the cab has already been hired.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“Not at all,” she says, pronouncing “at all” as if one word. “Finally, one simply does not wave one’s hands frantically in the air.”

She gracefully raises her hand in the air and a cab materializes, pulling to a stop beside us. My humiliation is complete. Miss Authentic Burberry: 1, Faux Burberry: 0.

She opens the door and slides into the cab like a starlet maneuvering her way into a limousine.

“Get in,” she says, smiling and patting the seat beside her. “We can share.”

I collapse on the seat beside her.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“Rubens at the Palace.”

“You do realize the Rubens is less than half a mile from here? Walking would be faster.”

I think about the tattling hotel staff and the tall tales they told about me to the police, and my shoulders slump. I don’t want to go back to that über-swanky, über-stanky hotel. Miss Authentic Burberry misreads my reaction.

“You look knackered.”

“I am knackered.” I glance at my iPhone. “Is it really eleven thirty? I wish I could hit the ‘do over’ button and forget this day ever happened.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“Look,” she says, glancing at her Cartier. “I have an appointment in one hour half. Why don’t we have lunch and you can tell me what made this a do-over day.”

I am not accustomed to friendly Brits. “Why do you care?”

“You look like you could use a friend.” She smiles. “I am in the hotel business. Hospitality is my currency. I hate to see a tourist looking as knackered and defeated as you do right now.”

“I could use a friend.”

“We could all use a friend, my dear.” She gives the cab driver an address and then turns back to me. “Do you like French cuisine?”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant! I know a fabulous restaurant.”

I glance at my frizzy-headed reflection in the cab window and wonder if Lady Posh makes a habit of treating less-than-artfully disheveled paupers to lunch. I wonder what she will say when she learns this pauper was just sprung from the pokey?

“Thank you for helping me hail a cab,” I say, looking back at Lady Posh. “I am Vivia Grant, by the way.”

“Vivia Grant? Not
the
Vivia Grant?”

I remember what my mum said about the news of my arrest going viral, and for one horrifying second, I imagine my name on a BBC News ticker tape
. American Vivia Grant arrested in London while wearing Burberry knockoff, accused of harassing Prince Harry.

“Are you a columnist for
GoGirl! Magazine
?”

“Yes.”

Lady Posh’s cool, disinterested expression undergoes a radical transformation. She literally beams at me.

“Poppy Worthington,” she says, thrusting her hand at me. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

I shake her hand.

“I read your column. You’re really quite funny.”

“Thank you.”

My phone begins vibrating and blinging as I get a series of texts and e-mails.

“Would you excuse me?” I fish my iPhone out of my pocket. “I’m expecting an important message.”

“Not a’tall.”

I key my password into my iPhone, tap the Safari button, and type Poppy Worthington into the search bar. Poppy might be a nice person, but she could be barking mad, too. What if she’s luring me to some seedy place so a gang of hairy Russians can bonk me on the head, jab a needle into my vein, and then I wake up in some dimly lit brothel in Cambodia, or worse, a bathtub filled with ice and a gaping wound in my abdomen? Okay, so I sound paranoid, but I am a single woman traveling abroad. Also, I have a healthy fear of human trafficking and organ harvesters.

My search returns 7,980,000 entries. I click on the first, a Wikipedia page for one Poppy Whitney Worthington.

“Poppy Whitney Worthington is a British socialite, hotelier, and philanthropist. Great-granddaughter of Sir Nigel Worthingon, Member of Parliament and founder of Worthington Hotels, and Lady Isabella Whitney, acclaimed poetess….”

I scroll down the page.

“…an undisputed social leader of the posh London set, Poppy has been romantically linked to actor Tristan Kent, playboy-mogul Sir Richard Blanchard, professional soccer player Trevin Larks, and billionaire software designer Colin Hardy.”

Holy Shit! Tristan Kent? He’s hot!

Tristan Kent is famous for playing a badass Wood Elf in a blockbuster fantasy trilogy. I don’t even like fantasy flicks, but I saw Tristan Kent’s movies three times just so I could watch him skewer villainous creatures with his bow and arrow.

I continue scrolling and reading.

“…elected CEO of Worthington Hotels after the death of her father… Worthington Hotels cater to the wealthiest and most elite travelers… Declared losses… In an interview with Hoteliers Magazine, Ms. Worthington announced her intention to transform the Brand into a boutique chain, renovating and rechristening the hotels under the names Luxe, Worth, Pamper, Voluptuary, and Pander.”

The Wiki page includes a collage of photos of Poppy all glammed up at different red carpet soirees. I quickly close the Safari app and open my texts.

Mum wasn’t exaggerating. My jailhouse tweets and cellfies have provoked a ridiculous amount of texts, including one from my best friend, Fanny.

Text from Stéphanie Moreau:

Congratulations! Getting arrested by Buckingham Palace Guards and tweeting “cellfies” makes your booze-fueled night with Jett Jericho look almost lame. Now get to Paris. Jean-Luc is waiting.

Sixteen texts from my mum, which is shockingly low given her obsessive nature.

One text from stupid old Travis Trunnell, my crazy-hot one night stand from college who made a sudden unwelcome reappearance last year that effectively destroyed my engagement to my then-fiancé, Nathaniel Edwards III. Serendipity works in unpredictable ways, though. If Travis hadn’t exposed my one, teensy-weensy, little lie—that I wasn’t a virgin when I met my fiancé—Nathan wouldn’t have broken up with me. And Nathan ending our engagement turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to me—besides my discovery of Spanx and the ionizing flat-iron. The humiliation propelled me to embark on a journey of self-discovery, to stop trying to be the Vivia I thought everyone expected me to be and to keep it real. If Nathan hadn’t broken up with me, I wouldn’t have met Jean-Luc.

Text from Travis Trunnell:

Saw you were arrested. Lucky police. I’d like to put a pair of handcuffs on you.