You see, I like Italian food, too, but I also like Chinese, Japanese, English, and French. I’ve been vegetarian and vegan, and also done the Atkins diet (with lots and lots of steak). I like romantic comedies with Meg Ryan, but I also like French films and thrillers. I like going out clubbing, but I also like staying in. I like cozy meals à deux and I like rowdy parties. Sometimes I’ll dress top to toe in neutral beige and camel; other times I’m as colorful as the rainbow. And I can never decide which I prefer.
And then there’s Pete. I mean, I thought I liked him. Thought I loved him. But I was never really sure. Or was I just never sure that he loved me?
So anyway, back to the cooking. Let’s see . . . I open the fridge door. Two eggs, some celery (very detoxifying apparently; I just wish it didn’t taste so awful), and a loaf of bread. Is that really all I have? I open the freezer compartment and see the pizza I bought from Fresh ’n’ Wild the other day. Immediately my head fills with arguments against the “cooking a fancy recipe” idea—cooking for one is a waste of time; I don’t have anything to cook with; I can’t be arsed . . .
God, this is crazy. I’m at home on Saturday night. No big deal, right? So why am I so on edge? And why am I getting little knots in my stomach over Alistair’s music? I mean, sure it’s loud, but this is Notting Hill. People do have parties, don’t they? What’s so wrong with that?
I move determinedly out of the kitchen, doing my best to ignore the little voice inside me that won’t go away, telling me what a loser I am for being on my own on a Saturday night. That if my mother were here now (and, you know, twenty years younger), she’d have wangled herself an invitation to the party rather than sit all alone listening to it. That I’m never really going to make it here and as soon as my money’s run out, I’ll be going home, tail between my legs.
Uh huh, boom boom, huh huh, yeah.
Alistair and I do say hello to each other from time to time. But that’s it. And even that isn’t strictly true—I’m always the one who says hello, and Alistair just kind of smiles back.
He’s very sexy, though. Not really my type—I mean he’s far too trendy, for a start. He wears these dark-rimmed Buddy Holly–style glasses and wears a uniform of dark denim, and I think he’s a designer or artist because he always carries round this portfolio. He’s so “London”—you’d never see someone like that in Bath.
Which is part of the problem—I get so intimidated by all things London. Everyone else here just seems to get on with it, instead of getting excited about something stupid like the tube. I guess I’ll get used to it eventually, but you have to understand I grew up in Castle Coombe, a little village near Bath, and every night my mother would tell me stories about the bright lights, danger, and excitement of the city. By the time I was a teenager, I thought that life began and ended in London and that being stuck out in the West Country was the worst thing that could have happened to me. People talk about “community” as if it’s a great thing, and it is, really it is. But can you imagine living in a place where everyone knows what book you’re reading; where your neighbor congratulates you on the very day you get your first period; where everyone on your street knows what you got on every single exam at school? Believe me, it gets suffocating. When I got a bit older I was at least able to go to Bath, the nearest town. But it’s hardly exciting, is it? It’s full of tourists mostly, and everyone thinks it’s really “pretty.” Well, I’m sick of pretty. I want gritty, exhilarating, and wild.
There’s also the problem that Bath is a very small town when you’ve just split up with someone. Particularly when the reason you split up is because you knew they were cheating on you, and now you can’t go to a bar or restaurant without looking around furtively to see if he’s there with someone new.
I look through my CDs and tapes—everything from Stan Getz to the White Stripes. Hmmm. Bjork . . . Haven’t heard that in a while . . . but probably too intense. Air . . . ? No, too mellow. That’s the trouble with albums, I find—you have to commit to one specific mood. I know it’s terribly uncool, but I secretly love compilations. I love the variety, and also it means I don’t have to make up my mind to listen to one artist or another. My fingers hesitate over an old compilation tape I made when I was at school and I pull it out. I spent my life making tapes for my friends when I was at school—it was probably my favorite method of communication. The right mixture of songs can say “You’re better off without him” or “You’re such a great friend, and I’m really sorry I ruined your favorite top” so much better than words can. This tape is a typical compilation of its time—a couple of weepies like “Unbreak My Heart,” some tracks by the Breeders and PJ Harvey that captured my teenage angst perfectly, a few dance tracks, and the odd retro song from an obscure band that I put in to demonstrate how cool I was. CDs may utilize wonderful technology, but the flip side is that no one spends as much time on compilation tapes anymore. Downloading tracks in seconds is just not the same as having to record manually, listening to each song and hitting the
stop
button just in time at the end of each song. Maybe tapes aren’t so bad after all, even if they do get chewed up on a regular basis.
Pleased to have made a decision so quickly, I put the tape on and lie back down on the sofa, determined to chill out and make the most of the evening. This is just a short-term blip, I remind myself. How long have I been in London? One month. Just over four weeks. I can’t expect to have a social life already. These things take time to cultivate. I lived in the village for twenty-six years, so no wonder I never had a night in.
I find myself thinking longingly of the little flat I shared with Pete in Bath, with a roaring fire that kept me warm when he was out doing whatever it was he was doing (or rather,
whoever
it was he was doing). But, I remind myself, I wasn’t happy really. I was surrounded by friends and family, but I was still lonely. And sure, I got invited to all the parties, but it was always the same people talking about the same old things. Everyone knew everybody—hell, everyone had been out with everybody at some point. There was no excitement, no intrigue, and no one who didn’t know me as “Nat’n’Pete”—I could never be anonymous, never rebuild my identity. Whereas here . . . well, there’s certainly no problem where anonymity is concerned. And if the scales have tipped a little far the other way, I’m sure they’ll balance eventually. I turn up the stereo a bit more. It’s the Indians singing, “Life ain’t no bed of roses.” Don’t remind me, I think ruefully. Still, look on the bright side. I made the move. I am no longer living in Bath, town of Jane Austen, ancient ruins, weird-tasting “spa” water, and endless fields. I am no longer Natalie from Bath—I’m Natalie from Notting Hill.
The phone rings and I leap off the sofa to get it. There’s only a handful of people it could be. My mother—but I spoke to her last night and she doesn’t tend to ring two nights on the trot; Chloe, my best friend, but that’s unlikely, too—she’ll be out somewhere, I’m sure; or . . . Pete. We’ve spoken probably once a week since I moved here, and our phone calls are generally pretty much identical. We start off telling each other how brilliantly we’re doing and how happy we are; then we talk about work, our families—any neutral ground we can find—and then he always says, “I still don’t get why you moved away. Come back, won’t you? We used to have fun.” And I say something like “No, you used to have fun and most of the time it wasn’t actually with me,” and then he starts telling me I’m paranoid, and I get all defensive and accuse him of sleeping with other people, and before we know it, we’re having the same argument we’ve had for about three years over and over again. After a while, I usually end up in tears. I am over him; I just get upset when I think about the time I wasted with him. Thinking that he felt the same as me.
“Hello?” I say hopefully. So we argue. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear from him.
“Hello. Is that Cressida Langton?” says a smart-sounding woman.
My heart sinks. Okay, so the other possibility is that the phone call won’t even be for me. Which is pretty depressing, considering that I’m the only one who lives here. I wish now that I’d had the number changed, but it cost £40 and at the time I thought it wouldn’t be a problem keeping the old number when I moved in. And it is. Apart from the irritating fact that bloody Cressida gets more phone calls than I do and she doesn’t even live here anymore. Still, it’s probably a good thing. If it had been Pete, I might have admitted that I’m feeling a bit low. And that would have been disastrous.
“No,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “She moved out a month ago.”
“Oh. Do you have a forwarding number?”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say for the tenth time this week. Has Cressida not considered telling her friends her new number?
“Well, that’s a shame,” the woman says, sounding very irritated. “This is Nobu. She booked a table here tonight, and I need to know whether to hold it.”
“Nobu?” That’s only the most expensive restaurant in the whole of London. Cressida was meant to be there tonight? Wow. She’s suddenly gone right up in my estimations.
“Yes,” says the woman.
“Right,” I say after a slight pause. I can’t believe I’m on the phone to Nobu! “Well, I’m sorry I can’t really help.”
“No, well, there we are.”
And with that, she hangs up.
Huh huh, huh huh. Boom, yeah.
I stare at the phone for a few seconds, trying to imagine going out to dinner at Nobu. Cressida’s probably a super-glamorous urbanite. Glamorous and rich. I wonder who she was meant to be having dinner with.
My eyes rest on the pile of letters addressed to Cressida. Suddenly they seem rather more interesting. I wonder what sort of mail someone who eats at Nobu gets.
I wander over and pick them up. Most of them look pretty dull. But there’s a big brown envelope that looks kind of interesting, and a smaller creamy one that’s handwritten. Then there’s a catalog, which I can see through the clear plastic wrapper. I leave the rest of the letters where they are, and take the two interesting-looking ones and the catalog back to the sofa with me.
I suppose I could open the catalog. I mean that’s just junk mail, isn’t it? It won’t have anything personal in it.
But as I’m about to rip it open, I stop myself and roll my eyes at my ridiculous behavior. I cannot believe it’s got to the point where I am actually thinking about opening other people’s junk mail for entertainment.
Although, having stooped this low, I do kind of want to open it. I guess if I’m going to be pathetic, I might as well do it properly.
Looking around furtively as if worried that someone’s going to see me, I quickly pull open the plastic cover and open the catalog up. I know it’s just a catalog, but it still feels a bit weird opening someone else’s mail.
But I suppress my doubts and turn my attentions to the catalog. If you can call it a catalog, that is—somehow this seems too beautiful for such a plain description. I’ve never seen mail order like it! For one thing, the paper it’s printed on is luscious, and for another, it’s full of the most amazing things, all of which are incredibly expensive—stone lamps and velvet gowns and other things that no one needs at all but that look so beautiful you’d probably remortgage your house just to have them. If you had a mortgage in the first place, that is. I think I’ll keep this for Mum—it’s the sort of thing she’d love.
I imagine my sitting room full of beautiful “objets.” Did Cressida order from this catalog? When she lived here, was this room full of opulent throws and cushions? I bet she did. She probably had candles burning, too. I half close my eyes and imagine deep velvet curtains at the window, leather and suede cushions on the floor, and a fake fur throw on the sofa. Okay, as soon as I’ve got some money saved, I’m going shopping.
I put the catalog down and stare at the other letters. My appetite is whetted now, and I want another little peek into Cressida’s life. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had my own little stack of letters to open, but I don’t have a single one. I got a bank statement this morning (never a nice thing to see at the beginning of the weekend), and I got a postcard from my parents two weeks ago—and that’s it since I’ve been here. Do people not write anymore? Evidently they do; it’s just that they write to Cressida, not me.
After a few minutes’ hesitation, I pick the big brown letter up, ostensibly to take it back to the main pile of letters, but secretly to look for a sign that it’s also junk mail so that I can justify opening it. Instead, I get a shock. There’s a discreet stamp on the left-hand corner that says “Soho House.” How did I not see that before? Surely it’s not from the Soho House? The private members club that everyone who’s anyone goes to? The one that opened up a New York club and got featured right away in
Sex and the City
? Don’t tell me Cressida was a member?
My heart starts beating a bit faster. If you want to talk “high society,” this must be as close as it gets these days. Suddenly London doesn’t feel quite so impenetrable, after all. I actually have a letter from Soho House. Correction—Cressida has a letter from Soho House. But she’s not here, is she? And I have no idea where she is, either. For all I know she could have moved to Australia and she’s hardly going to care about a few letters back here, is she?
I give the envelope a good feel—there isn’t much in there. A few sheets of paper at most. Then I put it down again. This is unbearable. I can’t go looking at someone else’s mail. But come on, this is Soho House! When else am I going to have this kind of opportunity again?
I turn to the other letter, which looks equally enticing. The envelope is thick and creamy, and the handwriting is elegant, written with a proper fountain pen.
Cressida Langton, Flat 3, 127 Ladbroke Grove, Notting Hill, London W11.
It just sounds so smart, doesn’t it? And it’s my address now. I live here. Suddenly I get a rush of excitement. Screw Pete, and screw the party upstairs—I don’t need either of them.
I wonder what Cressida looks like. Beautiful, probably. I can’t imagine anyone unattractive going to Soho House. I stand up to look in the mirror, hold my head up and straighten my posture, imagining that I’m her. “Dahling, you look divine,” I say to my reflection, pretending it’s Catherine Zeta-Jones or someone. Okay, so maybe the accent’s a bit much—I’m sounding more like the Queen than Liz Hurley—but I can work on that. “Just dashing out for drinks at Soho House?” I tell an imaginary Pete. “Oh, Alistair, I’m sorry; I can’t stay long—I’ve got dinner at Nobu in an hour . . .”