The Geography of You and Me (9 page)

So she was excited to be going back now. It wasn’t Paris and it wasn’t Cape Town. It wasn’t Sydney or Buenos Aires. And it wasn’t anywhere new.

But it was definitely Somewhere.

And there was nobody she wanted to tell more than Owen. But she still hadn’t been able to bring herself to knock on the door of the basement apartment. And as often as she’d lingered in the lobby, making small talk with the doormen, she still hadn’t run into him again.

Even now, as she waited on the curb while George tried to flag down a cab, she couldn’t help glancing back toward
the lobby one last time, hoping he might appear. But there was no sign of him, and there hadn’t been in three days.

It was almost as if she’d made him up entirely.

At the airport, she sat at the gate and watched the planes taking off out the window, trying to decide whether it was nerves or excitement that was making her stomach churn. This was what she’d wanted, of course, but it wasn’t how she’d pictured it happening: being sent rather than invited, summoned rather than whisked away.

On the plane, she sank low in her seat, looking out the window while the other passengers boarded. Her thoughts drifted to Owen again, the way his eyes had flashed when he spoke about traveling the country, and she was so focused on this, so lost in the memory of him, that when someone sat down heavily beside her and she turned to find that it wasn’t him—that it was, instead, an old Englishman with red cheeks and whiskers in his nose—she was more surprised than it made sense to be.

She slept the whole way across the Atlantic, the night passing as the ocean slipped by beneath the plane, and when she woke, it was to discover that they’d caught up with the morning, the light streaming through the oval windows all up and down the length of the plane. She rubbed her eyes and squinted out at the clouds that tumbled over the city, and the fine mist of rain that clung to the plane as they landed.

There was a car waiting for her just outside the arrivals
area, and she sat in the backseat and tried to keep her bleary eyes open as it glided through the rainy London streets. She realized how much she’d forgotten in the last eight years; it was half a lifetime ago that she was here, and only now did she recall the quirky details of the place: the colorful doors and the painted signs on the pubs, the roundabouts and the lampposts, the buildings that stood shoulder to shoulder along the winding streets.

The town house had long ago been sold, so her parents now stayed at the Ritz whenever they were in town. Lucy couldn’t help staring as they pulled up to the grand old building wreathed in lights, and a bellhop appeared out of nowhere to help her with her suitcase. When she told the man at the front desk that she was looking for her parents, he gave her the room number, and then pointed to the doorway behind her.

“The lift is just around the corner,” he said, and Lucy smiled all the way up to the sixth floor, wondering if there would be much difference to getting stuck in a lift instead of an elevator.

Upstairs, she knocked on the door to her parents’ room. When it opened, they were both standing there as if they’d been waiting; her mother, tall and willowy, her hair dark as Lucy’s, and her father, sandy-haired and enormous, with glasses and a haircut that made him look every inch as serious as he was. They were both generally reserved, not prone to huge amounts of affection, but before the door had even closed, Lucy found herself folded into a
hug, tucked between the two of them in a way that felt so safe, so overwhelming, and most of all so surprising that she began to cry without meaning to.

“We’re so sorry,” Mom said, letting go and looking at her with concern. “If we’d known…”

“No, it’s fine,” Lucy said, wiping her eyes. “It really wasn’t a big deal. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m just… I guess I’m just happy to see you.”

“We’re happy to see you, too,” Dad said, bringing her suitcase in from the hallway and then closing the door. “Because of—well, because of some scheduling things, we couldn’t get back. But we felt terrible that you were all alone through an ordeal like that, and we just really wanted to see you.”

Lucy felt a little dazed by all the attention. “I’m fine,” she said for what felt like the thousandth time as Mom guided her over to the bed, where they sat together on the edge, knees touching.

“So what was it like?” Dad asked as he pulled out the desk chair. Once seated, he crossed his legs and gave her a long look, the kind she’d seen him give lawyers and bankers when they’d come for dinner; it was a look that meant she had his full concentration, and it wasn’t one she was used to seeing.

“It was dark,” she said, and Mom laughed. “I was actually in the elevator when it happened.”

“We heard,” Dad said. “The boys told us.”

Lucy had called her brothers the very next day, first
Charlie and then Ben, and she’d told them about climbing out of the elevator and walking up and down the stairwells; she’d told them about the doormen running around with flashlights and the masses of people moving through the streets; she’d told them about the free ice cream and the stars overhead and the heat. But she hadn’t told them about Owen. Part of it was self-preservation—she knew Ben would tease her endlessly and Charlie would get overprotective—but part of it was instinct, too. It would have been like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake and then immediately announcing what you’d wished for; logical or not, saying it out loud made it seem less likely to come true.

“Was it awful?” Mom was asking, her eyes wide with worry.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Lucy said with a smile, hoping they didn’t notice the pink that crept into her cheeks. “We were only in there for, like, half an hour.” She paused, realizing for the first time that it was true—it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. How had it felt like so much more? “The worst part was the heat,” she continued. “
That
was pretty horrible.”

They both nodded, like they wanted to hear more, but she thought she noticed Dad sneak a glance at his watch, and Mom’s foot had started to bob in the way it did sometimes when guests at their dinner parties were still there even after the coffee cups had been cleared.

“You should have seen it, though,” Lucy pressed on.
“The whole skyline just blinked out. And all the streets were completely full of people. It was unbelievable.”

This time, Dad didn’t bother to disguise it when he looked at his watch, and Mom cleared her throat. “Listen, darling,” she said. “We want to hear a lot more about all this at dinner tonight, but we figured you’d want to nap, so we thought we’d head out for a little while.”

“Oh,” Lucy said. “Where?”

Dad looked up, his face a picture of confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Lucy said, raising her eyebrows, “where are you planning to go?”

“We made some plans before we knew you’d be here, too,” Mom said, giving Dad a sideways glance. “I’m getting my hair done, and your father has… a meeting.”

Lucy turned back to him, but he seemed suddenly interested in his shoes. “Well, where is it? Maybe I’ll tag along, go explore a new neighborhood…”

He coughed, his face reddening. “We just assumed you’d be tired.”

“I slept on the plane,” she said, and they exchanged a look. “Okay, seriously,” she said, glancing from one to the other. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Dad started to say, but Mom rolled her eyes.

“Let’s just tell her now.”

“Tell me what?” Lucy asked, suddenly anxious.

Dad was playing with his wedding ring, a nervous habit of his. “We were going to wait for dinner.…”

“Listen,” Mom said, taking one of Lucy’s hands in hers. “You know how much I miss it over here.”

Lucy nodded, frowning.

“And you know that we’d always planned to live abroad again once the three of you were off to university, right?”

This was true. Ever since she was little, Mom had spoken dreamily of returning to London. She’d never really been at home in New York, where she found the summers too hot and the people too rude, the garbage too visible and the culture too limited. It had only ever been a matter of time before they moved back to London, where they’d first met all those years ago, and Lucy and her brothers had always known this. But they’d promised it wouldn’t be until all three kids had left for college. Now, however, Mom was giving Lucy a pleading look, though whether for understanding or forgiveness, she didn’t know.

“Well,” she was saying, her voice a bit too bright, “an opportunity has come up a little early.”

“They called me about an open position in the UK office,” Dad jumped in, his eyes shining behind his glasses. “I’d heard rumors about it, but it’s very, very high level, so I didn’t think I’d have a shot.…”

“But it looks like he might,” Mom finished, looking at him proudly. “And it won’t be long now until we find out for sure.”

“Right,” Dad said. “Just a few more meetings today, and then we’ll see.…”

Lucy stared at him. “So we’d be moving to London?”

“Yes,” Dad said, beaming.

“Next year?”

Mom shook her head. “Next month.”

“Next month?” Lucy asked, reeling a bit. She could feel that her voice had risen an octave and her eyes had gone wide, but she couldn’t help it.
Next month
, she thought, astonished by the nearness of it.

“It wouldn’t be—” Dad began, but Lucy cut him off.

“What about the apartment?”

“Well, we’d keep it, of course,” he said. “In case we wanted to go back for the summer, or if the boys ended up with internships there…”

Lucy stared at him. “What about school?”

“I’ve looked into it,” Mom said with a hint of a smile, “and it seems they have those over here as well. And since you’ve never exactly
loved
your old school…”

She was right, of course, but Lucy still wasn’t sure what to say. After sixteen whole years in New York, it almost didn’t matter what she loved and what she didn’t; the city was a part of her, and she a part of it. The idea that she could be living in London in just a few short weeks struck her as wildly unimaginable. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, blinking at them.

“I know this is a lot of information all at once,” Mom said gently, her brow furrowed as she looked over at Dad. He leaned forward, steepling his hands together.

“And it’s not for sure yet,” he said. “Though I’m hoping we’ll have something to celebrate soon…”

“London,” Lucy repeated, and Mom smiled encouragingly.

“You love it here.”

“I love New York, too.”

Dad waved this away. “We’ve done New York,” he said. “It’s time for a change, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy said, fumbling for the words. “I—”

“Why don’t we pick this up over dinner later?” Dad suggested, clapping his hands on his knees and then standing up. “You can take a nap while Mom gets her hair done, then you two can meet up and do some shopping or something.”

“I’m not—” Lucy was about to say
tired
, but there didn’t seem to be a point. Dad stood there smoothing his tie, while Mom rose to grab her purse. “That sounds fine.”

They left in a flurry of noise—reminders that if she needed anything, Lucy could call the front desk, and that she should feel free to order room service if she was hungry; they gave her some cash and promised they’d see her soon; they told her not to think too much about what they’d discussed until they all knew more—and then they were gone, and Lucy was alone again.

London
, she thought, the word sinking inside her.

She waited only a few minutes before grabbing her bag and heading out the door, too restless to stay put. As she walked, her mind spun furiously, and she found herself gawking at everything she passed, the white columned buildings and the striped crosswalks, the pharmacies and
fruit shops, the cafés and pubs: the whole world suddenly seen through a whole new lens.

Everything was so different here, which had—only hours before—been precisely the point. But now it felt foreign and strange, the unusual street names and the squat buildings; the shops were unfamiliar, and the traffic was heading in the wrong direction, and it was only the first week of September, but everyone was already wearing winter coats.

Lucy wasn’t sure where she was exactly, but she kept moving anyway, too anxious to do anything but walk. A low fog hung over the streets, making everything damp and silvery, and she tugged the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands and pushed on.

It wasn’t until she found herself approaching Piccadilly Circus—the huge electric signs burning through the mist—that she paused. It was the very first thing that reminded her of New York, and she stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, thinking of Times Square, the panic loosening its grip on her. She took a deep breath as she scanned the plaza. There were huddles of tourists peering in windows, brightly colored billboards, a few pigeons poking around near a fountain, and of course, the enormous stone buildings that formed a kind of cavern all around her.

It was beautiful, in a way. In its own way. And she thought it again—
London
—only this time, there was something lighter about it, a word like a sigh, like a possibility.

Just as she was about to turn back for the hotel, she spotted a small souvenir shop up ahead, the windows filled with little red buses and teacups with pictures of the queen. She walked over to take a closer look, drawn by the display of postcards just outside the door, and she spun the rack so that the images whizzed by in a blur of color: Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and a series of red phone booths.

Finally, she came to an aerial shot, the city spread out from a distance, the River Thames woven through it like a gray ribbon, and there, written on top of it all in bold blue letters, were the words:
Wish You Were Here
.

Inside the shop, she slid a five-pound note across the counter.

“I’ll take this,” she said, waving the postcard. “And a stamp as well.”

The clerk, a young woman with purple hair and a nose ring, rolled her eyes when she saw it. “Wish you were here,” she said, snapping her gum. “Right.”