Girl Abroad

THERE’S A CAR WAITING OUTSIDE AT SEVEN O’CLOCK SHARP.

At 7:08, I’m standing impatiently at the front door in my dress and heels, purse dangling from my wrist, hair pinned and sprayed against a Category 4 hurricane. Lee scurries down the stairs, stops, remembers something else he forgot, and scurries back up the stairs for the fifth time.

“Is this some kind of manic ritual?” I ask Jamie, who leans against the staircase giving me an amused look.

“Two years ago, Celeste got him front-row Adele tickets for his birthday,” he says, popping cashews in his mouth. “He missed the first hour of the show in a panic over a chin zit.”

Jamie’s midchew when a sneeze overtakes him and sends disgusting bits of snot and cashew in my direction.

“Oh my God, Jamie. You are horrific.” I fret, making sure none of his bodily fluids got on my dress. Thankfully, no. “I’ve seen enough of your snot this past week to last a lifetime.”

“Sorry.” He swipes his sleeve over his runny nose, then sniffs a few times. “I told you, it’s these bloody allergies.”

The door opens and bumps me in the back, almost plastering me to the wall. Behind it, Jack walks in, oblivious to me or the weak resistance my body puts up against his forceful entrance.

“You know there’s some rude-looking bloke outside with a black car?”

Jamie gives him a nod. “Other side, mate.”

Jack takes the hint and peeks behind the open door to find me and my whole getup smooshed against the wall.

“What are you doing back there?”

“Just hanging out,” I answer sarcastically.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Lee comes galloping down the stairs in a sapphire tux. “For real this time.”

“Sure you’ve not left some stray nose hairs untrimmed?” Jamie mocks him with a smirk, popping another cashew.

Lee strides past to slide his feet into a pair of patent leather shoes. “I would never.”

“You look different,” Jack says quietly while Jamie and Lee banter. His blue eyes drift over my dress, which, admittedly, is doing most of the work. “I mean nice. You look really nice.”

“Thank you.”

In the weeks since we (translation: he) agreed to pretend the kiss never happened, things have gone back to normal between us. Sort of. My body still hasn’t gotten the message from my brain that Jack and I are strictly relegated to the platonic sphere. My nerves still respond to every small compliment. Stupid things like his shoulder brushing mine trigger a response.

“Here, take a picture.” Lee shoves his phone at Jack and wedges himself in beside me to pose for the camera. “Next time you see me, I’ll be calling from a yacht in Amalfi with my new rich boyfriend.”

“I hope all your dreams come true,” Jamie says, stepping in to adjust Lee’s bow tie.

“Thanks, luv.” Lee grabs his phone from Jack and glances at the time. “Right. Enough dawdling. My future husband could be getting away.”

“Keep an eye on this one, would you?” Jack nods toward me as he speaks to Lee. “Try to keep her out of trouble. She’s liable to topple the monarchy.”

I mock glare at him. “I would never. Not on purpose anyway.”

“Don’t wait up.” Lee takes my arm and escorts us out the door to the impatient driver waiting at the curb. Once we’re on our way, my date lets out a deep sigh. “I might actually shit myself.”

I glance over with a grin. “Cranberry.”

“What?”

“If either of us is in crisis or just wants to get the hell out of there for some reason, we say cranberry. That’s our escape word.”

“Good plan. I like that. And if one of us needs to ditch the other— ”

“Grapefruit.”

“Got it.”

He spends the rest of the drive reminding me of the customs and protocols regarding the royal receiving line and how to behave if I should stumble my way into encountering royalty in the wild while at this event. Mostly, we’re relying on not leaving me unsupervised. When all else fails, do what everyone else does.

Not far from Notting Hill, we encounter the traffic jam of limos and town cars lining up to enter the gates of Kensington Palace. Spectators and photographers press against the police barricades. TV news crews are set up to capture the arrivals. Lee rolls down the window a couple inches to peer up at the helicopters hovering overhead.

“This isn’t real,” I mutter to myself.

“A little nip for the nerves?” He produces a flask from his breast pocket.

I shake my head. I’d be hurling before we even stepped out of the car.

When I was little, maybe a year or two after my mom left me at Dad’s doorstep, he brought me to the People’s Choice Awards. I think someone on his PR team got it in their heads to create a sort of debut, introducing his daughter to the press and casting him as the good father. There are pictures of me in my tiny pink dress and too much makeup, posing with celebrities I wouldn’t recognize unless they were on Nickelodeon. What I remember most is lots of standing, being horribly bored, and waking up in the back of a limo with Dad’s publicist watching True Blood on her iPad while he was inside at some party until the sun came up.

This probably won’t be like that.

What seems like an hour later, we arrive at the front of the line, where we’re ushered from our car into the palace. We follow the traffic through the immaculate halls, security checks, formalities, and finally into the ballroom where hundreds of elegant guests mingle with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Up on the raised stage, a ten-piece orchestra plays instrumental covers of contemporary pop songs. I feel small under the tall mural ceiling, towering oil portraits, and priceless tapestries.

“Pinch me,” Lee whispers.

I give him a little squeeze on his forearm.

“I can’t believe we’re here. My mum and dad couldn’t even imagine.” Lee is in total awe as he absorbs the extravagance of it all. “Celeste may never speak to me again.”

“Sorry.”

He winks at me. “Worth it.”

On my first walk to campus after arriving in London, a man on the street handed me a brochure about tours of Kensington. Now I’m here, on the other side of the velvet ropes, spying Elton John in the crowd. I can’t help thinking my dad would already have attracted an audience if he were here. A guitar materializing out of thin air as they begged him for a song. Not because he’s famous—he just has that energy. Every room coalesces, shrinks around Gunner Bly. Magnetism.

Me, I feel myself shrinking. Retreating into this costume, blending into the scenery. Unaware how I got here and certain I don’t belong.

Then Lee jabs his elbow into my arm. “That one there? Parked her Rolls-Royce through the front door of a sweets shop last year.” He gives a surreptitious nod over his shoulder. “That bloke?” He directs my attention across the room. “He’s a descendent of Napoleon and was briefly the governor of a small town in Sweden until they found out he’d been importing horse meat and passing it off as elk in a kickback scheme.”

“Abbey?” Benjamin Tulley manages to sneak up on us, dressed to the nines in a tailored tux. Charming as ever, he takes my hand, brings it to his lips, and leaves a polite kiss atop my knuckles. “That dress is stunning, if I may.”

“Yeah, you know…” I swing the skirt around a little because how often will I get the chance to sashay in my life? “Just something I had lying around.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Ben lingers on me with the same cheeky grin I first saw at our lunch that disarmed me so thoroughly. Then his gaze flicks to Lee. “Ben,” he says, introducing himself.

“Lee. Thanks for the invite, mate.”

“Yes, you’re quite welcome.” Ben’s inflection is somewhat terse. His posture stiffens. “Pleased to meet a friend of Abbey’s.”

He doesn’t sound so pleased. That English stiff upper lip is so rigid it might crack right off his face.

“Tell us, yeah? That lad there.” Lee homes in on a skinny blond guy who resembles a young David Beckham. “Is that really Colin Hartness?”

Ben looks over. “The Olympic boxer? Yes, I believe it is. He’s a good friend of Prince John’s from the army.”

“Right.” Lee straightens his jacket, then leans in to kiss my cheek. “Don’t wait for me, luv.”Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

He’s off without pause to slip himself into the conversation surrounding Hartness, leaving Ben and me in his dust.

“My roommate,” I explain. “I was threatened with bodily harm if I didn’t bring him. Now I’m wondering what I’ve set loose on this unsuspecting party.”

“Ah, I see. I was afraid I’d become the third wheel.”

Ben closes the gap between us as he accepts two glasses of champagne from a passing tray to hand one to me.

I hold back a laugh that Ben thought Lee and I were a thing. “No, it’s not like that. Lee has greater ambitions. He plans to marry up. Tonight, if possible.”

At that, Ben’s wry smile returns. “I’m rooting for him.”

One sip of the champagne almost knocks me on my ass. It’s as if I’ve never tasted the stuff until now. Everything before it was swill. Swamp water. I’m only bathing in this from now on. Pouring it on my cereal. Boiling my pasta in it. Transfusing my blood with it. I finally understand the fascination with the stuff.

“Good?” Ben prompts.

“You people have been holding out on us. No wonder the French invented guillotines.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “A Yank isn’t inside the palace ten minutes before she’s plotting a violent revolution.”

“Start planning your escape routes,” I say with a smile.

“Before we lose our heads then, shall we have a dance?”

He extends his arm to me.

This is one of those moments. When you’re entirely present and aware of the memories you’re making. A moment you’ll never have a second chance at, so best to squeeze the most from it.

“Love to.”