Again, But Better(44)
And I would come in with something brilliant like: “Hi, would you like a cup of tea?”
And they would return with an excited “Yes, please!” or “No, thank you!”
I made two cups of tea. One for Donna and one for Janet. I was super-nervous concocting the first cup. I mean, I’m American and they’re British. By default, they have higher tea standards. But that chart in the tea station was a lifesaver. I’ve never used these sugar cube things before, and I’m very amused by them. They should make sugar stars! And other shapes! Sugar octagons!
On Thursday, all the employees acknowledged me with a “Hi, Shane!” or “Morning, Shane!” when they came in for the day. They know my name. I’m one step closer to learning how every detail of their job works. I did a tea sweep at 11:00 a.m. and then another at 3:00 p.m. because that’s about the time I start finding it difficult to keep my eyes open at my lonely little island table.
After the morning tea circuit, Tracey gave me a task that was vaguely related to the company. They ordered five hundred canvas tote bags with the Packed! For Travel! logo on them. I had to go through them all to sort out which ones were printed correctly and which ones were printed slightly crooked, or “wonky” as the British call it. I’m learning so many new words.
At the end of day three, Donna (Irish Breakfast, one sugar, extra milk), got ready to leave, and the whole office came alive. They stood, gave her hugs, and wished her luck on her trip to Moscow. She’s going to research travel ideas for Packed! Part of her job is going to different cities, staying at different places, and exploring different attractions.
Today’s Friday, so this morning I had class and wrote another sad postcard to my parents to add to my collection. And oh, it’s been five days since Pilot and I have had a conversation. It’s almost like he’s avoiding me.
I’ve been hanging around the kitchen every night after Packed! to work on various writing projects (the Paris blog post and trying to really flesh out an outline for a novel idea about adopted twins in college who learn one of their professors is their birth dad). When I walk into the kitchen, if Pilot’s already there, he suddenly has to leave. If I’m already in there, and he’s coming in, he just grabs something and heads out again.
Babe’s been spending a lot of time on her bed watching various editions of Cinderella. I caught her watching Ever After yesterday, and this morning she was watching the Brandy one. I tried to get her to reconsider coming out tonight, but she says she still isn’t up for it. I AM up for it. Tonight, I stop dwelling on Pilot.
* * *
I check my appearance in our full-length mirror one last time and straighten out my high-waisted black skirt. I paired it with a plain red crop top today, and, inspired by Babe, I painted my lips a matching shade of ruby. Avril Lavigne’s new song “What the Hell” plays on repeat from Sawyer over on the table by the giant window. Sahra’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She’s wearing a loose, cream-colored dress that falls right above her knees with blue dangly earrings and cream heeled boots.
“Ready?” she asks in her usual assertive tone. I’m getting used to it now, and I’m starting to respect her for it. She’s confident in a way that I’m only pretending to be, and I don’t think I’m even pretending up to her standards.
“Yep!” I say, pulling a stained finger out of my mouth and popping the top back onto my lipstick. I zip up my boots and grab my purse. Sahra’s first out the door. I glance back at Babe. She’s wearing headphones and watching the animated original Disney Cinderella. I wave goodbye, trying to catch her eye, but she’s engrossed in the film.
We take the Tube to central London. Sahra leads Atticus and me through the streets and to a bright red bar in Soho. The place pulses with music and laughter. We grab drinks (I order a glass of red wine), and the three of us sit on one of the red trendy-looking couches lining the walls. At first we try to chat, but it’s too loud. Atticus perseveres, trying hard to talk over the music, but despite his efforts, our conversations die quickly. There’s a mildly crowded dance floor in the center of the room. The DJ’s playing Top 40 pop music, and after a few conversationless minutes, I’m itching to get up and move to the beat. I tap my foot against the floor to Rihanna’s “Who’s that Chick.”
“Want to dance?” I ask.
“Why not?” Atticus agrees.
Sahra shrugs. “Sure.”
I give myself to Rihanna, twirling and throwing my arms around. Wine sloshes over onto my wrist, but I embrace it, cackling. Sahra dances more conservatively, sticking to one or two basic back-and-forth motions. Atticus busts out hilarious old-fashioned nerdy-looking moves. After a few songs, someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around to find an attractive black man in a blue button-up shirt.
I smile at him. “Hi!”
“Hey! My friend would like to dance with you,” he shouts over the music, pointing over his shoulder to another guy. Behind him, a broad-shouldered, freckly, red-faced man built like a rugby player is looking at me. Are we in middle school?
“Um, okay,” I say. Rugby Guy walks over and the two men join our little dance circle. Eventually Atticus goes off to get a drink by the bar. Sahra stays with me and the two guys.
When we’ve danced for ages, Rugby Guy asks if he can talk to me for a few minutes away from the floor. After checking with Sahra via eye contact—and receiving an aggressive go! head nod—Rugby Guy and I find an open spot at the bar. I spot Atticus at the other end, talking to an attractive man-bun guy.