With Love from London(28)

“Alive and kicking,” I reply, telling her about my visit to Café Flora and the headway I’d made with Millie as I open the bottle of red I’d purchased at the market. I pour us each a glass.

“Millie conquered? Check. Third clue? In progress. Next up: finding you a love interest.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that Millie is unconquerable. And I do appreciate your sentiment, but men are the last thing on my priority list at the moment.”

“I know,” Liza concedes. “I’m just trying to think of creative ways to get you to feel at home here. Can you blame me for wanting to have a fun new friend upstairs—who also happens to be my landlord?”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I may not be her landlord for long. “You’re sweet,” I say instead. “And I do really like it here, but if anything could anchor me to London, it wouldn’t be a man. Honestly, I think the only men who stand a chance of capturing my attention are the fictional variety.”

She laughs. “Given my dating track record these days, I’m inclined to agree with you. There is no better man than one found in a novel.”

“Right? Why is that?”

Liza shrugs. “Because they don’t exist in real life.”

“Or maybe they do?” I counter. “And you’ve just been looking in the wrong places?”

“You mean, I should give up on bad boys and go out with a sensible accountant or something?”

“Yeah!”

She shakes her head. “No thanks. I’d die of pure and utter boredom.”

“Well, speaking of men in books,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “When I met my husband—my ex-husband—I actually believed that he was a modern-day Mr. Darcy.” I shudder at the words, embarrassed at my naivete. “I mean, I did. I really did. I thought he was this aloof romantic hero, rough around the edges, yes, but with a solid heart—a gentleman’s heart. And then, well…how wrong could I have been?”

Liza places a hand on my arm. “Don’t feel bad, honey. I once fell for a man who had a pet monkey. He actually had a whole act, with a banana bit, that he did on Oxford Street on Saturday afternoons.”

I burst into laughter. “Dear Lord.”

“He told me that it was just a side gig to pay the rent while he finished his master’s degree,” she says. “But I later found out that he lied about that, oh, and also, he lived on his mate’s couch. Can you believe I fell for that?”

“No,” I say, laughing. “I can’t.”

She cringes. “The monkey was lovely, though—a total sweetheart. His name was Charles.”

Liza’s eccentric monkey-trainer boyfriend reminds me of my own dating disasters in college, before I met Nick, who, ahem, also turned out to be a disaster. I try to remember what Joan Rivers wrote in her memoir. It was something like “Don’t take life too seriously. No matter what, just laugh because at the end of the day, it’s all funny.” I can’t recall the exact quote, and if I tried to recite it, I’d butcher it, for sure. But the sentiment rings true. If only it were that easy—to just laugh at all the absurdity, from my failed marriage to my mother’s dual exit from my life.

“It’s good to see you laughing,” Liza says.

“I’m trying, but…I’m not all there yet.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know.”

“I mean, one moment I’m laughing, and the next”—I pause, feeling the familiar lump in my throat—“I’m on the verge of tears.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m going crazy?”

“Val, you’re not going crazy. You’re just going through a lot. It’s normal to feel all the feelings.”

I nod. “You want to hear something that’s a bit crazy?” I reach for the marked-up copy of The Last Winter on the coffee table and point out the notes in the margins on one of the pages. “His name is Daniel, and…I don’t know…he has the most insightful things to say about the story. It’s like we’re the same mind, or something.”

She flips through the book, reading a few of the entries, before placing her hand to her heart. “Val, this is…so romantic,” she gushes. “You have a crush on a man you’ve discovered in a book!”

“Now, let’s not get carried away,” I say with a laugh. “I do not have a crush on him.”

“Well, what would you call it, then?”

I look up at the ceiling, collecting my thoughts. “I’d call it a common interest. Or maybe a kinship.”

“A kinship,” Liza says, completely straight-faced before cracking up. “I thought you said this was a mystery, not an origin story.”

“Kinship, kindred spirits, whatever,” I say, laughing at myself, though I have L. M. Montgomery to blame for my preference for old-fashioned word choices. I was obsessed with Anne of Green Gables as a girl. Fact: I even begged my parents to let me dye my hair red.

“So, this kindred spirit of yours,” she continues. “Stay with me here…what if he’s actually your soulmate?”

I think of Nick and all his broken promises. “I really don’t believe in soulmates—at least, not anymore.”

“Girl!” Liza continues. “That’s like saying you don’t believe in Santa, or…fairies!”