With Love from London(43)

“Yeah, I think so, too,” she continues. “I was going for more of a turquoise hue, but, you know, I think this suits me. Would you call it sapphire?”

“Definitely,” I say, heading to the door.

“Wait, how’s the search for your literary lover going?”

I pull out my copy of The Last Winter from inside my bag and eye the cover. “I don’t think I’d call it a search, more like a dead end.”

“Hold on,” Liza says, suddenly snatching the book from my hands. “I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before.”

“What?”

“This stamp on the back cover.” She points to it, and together we see the emblem of Queen Mary University.

I shake my head. “What about it?”

“It means that maybe—just maybe—this book was used in a college course. If you could figure out which one, maybe you’ll find your guy.”

“Well,” I say as she hands it back to me, “I admire your tenacity, but don’t you think that sounds a bit far-fetched?”

“You never know what you might find. Come on, do a little more digging—for me?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. For you.”





August 1968



One night over dinner, Frank told me that Labor Day weekend was coming up. It was a particularly American holiday that was best celebrated with work colleagues. We’d be hosting a dinner party for some of them and their wives.

“Take the checkbook and go shopping at Fred Segal for some new clothes—dresses and some swimsuits,” he said.

I went to look through my closet to take inventory, pulling out four dresses, then setting each back on the rod. None would do. I had zero appetite for a shopping trip, but Frank was probably right. My wardrobe was definitely more London than L.A., not that I could fit into any of them given the size of my growing belly. And why on earth had I thought it was a good idea to bring my heavy coats to a climate that only knew sunshine? I made a mental note to ask Bonnie to take them to storage.

As Frank suggested, I took a cab to Fred Segal where I purchased a number of new items that fit my expanding figure, but more important, made me feel as if I could fit in. On the night of our first dinner party as a married couple, Frank was in the living room when I made my way downstairs wearing one of the new dresses. Blue, with a subtle floral print and an empire waist—I’d loved it the moment I laid eyes on it, and I hoped he would, too.

“Hello, darling,” he said cheerfully. “Is that one of your new dresses?”

I nodded, searching his eyes for approval. “Do you like it?”

He paused, then stood up, walking closer to inspect the garment. “It’s lovely, really it is, but it’s just that my colleagues’ wives tend to dress to the nines. Do have something a bit more formal, and maybe a different shade? You know I love you in pink.”

I turned back to the stairs, momentarily deflated, but then I remembered how important the party was to Frank; he merely wanted every detail to be flawless, so I selected a pink crepe dress and a pair of vintage earrings I’d purchased at an estate sale recently. The pale pink gemstones matched the dress’s fabric almost perfectly.

“How’s this?” I asked Frank in the living room again, happy to see the pleased look on his face.

“You are a vision,” he said, kissing my cheek.

I hoped my smile concealed the nagging pain I felt in my lower abdomen. Probably just indigestion—Bonnie’s cooking was divine, but in acquiescing to Frank’s preference for heavily spiced dishes, sometimes meals didn’t sit well with me. In any case, I vowed not to let an upset stomach ruin the evening, or worry Frank, who was prone to fuss about anything these days. When I had a prolonged case of the hiccups the week prior, he called the obstetrician for reassurance.

“Look at the artful detailing on those earrings,” he said.

I grazed my hand against the edge of one of the pink stones dangling from my ears, grateful to hear the doorbell chime, and that Frank hadn’t asked how much I’d paid for them. They were expensive. Quite.

“Ah, our first guests have arrived,” he said, taking my hand. “Let’s go greet them, shall we?”



* * *



—

At half-past ten, when the last couple had finally departed, I sank into the sofa and kicked off my heels. The party was a success—at least in Frank’s eyes. There had been eight couples in attendance, all from his firm, including his superior, Jim, and Gabrielle, his prickly wife, who sat beside me during dinner. I tried my best to make conversation with her, but it was like talking to a brick wall—with frosted pink lipstick.

The other women weren’t much warmer, though I did strike up a conversation with one named Connie, who was about my age and nice enough, but all she seemed to want to talk about was her suspicion that her husband was having an affair with a particularly buxom secretary in the office. In an attempt to steer the subject to calmer waters, I told her about the big idea that had been keeping me up at night, and in the very best of ways: opening a bookstore in Santa Monica. Unfortunately, though, Gabrielle took an interest in our conversation and poked her head in.

“Oh, how adorable,” she said. “A bookstore. So quaint. So London. But, darling, you do realize that nobody reads in L.A., don’t you? We watch movies.”