The Lies That Bind(27)

“Hi,” he says, raising his arm and waving as he breaks into the most glorious grin.

“Hi,” I mouth, beaming back at him as we walk toward each other in what feels like slow motion.

Seconds later, I’m in his arms, melting.

“You’re here,” he says, kissing the top of my head. I crane my neck to look up at him, and he kisses my forehead, nose, lips. “You’re really here.”

“Yep,” I say, grinning up at him. “I’m here.”

I desperately want to stay in our moment, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Scottie hovering, then hear him clear his throat. So I reluctantly pull away, take Grant’s hand, and introduce two of my favorite people.

“Well, hell-o there,” Scottie says, his head cocked to the side, his voice an octave higher than his regular voice—one he reserves for talking to handsome men, whether gay or straight.

I nudge him with my elbow, a cue to knock it off, as Grant shakes Scottie’s hand, saying how nice it is to meet him, that he’s heard so much about him.

“Really?” Scottie says, hand to his heart. “What have you heard, exactly?”

“Scottie, stop,” I say, this time elbowing him right out in the open.

But Grant waves me off, sweetly rising to the occasion. “Let’s see,” he begins. “I know that you’re a high school English teacher….Eleventh grade, right?”

“Right,” Scottie says, making a clicking noise and pointing at Grant with a wink.

Grant points back, imitating the click, continuing. “I know that you prefer the country to the city, am I right?”

“You are so right,” Scottie says.

    “And I know that you’re funny—and that you give great advice…and that you’re Cecily’s best friend.” Grant hesitates, then adds, “In the world.”

“Well,” Scottie says, head now cocked so hard it looks like it might fall off his neck. “Be still my heart, why don’t you?”

I roll my eyes, pretending to be annoyed but actually feeling sort of touched, as Grant asks whether we’d like to grab lunch.

I say we’d love to, adding, “Are you sure you have time?”

Grant swallows, his expression turning stoic, as he tells us it’s okay, he has some time before he needs to get back to the hospital.

I nod, something telling me not to ask more, as we all walk out the hotel door. Moments later, we are passing the Royal Albert Hall and, across the road from it, the towering Albert Memorial—which, according to Scottie’s Fodor’s, was commissioned by Queen Victoria upon her husband’s death. In the distance, we can also see the gates of Kensington Palace, where Princess Diana once lived. A huge royal follower, Scottie is giddy, snapping photos with his new digital camera and clamoring that he wants to go see the palace right now. But I gently remind him that Grant is on a schedule, and we can do it after lunch. Meanwhile, Grant consults a small pocket map, explaining that, unlike New York’s grid, the streets of London make no sense, so even though the pub we’re looking for is nearby, we have to weave to get there. I love this—not only because the residential back streets are so charming, but because Grant takes my hand as we go.

About fifteen minutes and two dozen pics on Scottie’s camera later, we wind up at a square in front of a pub called the Scarsdale, which looks like an old-fashioned postcard, the entire fa?ade adorned with window boxes and hanging pots of cascading pink and purple flowers.

“Oh my goodness. This is adorable,” Scottie says, snapping away, before the three of us walk inside, our eyes adjusting to the dim light.

    In the front of the restaurant is the bar area; in the back are tables. Grant asks which we would prefer, and I choose the bar, thinking about our first night together. We take three vacant stools at the bar, Scottie sitting to my right, Grant to my left. After a few seconds, the bartender arrives and, in the most delightful accent, asks whether we’ll be having lunch or just “something wet.”

Grant motions for me to answer first, and I tell him both—and that I’d love a pint of Newcastle.

“Make that two,” Scottie says, even though he doesn’t usually drink beer. “When in Rome…or London!”

The bartender smiles and nods, then looks at Grant. “And you, mate?”

“Hmmm…let’s just make it three,” he says.

“Brilliant,” the bartender murmurs as he hands us menus and also points to a chalkboard of specials.

While the bartender begins to pour our pints, Scottie asks what he recommends, the same question he asks every server, whether at a fine restaurant or The Cheesecake Factory, before promptly disregarding the suggestion. The bartender tells him the cottage pie is his favorite—and I watch Scottie pretend to ponder this, then order the fish and chips. Meanwhile, Grant and I go with the house recommendation.

“Cottage pie. What a cute name,” Scottie says, looking at Grant. “Is that like shepherd’s pie?”

Grant shakes his head and explains the difference—cottage is beef; shepherd’s is lamb—before we segue to other topics. Over the next hour and second pints for all of us, Grant and Scottie get to know each other, discovering a few things in common, namely their love of seventies hard rock. They spend quite a bit of time on the topic, ranking Van Halen, The Who, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and Queen (in that order), and both of them giving Rush an honorable mention.