Falling in Love with English Boys Read online

  “Good. I do, too. Do you really want a spoiler?”

  I sighed. “I guess not.”

  “Right, then. Ergo, you’ll finish the diary.”

  Well, yes, I will, Will, but I was so temped to whine, I don’t want Charles to die! Like anyone would—well, except maybe some French soldiers. Like anything could be changed now.

  Then there was, “If you, William Percival, are descended from (a) Mary Percival, and (b) at least one Lord Chilham, it really doesn’t look good for Katherine and Thomas.”

  Both revelations would be spoilers in a big way, several ways. Ergo. I guess I’m gonna finish the diary.

  Will and I wandered through the rest of the exhibit. Here’s what I learned:

  • He took a train through India on his way to Tibet.

  • It’s hard to see past the poverty, but when you do, the beauty is indescribable.

  • The fact that he did it alone (the friend he’d been traveling with went in another direction) made it all the more powerful.

  • Lakshmi is his fave goddess, in small part (he admitted with appropriate shame) because she spends a lot of time rubbing her hubby’s feet.

  • I look absolutely nothing like Lakshmi (he didn’t say so, but a thousand years of paintings don’t lie).

  • The Six Limbs are Head, Torso, Arms, and Legs.

  • In art, they are Form, Line, Proportion, Color, Beauty, and Feeling.

  • They figure prominently in the Kama Sutra.

  • Just not in the Royal Academy.

  • If one is missing, everything else is going to be outta whack.

  It was raining when we walked out. Of course Will didn’t have an umbrella. What is it about guys and umbrellas? Of course, he’d told me to bring one. Now, the sort of umbrella that fits into a Betsey Johnson bag is not the sort that opens to epic proportions. In fact, it pretty much just covers one person. So, when Will ducked under with me, it was totally necessary to have his arm around my shoulders, mine around his waist, and our hips pressed together.

  “The Twelve Limbs of Us,” Will said as we headed for our next destination.

  Be still, my Torso.

  As it turns out, Number Ten (curse it), was right across the street. Number Ten, of course, was Hatchards. Think Borders, but all dark shiny wood, brass, and thick carpeting. The pair of Geek Chic-alikes behind the register desk looked posh, bored, and faintly suspicious that I was going to grab a copy of The History of Cheese in Three Volumes and make a run for it.

  THERE WILL BE NO COMICS OR FILM NOVELIZATIONS SOLD HERE is almost written over the door. It is the Buckingham Palace of bookstores. There are actually all these painted coat-of-arms-looking things behind the cash registers. According to Will, they’re kinda like royal monograms. If the Royals like a store, they literally give it their seal of approval.

  I didn’t see Prince William’s. I wasn’t about to ask, not with princely William right next to me. Next to. No longer entwined with. Sigh. He gestured me up the curving stairs.

  We went to Religion. Sarah D. would have to wait.

  Will made a beeline for the top shelf and pulled down a paperback. He tossed it to me with slightly less reverence than most books in the section probably get. At least I didn’t drop it. The cover looked liked one of the paintings we’d just seen, lots of incredibly detailed people. But this was a battle scene. “Bhaghavad Gita,” I read the title.

  “Do you have it already?” he asked.

  To my credit, O my friends, I didn’t laugh.

  “Don’t laugh!” he scolded. Oops. “This is probably the most important book about choices and eternal consequences ever written.”

  “I thought that was The Nanny Diaries.”

  “Har har.” He poked at one of the figures on the cover. “The prince Arjuna has to decide whether to wage war on his own family. The god Krishna, in the form of his chariot driver, gets him thinking about doing the right thing instead of the obvious one or the easy one.”

  “And I should be interested because . . . ?”

  “It’s our challenge, isn’t it—everyone’s—deciding whether what we’re fighting for in life is the right thing? Whether we’re motivated by duty or lust or greed? C’mon, Cat. It’s the Great Why.”

  Why, I always want to ask, do the clever boys go for philosophy? The Great Whys either give me a headache, or make me feel kinda guilty . . .

  Oh, great. “Is this about America fighting in the Middle East?” I asked, getting ready to get defensive and a little pissy. I’m becoming a tad tired of taking flak for decisions made by a bunch of people (who, I would venture to guess, have never read the Baghavad Gita, either) I wouldn’t vote for—even when I can actually vote.

  “Absolutely.” Will shoved a hand into his hair, making it stand up in three different directions before flopping back into place. Okay, so clever boys can be awfully cute when they’re being philosophical and earnest. “Iraq. Afghanistan. Pakistan. And Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington and Hiroshima and celebrating life and deciding between Prada and H&M.”

  Hmm. “Well . . .”

  “Critical matter, Cat. It’s about seeing beyond the heavy stuff that comes at us in everyday life to the bigger picture. You find the same philosophies in Jeremy Bentham and Utilitarianism, Cicero, Karl Marx . . .” He must have noticed my eyes crossing then. “Fine. Fine. Even J. K. Rowling. I bet she’s read the Gita.”

  Boys and their obsessions. If it ain’t Eastern philosophy, it’s baseball. Or PlayStation. Or Bulgarian punk bands. At least Will knows when he’s Ranting Obsessed. He paid for the book. And grabbed a copy of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for me, too. “At least this one will give you a laugh.”

  I found what I was looking for in the basement, where Hatchards hides the less lofty stuff. I snagged my Sarah Dessen and, for His Highness, Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging.

  “This,” sez I, “is the ultimate book of choice and eternal consequence.”

  As we left, I looked up Piccadilly and realized how close we were to the West End. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “The Theatre Royal’s thataway. Number Two? Let’s go get tickets to something.”

  “Not next on the schedule (shejule), I’m afraid,” was his response. “Come on. Let’s get some lunch.”

  We went to a nearby pub. It was crowded and sticky and full of twentysomethings in business suits. A couple of them checked me out approvingly. Apparently they appreciate Audrey. I perched on one of the low padded stools that masquerade as seats, and tried to look more like Heidi Klum—or even Seal—than a wet seal on a greased beach ball. While Will ordered BLTs and Cokes (from a modern-day tavern wench who, judging from the pout and boobs-in-his-face lean, obviously appreciated floppy aristocrat), I had to wonder: Is he ever going to ask me out after the sun goes down?

  Whaddaya think, my Philly Greek Chorus? Is he just not that into me? Or, even worse, is there something else he does at night that might make me very unhappy? (Sophie, if you so much as dare to mention yearning, saintly bloodsuckers, I will scream. There will be no vampires here.) I hate not knowing, and can’t even begin to imagine how to ask.

  So how does Girl suggest to Boy that she is available at night and very curious as to whether he is, too, without making it obvious? Well, she steers the conversation toward nightly subjects, of course.

  What I made sure Will learned about me in the following thirty minutes:

  • I like stargazing.

  • I like sunsets.

  • I think it’s destiny that I’m named Cat. Cats are night creatures.

  • I’m a night owl. I hate early mornings.

  • I am frequently late to my first class.

  Don’t worry. I was subtle.

  He:

  • Used to play cloud games with his younger sister, until he hit puberty and everything started looking like a nude Kylie Minogue.

  • Was blown away by sunrises in the Himalayas.

  • Was named after eight other William Perci
vals, the fourth of whom would have been as famous as Francis Drake had he not pissed off Queen Elizabeth right when she was going to fund his exploratory journey, and hence spent the following four years in the Tower.

  • Wasn’t in bed until nearly four the night before, and up again at nine. Sorry ’bout the yawning.

  • Is hoping not to have morning classes when he starts at St. Andrew’s.

  When we left the pub, Will squinted toward the West End. Yes, yes, yes. Theater tix. I’ll buy. “Stars, huh? I think the Adam Sandler film about the astrologer is playing in Leicester Square. I’ll buy.”

  It was not what I had in mind.

  There was a guy busking on a street corner. He had a fire-engine red Mohawk and a shirt that told me THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. He was singing “Shut Up and Let Me Go.” Slow, acoustic version. It was surprisingly melodic. It’s a sign.

  I must have said that out loud.

  “What’s a sign?” Will asked.

  I pointed to Red, who winked and did a little hip-thrusting turn. The back of his shirt said RUN!

  “A sign of what?” he pressed.

  “Um . . .” Think fast, Sherlock. “Rock-and-roll is dead? Long live rock?”

  “No.” Will jerked his chin toward a spackled-white, black-lipped, chain-dripping trio of . . . well, gender probably didn’t matter...doing a jerky Psycho-knife dance to “Someday My Prince Will Come.” “That is a sign.”

  He was right, of course.

  Something else I know about him now:

  • He is very discreet, but as the check-your-phone-in-class-discreetly diva, I see all. He checked his phone. Several times.

  As far as I am concerned, that begs asking the Great “Why?”

  July 17

  Beautiful Girls

  I am turning into a nervous wreck. Okay, Ditzy Miss Kitty, you’ve started asking some good questions. (Is love meant to make us feel like fools? you ask. Probably not, sez I. But by all science decrees, bumblebees shouldn’t be able to fly, either.)

  My questions:

  Knowing all we do about the Male of the Species (i.e., they are happy with two pairs of shoes, they frequently smell funny—and don’t seem to care, they actually believe the Five-Second Rule, and they think asking for directions is infinitely more humiliating than being seen in the parking lot of a Hooters . . .), we still want ’em more than Marc Jacobs on tap?

  Do I ask too much? Have I? Of my dad, of Adam, now of Will? I don’t think so. But then, what do I know . . . ?

  I know one thing for shore:

  When the thang with the boy ain’t happening, there ain’t nothang like a girl thang.

  Consuelo’s house is a mere ten blocks and an entire world away from the flat. It takes up a quarter of the block, has double front doors, and doorknobs the size of grapefruits. It’s on a square that has its own little park in the middle. The park is locked. Only residents get keys.

  So there we were, Elizabeth, Consuelo, and I, sitting on the grass in the park, despite the fact that it’s nine o’clock at night and only about 50 degrees. Imogen was on a date, with an Italian race-car driver she met at a club last weekend. He arrived to pick her up in a Maserati. She texted Elizabeth forty minutes later. Marco was taking her to dinner in Brighton—fifty miles from London. They were there already, in a restaurant that looked out over the sea, with a bottle of Moët on ice, and a blazing fire nearby.

  The three of us dateless losers (Bayard is off sailing or skydiving or shooting at things in Scotland for the week) were huddled in Consuelo’s park with a massive bottle of cheap wine Consuelo nicked from her brother and four tins of Pringles. We were in the park because Elizabeth says the family’s butler makes her twitchy.

  “He’s always around, isn’t he?” she complained, struggling with the bottle cap. “Skulking about, making sure I don’t run off with the family jewels.”

  I would have snickered at the term “family jewels,” only Consuelo’s house is actually full of fancy silver and gold stuff, lots of which has glittery stones on it. I’m pretty sure they’re real.

  I like Consuelo’s butler. His name is Huggins and he brings Diet Coke and Pringles to whichever of the thirty rooms we’re hanging out in.

  The conversation started with my day with Will (the movie was funny; Will having me home by 4 p.m., not so much).

  Consuelo: “Of course he fancies you! He bought you a sexy book, didn’t he?”

  Elizabeth: “That’s the Kama Sutra, darling cow. What he bought Cat was a treatise on finding enlightenment, not the sweet spot. Sorry, Yank, doesn’t look good.”

  It moved naturally to Would You Rather . . .

  Elizabeth:“ . . . publish your diary—that would be your private little blog, Yank—or have a film made of your most humiliating dating moment?”

  I went for the dating moment. Throwing up in the middle of Year One was almost appropriate, after all. Consuelo opted for the diary (“Well, someone’s making an absolute mint off that Secret Diary of a Call Girl, aren’t they?”). She doesn’t keep a diary.

  And inexorably (ooh, ooh, SAT word!) on to the fact that I am still a virgin, with no prospects in sight. I’m really really afraid Philly boys just aren’t going to look the same after a summer in London with Will Percival.

  Consuelo: “Bayard and I planned for months. Where? When? Who would brave the Boots for condoms? Silly git, he bought glow-in-the-dark.”

  “How old were you?” I asked.

  “Fifteenth birthday,” she said cheerfully. At my expression, she shrugged. “We’ve been together since junior school. What else were we waiting for?” She took a swig of the wine and shuddered. “It was disastrous. Hayloft over our stables. Horribly prickly. I had a rash for days after.”

  “But let me guess,” Elizabeth said drily. “Bayard had a grand old time.”

  Consuelo laughed. “Of course he did. Do note, he has improved tremendously since.”

  I looked at Elizabeth. “Last summer,” she admitted. “South African law student I met at a world debt rally. Disgusting student digs in Brixton, but God, he was gorgeous.” She sighed.

  Consuelo sighed with her. “He was. He really was.”

  “What happened with him? Why aren’t you seeing him now?”

  Elizabeth shrugged, or tried to. She’d borrowed one of Consuelo’s dad’s oilskin Barbour coats and it weighed a ton. I knew because I was wearing another one. “He went off to Harvard last September. Doubt I’ll ever see him again, but I think of him fondly every time I see peaches.” She passed me the bottle. “Haven’t done it yet, have you?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to the brilliant and ultraperceptive.” Elizabeth can be kind(ish) sometimes, too.

  So I told them about Adam and the uncertainty and the wrestling (me moving his hand out of my bra, him putting it between my legs, me moving it, him slinging a leg over my lap, me moving . . . all while trying to have a nice deep kiss . . . exhausting) at his house, at my house, in every movie theater in Philadelphia. “I just couldn’t picture it, my first time. With him. All I could imagine was his skinny bare butt and those foul silver Nikes. In bed.”

  Elizabeth: “Good for you! No way a bloke who wears silver shoes would be good in bed.”

  Consuelo: “You were absolutely right. First time’s too important. Well . . . sometimes . . . No, no ...too important . . .”

  Elizabeth: “If I had it to do again, I’d go for a weekend at the Ritz. Room service.”

  Consuelo: “Rose petals and candles.”

  Elizabeth: “A copy of The Joy of Sex.”

  Consuelo: “Oh, well, we did have one of those. Maybe a newer edition . . .”

  By the time the wine was gone, we were feeling plenty warm, and had come up with this:

  The Top Ten Things Every Girl Should Have the First Time

  1. A real bed. With clean sheets (Elizabeth’s addition).

  2. Condoms. And not XL ones because, honestly, none of them really are. (Consuelo’s ad
dition. She has three brothers and eight male cousins.)

  3. A clear head.

  4. A girlfriend on duty at home, just in case you have to tell someone.

  5. A guy who realizes it’s a big deal for you, this time.

  6. A guy who understands that it’s a big deal every time.

  7. A guy who tries to make it special. Every time.

  8. A guy who uses your name, not “babe” or “God” or, God forbid, “Delilah.”

  9. A guy who sends a poem after.

  10. A guy who says “I love you” before.

  And this:

  The Top One Thing Every Girl Should Have. Period.

  1. Good girlfriends. As many as possible.

  How lucky am I?

  The tricky boy texted as I was making my slightly wobbly way into bed.

  HisText: U up 4 c-ing ded ppl?

  MyText: A-B? Y. 2moro?

  HisText: N. Fri.

  MyText: OK.

  HisText. Gr8. GTG. Nite.

  MyText: Will?

  HisText: ?

  MyText: Fave poem?

  HisText: P.I.M.P. by 50¢.

  MyText: : P

  HisText: OK. No Second Troy. Yeats. Y u ask?

  MyText: Tale 4 othr time. Nite.

  HisText: Dream >∧. .∧<

  Oh, I will, Will.

  Westminster Abbey, day after 2moro.

  Just how bad will it be for me to walk among the dead, imagining doing very live things with Will? I guess we’ll stay away from Queen Victoria’s tomb. She would not be amused.