Girl Abroad

PARENTS SHOULDN’T HAVE INTERNET IF THEY CAN’T USE IT responsibly. They’re fragile and can’t be allowed to run wild on the mean streets of cyberspace. Case in point: my dad’s downloaded every London news app to his phone and spends his mornings sending me articles and weather updates. I thought he had friends. And, like, hobbies. Instead, terrorizing me has become his full-time occupation.

Dad: Three Arrested in Organized Crime Bust—BBC

Me: I’ll keep my eye out for Tony Soprano.

Dad: The mob is no joke, kiddo.

Me: I’m screenshotting this entire exchange and forwarding it to Dr. Wu.

Sitting on my bed after getting home from class, I’ve got my laptop open and am trying to do homework. It’s slow going with my dad’s nervous texting. It’d be endearing if I didn’t have to worry about him spinning himself into a panic all alone on that ranch.

Dad: You’re not commuting to school alone, right? Safer to travel in packs.

Me: Like the roaming wolves of the countryside.

Dad: I just want you to be safe.

Me: I know. Don’t worry.

I remember the time in elementary school back in LA when a couple girls got into a fight at the bike racks and one of them got half her lip torn off after being slammed on the concrete. So far, London is far less intimidating.

With a tap on my door, Jamie pokes his head in. “We’re ordering sushi for dinner. You in?”

“Sure, whatever you guys like.”

He comes in and sits on the end of my bed. He’s wearing fitted ripped jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe and a salmon-colored polo that shows off his leanly muscled arms.

“You look nice,” I tell him. “Do you have a date or something?”

“Nope. Just wanted to look pretty for you, darling.”

“Stop flirting with me. I’m busy.”

He chuckles. “Still getting to the bottom of the painting?”

“Trying to. Hey, maybe you can help. Tell me more about the Tulleys.”

He sighs, settling further onto the bed. “That’s a long and sordid tale.”

“Go on,” I prod.

“These days, they’re pariahs. But like I told you before, a century ago they were quite cozy with the Crown.”

“I read that sometime in the 1920s, there was speculation one of the queen’s daughters might marry a Tulley heir.”

“Would have been a natural fit,” he says. “Certainly, the conversation would be had.”

“What’s really interesting is the Tulley line was nearly wiped out after World War II. The duke had three sons before he died.” I scoot closer to Jamie and angle the laptop so he can see it. “This is Lawrence Tulley, the youngest son. He’s the one who inherited the title.”

“The youngest was the heir? Fascinating.”

“Right?”

We study the image on the screen—a portrait done in oils, courtesy of good ol’ Dyce. With his perfectly coiffed brown hair and cold smirk, Lawrence has a smugness about him that puts me off.

“And you know why that is? Because the oldest brother, Robert, disappeared.” I click on another browser tab, showing him Robert Tulley’s portrait. “Just walked out the door one day, never to be heard from again. And if you think that’s bad? Meet William”—I open another image, this one of William Tulley— “the middle brother, who drowned at sea when the Victoria was lost on its Atlantic crossing during a storm. He was one of seven hundred passengers to not survive.”

“Bloody hell. If that’s not a curse.”

I sigh. “With that said, I still have no idea if any of that is relevant to my mystery woman.”

“Makes for a good story, though. I hope you figure it out. I’m invested now.”

“Ahem,” someone clears their throat.

Jamie and I glance toward my doorway, where Jack stands, shirtless as usual. His abs are insane. It’s hard to look at them sometimes because they melt my brain.

And my panties.

“Well, don’t you look cozy,” he drawls. His amused smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Am I interrupting?”

“Abbey here was giving me a crash course on the Tulleys of yore.”

“So what you’re saying is you didn’t place our dinner order.”

“Forgive me, darling. I forget how cranky you get on an empty tummy.” Jamie slides off my bed.

“Call me when dinner comes,” I tell the guys. “I’ll be up here working on this proposal till then.”

After they leave, I open a fresh Word doc to start my research proposal. With a subject this rife with drama and intrigue, my assignment definitely won’t be boring.

In class the following morning, we each take turns presenting our proposals for our professor. Beside me, Amelia cringes and sinks into her seat as we listen to the third student describe their intent to investigate the history of Brexit. Our professor, who hasn’t twitched a muscle in several minutes, grows more violently quiet with each unoriginal rehash of the same topic.

For his part, the student standing at the front of the class seems suitably chastised as he squeamishly describes his research objectives, wishing desperately to burst into ash and float out the AC vent.

After he’s concluded and rushed to cower in his seat, Professor Langford turns to address the class from front row center.

“Anyone else going to get up to talk about Brexit?”

Wisely, no one raises their hands.

“You have until Wednesday to propose any other subject or take a zero.”

Thus commences a furious cloud of keyboard clicks as far more than three students begin googling other topics.

With a traumatized sigh, Langford asks for the next volunteer. Amelia confidently thrusts her hand in the air. A moment later, she holds court at the front of the room, telling us about the band of French prostitutes who, during the revolution, acted as spies and assassins for the cause of liberation. They were famous for their ferocity and violence, rumored to have worn pearl-like earrings and pendant jewelry carved from the teeth of their victims and even leather bracelets made of human flesh.

A visibly relieved Langford approves Amelia’s proposal without question.

“That’s fucked-up,” I tell Amelia when she retakes her seat beside me.

“Isn’t it gruesome?” She flips open a folder to show me paintings and illustrations depicting the antics of the killer prostitutes. “So my vibe.”

I don’t have anything quite so bloody, but when it’s my turn to present, I try to paint a picture for my professor. Of a family a hairbreadth from the throne struck by tragedy, mystery, and scandal. An epic downfall of the rich and famous. And of a woman in a discarded portrait.

“There’s no shortage of contemporary sources regarding the modern Tulleys,” Langford says, considering my proposal.

I nod in agreement. The divorces, drug addicts, and assorted scandals are well-known tabloid fodder, I’ve discovered.

“Less so for the early twentieth century,” she adds.

I project one of my photos of the painting for the class. As expected, no one has the slightest idea who she might be.

“She would have been important to have been painted by Dyce,” muses the professor. “If you can authenticate the painting is indeed one of his.”

Shit.

The possibility of a fake hadn’t even occurred to me. I’m not sure if that would make my project more or less interesting. Still, the professor approves my proposal, and I know I’m in good shape regardless of whether I solve the mystery of the painting. Based on the several avenues for research—the missing Tulley, the drowned Tulley, and the family’s fall from grace—something is bound to be worth writing about.

I think about it all day, spending my evening at the Talbot Library trying to track down as many books as possible that mention the Tulley clan. Not even the library warden can bring down my spirits. Mr. Baxley and I are old friends now. As in I chat his ear off and he stares back stone-faced. It’s less a give-and-take friendship than a give-and-glare. He’ll come around.

When I waltz through the door of the flat later, it’s past eight o’clock and my stomach is growling with accusation. I always forget to eat when I’m at the library.

“Abbey! Babe! Get in here now!”

Lee’s urgent declaration has me racing into the living room, only to skid to a stop at the sight of him. He’s sprawled on the couch, a glass of red wine in one hand and a shoulder-length platinum blond wig on his head.

“Fancy,” I tease. “What’s the occasion?”

He hops into a standing position, his movements as graceful as those of his ballerina sister. “Where have you been? I’ve been sitting here in dire need of emotional support with nary a housemate in sight!”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Lee is melodramatic on a good day. Tonight it’s next level.

“What happened?”

“Another George bites the dust.”

Lee chugs half his glass, then sets it down on the coffee table and picks up the bottle of merlot. Next to the bottle are three empty wineglasses, which tells me he wasn’t kidding about sitting around waiting for one or all of us to come home.

He quickly pours a full glass and hands it to me. “Drink.”

“I haven’t even eaten dinn— ”

“Drink!”

Like a dutiful friend, I take a sip. “All right. So this is about New George?”

“Old George now. I broke it off. He was far too clingy.” Lee drains the remainder of his glass and pours himself another.

“Is it really considered breaking up if you’ve been dating less than two weeks?”

“One would think,” he huffs. “I sent a very lovely text telling him I didn’t see things going anywhere, and this bloke wouldn’t accept it! He showed up at my bio class today and ambushed me.” Lee’s eyes widen in horror. “Can you believe that? The nerve of this entitled boy! Forcing me to end things in person!”

My laughter spills out. “Oh, you poor thing.” I reach out to pat him on the arm.

Although, in Lee’s defense, demanding an in-person breakup from some random guy you met on a dating app and went out with a few times? That’s bold, George.

“I’m emotionally exhausted,” Lee announces, heaving a dramatic breath. “I stopped by the off-licence for several bottles of very bad merlot, made us a breakup playlist, and brought down my wigs. Shall we begin?”

And that’s why, when Jack and Jamie stumble in from the pub a couple hours later, Lee and I are wearing matching pink wigs and dancing to Blondie’s “Call Me” while singing along off-key and far too loud.

Did I mention I’m drinking on an empty stomach?

“What on earth?” Jamie looks from me to Lee, then glances at Jack. “You seeing this too, mate?”

“Oh, I am.” Jack’s blue eyes track our frenetic dance moves for a moment. Then he shrugs and says, “Right then. What’re we drinking?”