Girl Abroad

AFTER CLASSES MONDAY AFTERNOON, I MAKE MY FIRST VISIT TO Pembridge’s historic Talbot Library. Although it only formally became part of the university in the late nineteenth century, the building itself has stood for more than six centuries. It was once a church, featuring Gothic windows and towering ceilings, polished stone floors and flying buttresses. The wooden shelves and railings are dark and smooth from generations of hands leaving them almost shiny, like river stones or a petrified branch on a beach. It’s breathtaking. Seems almost preposterous I should belong here. Part of me expected to be tackled by security at the threshold.

And the smell.

Old books.

Paper and binding glue.

Embedded deep in the grain.

I haven’t been this turned on since last Thursday when Jack’s towel almost slipped as he padded past me down the hallway.

Passing the glossy wooden tables where students study in silence, I seek out a computer terminal to search the catalog for any references to an English painter named Dyce. To my surprise, I get a hit.

Franklin Astor Dyce.

But there’s a snag. A big yellow RESTRICTED banner across the top of the result. The book I need is housed in the special collections archive. I’m not sure what that means in this instance or if it’s even accessible. The listing does give me a room number, though. So I go hunting until I see the small placard above the doorway to a separate wing of the library. In front of that doorway is a circular help desk, inside which sits a stone-faced man with graying hair at his temples. He scowls at a table of girls hunched over open books and tablets.

I approach the desk. “Excuse me, sir?”

When he doesn’t respond, I step around to his sight line.

“Sir? I had a question about a book.”

His answering sigh and impatient expression suggest that part was obvious.

“I need to see this book.” I slide him the piece of scratch paper I used to scribble down the decimal number. “It says it’s restricted. How do I— ”

Before I can finish, he pulls out a clipboard and shoves it in front of me. “Fill this out.”

The simple form asks for name, student ID number, the title requested, and the reason. While I complete it, the man glowers at me with arms crossed.

“Guess they haven’t gotten around to digitizing this process yet, huh?”

He doesn’t appreciate my comment as he snatches the clipboard out from under the last y in my signature. The warden inside his fortress scrutinizes my form. Then his hawklike brown eyes lift to mine, and his intense examination somehow gets me feeling guilty, like I’m smuggling produce and livestock through customs. He’s got cop stare.

“Go on then,” he grumbles.

I look at the diverging hallways behind him with uncertainty.

The man jerks his head. “Take the number, pull the volume, you read it in one of the open booths, you put it back. Nothing leaves the archives.”

“Right, thank you.” It’s then I notice the nameplate on the desk. “Mr. Baxley.”

He huffs and looks away, unamused by my usually charming disposition. We’re bound to be famous friends, the two of us.

The book I’m looking for is a huge leather-bound slab. I lug it to one of several small rooms with a tiny cubicle and chair. Within the study of the history of English portraiture is a collection of artists representing various eras and illustrations of their respective styles and artistic movements. In the early twentieth century, Franklin Astor Dyce painted for a number of prominent noble British families and was the preferred artist of the Tulleys— when they still held a place of privilege and admiration.

There are prints of some of his portraits, but none are my mystery woman.

I grumble in frustration, because now I’m back to the Tulleys being my only clue to her name and origin. Last night, I snapped a photo of the painting and attempted a long-shot reverse image search. No dice. (Pardon the pun.) Googling Tulleys alive during the 1920s to 1950s turned up several names but no pictures matching my woman. Some too old. A few too young. But that sweet spot of late teens to late twenties, which I estimate to be her age range, is a big blank spot for this anonymous figure.

At any rate, I snap a few photos of the relevant pages from the book before putting it back on its shelf. I wave to Mr. Baxley on my way out, though he pretends to ignore me.

Back at the computer, I find a few books related to the Tulleys and pull those from the general collection shelves to check out. One, however, requires another venture into the restricted archives.

“Hi,” I say when I approach the warden’s fortress. “It’s me again.”

Grumpily, he pushes his round-rimmed glasses up his nose, then slides the clipboard across the desk without making eye contact.

“I think we might be onto something with our digitizing idea,” I continue, filling out another form. “Like a card scanner for students’ IDs. Or a thumbprint reader.”

I hand him back the clipboard with a smile. Stone-faced, he jerks his head to the corridor.

Yeah, he’s softening to me.

I’m surprised it’s taken this long, but when hopping on the Tube into the city a few days later, I finally encounter a busker on the way to the platform.

Strumming an acoustic guitar, he sings a rendition of the “heart is a windmill” song—as Jack calls it. He’s got a nice voice and plays it well. Not an imitation of my dad but his own interpretation. I know Dad would appreciate it, so I pull out my phone, as several others have, to record a few seconds of his performance and then text it to my father. I drop a few quid in the bucket at the man’s feet on my way to catch my train.

Celeste invited me to lunch today, and this is my first nervous foray into London proper to meet her at a Korean food place near her job. I thought the subway tunnels were crowded, but the short trip didn’t prepare me for the frenetic crush that greets me as I ascend to street level. I’m practically trampled when I make the mistake of freezing at the top of the stairs. I don’t decide to move in any direction so much as get dragged along in the wake of everyone else going about the afternoon rush.

It’s loud. Louder than anything I’m used to back home. I’ve got my head bowed, trying to pull up walking directions on my phone. Celeste said to exit the Tube and head west, but I always forget my awful sense of direction until I end up miles from civilization staring at a vulture on a tree branch.

After circling the same block twice to figure out which way my dot is pointed on the map, I cross the street—narrowly missing being clipped by a cyclist—and get on the right route. It takes only a few minutes until the noise—cars, conversation, and music pouring out of restaurants and storefronts—starts to become almost comforting. It has a strange insulating quality as my ears adjust and filter the sound to a dull hum.

The initial shock wears off. I start to notice the city through the bustle, its vibrancy. When I smell kimchi, I follow the scent to a neon sign of a green dragon and a cartoon cat figure in the window. Inside, Celeste sits at the counter in front of a woman at a smoking flattop grill.

“You found it,” Celeste says by way of a greeting, standing at my arrival.

She’s a lot taller in daylight. A slender, lithe figure in leggings and an oversize shirt of gauzy material over a tank top. Her curly black hair is thick and pouring over her shoulders.

“I ordered for us if that’s all right,” she adds.

“Yeah, I’ll eat whatever. Thanks again for inviting me.”

With a tentative smile, I sit down beside her and tuck my canvas bag at my feet.

“I reckon we were quite hard on you the other night.” She sips a glass of sparkling water and watches me, and I realize she’s waiting for me to participate in this conversation.

“I mean, yeah,” I laugh. “A little.”

She nods briskly. Celeste strikes me as the type who appreciates honesty. “Don’t take it personally. We grill every newcomer just as hard. We’re a tough lot, but we mean well.”

“So you said you work around here?” I ask, changing the subject. “What do you do?”

“I teach ballet. Six- to ten-year-olds, mostly.”

“I feel like I should have guessed that.” It was either dancer or runway model. If she’d have said, like, administrative assistant, I would’ve been sorely disappointed. We all want incredible, unordinary people to fulfill our fantasies so we can live vicariously through them. “Do you still dance too?”

She responds with a noncommittal head tilt. “I always thought I’d dance professionally. It was my dream. The only thing I enjoyed. Our parents scrounged to send me to lessons, then ballet school.”

“What happened?”

“I developed a chronic condition in my hip. I ignored the signs for about three years, until Mum finally forced me to see someone. The doctor said I could have surgery to correct the problem or keep dancing through the pain in the short term and risk permanent damage later. End up in a wheelchair by the time I’m thirty.” She shrugs. “Wasn’t much of a choice at that point.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, clucking with sympathy. “That must’ve been devastating.”

Celeste smiles wryly. “Devastating is an understatement. I was depressed for about a year. Inconsolable, really. Then my PT told me about a dance school her sister’s daughter went to needing teachers. It was maybe another six months of being angry at the suggestion before I came around to the idea.”

The woman at the grill puts down three baskets of Korean tacos and skewers with waffle fries in front of us. Between Celeste and her brother, eating with this family means bringing my appetite. Thankfully, no one’s ever accused me of leaving food on my plate.

“And you enjoy it now? Teaching?”

“Oh, I love it. The kids are wonderful. I hadn’t realized that ballet wasn’t fun anymore. Before my surgery, I was obsessed, but I don’t think I loved it the way I can now. Seeing them practice a new skill until they perfect it and how excited they get, even coming in to hang out with their friends. I’m happy when I leave work at the end of the day.”

Her face takes on a calmness as she speaks. Serenity. I get it. It’s like how the library is my happy place. We aren’t complete until we’ve found our passion.

“How’d you get into ballet? Just pick it up one day, or…?”

“Our mum. She was a dancer before she had us. She’s still quite active in the London arts world.”

Her phone buzzes on the counter, and she glances at it. The spark that flares in her expression at the name on the screen gets me intrigued.

“Oooh. Who is Roberto?” I pry.

She licks her lips to smother a smile. “A good friend.”

When I refuse to break eye contact while we each finish our taco, she caves to my curiosity.

“He’s a benefactor of the dance school. A philanthropist of the arts, in fact. And quite a nice man.”

“An older man, huh?”

“Forty-three in October.”

“Wow. Much older then.”

That’s not at all what I expected. A gorgeous twenty-two-year-old like Celeste must have an avalanche of Instagram dudes filling her DMs.

“Don’t mention it to Lee.” She types out a quick text before sliding the phone in her purse. “He gets all bent out of shape about it.”

“Secret’s safe with me.”

I bite into another taco, then douse my tongue with a gulp of water to put out the fire. I was not expecting such an aggressive level of heat.

“What about you?” she counters. “You have a boyfriend at home?”

“No boyfriend.” I drink some more water. My tongue is numb. Not sure I can feel my teeth either.

“Fancy anyone? Any fit lads in your classes?” Whatever my face does, it makes Celeste put down her taco. “That’s a yes. Who is he?”

“No one. I mean, there’s a guy or two I think are attractive, but it’s nothing. They’re both off-limits anyway.”

“Excellent! Forbidden love is the best kind.” She pouts. “Come on. Give me something here.”

I hesitate. Then I groan. “Promise you won’t say anything to Lee?”

“Promise.”

“Ugh. Fine. I might be lusting over a flatmate.”

She gasps. “Don’t you dare say Jamie!”

“What’s wrong with Jamie?”

“Oh Lord, it’s Jamie?”

“It’s not. I’m just wondering what’s wrong with him.”

That gets me a snicker. “Oh, darling, we don’t have that kind of time. So it’s Jack then?”

I don’t know whether it’s the embarrassment or the spice flaming my cheeks. I reach for my glass in case it’s the latter.

“Maybe,” I say after taking a deep gulp of water. “I mean…he’s hot. Don’t you think?”

Her eyes sparkle. “I believe that’s another understatement.”

“What’s his story?” I push, all pretenses of playing it cool now forgotten. “Dating wise, I mean. He never brings girls home, but I assume he’s not celibate or anything.”

“Um, no, he’s not celibate.” She laughs to herself.

I tense. “Oh. Are you two…?”

“What? No, no, nothing like that. I’m just saying—the boy gets around. I don’t think he dates so much as fucks and runs. He probably doesn’t bring women home to deter them from getting attached. Jackie doesn’t seem like he’s looking for attachments.”

“Fucks and runs, huh?” I mull that over.

She lifts a brow. “I suppose the question is—what do you want from our dear Jack?”

I smother another groan. “Honestly, there’s no point even talking about this. Like I said, he’s off-limits. I got a very long lecture when I first arrived about the perils of sleeping with a flatmate.”

“The Jamie rule,” she confirms with a nod.

I laugh. “Exactly. Anyway, I think I’d better look elsewhere for romance. Or sex. Or both.”

“Actually, that reminds me,” she says. “I’m meant to go to a polo match in a couple weeks. Come with me. I promise a slew of eligible talent for your perusal.”

I went to a water polo match once in high school, because Eliza’s boyfriend was on the team. I was doing great until they all filed out of the locker rooms like a school of Speedo-wrapped penis fishes. I couldn’t stop laughing. I don’t know, it was some strange nervous response, leaving me in absolute hysterics on the bleachers. Eliza had her hands mashed over my mouth and was practically burying my head in her lap while moms and even the referee on the side of the pool with his little whistle in his mouth stared at me with irritation.

This probably won’t be like that.

“I love horses” is for some reason the thing that comes out of my mouth. It’s not a lie, but still.

Weirdo.

“Brilliant. Yvonne and Nate are coming too.”

My face does the thing again. And Celeste gasps again.

“What?”

“You fancy Nate? He’s the other forbidden apple?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I met him once.”

My protest goes unacknowledged. “Oh, Yvonne would die.”

“Better not tell her then. For her own safety.” I say it as a joke. But also not. “And don’t tell your brother about this one either.”

Celeste bites her lip, staring at me with bright excited eyes. “I won’t say a word. Swear it.”

I want to believe her. But there’s also a certain mischief about her general aura that leaves me apprehensive.

She tips her head pensively. “Guess that makes you the daddy’s girl type, yeah? Falling for the bad boy musician.”

Horror washes over me. “What? No.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. It’s not like I compare every dude with a guitar to my dad. If anything, I’ve avoided that whole scene because I have zero interest in getting sucked into a bad rip-off of my own origin story. Nate is the first musician I’ve ever been attracted to, truth be told.

“It’s not like that,” I insist.

Celeste’s amused expression says she’s not buying it.

I think harder on it and realize, well, maybe the bad boy part isn’t so far off. I might not typically be drawn to musicians, but I will admit to a teeny fascination with the rough-around-the-edges type.

Girls just want to have fun after all.

So what’s a little prosecco and polo?