While Isabella rattled off a number of shop names, I worked on thinking non-Alex thoughts. I needed to count my traveler’s checks again to see how much money I had left after the morning’s trip to Manuel. I had offered to pay Alex to replace his suit, until he told he how much it had cost. He wouldn’t even accept money to have it cleaned; he just mopped up the worst with the damp dishcloth, scowled something fierce at me, and left.
“Alexandra, you haven’t heard a word I said.”
I looked up from where I was squashing my mushy peas into an even mushier state. “I was. You said I should always go to Marks and Spencers for underwear, and Tottenham Court Road for electronics.”
“You looked like you were a million miles away. You weren’t thinking about—”
I interrupted ruthlessly. “Just doing a mental count of my money, and wondering if I’ll have enough to last the rest of my stay.”
Isabella’s gaze dropped. “I’m sorry, Alix, I had no idea you were short. I’ll be happy to pay for lunch.”
I waved her offer away. “No, I’m not that tight, it’s just that I’ve been a bit extravagant these past couple of weeks, and I need to stick to a budget to make my money last the summer.”
Curiosity mingled with reticence in her eyes, but human nature won out. She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Forgive me, Alix, this is unthinkably rude of me to ask, but why did you decide to come to London if you are so short on money?”
I smiled. I didn’t mind if she knew I was dirt poor. “You know about the agreement I made with my mother.”
She nodded.
“Mom is what she calls
comfortable,
but what everyone else in the world thinks of as affluent, if not downright rich. She’s got more money than she knows what to do with, courtesy of her last husband, but I grew up during the lean years, and things…well, things have never seemed to go right for me. I didn’t make it all the way through college, I had a crappy divorce lawyer who ended up costing me more than the settlement I received after three years of marriage, and all of my jobs just haven’t seemed to work out. So when my mother offered me the chance to stay in Stephanie’s flat, I jumped at it even though I’m pretty much broke. I figured I didn’t need a lot of money to write, just the odd meal. After all, I can eat anywhere, but to be in London! That’s a life experience!”
She smiled. “And ninety-pound haircuts are not in your budget?”
I grinned in return. “Exactly. But it’s not as desperate as you think—I’ve got a few bucks left, and I don’t mind eating a lot of meals of baked beans, especially if it lets me splurge now and again and have roast beef in a restaurant that is older than the United States.”
We wrangled over the check for a few minutes, then went out to browse through a few of the shops in the
Market. The buskers were out, playing a variety of music from twelve-string guitar to a jazz trio, as well as a number of other street performers. Isabella said they were present all year long because it was the only area in London for street entertainers to legally ply their trades. In summer the buskers are as thick as flies in Covent Garden. We watched two guys do a comedy magic act, a woman who walked a tightrope strung from the columns outside of St. Paul’s Church, and an incredibly agile old man who worked himself out of a straitjacket.
“There’s a cyber café,” Isabella pointed out helpfully at one point. I had noticed it before she did, but avoided commenting on it since there was really no one I wanted to e-mail, least of all my mother. I felt an odd sense of possessiveness about my stay in London, and didn’t want to share it with anyone back home.
“Thanks, I’ll remember it’s here if I need it,” I said hurriedly, squinting against the afternoon sun. “O-o-ooh, look, Crabtree and Evelyn! I love Crabtree and Evelyn!”
I dragged Isabella off to the store, and two lovely hours were spent shopping (mostly on her part), window-shopping (both of us), and gawking (solely attributable to me). After we parted, I took the tube to Tottenham Court Road, picked a likely looking electronics shop, and emerged with a brand-X CD boom box in hand. By the time I hauled home all of my shopping and the boom box, my cute kicky hair was wilted, I was undeniably sweaty, and my sleeveless gauze dress was clinging to me in a most unbecoming manner.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll open,” I told the door to the house as I stood before it. It just smirked at me, waves of heat rolling off its dark surface, causing
a trickle of sweat down my back while I jiggled the key in the lock. It refused to open. I shifted my purchases and tried it again, muttering under my breath, “You stroppy little bugger! Open!
OPEN!”
It took five minutes of solid cursing, twisting the key, and ultimately kicking at the door before I made it in, and that’s only because Miss Fingers on the first floor took pity on me while she was fetching her mail.
“Door’s a bit shirty,” she said, holding it open while I collected everything I had set down.
“Shirty?” I added that one to my collection of English slang. “Oh, yes, it’s definitely shirty. Very, very shirty. I haven’t seen a door that shirty in…oh, I don’t know how long. Shirtiest damn door around.”
Miss Fingers watched me wrestle all of my packages and bags through the door, and offered to help me upstairs. I accepted gratefully and shoved the boom box into her waiting arms.
“It’s a bit hot out today,” I said pleasantly as we started up the stairs, trying to remember what Isabella had said about Miss Fingers and her flatmate. “Is it always this hot in July?”
“Not often, no. You’re the one who’s taken over Shay’s flat.”
“Yes, until the middle of September. I’m Alix.”
She shifted the boom box and stuck out her hand. “Ray Binder. I thought it was Alice. Isabella said so. Alex like the bloke in number eight?”
I tucked a bag under my chin and freed up a hand to shake hers. “It’s Alexandra, really, but no one calls me that but my mother when she’s annoyed, and I spell the shortened version with an I not an E, but yes, it’s more or less the same. I’ve been told Isabella has a bit of a
problem with names. She told me you were Miss Fingers.”
Ray barked a short laugh that echoed up the stairwell as we marched upwards. “Been called worse. Fingers. Have to remember that one for Bert.”
We rounded the landing between the second and third floors and started up the last flight of stairs. “Perhaps we could have dinner together one night. There’s a lovely Italian restaurant I found a couple of blocks away—you probably know it. They do the best chicken Caesar salad I’ve ever had—”
“Stella’s,” she interrupted me, and stood by my door as I unlocked it. “Couldn’t go without Bert.”
“Bert?” I dumped my bags on the little table next to the door and turned back to take the CD player from her, but she held it tight. She gave me a long, steady look.
“Bert’s my partner. Just so you know.”
“Your partner?” I reached for the box she held and then paused. She had a short pony tail with cropped hair on top, was dressed in a T-shirt and scrungy pair of khaki shorts, and wore socks with her leather sandals. “Oh, your
partner
. No, that’s fine, I wasn’t trying to pick you up or anything, I just thought it would be nice to get to know the people in the building. Besides, I’m not—I don’t—that is, I’m into men—”
“It’s frowned on here,” she said, shoving the box into my arms.
“It is?” I felt my jaw sag at this bit of startling news. Heterosexuality was frowned on here? Was it in the lease?
“Loud music.” She nodded toward the CD player. “Disturbs everyone. No loud music after ten p.m.”
“Oh, the music! No problem, I’ll keep it down low.
Thanks for your help, and let me know about dinner one night. You and Bert and me.”
She flashed a blinding smile, nodded, gave a little wave, and trotted back down the stairs.
After a quick shower in the minuscule bathroom that shared a wall with the cubbyhole kitchen, I spread out all of the hair products and tried to pick one that looked like it wouldn’t harden to the consistency of shellac. I did my best to follow Manuel’s hastily spoken instructions for duplicating my kicky ’do, pulled on another of the cool Indian gauze dresses from the shop in the tube station, and ran back downstairs to pick up my mail. Generally most of my mail consisted of Stephanie’s mail that I forward to her parents; this day was no different, with one letter for me, a handful of what looked like junk mail for Stephanie, and something from British Telecom addressed to Philippe Aspertaille, Flat 3.
“Mr. Aspertame, I just bet,” I said, and went to plug in the new boom box. I rummaged through the few CDs I had brought with me and tried to think what I was in the mood for.
“When in Rome,” I sighed, and popped in the Austin Powers soundtrack. I waited for my favorite song to start, and almost jumped out of my skin when the music blasted out at a decibel level I didn’t think was possible from a cheap knock-off CD player. I leaped for the volume control, well aware that with the heat, everyone’s windows were open to catch a draft, and no doubt the music was being heard all over the neighborhood. I turned the knob to the left, but the song still blared at a deafening volume.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I swore, and turned the knob to the right. The volume dropped slightly, but I was sure
it was still loud enough to be heard throughout the house. I tipped the player face down on two pillows, and deciding it was bearable, grabbed Philippe’s letter, bossa-ing my nova down to the floor below.
Right foot back, close left foot to right. Left foot forward, close right foot to left. Remember to bend at the knees and add a touch of hip action.
I danced my way downstairs, the sound of the Soul Bossa Nova drifting after me. I tapped at Philippe’s door, improvised a turn, and let my happy feet go wild while I waited for him to answer.
I had just worked up a nice rhythm when Philippe appeared in the doorway wearing a thin white cotton shirt and matching pants. I bossa nova-ed a step to him, handed him the letter, and on the backswing explained it was delivered to my box by mistake.
He looked at the letter, frowned at it for a minute, then tossed it onto a chair and stepped out toward me. I was just dancing my way back to the stairs when he grabbed my hand and spun me around. As I stepped back in surprise, he stepped toward me. Suddenly it struck me what he was doing.
“You bossa nova!” I said with delight, holding out my hands to him as I gave thanks the CD was set up to repeat the song.
“Doesn’t everyone?” he asked with a charming smile. I grinned back and we cut loose, dancing all over the landing. Philippe was a bit taller than me, had a lovely head of soft black curls, and skin the color of a double tall latte. He was from the Bahamas, Isabella had told me, and had an accent that could melt butter. He was also very, very thin, probably weighing a good thirty pounds less than me.
A rush of warm air swirled around us as the door behind me opened. I looked over my shoulder and saw Ray Binder glaring at us with her hands on her hips. Behind her was a tall woman dressed in linen pants and a green raw silk tunic.
“Sorry, the volume control doesn’t seem to work very well,” I called out to them as Philippe pushed me through a twirl.
“What’s all this?”
“They’re dancing, Bert,” Ray answered the tall woman, frowning a little at the sight of us.
“We haven’t danced in an age, Ray.”
The two women watched us for a moment, looked at each other, and with a shy little smile, Ray pulled Bert out to join the fun.
“Don’t you know how to bossa nova?” I asked them when they did a sort of polka step around Philippe and me. “It’s easy. One step forward, pull in your other foot, do the same back, then repeat it in the other direction. Watch!”
Philippe threw himself into the demonstration, bringing an elegance and sophistication to the dance that seemed to pass me by.
Ray and Bert were just catching on when a young couple on their way down the stairs joined us. The woman, a short redhead, squealed when she saw us. “O-o-oh, Basil, look! Dancing! Right here on the stairs! How romantic!”
“My apologies,” I said as Philippe twirled me past them. “The volume knob seems to be broken on my new CD player.”
“Looks like fun. Shall we, love?” The squealer’s companion, a friendly-looking guy with a brown goatee and
a little gold nose ring, grabbed her, and they joined in, laughing and trying to match our steps. It was getting crowded on the landing, but we were all having such a good time no one really cared. I switched partners and danced for a bit with Ray while Bert tripped the light fantastic with a glowing Philippe.
“What—” Isabella suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by Detective Inspector Steamy Lips. Her eyebrows were raised in surprise, but other than that she showed no sign that the sight of her tenants having a mini rave on the landing was anything out of the ordinary.
“Sorry. Little volume problem with my CD player. I’ll get it fixed as soon as possible.”
I was dancing with Basil at that point, but he dumped me when Isabella set her bag down and stepped forward, her lips curving into a smile of delight.
I grinned at Alex’s cool gaze, and danced over to him holding out my hands. If Isabella wasn’t going to dance with him, I sure as hell would. “Hi, Alex, your black eye looks better. What do you think of my hair? It’s kicky, huh? Come on, dance with me.”
He shook his head and tried to step around me to the stairs going up to the next floor. “Your hair looks lovely, but I will pass on your invitation. I don’t dance.”
“Neither do I, not very well anyway, but anyone can bossa nova.” I grabbed his hands and dragged him toward the corner where there was a free spot. “It’s easy! Come on, how many chances do you have to bossa nova on the stairs? Live a little, Alex! I promise you it won’t kill you.”
He frowned at the others, laughing and dancing and having a good time.
“I don’t—”
“But now you do,” I said, squeezing his hands and explaining quickly how the dance worked.
His scowl got blacker as I let go of his hands to dance a little circle around his unmoving body; then he gave a martyred sigh, tossed his satchel on the steps, and grabbing me by the hips, swept into a perfect bossa nova.