Improper English Read online

  “Gothic? You think I should add mystery to my book?” I looked down at the manuscript pages in my hands, wondering whether he thought I should add excitement and adventure to my life, my hair, or my story. Probably all three. “I suppose I could add a touch of mystery, if you think it will pick the story up.”

  “Oh, yes! Yes! Definitely. Sit back, would you? No, head up, darling. Yes, a bit of mystery, that always makes a story just sing, don’t you think? A mysterious Spanish lover—now, that’s just a grand idea. Something exotic and unexpected, you know, always brings interest to an audience. I always try to bring the exotic and unexpected to my shows. Bully, bring me that mousse, will you? No, not that one, the industrial-strength one. No, no! Oh, hell, I’ll get it, you’ll never find it as long as you’re wearing those ridiculous purple glasses.” Manuel patted me on the shoulder. “You just sit tight, chica, and I’ll be back in two tickety-boos.”

  “Alex was right,” I grumbled as the famed Manuel Sorby-Ruiz waggled off to get the industrial-strength mousse.

  “What was he right about?”

  I glanced over to where Isabella was sitting in the chair next to mine, flipping through a fashion magazine. “He said that some things sound silly when Americans say them. I think tickety-boo is one of them. Honestly, Isabella, where did you find this guy? He’s the embodiment of a stereotypical gay hairdresser—all flamboyant your hair should be a reflection of your inner goddess, not of the outer whore-type comments. And to add insult to injury, he’s from Pittsburgh or somewhere god-awful like that! He’s just not what I would expect in a chic London salon.”

  Isabella waved at the framed awards on the wall above the mirror facing me. The World’s Greatest Hair Artist blared out from one of them. I leaned in closer.

  “He’s been named International Hairdresser of the Year three times,” she murmured, studying the magazine.

  I left the hairdresser accolades and sidled over to a framed magazine article. “ ‘Revered by his peers, Manuel Sorby-Ruiz pioneered well-known cuts such as the White Russian, the Elf, and the Imogene Coca,’ ” I read out loud. “Huh. It says his motivating factor is to create ‘ordinary hair for ordinary people.’ ”

  I considered that sentiment for a minute as I resumed my seat and glared in the mirror at my wet head. With my hair skinned back I looked like a petulant seal. “I think that’s a bit insulting, really, saying he wants to make ordinary people look even more ordinary.”

  “He’s very much in demand,” Isabella said, unconcerned, leisurely flipping a page.

  “I’m sure he is, and I’m sure he’s very good, and I can’t thank you enough for getting me an appointment this morning, but truthfully, I’m not used to having my hair cut by”—I glanced at Manuel’s wall of fame and picked out a good line—“ ‘a god amongst hairdressers.’ ”

  Isabella glanced up and smiled at my reflection. “He does have an ego, but I assure you it’s well deserved. Stop worrying and enjoy the experience. You’ll look wonderful when he’s done.”

  “After paying ninety pounds for a simple cut and blowdry, I’d better look bloody fabulous,” I retorted, but I did so quietly because Manuel returned chattering nonstop, followed by a flunky toting several bottles of hair products and an armload of fluffy yellow towels.

  Two hours and a head full of Manuel Sorby-Ruizbrand mousse later, I was walking through Covent Garden swinging my hair from side to side. Although I mourned the loss of my hair, I had to admit I liked the feeling as it swished on my bare neck. Perhaps this change would be good after all. Perhaps it was a sign my life was taking a turn for the better.

  “It’s kicky!” I said, watching my hair in every window I passed. “I never thought I’d have kicky hair. Although it’s a bit gunky kicky right now, it’ll be truly kicky later, after I wash all of the steel-girder-strength mousse out of it.”

  Isabella, who had been looking on indulgently while I studied my hair from every possible angle, cast a horrified glance at my head. “Manuel said your hair was too thick to maintain that style without mousse.”

  She nudged the bag of hair products he had pressed upon me as I left (to the tune of some £30, I found out later when I looked at the charge slip), adding, “It won’t look the same if you try it without following his instructions.”

  “I have a neck,” I said in wonder as I toyed with the few tendrils he had snipped to softly frame my face. “Will you look at that? I have a neck! You know, Isabella, this may not be the tragedy I first thought it was; this may end up being a good thing. I mean, look at me! My hair is actually cute now. It’s so short. And it’s shorter in the back than the front! That’s so sexy! I actually look sexy! I’ve never looked sexy before. Hey, if I stand like this, and you were a man, would you fall to your knees before me?”

  Isabella made a little face at my dramatic pose, grabbed my arm, and steered me toward the Lamb and Flag. “Come along, we won’t be able to get a table if you stand about admiring yourself much longer.”

  I allowed her to hustle me down Rose Street to the ivy-covered pub and up a dark flight of stairs to a charming little restaurant. We squeezed into one of the last tables, ordered gin and tonics (Isabella’s with a twist of lemon, mine with half a lime—I have a little weakness for limes), decided on lunch, then sat back to enjoy the people-watching.

  “That couple over there are tourists,” Isabella said quietly, nodding toward a man and woman in their mid thirties who were seated in the middle of the room.

  I swiveled around to look at them. They weren’t wearing anything that immediately stood up and shouted tourist. “How do you know that?”

  A tiny smile touched her lips. “Watch them. They’re so busy looking around at the pub and everyone in it, they are hardly speaking to each other.”

  I stopped gawking at everyone and everything in the pub and turned back to Isabella with a wry, “Sorry.”

  She smiled an honest smile. “Don’t apologize, you’re not quite that bad.”

  “It’s just that there’s so much to see,” I tried to explain. “I’ve never been anywhere except Disneyland, and this is so…exotic to me! I mean, I’m halfway around the world from home! In another country! I can’t quite wrap my mind around the distance issue.”

  Isabella shrugged and took a sip of her gin and tonic. “Distance is all relative. What you think of as being halfway around the world is really just a phone call or e-mail away from your family and friends.”

  I flinched a bit at that. I was supposed to have set up an Internet account as soon as I got settled, but hesitated to do so because it would mean my mother had instant access to me. Although she had telephoned after I first arrived, she told me she wasn’t going to waste good money calling when she could contact me for free via e-mail. I wasn’t about to tell Isabella about my embarrassing relationship with my mother, however. I was twenty-nine years old, not sixteen. I had been married, divorced, lived by myself, and had jobs. I just hadn’t done any of it with success.

  I dragged my mind from contemplation of the mess that was my life, and did an experimental little head bob to feel the soft sweep of hair at the top of my neck. Manuel had trimmed it jaw length in the front, a bit higher in the back, and took out some of the bulk by snipping it into a few soft layers. It was curly, cute, and totally unlike any other hairstyle I’d ever had.

  “He was worth the ninety pounds,” I replied to Isabella’s knowing smile, and tackled my roast beef with gusto. “I can’t wait to show it to Alex.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I even realized it. I stared at Isabella in surprise and horror. “That is—I just want to show him that everything ended up all right. After last night, I mean.”

  A flush crept up my face as Isabella set her fork down carefully. “Oh?”

  There was something possessive about that “Oh,” something that made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Surely she couldn’t be having an affair with more than one man? If she was doin’ the nasty with Mr. Perfec
t Karl, she couldn’t be playing squishy-squishy with Alex, too. Or could she?

  “Um…Isabella…”

  She leaned over and touched my arm, her eyes glittering with emotion. “Alexander means a great deal to me, Alix. He is a very close, very dear friend.”

  Right. No further warning was needed. That was the clearest hands off I’d ever had leveled at me. Now it was obvious why she wanted to pair me up with Karl—she wanted to dump him for Detective Inspector Hunk.

  “When I said ‘last night,’ I meant last night when my hair caught on fire,” I clarified, nodding my head for emphasis. “Not last night when we got ice cream all over each other.”

  I clapped a hand over my mouth while she toyed with the slight bit of lemon skin in her drink.

  “It sounds like you had a much more adventuresome evening than I had imagined. I take it you and Alexander—”

  “No, of course not!” I wanted to smack my forehead over my stupidity. I may be many things, but I have a rule against dallying with men who are involved elsewhere, and yet that was what I was about to do last evening when the ice cream saved me.

  I looked at Isabella, speechless, wondering if my guilt was written on my face for all to see. “How can you think I would…you know…with Alex? The thing with the ice cream isn’t what you think. It was the only cold thing I had, so I put it on his eye. It melted,” I finished lamely, positive by the look in her cool blue-eyed gaze that she suspected the worst.

  “Ice cream does that,” she agreed easily.

  “Yes, well, you don’t have to worry, nothing happened except I ruined his suit with the ice cream.” I wasn’t about to tell her I got it on my dress as well, because then I’d have to explain just what I was doing on top of him when the ice cream spread.

  A faint line of puzzlement creased her brow. “Why would I worry?”

  Why indeed? I looked at Isabella’s chic silk suit that matched her eyes, and knew I posed no threat to her. Mind you, Alex hadn’t seemed to be repulsed by me the past evening—in fact, he seemed rather to approve of the whole general layout that was me. I grew a bit warm remembering the form his approval had taken, and promptly damned myself for sitting in front of his significant other as I thought about all of the things I wanted to do to him.

  “Are you all right? You’ve turned red. Are you blushing about something?”

  Amusement sparkled in her eyes, proving to me that she had suspected the worst, and clearly felt confident of her own hold on Alex. Still, I felt a little distraction would be timely. “I’m fine, just a bit warm. Where do you think the best place is for me to buy a boom box?”

  “A what?”

  “A CD player. Stephanie either doesn’t have one, or if she did, she took it with her. I’m dying for a little music.”

  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, a
nd 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—”