Page 1 of An American in London

For the last ten years, I’ve been living a life in Manhattan most people can only dream about. Cool apartment on the Upper East Side? Check. Soaring career at a bank on Wall Street? Check. Handsome boyfriend who proposed with his grandmother’s ring? Check and mate .

In the last week, things have changed.

I’ve been thrown out of my home. The bank announced a merger, which means my job is on the line. And my fiancé ran off to Iowa with a ballerina named Fifi.

But there are still things to be positive about.

The bank has sent me to London to “demonstrate my talent” for the new CEO and to get myself on the new management fast-track program. At least it won’t put a strain on my nonexistent relationship.

Then there’s the fact I’m in London . That’s London, England . It’s my first trip abroad, and I’m not half-assing it with a long weekend in Cabo. I’m across an ocean. On a different continent from Jed and Fifi. That’s gotta count as a win.

I’m prepared for the unexpected—it’s on my travel checklist just below remember passport —but even the most fastidious planner wouldn’t have anticipated checking into her London hotel and finding herself surrounded by .

.. women. Not that I expected not to see women.

I’d just subconsciously anticipated seeing members of both sexes, like I normally do. There isn’t a man to be seen.

Instead, there are all kinds of women—blond and brunette, short and tall, thin and curvy.

All smiling almost giddily at each other, chatting away conspiratorially and laughing like they’ve each had a cocktail, even though it’s only just past noon.

Not that I’m judging. New York brunches are nothing without a mimosa.

I slide my passport onto the check-in desk and pull my eyes away from four women by the door, all my age, huddled together over a map.

“Good afternoon. Is it a business or personal trip?” the neat blond woman behind the desk asks.

“Business,” I reply, half wondering whether I missed something when I checked the hotel’s website after the bank’s travel department booked me in here.

I file through the likely explanations in my head: It’s an all-women hotel, ensuring women feel safe when traveling; a bachelorette party has taken over the entire hotel; a huge, women-only birthday party has spilled out into the lobby.

I crane my neck to see whether any of the other receptionists are men.

“Are you working the convention?” The receptionist’s eyes are dancing, and her smile is wide and genuine. She looks positively giddy herself.

“Er, what convention?”

She reaches forward and tugs at something on the desk. In front of me, she sets down a ten-inch-high cardboard cutout of Daniel De Luca—a man, at last, and one I’m very familiar with. “The Daniel De Luca convention, of course! It’s our third year.”

“Daniel De Luca?” I ask, like I don’t know she means the British movie star famed for his Hollywood romantic comedies. He’s underestimated as an actor, in my opinion. His finest work was in the thriller Watching Me . He was robbed of the Oscar nomination. “There’s a convention?”

“DDL Con. You didn’t know?” She looks at me like she’s just awarded me a big check I wasn’t expecting. “Yes, there’s a five-day and a seven-day package,” she says. “If you have time outside of work, you should sign up. It starts tomorrow, so you haven’t missed anything.”

A loud rattling sound behind me catches my attention, and I snap my head around to see a short woman in a polka-dot sundress just like the one Mary McDorney wore in Every Day when she and Daniel De Luca went to a polo match together.

The woman is pulling up a retractable banner, but she’s having trouble securing it.

At first glance, it looks like she’s trying to dry hump an overly large picture of Daniel De Luca’s face.

Not exactly what I expected from London, but international travel is supposed to broaden the mind.

I turn back to the receptionist. “I’m not sure I’ll have time, but thank you.”

I’ve flown over on a Saturday to give myself time to recover from jet lag and settle in before the start of my five-week stint as the bank’s new project manager, working directly with the CEO.

I’m planning to find a great coffee shop, figure out how long the journey to work is likely to take, and get to grips with the public transportation system; I’ve got a list of all the things I need to do tomorrow before I show up at the bank on Monday.

I want to be prepared—I can’t lose my boyfriend and my job at the same time.

My life would veer into pathetic territory, and I’m not going to let that happen.

“Oh. Poor you.” The receptionist tips her head and pushes her bottom lip out, like missing the convention is the worst thing that could happen to a woman like me.

Girl, please . Let me introduce you to my cheating fiancé.

In another life, maybe missing DDL Con would be the biggest tragedy going.

After all, I’ve seen a lot of Daniel De Luca’s movies.

When I was a teenager, Mom and I would spend hours watching his films, looking up facts about him, and researching his movie locations.

But my mom is dead, I’m not a teenager anymore, and I’m in London to save my career. I’m not here to gush over a movie star.

The receptionist slaps a booklet on the sleek white counter between us.

“This is a schedule of events,” she says.

“You have to be part of the convention for most of them, but you can book some of the tours even if you’re not.

Oh, and ...” She reaches under the counter and produces what looks like a tourist map.

“There’s a Daniel De Luca map. It sets out all the filming locations for his movies in London.

There are even some outside of London, too, if you fancy a trip into the countryside. ”

What my fifteen-year-old self would have given to be here.

Come to think of it, my forty-year-old mother would have sold every last one of her collector’s-edition holiday snow globes to attend this conference.

My heart clenches a little at the memory of her face when she opened the last Christmas present I gave her: the first and only Daniel De Luca snow globe I ever managed to find.

The edges of my grief for my mother have worn and softened since the sharp pangs of the first couple of years, but the pain of her not being here never goes away.

It sits and waits under my skin, ready to surface at the mention of her favorite movie or whenever the first chill of fall means I slip on a jacket. Autumn was her favorite season.

“Oh, goodness,” the receptionist says, typing away on her computer keyboard.

“You’re booked in for thirty-six nights.

You’ll be like family by the time you leave.

” She clicks the mouse. “There. I’ve upgraded you to one of my favorite rooms.” She hands me my key.

“Welcome to London. I hope you run into Daniel De Luca himself.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Thank you. I hope so too.” If nothing else, my dad would get a kick out of me meeting the man my mom and I were borderline obsessed with during my teen years.

When the elevator doors slide open, they reveal the walls of the interior, which have been decorated with stills from every Daniel De Luca film ever made.

It’s almost like stepping into a time capsule.

I’m surrounded not just by Daniel De Luca but also by my memories of watching his movies and how it felt to be a teenager snuggled up with my mom on the couch, eating popcorn and talking about the future as if it were a magical dreamworld filled with love and romance and happily-ever-afters.

When the elevator arrives at the seventh floor, the doors ping open, revealing a blank wall, low lighting, and a distinct lack of signage. Much more like the real-life future I actually encountered, rather than the one I’d dreamed up with my mom.

After first going in the wrong direction, I find my room, which is all cream and pale blues. The beachy theme and sun coming through the window make me almost feel like I’m on vacation. I dial my best friend, Melanie, before I’ve even kicked off my shoes.

“You’ve landed?” she asks.

“I’m at the hotel. I just got here, and you’re not going to believe where they’ve got me staying.”

“Buckingham Palace?” she asks.

“How did you guess? Kate Middleton and I are going for mani-pedis later. No, this hotel is hosting a Daniel De Luca convention. Isn’t that ... weird or funny or something?”

“Oh, Tuesday.”

I skim right over the sympathetic tone to her voice. “Funny, right? They gave me a map to all his movie locations.”

I put the phone on speaker, unfold the map, and move the fruit bowl on the small table by the window so I can spread the entire city of London out in front of me. “Hang on; let me switch to video. You gotta see this.”

I switch the camera around so she’s seeing what I am.

“Oh, God. There are hundreds,” she says.

Different-colored lines starting at locations on the map lead out to the edge of the paper where there’s an image of the scene shot there.

“Which movie is that one on the top left, where he’s wearing the hat?” she asks.

I know even before I’ve found the image which scene she’s talking about. “ Never on a Sunday , where he borrows the kid’s hat to make the mom laugh.”

I trace my finger along the top of the map, trailing through stills from his movie catalog before landing on the one from Never on a Sunday .

It was always one of my mom’s favorites.

I often wonder if she considered whether Dad would remarry if she ever died, like Daniel De Luca ended up doing in that film.

Not that she knew she was going to die. And not that Dad ever did remarry.

“If you could monetize your Daniel De Luca knowledge, you wouldn’t need the job at the bank. You could come back to New York today,” Melanie says.