Page 5 of An American in London

If I didn’t know I had jet lag, I would think I’d accidentally taken acid.

Even though today was tiring from the new routines, unfamiliar faces, and a particularly bad health and safety video I had to sit through, I just can’t master this going to bed five hours earlier than I normally do thing.

Last night I listened to every podcast ever made.

Tonight, I have a different tactic: cocktails.

I don’t want to roll into my second day of work with a hangover, since I’ll finally be meeting my new boss and the bank’s CEO, Mr. Jenkins, but neither do I want to have had thirty minutes’ sleep.

My plan is to order exactly one perfect cocktail I’ve never tasted before, then take myself upstairs to my room and meditate myself to sleep.

The bar looks sleek and glamorous every time I walk by.

It seems to be the only place in the hotel not plastered in images of Daniel De Luca.

I’ve been desperate to slide onto one of the barstools and order myself a drink, but so far I’ve resisted.

Ordering a drink while waiting for a friend is one thing, but drinking alone? On a work trip? Somehow it feels off.

My need to sleep overrides my concerns. I need the soporific effects of alcohol so I can get my internal clock on local time.

Olive-green leather booths with dark wood tables line the room, and a smattering of burnt orange upholstered club chairs around low tables fill the middle.

It’s cozy-glamorous. Is that a thing? The uplighting creates a moody, mysterious vibe.

It’s enough of New York to feel inviting and enough of London to feel new.

They’re playing Ella Fitzgerald, reminding me of Friday nights when I was little.

My parents would put me to bed before the zip and crackle of Dad’s old record player introduced Ella.

They didn’t know, but occasionally I’d creep out of bed and sit on the stairs, watching them through a crack in the living room door.

They’d dance, Dad twirling and dipping Mom until she inevitably began giggling and Dad owl-laughed—how my mother described his effusive who-who-who laughter.

I wanted to be just like them when I grew up.

They seemed so happy. They were so happy. And that made me happy.

It’s so strange that a visit to a foreign country can bring back so many memories. So far, so much of London is like a love letter from my past.

I lift my head and stroll into the bar. Every table is taken, but somehow it doesn’t feel busy.

I head over to the bar and slide onto one of the few gigantic barstools still available.

“You’d think they’d make these a little more small-person friendly,” I mutter to myself.

It’s like a mini sofa on tall legs, and so comfortable.

That’s when I glance to my right and see the one and only Daniel De Luca look-alike.

He’s a perfect stranger. But he’s at least familiar. I’ll take it.

“Hey, doppelg?nger! Aren’t you afraid of getting mobbed in this hotel?” Frankly, I’m surprised there isn’t a gaggle of women surrounding him, thrusting autograph books in his direction.

He turns his head to the left, sees me, and looks back to his drink. He doesn’t say a word.

“So how are you?” I reach for the drink menu and settle into my seat. “I haven’t seen you since this morning.” It’s like we’re old friends and have arranged to meet here. We’re not and we didn’t, but whatever .

He glances at me again, and believe me, he’s no poker player. He clearly thinks I’m off my meds.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m talking to you like we’re old friends.

Well, we are in a way. In the sense that you’re my oldest London friend.

Met you the day after I landed, and I’ve seen you twice since.

To a New Yorker, we’re practically family.

” I glance across at him, and he takes a sip of his wine.

“You never know; another couple of conversations and you might even speak.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Unlikely, Wednesday.” I swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

Did he just make a joke? At my expense? I’m honored. A flicker of excitement races up my spine. For the first time since arriving in London, I’m not conscious of anything but this moment, right now.

“You know my name is Tuesday, don’t you?”

He sighs and sits back in his seat. “How could I not, seeing as you—a complete stranger—have introduced yourself?”

Yes, he’s being cold and rude and his voice is clipped and irritated, but I’m delighted I managed to get him to speak an entire sentence.

“What can I say? Americans are just friendly, I suppose.”

He takes a sip from his glass of red wine.

“Whatcha drinking?” I ask.

“Wine,” he replies.

I should give up and leave him alone to his sad, miserable life, but there’s something in me that’s drawn to him.

Maybe it’s his eyes. Maybe it’s because he looks like Daniel De Luca.

Maybe fresh-start London Tuesday needs to have a conversation tonight and wants to talk to him, even if he doesn’t want to talk back.

I’m a conscious moth, completely aware the flame is going to burn the shit out of me, yet unable to keep from hurtling headlong toward it, hoping it might change its mind at the last minute.

“I’m definitely here for a cocktail.” I study the list, letting my attention be drawn from ... Hell, I don’t know his name yet. “You haven’t told me your name. I can’t keep calling you the Daniel De Luca doppelg?nger.”

He rolls his eyes and clearly doesn’t give a shit I can see him perfectly fine, despite the low lighting. “You could just stop following me around.”

I laugh-snort and turn back to the menu. “You’re following me . This is the hotel I’m staying at. I’m supposed to be here. What’s your excuse?”

I don’t expect him to answer, but he does. “I’m meeting a friend.”

Give me an inch and I’ll take half an inch—usually. But I’m in London. And London Tuesday is ... well, I’m not sure, but I’m making her up as I go along. I can be anyone I like, and right now, I feel like taking a country mile.

“A girlfriend?”

He narrows his eyes. “None of your business, but no.”

“A boyfriend?”

He snaps his head around. “I’m meeting a male friend. About business.”

“Interesting,” I say. It’s not that interesting, but I want it to be. “Have you known this male friend long?”

“Since university.”

“We call it college,” I say.

“So?”

I don’t know if he’s nervous, uptight, or just an asshole, but his rudeness is grating. I skim the cocktail list and order a cocktail called Life’s a Peach.

“Really?” he asks. “Life’s a Peach.” He shakes his head like it’s the final straw. “So typical.”

Jed would normally order my cocktails for me if we were out together.

Or if I was with girlfriends, I’d just have whatever most people were ordering.

But right now, I’m not even embarrassed he doesn’t like my order.

I can’t help laughing at his dramatic response.

“So typical of what? Me? Americans? Women? Put me out of my misery; tell me what about my drink order is so abhorrent to you.”

“People like you.” He lifts his hands and makes air quotes. “Happy people. Optimists.” He says it with such disdain it’s like he’s physically pushed me.

It’s my turn to frown.

My fiancé just broke up with me. When I get back home, I have to find a place to live in Manhattan that isn’t a shoebox or roach infested and costs less than five grand a month.

I’ve been sent abroad with the threat of layoffs snapping at my heels.

I’ve lost my fiancé and my home, and I’m looking at possibly losing my job.

“Happy” isn’t how I’d describe myself. But I have to believe things are going to get better and that the future’s bright.

He’s right. I am an optimist.

“Why is being optimistic a bad thing? Why is being happy something to complain about?”

He pauses ... and this time I know it’s not because he’s ignoring me; he’s really thinking about it. Eventually he turns and looks me in the eye, and I can feel the intensity of his stare in my hips, my throat, my wrists, my toes.

“It’s about authenticity.” He holds my gaze, and suddenly I’m feeling a little faint.

I take a deep breath, and I realize by doing so, my bosom is heaving like I’m in a costume drama and the man next to me is the rake who’s about to steal my virtue—just like Daniel De Luca as the title character in Alexander, Duke of Hearts .

“Are you truly happy, Tuesday?” Again, his words are like a physical blow.

I wonder if he’s flipped open the top of my brain and can see every thought of mine as they form.

“Of course I’m happy. I’m in London ,” I say, almost trying to convince myself.

He shrugs and sips on his wine.

I shiver. Maybe it’s time to give up trying to be friends with this guy.

“You never told me your name,” I say, more quietly this time.

He sighs. “Ben.”

I’m nodding when we’re interrupted by a man who I presume is Ben’s dinner date. A shorter blond guy who gives me Bradley Cooper vibes slaps Ben on his back, then catches sight of me and immediately offers his hand. “I’m Nick.” He shoots Ben a questioning glance.

“I’m Tuesday,” I say, taking his hand. “I’m a friend of Ben’s.”

I can almost hear Ben rolling his eyes.

“I’m delighted to meet you. A friend of Ben’s is a friend of mine.” He squints at me, and I can tell he wants to ask me what kind of friend I am, exactly.

“I’m from New York,” I say. “Just landed two days ago. Ben was the first person I met, and we’ve been firm friends ever since.”

I glance at Ben, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift, as if he’s given up trying to not be my friend and is going to let me say what I like. Nick frowns like what I’m saying doesn’t quite add up. He’s right, of course.

“Let’s get our table,” Ben says.

“I do hope you’re joining us?” Nick asks, his eyes full of mischief.

“No, she is not,” Ben snaps.

I glance between the two men and something inside me shifts. They want opposite things, and I get to decide. Normally, I’d find the idea of choosing impossible. But today it feels easier. The stakes are lower.

“I’ll leave you two gentlemen in peace.” I glance down at my cocktail. “I have my drink for company.”

Ben’s frown deepens, and I get the feeling he’s just about to say something. But he doesn’t and they head off to the restaurant.

I take another sip of Life’s a Peach and wonder what in my life would change if this drink were a magic potion that creates a peachy life. I scoff quietly. What would change? What wouldn’t, more like.

“Have you eaten?” A voice comes from behind me.

I spin, and it’s Ben asking me the question.

“Eaten what?” I ask.

“Come and have dinner with us,” he says. It’s not so much an invitation. More of an order.

I shake my head. “I couldn’t—”

He growls. Well and truly growls, like a wolf or something, and it stops me in my tracks.

“Did you just—”

He picks up my cocktail and stalks across to the restaurant. I have no choice but to follow him.