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It doesn’t usually happen like this.Maybe it’s the whore angle—my excitement to be used.At the thought, I laugh.
But fuck, there’s something about her. A daring untapped.
And guess what? I am going to tap that.
Chapter Eleven
SADIE
Later that morning, after texting Will and receiving my first rugby game invite, I decide to take a walk to get out of my own head. Armed with my trusty maps app, I take a walk through Marylebone with a notion to visit Portobello Road Market, which, in my mind at least, has to be one of the world’s most famous markets. At least, to those who watch TV.
According to my maps app, it’s going to take me an hour to get there by foot, which is fine. The day after I arrived, I’d walked all the way to Westminster, saw the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye, and walked across Tower Bridge, and even found my way to the Palace. And all by myself.
Walking is easy and free. But mostly, it means I avoid travelling by Tube—on the London Underground, I mean. Quite frankly, the idea terrifies me.
I get a venti iced coffee from a nearby café to keep me company on my walk as fancy mansion block apartments turn to even fancier mansions, then a shopping precinct—antiquated buildings housing fancy cafés, delis, designer clothing stores, and florists full of summer blooms. According to the internet, Marylebone village has enough to keep me occupied for a day, but I forge on. And after another twenty minutes of walking, I spy another item on my London experiences list. So I climb in a real-I-am London black cab, and cab it the rest of the way!
An item checked off my list and a save for my aching feet.
The market is a feast of the senses. I’m not sure how else to describe it. Buildings painted the shades of a box of French macaroons, the street between covered with stalls with canvas canopies. People of all creeds and ethnicities jostle on the pavement for airspace amongst the vendors touting their wares. Some cry and cajole, and some quietly serve. This has to be the most colourful corner of the capital, and the things available to buy here? You name it, I imagine it’s here, along with the kitchen sink.
Artisan breads and Mardi Gras beads. Vats of turmeric and coriander and a million other spices. A dozen antique shops, and even a stall selling nothing but silver spoons. Brightly coloured vegetables and street food. Lord, the street food!
I have a bowl of Caribbean chicken served with fragrant rice, then I devour something called a cruffin, which appears to be a cross between a muffin and a donut that isthe mostspectacular thing.Seriously. Topped with a yellowing French custard.I buy more bread than one person can eat and spices I have no idea when I’ll use—or for what. Then I sit outside an English pub with a glass of cool golden nectar in the form of a beer.
Today, London is good to me. I’m a million miles away from my worst fears, doing the things I imagined I would. That I’m doing them alone is okay, even if my previous daydreams included Julian holding my hand.
The thought hits me from nowhere, but I refuse to dwell.
Today London is good to me, and tomorrow might be better still.
Late in the evening, Kallie calls. I’m snug on the sofa, my hands curled around a cup of tea the colour of teak.
‘Hello, you old lush!’ she greets me. ‘How goes it in Blighty? How was your day?’
‘Hey.’ I smile at her greeting and rush of questions. ‘I’ve had a great day. I spent the day doing things I thought I’d only ever get to imagine.’
‘I knew it!’ she squeals. ‘Posh boys for the win! I reckon it must be the years they spend at boarding school getting up to God knows what, with God only knows who. It has to make them a little fluid, sexually speaking, which can only make it all the better for—’
‘Kallie, slow down,’ I say, laughing so hard I jostle my tea, spilling it on my t-shirt. ‘I was talking about my trip to Portobello Road, not. .. not anything else.’
‘Oh. Hmm. Well, thatisdisappointing. I thought you were talking about Will.’
‘You thought I’d sleep with a male escort?’ Incredulous. That’s how I sound. And hypocritical is what I am. And apparently Yoda’s younger sister.
‘Hang on, sleep with the what?’
‘Come on, Kallie,’ I say, disapprovingly. ‘I’m not going to screw the man who’d then charge your credit card.’ Yep, I’m a big ole hypocrite, but at least my orgasm was on the house. On his face? Andmyface is hot suddenly, but I think that’s possibly because of the rising steam.
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘The man is far too classy to admit anything.’ He just mostly teases me like it’s a personal commitment. ‘Firstly, it’s illegal,’ I say prissily. ‘And how the hell does he get to be both classyandcrass?’
‘He was a bit of a naughty boy, was he?’
‘There’s no need to sound like you like the sound of that.’
‘Even if I like the sound of that because I can tellyoulike the sound of it. Like you like the sound of his incredibly posh accent?’
