Poor Edna.
I finish doing my blusher and stare at my reflection. Black skinny jeans, silver ballet pumps, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. Normal, 2009-style makeup. Ed probably won’t recognize me. I should stick a feather in my hair just so he knows it’s me.
The thought makes me snort with laughter, and Sadie glances at me suspiciously.
“What’s funny?” She looks me up and down. “Are you going out like that? I’ve never seen such a dull ensemble. Josh will take one look at you and expire of boredom. If you don’t expire of boredom first.”
Oh, ha ha. But maybe she has a point. Maybe I’ve dressed down too much.
I find myself reaching for one of my twenties vintage necklaces and looping it around my neck. The silver and jet beads fall down in rows and click together as I move, and at once I feel a bit more interesting. More glamorous.
I line my lips again in a darker color, giving them a bit more of a twenties shape. Then I pick up a vintage silver leather clutch and survey myself again.
“Much better!” says Sadie. “And what about a darling little cloche?”
“No, thanks.” I roll my eyes.
“If it were me, I’d wear a hat,” she persists.
“Well, I don’t want to look like you.” I throw back my hair and smile at myself. “I want to look like me.”
I suggested to Ed that we start off our tour at the Tower of London, and as I come out of the tube station into the crisp air, I feel immediately cheered. Never mind about Natalie. Never mind about Josh. Never mind about the necklace. Look at all this. It’s fantastic! Ancient stone battlements, towering against the blue sky as they have done for centuries. Beefeaters wandering about in their red and navy costumes, like something out of a fairy tale. This is the kind of place that makes you feel proud to be a born-and-bred Londoner. How could Ed not even have bothered to come here? It’s, like, one of the wonders of the world!
Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually visited the Tower of London myself. I mean, gone in or anything. But that’s different. I live here. I don’t have to.
“Lara! Over here!”
Ed’s already in the queue for tickets. He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, either, which is interesting. I had him down as someone who’d look smart even at the weekend. As I draw near, he looks me up and down with a little smile.
“So you do sometimes wear clothes from the twenty-first century.”
“Very occasionally.” I grin back.
“I was convinced you were going to turn up in another twenties dress. In fact, I found an accessory for myself. Just to keep you company.” He reaches in his pocket and produces a small rectangular case made of battered silver. He springs it open and I see a deck of playing cards.
“Cool!” I say, impressed. “Where did you get this?”
“Bid for it on eBay.” He shrugs. “I always carry a deck of cards. It’s 1925,” he adds, showing me a tiny hallmark.
I can’t help feeling touched that he went to that effort.
“I love it.” I look up as we arrive at the head of the queue. “Two adults, please. This is on me,” I add firmly as Ed makes to get out his wallet. “I’m the host.”
I buy the tickets and a book called Historic London and lead Ed to a spot in front of the tower.
“So, this building you see before you is the Tower of London,” I begin in a knowledgeable, tour-leader tone. “One of our most important and ancient monuments. One of many, many wonderful sights. It’s criminal to come to London and not find out more about our amazing heritage.” I look at Ed severely. “It’s really narrow-minded, plus you don’t have anything like it in America.”
“You’re right.” He looks suitably chastened as he surveys the tower. “This is spectacular.”
“Isn’t it great?” I say proudly.
There are some times when being English is really the best, and big-historic-castle time is one of them.
“When was it built?” asks Ed.
“Um…” I look around for a handy sign. There isn’t one. Damn. There should be a sign. I can’t exactly look it up in the guidebook. Not with him watching me expectantly.
“It was in the…” I turn casually away and mumble something indistinct. “… teenth century.”
“Which century?”
“It dates from…” I clear my throat. “Tudor. Er… Stuart times.”
“Do you mean Norman?” suggests Ed politely.
“Oh. Yes, that’s what I meant.” I dart him a suspicious look. How did he know that? Has he been boning up?
“So, we go in this way.” I lead Ed confidently toward a likely-looking rampart, but he pulls me back.
“Actually, I think the entrance is this way, by the river.”
For God’s sake. He’s obviously one of these men who have to take control. He probably never asks for directions either.
“Listen, Ed,” I say kindly. “You’re American. You’ve never been here before. Who’s more likely to know the way in, me or you?”
At that moment, a passing Beefeater stops and gives us a friendly beam. I smile back, ready to ask him the best way in, but he addresses Ed cheerily.
“Morning, Mr. Harrison. How are you? Back again already?”
What?
What just happened? Ed knows the Beefeaters? How does Ed know the Beefeaters?
I’m speechless as Ed shakes the hand of the Beefeater and says, “Good to see you, Jacob. Meet Lara.”