Chapter Two
"White Horse"
ORLANDO. LONDON, 1998.
�You�re both wankers, you know that, right?�
�Oh, come on, mate. Rhodes gets boring after a while. We need a change of scenery, that�s all.�
�Yeah, that�s all. Come on, then. My brother told me about this great spot in the West End��
��Sure to be crawling with hot, young backpackers!�
�Oh, come off it. You�ve both popped your corks if you think you�ll get me to go to some swank tourist trap by tempting me with backpackers.�
Well, that was actually the only thing they needed to say, and they both knew it. Mark and Adam, my best mates, know that I�m a sucker for American girls. Not in a dodgy way, mind you, but they�re just so much different than the girls round these parts. Plus those two wankers are currently on the run from a waitress they tried to pick up at Rhodes, our regular pub. Well, rather, they�re on the run from Nick, this giant guy who turned out to be her fianc�. So suffice it to say that a change of scenery would do us all good.
�Alright, then. Off we go��
White Horse. I�ve heard of this place. It�s about a metre away from a bundle of theatres, so get there after a show and it will be crawling with camera-happy tourists looking for a famous face. Which is precisely why we get there during a show. The kind of girls we�re after won�t be going to see Mr. B-List American TV Star in the 20th-annual summer run of Death of a Salesman, or some shite.
I don�t know why I�m so bitter. Well, yes I do. I�m jealous of Mr. B-List American TV Star, because at least he has work. Me, on the other hand? I�ve gotten absolutely nil for auditions recently, and it�s really starting to get me down. OK, I know that I haven�t been trying that long, but still! I just finished Year Two at Guildhall, I�m a decent-looking guy, and I have a feature film credit! Well, that is if you count my bit part in Wilde, which I do, but apparently directors all over London don�t. But I always say things happen for a reason, so I�m not worried. I�m only 21�I�ve got time.
So we�re in White Horse. There�s a good crowd here, but the shows are due to be ending within half an hour, so I want to work quickly. I like to go into pubs and assume different characters�kind of a way to practice �my craft� in this �down time� I have �between shows.� And by all that I mean: I�m bored and this is fun. But tonight I think I�m just going to be Orlando�I�m a little fed up with acting right now.
Mark and Adam have found their idea of heaven: three girls, alone in the bar, probably well on their way to being completely sloshed. My mates look like they�ve just won the lotto. They�re casually sliding up to the girls� table� Ah, no surprise there, the girls have invited them to sit. And now Adam�s face is twitching like he�s under electroshock therapy, which I guess means he�s trying to motion me over. But sometimes it really disgusts me how shallow the three of us are, so maybe that�s why I don�t go over. The girls are gorgeous, no doubt. Blonde, leggy, and�as previously mentioned�almost drunk. It�s a perfect opportunity� that I�m going to pass on. I don�t know. I just can�t shake this funk. Maybe I feel like it�s time to move on, to grow up. I can�t go through life just trying to snog innocent Americans, right?
I really don�t know what�s provoking this existential crisis or why I have to have it now, in the middle of this pub, but I find myself turning completely away from the table of blondes and I head toward the bar. There�s a girl behind it, and she�s pretty cute, but again, not my cup of tea right now. I plop onto a stool and order a beer, with the distinct feeling that I�m going to end up dropping a few too many quid on it. But at least it will taste good going down.
My mood is darkening. What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I just need a cigarette. And, of course, I only have one left. Great. And where is my lighter? Wow, it�s gonna be a long night. I turn to my right: big ugly chap way too involved with the football match on. Right. I turn to my left, and there she is: a girl I never would have noticed with the brassy blondes in the way. But she�s cute; not a knockout by any means, but cute. An interesting face. She�s not smoking, but it�s worth a shot: �Excuse me, miss, but do you have a light?�
Something flicks across her eyes as she turns to me�is it excitement? She nods, and begins to rummage in her purse. I take a better look. Definitely a backpacker. She just has that look about her: slightly out of place by trying desperately to fit in. She looks like she hasn�t had a decent sleep in a good couple of weeks, and with what I hear about London�s hostels, I can imagine why.
I�ve come to the observation�after months of careful study�that three main nationalities come to backpack in the UK: Australians, Americans, and Canadians. I�m betting American for this one. She looks too pale to be Australian, but not pale enough to be a native Brit. But she�s not artificially bronzed like her blonde compatriots currently chatting with my mates, which is nice. And I couldn�t spot a Canadian if you paid me. So yeah, I�ll stick with American. Which means she�ll be enchanted by my accent, which I always get a kick out of. She�ll probably call me �cheeky,� which is just adorable. Well, maybe not the twenty or thirtieth time. But all I really want her to do right now is find her lighter! How big is her purse???
Finally, she finds it. Ah, it�s a Beatles lighter. She probably bought it on Abbey Road. Definitely American. I smile as I take it from her and light my cigarette. Oh, it feels good. God, I really should quit. �Do you smoke?� I ask her. Normally, I would offer her a cigarette, but I�m out. She shakes her head anyway. That�s strange.
�No, but I always like having a lighter with me,� she says. I can�t tell if she�s being sarcastic, so I do kind of a half-laugh. But she�s not lighting up, and it doesn�t look like she intends to, so I guess she wasn�t kidding about the lighter. Convenient.
�I really should quit,� I say as I take another drag. I always say that to non-smokers, as if it makes me a better person. Most people just respond with a little nod or noncommittal grunt�they don�t want to be pedantic.
�Yeah, that�s probably a good idea.�
Wow. Not afraid of being preachy, this one. I�m a little taken aback, so I stub the cigarette out in the ashtray. It will probably make her feel bad, and since I�m in this quasi-vindictive mood�
I�m right. She starts to apologize as soon as the smoke starts to rise from the tray. �Oh, I didn�t mean that, but whatever.�
Hmm. Not really the apology I was looking for. This one�s quirky. And I can�t tell if I�m intrigued or annoyed. And she�s not seeming remorseful about the wasted cigarette which makes me really angry at first, but then� I don�t know. I smile, mainly because I�m at a loss for words. She smiles back, and then looks down at her beer. I like a girl that likes her beer. My mates probably had to buy their blonde acquisitions mojitos or some other such trendy cocktail. But this one is here for the ale, and she�s here alone. Alcoholic? Probably not. But strange? A little.
The break in conversation�if you could call it that�is lengthening. We�re reaching the �awkward pause� stage. So I open my mouth�not always my best move. �Do you come here often?�
Oh God. I can�t believe I just said that. For two reasons, really. One: it is literally the worst line in the book. Two: Of course she doesn�t come here often, you bloody moron.
She starts laughing, thankfully. �Oh yeah, I come here all the time,� she says in a terrible British accent. �I�m in a show in the West End, you know, and my mates and I� Bloody good pub, eh chap?�
Well, she nailed all the stereotypes. I smile again, but this time it�s genuine. �So you�re from the States, then?�
�Yep. The States.�
She makes those little air quotes as she says it. �Oh, that�s right�Americans don�t actually call them �the States.� I always wondered why that was.�
�Well, do you call the UK �the Kingdom�?� she asks, her glass poised at her lips.
�Only if I want to sound like a pretentious arsehole.�
�Exactly,� she responds as she takes a sip.
�Ah, touch�. I never really thought about it like that.� A wink is her only reply. I feel like I need to continue. �Whereabouts in the States?� At her smile, I quickly add, �Sorry, I�m just so used to calling it that.�
�Perfectly alright. I�m from Indiana.�
�Oh, Chicago?�
She laughs. Whoops. �No, that�s next door, in Illinois. But twenty points for at least knowing the city.�
�Brilliant! What do my points buy? Your name?�
For a split second I think the line might have actually worked. Then I realize how absolutely ridiculous it was, and I grimace. I mumble an apology as she snorts into her beer.
�Man, guy,� she says. That�s right�she doesn�t know my name yet. �You should probably stay away from the lines tonight.�
�Yeah, I�m trying to kick my coke habit,� I respond. Zing! Witty drug reference. I hope she gets it.
She giggles. �Good one! Took me a minute, but I get it! Lines of cocaine. Ten more points for flair.�
Well, I�ve got thirty points now, so I guess I�m feeling bold enough to introduce myself. Nothing breaks the ice like cocaine. I stick out my hand. �I�m Orly.�
She takes my hand, but scrunches up her face as she does. �Orly?� She repeats, rolling my name around in her mouth like it�s foul-tasting fish. �Is that short for anything?�
�Orlando,� I say, somehow not pissed off that she hates my nickname.
�Ah. Yeah, I�m gonna call you Orlando.�
I nod, which leads me to notice we haven�t let go of each other�s hands. And I�m in no hurry to.
�I�m Abbey.�
�Ah, so I guess I should call you Abigail, then.�
�No, probably not.�
Hmm. �Why?�
�Because that�s not my name. I�m just Abbey.�
We�re still engaged in hand-to-hand contact, and I still don�t want to let go, but I also really want my beer. Maybe she notices this, because she lets go and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. And I get my beer. �Just Abbey, then. Why?�
�My parents were�are�huge Beatles fans. Abbey Road, you know.�
�Oh, that explains the lighter,� I say, gesturing with my beer toward where she put it down earlier.
�Yeah, I just bought that today, actually. On Abbey Road, of course.�
I was right! �So you�re backpacking across the UK?�
�Spain, actually,� she says.
Well, one for two isn�t bad. She continues: �I have a cousin here, living on a houseboat, so I�m with her for tonight, and I fly home tomorrow.�
�To somewhere that is not Chicago.�
She lifts her beer glass in assent.
�So this is your last night in Europe?�
She nods.
�And you�re choosing to spend it in this way-too-expensive bar that�s about to become infested with tourists? No offense, of course.�
She nods again.
�And you�re dong this why?�
�My cousin wanted to go to the opera.�
�Ah� Well, cheers, then!� I raise my glass, and she clinks it with her own. There�s another pause, but it�s more uncomfortable. I feel like we each have heaps of things to say, and I feel like there is a sort of attraction forming between us. And, although Abbey has brightened my night considerably, I�m still feeling a bit down. But it�s nothing that a night of drunken mischief won�t cure. So I step out on a limb. Whatever happens happens for a reason.
�Hey Abbey? I know this may be ridiculously forward, or dodgy, or both, but do you want to get out of here?�
She grins a huge grin. �I thought you would never ask
ABBEY. LONDON, 1998.
OK, so I�m pretty much in love. With London. This city is amazing. I�ve been here maybe seven hours and I�m ready to do some house hunting.
Well, I guess that shouldn�t really be a surprise; I�ve fallen in love with every city I�ve been to on this trip. Barcelona, San Sebastian, Madrid, Seville, Valencia, Granada� it�s been a good six weeks.
But now here I am at the end speaking English again�hooray!�and I�m head over heels. There�s so much to see, so much to do. It�s a real shame I�m only here for a day. I�d better make the most of it, yeah? So I wasn�t really wrong in turning down Ellen and the opera. And I don�t think she was too upset. Or upset at all, really. She even recommended this pub she likes�White Horse.
Pub. I love that word. And quid. And lorrie and loo and everything else that silly tourists like me get worked up about. But I�m really tired of feeling like �Abbey the Tourist.� So tonight I�m going to try to be just Abbey. I�m going to sit at this bar and drink beer for as long as it takes until a British guy talks to me. And he doesn�t even have to be cute! I mean Lord knows I�m not. I, as I am told constantly, have a �unique� look. But I know they don�t mean �unique� like as in �That supermodel sure has a unique look.� Sometimes people change it up a little and say �interesting.� But it�s not really a compliment either way, is it? I mean, they�re basically saying, �You could be pretty, but there�s one or two things preventing it, so we�re gonna stick with unique.� It used to piss me off, but now I understand because they�re right. First of all, I�ve got Heterochromia iridium, the condition where your eyes are two different colors. Mine are blue and green, so it�s not really that obvious, but still, it�s something. I also have a scar that kind of cuts right across an eyebrow, so the hairs don�t grow back in. My sister dropped a lamp on my head when I was five. Good times. The kids I nanny for back in the US have this great little book they constantly make me read to them called Harry Potter and� something with a stone, I don�t really know, but Harry has a scar on his forehead, too. So if he ever makes it big, I�ll just say I was trying to emulate Harry. Anyway, that�s way beside the point. I also think I have giant vampire canine teeth, but that�s probably just a thing. Like girls always think the tiniest things are wrong with their faces, like, �Oh, my eyebrows are too far apart,� or �My nose is slightly off-center.� Whatever, we�re just insecure and/or fishing for compliments. I�m happy with my face, no matter how unique-slash-not-quite-pretty it is. After all, I�m kind of stuck with it, right? Might as well like it.
But it�s hard sometimes. Like tonight, when I walk into this bar all the heads turn. But they�re sure as hell not looking at me. No, I just had the misfortune of walking in behind a trio of gorgeous blondes. And of course they take the very table I was aiming for. Oh, how nice; a million guys are offering to buy them drinks. Wonderful. So it looks like the bar for me. I guess I don�t really care. I don�t want to let them ruin my night. I�ll sit wherever, as long as I can have some beer. Not that I�m an alcoholic or anything, but it�s exciting to drink legally�a feeling I�m sure will wear off a few months after I turn twenty-one�but that�s years away.
The crowd is OK. There are a few really good-looking guys, but most of them are making eyes at the blondes. I sit for a while, drinking a very interesting beer. I guess if I wait a while I might get to see someone decently famous emerging from whatever crap show they�re starring in in a feeble attempt to boost their credibility. Wow, that was kind of really harsh. Oh well. I guess I have kind of a jaded attitude toward celebrity, which doesn�t really make sense. Oh wait, yes it does: it fits right in with my amazing cynicism.
It�s been about twenty minutes, and the crowd of genuine-looking people is thinning. Most likely because of the imminent arrival of Aforementioned Celebrity. I�m thinking I should probably go when three comparatively gorgeous guys walk in. They look pretty cocky, pretty cute, and�most importantly�pretty British. OK. I guess I�ll stick around to see them hit on the blondes. What else am I going to do? It�s too late to go to the opera!
I notice the blondes noticing the Brits. The Pam Anderson Triplets have conveniently decided to end all communication with former flings in order to make room for the three new arrivals. Awesome. God, why am I so cynical tonight? What is with this funk that I�m in?
But wait, here�s a development: one of the three guys is looking like he doesn�t want to sit with the blondes. Hmm, that�s interesting. And he�s�wait for it�turning toward the bar! My heartbeat inadvertently starts to pick up. I�m not going to get my hopes up, but he�s really cute. He�s sort of tallish, skinny, and I like his style�it�s kind of punk-trendy, if that�s possible. Dark brown hair, kind of spiky. I can�t really tell from here, but I�m betting his eyes are gorgeous. And good lord, those cheekbones. You could cut meat on them! Well, that�s actually a very weird and bad way to describe them. But they are quite impressive. He kind of looks depressed, though. And that�s no fun, considering that I�m in a weird mood, too. So I turn back to my beer and pretend not to notice that he sits directly next to me. The girl tending bar definitely sees what I see�she�s making eyes at him like crazy. But he�s ignoring her advances completely. Gay? Possibly, but I don�t think so� He orders a beer and just stares at it. Maybe he�s just very melancholy. He probably wants to be alone, so I don�t talk to him. Not like I would have anyway, but now I can placate myself with an excuse.
It�s hard to subtly check out the guy next to you while pretending to look straight ahead or down at your beer. My eyes are starting to hurt from looking subversively to the right so often. But that�s not really gonna stop me. And now he�s taking out a cigarette. Damn. I hate smokers. Oh, and I was so close to getting with this guy, I joke with myself.
Uh oh. Trouble in paradise�he can�t find a lighter. I really want him to ask me for one, since I happen to have one with me. I knew that habit would come in handy one day! And it�s my cute new Beatles lighter�my one extravagantly tourist purchase of the day. But when you�re named after Abbey Road (the road, the studios, or the album; take your pick), you�d better buy something when you�re there. I was hoping they�d give me something for free. Oh well. I digress.
�Excuse me, miss, but do you have a light?�
His question knocks me from my random musing. I look at him and nod, so excited, so hopeful that we�ll actually have a conversation. But first I have to find my lighter, and this purse is huge. I can�t really tell, but I think he�s sizing me up. Better find that lighter fast before he decides to ask the soccer fan to his right� Ah! Mission accomplished.
�Do you smoke?� he asks as he lights up.
�No, but I always like having a lighter with me.� Does that make me sound weird? It�s the truth, so I hope not. I mean, I�m not like a pyromaniac or anything, but whatever. He probably thinks I�m just being sarcastic�that would explain his little chuckle.
�I really should quit,� he says as he takes a huge puff. Why do smokers always say that? Do they honestly think it makes them seem like a better person? If you �really should quit� then just do it! OK, I know it�s really hard, so I shouldn�t be so angry, but I guess it�s just funny that they always say that when they clearly have no intention of actually doing it.
But I decide to let him know how I feel: �Yeah, that�s probably a good idea.�
Uh oh. He looks kind of shocked. I hope I didn�t piss him off, because, as previously mentioned, he�s really cute. To my surprise, he doesn�t blow smoke directly in my face. In fact, quite the opposite: he stubs the cigarette out. Is that supposed to make me feel bad? I mean, it kind of does, but really it�s for his own good. But I guess I should apologize: �Oh, I didn�t mean that, but whatever.� OK, not the world�s greatest apology, I know, but I tried. Sort of.
To my great relief, he smiles. Oh, thank God. I smile back, of course, and it seems we have made our peace over the whole cigarette issue. So now comes that amazing part of the conversation where neither of us really know what to say. Ugh, I hate awkward pauses. I�m trying to think of something witty and clever to say to break the ice, but all I can think of is something about the peanuts sitting on the bar between us. I�m thinking that won�t make a very good impression.
To my relief again, he breaks the silence: �Do you come here often?�
Oh God, people actually use that line? I thought it was strictly restricted to bad movies and seedy TV dramas. But Mr. Cheekbones actually said it. I start laughing, against my will, of course. But thankfully he grins, too. I�m immensely glad he wasn�t actually intending for that line to work. Well, I guess I should turn the whole thing into a joke. Time to break out my British accent, which I actually think is pretty decent! �Oh yeah, I come here all the time. I�m in a show in the West End, you know, and my mates and I� Bloody good pub, eh chap?�
Alright, so the �chap� at the end was probably a bit much, but it achieves my desired end: he�s smiling. And it�s a good smile. �So you�re from the States, then?�
�Yep. The States.� Oh no, I actually made air quotes. Why, Abbey, why?
�Oh, that�s right�Americans don�t actually call them �the States.� I always wondered why that was.�
I raise my glass to my lips in an attempt to be coy and sexy. I probably just look thirsty. �Well, do you call the UK �the Kingdom�?�
�Only if I want to sound like a pretentious arsehole.�
�Exactly,� I say, taking a sip of the beer.
�Ah, touch�. I never really thought about it like that. Whereabouts in the States?� I smile. �Sorry, I�m just so used to calling it that.�
�Perfectly alright. I�m from Indiana.�
�Oh, Chicago?�
I laugh again. Whoops�I don�t mean to be mean or anything, he�s trying! �No, that�s next door, in Illinois. But twenty points for at least knowing the city.�
I like to bust out the �points� in times like this. Many people think it�s weird or silly. Some people are confused. But the cool people play along as if it�s perfectly natural that this girl is arbitrarily awarding them �points� that will buy them absolutely nothing. I�m hoping he�s one of the cool people.
�Brilliant! What do my points buy? Your name?�
Ooh, so close. He was almost one of the cool people, and then he tried another line. This time, I don�t just laugh; I snort into my beer. He shakes his head and laughs out a little apology. �Man, guy,� I say, not knowing his name and not able to call him �Mr. Cheekbones,� �You should probably stay away from the lines tonight.�
�Yeah, I�m trying to kick my coke habit.�
This response catches me off guard for a second. Then I get it: cocaine! Nice one! �Good one! Took me a minute, but I get it! Lines of cocaine. Ten more points for flair.�
I hope he will utilize his points more wisely this time. I hope he will introduce himself� And he does! He sticks out his hand�nice hand, of course, and I do love me some hands�and says, �I�m Orly.�
Orly? Ew. That just sounds gross to me. I realize that I�ve scrunched up my face, and he�s probably insulted that I�m clearly having an adverse reaction to his name. Not cool on my part. But maybe it�s a nickname? I decide to ask him, trying desperately�and failing miserably�not to sound revolted: �Orly? Is that short for anything?�
�Orlando.�
Ah, much better. Orlando is a cool name! �Ah. Yeah, I�m gonna call you Orlando.� He shrugs, so I guess he�s not mad that I hate his nickname. �I�m Abbey.�
He hasn�t let go of my hand. Cool beans. I haven�t let go of his hand either. Who will give in first?
�Ah, so I guess I should call you Abigail, then.�
�No, probably not.�
�Why?�
�Because that�s not my name. I�m just Abbey.�
OK, I�m going to have to break contact. There�s an extremely annoying piece of hair dangling in front of my face, and he keeps glancing at his beer. 1, 2, 3, let go.
�Just Abbey, then. Why?� he asks as he takes a sip.
�My parents were�are�huge Beatles fans. Abbey Road, you know.� Man. Don�t even get me started on my parents� Beatles obsession, which has, of course, been inherited by their two daughters, especially yours truly.
�Oh, that explains the lighter.�
I glance at the lighter that has been lying forgotten on the bar for some time now. �Yeah, I just bought that today, actually. On Abbey Road, of course.� Ooh, I hope that doesn�t make me seem too much of a tourist. Oh well. I am a tourist, and I�m proud of the lighter.
�So you�re backpacking across the UK?�
�Spain, actually. I have a cousin here, living on a houseboat, so I�m with her for tonight, and I fly home tomorrow.�
�To somewhere that is not Chicago.�
I raise my glass.
�So this is your last night in Europe?�
I nod.
�And you�re choosing to spend it in this way-too-expensive bar that�s about to become infested with tourists? No offense, of course.�
I nod again.
�And you�re dong this why?�
�My cousin wanted to go to the opera,� I state matter-of-factly.
He understands. I knew he would. �Ah� Well, cheers, then!�
We clink our glasses together. It�s cute. I�m resisting the urge to ask him �out,� and by that I mean to another pub where I won�t blow my entire bank account on three glasses of beer. And I�m intrigued by this Orlando, and not just by his eyes�which I realize now, are quite amazing. I feel like we could have a lot to talk about, but I have no idea how to get such a conversation started. And I think I�ve made his mood a little better, which obviously makes my mood soar. But right now we�re trapped in White Horse. The blondes have left with his friends, and I think I just saw four or five people come in, and they all were clutching cameras and ticket stubs. So the time to get out of here is nigh. What to do, what to do�
He turns to me. �Hey Abbey? I know this may be ridiculously forward, or dodgy, or both, but do you want to get out of here?�
Finally! I grin a huge grin. �I thought you would never ask.�
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