“It’s settled, then. You’ll start the first of June.”
I get back to London, still on my high, hours before I’m supposed to meet up with Audrey and her friend. So I buy lunch at McDonald’s in Covent Garden. Then I walk up and down the street, going into all the clothing stores. I go straight to the men’s sections and browse through shirts and pants (trousers). No one looks at me oddly, although one store employee does try to up-sell me some Burberry stuff.
After an hour I get bold enough to take some shirts into the men’s dressing room at Diesel. I’m hyperparanoid, looking around for the British equivalent of Marjorie, the angry-at-life sales associate at the Target back home who once kicked me out of the men’s room there the one time I dared to sneak in, but no one stops me. No one even looks at me.
I buy two shirts and go down the street to Next. There I buy two more.
I’m addicted. I buy so many men’s clothes I can’t carry them all. I have to take a taxi back to the hotel and leave my bags with the front desk. Then I put on one of my new outfits with a brand-new binder underneath and go to a pub I spotted that morning.
I don’t even have to pee, but I go into the men’s bathroom anyway. I stand at the tap with a smile on my face, letting the water run over my hands until my fingertips turn pink. Then I go back into the pub, sit at the bar and order a Guinness, because that seems appropriately British.
I text Audrey and ask her to meet me there. I feel better than I have in a long time. Definitely the best I’ve felt since Thanksgiving. But I don’t want to think about Thanksgiving. So I sip my Guinness and drum my fingers on the bar like I’m impatient. As though there is anywhere else I’d rather be than where I am right now.
I stand up to stretch. A guy bumps into me from behind, sloshing beer on my hand.
“Sorry, there, love,” he says.
“Love.” Great. “Love” is what people say to girls here. Dr. Raavi can call me “young man” all he wants, but I still haven’t fooled Random British Pub Dude.
I order a second pint.
Audrey shows up at the same time as my beer. With her is a girl carrying the same purse Joanna bought last month at Neiman Marcus for five hundred dollars. I wonder how much it costs in British pounds.
“This is Emily,” Audrey says. “Emily, this is my brother, Tony.”
I can’t tell if Audrey’s joking. Didn’t she tell Emily the truth?
Audrey’s grinning, but Emily looks completely serious. She holds out her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Tony,” she says, in an accent that people here would probably describe as “posh.”
“Hi.” I shake her hand.
“Emily goes to the London School of Economics,” Audrey says.
I wince. It sounds very uncool to spell out the full name of LSE. I wouldn’t have cared a year ago, but Harvard’s made me a snob about these things.
“Emily’s friends are having a Christmas party tonight,” Audrey goes on, oblivious. “Can we please go?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
The girls find us a table and we order food. I ask them about their day. Audrey’s positive the cute French guy who was on the tour with them is in love with her, but Emily looks dubious.
“Are you in an accelerated course at university?” Emily asks me as our food arrives.
“Accelerated?” I ask. “No. I don’t think there are any accelerated programs at Harvard. I’m just a regular freshman.”
“Oh. Did you leave school early, then?”
“No.” Where’s she going with this?
“I think Emily’s just saying you look kind of young,” Audrey says.
Oh. Right. If I’m going to keep this up, I’m going to have to get used to people noticing that I’m short for a guy.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest—” Emily starts to say.
“It’s okay.” I interrupt her before she can make a bigger deal about it. “I know I’m short. I figure if I put enough product in my hair that adds a couple of inches, right?”
Emily doesn’t smile.
To change the subject, I tell them about my interview. Emily finds it hilarious that Oxford is taking on an American freshman as a research assistant. I find Emily annoying.
When we finish eating, Audrey and I go back to our hotel so she can change before the party.
“Did you tell her about me?” I ask Audrey once we’re alone.
“What? You mean about your secret identity?” Audrey laughs. “I told her I was in town with my brother, and that was it. That’s what you wanted me to say, right?”
I give Audrey a hug. She laughs and hugs me back.
“I like the new you,” she says. “The one who gives hugs and talks like a normal person instead of saying everyone’s names over and over.”
Audrey doesn’t know what’s going on with Gretchen and me. If she did, she’d probably like the new me a lot less.