London was steeped in power, the rule of a few over many, the idea that some blood was better than others. It had evolved from lording over land to amassing wealth through financial markets. Underneath there were unwritten norms of politeness and etiquette. To exist in London was to conform to its essential Britishness. Boston was a distant cousin of London, more tenacious, more rebellious, and constantly on the lookout for a fight, as if its first battles against British tyranny had formed the nature of the place.
She’d been in this city a dozen times, knew its streets and sidewalks, but she never saw it as hers. In all her travels, she’d kept herself apart from the city. Always the observer. She wouldn’t allow herself to be immersed, to feel a sense of belonging, a sense of home.
Every adoption starts with a loss. A woman who ran an orphanage in Wuhan had said this through a translator when Meena had been on an assignment covering Western adoptions. It had resonated as she took photos of infants and toddlers with their new, mostly white, parents. She’d thought of the loss for the little ones, even as they’d found families. Their names would be changed; some would know only that they looked Chinese or Asian. They might never speak their birth language or acquire a taste for the food of their ethnicity.
For the last few months, she’d believed she’d found herself. That she was part of a culture. She’d warmed to chai and paratha, to the snippets of language the aunties had taught her. She’d liked living with people who resembled her, as in the shape of Sabina’s thick eyebrow, in the texture of Tanvi’s long black hair, in the full bow of Uma’s lips. When Meena was in the fourth chair at the dining table, she wasn’t alone in her look, her shape, her laugh. While she didn’t always understand the aunties, she wasn’t dissimilar. For a couple of months, she’d grown to like being a part of a group, a building, one with history. Her history. She’d been so naive.
Meena navigated her way around a couple in matching Santa hats who stumbled out of a black cab. The woman, in a bright-green coat, held on to her partner as she navigated the steps to the bar in her stiletto heels. Meena smiled as they wished her a happy Christmas, a tacit apology for inconveniencing her. She nodded in acknowledgment to absolve them.
The street changed from the chip shops and working-class pubs of Battersea to the posh stores and upscale restaurants of Chelsea. Her surroundings changed from the gray-and-brown dullness south of the River Thames to the blue-and-white sparkle on the other side of the water.
Her mother used to say that people who lived near water were more kind. When you make your own home, try to have one near a river. The Engineer’s House was two short blocks from the Charles River. Maybe that was why Tanvi and Sam were so nice.
Meena walked through the doors of the Builders Arms, a cozy pub on a short street that was more an alley than a thoroughfare. It was warm and crowded. She navigated past the long bar to the back, to where Zoe and her friends sat at a table against the wall. Zoe waved her over and patted a large red chair with a straight back.
“Saved this just for you.” Zoe and Aiden, her boyfriend, were on the dark-brown leather couch tucked against the blue wall. Zoe’s three friends were on stools around the large scuffed wood table.
Meena unwrapped her scarf and tugged off her coat. She recognized the faces—Fiona, Paul, and Bernie, Zoe’s longtime friends. From the way they laughed and joked, they were more than a few pints in. Zoe poured a glass of prosecco from a bottle chilling in an ice bucket and handed it to Meena.
“It’s so nice to see you again. How long? Last year?” Paul was Zoe’s friend from childhood. He and Zoe had been neighbors and schoolmates in East London. He was an investment banker by day and a sax player in a trio in the evenings, and he was always friendly. He was as handsome as he was kind. And dressed sharply to complement his dark skin and deep-brown eyes.
“No,” Zoe said. “She’s missed the roast the last two years. She popped by in April to drop off a few things.”
“I am sorry,” Meena said. “I’ve apologized by stocking your fridge with champagne.”
“How long have you been here?” Paul asked. “Where have you come from?”
“About two weeks. And Boston.” Meena sipped the prosecco.
“A toast. Happy Christmas,” Zoe interrupted. “May we all get exactly what we deserve.”
They clinked glasses. This was Zoe’s annual tradition, one Meena had participated in once or twice in the past. The pre-Christmas Sunday roast at the pub. Meena loved this quintessential British custom. A lazy Sunday, the quiet hum of the crowd, a crackling fireplace on the other side of the room, and platters of roast beef, chicken, or salmon with potatoes, cabbage, and carrots. The best part was the Yorkshire pudding drizzled with gravy. It all ended with sticky toffee pudding.
“How was it, besides cold and dark?” Paul asked. “Shoot anything fun?”
“It wasn’t for work,” Meena said. “Took a little break. Fall in Boston is beautiful.”
“And the men?” Fiona was an old work colleague of Zoe’s, petite and cheerful in her Santa hat and bright-green dress.
Meena shook her head.
“Are you sticking around for a bit?” Paul asked.
“Through the New Year,” Meena said. “Then I’m in Seoul for a quick feature.”
She’d pitched a few stories while she’d been in London, and one had been picked up by an editor for Rolling Stone magazine. It would be good to get back to what she did. Next year at this time, the memories of these past few months would have faded.
“No work talk,” Fiona ordered. “We need to drink and party.”
“Speaking of.” Paul cleared his throat as if to make an announcement. “I’m playing at a little place in Islington on New Year’s Eve. Will add you to the guest list.”
“Thanks,” Meena said. “That sounds fun.”
“They’ve added a new drummer.” Fiona licked her lips. “He’s deliciously beautiful.”
“Fee.” Paul turned to her. “You know the rule: no dating my bandmates.”
“It’s not my fault,” Fiona said. “Add some undatable men and I’ll keep away.”
Paul wagged his finger at Fiona.