“Honey, they’re going to love you.”
The phone rings again, as I tuck the newspaper with Eric’s column in my bag, wishing I had his phone number so I could call and thank him.
* * *
—
Later that evening, Liza convinces me to meet a few of her friends—members of a band (whose name I can’t recall, only that it sounded like a synonym for a violent crime). They were all having drinks in city center at a place called Sexy Fish, which also gave me pause.
What I thought sounded like a strip club in Vegas, she described as one-part nightclub and three-parts high-end restaurant—with a sprinkle of circus thrown in for good measure.
She pulls a dress from her closet and hands it to me. “You would look divine in this!”
“I don’t know,” I say, unconvinced as I eye the teeny-tiny minidress dangling precariously from its hanger. “There’s no way I’m going out in that.”
“Stop being a prude,” she says. “It’s meant to stretch. Try it on! It’ll look amazing on you. Besides, do I need to remind you of the bet you lost last week?”
“Fine,” I concede with a hazy memory of our wine-fueled card game. “I’ll try it on, but I’m not sure if I have the energy to go out tonight, especially to a place called Sexy…Whale?”
“Fish,” she corrects me.
I roll my eyes as I pull the dress over my head. “I’m so not wearing this.”
“Whoa,” Liza says, nodding. “Seriously, Val, you look like a million bucks.”
“More like five bucks,” I say, tugging at the hemline with a frown. “Or four-fifty.”
“Here,” Liza says, turning to her overstuffed closet, where she extricates a swath of shimmery, black fabric from its hanger. “You just need a wrap.” She hands it to me. “Put this on.” She drapes it over my shoulders and shifts me toward the mirror. “See, look how gorgeous you look! Come out with us tonight!”
“Well,” I say, shifting to see my reflection from the side. Daniel is in Scotland until tomorrow morning, and…it would be fun to meet some new friends. “Okay.”
* * *
—
As we walk through the entrance of Sexy Fish, our steps keep time with the bass thumping from the DJ booth inside, where a glittery strobe light dangles overhead. I think of the chandelier at the Royal Automobile Club and smile at the memory, and also the contrast. Tonight, I feel as if I’ve been thrust into the taping of a music video, except for the fact that I’m much older than the college-aged girls standing in line. Oh, and also, I can’t dance.
I look around nervously as Liza speaks to the hostess. I wonder how she manages to hold a conversation over such loud music, but then I realize that maybe that’s the point.
“Our table’s ready,” she says, waving at a guy in a leather jacket with bleached blond hair. “That’s Damian.” He waves back and motions us over to his table. “He’ll probably try to hit on you, but don’t worry, he’s harmless.”
I nod, attempting to pull my dress down lower over my thighs, but it inches up rebelliously with each step.
I’m grateful when we reach the table, where I slide into one of the empty chairs, my legs under protective cover, as Liza introduces me to her friends: Damian, who holds my hand a few moments too long; Raul, a broody character whose tattoos creep across his collarbone; Cara, a twentysomething with jet-black hair who hangs on Damian’s every word; and Trina, with dyed-red hair pulled into a high ponytail, revealing her half-shaved head. She nods only long enough to be polite then turns back to her phone.
Leave it to Liza to assemble this motley crew.
Damian speaks, but the loud music drowns out his words.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, pointing to a nearby speaker. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” The moment the words leave my lips, I at once feel seventy-five years old.
He leans in closer to me, which is not what I intended, but at least I can finally hear him. “I ordered drinks and some bites,” he says.
“OH, THANK YOU.”
Liza casts me a look of charity as she chats with Cara. When the drinks arrive, I occupy myself with a novelty fish-shaped stirring stick to avoid making eye contact with Damian. But Liza clearly has other plans. I watch as she tells him something that I can’t hear, then shows him her phone.
“The Book Garden!” he exclaims, turning to me. “That was my mum’s favorite place. Liza says you’re in trouble?” He reaches for his phone. “I’m going to make a donation right now.”
“Wow,” I say, glancing at Liza. “Thank you so much, but I assure you, I didn’t come here to solicit.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “My mum loved your store—rest her soul. It’s the least I can do to atone for what a bloody hell-raiser I was as a teen.”
I smile and thank him as Liza flashes me a sneaky thumbs-up. After the second round of drinks, Raul, who at one point, appeared to have dozed off, perks up and suggests we go somewhere else. He says he knows a pub where a band is playing tonight. Everyone agrees that this is a great idea…except me.
“Thank you so much for the drinks—and for everything,” I say to Damian, who picks up the tab. “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m exhausted. You guys go ahead without me.”
“Ah,” Damian says, planting his elbow on the table as his face sinks into his palm. “But we were just getting to know each other.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Maybe we can…all do this another time.”
“You okay?” Liza whispers as the cab arrives, which, apparently, they’re all squeezing into, along with another guy they ran into outside.
“Totally,” I say. “It was a fun night. I’m just super tired.”
“Gotcha,” she says. “Can we drop you off on the way? I’ll slide in next to Trina. There’s still room!”
“Thanks, but that’s okay,” I say. “I’m going to walk for a little bit, get some fresh air.”
“All right,” Liza says. “You be careful in that dress, now.”
I smile, waving as she climbs into the cab. When it speeds off, I release a long sigh and pull Liza’s wrap snugly around my body as I begin walking ahead, following the streetlights until I see a cab on the next block, which I flag down.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“Berkeley Square,” I say immediately. Millie had mentioned the storied London park while we sorted books the other day. It was home to some of London’s oldest living trees, many dating back to the early 1700s, she said, but also one of my mother’s old haunts. I want to see it for myself.
A few minutes later, when I step out of the cab, I take in the trees’ enormous trunks, older than the very United States of America, in fact, and then it hits me—the song by Nat King Cole my mother used to play on the record player in our Santa Monica living room: “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”