Don’t miss the next Brits in Manhattan novel, available now for pre-order!
I’m standing in a bar in Covent Garden, drinking a pint of English ale. A new ale to me. Apparently, it was brewed in Cornwall, which I’m told is on the south coast somewhere. It’s smooth. Creamy. Maybe a new favorite. The Brits love their ale; I should tell you that. I’ve been living in London for two years now, since I took a job at a hedge fund over here, right out of college at NYU. Why am I here in London? That’s a long story and one I don’t feel like telling right now because it’s Saturday night and I’m enjoying beers with the guys. Well, guys, plus girls who keep coming over to talk to us—same difference.
“That one there is absolutely gagging for it.” The source of those words is one of my room mates, Alex. He’s a pompous twat, as the Brits say. Speaks like the royals but give him one beer and he has none of their grace. His full name is Alexander Frederick Embersome-Evrington the Third. But god love him, he’s a giant goofball, too. If he likes you, truly likes you, he’ll move heaven and earth for you. Or pay someone to do just that.
Now, he’s pointing to a leggy blond. No meat on her bones. Not much shorter than me at six two. She’s sporting a face full of make-up and an obvious sequin dress, as short as something Taylor Swift would wear. It’s out of place in the old English pub but I’m guessing she’s headed from here to a club in Soho.
“I’m bagging that one,” Alex tells me, totally self-assured, and probably right to be.
“Go get your Saturday night,” I tell him. Leaning back against the bar, I watch him make a move to work his magic.
My buddy, Sean, turns from the bar and hands me another beer, double parking me. I drain my first as I accept the second.
“How does he do it?” Sean asks, as the blonde giggles and falls happily under Alex’s arm.
Tim, a guy I work with, extricates himself from blondie’s friends and joins our conversation. “Alex is so fucking obnoxious, yet he pulls the hottest women every time. Maybe I’ll start acting like a knobhead twenty-four-seven.”
I laugh because it’s both true and well-meant. “It’s that baby-blond, preppy boy look,” I tell them.
“If I ever have a son, I’m sending him to boarding school to give him a start in life. The ladies love it.”
We banter with each other a lot. It doesn’t mean shit. We all have each other’s backs: Alex, Tim, Sean and me. We make up four of our usual Saturday night six-some. Tim and Sean were the first guys I met when I moved across the pond. Tim sits in the office next to mine. He’s shit hot when it comes to investing in securities and showed me the ropes when I started at the fund.
Sean is a snooker player. A pro snooker player. He and Alex are childhood buddies and tried to hustle me one night. We still laugh about that.
I mentioned our six-some. The other two are Jess and Abby. I live with Jess. She’s fucking awesome. I mean, certifiably nuts, but such a laugh. Abby is Sean’s much finer other half. She’s hot as hell and always looks stunning, even if you catch her on an errands day. I guess she feels like she has to make an effort all the time since she’s had years of being pictured in magazines with Sean. Generally, though, they do all right in bars as a couple. By that, I mean they don’t generally get recognized unless some guy knows his snooker well.
The girls will be here shortly. Jess is taking part in a fashion show tonight and Abby is modeling. Jess designs clothes and accessories, which she sells in boutiques around the city. Her brand name is slowly getting out there, helped by her regular fashion column in a free magazine they give out on the city’s underground system. Tonight, it’s only her accessories being used by other clothes designers but it’s still pretty awesome.
“Hey, Jake, did you go check out some bikes today?” Sean asks.
I swallow the ale in my mouth. “Yeah, man. I saw a fucking sweet Harley. I’m torn between that and the Yamaha I saw last week.”
“I’ll never understand motorbikes,” Tim says. “It’s like suicide. Especially in the city. In any case, you can’t really get your speed up, so where’s the fun?”
“It beats the traffic. Plus, I can take her out on a weekend and tear up some dirt,” I tell him.
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, you tell me every fucking day, man.”
“You should think about it, Timmy,” Sean says. “Might help you and that ginger mullet pick up a woman.”
“Mate, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Ginger is in,” Tim counters.
“He’s right, Sean. Ed Sheeran and Prince Harry have made red cool.”
Sean looks from me to Tim, seeming to contemplate the not-at-all-serious discussion seriously. Then he says, “Nah, I don’t buy it. You’ll always be a ginger loser to me, Tim.”
We’re all laughing when a slender hip accidentally on purpose bumps into me. Its owner flutters her eyelids, moving away from the bar with a glass of rosé wine in her hand. “I’m so sorry about that,” she says.
I subtly give her a once over. She’s wearing tight white jeans, a black fitted vest that fastens by one button at her navel, and under which she’s sporting nothing but a push-up bra. Too obvious. But she did make the effort, so I’ll kill ten minutes on her.
“You always this clumsy?” I ask, twisting to face her.
She giggles like an airhead—high-pitched and way overzealously. “Not always. Just when I’m in a fluster. Hey, is that an American accent?”
After giving up on trying to hear her name above the music in the bar and spending ten minutes listening to her tell me how much she’d love to visit Manhattan one day, I’m checking my watch. Sean and Tim have found a group of guys we know and have no intention of rescuing me. Alex seems to have disappeared with the blonde. Most likely to her place or the bathrooms—he’s a swift mover. Come on, Jess.
As if in answer to my call for help, I see Jess make her way up the stairs and into the bar with Abby.
I motion to the bar tender and when I have his attention, I order a glass of pinot noir for Jess and a sem-sauv for Abby.
“Sorry, babe, it’s been good talking to you but I’ve got to go. Make sure you see Manhattan one day,” I tell the irritating girl by my side as I move away from the bar.
Sean gets to Abby and Jess at the same time I do. After I give the girls their drinks, Sean steals Abby away.
When I’m left with Jess, I look her up and down, not subtly at all. She’s wearing skinny jeans with turn-ups. She has on bright red heels—killer heels that make her already fine legs more than three inches longer—they have a small red and white check bow on the side, secured with a black button. I recognize the design as one of hers. I trail my eyes up those fine legs to her blouse. In true Jess style, it’s quirky, maybe even a little outrageous but not as much as some of her stuff. This is a chiffon blouse, layers of red, black and white fabric. For all the layers, the cut brings it in at the waist and sits neatly over her perfectly formed tits, dipping just enough to tease at the cleavage.
Her long brown hair has been pinned loosely and a few rogue strands hang down. I consider her face. She pouts for me, displaying her bright red lipstick. Her eyes are natural looking but darkened with liner. Her cheeks have been bronzed but not overly so. In one ear she has a gold stud. In the other, one dangling leaf.
“So?” she asks, sipping her pinot.
I rock my head from side to side, as if deliberating. “Show me your bag.” She holds up a black clutch—I know the style because she’s told me before. The top of the purse is folded like an envelope, the triangle red, with a button to match her shoes. “I’d say you’re like a seven.”
“Seven? I’ll take it!”
I try not to let the size of my smile show. My night just improved ten-fold. Jess is my favorite person in England. My reason for being here these days, I guess you could say.