Chapter 31
izzy
“Your technique is flawless, Izzy. I don’t think it will take long for you to feel confident about auditioning for theatre, especially if you keep dancing every day.”
I can’t hide my happiness as my dance teacher speaks. “Thanks, Francesca. I’m really enjoying getting back into it. It feels like forever since I had to concentrate on the mechanics of it all. I’m having so much fun.”
“I can spread the word, if you like, see if anyone is auditioning? It wouldn’t necessarily be in London but if you don’t mind travel, I think we can find a theatre company.”
“I would love that, thanks so much.”
We leave the dance studio in London’s West End and head off in different directions. I walk west, back toward my apartment, excited about the stop I am making on the way.
I reach Sam’s music store just before he closes for the day. It’s a small place in Notting Hill. Old green wood is marked quite simply with “SAM’S” above the entrance. The window is lined with sheet music, everything from the Beatles to Faith Hill.
A bell rings as I enter. “Sam?” He’s nowhere to be seen, which I have come to realize means he is probably drinking tea with three sugars out back.
He totters in, hunched from age in his old cricket jumper. “Izzy. She’s ready for you.”
I clap excitedly and do a little jig on the spot. Sam lifts my new six-string acoustic from its leather travel case behind the counter. “I’ve been calling her Betty, after my late wife,” Sam says. “I think it suits her. Especially with that floral shoulder strap you had me put on.”
I take hold of the guitar, pull the strap over my shoulder, and strum. “She sounds perfect, Sam. Betty, huh? I like it.”
I carry Betty in her case back to my apartment and up to my bedroom. I take another look inside my wardrobe and a thrill runs through me. At a guess, I would say 70 percent of my designer labels are currently being sold online.
I sit down on the bed with Betty and a notepad and pencil. I write a song about a lost love. I call it “Betty.” I sing the words:
NO ONE WILL EVER REPLACE YOU, MY LOVE.
I FOUND IN YOU SOMETHING THAT WILL STAY WITH ME FOR A LIFTIME.
But I don’t see Sam’s late wife in my mind. I see one man. The man. I see Brooks.
As I’m playing “Betty” for the tenth time, or maybe more, Anna comes into my room. She looks at the almost empty wardrobe then at me.
“I still can’t believe you’re selling your clothes. What is even scarier is that you’ve cut up your credit cards. And what is scarier still is that you seem happy about all this.”
I laugh and shrug. “I’m twenty-eight, Anna. It’s about time I started standing on my own two feet.”
“This isn’t like the time you went vegan, is it? Because if you change your mind in three weeks, you can’t just get the clothes back.”
“No, Anna, it’s not like that. Oh, hey, hold Betty.” I hand over the guitar as I move around to the other side of my bed.
“Betty?” I ignore Anna’s question.
“There is one thing I decided not to sell.” I take out my latest Mulberry, the one Anna desperately wanted when I bought the last one in the store, and hand it to her. “It’s yours. For putting up with my tears.”
Her eyes fill and I hold her to me, smiling. I cried over losing the love of my life. She cries over being given a Mulberry. I see how ridiculous I must have seemed to Brooks when we first met.
“All right, all right.” She pulls back and wipes the mascara shadows from under her eyes. “What are you wearing to Marybella and Edward’s engagement party tonight?”
“Urgh.”
“Izzy, stop. You said you would come. They are big family friends and you’re shocking Mummy enough at the moment without refusing to go tonight.”
“Fine. I don’t know. I kept a few dresses. Can I wear black in honor of the inevitable divorce?”
“What a thing to say! Why would they get divorced?”
“Because she craves attention and money and he craves other women and money.”
“Ergo, they have a lot in common.”
I can’t help but laugh. “True.”
* * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Rochester
Welcome you to celebrate the
Engagement
Of
Marybella Elizabeth Charlotte Rochester
And
Edward Harold George Wellington-Purrell
I stare at the gold-embossed sign at the entrance to the Rochesters’ ten-bedroom home in Mortlake, one of the wealthiest suburbs of London. Anna and I went to school with Marybella. Mrs. Rochester, or Victoria, is one of the leading LOLs—ladies of leisure—in my mother’s clan.
I can imagine Brooks reading the sign and saying something like, Who needs all those names? You only use one. I curl my fingers against my clutch—gold, like my shoes, because Anna said I had to add some color to the black dress. I feel my mobile through the material of my bag and wonder whether I should call Brooks, or just text him. See how he’s doing. See what he’s doing.
“Isabella, come on, darling.”
My mother calls from the top of the steps leading to the Rochesters’ home, her arm linked through my father’s. She’s in a silver- and blue-sequined dress, he in black tie. Anna has already found a friend and gone inside. I’m quite pleased; her fuchsia dress was beginning to hurt my eyes.
The house has been turned into a gala hall, with waiters serving canapes and champagne as a concert harpist plays in one corner.
“Ah, Isabella, how wonderful to see you.” Claudia Huckleberry almost swings me by the shoulders to face her. I perform the obligatory air kisses. “It has been too long. Your mother told me about your new book. She’s very proud. Said it’s a best-seller. New York Times, is it? A thriller, isn’t it? Oh, excuse me, I must say hello to Helena Delaney. Her daughter just got the results for her pre-university testing. It hasn’t gone well. Everyone knows about it. Helena will be distraught. We’ll speak soon.”
And I was just about to say hello, Claudia. Shame.
As a waiter passes, I take a glass of champagne. From the next, I take a caviar canape.
“Darling, do be careful,” my mother says. “We are having a three-course dinner. You don’t want to overeat. I didn’t think you drank alcohol these days.”
“Mmm, yeah, it’s a new me,” I say, purposely leaving caviar in my mouth as I speak. I know I’m turning over a new leaf and doing things for me rather than to piss off my parents but, well, I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, at least.
“Isabella, do not embarrass us this evening.”
“I would never, Mummy.”
A marquee has been erected in the grounds at the back of the house. It is lavish inside. Crystal chandeliers, red carpets, white-clothed tables with tall floral centerpieces. They’re going to have to really up their game for the wedding. As I think that, I snort-laugh at my own wit. People already seated at my designated table scrutinize me, then get back to their conversations. I take my seat, recognizing some of the faces from Chelsea’s social scene. Boy-girl seating has been enforced, with a rule that we all rotate two seats to the left at the end of every course.
“Hi, I’m Marcus Hendrickson.” I take the hand offered to me by the guy to my left. He’s kind of puny but his suit has been cut to fit his thin shoulders and skinny arms. He has a big forehead that I think is shiny from face cream. His hair is slicked back with so much product he looks like Leonardo DiCaprio’s version of Jay Gatsby.
Brooks wears a suit far better than this guy, or any of the five men at this table, for that matter.
“Nice to meet you, Marcus. I’m Izzy.”
“Izzy…?”
Trying not to roll my eyes, I tell him, “Coulthard. Izzy Coulthard.” Now he can mentally assess whether I’m worth talking to. Whether I might be able to do anything for his social standing.
“Oh, you’re Izzy Coulthard. I heard about your book deal. The stunt with the roughneck. Brilliant idea. I bet that sold a few extra copies.” He sort of laughs and sort of chokes on his red wine as he speaks. Whatever he does, it’s disgusting. “You know, I’ve been thinking about doing something similar, trying to get close to reality TV stars, to put my name on the map, so to speak.”
If Brooks were here, I think there’s a good chance he would punch this Marcus guy in his upturned nose. Since he isn’t here…
“For your information, Marcus, it wasn’t a stunt.” I rise, my chair scraping the floor as I stand. “Brooks Adams is a million times the man you could ever hope to be.”
I drain the wine from my glass and bang the empty down on the table. Then I leave the damn party and the farce of everything that is my life in London.
* * * *
“Look, I told you I didn’t want to be there. The guy was a dick.”
Anna stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, looking a little green since she started eating a slice of toast for breakfast. Maybe she should have slept off more of her hangover first.
“You know what, Izzy, why don’t you just go back to New York if you prefer it so much?”
I put my headphones into my ears. “Be careful what you wish for, Anna. I’m going for a run.”
I set my wristwatch and start a half marathon. I run through Chelsea, Kensington, around Hyde Park, checking my watch at each mile. By the time I reach thirteen miles, I have shaved eight minutes off my best-ever time.
I bend forward and drag air into my lungs, then start to walk off the run. My smile is so wide, my cheeks ache. At the next store I pass, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I buy a chocolate bar. I take it to a bench in St. James’ Park and I watch people walking by as I enjoy my treat, square by square. Brooks was right. If you work hard, a reward is fine. I don’t feel guilty at all.
Working on cardio with Brooks was what got me to my best time today too. I take my phone from the bottom pouch of my yoga pants and snap a selfie.
I type the words:
YOU SHAVED EIGHT MINUTES OFF MY HALF MARATHON WITH YOUR BRUTAL CARDIO.
YOU KNOW THE SAYING, NOTHING TASTES AS GOOD AS SKINNY FEELS? WELL, IT’S BULLSHIT. THIS CHOCOLATE BAR TASTES BLOODY AMAZING.
I hesitate before finally hitting Send and enjoying the last of my sweet treat.