“Where’s he driving us to?” I question Brody as the driver exits 101 at Trimble Boulevard. The driver starts heading us around the backside of San Jose airport.
“This is where he told me to go,” the driver answers since Brody is busy talking to someone on the phone.
He gives me the “hold-on-a-sec” signal and covers the mic on his phone. “Yeah, this is right.”
Confused, I sit back and look out the window. Is there some kind of special airport access for billionaires? Since I found out about Brody’s financial situation, nothing has changed. Except I no longer feel compelled to contribute when he pays for dinner. That, and my sister’s relentless attempt to get me to introduce her to some of Brody’s rich friends.
The driver pulls up under the portico of a building. The tombstone in front hasSignature Aviation Terminal etched across it. I have a sneaking suspicion we’re not flying coach.
Brody leaves the car and gathers both of our bags. He waits for me as I follow him into a large, well-appointed reception room. The woman at the desk smiles broadly before asking which flight we’re taking. Is this a special gate for rich guys?
Within five minutes, two pilots and a flight attendant come out of a back room. Brody shakes their hands. They share a moment, discussing where in Iraq and Afghanistan they were deployed to. We follow them out of the building.
“How’d you know they were in the service?”
Brody gives me an, of course I knew, smirk. We’re not in Kansas anymore. I pull out my phone; Jazz is going to shit in her pants when she sees this. We’re flying to London on a private jet.
We board the business size jet, which has four comfy-looking leather seats in one group and a second group of the cream-colored furniture including a big couch.
“It’s just the two of us as passengers?” I ask.
Brody looks up briefly and nods.
“Isn’t that an inefficient use of petroleum? Our ecological footprint just exploded.” Not surprisingly, Brody ignores this comment even though I know he heard it. Then again, I’m not rushing off the plane in protest.
“Would you like a drink?” the flight attendant asks.
“How about an orange juice for Brody and me.”
Watching Brody as he talks on the phone makes me realize how tired he must be. His eyes are bloodshot, he hasn’t shaved, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” I ask.
“We’ve been cleared for takeoff,” the flight attendant shares as she brings over our drinks.
As our plane taxis to the runway, Brody turns off his phone. I grasp his hand, I’m an edgy flyer during takeoff and landing. I lean my head against his shoulder.
“It’s a ten-hour flight, why don’t you sleep?” I suggest.
He runs the pads of a fingers along my bottom lip. “I thought we were going to join the Mile High Club.”
“What about the flight attendant?”
“I’m sure she can find someplace to hide out.”
“It seems so seamy to screw here. They’ll all know.” The engine starts and Brody’s eyes start to droop.
“We’ll have this conversation in an hour, I need a quick catnap,” he says as his voice trails off.
***
Getting through Immigration and Customs at three in the morning when you’ve just flown in on a private jet, is a very different experience from flying coach. An Immigrations inspector boards our plane to stamp our passports.
“We’ll get a car to the hotel,” Brody declares.
“Brody, are people awake?”
“Enough to suit me. My European Manager will call me by eight a.m. local time. Which still gives us a couple of hours to check out the sites. Then I’m off to work.”
“I might need to take a nap. You slept for over nine hours, I slept for two.”
“Don’t think I forgot about the Mile High Club.”
“Remind me on the way home.”
“Guess what I’m thinking about now?”
“Taking a boat down the Thames, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey?” I ask.
“Joke all you want, but now I’m on London time and I’m thinking that hotel room sex would be fun. We’ve never had hotel room sex.”
I’m learning that nonverbal communication works well with him. I smile, grab a hold of his hand, and give it a quick squeeze. Breaking in a hotel bed sounds fine to me.
***
Brody heads off to work while I take a boat down the Thames to Greenwich and go on a wonderful tour of the Royal Observatory. Then I head to the café for a cup of tea.
Brody:Dinner is at 8 p.m. Dress up.
Yikes, my idea of dressing up is what I’m wearing: boots, jeans, and a sweater.
Ana:How dressed up?
Brody:Dressy
Ana:I didn’t bring anything dressy
Brody:They have stores in London. This is for me, I’ll pay.
Brody will be wearing a suit, what do I even buy? Then I realize I have a secret weapon, my sister. Still in the café, I Skype her.
“Ana what’s wrong?” her voice is groggy. I forget about the time difference...oops, I woke her up.
“I’m so confused about the time. It’s noon in Greenwich.”
“What are you doing in Connecticut?”
“England. I’m at the museum.”
“Ana, it’s four in the morning. What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t get my texts? Brody flew me to London. He’s working, but he told me to meet him for dinner, I’m to show up dressy. He’s wearing a suit. What should I wear?”
“Wait, what!”
“Jazz, stay focused. I need a nice outfit.”
“Is Brody paying?”
“Why should he pay? They’re clothes for me.”
“Ana, he wants you to dress up for his event. You need to get him to pay. I know the perfect person in London. I’ve worked with her, she’s wonderful. Wait. Let me text her. She’ll set you up with an outfit, it’ll be marvelous.”
“Jazz, is marvelous a euphemism for expensive?”
“I’ll get Gemma to text you when and where to meet. Your job is to get Brody to pay.”
Ana:My sister’s hooking me up with a fashion person. This is way out of my budget.
Brody: Do it. Don’t say no, do this as a favor for me.
I meet up with Gemma who takes me on a whirlwind shopping spree at all these fancy London shops. I wind up buying a blush-colored, knit Reiss dress that fits me like a glove and LK Bennett nude pumps.
“That’s what Kate wears,” Gemma says, when she has me try them on.
We pick out a MaxMara cashmere coat along with a nude-toned Valentino purse, which is so shockingly expensive that my hands started shaking when Gemma chooses it. But Brody said it was okay. Gemma then takes me to Sephora. Her friend is the manager there and they make me buy mascara, some eye pencils – that she says I need to give my eyes a “smoky look”, and a light lipgloss.
Feeling like the Julia Roberts character fromPretty Women, except for the whole hooker thing, I’m now exhausted. After thanking Gemma for all her help, I head back to the hotel for a nap. I’m pretty sure I’ve missed a full night’s sleep. After my nap, I get up and dress. I catch myself in the mirror; I look like thecliché rags-to-riches-princess.
Brody:A driver will be waiting for you in the lobby at 7:30 p.m.
In the lobby, I quickly find a guy with a tablet displaying my name. Dressed so fancy, I feel all old- world elegant. He drives me to what I can tell is an exclusive restaurant. Upon entering, the maître d has someone take my coat and then he escorts me to a private room. There are a number of people mostly men in suits, chatting away. This must be one crazy-ass girlfriend test. With a deep breath and feeling like Cinderella, I plaster on a smile and walk up to Brody.
As soon as Brody sees me, he takes a second look. His pupils dilate and his face breaks into a big smile. A facial expression I don’t think any of these people have ever seen on him. He pulls me close and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“This was worth every penny,” he mumbles into my ear.