He nods professionally. “You’re welcome. It’s always rewarding to see a client make as much progress as you have.”
“Aw, shucks.”
“Now, get on that plane and don’t ever look back,” he advises.
TUESDAY, APRIL 20, 2:19 P.M.
Jude.Weatherington:
Pick you up at Heathrow tmrrw nite?
Libby.Foster:
I’ll just take a cab
Jude.Weatherington:
Sure?
Libby.Foster:
Yes. I’ll be tired. And it’ll be late-ish
Jude.Weatherington:
It’s no bother, really
Libby.Foster:
I’ll be fine. Thanks, though. I’ll call you Thursday
Jude.Weatherington:
OK
Safe travels
Several minutes pass. The status line keeps saying, Jude.Weatherington is writing… but nothing else pops up until finally:
Jude.Weatherington:
Itll b good to c u
I sit there wondering what he really wrote and decided against until Lisa knocks on the wall and pops her head over the partition. I quickly close the IM window, but not before she sees it was up.
She smiles slyly. “Mm-hmm. Somebody a little excited for your arrival?”
I duck my head as we walk to the break room for our afternoon pops. “I think we both are.”
“I don’t blame you. But Zoe and I expect a full report as soon as you have access to a computer.” She pauses, then says, “Well, maybe not a full report. We just want to know the basics. You know, how the trip went, how the talk went, and if you got laid.”
“Thanks for respecting my privacy.” I smile.
“It doesn’t have to be a long email,” she allows.
We’re still laughing when we get to the break room, but I stop as I realize this will be our last trip like this.
“What?” she asks, alarmed by my sudden seriousness.
Feeling foolish and maudlin, I answer, “Nothing. Aww… we’re outta Kit Kats!” hoping to pass off my sentimentality as disappointment.
“You’re hopeless. And I hate you. You eat, what, one of those a day? And look at you! Tiny waist and big boobs. No wonder Jude’s all over you.”
“No, he’s not!” Only in my dreams.
“Well,” she smirks, “he will be. You’ll only have to lick your lips, and he’ll take that as invitation enough.”
“Lisa!” I blush while I try and fail several times to get the pop machine to take my dollar.
“Come off it. You’re not the innocent little virgin anymore.” She takes the dollar from me and gets it to go into the machine on the first try while I gape at her.
“What?” she asks when she turns around and sees my face. “It was easy.”
“You knew?”
“Knew what? How to put a dollar into a vending machine? Yeah. Mommy 101.”
I narrow my eyes at her, trying to figure out if she’s being intentionally obtuse. I decide she is. “How’d you know I was”—I look around to make sure we’re really alone, and whisper—“intact?”
She throws her head back and gives one of her familiar barking laughs.
I hit the button for a Dr. Pepper and wait for her to respond.
Finally, she says, “‘Intact’? What is this, 1928?”
“Just keep your voice down,” I mutter from behind my can. “Or does everyone already know?”
More soberly but still grinning, she answers, “No. Don’t get all purse-lipped and uptight. I just knew. I inferred, let’s say.”
“You haven’t been reading my emails too, have you?”
“I know you’re kidding. Or else we’re not friends anymore.” She buys her own Diet Coke and confides, “Some people have gay-dar. I have the virginity equivalent. Zoe was, too, when she first started working here, if it makes you feel any better. But she’s made up a lot of ground since then.”
“Well, Zoe,” I respond. “That seems a lot more obvious. I was never mousey or shy.”
“But you had a ‘fight or flight’ argument with yourself every time someone with a penis walked into the same room as you. I could see it in your eyes.” She nudges me toward the break room doorway, as if herding me back to packing up my desk.
“Well, screw me!” I say in astonishment.
Drily, she replies, “I think I’ll leave that up to Jude. From what I gather, he’s pretty darn good at it.”
“Hot towel?”
“Why, yes, thank you. Oh, and thanks for the refill on my drink, too.”
“My pleasure. What else can I get you? Blanket, pillow? Since you’re the only one on this flight, I’m at your beck and call.”
“A blanket would be great, thanks. What’s the in-flight movie?”
“The Natural. A classic.”
“Oooh, my favorite! I love when Robert Redford and Glen Close meet up in the café, and you can tell they love each other, but they’re so awkward because they haven’t seen each other in such a long time. But the spark… it’s still there.”
“And we should be landing right after the movie ends.”
“But I thought the flight was eight hours?”
“Not today. We have some good tail winds, and the pilot’s in a hurry. Plus we’re flying a brand new plane that can go three times faster than the old models.”
“Awesome.”
“You’re also staying at the same hotel as the flight crew, so we’ll drive you there. That is, if you don’t mind sharing a car with us.”
“No, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. It’ll be nice to not have to figure out where I’m going or how to get a cab. I’ve been awake for more than 24 hours. So excited for my trip.”
“You just relax, then, and enjoy your movie. We’ll take care of everything.”
Anyone who’s traveled at all—much less internationally—knows that my old dreams of being invited to stay at George Clooney’s Italian villa and be his sex slave were more realistic than my fantasy about what my trip would be like when I traveled to the U.K.
No, I don’t recommend solo international travel for someone who’s never even been on a plane before. I was so focused on the destination that I didn’t think of the mode. It was just a given: need to get to London? Take a plane. But air travel is very complicated. And stressful. And crowded.
I spent a lot of time asking questions of anyone who looked remotely like they worked for
