Queen of Babble

I have to admit, it’s something of a relief: I had been wavering between picturing Andrew’s “flat” as being as high tech as Hugh Grant’s in About a Boy, or a garret, like in A Little Princess (which looked very cute once that old guy fixed it up for her), only in a seedier part of town, overlooking a wharf. I’d just been assuming I wouldn’t be able to go walking around his neighborhood by myself after dark for fear of being set upon by heroin addicts. Or Gypsies.

I’m glad to see it’s actually somewhere between the two extremes.

We are, as Mr. Marshall assures me, just a mile away from Hampstead Heath, the park where a lot of famous stuff happened, none of which I actually remember at this current time, and where people go today to have picnics and fly kites.

I’m happily surprised to see that Andrew lives in such a nice, upscale neighborhood. I didn’t think teachers made enough to rent apartments in town houses. No doubt his flat is at the top of one-just like Mickey Rooney’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s! Maybe I’ll get to meet Andrew’s wacky but bighearted neighbors. Maybe I can have them-and Andrew’s parents, to thank Mr. Marshall for the ride from the airport-over for a small supper to show my American hospitality. I can make Mom’s spaghetti due (pronounced doo-ay). It tastes complicated, but nothing could be simpler to make. It’s just pasta, garlic, olive oil, hot pepper flakes, and Parmesan cheese. I’m sure even England would have all the ingredients.

“Well, here we are,” Mr. Marshall says, pulling into a parking space in front of one of the brown-brick town houses and turning off the ignition. “Home sweet home.”

I’m a little surprised that Mr. Marshall is getting out with us. I would have thought he’d have dropped us off and gone on to his own house somewhere-well, wherever Andrew’s family lives, a family that consists, from what I remember him saying in his e-mails, of a teacher father, a social worker mother, two younger brothers, and a collie.

But maybe Mr. Marshall wants to help us with my bags, seeing as how Andrew probably lives on the top floor of the charming town house we’re parked in front of.

Except that when we get to the top of the long flight of steps that leads up to the front door, it’s Mr. Marshall who takes out a key and unlocks it.

And is greeted by the inquisitive gold and white muzzle of a beautiful collie.

“Hello,” Mr. Marshall calls into what I can clearly see is not the foyer of an apartment house, but the entrance to a single-family home. “We’re here!”

I am lugging my carry-on bag while Andrew pulls my wheelie bag up the stairs, not even bothering to lift it, but dragging it up one step at a time-thonk, thonk, thonk. But I swear I nearly drop the bag-hair dryer be damned-when I see that dog.

“Andrew,” I whisper, whirling around, since he’s coming up the steps behind me. “Do you live…at home? With your parents?”

Because, unless he’s dog-sitting, that’s the only explanation I can think of for what I’m seeing. And even that isn’t a very good one.

“Of course,” Andrew says, looking a

Only it comes out sounding like, What did you fink?

“I thought you lived in an apartment,” I say. I am really not trying to sound accusatory. I’m not. I’m just…surprised. “A flat, I mean. You told me, in school last May, that you were getting a flat for the summer when you got back to England.”

“Oh, right,” Andrew says. Since we’ve paused on the steps, he seems to think (fink) this is a good time for a cigarette break and pulls out a pack and lights up.

Well, it was a long trip from the airport. And his father did tell him he couldn’t smoke in the car.

“Yeah, the flat didn’t work out. My mate-you remember, I wrote you about him? He was going to loan me his place, since he got a gig on a pearl farm in Australia. But then he met a bird and decided not to go after all, so I moved in with the parentals. Why? Is that a problem?”

Is that a problem? IS THAT A PROBLEM? All of my fantasies about Andrew bringing me breakfast in bed-his king-size bed, with the thousand-count sheets-crumble into bits and float away. I won’t be making spaghetti due for the neighbors and Andrew’s parents. Well, maybe his parents, but it won’t be the same if they just come down the stairs for it, as opposed to from their own place…

Then I have a thought that causes my blood to run cold.

“But, Andrew,” I say, “I mean, how are you-how are you and I going to-if your parents are around?”

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” Andrew says, blowing smoke out of one side of his mouth in a ma

“Right,” I say. “Sorry. I was just, you know. Sort of surprised. But it really doesn’t matter. As long as we can be together. Your parents really won’t mind? About us sharing a bedroom, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Andrew says, sort of distractedly, giving my suitcase a yank. Thonk. “About that. I don’t actually have a bedroom in this house. See, my parents moved here with my brothers this past year, while I was in America. I’d told them I wouldn’t be coming home summers, you know, but that was before I had those troubles with my student visa…Anyway, they figured, you know, I’d basically moved out, so they only got a three-bedroom. But don’t worry, I’m-how do you say it in the States? Right, bunking up-I’m bunking up with my brother Alex-”

I look at Andrew on the step below me. He’s so tall that even when he’s standing below me, I still have to tilt my chin up a little to look into his gray-green eyes.

“Oh, Andrew,” I say, my heart melting. “Your other brother’s given up his room for me? He shouldn’t have!”

A strange look passes across Andrew’s face.

“He didn’t,” Andrew says. “He wouldn’t. You know kids.” He gives me a crooked grin. “But don’t worry, though. My mom’s a whiz at do-it-yourself projects, and she’s rigged up a loft bed for you-well, for me, actually. But you can use it while you’re here.”

I raise my eyebrows. “A loft bed?”

“Yeah, it’s fantastic. She’s made the whole thing out of MDF, in the laundry room. Right over the washer/dryer!” Andrew, seeing my expression, adds, “But don’t worry. She’s strung a curtain up between the laundry room and the kitchen. You’ll have plenty of privacy. No one goes back there anyway, except the dog. That’s where his food bowl is.”

Dog? Food bowl? So…instead of sleeping with my boyfriend, I’ll be sleeping with the family dog. And its food bowl.

That’s okay, though. That’s fine. Educators like Andrew’s dad-and social workers like his mom-don’t make a lot of money, and real estate in England is expensive. I’m lucky they have any room at all for me! I mean, they don’t even have a room for their own eldest child, and they’ve found a way to squeeze in a bed for me!

And why would one of Andrew’s brothers give up his room for me? Just because back home I always had to give up MY room for whatever out-of-town guest was coming to stay doesn’t mean Andrew’s family necessarily does things the same way…

Especially since I’m not even an important visitor. I’m only Andrew’s future wife, after all.

Well, in my mind.

“Come on now,” Andrew says. “Get a move on. I have to change for work.”

I’m about to climb another step when I freeze all over again. “Work? You have to go to work? Today?”

“Yeah.” At least he has the grace to look apologetic. “But it’s no big deal, Liz, I just have to do the lunch and di

“You’re…you’re a waiter?”

I don’t mean to sound pejorative. I don’t. I have nothing against people who work in restaurants, I really don’t. I did my stint in food service just like everybody else, wore the polyester pants with pride.