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“Bowling.”
“Bowling, bloody hell? I didn’t even know you could get scholarships for that!” he wailed. That was when Sarah realized she needed to come to my defense.
“Oh, in the States, yes! It’s hugely competitive, and Chelsea is one of the best.”
“Enough about me,” I said. “How did you two meet?”
The woman, A
“Shut up!” Sarah exclaimed. “Of course we’ve heard of you!” Even I, whose music library consists solely of Whitney Houston’s and Hilary Duff’s greatest hits, knew the Eagles were a big band. I couldn’t believe we were talking to Don Henley and his wife.
They went on to regale us with stories of touring through New Zealand and Ireland and of all the crazy drugs they had done, and parties they had gone to. I, of course, loved this part of the conversation, and asked them very pointed questions about the various strains of Ecstasy they were able to get their hands on. More important, the minute I heard the word “Ireland,” I needed to find out everything I could about leprechauns, but I knew that would be a hard word to say in a fake English accent. I was mouthing it silently to myself for several seconds until he asked me if I was okay.
“What are those tiny little green men called?” I asked.
“Frogs?”
“No, the ones that live in Ireland.”
All three of my companions looked at me, concerned, until Sarah came to my aid. “She likes little things,” she informed them. “She’s talking about leprechauns.”
“Anyway,” he went on, “we fell in love, managed to stay in love, and here we are today, past our prime, but happy as two clams at a swap meet.”
Sarah was practically drooling every time the guy opened his mouth. She couldn’t believe that we had run into such an icon at some random fish-and-chips restaurant. “This is so crazy!” she repeated, over and over and over again.
“Do you have any children?’ she asked them.
“No,” they responded. “How about the two of you?”
Sarah said no, and I was about to do the same until I remembered that I did indeed have two prides of joy.
“I do,” I told them. “I’ve got a nine-year-old and a fourteen-year-old. Different fathers.”
“What are their names?” the wife politely inquired.
“Earl…and Earl.”
Sarah interrupted me with more questions to him about all the awards his band had won and all the hit songs they’ve recorded. He was very flattered and downplayed everything. He was humble, and it was charming.
I was relieved that the attention had shifted from me, but was also regaining my confidence and wanted to give my accent another shot without talking about my personal history.
“So let me ask you,” I interrupted. “What is it like having to compete with all these other Brits who seem to be stealing your thunder. Amy Winehouse, Lily Allen, Shakira.”
“Can we get the check?” Sarah yelled to our server across the restaurant.
“Cheers,” I told them both as we got up to leave after paying our bill in a flurry.
“Cheers,” they said and kissed Sarah good-bye. They awkwardly smiled at me and opted for a handshake. Then Don handed Sarah his card before we walked out the door.
“You should write fairy tales,” Sarah said, wrapping her scarf around her neck. “I have no idea why you write real stories when you’ve obviously got an imagination on par with J. K. Rowling.”
“I prefer to think of it as quick in a bind.”
“No, Chelsea, quick in a bind is when you have to make up something fast. Your lies are completely u
“Why would they cross your mind, Sarah? I’m the one who’s thinking them.”
“It’s truly fascinating,” she said. “I think there’s a pretty strong chance you could be a full-blown sociopath.”
“I wouldn’t argue that,” I replied.
Sarah took the card Don Henley had give her out of her pocket and squinted while trying to read his name. “Chelsea, what does this say?”
“What?” I asked, leaning in to look at it.
“Does this say ‘The Equals’?”
“Oh my God.”
“Oh my God, I’m so stupid. And his name is Pat Lloyd. I thought that was Don Henley.”
“So did I. By the way, I have no idea what Don Henley looks like.”
“Me neither,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t humiliate myself in front of a music legend, that’s all I have to say.”
“I’m sure at some point you will.”
I lay awake in my hotel room later that night listening to Sarah snore and wondering why no one else I knew ever seemed to get themselves into the situations I did. I was officially thirty and wondered if there was an age when this kind of behavior should be curbed.
After much deliberation coupled with back-to-back hiccups, I decided to blame the English. They were responsible for my feeling ashamed of my Native American-Jewish-Mormon roots. Had they not subjected me to such blatant discrimination, I would never have tried to use a fake accent in order to blend in with all the other Great Britainers.
I prayed that night. Not only for England, but for my children. I hoped both Earls never had to face the adversity I had seen that night at Dans le Noir. I prayed for their future, for their well-being, and most of all I prayed for them to have ma
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah and I had been back from London for almost two months, in which time she had landed herself another man. Lydia, Ivory, and I met Sarah for breakfast and were grilling her about the new guy she had started seeing. “He’s really sweet,” Sarah informed us.
“He’s Hungarian,” Ivory said, correcting her. Ivory doesn’t often mince her words and has a different way of expressing herself than I do. Her style is more direct and she doesn’t lie. While she is a very supportive friend, she makes no bones about telling people the absolute truth no matter what. When, months earlier, I had gotten my eyebrows bleached in hopes of making my hair color look more natural, she said, “You look like an albino, and not one of the fun ones. You need to get your money back and have them fix it. If they can’t fix it, you’re better off without any at all.”
“Who cares if he’s Hungarian?” Lydia said, defending Sarah. “What’s important is the way he treats her.”
“Does he have a big penis?” I asked.
“Not sure,” Sarah said.
“What does that mean?” Ivory asked.
“We’ve only dry humped,” Sarah told us.
By the way Ivory reacted to this information, you would have thought Sarah had told her that she had become romantically involved with Flavor Flav.
“Dry humping is disgusting,” Ivory declared, throwing her fork down onto the table. “It’s for junior high-schoolers. What is the point of a guy lying on top of you fully clothed, and then coming in his pants? What does that even mean?”
“It obviously means that the two people involved are at the begi