The part that has been dormant for some years.
The part I learned to live with, thanks to therapy after my mom died.
I practice some of the mantras that helped me through that time.
The past is the past.
Be kind, be gracious, be present.
Then be on your way.
With my chin up and my best blouse on, I weave through the weekend crowds on the streets of London, jostling elbows, bumping shoulders, and missing every crosswalk sign, it seems.
As I wait at the light, a truck swings past me, blowing dust and debris from the street. Stepping back, I cover my mouth as I cough, eyes watering.
I turn away from the garbage swirl and into a haze of cigarette smoke. A man in black slacks and a blue button-down puffs absently, gazing into the distance, his eyes annoyed. Maybe he’s a banker, working on a Sunday, pissed he’s at the desk.
I fan my hand in front of my face like that’ll dissipate the smoke, then at last, I cross the street. As I reach the curb, a harried woman laden with shopping bags rushes past me. I stop short, letting her pass, and she shoots me a searing look. For what reason, I don’t know.
But I know this—I don’t like this London.
It’s not the London I experienced yesterday with Heath, or the night before with my co-workers.
Maybe I’ve stepped into another half of the city—my father’s London.
I reach the fancy department store of Fortnum & Mason and head into the tea salon. That’s his style. He’s very afternoon tea.
I find him at a table in the back. He stands, smooths a hand down the front of his crisp dress shirt, then gives a bare smile when I reach him.
“Hello, Josephine,” he says, then wraps his arms around me in an awkward hug. I accept it awkwardly too.
When was the last time we hugged with any warmth? I haven’t even seen him since he visited Columbia a few years ago for a symposium.
He lets go, gestures to a chair. “Sit. Have some tea. Do you still like English breakfast?”
“I never liked English Breakfast. I prefer coffee,” I say.
“Ah, right. Let’s get you some coffee, then, and talk about work,” he says.
My shoulders sag.
Work.
Always work.
But then, that’s all we have to discuss. What else is there?
Listen, Jo, let’s talk about the fact that I shacked up with your bestie. What it’ll take for you to forgive me?
He won’t say that because he doesn’t see it as a transgression. At the time, he saw it as his romantic right, and I doubt that’s changed.
I open the menu, perusing pastries and tea sandwiches I’ve no interest in eating. But it’s easier to stare at the page—it passes some of the time.
When the waiter arrives, my father orders Earl Grey and I opt for a bubbly water. The waiter’s brow knits. “A seltzer?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Very well, then,” he says, then sweeps off.
My father arches a brow. “Seltzer, not coffee? Trying to keep me on my toes?”
Yes, Dad, it’s all about you, my beverage choices. “I already had coffee. I really only like to have one a day.”
“Ah. Right. You’re naturally caffeinated,” he says, and I wince a little. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
This should warm my heart, this little detail he remembers about me. But it doesn’t.
“Yes, that’s me.” I spread the linen napkin in my lap. “So, how are your students?”
That’s innocuous enough.
He spends the next ten minutes telling me about the classes he’s teaching. The waiter brings our drinks, and my dad lifts his cup, offering a toast. “To London,” he says, “and all the opportunities in front of you.”
I tap my glass to his and mutter, “Cheers.”
“Now, let’s talk about these opportunities,” he says. “Tell me the projects you’re working on. The auctions. It’s a much more complicated world here than in New York, especially for someone new to the city.”
Like you were ten years ago when you fell in love with my best friend, relocated to London, and changed your life?
“Sure. New York is Podunk, USA, compared to London,” I say drily.
My sarcasm isn’t lost on him. He sighs heavily. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“It’s different handling auctions for HighSmith in London than Bancroft in New York.”
I can’t resist the bait. “And what’s the difference?”
He takes a long pull of his tea then sets it down. “One is a distinguished auction house. The other is a mere upstart.”
I grip my seltzer glass so hard I’m afraid it might break. “I didn’t work for a mere upstart in New York, Arthur. I won the Abernathy collection. I competed against HighSmith, Christie’s, and Sotheby’s, and won. I was hardly at an upstart.”
He nods like he’s absorbing my points. “That’s all well and good, but it’s not the same. It’s like the difference between curating at The Met versus curating at a local university museum.”