Don't Look Back (2 page)

Nowadays, she is a legal secretary in an upscale London solicitor’s firm in the financial district. On a few occasions, we’ve met on her lunch break in London for a quick catch-up. Standing on the street
outside her office waiting for her, I’m always amazed when she struts out in an immaculate business suit complete with crisp white blouse, coordinating accessories, and three-inch heels. She never fails to look gorgeous and professional, leaving me to feel like a slob in my jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes—usually my choice in comfort fashion whenever I am traveling.

I can’t imagine how she is going to react to seeing me; I chuckle at the thought. Neither Di nor her husband, Terry, has any inclination that I am on my way over. In fact, I replied to an email yesterday wishing her a wonderful birthday weekend. We email regularly, and remarkably, distance has not hindered the friendship at all.

With the exception of a two-year period when we lost touch, our contact has remained consistent. When we were young, we used to write to each other monthly via aerogram, sharing photographs and stories. I went back to England a couple of times as a teenager, and she and Terry made the journey to California while I was at college, when Di and I were barely twenty-one. She has only been back once since, but I usually see her when I make the journey home. The friendship has been important to both of us, and we both have put in the effort over the years.

Jenny, Diana’s older sister, is the one who reached out asking if I could make a quick trip over, and I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Jenny and I exchanged a few secret messages as I confirmed my details, and she is thrilled that I was able to pull it off. I am using our American Express points for the flight and hotels, so the trip isn’t costing me much.
It didn’t take much to persuade Dave to let me come; I have Allie situated for the weekend, so he doesn’t seem to be put out that I am disappearing.

Six hours into the flight, my excitement has given way to boredom as time begins to drag. I’ve already watched a movie and dined on vegetable lasagna. Now, feeling the urge to stretch my cramped legs, I decide to take a walk. I unbuckle my belt, and seeing that the aisle is clear of flight attendants, I head to the restroom toward the rear of the plane. The air is stuffy and warm as I make my way down the narrow aisle, the cabin dimly lit as most passengers are either sleeping or watching their personal television screens. The flight is only about two-thirds full, and I spot several open seats. It’s even less crowded farther back toward the rear.

I find the restroom vacant, and stepping in, I slide the lock. I catch my reflection in the mirror of the constricted lavatory. I am unprepared to see the person staring back. I still feel young inside, but this woman looking back at me is middle-aged and tired. I sigh, running my fingers through my hair, freeing some small tangles and creating static. I hardly recognize myself anymore; I have lost sight of the person I used to be.

I recently cut off fourteen inches from my hair and have transitioned back to natural brown after years of being a bottle blonde. I have a few subtle highlights framing my face that look fairly natural and blend in well with my new shoulder-length bob, but I am still adjusting to my new look. My skin is probably my best feature, as I don’t have to wear makeup at almost forty. That asset, I proudly claim, is from my British heritage; the first fourteen years
of my life, I was protected by gloomy weather with little sun exposure. My blue eyes are the only feature that I do recognize. They have not changed much, except that they’ve faded a little over time with the harsh reality of all that comes with life. They don’t sparkle like they did when I was young, the way Allie’s do. Finishing up, I wash my hands and step out to head back to the confines of my seat.

I must have dozed off halfway through the second movie. I am awakened by the scent of fresh, clean, lemons wafting through the cabin as hot towelettes are handed out by cheerful flight attendants. My body clock is in confusion, my eyes feel parched and raw, and my neck is stiff, but my spirit feels energized. I smile, knowing that in less than two hours I will be on home soil.

CHAPTER 2

Harptree

It’s just after ten o’clock on Saturday morning in London, and I have managed to make it out of Heathrow Airport, luggage intact. I smoothly catch the express train into Paddington Station and hop on the Central line tube to Liverpool Street Station without any delays.

Sitting at a café on the upper platform, listening to the rain on the glass roof above me, I’m enjoying a quick cup of steaming tea and a fruit scone while watching the organized chaos on the platform below: the constant arrivals and departures of trains, the herds of people scattering in different directions, the station flowing like a well-oiled machine. The pedestrians below walk briskly under the departure board suspended high above the station’s main
floor, most of them engrossed in texting on their phones, maneuvering effortlessly through the crowds. They’re smartly dressed in London fashion, umbrellas tucked under their arms, keeping to themselves as the British do. It is quite something to watch and to listen to, as a multitude of sounds combine to make the music of the station.

My train to Harptree is leaving on platform three shortly, so I begin to make my way downstairs, my body lagging slightly from the time change. It took me several years to learn the art of traveling light; hauling suitcases up and down flights of stairs in the London Underground and railway stations is not an enjoyable experience, especially with a child in tow. Today, I only have my small suitcase and carry-on, which I can manage easily. Pulling my ticket out of my front pocket, I feed it into the ticket reader at the platform entrance and manage to maneuver my small case through the gate and down the deserted platform.

Embarking the train about halfway down coach C, I stow my luggage in the rack and take a seat beside the window, settling in for the hour and thirty minute train journey ahead. The carriage is quiet, only a hushed conversation from a couple of older ladies toward the front. I rest my head against the window, taking a moment for the reality to sink in that I am here and on my way to Harptree to surprise my dearest friend at her birthday celebration. The whistle blows in the distance, echoing loudly, and the train gently rolls forward out of the station. The rare sunshine greets me through the clouds, warming my skin momentarily through the window.

White, puffy clouds fill the sky, the rain shower from earlier having moved on. Within a few minutes, we have passed though the city, and open fields start to appear. Then, the rolling countryside is all I can see. It amazes me how one minute you can be in a major metropolis like London, and within moments you can be in the heart of the English country. The repetitive rolling of the train soothes me like a mother’s heartbeat, and I feel my eyes growing heavy, my head relaxing against the cold glass. Large, flat raindrops start to splatter against the window once again.

I must have nodded off. I am suddenly awakened by the train jerking away from another station. Two boys, about twelve years old, decide to sit opposite me while in the middle of a loud dispute. Realizing that Harptree is the next stop, I eagerly gather up my bag. Anxiety builds within me about tonight, and I can’t wait to check into the hotel and have a short nap to refresh myself. I can feel jet lag weighing me down.

Stepping off the train at Harptree, I am instantly taken back to my youth. The station looks exactly the same; time has not changed it at all. If it weren’t for the updated movie posters on display up and down the empty platforms, I could easily be standing here in the early 1980s. The small, red brick station house is on the far side of the tracks, still surrounded by bramble. At the entry to the parking lot, the weathered iron pedestrian bridge stretches up and over the tracks above my head. Under the stairs, a small waiting room with ancient seating—and probably no heating—is still sheltering travelers, with generations of names and initials carved into
the wooden church-style benches. I am tempted to walk over and see if the initials MS and KR enclosed in a heart are still readable, scratched into one of the old seats. I smile fondly for a moment, recalling the rainy day Matthew bravely used his pocket knife to carve our initials into the wood. I cut off the thought, pushing away his memory and all the pain that comes with it.

“Just breathe,” I reassure myself. “That was a long time ago, and he is a long way away.”

Being back here always dredges up old memories, but Allie is usually with me, diverting my attention. This time, I find myself alone. Slowly, retracing my childhood steps, I make my way up the stairs, my fingers trailing along the wooden hand rail as I cross over the tracks on the bridge and out onto the other side toward the taxi stand. I hail a cab to take me to the Hastings Hotel.

The short drive to the hotel gives me a chance to organize my nostalgic thoughts and feelings. I package them up neatly and lock them away. This trip is supposed to be exciting and carefree; I am not about to let bad memories overshadow my precious time here.

Tipping the taxi driver and feeling my fatigue, I walk toward the hotel entrance, relieved that my journey is finally at an end. Allie and I have stayed at this hotel before, and we liked the place. It’s tucked away down at the far end of a busy roundabout; its location is convenient, since we are usually traveling between relatives. During my childhood, this end of town was mostly ploughed farmland and woods. Now, a small wooded area surrounding the hotel is the only evidence of the country haven it once was.
The Hasting Hotel is two stories tall, a simple, long rectangular building of beige brick and white plaster, with honeysuckle vines climbing the exterior walls and flower beds full of fragrant white roses below.

The leaded glass windows give it an old English cottage feel, yet it is very modern inside and only a few years old. The lobby is bright and clean, with a small lounge area toward the rear that offers a light breakfast in the morning and complimentary coffee or tea all day. I walk through the automatic doors, and a young lady in her early twenties smiles at me from her computer and greets me warmly, giving me her full attention.

“Good afternoon, madam. How may I help you?” she asks, standing up from her chair behind the counter.

“Hi,” I reply. “I have a reservation for tonight, Katherine Jacobs.” I hand her my passport and credit card.

“Thank you, madam.” She takes my documents, clicking away on her computer. “Yes, we have your reservation for one night. Is the first floor suitable for you?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” I nod.

“Wonderful. If you can initial here and sign at the bottom.” She hands me a pen and motions to the highlighted areas on the hotel registration form. “Here is your passport, credit card, and room key. The lift is directly behind you. Your room is located on the first floor. Exit to the left, and you are all the way down the hall in room 232.”

“Thank you.” I take my items and start to gather up my suitcase, eager to get to my comfortable room.

“Is there anything else I can get you, madam?”

“No, thank you.” I smile and start turning toward the elevator.

“Thank you for staying with us at the Hastings, madam,” she concludes and returns to her computer.

The elevator doors open immediately as I press the lighted call button. I enter, and a computerized female voice announces, “Ground floor, doors closing,” very loudly. A short ride in the bright, mirrored elevator soon delivers me to the upper floor, and within minutes, I am happily settled inside my room.

The room smells wonderfully fresh, is exceptionally clean, and has a bright window overlooking the parking lot. It’s what I consider a standard room, with a small closet to the right, a bathroom to the left, and an inviting double bed with crisp white linens and a dark blue throw blanket. I can finally relax. I am here, and I have successfully made it with time to spare. I unpack my suitcase and evaluate how wrinkled my outfit is for tonight. Hanging up the silk blouse and skirt, I set aside my heels, put my toiletry bag in the bathroom, and finally take off my boots, crawling onto the bed. I set the alarm on my old fashioned English flip phone for five o’clock, close my eyes, and surrender to my exhaustion.

CHAPTER 3

Surprise

The bath feels heavenly, albeit narrow and small compared to my oval tub at home. It’s wonderful to soak in the piping hot water. My head is clearer after almost a three and a half hour nap, even though it took me two hits of the snooze button before I finally dragged myself up. It’s about nine in the morning at home, and my body clock is lost over the Atlantic somewhere in between time zones. After a refreshing cup of tea and a couple of cookies from downstairs, I opted for a long soak. The party isn’t until seven, and I have the advantage of being in the same parking lot, so I have plenty of time.

I don’t know what to expect tonight. Of course Diana will be ecstatic to see me, but I won’t know many of the other guests. Diana and I share a
special friendship, but we have lived on different continents our entire adult lives. We share everything with each other; in truth, I probably know far too much about her marriage, and vice versa.

Di always says if we lived close to each other, we would be “thick as thieves,” implying that we would be inseparable, and I know this to be true. But like I have my girlfriends back home, she has her girlfriends here, women I don’t know, women she interacts with on a daily basis. I cringe briefly; thank goodness Diana has severed ties with an awful woman, Tracey, from years ago. I met her once when they stopped over in Los Angeles, and what a disaster that night turned out to be. She almost ruined our friendship. Deep down, I suppose I’m feeling a little insecure and perhaps a bit nervous.

Of course I can rely on Jenny, Diana’s sister, who is four years older than us and an absolute riot. She is about five foot ten, skinny, beautiful, unmarried with no kids, and has a personality that reminds me of a flamboyant movie star. Everyone is “darling” and everything is “smashing” or “marvelous.” She came over and stayed with us in California for a holiday a few summers back, and we had an amazing time. Dave and Allie adore her. I am looking forward to seeing her again and saying thanks in person for the invitation to the party tonight, because if it weren’t for Jenny, I wouldn’t be here.