Bella Summer Takes a Chance (38 page)

            ‘Bap?’ he challenges. I nod. ‘Which cheese?’

            I point. ‘That one.’

            ‘Butta?’

            ‘No, just salad cream.’ So far, so good.

            ‘Salad?’

            Oh god, oh god. ‘Just tomahdoes, please.’ As in
Awesome, man. I’d like some tomahdoes, heh, heh. Pass the bong
.

            I swear he smirks. Is there a medical term for fear of delis? Label or not, I’m developing the condition. If I could turn back time, I’d apologize to all the foreigners I’ve ever been impatient with, and banish all the ‘Why can’t you just speak English?’ thoughts I’ve ever had. Hah, that’s ironic, considering that apparently I
don’t
speak English. Our cultural blunders may not exactly endear us to the Brits, but they should cut us some slack. We don’t expect them to tip generously or drawl in American upon landing at JFK.

            Outside, someone grabs my coat, yanking me backwards on to the sidewalk. ‘WACHOUT!’

            ‘Wha‒?!’

            The van blasts its horn as it ricochets off the curb and speeds off into the distance.

            ‘You haff to look the other way,’ my savior advises. ‘Well, both ways. Those white vans are shoeisheidal.’

            Suicidal vans, got it. I’d thank him if my heart wasn’t pounding in my throat.

            ‘Where do you come from?’ he asks as we cross together.

            Deep breaths. ‘The States.’

            ‘Ah, I come from Espain. We drive on the right too. Iss very confusing.’

            I knew that. It’s just hard to unlearn a lifetime of looking left for danger. Sorry, Mom, all your years of training were for nothing here.

            ‘Tha’s why they write in the roads.’ He points to the tarmac.

            Sure enough, it says LOOK RIGHT in big white letters. So I’m not the first pedestrian to have been targeted. ‘Thanks.’

            ‘No problem.’ He’s smiling as he trots away.

            ‘Wait . . .’ It’s too late. He’s been swallowed up in the lunchtime throng. I wanted to ask him about the crosswalks. Sometimes cars stop, sometimes they don’t. Some people walk across them without breaking their stride, others wait at the edge for cars to stop. I don’t know how I’m supposed to cross one without ending up in the hospital.

            At the next crosswalk, a man rushes past, practically knocking me out of the way. I’m not kidding. If we were playing hockey, there’d be a penalty. Or a fight.

            ‘You cross in the zebra.’ The lady next to me rhymes ‘zebra’ with ‘Debra’ as she strides past.

            ‘I’m sorry?’

            ‘You might want to cross the road,’ she snaps. ‘You’re holding up the traffic.’

            Her look, as if she’s just remembered the time she stepped in a rather large and steaming pile of something, reassures me that I’m very welcome in her city.

            For all their supposed reserve, Brits can be astonishingly aggressive to newcomers. I vow to walk unafraid across the zeb-ra and to practice saying ‘tomahto’ so they’ll stop sniggering at me. At the risk of sounding insane as I repeat the word on the way to the bar (‘tamahto, tamah‒ . . . tomaahto, toemaahhto’), it seems the least I can do to try to embrace my new culture. I think Chloe, as my first potential friend within the country’s borders, will appreciate the effort.

We hope you’ve enjoyed this sneak peek at
Single in the City
, the first of three books in the series, which is available globally in paperback and all eBook formats

About the Author

Michele Gorman is the best-selling author of Single in the City, Misfortune Cookie and The Twelve Days to Christmas. She also writes upmarket commercial fiction under the pen name Jamie Scott.

Born and raised in the US, Michele has lived in London for 16 years.

And since she loves to chat with readers, please do add her as a facebook friend and follow her on twitter.

www.michelegorman.co.uk

www.michelegormanwriter.blogspot.co.uk

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