London Prep Read online

  My dad laughs. “Give us a call when you get settled, Mal.”

  “Fine,” I reply flatly.

  He thinks I won’t remember this. But I will.

  I pace for a few moments, realizing that I am way more nervous than I expected. I didn’t think I would have to see anyone right away. I guess I just didn’t think.

  All of a sudden, I see a woman barreling through the crowd, weaving in between people and suitcases. When her brown eyes land on me, her face softens with relief for a moment, and I know I’ve found Helen.

  “Oh dear,” she says, rushing up to me, her short legs moving as fast as they can. “I am so sorry for the delay.” She sets her purse down onto the ground in a huff. “I am absolutely mortified. I should have known better. I actually am a speeder, believe it or not, but it wasn’t traffic that kept me. These new automated gates at the airport are a nightmare, getting into the parking garage.”

  My eyes go wide at her outburst, and I almost have to take a step back. But, funny enough, her nerves actually settle my own.

  “It’s no big deal. I just got through,” I say with a smile, placing my hand on her shoulder.

  She lets out a large breath, and I can feel her relax under my touch. She smiles up at me, fully collected. “I’m Helen Williams,” she says, extending her hand.

  “Mallory James,” I reply.

  “Now, let’s collect your cases, dear, and then we can head to the house to get you settled in.”

  Her dark hair falls to her shoulders like mine, but hers has a curl to it. Her skin is a pretty olive tone, her flushed cheeks accentuating her warmth. We stand in front of the baggage belt, and I squeeze my hands together, trying not to fidget. She hasn’t said much else, and I can’t seem to come up with anything brilliant to say either. So, instead, I try simple.

  “So, you have kids?”

  It’s an obvious statement because, duh, I’ll be staying in a room vacated by one of her children who is also doing a school exchange. But every parent can go on and on about their kids. I’m hoping she takes it as a go flag, so we don’t have a lull in conversation. There’s nothing more painful than small talk—or worse, a deafening silence.

  “Yes.” She turns to me, beaming. “Mia and Noah. They are twins but almost complete opposites.”

  “Really?” I ask curiously, a smile coming to my face.

  “Absolutely. Noah is focused and driven. He can be quite the brooder and is very intense. He has a huge heart, but I like to think he keeps it tucked away for those most important to him.” She glows. “And my Mia … well, she is a feisty one, as her father would say. They both have strong personalities, but Mia is a little softer and quite creative.”

  “That must make it fun—to have children with such different personalities,” I reply, grabbing one of my bags as it comes around the carousel. I easily get it off the belt.

  Helen continues, “It is. But it can also make it quite challenging. Despite being twins, they are my opposing pillars. Standing tall and strong but definitely distinct.”

  Her warmth seeps into me. She has that mom energy about her.

  “So, which one ended up going on the exchange?”

  “Mia,” she confirms. “Noah and Mia’s father—well, my husband,” she says, her cheeks warming again, “was born and raised here. My parents emigrated from Greece when I was a child. They weren’t well off when they arrived in the UK, but they always did the best that they could and eventually became successful. I was able to attend a top university, and I want my children to have that same opportunity when it comes to their schooling.”

  “How old were you when you came from Greece?” I ask curiously, grabbing ahold of another one of my bags. This one has a bit more weight to it, and I realize I wish Larry were here—partly because I’m used to always being picked up at the airport by him and partly because he would have collected my bags, making it look easy.

  “I was nine. It was a hard transition at first,” she reflects, while I locate my last suitcase, “though I became accustomed to England quite quickly. Anywho, you’ll be staying in my daughter, Mia’s, room since she’s gone on the exchange.”

  “Sounds great.” I grab my duffel off the conveyor belt along with the last suitcase. I finally have everything. “These are all my bags,” I say, taking in the overwhelming amount.

  When Helen looks over them, I feel a little embarrassed. I thought through everything I would need. But standing here next to Helen with them all, I feel a little silly.

  “You certainly did come prepared.” She gives me a halfhearted smile but then refocuses. “I’ll grab us a trolly then, and we will be on our way.”

  After carefully wedging two of my suitcases into her trunk—or boot, as she called it—and another one in her backseat, I somehow manage to get all my bags into her car.

  And then there’s the car ride. Helen wasn’t lying when she said that she was a speeder. We are weaving in and out of lanes with little effort at a high speed. Instead of it making me nervous though, I feel excited. It’s a bit of an adrenaline rush.

  “I love your driving,” I tell her, a smile coming to my face.

  She blushes. “My children and husband think I’m terrifying. But none of them ever drive, and though Gene has his license, he always leaves that task up to me.”

  “I can see why.” I grin. “You’re efficient.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” she agrees.

  I watch as the city comes into view. One thing I’ve always liked about London, despite not really liking it, is its neighborhoods. It’s like New York in that way. Each area is different, unique.

  It’s my favorite part about New York City and why I want to get into real estate. It would be a challenge, figuring people out. They would tell you what they were looking for. What type of place they thought would suit them. If they wanted a neighborhood safe for kids or close to restaurants or their work. But really, it is about them. If you can get past their list of wants to who they are—their personality, their core—then you can help them find a place perfect for them. A place that they themselves would have never found on their own. Something about that idea gives me a sense of purpose. Power. It’s exciting to think you know someone better than they know themselves.

  “Helen, where is your daughter doing her exchange?” I ask, realizing I never asked.

  “Greece.”

  I look over to her and see pride on her face.

  “Wow. So, you came from there as a little girl, and now, your little girl has gone back? It’s kind of like coming full circle, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a dream come true for me,” she confides. “My daughter returning to my homeland. She will be learning Greek properly and is attending a school close to my family, so she will get to meet her grandparents and extended family.” A tear slips from her eye. “Oh my,” she says, taken aback. “I’m sorry for the outburst, dear. I’m not sure what’s come over me.”

  “It’s fine,” I reply.

  I think about saying something else, but I don’t. Seeing her cry doesn’t bother me. She’s crying from pride. Joy. It makes me happy. I give her a smile and then look out the window again.

  “I’ve got to refocus myself,” she says with a laugh. “Always blubbering over this and that. That’s what children do to you. But back to you, dear. After we get you settled in at our home, the school wants you to stop by the campus this afternoon. I told them that was quite a lot for your first day here. It’s Sunday after all. However, they insisted and assured me that it was necessary. They promised it would be a quick process. I can take you myself or show you the quickest route. It’s not far from our home—maybe a ten-minute walk or so. It’s your preference.”

  “Thank you, but if it’s that close, I’ll just walk. It will be good to get my bearings.”

  Helen nods. “I agree. But don’t concern yourself too much. I believe they just want to give you a quick tour of the campus and give you your schedule, so when you start classes tomorrow, you
won’t be overwhelmed.” She turns her brown eyes toward me, sizing me up. But just as quickly, she’s back, focusing on the road.

  “As much as I don’t like to admit it—or show it,” I say with a laugh, “I can get overwhelmed. So, a tour today will be a good thing.”

  “I hoped you might think so. Either way, my son, Noah, is in your year and will show you the way. I’ve made sure he’s going to walk you to your classes and help you through your first few days. He’s a good boy, that one.”

  I’m not sure if I actually need an assigned guide, but her reassurance is nice, and the idea of at least having someone there is comforting. I doubt I will need his help, but like she said, just in case.

  Helen turns abruptly, and the street we move onto is beautiful. It’s lined with white houses with big columns on either side of black lacquered doors. Trees and a thin strip of grass separate the street from the sidewalk before thick steps lead up to each entrance.

  “This is home,” she says, slowing down to point at a door.

  “Number thirty-two,” I say, reading the number.

  Helen nods. “Number thirty-two.”

  Has me slightly freaked.

  11am

  “It seems we’ve arrived home to an empty house,” Helen comments, taking in the silence.

  Everything about this house screams warmth and family. The furniture is sturdy and long-lasting, but it has a certain charm and wear to it.

  “I like your home,” I reply, carrying in my duffel.

  “Thank you.” She smiles, rolling the last of my suitcases to the bottom of a set of stairs. “Let’s leave your cases here for the boys to see to.”

  I drop my bag, taking in the wooden staircase and the small hallway.

  “This is the living room,” Helen says, leading me into the front of the house.

  It is a good-sized room with a fireplace and two large couches facing one another. There are two armchairs flanking either side of the fireplace, both looking well-loved.

  My eyes drift across a stack of books to an empty teacup sitting on the coffee table. There’s an open book atop it and framed photos on every surface. It’s cozy. And very different from my mother’s decorating style. She believes that a home should be a place to display beauty, and even though every corner of our house is decorated meticulously well, it doesn’t really say anything about us as a family. Well, other than we have an affinity for neutral colors and modern, sleek style.

  “I love it,” I comment, my eyes falling on a folded-up newspaper. The crossword section lies open and is partially filled in.

  A smile comes to my face. I can already tell a lot about the people who live here, just by this room.

  “Upstairs are the bedrooms,” Helen states after taking me through the kitchen and dining room. “We’ve got Mia’s room, where you’ll be staying, on the left. Next to that is Noah’s room, and across from that is the bathroom you will use. A little farther down the hall on the right is the master bedroom.”

  I nod, trying to follow along.

  “Why don’t you head up there and get familiar with the place? Settle yourself in and have a rest. I’ll pop up with some lunch in a bit, and then after that, you can make your way to school. I haven’t a clue why Gene and Noah aren’t here, but I suppose you’ll meet them later anyway.”

  I nod in agreement. All of the flying and talking and driving has me tired—not just physically, but mentally. And lying down for a bit actually sounds really nice.

  “Thanks,” I breathe out, relieved she didn’t ask for me to stay downstairs with her.

  I grab my duffel and head up the narrow staircase, finding the door to Mia’s room. Her bed catches my attention first. There is a black-and-purple bedspread, which contrasts against her white walls. Well, what white you can find. There are photos and pictures everywhere. My gaze lands on the wall next to her door. It is covered with hanging string, zigzagging from the ceiling halfway down her wall. She has Polaroids attached with clips on each level, and I find photos ranging from groups of girls to pictures taken out in the city.

  It’s nothing like my room at home with its neutral silver and cream colors. All my art is abstract and matching, opposed to this room, which is an eclectic mixture of color, art, knickknacks, and, well, memories.

  I decide the first thing I have to do is rinse off the plane ride in the shower. Even if you get on a plane, sparkling clean, you always get off of it, feeling dirty. There’s something about the dryness of the air pumped in, mixed with stiff pillows, that has you staring in the bathroom mirror after your flight, wondering how you’ve managed to go from cute to disgusting in a matter of seven hours.

  I try to be gentle with my hair, but my nails dig into my scalp. Everything is starting to feel real. It almost felt like a ruse or a prank my parents were playing on me. Even at the airport, on the plane, I really didn’t have to accept what was actually going to happen. I didn’t let it bother me. But now, being here, in a stranger’s home … well, reality is setting in.

  And it has me slightly freaked.

  Because I don’t want to try to imagine how things will go or what it will be like, living with this family. My parents know me. They know I love coffee brought to me in bed. They know that I absolutely love pasta, but I hate tomato sauce unless it’s freshly made. Even at some of the nicest restaurants in New York, I won’t touch the sauce because the tomatoes aren’t sweet enough. My parents know those things about me and love me. My dad laughs when I practically growl at him on days he wakes me up to run with him.

  Because he loves my quirks.

  And now, here I am, in my “new home,” trying to decide how much effort to actually put into this program. I don’t want it to mess with my grades or my future. And I’m nervous, because there are so many questions and possibilities.

  Do I develop relationships that could help me in the future?

  Do I not give a fuck and just pretend this is a long vacation?

  Am I going to get attached if I make friends?

  I let out a really long and dramatic sigh. The possibilities are overwhelming.

  I don’t really want new friends. Or a new family. If I ever decide I need contacts in London, I’ll make them then.

  I smile to myself and make my decision. No. I would rather try and do what the brochure says and immerse myself in a new culture. And I plan to do that by finding the closest local pub after my meeting at school and pretending I’m old enough to be served a pint.

  Because why not?

  I’m only here for a few weeks, and I might as well make the most of it. Have some fun. But then I think to Helen downstairs and how kind and welcoming she is, and my stomach knots up a little. I’m conflicted, and I don’t like the feeling.

  Whatever.

  I get out of the shower, brush my hair, and then give it a quick blow-dry. It’s a blessing and a curse that my hair is fine. On the upside, it’s quick to fix. On the downside, it won’t hold a curl to save its life. It always falls in a straight sheet almost to my shoulders.

  I shuffle through my bag, pulling out my toothpaste, toothbrush, and perfume. I give my mouth a nice rinse before applying some fragrance to my wrist and transferring it to the other and then up to my neck. I decide, instead of napping, I should get this school stuff out of the way, so I just throw on a clean pair of jeans and a cute sweater. When I come out of the bathroom, dressed, I find Helen walking up the stairs with a glass of juice and a sandwich in hand.

  “You look lovely and refreshed,” she says, leading me back into Mia’s room. She places the plate and juice down onto the desk before turning toward me.

  “Thanks. I thought about the nap you’d suggested, but I’m afraid if I go to bed now, I won’t ever wake up,” I say with a laugh.

  “I understand. Get some food in your belly, and then I will give you directions to campus and let Ms. Adams know that you will be headed that way.”

  “Sounds good,” I reply, sitting down in the chair and taking a dri
nk of the juice. It tastes a little more like orange Fanta than the fresh-squeezed juice I’m used to, but I don’t say anything.

  Once I finish the snack, I’m on my way out the door with a set of keys to the house and directions written out on a piece of paper. I tried to tell Helen that, growing up in the city, I have a pretty easy time finding my way around, but she insisted on giving me written directions regardless. She also marked a few cafés on her makeshift map, telling me that I must stop for a scone and tea after.

  School is only a few blocks away from their home, and it doesn’t take much to figure out that the building I’m standing in front of is Kensington School. It’s an imposing structure with classic lines, looking as if it could have had a former life as a house built for nobility, its borders guarded by an iron gate.

  Honestly, it’s beautiful.

  Greenery grows up one of the stone walls, and I walk through a brick archway into a central courtyard. There is a large oak tree in the middle with a circular bench built around it. The walls of the building climb up into the sky, and I take a moment to appreciate it.

  My school in New York isn’t anything like this. It’s modern and industrial. It professes to promote creativity and the future, doing away with traditions and aged character. I love that about my school. It’s progressive and new.

  But something about this school makes me feel happy. And the thought of walking through this courtyard tomorrow, dressed in the school uniform, hearing the faint sounds of the city moving on all around us but almost being both trapped and set free in this living piece of history, is … well, exciting.

  I swallow hard, surprised at myself. I shift my gaze from the building, trying to discern which of the numerous doors to enter through. I walk a few steps, and then one of them opens. I can only assume that the large, round woman standing in the doorway is Ms. Adams.