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After a nearly ten-hour flight, I can’t get off this plane fastenough. My bladder’s screaming at me and my feet are swollen. A delirious kind of urgency grips me while I stand in the aisle, anxious and fidgety, with my bags in hand to deplane. The hatch opens, and I scurry down the gangway to the terminal and nearest restroom.
It’s past 1 a.m. when my driver loads the last of my bags in the trunk of the black town car. I offer him Lee’s directions, to which he assures me he can find Notting Hill just fine.
My body still thinks it’s not even 8 p.m. as I plaster my face to the rear passenger window to watch the lights of London fly past.
I’m not well traveled by any means, thanks to an overprotective father who sees murder around every street corner, so I’m still struck when places look exactly as they do in the movies. The architecture, landmarks. Those red phone booths. It’s almost surreal. I devour the city with my eyes, every few seconds glancing forward to suck in a startled breath at oncoming traffic, only to remember we’re on the other side of the road. The driver chuckles at me in the rearview mirror.
Fair, sir. Fair.
I decide to get it all out of my system on the ride to my new home, embracing the wide-eyed American yokel stereotype as I gawk unabashedly at double-decker buses and ask my driver dumb questions just to hear his accent. Without rush-hour traffic, however, the journey ends all too quickly on a quaint residential street of row houses in brick and pastel palettes.
We slowly creep up on a stucco-fronted two-story eggshell Edwardian town house. Both apartments have pillared porches and waist-high iron gates encasing tiny potted gardens before rising up their steps to covered entrances. A tickle of nervousness starts in my feet when I read the number 42 on the front door of the one to the left.
The porch light is on, waiting for me.
“I better make sure someone’s up,” I say to the driver but more to myself as I force my hand to grab the door handle.
The front windows glow behind the white curtains. Evidenceenough that I’m expected, though I now question if I should have caught a red-eye to arrive at a reasonable hour. Keeping the whole house up maybe isn’t a great first impression.
Here goes nothing.
With a knock, I hold my breath. I’ve considered a dozen times how horribly this could go. We could hate each other on the spot. From what I gather, the roommates are all a year or two older than me. What if their patience for the clueless American wears out in a week or so?
I get myself worked up again just as I catch a blur of movement inside. The curtains sway before the door creaks open.
To my great confusion, a slender Black guy in a loose tank top and long wide-leg bohemian silk pants stands at the threshold.
“I knew you’d be a redhead.” He smiles at me, bright and friendly.
“Is, um, Lee home?”
“Occasionally. I’m about two-thirds into a bottle of merlot, however, so no promises.”
Was that an answer? I’m still baffled.
“I’m Abbey.” I bite my lip. “I’m supposed to be moving in.”
“Of course you are, luv.” He looks over my head and nods at the driver.
“Sorry to keep everybody up. I should have considered the time difference when I booked my flight.”
“Not everybody. You’ll meet the other lads tomorrow. They’re out tonight.”
I blink stupidly. “Lads?”
“Jack and Jamie.” Shoving open the door for me, he tugs me inside. “Best not to wait up. You’ll hear them stumbling in around four. Try to reserve judgment until they’ve had their morning toasties.”
He leaves the door ajar for the driver, who’s got the trunk open and is piling my bags up at the curb.
My confusion is slowly giving way to unsettling clarity. “You’re Lee?”
“Since I was a baby.” He peels my backpack off my shoulder and slings it over his, striking a catalog model pose. “I know, I’m more radiant in person.”
The interior of the flat is bright and airy. A relief, given the dreary weather. There’s a small foyer at the base of a staircase, then a tight hallway with a living room off one side and a kitchen at the end. It’s a hodgepodge of expensive-looking mismatched modern furniture, as if the pages of an interior design magazine got all jumbled and thrown together in one house.
“But Lee’s a girl,” I say emphatically.
He arches an eyebrow at me. “Don’t let these flawless cheekbones fool you.”
