Foreign Exposure Read online

  “Now what’s this about your seeking gainful employment here?” Robin asked me as he ladled another pool of dal onto his plate. “Has anyone spoken to Charlie yet?”

  “I did, earlier this afternoon,” Pippa said. “They’re meeting tomorrow. It’s going to be splendid.”

  “Charlie’s splendid, most splendid indeed,” Robin said. “Mimi, I hope you’re prepared to encounter one of the most trenchant intellects in British journalism.”

  Despite his playful tone, Robin’s words filled me with anxiety. I’d never been to a job interview before, unless you counted my first meeting with Debbie at the Teichen Institute. I could barely understand British English, let alone charm a complete stranger in it. What if Charlie dismissed me as a yokel? If I botched the interview, could I still stay on the fourth floor for the summer?

  “Oh, pray don’t terrify her, darling,” Pippa said. “Mimi, ignore him. Charlie is certainly one of the top editors in London, but he’s also one of our dearest friends and, come to that, a jolly good chap. Besides, Lily related your thrilling coup at the school paper last term. Be sure to tell Charlie. He adores controversy.”

  After the table was cleared and the Foxes had had their coffee, Lily showed me to the computer room upstairs and then said good night. I suspected there might be some interesting messages waiting in my inbox, and I was disastrously correct.

  From: “Rogmahal”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 1, 7:56 a.m.

  Subject: Hello?

  Mims, your mom seems to be under the impression you’re hiding from her. Go home and have a hot chocolate. Love, Dad

  From: “Rogmahal”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 1, 9:43 a.m.

  Subject: Hello? Part 2

  Mimi, still haven’t heard from you. Where are you?

  From: “Rogmahal”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 1, 11:32 a.m.

  Subject: Hello? Part 3

  This isn’t funny. Game over. Go back to Mom, and I mean N-O-W.

  Love and consequences, Dad

  Holy flying iguanas. I had to remedy this situation, and ASAP.

  From: “Boris_Potasnik”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 1, 5:59 p.m.

  Subject: Where R U?

  Mims, haven’t heard from you. Did you get my last message?

  Misses, B.

  Hold that thought. There was one more.

  To: “Boris_Potasnik”

  From: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 1, 10:43 p.m.

  Subject: Fngjfhyertrysjgsvffff!!!

  That’s the noise I make when I’m REALLY frustrated. What a total disaster! The ONE day in my life I don’t check e-mail every five seconds, I miss a completely important message. Not that I could’ve made it to Frankfurt in time (yeah, right, try running that one by my mom), but at least I wouldn’t have spent the saddest afternoon ever in the arrivals hall of the Berlin airport. And I was so, so excited to see you, Boris. I can’t believe that’s it—that we won’t cross paths again all summer. . . . But before I get too gloomy, some questions. How are you and where are you and how was flying with your despotic father? Is the food in first class as tasty as it looks?

  I have a bit of news myself, btw. While you were sleeping off your jet lag, I sort of ran away to London. I know—crazy, right? Lily is staying here with this awesome family, who’ve taken me in and even lined up a summer internship for me. I’ve got a lot of smoothing over to do with my own family, but now I have time to figure stuff out. No regrets—I totally love it here already. I miss my White Russian prince. Really. Is there any chance your dad has some business to do in London? It would be SO fun to see you in the best city ever (so far). For now, though, I’d better get to bed. Mega day tomorrow plus have some major parental strategizing to mull over. Wish me luck.

  Xoxoxoxoxoxo Mimi

  I walked slowly up to the fourth floor. Lily, who had an early class the next day, had already gone to sleep, so I had nothing to distract me from the urgent awful phone call I had to make. My mom was going to kill me, no doubt about it. So, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, I picked up the phone and dialed my mother’s number in Berlin. I was scared shitless, but what else could I do? I’d left the country without her permission; surely even my unobservant mom recognized the gravity of that.

  She answered with a new greeting: “Ja?” Her voice didn’t sound too devastated by my pre-dawn departure.

  “Mom?” I said timidly. “It’s me.” I waited a beat, preparing myself for nuclear meltdown: threats, accusations, mentions of the police, the embassy, military school, juvenile-detention centers, installation back in the Meyerson-Cullen abode.

  But instead, Mom let out a cry of excitement. “Ariel? That you?”

  Unbelievable. Was she joking? “No, Mom, it’s Mimi.”

  “Oh. Mimi.” A curdling effect. “What a—surprise. Your sister and I were just debating your whereabouts, and we got cut off.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get right back to her,” I said in a rush. “I just wanted to tell you I’m alive and in one piece, and that’s pretty much it. OK?”

  “I figured,” Mom said, her voice cold and even contemptuous. “Looking out for yourself has never been your problem, has it? It’s the other people that trip you up.” She paused for a measured intake of breath. “Your note was cute; you’ve got a real flair for the dramatic. But the runaway charade’s over, Mimi. Get in a cab and come home now. There are less drastic ways to avoid a silly little babysitting job.”

  “But I can’t. I—”

  “I’d disagree with you there, Mimi. You’ll be happy to hear I talked to Debbie, who’s very hurt but willing to reconsider. As for you and Maurice and myself, we all have some serious emotional ear wax to remove, but I trust we can unblock our communication channels.”

  “Mom, I don’t think you understand. I’m not in Berlin anymore. I’m not even in Germany.” I looked up at the ceiling and took in a deep breath. “I’m in London, actually.”

  “London?” Mom burst out laughing, but without warmth. “In that overpriced, underrated hellhole? You wouldn’t last an hour there—you couldn’t afford it.”

  “I’ve lasted all day, thank you very much.” I didn’t add: And I plan on lasting a few more. “I just wanted you to know I was safe. That’s all.” I took the phone away from my ear and mumbled into the mouthpiece that I’d call her again. And then, before she could respond, I hung up.

  Safe under the covers, I thought back over the phone call. It hadn’t gone exactly according to plan. I’d intended to tell Mom about London and my job opportunity here; I was even going to give her the Foxes’ phone number in case of emergency. But, for reasons I’m unable to explain, I couldn’t. And I didn’t.

  A Sunny Day in London Town

  I WOKE UP AT DAWN the next morning, and for some time just lay in bed relishing my new and insanely awesome surroundings. Life could be truly mind-blowing, I thought as I gazed at the oil painting that hung above the bedroom door, a portrait of a much-powdered, rosy-cheeked woman with a constrained smile and a bonnet tied over her curly blond hair. As it climbed higher in the sky, the sun traced stripes across the frayed Oriental rug on the floor, and I couldn’t get over the feeling that I’d stepped inside some ten-inch-thick nineteenth-century novel.

  Soon the Fox household came to life beneath me, and the higher notes of a British news program wafted up from Pippa and Robin’s bedroom one floor down. I stood up and extravagantly stretched out my arms, pausing to savor my utter happiness. Nothing, but nothing, could cast a pall on my first morning in London—or, nothing except the memory of my inconclusive conversation with Mom the night before. Much as I hated to admit it, I knew I had one more phone call to make before setting off on my new life.

  Since it was about lunchtime in New York, I picked up the phone and—after screwing up the international dialing prefixes only a few ti
mes—succeeded in getting through to Barrow Street. My dad answered on the seventh ring, out of breath.

  “Daddy, are you ever going to install that phone in your darkroom like you’re always saying?”

  “Mimi?!” he cried in what sounded like delight. “Is that you?”

  Within seconds, however, his voice became hard and stern. “You have no idea how hard I’ve been trying to track you down. Did you get any of my e-mails? Before you say anything, Miriam,” he said—and I should add that he never calls me Miriam—“you should know that I had a very upsetting chat with your mother yesterday.”

  “Yeah, well, join the club,” I said, but my sarcasm went unappreciated.

  “Please, for the love of God, tell me she’s mistaken. You didn’t run away, did you? I told her it couldn’t be true, that our daughter is far too mature for such selfish behavior.”

  I backed up and sat back down on the twin bed. “But Dad, I didn’t run away, I just—I was left with no choice—”

  “No choice?” he barked. I hadn’t heard him this angry since I was eleven, when I’d faked a fever to avoid going to my grandmother’s birthday party and then been caught salsa dancing in my room. “We made a deal last summer, you and your mother and I, and right now you’re in flagrant violation of that agreement, so I suggest you put your cleverness to use and get back to your mother’s house as quickly as you left it. If you don’t have cab fare, don’t worry about it—I’m sure your Mom will cover the charges.”

  “But Daddy!” At this point I burst into tears. My father was the one person who I could always count on to defend me, and now he was yelling at me even louder than Mom had. “I tried reasoning with her,” I blubbered, “I swear I did. I tried again and again, but it’s like she’s incapable of listening to me anymore—like she’s gone off into her own warped world and left me completely behind. You cannot even begin to imagine how lonely I was over there. I had to escape. I wasn’t trying to go somewhere better—I just couldn’t stand another minute of it.”

  I went on to recap my weeks as a prisoner, detailing the twins’ fresh-air aversion and Maurice’s Alzheimer’s obsession. “And every time I complained, Mom said I was spoiled, but I’m not, Dad—you know I’m not! I just wanted to be treated like a human being, but apparently that was too much for her. What’d I do to make Mom hate me so much, Dad, can you tell me that?”

  And then I dropped the bombshell. I told him I was in London. But by this point, I was crying too hard for him to yell at me. Dad remained silent for several seconds as I wept into the phone, then said somberly, with a prolonged sigh, “Mimi, you know your mother loves you. You’re sure one piece of work, aren’t you? You and your mother both. She said something about London on the phone last night, but I thought she was kidding. Did you really leave Berlin?”

  I confirmed this, and after another pause, Dad said, “All right. How about this: you stay put for now, and I’ll try to see if I can broker some truce with your mom.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Now, don’t get too excited. I’m just saying I’ll talk to her. But what she says goes. If she wants you back there, you’re going back.”

  “OK, but please will you tell her I’m safe and in good hands? The family I’m staying with is legit, and I have this amazing job at a political magazine, where I’ll get to use my brain, and it’s such a great oppor—”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Dad assured me. “But if she agrees to this, you’re going to have to make up your time with your mother. We’re talking all school vacations—and that includes three-day weekends—in Houston until you two are best friends again.”

  “How about until we can stand each other again?”

  “That’d be a start.”

  I trusted my father, and I had a hunch my spectacular summer was safe. If Dad was on my side, Mom would be forced to relent. She was the one who had ended their marriage and thrown our family into complete disarray, and somewhere in her lunatic head she must know that.

  Sometimes Dad outdid himself. By the time we hung up, after I’d told him all about Lily and London and the Foxes’ madcap mansion, he’d actually volunteered to make an emergency deposit to my checking account. “Lily should be your friend, not your banker,” he said. “But this is strictly survival money,” he reminded me. “Food and toothpaste and nothing else.”

  “I know, I know. And don’t worry, Daddy—I’m completely set up in this place.”

  “Well, Lily’s very kind to take you in like this, but the next time you feel like seeking refuge in a foreign country, I suggest you try the Republic of Georgia. It’s a hell of a lot more affordable and you have some devoted friends there as well.”

  “What, are the Judys on location or something?”

  “Bingo,” he said, laughing for the first time since he’d gotten on the phone.

  In the shower, I belted out the only verse I knew of Dolly Parton’s “Dreams Do Come True.” The Foxes’ plumbing was not, I should point out, a miracle of modern engineering. The water trickled out like lava, and without warning the temperature veered from freezing to boiling, but I didn’t mind; nothing could shatter my blissful spirits. I shaved my legs quickly and jumped out onto the bathmat.

  Shivering, I walked back into my bedroom wrapped in a tiny blue towel that was shredded and pocked with holes. “Yeah, the linen selection around here isn’t so extensive,” Lily said, giggling when she saw me. She was lounging on my bed, looking pretty awesome in a luxurious Liberty-print bathrobe. “So what are you planning to wear for your big meeting later?”

  I gave her a funny look: Lily was the last of my friends I expected to ask such a question. Furthermore, I hadn’t given a thought to appropriate office attire yet, and I admitted as much to Lily. “I have no idea,” I said. “My clothes are only slightly nicer than the Foxes’ towels.” Repulsively enough, I still hadn’t bothered to wash most of the crumpled-up clothes that had been flung into my suitcase on the last night of school. After all, in Berlin, there’d been no point. What was I going to do, dress to the nines for Joshua and Nathaniel Meyerson-Cullen? Danke, but nein danke.

  “I only bring it up,” Lily said, “because some of my friends from acting school dragged me to Oxford Street yesterday, and I bought you a little prezzie. Actually, I bought it for me, but I’m a total battleship in it. The sizes here are seriously warped. I thought a ten would be comfy, but it looks like I’d spray-painted it on. I was going to exchange it until you called. Here, try it,” she said, tossing me a bright yellow bag that said SELFRIDGES in big black letters. “I think it’ll fit you perfectly, so Merry Christmas.”

  Though I’m considerably taller, Lily has broader shoulders, and with my undeveloped upper body, I’m usually one size smaller than she is. I thanked her effusively and then pulled from the bag a frilly, delicate garment that resembled nothing in Lily’s wardrobe: navy blue crushed silk with cap sleeves and a thin belt made of pale pink ribbon. I told Lily how much I loved it. “But I couldn’t possibly accept this from you,” I said. Not even Pia could afford such a nice dress—except maybe with the old five-finger discount. “What if I tuck in the tags and wore it just this once, and then maybe over the weekend we could go return it—or is that way too sketchy for you?”

  Lily cracked up at my suggestion. “That’d go down great at your interview, wearing a dress with the labels sticking out. Mimi, it’s yours. It was, like, eighty percent off, or else I wouldn’t have bought it.”

  I’m usually pretty easy to convince about such matters, so with no further objections, I popped into my closet to try it on. When I emerged to look in the door mirror, I grinned. Lily, as usual, was absolutely correct: I did look rather excellent. The dress clung close to my hips but not too close, and while the neckline plunged slightly low for an office atmosphere, the hem landed modestly below the knee. To my sincere astonishment, I looked much less like a giraffe than usual—maybe even halfway attractive.

  “But wait—what about hose?” I aske
d. Unlike most of my clothes, this dress wouldn’t pair well with sneakers or cowboy boots, and the caramel-colored vintage ballet flats I’d brought required some sheer pantyhose to complete the professional look. Lily, unfortunately, couldn’t help me on that front, so we went next door to Imogen’s room.

  “Imo?” Lily called out, rapping on the door. When nobody answered for a third time, she pushed open the door to a room she’d neglected on yesterday’s tour. As we stepped inside, I was powerfully reminded of a Moroccan opium den, not that I’d ever set foot in one, with layers of candles and floor cushions and scarves strewn on every available surface. Imogen must be a real girl’s girl, to judge by the vanity laden with pots of creams and lipsticks and tubes of benzoyl peroxide, and handbags and beaded necklaces spilling onto the floor, and even a stack of wedding magazines pushed halfway under the vanity.

  “Must’ve been a late dinner,” Lily said, gesturing at the made bed. Like every piece of furniture in the room, it produced a dramatic effect, with a gauzy canopy and golden satin duvet. Next to it, a tile-inlaid nightstand featured no fewer than four framed pictures of a beautiful, if acne-stricken, green-eyed girl posing with the same buzz-cutted boy. Lily pulled open a bureau drawer and motioned for me to sift through its contents with her. “Imogen won’t care,” she assured me. “No one in this house has any boundaries. Besides, she’s so spoiled she probably doesn’t even realize she owns half this stuff.”