Page 6 of An American in London

“Yes. I’m just visiting, as you guessed. Here for a few weeks for work.” I pause, wondering whether or not to say anything else. She’s not overly friendly, and I’ve heard Brits can be a bit cold. But my new Tuesday persona gets the better of me. “Hopefully I’ll leave here with a promotion.”

“Either way, you’ll get to spend time in the best city in the world.”

I nod and go to sip my coffee, but change my mind when I remember it’s just been served. “Yeah. I’m inLondon.” I’ve been so focused on proving myself in the new role as project manager that I’ve skipped past the bit about being in a place I only ever dreamed of visiting. I have thousands of years of history around me, and I haven’t so much as cracked open a guidebook. I’m going to have to focus on work—there’s no doubt about that—but I have weekends to fill.

“That guy after me,” I say. “The filter coffee guy. What’s his deal?”

She glances up at me, and suddenly, her eyes light up. “He’s seriously hot, right? I mean, the suit, those eyes. Have you seen the size of his hands?”

“Does he ever speak?” I ask. “You seem to know his order by heart.”

“He must have done at some point. But a guy like that only needs to give me his order once, and I have it memorized for the rest of my life. He comes in seven days a week, but he never makes small talk. I get the odd thanks. He always tips—which ninety-nine percent of customers don’t. And honestly, I don’t care what he says or doesn’t say as long as I get to look at him once a day. He’s a walking dose of dopamine.”

I can’t disagree with her assessment. He looks like a movie star. “He’s a dead ringer for Daniel De Luca,” I say.

“I guess he is.” She pauses and squints at me. “Is your name really Tuesday?”

I know she’s not asking me because she thinks my name is beautiful, but I can’t help but beam at her. “Sure is.”

I love my name. That’s not to say I don’t get a few raised eyebrows when I introduce myself in New York. Tuesday is the name my mom wanted to call her daughter since she was four years old, because it was her favorite word. Every time I say it, it’s like I feel the warm squeeze of her hand in mine.

“It’s unusual.”

“It is,” I agree. I check my watch. Time to go. “Thanks for the coffee.”

As I exit the coffee shop, I glance up and down the street, half expecting to see the Daniel De Luca look-alike.

Talk about a coincidence.London has a gazillion people. It makes no sense I’d bump into the same stranger two days running. My mom would call that fate. So would Melanie. But it’s just a coincidence.Right?Something tells me I’m going to see him again—maybe because I’m going to make sure I’m standing in line for coffee at exactly the same time tomorrow.

Chapter Four

If I didn’t know I had jet lag, I would think I’d accidentally taken acid. Even though today was tiring from the new routines, unfamiliar faces, and a particularly bad health and safety video I had to sit through, I just can’t master thisgoing to bed five hours earlier than I normally dothing. Last night I listened to every podcast ever made. Tonight, I have a different tactic: cocktails. I don’t want to roll into my second day of work with a hangover, since I’ll finally be meeting my new boss and the bank’s CEO, Mr. Jenkins, but neither do I want to have had thirty minutes’ sleep. My plan is to order exactly one perfect cocktail I’ve never tasted before, then take myself upstairs to my room and meditate myself to sleep.

The bar looks sleek and glamorous every time I walk by. It seems to be the only place in the hotel not plastered in images of Daniel De Luca. I’ve been desperate to slide onto one of the barstools and order myself a drink, but so far I’ve resisted. Ordering a drink while waiting for a friend is one thing, but drinking alone? On a work trip? Somehow it feels off.

My need to sleep overrides my concerns. I need the soporific effects of alcohol so I can get my internal clock on local time.

Olive-green leather booths with dark wood tables line the room, and a smattering of burnt orange upholstered club chairs around low tables fill the middle. It’s cozy-glamorous. Is that a thing? The uplighting creates a moody, mysterious vibe. It’s enough of New York to feel inviting and enough of London to feel new.

They’re playing Ella Fitzgerald, reminding me of Friday nights when I was little. My parents would put me to bed before the zip and crackle of Dad’s old record player introduced Ella. They didn’t know, but occasionally I’d creep out of bed and sit on the stairs, watching them through a crack in the living room door. They’d dance, Dad twirling and dipping Mom until she inevitably began giggling and Dad owl-laughed—how my mother described his effusivewho-who-wholaughter. I wanted to be just like them when I grew up. They seemed so happy. Theywereso happy. And that made me happy.

It’s so strange that a visit to a foreign country can bring back so many memories. So far, so much of London is like a love letter from my past.

I lift my head and stroll into the bar. Every table is taken, but somehow it doesn’t feel busy. I head over to the bar and slide onto one of the few gigantic barstools still available. “You’d think they’d make these a little more small-person friendly,” I mutter to myself. It’s like a mini sofa on tall legs, and so comfortable.

That’s when I glance to my right and see the one and only Daniel De Luca look-alike.

He’s a perfect stranger. But he’s at least familiar. I’ll take it.

“Hey, doppelgänger! Aren’t you afraid of getting mobbed in this hotel?” Frankly, I’m surprised there isn’t a gaggle of women surrounding him, thrusting autograph books in his direction.

He turns his head to the left, sees me, and looks back to his drink. He doesn’t say a word.

“So how are you?” I reach for the drink menu and settle into my seat. “I haven’t seen you since this morning.” It’s like we’re old friends and have arranged to meet here. We’re not and we didn’t, butwhatever.

He glances at me again, and believe me, he’s no poker player. He clearly thinks I’m off my meds.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m talking to you like we’re old friends. Well, we are in a way. In the sense that you’re my oldest London friend. Met you the day after I landed, and I’ve seen you twice since.To a New Yorker, we’re practically family.” I glance across at him, and he takes a sip of his wine. “You never know; another couple of conversations and you might even speak.”

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