Page 31 of Things I Overshared
CAN YOU EVEN?!
[Photo]
Susan: I can’t! I can’t even!
Susan: How was the flight? How’re things with Emerson?
Wow, I can’t believe you’re up
Good flight, slept almost the whole way.
Still Icy. No thawing in sight.
I don’t care though bc
I AM IN LONDON BITCHESSSSSS
The Rosewood hotel is everything Google Maps, Instagram hashtags, and Yelp reviews said it would be. The Edwardian gray-stone building boasts pillars, cornices, balustrades, and an overall Old England vibe that I am ecstatic about.
Emerson takes charge again, thanking Charles, coordinating with the bellhops, and checking us in at the front desk. I would admire his leadership and thank him, but I’m too enthralled with the grand foyer we’re standing in. The arches, the wood paneling, the mirrored ceiling, the huge paintings, the marble black-and-white floors . . .I can’t believe I get to stay here!
I am pulled back to reality by Lydia, who insists on escorting Emerson personally to his suite. Not sure she even realizes I’m here. I get it, he’s a tall drink of water, albeit a frozen one. A frozen one who, I’m sorry, did he just flash her an actual smile?! Really? Lydia didn’t book this hotel for you, Mr. Clark. Lydia doesn’t have to put up with your surly sighing all day long.Butshegets a smile?
We are shown into our suite, and Lydia rattles off the amenities and details I already know by heart. As soon as she leaves, the mood in the room stretches tight like the pull-cord on the fancy lamp next to me. Emerson turns to me with a glare that could wilt a flower—a whole field of them.
Okay.
Did I splurge on a house suite, a luxurious two-bedroom penthouse with a living area, dining room, and kitchen? Yes, yes, I did. But does it warrant the death daggers my CFO is throwing at me? No, no, it does not.
“I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that—this was approved.”
“Bywhom!?” he asks.
“You! And Susan! This will be our home base for weeks, plus we will take meetings here. It needed to be nice.”
“It’s a bit more than nice, I’d say.” He pulls at the back of his thick neck with his left hand.
“Will you relax? Didn’t you wonder why we didn’t have our own fancy sleeping pods on the plane? I didn’t splurge on everything, just a few important things.”
“I’ll try to remember that when we have to forego everyone’s bonuses at the end of the year,” he spits at me.
My turn to sigh. I am no stranger to the burden he carries. Dad and Susan have almost aged a decade each year as the rise of tech has replaced printed paper goods and physical retail shopping. “I-I was given a budget and I stuck to it. If you want to try to find us a different hotel now, be my guest.” He deflates with a sigh that sounds a lot like “I’m sorry.” I deflate too. “The master is supposed to be off that way from the living room, and over there after the kitchen is the other bedroom.” He starts walking toward the kitchen. “I don’t mind taking the—” He holds up a hand to cut me off as he walks away.
I rush through the gorgeous living room, complete with a lounge area around the seventy-five-inch TV—like, four sizes bigger than the one in my apartment—plus a separate reading nook with a fancy gold-and-glass bookshelf already stocked with books. I step into a bright, overstuffed master bedroom that doesn’t disappoint.
It’s classy and modern but still a bit stuffy, like I’d want a British room to be. The only thing more exciting than the dreamy king bed in layer upon layer of white linens, with its own sitting area by the window, is the sprawling marble bathroom and its massive soaking tub.Come to mama!I do more than one small jig as I move around my little slice of England for the next three weeks.
I look at my phone. Noon. That’s 5:00a.m.to my body. I planned a nothing day today so we could recover from our jet lag. If I can stay awake until, say, 7:00p.m., I’ll flip my body clock on the first night.
After a quick shower, I realize I’m going to need an injection of caffeine, and fast. I think about the fancy coffee maker in the suite’s kitchen, but if I’m going to stay awake all afternoon, I need to get moving. I throw on a pair of running shorts and a loose sweatshirt over a sports bra, ready to hit the streets. June in London is what I’d consider spring weather, at best, but it’s actually sunny out and I plan to get my heart rate up.
I walk out into the living room and pause. I expect Emerson to hole up in his room, alone, as often as possible. I wonder if I should tell him where I’m going? Or invite him along? Or ignore him altogether when we’re not working?
I walk into the kitchen and dining area enough to see that his door is shut. Knocking would probably wake him up from a just-started nap, which is, everyone agrees, the stuff of nightmares. Cut-off-nap nightmares.
I decide to send him a text and head out.
SUNDAY 12:22p.m.
