An English Man's Desire and Obsession

Amelia I’m almost glad when the plane lands and it’s raining. Whenever I dreamed about my internship in England at one of the world’s biggest advertising agencies, I always pictured rain. Mom said it was my artistic side coming out each time I talked about dark clouds opening to lash down to drench me on my way to the next meeting. As I wait for the flight attendants to tell us it’s time to disembark, I take out my phone—flight mode still on—and watch the video I submitted to earn this internship. Instead of a resume, Realization Global asked for a custom video. I cringe as I watch myself standing in the kitchen’s light, the least cluttered place for the video. The wall is clear of debris, photos, or other distractions behind me. I’m wearing a form-fitting skirt and a shirt. After I sent the video off, I wondered if the outfit was too much. I happen to like my figure, which isn’t something I go around advertising since the rest of the world doesn’t seem to agree, and it’s an invitation for negative comments. Cringe or not, the video got me the internship, so I can’t be too self-pitying about it. I will work as a graphic designer for a huge advertising agency, or maybe I’ll mostly make the coffee over run with milk and lots of sugar. That’s what Mom said since she’s visited England a few times for her work as a stylist. Walking through the airport, I feel like I’m in a different world as I listen to the accents fly around me. I keep wanting to stop people and say, “Oh, wow, you’ve got the best voice ever.” I don’t think that’s the best way to start my England journey. Realization Global arranged a car service to take me to the small room I’m renting on the outskirts of London. They paid for travel, but the accommodations were up to me, and I didn’t want to borrow a lot of money from Mom and Dad. I record a video message for Mom in the back of the car. “Hey, I’m here, in not-so-sunny England.” I turn on the camera and aim it out the window. Rain lashes down in such thick sheets I can hardly see the tall buildings and, just about visible, the London Eye. It’s so loud I have to yell to be heard. “The flight was great. No cranky guy sitting next to me demanding all the leg room, so that’s a plus. Now I’ve just got to settle in my room, and tomorrow…” I grin for the video, but I can’t hide the nerves from myself, the bitter notion that somehow I’ll ruin this. Somehow, I’ll revert to the awkward kid I was in high school, hardly able to meet people’s eyes and reluctant to raise my voice because that brings attention. No! This is a chance to reinvent myself—owning my personality and appearance. Now, here… “And please, Mom, in your reply, no more talk about finding a nice British boy, okay?” I can already see her rolling her eyes at that. She mentioned it countless times, the idea that I’ll find the man of my dreams over here. He’ll thoroughly sweep me off my feet, and then we’ll give Mom and Dad a bunch of grandkids. “Speak soon. Love you.” The speak soon part isn’t exactly true. Well, it is. I’m not going to ghost my parents, but what I mean is I’m going to limit contact with home as much as possible. Being over here, I want to pretend it’s a new world where the rules of the old reality don’t have to apply. “Doing anything exciting here, miss?” the driver asks as we stop in traffic. Again, I have to stop myself from beaming at his accent. Mom says there are more accents in a ten-mile span in England than in some entire states back home. “I’m here for work,” I tell him. “I’m going to be a graphic designer. Well, I’m an intern.” “What exactly is one of those, then? Sounds fancy.” “I’ll be making logos and things like that for businesses, but really… Sorry, what’s your name?” He’s an older man with a shock of white hair. When he smiles at me in the rear-view, I can tell he’s touched by me asking for his name. “Roger, miss.” “In reality, Roger, I’ll be making hundreds of cups of tea, I expect.” “Do you Americans know how to make tea?” I chuckle. “I hope the learning curve isn’t too steep.” He winks. “You’ll learn.” I try to keep my good spirits up when we reach the house. It’s on a residential street, the road in a terrible state with potholes and cracked pavement. Several of the homes have intimidating fronts, one with boarded-up windows. “Let me help you with the bags,” Roger says. A few minutes later, I’m standing outside the front door under a small porch cover that protects me from the rain. I take a slow, deep breath, reminding myself that I’ve already spoken with the landlord, a woman called Janine. She was friendly and upbeat on the phone—no need to freak out. I’m about to knock when the door opens inwards. A tall, lean woman stares down at me. Her gray hair is tied in a tight ponytail, and she’s got a flinty look in her eyes like she’s angry at me. “Uh, Janine?” I ask. “Hmm,” she nods, nowhere near as friendly as she was on the phone and via messenger. “And you must be Amelia.” “The one and only.” Oh, God. I cringe so hard the second the words slup out of my mouth. The one and only. Why would I say that? “Did you forget about the upfront fee you owe?” Janine says. “There are costs associated with you being here.” Her voice is shriller in person, high-pitched, and cutting. “I paid it,” I protest. She tilts her head and purses her lips as if she thinks I’m lying. “I think you’ll find you haven’t.” I grit my teeth, almost snapping at her. We could at least have this conversation in the warm. “Let me check.” Taking out my phone, I navigate to my banking app. With flight mode off, a text has come through from Mom. Remember, you’re there for romance, not work! I’d smile at all the laughing and winking emojis included if it wasn’t for the landlord from hell staring at me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “There must have been a glitch or something. It hasn’t gone through, but it saved the payment request. I’ll put it through now.” Janine doesn’t look convinced as she taps her foot on the floor, but when her phone makes an alert noise, she checks it and nods briefly. “Sorry about that,” she says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Let me show you to your room. You won’t see much of the other tenants. Everybody here works insane hours.” “I’ll be out a lot, too,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself even if I shouldn’t. The inside is surprisingly okay. The carpets and rugs are faded, but everything smells clean. The wallpaper is chipped, but there’s no dampness and nothing outright wrong with it. My room is a box at the front of the property, overlooking the street, with a small radiator in one corner. The bed is single, and the mattress looks like a wafer, with fresh sheets and covers folded on top of it. Janine sees me looking at the sheets and raises an eyebrow. It’s almost like she wants me to comment that I have to put them on myself. Maybe she thinks I’m going to be the difficult American. “Thank you,” I say, beaming at her. “Everything is perfect.” “The heating comes on between five and eleven at night and six and eight in the morning. Feel free to adjust yours by the dial on the heater.” I grin, and she cuts off. “Is something funny?” “No, sorry. Yes. You said heater instead of radiator.” “What else would I call it?” I was about to joke about the heating being on in early summer only in England, but I don’t think she’d find it very funny. She lists off some other stuff, like when I can use the bathroom, which cupboard is mine in the kitchen, and things like that. Honestly, I can’t wait for her to leave. She’s buzz-killing my “new country, new me” vibes a little. Once she’s left me, I go to the window, throw open the curtains, and look down at the rainy street, the dark puddles, no sunlight to make them glisten. Across the street… What the heck? It’s as if somebody reached into my mind and plucked out my dream man. He stands in the rain, not caring when it sluices through his silver-streaked hair. His hair is short, and, unlike the puddles, it does glisten in the wet. He’s wearing a dark suit, clinging tightly to his muscular body, at least six feet, his arms bulging in the material. I’m too far away. I shouldn’t be able to see the intensity in his eyes from here, the fierce anger, obsession, something as he gazes up. A knock at my door has me turning. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Janine asks, maybe feeling bad about how we started things. “Sure, thank you.” When I turn back to the window, my dream man is gone.