90 Days in London

Chapter3: Sleepy time

Clarence jolts awake from her nap, her cheek pressed against the cold window of the train. She blinks, disoriented, realizing it’s already seven o'clock, and the train is nearing Madrid. The haze of her hangover from last night’s call with Albert lingers, dull and thick, making her stomach churn just thinking about it. She groans inwardly—who on earth gets themselves into situations like this? As promised, she’d paid for the drinks she and Mabel had shared, but then they both stumbled back to the hotel half-drunk. Classic.

When the train pulls into the station, Clarence kisses Mabel goodbye on the cheek, half-heartedly wishing her well, before they go their separate ways. As she walks off the platform, she instinctively checks her phone, even though she knows it’s pointless. Albert’s last message was four hours ago. She sighs, a little annoyed at herself for checking at all.

She heads up Calle de Lavapiés, a quiet, uphill residential street—nothing flashy, but definitely not rundown either. It's where she's lived for the past four years since landing a job at the music college.

Her building is six stories tall, and she’s chosen the top floor, mostly because it forces her to get some exercise. Of course, there are days when she curses her decision, especially when the lazy mood sets in, but she tells herself the partial view of the city from her windows is worth the climb.

When she finally unlocks the door to her 100-square-meter apartment, a familiar chill greets her, like an old friend—distant, cold, and unapologetic. It’s a sharp reminder of the loneliness she’s embraced, the kind of loneliness she’s decided to make peace with. Some days, she’d swear she’d die on that hill, just to prove it to herself.

"I should get a cat," she murmurs to herself, the thought appearing uninvited, as it so often does. The idea lingers, but her heart still aches too much from losing her kitten, Pica, who’d died in her arms after just twenty days of fostering. Her job is demanding enough, with research that stretches well over 18 hours a day, leaving no room for a pet.

And honestly, that’s fine with her. People have teased her for staying single, always waving away any potential partners, no matter how promising they might seem. But, loneliness? That’s a safe, reliable choice. Drama and heartbreak from failed relationships are things she’d rather avoid. If she’s going to suffer, she’d prefer it to be for something she knows how to handle.

These thoughts whirl around her mind as she steps into the shower, hot water cascading down her body. The loofah scrubs away the day’s grime, the rhythm of it almost meditative.

Clarence stares at her screen—Albert’s number still unregistered. The clock ticks to 9:59:59, and she quickly hits the call button, her fingers trembling slightly.

Before she can even say “hello,” Albert’s voice comes through, smooth but with a slight rasp. “Good evening. Apologies for last night.”

Clarence blinks, trying to shake off the fog of their odd conversation. “No, it’s fine. I was just a bit puzzled, that’s all,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t sound too flustered.

“Right, well, that was the most tedious piece I’ve ever heard,” he responds, his tone light, almost teasing, as if he’s leaning back in some comfy chair, completely relaxed.

Clarence laughs, a warm blush creeping up her neck. “I give that lecture to freshies. It’s practically my job,” she says, trying to sound nonchalant, even though she can’t help feeling a little embarrassed.

“Can’t say I’ve been in a classroom for 24 years,” Albert replies, and there’s a serious undertone, though Clarence can still sense the underlying lightness in his words.

Clarence pauses, mentally doing the math. He must be in his forties. “Wow, 24 years away from the classroom? That’s a long time. So, did it actually work? Did you manage to sleep?”

“It worked, yes. But I do feel a bit sorry for your students,” Albert says, and there’s a genuine sincerity in his voice that unexpectedly makes Clarence’s heart flutter.

“Okay, you don’t get to critique my lecture style,” she retorts, her tone firm but playful, a smile tugging at her lips. Her confidence is back, and it feels good.

He chuckles softly, warm but composed, with just a hint of mischief. “I’d be interested in giving it another go if it has the same effect,” he says, the suggestion hanging in the air.

Clarence grins. This could mean easy extra cash for her.

Clarence leans back against her pillows, phone nestled between her ear and shoulder. She pushes her AirPod deeper into her ear and flips through her thoughts about the lecture she’s preparing for the winter semester. “Let’s move to the Romantic Era of music,” she says, her voice soft and soothing, aiming to lull Albert into a peaceful sleep. “This period, from about 1820 to 1900, is all about individualism and glorifying nature. It’s a big change from the structured forms of the Classical era—think of it like emotional storytelling.”

She continues, her words flowing effortlessly as she imagines herself back in the classroom, where the January air hangs cool and her students fidget in their seats, wrapped in their winter coats. “Composers like Chopin and Brahms poured their hearts into their music. They express deep personal emotions, creating pieces that really speak to you. It’s raw, it’s beautiful—nothing like what came before.”

In her mind’s eye, Clarence walks to the piano in the corner, fingers lightly brushing the keys. She switches from English to Spanish, her tone becoming more academic as she imagines engaging her students. “Ahora, consideren cómo la armonía expandida y las formas innovadoras juegan un papel en esta era,” she explains, her voice flowing smoothly into the new language, full of enthusiasm for her subject.

She walks back to her desk, gesturing toward the imagined students. “And don’t forget about the importance of national identity. Composers start drawing inspiration from folk music and their own cultural themes. This fusion allows them to stay connected to their heritage while appealing to a wider audience.”

The bell rings in her mind, and the students rise in a flurry of shuffling feet and excited chatter. “Check your emails for the homework, and please don’t give me another paraphrased copy,” Clarence reminds them, her tone light but firm.

“¡Sí, maestra!” a few of them chorus, their playful banter bringing a smile to her face.

Once the classroom settles, Clarence clears the board, her smile a little brighter today. As she checks her phone notifications, she notices her January payment has arrived from Albert. A grand total of 1,000 euros is now in her bank account. He’s followed through on his promise of a bonus, and it’s even more than she had expected. Clarence figures he’s just being overly grateful for finally being able to sleep well after their nightly calls.

It’s been a month since their first conversation, with calls happening up to five times a week. There are moments when he can’t join because of late-night meetings, but luckily, her job and research responsibilities usually wrap up just in time. It feels like a hit-or-miss situation, but lately, it’s been leaning more toward the hits.

As February and March roll by, Clarence finds herself exceeding her targets, much to her surprise. It’s more than enough to ensure she won’t be scraping by while trying to attend concerts and performances. Her excitement bubbles over as she sets her sights on a Harry Styles concert, but general audience tickets sell out faster than a flash sale on trendy sneakers. Desperate not to miss out, she empties a quarter of her emergency fund to grab VIP tickets, her heart racing with equal parts thrill and panic. Now, she’s on a mission to replenish her savings, carefully budgeting her way back to financial stability—like a tightrope walker balancing on a thin line, hoping the safety net will catch her.

Here’s the passage rewritten in the style of Sophie Kinsella, with a shift to present tense:

Spring is just around the corner, and Albert has been burning the midnight oil for weeks, which means Clarence doesn’t need to initiate a call. She stretches, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease a bit as she prepares for the conversation.

“Just so you know, you’re still sending me the same amount,” she points out, a hint of hesitation creeping into her voice. She fiddles with a loose thread on her sleeve, wondering if she should’ve kept quiet.

“Did I? Don’t worry about it,” Albert replies, but she senses a playful innocence in his tone. “It’s just a drop in the ocean for me.” She rolls her eyes, her lips quirking into a half-smile at his casual dismissal.

“Okay, rich boy,” she mutters, surprised she’s let that slip. She hears Albert chuckle on the other end, and the sound sends a light flutter through her stomach.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he prompts, curiosity evident in his voice.

“Why?” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow as she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms defensively.

“Just thought it might be a nice change of pace.”

“Are you bored of my lectures? You know how much students pay to hear them.” She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a smirk.

“I’m not fussed about that sort of thing; I just thought we could change the air a bit.”

Clearing her throat, she replies, “No, thanks.” She feels a knot of uncertainty in her stomach.

“Why not?”

“I don’t really do personal questions.” She bites her lip, feeling the weight of his curiosity.

“Come on, talk to me like a regular bloke. How long have you been in Spain?”

“A while.” She glances out the window and notices the darkness settling over the street.

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“Four years and seven months.”

“You studied there?”

“Yeah, I did.” She straightens up a bit, feeling the familiar pride that comes with her education.

“How was it?”

“Good, I suppose.” She shrugs, trying to downplay her experience.

Albert bursts into laughter, but it sounds a bit hollow, which surprises Clarence. She frowns slightly, wondering what’s behind that laugh.

“You’re being difficult. You won’t chat like a normal person,” he teases.

“This is how I chat with normal people—get used to it!” Clarence retorts, feeling her cheeks heat up, irritation mixing with amusement.

Albert laughs again, this time more mischievous, as if she’s an amusing puzzle to him. Clarence brushes it off, trying to stay composed, tapping her fingers on the desk to distract herself.

“Do you have a problem with men? You seem quite different from what Suzie described,” Albert continues.

“What did Susan tell you?” Clarence asks, feigning innocence, her heart racing slightly.

“She said you’re an angel with a golden aura.”

“She said that? She must’ve been tipsy after our New Year’s Day drinks.” Clarence laughs lightly, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Are you being guarded because I’m a man?”

“No, why would you think that?” Clarence raises her chin defiantly, refusing to show any vulnerability.

“You seem overly cautious with me.”

“Oh, come off it,” she sighs, a mix of frustration and amusement creeping into her voice.

“Are you annoyed?”

“I very much am,” Clarence replies, rolling her eyes, trying to maintain her stern facade.

“Alright, I won’t push your buttons. Let’s talk about you, then.”

“I really don’t know what to say,” Clarence admits, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms tighter.

“Anything,” Albert exhales, sounding a bit cheeky. “Just something off the top of your head.”

“I don’t want it to lead to anything… inappropriate,” Clarence says, choosing her words carefully, a flutter of anxiety rising in her chest.

“Nothing like that, I promise.”

“Right, anything, yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Albert says, his voice full of playful resignation.

“Okay, then I’ll just talk about my latest bout of nasty diarrhea.”

“Bloody hell!”

Clarence can’t help but smile, sensing Albert’s laughter radiating through the phone. She shakes her head, laughter bubbling up as she imagines his expression.

She opens her mouth, unsure how much more ridiculous this conversation can get.

“So, did you really talk about your diarrhea?” Mabel asks, her voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. They’re sitting in the front row after practice, the old theater seats creaking beneath them. Mabel unbuttons the first button of her crisp white shirt, the bow hanging crookedly at her side, and slumps down, the chair groaning under her.

“I did. He hung up and said he had an emergency call,” Clarence chuckles, the absurdity of the situation bubbling up again.

Mabel shoots her a look, and they both burst into laughter, sounding like a pair of silly geese.

“Men are always the first to leave at the first sign of hardship,” Clarence says, shaking her head with mock exasperation.

“He sounds really nice, though. So, are you meeting him in London?” Mabel leans forward, her curiosity piqued.

Clarence raises an eyebrow as the realization hits her. “I forgot he lives in London, even with that lovely British accent.”

“Have you Googled him?” Mabel’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

“I did, but there are a ton of Albert Huangs floating around the internet,” Clarence says, crossing her arms, her mind spinning through the possibilities.

“What do you know about him?” Mabel probes, her tone shifting to genuine interest.

“Not much. I do all the talking, and he never shares personal details—no job, nothing. He sometimes asks about me, but I just make up stories or lie. I think he’s caught on. I mean, it’s been five months, right?” Clarence sighs, feeling the weight of their strange connection.

“Have you been talking to Susan?” Mabel’s question jolts Clarence back into the moment.

“Jesus Christ! I completely forgot about her!” Clarence exclaims, a twinge of guilt washing over her. “She hasn’t shown up or messaged me.”

“Oh, maybe it’s her all along!” Mabel gasps, covering her mouth dramatically as if she’s uncovered a scandal.

Clarence laughs lightly, playfully hitting Mabel’s shoulder. “Well, whoever is behind it, what matters is the money is real. Thanks to the Huangs, I can rent a decent sublet near Convent Road. I won’t have to worry about sleeping in shady alleys.” She tightens her arms around herself, shuddering at the thought.

“And I’m subbing your classes? Ugh! You know how many years it’s been since I taught music theory and history? My eyes are going to moisten, and my throat will dry up! And that’s not even for the right reasons.” Mabel winks, making Clarence roll her eyes at the obvious s****l reference.

“You’ll do fine. It’s just for two weeks. Just do your own rendition of Dead Poets Society or something, but please don’t step on the table in the lecture room. It’s a century old, and I just taped it back together after slamming down a book.” Clarence chuckles, half-serious.

“Fine, but please come back without your virginity, okay?” Mabel teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Get lost, baby!” Clarence pouts playfully, the banter lifting her spirits.

“Am I still helping you with your luggage?” Mabel asks, her tone suddenly serious.

“You promised!” Clarence replies, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.

Mabel rolls her eyes and sighs in resignation.