“On the desk, I guess?” said Dash. “What is it?”
“Morning coffee and pastries.” The waiter placed the tray on the desk alongside a white pot that smelled like just the delicious antidote to my slight hangover.
Dash signed for the delivery, and the waiter left.
“Coffee?” Dash asked me.
“Yes, please!” He poured me a coffee. As he delivered it to me in his purple pajamas, I added, “Then I want to devour you.”
But coffee first. I sat up in bed, leaning against the headboard, and Dash sat alongside me. We each took our first sips of coffee. It was perfection—strong, smooth, and not at all bitter.
Dash said, “I have to admit I was wrong about your hotel choice. I thought it was a terrible idea to spend so much money, but now that I’ve stayed here, I appreciate you being a dog-walking mogul who can spring for it.”
“Thank you. And agreed!”
“I used to dismiss my mother when she talked about nonsense like the thread count of sheets, but I get it now. These sheets are amazing.”
“Right? So soft and yet crisp at the same time. I thought I was fancy when my mom bought me the most expensive sheets at Target. They’re sandpaper in comparison to Claridge’s sheets.”
“The marble bathroom!” Dash said.
“The fresh flowers on the nightstand!”
“This coffee is so good! All other hotels are officially dead to me.”
“We should come here for our honeymoon,” I joked.
“You’re really going to have to step up your dog crafts business, then,” Dash teased. “I’ll expect the finest honeymoon suite. I doubt my future English literature degree will land me the job to finance a Claridge’s honeymoon.”
“This room even smells good!” I said.
“I know! I thought it was just my imagination. It smells like lavender and mint and clotted-cream scones. Speaking of which …”
Dash got up and returned to the bed with the tray. He took the silver dome off it, revealing an assortment of freshly baked scones next to a bowl of clotted cream and tiny jars of jam. He spread some clotted cream and raspberry jam (my favorite—I loved that he didn’t need to ask) onto one and handed it to me. I took a bite, then sighed. “Best. Breakfast. Ever.”
“We can never leave.”
“Please let’s never leave.” I took another bite. “Do you think Boris could come live here with us?”
Dash shook his head. “It was such a nice fantasy, Lily. Don’t ruin it. These sheets were probably woven by Egyptian cotton fairies. Boris would destroy them within seconds.”
My sweet Boris! I ached from missing him. But the coffee had removed the speck of headache, and all the deliciousness had given me a moment of clarity. “I know what I want to do,” I told Dash.
“Do you mean, like, which scone you want next, or with your life?”
“I want the lemon-glazed scone next. But I meant with my life. I want to be a dogpreneur.”
“Is that actually a thing?”
“Of course it is. I want to be with dogs, train dogs, and design dog crafts. I want to make a business out of dogs. A serious business. Not just a ‘gap year distraction,’ as my mother calls it. I don’t see why that should be a disappointment as a life’s calling.”
“I never said it was.”
“I know. My parents will. I guess I’m rehearsing what I’m going to say to them.”
“Would you like some advice?”
“Generally, no. But from you and your magnificent purple-pajama’d self, yes.”
“The talk with your parents will go better if you have an alternative to Barnard in mind.”
“I just told you what the alternative is. I want to be a dogpreneur.”
“Lily.” Dash set aside his coffee and looked at me intently. “I say this with all the love I have for you in my heart. Please tell me you want more from your life than just being around dogs.”
I was glad I was having this practice talk with Dash, because I knew what he’d just said was exactly the argument my parents would make. Somehow, if they said it, I knew I’d react angrily and defensively. But hearing it from Dash made me consider it reasonably.
I said, “Of course I want more from my life. I’d like to be involved in volunteer rescue work for all animals, not just dogs. I’d like to work with the elderly—maybe by bringing therapy animals to visit with them. And I really enjoy crafting clothes and accessories. For dogs and humans. I would love to get better at sketching and sewing—”
“Have you ever considered FIT?” Dash asked me.
“No. Why?”
“Where’s your laptop?”
“In my backpack.”
Dash retrieved my laptop and returned to the bed. He navigated to the website for the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan. We perused its course selections. There were so many subjects I was actually interested in! (Sorry, Barnard.) Accessories design. Entrepreneurship. Illustration. Packaging design. Textile development and marketing. TOY DESIGN!
“I had no idea I could feel so excited about going to college,” I said. “I want to take all those courses!”
Dash said, “The application deadline is a week away. You could get it done in time.”
“But you’re supposed to submit a portfolio, too. I can’t—” “You have enough photos from the crafts you sell on Instagram to use as a portfolio. You know I find chasing social media likes to be disingenuous, but in this case, I’d say all the likes on your photos are testament to how good your work is.”
“You really think I should apply to FIT?” I didn’t need his answer. I already knew I wanted to do it.
“I do. It seems like a much better fit for you.” He waited for me to laugh at his pun. I didn’t. He could do so much better than low-level dad jokes. “And I think turning down Barnard would go down a lot better with your parents if you had an alternative education plan in mind, and not just a desire to be a dogpreneur.” He paused. “I feel ridiculous when I say that word.”
“I love you when you’re ridiculous.” I programmed my laptop to stream a playlist courtesy of the original Purple One. It started exactly where I planned to spend the rest of the morning—with the song: “Kiss.”
“This is kinkier than I expected,” Dash whispered into my ear.
“I know!” I whispered back. “It’s so perfect in its awfulness.”
We were at the matinee performance of Happy Chrimbo, Dick Whittington, tickets for which we’d been given the previous day by the actor on The Thames of Our Lives.
I knew the British were famous for the theater. That guy Shakespeare, he was pretty good. Their movie actors who came from the theater are the best of the best, like those X-Men old guys, and my favorite Helen Mirren, the voice of the Queen in my favorite movie last Christmas, Corgi & Bess. Plus, two words: Idris Elba.
But this pantomime showcased an over-the-top acting style that seemed like a very distant cousin to the grand West End British theater tradition. It was strictly high camp, with cross-dressing actors wearing outrageous costumes, and filled with a (sadly sparse) audience of people who behaved exactly the opposite of how I’d expect a proper British audience to respond. They yelled things like “Sod off!” when a villain appeared, and “He’s behind you!” to warn the good guy, Dick Whittington, when the villain approached. They hooted and hollered when Dick Whittington finally got his Chrimbo (British slang for Christmas) wish fulfilled: The King Rat was destroyed by London’s wiliest cat (played by a D-list reality-TV star from a British show called Telly Me Everything, Mate).