“Right now our only path is to the nearest Tube station,” I told her.
“I’ll see you later,” Lily added, hugging her great-aunt goodbye.
Lily and I didn’t say anything to each other until we were out of the hotel; it was not unreasonable to think Mrs. Basil E. would have spies throughout the lobby, alert to any sarcasm on my part, and any regret on Lily’s. It was only as we were walking to the Tube that I let out a “What just happened?!” and Lily released an “I have no idea!”
All the talk of elopement put Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Run Away with Me” in my head. I shared this fact with Lily as we stepped on the kilometer-long escalator to get to the heart of the Underground.
“I really wasn’t expecting those words to come out of her mouth,” Lily said. “Ever.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s the remedy your parents would have wanted her to propose,” I said. “Even if it was just to steer you back toward Barnard.”
“I’m not going to Barnard.”
“I know.”
“Thank you.”
She was on the step above me on the escalator, so we were practically the same height. I leaned in and kissed her.
“What was that for?” she asked.
“For not going to Barnard.”
As the escalator neared the end of its run, we could hear a busker take up the opening strains of Joni Mitchell’s “River,” a maudlin holiday song that was one of Lily’s favorites. But then, after the opening strains, something remarkable happened—the busker changed the tune so that she was using Joni’s overture to lead to a piano version of … “Run Away with Me.”
“No way,” I said.
The busker looked strangely like Carly Rae Jepsen. But it couldn’t be. Could it?
I was not the only person curious and enchanted. Others were stopping to sway to the song.
“One sec,” I told Lily. “I have to do this.”
And Lily smiled and said, “I know.”
Of course she knew. I’d told her before of my vow: If I ever heard a busker who happened to be playing the song playing in my head, I would empty all the cash in my wallet into their guitar case.
I’d always assumed I’d get snagged by a Beatles song. It meant more that it was Carly Rae Jepsen.
As the busker sang, I took out my wallet, removed all the bills, and put them in a tinsel-decorated cookie tin that the busker was using in lieu of a guitar case. Then, for good measure, I emptied out all my change.
The busker looked a mix of confused and appreciative as she plunged into the chorus—
Hey, run away with me
Run away with me… .
As commuters pushed around us, I spun Lily around. A few other couples and singles joined in, singing along when the next chorus graced us.
Lily grabbed my hand and pulled me away, so the song could be the wind behind our back as we made our way forward. We were both grinning when we got onto the train, and we weren’t the only ones.
By the time we got to the stop near Gem’s flat, normalcy had reasserted itself.
“I’m nervous,” Lily admitted as we walked through Waterloo. “I don’t think I made the best first impression.”
“Trust me,” I said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
When we got to the door, Lily went to knock, and I gently pointed out that I had a key. I let us in, then called out to Gem when we were in the foyer. The flat smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. A Tom Jones Christmas album was playing over the speakers.
Gem came out of the kitchen wearing an apron—not her usual look.
“There you are!” she said, hugging me and then hugging Lily. “I’ve been busy making your great-great-grandmother’s Christmas Cake. Which is really just a glorified coffee cake … but it’s still tradition.”
“I had no idea Dash had a family Christmas Cake,” Lily said.
“Neither did I!” I admitted.
This surprised Gem. At least at first. “Did your father never—no, I imagine he didn’t. Well, I’ll have to give you the recipe. We’ll just say it skipped a generation.”
“It smells wonderful,” Lily said.
“Thank you, dear. I do enjoy throwing a dinner party. During the lean years, by which I mean the years of nouvelle cuisine, people always loved coming here because they knew they’d get to eat heartily. Never underestimate the power of a well-dressed coffee cake to make even Londoners happy. Now, Dash, give her a tour and settle into your room for a bit. Dinner will be ready in an hour or so. Be sure to dress for it.” “Any particular dress code?” I asked.
“Oh, you’ll see,” Gem answered, without further explanation.
She went back into the kitchen, and I commenced the tour. When we poked our heads into the dining room, I discovered that Gem had transformed it into a holiday wonderland, complete with a centerpiece that was a Christmas tree made entirely of flowers.
“None of this was here twenty-four hours ago,” I told Lily, who was utterly delighted by it. I called out to the kitchen, “Where did you get all this?”
“My friends at Liberty were very appreciative of my help!” Gem called back.
Lily lifted one of the floral cloth napkins from one of the place settings. “Nice friends to have,” she observed.
I took in the whole sight. “I’ll say.”
After showing her more of the ground floor, I took her up to my room.
“Welcome to my home away from my home away from home,” I told her.
“Books, books, more books, some clothes, a few photos … looks a lot like your home to me,” she said.
“Plus an Advent calendar,” I pointed out.
“Yes, I noticed.”
She walked over to the closet, where two Liberty garment bags were dangling from the door.
“What are these?” Lily asked.
“I have no idea,” I answered.
One of them had Lily’s name on it. The other had my name on it.
Lily unzipped hers first, unveiling a fabulous frock.
“This is … wow,” was her reaction.
I found a dapper suit inside my bag, a little less elaborate than the one I’d worn to Daunt, but still rather extravagant.
“I must say, I like her friends at Liberty,” I commented.
Lily hung the dress back where it had been on the door. Then she sat on my bed and looked at me earnestly.
“What are we going to do, Dash?” she asked.
And I understood: A lot had been thrown at us in the past couple of days. This was our first sober pause.
I hung my suit beside her dress.
I knew she was asking the question about our lives, but I decided to answer about our next hour instead.
“Well,” I told her, “I think we’ll be taking off some clothing, and then putting on different clothing. Perhaps with some activity in between. How does that sound?”
“It doesn’t sound like a future,” she said. “But it definitely sounds like a plan.”
An hour later, when Gem called us down for dinner, we were just a few buttons short of being ready.
Amy Winehouse was sounding winedrunk in the speakers as we settled in—at least until Gem mentioned Nick Drake and saw that neither Lily nor I knew who that was. The record player soon fell into a bucolic groove that seemed to fit the December evening perfectly.