Mandy Hubbard: Prada and Prejudice

Crazy. I definitely don't see that every day. Our little country town is more likely to have jacked-up trucks and a Target than Ferraris and a Louis Vuitton shop.

The architecture here is gorgeous: all sorts of brick buildings, elaborate archways, stone carvings, open-air cafes, glossy store fronts... everything is just so English I feel a little sophisticated and chic just walking down this street, like I should be eating a croissant or debating the finer sides of Chaucer or something.

Maybe if I soak up a little of this... aura, I can act a little less classic Callie and figure out a plan to get to the club tonight.

Hyde Park and Sloane Street. That's where the club is. Maybe I can pick up some cute clothes and then go scope it out and it won't seem so intimidating. Maybe I can get thenerve to crash later. Mindy is pretty nice, after all. She could be cool with it. If I look cute and act normal, they'll get over their idea that I'm deadweight.

Still deep in thought, I pass a window filled with mannequins. One of them has a baby blue cami just like the pink one Mindy was wearing.

Yes, this could work.

Step 1: Retail Therapy.

Two hours later, my arms and feet are killing me. I'm still not sure what look I'm going for, but if I can't decide on something from the two-hundred dollars — er, pounds — worth of clothes I've bought so far, I'm hopeless. The thing is, I don't want to seem like I'm trying too hard but I don't want to dress like a total scrub either. I have to look killer tonight.

Pulled off correctly, it will reverse my fate, and the rest of my European vacation will be spent with Mindy, having real fun.

I'm just about to turn around and head back to the hotel when I see it: a five-story brick building with huge bay windows on every floor. Fluted white casings frame the entry.

At the street level is a wall of glass, polished to such a shine I can see my own reflection staring back at me.

And hanging over my head, in shockingly simple block letters, is a single word: PRADA.

I stare at the storefront with Angela's words ringing in my head. She knows shoes.

She knows fakes. And she knows the real thing when she sees it. What if I bought a pair of true Prada shoes and wore them to the club? Would she admire them? Would she at least say something and break the ice, and then I could say something brilliant hack, and she'd forget that she never invited me out in the first place?

Desperate times call for desperate measures. The desperate measure in this case being my Mom's credit card, which was given to me with a stern warning about "emergency usage only." In my book, this qualifies as an emergency. After all, I'm about to have a life-changing night.

Still outside, I peer farther into the store. There's a banner announcing the arrival of the summer collection, and a dozen or so pairs of heels on little acrylic perches. I spot a pair of lavender platform pumps that makes my heart jump — the heel is painted to look like little flowers. But then I think about what Angela would say, and I realize they're too showy.

That's when I see them: a pair of shiny red patent leather pumps with sky-high heels and a cute buckle detail. They're totally classic, and yet there's no way anyone could mistake them for another brand. My mind made up, I shove open the door and step inside. I'm not even going to try them on; they're mine.

As it turns out, I probably should have tried them on because they definitely feel too big, now that I'm actually standing in them. But I'm sure I can figure out a way to stuff some tissue in the front. It'll be fine. I just have to get back to the hotel.

Which is, unfortunately, at least a mile away, back by the Chelsea Bridge and the Thames.

I stand precariously in the tallest heels I've ever worn,determined to make it back to my room. The good thing is that by the time I get there, they'll have lost a little bit of their brand-new look, and then when Angela compliments me on them, I can be all, "Oh, these old things?"

I take a few clumsy steps, and that's when it happens: the heel snags a grate, my ankle twists, and I'm free falling. My breath catches in my throat because I know whatever happens next is going to hurt. The cement is rushing up at me so fast I can't even protect my head. The last thing I see is a well-dressed guy with salt-and-pepper hair staring at me with wide eyes as my arms fly out like chicken wings.

Pain screams in my temple as I slam to the pavement, and then the world goes black.

There's a pounding inside my skull, like a jackhammer is drilling out my eyeballs.

Nausea wells up, but I sit still for a few long moments, keeping my eyes closed until it abates, and the pounding in my head fades to a drumbeat in the background.

I ease one eye open, waiting for the pounding to resume, but it doesn't. I open my other eye, but the headache is gone. Whew.

Once my eyes are open, however, a new problem presents itself: I'm sitting in dirt.

Damp, mucky dirt. My left hand, the one I'm leaning on, is sinking in it. I snap my head upward.

My pulse quickens and a scream catches in my throat.

I'm surrounded by trees. And not a few trees, like I might have been moved from the sidewalk to a nearby park — this is big enough to be a national forest. The sun is setting, and all I can see are tree trunks and shadows and more dirt. Some birds have the nerve to chirp, like this is just another day in their lives.

This makes no sense. None at all.

My hand shakes as I reach up to rub my eyes, sure I'm hallucinating. When I open them again, nothing has changed.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is wrong. All wrong.

I look around, forcing myself to take several long, slow breaths.

Do. Not. Panic.

There has to be a simple explanation for this.

My shopping bags are gone. All three of them. Have I been robbed? My purse is still gripped tightly in my hand, and a quick glance tells me the contents are still intact. So where's the rest of my stuff? I glance down at my feet and am relieved to see my four-hundred-dollar Prada shoes. Whew.

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead on them. My left temple is tender and sore where it hit the concrete.

I chew on my lip and look around again. What on earth is going on?

I bought these shoes. Took a few steps. Fell down.

And now I'm... in the middle of nowhere?

This can't be right. I don't remember seeing any trees like this. Maybe they were behind the shops. Maybe someone moved me out of the way of traffic.

But as I look in each direction, all I see are more trees. There must be hundreds. No, thousands. The more I see, the more I want to take off running. What the heck is going on?

How is it that I smack my head in the middle of London and wake up in the forest?

Something howls in the distance, and I scramble to my feet. Oh God. Does England have wolves? Maybe it was just a dog. But it sounded huge. Really, really huge.

I start walking briskly in the opposite direction, my heels sinking in the dirt. I have to hold my arms out to balance myself; it feels like I'm walking in quick sand. It is going to take forever to get anywhere. And the sun is already falling in the sky. That's bad. That's really bad. I don't want to be out here in the dark.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my heart, which has gone crazy in my chest. This is the kind of bizarre thing that happens on the news. Not to me.

I trip on some tree roots and land on my knees, the mud quickly seeping through my jeans. Tears spring to my eyes as I scramble back to my feet. This is marvelous. Exactly how I wanted to spend my evening. I should be at a party, dancing and exchanging witty barbs with Angela and Mindy. But no, I'm walking around in England's National Forest. Alone. As darkness falls.