Lynn Hulsman - Christmas at Thornton Hall

Clean, I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a white Turkish towel off the towel warmer. English people are so weird about bathrooms. They aren’t interested in ambient heat or water pressure, but they’d rather die than press a room-temperature towel to their bodies. I could forgive the quirks, though, since being converted to full-on Anglophile. I’d lived here long enough that England felt like home, and there was no denying that Ben being an Englishman was part of the turn-on.

It had been over a year since I’d met Ben at the London Aquarium benefit. I guess you could say we went from zero to sixty, fast. I think I called him my boyfriend the first day we woke up together. If I was honest, I’d have to admit it stung that he still hadn’t introduced me to any of his family, except for one sister over a quick after-work drink.

Well, the tide was about to turn, and I had big plans to make it all turn out like in the movies. Maybe his mother would invite me to call her “Mum”? Could I say that without feeling like a poser? Or would it be “Mother Flannery”?

I was determined that this Christmas would be perfect, especially since the last one had been a major disappointment. He had invited me to his family’s home, but at the eleventh hour, he’d called from the New York office. He made a thousand apologies and cancelled the whole holiday plan, explaining that he’d have to stay in the U.S. through New Year’s, while I was stuck in London alone.

“I’m crushed, Darling,” he had cooed transatlantically into the phone. “And so’s my family. Dad especially. He said he wanted to get a good look at my girl to see if she fit in with the Flannery clan. Please try to understand.”

I remember the squeezing feeling I’d gotten in my stomach. At the time, I’d sensed a whiff of Stephen. Don’t catastrophize, Juliet. Ben is not your old boyfriend.

“You do wish you were here with me, don’t you?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Ben had replied impatiently. “Of course I want to be with you. It’s just quite impossible at the moment. Be practical, Juliet.”

It sounded like something my mother would say, and I was embarrassed. I was being selfish, wasn’t I?

“Any man who wants to put a little money in the bank, maybe raise a family someday has to get ahead, right?” Ben asked. “It’s torture to climb the ladder at Thompson Loyal, but those who can’t stand the heat should get out of the kitchen. I am proving my worth. If my boss says jump, I have to ask how high? Being abroad at Christmastime is just one of the many small sacrifices I have to make while I’m junior.”

I chose to ignore the fact that Ben had called me an idiot, and focus on how my heart sizzled at the word family. Oh my god, does Ben want a baby? Wait! Do I want a baby? Would we have more than one? 28 isn’t that young, after all and…

“They call work work for a reason,” he’d lectured on. “I have to be on location in the Big Apple because old Martin Loyal has us representing that film production studio in Soho – The New York Soho – and it’s all hands on deck here. Contracts for directors and film stars, insurance riders for the special effects…you know, boring.”

“I’m sorry you have to work,” I had told him. At that point, I’d started feeling dumb. Who wouldn’t rather be wined and dined and taken to bed than stuck in a boring law office discussing contracts and insurance? This was proof that he was good husband material.

Don’t fight him on this one, Juliet. Support him, and soon, you’ll be working in the kitchen to prepare holiday dinners for your own little family, not for strangers.

“Sorry, Ben. Of course you’re right. Just making sure you don’t have something cooking with The Statue of Liberty,” I’d said, trying to laugh it off.

“You’re the only absurdly tall woman who carries a torch that I’m giving it to,” he’d flirted.

“What’ll you do for the holiday? You won’t be in some diner eating pressed turkey and instant mashed potatoes alone, will you?”

“Don’t worry about me, one of my mates from the office here has claimed me. I’ll be seen to…Look, I have to run. I miss you like mad and can’t wait to get a handful of your…Yes, Bob? Right! I’m just hanging up! Bye, Jubes,” he whispered, “Happy Christmas. I’ll call when I can.”

Today would be more about getting back to normal as a couple than about fantasy land, though. We had trip plans to solidify, details to discuss about scheduling. I was tired but running on twitchy excitement. W ith Ben gone already, I could have slept late, I thought, wrapping myself in his waffle robe (“It’s a dressing gown, Jubes, I’m not a judge,” Ben would have scolded me). I went into the kitchen, still harboring a tiny glimmer of hope that he might be sitting at the table going over briefs and sipping a cup of coffee.

No such luck. No Ben…and no coffee. My brain felt like lead. I didn’t think I could make it to the Pret around the corner to buy one before getting dressed, so I grabbed a bag of ground espresso from the freezer. I twisted off the portafilter and saw that there was no filter basket inside. Urghh! I’d asked Ben a dozen times to tell his cleaner to leave the machine alone. First, she washed all the parts with soap, which ruined the taste of the lovely pure Kona coffee I kept here, and second, she never put it back together properly.

Irked and jonesing for my java, I held onto the kitchen counter with a tight grip, plotting out my next move. Go out for coffee, or look for the missing piece. Just be methodical, I told myself. It can’t have disappeared. Just look one place at a time, and you’ll find it.

I’ll admit to feeling a bit smug as I worked from top left to bottom right, searching the cabinets. I was thinking how adult it was of me not to flip out just because I’d been awake for this long with no coffee. And wasn’t I grown-up for not wishing that Ben’s cleaner would be deported before her regular Wednesday shift so she could never touch this espresso machine, ever, as long as she was alive?

As I rifled through each cabinet and cupboard, I grew more and more frantic. Agitated, I moved on to the drawers. Rubber bands, twine, and scissors in this one. Potholders, tea towels, and sponges in that one. Soon I was ripping through the deep drawers all the way over by the table, where, realistically, no coffee filter would ever dwell. Still, I was on a mission.

A tiny, distant voice tried to tell me that I’d crossed a line. I had the vague sense that if Ben walked in, he wouldn’t be amused at my ransacking his flat. But that didn’t stop me. Another drawer. Place mats, table cloths, and candlesticks, but no filter. A cabinet. Photo albums, maps, and board games, but still no filter. Deep in my rational mind, I knew that the filter wouldn’t be around the corner in the lounge, but my rational mind was deeply asleep and my coffee-addicted animal sense was propelling my body.

I flung open the double doors of the cabinet below the television set, and pulled out a stack of file boxes. That’s when I saw the corner of the padded envelope sticking out of The Economist , on top of a pile of folders. My body beat my brain to the panic. Blood roared through my ears as I eased out the envelope and held it in my hand.

Amanda Selmont

39 East 79 thStreet

New York City, NY 10075

Amanda, the 5’ 2”, ice-blonde from Manhattan? The one who called the cocktail dress I’d worn to the company party “appropriate”?

I watched my hands tear it open like I was watching a movie of someone else’s hands. I slid out a thick, creamy slice of stationery and watched a tasteful pair of platinum hoops fall to the floor. Amanda’s earrings.