1
Holly
I love old people.
I don’t mean that condescendingly or even in a weird, fetish kind of way. I just like their company. The stories they have to tell, the things they’ve done and seen. It’s fair to say that I’ve never met an old person I didn’t like. I even find the crotchety ones interesting. You can learn a lot from just hanging out with older folks, though I can’t really explain my affinity to them except to say I’ve just always preferred their company over people of my own age right from being a little girl.
It’s not just seniors, either. Take the couple I’m currently sharing a table with. They’re not old, exactly. Just older. And such cool company. How I come to be sharing a table with them is thanks to the bar almost overflowing with people, which, the server tells me, is because of their popular happy hour and the nearby office crowd. But it’s a civilised kind of busy and the customers are mostly professionals judging by their appearances and the chiming of glasses and the low murmur of their voices. How I come to be in the hotel bar at all is thanks to my rumbling stomach, a hankering for company, and an aversion to paying the ridiculous room service surcharge for a coffee and a sandwich.
So here I am, basking in the bright spring sunshine streaming in through a wall of windows overlooking one of London’s quieter streets. The bonus of my extended lunch is Lukas and Annika, the older (but not old) couple who I’ve spent the last hour in the company of. It seems they’ve travelled the world several times over and have already been to a whole bunch of places that I want to visit, and I am absolutely drinking up their stories while swapping a few of my own.
Interesting, see?
“So you just arrived in London?” Lukas smiles encouragingly. He’s tall and angular, reminding me a little of Tom Brady. Or maybe what he’ll look like in ten years or so.
I nod in agreement and swallow a quick sip of my drink, having moved on from a cappuccino to a glass of wine at their invitation.
“I flew in from Florida yesterday, though I’m actually from Oregon.” Buttphuck Oregon. Otherwise known as Mookatill, home of the cheese by the same name.
“I don’t think we’ve ever been to Oregon,” Annika says, glancing at the hubs, who shakes his head.
“Home of tall trees and even taller mountain ranges,” I offer, sounding like I work for the tourism board. Mookatill might not be much to look at, but Oregon is beautiful.
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, it is. The coastline is stunning coastline, not to mention, we have fourteen hundred lakes.”
“Isn’t there a state with ten thousand lakes?” Annika turns to her husband as he speaks.
“Minnesota,” I reply. The show-offs.
“But now you live in London.” Lukas reaches for his wine glass and swirls the blood-red liquid around the bowl. “It must be a little bit different to where you’re from.”
“Oh, just a little,” I reply with a laugh. “But I’ve lived here a year now.” And I love it, though I guess I’d be happy to be anywhere that isn’t buttphuck Oregon!
“Chelsea, did you say?”
“Yep. I’ll join the family in the morning. It’s just a cab ride away.”
It’s the family I work for and not my actual family who lives in Chelsea, but I’d already mentioned that. Not that anyone would guess I wasn’t born to squander a trust fund in super cool hotel bars because I’m dressed perfectly for the part. Skinny jeans, a white vest, and a Balmain blazer; the designer must-have. Okay, the blazer’s a dupe, but it’s a pretty convincing one.
I was supposed to go straight from the airport to the house, but when I’d switched on my phone after landing earlier today, I found I had a text from Martine, my boss, to tell me she’d booked me into a hotel in the city. Something about the decorator not finishing on schedule. As you can imagine, I wasn’t about to complain. The pair could fluff cushions and reposition artwork until their hearts are content because what kind of idiot would complain about an extended vacation?
“I imagine you need to be back early tomorrow,” Lukas murmurs, placing back his glass on the table between us.
“No, they have a driver for the school run.” I’m basically a tutor and social secretary to a couple of American tween-agers. It’s a pretty sweet gig, unlike driving in peak-hour London traffic, which would probably give me a heart attack.
“It sounds like a very good position.”
“It’s the best. Especially when you consider half term isn’t far away, and we’re off to Ibiza for the break.” Working for rich people is the best; cast-off Prada handbags and bougie vacations are just the start of it. “And then it’s Rome and then Lake Como when summer rolls around.”
“What is the saying?” he says with a small smile. “It’s a tough job . . .”
“But someone’s got to do it.” I’m super glad that someone is me because I, Holly Harper, love my job. In fact, I love it more than I love hanging out with old(er) people. I get to spend time with the two most polite and well-behaved tween-agers in the world, who belong to the nicest couple in the world, all while getting to travel the world.
“How fabulous! It sounds like you’re getting to see lots of Europe.” As she speaks, Lukas turns to his wife, all soft, loving looks as he takes her hand. Though the pair are from Sweden, Annika looks more Mediterranean than Scandinavian, her hair as dark as his is fair, small and curvy to his lean sharpness.
“It certainly feels fabulous.” Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am just the hired help. The nanny technically, for an ex-pat American family. Though I have a degree in education as well as enough experience working in the US schooling system to know a job like this is one to hang on to.
“Do you like living in London?”
“Oh, I do. It’s so cosmopolitan. I love the history of the place. The quaint street names, museums, and palaces. It’s great, and at the same time, it’s kind of edgy.”
Take the boutique hotel we’re sitting in, all dark wood and steel set in a quiet, leafy corner of the city. London is full of secret spots such as this. One minute, you’re being jostled on the sidewalk by tourists and commuters, and the next, you find yourself in an atmospheric cobblestoned lane. There might be baskets brimming with flowers hanging from ancient brick walls, or a cute boutique or book shop with mullioned windows and a crooked front door that are probably hundreds of years old. Every spot is like a tiny oasis of cool. And perfect fodder for my Instagram feed.
“We also love London,” Lukas adds. “Also Paris.”
“And Rome.” This from Annika, albeit a touch wistfully.
“Have you visited Amsterdam?” I’ve already been to Paris and Rome a couple of times. “I really want to visit.” A tingle of excitement rolls down my spine at the prospect of ticking another destination off my list. Instead of Amsterdam being in Holland, it’ll be the other way around! Though I go by Holly, Holland is my name. So, yep, I’ve already thought up my Instagram post!
Once upon a time, I was the girl whose fridge was covered in honeymoon brochures of places I’d never been. While my original travel plans didn’t come to fruition, I’m now making travel memories all of my own. And I like to post those high spots on Instagram. The way I see it, Instagram is the new postcard, and I like to be sure the folks back home know I’m enjoying myself. Even if the folks back home are the last people on earth I’d ever mail postcards to. My sister says it isn’t folks I’m trying to prove a point to but myself. But she says a lot of things that make no sense.