Page 4 of From LA to London, With Love

This was not the first time something like this had happened. Their surprised faces when I told them I didn’t have a husband, telling me in patronizing voices I was “so brave” for doing it alone. Their assumptions I was straight and just hadn’t found the right man or was too “picky.” Intrusive questions about why I hadn’t waited until I was older or frozen my eggs. Sure, I was more aware of other people’s potential sensitivities than the average Brit, but these women were completely oblivious. They thought BLM was a sandwich.

I drew in a deep breath, hoping it would have a calming effect. It didn’t.

“As you know Cynthia, Elliot doesn’t have a dad. He has a sperm donor.” I struggled to keep my voice steady.

“You know what I mean—dad, sperm donor, whatever.” She shrugged. “So, what race is he?” She squinted at Elliot, as if trying to assess his exact racial mix, down to at least two decimal places.

“The race of the donor is none of your business,” I said, unable to hide the frustration—or anger—in my voice.

Cynthia’s eyes widened. Her eyebrows looked like they were attempting a frown against all botoxed odds. “I’m sorry if you’re offended. I was just asking.” She shook her head slightly in disbelief, looking around the room as if seeking reassurance I was being unreasonable by refusing to satisfy her curiosity.

Anger welled in my body. I didn’t need to divulge Elliot’s personal information to placate her. In fact, I didn’t need to spend another moment in this environment. Screw mothers’ group. Screw Cynthia. I’d finally gotten to a really good place in my life and didn’t need to put up with this. I’d just need to find Elliot and myself some new friends to hang out with while I was on maternity leave.

“We’ll be heading off now. Thanks for the tea,” I said, my lips pressing into a line.

I stood abruptly from the hideous armchair, picked up Elliot and his rattle, said goodbye to Daphne, and walked with purpose toward the door.

CHAPTER THREE

SOPHIE

I WAS STILL fuming as I strode back down the hill toward my parents’ house, gripping the pram so tightly my hand cramped as it bumped over the uneven pavement. I was done with the mothers’ group.

It was hot for London, even in the middle of summer, and sweat pricked my skin. I’d usually be enjoying the deep, verdant green of the tall lime trees which lined the street, the smell of freshly mowed lawn, and the gorgeous red brick houses. But today, I was too distracted by Cynthia’s comments to appreciate them, the surroundings a blur of green and red.

I was focusing on deep breathing exercises and relaxing my jaw, which I realized I’d been clenching for the last half hour, when…wham!

I rammed the pram right into a man standing on the footpath, typing a code into a security gate. Shit.

“Ouch!” He flung his hands up in surprise and dropped the drink he was holding.

All over Elliot.

Who started screaming hysterically.

“Fuck, fuck! I’m so sorry,” he said in an American accent.

My heart jumped. I sprang to the front of the pram, panicking that Elliot had been doused with scalding liquid. It looked like coffee but, judging by the ice blocks melting on Elliot’s lap, it was an iced coffee.

Relieved, I started throwing the ice on the pavement with one hand, searching in Elliot’s nappy bag with the other to find something to dry him, and trying to distract him by pulling silly faces. Motherhood had definitely upped my multitasking skills.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the American glance across the road and make a strange hand gesture. That was weird, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it with Elliot in his current state. The American then started searching through his pockets, presumably looking for a tissue or something to help clean Elliot up. He came up short and stood there staring helplessly at Elliot, who was still screaming. I unbuckled the seatbelt so I could try to calm him in my arms.

Elliot’s screams amplified.

The American flinched. “Shit. Let me go grab a towel from my house…or you’re welcome to come inside, if that’s easier?”

It suddenly dawned on me where I was. I was standing outside of the house. The Castle. The house I’d been obsessed with since I was a kid. I used to walk past it on walks to the Heath with my parents. I’d called it the Castle, not very originally, because of the red brick turret on one side of the three-story house, the curtain of ivy draped across it, and its imposing, Medieval-looking front door. It had a fairytale quality which had captured my overactive, only-child imagination.

It had been advertised for rent recently. Thrilled to finally get a glimpse inside, I’d inspected the listing closely. The photos gave a tantalizing peek, but they’d been a bit too “arty” to give me a real feel for the place. A close up of an ornate ceiling light, a photo of half of a heritage fireplace, a reflection of the long hallway in the hall mirror. I wanted more.

I regretted not snooping around the Castle during the open house. I’d convinced Josh to come with me and pose as my husband, but then chickened out once I saw the asking price. I knew it would be expensive but…wow. One month's rent of the Castle was almost as much as I had been paying per year for my apartment before I moved back in with my parents. The estate agent would take one glance at us and know we weren’t earning that kind of money.

Unexpectedly, I now had a second chance. But it didn’t seem like a great idea to go into a stranger’s house alone. I took a closer look at the man in front of me, trying to size him up while jiggling Elliot in my arms.

The guy looked slightly shady. With a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses, and a closely cropped beard obscuring most of his lower face, he could be a criminal on the run. He was also jacked. My rusty Jujitsu skills would struggle if anything bad did happen.

Should I accept his invitation? He must be loaded if he could afford the Castle, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a massive creep. In fact, I’d found rich guys were often worse. Self-entitled pricks who thought their wealth meant they could get away with anything.