In Another Life

“So let me get this straight,” Jeanette sits up from where she’s lounging comfortably on the sofa in sweats and an over-sized t-shirt. “You’ve moved me in, so you can kick me out again?”

I pause, halfway through dusting off the television, and then nod. “Yes.”

“I can’t believe it,” Jeanette flings herself back down onto the pillows. “Of all the rude gits in the world.”

“It’s for a good cause,” I interject as I swipe at the dust between the satellite box and the shelf. But my hand can only go so far, so there’s still quite a bit of dust in the back. I inspect it for a moment before I decide that there’s no way that Harry will look back here. I don’t think. “I mean, you can come back at the end of the night.”

Jeanette throws her arm over her eyes. “Oh, don’t even bother! You two will probably be shagging right at this very spot.” She stops speaking and then pulls a look of disgust. “Please don’t shag on my bed. It’s the only spot I have in this house and—” She shrieks as I whip the dust rag at her arm. “Hey!”

“You know very well that there will be no shagging in this house tonight,” I say firmly as I survey my living room through critical eyes. I ignore my friend’s response as I make sure that I’ve scoured every last surface to a bright shine and that every odd and end bit has a place—or at least looks like it is in it’s proper place.

I’d come home from the benefit last night and after reliving the good parts with Jeanette, I’d gone to sleep. My dreams were a haze of happiness and confusion, which I’m taking to be a good sign of the coming day. I’d woken up at half past eight and I started cleaning.

I’d started in my bedroom, making the bed and dusting off the dirt that’s accumulated in the weeks since I’ve last cleaned. (In my defense, I did let the cleaning go a bit during finals week, and then I just never got around to it. I’m normally not this messy.) I put away the mounds of clothes that were heaped about the place and I sorted through my shoes. I’m even finally able to close my wardrobe doors, which hasn’t happened in months.

I wiped everything down in the loo and organized my things so my clutter isn’t as overwhelming before I moved onto the kitchen. My pantry was rather bare, so I woke Jeanette up and sent her off to the market with a list of needed supplies. She returned not two minutes after I sent her off saying that her mobile was dead and she needed mine. I nearly threw the cell phone at her head. While she was gone, I nipped into her room and straightened it up, even though there’s no chance in hell that Harry will ever see it.

I’d just finished shining up the oven when Jeanette came back home and she made me take a break so that we could eat lunch. Honestly though, I was on such a roll that I probably would have worked straight through if I hadn’t had her to remind me of food.

“So are you nervous?” She asks, leaning forward so she can straighten up the magazines on the coffee table. “About having him over here, I mean.”

I take a moment to ponder her question. Am I nervous? No, not really. I’m actually quite looking forward to Harry and I being alone on our own in a place where I’m comfortable.

She laughs. “I’d know that smile anywhere, you man-eater!”

“I am not,” I laugh as I deem the living room to be presentable. “I’m just looking forward to a nice, quiet evening in, that’s all. I-I’m not sure if it’s his style, or whatever, but he seemed excited, too.” I look at my friend as I bite down on my lower lip. “Do you think it’s too childish, or cliché, or something?”

“For you to have invited him here?” She asks, sitting down and rubbing at her stomach absentmindedly. She pulls a face and then shrugs. “I don’t think so. You’re making dinner for the guy; I think that’s awfully romantic. What are you making, by the way?”

“Marinated chicken, green beans and potatoes with a cake for dessert,” I reply as I move into the kitchen to peek in on the chicken.

It’s still lying in the refrigerator in the plastic bag where I’d left it a few hours ago. I’d fry it up once Harry got here since it didn’t take too long to cook. Luckily, the cake baked while I was cleaning earlier and it was cooling next to the sink.

I open up a can of frosting and start to spread it across the chocolate sponge cake, taking care to be as neat as possible. Jeanette wanders in behind me with her bag of pretzels and has a seat at the counter before she tugs my icing towards her and starts to dip her snack.

I smack her hand away. “Don’t eat it all! It’s for the cake.”

“I’m not eating it all,” She insists, chewing indignantly. “I’m testing it… for poison.”

I pause, knife still in hand, and go over her words again in my head. “You’re testing it for poison? Does Betty Crocker suddenly have a vendetta against me in particular?” I look over at my friend curiously.

“I don’t know! We’ll never know until we find out if it’s poison—which,” She raises her voice in order to be heard over my protests. “If it is, I’ve saved your life, so I deserve thanks and the rest of that tub of icing.”

“And if it’s not?” I retort as I continue icing. “And if you wanted icing so bloody badly, you should have picked up another box at the market.”

“But I didn’t want it then,” She whines before she sighs overdramatically. Sighing a bit more, she rolls up the pretzel bag and bands it shut.

A comfortable silence descends upon the kitchen as I finish icing the cake and Jeanette stares out the window with a moody frown on her face. I’d know that look anywhere and I know that she only wants to say something and that I should just leave her be until she’s ready to talk. It doesn’t normally take long for her to break down.

Sure enough, not five minutes later she clears her throat. I look up from where I’m busy chopping up tomatoes and raise my eyebrows. She takes this as a sign to start speaking.

“So,” She elongates the vowel a bit as she leans her elbows on the counter.

I dice the last of my vegetables neatly and lick the juices from my fingers before I move towards the sink. As I turn the water on and begin to wash my hands, I answer her. “So?”

“I spoke to my father today,” She whispers, focusing in on the countertop.

Immediately I shut off the tap and turn to look at her. Jeanette has quite a colorful family, which makes it all the more incredible that she’s spoken with her biological father of her own free will. I cannot wait to hear about this.

“What for?” I ask, grabbing the dish towel to dry off my hands. “I thought you hated him.”

She shrugs. “I do—I did, I mean. I don’t know.” And here she shrugs again, finally looking up and meeting my eye. “He’s not the guy I thought he was.”

Debbie Cormier, Jeanette’s mother, is an interesting woman, to say the least. She got pregnant with Jeanette at the age of 16 by a man named Roger Owens, who was nearly 10 years her senior. They tried to stay together for Jeanette’s sake, but Debbie eventually left Roger for an Irish man she met at the pub.

Jeanette lived with her gran until she was two, which is when Debbie went back to Roger and decided that they were going to be a proper family. Nine months later, Jeanette’s younger sister Sarah was born.

Here is where Jeanette’s details get a bit fuzzy. Debbie claims that she and Roger were engaged, but that Roger got cold feet and ran away before they could actually be wed. However, 10 months after Sarah was born, Debbie gave birth to a healthy baby boy named Henry. His father is Paul O’Leery—the Irish man that Debbie ran away with after Jeanette’s birth.

Debbie packed up her three children and headed to Wales, where she had family. It was in Cardiff that she met a man named Mickey Reynolds and married him within a month of meeting him. They spent the next seven years of their lives together. She had three children with him: David, Rebecca, and Holly.

It was at this point that Debbie served Mickey with divorce papers, uprooted her brood of six children, and moved to Southampton, England. Here she met a man named James Davidson and became pregnant with her seventh child, a baby girl named April. James left Debbie quickly after learning of his impending baby. April has never met her father.

Things settled down for Jeanette’s family for two years before Debbie announced that she was pregnant yet again. Her eighth child, a sickly little girl named Carrie, was born prematurely. The only thing that Jeanette knows of Carrie’s father is that his name is Thomas.

Here is where Jeanette’s gran stepped in and took over. She forbade Debbie from seeing her children (and had a court order executed) until she got her life together. Debbie would visit her children occasionally and Jeanette remembers vividly the things she would tell her about her biological father—he was an alcoholic, he used to hit her, he cheated on her numerous times, he wanted her to get an abortion both times she was pregnant, he was addicted to drugs, he got three other girls pregnant. The stories went on and on.

Jeanette went most of her childhood thinking these awful things about her father. She never received any letters or phone calls or presents from him, so naturally she believed Debbie. Which is why it’s so strange to think that she willingly contacted Roger after all of these years.

“Okay,” I place my towel down and move towards the counter so I can have a seat next to my friend. “So what happened?”

“I looked him up online and gave him a call on my way to the market. He lives right here in London,” Her eyes are bright with tears. “You know, I spent 20 years thinking that this man hated me and wanted nothing to do with Sarah and me, but-but he cried when I told him who I was. He said he tried for ten years to find us. Apparently Mum would return his letters and packages.” She starts to cry here. “Ten years, Bryn. He tried for ten whole years.”

I silently reach out and latch on to her hand tightly. Words aren’t exactly appropriate, so I settle for running my thumb across the back of her fingers lightly.

“He’s married now,” She continues in a bright voice. “To a woman named Abigail and they have three children together. Uhm, their names are Conner, Flossie, and Harvey. He wants me to meet them—he wants to see me.”

“Are you going to meet up with him?” I ask in a low voice.

She nods, a strangled laugh clawing its way out of her throat. “Yes. Yes, I am. He’s my father, Bryn. He’s my bloody father and even though I haven’t seen him in 20 years, I want to know him. I want you to come with me,” Jeanette announces, sniffling as she looks at me. “When I meet him, I mean. I can’t go alone.”

I nod straight away, not even thinking about the decision. “Absolutely. When?”

“I don’t know,” She says softly, wiping at her eyes. “He is going to call me tomorrow and we’re going to pick a day. He wants to know if Sarah can come too. I’ll have to call her tonight and see what her schedule is.”

“Let me know,” I reply quietly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ll do this together.”



“You have got to be kidding me,” I announce to my empty kitchen as I peer into the pot of green beans. “Just—come o-o-on,” I draw the word out as I spoon out some of the vegetable and use the back of my fork to cut it open.

But the bean is hard and shriveled and I already know, even without tasting it, that it’s ruined. I suppress the beginning sparks of panic as I move the beans off of the range and place them in the sink.

Now is not the time to freak out. I still have the potatoes and the chicken. Surely I can use the vegetables that the chicken marinated in as a side dish. I mean, that’s not that big of a faux pas, is it?

Exhaling heavily, I dump the ruined vegetable from the pan and start up the disposal. I’ve always hated running this—I feel like my neighbors are able to hear me grinding away in here. And really, I run it far too much for me to be embarrassed over it. It’s honestly just underlining the fact that I’m quite horrible in the kitchen department.

I glance over at the clock above my oven and my heart does an excited flutter in my chest as I realize that it’s already seven o’clock. Harry should be here at any moment. I’m actually going to have Harry in my home!

The next ten minutes of my life are spent whipping the potatoes up into a stiff mixture and then getting the chicken out of the refrigerator. That should only take me about 20 minutes to cook, so I’ll wait for him to arrive. And with the cake sitting next to the sink (and looking absolutely perfect!), I should have plenty of food.

There’s a brisk knock at the door and I have to work hard to keep myself from squealing in excitement. I inhale deeply and then exhale before I try to tone down my smile as I start for the front door. I have to pause again to make sure that I don’t look too overly excited before I undo the locks and pull the door open.

Harry is standing on my front step, looking as calm and collected as ever. He’s wearing a pair of dark, nondescript jeans and a dark blue polo shirt. In one arm, he’s cradling an inky green bottle of wine and the other hand is tucked loosely in his pocket.

“Bryn,” He smiles, the dimple in his cheek popping out. “How’re you?”

I smile back at him brilliantly before I step back and motion for him to enter. “I’m good, thanks. And yourself? Did you find the place okay?”

He nods and steps to the side so I can close the door. “I did, thanks. Got a bit turned around at High Street, but I’m here, as promised. And I’ve brought wine,” He holds out the bottle for me.

“How lovely,” I laugh as I take the drink from him. “And the roundabout is weird. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve had friends get lost on their way here.” I start to head into the kitchen. “Follow me, I’ve almost got supper finished.”

“So this is where moody art students live,” Harry muses thoughtfully as I start to prepare the pan for the chicken.

I glance over my shoulder, half prepared to protest, but then stop when I see the twinkling in his eyes. “Oh yes, didn’t you know? We all smoke clove cigarettes and paint out on the fire escapes while The Cure plays on repeat. The wine glasses are in that cabinet and the cork thing should be in that drawer,” I motion with my head as I busy myself at the oven.

Harry moves towards the cupboard and pulls out two glasses before he replies. “I had no idea you all were so alike. You know, for being all about individualism, you’re all quite the same.”

“It’s the secret no one likes to talk about,” I reply wisely. I hear the cork of the wine being opened before I turn around to look at him.

He’s seated himself at the counter and has left the wine open at the sink to air out. “I’ve brought you something,” He announces rather suddenly, his smile widening. “It’s—it’s rather silly actually.”

I start forward. “What is it?”

“It’s a helicopter,” He replies, watching me closely.

My initial reaction is to look out the window, as if he’s managed to park a massive aircraft in my neighbor’s yard without anyone noticing. But I catch myself before I embarrass myself too badly and I’m still confused, so I settle for eyeing him curiously.

“You said you would prefer a helicopter to a horse and I said the next time I was at Buckingham Palace—” He begins, his cheeks starting to turn an adorable rosy shade of red.

“You would bring me the Royal Helicopter,” I finish up, my face lighting up in an electric smile. “Oh my god, you remembered! That’s so sweet.”

He shakes his head, looking pleased. “It’s nothing much.” He produces a small toy helicopter that fits neatly in the palm of his hand and I have to work hard to keep myself from dissolving into a giggling mess. “But I figured you would appreciate it.”

“I do,” I say softly, taking the toy from him and running my fingertips across it lightly. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it forever and always,” I can’t keep the teasing lilt from my voice and I’m happy that he registers it, as well.

“Good, see that you do,” He instructs in a firm tone. “It’s not often that a prince gifts you with an actual helicopter.”

I turn and set the helicopter on the windowsill just above the sink before I angle it just so and step back to admire the affect. “It’s perfect.”

There’s a bit of a pause in which I sneak a glance over at Harry before I turn around completely. “Go on out into the living room, and I’ll meet you out there with the wine. I just have to put the chicken on.”

Harry nods, sliding off of his barstool and reaches for the wine glasses. “No need, I’ve got it.”

He exits the room and I pause for a moment, completely caught up in the fact that I have a prince in my sitting room. How many people can honestly say that they’ve had a member of the Royal Family come over to their place for dinner and drinks?

I come back to reality with a jolt and realize that he’s out there waiting for me. I reach for the platter of chicken and place it by the oven before I start the gas flame and wait for the pan to heat up.

The spatula that I want is in a metal can nestled in the corner just behind the chicken. I step up on to my tiptoes and reach for the utensil before I slip it out with my fingertips. Just as I come back down, my elbow lands squarely against the china and I already know just how horribly this is all going to end before I hear the monumental crash.

“Shit,” I whisper, my eyes still tightly shut. Slowly I look down and survey the damage. “Shit.”

“Bryn? Are you alright?” Harry’s voice is getting closer and I have to bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from laughing or crying. I’m really not sure which one I’m closer to at the moment. “I heard the—oh my god.”

“You’re going to think I’m absolutely stupid,” I say, starting to laugh. “I knocked the platter off, the chicken is-is on the floor. I’m so sorry.”

Harry comes further into the kitchen. “Oh no, you’re fine. Are you okay? You didn’t cut yourself or anything?” When I shake my head, he starts to chuckle as well. “Well that’s one way to start our evening off.”

I hop over to the sink, trying to keep the sauce from flinging everywhere, before I grab the roll of paper towels. “I’m so sorry. I hope you don’t mind takeout?”

“Takeout is fine,” Harry smiles, his dimple popping out. “What’re you in the mood for?”