In Another Life

“So can anyone tell me a major transition in the art world between 1960 and 2005?” Professor Harris stands at the front of the room, his hands tucked into the pockets of his vest as he surveys the room thoughtfully. “For your participation points for today?”

The classroom is so warm that I’m nearly positive that the front of the room is shimmering in the heat. The air conditioner in Swift Hall had broken overnight and no one realized it until the sun reached the highest point in the sky, caking everything with its thick, sticky blaze. Half of the class left after a few minutes of lecture and the few that stayed fought the overpowering waves of sleepiness valiantly.

I pull my ponytail off of my neck so my hair hangs over my left shoulder before I use my hand to fan desperately at my sweaty, flushed neck. I’m beginning to feel a bit nauseous with all of the heat and my water bottle has long ago lost its chill, rendering it pretty much useless.

“If someone answers the question, then I’ll dismiss class early today,” Professor Harris proposes suddenly.

I look up to see that he’d long ago lost his blazer and he’d even loosened the first few buttons on his dress shirt. For the first time I realize that my teacher isn’t as old as I’d assumed him to be because of his teaching position. And even he looks worn out and wilted at the front of the class.

I raise my hand and he smiles brilliantly at me, nodding and gesturing. “Miss Matthews?”

“Art was moved off of the walls and the pedestals that most people had them on and into ‘lived space.’ Which is a fancy way of saying art became more approachable and more acceptable then it had been years before,” I speak deliberately, moving my hand for emphasis with my pen trapped between my thumb and index finger. I pause, knowing that the professor wants more. “Also, people began looking for new material to gather inspiration from—it has to get old sketching the same thing year after year.”

“Miss Matthews raises an excellent point,” Professor Harris exclaims loudly and the students in the first row sit up sharply, suddenly awake. “Which is why she’ll be exempt from tonight’s assignment.” There’s a collective groan that ripples about the room as he glances down into his planner. “The next time we meet will be in two weeks time as I’ll be in Scotland for a conference. However, when I return, I expect an 8-page paper on how art has evolved in the past 45 years. Typed, please, and make sure that it’s double-spaced. Class is dismissed.”

There’s a flurry for texts and pens as everyone packs up their belongings and begins to straggle towards the door. I take my time, knowing that the only thing that stands between me and home is a long, smelly tube ride and I am not looking forward to breathing in other peoples’ body odor for nearly half an hour.

“Miss Matthews,” Professor Harris calls out just as I reach the doorway of the classroom. I halt and then look back at him curiously, my water bottle in one hand and my mobile in the other. “Excellent job today.”

“Thank you,” I flush at his praise and scuff my shoe along the waxed floor modestly.

He nods and continues packing up his briefcase. “Keep up the good work.”

I smile, though he isn’t paying any attention to me, before I leave the room and turn right, heading for the double doors at the end of the hall. As I move, I turn my mobile off of silent and begin to click through the few text messages I had received while in lecture.

Olivia texted me while I was in class and I frown at her message as I push open the door with my shoulder. ‘Give me a call once ur out of lecture. Have something 2 tell u :)’

“Bryn!”

I look up to see a red-head bobbing towards me. “Hey Jeanette.”

She comes to a rather graceful stop next to me and huffs, pushing her bangs up off of her forehead. “It’s so hot in there, isn’t it?”

I nod, holding open the door for her before I start to walk down the staircase. “Yeah, I nearly died during lecture. Do you know when they’ll fix the air conditioning? Because I’m not so sure I’ll come in tomorrow, I can’t handle another heat stroke.”

Jeanette laughs as we step out into the humid outside air. “I have no idea. Hopefully soon though. A girl fainted during my lecture and the professor was freaking out. I felt bad for her.”

“The girl or the professor?” I grin as we start to cut across the courtyard.

There’s a group of kids sprawled out in the shade and a couple people milling about the pathways. The campus is a lot more empty this afternoon and I think it has something to do with the intense humidity that seems to have settled over top London.

“I guess a bit of both,” Jeanette laughs, her laughter carrying freely. “Hey, I just wanted to catch you because I got a new mobile and I’ve lost all of my numbers. Give me yours? We need to hang out outside of class—it gets old associating your face with Professor Corrigan’s wrinkles.”

A burst of laughter wells up in my throat as I readily agree. “I know, right? I’ve just been so busy with these projects. I’ve been meaning to get together with you and Amanda for weeks now it seems.”

“I think we’re all ready to blow off some steam,” Jeanette admits, handing over her cell phone. “Just put it in and I’ll fix your name and everything.”

The phone is slender and cool in my hand as I use my thumb to type in the 11 digits. It beeps once to let me know that the field is full and I hand it back. “There you go. Give me a ring this weekend and we’ll all go out for dinner and drinks or something.”

“Fair enough,” She grins broadly. “I’ll see you around, Bryn.”

“Bye,” I wave and then we part ways at the street. I fall into the stream of traffic, walking briskly down the block and hooking a left. I have to stop by work and see if my manager saved me any hours for this weekend. I need to purchase some canvas for a new project I have in mind.

As I hurry across the street, my mind wanders to the text message that Olivia had sent me earlier when I was in class. What could she possible have to tell me? I’d just spoken with her last night and I had seen her last week at the polo match. Things couldn’t have changed that drastically in just a few short hours, could it?

But I don’t have time to further contemplate my cousin’s SMS message, because the boutique comes into view presently. I scurry across the street in the last few seconds before the traffic light changes and the cars begin to move again. And then I break away from the crowd and tug open the heavy glass door before I step into the cool air conditioning.

Melissa, the general manager of the store, looks up from the till and a wide smile breaks out over her face. “Bryn! You’ve come back to visit us.”

“Just to see if there is a day I can pick up,” I answer, walking up to the counter and leaning against the glass display case. “I got out of class early because the air conditioner was broken, so here I am.”

“That’s awful—it’s so hot out there,” She shoots the window a reproachful look, as if it were somehow the glass’s fault. “I nearly melted as I went out to get my coffee on my break.”

“What’re you doing getting coffee in this weather?” I laugh as she pulls out the schedule. “It’s way too hot.”

Melissa laughs as she goes over the grid. “It was an iced coffee! Don’t laugh at me,” She demands, though she’s amused as well. “I don’t think I have any openings this week, but shall I schedule you for Sunday morning?”

I hesitate. “I just don’t want to say yes and then not be able to do it, you know? I’ve no idea what my school schedule is going to look like. Give me a small shift, like four or five hours, and I’ll just do my coursework afterwards or something.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” She frowns, peering at the schedule. “Oh wait, I do need a personal shopper from open to about 1 on Saturday morning. That’s your position, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I smile and reach for the schedule. “I can do that. Who am I working with?”

“Me, Holly and Raina,” Melissa answers, passing the paper to me. “So I’ll see you at 10 AM?”

I nod, glancing over everyone else’s hours before I pass it back to my manager. “Yeah, I’ll see you then. Thanks, Mel.”

“Not a problem. Better hurry if you want to be home before rush hour traffic—you know how crowded the stations get,” She glances up at the clock and waves me out, the bangles on her wrists jangling cheerfully. “See you later, Bryn.”

“Bye!” I shout, rushing out the door and sidestepping a slender blonde. “Sorry,” I call out before I step into the flow of traffic and hurry down the street before I turn the corner and the store disappears from view.



The walk to my apartment from the tube station isn’t bad. It’s only about ten minutes and normally, at the end of the day, my feet are dragging by the time I step off of the train. But today, as I climb up the stairs and out of the station, I’m not bothered by the walk.

In fact, I’m a bit appreciative. Camden Town is usually crowded, as the borough’s popularity has skyrocketed in the past few years, and the hordes of people normally bother me. But because of the heat, the streets are practically deserted and I’m again reminded of all of the reasons I’d fallen in love with this neighborhood.

I round the corner, passing the Japanese restaurant that always smells good, but I’m too scared to go in and try it on my own, before I pause at the crosswalk and wait for a car to pass. Then I cross the street and happily unlock my front door.

My apartment is dark and I can hear the air conditioner running busily as I push the front door shut and draw one of the locks across. As I kick off my shoes and toss my bag on the ground, my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I’ve not yet eaten since my light breakfast of a muffin on my way to class.

The cupboards in my kitchen are painfully bare and I make a mental note to go grocery shopping either tonight or tomorrow after class. I can’t stand another meal of leftovers—I’ve had it twice so far this week. I pull out a can of soup that I’m pretty sure Mum brought the last time she came to visit and note the expiration date. I’ve still got six months until it goes bad.

I rummage around in my drawers, searching for a can opener when I hear it for the first time. It’s the distinctive sound of my lock turning in the front door. Immediately I freeze, my soup can in one hand and my other hand wrapping around the heavy can opener.

What if I’m getting robbed? This is Mum’s worst fear—that I’ll get mugged in my own home. She’d always been against me moving to London on my own. Who am I kidding? This is my worst fear. I’m ill-equipped to deal with a burglar.

I tiptoe to the kitchen doorway and peer out just as the front door swings open and a familiar brown-haired girl walks in. “Jesus Christ, Olivia!”

Olivia jumps, clearly not expecting my presence and then laughs once she realizes it’s just me. “I didn’t know you were home! I thought you were still in class.”

“What are you doing here? You can’t just walk into someone’s house,” I slump against the doorframe and lower the hand that’d been clenching my kitchen utensil—I hadn’t even realized I’d been brandishing it as a weapon.

Olivia pushes the door shut and takes a step towards me. “You didn’t answer my text and I couldn’t wait for your response any longer. I have news for you! Also, technically, I didn’t just walk in. I used the key you gave me.”

“The key I gave you for emergencies,” I mumble, spinning around and walking back into the kitchen. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Oh, I’m meeting Philip for dinner later,” She follows me and takes a seat on the barstool at the counter. “What’re you doing home now? Normally you’d just be getting out of class now.” She throws a pointed look at the clock on the oven.

I shrug, starting to open my can. “Class got dismissed early as the air conditioner broke in Swift Hall, so I stopped by work and picked up some hours for this Saturday and then came home. I was going to give you a call after dinner.”

“Yes, well, this couldn’t wait.” Olivia rummages in her purse and pulls out a creamy envelope. “This came in the mail today,” She holds it out and then waves it about importantly in my direction.

I dump the contents of my can into a pot and then place it on the range before I start the heat up. I raise an eyebrow up at my cousin before I take the thick envelope from her grasp and look at the address. “This is addressed to you and Phil. What does this have to do with me?”

“Everything, just open it!” She bounces a bit in her seat, motioning wildly for me to open it.

I flip it over and run my fingertips across the broken seal over the back flap before I open the envelope and pull out the stiff cardboard invitation. My eyes scan the formal scroll hurriedly before I look back up at my cousin. “Liv, this is an invitation to a charity dinner for this Thursday evening. Why are you showing me this?”

“Well there’s more,” Olivia reaches for the plastic bag full of chocolate on my counter and helps herself.

I make no comment about her supposed diet and look at her pointedly. “More to what, the invitation? Are you going?”

“Yes,” She confirms easily. “Philip and I are attending. But that’s not what’s important—this is far more important and interesting,” She goes back for her purse and pulls out an identical envelope before she presents it to me with a bit of a flourish. “This is what has got me so excited.”

I take the envelope from her before I step back to the oven and stir my soup about a bit. “Why does this even concern me, Liv? You and Philip always are going off to some prestigious gala or whatever.”

“Just read it!” She orders, glaring at me jokingly. “Then you’ll see what I mean.”

I lean back against the counter and look down at the cream paper in my hands and then my heart skips a beat as my eyes trace over the thick black ink that spells out a familiar name, a familiar address.

‘Miss Bryn Watson
c/o Mr. & Mrs. Philip Watson
440 Kings Road
Chelsea, London SW10 0LH’

I look back up at my cousin, who is positively radiating excitement and nearly tumbling off her stool as she leans forward to look at the papers in my grasp. My hands are trembling a bit as I flip the envelope over and rip the prestigious seal open.

“Don’t you see what this means, Bry? It’s totally Prince Harry’s doing!” Olivia is chattering at top speed next to me as I read over the invitation slowly, carefully for a second time, a third time and even a fourth time before my brain slowly computes.

“What are you talking about?” I ask in a tight voice as I finally make eye contact with her. “This has nothing to do with the Prince.”

“Yes it does, Bryn. You were at my side all night and in the 20 minutes that I left you alone, you managed to speak to the Prince. I know all of the people we met that night and none of them would go out of their way to invite someone if they don’t stand to gain something from it.” She pauses, clearly realizing how rude her words are before she speaks again. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I mumble, moving for the bag of bread and pulling out two pieces.

“So obviously,” Olivia gestures about wildly with her hands. “The only logical conclusion is that it’s Prince Harry’s doing that you’ve received the invitation. He’s interested in you!”

“I spoke with him for barely 10 minutes and he was just being polite,” I speak quietly, because I know that there’s no way that she’ll hear me over her own animated rant. “This has to be some sort of sick, cruel joke.”

“You’ll go to this dinner and meet Prince Harry again and you two will fall in love and it’ll be a huge royal wedding—just like Will and Kate! Oh Bryn, can I be in your attending party? Please, please, please—”

“Olivia,” I set my bread down and turn to look at her. “I’m not going to this.”

She looks crestfallen, her enthusiastic speech getting cut drastically short. “Why not? Most people would kill for an invitation like this. It’s just a dinner.”

“A dinner,” I wield the envelope about for emphasis. “That I’m sure costs hundreds of pounds per plate. Hundreds of pounds that I don’t have, Olivia. I can’t just drop obscene amounts of money to eat a four-course meal—I work as a personal shopper, Liv. And my parents don’t have the money to spare.”

“Philip and I have our own table,” Olivia assures me. “You’ll just sit with us, you don’t have to worry about the money. It’s for charity, Bryn! It’s a dinner to benefit cancer research. It’s for a good cause.” She looks up at the clock. “I have to leave now to make our table reservation, but just think about it. What harm can come from attending?”

She drops a short kiss on my cheek before she grabs her purse and bustles out of the room, calling out something about how she’d call me the next day or something. I turn back to my bread and place the slices in the toaster before I move for my soup and stir it rhythmically.

Nearly ten minutes later, I sit down in the barstool that Olivia had vacated earlier with my light supper of soup and toast. As I bring the first mouthful up to my lips, I blow over the liquid to cool it down before my gaze drifts down to the creamy envelope next to my napkin.

What if Prince Harry is the one who got me invited and he waits for me at this dinner and I never show up?

As soon as the thought enters my mind, I push it away resolutely. There’s no way that he used his royal title to invite me to this dinner. He meets so many people every day, why would I be the one who stuck out in his mind enough to merit an invitation?

I bring the first bite of soup back up to my mouth and use my free hand to push the envelope out of sight under my basket of mail. I can’t make a decision if I don’t have to focus on the invitation itself and if I don’t make a decision, I don’t have to think about it.

And I can’t drive myself crazy with frivolous girlish fantasies.