at the liquor store down the block) out onto the patio and collapse into a deeply uncomfortable old specimen of lawn furniture. Sometimes, she would call her best friend, Lexie, catching her between meetings at the office; other times she would just sit and sip her wine and look out over the tangled expanse of lawn stretching out in front of her.
The garden—although “garden” was far too grand a word for the wilderness she could see from her bedroom window—stretched out the length of a full city block. As she sat there, the world felt very far away. Sometimes, if the windows were open and the wind was right, she could catch a faint snippet of someone else’s television or dinner table conversation. But mostly, it was just the sound of crickets and the wind in the leaves of the trees. From the patio behind the house it might have been a hundred years ago, a world without cars or Internet or electric lights.
“Are you sure you’re all right out there?” her father asked when she called him four days in.
“Fine,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Somehow, it seemed disloyal to admit that she was actually enjoying herself, enjoying the hauling and the sorting, and the absence of the grinding self-doubt that came of sitting idle in her own apartment, waiting for the phone to ring with job offers that didn’t exist. She’d been in the rat race for so long. She felt as though she’d stepped not only out of her own life but somehow also out of time.
The contents of the drawers and cupboards aided her on that. Friday night, she stayed up way too late reading through a pile of an old magazine called the Tatler, from the 1920s and ’30s. It was better than reading the headlines of the supermarket tabloids. Good Lord, had people actually lived like that? Socialites bolted to Kenya, viscounts eloped with Gaiety Girls (Julia gathered that Gaiety Girls must be the 1920s equivalent of exotic dancers, from the way the magazine went on), and debutantes were caught in compromising positions with members of the Russian ballet. It was fascinating. Also, strangely addictive.
Julia slept through her alarm on Saturday morning and woke up with a 1920s tabloid hangover. She’d meant to explore the garden today.… But first coffee. Pulling her unbrushed hair into an untidy ponytail, she pulled on ancient shorts and tank top—the few 1970s window units scattered around the house didn’t do much to condition the air—and stumbled downstairs to the blessed chrome coffeemaker.
She’d only just dumped milk into the miraculous life-giving brew when the buzzer rang. It took Julia a few moments to realize that it must be the front door.
Who in the hell would be on her doorstep on a Saturday morning? Neighbors, complaining about the amount of garbage she’d been dumping out front? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Did they even have Jehovah’s Witnesses in England?
Coffee clutched firmly in hand, Julia opened the front door, prepared to tell off whoever it might be.
Natalie stood on the steps, a male person in tow.
Julia resisted the urge to swear. She had forgotten about Natalie. It didn’t improve Julia’s mood that she’d been caught in ancient Yale shorts and a tank top with holes in the hem. Natalie, in contrast, was wearing a yellow linen sundress. There were matching sandals, with delicate ribbons that tied around the ankles.
The man beside her looked like he was trying to be anywhere but where he was. Next to him, Natalie looked little and dainty—which put Julia at somewhere near pigmy status. His sun-streaked blond hair suggested ski vacations and tropical getaways.
Julia wished they would. Go away, that was. They looked very pretty together. And she needed more coffee.
“Hi,” Julia said shortly, trying to remember when she had last washed her hair. Yesterday? At least, she thought it was yesterday. She took another slug of her coffee. “So—you decided to stop by!”
“We’ve come to help you,” Natalie
The garden—although “garden” was far too grand a word for the wilderness she could see from her bedroom window—stretched out the length of a full city block. As she sat there, the world felt very far away. Sometimes, if the windows were open and the wind was right, she could catch a faint snippet of someone else’s television or dinner table conversation. But mostly, it was just the sound of crickets and the wind in the leaves of the trees. From the patio behind the house it might have been a hundred years ago, a world without cars or Internet or electric lights.
“Are you sure you’re all right out there?” her father asked when she called him four days in.
“Fine,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Somehow, it seemed disloyal to admit that she was actually enjoying herself, enjoying the hauling and the sorting, and the absence of the grinding self-doubt that came of sitting idle in her own apartment, waiting for the phone to ring with job offers that didn’t exist. She’d been in the rat race for so long. She felt as though she’d stepped not only out of her own life but somehow also out of time.
The contents of the drawers and cupboards aided her on that. Friday night, she stayed up way too late reading through a pile of an old magazine called the Tatler, from the 1920s and ’30s. It was better than reading the headlines of the supermarket tabloids. Good Lord, had people actually lived like that? Socialites bolted to Kenya, viscounts eloped with Gaiety Girls (Julia gathered that Gaiety Girls must be the 1920s equivalent of exotic dancers, from the way the magazine went on), and debutantes were caught in compromising positions with members of the Russian ballet. It was fascinating. Also, strangely addictive.
Julia slept through her alarm on Saturday morning and woke up with a 1920s tabloid hangover. She’d meant to explore the garden today.… But first coffee. Pulling her unbrushed hair into an untidy ponytail, she pulled on ancient shorts and tank top—the few 1970s window units scattered around the house didn’t do much to condition the air—and stumbled downstairs to the blessed chrome coffeemaker.
She’d only just dumped milk into the miraculous life-giving brew when the buzzer rang. It took Julia a few moments to realize that it must be the front door.
Who in the hell would be on her doorstep on a Saturday morning? Neighbors, complaining about the amount of garbage she’d been dumping out front? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Did they even have Jehovah’s Witnesses in England?
Coffee clutched firmly in hand, Julia opened the front door, prepared to tell off whoever it might be.
Natalie stood on the steps, a male person in tow.
Julia resisted the urge to swear. She had forgotten about Natalie. It didn’t improve Julia’s mood that she’d been caught in ancient Yale shorts and a tank top with holes in the hem. Natalie, in contrast, was wearing a yellow linen sundress. There were matching sandals, with delicate ribbons that tied around the ankles.
The man beside her looked like he was trying to be anywhere but where he was. Next to him, Natalie looked little and dainty—which put Julia at somewhere near pigmy status. His sun-streaked blond hair suggested ski vacations and tropical getaways.
Julia wished they would. Go away, that was. They looked very pretty together. And she needed more coffee.
“Hi,” Julia said shortly, trying to remember when she had last washed her hair. Yesterday? At least, she thought it was yesterday. She took another slug of her coffee. “So—you decided to stop by!”
“We’ve come to help you,” Natalie
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