A/N: I'm sick again, but I've dragged my dying carcas out of bed long enough to write some. LOL

London is exactly as I thought it would be.  A big, busy city.  But it’s not like New York.  The vibe is different.  Maybe it’s because the buildings are older, full of history.  Maybe it’s the accents.  Everything seems faster and slower at the same time.  Modern, but set firmly in routines and antiquities.  I like it. A lot.  I can feel the history, and my inner nerd is itching to explore the city. 

This move isn’t permanent. But it’s exactly what I need.  Vera suggested it to me a few months ago, and I was hesitant at first, but then Santos’ voice filtered into my head and I knew it was the right move.  I was squandering away my days in New York. I spent time at the gallery and then went home to my apartment.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Moving would force me to branch out.  And it had nothing to do with Richard’s wedding being in a month.  No, not at all. I promise. It just so happened that I moved to London exactly one month before his stupid garden wedding, and something about that felt good.  I didn’t need to be in the same city when that went down.

Vera asked me to commit six months, maybe a year in London.  She wants to open a gallery, but hasn’t quite committed to where, when, why or how.  So she figured expanding her contacts would be the best route first.  I’ll be working with a gallery here called Penn’s, which Vera is interested in partnering with, and I’ll also be working with a few historical sites.  I won’t glamorize it.  The gallery work will be great, but it’s part time.  The historical site is more of a glorified tour guide gig, but it will fill my time and get me the money I need to live in London.  I know all about living in expensive cities on very little salary.

I thought my apartment in New York was small, but my apartment…or flat, in London is about half that.  I sacrificed square footage for a good location.  It’s a studio apartment, and this time it’s truly a studio.  Enough room for a small couch, television, a table in the tiny kitchen and a bed in the corner.  It came fully furnished, since I know I won’t be here long term.  The décor is a bit…lacking, but it’s not terrible.  Just bland.  I can spruce it up a bit as I get settled.  It’s not all that awe inspiring, but when I look out my window I think I can see the Thames and that’s good enough for me.

“Is it fantastic? When can I visit?” Santos asks, his voice loud and comforting as I sit down on the edge of my bed.  My knees nearly hit the wall.

“It’s…small.” I flop back onto the bed.

“Send me some pictures.  When do you start work?” He asks.  He has been so busy on a project for his work, that we’ve barely talked twice in the last month.  I turn my head.  From this position I can see my entire apartment.  I can see the front door.  Good thing I’m not claustrophobic.

“Monday. I work at the gallery Monday through Wednesday.  Thursday and Friday are spent at Cleredon House.” I reach over, pulling a huge binder of information out of my bag. My supervisor at Cleredon House, Mary Heath, sent me a ridiculous amount of information about the house.  I called it a castle at first, but she had quickly corrected me.  Sure, it has 65 rooms, and four turrets, but it’s not a castle.  It’s just a modest, 17th century summer home.

“Maybe I’ll get married at Cleredon Castle.  Do you think it’s too soon to be thinking about marriage?” Santos asks.  He sounds like he’s kidding, but I know he’s not really.

“House, not Castle.  And you’ve been dating Cillian six months.  So…I don’t know.” I smile diplomatically.  It doesn’t really matter what I say anyway.  Santos does what he wants.

“Are you going to go out tonight? Wander around London town? See what you see? Bump into some celebrities?” Santos says in a sing songy voice. I chew on my bottom lip.

“I was going to stay in—“

“No, no.” Santos warns. “No, you aren’t.  That was the whole point of moving to London.  Meeting new people.  Opening up Gracie Town, population one to a whole new world.”  I laugh through my scowl.

“Santos, I like my life. I do.  I like staying in.”

“God, you’re so boring. Why are we friends?” He teases.

“Shut up.”

“Have you called Tom? Remember him? British dreamboat who now lives like three minutes from you.  Have you told him you’re there?” He asks.  I hesitate.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Why? Because you’re so busy?”

“Jesus, Santos, give me a minute. I’ve literally been here all of like…six hours.”

“Call HIM.” Santos grounds out.  I haven’t really spoken to Tom since Valentine’s Day.  Four months.  I saw his note, I felt my heart do this weird sort of spasm, and then I tossed the note into the trash.  There was no point in calling him, or contacting him.  What was I going to say? The opportunity had passed. 

I’m not a mean person though.  I texted him a few days later.  I told him I wasn’t angry with him, but I simply hadn’t seen his note.  That he should stop leaving bloody notes because I never see them.  He had laughed, and then that had been that.

I texted him a week and a half ago telling him I was moving to London for work, and I’d heard nothing back from him. 

So that was that.  Easy peasy.

****

            “You know a lot about 17th century artwork.” Mary Heath smiles broadly at me over her heavy wood desk.  We’re

sitting in a huge room in Cleredon.  The ceilings are at least 20 feet high, if not more.  I feel dwarfed in the ornate room.

            This is, what I’m hoping to be, the end of a very long, elaborate conversation.  It started as a general first day meeting, but then it seems Mary has taken a liking to me.  In the last forty five minutes, she’s managed to tell me about her four cats—Marty, Petunia, Aufidius and Darwin.  She’s told me about how she loves her job as the historian and media director at Cleredon, but it’s been a struggle to get business back up to par since the renovations finished earlier in the year.  Apparently there’s a lot of competition between castles, this side of the pond.  She launches into a tirade about that, and so I’ve sat back, smiling and listening the whole time. 

“It was part of my double major in undergrad, and I’ve considered getting my MFA in Art History.” I look down at the terrible little name tag I will have to wear.  I’m grateful for the job, but I am not looking forward to it.  It’s only a step up from retail, and talking to strangers all day has never been a strong suit of mine.

“I didn’t know you were so qualified.  When Vera called me, she just said she her gallery assistant was looking for part time work. I expected someone…different.” Mary looks me over, and I squirm.  I probably shouldn’t have worn quite possibly the most matronly thing I own.  A dark tweed pencil skirt, some sort of frilly blouse that just screams grandma librarian, and I’ve pulled my hair back into a rather severe bun. 

“I do have a lot of experience.” I smile quickly.

“I see.” Mary flips through my resume and then looks at me, smiling.  She’s probably in her early forties.  She’s pretty in a normal sort of way.  Straight teeth, medium brown hair and an average figure.  And I’m pretty sure at the moment, we’re wearing the same horn rimmed glasses. 

I flash forward, and she is me.  I am her.  Give me a few more years and I’ll be Mary Heath.  Working in a castle, wearing my horn rimmed glasses and talking to my cats at night.  I don’t hate the idea. I like my quiet life, but it does strike a chord in me.  I start to rise, clearing my throat as I do.

“I’ll do my best as a tour guide.  I’m excited to start.” I grin, rising to stand as she does.  Mary holds a hand up, stopping me as she tilts her head to the side.

“Well, I was thinking…since you’ve got such a fantastic art background—New York University, and working with Vera. Would you like to work directly with me instead? We’ve got a pretty steady amount of inquiries about the castle, as well as requests for information and private tours of the castle.  I feel like it would be a better fit for you, rather than herding tourists around all day.” She smiles warmly at me, and I’ve suddenly never been happier that I identify so easily with a fellow introvert.

“Honestly, that sounds great.” I nod, feeling relief cascade over me.  “Thank you.”

“Welcome aboard then, Grace.” She holds out her hand, and I take it happily.