Improper English Read Free Page A

writing a book—and the motivation for success is strong, since failure means I’d have to give up my life to stay in a hick town in a desert in eastern Washington taking care of my paternal grandmother’s bodily needs—more important than that is my need to prove to my mother once and for all that I can succeed at something. Anything. Just once, I’d like to come out on top and have her witness my triumph.
    The need for parental approval—it’s a massive, unwieldy weight to bear.
    When I first arrived at the house in London, Isabella greeted me politely, gave me the keys to the doors,showed me my new home for the next two months, and briefly explained who the other tenants were.
    “The ground floor has two families and their children,” she said in a plummy English accent that sent little goose bumps of delight up and down my spine. England! I was really in England!
    She frowned for a moment at an oversized gold floor pillow and adjusted it infinitesimally to the left. “The families are related—sisters—and both spend their summers in Provence. Their flats are let to visiting scholars. This should be fixed.”
    I looked where she was pointing at one of the side windows which didn’t quite close all the way. “It’s not a problem, I doubt that anyone would scale three floors to crawl into the flat.”
    “Mmm.” She moved on to straighten an ugly Van Gogh print. “The first floor is shared by Dr. Bollocks—he teaches at London University—and the Muttsnuts.” She pursed her lips and shook her head briefly at the mention of the last name. “They’re newlyweds. We hardly ever see them.”
    Dr. Bollocks? Muttsnuts? Quaint English names—you gotta love ’em!
    “The second floor has two women, Miss Bent and Miss Fingers, and Mr. Aspertame. Philippe is from the Bahamas.”
    I watched as she fussed briefly with a hideous yellowcracked vase full of wilting daisies, and wondered when she was going to leave so I could quietly collapse on the small daybed that lurked in the corner. “Fingers. Aspertame. Bahamas. Fascinating.”
    Isabella pushed back the beads that hid the entrance to the cubbyhole of a kitchen while I sent a brief glanceof pronounced longing toward the bed, but as she showed no signs of leaving, I stiffened my knees against the jet lag that was threatening to make them buckle, and tried to pay attention to what she was saying.
    “You’ll be careful with this gas ring?”
    I nodded my agreement. Honestly, I was willing to forgo ever using the bloody thing if she’d just leave me alone.
    “The third floor consists of this flat, and across from you are two university students, Mr. Skive and Miss Goolies. They’re very quiet, so you need have no worry about late-night parties, loud music, or any other violations of the house rules. You did say you were looking for a quiet flat?”
    I maneuvered all the muscles necessary into a smile, but I was sure the result was less than pretty. Isabella’s startlingly blue eyes quickly slipped away as I confirmed that I was indeed seeking quiet to work on a personal project.
    “Mr. Block and I share the upper floor,” she said smoothly as she opened a battered wardrobe and wrinkled her nose at the musty smell. “You should air this out before you hang your clothes in it.”
    “Thank you,” I said firmly as I sidled toward the door. “I’m sure everything will be perfect, and I’ll fit right in.”
    “Mmm.” She looked rather disbelieving as she glided past me and out the opened door. I kept the tepid smile on my face for the count of ten, then closed the door softly, took a proprietorial look around the small flat, and headed straight for the bed.
    By the time ten days had elapsed I had met most of my neighbors and felt happy in my new digs, happy enough to smile at Isabella’s ridiculous offer before trottingout to do a little research for my book. It was a Regency romance, and I wanted to be sure to have all of the twiddly bits