I Conquer Britain Read Online Free Page A

off at the wrong stop?)
    I said London.
    Where had I come from?
    (A night of passion between my parents sixteen years ago near the Cherokee Reservation – I’m lucky they weren’t near a Ford plant.)
    I said New York.
    Who packed my bag?
    (The upstairs maid – couldn’t he tell I was way too busy having my summer designer wardrobe fitted to do it myself?)
    I said that in my family, if you wanted something done you did it yourself.
    Was my bag with me the whole time?
    (No, it went to the airport by itself.)
    I said of course not, they put it in the hold with everybody else’s luggage.
    It went on like that for about a hundred and fifty years. I was just about to walk out and find a toilet when the door opened and another customs guy came in.
    He smiled at me. “I’m Mr Wottle.” He didn’t smile at the inspector. “What’s going on here?”
    The inspector told him what was going on.
    Mr Wottle looked at all my stuff and then he looked at me and then he looked at the inspector again. “Have you gone mad? She’s just a girl.”
    The inspector said that they have soldiers in Africa who are only eight years old.
    “Not wearing lace skirts they don’t,” said Mr Wottle.
    The inspector held up my velvet bag. “She’s got some suspicious substances in here.”
    I said I didn’t. I said what I had was essential oils and the herbs I use when I’m making spells. “Change can be stressful,” I explained. “I figured I might need some help from the Earth Goddess.”
    Mr Wottle had a sigh a lot like my mother’s. “I’ll take it from here,” he said to the inspector. He nodded towards the door. “You go back to your station.”
    Mr Wottle was a lot more user-friendly than the inspector. I told him all about how I’d come to London because I was swapping lives with Sophie Pitt-Turnbull, just like in a reality TV show.
    “Her parents are Robert and Caroline,” I said. “He’s a writer and she’s a painter. Just like my parents.” Which was just about all I knew about them except that Caroline used to drink Pimms and lemonade and like ABBA and Robert doesn’t write travel books (which is what Sal writes) but novels.
    Mr Wottle was worried that the Pitt-Turnbulls might have thought I’d missed my flight and given up and gone home.
    “I’ll go with you, see you’re all right,” he said as he helped me repack my stuff. “If they’re not there, I’ll put you in a cab myself.”
    To tell you the truth, I’d been a little bummed out by the inspector and all his questions and his sniffing and him giving me the evil eye and everything. I’d started to think that maybe I should’ve stayed in Brooklyn after all if this was the kind of reception I was going to get. But Mr Wottle restored my good spirits. Except for the accent (which also wasn’t anything like Mr Young’s) and the fact that he was bald as a pool ball Mr Wottle reminded me of Grandpa Gene. I was sure that everything was going to be totally Boom Shiva from then on.
    Living up to the reputation the English have for being gentlemen, Mr Wottle insisted on pushing my cart.
    “She was a lot like you when she was your age, our Gem,” Mr Wottle was saying as we stepped into the arrival area. “The hair and the clothes and the make-up and all. Had to go all the way into London to get her a pair of Goth boots for her birthday one year. Sprained her ankle twice the first week.”
    That’s when I spotted the Pitt-Turnbulls standing behind the barricade. They didn’t look like a writer and an artist (not any writer or artist I’d ever lived with). He was wearing slacks and a jacket (a jacket in July – I figured that was what Mr Young meant by civilized) and she was wearing this flowery dress and a string of pearls. They looked like they were going to a wedding (which is the only time either of my rents would ever get that dressed up). If Caroline hadn’t been holding a sign that said Cherry Salamanca on it in really neat lettering you would