I’m American,
but I spent the past few years in London. One day, a couple of years ago, I was
hurrying down Oxford Street, one of the busiest streets in the city. It was
rush hour and I was moving along the sidewalk with the stream of pedestrians
when I noticed a perfectly normal-looking, sober-looking woman in a business
suit squatting near one of the buildings. I did a double take but sure enough,
she was “popping a squat” as evidenced by the stream of liquid that ran down
the sloping pavement.
It utterly
boggled my mind. I could tell she wasn’t drugged out or drunk out of her skull
– she looked completely calm and, again, totally normal. Polished and
professional, even. There was a Starbucks across the street and no less than
three other Starbucks-type coffee shops within a one-block radius, so I
couldn’t begin to imagine why she didn’t pop into one of them to do her
business. Later, as I told my boyfriend at the time about the bizarre sighting,
I remarked that if I ever had a bathroom emergency so dire I couldn’t get to
one of the shops in time, I’d simply pee in my pants. His laughing response
was, “you’re so middle class.”
He explained
that posh people and “common” people – they readily use that term – have loads
more in common with one another than they do with the middle classes.
Apparently it’s the middle classes that own the fancy cars. Posh and common
people will proudly drive around in dilapidated old cars with taped up windows.
It’s the middle classes that like things to match (clothing, furniture or what
have you) while posh and common people walk around in wildly mismatched
clothing and might have a set of beat-up old 70’s vinyl chairs arranged around
a gorgeous antique (if you’re posh) or faux-antique (if you’re not) dining
table. And apparently it’s the middle classes that would wet their pants to
avoid the above scenario while posh and common people dutifully answer Nature’s
call, regardless of when or where she calls.
My novel, Fashioning a Romance, takes place in
London, and the hero, John Harrington, is extremely posh. I had a lot of fun
creating his character and giving him his own bizarre quirks, but I did have to
pull back a little. I couldn’t make him too eccentric because obviously I
want all my readers to fall in love with him. For example, I couldn’t dress him
in the orange plaid pants I once saw on the poshest posh man in Cambridge.
One thing I
knew for certain was that I wanted John to call Caitlyn, my heroine, by a pet
name, and it’s common practice (no pun intended) among the posh to use the
names of farmyard birds as terms of endearment. No joke. Posh Brits lovingly
call one another Goose, Duck and Chicken. While I wouldn’t mind him calling her
one of these names, I thought it might confound my readers – or at least those
who aren’t British. Then I got it in my mind that he should call her Doll.
Luckily I ran that one by my Brit friends first because it I was told “Doll is what
East End Geezers call women.” Oops! In
the end, I went with Kitten because it sounds a bit like Caitlyn and it did the
job just fine.
I like to think
that when one* reads my book it’s like stepping into an alternate world. A posh
world composed of Estonian housekeepers who sing Lady Gaga while they dust and
bedraggled CEOs who spout off poetry at random. In a way (because I didn’t know
anyone that posh) it’s kind of a
fantasy world, but Caitlyn, with her straightforward American persona is there
to “keep it real”.
*Another
posh-ism. Common people never use “one” in this way and middle class folks only
use it if they’re trying to act posh.
by Libby Mercer
Available from Musa Publishing
Faced with a man so smooth he can charm the clouds from the sky, will
Caitlyn be able to stick to her strict No Players policy?
Dedicated American fashion girl, Caitlyn Taylor, can’t stand players, and
has successfully dodged them like enemy fire all her life. And then she meets
fun-loving British CEO , John Harrington. Not
only is he her boss’s brother, he’s the charismatic kind of womanizer that
nightmares are made of. Worse still: he’s exactly Caitlyn’s type. As if his
being the Superman of sex appeal isn’t enough, he’s also got that quirky
something-something that she adores. Not that she’s even considering falling
prey to his methods. No way.
John can’t fathom how Caitlyn can be impervious to his charms, given the
extraordinary chemistry between them. The more she resists, the more
determined he is to break down the walls she’s built up to keep him out.
Forced to get creative, he orchestrates a “surprise” weekend in Paris
About twenty minutes later, she was interrupted by the sound of a melodious,
male voice. “Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle characteristics, when
women of high thoughts and accomplishments love to sew; especially as they are
never more at home with their own hearts than while so occupied. Nathaniel
Hawthorne.”
John was standing in the doorway with an irresistible grin and two steaming
cups on saucers. “Tea break, Caitlyn?”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
But he was her boss’s brother. What choice did she have?
“Um… okay.” She set the dress aside while John crossed the room and placed
the tray on the side table before taking a seat next to her on the sofa. She
got a whiff of yummy soapy cleanness from him, and felt the blood forcing its
way to the surface of her skin. He was sitting close – too close. His long,
lean, muscular thigh was just inches away from hers. And she would almost swear
that she could feel the heat radiating from him. Man, talk about a hot guy.
“Milk and one sugar, right?” He handed her one of the cups.
“Yes, thank you.” He’d obviously done his research. Yep, total player. No
doubt about it. Caitlyn took a sip and counted to five before glancing up at
John, who was beaming his million-watt smile down on her. The silence was too
much to handle. “So…” She searched her brain for something to say. “What’s up
with the quote? Are you like a Hawthorne
He chuckled. “I’m afraid not. I must confess to calling upon the wonders of
Google to impress you with a quotation that was both literary and relevant to
your craft.”
She nodded her head slowly. Who was this guy? Yes he was posh, but so was
Sophie, and she didn’t talk like she’d just stepped out of the pages of an
Austen novel. Man, he was adorable. Adorably quirky. And although she hadn’t
thought it possible, he looked even dreamier than before. Clean-shaven, the
contours of his jaw were begging to be kissed, and the fitted blue shirt he was
wearing gloriously showcased his lean, muscular chest.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
She took another sip, looked away and reminded herself that he was the
enemy. If she got too close, he would annihilate her.
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