Read Online Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) by Sandra Byrd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Byrd
Ads: Link
a gleaming white marble staircase twisting up the center. Mom checked in and we took the lift—that’s elevator for us Americans—to the third floor. After unlocking the door, Mom pushed it open and we walked in. Cool!
Louanne ran in and flopped on the bed like a fish on the beach. I walked in a bit more slowly, took in the marble countertops in the bathroom and the neat cupboards hidden behind smooth wood paneling and decided, oh yeah, this would do.
Mom looked at her watch. “We need to change quickly!” she said. “Dinner and then . . . the show.”
After a quick dinner at the hotel dining room, we took a cab across the River Thames and pulled up in front of a large, round theater. Its exterior was white stucco, but it had broad planks of wood crisscrossing it, just like hundreds of years ago. My excitement built as Louanne read the sign: “Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre!”
“Really?” I turned my head and looked. It was true! For a girl like me who loved to read and write, nothing in London could be more exciting. Well, except the shopping. Maybe they were tied.
The cab dropped us off, and Mom went up to the ticket booth and got our tickets. “Benches or groundlings?” the ticket agent asked. Louanne looked to me, but I didn’t know what he meant either, so I shrugged my shoulders.
“Benches,” Mom said, and then paid extra for three seat cushions. She also got the playbills and handed them to me. I looked at the cover and couldn’t believe the play we were about to see. My favorite. One that might be predicting my future in London. Without the dying part, that is.
We made our way through the theater—a swirl of gold and brown wood. It was kind of in the shape of a seashell, but with the stage in front. I looked up at the sky, clear on this autumn night, and I was glad, because if it had been raining it would have come down right into the open-air theater . . . and onto the groundlings. “The groundlings are people who are standing to watch,” Mom whispered. “Just like the poor in Shakespeare’s time.”
Too totally cool. I was still glad we had seats on the bench—and that Mom had sprung the extra money for the bench pads.
The play was so, so great. Juliet was gorgeous, and her thick velvet costume with ruffled cuffs was to die for. “Do you think I’d look good in that?” I whispered to Louanne.
“I think they’d throw you in the loony bin if you showed up anywhere other than a Halloween party looking like that,” she said.
I frowned. I could make it work. Somewhere.
Romeo was extremely good looking. And of course he was a teenager. Which meant he could be a possibility . . . right? Afterward we headed over to the gift shop, and I bought the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack and music to try to play on my guitar. I’d never played medieval music before.
Mom, Louanne, and I took a sleek black cab back to the hotel. “Visiting London then, is you?” The cabby seemed pretty friendly. “From the States, then?”
“We live in Kent now,” Mom said, proud, I think, not to be 100 percent tourist.
“Well, then, you’re a regular Britisher now, isn’t you?” He laughed the thick, cough-syrupy laugh of someone who smoked too much, but it was infectious, and we laughed with him.
We drove through the streets of London. Amazingly, holiday decorations were already going up. “But it’s not even Thanksgiving yet!” I pointed out to my mom as we passed some lit wreaths and a sign promising the appearance of Father Christmas.
“They don’t have Thanksgiving, Savvy,” Mom reminded me. Oh yeah. This was England.
“Can I see Father Christmas?” Louanne asked, face pressed to the cold window.
Mom and I laughed, but I noticed she made no promises.
That night we got our pj’s on and ate warm chocolate chip cookies in bed—delivered by room service, of course.
“Thanks for everything, Mom,” I said, visions of Shakespeare still playing in my mind.
“Jack, Jack, wherefore
Louanne ran in and flopped on the bed like a fish on the beach. I walked in a bit more slowly, took in the marble countertops in the bathroom and the neat cupboards hidden behind smooth wood paneling and decided, oh yeah, this would do.
Mom looked at her watch. “We need to change quickly!” she said. “Dinner and then . . . the show.”
After a quick dinner at the hotel dining room, we took a cab across the River Thames and pulled up in front of a large, round theater. Its exterior was white stucco, but it had broad planks of wood crisscrossing it, just like hundreds of years ago. My excitement built as Louanne read the sign: “Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre!”
“Really?” I turned my head and looked. It was true! For a girl like me who loved to read and write, nothing in London could be more exciting. Well, except the shopping. Maybe they were tied.
The cab dropped us off, and Mom went up to the ticket booth and got our tickets. “Benches or groundlings?” the ticket agent asked. Louanne looked to me, but I didn’t know what he meant either, so I shrugged my shoulders.
“Benches,” Mom said, and then paid extra for three seat cushions. She also got the playbills and handed them to me. I looked at the cover and couldn’t believe the play we were about to see. My favorite. One that might be predicting my future in London. Without the dying part, that is.
We made our way through the theater—a swirl of gold and brown wood. It was kind of in the shape of a seashell, but with the stage in front. I looked up at the sky, clear on this autumn night, and I was glad, because if it had been raining it would have come down right into the open-air theater . . . and onto the groundlings. “The groundlings are people who are standing to watch,” Mom whispered. “Just like the poor in Shakespeare’s time.”
Too totally cool. I was still glad we had seats on the bench—and that Mom had sprung the extra money for the bench pads.
The play was so, so great. Juliet was gorgeous, and her thick velvet costume with ruffled cuffs was to die for. “Do you think I’d look good in that?” I whispered to Louanne.
“I think they’d throw you in the loony bin if you showed up anywhere other than a Halloween party looking like that,” she said.
I frowned. I could make it work. Somewhere.
Romeo was extremely good looking. And of course he was a teenager. Which meant he could be a possibility . . . right? Afterward we headed over to the gift shop, and I bought the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack and music to try to play on my guitar. I’d never played medieval music before.
Mom, Louanne, and I took a sleek black cab back to the hotel. “Visiting London then, is you?” The cabby seemed pretty friendly. “From the States, then?”
“We live in Kent now,” Mom said, proud, I think, not to be 100 percent tourist.
“Well, then, you’re a regular Britisher now, isn’t you?” He laughed the thick, cough-syrupy laugh of someone who smoked too much, but it was infectious, and we laughed with him.
We drove through the streets of London. Amazingly, holiday decorations were already going up. “But it’s not even Thanksgiving yet!” I pointed out to my mom as we passed some lit wreaths and a sign promising the appearance of Father Christmas.
“They don’t have Thanksgiving, Savvy,” Mom reminded me. Oh yeah. This was England.
“Can I see Father Christmas?” Louanne asked, face pressed to the cold window.
Mom and I laughed, but I noticed she made no promises.
That night we got our pj’s on and ate warm chocolate chip cookies in bed—delivered by room service, of course.
“Thanks for everything, Mom,” I said, visions of Shakespeare still playing in my mind.
“Jack, Jack, wherefore
Similar Books
