Girl Abroad: Part 1 – Chapter 1

Part 1 – August

HE FOLLOWS ME EVERYWHERE. I THOUGHT I’D DITCHED HIM WHEN I climbed through my bedroom window and doubled back around the pool deck to the laundry room—only to be confronted by my father’s disembodied voice telling me about the latest stabbing near a London Tube station. Via the Echo speaker on the counter, he proceeds to cite crime statistics at me from somewhere in this house.

But nope. Not listening. I tune him out as I gather clothes from the dryer, then haul them back to my room, where a sizable fort of suitcases and boxes has overtaken much of the floor. I’ve had weeks to pack. Yet somehow, I’ve managed to delay the most time-consuming tasks until barely an hour before my ride to the airport arrives.

“Knife crimes have risen to more than six thousand— ”

I mute the Echo in my room when my father starts up again. Once I’m safely out of the zip code, I’m talking to someone about having his internet cut off. He’s going to give himself a heart attack.

My phone buzzes. I expect to see Dad’s name on the screen, but it’s my best friend, Eliza, so I put it on speaker and toss it on my bed.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” she says in lieu of hello. “We were supposed to be back by now, but my mom had to get into a huge fight with the valet about a dent I’m pretty sure she put in her own bumper backing into the landscaper’s truck again, so we’re still not— ”

“It’s fine. Really. Not a big deal at all.”

I start folding shirts and leggings, stuffing them hastily into packing cubes in a frantic race against the clock that begins to negate the point of folding them at all. Everything becomes a crumpled act of desperation to make forty pounds of clothing fit inside my bursting suitcase. The vision I had a few days ago of a well-organized departure is now slipping through my fingers.

“But you’re leaving me,” she mock whines in the dry, reluctantly invested way she has. Every day she’s ever woken up and the world hasn’t ended yet is a complete drag, but I’m one of the few people in it she doesn’t entirely despise. It’s endearing. “I won’t see you again for a year. I’ll miss you.”

I snort out a laugh. “That sounded painful.”

“It was,” she sighs. Fact is, Eliza’s never needed or missed anyone in her life.

“I appreciate the effort.” It’s how I know she cares.

Truthfully, I envy her self-reliance. Her general comfort with herself and indifference to things like anxiety, doubt, or fear. She could be dropped anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice, and as long as she could find a decent cup of coffee, she’d be content.

My phone beeps with an incoming call. I promise to call Eliza before I get on my plane and answer the other line without looking at the screen, expecting my future roommates’ call. With the time difference and travel time between Nashville and London, this will likely be the last chance I have to speak with them before I arrive at the doorstep of my new flat.

“Hello?”

“In London, women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-nine are eight times more likely to be the victims of— ”

“Dad, seriously? Did you talk with Dr. Wu about your raging paranoia and separation anxiety?”

“Baby girl, listen. London can be a dangerous place for a young woman. I lived there for six months, you know.”

Yes. Everyone knows. He was there while he wrote and then recorded his third album at Abbey Road, for which the Beatles titled their eleventh studio album and, thirty-two years later, I was named.

“You do realize that in much of the rest of the world,” I tell him, struggling to zip another suitcase, “the U.S. is seen as a violent and barbaric society overrun by crime, right?”

“This isn’t like going to the movies in downtown Nashville,” he returns, ignoring my argument. “London is a major international city. You can get into a cab and never be seen or heard from again.”

“I don’t think Dr. Wu would consider bingeing the Taken series before your daughter’s semester abroad a healthy coping mechanism.”

“Abbey.”

“Dad.”

“You’re nineteen years old. That’s old enough to drink in the UK. I can’t help if I’m not thrilled at the idea of my little girl on a different continent with people I don’t know, at some nightclub, getting drinks shoved in her face by a bunch of English assholes.”

“As opposed to American assholes.”

“Abbey.”

Now I know he’s careened right over the ledge. My dad never curses in front of me. He’ll barely sip a glass of wine at dinner if I’m there. Since the day he retired from touring when I was eleven years old, he’s gone to extreme lengths to neuter the rock star persona of Gunner Bly and fashion himself into the perfect father figure. I still think those tabloid photos of him carrying me as a toddler off a tour bus at four in the morning, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a bottle of Jack in one hand and me in the other, sent a shock wave through his very being. Scared him straight. Made him afraid I’d grow up to be one of those burnt-out, degenerate celebrity offspring who does alternating stints on reality TV and rehab before a crying jag on The View, only communicating with him in the pages of the gossip section.

Which is to say I love my dad, but he’s becoming an emotional basket case, and the overbearing father routine is wearing on me.

“Dad, as much as I’m sure you’d prefer me to spend the rest of my college education locked in my bedroom, I can take care of myself. Time to cut the cord, buddy. I’m a big girl now.”

“You don’t get it. I know how easily a few drinks turns into a few lines of coke…”

Oh, for the love of…

“Yeah, can we circle back on this? I’m kinda in the weeds over here.”

I end the call without waiting for a response. If I indulge him, he’ll only work himself into a frenzy.

When I applied for this program to spend my sophomore year at Pembridge University London, it was at the suggestion of my European history professor and in a stupor induced by Peaky Blinders, The Crown, and Love Island. And although my grades from freshman year were excellent and my professors were happy to write letters of recommendation, I didn’t believe for a minute I’d actually be accepted. Getting the email sent my entire life into a tailspin. Suddenly, I had to break the news to my hyper-protective father that I was not only moving out but leaving the country.

With D-Day now at our doorstep, he isn’t taking it well.

“Maybe there’s an online program.”

I nearly jump three feet in the air when I emerge from the closet with heaps of clothes in my arms to see him standing in the middle of my room.

“Jesus, Dad! You’re disconcertingly stealthy for a man your age.”

“How about it?” he pushes. “Online learning would suit you.”

“No, it would suit you. And forget it. This is happening. The car will be here any minute. I’ve already sent the first month’s rent to my roommates.”

Which reminds me I still haven’t heard from them, so I grab my phone to find I have a couple of missed texts from a very long phone number. That’ll take some getting used to.

“And why haven’t I talked to these roommates?” Dad asks, the worry lines on his face growing deeper. “We don’t know anything about them. You could get there and find out your apartment is a warehouse by the docks and some men are waiting to throw a bag over your head.”

“Ugh, you’re exhausting.”

I type out a quick response to Lee, then pocket my phone.

“I found them on the same site Gwen used to find a house share for her semester abroad,” I remind my father. “Everyone on there is vetted with a background check. The university even recommended it. It’s legit.”

Because I can’t get a grip on time zones, we haven’t yet gotten on the phone or video chat for the formal introductions. Just emails and text messages usually sent while the other is asleep. But the digital conversations Lee and I have exchanged over the last couple weeks were encouraging. So far she seems nice. A senior, so a couple years older than me. And there are two other girls already living there.

“I’d feel better if I could speak to them,” Dad says. “Maybe talk to their parents.”

“Their parents? Really? I’m not spending the night for a sleepover. These are adults.”

He narrows his eyes at me, his lips flat. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“And I suggest you work on that with Dr. Wu.”

I give him a little smirk over my shoulder, which he definitely doesn’t appreciate.

Dad takes a seat on the end of my bed. He runs his hand through his shaggy hair and scratches at his stubble. It’s moments like this—for no particular reason—that I remember how weird it is to be Gunner Bly’s daughter. It’s a big part of the reason I didn’t want my roommates to know who my father is before I was able to move in. It only makes things…complicated.

My whole life, I’ve been surrounded by people pretending to be my friend so they could get closer to him. Never knowing who to trust. Constantly disappointed by empty relationships. He moved us out of LA, out here to the ranch outside Nashville, to get away from the fame seekers and sycophants in favor of a quieter kind of life. And it is. Mostly. There’s still the odd groupie or two that slips through. A fan or someone hoping to launch their own career. Sometimes an entrepreneur in the market to sell photos and gossip to TMZ.

I learned at a young age that there are pitfalls and vipers everywhere. It’s why I don’t even use social media. So I don’t begrudge my dad his neuroses. I just wish he’d give me a little room to breathe while I work out my own.

“Listen, baby girl,” he says after a sigh. “I know I’ve been kind of a drag, but you gotta remember I’ve never done this before. You’re my kid. Letting you run off and start your own life is pretty scary for a father. When I was your age, I’d just signed a record contract and was in a different city every night getting up to all sorts of trouble.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say dryly.

He smiles and drops his head in response. “So you know that means I’ve seen all sorts of ways a young woman can find herself in over her head alone in a big city.”

“Yeah. I’m under the assumption that’s how I came to be.”

He coughs, furrowing his brow. “Something like that.”

It’s no secret that Nancy was a groupie who followed Dad around until she finally made it up to his hotel room. They weren’t together long. The rest is rock ’n’ roll history. Terribly fickle, those groupies.

Truth is, I’m due an adolescent indiscretion or two. Another drawback to being Gunner Bly’s daughter is growing up hearing the stories of his many exploits but having no stories or exploits of my own, coddled and sheltered in the hermetic seal of his guilt and regrets. I appreciate he only wants the best for me, but I’m a college student now. I’d like to experience at least a little of the rowdy debauchery that is customary for a girl my age.

“What I’m trying to say is I worry about you. That’s all.” He gets up and reaches for my hand. “You’re just about the only thing I’ve gotten right.”

“I think Billboard and the wall of Grammys would beg to differ.”

“That stuff doesn’t matter even a fraction as much as being your dad, you hear me?”

A tear comes to his eye, which gets me all choked up. Nothing gets me crying like seeing my dad emotional. We’re both softies that way.

“I love you,” I tell him. “And I’m going to be fine. It means a lot to me that you’re on board with this, okay? It’s important.”

“Just promise me you’ll make good decisions. And remember that nothing good happens after midnight.”

“I promise.” I give him a hug and kiss on the cheek.

“You know you can always come home, right?” He won’t let go of the hug, so I don’t pull away because I know he needs this. “Any time. Day or night. Say the word and I’ll have a ticket waiting at the airport.”

“I know.”

“And if you get in any trouble at all. No matter what it is. You find yourself somewhere you don’t want to be or you end up in jail— ”

“Dad…”

“Whatever it is, you call me, and I’ll help you out. No questions asked. We don’t ever have to talk about it. That’s a promise.”

I wipe a tear from my eye and smear it on his shirt. “Okay.”

My phone chimes. It’s a text from the driver saying he’s outside.

I release a nervous breath. “Time to go.”

Right. This is really happening.

Until now, all I’ve thought about is the freedom and adventure of moving across an ocean. Suddenly, the dread and uncertainty rush in. What if I hate my new roommates? What if they hate me? What if British food is gross? What if everyone at my new school is much smarter than I am?

An urgent instinct to dive under my bed grips my chest.

As if hearing my anxieties bubbling over, Dad manages to snap himself into parent mode. Somehow, he’s the one reassuring me now.

“Don’t sweat it,” he says, throwing my backpack over his shoulder and grabbing my carry-on roller. “You’re gonna leave them breathless.”

Together we load up the waiting airport limo. What’s left will get shipped to the flat. I’m not sure I’m even breathing as Dad gives me one last hug and shoves a wad of cash in my pocket.

“For emergencies,” he says. “I love you.”

For most of my life, this ranch house felt like a comfortable prison meant to trick me into forgetting I was shackled to its confines. Finally, I’ve broken through, except I never stopped to ask myself what I’d do once I was free. It’s a whole terrifying world out there full of ways to get my teeth knocked in.

And I couldn’t be more excited.

It’s after midnight local time when we touch down in London, the lights of the runway blurry in the window speckled with rain while a voice overhead tells us to set our watches forward.

After a nearly ten-hour flight, I can’t get off this plane fast enough. My bladder’s screaming at me and my feet are swollen. A delirious kind of urgency grips me while I stand in the aisle, anxious and fidgety, with my bags in hand to deplane. The hatch opens, and I scurry down the gangway to the terminal and nearest restroom.

It’s past 1 a.m. when my driver loads the last of my bags in the trunk of the black town car. I offer him Lee’s directions, to which he assures me he can find Notting Hill just fine.

My body still thinks it’s not even 8 p.m. as I plaster my face to the rear passenger window to watch the lights of London fly past.

I’m not well traveled by any means, thanks to an overprotective father who sees murder around every street corner, so I’m still struck when places look exactly as they do in the movies. The architecture, landmarks. Those red phone booths. It’s almost surreal. I devour the city with my eyes, every few seconds glancing forward to suck in a startled breath at oncoming traffic, only to remember we’re on the other side of the road. The driver chuckles at me in the rearview mirror.

Fair, sir. Fair.

I decide to get it all out of my system on the ride to my new home, embracing the wide-eyed American yokel stereotype as I gawk unabashedly at double-decker buses and ask my driver dumb questions just to hear his accent. Without rush-hour traffic, however, the journey ends all too quickly on a quaint residential street of row houses in brick and pastel palettes.

We slowly creep up on a stucco-fronted two-story eggshell Edwardian town house. Both apartments have pillared porches and waist-high iron gates encasing tiny potted gardens before rising up their steps to covered entrances. A tickle of nervousness starts in my feet when I read the number 42 on the front door of the one to the left.

The porch light is on, waiting for me.

“I better make sure someone’s up,” I say to the driver but more to myself as I force my hand to grab the door handle.

The front windows glow behind the white curtains. Evidence enough that I’m expected, though I now question if I should have caught a red-eye to arrive at a reasonable hour. Keeping the whole house up maybe isn’t a great first impression.

Here goes nothing.

With a knock, I hold my breath. I’ve considered a dozen times how horribly this could go. We could hate each other on the spot. From what I gather, the roommates are all a year or two older than me. What if their patience for the clueless American wears out in a week or so?

I get myself worked up again just as I catch a blur of movement inside. The curtains sway before the door creaks open.

To my great confusion, a slender Black guy in a loose tank top and long wide-leg bohemian silk pants stands at the threshold.

“I knew you’d be a redhead.” He smiles at me, bright and friendly.

“Is, um, Lee home?”

“Occasionally. I’m about two-thirds into a bottle of merlot, however, so no promises.”

Was that an answer? I’m still baffled.

“I’m Abbey.” I bite my lip. “I’m supposed to be moving in.”

“Of course you are, luv.” He looks over my head and nods at the driver.

“Sorry to keep everybody up. I should have considered the time difference when I booked my flight.”

“Not everybody. You’ll meet the other lads tomorrow. They’re out tonight.”

I blink stupidly. “Lads?”

“Jack and Jamie.” Shoving open the door for me, he tugs me inside. “Best not to wait up. You’ll hear them stumbling in around four. Try to reserve judgment until they’ve had their morning toasties.”

He leaves the door ajar for the driver, who’s got the trunk open and is piling my bags up at the curb.

My confusion is slowly giving way to unsettling clarity. “You’re Lee?”

“Since I was a baby.” He peels my backpack off my shoulder and slings it over his, striking a catalog model pose. “I know, I’m more radiant in person.”

The interior of the flat is bright and airy. A relief, given the dreary weather. There’s a small foyer at the base of a staircase, then a tight hallway with a living room off one side and a kitchen at the end. It’s a hodgepodge of expensive-looking mismatched modern furniture, as if the pages of an interior design magazine got all jumbled and thrown together in one house.

“But Lee’s a girl,” I say emphatically.

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Don’t let these flawless cheekbones fool you.”

“No, I mean, I’m supposed to be rooming with girls. Is this the wrong house?”

“Not if you’re Abbey Bly.” He regards me with skeptical concern. Like I’m the hysterical woman fighting with a shopping cart in the cereal aisle. “I’m Lee Clarke. Welcome to London.”