Free Improper English by Katie MacAlister Page A

I received after three years of marriage, and all of my jobs just haven’t seemed to work out. So when my mother offered me the chance to stay in Stephanie’s flat, I jumped at it even though I’m pretty much broke. I figured I didn’t need a lot of money to write, just the odd meal. After all, I can eat anywhere, but to be in London! That’s a life experience!”
    She smiled. “And ninety-pound haircuts are not in your budget?”
    I grinned in return. “Exactly. But it’s not as desperate as you think—I’ve got a few bucks left, and I don’t mind eating a lot of meals of baked beans, especially if it lets me splurge now and again and have roast beef in a restaurant that is older than the United States.”
    We wrangled over the check for a few minutes, then went out to browse through a few of the shops in theMarket. The buskers were out, playing a variety of music from twelve-string guitar to a jazz trio, as well as a number of other street performers. Isabella said they were present all year long because it was the only area in London for street entertainers to legally ply their trades. In summer the buskers are as thick as flies in Covent Garden. We watched two guys do a comedy magic act, a woman who walked a tightrope strung from the columns outside of St. Paul’s Church, and an incredibly agile old man who worked himself out of a straitjacket.
    “There’s a cyber café,” Isabella pointed out helpfully at one point. I had noticed it before she did, but avoided commenting on it since there was really no one I wanted to e-mail, least of all my mother. I felt an odd sense of possessiveness about my stay in London, and didn’t want to share it with anyone back home.
    “Thanks, I’ll remember it’s here if I need it,” I said hurriedly, squinting against the afternoon sun. “O-o-ooh, look, Crabtree and Evelyn! I love Crabtree and Evelyn!”
    I dragged Isabella off to the store, and two lovely hours were spent shopping (mostly on her part), window-shopping (both of us), and gawking (solely attributable to me). After we parted, I took the tube to Tottenham Court Road, picked a likely looking electronics shop, and emerged with a brand-X CD boom box in hand. By the time I hauled home all of my shopping and the boom box, my cute kicky hair was wilted, I was undeniably sweaty, and my sleeveless gauze dress was clinging to me in a most unbecoming manner.
    “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll open,” I told the door to the house as I stood before it. It just smirked at me, waves of heat rolling off its dark surface, causinga trickle of sweat down my back while I jiggled the key in the lock. It refused to open. I shifted my purchases and tried it again, muttering under my breath, “You stroppy little bugger! Open! OPEN!”
    It took five minutes of solid cursing, twisting the key, and ultimately kicking at the door before I made it in, and that’s only because Miss Fingers on the first floor took pity on me while she was fetching her mail.
    “Door’s a bit shirty,” she said, holding it open while I collected everything I had set down.
    “Shirty?” I added that one to my collection of English slang. “Oh, yes, it’s definitely shirty. Very, very shirty. I haven’t seen a door that shirty in…oh, I don’t know how long. Shirtiest damn door around.”
    Miss Fingers watched me wrestle all of my packages and bags through the door, and offered to help me upstairs. I accepted gratefully and shoved the boom box into her waiting arms.
    “It’s a bit hot out today,” I said pleasantly as we started up the stairs, trying to remember what Isabella had said about Miss Fingers and her flatmate. “Is it always this hot in July?”
    “Not often, no. You’re the one who’s taken over Shay’s flat.”
    “Yes, until the middle of September. I’m Alix.”
    She shifted the boom box and stuck out her hand. “Ray Binder. I thought it was Alice. Isabella said so. Alex like the bloke in number eight?”
    I