Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

many cases, what the product is that they’re trying to sell—one of them shows a woman in her underwear with the wordVodafone beneath her, which could be an ad for a phone-sex service.
    But it could just as easily be an ad for panties.
    But when I ask, neither Andrew nor his father is able to tell me which it is, since the wordpanties causes them to dissolve into peals of laughter.
    I don’t mind that they find me so (unintentionally) hilarious, though, since it means Andrew’s mind has been taken off being in the backseat.
    When we finally turn onto the street I recognize as Andrew’s from the care packages I’ve been sending him all summer—boxes filled with his favorite American candy, Necco wafers, and Marlboro Lights, his preferred brand of cigarettes (though I don’t smoke myself, and assume Andrew will quit well before the first baby is born)—I’m feeling much better about things than I had been back in the parking garage.
    That’s because the sun has finally put in an appearance, peeking shyly out from behind the clouds, and because Andrew’s street looks so nice and Europeany, with its clean sidewalks, flowering trees, and old-fashioned town houses. It’s like something out of that movieNotting Hill .

    I have to admit, it’s something of a relief: I had been wavering between picturing Andrew’s “flat” as being as high tech as Hugh Grant’s inAbout a Boy, or a garret, like inA Little Princess (which looked very cute once that old guy fixed it up for her), only in a seedier part of town, overlooking a wharf. I’d just been assuming I wouldn’t be able to go walking around his neighborhood by myself after dark for fear of being set upon by heroin addicts. Or Gypsies.
    I’m glad to see it’s actually somewhere between the two extremes.
    We are, as Mr. Marshall assures me, just a mile away from Hampstead Heath, the park where a lot of famous stuff happened, none of which I actually remember at this current time, and where people go today to have picnics and fly kites.
    I’m happily surprised to see that Andrew lives in such a nice, upscale neighborhood. I didn’t think teachers made enough to rent apartments in town houses. No doubt his flat is at the top of one—just like Mickey Rooney’s inBreakfast at Tiffany’s ! Maybe I’ll get to meet Andrew’s wacky but bighearted neighbors. Maybe I can have them—and Andrew’s parents, to thank Mr. Marshall for the ride from the airport—over for a small supper to show my American hospitality. I can make Mom’s spaghetti due (pronounced doo-ay). It tastes complicated, but nothing could be simpler to make. It’s just pasta, garlic, olive oil, hot pepper flakes, and Parmesan cheese. I’m sure even England would have all the ingredients.
    “Well, here we are,” Mr. Marshall says, pulling into a parking space in front of one of the brown-brick town houses and turning off the ignition. “Home sweet home.”
    I’m a little surprised that Mr. Marshall is getting out with us. I would have thought he’d have dropped us off and gone on to his own house somewhere—well, wherever Andrew’s family lives, a family that consists, from what I remember him saying in his e-mails, of a teacher father, a social worker mother, two younger brothers, and a collie.
    But maybe Mr. Marshall wants to help us with my bags, seeing as how Andrew probably lives on the top floor of the charming town house we’re parked in front of.
    Except that when we get to the top of the long flight of steps that leads up to the front door, it’s Mr.
    Marshall who takes out a key and unlocks it.
    And is greeted by the inquisitive gold and white muzzle of a beautiful collie.
    “Hello,” Mr. Marshall calls into what I can clearly see is not the foyer of an apartment house, but the entrance to a single-family home. “We’re here!”
    I am lugging my carry-on bag while Andrew pulls my wheelie bag up the stairs, not even bothering to lift it, but dragging it up one step at a