13 Little Blue Envelopes. Maureen Johnson
of the fat coins. She went up the narrow spiral staircase in the middle of the bus. There were many seats available, and Ginny took one at the very front. The bus started to move.
It felt like she was floating. From her perspective, it looked like the bus was running over countless pedestrians and bicyclists, squashing them into oblivion. She pushed herself farther back into the seat and tried not to pay any attention to this. (Except they had to have just killed that guy on the cell phone. Ginny waited to feel the bump as the bus rolled over his body, but it never came.)
She looked around at the imposing facades of the stately buildings around her. The sky went from cloudy to gray in the space of a moment, and rain started hammering the wide windows in front of her. Now it looked like they were mowing down huge crowds of umbrella carriers.
She looked down at her smattering of remaining coins.
Aside from the 4th Noodle Penthouse, there was one other thing about Aunt Peg’s life that had been completely consistent—she was broke. Always. Ginny had known this even when she was very small and wasn’t supposed to know things about her relatives’ finances. Her parents somehow made this fact apparent without ever coming out and saying it.
Still, it never seemed like Aunt Peg was wanting for anything. She always seemed to have enough money to take Ginny for frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity, or to buy her piles of art supplies, or to make her elaborate Halloween costumes, or to get that jar of really good caviar she bought once just because she thought Ginny should taste it. (“If you’re going to do fish eggs once, do it right,” she had said. It was still gross.)
Ginny wasn’t sure if she believed that there was any more money waiting for her in an ATM. Maybe it would be there since it wasn’t going to be real money—it was going to be pounds. Pounds seemed possible. Pounds sounded like they should come in the form of tiny burlap bags tied in rough string, filled with little bits of metal or shiny objects. Aunt Peg could have that kind of money.
It took a few tries on the escalators and a few consultations of the Harrods map to find Mo’s Diner. Richard had gotten there first and was waiting in a booth. He ordered a steak, and she got the “big American-style burger!”
“I’m supposed to ask you what you sold to the queen,” she said.
He smiled and dabbed some ketchup onto his steak. Ginny tried not to wince.
“My job is to take care of special orders and customers,” he said, not noticing her distress over his condiment choice. “Say a star is out on a movie set and can’t get their favorite chocolate, or soap, or sheets, or whatever… I make arrangements to get it to them. Last year, I made sure all of Sting’s Christmas hampers were properly packed. And occasionally, occasionally, I get to set up royal visits. We open at special times for those, and I make sure that there’s someone in the necessary departments. One day, we got a call from the palace that the queen wanted to come over that evening, in just a few hours. She never does that. She’s always very carefully scheduled weeks in advance. But this night she wanted to come in, and there was no one else available. So I had to take care of her.”
“What did she want?” Ginny asked.
“Pants,” he said, dabbing on even more ketchup. “Underwear pants. Big ones. Very nice ones as well, but big ones. I believe she also got some stockings, but all I could think as I wrapped them up in the tissue was, ‘I’m packing up the queen’s pants.’ Peg always did like that story.”
At Peg’s name, Ginny looked up.
“It’s a funny thing,” he went on. “I don’t know what you’re meant to be doing here or how long you’re supposed to stay, but you’re welcome, as long as you like.”
He said it very sincerely but kept his eyes trained on his steak.
“Thanks,” she said. “I guess Aunt Peg asked if I could come.”
“She mentioned that she wanted you to. I mailed the package. I suppose you know that?”
She didn’t, but it made as much sense as anything else. Someone had to send it.
“So,” Ginny said, “she was your roommate, huh?”
“Yeah. We were good mates.” He pushed his steak around for a moment. “She told me a lot about you. About your family. I felt like I knew you before you ever got here.”
He poured a bit more ketchup, then set the bottle down very deliberately and looked at her.
“You know, if you want to talk about it at all…”
“It’s fine,” she said. His sudden directness…the closeness of the topic, the it…it made her nervous.
“Right,” he replied quickly. “Of course.”
The waitress dropped a handful of forks next to their table. They both stopped to watch her pick them up.
“Is there an ATM in here anywhere?” Ginny finally asked.
“Several,” he said, looking eager to take up this new topic of conversation. “I’ll show you when we’re done.”
They were done just a few minutes later, as they both developed a sudden interest in eating very quickly. Richard showed Ginny to the ATM and returned to work, with the promise of seeing her in the evening.
To her relief, Ginny found that English ATMs looked exactly like American ones. She approached one and stuck in the card. The machine politely asked for a code.
“All right,” Ginny said. “Here we go.”
She entered the word pants into the keypad. The machine purred and showed her a few advertisements about how she could save for a home, and then it asked her what she wanted.
She had no idea what she wanted, but she had to pick something. Some number. There were lots of numbers to choose from.
Twenty pounds, please. That seemed like a good, basic kind of number.
No. She was on her own. She would need to buy things and get around, so…
One hundred pounds, please.
The machine asked for a moment. Ginny felt her stomach drop. Then a stack of crisp purple and blue notes (different sizes: the purple ones were large, the blue ones little) emblazoned with pictures of the queen popped out of the slot. (Now she got it. Aunt Peg’s little joke also ensured that Ginny would never forget the code.) The large notes didn’t fit in her wallet, so she had to crush them in.
Her balance, the machine said, was £856. Aunt Peg had come through.
Dear Ginny,
Let’s get right down to business.
Today is MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR DAY. Why Mysterious Benefactor Day? Well, Gin, let me give you a because: because talent alone doesn’t make an artist. You need a little serendipity, a little luck, a little boost. I stumbled right into someone who helped me out, and it’s time to return the favor. But it’s also good to be mysterious. Make someone think that wonderful things are happening to them for no reason they can see. I’ve always wanted to be a fairy godmother, Gin, so help me out here.
Step one: Withdraw 500 pounds from the account.
Step two: Find an artist in London whose work you like, someone you think deserves a break. This is going to require some looking around on your part. Any kind of artist—a painter, a musician, a writer, an actor.
Step three: Become A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR. Buy a new invisible box for a mime, get a mile’s worth of violin strings for a violinist, roll up in front of a ballet studio with a year’s supply of lettuce…whatever you want.
Now, I think I know what you’re