Chapter Three: The Buckingham Palace Ball
The taxi zipped down Aldiss Street with that electric zooming sound. Jerome had no idea where it was headed. Maybe it was going to a yacht docked on the Thames River. Suppose it was speeding to the Tower of London. The party could be anywhere in London.
He sighed and peered out the window. People were ambling down the sidewalk; some tourists, some old ladies out for their walk before supper. He saw a tailors shop with some nice looking suits that he could use for occasions like this. Gazing out the window got boring after ten minutes, so he decided to make conversation with the cabbie. "Good evening," he said to him.
The old cab driver nodded without saying a word, like a robot in science fiction flicks.
"Well, do you know where I am going to?" he asked rudely.
The driver laughed in a husky, harsh voice. "Well Mr. Morrow, you are headed to Buckingham Palace!"
Jerome was so shocked that he jumped and bumped his head on the ceiling. "WHAT?" he screeched.
"A ball at the palace."
This was a very unpleasant surprise for him. He was not at all dressed for a special event like this. He was expecting a cocktail get- together, with butlers passing out fancy salmon hors d'oeuvres on paper doilies. Not an embassy ball-type party! He flattened his hair out of nervousness, but it didn't work. It stuck up everywhere. Damn genetics, he thought to himself. Perfect VALID everything else except my goddamn hair!
The driver thought that this was hysterical. "Well Mr. Valid didn't know that he was going to the home of the royal family! Imagine!"
Angrily, Jerome replied, "Excuse me?"
He shut his mouth and kept on driving. It was five minutes until the cab stopped with a violent jerk. Jerome opened the door and looked around. There were fancy limousines and antique cars everywhere, pulling up and unloading women in sparkly, beautiful long dresses accompanied by men in sharp tuxedoes. The tall gates were wide open and draped in the Union Jack. Wherever you looked, there were the guards with the tall fuzzy black hats. Jerome popped his head back in the car, "What do I owe you?"
"John McHallan paid already."
"Oh good, thank you," he said, and the cab took off. He walked to the entrance, where a guard held out a finger pad without saying a word. Finding it very frustrating, needing to give a blood sample to go anywhere, he quietly said, "Ah great, not again."
"Sorry, standard procedure," the sentry flatly uttered. Jerome gave up and put his middle finger to the silver dot. He felt a sharp sting that felt like a bee-sting, and heard a ding. The guard nodded, and he proceeded to the doors. They were wide open and decorated with the Russian, American, and British flags.
The very instant that he set one foot in the door, he heard shouts of "Jerome!" all around him. Many people crowded around him, shook his hand, and took pictures. He felt like a big movie star, and it was starting to piss him off. He wasn't used to all the fuss. Inside, he deeply wanted to yell, "For chris'sakes, I'm a goddamn swimmer, not a freakin' Hollywood star!" But he held back. Jerome was being blinded by cameras that were going off all around him. He got very dizzy and fell against a pillar. To make matters worse, women all around him giggled and stared at him, tried to introduce themselves and looked at him VERY closely, whispering to eachother and licking their lips. He absolutely hated this, but just nodded politely as his eyes scoured the halls to find his coach.
"Thank God! You're here!" he exclaimed out loud at the sight of McHallan. He was dressed up in a white tuxedo with his gray hair in a terrible comb-over.
McHallan, however, was not looking very happy. He grabbed Jerome's arm and hissed, "Dammit Jerome, what the hell are you wearing?! I told you to look nice!"
Jerome thought about the conversation. "No you didn't, you just said to show up." He smiled as McHallan glared at him.
"Use common sense! Use that multi-million pound genetics you have, dammit!" He stormed away, flailing his arms and using Scottish curse words.
Oh well, he thought, and made his way up the large flight of stairs. He reached the top when he saw a very large old man coming towards him, which alarmed him. He didn't know quite what to do when a huge, smiling old man barreled towards him. So he just stood there frozen to the spot, his fight-or-flight reflexes completely gone. The man, who was short and stout and had white hair and a round nose, yelled, "AH! You must be Jerome Morrow, my competitor!" in a very Russian accent. Still grinning, he gave Jerome a bear hug, almost crushing his ribs, and said, "I am Nikita Trovsky. Such an honor to meet you!"
Regaining his breath, he replied, "Nice to meet you to, sir."
"Well I must be going now, must meet an old English friend of mine," and like a very cheerful, fat bear, he stomped away, stopping at every single hors d'oeuvre platter.
Jerome was in wonder at how a man of his. . .stature could possibly cross the English Channel. But his thinking was broken by a slimy Irish voice from behind him. "Jerome Morrow, we meet again."
Turning around, he saw James St. Clair, with his greasy red hair and overconfident grin. He was wearing a blue suit and gleaming black shoes. Not being surprised at all to meet him, knowing the jerk from previous Olympics, he sarcastically smiled and said, "Oh hello," and put out his hand to shake.
James immediately glowered at him and shrank away from Jerome's friendliness. "Don't you dare give me that, you know as well as I that we hate eachother."
"What do you mean?" he warmly laughed, enjoying acting so nicely. "Why James, I'm appalled. . ." he said in a very British way, but couldn't help snickering.
"Look Million Morrow, I have just one thing to say. I'm gonna' beat you this time. That Olympic gold medal was just good luck last year. This time, it's gonna' be you with the bronze and ME with the gold."
To backlash even more, Jerome flashed his dazzling smile and said, "Not in a million years. My own mum could swim faster than you. But good luck, I suggest you practice your ass off."
James was not at all amused. He just huffed and clamored to the dance floor.
God, I love competition, Jerome said to himself. He walked in a straight line to the balcony overlooking the front lawn. It was there that he stopped dead in his tracks and saw her.
A young woman was leaning forward on the white railing, looking out to the street. Jerome could only see her backside. She had blonde hair, shoulder-length and flipped outward. The dress was sleeveless, the hem touching the ground. It reminded him of dresses from the 1930's. Finally, it was the young woman who turned around. The dress was cream colored silk, with long pieces of black jeweled fabric around the bottom half, around the waist, and down the front, creating a lot V-neck. On her feet were tall black, Mary-Jane style heels.
He got very nervous, and looked at the ground. (Despite how handsome everyone said he was, he was NEVER good around girls. You would think that he had a natural gift and was perfectly comfortable talking to them, but he never even had a girlfriend because of his awful shyness. It always turned women off, they thought it was narcissism. Jerome finally recognized her as Portia Robinson, the INVALID. Her appearance was that of a 1940's movie star; the hourglass figure, the hair-style. Her blue eyes were lightly lined with brown eyeliner, and she wore matte red lipstick. Looking at him, her eyes widened and she slightly nodded her head. In a slurred California accent, and a bit of nervous stuttering, she said, "Oh, are you Mil-Million Dollar Mor-Morrow?"
He laughed and looked back at the ground, "Yes, I hate that nickname."
Laughing, she held out her hand, gloved in black silk. "Hello, I'm Portia Robinson, from California."
He finally got the courage and walked up to her and shook her hand. "My name is. . ."
She interrupted him, "Jerome Eugene Morrow? I've heard so much about you. I've always wanted to meet you, I've heard so much about you. You're a fabulous swimmer. I've watched a lot of your competitions. They-they're very g-good."
He was quite flattered by this, and turned crimson, not being used to any compliments from a woman.
"Why, your ears turned red! You're embarrassed! I'm sorry," she laughed. "You're plagued with shyness? Me too, I'm so shy."
"Really? It doesn't seem like it," he quietly said.
"Pardon me? I can hardly hear you, your voice is deep," she strained to hear him.
"Oh nothing, have you got any chewing gum by any chance?" he asked to cover it up.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Is spearmint ok?" she reached into her purse and got a packet of chewing gum.
"That's my favorite," he said.
"Mine too, what a coincidence," she blushed and handed him a piece. He was so nervous that he forgot to say thank you. "So have you read any books lately?" Portia asked.
"I just finished Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, actually. I know, it's old, but I really liked it," he scratched his arm.
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped nearly to the floor. "No, really! That's my favorite book! Along with Catch-22."
Jerome was floored. "You're lying!"
"No I'm not! I've loved that book since I was a kid!"
Jerome grinned and laughed, "This is so bizarre, because that's my all time favorite novel!"
Portia looked at his smile and all that came out was a gasp of bewilderment and happiness. "Huh."
"Pardon?" he politely asked.
"Nothin', I'm just impressed," she folded her arms across her chest and pulled her gloves up.
"What do you say we ditch this and get something to eat, Miss Robinson?" he asked. Jerome was taken aback and somewhat shocked by his sudden lack of the usual shyness on his part.
"Of course, we'll need to sneak out though, my coach will murder me if she sees me leaving," she laughed.
"Oh mine too, he's practically a Nazi," he nodded. This would be a golden opportunity for him. Portia walked in front of him and hunched somewhat low to the ground to not be seen.
Jerome couldn't believe his luck. He was going to dinner with this pretty girl. Not only pretty, she was kind, complimenting, funny, sounded very intelligent. . .Then it hit him for the first time. She was his opponent in the English Channel Cup.
Oh well, he thought to himself. I won't fall in love or anything crazy like that, it's never happened before. He quietly laughed as they snuck down the stairs.
The taxi zipped down Aldiss Street with that electric zooming sound. Jerome had no idea where it was headed. Maybe it was going to a yacht docked on the Thames River. Suppose it was speeding to the Tower of London. The party could be anywhere in London.
He sighed and peered out the window. People were ambling down the sidewalk; some tourists, some old ladies out for their walk before supper. He saw a tailors shop with some nice looking suits that he could use for occasions like this. Gazing out the window got boring after ten minutes, so he decided to make conversation with the cabbie. "Good evening," he said to him.
The old cab driver nodded without saying a word, like a robot in science fiction flicks.
"Well, do you know where I am going to?" he asked rudely.
The driver laughed in a husky, harsh voice. "Well Mr. Morrow, you are headed to Buckingham Palace!"
Jerome was so shocked that he jumped and bumped his head on the ceiling. "WHAT?" he screeched.
"A ball at the palace."
This was a very unpleasant surprise for him. He was not at all dressed for a special event like this. He was expecting a cocktail get- together, with butlers passing out fancy salmon hors d'oeuvres on paper doilies. Not an embassy ball-type party! He flattened his hair out of nervousness, but it didn't work. It stuck up everywhere. Damn genetics, he thought to himself. Perfect VALID everything else except my goddamn hair!
The driver thought that this was hysterical. "Well Mr. Valid didn't know that he was going to the home of the royal family! Imagine!"
Angrily, Jerome replied, "Excuse me?"
He shut his mouth and kept on driving. It was five minutes until the cab stopped with a violent jerk. Jerome opened the door and looked around. There were fancy limousines and antique cars everywhere, pulling up and unloading women in sparkly, beautiful long dresses accompanied by men in sharp tuxedoes. The tall gates were wide open and draped in the Union Jack. Wherever you looked, there were the guards with the tall fuzzy black hats. Jerome popped his head back in the car, "What do I owe you?"
"John McHallan paid already."
"Oh good, thank you," he said, and the cab took off. He walked to the entrance, where a guard held out a finger pad without saying a word. Finding it very frustrating, needing to give a blood sample to go anywhere, he quietly said, "Ah great, not again."
"Sorry, standard procedure," the sentry flatly uttered. Jerome gave up and put his middle finger to the silver dot. He felt a sharp sting that felt like a bee-sting, and heard a ding. The guard nodded, and he proceeded to the doors. They were wide open and decorated with the Russian, American, and British flags.
The very instant that he set one foot in the door, he heard shouts of "Jerome!" all around him. Many people crowded around him, shook his hand, and took pictures. He felt like a big movie star, and it was starting to piss him off. He wasn't used to all the fuss. Inside, he deeply wanted to yell, "For chris'sakes, I'm a goddamn swimmer, not a freakin' Hollywood star!" But he held back. Jerome was being blinded by cameras that were going off all around him. He got very dizzy and fell against a pillar. To make matters worse, women all around him giggled and stared at him, tried to introduce themselves and looked at him VERY closely, whispering to eachother and licking their lips. He absolutely hated this, but just nodded politely as his eyes scoured the halls to find his coach.
"Thank God! You're here!" he exclaimed out loud at the sight of McHallan. He was dressed up in a white tuxedo with his gray hair in a terrible comb-over.
McHallan, however, was not looking very happy. He grabbed Jerome's arm and hissed, "Dammit Jerome, what the hell are you wearing?! I told you to look nice!"
Jerome thought about the conversation. "No you didn't, you just said to show up." He smiled as McHallan glared at him.
"Use common sense! Use that multi-million pound genetics you have, dammit!" He stormed away, flailing his arms and using Scottish curse words.
Oh well, he thought, and made his way up the large flight of stairs. He reached the top when he saw a very large old man coming towards him, which alarmed him. He didn't know quite what to do when a huge, smiling old man barreled towards him. So he just stood there frozen to the spot, his fight-or-flight reflexes completely gone. The man, who was short and stout and had white hair and a round nose, yelled, "AH! You must be Jerome Morrow, my competitor!" in a very Russian accent. Still grinning, he gave Jerome a bear hug, almost crushing his ribs, and said, "I am Nikita Trovsky. Such an honor to meet you!"
Regaining his breath, he replied, "Nice to meet you to, sir."
"Well I must be going now, must meet an old English friend of mine," and like a very cheerful, fat bear, he stomped away, stopping at every single hors d'oeuvre platter.
Jerome was in wonder at how a man of his. . .stature could possibly cross the English Channel. But his thinking was broken by a slimy Irish voice from behind him. "Jerome Morrow, we meet again."
Turning around, he saw James St. Clair, with his greasy red hair and overconfident grin. He was wearing a blue suit and gleaming black shoes. Not being surprised at all to meet him, knowing the jerk from previous Olympics, he sarcastically smiled and said, "Oh hello," and put out his hand to shake.
James immediately glowered at him and shrank away from Jerome's friendliness. "Don't you dare give me that, you know as well as I that we hate eachother."
"What do you mean?" he warmly laughed, enjoying acting so nicely. "Why James, I'm appalled. . ." he said in a very British way, but couldn't help snickering.
"Look Million Morrow, I have just one thing to say. I'm gonna' beat you this time. That Olympic gold medal was just good luck last year. This time, it's gonna' be you with the bronze and ME with the gold."
To backlash even more, Jerome flashed his dazzling smile and said, "Not in a million years. My own mum could swim faster than you. But good luck, I suggest you practice your ass off."
James was not at all amused. He just huffed and clamored to the dance floor.
God, I love competition, Jerome said to himself. He walked in a straight line to the balcony overlooking the front lawn. It was there that he stopped dead in his tracks and saw her.
A young woman was leaning forward on the white railing, looking out to the street. Jerome could only see her backside. She had blonde hair, shoulder-length and flipped outward. The dress was sleeveless, the hem touching the ground. It reminded him of dresses from the 1930's. Finally, it was the young woman who turned around. The dress was cream colored silk, with long pieces of black jeweled fabric around the bottom half, around the waist, and down the front, creating a lot V-neck. On her feet were tall black, Mary-Jane style heels.
He got very nervous, and looked at the ground. (Despite how handsome everyone said he was, he was NEVER good around girls. You would think that he had a natural gift and was perfectly comfortable talking to them, but he never even had a girlfriend because of his awful shyness. It always turned women off, they thought it was narcissism. Jerome finally recognized her as Portia Robinson, the INVALID. Her appearance was that of a 1940's movie star; the hourglass figure, the hair-style. Her blue eyes were lightly lined with brown eyeliner, and she wore matte red lipstick. Looking at him, her eyes widened and she slightly nodded her head. In a slurred California accent, and a bit of nervous stuttering, she said, "Oh, are you Mil-Million Dollar Mor-Morrow?"
He laughed and looked back at the ground, "Yes, I hate that nickname."
Laughing, she held out her hand, gloved in black silk. "Hello, I'm Portia Robinson, from California."
He finally got the courage and walked up to her and shook her hand. "My name is. . ."
She interrupted him, "Jerome Eugene Morrow? I've heard so much about you. I've always wanted to meet you, I've heard so much about you. You're a fabulous swimmer. I've watched a lot of your competitions. They-they're very g-good."
He was quite flattered by this, and turned crimson, not being used to any compliments from a woman.
"Why, your ears turned red! You're embarrassed! I'm sorry," she laughed. "You're plagued with shyness? Me too, I'm so shy."
"Really? It doesn't seem like it," he quietly said.
"Pardon me? I can hardly hear you, your voice is deep," she strained to hear him.
"Oh nothing, have you got any chewing gum by any chance?" he asked to cover it up.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Is spearmint ok?" she reached into her purse and got a packet of chewing gum.
"That's my favorite," he said.
"Mine too, what a coincidence," she blushed and handed him a piece. He was so nervous that he forgot to say thank you. "So have you read any books lately?" Portia asked.
"I just finished Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, actually. I know, it's old, but I really liked it," he scratched his arm.
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped nearly to the floor. "No, really! That's my favorite book! Along with Catch-22."
Jerome was floored. "You're lying!"
"No I'm not! I've loved that book since I was a kid!"
Jerome grinned and laughed, "This is so bizarre, because that's my all time favorite novel!"
Portia looked at his smile and all that came out was a gasp of bewilderment and happiness. "Huh."
"Pardon?" he politely asked.
"Nothin', I'm just impressed," she folded her arms across her chest and pulled her gloves up.
"What do you say we ditch this and get something to eat, Miss Robinson?" he asked. Jerome was taken aback and somewhat shocked by his sudden lack of the usual shyness on his part.
"Of course, we'll need to sneak out though, my coach will murder me if she sees me leaving," she laughed.
"Oh mine too, he's practically a Nazi," he nodded. This would be a golden opportunity for him. Portia walked in front of him and hunched somewhat low to the ground to not be seen.
Jerome couldn't believe his luck. He was going to dinner with this pretty girl. Not only pretty, she was kind, complimenting, funny, sounded very intelligent. . .Then it hit him for the first time. She was his opponent in the English Channel Cup.
Oh well, he thought to himself. I won't fall in love or anything crazy like that, it's never happened before. He quietly laughed as they snuck down the stairs.