There is no reason at this point in our relationship for Andrew to find out I wasn’t actually born this good-looking-that a great deal of artifice goes into it. What if he turns out to be one of those guys who like naturally pink-cheeked beauties like Liv Tyler? What kind of chance do I stand against an English rose like that? A girl has to have some secrets.
Oh, wait, Andrew is talking to me. He’s asking how my flight went. Why is he wearing that jacket? He can’t seriously think it looks good, can he?
“The flight was great,” I say. I don’t tell Andrew about the little girl in the seat next to mine who ignored me throughout the flight when I was just wearing my jeans and T-shirt, with my hair in a ponytail. It wasn’t until after I came back from doing my hair and makeup and changing into my silk dress a half hour before we landed that the kid did a double take, and the next thing I knew she was asking shyly, “Excuse me. But are you the actress Jennifer Garner?”
Jennifer Garner! Me! This kid thought I was Jennifer Garner!
And okay, she was only like ten or whatever, and wearing a shirt with Kermit the Frog on it (surely she meant this ironically and is not actually a current viewer of Sesame Street, as she seemed a bit old for it).
But still! No one has ever mistaken me for a movie star in my life! Let alone a skinny one like Jennifer Garner.
And the thing is, with my makeup on and my hair done, I guess I do look a bit like Jennifer Garner…you know, if she hadn’t quite lost all the baby fat. And had bangs. And was only five feet six.
I guess it never occurred to the kid that Jennifer Garner would hardly be flying coach, by herself, to England. But whatever.
And before I could stop myself, I was going, “Why, yes. I AM Jennifer Garner,” because, whatever, I’m never going to see this kid again in my life. Why not give her a thrill?
The kid’s eyes practically bugged out, she was so excited.
“Hi,” she said, bouncing a little in her seat. “I’m Marnie! I’m your biggest fan!”
“Well, hi, Marnie,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Mom!” Marnie turned to whisper to her dozing mother. “It IS Jennifer Garner! I TOLD you!”
And the little girl’s drowsy mother looked over at me, her eyes still bleary with sleep, and went, “Oh. Hello.”
“Hi,” I said, wondering if I sounded Jennifer Garnery enough.
But I guess I did, since the next words out of the kid’s mouth were, “I just loved you in 13 Going on 30.”
“Why, thank you,” I said. “I do consider that some of my best work. Besides Alias, of course.”
“I’m not allowed to stay up late enough to watch that,” Marnie said mournfully.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, maybe you can see it on DVD.”
“Can I have your autograph?” the little girl wanted to know.
“Of course you can,” I said, and took the pen and the British Airways cocktail napkin she offered me and scrawled Best wishes to Marnie, my biggest fan! Love, Jennifer Garner on it.
The little girl took the napkin reverently, as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune. “Thanks!” she said.
I just knew she was going to take that napkin back to America when she got home from her fun European vacation and show it to all of her friends.
I didn’t really start feeling bad until then. Because what if one of Marnie’s friends has an autograph from the REAL Jennifer Garner and they compare the handwriting? Then Marnie is going to be all suspicious! And she might even ask herself why Jen wasn’t with her publicist or even why she was flying commercial. And then she’ll realize I wasn’t the REAL Jennifer Garner, and that I was lying the whole time. And that could shake her faith in the goodness of humankind. Marnie could develop serious trust issues, like the kind I myself developed when my prom date, Adam Berger, told me he had to go home and paint the ceiling instead of taking me to the after-party, when really he went ahead and attended the after-party with skinny-as-a-stick Melissa Kemplebaum after dropping me off.
But then I told myself that it didn’t matter, since I’d never see Marnie again. So who even cared?
Still, I don’t mention the incident to Andrew because, seeing as how he’s getting a master’s in education, I highly doubt he approves of lying to young children.
Also, the truth is, I am feeling kind of sleepy, even though it is eight o’clock in the morning in England, and I am wondering how far it is to Andrew’s apartment, and if there’s any chance at all he might have some diet Coke there. Because I could totally use one.
“Oh, not too far at all,” is what Andrew’s dad, Mr. Marshall, says when I ask Andrew how far he lives from the airport.
It’s kind of strange that Andrew’s dad answered, and not Andrew. But then again, Mr. Marshall’s a teacher and answering questions is basically his job. He probably can’t help it, even when he’s off duty.
It’s such a good thing there are men like Andrew and his dad who are willing to undertake the education of our youth. The Marshalls are truly a dying breed. I’m so glad I’m with Andrew and not, say, Chaz, who chose to pursue a philosophy degree solely so that he could argue more effectively with his parents. How is that supposed to help future generations?
Whereas Andrew has purposefully chosen a career that will never make him much money, but that will ensure that young minds don’t go unmolded.
And isn’t that the noblest thing you’ve ever heard of?
It’s a long, long way to Mr. Marshall’s car. We have to go through all of these hallways, where, along the walls, there are advertisements for products I’ve never heard of. Chaz had been complaining, last time he’d gone to visit his friend Luke-the one with the chateau-about the Americanization of Europe and how you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a Coca-Cola ad.
But I don’t see any Americanization here in England. So far. I don’t see anything even vaguely American. Not even a Coke machine.
Not that this is a bad thing. I’m just saying. Although a diet Coke wouldn’t be so bad right about now.
Andrew and his dad are talking about the weather, and how lucky I am to have come at a time when it’s so nice out. But when we step out of the building and into the parking garage, I realize it’s maybe sixty degrees, at most, and that the sky-what I can see of it at the end of the garage level-is gray and overcast.
If this is good weather, what do the British consider bad? And, granted, it’s certainly cold enough for a leather jacket. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that Andrew is wearing one. Surely there’s some rule somewhere-like the one about no white pants before Memorial Day-about no leather in August.
We’re almost to the car-a small red compact, exactly what I’d expect a middle-aged teacher to drive-when I hear a shriek, and look around to see the little girl from the plane standing next to an SUV with her mother and an older couple I can only assume are her grandparents.
“There she is!” Marnie is screaming, pointing at me. “Jennifer Garner! Jennifer Garner!”