With Love from London
Sarah Jio
In the end,
we’ll all become stories.
—Margaret Atwood
A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader,
Whether you’re reading this in the very same year as I’m writing, 2020, or long after these pages have been published, or even after I’m no longer alive （that’s the beauty of stories—they live on）， I have some stories of my own to tell before you set your eyes on the first page. In writing books over the years—this is my eleventh—I’ve come to understand that a book is to an author like a baby is to its mother. I’m the mother of three sons, who, at this moment, are fourteen, twelve, and ten. When they were babies, I wouldn’t dare think to hand off any one of them to a babysitter without instruction. “He loves pears,” I would tell the sitter, or “He gets a little sad at bedtime, so please read him a story.” It feels equally strange to place this book in your hands without fussing over it a bit.
In 1992, I was an awkward fourteen-year-old navigating braces, boys, and junior high while also recovering from a bad haircut, and possibly even a horrific perm. That same year, I transformed—from an avid reader into a passionate lover of books. Somehow, I discovered the great Irish author Maeve Binchy and set out to read as many of her titles as I could get my hands on. As I treaded water in the turbulent river of adolescence, her cozy stories were a much-needed life raft. I then vowed that if I ever had the opportunity to write a book, let alone figure out how to publish one, I would attempt to create for my readers cozy places all their own.
I’ve made this attempt with all my books, including With Love from London. Halfway through writing this novel, the utterly unexpected happened. Life as we all knew it was turned on its head, courtesy of the Covid-19 pandemic. I battled a fever for more than a month, my boys’ schools shut down, and everything came to a weird, screeching halt. But that’s exactly when this novel-in-progress became the cozy little world I so desperately needed. At the end of a long writing day, when dogs needed to be walked and children fed, I found myself longing to stay just a little longer in these comforting pages.
In moments of uncertainty, I thought back to the best of times in the best of places, when my now-husband proposed one evening in 2016, in the most charming spot in Notting Hill （if you adore the movie Love Actually as much as I do, you’ll know exactly where I’m talking about）。 Just like that, I had my setting, London.
Some of the places mentioned in this book are fictional, of course, but many I discovered during two research trips. One night, I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner at the storied Royal Automobile Club, which enjoys two scenes in these pages. I can tell you, the RAC was just as ritzy and celebrated as you might imagine. I treasure the memory of that night.
And now I’m handing you my baby. I am forcing myself to step away, even though I could probably go on and on—and on. With Love from London and its myriad characters are now in your possession. I’m guessing you’ll tuck this book into a beach bag or purse, maybe even pack it on an upcoming trip （to London, even!）， or just read it in the comfort of home.
Wherever you are, and wherever life may take you, I hope you find reading this story to be as comforting as it has been for me to write.
With love
from Seattle,
xo,
Sarah
London, England
November 3, 2013
“There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind,” says the stranger sitting next to me on the airplane—a sixtysomething woman with feathered bangs and a hair tie clinging so tightly to her left wrist that I’ve spent most of the flight worried it might turn into a medical emergency.
In my years of assorted travel, I’ve had a long history of questionable airplane seatmates: the ninety-year-old man who touched my leg 3,781 times, then lapsed into a flatulence-fueled nap; the crying baby of all crying babies; the woman who drank too many mini bottles of rum and passed out on my shoulder, drooling.
However, on this particular flight, it seems I’ve been graced by the “Sentimental Orator.” We’d barely cleared the runway, and Chatty in seat 26B had already quoted Shakespeare, Marilyn Monroe, and, if I remember correctly, Muhammad Ali.
My tired, blank stare obviously troubles her, because the corners of her mouth plummet into a disappointed frown. “You poor child,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t know C. S. Lewis? A shame.”
“Yes,” I say, closing my eyes as I press my head against the seat back, attempting sleep—or, at least, pretending to. “It’s…very sad.”
And it is. I’ve just been accused of not knowing a quote by one of my favorite authors, though I’m presently too exhausted to defend myself. But what’s sadder? The very quote itself.
“There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
My eyes shoot open as the plane begins to descend over London and a burst of turbulence jostles me against the Sentimental Orator who, I predict, will soon start reciting Gandhi, or maybe Mother Teresa.
My mind churns. What if C. S. Lewis was wrong? What if there aren’t better things to come? What if…？
The plane rattles again as it slips beneath a cloud, landing gear deployed. A moment later, we’re touching down at Heathrow with a thud.
I peer out the window. So, this is London.
The Sentimental Orator gasps and fumbles for her inhaler as I take in my first view of England and its seemingly endless gray. A thick layer of fog and dark clouds blend like a muddled watercolor painting—and my own gray mood. Gray on gray on gray.
I sigh as I collect my bag from the overhead compartment and walk numbly ahead. I’m thirty-five years old. This should be chapter thirteen of my life—maybe even chapter sixteen. But somehow, I feel as if I’ve been catapulted back to the very beginning, or worse, thrust into a laborious rewrite.
“Chapter 1: An American Divorcee in London.”
“Miss,” the Sentimental Orator says, tapping my shoulder. “I think you forgot…your book.”
She hands it to me and I eye the cover with equal parts humiliation and denial. How to Get Divorced and Not Lose Your Mind. I’d only read two chapters, as covertly as possible, but quickly lost interest and tucked it into the seat pocket for the next passenger’s guaranteed delight. I mean, what therapist in their right mind would title a chapter: “The Best Way to Get Over Someone Is to Get Under Someone”？
“You poor thing,” the Sentimental Orator says, smiling to herself.
Give this model citizen a gold star!
“Are you going through a divorce?”
Is it just me, or did she say the word “divorce” several decibels louder? The pair of women to our left look over, their faces beaming pity—for me.
I nod. “Yeah—recently.” More nearby eyes descend on me. I might as well have a sticker on my back that reads RECENTLY DIVORCED.
“Remember, dear,” my transatlantic seatmate says, “that it takes six months for every year you were together to get over someone.”
I’d heard this before—from other well-meaning people—but it always left me feeling confused and, well, a bit terrified. Nick and I were married for twelve years, so by those calculations, will I wallow in sadness and self-loathing for…six more? Who made up this ridiculous statistic, and can we all agree that it’s completely bogus?