Brave Hart: One Woman's Search for that Most Elusive of Things, a Happy Ending

Then I hit puberty.

My dream house was my bedroom. My friends were a couple of pornographic magazines I stole from my cousin’s cupboard. The man of my dreams was my clitoris and my job was to admire my first pair of boobs in the mirror. It felt really good exploring my sexuality at that age. It was something new and exciting and for all I knew, an adventure. It felt like discovering a new world, like Columbus did.

At fifteen my dream house was someone else’s party. My closest friends were Mary and Jane and I was in a relationship with a fridge full of ciders. My job was to meet my constantly wasted BFF Susan at the Mall and spend her money, because I didn’t have much back then. My prince was the handsome guy in French. Every girl wanted to hang out with him. It took me a year to realize why his hair was so well-kept. I can’t complain, though. I now know what shoes match my dress and I can sing all the lyrics to La Cage aux Folles.

When I was eighteen, I began worrying more about my future. I can’t remember how many times I quarreled with my mother about what I was doing with my life and what would I become. On the one hand she was right, I had to grow up. On the other, I needed to leave home. Of course I loved her, but at that age I knew that if I ever found her standing in front of a cliff…  well.

University was my only chance to leave. I picked up a newspaper on my way home one cold and rainy day after a night at Susan’s flat, hard-drinking and eating pizza. It was the week that all the top Universities were published on page eighteen. Of course I had no intention of leaving London so I made sure I ignored any that weren’t in the city.

London is my biggest love. But like many women who pray to Vogue and speak Cosmopolitan, I too was thinking about moving to New York City and experiencing the lifestyle. I wanted to become that girl who can go for lunch with her best friends on a Thursday afternoon, sipping cocktails and gossiping about their men’s ups and downs after a hard day’s shopping. However, when you really think about it, London is very similar and let’s face it, I’m no Carrie Bradshaw.

Chapter 2

I’ve walked into Dan’s, a coffee shop around the corner from Susan’s, or as I like to call it, my ‘‘hangover temple’’. That was my first stop before getting the tube home.

‘Double latte, please,’ I asked Nigel, a classmate whose father owned the place and who occasionally earned his pocket money helping out. On my right-hand side, just next to the creamy cakes and muffins Nigel’s mother made for the customers, was the paper I’d been looking forward to buying all year.

‘And this, please,’ I added as I placed the paper on the counter. I got my receipt and change, and sat at the corner of the shop right next to the door and the huge windows that showed a stunning view of Charing Cross. I flipped the paper to page eighteen, ignoring any news about Tony Blair and Oasis. I couldn’t care less at that time. I started going through the list: London’s Top Ranking Universities.

Anything too far outside of Central London was definitely out of the question. There was no way I would get on a train for a lecture. On page eighteen, the twenty most prestigious universities of the city were given in bold type. I could feel the excitement and my happy muscles spreading my smile wider and wider with each name. I narrowed my search to all Universities in the areas Susan and I were most interested in and drew a circle around them.

Westminster, City and Southwark.

‘Right!’ I squealed. I grabbed my newspaper and took off like a 747.

I stood outside Susan’s door with the newspaper in one hand and my latte in the other, trying to ring the bell with my nose.

‘Who is it?’ said Susan’s hangover voice from inside.