Oh-a bookshop. Bookshops are excellent for panic attacks. At least, I hope so, never having had one before.

I plunge past the latest releases and the checkout counter, deep into the bowels of the store. Then, spying a leather chair in the self-help section, which is otherwise empty (British people evidently don’t feel the need for much self-help. Which is too bad, because some of them-namely Andrew Marshall-really need it), I sink down into it and put my head between my knees.

Then I breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

This. Can’t. Be. Happening. I. Can’t. Be. Having. A. Panic. Attack. In. A. Foreign. Country. My. Boyfriend. Can’t. Have. Lost. All. His. Grad. School. Money. Playing. Texas. Hold’em.

“Pardon me, miss?”

I lift up my head. Oh no! One of the bookstore clerks is looking down at me curiously.

“Um,” I say, “hi.”

“Hullo,” he says. He seems nice enough. He is wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His dreadlocks are very clean. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would kick a woman who is having a panic attack out of his shop.

“Are you all right?” he wants to know. A tag on his shirt says his name is Jamal.

“Yes,” I squeak. “Thank you. I’m just…I’m not feeling very well.”

“You don’t look well,” Jamal confirms. “Would you like a glass of water?”

I realize then how incredibly thirsty I am. A diet Coke. That’s what I really need. Is there no diet Coke in this benighted country?

But I say, “That would be so nice of you,” to Jamal’s offer of water.

He nods and goes off, looking concerned. Such a nice person. Why can’t I be dating him instead of Andrew? Why did I have to fall in love with a guy who claims he WANTS to teach children to read, as opposed to one who really is helping them to do it?

Well, okay, Jamal doesn’t work in the children’s department.

But still. I bet there are children who have been in this shop that he’s encouraged to read.

But maybe I’m just projecting. Again. Maybe I’m just believing what I want to believe about Jamal.

Just like I wanted to believe that Andrew is really an Andrew and not an Andy. When in reality he’s the biggest Andy I’ve ever met.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the name Andy. It’s just that-

Suddenly I know what I need, and it’s not water.

I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. But I realize I have to hear my mother’s voice. I simply have to.

With trembling fingers, I dial my house. I won’t tell her about Andrew, I decide, and how he’s turned out to be an Andy. I just need to hear a familiar voice. A voice that calls me Lizzie instead of Liz. A voice-

“Mom?” I cry when a woman picks up the phone on the other end and says hello.

“What the hell are you doing calling so early in the morning?” Grandma demands. “Dontcha know what time it is here?”

“Grandma,” I say. I close my eyes. My chest still feels tight. “Is Mom there?”

“Hell no,” Grandma says. “She’s over at the hospital. You know she helps Father Mack give out communion on Tuesdays.”

I don’t dispute this, even though it isn’t Tuesday. “Well, is Dad there, then? Or Rose? Or Sarah?”

“What’s the matter, I’m not good enough for you?”

“No,” I say. “You’re fine. I just-”

“You sound like you’re coming down with something. You catching one of those avian flus over there?”

“No,” I say. “Grandma…”

And that’s when I start to cry.

Why? WHY??? I’m too angry to cry. I already told myself that!

“What’s with the waterworks?” Grandma wants to know. “You lose your passport? Don’t worry, they’ll still let you come home. They let anybody in here. Even people who want to blow us all to kingdom come.”

“Grandma,” I say, “I think…” It’s hard to whisper when I’m sobbing, but I try. I don’t want to disturb the bookstore customers and get kicked back out onto the street. I know Jamal will be coming back with my water at any moment. “I think I made a mistake in coming here. Andrew…he isn’t the person I thought he was.”

“What did he do?” Grandma wants to know.

“He…he…told his family I was fat. And he gambles. And he’s defrauding the government. And he…he…he said I liked tomatoes!”

“Come home,” Grandma says. “Come home right now.”

“That’s just it,” I say. “I c-can’t come home. Sarah and Rose-everybody-they all told me this was going to happen. And now it has. If I come home, they’ll all just say they told me so. Because they did. Oh, Grandma.” Now the tears are coming even faster. “I’m never going to get a boyfriend! A real one, I mean, who loves me for me, and not my savings account.”

“Bullshit,” Grandma says.

Startled, I say, “W-what?”

“You’re going to get a boyfriend,” Grandma says. “Only unlike your sisters, you’re choosy. You’re not going to marry the first asshole who comes along who tells you he likes you, then knocks you up.”

This is a very sobering assessment of my older sisters’ relationships. It has the effect of drying up my tears instantly.

“Grandma,” I say, “I mean, really. Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“So this latest one turned out to be a dud,” Grandma goes on. “Good riddance. What are you going to do, stay with him anyway until your flight leaves?”

“I don’t see what choice I have,” I say. “I mean, I can’t just…leave him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Well,” I say, “he’s back at the Job Centre, I guess.” Would he have come looking for me?

Yes, of course. I have his five hundred dollars.

“Then you already left him,” Grandma says. “Look. I don’t get what the big deal is. You’re in Europe. You’re young. Young people have been going to Europe on a shoestring for a hundred years. Use your head, for God’s sake. What about your friend Shari? Isn’t she over there somewhere?”

Shari. I forgot all about her. Shari, who is right across the English Channel, in France. Shari, who actually invited me, just last night, to come stay with her at-what was it called again? Oh yes. Mirac.

Mirac. The word might as well mean heaven, it sounds so magical right now.

“Grandma,” I say, climbing out from my chair, “do you really think…I mean…should I?”

“You said he gambles?” Grandma asks.

“Apparently,” I say, “he has a fondness for Texas Hold’em.”

Grandma sighs. “Just like your uncle Ted. By all means stay with him if you want to live the rest of your life trying to bail him out financially. That’s what your aunt Olivia did. But if you’re smart-and I think you are-you’ll get the hell out now, while you still can.”

“Grandma,” I say, choking back tears, “I…I think I’ll take your advice. Thank you.”

“Well,” Grandma says flatly, “this is an occasion. One of you girls actually listening to me for a change. Somebody needs to break out the champagne.”

“I’ll toast you in absentia, Grandma,” I say. “And now I’d better call Shari. Thank you so much. And, um, don’t tell anyone about this conversation, okay, Grandma?”

“Who would I tell?” Grandma grumbles, and hangs up.

I hang up as well and hurriedly dial Shari’s number. Shari. I can’t believe I didn’t think of SHARI! Shari’s in France. And she said I could come see her. The Chunnel. Didn’t she say something about taking the Chunnel? Can I really do this? Should I?

Oh no. It goes to Shari’s voice mail. Where is she? Out in the vineyard squishing grapes between her toes? Shari, where are you? I need you!

I leave a message: “Hi, Shar? It’s me, Lizzie. I really need to talk to you. It’s really important. I think…I’m pretty sure Andrew and I are breaking up.” I flash back to the expression on his face as he was telling me about his friend from work who could wire my money to the States with no fees.

My heart twists.

“Um, in fact, I think we’ve definitely broken up. So could you call me? Because I’m probably going to need to take you up on your France offer. So call me back. Right away. Well. Bye.”