The American and The Brit: Unsolicited Advice

  The American and The Brit: Unsolicited Advice

  By

  K.A. Young & Julie Bromley

  Edited By Mary Yakovets

  Copyright © 2015 by K.A. Young & Julie Bromley

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Foreword

  Penning a foreword is something that I can now cross off on my bucket list. This book is a perfect fit for me. Why you ask? My Dad is a Yank, aka American and my Mum is a Limey, aka Brit. Yes, I'm very blessed to have my feet in both worlds.

  The co-authored The American and The Brit is seamlessly written and I appreciate this as I’ve collaborated on four books with my son, Adam and can understand how difficult these type projects can be.

  Hilarious from start to finish, you will surely be entertained. Phoebe and Liz draw you in from the first page with their relatable situational dilemmas.

  I wish the authors, a real American and a real Brit much success, what am I saying? It will be a success.

  ~ Carol Kunz aka USA Today Bestselling Author Amanda Jason aka the C. in C.A. Kunz

  Acknowledgements

  A special thanks to Chrissi Jackson, our inspiration for the troublemaking secretary Chrissi Butts, for her amazing support, encouragement and edits.

  You truly made our story better.

  Mary Yakovets, not our inspiration for Hairy Mary, you are the rock star of editors.

  Rebecca Poole, thanks for bringing our characters to life on the fabulous cover.

  To our betas, you have our sincerest gratitude for all your feedback.

  Dedication

  For all the girls who aren’t a size two, eat real food and have uncontrollable hair. Embrace who you are and fake it till you make it.

  This book was written over the course of eight months through instant messages and Facetime conversations. Enjoy our lunacy.

  Phoebe

  The Cock Up

  “Phoebe Hawkins!” my boss, Richard Arnold aka The Dick, bellowed. “My office, now!”

  Why did all the moronic fools of the world have to call me? Life just wasn’t fair sometimes. Slowly I slid my chair back from my desk, tossed my headset onto my now vacated chair and started for The Dick’s office. Keep your cool, Phoebs, everything is going to be fine if you just keep your cool. All eyes were on me and it really pissed me off. No support at all, what a bunch of losers.

  The Dick stood in the doorway as I entered, giving me a red-faced glare. He was even sweating a little. “Um, you really should try and calm down, you don’t want to keel over.” I smiled as sweetly as possible and tried to disarm the situation by showing him I was concerned about his wellbeing.

  “Sit your ass down now, Hawkins!” He barked orders like a drill sergeant, and I’m not ashamed to say when he behaved like this he sort of scared me a little. I would not be surprised if searched one would find a dead body in his trunk from time to time. Mary Poppins’ “A Spoonful of Sugar” began blaring from my pocket. I couldn’t help but laugh; it was an inside joke between my friend Liz and me. “Hey Liz, what’s going on?” I asked, still giggling a bit.

  “What are you laughing about, Phoebe? You did change that stupid ring tone, didn’t you?” my British friend asked.

  As I crossed my legs and stifled another giggle, I lied through my teeth. “Of course.”

  “You didn’t! I’m so pissed at you.”

  “Don’t be like that. My intentions were pure. It’s just too funny, Liz.” I kept giggling.

  “Hawkins!” The Dick yelled.

  God, he was being rude. “Hang on for a second,” I whispered into the receiver.

  Liz began speed talking in her frantic voice. “Who is that, Phoebe? What’s going on? Oh no! You didn’t get in trouble at work again, did you?”

  “No. Everything is fine. I’ll call you back.” I slid the phone back in my pocket and smiled at The Dick.

  He did not return my smile. “Do you have any idea how many times your trouble tickets are escalated each month?” He pounded on his computer keys so hard with his fat fingers that I feared he might break the keyboard.

  After I cleared my throat I attempted to answer. “Um, I don’t have an exact number off the top of my head—” His face reddened more with every second that passed. Operating his keyboard in an appropriate manner seemed to be the struggle. With another attempt to show my caring side I stood and leaned over the desk. “If you beat on the keys they get stuck sometimes.” It happened to me all the time. “If you have a toothpick or paperclip I can—”

  “Forget it! It doesn’t matter!” In a flurry of movement he rose to his feet, sending his chair to slam against the wall behind him. He really had anger issues. “You’re done here, Hawkins! I have more than enough in your file to terminate your employment without today’s eff up!” Did he just reference the f-word?

  “Um, I’m no HR expert but I think saying the f-bomb or technically alluding to it while berating an employee would be frowned upon.” He was lucky I didn’t file a complaint.

  “Clear out your desk and get out of my sight!” Geez, talk about overreacting.

  I took a couple of steps toward the door then turned back around with my hands clasped in front of me. “Just for clarification purposes, when you say clean out your desk that would mean?”

  He charged me, actually charged me! I swung the office door open and stepped out to have witnesses in case he attempted something worse that hurling the f-bomb my way. “You’re fired! That’s what it means, Hawkins!” The office went silent. Oh. My. God. The gravity of my situation hit me like a ton of bricks. Liz was so going to kill me! Maybe I could save her job. Yes, it was a great plan!

  “One last question,” I whispered, putting as much humility in my voice as I could manage. “My friend, Lizbeth Bates, she’s supposed to start on Monday. This isn’t going to affect her employment here in any way, is it?”

  His eyes nearly bulged out of his head and that little blood vessel was screaming to explode. He really needed to see a doctor. “Hawkins, do you have a mental disorder that we are unaware of?” He must be joking. Just in case he wasn’t, I shook my head no just to be on the safe side. He growled, literally growled like a wild animal and the office burst out in laughter. “You’re both out! You have five minutes to gather your personal belongings before security will be here to throw you out!” He slammed the door.

  Ugh. I slogged to my desk to gather my things. My cube neighbor Val peeked her head over. “You going to be okay?”

  With an involuntary shoulder shrug, I asked. “Can he actually just decide my friend can’t start on Monday? Her paperwork is all filed.”

  Val gave me a sad smile, “I’m afraid so. His sister is head of HR. He can do anything he pleases.” Well hell. She disappeared behind the cube wall.

  The idea of walk of shame out of the office felt unbearable. I had an idea. I would go out in style. It took me about a minute to find a song on iTunes. Take This Job And Shove It. I had it all envisioned and it wo
uld be perfect! I’d never heard of Johnny Paycheck but didn’t have time concern myself with that. I felt confident this would work. With my volume turned up to the max, I held my cell in one hand, and my things in the other. “Later losers!” I shouted as I sauntered toward the exit. Then the sound of what I think was a banjo paired with an old country voice blared and mortification overtook me. Laughter broke out again and my saunter turned into a dart toward the elevator.

  The doors closed at the exact moment I shut the old crappy music off. Today was a disaster of cataclysmic proportions. It seemed the universe is against me. What are we going to do now?

  ~ ~ ~

  A few days later, we were sitting at my usual table at the local coffee shop brooding about the mess I’d made of our lives. I was in a wrinkled hooded sweatshirt and my favorite bling jeans. It was a cool morning on the outskirts of Atlanta, where I’d resided my entire dysfunctional life. The drum of my fingernails on the table had become somewhat soothing, but I could still sense the death stare coming from my best friend and the misery I felt was compounding exponentially.

  “So you never answered my question. Has the cat got your tongue?” My friend Liz prodded me from across the table and I jumped as if she were using a hot cattle prod in her attempts to gain information.

  “Could you repeat the question?” I evaded giving myself a little more time to scheme. If I could think of a plan I’d be in the clear.

  After a dramatic rolling of her eyes she did. “I asked, as I’m sure you’re aware of, what are we going to do now, Phoebe?” Liz asked for a second time in two minutes from across the table. Her annoyed expression swiftly turned to panic stricken while sipping on a steamy cup of the house blend. Evading hadn’t helped one iota. I had nothing. Not one single idea as to what we were going to do. My head fell onto my arms as I slumped across the table. This scene was reminiscent of our first meeting nearly ten years ago, except this was a coffee shop instead of a bar and our meeting had taken place in a completely different city altogether across the pond, in fact. I’d been on my senior trip to London and had disentangled myself from the group, choosing to visit a local pub in lieu of a museum with the others. It had been love at first sight between England and me. Surprisingly, what had me at hello wasn’t the beautiful countryside or the plethora of historical interests like Stonehenge or the castles. It was the legal drinking age. I’m sure there are eighteen-year-olds out there with the capacity to appreciate the wonders of the world; I simply hadn’t been one of them. Life had been much simpler then.

  “I don’t know,” I groaned. It sounded muffled against my forearm. Liz understood me perfectly; she’d grown accustomed to my grumblings over the years. Being the magnet for disaster that I am, I was used to the feeling of utter despair. Unfortunately being accustomed to something didn’t ease my suffering in the slightest. Thankfully Liz and I had that particular trait in common because as we all know, misery does indeed love company. It is helpful not to be alone in one’s calamity. This was a commonality that had us fast friends from day one. Lifting my head, I propped my chin into my hand. “I paid the rent for this month so we’re good for a few weeks at the apartment—however, we’ll be surviving on ramen noodles.” I felt horrible, I really did. I’d convinced Liz to move to the US, guaranteeing her a job that I’d secured in the call center that I had worked in for the past five years making decent, not great, money. I’d been on a probationary period when the unfortunate incident took place.

  “Tell me again exactly how you managed to lose both our jobs in a single day.” Liz was upset with me, and rightfully so. You see I have this condition; I was born without a filter in my brain, thus ruining me from ever living a politically correct life. It wasn’t my fault, really. I actually think it makes me more of a hero than a total loser. I tell the plain and simple truth as I see it. Liz struggles the same as me; however, being British she exercises some restraint and keeps her opinions to herself more often than I. It isn’t something that Americans are known for. Despite my Southern upbringing, I’m infamous for episodes of explosive diarrhea of the mouth.

  “I’m sorry. In hindsight I should have kept my trap shut, or as you so eloquently put it, my bloody effing cake hole. In my defense, I was having horrible PMS and the idiotic woman kept going on and on about her stupid router. This chick was a complete moron, Liz. I mean, really, I went through that stupid scripted jargon they taught us nearly a hundred times, directing her to reset the router and wait thirty seconds before powering it up again. No one in their right mind would insist like she did that her router was missing that little red button. She started calling me names so I hung up on her. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that I had given her my name, therefore when she called back in she could ask for me specifically. She called back ten times—she just wouldn’t stop.”

  “Yes, but a little self-control wouldn't have hurt you. That job was important to both of us. What are we going to do now? Go ‘round the back of Rackham’s?” Liz nearly shrieked at me. Her face was reddened as her anxiety reached that point when her British politeness took a back seat and she went to full on attack mode, reverting to her slang. Not that I blamed her. You can’t keep that bottled up inside; if you do one day you’ll explode.

  “You know I don’t possess any self-control. Give me some credit, I do try.” I pleaded with her for a little understanding, which she shot down with the narrowing of her eyes. “Sometimes,” I guiltily added. “Unfortunately my idea and your idea of self-control differ greatly. Everyone else in the center is the same as me—they just have the good sense to mute the phone before swearing a blue streak and calling customers moronic assholes. I normally hit the mute button. I just forgot this time.” Sighing, I felt completely responsible for our dilemma and promised, “I’ll figure something out. I would consider your ‘back of Rackham’s’ suggestion if we could upgrade to high price call girls and it would turn out for us like it did for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.” After giving that idea a second thought I immediately took it back; my self-esteem couldn’t stand another blow. “No, actually I wouldn’t. I’d have to be Kit and you’d get to be Vivian.”

  “How did you figure that one out? Not that I don’t deserve to be Vivian after this stunt.” Liz crossed her arms over her enormous rack.

  My eyes darted to her boobs. “Isn’t it obvious? Who’s going to choose me in this supersize everything society? I’m at a serious disadvantage since you have those new fake hooters of yours.”

  “There you go again, making fun of the breasticles. I told you to save up and buy yourself a pair!” Her voice continued to rise and drew unwanted attention from the other patrons. Lizbeth had only been in America for a short time and our bad habits were already rubbing off on her. “Besides,” she lowered her tone after recognizing her blunder. “You do realize that we consume Cadbury chocolate by the pound? We wouldn't make a penny with the weight we’ve been putting on and my new hooters are my babies, so leave them alone and stop cheapening them with your crass ideas. Haven't I taught you anything in all the years we've known each other? Take deep breaths and count to ten. It really does work, Phoebs."

  It was my turn to give her the dramatic eye roll. “Whatever. It was your idea. I just ran with it. Plus, I tried that counting crap once, it didn’t work for me. It pissed me off even more and you’re right. We do eat a lot of chocolate, thanks to your mom who has promised to keep us stocked. We must have an eating disorder.” A sigh left my lips as I turned in my chair so I could examine my backside that’s on the verge of a massive ass-explosion. I should really cut back on the amount of calories that I was consuming. Depression eating was another cross I had to bear. It’s also a medical condition and not my fault at all and at the moment some chocolate with a side of chips and salsa was sounding really good. Liz studied me and I could tell she could read my thought pattern.

  "Chocoholism isn't a medical condition!" Liz declared after calming herself.

  “How do you know? Just because whe
n you speak everyone here thinks you’re the brains in this dynamic duo because of your accent doesn’t make it a reality, Liz,” I said in mock British falsetto. The gawking from the other tables became unbearable. “Let’s get out of here, I’m hungry.” My chair made a horrible grinding sound as the legs scraped the tile floor when I scooted it back. She and I lumbered our way through the tables and out the side door. It didn’t escape me that my blinged ass may have bumped into a couple of chairs on the way out. Thankfully, Liz didn’t comment. She did however snicker. I’d made it my mission to get her in a pair of bling jeans one day just because she was so adamantly against wearing them. She constantly replied, I'll pass but thank you for attempting to bling my backside! So polite in her rejection to my attempt at stepping up her fashion. Unbeknownst to her, all that did was make me even more determined.

  “I still can’t believe this is what you drive around in.” Liz sneered at Wilf, my fifteen-year-old pea green Ford Focus with a giant dent in the passenger’s side door. I’d received an insurance check after the accident that caused said dent, but kept the money instead of having it repaired. Liz had to crawl over from the driver’s side because the passenger door would no longer open. It wasn’t so bad. The wind noise from the garbage bag I had duct taped over the passenger’s side window took some getting used to but if the radio was turned up to volume deafening, it’s all good.

  As I pulled out onto the highway I couldn’t help but giggle as my makeshift window began slapping Liz in the face as we rode.

  “Phoebe, you have to get this car fixed! How on earth are we going to show up to interviews looking like Steptoe and Son?"

  “What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” My hand rested on the volume knob as a smile creased my lips and I turned up the radio. I had no idea who Steptoe and Son were but was positive it was a derogatory remark. “I don’t even know who that is.” The smile was still pasted on my lips as I goaded her. “And, I thought British people didn’t complain. What a complete delusion that idealism turned out to be.”