My Life in Black and White by Kim Izzo Page A

father was waiting to drive me to the airport when I saw Alice’s suitcase—an entire wardrobe from another era. My mother called out to me.
    “Clara, get a move on!”
    I couldn’t let it sit there not knowing when I was coming back. The clothes would be all creased and musty, and after spending decades in my mother’s carefully constructed closets, it would be irresponsible, even insulting to her and Alice. Unsure what to do and with no time to find another solution, I grabbed the suitcase.
    “I’m taking this with me,” I said to Marjorie on my way out the door.
    She grinned. “You won’t regret it!”

CHAPTER TEN
    “C lara!” Trinity shrieked when she opened the door to her flat and ensnared me in a giant smothering hug. Being greeted by Trinity was like coming home to a golden retriever—complete with long blonde hair and big brown eyes—who knew there were biscuits in your pocket.
    “I’m so thrilled to see you!” she cried.
    Trinity was small and curvy, almost plump as if still carrying baby fat, and with her hair in two long plaits she looked about fourteen. She never wore makeup. Her skin was flawless and her lips naturally dewy and pink. High heels were only pulled out for an audition. So while people might not consider her glamorous, she was appealing, bubbly and men always found her sexy. She had the look of an Edwardian maid or a war bride, so it was not surprising that many of her biggest parts had been in BBC costume dramas.
    Her flat was on the top floor of a Victorian townhouse, near Tufnell Park tube in north London. Once we climbed up the steep steps and through her door, the place opened up and the flat was airy with the extreme ceilings that make old houses so glorious. Her quirky taste stood out in every ornament and piece of furniture. Only Trinity could take a chair shaped like a giant high-heeled shoe—and in purple velvet no less—and make it work with a cowhide rug in zebrastripe. A 1950s red Arborite kitchen table and matching red vinyl chairs lifted the stuffiness from the formal dining room. The kitchen was tiny but bright and gleamed with stainless steel. Books were everywhere, on shelves, in stacks, loads and loads of books.
    “Nice place,” I said.
    “I love it. It’s home. Let me show you your room,” Trinity said and, taking my hand, guided me into the tiny guest room. It seemed to be bursting with its contents of a twin bed, four-drawer dresser, nightstand, tiny desk and chair and even tinier closet space. This must be what people meant by “twee.” I wasn’t sure I could fit my grandmother’s suitcase inside the room. I plunked it down next to the dresser.
    “Sorry this room leaves much to be desired!” she chuckled. “Once you unpack we can store your bag under the bed. With that size suitcase you must be planning on staying awhile.”
    My ticket was for six weeks because I’d assumed I would stay with Dean for the length of the production.
    “I can get a hotel as soon as you’re sick of me,” I said. “I don’t want to impose.”
    “Stay as long as you like. I took advantage of your hospitality for two months, remember?”
    “And you should come back to LA for pilot season next year!” I encouraged her.
    “You know, I might. I’m older now. Could play someone’s mum on a sitcom!” she rolled her eyes, then turned it into excitement by jumping up and down. “I can’t believe you’re finally in London!”
    Neither could I. What was I thinking stalking Dean like this? On the other hand, it gave me comfort to know he was here in London. But it wasn’t a plan I was going to share with Trinity. As far as she was concerned he’d left me high and dry, and I was here to get over him, not get him back.
    “I don’t suppose I’d accidentally run into Dean here?” I asked, disguising my hope with anxiety.
    She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s a total tosser doing that to you! London is a huge city. There’s very little chance you’d bump