I looked around the apartment, trying so hard to hide my disappointment."I told you it was small," he said, giving me a nonchalant tour.Everything looks clean and neat and well decorated, but nothing particularly appeared European, except for some decent crown molding around fairly high ceilings. The kitchen is nondescript and the bathroom downright grim—with a wall-to-wall carpeting, a very bizarre thing and an absolutely miniature toilet and, according to Andrew, it's not an uncommon thing. "Nice flat," I said with false cheer. "Where's my room?""Patience, my dear. I was getting to this," Andrew said, leading me to a room off the kitchen. The room is smaller than a maid's room in a New York apartment, and it's window is too narrow to squeeze through, yet it's still covered with a row of corroded iron bars. A white dresser in the corner clashed with the white walls, each making the other look sickly gray. Against the adjacent wall is a small empty bookshelf, also painted white,

Andrew was right. Harvey Nichols is exactly my bag. Though, I started out at Harrods, but it was too large and packed with touristy riffraff. A very terrible situation.Harvey Nics, as I overheard one British girl call it right outside the Sloane Street entrance, is more upscale and deluxe-like, reminding me of Henri Bendel in New York. It feels like heaven, going from rack to rack, gathering various gems like Dolce & Gabbana, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Marc Jacobs. I threw in some new names into the mix because, why not? They look perfectly splendid, wintery garments from designers I have never heard of. I took my new treasures to the dressing room to try them out. Shockingly, I couldn't squeeze into a size six. I am seventeen weeks pregnant, and my initial few pounds of pregnancy weight propelled me from my usual size four to size six. My afternoon is about to be ruined as tears gathered up in my eyes when I tried to squeeze into the size four version of an Alexander McQueen's black

Since the past weeks, my routine has just been the same—shopping all day and discovering a wide array of fashion boutiques: Joseph on Old Bond Street, Amanda Wakeley on Fulham Road, Caroline Charles on Beauchamp Place, and Nicole Farhi on New Bond Street. I've been buying fabulous pieces designer pieces: playful scarves, beautiful jumpers, chic skirts, unusual bags, and sexy shoes. I even sought out the bargain spots on Oxford Street—Next, Top Shop, River Island, and Marks & Spencer—because, it's totally effective to work such low-end pieces into an otherwise couture wardrobe. Even overt knockoffs, if paired with high-end pieces and worn with confidence, can look positively fabulous. And every night, I would return home with my purchases, and wait for Andrew to finish his day of work. We will eat takeaway together, or he would whip us up a meal, which is followed by a little bit of television and conversation. When it is time for bed, I cunningly retire to my room first, pretending t

Andrew stood abruptly. "You hungry?" he asked."I'm starving," I answered, nodding. We walked back to Kensington High Street, past Andrew's flat, and over to a tea shop on Wright's Lane called "Eaton's Eat'on." The inside is grotty but cozy, filled with little tables and chairs and the waitresses wore floral aprons. Andrew led me to a table by the window, as we sat down, a waitress came running to our table. So we ordered toasted turkey sandwiches, tea, and scones."When was your last trip to the doctor?" Andrew asked me as we waited for our treats. "Right before I came to live with you. And I'm due for another one soon," I said"To live with me?" Andrew asked, raising his eyebrows. He caught my slip. "I mean to visit," I said and hurriedly finished my glass of water. I'm not ready for his questions about my departure. Imagine the shock when he realizes that I bought a one-way ticket. "So at my next appointment, I'll find out the gender of the baby . . . . But I just know that i

My heart pounded with indignation, and I can feel my face tighten and contort as I struggled not to cry.How dare Andrew bring me out with these people after introducing Sandra to them—and not giving me a warning? And worse, from the way Seren is acting, Sandra must have had feelings for Max during her visit to London, and she must have shared her thoughts with Andrew and his friends. Before now, I thought that Sandra didn't confessed much to Andrew. At least not anything too incriminating. I assumed this because, when we were kids, Sandra once told me that she didn't divulge anything embarrassing or controversial even in her own diary because she feared an early demise from a fluke accident—something undignified like dropping her hair dryer in the bathtub or choking on a hot dog. And Upon her death, she can't bear the thought of her parents reading an entry that might make them think less of her. I had told her that it doesn't matter because she would be dead, but she said that it's