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The name is harsh itself, but the person appears softer, toned down with a giant purple leather bag. Julia Eva Von Truf. Standing at only five foot one inch, she seems to lack interest in sitting in the park on a wooden bench. You can tell she’s not used to such interviews in these types of environments. Although being English-bred with an Australian and Brazilian mother, her father’s royalty doesn’t distinctly suit her personality. “I want to move, somewhere not as depressing as England. Maybe New York or something.” Her thick British accent is swept by her thick black lashes. She tells me she cannot wait to get married and have three children. “Sophia, Jacob…and hmmm…Lola or Isaiah.” The names she chooses correspond with the rebel quality she is trying to achieve. You can tell she lacks the prim and proper gesture most Brits give off.
Thick auburn brown hair cascades down her bold shoulders in curls. I employ the beauty of such naturally curly hair. She blames her mother for the curls and shuts the statement off with the desire to have straight hair and choppy bangs. Mod. That’s what she wants to be. The cherry red bomber jacket she sports pops out against the bleak November English sky. You could catch this type of jacket from space. She pops lemon-scented gum, which makes me wonder if she has ever had tea time in a sun room with her grandmother. I can’t picture tiny cucumber sandwiches and little bonbons placed delicately on a plate with Julia sipping tea and making polite conversation. Or her grandmother’s lords and ladies attitude rubbing off on Julia’s hound’s tooth skirt either.
Her persona is in some ways making her out to be mysterious. The smoky eye make-up hides her dark blue green eyes; secrets. She is full of secrets and in some way I want to hear them all and collect them in a jar marked Julia. However, the secrets would crack right through that intangible jar, there’s too many. Nonconformist. One word to fit Julia. She has hips. I can tell because her tight-gray, cigarette-skinny pant legs hug her body close. She has an infatuation with twisting her emerald green ring. She notices me noticing and gives the explanation behind it. “My mother gave it to me, I was born in May. It’s my birthstone. I don’t go anywhere without it.”
Eventually, I learn that Julia would rather be called Jewels or Juels. I didn’t ask her the spelling of it, but she doesn’t want to be all appropriate and rather me feel comfortable spending time with her on this interview. We leave the park after an hour of walking around. “My feet are killing me.” It so happens that her jet black boots hold no scuffs and her shirt is ironed so neatly. I imagine if there was a crease in it she wouldn’t wear it. Fashion-conscious I could tell when she walked up to me with bug-eyed sunglasses and a rolled up British Vogue magazine. Later on I learn she wants to be a model and writer. Maybe a fashion magazine editor. I could see it happening. You know, her father could throw in a few paid words and voila! Guaranteed British Vogue Editor. My opinion on her isn’t based on her upbringing, but her charmed way of life.
Beep. Beep. Julia’s cell phone catches my attention and the sudden click, .09 second respond back by pressing a few numbers and roll of the eyes does as well. It happens to be a text message from her ex-boyfriend. “I can’t seem to let him go, you know? It’s hard; he’s a beautiful looking boy.” She laughs. That’s the first time I had heard her laugh. It’s a mellow type, yet vocalized with a girlish tune. It’s so innocent. I also realize she doesn’t wear any lip-gloss or anything other than that dark eye shadow that lies underneath her waxed eyebrows. “Let’s get some coffee. I know a great place we can go. Shall we?” I nod and pack up my pen and paper, She reminds me of Liv Tyler, Audrey Hepburn, and Adriana Limas with a touch of sixties flair. I could see her at a Sting concert perhaps, bobbing her head to the music, and waving her emerald encrusted hand in the air.
A white, 1992, shiny rimmed BMW sits parked on the street corner. She whips out some keys donned with a monogrammed JEVT initialized keychain. The car looks so old and I had pictured a stunning, crystal blue Mercedes, but instead my expectations aimed too high. “I like things simple. People aren’t so lucky sometimes. I can be happy with simple.” I smile at her and she smiles back. I’m starting to understand Julia a lot better. The car is an understatement on the outside from the inside. The leather seats are new and there’s a six-CD changer, complete with a navigation system and a moon-roof. Her parents are educated with safety precautions and Julia mutters something about them not wanting her to get lost. “I don’t need a navigation system, it’s not like I go anywhere out of town by myself.” She is only eighteen and I can understand the stereotype most teens her age have. The crazy, unpredictable life they want to lead, but Julia comes off a lot more mature. The car is honey scented and a Burberry scarf is casually thrown in the back.
Sublime is softly playing from the stereo accompanied with Julia’s off-beat drumming on her steering wheel. “I can’t wait to go to New York so I can blast music out of my car with the windows down. New Yorkers wouldn’t mind, right?” I respond with a humorous comment, telling her that they probably wouldn’t hear the music on account of how loud the city tends to be already. I get a slight ha-ha from her as she continues to drive and tunes up the stereo a little louder. Change litters the floor underneath my shoes. I glance up and get a “good-luck” explanation of the stray change. “Pennies, you know. Heads up means good-luck. There’s bound to be some heads up pennies.”
We head down to what is known as the downtown part of England. A small street fair is taking place with brightly colored tents and hanging wind chimes fill the air. It’s nice to see some color in such a melancholy atmosphere. Julia struts to the corner of the street where a pleasant, welcoming bistro/café sits. Inside it’s like an upbeat poem. Coffee stains the air and jazz music seeps through the walls. “I love it here”, Julia adds to my fixated stares around the coffee place. Julia leaves my side and skips to a tall man, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns and I know that this must be her ex-boyfriend. Mr. Ex fits the entire tall, dark and handsome Greek God stature. I develop an “it will never happen” crush for a few seconds before Julia waves me over. “This is Derek Alexander.” I shake his hand and smile. Gorgeous indeed.
Julia is nervous. She’s fretting with the napkin. She’s leaning in close. She keeps stirring her coffee violently. Toes point to Derek. Eyes are locked. No wonder it’s so hard for her. Yet she’s making it difficult for herself by spending time with him. I want to yank her aside, tell her to get some common sense, and ask her more questions. He’s a painter, I’ve learned, he loves to paint. They laugh and I ask Julia if she could tell me about her family. “They’re lovely people, indeed. My mother is full of pride. She’s a Latina. You know. My father, romantic political and all that.” Siblings? “An older brother and younger sister. Cute and I love them to death.” She twirls her hair and turns her attention towards Mr. Ex once again.
My Chai tea latte is a little strong and I cup my hands around it to beat the coldness that keeps filtering through the door every time it’s opened. An untouched biscotti lies on a plate settled in the middle of the round oak wood table. The last one. I gesture to Derek and Julia if they would want it. But they shoo away my offer and tell me I can have it. As I munch I tend to pick up quaint characteristics of Julia. Her prominent features assume to any that she is a very attractive looking girl. What can throw many off is her appearance. Snobby you would be lead to believe. But she’s warm-hearted and her feelings tend to win her mind over. Her heart conquers all.
Suddenly, I’m jerked by the cold hands of Julia. I was writing feverishly in my pad. “We can go now; you can come see my house.” It is half past eight and I would rather head back to my hotel room and sit with my laptop sick with words spilling out about this woman. “Okay, sounds good.” I want to acquire more. Find more secrets. The drive back is silent. I ask her about Derek. “He’s a good friend, you know. Nothing more…” I see literally. Not so much in her tone though. She’s upset. All she received was a good-bye and smile. No hug, no European cheek kisses either.
Julia Eva Von Truf’s room is nothing out of a Pottery Barn catalog. It’s soaked in perfumed candles, incense, dried roses hanging from the ceiling. A sort of Bollywood detailed room. Drapes of purple chiffon and coral pink silk decorate the four-poster bed she has. Her mahogany wooden floors are heated and there’s an empty vintage birdcage nestled in the corner. “Want to watch a movie? I can have one of the maid’s make us something to snack on.” Her DVD collection is immense. From modern movies to old classics. Her red bomber jacket is on the floor. Unveiled. Julia kicks her boots off. JEVT, Jewels, Juels or plain old Julia, has just deposited some secrets into that very jar.
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