Two for the Road, page 10
I push the image of Taj and his arms out of my mind.
“It’s mostly seniors, except me and this other girl who’s a YouTuber.” Then I’m about to tell them about Charlotte, but Dory holds up her phone with her free hand.
“I know just the fix,” she says.
“What are you doing?” I say, my tone a warning, because I have a feeling I know exactly what she’s doing. I shake my head. “No, no, no, no…”
“Where did you say you are again?”
“Rochester,” Cleo says, then turns back to me. “See? I was listening to every little detail.”
Dory taps on her phone. “Hmm. OK, well, there’s not much coming up.” Her finger flicks the screen. “Ew. Nope.” Dory leans closer to Cleo. Emily leans in on one side, Jacynthe on the other.
“I don’t need a guy,” I clarify. “I’m not the one who said I needed a guy.”
“Right,” Jacynthe says. “She’s there to explore…”
“I know,” Dory says, her head down. “I’m just finding someone for her to explore.”
“Ewww,” Emily says, making a sour face.
“Got him.” Dory holds her phone out to Cleo, whose eyes widen. Wow, she mouths.
Emily leans over, then shakes her head and sighs, looking exasperated.
“What am I missing?” I say, my fingers numb.
“This guy.” Dory stands and walks closer to the screen, then turns Cleo’s phone toward me, and for the millionth time today, I’m at a loss for words.
Chin-length, wavy-brown hair. Unshaven. Strong jaw. Challenging look in his eye.
All of it staring back at me from a dating app.
Taj.
“Huh,” I say, trying to cover my interest. “He’s on XO?”
“The way you said that—he. What do you mean, he?” Dory says, looking at the phone. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, feeling weirdly nervous. “That’s the bus driver. With the forearms.”
“What bus driver?” Dory says.
“The bus driver on your bus?” Emily says, standing beside Dory and grabbing the phone. She swipes at the screen with her thumb. I wonder how many pics he has on there—and what he looks like in them.
“This just got interesting,” Cleo says in the background.
“So you know this guy?” Jacynthe asks, pushing Dory out of the way, and looking at me. Dory’s face gets closer. They’re all suddenly quiet, waiting for my answer.
“Sort of,” I say. “But he’s kind of a dick.”
* * *
—
“Shall we take a post-meal dander, yah?” Angus asks after we’ve had a traditional British dinner of steak and kidney pie, and a beer tasting that included an ale from the oldest brewery in the country. I don’t usually drink beer, but it seemed like the thing to do, and even though we were only sipping them, I feel a bit light-headed. A walk sounds good.
“I’ll come along,” Charlotte says, and Angus beams at her.
“I never say no to a walk,” Nelle says. “Vi? Shall we walk?”
“Absolutely,” Violet says, reaching for Nelle’s hand. “Anyone who’d like to come with me,” Angus says, “I think I’ll lead us down to the river. It’s quite spectacular at night, with the lights dancing off the surface of the water.”
Sindhi says she wants to go back to the hotel, and Roshi says he’ll join her. “I’m fine walking alone,” she says.
“Anybody who’d like to head back to the hotel, it’s straight away down High Street,” he says, pointing to the three-story brown brick building at the end of the street.
Francis bends down to tie the lace on his shoe, then stands. “I think I’ll head back. I’m going to call my daughter. It’s her birthday,” he says, which strikes me as surprising. For some reason I just assumed he was a lonely old man, never married, no kids. He tips his hat and looks around. “Good night, everyone,” he says. I smile and wave and others murmur goodbyes. He follows Sindhi, and Roshi follows closely behind.
Jenny looks around. “I’m going on the haunted ghost walk that leaves from the cathedral. Which way is that again?” She twirls around, then looks down at her phone.
“That sounds fun,” Violet says, looking to Nelle and then to Jenny. “Mind if we join you?”
“It’s sold out. I bought my ticket earlier. Got the last one,” she says bluntly.
“It’s fine. The river walk sounds lovely,” Violet says to Nelle, wrapping an arm around her.
Charlotte looks at me, her eyes wide. “What about you, Darlin’?”
“I’m going to go check out Restoration House,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
She waves her fingers at me and then walks over to Angus, who removes his checked hat and gives his head a scratch as he says something to her that makes her throw her head back with a laugh. I pull out my phone to find the way to the house that inspired the setting for the Satis House in Great Expectations. I’ve read that the gardens behind the mansion are the real sight to be seen: classically English with immaculate lawns, yew hedges and topiaries, statues and fountains inspired by Italian water gardens. They even have an entire area called the cutting garden, which supplies the fresh floral arrangements used in the house. The gardens won’t be open, neither will the interior, but it’s the outside I’m happy enough to see.
It’s chillier than I expected as I start down High Street, and even though I’m wearing a jean jacket, it’s not doing much to cut the wind. I wish I’d thought to wear a scarf. The shops are all closed on High Street, but within a minute I’m turning onto the first street on the right—Crow Lane—and a minute later I’m standing in front of the wrought-iron gates that surround the brown Tudor-style mansion.
As far as buildings go, it’s not anything extraordinary, but for some reason my chest feels tight, my head heavy. It’s probably jet lag, but I feel emotional seeing the house that played its own character in the novel.
“Let me guess, there’s a bookstore in there.”
I turn around. Taj is a few paces away in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans and leather sandals. His hair looks freshly washed. He looks good—but of course he does. He’s probably meeting some girl from the XO app for drinks. I scowl at him. “That’s not the only thing I’m interested in,” I say. I turn back to face the building, though to be honest, it’s not a lot to look at from a distance, behind the gates. But Taj doesn’t need to know that.
“I thought you might be a bit friendlier once the jet lag wore off.” I whip back around to face him, prepared to put him in his place, but he’s grinning. “Listen, I owe you an apology.” I must look as surprised as I feel because he starts laughing. “OK, I guess I wasn’t the world’s friendliest coach driver earlier today.”
The new moon, low and yellow against the dark sky, creates a halo behind Taj that makes me stare a little too long at him. I refocus on our conversation.
“You were the world’s snarkiest coach driver, actually, when you’re paid to be nice to people,” I say. He leans against the iron gates and folds his arms over his chest, his shirt tightening over his upper arms and distracting me from what I was saying.
“Actually, I’m paid to drive the bus, but that doesn’t excuse my behavior. I wish I had a better excuse, but all I can say is that I was really hungry. And I get really cranky when I’m really hungry.” He shrugs.
“You’re not five. That’s a terrible excuse,” I retort, but then I smile. “But I get it. I was also really hungry and really tired.” And really disappointed in the entire situation, I don’t add.
“I was tired, too,” he says and I laugh, because it feels like he’s trying to one-up me. “I’d been to a stag night. Which was…a mistake.” He scratches his chin, which I notice is now clean-shaven.
“So you were hungover.”
“No, actually. Just tired and hungry. Truly. And you were a bit grumpy, too. Admit it.”
“I got zero sleep on the flight.” I throw my hands up. “I nearly missed the bus. I missed breakfast and lunch.” I wave my arms around and hit the iron gate and groan, then grab my hand in pain. Taj presses his lips together, but it doesn’t stop his whole body from shaking as he laughs. I glare at him. “You think this is funny?”
“I think you’re interesting. And I did get you a sandwich.”
“I know, and I didn’t thank you. It was really good.” I tilt my head and study him. By the light of the moon, his eyes seem to have a dozen different shades of brown—I stop myself from thinking about his eyes.
“Told you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and my eyes move down his body, trailing over his broad shoulders. “Tomorrow will be better,” he says. “You’ve stayed up, so you’ll sleep well tonight. That’s the key to beating jet lag. And tomorrow’s Canterbury. One of my favorite towns, even though I’d be burned at the stake for saying so,” he adds, but before I get a chance to ask why, he keeps talking. “After that we hit the shore. You’ll love it. Actually, I have no idea what you’ll love—I don’t even know you. But most people love the shore, especially if they’re not into architecture and the stations of the cross.”
But will Zane be here for all of this? I want to ask Taj—but it will be too obvious.
A middle-aged couple walks by. “Weren’t you so disappointed?” the woman asks in an Australian accent.
“It is what it is,” he says.
“Ten bucks!” I say automatically, slapping my leg. The man turns, obviously surprised. I hold up a hand. “Hi.” He smiles, still looking confused, and turns around.
Taj stares at me like I’ve just thrown my clothes at the couple and am standing in the middle of the sidewalk, naked.
“What was that all about?” he says.
“It’s a thing I have with my friends. If you hear someone say ‘It is what it is’ you have to yell ‘Ten bucks!’ and slap your leg—or something. A table, someone else, it really doesn’t matter. Because—”
“It’s nauseating?” he says.
I laugh. “Exactly. It means nothing. Like, have an opinion. Care.”
“Alright, so what happens after you slap something? Does the person have to pay ten bucks?” He says bucks with an American accent—sort of.
“Yes, usually.”
“Off you go then. I’d like to see you get that bloke to pay.” He folds his arms across his chest. The light of the lamppost hits them, turning them from 70 percent chocolate to milk chocolate.
“It doesn’t work like that with strangers.”
“Ah, changing the rules already,” he teases, then nods toward the estate behind me. “The gardens here are really lovely, but you can’t see them at night. Locked up.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just wanted to see the house. Great Expectations.”
“Ahh. Because you love books.” He smiles, then thumbs behind him. “Don’t stay up too late,” he says, turning.
“I was going to go back to the hotel anyway,” I say, falling into step with him.
“I’m actually on my way out to meet someone,” he says as we cross the street. “But you can find your way back OK?”
My neck gets hot, though I don’t know why I’m embarrassed that he thought I assumed he was going back to the hotel, too. Of course he’s going out—this is his free time, off work. “Oh, right,” I say. I give a weird wave like I’m a bird flapping a wing. He laughs, nods and turns right. A small paperback sticks out of the back of his pants, and I notice it’s the cozy mystery I gave him. Is he going to read it while on a date? Is he going to give it to his date? And if he’s bringing it with him, why did he make such a big deal about me buying it for him?
Chapter Ten
Day 2, Monday, 9 a.m.
Rochester › Canterbury
Mom always said that style isn’t about what you’re wearing, it’s about how you’re feeling. But as I lie in bed, I do not feel like a million British pounds. I woke up at eight and have been trying to mentally manifest Zane into being in the hotel library, enjoying the full English breakfast that’s being served. But now that I can picture him—dark jeans, crisp white shirt, swoopy hair, full lips on a cup of tea—I’m paralyzed with the question of what to wear to go down there myself. And when I take one look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I realize I have a bigger problem. I’m still wearing yesterday’s eyeliner—I forgot to pack eye makeup remover—so now it’s slid down a good inch from my lashline. I’m starving, but if Zane really is here today, as Angus said he might be, then I want to look good so I can feel good about myself, and I make the possibly terrible decision to risk hunger (did I learn nothing yesterday?) to take my time getting ready. If Zane’s really here, what’s one breakfast anyway? And because I don’t have a tub at home and who knows if there’ll be another soaker tub on this trip, I take an extra-long bubble bath, washing my hair and then blow-drying it straight, then sitting at the stool in the bathroom to apply fresh makeup in the mirror. When I’m finished, I feel really good about myself. And I look good, too. Not exactly well-rested, but the concealer I’ve padded under my eyes has done a lot. But I am hungry. I put on a pair of crop jeans, a striped sweater and a handful of bangles, look around the room one last time, then drag my suitcase out into the hall, closing the door behind me and taking a minute to breathe through my nose.
This is it.
I remind myself that Zane is just a guy. A normal guy who happens to lead tours and whose voice is tied to the most important book in my life…A normal guy who’s also really good-looking and basically the reason I’m here.
No big deal, Gigi.
I take a breath and pull myself together, prepared to do my best to act breezy or at least normal, and head down two flights of carpeted stairs and into the dark, mahogany-paneled lobby—which is empty. The velvet-clad library around the corner is also empty, but the platter of pastries and a self-serve carafe of coffee on the sideboard catch my eye. I shove a pastry in my purse, then balance my coffee in my free hand and turn around as Jenny enters the room, her camera attached to a gimbal, which is swaying back and forth. “Did you know someone was murdered right here in the library?” she says.
“Really?”
“I’m talking to the camera,” she hisses, then turns back to the camera and repeats the line. “I was sitting here last night having a cocktail, and the temperature dropped at least twenty degrees. My lips looked like I was wearing frosted lipstick, and you all know how I feel about frosted lipstick,” she says dramatically. “So I’m back now to see if I sense anything else suspicious.”
I tiptoe out of the library, praying I’ll casually bump into Zane, but the lobby remains empty. Out the front doors into the bright sunshine, I look around. Off to the right, most of the group stands in a semicircle chatting, their suitcases lined up in a neat row. To the left, Charlotte’s mid-patter with Angus, and my stomach drops, because if Angus is here then does that mean Zane won’t be? Charlotte waves and I walk over to them, my heart rate picking up speed with every step. Angus is flipping through the clipboard in his hand. “Good morning,” I say brightly.
Angus grins. “Gigi, check! How’d you sleep?”
“Oh great,” I say. “Maybe too well. Sorry to miss breakfast.” I clear my throat. “I was actually hoping I’d still make it out to see you this morning before you left.” My voice is an octave too high. So much for breezy.
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Sadly, looks like you’re stuck with me for another day. No word from Zane yet. Family emergencies. So unpredictable.”
I bite the inside of my lip a little too hard, leaving a tender bump. “A family emergency?” It shouldn’t matter that Zane isn’t here, I reason with myself. But of course it does. It does, it does. Disappointment heaves my stomach. Darn it.
“Not to worry,” Angus says. “His mum’s had a bit of a health scare, and they’re such a tight-knit family, that of course Zane needed to see her.” He claps his hands. “But he promises to be here as soon as he can. Good thing, because I can’t do back-to-back tours the way I could when I was thirty—last year.” He winks at Charlotte. “Anyway, enough about that. But guess what?” Angus looks from Charlotte to me. “I haven’t told you the best part about being on one of my tours.” I take a sip of coffee. It’s lukewarm, but it’s the first coffee I’ve had in two days, so I’m going to drink it anyway.
Off to the left, the red bus appears from behind a row of evenly spaced plane trees, the lower branches just brushing the top as Taj pulls it into the circular drive.
“OK, listen up, everyone,” Angus says, clipboard under his arm, clapping loudly. The rest of the group shuffles closer, the gravel crunching underfoot. “Everyone has to choose someone new to sit beside. It’s a great way for us to better get to know each other.” He looks at Charlotte. “Mind if I join you?”
Charlotte takes a sip of water, then slowly smiles. “Fine by me,” she sing-songs.
Roshi turns to me. “How about you and me?”
“Oh, sure,” I say, then look to Sindhi. “As long as Sindhi’s OK with it?” I wonder how she feels about coming on a trip with her husband, only to spend most of the trip sitting with strangers. Although, if Zane arrives later today—I can still hold out hope—or tomorrow, Angus won’t be dictating our seating arrangements. Will Zane have the same rule? I imagine him being my seatmate…
Sindhi gives me a blank look. “I’m not going to stand in your way,” she says drily.
The bus doors open and Taj descends. His hair is messy again, and he has a hint of stubble. He walks over to the pile of luggage a few feet away and, one by one, begins hauling our baggage into the storage compartment.
“I got a lot of the crossword done last night,” Roshi says as he climbs the steps of the bus. “Want to try to finish it before we reach Canterbury?”
