Gigi, Listening, page 11
“What’s that?” I say in awe, to no one in particular, but Taj looks back.
“What?” he says.
I point to the wall.
“Oh, that,” he says, grinning. “That, Georgia, is a wall. I would’ve thought you had those in America. Guess you learn something new every day.”
“Come on. It’s more than a wall. Is this a fortress or something? And those pretty little flowers,” I say. “They’re incredible. Do you think someone plants them into the wall, or do they just grow like that?”
“No idea,” Taj says, but he looks up at them for a beat, then back to me. “I’m guessing they’re just weeds. Who would plant flowers in a wall? I doubt someone’s out here scaling the stone to add a splash of color. And they grow in walls everywhere—not just Canterbury.” He looks over at me. “You would’ve noticed yesterday if you hadn’t slept through half the tour,” he teases.
“It wasn’t half the tour,” I say.
Moments later, Angus explains that Canterbury was once a walled city, with the first walls built by the Romans in 270.
“Told you it was a wall,” Taj says to me, as we follow the wall to a turret, a small cross etched into it, halfway up.
“Isn’t it the loveliest day?” Roshi is saying to Sindhi just ahead. “The weather is perfect for a jaunt about this town.” He reaches out for her hand, but she shrugs out of her coat instead. “Much warmer than I would’ve expected for late June in England,” he says. He seems like he’s trying so hard with her—and she’s so angry at him. I wonder if he’s done something to upset her. If so, why agree to a vacation together?
“Actually, the average high temperature in Canterbury in June is 61.5 degrees Fahrenheit and it’s 61 degrees exactly today, so really, it’s right on par with where it should be,” Francis interrupts.
“Well it’s certainly sunnier than I thought it would be,” Nelle says, pulling a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and popping them overtop of the glasses she’s already wearing.
“Whoops,” Angus chuckles, “you’re doubling up there.” He points to her face. “You might want to take one pair off before you put the other on.”
But Nelle shakes her head. “Oh, no, this is the way I like it. I can see and I don’t have to squint.”
“You know that’s why prescription sunglasses were invented, right?” Jenny says, walking past her.
“Oh, no,” Nelle says. “I tried those, but they’re absolutely senseless. You have to take them off every time you go into a store, and then you can’t see anything. And if you keep them on you look like a weirdo, wearing sunglasses inside.”
“Yeah, that would be weird,” Taj whispers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Violet grab Nelle’s hand, which feels like the most supportive, sweetest gesture.
“This is not the most impressive entrance to Canterbury,” Angus says, “but I’ve brought you this way for a very good reason.”
“Yeah, it’s the most convenient car park,” Taj quips.
“Taj, you’re giving away all my secrets,” Angus says. He holds up a finger and then leads us inside the city walls and down the cobblestone Burgate Street toward something called the Christchurch Gate. This archway, a mix of Romanesque and Gothic styles, is an entrance to the Canterbury Cathedral, Angus tells us. I feel a sense of dread. I’d mentally tried to prepare for the four churches in Canterbury alone, but that was from the safety of the cozy bus.
I walk up to Angus and flip open my guidebook. “I think you know by now I’m a huge bookworm and there’s this famous bookshop—”
“You needn’t say more,” Angus chuckles. “You can’t come to Canterbury and miss the Crooked House. Of course, we do walk by it after the cathedral, but you can head out there now, if you’d like. You’re sure you’re alright missing the church tour, though?”
I nod. “I’d love time to poke around the shop.” I try to sound calm even though my insides are churning.
“Alright, then, now’s a great time as we’re so close,” Angus says, surprising me. He doesn’t seem at all concerned that I won’t be glued to the rest of the group, the way Taj seemed to imply yesterday. He points to his right. “It’s easy as shepherd’s pie to find. You just follow Sun Street here, and stay on as it turns into Palace and then you can’t miss it. It’ll be the crooked house,” he grins.
“Great.”
“Great. As long as you’re back here within the hour we’ll be fine. And if you aren’t, well then I’ll just give you a ring to find you. You have your phone?”
I nod.
“Well then, have a good time, Good Gigi.” He turns back to the group. “Ah, everyone look up. Like a bird on a wire—or seventeen. That’s where the starlings perch.” Violet pulls out her phone to capture the burnt-orange bellies of the otherwise blue-black birds overhead. Charlotte flutters her fingers at me, and Francis lets his recorder know I’m going into the bookstore instead of the world-famous cathedral.
Take that, Taj. People are allowed to roam while on tour. I glance back at him and catch him watching me. I turn away quickly, feeling sweat pool at the back of my neck.
I head away from the group, past artsy cafés and moody gastropubs, a milliner with fascinators in the window and a Lululemon with University of Kent–branded athletic wear, which makes me think of Lars and whether he’s been harassing my bookshop clients to buy his fake Lululemon athleisurewear. I should’ve reminded him not to do that yesterday, and it’s too early to call him now. A few minutes later I’m standing in front of a black-and-white half-timbered house that juts into the street and leans to the right. Gold star for the accurate name: the Crooked House. The blue door is so slanted the bottom is cut at a forty-five-degree angle. Over the door, in cursive, reads: A very old house bulging out over the road . . . leaning forward, trying to see who was passing on the narrow pavement below. The sun is high in the sky, creating a halo effect over the peak of the shop as I duck through the door, the shop feeling even darker because of how bright it was outside. I pause to let my eyes adjust. The air is thick with dust, and ragged area rugs cover the floors and remind me of my own shop. The bookshelves are narrow and tall, and the books are stacked haphazardly on the shelves and piled high on the floor in front of the bookshelves and the wall, leaving only a narrow path to walk. It’s a setup I both love and loathe. I adore the hunt, but I would never organize Love Interest in such an erratic way. I pick a middle aisle and walk slowly through, tilting my head to read the spines, running my finger along the dusty shelves. And then, at the end of the aisle, in a waist-high stack of books on the floor, I see it. A paperback copy of Lady Susan by Jane Austen. I run my hands over the cover—it’s different from the copy I have at the shop. I keep an eye on the time and half an hour later, walk to the cash to pay for the book.
“The line over the door,” I say to the clerk as he hands me my book after I’ve paid for it. “Is that Dickens?”
“Good guess,” he says, looking like something out of a Dickens novel himself. “David Copperfield, in fact.” I thank him, slip the book into my purse, and head outside. Taj is sitting on a wrought-iron bench just outside. I get this warm feeling rushing over me, but tell myself it’s just a reaction to seeing anyone familiar in a strange place. Thankfully he doesn’t notice if I’m blushing because he’s engrossed in a book.
I clear my throat. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say as I approach him.
“I wasn’t,” he says, slapping the book shut. He meets my eye. “I just happened to choose this bench to read on.”
“Oh.” My cheeks burn.
“Oh—hey,” Taj says. “It’s called taking the piss.”
I meet his eyes. “Taking the what?”
“Piss. Profoundly rude, of course. Sorry. Americans never get it.”
“You were waiting for me.”
“To clarify—yes.”
“You said you weren’t as a joke.”
“Right—taking the piss.”
Taj, I notice, has golden flecks in those dark eyes.
“No roaming, remember? And you’re purposely avoiding churches,” Taj declares. The statement digs into my stomach.
I attempt to force a laugh but it comes out as more of a snort. “Totally unrelated.” I thumb toward the shop. “I love bookshops. That’s it.”
He watches me, but doesn’t push back. Instead he stands. “You ready to go?” Rather than waiting for an answer, he turns and heads off to his left, my right. We start walking in silence, zigzagging through the streets, Taj leading the way, me following, my head flicking back and forth, taking in everything around me. We make our way back past the cathedral, which sits in the middle of a square—there’s no getting around it. Scaffolding shields the better part of it, though, detracting from whatever Gothic majesty it should project. A small part of me knows I’m missing out on a huge part of history by avoiding any and all churches, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t stop at the church and continues walking. “Angus said to meet outside the cathedral,” I say.
“Lunch is next, so we could head straight to the pub—I could use a drink.”
“You’re driving.”
“I meant water.”
“Oh. Right. Me too.” I could use a bucket of water to cool my burning skin.
We walk in silence for a moment, but then Taj nods to the copy of Lady Susan in my hand. “I would’ve figured you’d already read every Austen book.” Then clucks his tongue. “Let me guess—you’ve read all the books—Austen or otherwise.”
I look at him. “No one’s read all the books.”
“You say that as though you’ve looked into this. Like, if someone had read all the books, you’d be in competition with them.”
“Is that taking the piss?” I ask. I spot a pink Winnebago parked in the middle of the cobblestone road, a chalkboard set up next to it listing a dozen varieties of ice cream. A long line of people forms at it.
“Not quite. That’s just teasing.”
“You enjoy teasing me?”
He nods. “I think I really do.”
“I have read this book, but I don’t have this particular edition of Lady Susan, and it’s a truth universally acknowledged that anyone with a romance bookshop should have multiple copies of every Austen ever released—even Lady Susan.
“Hold up.” Taj raises his hands in protest. “What do you mean romance bookshop? Only romance?”
“Yes,” I say, as a flock of pigeons whooshes past us and lands on the interlocking brick a few feet away.
Taj looks like he’s just been hit with pigeon poop. “What about all the books that aren’t romance?”
“What about them?”
“There are dozens, hundreds, thousands of excellent books that have absolutely nothing to do with romance.”
“Right. I never said there weren’t.” I smile, enjoying his confusion.
“But what about general fiction?”
“Yes, if there’s romance in them.”
“Thrillers?”
“If there’s romance.” I dodge a confetti of breadcrumbs a woman to my right, sitting on a bench, directs at the pigeons. More pigeons dive-bomb the area.
“Westerns?” Taj says.
“If there’s romance.”
“Books about archbishops or bus drivers?” Taj says, sidestepping a kid who wobbles along the uneven stones in roller skates.
“Sure, if they have romance in them,” I say, enjoying this banter. “It’s a romance bookshop.”
Taj looks pained.
I grin. I enjoy defending the store to those who challenge me on it—and I’ve had a lot of practice over the years. “So technically I do have some Westerns and thrillers and tons of historical fiction, too—but only the ones with some element of romance. Any kind of course—straight, gay, doesn’t matter. Even love between friends.” A busker juggles a bunch of brightly painted bowling pins while balancing one on his chin.
“But that’s friendship, not love.” Taj tosses a coin into the busker’s hat, which surprises me for some reason.
“Friendship is simply a platonic romance between friends.”
“Who said that?” Taj asks as we walk along a narrow, cobblestoned street lined with shops.
“Dickens,” I say.
“I’m not sure it makes sense.”
I shrug. “Tell that to Dickens.” The road climbs up and over a bridge, and the buildings break for a river below. I lean over the low edge just as a narrow, flat-bottomed vessel pushed by a man standing at the back glides by. I recognize it instantly: a punt.
“Are we . . .” I press my hands together. “Going punting? Please?”
Taj shakes his head. “Sadly, we don’t punt in Canterbury.”
“Because we punted in Cambridge?” I say with disappointment, mad at myself again for missing it.
“Exactly.” We continue walking until Taj stops in front of a Tudor-style timber-framed building. The Old Weavers House, AD 1500 is written over the door in Old English lettering.
Taj pulls open the heavy wood door, and I follow him into a dark tavern. The older man at the maître d’ stand seems to recognize Taj. “Nice to see you,” he says, and turns to lead us under an arch, into another room where the walls are lined with framed photos and newspaper clippings, their headlines barely legible by the old kerosene lanterns on the oak tables, then out through another doorway to an ivy-covered patio that overlooks the water. A big table is set up at the back.
Taj sets his book on the table and says, “Guess you’re stuck talking to me for a few more minutes.” He pulls out a chair as the maître d’ squeezes past him to fill the water glasses at the table from a jug he’s retrieved from a nearby stand. I take the chair opposite Taj, which has a view of the river. A punting boat glides across the sunlit water. If Zane were here, would it be the two of us sitting across from each other at this moment? But of course not—he’d be with the group. And if he were with the group, I’d be with the group. I groan inwardly. Every time I think about Zane, how he was supposed to be here, how he’s not here, I feel a stab of guilt and ungratefulness toward my friends and this amazing gift they’ve given me. I need to stop thinking about Zane. I turn back to Taj, who’s downing his water in big gulps.
“So what are you reading?” I can see it isn’t the mystery I bought for him yesterday.
Taj flips the cover over, and I recognize it as the latest John Grisham—the one Lars was trying to convince me to sell. I begin laughing.
“What?” He furrows his brow.
“My brother was trying to convince me I was an idiot not to sell that book. ‘Everyone loves John Grisham! Give the people what they want!’” I’m still laughing.
He raises his eyebrows. “I thought you just finished telling me you only sell romances?”
“Tell that to my brother.” I take a sip of water.
“So what was in the mystery bag?”
“I didn’t open it,” I say. “I might never open it.”
“Weird,” he says, but he’s smiling, and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles. He grabs the water jug between us and refills his glass, then tops up my glass, too. “You bought that for no reason, then. There could be anything inside, or nothing at all. Basically you bought a paper bag.”
“I don’t want to be disappointed,” I say with a shrug.
“You just don’t want to find out that I was right and you were wrong,” he challenges, but he’s still smiling.
“Hey,” I say. “I should tell you something.”
“OK—”
“The platonic friendship and romance line—it wasn’t Dickens who said that. It was me.”
“Ah.” Taj takes a sip of water. “That—that’s taking the piss.”
“Hmm!” I exclaim, delighted.
“But you shouldn’t have told me you were doing it. You tell someone, you’re not really taking the piss.”
Before I can reply, a commotion behind me makes me turn to see the rest of the group arrive. I feel a twinge of disappointment but dismiss it. It’s probably just hunger pangs.
Later that afternoon, I manage to dodge the tour of St. Martin’s, the oldest church in England, by taking a call from Lars. (He couldn’t figure out how to work the coffee maker.) After the church tour, we get a bit of time to explore and shop. Violet and Nelle emerge from the public bathrooms wearing matching T-shirts they bought at one of the souvenir shops that say “I’m Brit-ish.”
Jenny walks past them and scowls, saying, “You’re supposed to get those if you’re like, a bit British. Like you have a great-grandfather who was British and you’re suddenly adopting the British stuff. It’s not funny otherwise.”
“She seems personally offended by their choice of T-shirt,” Sindhi says to me with a smile, and I stifle a laugh. We’re on our way to the ruins of St. Augustine’s Abbey by way of a quick tour of St. Thomas Church. I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this one. I look over at Taj and notice Jenny chattering away to him. She’s been following him around all afternoon, talking his ear off, flirting with him and trying to convince him to help her film a video—though so far, she’s had no luck. As we reach the Westgate Towers that act as an official entrance and exit to the town, Taj falls into step with me.
“Come on,” Taj says with a wink. “If you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen them all.”
“Well, technically, I haven’t seen any,” I remind him with a laugh. “Not that I’m complaining.”
He looks down at his phone, taps it with his thumbs, then shoves it into his pocket. “Wait here.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond before jogging up to Angus and saying something that makes Angus nod and tip his hat to me. Taj returns, and says, “Come on, you’ve got to hurry.”
He jogs away and I have to run to stay in step with him, weaving between people as we head back to King’s Bridge, where the River Stour opens wide enough to accommodate a dock and a half dozen rowboats. At the top of the bridge, Taj looks out over the river and waves his arm as he shouts out, “Q!”
