Gigi, Listening, page 25
“How could the clock-tower keeper meet this fair lass?” Taj continues. “She was only ever around in the day, when he had to attend the bell. The only thing he could think of was to ring the bell on the hour and then immediately rush down the stairs. He’d have nearly sixty minutes before he had to be back up. He decides to catch her while she’s setting up. There was a risk, of course. He’d only seen this woman from afar. What if she was dreadful? Annoying? Had a really big nose?”
At the fourth terrace, Taj turns around to check that we haven’t lost anyone. Satisfied, he turns and keeps walking.
“The clock-tower keeper knew he would have to be quick. Getting down to the market stalls would be no hurry at all. The return—that would be the issue. And so he started training. Jogging on the spot. Jumping jacks and squats. And most of all, he climbed the stairs in the tower. Every day he worked through his exercises. He grew lean. He grew hard.
Taj is walking slowly now, stretching out the story.
“Finally, the day came when the clock-tower keeper decided he was ready to make his move. The night before, he’d gone into the forest and picked a bouquet of wildflowers to give to the woman, keeping them in an old milk jar filled with water. The next morning, he woke up early, unable to sleep.” I look up to the peak of the hill, trying to imagine the clock at the top of the tower. Taj continues, rubbing the back of his neck, his bicep flexing. “He ate a crust of bread, rang the seven o’clock bell, then made haste down the steps, bringing his flowers with him. But the stall where she always kept her egg cart was empty. Seven-thirty came and went, and she didn’t arrive.”
Taj turns back and takes my hand to help me up the fifth terrace. “The clock-tower keeper searched around, thinking maybe she’d set up somewhere else. People would need eggs,” he continues. “Surely, she would still need to bring eggs. Had her chickens gone fallow? Had someone stolen the hens?”
“The things they concerned themselves with back then,” Nelle whispers to me. I nod, but don’t say anything, not wanting to interrupt the story.
“At ten minutes until eight, he knew he could wait no longer. He set off for the tower, running the same trail we’re on right now. He reaped the benefits of his training, and he would have made it with time to spare—but when he was almost halfway up the tower steps, he missed a stair and tripped. He banged his chin. He saw the blood, and his right ankle seared with pain. He looked down and could tell that it was already swelling. But he had to get to the top of the stairs, or he’d lose the post.”
“So he had to pull himself, even though he knew he didn’t have enough time and that he wouldn’t be able to ring the bell. He’d be fired and banished from the town.” A flock of gulls squawk as they pass overhead, and Taj scales the sixth terrace before continuing. I hold my breath. Even the wind seems to have quietened. “And then, he heard it,” Taj whispers. “At first, he couldn’t believe his ears. But he heard it again. The clang of the bell in the clock tower.” Taj leans down and strikes the stone path with the metal edge of his pocket knife. The ting makes us collectively gasp, and I’m reminded that Taj and I are not alone. “Twice, three times, four times.” His voice increases in volume with each strike of metal on stone.
“He figured it must be the ogre, who’d somehow discovered what he was up to. The man considered turning around and fleeing.” Taj pauses, and his eye meets mine. “But something told him not to run. To face his fear. So he kept going. At the stroke of eight he made it to the top.” Taj first, then Jenny, then I crest the seventh and last terrace, so we’re steps away from the tower. We’re all out of breath—this hill is not for the out-of-shape or elderly. I look around. The view is 360 degrees, green expanse in every direction, Glastonbury tiny in the distance. Taj motions for the group to follow him to the tower, to stand under the arch. I’m so close to him that I can feel the heat from his body.
“He reached the top of the tower just as the bell stopped ringing.”
“It was her,” I whisper.
Taj’s voice is low, just loud enough for the group to hear. “It was her,” he says softly. “And she was standing right there.” Taj points to the uppermost floor. “All those times, as he rang the bells, she’d been down below, looking up, wondering who he was. She’d climbed up the hill to meet him.”
I feel light-headed. It’s everything—Taj, this story, the view, the tower.
This moment.
“Wait. So she planned to climb up on the very same day that he decided to go down?” Roshi asks. Roshi and Sindhi are inches from Taj on one side, Violet and Nelle behind them. Jenny beside me, Francis leaning over her shoulder. But I block them out and turn back to Taj.
He nods, his eyes meeting mine even though Roshi asked the question. “The very same day. She figured if he had to ring the bell, he could never come down. So she decided to climb up.”
“And saved him from losing his job,” I whisper.
“And from being banished from the town,” Taj says.
“So then what happened?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. His eyes are on mine. His chest is hard, his arms are strong. I’m lost in the story and all I can think about is how close we’re standing. It doesn’t make any sense, and yet, it makes perfect sense.
“Well. They stood right here, in this spot, and as the final chime echoed in the distance, they had their very first kiss.”
We’re all so quiet, you can hear us all breathing. Finally, Roshi breaks the silence. “You better watch it or you’re going to get promoted to tour guide.” He points a finger at Taj.
Not a chance,” a familiar voice says. I turn and Zane stands under the arch. Color has returned to his face. So has a scowl. “Angus came back to the bus, and I figured I’d better get up here and do my job,” he says. “Glad I did. Sorry to leave you all with the coach driver,” he says, his eyes on Taj. “Why didn’t you call and let me know?”
“Doesn’t seem like the kind of experience to be making a phone call. Anyway, it was no big deal,” Taj says, his voice even. “You said you weren’t feeling up to it.”
Zane walks closer to us, keeping his eyes on Taj. “Well, these people paid for a guide, and I don’t want word getting back to Dad that they had two guides and neither of them performed their duties.” He turns to us, looking stricken. “I really do apologize for this. Poor decision on my part.” Does he mean staying on the bus, or the hangover? “I promise I’ll make it up to everyone.” I watch his lips, trying to muster up last night, but Taj’s story is taking center stage. When I look over at him, though, he’s nodding at something Sindhi is saying.
“Nothing to fret about.” Roshi slaps Zane on the back. “Taj did a fantastic job. And we’re all in this together, aren’t we?” he says, defusing what feels like it’s about to become a situation.
“Did Taj tell you all about the type of stones they used to build the tower?” Zane asks, hands on hips. He motions for us to follow him out of the tower, over to a patch of grass. When no one moves, he claps his hands together. Of course I want to hear him talk—who cares about the content? I walk out of the archway, but once everyone else is out, I turn back. Taj is under the arch, leaning against the stone.
“That was a good story,” I say. The clouds have pushed to the west and the sky above is clear. “Was it true?” I ask as my hair whips across my face. His eyes are on mine, dark and intense.
He scratches the stubble on his chin, then grins. “Not a word.”
My mouth hangs open. “It was so good.”
“For someone who owns a bookshop full of made-up stories, you sound surprised.” He runs a hand through his hair, his lips slightly turned up, his eyes still on mine. Beads of sweat dance above my upper lip.
“Gigi,” Zane calls. He’s standing a few feet away. “Come on, we’re all waiting.”
I look to Taj, but he’s already headed back down the hill.
That afternoon, when we arrive at our hotel, the second floor of a two-story building over a stationery shop on High Street, Zane gives us the options for the next few hours of free time. Instead, I begin planning some time alone—maybe a shower, or a quiet walk.
“Gigi?” Startled, I realize that Zane has been calling my name. “I’ve got to take care of a few logistics for Bristol, but would you like to meet here before dinner? We could have a glass of Pimm’s in the garden at the King Arthur. A glass.” He smiles. “Maybe attempt a do-over of last night? Get it right this time?” He whispers so close to me I’m sure I can feel his long lashes dancing on my cheek.
It’s only after I’ve agreed to meet him at six—sharp—and then walked up the stairs to the hotel reception, that I realize I’m completely calm. No heart palpitations or clammy palms. That must be a good thing—isn’t it?
I have every intention of checking in on the shop, then taking a long hot shower, and taking my time getting ready for my date, but after dropping my bag in my room—a quaint space with a cozy, shabby chic feel—I turn and head back down the stairs and out onto the street.
And I walk. I have no plan. The streets and shops and trees and clouds and other people pass me by, only slightly coming in and out of my consciousness, in the same way that my thoughts fade in and out, too. I’ve got a lovely afternoon to myself. Zane’s asked me out for a drink. Everything has fallen into place. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
And yet by the time I reach the edge of the town square a few minutes later, I realize I’m not thinking about Zane anymore. I try to redirect my thoughts to think of him, but it feels like too much effort. Instead, I let my mind wander. To Dory and Cleo, Dad, Mom, Lars, the shop, my life in general. What I love about it, what I want to change. Little things, big things. It doesn’t feel scary, it feels exciting, calming, new.
Before I know it, the sun has set. The bells chime from the clocktower in the square, and I count them. Nine. I have missed dinner. I have missed Pimm’s in the garden with Zane. I have missed what could have been the next chapter in the story.
And yet, I don’t feel panic or disappointment or regret.
I feel free.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Day 7, Saturday, 12 p.m.
Bath
Bath is a town of two-story buildings made of parchment-paper-colored stone. The streets bustle with tourists and buskers, and the air smells like lavender as we step off the bus. Taj drives away and Zane leads us through the streets to a lush manicured lawn in the middle of the city, rattling off facts about everything from architecture to anthropology. I zone out, letting his voice fill my ears and my imagination run wild. Couples picnic on blankets, sipping wine and discussing the true nature of love . . . Because what else would you bother to talk about when you’re in the very spot that spawned so many romances? A ways off, a row of Edwardian stone townhouses form a semicircle that I recognize instantly from the opening scene of the first season of Bridgerton.
I’ve read every Jane Austen novel so many times I can recite the lines, so when Zane turns to us and says, “‘Who could ever be tired of Bath?’” I know instantly it’s from Northanger Abbey, one of the two novels Austen set in Bath. But it’s bittersweet, because while Zane’s voice still gives me all the feels, I’m not sure where he and I stand. I ran into him on the way back to the hotel last night, with the rest of the group that was returning from dinner. I apologized for missing drinks, trying to find a balance between apologetic and breezy. I felt guilty for standing him up, but not regret for how my evening played out.
“Did you have a nice time in the town?” he asked, as way of response. When I’d nodded, he’d nodded, too. “Well that’s all that really matters.” He didn’t sound annoyed or unfriendly, which almost made the whole situation worse. Then he went off to chat with someone in the lobby. And that was that. I went up to my room, and read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, unsure how to feel.
Now, we make our way past the covered shops on the Pulteney Bridge. Angus shows us a spot where we can peek through a jeweler’s shop window out to the water. Zane points out the Roman baths—and the wall where backpackers who don’t want to pay the admission hoist themselves up for a glimpse. Where they want to be, rather than where they are. Ash and alder trees dapple the sunlight over the Gravel Walk behind the townhouses of Gay Street, the same path where Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth shared an intimate moment in Persuasion. I close my eyes to be alone with Zane and his voice—and the rest of the group’s chatter, of course. OK, so not alone at all. Zane seems exactly the same as he was last night, and the day that I met him, too: friendly, cordial, and perhaps a bit flat. Like, aside from our drunkfest, he only has one speed. He’s steady. Dependable. Drama-free. That’s a good thing, Gigi. And yet, it makes me feel out of sorts—and that unsettles me even further because even though he’s the reason I came to England, I don’t want him to be the focus of why I came to England. There’s so much more here for me now, that putting all my focus on him doesn’t feel right. And yet . . .
Be cool, Gigi.
As Zane points out the tower of Bath Abbey, and Jenny asks Violet if she’s going to ask how many steps to the top, I think back to yesterday, to Taj’s tale as we made our way up the hill to St. Michael’s Tower. It was just a story—a fake story at that. Now, Zane’s honeyed voice issues facts—there are 212 steps to the top of the Bath Abbey tower—and trivia with the earnestness of a math teacher.
He leads us into the courtyard of the majestic Bath Abbey. Zane describes the sculpture on the front tower that shows angels climbing Jacob’s ladder to heaven and tells us that Bath Abbey has existed here in some form since the seventh century. I close my eyes. Not because what he’s saying is boring, but because I know the connection will feel stronger, as though I’m lying in bed back home, listening to him. And I’m right. It feels right. But a second later Francis’s own gruff voice interjects. “The Abbey is the last great medieval cathedral built in England,” he says. He turns on his recorder and starts talking to himself. The moment, with Zane’s voice, is gone.
The group moves toward the cathedral entrance, and my palms begin to sweat and my ears ring. I stop walking, as though the honey that coats his voice has spilled on the cobblestone, creating a sticky mess that secures me in place. I try to focus on Zane’s voice, but even that doesn’t help. I watch everyone else go through the door, but I’m stuck. “Coming, Gigi?” Zane calls from the doorway. “You definitely don’t want to miss the Abbey.”
“Zane,” Taj says suddenly from behind me, and Zane and I both turn around. Where did he come from? He stands a few feet away, beside a sandwich board advertising Bridgerton tours.
“I’ve got an issue at the hotel, they need one of the guests to come back with a key card to be able to look into it.” He shrugs. Then he turns to me. “Gigi, do you mind? Since everyone else is already up ahead?”
“Gigi won’t want to miss the Abbey, right Gigi?” Zane says.
Gigi will very much want to miss this. “I’ll go,” I say. “I really don’t mind.” I turn toward Taj with relief.
“Are you sure?” Zane asks, but I’m already walking toward Taj. I give an emphatic nod and wave, then follow Taj, who’s turned and is taking long strides in the opposite direction, away from the entrance to the cathedral.
Once we’re around the corner, passing the entrance to the Roman baths on one side, the fluorescent lights of Primark a stark contrast across the street, Taj says, “The church thing, huh?”
My stomach tightens. “So there’s no hotel emergency?” I turn to look at him and he raises an eyebrow.
“It felt like you needed an escape plan,” he says simply. The Abbey Churchyard is bustling. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and sit and listen to that band.” He points to a trio of guys in fluorescent plastic top hats. “If I go for more than a week without hearing someone play Spice Girls on a harmonica, I start to get the shakes.”
I laugh. Oh, the relief of this escape.
“Coffee?”
“Please. With milk.”
Taj ducks under a black awning and a moment later returns, handing me a cup before we head back down Stall Street, past a window filled with books. He catches my eye. “Go on,” he says, “I know you can’t resist.”
I shake my head. “Can’t bring the coffee in. I want the coffee.”
“And I want to show you that not all the buskers in town play terrible nineties covers.”
“Is that a criticism of the Spice Girls? Don’t you get, like, put in jail for that over here?”
“I didn’t say the Spice Girls are terrible. I said those dudes’ rendition of Spice Girls is. And yet, strangely fascinating.” Taj puts his arm out to stop me from walking as a cyclist zips past. Another step and he would’ve taken out my kneecaps. “Ooh,” I say. “Thanks.”
Purple and gold marigolds in hanging baskets decorate our path. In the distance I hear a saxophone playing. The sound gets louder with each step we take until we are standing before a bearded busker in front of an empty shop. Taj points to a row of wide steps a few feet from the musician. “Front-row seating.”
The busker raises his sax into the air, then lowers it down again, the pitch fluctuating between sharp and soft. We take a seat on the steps and sip our coffee.
“Better than another spire?” he says, nudging me.
“Yeah. Churches aren’t my thing.”
“You don’t say,” he says sarcastically. “You know the company offers other tours of England—ones without churches, right?”
“But are there bookstores?” I joke, and he gives me a half smile.
“Avoiding the question with humor.”
I’m not about to tell him I’m on this tour for Zane, so I give him the abridged version. “My friends booked the trip, remember?” I take another sip of coffee. “I knew there’d be churches, but I just thought it would be easier to avoid them.”
“Well, you have a spotless track record, don’t you?”
