Gigi, Listening, page 5
“Oh . . . the guy down there in the information booth told you to come to gate 20, did he?” His voice is drenched in sarcasm but his dark eyes are twinkling. “Well then, alright, you must be on this list.”
I press the back of the hand clutching the stack of papers to my forehead and exhale loudly. Pull it together, Gigi.
“Oh,” I exhale. “They probably didn’t put my full name. My friends, that is. They bought me this trip and . . .”
“Trying to get rid of you?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No,” I say, my voice rising an octave. “They surprised me—for my birthday . . . never mind.” Why am I telling this stranger my life story? “Gigi.”
“What? Spell it, would you?”
I sound it out. “Gee-gee. Gee-eye-gee-eye. Gee-gee.”
He drags the pen down the list again, then back up again to the top of the page. “Aha. There you are. Crisis averted. Now we just need a tour guide.”
“What do you mean a tour guide?” The panic’s back in full force.
“Guide didn’t show so we’re scrambling to sort it out. That’s why we didn’t leave on time—which was lucky for you, wasn’t it?”
The guide hasn’t shown up? I feel dizzy and grip the handle of my suitcase to steady myself, close my eyes and take a deep breath. What does he mean, there’s no guide? Zane’s the whole reason I flew thousands of miles. Zane’s the reason I’m taking the first vacation I’ve had in years. Zane’s the reason I’m trusting my lifeblood to my laissez-faire brother. This can’t be happening. This was not the plan.
I snap my focus back on this guy. “You mean Zane?” Maybe he doesn’t mean Zane.
Taj holds a hand out for my suitcase, but I grip the handle tighter. If Zane isn’t on this bus, I’m not getting on this bus. Taj looks at me with curiosity—probably because I know the name of the guide but not my own.
“Where is Zane?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Good question,” he says. “I suppose that’s for him to know and us to—actually, there’s Angus now.” He looks past me and I turn around, too, to come face-to-face with a happy grandpa. Like Taj, he’s wearing a forest-green shirt with the patch above the left breast that reads WILKENSON TOURS.
“Any luck, Angus?” Taj says. Luck? Why do they need luck? Is Zane lost in the bus terminal? Is he hurt?
Angus puts a finger in the air and grins. “Found the guide.” The skin around his eyes is crinkled and his gray hair sticks out in tufts over his ears from under his hat.
My entire body relaxes. Thank god. I touch my forehead with the back of my hand to see just how sweaty it is as Angus taps his chest. “Me. I’m your guide.”
My ribcage feels like it’s going to break through my skin. “What do you mean—you’re the guide?”
He looks over at me. His eyes are kind and sympathetic. “We’ve had a bit of an issue,” he says. “The original guide has been called away on an important . . . matter and isn’t going to make the tour after all.”
What? What?
My head feels like it’s filled with helium and is detaching from the rest of my body, floating up toward the glass ceiling. I can’t think properly.
“Is that . . . allowed?” I open my mouth to get in more air, hoping that’ll help with the dizziness.
“It is,” Taj says flatly. “Technically. Page six.” He nods to the stack of papers I’m still clutching. “Small print. Guides and routes subject to change.”
“But I—” I force my lips to form a tight smile and turn to Angus. “I’m sure you’re great, but I’d sort of booked this trip specifically for the original guide.” I avoid saying Zane’s name so I don’t sound like a complete whack-job.
“I thought your friends booked the trip,” Taj says. I ignore him. Angus is clearly the one in charge—he’s the one I need to convince to help me figure this out.
Angus scratches one woolly eyebrow. “I understand. Come with me. I’m about to explain the situation to everyone else on the bus. Unfortunately at this late juncture we wouldn’t honor refunds, seeing as we’re already late departing. But I believe under the circumstances, we’d allow any of those on the tour to rebook if they really prefer the original guide.”
“I can’t rebook,” I whisper.
“Alright, then, why don’t you just come up on the coach and—”
I shake my head. “I can’t go on the bus. I can’t just take this bus tour for ten days.” This wasn’t the plan. I never would’ve left the store for ten days for a vacation without any purpose. This was supposed to be something bigger. I’m still dizzy and reach out for something, anything other than my suitcase. Angus grabs my arm and steadies me.
“Here—have a seat.” He takes my suitcase in one hand and leads me to the metal bench a few feet away between the buses. It takes all of my focus to put one foot in front of the next. “Give me two feathers on a pigeon. You wait here. You wait here, OK?”
Once I’m sitting, I swing my purse over onto my lap, my fingers scrabbling to feel the cold metal of my phone. I touch the first number in my Favorites list: the bookshop’s voicemail. As it rings, that tight knot in my stomach starts to loosen.
I click the Pound button to listen to the messages, skipping to the saved ones. A moment later, Mom’s soothing voice is in my ear.
Hi, Honey, it’s Mom—
—And Dad!
We’re just calling to check in, not because we’re at all worried about how things are going. There’s no one more capable than you to keep our shop running while we’re away.
Your Mom’s right. Seriously, Sweetheart, what would we do without you?
We’re just calling to say hi, to tell you we’re having a wonderful time and to thank you again for being the amazing daughter you are.
We love you!
The message ends.
I hold on to my phone for just a few moments longer, closing my eyes, and letting Mom and Dad’s voices be the hug I need right now.
A scratchy voice on the PA system announces the departure of the coach at gate 19 in five minutes.
I shove my phone away and notice a pair of worn brown leather shoes close to mine. I look up. Taj looks down at me. “You gonna be OK?”
I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a second to prevent the escape of a tear. Buck up, Gigi. But the sound of diesel engines from the buses all around only reinforces the fact that I’ve made a huge mistake even leaving home. I never should’ve let the girls take charge of my life. It’s so unlike me—and look where it got me. A dirty bus terminal and a failed plan.
Angus re-emerges from the bus and makes his way over to Taj and me, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, we’re all set,” he says to Taj. “Everyone else is happy to continue on, so now we’ve just got to figure out what you’d like to do, Gigi. I know a change of plans is never ideal, but I’m sure Zane will catch up to us tomorrow. And in the meantime you get me, Angus Brown. Longest-running tour guide in the company, I’ll have you know. Started the same summer Graham Wilkenson started giving tours at his father-in-law’s company. Got me a job and I never left. Anyway, enough about me. This is about you and Spires!” He pumps an arm into the air. “Shires!” Another fist pump. “And Shores!” I can’t help smiling. “It’s my favorite tour, and I’m happy to deliver it for as long as necessary, though, to be honest, I’ve come off a tour an hour or so ago, and I’m tired of hearing myself talk. I’m also quite tired and could really use a nap. But when duty calls, Angus answers, and when Graham calls, Angus also answers. And so, here I am.” He extends his arms. “So, what do you say, love? Will you get on board the coach and join us?”
Angus is so kind—and yet, it’s not enough. I look over at the bus. The windows are dark. Who is on there? In all my fantasizing about the tour I really didn’t give much thought to the other passengers. I was so focused on getting away, seeing England, hearing Zane talk . . . seeing if Zane might really be the one. Now, the reality of the situation sets in. I’m going to be stuck on a bus with a bunch of strangers—and what if Zane doesn’t show up tomorrow?
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus. The way I see it I have three options. One: rebook the tour for the next time Zane’s actually here from the start, which is impossible for way too many reasons. Two: turn around and go back to the airport, waste this gift and probably regret it forever. Or three: get on the bus and hope to see Zane soon.
Three. I have to do it. I open my eyes and nod.
That’s all Angus needs. He claps his hands and grins, then holds out a hand to me. I take it and stand. Taj grabs the handle of my suitcase and rolls it over to the storage compartment, hoists it under the bus, and then slams the door shut. Angus heads toward the doors of the bus and then motions for me to go first. I sling my bag over my shoulder, look around the bus terminal behind me, cross my fingers and hope I’m making the right decision, and climb aboard.
Chapter Six
Day 1, Sunday, 11:30 a.m.
London Cambridge
The bus is bigger than it looks from the outside. Heads bob over the navy fabric-covered seats, the backs only coming up to most people’s shoulders. The first set of seats has a stack of papers, a clipboard, a bunch of lanyards and a tattered paperback, the words Well-Travelled England in yellow font, the corner of the cover missing. An Indian couple bickers in the first pair of seats to my right. Behind them are two women in matching Patagonia fleece, hunched over something, their heads close together. Across the aisle from them is an older woman with buttery blond hair poking out from beneath a wide-brimmed pink hat. Behind her a skinny man with dark skin and a massive mop of black curls talks to himself, his voice scratchy. And finally, at the back of the bus, the only person younger than me is sitting, flipping her long, shiny black hair over one shoulder then the other, pursing her glossy lips and taking selfies on her phone.
“It’s 11:32 and we’re all sitting on the bus waiting to leave,” the guy with the scratchy voice says. “The last passenger is a middle-aged woman who’s taking a very long time to decide where to sit.”
When I meet his eyes, he turns to look out the window.
“I’ve been standing here for, like, half a second,” I say. “And I’m not middle-aged.”
The woman with the pink hat tilts her head back; her eyes meet mine and she smiles, then pats the seat beside her.
“Sit, Darlin’.” She stretches out the statement in a melodic Southern drawl as she moves her flamingo-patterned bag and white trench coat onto her lap.
I slide into the aisle seat, my head hitting the brim of her hat. She smells like talcum powder and freesia with a hint of pepper.
“Y’all know I’ve been wearing this hat since I left the hotel this morning. Can you imagine what my hair looks like underneath? It’s gonna be a fright, but for you, I’m gonna take it off because there’s no way we’re gonna be able to chitchat with this between us.” She removes the hat to reveal creamy skin, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth like tiny ribbons on a gift. “I’m Charlotte,” she says, smiling. Her lipstick—bright pink with just a hint of shine—looks freshly applied. She holds out a hand. Her fingers are soft, her nails slightly longer than her fingertips, rounded and painted pastel pink.
“Gigi.” I lean back into the seat. It feels broken-in and comfortable even if there’s no headrest.
My phone dings and I quickly pull it out of my purse.
So????? It’s a text from Dory. It’s got to be the middle of the night back home.
Hands trembling, I go to type back. He’s not here, but I mess up the letters so that when I hit Send I see that it’s autocorrected to He’s hot haha. I shove my phone away.
“Travelling alone?” Charlotte asks with interest, not pity, and I nod.
“Me too.” She sighs with contentment. “Oh, how I wish I’d thought to travel solo when I was your age. Are you enjoying yourself?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, not that I have a solid one anyway. “But I was already married by then, and we just stuck together like butter on bread. Now where did I put my hand cream?” She passes me her hat then begins rummaging around in her flamingo bag. “My hands get so dry—I even put hand cream and then gloves on them when I was on the plane because I read something in Good Housekeeping that said that really helps seal in the humectants in the cream, and I do think it worked though how can you really ever know unless you were to only put cream and a glove on one hand and not the other, and well, I didn’t do that, obviously.” She pulls out a small white tube. “There we are. I never used to get dry hands. I think it must have all changed after menopause. Something for you to look forward to,” she says with a chuckle as she rubs her hands together, then passes me the tube. I take it, squeeze a small amount into my hands and rub them together. At the front of the bus Angus appears, Taj behind him. Taj looks around, meets my eye, raises an eyebrow, then slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors. Angus takes off his paperboy cap and musses his hair.
“Isn’t he a tall drink of sweet tea?” I follow Charlotte’s gaze to Angus and then back to her. She puts a hand over her mouth. “Did I say that aloud? I’m not sure what’s come over me.” I smile. She’s comforting to be around, like I’ve known her for much longer than five minutes.
“Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello!” Angus calls out, waving his hands in the air. The bus gets quiet. “I’m Angus—but you all know that because I just introduced myself to you three minutes ago. But if you weren’t listening, there it is again. I’m Angus and I am absolutely delighted to be your guide for the Spires, Shires and Shores tour. How is everybody doing?”
Cheers and claps reverberate throughout the bus, and I look around. Everyone is laughing, eyes bright, teeth bared behind huge grins. It all underscores how much everyone else wants to be here on this tour. No one else seems even remotely affected by the change in guide—because everyone else likely booked this tour for the right reasons: the tour itself, not for some fantastical ideal that the tour would be led by their soulmate.
“Well, I’m doing just great, too, thanks for asking,” Angus chuckles. “Being a guide is my calling in life”—he cups his hands around his mouth and says: “Angus, Angus, time to tour!” Then chuckles to himself. “Alright, let’s get to the rules. I only have one. Can anyone guess what it might be?”
“The tour guide is now on the bus, and he’s asking us a question.” I look across the aisle at the man beside me—the one with the scratchy voice. He runs a hand through his curls and they fluff up. “His name is Angus,” he continues, “and he says there’s only one rule. I wonder what it could be.” Then he presses a button on a small black recorder, which makes a loud click.
Angus looks around. “Anyone? Anyone? Alright I’ll tell you. No matter what happens—the good, the bad, the ugly—we’ve got to roll with it.” He pauses for effect. “See why I like leading a coach tour? Roll with it?” He slaps his leg. There are a few chuckles throughout the bus, and Charlotte leans closer to me. “Isn’t he charming?” she whispers in my ear. My laugh drowns in a pool of disappointment. I should be listening to Zane crack actual funny jokes, not Angus cracking eye-rolling groaners. The bus lurches forward, and I pull out my headphones and phone, then shove the bag as far under the seat in front of me as it will go.
“I can’t promise that will be the last pun you hear from me,” Angus continues. “Though I do promise you’ll hear a lot more. I can also promise that each time I set foot on one of these coach tours I challenge myself to ensure each and every one of my guests has a wonderful time. I haven’t failed yet. Of course, if we come to the end of the tour and you haven’t had a wonderful time, please don’t leave a bad review, it only breaks my perfect track record.” He chuckles and looks around the bus as everyone laughs. When his eyes meet mine, he seems to give me an extra big smile, but I’m stuck on his words: end of the tour. Mere minutes ago he promised me he’d only be here for a day before Zane arrived. It was probably just out of habit—a spiel he’s delivered for years and years.
“Oops, forgot the most important rule!” Angus says suddenly as the bus turns a corner, heading out onto a busy street, with cars, cyclists and pedestrians filling every inch of pavement. “I know I said there was only one rule, but I lied. Everyone must buckle up. Safety is sexy!”
I pull the tough seatbelt across my body as Angus makes his way down the aisle, prattling on about the tour and the itinerary and handing out little booklets that he explains contain all the important information we’ll need on the trip. The stapled booklet is similar to the one Dory and my friends gave me. Flipping through the pages, I skim the town names, points of interest, hotel details and restaurant reservations. I close my eyes, remembering how I’d envisioned Zane explaining all these details in his sultry voice, standing a few feet away from me.
Is it possible to actually die of disappointment? Because I might.
“And there you are, your very first sight,” Angus declares, pointing to his right. “The majestic Buckingham Palace.”
I lean forward to see past Charlotte as we roll by the famous neoclassical limestone estate. Even though I’ve seen it dozens of times in photos and on TV, I’m blown away by seeing it now, in real life. I can’t believe I’m here, thanks to my friends. I feel jitter-buggy with excitement, the way I’d feel lying in bed, waiting until it was 5 a.m. on Christmas morning as a kid, when Lars and I were allowed to wake up our parents. I’m in England, a country I’ve forever wanted to visit—how bad could this all be?
Angus claps his hands together and announces the first activity, an on-the-bus icebreaker to learn more about each other. My body tenses up again. This is another activity that I would’ve been game for had Zane been leading it, but it just feels overwhelming in the current situation. How can I share more about myself when all I can think about is the fact that I’m here to meet someone who isn’t? “We’re going to play the Name Game, which is always a good way for us to learn each other’s names, yeah? So for example, if your name was Ben and you were six-feet-six inches tall, you could say, ‘I’m Big Ben.’ And it would be wonderfully British and coincidental if we were to pass Big Ben at that exact moment”—he points out the window as we pass the gothic-revival clock tower, which Angus explains is actually called the Elizabethan Tower.
