Chapter Ten #2
“I feel like you’re trolling me,” Gus mutters, glancing my way.
“I’m just cold,” I say, shivering, not for effect, but the timing is undeniably helpful. Gus puts his hand out towards me.
“Want me to warm your fingers up?”
I glare. “No.”
He chuckles, taking his hand back. “We could swap? You’ll be out of the fans a bit more if you tuck in behind the chairs.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not. You just put a five-euro, extra-large black t-shirt with my face on it over a lovely summer dress because you’re shivering your butt off.”
“I just said, I’m fine. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes left of this journey,” I say. “I’ll survive.”
But unfortunately, the universe hears me.
Five minutes later, as we’re staggering up a hill at the pace of an old man inspecting a snail, the coach makes a choking, spluttering sound which has the driver grunting and cursing as he pulls over onto the gravelly side of the road.
“Oh, get fucked,” I say. “There’s no way! No. I don’t believe it.”
Gus sits taller, risking being seen, a notch between his brows, to get a better look too.
The driver pulls the handbrake and climbs out.
There’s a collective discussion between parties on the coach.
For some reason, nobody follows him out there to see what’s going on, we all simply wait to hear our fate.
When he returns, he shrugs and starts talking really fast in Croatian.
Gus nudges me. “What’s he saying?”
“I don’t bloody know, do I?”
“Ask someone.”
“Who?”
“People are getting off the coach.”
“Yes. Thank you. I also have eyes.”
“Should we get off too?” he asks, ignoring my jabs.
“I don’t know!” I say, waving my hands with frustration. “I know as much as you!”
“I say we follow them. They must know something.” Gus nods for me to climb out ahead of him, my black t-shirt hanging down over my butt, the white maxi dress underneath it. I look ridiculous. Like an obsessed fan with rubbish style. Gus puts his dark sunglasses on before we’re even outside.
We stroll behind the coach so we’re out of sight.
I see the girl with the Nike t-shirt again and practically pounce on her.
It feels akin to relationships formed in club toilets at two a.m. I don’t know her name, don’t know a single thing about her, but she might be my best friend in the whole world in this exact second.
“Oh hey. You didn’t happen to catch what he said, did you? ”
“Nah. But I asked that man over there to translate,” she says, turning away and lighting a cigarette. She has an aversion to providing detail. I feel my hackles rising.
“And what did he say?” I ask, reminding myself to use my polite talking-to-strangers voice.
She frowns up at me. Why is she frowning? She’s the one missing out key details. “He said the man is waiting for a mechanic to arrive.” She may as well have added “duh”. Then she adds, “Could take a while.”
“What’s a while?”
“I don’t bloody well know, do I?”
I feel like I’m speaking to my sisters. I just need a full answer. Why couldn’t she have given me all the details she had right away, and I wouldn’t have needed to ask her all these follow up questions she clearly finds so irritating. Gah!
Back to my other problem.
Popstar sits on a boulder at the side of the road, staring into the far distance.
The sea sparkles from here, amber-coloured islands in the distance, the sky a dazzling blue, not a cloud in sight.
He’s looking at his surroundings like he wants to get his camera out of the Konzum carrier bag he’s been using to lug his stuff around in and take a few photos.
But he doesn’t and I think it’s partly because he’s trying not to draw attention to himself.
“Right,” I say, approaching him and explaining the situation I’ve gathered off my new bestie, Nike Girl. “What’s the time?”
Gus takes his phone out and shows it to me. “Nearly two.”
I shake my head. “No. That can’t be right,” I say, snatching it from his hands. “There’s no way we’ve been travelling for four hours!”
“We haven’t. We were parked up for over an hour waiting for a new driver to arrive.”
“Shit,” I breathe out.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. I can’t quite describe the feeling I experience, but the closest I can get to it is – I imagine this is how a wasp feels seconds before it uses its stinger. “Don’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“That! Don’t be so dismissive of this situation. We need to get on that cruise! In two hours! It leaves in two hours.” I look away, running a hand through my hair and dropping my bag at my feet. “We’re so screwed.”
I plonk myself down beside Gus and press my face into my hands with a groan. I’m tired, sweaty and aching from sitting on that coach for nearly four gruelling hours and now I’m almost certainly going to miss my dream cruise again.
“We could walk,” Gus suggests.
I laugh at his joke because it’s either that or cry.
“No. Really. It says it’s an hour and thirty minutes’ walk from here to the port of Dubrovnik.”
I look up, squinting at him. His gaze is focused on his screen, so he doesn’t catch me taking in his side profile, loose curls falling over his forehead, that strong manly nose, full lips and prominent triangle in his throat.
It happens to be one of my minute attractions in a man. A really good Adam’s apple.