Chapter 3
Lesson 3: Never start a battle you cannot win, neither with a cobbled street nor an equally cold and immovable man.
Bridget Jones Tally:
blood spilled on Scottish soil—4 drops
thoughts of maiming—27
tampons—34
short, sensible hairdos—7
As it turns out, St. Andrew’s Square was fairly large—large enough at least to not know where the heck I was supposed to be
waiting. Christ, I was already ten minutes late! I hated to be late. I was never late. Soon I would find out I had missed my bus and immediately combust into a pillar of over-caffeinated
flames on the sidewalk.
I scanned the parts of the square that I could see. It was a vast square of beautiful Georgian buildings enclosing a large
park, with a massive phallic monument adorning its center. I had thought it would be obvious where to go, but saw nothing.
Nothing indicated the pickup point: no signs, no large group of women with backpacks already bonding and cackling freely,
no large green buses. Was it green? I pulled out my confirmation email and quickly skimmed the instructions.
Look for the green bus with a sign in front that says boadicea adventures . It will be parked near the bus station and tram stop next to Harvey Nichols. Please have your documents ready for inspection.
We appreciate your choosing Boadicea Adventures and look forward to the pleasure of your company. Your adventure awaits!
At this moment I’d like a little less adventure, thank you very much.
Then I spotted the harvey nichols sign. It was on the other side of the square. Because why wouldn’t it be? I girded my loins and prepared to book it over.
Sadly, the following four things conspired against me:
I had worn my tall leather boots with the heels to cleverly save space in my luggage. [Note: Not so clever after all. Do not
do this.]
My ridiculous-beyond-reason Air Armor was a useless padded boulder with only one wonky wheel.
The combination of starvation, stress, and sleep deprivation was finally taking its toll.
Cobblestones.
I had imagined myself sprinting like a gazelle and making it in record time to arrive elegantly windswept and a little pink
of cheek. The reality was that dragging my heavy Air Armor was like pulling a porpoise by a leash down a gravel road. All
my personal items that weren’t in my suitcase were strapped to my person, and they thumped and jangled against me as I frantically
scrambled at the speed of Vaseline. I did not press the button at the crosswalk, I did not wait for the light to change, I
did not cross at the designated pedestrian crossing. Who has time for that? Safety be damned!
One minute I was Frogger, dodging between moving cars, and the next I was a heap in the middle of the road with scraped hands and knees and a line of traffic behind me.
I waved from my prostrate position to signal that I was still alive, and silently implored drivers and onlookers to politely
ignore me and go about their business, for the love of God.
I stood myself up and saw that the worst had happened. My leather tote had dislodged from my shoulder and toppled over, liberally
spewing its contents all over the street. Little jars of hand lotion, bottles of contact solution, hand sanitizer—all of which
had been measured and decanted for carry on travel—twirled and rolled around in front of me, under cars, and into gutters.
All my carefully printed and highlighted itineraries and information took flight, billowing romantically through the rain-slicked
street. My tampons (yes, tampons!) hadn’t gone far, however. They laid there littering the area about me in alarming abundance,
dutifully absorbing the gray street water.
I took one single, calming breath and then began the humiliating business of squatting and crawling in high-heeled boots to
collect my very personal items in a very public display.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I said to the drivers and the universe in general. “Just one second, please.” To my horror, a car horn
sounded from behind me, and others began to chime in.
“Need help, hen?”
“No, thank you.”
“Come on, princess. Get out of it! Some of us are in a hurry.”
Dear. God.
I quickly surveyed the remaining items, did some rapid triage calculations, grabbed items deemed most important, and left
the rest to their fate. I clambered the remainder of the way toward Harvey Nichols in pain, and nearly in tears. The tour was sure to have left by now , I thought. It was almost twenty past, and I didn’t see the bus parked anywhere.
Then a light green bus caught the corner of my eye. It was only just pulling up! I stood there amid a cluster of cute little
old ladies ( On a walk to buy some stamps , I assumed, how nice for them ) and thanked my lucky stars.
A vaguely familiar form swung lithely out of the driver’s seat and put up a wooden sandwich board in front of the bus that
said boadicea adventures underneath their logo of the epic Celtic warrior queen. I was so flooded with relief and gratitude that I started to laugh.
They hadn’t left without me. It was all going to be fine. My great plan was still on track. I could buy more tampons in transit.
Suddenly, all the fresh joy, the happy chemicals, the optimism about this trip evaporated in one wretched moment of recognition.
It was him: the basket-full-of-assholes from the airport. How? Why? Will he be along with us for the whole tour? Could I get a refund and then just lay back down in traffic?
I watched as he pulled out a little wooden step and placed it in front of the door of the bus—needless, surely, when the bus
already had a built-in step only a foot from the ground. Then my horror deepened and solidified into a cannonball in the pit
of my stomach. The little gaggle of gray and papery centenarians shuffled on to the bus one at a time, some giving Scottish
slimeball a kiss on the cheek as they used his outstretched hand for leverage in the mighty effort to hoist themselves up
to the four-inch-high step.
This couldn’t be right. Was there another bus? One with all the cool, young, globe-trotting women with piercings, meaningful
tattoos, and passport inserts as thick as a sandwich? Where were those kindred spirits that had an insatiable lust for adventure?
The walking archives of the best travel stories you’d ever heard? Where were the gap year students? Where were the cool chicks
from the website photos? Where were all my new friends?
I stood stock-still while they each took their time over the task of getting onboard and settling down. The overbearing ass with the Scottish accent took out his clipboard and started marking off names. With a little crinkle of his brow, he began looking around for the last attendee. Crap! Is it too late to hide? Should I abandon my bags and run?
This couldn’t be happening. I would rather drown myself in the gutter next to my tampons than get on that bus. Of course,
he eventually noticed me standing there right in front of him. Perhaps the only reason he had not done so sooner was because
I did not resemble Miss Marple on her way to solve a mystery, and was, therefore, rather different from his usual clientele.
I saw a flicker of something cross his face—shock, recognition surely, and then amusement, all quickly hidden away.
“Alice Cooper?” He looked down at my name again, and his mouth tightened at the corners. Here we go.
In high school, there was one year that people would sing “School’s Out” at me every single day as the final bell rang. One
time I fell asleep at a party and woke up with Alice Cooper’s diamond eye makeup drawn on me in permanent marker; it had taken
a week and several layers of skin to scrub it off completely. If there was a joke about my name, I’d already heard it, and
I hadn’t laughed the first time.
“Yes. Obviously. Should I assume you are the bus driver?”
“Yes. Obviously,” he repeated but without my menace. “Robbie Brodie.” He stepped in to shake my hand, but I ignored it. Burn! He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “Thanks for booking with us, Miss Cooper. Do you have a copy of your trip
documents so we can complete the registration and get started on our trip?”
He was all business now, as if nothing unpleasant had transpired between us. The gentlemanly thing would have been to acknowledge it and apologize for his poor behavior. I stared at him, waiting. The moment stretched out between us—the moment where he would prove himself to be a decent human being, so that I could explain that I had been testy because I’d had the worst day in human history and then shake his hand while I magnanimously muttered something about bygones.
He checked his watch. “Or did those go the same way as your suitcase?”
The moment passed like a kidney stone. He obviously had no intention of apologizing. And clearly he was no gentleman.
I looked at the old bus with the ancient ladies inside and then back at his stupid face. A familiar smirk tugged at the corner
of his mouth. He thought this was funny. It was lots of things—funny certainly wasn’t one of them. The very idea of spending
three solid weeks in the company of the mothball mob, and this, the most detestable man in Christendom, dashed every hope
I had, every plan I’d made, every list I’d written, to smithereens.
I had foolishly assumed that my heinous thirty-six-hour flight, the gatekeeper, the broken suitcase, the airport asshole war,
being late, and falling in the middle of the street, where my toothbrush landed on a wad of prechewed gum, was the absolute
limit for the amount of calamitous fuckery the universe would allow before spacetime ripped apart. Evidently I was wrong.
I had to get out of this. I would fight like the trapped rat I was. Fight or flight—I was hoping for both.
“Wait just one minute.” I tried to sound threatening. “I have some questions.” He cocked an eyebrow without the slightest
bit of concern.
“Do ya now? What a surprise.” Rude!
“ This ”—I waved my hand toward the bus—“isn’t the tour that I booked.”
“That’s odd. I’ve got your name right here. It’s hard to miss.”
I scowled. He grinned.
He crossed his arms and leaned back against the bus, eyebrow raised, with a look that teetered between exasperation and boredom. I had tried to work myself up for a fight, but now I didn’t have to. His smug, arrogant face made me angrier with each passing second.
“This is false advertising. This tour was described as a... what was it?” I opened the wet confirmation I’d salvaged from
the road. “A ‘history-based British adventure designed for the young at heart looking to foster strong bonds with an international
and dynamic friend group.’ Does that particular group of ladies look youthful and dynamic to you? The banner on your website
has a photo of outdoorsy twentysomethings climbing on castle ruins. These women had trouble climbing the step on to the bus!
And I’m the only one here that isn’t British, aren’t I?”
“Not at all. One very nice lady has come all the way from Germany.”
“So just the two of us then?”
“Yes. But she’s very German.” He smiled. “And you’re clearly very American.”
Anger coiled its way up my throat. “What is that supposed to mean? This trip has been grossly misrepresented. And this bus is an antique! Are you seriously planning to hold
us hostage in that unreliable clunker for three whole weeks? It’s not going to make it across Britain—I’d be surprised if
it manages to roll out of that parking space. And this is supposed to be an all-woman tour, but clearly you’re not a woman, are you?”
He smiled—a slow, spreading thing. “Noticed, did you?”
“Oh my God! This is so unprofessional. Nothing about you is professional.”
Now it was my turn to look him up and down in judgment. He wore old Converse and faded jeans and, despite the cold wind, a plain, gray T-shirt that had been washed so many times it looked like a second skin. His dark hair was a tousled mess, and he had scruffy stubble that was lazily on its way to becoming a beard. I waved my hand around. “This isn’t the uniform of someone who takes pride in their job. It’s the uniform of someone who lives in smoky back-alley bars, drinks too much hooch, and busks for money. You look... like a wastrel.” Oh God. Did I just say wastrel ?
He bit back a laugh and had to cough and rub his stubble to hide a smile. He took a breath and schooled his face.
“Alright. I’ve taken note of all your complaints. Now can you please give me your papers and get on the bus, Miss Cooper?
I know you only just strolled up, but if you haven’t noticed, we’re now half an hour late.”
“ You just got here! Which, by the way, is a great way to start the trip. Late, messy, rude, and unreliable before the bus even
rolls off the lot.”
He wasn’t getting upset or angry. In fact, he was remaining perfectly calm. Aggressively calm. And it was edging me off the cliffs of insanity.
“About how long is this going to take, do you think? Perhaps we could save some time if you put all of this melodrama in a
letter for me to read later.”
One of my eyes twitched. If I hadn’t bitten all my nails down, I would have scratched his stupid face off. I stepped closer
and growled like an animal.
“Oh, you want some melodrama, do you? Well, buckle up, asshole. You pushed me at the airport—you shoved me and knocked my phone to the ground—without an ounce of shame or a word of apology. Who acts like that? And now you want
me to just keep quiet and join the Golden Girls up there on that rust bucket and forget it ever happened? To spend three damn
weeks trapped on a bus with you? I can’t think of anything worse! You couldn’t pay me to step foot in that damn—”
A low rumble of laughter broke my stride. He may as well have slapped me. “Wow. When I suggested that you schedule your tantrum for later, I didn’t mean now.”
I seethed. “You can take this phony little tour of yours and cram it right up your ass! I want a full refund!”
He let out a breath and stepped closer. “Look. This tour isn’t about me. Why, you’ll hardly even notice I’m there.”
I scoffed. “Impossible.”
“It’s about having an adventure and meeting new friends. Like this group of vivacious ladies. I have been guiding these tours
for three years now, and I can personally attest to the fact that most of the women who book them are just as youthful and
dynamic as twentysomethings, with a good deal more wisdom and experience. You’re concerned that you can’t find value, interest,
and friendship with this particular group of women because of their age? I think that says more about you than it does about
them. You’ve not even given them a chance, have you?”
I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came. I floundered. Damn! How dare he be right!
“And as for a refund, I’m afraid it’s impossible. You’ll find it all clearly laid out in the terms and conditions, which I
am sure you read thoroughly before booking. It will all be in the confirmation email you have clutched there in your wee hand.”
“Well, that’s hardly valid after you—”
“Now, you’re free not to join us, of course. The choice is yours. But you’d be missing out on a memorable trip with a wonderful group of people.
So why don’t you go ahead and hop on? The fun is about to start.” He put his hand near the small of my back and tried to guide
me toward the door. I stepped out of his reach, all the angrier for being treated like the sheep to his border collie.
He and I stared unblinking, neither of us willing to back down. My breathing was heavy and ragged. His was completely tranquil, though his gaze was so intense that a lesser woman would have crumbled under the weight of it.
Curiosity forced me to break eye contact and throw a glance up to the windows of the bus. A few of the women had been drawn
in by the ruckus and were peering down at us with unmasked interest through Coke-bottle glasses, while others appeared to
be sleeping already, and yet another had gotten her knitting out.
“Do you need a hand getting up?” He gestured to the four-inch step. I hated him.
My mind raced for a winning maneuver but came up empty-handed. If he wasn’t going to give me a refund, what could I do? It
would cost another small fortune to travel the UK on my own. I had no plans. No reservations. No itinerary. No spreadsheets.
I would either have to return home with my tail between my legs or try to make my paltry budget stretch for three weeks traveling
on my own, risking a panic attack, homelessness, destitution, certain depression, haggis poisoning, and lord knew what else.
I was counting on this holiday. I couldn’t allow this weapons-grade irritant to ruin my journey of self-growth before it had
even begun to work its magic.
Damn it!
I stood there breathing a minute longer, still unwilling to back down. Some old lady at the back of the bus rattled off a
Gatling gun fart. Our eyes narrowed, as if in response to a war cry. It was a showdown. A battle of wills.
Unfortunately, as much as I loathed him for it, he held all the cards.