Chapter 8
Lesson 8: Never say yes to a stake through the heart.
Reading List: Dracula by Bram Stoker (read, but in high school)
Bridget Jones Tally:
shots—3
impulse buys—1
vomit—0
“Ahoy!” he said with a morning zeal that I found repugnant. “How are you feeling, Alice Cooper? Did you manage to get some
kip last night?”
“I did. You’ll find that I’m not as easy to rile up today.”
“Aww, don’t spoil all the fun.” His tone seemed to be good-natured, but I knew it for what it was—a threat. He would try extra
hard.
“Here. Try this.” He held out a black canvas duffel bag as the corner of his mouth ticked up. “It won’t withstand direct cannon
fire but is also significantly less likely to inflict spinal damage.”
It was nice and helpful. I knew it was. And yet his smug tone rankled me. I had always thought of myself as a mature sort
of person—an adult, surely—but somehow in front of this man and his stupid smirk, I was no more self-possessed than Veruca
Salt on a tour of the chocolate factory.
“I don’t want this. It smells like...” I stuck my face near the open zipper and breathed in. Heaven. Cedar. The inside of Jamie Fraser’s shirt collar. “Like feet. And smug sanctimony.” I held it out to him, but he made no move to take it back. In truth, I didn’t want to give
it back. What I wanted was to take it to my room and zip my whole head inside of it. Well, that’s unfortunate.
“Here. I’m sure you need your bag. I’ll buy something along the way.”
“Ach, go on, ya wee numpty. Surely no one could actually be this stubborn. Go on back to your room, repack your cauldron and
broomsticks, and then throw your ridiculous tank of a suitcase in the bin. Okay? See you outside in fifteen minutes.”
Annoyingly, he walked off before I got a chance to make any other stupid objections or demand that my father buy me the whole
chocolate factory. He was right, obviously, so I did as I was told. But why did he have to be so bossy and superior about
it?
It was a new day, and I had slept, I reminded myself. I could do better. While I would find it physically impossible to thank
this man verbally, I resolved to be a better person and buy him a thank-you coffee or beer, or whatever the beast drank—children’s
tears? human blood?
The plan was to start day two at the gorgeous ruins of Melrose Abbey, drinking coffees and eating pastries as we wandered
the grounds. And that is exactly what we did, but only after a bit of a scuffle.
We found a little café in town and had put our drink and cake orders in before waiting outside, when Doris’s little terrier,
Percy, took an instant dislike to a passing German shepherd, despite the much larger dog minding his own damned business.
Percy took to the air in attack mode. Time slowed like in The Matrix . Percy flew toward the shepherd’s face, mouth open, teeth bared, and Doris, leash in hand, went flying right along with him. We all gasped and yelled Nooooo!! , also in slow motion. I grabbed for Doris but wasn’t fast enough. Luckily, our guide snatched out with lightning speed and
caught a windmilling arm, stopping her before she could fall on a bad knee or hip.
While we worried over Doris, the dogs began a fight that sounded like they were ripping each other’s throats out. The other
dog owner—another tiny, fluffy-white-haired lady—was screaming as if she was witnessing a decapitation.
Both leashes had been dropped, and now the dogs spun in a bundle of fur and fury, saliva slinging in all directions, lassoing
tables and chairs with loose leashes and knocking over two large planters. The little woman looked down at the ruined pansies
and screamed again at the humanity of it all.
I came to my senses and leaped forward to try to do... Crap . What now? They were spinning so quickly that I didn’t know where to grab without being caught in the crossfire. With Doris secured,
our guide came over, threw himself in the scrum, and managed to tackle Percy. This gave the shepherd a chance to shuffle away
sideways with his back arched and his tail between his legs. The little lady grabbed his leash and shuffled away sideways
as well, while she and Doris shouted out random apologies to each other, to the café owners, and to everyone else within a
mile radius.
We checked Percy over afterward, who looked very proud of himself. There wasn’t even a scratch on him. I did at this time
notice that Percy’s official “service dog” vest looked suspiciously like a regular harness with the words service dog embroidered by a shaky hand.
“Oh, they never do draw blood, do they? It’s just a lot of noise and bravado.”
“Fool dog!” Agatha said straight to Percy. “You should have been left at home.”
Flossie reached down to Percy and covered his ears. “Oh. Aggie, don’t. Poor dear. I think he just wants to be taken seriously.” Her brows pinched. “I know exactly how you feel, Percy.” She scratched his ears until his foot kicked. “I think you’re very big and brave.”
“That’s right. Think he’s probably got something to prove since I had his nuts chopped off, haven’t you, Percy?” Doris laughed.
Agatha’s face pursed like a lemon in the sun.
Once our nerves settled and no one was any longer at risk of fainting, we went along to the ruins of Melrose Abbey and looked
up in wonder, letting the warm drinks soothe us. The weather was beautiful, and the birds were singing. Berrta, of course,
was elated to tell us all about the birds that roosted in the arches. Then a light shower came along and nudged us on our
way.
I felt... lighter. Better than I had in a long time. It was a beautiful morning, I had gotten some food and sleep, and
these ladies (and their loathsome leader) were keeping me too busy to worry over what my life had become and where it was
going, or to picture Hunter down on one knee holding my ring out to Misty’s boobs. This could still work. Perhaps it wasn’t
exactly what I had pictured, but it was already starting to work, wasn’t it?
We crossed the border into England and drove on through Northumberland National Park, past Newcastle, and stopped in Durham
for lunch and an afternoon’s wandering. A wide river hugged along the city’s curves and cliffs, its large stone bridge welcoming
us in. Carved into the bridge was a passage from Sir Walter Scott. After the intimacy of exploring his library, it felt like
a note from an old friend.
I went wild taking photos. I had to pinch myself. So this is what a vacation felt like. I was beginning to understand what
all the fuss was about.
We continued south to finish our day in the charming fishing town of Whitby. Just before we made it into town, our driver pulled off the road to make an unexpected stop. It was dusk. Eerie purple light filtered through the dancing trees, and in the bus we needed the glow of the lamps to see properly. He turned around slowly in his squeaky chair, stood dramatically, pulled an old book from behind his back, and, with no intro or explanation, began to read us a passage from Bram Stoker’s Dracula .
Stopped there on the side of the road with the sky darkening outside, and the bus deadly silent but for his deep voice resonating
low and heavy, he read us a creepy passage with a grim theatrical flair that made the hairs raise on my arms, his blue eyes
dark and flashing with mischief. When he was done, there was a full minute of silence. Then the group began to applaud enthusiastically,
and even I had to give in and join them. He swept an invisible cape into a deep bow.
“Now, for those of you who have traveled with me before, you’ll know that every once in a while I like to surprise you with
something that is not on the itinerary. Tonight is one of those nights. Whitby served as inspiration and partial setting for
Bram Stoker’s Dracula , and a festival was created to celebrate the connection—the Whitby Goth Weekend. Perhaps this isn’t a festival that many
of you would go to of your own accord, but it will be a perfect opportunity for a spooky tour, and an evening stroll to a
night bazaar. The people watching will be the best bit. Attendees work all year on their costumes. They’re really quite extraordinary.
“So...” he continued with a hint of challenge in his voice, “for those of you brave enough to participate, we will be arriving
at the inn shortly, where you will have a chance to change and gather your things before we head out.” After a moment he added,
“I would recommend wearing your darkest clothes and heaviest makeup.” All the ladies started to chat excitedly while we got
back on the road. A smile stretched so wide across my face that I didn’t even try to hide it.
We were told to meet at the bar in the inn. As I waited to see how many of us would show, I began to fret. Is this going to be just the two of us again? Oh God. I had worn my heeled black leather boots with gray skinny jeans and a black silk top with a trim of eyelash lace lining the
deep V of the neck. Why on earth did I have to wear this stupid smokey eyeliner and blood red lipstick? Maybe I can still sneak out.
Across the bar, he was laughing while talking to some older local man, and I saw him falter when I arrived. He quieted for
a second or two before remembering that he was in the middle of a sentence. Crap. He’s seen me now. No escape.
To my relief, every single one of the ladies turned up over the course of the next ten minutes, all in dark clothes—some casual
in jeans, while others who put in more effort looked decidedly spooky, like reverse Miss Havishams, in black instead of white.
I loved it! Berrta, true to form, wore khakis, sensible shoes, and a brown sweater.
Our ghoulish guide wore a smart, dark gray tweed jacket and a pinstripe vest, with buttons opened at the white shirt collar
and his hair coiffed at an angle like a rakish Victorian gentleman. Under different circumstances, perhaps in a parallel universe
where he was mute, I might have admitted to my heart stopping for just a moment. As it was, however, his personality had precluded
me from feeling even the slightest stirring of lust. Well... perhaps just one tiny stirring, but it was quickly snuffed
out by the irritated indignation that I had been storing and stoking carefully since our first encounter.
We were led to a nearby seafood restaurant on the wharf with stunning views over the water. Striking curved beams in light
wood provided a dramatic ribcage to the room. Before the food even arrived, I had already inhaled two of the most heavenly
cocktails I had ever tasted. They were serving a special cocktail list for the festival, and I chose one with blood orange,
thyme, and gin called The Blood Vow. It was a luxurious, deep-garnet color, in every way the perfect complement to the salt
air, seafood, and electricity the festival brought to the evening.
By the end of the meal, I had had four cocktails and a deadly Stake Through the Heart shot that Helena had treated us all to a round of. I wasn’t usually so heavy-handed with the drinks, but I had been building
steam like a pressure cooker, and it felt good to finally relax and celebrate the beginning of my first ever real adventure.
Like it or not, I was starting a new chapter in my life. Why not turn over a new leaf? I wanted to be the girl who did all
the things she wished she could do, instead of the girl who just wistfully wrote her wishes down in a sad, premature bucket
list. And there I was, traveling across Great Britain, finally the heroine of my own story. It was worth commemorating.
Besides, I would stop before I lost control, as I always did. And I was having fun with the ladies. We were all getting to
know one another better, and their personalities were starting to shine through. I no longer had to check my list to remember
their names. As we all relaxed into our cocktails, sharing stories and telling jokes, our volume turned up and so did the
laughter.
Afterward, we walked slowly through the streets and listened to stories about Bram Stoker and the bloodlust of the Victorian
era. I floated along merrily on the fumes of blood orange cocktails as we discussed our favorite Gothic tales, old and new,
from The Turn of the Screw to Mexican Gothic .
The costumes transported us to an underworld whose inhabitants reveled in a strange and ghoulish beauty. Big, billowing corseted
gowns, silk top hats, elaborate hair, masks and makeup—they were incredible, from the gorgeous and opulent to the truly terrifying
and everything in between. On the hill, the sharp teeth of the ruined Whitby Abbey bit at the sky above us, lit up in purples,
greens, and blues.
We found our way to the bazaar and split naturally into groups that merged and divided again as we perused the offerings: black lace parasols, creepy antiquated medical equipment, corsets, hats, Victorian taxidermy, and rows upon rows of books.
I found a beautiful copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray from 1892, bound in dark sapphire leather with faded gold gilding and gorgeous marbled edges, and fell helplessly under its
spell. It smelled divine, like a shadowy library with a roaring fire. I paid a small fortune for it in a giddy rush of longing.
I probably would have been able to prevent this if not for the blood cocktails. But every time I remembered it there in my
handbag, I got a little excited flutter of buyer’s ecstasy in my stomach, like a new romance waiting to be explored.
It was a short walk back, and we decided to stop for one last drink before turning in. We picked an ancient pub that was all
worn stone flagging and black wood. We had to duck to get in.
“Our shout,” called Madge. “What’s your poison, Alice?”
“Hmm... a half-pint of cider, I think.”
“Just a half?”
“’Fraid so. Whitby is getting a little bit spinny.”
She laughed and clapped me on the back. “Half-pint it is, then.”
We were there just long enough to finish one drink, but in that time my voice began to slur at the edges and the room slid
under my feet.
Oh boy, what did they put in those cocktails? Gin. The answer was gin .
I got up to use the restroom and bumped hard into the doorway with my shoulder, reeling off like a pinball in the direction
of the toilet. I don’t know how long I sat there to pee, but my eyes were stinging from my tussle with the doorframe, and
before I knew what was happening, tears were sliding down my face in earnest.
It had been a long time since I had gone out like this... without Hunter. I was having a great time, but it felt odd and disconcerting to not have him at my side. The gin was really soaking in now, and as the room swirled past, so did my poor excuse for a life, each failure present in vivid detail.
What would I do when the trip was over? When all the busy magic of traveling had come to an end and I had to go back home
to no fiancé, no job, no prospects, and having squandered most of the little savings I had left? I just didn’t understand
how I had gotten to this place. I had worked so hard. I had done everything I was supposed to do. Now it was all gone.
Booze sometimes makes me a bit emotional, so there I was, resting my head on the side of the cubicle, pants around my ankles,
crying heartily, when I heard the door creak open. I sniffled and gulped in a useless effort to be quiet, but I heard a little
tap on the door.
“Alice, dear? Is that you in there?” a voice that was Helena’s asked.
I tried to answer but succeeded only in making various squeaks and wet noises.
“What’s the matter, darling? Why don’t you come on out here, and we’ll wash your face and have a chat? Hmm? Doesn’t that sound
nice?”
I weighed my options, but knew I didn’t have many. I could sob in there on the toilet with the door locked until the barkeep
finally broke it down at closing, or I could pull my pants up, blow my nose, dry my eyes, and go back out there before I made
a melodramatic opera of myself.
A few minutes later, I was slightly drier and standing in front of the mirror next to Helena.
“There...” She washed my face with a damp hand towel. “Now, do you want to have a little heart-to-heart about what has
made you so upset, or do you want to head back out there and talk about it another time?”
I knew if I talked to her that I would spiral all the way back down, and we’d spend the better part of an hour here in the stale, pee-tinged air of the women’s lavatory.
“Thank you, Helena. That’s so nice. I think I’d rather talk ’bout it another day, and go head on back to the inn now.” Wow—I sound super sober! I’m doing a really good job. I wonder if she can tell I’m swaying. Probably not. “You’re s’beautiful,” I added. “So elegant.” I began touching her hair uninvited. “I hope I look like you when I’m old.”
She laughed. “Well, part of that was nice. Let’s focus on the positive, shall we? Now, let’s fix you up so that you’re ready
to face the world. Stand there, and let me see what I can do.”
She took out an expensive compact, and expertly dabbed my face back to a normal hue. “I’ve certainly got a lot to work with
here. Porcelain skin, lovely cheekbones, Cupid’s bow lips...” She blotted on a beautiful shade of Chanel lipstick in a
soft rosy pink that made me look as if I’d just been thoroughly kissed. I smiled a shaky smile at her, thanking her for the
compliments while she pulled out her mascara. “...the biggest, most beautiful almond-shaped hazel eyes I think I’ve ever
seen... and this thick, glossy mane of auburn hair that makes every lady on the bus green with envy.” She combed her fingers
through my messy waves, forcing them into submission. It felt good.
“Thank you.” I hugged her, and almost cried again, but before I could she marched me out of the restroom and back to the table
with a fresh glass of water. I tried my best to blend in with the wall while the ladies collected their purchases and readied
themselves to leave.
“Robbie, dear. Would you be a gentleman and help the gorgeous Alice back to the inn? She’s a little unsteady in those boots
after such a long day.” She kindly avoided the descriptor sloppy drunk , which would have been far more accurate.
His mouth tightened. “Of course I will.” He stood up and offered me his arm, but I hoisted myself up onto my heels and waved him away.
“No, thank you. Totally...”— what’s the word again? —“unnecessary. I’ll do jusfine on my own, fank you very much.”
He stood disbelieving, arm held out to me until I pushed past him. I heard him call out my name and took it as a cue to move
faster.
Some of the hills are steep in Whitby, and unfortunately in my lifetime I had earned myself the reputation as a toppler, even
when sober. I don’t know why, but every once in a while, one of my ankles goes rogue, and I collapse in a heap. I also do
not always look where I am going. If to this mix you add high heels and alcohol, the chances that I will topple shift squarely
from possible to inevitable.
When I did trip, I came down hard and into a puddle. Why is the ground always so wet here when I fall on it? The ladies hurried over flapping and screeching like worried geese, but he was there in a flash, quickly lifting and moving
me to a step where I could sit and lick my wounds.
“I think... I think I just need a minute here. To rest. You sh’go on. Get the group home. I’m really okay. I’ll be there
in... a minute.”
He laughed at that. “Christ, you’re stubborn. No chance. Just wait here. Don’t even think about moving.” He raised his eyebrow
then in a stern threat, waiting to see if I would disobey. I nodded, and he went to talk to Helena, telling them to carry
on the short distance back and making sure that they knew the way.
He sat by me and draped his jacket over my shoulders. It was nice to have a human body next to mine, warming me on one side,
even if it was his (mostly human) body. I’m not sure how long we sat there in silence, him eventually flipping through a book he had bought at the market, and me with my eyes closed, trying to make my head stop spinning. Did I fall asleep at some point? I don’t remember. But of one thing I am absolutely certain: I did not vomit there down the stairs, nor at any point that evening, and it is, to this day, a glowing source of pride for me.
We hobbled home. I’d ripped a small tear in the knee of my jeans, and though both knees were wet from the fall, one stuck
fast to the fabric and pulled a bit painfully at each step with what I suspected was drying blood.
After another threatening look that made me think he would have made an excellent schoolteacher, I put my hand in the crook
of his arm to hold on to in case my ankles should conspire to fell me again. He put his other hand over mine to make good
and sure that it wouldn’t slip away unexpectedly. The warmth of it traveled right up my arm.
I gave his bicep a bit of a feel through his crisp white shirt. It was so solid and smooth, and my hand was already right
there. How could I help myself? I had hoped the grope would go unnoticed, but I saw his signature smirk on his lips before
I turned away.
We managed the stairs slowly, but saw none of the ladies milling about the bar or hallways; they must all have gone to bed.
He dropped me off at my room, opening the door for me. He knew I’d never manage the fiddly keys.
“Alright then, there you are. Now promise to drink plenty of water before bed. We don’t want any sore heads the morrow. Okay?
I’m just down the hall in room fourteen if you need anything.”
I nodded and went in as he closed the door behind me. It wasn’t long before I realized I couldn’t get my jeans off. They were
tight and wet and stuck to the scab on my knee, and I was very drunk indeed. I had gotten one boot off. It was too painful
to bend my knee to remove the other one. I tried to unzip the long boot zipper a few times with the toes of my other liberated
foot, but only succeeded in falling over very slowly.
I sat for a minute or two and considered my options. I couldn’t get into the bed with a shoe and muddy jeans. I could sleep on the ground, but the old wooden flooring was terribly cold and uneven, and even with the booze and exhaustion, I knew I would feel like death in the morning. I needed the bed.
All the ladies would have been sleeping soundly by then. I didn’t like it, but there was nothing I could do. The alcohol had
long ago flushed away the majority of my inhibitions. I needed help, and there was only one person I could ask.