Chapter 13
Lesson 13: Revenge is a dish best served with a big fat smile on your face.
Bridget Jones Tally:
Alice—1
Robbie—0
On our way out of the Peak District National Park, smoke began to billow from the hood of old Rosie in great gray plumes of
ominous prophecy.
This part of the tour provided an educational oration that had not been in the brochure. I got to witness firsthand the infuriated
Scot in its natural habitat and learned an entirely new set of expletives alongside some of the old classics.
Of course there was bugger me , and bollocks , but there was also dobber , scunnert , fuck a duck , and bawbag , which I carefully recorded in my notepad to catalog such fascinating cultural gems. Most of this was said outside, when
his face was under the hood and out of earshot of the others whose hearing was not quite as reliable as my own.
“Alright, ladies. I’m so sorry for the wait. Rosie’s having a bit of trouble with her engine, and it’s not going away anytime
soon.”
“Is it the washer fluid again?” Berrta asked, eying me suspiciously.
“No, it’s most certainly not the washer fluid this time. I’ve called the insurance company, but I’m afraid it’s going to be
a few hours before they can find something big enough for the lot of us and bring it out to us here in the middle of nowhere.
I tried to get someone to give us a ride into town, to at least wait with a warm cup of tea, but those people are just about
as useful as tits on a fish, if you’ll excuse my saying so.” He rubbed a hand over his face and ruffled his hair in a gesture
that looked like defeat. “I’m truly sorry, ladies, but I’m going to have to ask you to sit tight.”
“Did I ever tell you that I caught a fish with tits once? Yes! That’s right. I was in my twenties. They called it a mermaid,
and they took it round the country in a traveling circus so that everyone could see the tits, and they had a parade and they called it Titstacular—”
“Honestly, Flossie!” Agatha interrupted. “The filthy rubbish you come up with! Why, just the other day she told the postman
that our cottage was a house of ill repute and that he could come in to be serviced so long as he promised to keep his socks
on. The postman , for Christ’s sake! With those jowls? There aren’t enough socks in the world.”
I watched my enemy’s mounting frustration with a childish glee.
“Can we get an exact time for when the new bus will arrive? I think we deserve to know that at least.” The time had come to
pay him back for the vomit heckling, and the bagpipes, and his stupid messy hair. I had waited for it. I had earned it. It
was just too good an opportunity to pass up in favor of maturity and decorum. What had maturity and decorum ever gotten anyone?
“I don’t have that information, obviously, or I would have already given it to you.”
“How old will the new bus be?” I asked next. “Newer than this one?”
“Well, it seems unlikely that it’ll be older, now doesn’t it?” He ground it out, trying hard to keep his voice slow and calm while the deepening furrows in his forehead gave him away.
Before he could stop me or stomp off, I fired another one at him. “What things will we be missing today on our tour? Will
adjustments need to be made? And if so, will anything be left off the itinerary?”
“I’m not sure. It’ll depend—”
“Will there be a vote about which things we will miss and which to see?”
“Yes. She’s right. I think ve vill all like to know this,” Berrta chimed in. “I like to vote.”
I saw him take a moment to master his face and voice, and then he very calmly said, “No decisions have been made at present,
Alice Cooper. But when they are I will be sure to inform you and everyone else immediately, if not sooner.” At that, he turned
on his heel and got off the bus before I could hit him with any further nagging.
By God, this is the best part of the tour so far! My blood was up. I needed more.
If there was anyone on the planet who needed a taste of his own medicine, it was this guy, and I was only too happy to oblige.
He was tinkering some more under the hood, so I crept down the steps and snuck up quietly behind him.
“ Hello! ” I said loudly just over his shoulder. I stepped back as he jumped and bumped his head on the hood. Three points!
He rubbed his head, squeezed his eyes shut for a long breath, and then turned around slowly. As he did, I snapped a shot of
him with my camera. “For records, you know,” I said with an innocent shrug.
“ Yes , Alice Cooper?” He used my full name slowly and with a sharp clip at the end that I did not much like the sound of. “How
can I help you?”
“I just thought I’d get some pictures to commemorate this exciting part of our tour.”
He rolled his eyes, the image of seething frustration, and I quickly snapped another photo. At that moment my only wish in the world was that I had brought my old Polaroid so it would have made the annoying whining sound as it spat out the photo, and then I could have flapped it vigorously in front of him to “help it develop.”
“Perfect! It’ll be great to attach photos to my Tripadvisor review. Can I get one of you standing closer to where all of that
smoke is pouring out of the antique engine over there?” His eyes flashed dangerously, and it sent a little thrill to the bottom
of my stomach. “Oh, who am I kidding? There’s plenty of smoke right there where you are. Any more and people might have trouble
seeing that sour little pout of yours.”
“What is it, Alice Cooper?” His voice was tight. “Do spit it out, so that you can go back to scraping your nails against a
chalkboard somewhere.”
I made my voice sugary sweet. “What are you doing in there? Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Because it kind of looks
like you’re just making a mess. On the plus side, at least you’ll finally have an excuse for being so grimy.” I crinkled my
nose.
“Get your arse back on the bus, you raving besom.” His accent was growing thicker by the second. His jaw was tight and furious,
but I could see in his eyes that he thought it was a little bit funny. I would just have to try harder.
“Oh! Is that Scots Gaelic? I was hoping that I’d get to hear some on this trip. How exciting! Can you spell it for me so that
I can write it down in my notebook?” I pulled it from my back pocket. “I already have bawbag and fuck a duck .”
“You’ll be hearing a lot more than that if you don’t leave me to get on with it.” He stepped closer, a wrench clutched in
his hand.
“Next question: When we get the new bus, will it have a working radio? The radio on this old thing must be stuck because it’s
played nothing but bagpipes since we left Edinburgh days ago.”
“The radio isn’t stuck. Those are my CDs. Scottish folk music. It’s perfectly suited to the tour.”
“It’s the absolute worst.”
“Sure. I guess it’s silly of me to expect that you could enjoy the sounds of anything other than the screams of men as you
crush their spirits.”
“Well, if that sounds anything like your CDs, then I’m not that interested, thanks.”
“Get back on the bus right now, and behave yourself.”
Something in his tone made my stomach flutter. He stepped in closer and looked down at me threateningly. He was warm from
working outside, and his T-shirt clung to him. His strong arms and hands were smeared with streaks of black grease. He even
had a little on his forehead and under a cheekbone. That same smell of cedar and spice mixed with his sweat and turned it
into something more primal. I fought back a sudden flash of craving.
“I’d very much like to, but the thing is, the sun is strong and it’s getting really warm in there, just like a greenhouse.
We would open the windows, but as you may or may not be aware, there are only two windows on the entire bus that still function
enough to be opened and closed. Two .” I held my fingers up. “So what should we do? You can’t just let us all suffocate in there.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I saw the corner of his lip twitch. Is he enjoying this? Or is he just picturing me dead of suffocation? “Perhaps if you weren’t dressed for a tour of the tundra today, it wouldn’t be such an issue. It is spring here in Britain
after all, Alice Cooper. Why don’t you just change into something more seasonably appropriate? Or are you incapable of undressing
yourself without assistance?”
I put my hands on my hips. It was a low blow. I was getting to him. It was thrilling. “How kind of you to offer your assistance in undressing me while covered in oil and leering at me openly on the roadside. I’ll be sure to include that little tidbit in the photo caption on my review.”
“Oh, it was a complaint, not an offer. I’m surprised that an Olympic complainer such as yourself doesn’t recognize one when
it comes up and bites you on the arse.”
I flipped open my notebook again, and wrote as I said aloud: “ Mentioned my ass. Again. Makes three times already today. Obvious obsession. Check for criminal record. ”
“My record is entirely clean, or it will be until I slowly choke the life out of you with these jumper cables.”
“Well. At least something about you is clean.” I gave his clothes and face a disappointed look, and tilted my head to the side to make a concession.
“Actually, I think I prefer your face this way. It’s so covered in grime that it’s difficult to make out the shapes underneath.”
He opened his mouth, but before he could get out his next remark, we heard Berrta’s booming voice from the bus. “Robbie. Are
ve all now able to get out?” His eyes widened in terror, and he looked at me as if he might actually kill me after all.
“No, Berrta,” I said quickly. “He said that I was the only one who was allowed to get off the bus. I don’t understand why.
But I’m coming back now. He’s really grumpy for no reason.”
“Unacceptable!” Berrta shouted, annoyed. “Robbie? Vhat is the meaning of this?” I ducked away quickly and skipped back to
the bus before he erupted like a volcano.
Magnificent. Sheer perfection. Performance art.
Back on the bus, the ladies and I talked and exchanged travel plans and stories, but after an hour or so, hunger set in in
earnest, and the chatty amiability plummeted in direct correlation with the blood sugar levels. People quieted, and I thought
to retreat for some time alone with my podcasts when an idea struck me.
“Would anyone be interested in listening to some stories?” I asked, and heard some inquisitive mumblings in response. “I like to listen to a podcast called The Moth . They go to different cities all over the US and ask people to get onstage and tell true stories about themselves live in
front of an audience. It’s just wonderful, and you see, I’ve got these travel speakers with me and a battery pack, so it might
be a nice way to kill some time if anyone is interested. Of course, we don’t have to if it doesn’t sound good, but I think
you might like it. What do you ladies think?”
“Yes, alright,” said Berrta.
“Good idea, love,” answered Doris, with a look that told me that she would have patted me on the hand if she was close enough.
“It’ll distract us from the hunger.”
The others agreed to give it a try. Agatha grumbled. “I prefer the silence, but I imagine many of you can’t bear to be left
alone with your own thoughts.”
Flossie smiled like a little girl with a lollipop. “Yes please, Alice. I just love stories!”
I took that as a consensus, and we started listening. The theme was “Escape,” and first up was a hilarious story of a woman
getting trapped inside a bathroom in Borneo in the middle of the night with a threatening gang of giant cockroaches. Next
we heard an uplifting story about a veteran who lost his legs, and the physical and emotional journey of getting his first
prosthetics. There was a tale about a woman who attempted to run away from a horrendous first date and managed to escape out
of the restaurant kitchen, but in her haste to leave got into a fender bender in the parking lot, thus drawing the attention
of the people inside the restaurant, including her unsuspecting date.
We laughed and we cried and gasped and rooted for them every step of the way. At the end, everyone applauded (except for Doris, who had fallen asleep, and Agatha, who had her usual look of a lemon—because she didn’t like it, or because she did and hated to be proven wrong, we may never know).
They asked me to put on another set of stories, and I obliged, deriving, as I always did, disproportionately abundant pleasure
from someone taking one of my recommendations and enjoying it.
It was a chocolate-glazed doughnut of a day.