Chapter 14
Lesson 14: Sometimes people are only staring at your face because there’s food on it.
Bridget Jones Tally:
pints—2
sandwiches—2
pirates—2
We had arrived late to our pub/inn in a village in Nottinghamshire called Barnby in the Willows. How cute was that? But some
hours after I went to bed, my body roused itself against my will, and all efforts to meditate, count sheep, or simply will
myself back into sleep’s warm embrace were for naught. Eventually I got out my book and kept the light on low, hoping that
my eyelids would grow heavy in a soporific trance and slide back down under the covers. Unfortunately, Bill Bryson’s exciting
descriptions of his British travels had me looking up sites and making lists, which had the opposite effect. I was never going
to sleep.
My stomach grumbled. I had tried to ignore the growing hunger pangs in the hope that they would pass, but no such luck. I was starting my period soon, and it always made me ravenous. I could stand no more. I hopped out of bed, wrapped myself up in my robe, and put my slippers on.
Crap. 2:23 a.m. Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ll wither and die here if I don’t go downstairs and find something to scavenge. I hoped there was a nice barman closing up who would be kind enough to let me buy a bag of chips or something. Crisps—I must remember to call them crisps. Although at that point I would have offered a lap dance for a few dry saltines.
I tiptoed, trying my best to be quiet, but the bowed, two-hundred-year-old floorboards creaked and tattled on me as I made
my way gingerly down the hall. I heard Percy bark, curse him. I crept down the stairs and peeked around the corner. I didn’t
want to traipse down in the middle of a lock-in at the little pub in my pajamas, but I heard no voices, and the lights were
off. I did see one light on in the kitchen behind the bar. I’m not normally one to be flexible where rules are concerned,
but there’s a certain point in starvation when my stomach overrides my sense of propriety and better judgment, and I was there.
I tapped on the swinging door, then pushed it tentatively open, an apology on my lips, ready to plead for any available scraps.
But what I saw stopped me. Our tour guide was in the kitchen, riffling through the fridge and speaking quietly on the phone.
When the hinge squeaked and gave me away, it looked as if I had been eavesdropping.
He hung up the phone and pulled his head out of the fridge.
“Ahh... look at what skulks in the shadows.”
“I’m not skulking . I’m just... well, I’m starving.”
“Of course you are. You ordered a salad for dinner, did you? Come on in, and let’s fatten you up.”
“Was my order wrong too? However did I keep myself alive this long without you?” I poked, but I was too hungry for any real
menace.
As I walked in, he came over and stretched his hand out. “Truce?” he asked. “Well, only temporarily, of course. Until we refuel. Then we can go back to trying to kill each other with renewed vigor.”
“Truce,” I agreed. “But only with the proviso that any and all kitchen utensils—for, say, tenderizing meat or fileting fish—be
considered fair game as soon as we’re done.”
He laughed. The sound of it filled the kitchen. I could have sworn the temperature rose a few degrees.
“How about a sandwich and a pint? Will it do, do you think?”
“Well, I’d really prefer hot boiled haggis in a fresh, steaming sheep’s stomach, and warm scotch served in a ram’s horn, but
I suppose sandwiches and pints will do in a pinch.”
“A lady of refined tastes.” He laughed. “On you go then.”
Together we moved around, busily slicing bread, shaving chunky cuts of roast chicken, washing and chopping the tomatoes and
lettuce, and sourcing various cheeses and condiments. We stepped back and surveyed our provisions.
“A feast!” I licked my lips like a cartoon cat staring at a canary.
He laughed. “Do you need me to hold you back, or can you manage to restrain yourself until the sandwiches are assembled?”
“At this point, you may have to tie me to that chair.”
Something flashed in his eyes, and in that moment my mind played a scene, a very vivid scene that sent heat to my cheeks,
but he didn’t skip a beat.
“I may just do that... because you’ll have to wait a bit longer to give me time to make a proper mayonnaise, and after
seeing that look on your face, I don’t trust you enough to turn my back on you for even a second.”
“Make a mayonnaise? Mayonnaise isn’t something that’s made... it’s something that’s bought... in a gallon jar...
at Walmart.”
His eyes widened dramatically, and he scoffed. “I rescind the former compliment. You have no taste. Come on, then.” He took me by surprise, grabbing my hand and pulling me over to the table. “I suppose it’s my duty to educate you.”
“It sounds unlikely that a person like you would be capable of teaching me anything worthwhile.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, and my cheeks heated again. “Are you a particularly slow learner? Well, this recipe is simple
enough for even the thickest American.” I gasped out some indignation, but he pulled me forward. “Okay—egg, bowl, whisk, lemon,
tiny bit of mustard, salt. Now I’m going to separate the yolk”—which he did sensuously with his bare hands like a TV chef—“and
then I’ll start beating this yolk rapidly.”
“Rather a practiced hand, I don’t doubt.” He barked in surprise at my rudeness and laughed unreservedly, then tsk ed me through a grin. “Lowering the tone will only distract me and break the mayonnaise.” He shifted his focus to the bowl
and began whisking the egg into a lighter color. The grin, I couldn’t help but notice, felt like a small victory. “Now what
I need you to do is pour the oil in very, very slowly while I beat the egg, and we’ll see the mayonnaise thicken— noooo!! Slowly!” he cried, and we both laughed as he ramped up the beating and little bits of egg flung around the kitchen.
After a minute or so more, he dipped his finger in and tasted it, then pushed the bowl at me to do the same. Now, I am no
great lover of mayonnaise, and I can’t say that I was excited about eating mayonnaise out of the bowl with my finger. But
I didn’t want to be a killjoy, so I reluctantly obliged. The creaminess spread across my tongue with a savory decadence: salty,
with a bite of fresh lemon. I swallowed and stuck my finger back in for more. This wasn’t mayonnaise... this was something
I’d never tasted before.
He laughed at me and snatched the bowl away, running around the table as I chased after him. He grabbed a spoon and brandished
it at me like a sword, cradling the bowl of mayonnaise protectively to his chest.
“Back, back!” he shouted, a lion-taming act. I grabbed a blue plastic spatula, knocked his spoon from his hand and sent it clattering to the floor, then lunged forward in an old university fencing move and jabbed him in the stomach in what would have been a lethal stab. The spatula bent against his hard stomach, and we laughed, both punch-drunk with hunger and exhaustion.
“Oof!” He rubbed his middle. “Where did you learn to swashbuckle like that?”
“Oh, I was a pirate on the high seas for a few years until I got a desk job.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” He laughed. “Come on—let’s go get something to drink, you scurvy dog.” I followed him out through
the swinging door and into the bar. “Right, Redbeard. What do you like to drink?”
I stifled a bubble of mirth. “Are you sure we can really just help ourselves?” I whispered.
“Oh, sure. Old Sal would do it herself if she were awake.”
“Well, beer would be nice, I guess.”
He laughed. “Ale, lager, stout, cider. Dark or light? Hoppy or malty? Flat or bubbly?” I bit my lip and shrugged my shoulders.
“Okay, well we’ll start with the local ones and see if we can find something you fancy.” He seemed to enjoy playing the bartender,
pouring me lots of little tastes and describing them as I sipped.
“This one is the color of a light reindeer urine on a crisp winter’s morning and has subtle notes of elderflower, followed
by Jammie Dodgers and undertones of raw bacon,” he said, swirling the glass like a sommelier. “This one here is more the color
of boggy loch water and has a bouquet of melted Jolly Ranchers, hairspray, and wet, hibernating bear.”
It felt strangely nice to laugh together. We found a local brown ale that I loved; he commended my choice and poured us both
a half-pint, and we went back to the kitchen to make our sandwiches.
I hopped up on the counter, and he joined me, sitting close with our plates and glasses, a bag of kettle-cooked crisps between us. The thick slices of bread were home-baked, the chicken was juicy, the cheese was sharp, the lettuce and tomato crisp, and all was slathered with his homemade mayonnaise. It was nothing short of transcendent. We ate in a reverent and amiable silence. I closed my eyes and hummed as I chewed.
“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” I sighed, washing a bite down with a sip of rich, malty ale. He turned to
me and smiled a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, then went back to eating.
The pleasures were simple and the company surprisingly unguarded, and after our silliness in the kitchen, I felt like a kid
again as we kicked our dangling feet back and forth and chewed quietly. The hall clock chimed 3 a.m., and he hopped down to
refill our half-pints.
I brushed off the crumbs and leaned forward with my hands on the edge of the counter, elbows locked, an old casual pose from
high school gym. When he returned, he didn’t hop back up, but stood nearby leaning against the counter with his drink.
“So, dread pirate Cooper, tell me about yourself. Are you a regular jet-setter?”
Something tightened in my chest. I didn’t want to talk about me. Especially not to him. But I looked over at his face as he
ate a few more crisps. It was light and open, relaxed. I took a breath.
“First time, really. I’ve only been up to Canada twice for a long weekend. I’d like to go everywhere , though.” He looked interested and ate another crisp, so I kept going. “Deep down I always thought of myself as someone who
loved to travel. I’ve made lots of plans and itineraries for trips that I want to take. My bookshelf at home is full of travel
books. But I just never had the time. Or never made the time, I suppose.”
“Why not?”
“Too focused on school, or my career, or my ex. Now I’m almost thirty, and I haven’t really been anywhere. It’s sad. All those
missed opportunities. Imagine the sandwiches that I’ll never know.” He laughed softly but didn’t take the bait.
“You say thirty like you’re over the hill.”
It was. I hated the sound of it. My full stomach felt suddenly hollow and cold, while the whole list of things that I was
supposed to have and have done by thirty flipped through my mind like a paper-cut Rolodex. I could have made a joke, my standard
deflection, but what came out instead was genuine and surprisingly frank.
“It feels that way. Like I’m running out of time and missed my chance to be spontaneous. Like time is speeding by so fast
that my life has forgotten to catch up with it.”
“Hasn’t traveling with all of those vivacious ladies taught you anything? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You can
go anywhere you want.”
I hissed through my teeth and shook my head. “Yeah, but I need to save for a house, or I’ll never be able to buy anything
in DC. And I’ve got to keep on track with my career—it’s kind of a long slog in the nonprofit sector. Actually, one of the
reasons I took my job is because I thought I’d get to travel with the development team and help people on the ground, but
I got stuck doing admin work behind a screen.”
“How’d that happen?”
“My boss said I had a ‘rare talent for organization’ that would be wasted in the field, so she gave me a promotion and kept
me in the office as an assistant.”
“Sounds like she was impressed, if she wanted to keep you close.”
“It’s probably because I’m a bit of a workaholic. I was always one of the last to leave the office. I should have been happy
that I was moving up the ladder. And I was happy, but it was also stifling somehow.”
I sipped my beer. “Next thing you know, five years have gone by, and nothing has changed. Same job, same city, same spreadsheets. There was...” I paused. “There were some changes in my personal life, but that’s not... well, that doesn’t matter anymore.”
I stopped, flushed, and looked down at my slippers. I didn’t mean to say so much. I didn’t want to discuss getting fired,
my broken engagement, or my stagnant cesspool of a life. I reminded myself that just because we had spent a half an hour together
without wanting to disembowel each other with corkscrews, it didn’t make us friends.
“Anyway, the answer to your question is no, I haven’t done much traveling.”
“Well, I’m glad that you’re here then. I think it’s exciting that you’re taking some time off for yourself.”
“Thanks.” The warmth had gone from my voice.
Yeah, I’ve been taking a lot of time off these past six months. Then it got worse.
“Tell me more about your job. What do you do?”
I didn’t want to lie. But I also really didn’t want to tell the truth. It was still too raw and embarrassing.
“Well, I work for a large NGO in the nonprofit sector. We focus on global food security. My team is pretty cool, actually.
I got really lucky—it combines two of my passions.”
“Which are?”
“So.” I settled into my old spiel without having to think. “My team looks at gender, and how its role in the cultures of the
communities we work with impacts the distribution of funds, labor, and resources. Then we consider how that information might
be used to work more sensitively and effectively within these communities to bring about measurable, sustainable change. I
really like my job,” I said, looking away. “It’s hard work and long hours. But I get to help women who are struggling in poor
communities. It makes me feel useful. Like I’m helping. A tourniquet for my bleeding, liberal heart.”
But I don’t do that anymore , I didn’t add. I don’t do anything anymore .
“Wow. That’s amazing, Alice.”
I didn’t feel amazing. “What about you?” I forced a tight smile. “I imagine you’ve traveled around quite a bit.”
“Yeah. I used to travel all the time. I loved it. Did a lot of backpacking with friends in Southeast Asia. Spent some time
drinking beer and mountain climbing across Eastern Europe. I even did this mad Monkey Run thing with some mates across North
Africa, on this rickety little motorbike that broke down nine times and had a top speed of thirty kilometers an hour.”
“Wow. That sounds crazy!”
He laughed. “Name your stupid risk, and I took it. Cave diving, skydiving, dumpster diving, I used to do it all.”
“I’m jealous.” I was. I was gripped by it. It made my life look so much sadder by comparison. I should have just been happy
for him. I really didn’t recognize myself much anymore.
“Yeah, I was... well, young. I hadn’t a single worry in the world.”
“But you don’t travel like that anymore?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, you know. Sometimes life comes along, and...” I saw the shadow of some old, familiar pain in his eyes. “Well, things
change. Anyway, I don’t do any of that stuff anymore. I’m happy where I am. Now I just take things a day at a time. I don’t
have to go far or do anything crazy if I truly appreciate each day I have here.”
He sounded worldly and wise.
“I never learned to live in the moment. I’m not sure I ever could.”
“How could I not? I’m a lucky sod! I still get to travel. I get to spend time with you ladies. It’s not hard to see the joy
in every day if you love what you do.”
“That’s great. Not many people get to do something they love.”
“That’s true. And here we both are saying that we love our jobs.” He held his glass up and clinked it with mine, and my throat tightened. “We’re living the dream!”
When I looked back he was staring at my mouth, a small, quiet smile on his own. To my complete shock he stepped toward me,
standing between my knees at the counter, and reached out a hand. He gently cupped my face. With his thumb, he rubbed at the
corner of my mouth in a slow, smooth glide.
My stomach flipped, and my heart raced so fast I heard it pounding in my ears. My brain melted. I melted with it. It only
lasted a second. Then I pulled myself together and flinched my face out of his grasp. “What are you—”
“Hold on, you’ve just got a bit of food here.” He laughed. Hot shame flooded my face in an instant. “I’m not surprised with
the way you devoured that—”
“I’ve got to get some sleep,” I said harshly as I jumped down from the counter.
I turned and left without giving him the chance to respond.
It was mayonnaise, it turned out, at the corner of my mouth.
I lay in bed and pleaded with myself to sleep for the second time that night, if only for the merciful reprieve from my own
thoughts. But I had never been more awake. My heart was still drumming a panicked symphony in my chest, and the thought of
the way he touched me sent butterflies to my stomach as I pictured it over and over again.
Was he hitting on me? Do I want him to hit on me? It did seem like quite an intimate and romantic gesture for two people who had only just met and had spent most of that time
holding themselves back from committing grievous bodily harm.
Yes, damn it, he was very handsome, and the smell of him was intoxicating, but he was definitely not my type. He was pushy and rude and argumentative, and probably lots of other terrible things I didn’t yet know. Maybe I had misunderstood the gesture. He hadn’t been lying; food had, in fact, been on my face. Which was mortifying.
And yet if my colleague Frank had food on his mouth, I wouldn’t move slowly into his personal space, cup his cheek in my warm
hand, and caress his lips with the pad of my thumb. I’d say “Hey, Frank! You’ve got a little schmutz there,” so that he could
wipe it off his own damn self.
What was he thinking?
I just ran out of there like a frightened school girl! How embarrassing! I should have stood tall and asked him what he was doing. Let him explain himself, and if he tried to make
a pass at me, I would have politely informed him that he had misread the signals. I should have handled it with maturity and
confidence.
That’s what I should have done, right? I didn’t want a fling. A fling would definitely be bad for me. A fling would make me
lose sight of the point of this trip. I wasn’t ready for a fling. I didn’t want one. Especially not with him of all people.
Right?
I searched my brain for an answer, but all I found there was mayonnaise .
Ugggh, the mayonnaise! I could die .
Food on your mouth was the facial equivalent of toilet paper on your shoe. It was the ultimate shame. My epitaph would read:
She died a pitiful, untraveled spinster with a glob of mayonnaise at her mouth.