Chapter 20
Lesson 20: When suddenly stuck between a rock and a hard place, there is still a surprising amount of room for error.
Bridget Jones Tally:
stupid jokes—1
awkward situations fixed by stupid jokes—0
We were staying in Cambridge town that night and arrived at our inn tired, sun-kissed, and grinning from ear to ear. As we
parted to freshen up for dinner, I watched carefully and noted Robbie’s room number.
I changed quickly into jeans, boots, and a modest sweater; I brushed my teeth, reapplied lip tint and mascara, and ran a hand
through my messy hair. Then I headed over.
My every muscle was tense. I had to give myself a little pep talk before I could bring myself to knock. I planned to make
a flippant remark or two through the half-open doorway, making a very casual point of the fact that what had happened between
us was just a silly moment of irrationality. I was sure he’d be relieved that I was letting him off the hook and that there
wouldn’t be any mess to clean up.
Waiting for him to open the door felt like an eternity.
“Alice Cooper.” This time my name was something else, something sensual. A wide, wolfish grin spread across his face, eyes alight. He had a quick look down the hall to ensure that we weren’t being watched, and then, so swiftly, before I had any idea what was happening, he grabbed my hand, twirled me inside, closed the door behind me and backed me gently against it. His body pressed in closer down the length of mine. I caught my breath, suddenly drunk and spinning.
“I’ve been dreaming of holding you all day long.” His face was an inch from my own, and I thought he would kiss me then, but
instead he locked his blue eyes on mine and pinned me down with an intense stare that sent my heart pounding like timpani
in my chest.
I couldn’t speak, but after a second I collected myself and put my hands up, pressing them against him: not quite pushing
him away, but letting him know that I wanted space. He backed up immediately, a confused apology on his face. This was not
going as I had expected. I was totally off guard. I thought all I would need was a quick comment or two and we would laugh
awkwardly, and then I could leave and it would all be behind us, a hot memory.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking another step back and letting out a breath. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and through
his hair, looking puzzled and a bit sheepish.
“No, don’t be. I was just... surprised. That’s all.” I cleared my throat and walked away into the center of the room where
I could be safe from the smell of his cologne. Where I’d have to cover more ground if the memory of that kiss got the better
of me.
There were two ways of doing this: I could sit him down and we could have a somewhat serious and horribly awkward chat about
what happened and the boundaries that we would have to respect from here on out, or I could make a stupid joke of it. True
to form, I opted for the latter.
“So,” I started seriously. “I’m becoming a nun. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
His brow twisted.
“I just wanted to kiss a man once before I got married to the Lord.”
“What?”
“And turns out it was... gross,” I said, making an apologetic face. “Really gross. Disgusting, in fact. Even if I hadn’t
already wanted to take a vow of celibacy, kissing you would have cinched it for me.” I gave a sympathetic look.
He began to laugh. “You’re an absolute nutter!” His face was confused but tickled. But the mood had lightened, as I’d hoped,
so I changed pace.
“Yeah, so I just came here to say that I’m really sorry about yesterday. I got swept up by the castle and the rain and the
adrenaline, and I got totally carried away. It was a silly mistake.”
He looked like he might protest, so I hurried along quickly. I didn’t want to sit and have a conversation about his relationship
status, my messy life, his undisclosed girlfriend, or any of the rest of it. I didn’t want to have to confess that I’d overheard
him making plans to Netflix and chill with his girlfriend in her sexy new nightgown or whatever as soon as we got back to
Edinburgh.
“I should never have started anything. You’re a professional trying to do your job, and I basically held you captive and mauled
you.” He started to shake his head to contradict me, but I pushed on. “I don’t want to make things messy for us. Can you forgive
me? Let’s just go back to how things were.”
He stopped. Whatever was on his lips stayed there. After a moment of what looked like internal debate, he looked resolved.
I hadn’t left him any room for discussion. Finally, his features cleared into a neutral expression, and he stuck his hand
in mine.
“Sure.”
“Goodness! Can you imagine? With the way we fight, it would be outright carnage. Double homicide by the end of the week.”
I laughed, and he laughed too, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh, gosh, it’s nearly eight. We’d better get down to the lobby. Would you mind leaving a few minutes after me? Arriving together
might look a bit suspicious. Also,” I added, looking around the room to avoid his eyes, “could I ask you not to be so familiar
with me in front of the ladies?”
“What?”
I knew this wasn’t fair. It felt horrible. But I could hardly tell him that when he smiled at me the way he did, my entire
body blushed, or that when he got close enough for me to catch the scent of him, my mouth watered, or that when he put his
hand on my lower back today that I thought my knees would buckle. Far better to avoid any potential swooning triggers altogether.
As my beloved Oscar Wilde put it: “I can resist anything but temptation.”
“It’s just, I don’t want anyone to see us and get the wrong idea.”
He looked stung. I felt worse.
“I don’t think I’ve been anything but professional in front of the others. Have I?”
“Well, you know. If you could just be a little less... friendly.”
“Less friendly?” He blinked. His face was hard, and we stared at each other for a moment, the atmosphere in the room chilled.
“Right. No problem.”
I had to stop myself from squirming. I hated this. I needed to slither out of there before things got worse. “Right. I knew
you’d feel the same. Thanks again, Robbie.” When I said his name this time, I thought I saw a hint of a flinch on his face.
He opened the door to escort me out in the universal gesture of “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
There. It was done.
God, I need a drink.
He was quiet that night at dinner. Withdrawn. Usually, he was a natural at getting everyone to have a laugh, inciting book
debates, making sure no one felt left out. This dinner was decidedly more tame without his merrymaking. Was he hurt, angry,
annoyed, feeling guilty about cheating on his girlfriend, or simply distracted? It was hard to tell.
Flossie, on the other hand, was in rare form: telling us wild tales that Agatha tried her very best to prevent. Failing utterly,
Agatha decided instead to provide a running commentary in the hopes of dampening Flossie’s madcap claims and overall shock
factor.
“The year was 1961. And Johnny Kennedy was sneaking out of Buckingham Palace to see me.”
“What rubbish!”
“I was a sweet young girl of nineteen and wearing nothing but a pink bikini.”
“Christ in a canoe! We’re all going to hell in a handbag!”
The next morning, we were up bright and early and off to Canterbury, where sixteenth-century timber-framed houses crowded
and hung over the narrow lanes, tilting forward on ancient beams like old men leaning in to hear one another. I loved it.
Robbie’s tour about the history of the town and, of course, the legendary Canterbury Tales was fascinating. His historical knowledge never ceased to amaze me. I wondered where he had learned it all. There never seemed
to be much that he couldn’t answer. I tested this from time to time, trying to stump him with penetrating questions, but he
only seemed delighted with the challenge and never once faltered.
At tea that afternoon, I took the only free seat at the table, which happened to be next to Robbie. I had read a historical fiction novel called Katherine by Anya Seton in which Chaucer was related through marriage to John of Gaunt, and I had some questions about Chaucer’s life
and his role at court. Robbie answered me politely and informatively, but when I tried to segue into something less formal,
I was met with a steely gaze.
“Wow. You people with your tea. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And the Americans are better with their coffee?”
“No, I suppose not. But we tend to get one Venti gallon jug for twenty-seven dollars at Starbucks and call it a day, while
here people average dozens of cups of tea like a constant IV drip.”
“How fascinating. If you’ll excuse me.” He stood, picked up his tea, and left the café to stand outside and make another phone
call. To his girlfriend, probably.
I was disappointed, though not surprised. I had hoped that we could ease into a distanced but companionable acquaintanceship
for the rest of the trip, but perhaps ignoring each other was the best we could do.
Helena saw the empty seat and walked over to fill it.
“Well, hello dear. Would you be interested in some company?”
“I’d love some.”
“You’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear you say so, darling. Agatha has been droning on for the better part of an hour,
bemoaning the rising cost of tea in Britain.”
“Helena, we’ve only been here for ten minutes.” I smiled.
“Really?” She looked at her gold watch. “Well, you know that time is relative, dear, and it slows down relative to the length
at which Agatha airs her grievances.”
We chuckled together.
“How have you been, love? You seem a bit steadier since last we spoke. Except for that ankle, of course.”
“I think I am,” I answered honestly. I hadn’t really noticed it myself, but she was right. “I mean, I’m still just as confused, but I’m happier. I’m excited to finally be traveling. And it feels good to have you ladies around me. Like being wrapped up in a big, cozy, British blanket of good advice.”
“Well, between us we’ve got about five hundred years of experience, so it’s good to hear that we’ve learned a thing or two
along the way.” She made a show of pushing her reading glasses up her nose.
My eyes went reflexively to the window where Robbie could still be seen on the phone, laughing and joking while he leaned
back against the building.
“Something catch your eye, dear?”
“Hmm?” I said, turning back to see her watching me with a measuring look. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just... drifted off. That’s
so rude. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t blame you with such an irresistible view out the window.”
“Yes!” I yipped like a dog whose tail had been stepped on. “Such a gorgeous town. Incredible architecture,” I said all too
quickly, and watched a smile curl her lips into a bow.
Useless Things That I Packed and Dragged with Me across the Atlantic and Around the UK:
That stupid purple skirt that wrinkled up like an accordion
My 4.5-inch stiletto heels
All warm-weather clothes (including two pairs of shorts, a pair of flip-flops, and two floral summer dresses)
Cashier’s checks
One of those hideous beige strap-on pouches for traveling that you’re supposed to wear around your middle so that the thieves of London can’t get at your big bills
Antidiarrheals (thank you, God)
Three thongs
Sunblock (I mean, really!)
A written list of emergency phone numbers
Pepper spray, which I found out is illegal in Britain (!) and was thereafter too frightened to carry anywhere in case it fell
out of my bag and I was arrested and deported on the spot
Two full boxes of tampons, obviously, because on day one they had shot out of my bag like bullets on a mission and were lost
to me forever
The night after the best Indian food I’d ever eaten, we found a perfect little place called Bramleys around the corner. Most
were ready for bed, and Robbie was grumpy, but Helena, Madge, Lorna, and I decided to go in for a nightcap.
The place was adorable. I wanted to take it home in my pocket. There were strings of tiny lights and candles sparkling in
the dim like the night sky. There were wingback chairs and frilly lampshades for chandeliers hanging from a ceiling covered
in billowy fabric, like some magical tent that had popped up to fulfill our innermost dreams just as we wished for it. A small
band softly played acoustic indie folk with a throaty, thirties-style vibrato. We found a velvet-tufted settee and the four
of us sat on it smashed together, giddy and holding some masterfully made cocktails.
Somehow we all got on the topic of drunken shenanigans. Lorna and Madge were cute together: bickering away over old story details while they held hands. As we told our stories of intoxicated self-humiliation and the drunken failures of our friends and loved ones, I learned more about the three of them, and they learned more about me. It left us feeling warm and close—bonded as we were over the evening.
“Thank you,” I said, holding my second cocktail high. “To the heavens for smiling on me and letting me be here tonight, a
world away from home, with you amazing women. And thank you, ladies, for being such marvelous new friends. You are turning
my sand to pearl.”
They clinked their glasses to mine and gave me a group hug on the little sofa. This was the female camaraderie that the website
promised. It was everything I hoped for when I booked this tour. How had I not seen it sooner?