Chapter Eight
Gus is on my heels as I tear through Split in search of a phone charger.
“Hey, wait up,” he calls from behind me. I ignore him, eyes peeled on the storefronts. “Where are you going? What’s the plan? Christ, you’re a quick walker.”
“I need a phone charger, remember?”
“Yep. Want me to search for phone shops in the area?”
I stop mid-stride, planning to turn and face him when he ploughs into my side. I nearly fall onto the pavement, but his hand quickly finds my waist, pulling me to him so that I’m saved from further embarrassment.
I ignore the dizziness it elicits and press one hand to his chest, balancing myself and pushing him away in the process.
“Yes. Please do that. Search for a phone shop.”
He’s put on a dark pair of sunglasses and my startled expression stares back at me in their reflection. I can’t tell what his eyes are doing, but we stand in place for a moment longer before he nods and opens his burner phone. I step back, creating a bit of distance.
It saddens me to think that once upon a time, people travelled unknown cities with paper maps and a pocket full of whimsy and here I am, awash with anxiety because my phone has died.
“Right, there’s one down here. But wait,” he says as I head in the direction he pointed in. “Can we just… I don’t know. Talk about this? Make a plan? I feel like I’m blindly following you like a lost child.”
“I’d say you are like a lost child.”
That fucking grin. Does he like being picked on? Is that his thing? Gross. “All I’m saying, is we could have some direction here.”
“I need my phone so I can—”
“I get it. And we will make that step one of the plan. But what next? Can I be planning while you’re racing ahead of me?”
I scrunch my forehead, then release it immediately thinking about those pesky scowl lines. “What do you suggest?” I ask, softening my tone.
“I, for one, was planning on getting a drink then having a shower once I was back on the cruise. If I am not going to get that now, then I’d like to find it here.”
“No,” I say. That sounds like a terrible plan.
“What do you mean no?”
“You can get a drink from a corner shop en route. Then we’re… I’m… finding a coach to Dubrovnik. If you also want to do that, that’s just grand.”
He nods, pressing his lips together. “Sorry, I forgot for a moment there that you’re in charge. It won’t happen again.”
I groan. “Just tell me where the phone shop is.”
“Follow me. That way I don’t have to crank my heart rate just to keep up with you.”
I resign myself to letting Gus lead, hoping his phone is going to be able to help us. The further we stroll, the more modern the city becomes. We emerge onto a street lined with shops, and Gus points at one with a bright red awning.
“Thank you,” I say.
He grins. “My pleasure.”
It doesn’t take us long to find the charger I need. The issue is the lack of a plug.
“Can I make a suggestion?” Gus asks, as I meet him back outside.
“Sure,” I say, busily tucking the charger into my bag to avoid glancing at him.
Not out of disrespect, although maybe it seems that way, but to avoid the way my stomach flips every time he catches my eyes with that warm, amber gaze of his.
It’s not every day you’re wandering a European city with a famous popstar.
Even if it’s purely circumstantial (see also: bad luck) and completely non-romantic.
But also, Gus has seen me at my lowest, and I don’t fancy allowing him to do that again.
And I certainly don’t want him to ask me about it.
“Why don’t we find a place to stay here for the night?”
“Well, until my phone is charged, all I have is a hundred euros in cash.”
“I’m sure we can brag our way into a BnB with that.”
“Not a nice one!”
He shrugs. “Does it matter? It’s just I’d really like to stop tempting my luck. If somebody happens to recognise me and shares it on socials with any kind of time stamp, my team will get wind of me not being on the cruise, and they won’t be able to reach me. It’ll create a domino effect.”
It’s late afternoon. Even if I did find a coach to Dubrovnik tonight, I’d still need to find somewhere to sleep. I lift my shoulders up until they touch my ears.
Gus smirks. “What are you doing?”
I drop my shoulders. “What? It’s how I think when I’m stressed.”
“Hear me out.” He waits for me to look at him, so I finally allow myself to.
Whoops, there goes my stomach. “We’ll find a place to stay tonight and make a plan.
You’ll be able to charge your phone so we have money and ways to get to Dubrovnik, and then we can sleep, eat, and rest so we’re in the right frame of mind to sort ourselves out tomorrow. ”
I blink. “That was a weirdly sensible solution.”
“Thank you?”
“Fine. How do we find somewhere with two rooms to spare on short notice in peak season?”
“You’re once again forgetting I have access to the internet.”
I follow him to a bench by a small park, where he sits and types into his phone. I do not enjoy being at the mercy of an unknown man. It’s like allowing a child to pick out your outfit for an important meeting.
Ok, so he’s an adult. Yeah, yeah. But he’s also a popstar and it sounds like he’s not used to running his own life.
After five minutes of people watching of what I can only assume is rush hour in Croatia, he clears his throat. “Ok, there’s a place in the Old Town which could work.”
“Won’t that be really expensive?”
“Apparently not. It only accepts cash. It doesn’t have a website. It’s just recommended on this travel blogger site for cash-strapped backpackers.”
“That sounds dodgy.”
“It’s a family run BnB apparently. This guy says he uses it whenever he’s in Split and they rely on word of mouth.”
I sigh, closing my eyes. “This feels so surreal. I don’t even know you.”
“Ah, but you know of me.”
“Right. But I don’t know you. And I really only knew of you a few days ago,” I remind him. “What if you’re a total creep?”
He scoffs. “You can google me if you want,” he says, offering me his device. I don’t take it. I’ve already done my research. “The only stories you’ll find about me being ‘creepy’ are fanfiction. And in all of those,” he says, grinning proudly, “they actively encourage it.”
I make an unimpressed face. As a teenager, Twilight fanfiction filled an Edward-Cullen shaped void for many years in between film releases and rereads of my battered, overread books. So, I can’t exactly judge him – but… “Hold on, you read fanfiction about yourself?”
He shrugs. “Some of it is really good.”
“But it’s about you!”
“Yeah. And it’s funny. And kind of hot.”
“What?” I bark out a laugh.
“I’m not saying I… er, you know…”
I do know, but I’m not going to make this easy for him. Making men squirm is one of my favourite hobbies. I tilt my head thoughtfully. “No? Do explain.”
His lips do that thing again, like he’s trying not to smile but they’re betraying him.
“What I’m saying, is I liked reading about myself through fiction.
It’s a weirdly good escape. They make me someone I’m not.
Usually better. Sometimes worse. Nearly always less boring.
And sometimes I send my sister screenshots to wind her up. ”
His eyes catch on mine, and I look away just as fast. “You have a sister?” I actually did learn this in my research, but I don’t want him to know that. Besides, I’d like to hear his side of things.
“You’re not very online, are you?”
“I’m usually working. I don’t have time for apps. I’m barely on Instagram.”
“Yeah. Figures. You’d have heard of my sister if you were.” We fall into silence, and I readjust my legs before forcing myself to look at him. He’s staring at me, expectantly.
“Well, shall we?” I say.
“Ladies first,” he gestures playfully.
“You have the map, Popstar.”
*
Less than twenty minutes later, on tired, sore feet, we find ourselves strolling down the quiet, shady back streets of Old Town. Gus points to a sign. “This is it.”
“What is this?”
“It’s the BnB.”
I look up the stone facade and its crooked windows with green wooden shutters either side. We’re essentially in an alleyway. It’s clean and tidy, something I’ve generally noticed in Croatia, but there’s a problem. “There’s no door.”
“I guess it must be here somewhere.”
“Well, why would they put a sign here? If there’s not a door, how are we supposed to get in?”
At this exact moment, a middle-aged, dark-haired woman pops her head out of the window above us and talks rapidly. We both stare at her, mouths agape.
“I can’t tell if we’re upsetting her or she’s being friendly,” Gus remarks.
“I take it you don’t speak Croatian?”
“Nope. You?”
I sigh. “Also, no.”
The woman stops talking and waves her hands. A second later she pops back out but with an older man. “You are English?”
Gus nods. He’s still got his cap on backwards as his tips his head, there’s a lovely triangle shape formed in his throat.
He has a straight nose and ears that look like they’ve been attached too low.
And yet, he’s handsome because he has the kind of face made to smile. I bite my lip and look up too.
“Is this the bed and breakfast?” he asks.
“Yes. You must come round the front. We show you to rooms.”
“How do we get there?”
The couple share a look like we’re two dim-witted Brits. I mean… if the shoe fits, right? “Round the front.”
“Yes, which is… which way?” Gus makes a point of checking both directions.
“That way,” the man says, pointing down the street. “Take two rights. You find red door.”
“Right. Ok. Thank you. Havala.”
Without really thinking about it, Gus’s hand finds my lower back, guiding me towards the narrow alley.
The couple are already stood waiting by the red door when we round the corner. The woman is saying something with bags of energy, clapping her hands with excitement, her smile infectious. But when she grabs both our hands and squeezes, I realise she’s gotten the wrong end of the stick. Not again!
“Oh no—”
“My wife says you are a very beautiful couple.”
Before I can say anything, Gus laughs. “Thanks so much.”
“Gus—”
“We show you to room,” the man says, ushering me along. The woman is talking again, pointing out things in the courtyard. They must be half our size and don’t duck at all to access the red oval arched door leading into the house. Gus squats and I lean forward.
It’s all very quaint and pretty inside, marble floors sparkling, bursting with character. The only exception is the porcelain doll perched on one of the windowsills that I swear gives us a look as we step past.
We’re shown to a room at the top of three flights of spiral stairs, with one small double bed and a single, narrow window looking out onto the street below.
“The bathroom is on the ground floor,” the old man says. “It is shared. Please knock as there is no lock on the door.”
One night. One night. One night.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You didn’t say how much the room is?”
“Eighty euro,” he answers.
“And what about a second room?” I ask, as he’s trying to close the door behind him.
He frowns back at me, confused. “No other rooms available. Good evening.” And then the door is closed with a click.
Oh my God.