Chapter Four #2
‘Leave your luggage right there, dear,’ she instructs, turning from the top step and peering down at me.
‘Ernie will take care of it and pop it in the hold.’ She gestures to the driver, who’s sitting behind the steering wheel, his peaked cap resting on the dash, a newspaper spread out in front of him.
He pauses from eating his breakfast, which, by the delicious smell of things, is a fried bacon sandwich, and looks up.
‘Be careful, it’s rather heavy . . .’ I begin guiltily. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought quite so many books.
‘Don’t worry.’ He winks and pretends to flex a bicep.
I laugh and, pushing down the little handle on the suitcase, leave it on the asphalt and clamber eagerly up the stairs.
‘It’s a full house, so I’m afraid there’s only a couple of seats left,’ chimes my tour guide. ‘There seems to be a space next to Maeve.’
I smile happily. I am so pleased I didn’t listen to Stella. I knew this would be a great trip.
I turn to head down the bus.
Which is when my smile freezes.
In front of me is a sea of curly grey heads. A whole vista of them. Stretching out as far as the eye can see, all the way to the horizon that is the luxury bathroom. It’s like being on a senior citizens’ outing.
All of a sudden someone presses ‘play’ on my cerebral tape recorder and Stella’s voice begins replaying in my head: Kooks and old people. Kooks and old people . . .
‘Over here . . .’
An Irish accent interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see an arm near the back of the bus waving at me above the headrests. Still reeling, I smile dazedly and walk the plank to my seat.
‘Excuse the ploughman’s . . .’
Almost hidden behind the seat is a small woman with short, grey hair and oversized reading glasses.
Tucking her pleated polyester skirt underneath her legs, she pauses from eating a hunk of cheese and smiles up at me timidly.
‘They didn’t have anything to eat on the flight over from Dublin,’ she adds apologetically, trying to cover her mouth with her napkin while standing up at the same time and spilling crumbs everywhere.
‘Oh, now look what I’ve done . . . Look at the mess I’m making . . . Sorry . . .’
I stare at her blankly. I’m experiencing a moment of sheer panic. Oh, shit. What have I done? What am I going to do? For a whole week. With a bunch of senior citizens?
As she fusses around me I shuffle past her and into my seat.
‘What about you? Where did you fly in from?’
‘New York,’ I reply, trying not to think of the buzzing metropolis I’ve left behind in favour of this.
I catch myself. Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, pull yourself together. It’s going to be just fine. You’re not going clubbing with them, you’re going on a book tour.
‘Oooh, the Big Apple?’ There’s a lot of murmuring and several curly grey heads appear in the aisle to look at me.
‘So you’re an American?’ asks one.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I nod.
‘How exciting,’ smiles another. ‘An American.’ She says it as if I’m a species from outer space.
Lots of knowing glances fly around me.
‘Overpaid, oversexed and over here,’ booms a large, striking woman, her head popping above the parapet of the headrest in front of me.
Unlike the others, she has dyed black hair, cut into a strikingly severe Cleopatra bob, and is wearing a lot of dark-red lipstick.
It suits her, despite her seventy-something years.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s what they used to say about the Yanks during the war,’ she remarks, her dark, inquisitive eyes shining brightly beneath her fake eyelashes and painted-on eyebrows. ‘And I should know, I married one.’
Hoots of laughter fly around the coach.
She extends a plump hand laden down with diamonds the size of knuckle-dusters. ‘Rose Bierly.’
‘Emily Albright.’
Her handshake is firm and unwavering, and I get the distinct impression she’s sizing me up. How funny, and there was I thinking I was the one sizing her up.
Ten minutes later we still haven’t moved. There’s one empty seat left and we’re waiting for the last person to arrive. Apparently, they’re travelling from Central London so they should be here any minute.
A hum of chatter fills the air, which is already heavy with a cloying cocktail of perfumes.
Impatiently I glance at my watch – how much longer?
I glance around me, expecting a coach full of discontent, but everyone else seems happy sharing packets of cookies called, strangely, ‘custard creams’, whatever they are, swapping photos of grandchildren and comparing wardrobes from some place called M for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.
A male voice talking loudly on the other side of my window distracts me. I glance outside to see a man clambering out of a tiny red Renault with a briefcase, laptop bag and a large carryall. He’s a big guy, unshaven and unkempt, with his shirt tails sticking out of baggy chinos.
The driver, meanwhile, is an immaculate blonde in a tight black turtle neck and red lipstick.
She’s staring blankly through the windshield, ignoring him while he yells something I can’t quite hear.
Hmm, I wonder what they’re rowing about.
Intrigued, I watch them for a moment, before remembering it’s rude to stare and turning back to my book.
His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.
Outside, there’s the sound of a car door slamming with enough force to take it off its hinges. I’m half tempted to look up, but I ignore it. I can hear the woman now, but I can’t tell what she’s saying as she’s screaming in French.
And I’m reading the same line over and over again.
I give in to my curiosity and look out of the window, just in time to see the Renault reversing at full pelt, its gears whining painfully. With a sharp twist it swerves, brakes, then shoots forward and races out of the parking lot.
Wow. What happened there? I wonder.
I glance back at the guy. He’s just standing there, leather carryall and briefcase on the ground, laptop bag slung over his slouched shoulder, battered old corduroy jacket flapping in the wind.
Raking his fingers through his messy blond hair, he stares after the Renault as if he can’t quite believe he’s been dumped in the middle of the parking lot – and in the rain.
He cuts a sorry-looking figure and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
Though he was shouting at a woman, I remind myself. He catches me staring at him and I glance away sharply. He probably deserves it.
Drama over, I turn back to my book, but no sooner have I found my place on the page than I hear the automatic doors of the coach swish open and then there’s a round of applause. Hallelujah. The last person must have arrived.
I hear Maeve clicking her tongue. ‘Nosy things. What’s all the fuss about?’ she tuts quietly.
And this from a woman who’s got her head stuck out at a right angle into the aisle.
I continue reading. Maeve’s obviously from some sleepy little country village in Ireland where nothing happens.
This is probably the most exciting thing to happen to her in a long time.
Unlike me, living in the daily hustle and bustle of New York, the city that never sleeps.
I see way more exciting stuff than this every day so it’s really no big deal for me.
Oh, who are you kidding, Emily? City that never sleeps? Hustle and bustle? You’re as curious as Maeve.
Grabbing the headrest in front of me, I hoist myself up from my seat to get a good look at the little old lady. Except it’s not a little old lady.
It’s him. The guy from the Renault.
Something stirs and if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was excitement. Surely he’s not . . .? I mean, he can’t be . . . There’s no way he’s the person we’re waiting for, right?
Wrong. Engaged in a conversation with Miss Steane, our tour guide, who’s tapping her watch and frowning, he’s talking nineteen to the dozen, gesticulating widely, while trying to tuck in his shirt, which refuses to stay in his chinos.
Then all at once he seems to notice Ernie, our driver, and stops mid-sentence to throw him a furious glower.
Jeez, Louise, this guy is in a bad mood.
And now he’s turning and thundering down the aisle, bashing people left and right with his laptop bag and briefcase as he heads towards the back of the coach.
Suddenly he looks right at me and I smile politely.
He responds with a filthy scowl.
What the . . .?
I feel a slap of indignation. What an asshole!
And there was me just trying to be nice to him.
Infuriated, I respond by glaring right back.
Then he strides past me to the back of the coach and flings himself into the empty seat.
Bristling, I sit back down. The driver starts up the engine and, as we begin to pull out of the parking lot, I make up my mind to ignore him.
Even if he is a handsome stranger, pipes up a voice inside me.
For a millisecond I waver; but it’s just a millisecond. So what if he is? That doesn’t change anything. He’s still an asshole, and I’m still going to ignore him. Completely and utterly. For the whole week. Just you watch me.