Chapter Six #2
Making my way down the aisle, I head towards the bathroom.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the top of Spike What’s-his-name’s head looming, as he’s sitting right at the back.
Tufts of blond hair are popping up over the tartan upholstery, and as I near him, his arm rises upwards in a stretch, then begins scratching his scalp in a lazy, absent-minded way. Classic telephone behaviour, I note.
‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . Absolutely . . .’
Told you.
Reaching for the handle on the bathroom door, I glance sideways and there he is.
Head turned towards the window, phone wedged up against his ear, chatting away.
Fortunately, he doesn’t see me, so we don’t have to go through the pretence of that awkward silent hi-nod-wave-of-recognition thingy, and I quickly close the door behind me.
Now, then.
Once inside, I’m pleased to find it all looks pretty clean.
I take a cautious inhalation. And it smells fine, too.
I’m relieved. Stella calls me a hygiene freak, but I don’t know why.
OK, so I carry a little bottle of sanitiser in my bag.
Plus, I admit I wash bags of pre-washed salad, but I’m just being careful.
And yes, it’s true, I won’t eat those little mints they have in a bowl in restaurants, but that’s because I once read an article about how they’d put one under a microscope.
Do you have any idea how many traces of urine they found on a single mint?
Hundreds – thousands even – of tiny little bits of pee.
Ugghh.
I look down at the toilet and that’s when I notice someone has dribbled on the seat. Oh, God. Yuk. I reach for a piece of toilet paper, but that’s when I notice something else – there isn’t any, just an empty cardboard tube rattling on the holder.
Damn.
Suddenly a long-ago story of my mom visiting France comes flashing back to me.
Forget stories of Parisian style, St Tropez sunshine and sophisticated sidewalk cafés.
All my mother could talk about was the hole in the floor and how she’d had to squat over it.
Seriously. And in her stilettos. She’s never been the same since.
Thankfully I am made of stronger stuff than my mother and so I peel down my jeans and sort of hover. Actually, this is a really good workout for my outer thighs, I realise, as I start peeing. They should put it in one of those health and fitness magazines as a top tip:
For buns of steel, forget lunges at the gym. Instead, go to a public washroom and squat over the seat for a count of 10. Repeat three times daily.
‘. . . believe me I want to bloody kill my editor . . .’
Outside, I can hear someone talking.
‘. . . all the other journalists are married with children, which left muggins here . . .’
Muggins? Who the hell is Muggins? Intrigued, I try listening closer. It’s definitely a male voice, so I guess that can only mean—
Shit.
Suddenly, in mid-flow, I realise two things:
1. It’s Spike who I can hear on the phone.
2. If I can hear him, he can hear me.
Cue pelvic-floor muscles.
I stop mid-pee.
Impressive.
Silently I thank God for all those articles about doing your Kegel exercises.
Now I can hear much better.
‘. . . right now I should be spending Christmas and New Year in the Alps with my girlfriend . . .’
My interest is sparked. So that’s who the blonde was in the car?
‘. . . I’m so pissed off. I can’t believe it. It was all arranged. Two weeks of sex and snowboarding . . .’
He snowboards? Admiration stirs. I never had him down as the sporty type, all those cigarettes made me presume he was unathletic. I adjust my position. My thighs are beginning to ache. Though, I’m proud to admit, my pelvic floor is holding up pretty damn well.
‘. . . I tell you, right at this moment there’s no one I hate more than Mr bloody Darcy . . .’
What? Hearing him insult Mr Darcy, indignation bites. How dare he? Darcy’s much more of a man than he’ll ever be, I think protectively.
‘. . . it’s all his bloody fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be on a coach full of old women.’
My ears prick up. He’s talking about the tour. And not very favourably either, I muse, absently wondering if he’s going to mention me.
‘. . . there’s just one girl my age . . .’
Oh, wow, he is talking about me. Feeling a curious surge of anticipation, I try leaning a little closer. Not so easy when you’re hovering over a toilet with your underwear stretched round your knees. I steady myself on the door handle. I wonder what he’s going to say?
There’s a pause. I can hear him laughing at something the other person just said and, holding my breath, I wait expectantly.
Every second is beginning to feel like an eternity.
Not only are my thigh muscles burning but my pelvic floor feels like a dam about to burst. Hold on, just hold on. I grit my teeth, and clench.
‘. . . no way. She’s not my type . . . She seems pretty dull . . . average-looking . . .’
Oh.
Reality slaps me cold in the face. I wasn’t expecting that.
I was sort of presuming he was going to say something nice, though I don’t know why – it’s not as if I like him, it’s just .
. . My thoughts trail off lamely. God, I feel like a bit of an idiot now.
Trust me to get it totally wrong. I mean, not that it matters – he’s an asshole anyway – I just wasn’t expecting him to be so, well, hurtful . . .
Suddenly, much to my astonishment, my nose goes all tingly and I feel my eyes start welling up. Horrified, I sniff the tears back at once. Gosh, I’m being ridiculous. What on earth am I getting all emotional about? I’m not upset, I’m— OK, so I’m upset.
For like a second.
‘. . . and even worse . . . she’s American . . .’
Then I’m furious.
Right, that does it. Plonking myself down on the seat, I finish with not a care for who hears me, or for the fact I’m sitting in someone else’s dribble.
I’m not going to have some snotty-nosed Brit think he’s better than me because he’s got a cute accent, a country full of old buildings and Ricky Gervais.
We’ve got Madonna, the city of Manhattan and Route 66, I think defiantly, as I wash my hands and emerge from the bathroom.
As I slam the door loudly behind me Mr Spike-arrogant-Hargreaves looks up. He’s still on the phone and I throw him my scary face before stomping back to my seat and snatching up my book. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the bit where Elizabeth Bennet is being described as ‘tolerable’ by Mr Darcy.
In my mind I hear Spike’s voice again: ‘pretty dull . . . average-looking’. Now I know how Elizabeth Bennet feels, I realise, feeling a new and powerful identification with Jane Austen’s heroine.
‘But I can assure you,’ she [Mrs Bennet] added, ‘that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great!’
Honestly, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s so conceited and full of himself I’m glad he doesn’t like me. If he did, he’d only be trying to hang out with me the whole time. How horrible would that be?
And feeling completely self-righteous, I throw myself back in my seat and turn the page.
Quite frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had a lucky escape.