Chapter 8
CALLUM
I don’t know why I agreed to this. I never even took my ex to places like this. If I had, maybe we would have stayed together, despite the distance with her back in Ireland and me in Edinburgh.
But maybe no amount of nice dinners would have helped, and the demands of my unconventional job would have ended it regardless of where she lived.
I follow Asha into the dark, Gothic space.
Not Gothic in some misguided romantic use of the word, but in the accurate sense of the word where there are pointed arches.
The wooden paneling on the walls makes the space unusually dark, even for a gray Scottish day.
The red leather booths and the white tablecloths add some brightness to restaurant, and the occasional medieval tapestry and heavy curtains add to the atmosphere.
Lit candles on the tables, a few wall sconces, and one window valiantly try, not very effectively, to battle the low light.
“I think the first couple of tours went well, myself,” Asha says after we order lunch.
“We were late finishing both of them, which was one thing yesterday, but it’s quite another today, when they have to get lunch and maybe see a museum before the whisky tasting, meaning they’re more likely to be late.”
“I thought you would have appreciated less time at the distillery. It means less time for the group to get absolutely sloshed.”
“I might not think it’s good craic to take a bunch of tourists desperate for a good time out to a distillery, but it is a scheduled event and we need to be on time to it. They’re waiting for us. No dillydallying.”
She starts to laugh at me, and then quickly and not convincingly turns the laugh into a cough when I glare at her.
“What have I said now?” It’s always something with this woman.
“Nothing. It’s just you’re so grumpy and then you say things like ‘dillydallying,’ and it’s hard for this American to reconcile.”
“It’s a legitimate expression.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then you can’t possibly find it so funny.”
“Okay. But you can’t actually tell me when I can find things funny. I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. Or comedian, and teacher, would be a much easier job.”
“You’re exhausting. I’m knackered and I’ve only been on this tour for a day and a half.” I rub my face.
“Thank you!”
“It’s not a compliment.”
She shrugs. “You say potato, I say it’s the funniest potato ever.”
“Jaysus. Is this going to be a thing with you? Potatoes and the potato that tries to prove me wrong?”
“Who doesn’t like potatoes? Fries. Curly fries. Waffle fries. Potato chips. Baked. The possibilities are only limited by your imagination.”
“And your fryer. Americans.” I shake my head.
“I’d be more offended if the United Kingdom didn’t have like five chippies per person.”
I grunt at that. Because there probably are, and I no longer have the moral high ground. But I don’t have to admit that out loud.
“What made you want to be a tour guide, anyway? It seems like you dislike more parts of this job than you like. That seems a little bit miserable.”
“I love history and wanted to teach it. That’s the part of this job I fully enjoy: teaching history at the historic sites where it happened. I didn’t know I was also supposed to be drinking buddy, babysitter, best friend, therapist, and twenty-four-hour concierge.”
It’s the most personal I’ve gotten with a coworker in a long time, but I want her to know. Because it’ll make us work better together.
Or maybe I just want her to stop looking at me like I’m a completely humorless prick. It’s fine when the group looks at me like that, but I don’t want it from her. Someone who exudes cheerfulness in spite of any brush with reality. Unreasonable as her outlook is, I think I care about her opinion.
When did that happen? Why did that happen?
“Why did you choose this instead of being a lecturer at a university?”
Because I couldn’t do it. I applied to a few places, so sure that I would get a job and teach straight out of my PhD. I had done all the courses, gotten decent grades, done some lecturing even. And then the first few rejections came.
We don’t currently have an opening. This is a very competitive position. Thank you for applying, but the position has already been filled.
I don’t know how anyone gets their foot in the door, but I wasn’t doing it. I resigned myself that it wasn’t going to happen. And stopped applying to new positions, sure that they were going to end the same way, so what was the point in trying?
And then a friend told me about this opening and I thought that it would be close enough to satisfy the teaching itch. Definitely the history part. And they would pay me so I could eat and pay rent and such.
“I applied to a lot of postings, but this was the first to respond positively. And I’ve been doing it since. What about you?” I might want to share a little about me, but there’s no way I want to share the long list of my rejections with the Wee Sunshine.
“I love history and traveling. And I love meeting new people and helping them have fun. It’s the best when they come back from free time and gush about the places I recommended to them. Like, I did that. They’re happy because of me. Well, and Europe.”
“Ugh, I hate the gushing the most. Take the recommendation and then do me the courtesy of not speaking to me about it anymore.”
“Do you wish they would do you the courtesy of not speaking to you at all, ever again?” She’s back to laughing at me.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing. Most days, that would be ideal.”
She snorts at that. “I’m not going to stop encouraging the group to take picture breaks. It also gives them a rest from hearing facts recited at them, which they sometimes need.”
“I’m not going to stop trying to hurry you along.”
“So we haven’t solved anything.”
“No.” But I hope she understands me a little bit better. Maybe it’ll lead her to taking the tour more seriously.
I can hope, at the very least.
“But we are having a nice lunch.” There she goes, finding the silver lining in everything. Even this mess of a tour.
We have a leisurely lunch, lingering over the food, desert, and wine. Then Asha looks at her phone. “Wow, the time flew. We should get back to the hotel to get ready for pickup. Let me just get a few shots to memorialize this…” She gets up and turns in a circle, getting her photos.
“Right.” I get our server’s attention and extend my card when she brings the credit card machine.
“No, I’ll pay. I invited you.” She puts her phone down and fumbles in her ridiculous backpack—this one that has a book shop printed on it.
“Where do you get these bags?”
“A company I discovered in London. They’re great. There are all sorts of fun designs and sometimes cats and dogs are involved and don’t think I’m distracted out of paying. At the very least for my own portion, if you’re going to be stubborn about being treated.”
“It’s already done.”
“I can pay you back.” She puts her card away and gets out some cash.
“Keep your wee money.” I wave her away awkwardly, hoping she’s not going to make a big deal about it.
Then she smiles, lighting up the space more effectively than the lone candle on our table could.
Grand, she is making a big deal about it.
“Well, thank you for lunch! I’ll get the next one. Or I’ll keep you in whisky tonight so you don’t have to fully feel how irritated you are with our lovely tour babies.”
“Lovely is one word to describe the group.”
“Not the one you would use for them?”
“Rule number three: don’t slag off the paying customers. So I won’t answer that. All I’ll say is that they aren’t my babies.”
“It would make your life easier if you opened yourself up to the wide range of personalities that we guide around Europe.”
I shudder, and she laughs again.
What is she laughing at? I’m not trying to be funny; I’m trying to slag off our paying customers. Her “tour babies,” apparently.
Sunshine women don’t even know when they’re supposed to be offended on behalf of the nuisances they love so much. She needs a keeper around so no one can crush the impractical spirit and naivete she has.
Not me, though, obviously. I’m not wanting to take on that much extra work outside the scope of my job.
She packs her things and we walk through the city, back to the hotel.
“Did you know that over 75 percent of the buildings in Edinburgh are listed? The most in the UK after London,” Asha says, because she really hates silence.
“I did.” But I nod approvingly at her for knowing it.
And in approval of the practical conversation.
“Did you know Edinburgh has the only knighted penguin in the world?” It’s the most useless fact I can think of, one that an overly excited tourist told me on one of my first tours when they asked where the zoo was, and I know Asha will appreciate the whimsy.
Since she lives her life obsessed with whimsy.
“No way!”
“He’s a major general who inspects the Norwegian Guard when they come and his name is Sir Nils. He’s an adopted Norwegian.”
“That’s a good fact. Okay, how about this one: the Royal Mile is actually a mile and one hundred and seven yards long. I know you’ll appreciate that because you like precision.”
“Amateur hour. Of course I know that.” But I do appreciate the precision.
Asha isn’t deterred, not that I thought she would be. “All right, one more. Edinburgh was the first city to have its own fire service. In an organized, municipal, way,” she says.
I smile at her. “Okay. No. I didn’t know that.”
“You smiled!” She jumps around like I told her she just won some sort of lottery.
“Don’t make a big deal about it. I do smile, on occasion.”
“Shenanigans and lies! No, you don’t.”
“When there’s something worth smiling about.” I glare at her, not putting much heat in it. It is a wee bit amusing to see her carrying on. When I’m the one making her carry on.
“Ouch! Are you saying I’m only occasionally worth a smile? You just burned me so bad I’ll need that first municipal fire department to come render medical aid, but it’ll be worth it, because the treatment is free due to nationalized healthcare, and you smiled! And I caused it!”
I laugh, a small one that could barely qualify for the name, and could be mistaken for a cough if someone wasn’t playing close enough attention. That only sets her off more.
“And now a laugh! I got a laugh. Is this what winning an Oscar feels like? I’d like to thank the Academy…”
“It’s not that hard, I love to laugh,” I blatantly lie, because she won’t shut up about it otherwise.
She laughs at that, a lot more sure than mine, and I glare at her, this time with more heat. That works, and her uproarious laughter winds down into a chuckle. “You’re a regular comedian.”
“That is the first time I’ve been accused of that.”
“And not the last if you stick with me, kid.” She smiles at me, like that would be a good thing.
“Terrifying prospect.”
“You can’t fool me.” She wags her finger at me in a manner I dislike greatly. “I’ve seen a smile and a laugh now. There’s no going back.”
“God help me.”
She links her arm through mine like we’re on a playground for small children. If I didn’t feel so infantile, I would enjoy the feel of her warm arm entwined with mine, her body pressed against mine. And if she wasn’t so unsuitable.
She doesn’t let go until we get to the hotel, chatting about something or another.
I couldn’t follow the numerous topic changes she blasted through with more speed and effortlessness than a speed skater.
She started talking about her first tour in Edinburgh, and then about her roommate in university, and then somehow she was onto what she was doing for New Year’s at the turn of the millennium.
But it is nice to listen to her talk. Her voice is…pleasant.
Even if she does talk absolute rubbish.