Chapter 16
CALLUM
The day is too nice to spoil with our group.
But we are here to work. So after a nice, educational visit to the museum and a too-long visit to the museum’s gift shop, we head to the Indian restaurant.
Almost the entire group arrives within fifteen minutes, enough to get the table and start ordering food.
“Why are we at an Indian restaurant for our English group meal?” Erica asks.
“Colonialism,” Asha and I both answer at the same time. We look at each other and smile, but somberly, possibly the only time that colonialism has made anyone who wasn’t a prick smile.
“England colonized India, like the imperialist gobshites they are. As a result even more Indians immigrated here than when they were just independent trading partners, bringing their delicious food, which has become the most popular food in the entire country. It did not have a lot of competition,” I say.
Asha is laughing at me, probably over the imperialist gobshite comment. Something an Irishman and an Indian-American woman have in common, I suppose.
The meal is good, especially since I’ve learned how to tune out most of the chatter around me and enjoy the delicious food on tour.
Aside from my dinner, I also focus on Asha.
Not in a creepy way. Just in a way that I can’t not look at her.
Not only because she’s sitting across from me, but because she shines so bright in group situations like this, laughing and giving everyone equal attention, that it’s hard to overlook her.
Not that she’s giving me any of that attention. And I’m not jealous of our tourists, per se, but if I were talking to her, I would be asking less obvious questions. She would enjoy it more, is all. I’m only thinking of her enjoyment.
After dinner, Asha makes sure everyone knows where they’re going and walks people who are done for the night back to the hotel with me.
“See you all bright and early tomorrow!” She waves them off to the tiny elevator, opting to take the stairs instead. Like me.
We’re the only ones, our steps muffled on the thick carpet of the elaborate central stairs leading up from the lobby.
“Another successful day in the books. We worked together and the group learned things. Good things, too,” Asha says as we stop between our neighboring rooms. The Wee Sunshine is always looking on the bright side of things.
“It was all right. I don’t think they like it when they’re bombarded with information from two people.
Like watching Wimbledon, the way they have to snap their necks back and forth.
” I say it without thinking, because I’m still not one hundred percent resigned to having a co-leader, not even because I believe it. Because I think they kind of like it.
“You mean me? You still don’t think I contribute to the history part of the tour?”
“No, I—”
“This is less than ideal for both of us. How do you think I feel, being told I’m not good enough to do a job that I’ve been doing for five years? A job that I actually enjoy? A job I thought I was decent at?”
The Wee Sunshine isn’t all sunshine right now. My eyes widen in surprise. I forgot that she could even get angry since she always puts on a happy face.
But she’s angry at me now. Spitting fire at me like a dragon from myth. And she’s still going.
“Just because one of us has a fancy PhD and the other a lowly bachelor’s isn’t a reason to be an ass.
Some of us”—she points at herself—“want the group to have the best time they can and are doing the work to manage nineteen different personalities. While others”—she points at me in case I couldn’t see where this is going—“are overly focused on history and still not paying attention to the fact that this is a vacation, not a college class. And are not thinking about tailoring the teaching style to the group in front of you.”
She nods her head at me angrily after her diatribe, fumbling awkwardly with her bag to find her key. Once she finds it, she opens her door. I get a flash of her face before she slams the door, but I wish I hadn’t. She looks hurt.
I didn’t want to go and do that.
But what can I do to make it up to her? I follow her at a much slower pace, stopping at her closed door. I knock, so softly it can barely be counted as a knock. So softly that I can barely hear the sound, even though I’m the one that made it.
She doesn’t answer, so I call Asha’s name. But softly. I wouldn’t want to disturb anyone else in the hotel.
No surprise, she doesn’t open the door at my almost silent attempts to get her attention. Oh well, I tried. I’ll let her calm down while I figure out what I can do to make it up to her.
But it’s not sitting right with me, the way she looked hurt. We were doing so well a few hours ago. Yesterday I even got a hug. How did we go from that to a door slammed in my face?
Right. My winning personality got us here.
I pace the length of the lobby the next morning.
As always, I’m earlier than everyone else.
Earlier than most people in this London hotel, if the silent, modern lobby is anything to go by, its sleek metal and glass lines contrasting with the stone Tower of London just outside, parts of it dating to the late eleventh century.
I stayed up too late trying to think about how I could make it better with Asha, but came up with nothing. By morning, I decided I was either going to have to sincerely apologize, or just not mention it and hope she forgets.
Since my few days on tour with her would suggest that Asha is not prone to lapses in intelligence, I’m thinking I’m screwed.
She comes down before any of our guests, in a dress with pugs in bowties on it. I take a deep breath to prepare for the fight to come and tell myself not to tell her how ridiculous the dress is.
Only the fight never comes.
“Good morning, Callum.” Her voice is cheerful as it ever is, but I suspect a trap.
“Morning.” I keep a distance as she tosses her backpack on the couch next to me, flinching as I half expected her to throw it at my head instead. When it lands on the plush cloth, my heart doesn’t calm, wondering what’s to come. “How are you?”
“Doing well, thank you. Got a good night’s sleep.”
“That’s good,” I say cautiously.
Maybe history can help me navigate this confusing interaction. What would Henry VIII do? Chop her head off. Well, that’s less than ideal.
What would Napoleon do? Invade Europe. Nope, not helpful. Although it feels easier than talking to Asha.
What about Pope Leo X? Charge me for an indulgence for forgiveness. If only that was an option. I would gladly pay for the convenience of not having to apologize.
The past has failed me, but luckily for me, the present helps. Members of the group start arriving, taking Asha’s attention away from me. I watch her instead of figuring out how to make this better.
I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but she isn’t as bright as usual. Maybe it’s a guilty conscience, but there’s something off about her. Because of what I said, no doubt.
The group keeps her occupied with questions and stories of their night until everyone gets to the lobby.
Then we’re walking to our first stop, with no time to have a heartfelt conversation, herding everyone like we are.
It’s not a long walk, and soon we’re diving into the tour of the City of London, the square mile of the historic center of the city where the Romans settled, and where the financial heart of the city still is.
Asha is too quiet through the tour, letting me bore our group to tears.
I haven’t seen these wandering eyes and shuffling feet in a few days.
Not since Asha started interjecting with her “fun facts.” And they know the cause; they keep looking at her every now and then, hoping she’ll give them something about sex, drugs, and lute music.
But she stays silent, with a neutral, polite smile when they look her way.
Like she’s the fun parent and they want the boring parent to stop talking about fiscal responsibility.
Grand, I’ve managed to piss off Asha and make the tour worse all in one go.
We stop at St. Paul’s, and I give the history of the church. Before we move on, I pause in front of the English Baroque building, right next to the Queen Anne statue.
Asha looks at me in question, probably wondering what else I’m going to say. “And John Donne is buried here, in this building. He was an Elizabethan poet, scholar, soldier, priest and member of parliament.” Silence from the crowd. “Asha, would you like to add anything about Donne?”
“What? You want me to talk?”
“I think everyone wants to hear from you.” I’m only a little chagrined to admit it aloud. But it’s true. We all have our strengths and Asha’s is entertainment. And everyone, including me, is feeling the lack of it with her silence.
I know most of the stories she tells when she interjects and could probably do this one now, but the way her entire face lights up when she tells a particularly salacious story is compelling.
Her joy is part of why the group has so much fun with her.
It’s hard not to smile back at her when she’s smiling at you.
“And I think there’s something you would like to add about our Mr. Donne here.”
I can see her struggle with how much she does want to add something here, with how much she’s trying not to “bombard” the group, as I carelessly accused her of yesterday.
And then her wants win and she breaks out into a mischievous smile.