Chapter 20
CALLUM
The group is downstairs in the lobby for checkout on time. That is the last complimentary thing I can say about them. Because half are hungover (Asha’s eighteen-to-thirty crowd), and half seem angry at their families and traveling companions.
They didn’t even make it out of the United Kingdom before falling apart. Not that it doesn’t happen on a group trip like this, where even the family and friends have their moments when no one’s speaking to the people they came with. But it usually takes longer than the first leg.
Asha is aware of the mood and is being extra kind to everyone, even though they’re only miserable because of their own poor decisions. I’m not babying them. Everyone here is an adult, except for the literal children, but their parents are here to look after them.
“At least it’s a travel day and they can sort out their feelings before the night tour in Paris,” Asha whispers to me as she collects hotel keys for checkout and tries to exchange them for smiles that go unappreciated from the ungrateful tourists.
I have to stop myself from glaring them into submission. Okay, so maybe some of the glare still comes out, because they’re backing away from me like they can read my uncharitable thoughts.
Good. They should feel bad about making Asha’s life harder when all she wants to do is give them a nice vacation.
In fact, the more I think about it, the madder I get.
She puts on a happy face and bends over backward to make sure everyone is taken care of and having fun.
The very least they can do is have some bloody fun.
Or fake it. I don’t care if they’re actually having fun, so long as Asha thinks they are and is happy. In the past day, I’ve discovered that I don’t like when Asha is upset, so no one is going to make her upset.
I don’t know how we’re going to deal with the kiss that shouldn’t have happened between coworkers, especially ones who are competing. One of us is going to be upset at the end of this, and it’ll be worse if we start something physical.
In the meantime, the somber attitude means that everyone is quiet on the bus ride to the train station. A small blessing.
At the train station, we don’t lose anyone, or any time, in the process of getting tickets and ushering the group to the right train.
It must be because we have two people; one to watch the group of puppies (Asha) and another to handle the administrative duties, like ticketing and figuring out which platform we’re on (me).
In Paris, we have the same number of people that we left the United Kingdom with, although there was a minute when we thought we had lost one (Thomas didn’t feel like telling anyone he was going to take a piss).
The somber attitude infects Asha during the travels, which I was hoping it wouldn’t, and she’s just as quiet as the rest of the group.
I even try to draw her into inane conversation about the weather and her favorite tours to give, which she responds to with short answers that would be normal coming from me but are subdued and worrying coming from her.
It’s a free afternoon until the night walk around Paris, and everyone heads to their rooms first to drop off their luggage.
“Do you want to get out and see the city until we have to work again?” I ask, not ready to leave her.
“Usually I would love to, but I think I’m going to lie down. I’m feeling kind of tired.”
She doesn’t look good, now that she mentions it. Obviously, she always looks beautiful, but right now her face looks drawn and she doesn’t have her usual Asha glow that I assume is a side-effect of her being so happy all the time.
Maybe she’s feeling the first week of the trip as much as the travelers.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. I just need to lie down for a second.”
“All right. Call me if you need anything.”
She stops to look at me, her eyes narrowed so much I don’t know if she’s falling asleep where she stands, or if she’s still considering me.
“What? I can be helpful.” When I want to.
“I don’t think I have your number. I mean, it might be in some employee handbook, but not with me right now.”
“Right. I can give it to you? So you’ll have it if you need it.”
“That sounds good.” She gets her phone out to take my number, and texts me right away so I have hers as well. I push down the embarrassment that I’ve spent the last week with this woman, have kissed her, and we’re only now getting around to doing the number exchange.
“Now that you have my number, call if you need anything.” It comes out as a command, as much as I tried to soften it into a request. But I’m no good at soft. “I can get your wee bag for you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I packed it, I can carry it,” she quotes our handbook. But she’s swaying on her feet.
“You really don’t look so good.”
“You know the way to a girl’s heart,” Asha says sarcastically, but then ruins the effect of the indignation by sneezing.
I’ve got to teach her how to properly dress someone down.
She did a fine enough job making me feel shite a few days ago, but this is not her best effort.
She should get some help from an expert (me) to be more consistent.
“So I’ve been told.” But I take her suitcase and mine and walk up the stairs.
But it would be easier if I could be her knight in shining armor in America, because they’ve got the biggest elevators I’ve ever seen in my life, while Europe has the smallest. There’s already a line outside this hotel’s two small elevators, which can hold two people and one suitcase at a time.
Maybe two suitcases if everyone gets close.
With a suitcase in each hand, I climb the stairs with Asha. Just our luck, we’re on the fourth floor, and I’m feeling the need for a lie down after the trek. She doesn’t look much better after the exertion, and she did it minus her suitcase and all.
I should have forced the Americans to get some exercise and taken an elevator for us. Made up some nonsensical excuse about tour guide privilege, or a tour guide emergency.
She opens her door and I roll her suitcase in, mind still on how tired she looks. “Should we call a doctor?”
“No. Don’t be silly; I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Again with the slander on my appearance.” She waves me away, and then collapses on the bed. She would probably say that she sat on the bed, but she would be wrong. Her legs went out from under her and the bed caught her so the floor didn’t have to.
“Do you at least have medicine?”
“Always prepared. Of course I do.” But she doesn’t move to get the medicine. She closes her eyes as she falls fully back onto the bed.
I push our suitcases out of the way and try to tuck her in, under the covers. It’s much more difficult than usual since she’s currently on top of them. And every time I move her, she gives a wee unhappy groan but doesn’t open her beautiful brown eyes or tell me off.
Not that Wee Sunshine would ever tell me off in the traditional sense of the word. She would probably say something about how I’m wrong, but it’s not my fault, because I don’t know any better and this is just an opportunity for me to learn.
Or say something that looks on the bright side of the situation.
I finally get her under the covers, a task made even harder since I’m trying to avoid hearing those groans every time I move her. Then I dig in her backpack for the pills, give thanks that they’re in there and not the suitcase, and help her take them.
I sit in the chair next to the bed, knowing I should leave but not able to leave her alone when she looks in such a sad state. I get out my phone and start scrolling to pass the time.
“I don’t think it’s gonna happen,” Asha says as she burrows deeper into the covers.
“But you have to. It’s your type of tour. Seeing the glittering lights and talking about why Paris is called the City of Lights. It’s light on history and heavy on photo opportunities next to pretty buildings.”
“Come on, it’s easy. You say it’s because it was one of the first cities to use gas streetlights on a large scale. And also because of how hard it went on the Age of Enlightenment stuff after the street lighting. Then you watch them take photos, and maybe offer to take a few. See, you can do it.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“I hear you. But I’m lying here with a light fever, so I don’t think we have many choices.
” She waves the thermometer at me, which is flashing yellow.
Apparently, this American thermometer tells her how nervous she should be depending on the temperature, as if she can’t figure that out for herself.
Maybe most Americans couldn’t, but she can.
I sigh. What did these tourists give her? Traveling around, getting little sleep, and always worrying makes our immune systems hearty. So whatever is taking her down now must be serious.
Which means I shouldn’t be in this room, so one of the tour leaders stay healthy and ready to take on all the job duties. But I can’t leave.
“Do you want me to get everyone sick?” she asks.
“Yes.” My response is immediate, and not what Asha expected, if her rolling eyes are any indication. “That would solve a lot of my problems. And make this tour go a lot smoother.”
“Some of them are going to be down for the count like me, so it’ll be a smaller group anyway.
” Always with the bright side, this one.
“This is what you want. I won’t be around to interrupt when you start this tour talking about how they found bones from 8000 BCE in the Fifteenth Arrondissement, or about the Parisii and how they’re the Gallic tribe that settled on the banks of the Seine in 250 BCE. It’ll be heaven. For you.”
Because it won’t be for the group, is the unspoken part of that sentence.
“Do you need anything?” I get up, needing to get my things in my room so I can meet everyone who is up for it in the lobby.
“No. I have paracetamol, vitamin C, zinc, and water. And I’m treating myself by ordering soup from room service like a rich person. I’m good.”
I look to the bedside table where all of the medications and vitamins in question are sitting. “If you’re sure…”
“Thank you for staying with me. It was very nice of you.”
I grunt, not comfortable with the praise. “I’m doing it so you can get better and pull your own weight.”
“Sure.” She nods at me in a way that says she’s not agreeing with me but wants to placate me.
“I’ll check on you after the tour.” I mean it to be helpful, but wince when it comes out vaguely threatening. “Well, maybe I’ll check on you tomorrow morning. You should be sleeping when I get back.”
“See you then. Try not to glare our tour babies into the Seine.”
“Only if they promise not to deserve it.”
I close the door to the sound of Asha laughing at me. Good, at least she’s feeling well enough to laugh.
Even if it is at me.