Chapter 21
ASHA
The next morning is not an improvement in my general state of affairs.
And it’s not helped any by my sexy coworker bursting into my room looking fresh in jeans that hug his butt and a worn, tight green shirt while I’m in pajamas that have stains of indeterminate origins.
I would like to think they’re from the last twenty-four hours, but I don’t do laundry on the road, so who can say.
But I must be feeling better, because yesterday I wasn’t even thinking about Callum’s butt or his chest when he was in my room, and now I can do both while he goes on and on about how many pictures people wanted to take of the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palais, the Eiffel Tower, and the Place de la Concorde.
All while ignoring him when he tried to teach them the histories of each place.
Each complaint, each photo, a unique criminal charge he’s accusing me of.
As he glares at me to make sure I eat the scrambled eggs and croissant he brought me.
Not even from the hotel’s mediocre continental breakfast. This is from a bakery out in the streets of Paris.
And then he’s ranting about the advance of technology in cameras, and how they used to be worse so there were less pictures on the night tour, but now that they’re better, people are stopping all the time and it takes him twice as long to finish it.
So many words for the usually grunty man.
Not that there’s a lack of grunts in his tirade.
Before I can commiserate with him on the evils of phone companies daring to improve their products, he turns to me, and says, “How are you feeling?”
His tone changes. It softens as he asks the question. That’s surprising, but nice.
“I’m doing okay.” It was hard last night missing out on one of my favorite tours—fine, they’re all my favorite!
—but I needed the rest. “At some point in the night I had chills and aches, and the thermometer told me I should be red-level worried, but the fever is back down to yellow-level worried now.”
“Try it again.”
“Do you…not believe me? Why would I lie?”
“I just want to see. Have you been drinking water?”
“Yes, Mom. I went through three entire glasses at some point in the last fourteen hours.” I answer around the thermometer in my mouth, sitting back on my bed.
“Close your mouth and let the wee thing do its job.”
“You asked me a question!” I yell around the thing in my mouth.
“See, still yellow.” I hold it up for him to see and then throw it down on the bedside table.
“That means you have Paris all to yourself. Don’t forget to tell them about the baguette recipe laws, or how the Bloody Mary was invented here for Hemingway, and how there’s one dog for every seven people.
And the catacombs! So many human remains.
And that Notre Dame is the most visited landmark in France.
And the French Army still has carrier pigeons!
” I pause. “You know what, I should just come. I’ll stand away from everyone. ”
I start to get up but stumble the second I try to stand. Callum moves fast to catch me, his arm around my waist, gentle but immovable. “I’ll tell them about the pigeons, I promise. But you need to stay here.”
“But I miss my tour babies.” I sniff, more because my nose is actually congested than any flair for dramatics. Even though I am known for my flair for the dramatics.
“And they miss you. Everyone was asking about you.”
At least they thought about me. “Since I can’t make today, you have to take some of the kiddos out to a romantic dinner tonight, too.”
“What? The group dinner isn’t until tomorrow.”
“I know. Remember, you helped me book it. For Henry and Doris, because he asked for something special for their anniversary. And offer it to Roshni and Camila. Because they need a romantic night, too. They’re both booked at Le Train Bleu, that restaurant with paintings of different French regions and Rococo gold molding in the Lyon train station. ”
“You want them to go to a romantic, marriage-celebrating and -saving dinner in a train station?”
“Train stations used to be very fancy places for wealthy tourists who wanted to travel in luxury. Just take them. And you have to go and make sure everything runs smoothly. I’ll pay for your meal.”
“I’m not going out with two married couples. I will tell them about the reservation.”
“But you have to spy for me!” I ruin the order by blowing my nose. “You won’t sit at their tables. Just be around to nudge things if needed.”
“I’m not nudging anything. If their marriages are going to fail, that’s outside the scope of my duties.”
“Again with this narrow interpretation of your job! What if they break up on tour? It would affect tour morale!”
“Doris and Henry are grand, no matter how this dinner goes. And Roshni and Camila, although not happy with each other, don’t seem the type to make a scene. They’ll break up in the privacy of their own homes when they get back, like civilized folk. Making it not my problem!”
“Ugh, you are so frustrating!” The effect of my anger is hampered by my congestion, making me sound about as threatening as a baby penguin. Which makes me tear up the slightest bit in frustration. But that is most likely more because of the germs running rampant through my body.
Callum sighs. “I’ll go to the dinner.” He relents probably more because of how pathetic I look and sound over how swayed he is by my solid arguments and/or overall tough demeanor.
“Thank you.” I pull the covers up higher over my chest, because I definitely haven’t even thought about a bra in the last twenty-four hours and I don’t need him to know where my boobs really are.
“Can you please eat your food now?” He motions to the space he cleared on my table and the spread he laid out for me. Which I had forgotten about.
I cannot overemphasize how much cold medication I’m on right now. I was hoping I could overwhelm the germs with meds and then I would be able to tour today, but that isn’t working out. The germs are fighting back.
“Yes. And bless you for this feast.” I sneeze and lunge for a tissue before Callum can see how gross I am.
“No, bless you.”
“Wow, it’s a joke a minute right now. Where has this guy been?”
“If this is the response I get for trying to heal the sick with humor, I will cease. Immediately.”
I hold up my hands. “No. More please. I can feel myself getting better with every joke.”
Callum motions again to the table and I start eating. I don’t tell him that I already had some yogurt when I woke up because it was so sweet of him to think of me. Plus, I’m going to need a fever much higher than this one before I turn down fresh French bread.
“Rest up. I’ll call you after the tour to check in, but if you’re asleep don’t worry about answering.”
“Tell our tour babies some of those jokes. Tour babies love jokes.” My eyes are already half closed because of those meds, but they’re fighting me to stay open to look at Callum and that breakfast.
“They aren’t our babies.” Callum turns around and I get a great, edifying view of that butt. “And if they were my babies, they wouldn’t ask stupid questions or take too many photos when I’m teaching. They’d have manners.”
I don’t know if I’m supposed to catch that last part, but I do. I laugh as he closes the door, not all that worried for my babies.
Callum’s bark is so much worse than his bite.
“Put me on video!”
“This is a double Michelin-starred restaurant and you want me to turn on the FaceTime?”
“Yes.” I munch on my baguette and hold my phone up, already starting the video request.
“Jesus wept,” Callum mumbles, but he accepts the video call.
I spend the next few minutes watching him in an opulent setting, surrounded by works of art on every surface that I can see, while he tries to reposition the phone so it’s less obvious, furtively looking around like he’s committing some reconnaissance for a heist instead of…
well, I guess we are spying on the customers.
But they’re my tour babies. I have the right, like every overprotective mother across the globe. Or at least like they say they do.
“Henry and Doris are doing well, as expected. Move the phone to Camila and Roshni.” I don’t know how he managed to get primo seating in between both couples, but he is right in the middle of it all.
“Well, they have been a couple for fifty years.”
“How did Roshni and Camila react when you told them about the night?”
Callum sighs and lowers his voice. “I’m so glad I had earbuds in my backpack.”
“Answer the question!” I don’t have to modulate my volume alone in this hotel room.
“Camila looked happy and Roshni looked tentatively hopeful. They’re having a nice meal.”
“No! I want passion. We’re in Paris, I deserve passion!” I ruin the effect, yet again, by sneezing.
“You’re not well enough for passion.”
Drat. So Callum heard the sneeze. I even put it in my elbow.
“Send them some wine on us.”
“Wee Sunshine, do you know how much we get paid?”
“I’ll reimburse you. This is for love!”
Callum gets a waiter’s attention and tells him to send the table a bottle of wine whose name I’ve never heard of—not that that means anything; I do not have a sophisticated palate and I have a budget to match. And he does it in perfect French. I’m impressed again.
Callum keeps me on the line for the rest of dinner as Roshni and Camila loosen up. This may just work. I’ve already seen them laugh together on tours and smile close together for the photos I offer to take for them.
Hand me a diaper and call me Cupid, because I’m rekindling love!
Okay, me and Europe are rekindling love! And they should probably talk to a therapist at some point. But first they need to remember what they’re fighting for.
The couples both finish dinner and walk out the restaurant, arm in arm, smiling softly at each other. Callum turns the camera around to show his unamused face, and asks, “Are you happy, then?”
“Ec-static.” I draw the word out.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Good. I’m coming to the hotel to check up on you. Take your temperature.”
“I’m fi—” Hung up on is what I am. But he kept the phone on the entire dinner so I can’t complain too much at the unceremonious end of the conversation.
I turn back to watching reruns of The Office in French, waiting for Callum to come back. When he does, I’m ready for him this time, with a new pair of pajamas that I had delivered via app today. With no stains to speak of. Thank god for apps.
“I have dinner for you.” Callum announces without flourish, setting the bag on my table.
“From Le Train Bleu? You didn’t need to get me fancy food.”
He shrugs. “I was there. There was food. You need to eat.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got you the pike quenelles but also the chicken. I can eat what you don’t.”
I take the first bite of pike quenelles, and moan as it melts in my mouth. “This is perfect,” I say with my mouth mostly full as Callum pulls the chicken toward him. “Didn’t you eat at the restaurant?”
“Some. But I was busy holding my phone up and trying not to look suspicious. Which I probably failed at, but luckily, I left before the waiter could call the police on me.”
Oh yeah, because of me.
“So why are you obsessed with all this romance, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be a feminist?”
“What? I am totally a feminist.”
“But all this romance stuff is so…it’s the patriarchy and shite.”
“It can be, I guess, if it’s forced on people or if it’s presented as their only option.
No one needs a partner if they don’t want one.
But that’s why third wave feminism is my favorite…
I think it’s the one with all the choices.
Whichever feminism means I get some quality fucking and companionship, can choose my career or lack thereof, and my partner pays for dinner. I want that one.”
“You don’t ask for a lot, do you?”
“Hmm. Probably. But the dinner thing is compensation for the gender pay gap. And the rest, well, everyone should be able to choose what they want in life.” My nose is regally in the air at my proclamations. And then it feels a tickle and I sneeze again, ruining the image.
Callum passes me a box of tissues without judgment.
“Wait. This doesn’t look familiar,” I say after I’ve used the mystery tissues.
“I brought you some tissues. Noticed you were using toilet paper during the video chat over dinner.”
I point to the drawing on the box meant to indicate its softness. “You brought me the one with the lotion?”
A blush forms on Callum’s cheeks. “Yes. Your nose looked red. Probably because of all the toilet paper.”
“That’s so sweet. You did something so sweet.”
“I absolutely did not. You need to feel better so Rob doesn’t accuse me of sabotaging the joint tour. See, selfish.”
“It can be self-interested and sweet at the same time.”
He holds up an item. “I almost don’t want to give you this now because you’ll misconstrue it, but I also got this for you.”
I gasp. “A souvenir Eiffel Tower pen? In the shape of the Eiffel Tower?”
“And it lights up. Don’t get overly excited; it’s very cheap.”
“It lights up?” I start looking for the button to light it up, and not seeing any, I scramble for some scrap paper and write on it. Just like I thought, it lights up when writing! “This is amazing.”
When I finally tear my eyes away from the light-up pen, I see Callum watching me. He’s got a very small for a normal person—and very big for a Callum—smile on his face.
“I know how much you hate this sort of frivolity. So thank you for overcoming it to bring me this. I really like this get-well present.”
“Well…the group…wanted you to know that you were missed. And…they…felt bad you were missing the craic.”
“The group said that?” I didn’t miss all those pauses.
“Yes. Your tour babies are very attached to you.”
“Tell them thank you for me, then. I appreciate…whoever and everyone who was involved with bringing me this wonderful souvenir.”
“Useless, naff shite. It’s the most aggressive whimsy I’ve ever seen in all my days.”
“Yes, very tacky. Only the completely tasteless would enjoy,” I agree readily. But I have a smile on my face as I clutch it to my chest.
Because Callum bought me a souvenir.