Chapter 26
Lesson 25: The world has something for everyone, but you have more fun if you have a big butt.
Bridget Jones Tally:
crutches—2
surly Scottish snarls—8
fat bottoms—0
Rather than Robbie taking a back-seated approach to the shopping excursion and sitting quietly in the chair with a magazine,
like bored husbands the world over, he decided that it would be more efficient to “help.” This could be achieved, in his estimation,
by asking me what I needed, zipping through the racks with single-minded determination, and then testily thrusting at me any
item that he deemed sufficient.
I actually left the shop with a set of waterproof hiking pants and a warm, waterproof jacket in a charming eggplant color
for thirteen pounds. I couldn’t tell if I owed this success to Robbie’s assistance or in spite of it, but his churlish attitude
made sure that I didn’t waste any time enjoying myself.
As we made our crooked way to the next stop, I baited him. It was a little treat for myself—something I realized I enjoyed no matter what the occasion. Some girls prefer chocolate.
“Is this the Scottish immersion part of the tour? You know, to prepare me for the Scottish leg of our trip, where people are threateningly cantankerous, difficult
to understand, and loathe spending money?”
“No, Alice Cooper. As you went above and beyond with the English immersion part of the tour, I didn’t think it necessary.” His voice was a barb as he held the door open for me to get into the next
shop.
“Hmm. The question is, are all the English more friendly, pleasant, and patient than the Scots, or is my sample size too small?”
“Yes, well, the day is young. We have a few more hours in Bath if you want to find a few more men to bat your eyelashes at.”
I laughed. He shriveled me with a look and then went through the door himself, leaving me behind to scoot through the closing
door with my crutches. Though, at the speed it closed, I could have waited to heal completely and then tap-danced through.
I smiled when I caught him turning back to make sure I made it through alright.
Now that I had what I needed for my outdoorsing, and I had two formal dresses thanks to my fairy godmother, all I really needed
was a decent pair of jeans and a couple of casual, adaptable pieces that could hold up to the unpredictable weather and be
comfy to travel in. Not too bad. We’ll be out of here in no time, and he can go be grumpy all over someone else.
While I was looking in the women’s section, Robbie was off elsewhere, leaving me to my own devices. This gave me both a sense
of relief and a twinge of disappointment. I had prepared for antagonism. I had plans for torture.
After ten minutes or so of peaceful browsing and a somewhat promising selection of items, I found my way over to a little locked glass case, which held some of the more precious items that had been donated. There was a set of gilded china at the bottom, some jewelry, two antique profiles in oval frames, and a handful of old books, beautifully bound and deemed worthy of the glass case. I spied a gorgeous edition of the poetical works of Walter Scott and asked the lady if I might see it. I don’t typically go for poetry, but this one had a leather binding that was marvelously marbled on the outside and accented by amber leather corners and spine. It was a work of art.
The moment I put my hands on the impossibly smooth leather and smelled the breath of the paper, I was dragged back to the
library at Abbotsford. I could feel the floor under me, smell smoke from the fire, as if I were about to curl up in a leather
wingback in the bay window overlooking that River Tweed and read my afternoon away. It was magic, nothing less.
The price inside reflected this magic, however. I knew I couldn’t justify forty-nine pounds. Really, the entire trip had been
an extravagance, and I had promised myself I would take it easy on the wallet while I was here. The woman turned her back,
and I took my moment to caress the binding, running my hands over its cool, smooth skin, inhaling the scent of its long years.
I backed into someone, bulky as I was with the crutches, and turned to find Robbie standing there, a stark look drawing in
his features.
“Alice Cooper,” he said formally.
“Mr. Mussolini,” I said with a little half bow. I saw something flash across his face—humor or annoyance, I wasn’t sure, but
both options pleased me, so I took it for a win.
“What are you doing?”
“I am in the middle of a very passionate embrace. For goodness’ sake, have the decency to look away and give us some privacy.”
For a moment, I thought I saw his face soften, and I thought I had finally cracked him and he would give me a laugh. But instead he cleared his throat and sounded even more severe than before.
“Are you taking this seriously? I hope that you are. We have to meet the others in less than an hour, and there may not be
another opportunity to shop.” With a stern look, he grabbed my stack of try-on clothes from their position over my arm bracketed
by the crutch. “Here, these will be in the dressing room. Waiting for you. Hurry up.”
Wow. What do I have to do to make this guy smile?
I handed the book back to the lady with a sigh and went to the dressing room, as I had been ordered to do. When I moved a
long coat from the peg, I saw an unusual item hidden behind it in the middle of my rack of clothes. Unusual is putting it lightly. This thing was bizarre and hideous beyond all reason. It was some sort of onesie from the seventies
in ugly-wallpaper beige: long pants with not one but three layers of ruffles at the bottom, balloon sleeves, and a ruffled
high-neck collar. I let out a high-pitched bark of laughter and heard Robbie’s chastising voice immediately from right on
the other side of the curtain.
“Will you hurry up in there.” I laughed again. “Since you seem to need help, come on out and show me.”
I looked at the hanging beige monstrosity and giggled helplessly, nearly out of breath at the thought of actually putting
the thing on.
“Alice Cooper,” he warned in his best headmaster voice. “Come on now. Make it snappy.”
I unzipped about three feet of back zipper and wiggled into the polyester casing: some parts very tight, and some parts oversized
and sagging. Laughing hysterically, I zipped the thing up with its long, whiplike zipper cord. When I saw the full effect
in the mirror, I nearly collapsed dead on the spot.
I heard Robbie clear his throat outside, and I straightened up, wiped the tears from my eyes, and put on a serious catwalk face. I flung the curtain aside dramatically, prepared to do a runway walk down the aisle, but I saw him standing there with his hands on his hips, and I went weak in the knees. I had to steady my body against the wall, so wracked with shaking laughs that it actually hurt.
His face was all business. He was wearing short leather lederhosen with a neon-pink net tank top, cowboy boots, and a pair
of gold-rimmed seventies prescription glasses that took up half his face and created a goggle effect. He had topped this with
a fascinator—a stupidly tiny hat studded with silk flowers. Now I knew exactly how this ridiculous thing had magically appeared
in the middle of my clothes rack.
“Hmm... yes, yes. Nice lines.” He looked me over and blinked, wide-eyed through his massive glasses. “Excellent color for
your skin tone—gives a nice jaundiced pallor. Turn,” he said, pushing his glasses down his nose to stare over the rims and
spinning his finger in a circle. “Sturdy zipper, and a baggy rear end like a deflated balloon, just the way we like it.” I
was wheezing at this point, unable to say or do anything else. “Well, it’s a yes from me. I’ve never seen you look better.”
I collapsed against the wall.
“Stop! You’re hurting me!” I gasped out.
His face crumpled, and he finally succumbed to the laugh he’d been holding back. The sound of it had been well worth waiting
for. It was infectious, contagious, it filled my veins with champagne bubbles.
When I could breathe again, I looked him over. “You look like a nearsighted Bavarian who was big on the eighties club scene
going to a rodeo-themed wedding!”
He laughed until he was wiping tears away. I placed my hands on my hips and posed, waiting for his assessment.
“Hmm... you look like one of the Bee Gees got big into flamenco dancing and then went to a Victorian celibacy rally... after a buttock reduction surgery.”
I laughed until I had to cross my legs like Doris at Pemberley.
“Honestly,” I choked out between gasps, wiping my own tears. “Why was this thing ever made? This.” I lifted my leg and fluffed
at the ruffles. “Someone—a person—designed this item. To be worn.” I tugged at my shoulder-to-wrist balloon sleeve. “ This was some designer’s magnum opus.” I put my hands under the sag of fabric at my derriere, cupping it with both hands and gave
it a couple of suggestive baggy lifts before looking over my shoulder and waggling my eyebrows.
When I could move again, I went and stood next to him, taking my camera from the backpack he had carried for me, and took
a picture of us striking poses side by side in the mirror of the dressing room.
On the way to the till to purchase some jeans and sweaters that did nicely, we dropped the fascinator back on the hat rack.
We had nearly left before Robbie found a sixties pillbox hat with a veil that he had to try on, and then a series of bowler
hats and flatcaps, most of which looked quite sexy on him. Less so the lacy Lizzy Bennet bonnet I tied under his chin. I tried
on a selection myself, much to his amusement, and then found on a nearby shelf a genuine antique silk top hat. It was small,
so I cocked it at an angle over one eye and then gave him a saucy wink while I ran my fingers along the brim cabaret-style.
He swallowed visibly and cleared his throat, looking away to give his attention back to the hats.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what?”
“Well, what do you think of this one?”
“Don’t ask me that question. Just take it off before you give me a heart attack.”
I was elated to find one of those tourist novelty Scottish plaid hats with the messy ginger hair attached. I laughed and held it out to him.
“Christ, no.”
“Oh, come on, Robbie. Be a good sport.”
“No. Never will I.” His tone was deep and stern. That made me want it all the more. Forgetting my ankle entirely, I chased
him around the hat stand with the express intention to wrestle it on top of his head. I cornered him at one point and got
pretty close, but he grabbed my waist in both big hands, twirled me around and ran off, leaving me breathless from the exertion—and
in truth, from the feel of his hands on me.
“Och. I’m trying to get her out of here, I promise!” he said to the lady behind the counter. “She’s worse than a bag of ferrets!”
The woman laughed. “All the best ones are.” She gave us a wink.
I limped toward the counter, my ankle protesting now, and made my purchases. I was pleased to leave with a bulging bag. I
had even found a brand-new double pack of Smartwool hiking socks for four pounds.
Robbie grabbed my bags from me. “Alright, you hellion. Let’s get you off that ankle and get some hot tea down you.”
We found a sweet little café, covered in lace and flowers and clearly kitted out to appeal to Austen-loving women everywhere.
As we sat down, Robbie blew on his tea and met my eye.
“Hey. I’m sorry that I was such a dick with you today. And last night... I was...” He thought for a quiet moment, but
then seemed to decide against whatever he was going to say. “Well, I had my head firmly up my own arse.”
“Oh, it’s no surprise really. I’ve gotten used to you being a bawbag ,” I said, trying out my new vocabulary.
He laughed. “Watch it. This is a respectable establishment. They wouldn’t hesitate to turn out an unchaperoned lady of loose
morals.”
“I’ll just explain that I’m practicing for Scotland.”
“You’re nearly ready then!” He sipped his tea. “Honestly, though. I haven’t laughed like this with anyone in years. I know
I laugh a lot, but... not like this. Can we...”—he scrunched his nose and bit his lip—“be friends? Actual friends? Not
just mutual tormentors? It would be really nice to actually get to know you a little better.”
And it was that word, friends —that one syllable laden with meaning and purpose—that struck me like a blow to the stomach. I didn’t want to be Robbie’s
friend.
Anything more was hopeless, I knew, but at least I was going to stop lying to myself. Just the wanting of him was proof of
the healing I had done. I was becoming myself again: a woman who was strong enough to care for someone who could not be hers,
positive and likable enough to make new friends who sought out her company, and confident enough to be admired and desired
in her own right. For more than half the year, these things had seemed inconceivable, at odds with my state of mind. But now,
here I was, feeling almost at home in my skin again.
“I’d like that.” My response was simple and honest. In part, at least.