Page 40 of Only One Tour Bus

Staying silent is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I had to not talk about the Roman parades with giant phalluses, all the brothels (in places that used to be called Cock Lane and Gropecunt Lane which were named for exactly what happened there), and say nothing about the actresses and philandering aristocrats.

It was hard.

(Pun so intended.)

And now Callum is asking me to talk? About John Donne, writer of one of the sassiest pick-up poems in history? It’s too much for one person to have to bear.

“Well…Donne was all of those things. And one of the poems he wrote in the 1590s was called ‘The Flea.’ And the entire poem is him trying to get into someone’s pants, proving this generation did not invent recreational sex. His argument is that a flea has bitten him, and then this other person, so they’ve already mixed blood. And that is more intimate than any marriage, so they should be able to bone. And then he went on to be a priest, after writing one of my favorite poems-slash-pick-up lines.”

I smile and slump in relief, like I finally got to scratch an itch that was bothering me for hours. Three hours to be exact, which is how long this tour is and how long I’ve been silent.

I was really trying to be good. I was trying to be stoic and professional and dignified and erudite and all those words that people use to describe themselves when they’re boring. It wasn’t easy, and I had to tune Callum out so I wouldn’t be tempted to interrupt.

I’ve been playing Sabrina Carpenter songs in my head on a loop to help.

His words from last night cut a lot deeper than I thought they would. Because after Rob has rejected every idea I have, very decisively (and with some borderline mocking), I’m beginning to doubt that I will ever be the person who plans the tours at his company. Hell, I’m beginning to doubt that I can even do the tour guide job that I have much longer.

And hearing Callum criticize me is not helping.

But hearing the group laugh, and seeing them enjoy history, reminds me that I am okay at this.

“And that’s the end of the tour today. You have free time for the rest of the day, and tomorrow as well. I’ll be in the lobby tomorrow morning from eight to nine if you want tips on what to do or how to get places, but other than that, enjoy the city. And please be at the lobby at eight a.m. the next morning after your free day for checkout so we can head to Paris! We’re going by train, so we have to be punctual. Not that that will be a problem for this group, because you haven’t been late yet,” I say.

The tourists disperse after they ask for last-minute directions and advice, leaving me alone with the Irishman. I nod at him in goodbye, a perfectly professional and boring coworker goodbye, and turn to walk to the nearest tube stop. I have some museums in mind for myself, and I’m trying to figure out which one I should go to when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn with a smile, thinking it’s one of the group. Then I see who it is and the corners of my mouth droop down. “Oh, it’s you.”

Callum flinches at the response. Well, too bad. Except I can’t not care about other people’s happiness like he does, so I do feel bad.

Now we both feel bad. I hope he’s happy.

“I was hoping we could talk? About last night? I didn’t mean⁠—”

“It’s fine. You have very strong opinions about me, and that’s your right. We obviously do things differently.”

“Are we okay?” The man looks as awkward as I’ve ever seen him.

I do need to stop being mad at him. I feel like shit that there’s someone who doesn’t like me out in the world, but that’s my problem. Not his.

“We’re coworkers. And we will continue to have a professionally cordial relationship.”

He nods, not looking happy about my response. But he never looks happy so who knows how he really feels about my pronouncement.

“Do you want to go somewhere in our free time? See some history together? I can take photos for you,” Callum says.

I hesitate. Being near this man is not good for me. He’s contrary and kind of hurtful, whether he means to be or not. “Maybe next time. I have some things I have to take care of.” Like sitting around in the hotel and working on my tour plans that will only get rejected by Rob. Because now if I run into Callum sightseeing around town, he’ll know I’m full of shit.

It’ll be awkward. Not the end of the world, and frankly, it’s already kind of awkward. So it’s just a matter of how much awkwardness I want to invite onto this tour.

Fuck it, I’ll go to a museum and if I see him there, I see him there.

No man takes museums from me. No matter how nice their accents and forearms are.

I wake up the next morning refreshed. I didn’t run into Callum yesterday, and I had a nice, nonjudgmental visit to a mansion on the outskirts of London, Eltham Palace, done in the Art Deco style with remnants of its medieval palace origin hanging around. Not that I don’t love me a historic country house, but it’s fun to see something more modern every now and then. Refueled with the power of history, I’m ready to deal with demanding passengers and a lack of respect from Callum.

I put on a dress with adorable llamas in fancy clothes on it, trying to plan my own adventure for the free day.

Downstairs, I take over a couch and put my coffee and breakfast on the table in front of me, ready for the next hour and a half. I shouldn’t be surprised that Callum isn’t here. He probably doesn’t consider this part of his job, since it’s the group’s free day.