Finally, after I had resigned myself to being cheerful, and was listening to Tony's news of Wild Rose, in sauntered young Mr. Hawthorn with a grocery bag under his arm.
"Haggis, anyone?" he greeted. "Why, Anthony... welcome to Siberia!"
Tony grinned, and jumped up to shake his hand. "Hey, Laurence!"
"What in the name of everything unholy brings you here?" Laurence asked. He began unpacking his groceries.
"Oh, I'm just visiting. What have you been up to?"
"Keeping an eye on the savage inmates, mostly."
And on they went. For the first five minutes I was a knot of apprehension, sure that Laurence would drop sly hints about Gil, or say something outright incriminating.
But he didn't. In fact, he made us dinner--haggis and red potatoes, and asparagus cooked in butter--and behaved quite properly all evening. Even when he glanced my way during conversation, there was no flash of amusement or mischief like I expected to see.
In its way, it was torture.
So when Eileen asked if anyone wanted to walk up to the Royal Mile, and Tony and Sharon accepted, I quickly said, "You guys go ahead. I've got to work tomorrow, and I'm pretty tired. I'll wait for you here."
When Laurence and I were left alone, at our table by the kitchen window, he broke out the sly smile. "You are one evil little girl," he said. "Shove your boyfriend off to Eileen because you're dying to ask me about your Scottie? For shame!"
"Stop it. What happened? What did you tell him?"
"Well. He is one head case, I have to say."
"Why? What did you say to him?"
"Nothing. The truth. I said, 'That's her boyfriend. Don't make a scene. Come along.'"
"And he followed you?"
"Yes. Wasn't hard. I didn't have to twist his arm."
"Did you talk to him? Eileen says she saw you..."
"I couldn't shake him." Laurence shrugged. "He was asking me what was going on, then while I was answering, he veered off into a clothing shop, so I had to follow him. And then once we were in there, I had to keep him from buying more hideous items of polyester."
"He was going to buy a suit today," I sighed. "I was supposed to help."
"I took over for you. Good thing, too. If it weren't for me, he would have bought green polyester with white pin stripes. I smacked his wrists for even considering it." Laurence took a sip of water, and informed me, like a fashion commentator, "He ended up with a tasteful black ensemble in wool."
"All right; so you dressed him better. Then what happened? He didn't ask about me?"
"Oh, sure. Never stops talking, does he? He asked what Tony was like."
I winced sympathetically. "He seemed jealous? Sad?"
"Neither. Just curious. He said you never talk about your boyfriend."
"Of course I don't. So what did you tell him?"
"Just the truth. He seemed highly amused that Tony was an altar boy."
"Yeah, he doesn't hold much fondness for organized religion."
"I noticed." Laurence folded his hands behind his head. "I suppose he's mentioned to you a 'Miss Davis'?"
"Umm...the woman he made a comment about? At the recording studio?"
"Yes, his reason for earning a pink slip. Well, I got to meet her."
"Really? How did that happen?"
"We were sitting in his pub, having lunch--I only consented to do that because it was free--and in she stormed like a teeny little locomotive. Right to our table. Started railing and spewing hellfire at him."
"Damn, I miss all the good scenes. Why was she mad? Because of his coal-into-diamonds remark?"
"Not really. The whole thing was so bizarre." Laurence settled forward on the table. "She started off demanding, 'Did you say it; is it true?' And, ooh, did he get defensive. 'Aye, Ah said it; wha' of it?' Blah blah blah. Now this all happened, what, six months ago? Why she cared now I couldn't figure."
"Yeah. About six months ago," I said, puzzled.
"He was shouting that at her, too. 'I dinnae work for ye no more; what do ye care; can ye no let it die,' and so forth. I tried to convince them that this was not how civilized people act, but, this being a Scottish pub, I was shouted down. Anyway, once she got what she wanted--namely, what he had said, and whether he really said it--she stopped being mad at him, and started railing about her father. 'That bastard; where does he get off; who said he had the right; my business, not his;' on and on."
"So," I said, "she just found out why Gil was fired, and is mad at her father for doing it without consulting her?"
"Yes, apparently. Pretty soon she was leaning on the table with both hands, which wasn't hard, she's like four feet tall, she's even shorter than you, and preaching to Gillie that he's a good worker and a brave fellow and Lord knows what else, and that he should get another position and she'd write him a letter of recommendation, and it was all extremely weird."
"How did he take it? I thought he hated her."
Laurence chuckled. "No. No, I wouldn't say he hated her."
A new thought, an unpleasant one, uncurled in my brain. "Is she pretty?" I asked Laurence.
"Well...I wouldn't say so. But some would." There was a hint of apology in his glance.
"Oh," I said. I pushed a fork around on the tabletop, more discomfited and jealous than I had a right to be. "Young, I suppose?"
"Late 20s, probably."
Hmm. A bit old for Gil, but who knew where his real tastes might lie?
"You know," said Laurence, "I thought maybe his bitter diatribes against America were a cover-up for him being soft on you. He was seizing any opportunity to bash the U.S., even though he acted like he didn't care whenever you were mentioned. I thought, gee, maybe Eva really has gone to his head. But then this Shelly girl turns up, and, man, talk about issues. He nearly had a stroke when she started yelling at him. And then, after she left, after having told him that she was his biggest fan, he was smiling and floating around on a cloud."
"Shut up," I said.
He looked surprised. "Did you want to know what happened or not?"
"You're trying to make me jealous. You're messing with my head or something. Just... knock it off."
"If you'd seen him, you would have come to the same conclusions," Laurence insisted. "This woman is obviously the cause of at least half his hang-ups."
"You know, the one thing I don't want is for you to interfere. I appreciate your discretion, I appreciate that you headed him off at the pass and kept him occupied all day, but could you manage not to interfere?"
"I was not interfering." He took an irritated swallow of water. "I'm just reporting," he added.
"Your 'reporting' is biased. Anything you can say to make me look like the jilted party..." I shook my head, looking angrily out the window. My thoughts were too confused to put into words.
"May I remind you that this is not how I intended to spend my day," he said.
"Yeah, I know, it's too bad you couldn't be snuggling with Eileen in some alleyway," I returned, nastily.
I heard a bitter snort of laughter from him. "Eva... this isn't a good time to make me angry. Need I also remind you that Anthony Pavelich is going to be walking through that door within the hour? And that I could tell him whatever happened to cross my mind?"
I turned my eyes on him, hatefully. "I'd never speak to you again."
"Great. I'd never see you again. I'm moving to Maine."
We glared at each other for a few seconds.
Then he gave an exaggerated sigh and got up from the table. "Come on, I'm not going to tell him. Jeez. Relax."
I looked down at the tabletop, and waited while he collected the remaining dishes. Then I said, in a small voice, "Does Gil want to see me again?"
Laurence set the silverware diagonally across the plates. "Yes," he said. "He understands you'll be busy this week. He'll call you tomorrow at work."
"Thanks," I mumbled, and left the kitchen to wait for Tony.
My boyfriend soon returned, rosy and smiling from the D
ecember night, Eileen and Sharon in tow. We all sat in Room 17 for the next hour, chatting in a lively manner and perplexing the other residents; Cathy especially did her share of frowning in our direction. Tony's frequent mention of St. Mary's, Deacon Aldritch, Father Jim, the Eucharist, and his college courses in Latin didn't soften her up much.
I was, by degrees, able to relax and enjoy the fresh dose of Wild Rose he was bringing us. It made my affair with Gil seem dreamlike and far away--nothing that mattered in my real life; nothing a real person would care about. Then Laurence strolled in and unraveled some of my composure; his presence reminded me that it was real, what I'd done.
Still, he kept his word and didn't mention Gil or any nefarious behavior on my part, even after the petulant way I had treated him. I was grateful for that. Laurence moved up a notch in my estimation that night.
After a while, Laurence departed to take up the night shift at the front desk, and the rest of us yawned and agreed that it was bedtime. When the last person had turned out the lights, I lay drowsy in my bed, alone, and Tony lay sleeping, twenty feet away, in his. He had kissed me goodnight; that was all.
A grin sprawled across my face at the absurdity of it. If Gil and I could have slept overnight under the same roof, we would have been latched together in one bed within seconds. But here was my legitimate boyfriend, and he was too chaste to even suggest it. This could have seemed sad, but after the surreally wild, and ultimately harmless, events of the day, it struck me as funny. Laurence would appreciate it when I told him.
Abruptly I opened my eyes and frowned at the shadowed ceiling. Now why would I think that? Why tell Laurence?
Well, because he was the only one I could tell, I realized. That was natural. My eyes closed slowly. Then they re-opened.
But why did I enjoy the idea of telling Laurence? Why did I enjoy it more than the idea of telling Eileen, or Sharon, or anyone else, even if it had been safe to tell them?
I flopped over onto my side and snuggled deeper into the blankets. You've got a freakish exhibitionistic streak, Eva Sonneborn. You want to shock respectable scientists; you consider it more fun than sharing feelings with understanding friends. Perversity runneth deep in thee. Now go to sleep.
* * *
Gil did call me the next day at work. On the subject of Tony, he sounded more amused than jealous. "Have an unexpected guest, did we?"
"Yes. I'm so sorry about that. I hope Laurence wasn't a total pill to you."
"Not a bit. We had good fun."
"Listen, I won't be able to see you for the next week, probably. Tony leaves Saturday, so maybe that night..."
"Aye, Laurence told me. We'll manage." His tone was still cheerful, and he immediately skipped off into a new subject: "Did you hear we ran into Shelly Davis?"
"Yeah. I heard. Seemed strange, her bothering to find you after six months..."
"Well, she didn't know where I was. Only just found out lately. Now she wants to see if she can get me working back at the studio."
"At her studio? Her father's? I thought she was just going to give you a reference or something."
"Nah, I spoke to her last night. She phoned me at home and we got to talking. It's all patched up. I'm quite chuffed."
"But... what about this sound-effects guy? Don't you have an interview?"
"Aye, but I can cancel it. I'd much rather work back at the studio."
"Oh. I see."
"I might go doon there afore work today and talk to them. Shelly says they've lots of business lately. They could use me."
My eyes followed the stripes of the hotel wallpaper up to the ceiling. "Great," I said. Big deal. Who cared how their stupid business was doing. "I'll be sightseeing with my boyfriend. I guess I'll talk to you later."
"Ah, do you have to get back to work?"
"Yeah," I said, even though I had another fifteen minutes left of my lunch. I very much wanted to be icy to him right now.
He failed to notice, of course. "All righty," said the merry barkeep. "Think I'll nip off and head into town early, then. Nice sunny day."
I could have volunteered the information that it was below freezing, but talking about the weather was the last thing I felt like doing. "Okay," I said. "Have a good one."
He chuckled, and mimicked, "Have a nice day," before hanging up. I rolled my eyes and stomped off to the hotel kitchen, where I devoured some lunchmeat and cheeses speared on toothpicks.
Twerp. He thought it was so funny that Americans actually said, Have a nice day, or Have a good weekend. He had fought down giggles the first time I said it, and he later explained that, to him, and presumably to the rest of Scotland, it was something you only said in letters. Stiffly formal, stilted, insincerely polite, silly, affected, plastic; the kind of thing a tour guide would say. Apparently it was inconceivable that I could actually be wishing him a nice day.
Well, he could sod off. I had tolerated and learned and even picked up enough of his weird little idioms, and I was polite enough not to mock him; and by the way, had he looked at a map lately? An entire continent of North Americans, pronouncing things more or less the same way and using the same pleasantries, and we were the funny ones? This little country the size of Iowa, with their fitful accents that couldn't even stay the same for 50 miles in any direction, had decided that they were the way of the world?
I gnawed on the end of a toothpick. Let's be fair, now, Eva.
I had wanted a boy who was pure, untainted, provincial U.K., and I had gotten one, and now I disliked him for being exactly that.
Maybe, after all, I had really wanted to catch such a boy and turn him into an adorer of America. That would only be fair, I must have reasoned, if I had reasoned at all. I fawned so slavishly over the British, why couldn't I ask for some devotion in return?
Maybe he did like Americans, though. Maybe it just wasn't me.
I snapped the toothpick in half between my thumb and finger. Damn that traitorous defector, that Shelly, that Miss Davis, the brat living under Daddy's wing in the U.K., snapping the whip in a recording studio like she was some kind of goddess. If that was the kind of so-called American Gil liked, fine. He could have her. She could have him.
Then my eyes filled with tears, and I turned to face the sink. I started doing dishes mechanically.
Damn it, Laurence, why did you tell me about her? Why did you have to see how they felt about each other?
Chapter Fourteen
The Ghost Tour
Of course I had been overreacting.
Gil called me, unsolicited, the next day, and chatted happily about his visit to the studio, but said nothing remarkable about Shelly Davis. What's more, he did sigh, "I miss you. I hope you'll still want to see me again, though your boyfriend's here and he's probably better than me and everything."
On most points, in fact, Tony was better than Gil--except in that one very tempting area of unleashed passion. (That meant that Tony had better self-control, technically, but I was in no mood to quibble over morals at the time.)
Tony, in fact, was so good that he made me happy. He was the one person whose presence should have frightened and shamed me, but in truth, he soothed me. He made me laugh. His bright enthusiasm for the tourist attractions of Edinburgh was charming to see.
Surely he would know that I didn't mean him any harm, by toying with Gil? It was an unrelated thing; it was off to the side. Nobody stood between Anthony and me. If I told him, surely he would understand that? I clung to his arm and rested my head on his shoulder, and admired his lucid discussion of history with Laurence and Eileen and Sharon and Thomas.
Gil knew practically nothing about local history. When was the castle built? I had asked him. Dinnae ken, he had answered. What about the palace? And how far did the city wall extend? And when was the Nor' Loch drained, and Princes Street Gardens planted in its place? Ah don't know, he had said again. I had shrugged it off as that special blindness people have for their own surroundings, and tried not to think of it as ignorance.
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Even Eileen appreciated Tony now. They were in capital spirits, chatting church history together. Eileen spoke luridly of the evils the Catholics had committed against the Protestants, and Tony cleverly countered with the evils the Protestants had committed against the Catholics. I lost count of the beheadings early on. Both sides numbered quite a few.
But best of all, Tony's aura was favorable to her ghost seeing. We found this out in a startling fashion on his second evening in town.
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