It was true: they did deserve privacy. She could come to me later, once Thomas Chester-Brighton was gone. Even so, I ached at the thought--sweet, practical Sharon with her heart torn to shreds, crying quietly into the ugly hostel bed while the gods of love smirked and looked the other way, and I callously sneaked out to meet a fickle Scottish boy. I followed Gil up into the frigid street, swallowing back my first genuine tears of sorrow since starting this journey.
If he mentions Shelly Davis next after this, I will not forgive him, I thought. A word of sympathy, for me or for Sharon, and the tears would spill over and I would lean on him for kindness and comfort, and he might soften toward me in a way he had never quite done before. But bring up Miss Davis and we are through.
"It's hilarious, seeing people's reactions to how well Shelly and I get along at work," he said.
My feet slowed. I stared at him.
"They've all learned why I was fired," he continued blithely. "So it confuses the crap out of them that there we are, talking and laughing."
"Do you," I asked, "have any idea when a topic is appropriate and when it isn't?"
He looked confused. "Why isn't this appropriate?"
"Because you saw my sister. I'm here suffering simply because she's suffering, and all you can think to say is something about work?"
We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on Princes Street. "I thought you didnae want to talk about it!" he said.
"Why on earth would you think that?"
"Because if you did, you'd ha' said something about it."
"I am saying something about it!"
"Well, look-" He swatted at the iron spikes of the garden fence impatiently. "I never know what to say to people when they're upset. If it were me, I'd want the subject changed. And so I change it."
"Yes, avoid other people's concerns. That's a good way to operate."
"How am I to know you'd be upset about your sister? You seldom even mention her."
"Look, it's...it's nearly Christmas; of course I would think about my family." Even at the time, I realized that my case for the prosecution was getting weak.
"All right, then; what do you want me to say?"
"I don't know; I'm not here to feed you lines." I rubbed my eyebrows with my gloved fingers. "You know--this thing with Eileen, and now Sharon--I have a headache. I think I should just go to bed. You should ignore me. I don't blame you for ignoring me."
"When was I ignoring you?" said the bewildered Gil.
"Forget it," I answered. "I'm going back to the hostel, in case Sharon shows up. I just want to make sure she's all right. Okay?"
"All right, I guess I'll just catch an early bus, then," he said, annoyed.
"Look...sorry," I said, sounding anything but.
"Aye, I'm sorry too, if I said something I shouldn've, or didnae say something I should. Could I have advance warning next time?"
So we grumbled our goodnights, and separated. It was the second time in a row that we had parted without a kiss, and this time not even one of us was in good spirits.
He shouldn't need advance warning, I seethed on my swift walk back to the hostel. He should have a brain in his head and know when a subject is appropriate. Wasn't he born with the same cognitive skills as the rest of us?
I stomped up and down all four floors of the hostel, but Sharon was not back yet, and when I peeked into Laurence's room I saw him asleep on his sofa. Eileen was sprawled across his bed, also asleep, a book lying open on her chest. This was how they had been spending the nights, apparently: fully clothed and in separate beds, but not for lack of trying on Eileen's part. He claimed she would never get stronger if she relied on him too much.
"I'll be right here, a few feet away, if you need anything," he had reportedly said to her, "but you've got to take this like a grown-up girlie and be able to sleep alone. Besides, I kick in my sleep. You don't want that, do you?"
He hadn't kicked when I slept on the sofa with him in October.
I closed his door quietly, walked down the corridor, and found myself smiling at the memory. How cozy and warm it had been, how kind of him to grant me a request he wouldn't even grant the beautiful Eileen.
A very ungenerous stitch of jealousy caught my breath for a moment. It was me he should favor, not her. I might not be as smart as Laurence, but I could discuss his favorite subjects a whole lot better than Eileen could, and IQ was what he valued in people. And how selfish of him was it to remove himself to Maine after this vacation, and abandon me in Wild Rose without a confidante? I wouldn't put it past Eileen to follow him there, either.
Thoroughly unhappy now, I retreated to Room 17 and spent an hour trying to compose a letter to Tony about how sorry I felt for Sharon.
Then Eileen poked her head into the room. "Eva? There you are. Sharon's here. She's really upset. Thomas left for England on the train tonight."
"Tonight?" I tossed aside the letter and jumped down from my bed. "Oh, I hoped it wasn't tonight."
Eileen led me up the stairs to the fourth floor. "Yeah, the poor girl. She's always so stable. I don't think I've seen her cry since she was about seven."
"Not about boys," I said. "God, I should have stayed at the station--I saw her there with Thomas and didn't even try..."
"It's okay; I'm sure they wanted to be alone," Eileen soothed. Eileen soothing me? This was a change.
We went into Laurence's room, where he was sitting on the sofa with Sharon curled up in his lap. She clutched a tissue and sniffled against his shoulder. He had both arms around her, and smiled at us when we came in. "Nobody can say I don't take good care of my girlies," he said.
"I'm sorry for being like this, Laurence," she sobbed.
"It's okay, sugar-pop," he assured her gently. "It's what I'm here for."
I sat beside them on the sofa, and Sharon peeked at me. "Eva?" she sniffled. "Would it be so awful if I didn't spend Christmas here?"
"Here? Of course not; why would you spend it here? This isn't home, for God's sake. Do you want to go down to his house? You should go."
"He said they have a spare room," she said. "And that I could stay there as long as I liked. But I didn't think I should leave you guys. Anyway, I'll just have to go home after three more months..." She began weeping again, in Laurence's shirt.
"Not necessarily," Laurence said. "If you get a good job, they can get you all settled with Immigration."
"But I li-live in Wild Rose," she sobbed. "Everyone I love is there. Well...almost everyone..."
"Honey, you're going to be miserable if you go back to Wild Rose, and you know it," said Eileen. "Go see your man. What's there to do in Wild Rose, anyway? Why do you think we came here?"
"Exactly," said Laurence. "No point in wasting the next three months, even if you do go home afterward."
"Hell, I'll miss you, Sharon," I said, "but at least I'll know you're happy. Go see him, while you're still on the same island."
"Are you sure? Would Mom and Dad forgive me?"
"It's not like you're running off with a junkie you met under a park bench. He's a very bright university student, who's inviting you to stay at his parents' house in jolly old England. Are you kidding? They'd think it was adorable."
And Sharon brushed her tears away, and smiled shyly at us. And the next day she was on the phone with Thomas, who had freshly arrived in England, and was telling him the good news. Before nightfall she had a train ticket in her hand, and by the end of the week she was gone.
Eileen and I both had to work, so Laurence saw her off at the station.
"Thank you for being so nice to her," I said to him, when I got back that day and found him at the front desk.
"She's a good girlie," he said. "Don't like to see her upset."
"I know, but... trust me, not everyone would have been so nice." I pulled away from the desk, murmured "Thanks," and dashed upstairs.
Laurence had always been charitable toward Sharon, but to see him soothe her tears and carry her luggage to the train statio
n pushed him up a few more notches in my esteem. He was coming dangerously close to overtaking Gil as second-in-command, and how could I not blush in his presence when I realized that?
He's Eileen's, I thought, as I jogged up the stairs. Don't think of him like that; he's not yours; he couldn't even like you; he's Eileen's.
Chapter Nineteen
Nobody's
Gil and I made gentle apologies to each other on the telephone the day after our argument on Princes Street, but we didn't meet again for another four days.
Our next date was a last-minute shopping trip on Christmas Eve. I had already mailed gifts to my parents and Tony, and to Sharon in England, but I still needed something for Eileen, and Gil needed something for everyone.
Then of course there was each other: should Gil and I exchange gifts? I no longer was able to say, Bring me to your room and I'll give you your present, without feeling like a slut-- and a pathetic one at that, for he seemed quite content without me now. We hadn't done anything beyond kissing for almost three weeks.
So in my coat pocket I carried a skean-dhu, a tiny dagger, wrapped in green tissue paper, which I would give to him--but only if he gave me anything. Central Edinburgh was of course teeming with shops that sold tartans, kilts, silver pins with clan symbols, sporrans, and all the other fixings of the Highlander outfit, including skean-dhus, the knife a man was supposed to tuck into his sock. I had found and purchased one with the Leslie clan beastie wrought on the hilt. With its blade you could conceivably slice a banana, if you leaned hard enough.
All over the city, all through the crowded shops, Gil talked about being back at the recording studio. The number of times he said Shelly must have been in the hundreds. I lost count after about 30; keeping track was obviously going to be a larger job than one woman could handle.
And to add insult to injury, he was shopping for all of his coworkers. I bought a Bohemian patterned sweater for Eileen and then had to carry it in a bag for the next several miles while he leafed through every item in every store and finally decided that for Shelly he should get silver bracelets with the name of an obscure band engraved on them, curled among rose designs. She was the last on his list.
"Save the best for last," I said, in an even surlier mood than most Christmas shoppers.
"Aye, well, she did do a great deal to find me and get me re-hired," he answered nonchalantly, tucking the little parcel into one of his shopping bags.
We were standing near the Royal Mile, up on the hill, and it was a clear day. The low sun streamed between buildings and blinded me while I waited for him to arrange his purchases on the sidewalk. Passers-by kept bumping me, though I pressed up against the wall. My feet were sore and cold, and I was hungry, and here it was Christmas Eve and I was 5,000 miles away from home with only a drafty, ugly hostel to go back to. Pity Gil for being nearby at that moment.
"I don't think you've been completely honest with me," I said. The boldness of what I intended to say brought warmth back to my face.
"How's that?" he asked, holding one glove in his teeth while he rearranged tissue paper in a bag.
"About Miss Davis. You're closer than you let on."
He straightened up and put his glove back on. "I'm closer to Shelly than I let on?" he said, puzzled.
"Yes. I don't know if you can hear yourself, but you love talking about her. And just from what you say, I can tell she likes you. I've met her once, and I can tell she likes you."
He scowled, and hefted his bags. We started walking again. "No, she doesn't; not like that," he said. "She's a bit far out of my league, ye ken."
"Oh, then, good thing you have me," I returned. "A Jenny any-whore from the working class."
"That's not how it was meant," he said, but only glowered ahead and didn't look at me.
"You know, I've been here long enough to understand that you Brits still have class conflicts, but she's an American. She doesn't see you as some kind of servant or untouchable."
Ill-tempered smirk from Gil. "Not so sure. Come watch her at work sometime."
"Oh, you trust me, Mr. Brilliant. She sees you as a hot young thing with a sexy accent. I guess I ought to know."
"It would surprise me very much if that's true," he said curtly.
"Does she have a boyfriend already? Is that it?" I asked. "Is she taken?"
"No, she's not 'taken'. Believe it or not, I don't make a habit of this sort of thing."
Now that was a personal stab. In shock, I fell a step behind him for a second. Then I caught up and spat, "Listen, you say the word and I'll get out of your way. I wasn't doing this for my health, you know; and certainly not for my reputation."
He looked at me, exasperated. "An' what were ye doing it for? To give the poor Scot a taste of American arse? Keep the sorry sod from pitching himself in front of a train?"
"I thought you were enjoying this!"
"Aye, and I thought you were!"
We stopped in front of a ten-foot-square park. "I was," I said. "Until I began to see that I'm not the most important girl in your life."
"And was I ever the most important lad in yours? You've had your Tony ever since I met you, and not once have you said you'd like to leave him. I'd have been right stupid to think you would. This is not your home; every day you make a point of saying that."
"But at least I tell you how I feel. You still won't admit how you feel about Shelly."
He closed his mouth, and looked down. "Even if that's true," he finally said, "I swear she is not interested in me. She has no reason to be."
"Well, that doesn't put my esteem very high, does it," I pointed out.
He glanced somewhat apologetically at me. "You understand things. It's different," he said, with ever the gift for vagueness.
We stood there letting the cold wind ruffle our coats for a minute, in silence. "One thing I understand is that Christmas Eve makes me a little stressed," I said, and offered him a bleak smile.
He nodded. "I should go home and get these wrapped," he said.
"Yeah. Same here."
Then, apparently unable to act aloof anymore, he broke out with, "Look, I do still hope to see you while you're here. It's only... I don't want to run around behind backs anymore. We're both of us better people than that."
"All right. Fine." I was hurt and stunned--or rather, I thought I should be. But this was exactly what I had been expecting to hear for weeks; and now, having brought it on myself, I could hardly argue. So I just looked at the pavement. "That's true," I said. "We're better people than that."
"Well, we gave it a fair chance, like you wanted, didn't we?"
"Yes, I guess we did."
"Aye. That's all I'm saying." A rustle of bags indicated Gil was checking his watch. "I've got to catch my bus," he said. "I'll try to see you after the holidays. I'll call sometime; give it a few days perhaps."
"Okay," I said. I just stood where I was.
He retreated a step, then stopped, and with a sigh, thrust a cassette into my hand. "I was going to give you this. You might as well have it. They were recording last week, as I said. It's outtakes and demos and like that. Ought to be very rare in the future."
I turned it over to see, with great chagrin, the name of one of my favorite bands. "Thank you. I-I don't know what to say." I looked up. "Listen, I'm sorry I've been like this. I just wanted to know the truth. I was jealous."
"Yes, I know," he grumbled, "but you're right. Unfortunately you're right about it all." He turned, took up his parcels, and nodded in my direction. "Merry Christmas."
And he trudged off, leaving me squeezing a tissue-wrapped skean-dhu in my coat pocket.
* * *
"Why didn't you give it to him?" Laurence wondered, leaning over the front counter on his elbows to examine the little knife.
"How could I? He's here telling me: a) I'm right; he does like Shelly Davis; and b) I'm an ungrateful wench who doesn't deserve a gift. Looks a little pathetic at that point to hand him one, don't you think?" I slumped a
gainst the counter and hid my face.
"Then can I have it?" Laurence asked, still interested in the skean-dhu.
"It doesn't cut anything. It's about as lethal as a spoon."
"I can sharpen it. This is his family crest? What is that, a griffin?"
"I don't know. Possibly."
"Well, I'll keep it for you and see if I can't get it sharpened. Then if he decides he's sick of the harpy, you can let him have it." Laurence smiled at his own double entendre. "Between the ribs, preferably; quick upward thrust."
TOURIST ATTRACTIONS Page 14