It's Not You It's Me

by Allison Rushby

  ‘Charlotte Notting and Jasper Ash?’ A guy walks towards my couch holding a clipboard. He’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts. I stand up.

  ‘Charlie,’ I say, shaking the loud Mambo board-shorts and jumper-bedecked guy’s hand.

  ‘Jas.’ Jas comes over to do the same.

  ‘Great. I’m Shane. Your tour guide. Right?’

  Jas and I both glance at each other and then back at Shane, surprised at his get up and ‘out there’ accent. ‘You’re Australian,’ I say, stating the obvious.

  ‘Gold Coast, yeah,’ he says, holding both thumbs up. ‘Those your bags?’

  The two of us nod dumbly as the doorman, overhearing, comes to take them outside for us.

  Shane whistles at this and turns three hundred and sixty degrees, inspecting the hotel. ‘Not exactly roughing it, are you, eh? Come on, then, you’re the last two.’ He heads outside to the waiting bus, gesturing for us to follow.

  We wait until our bags have been stowed underneath, then climb on board and take two seats near the middle as the bus pulls out. ‘Right,’ Shane says, up at the front, microphone in hand. ‘That’s everyone, so we’re off—like a bucket of dead jellyfish.’

  There’s a chuckle from the passengers at this.

  ‘Like that one, do ya?’ Shane says. ‘Well, there’s plenty more where that one came from, believe you me.’

  I turn to Jas then. ‘I can’t believe I’ve come halfway across the world to see a bit of culture and Shane “bucket of dead jellyfish” man from the Gold Coast is supposed to be pointing it out to me.’

  Jas’s eyes widen at this. ‘Culture? Who said anything about culture? It’s Oktoberfest. It’s all about the beer. Which means he’s probably an expert in his field.’

  I hadn’t thought about it like that, but have to admit Jas is probably right.

  When I tune back in, Shane’s still talking. ‘Today’s a bit of a killer, travelwise. We’re going to be taking the ferry to Calais from Dover, ripping through France and getting to good old Munich at about one a.m. I’ll fill you in on the details as we scarper.’

  ‘Great,’ Jas says, rubbing his hands together as he turns to me. ‘Always wanted to rip through France.’

  ‘Hey, me too.’ I laugh. ‘Lifelong dream.’

  Shane pipes up again then. ‘But what we’re going to do now is get to know each other a bit better. Warm fuzzies and all that. I’m going to get everyone to come up to the microphone in turn and say their names and a bit about themselves. I’ll start, eh?’

  ‘Beer and surfing,’ I say to Jas. ‘I bet you five bucks.’

  Jas looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘Sure. Because I was going to bet on him collecting antique silver teaspoons and entering his pedigree Persian cat, Herr Fluffy, in cat shows.’

  I poke my tongue out before turning my attention back to the front of the bus.

  ‘Like I said, my name’s Shane, and I’m from the Gold Coast, Australia—the best place in the world. Yeah. I like beer—’ there’s a cheer from the tour group when he says this ‘—and surfing and playing the guitar. And chicks, of course.’

  Damn, missed one, I think, hoping Jas wasn’t listening too hard.

  ‘Missed two,’ Jas leans over and says.

  Ignore it, ignore it, Charlie, I tell myself, but can’t help it. ‘One.’

  ‘Missed the chicks as well. That’s two.’

  I roll my eyes at him. ‘I thought that went without saying.’

  Jas starts to say something, but Shane begins talking again up at the front of the bus. ‘OK, I know where most of youse are from. Here’s to the good old Beer-drinking Society…’

  There’s an ear-splitting cheer at this. Everyone on the bus besides us seems to be from the Beer-drinking Society.

  ‘But there’re also a few of you who are virgins. First-timers. A few new faces around the bus. Guess we’ve all got to start somewhere, don’t we?’

  They cheer again.

  ‘Right. We’ll get started then, from the back. Sweetheart, you’re up.’ Shane points to a girl sitting on the back seat.

  Sweetheart? I snort.

  Jas and I listen as each person goes up to the front of the bus to take their turn at the microphone. There’s an Irish couple, and a girl and her friend from London, but besides them everyone who gets up to speak seems to be from the Beer-drinking Society of some university in Sydney. I wonder how such a large bunch of students managed to cough up enough money for a trip like this. When I was studying full-time I was lucky if I had enough money to pay for luxuries like textbooks, let alone a trip to Europe.

  I look at Jas and he mirrors my surprised expression. And in that one moment that passes between us I’m instantly glad I didn’t have to come on this trip on my own. I can’t see myself getting in with the Beer-drinking Society, and the only other choices would have been gooseberrying with the Irish couple or tagging along with the girls from London, who are probably fine on their own. The third option would have been making friends with Shane which, right now, doesn’t look like much of a possibility. We’d probably go off like a frog in a sock, to put it in his terms.

  Eventually it’s my turn. I monkey my way up front, holding onto the tops of the seats one by one as I go.

  ‘OK, Posh Spice,’ Shane says, passing me the microphone.

  I give him a weary sigh as I take it. Obviously this is going to be my new name, thrust upon me because of the hotel I spent the night in, even though I chose it by picking Jas’s left hand rather than his right one. And honestly—Posh Spice? I couldn’t even be mistaken for the girl by a drunk in a dark alley. I am neither dressed in Gucci—instead, I’m wearing the next best thing: a daggy ensemble of my oldest jeans, a black stretch shirt, padded black vest and Birkenstocks—nor immaculately made up, with only a bit of a half-hearted attempt with some tinted moisturiser and a cap to hide my not very well blow-dried hair. But, no. I am now Posh Spice.

  Oh, well, better than Nana Mouskouri, I guess.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Charlie. That’s short for Charlotte, but I hate Charlotte. I’m from Australia—Byron Bay, actually, which the few of you who aren’t from Australia may have heard of. I was given this trip as a present, even though I don’t like beer…’ There’s a whole lot of noise from people at this. Jeers, mainly. I wave my free hand. ‘But I’m willing to learn, so I’m counting on all of you to ease me into drinking it. My friend Jas, who you’ll meet in a minute, couldn’t get me to drink the stuff, not even the wussy one you’re supposed to stick a piece of lemon in, so think of it as a challenge.’ I give the microphone back to Shane.

  ‘Love ya work, babe,’ he says, with a wink.

  I give him a little smile back. Something tells me that five days of Shane is going to be more than enough culture for me.

  On my way back up the bus, I meet Jas coming down. ‘Great. Thanks for the intro. Jas the wussy beer-coaching loser,’ he says.

  ‘No worries.’ I give him a smack on the butt and send him on his way.

  I sit down in my seat and listen as Jas takes the microphone. ‘OK. Well, I’m Jasper Ash—Jas, really…’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ A girl screams at the top of her lungs. Everyone turns to the back of the bus, where she’s sitting, to see what’s going on. It’s one of the London girls. ‘Oh, my God!’ She stands up then, and points right at Jas. ‘It’s Zamiel. Zamiel! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’

  Everyone stops gawking at her and stares at Jas instead. There’s complete silence for a minute or two. Except, of course, from the girl up at the back, who’s hyperventilating now. Most people on the bus are moving their eyes from the girl, to Jas, to each other, and back to the girl again, but not me—all my attention is focused on Jas, waiting to see what he’s going to do. As I watch him this weird thing happens—this kind of glazed look comes over his face.

  ‘What?’ he says, eyeing the screamer.

  She doesn’t answer him, but turns to the people near her on the bus instead. ‘It’s Zamiel,’ she
says. ‘You know—from Spawn. You’re Zamiel.’ She finally looks back at him.

  Jas’s eyes flick over to me for a second and I wonder if I should do something. But what? Strip to create a diversion?

  A murmur starts up around the bus that gets louder and louder as time ticks past.

  I keep watching Jas. He doesn’t seem to be coping with being spotted particularly well, which surprises me. Doesn’t he have to deal with this kind of thing all the time? I shoot him a ‘what do you want me to do?’ look, and this seems to bring him back to earth. Finally there’s some action. He does a very bad double take when the girl moves her attention to him once more. Ouch. Not quite believable, in my opinion.

  ‘Zamiel? Spawn? What’re you talking about?’ he says.

  The girl pauses, flustered. ‘You’re not Zamiel?’ she asks.

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘But you look just like him. And you’re Australian.’

  Jas shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not. I’m not Australian. I’m from, er, New Zealand.’

  I watch as Shane, privy to our details, gives him the eye.

  ‘Oh,’ the girl says.

  Jas pauses for a moment. ‘People have said that before, though. About the Zamiel thing. Guess I do look a bit like him. I met him once. Part of a lookalike competition. His real name’s…’ Jas glances out the bus window for a second ‘…Fox. Justin Fox.’

  Justin Fox? Where’d that come from? Still watching Jas, I notice him take another quick glance out of the bus window. Right where he’d looked before. Just as the bus pulls away from a red light I manage to turn in my seat and check what he’s looking at. It’s a pub. The Fox and Hounds.

  ‘Justin Fox? Oh. I didn’t know that was his real name.’ And with that the girl sits back down slowly beside her friend, who is obviously not as big a Zamiel fan as she only seems confused by the whole ‘you’re Zamiel’ deal.

  ‘Yeah. Better not tell anyone, though. Think it’s a bit of a secret. Not even sure I was supposed to know,’ Jas blurts out, then goes to pass the microphone back to Shane. But Shane says something to him and Jas takes the microphone back again. ‘Right. Sorry. As I was saying, I’m Jas and…I’m from New Zealand where I…er…farm sheep. A lot of sheep. On a…er…sheep station. It’s very green where I live and…that’s about it.’

  ‘Tell us about your woolly girlfriends!’ an Australian pipes up from the back.

  Jas runs a hand through his hair. ‘Funny. I don’t sleep with the sheep. Well, only with Barbara, but she’s special.’

  There’s a moment’s silence before everyone laughs, realising he really is joking. Jas gives the microphone back to Shane, fast, then makes his way back to his seat looking a bit the worse for wear.

  I can’t stop laughing. When he sits back down, I pull him closer to me by his jacket. ‘A sheep farmer on a sheep station…?’

  ‘Shhh,’ he says.

  But it’s too late. I’m on a roll now. ‘It’s very green? Have you even been to New Zealand?’

  ‘Nope. Had to dredge it up from what I’ve seen on the tourism ads on TV.’

  I start laughing again. ‘And Justin Fox? Or should that be Justin Fox and Hounds? At least you didn’t come out with something like Justin Time. Now, that would’ve been good. And Barbara? I’d love to meet Barbara!’

  Jas gives me a look and I know enough to shut up. We settle back to listen as the microphone is handed from person to person.

  Chapter Ten

  The drive to Dover takes over two hours, and it’s gone eleven before we’re able to get off the bus and stretch our legs around the ferry. It’s a good feeling, finally being able to move again. It’s as if I’ve been cooped up for weeks. First on the plane, now this. And there’s more to come. Plenty more. I’ve got no idea how I’m going to last till we arrive in Munich in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘Don’t get seasick, do you?’ Jas asks as we climb the stairs up to the top deck.

  ‘No. Why? Do you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Just checking. Seen enough vomit for three lifetimes.’

  ‘There’s a bit of vomit on the road, is there?’

  Jas nods. ‘The boys of Spawn aren’t exactly into clean living.’

  We lean on a railing and watch the White Cliffs of Dover as the ferry pulls out of the dock. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say to Jas, trying to change the subject away from vomit. ‘I didn’t know Dover was so close to London.’

  ‘Where’d you think it was?’

  I laugh. ‘I told you I got a C.’

  ‘Um, hi,’ someone says then, and both Jas and I turn around to see who it is. ‘I’m Sharon.’

  ‘Right. From the bus,’ Jas says, not needing to.

  Sharon. Likes pubs, Big Brother, Survivor, her cat, Blackie and hates working as an admin assistant. I remember from her turn at the microphone. Not to mention the fact that her ‘it’s Zamiel’—‘you’re Zamiel’ harpy-like screeches are still ringing in my ears.

  ‘Sorry about that before. I just got a bit carried away. I’m a big Spawn fan.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too,’ Jas says.

  I try not to laugh at that one. ‘Me three,’ I pipe up. ‘Though I hear their manager’s a bit of a dickhead.’

  Sharon and Jas both glance at me. But Sharon’s attention returns to Jas quick-smart.

  ‘I must’ve looked like a right idiot.’ She laughs.

  ‘Course not,’ Jas says.

  ‘I went to their concert. The last one in London. It was great.’ She turns slightly with this, as if to angle me out of the conversation altogether. I spot her friend then—Tara, I think her name is—over near the cafeteria, watching us.

  ‘Was it?’ Jas takes a step to the side, holding onto the railing now. He obviously wants out of this conversation, and fast.

  ‘You said you’d met him? That you’d met Zamiel?’

  Jas nods.

  ‘That must’ve been fantastic. He’s so…’ She takes another step round, really forcing me out.

  ‘Sexy?’ I say, and Sharon looks over at me. ‘Oh, I know,’ I continue, hamming it up. ‘I mean, when you see him, don’t you just want to run your hands all over that leather?’

  She nods at me. ‘Yes!’

  ‘And his long hair! I’d give anything to run my hands through that…’ I keep going.

  ‘Oh, I love his hair,’ she says animatedly.

  ‘And those boots. Wouldn’t you just love to take them off and, well, sniff them?’

  This makes her pause. She gives me a strange look, but doesn’t know what to make of my comment, so goes to Jas instead. ‘Well, um, anyway—I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the fuss. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jas says.

  We both watch Sharon walk off in the direction of the cafeteria.

  Jas waits till she’s well out of earshot and is talking to Tara. ‘What the…?’

  ‘A girl’s allowed to have a few fantasies, isn’t she?’ I laugh, and we both turn back to the view again.

  When there’s nothing left to see but water, we go inside and get a cup of coffee. I slide into the window seat of one of the tables and pull out the paper bag from my backpack. ‘Another pear drop?’ I say, offering Jas the packet.

  ‘Not in this lifetime.’

  Sharon walks past our table and gives Jas a small wave.

  ‘She’s going to find out it’s you soon enough,’ I say when she’s gone.

  ‘The Justin Fox thing should put her off for a bit. Hopefully.’

  I suck away. ‘She’ll figure it out. She’s not Einstein, but she’ll figure it out. One sexual favour in Shane’s direction to see what kind of sheep you farm and you’re a goner,’ I say. ‘Don’t think he won’t oblige. He’ll be relatively cheap too, I’d say. A hand job would probably do it.’

  ‘Charlie, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘What? Shane, the hand job, or the pear drop?’

  ‘All three.’

  I shrug. I’ve been known to be disgus
ting from time to time. This shouldn’t come as such a big shock to Jas. ‘You’d better eat something. Remember we’re not stopping for lunch till after two.’

  ‘All right, all right! I’ll eat something, Mother,’ Jas says, and gets up to see what they’ve got.

  As I watch him go, I spot Sharon at a nearby table. She eyes Jas all the way to the counter, or as far as her vision will let her without actively turning around and being obvious about it. She sees me observing her after a while and goes back to her coffee. Still sucking away on my pear drop, I shake my head. I’d bet my life on the fact that on his way back to the table it’ll be all hands on deck to check out his butt. I turn my attention to Jas and—not that I’m checking out his butt—notice that his mobile and pager are fastened onto his belt, ready to be reached for at a moment’s notice. I wonder absentmindedly why he’s still wearing them when they’ve been switched off the entire trip. Force of habit, I guess.

  All too soon we’re back on the bus and heading for Reims—during which time I realise a coffee, a Coke and half a bottle of water was probably a mistake for both caffeine and toilet-trip related reasons. For the first hour or so I fidget in my seat, intermittently jumping up to make trips to the bathroom. I wonder again how I’m going to make it to Munich. Or even if I’m going to make it to Munich—the way I’m going, everyone will probably get sick of me and drop me by the roadside somewhere in France.

  As we head east, Shane tells us a bit about the Champagne region. ‘It’s got a bit of everything, this place,’ he says, reading from a sheet of paper. ‘Rolling plains, lakes, water meadows, dense forest, hills…’

  ‘What’s a water meadow?’ someone pipes up.

  ‘Dunno, mate,’ he says. ‘It just says water meadow here, right on the sheet, so that’s all I know. I’ll find out for you, if you like, when we get to Reims.’ He returns to his sheet of paper for a moment, then looks back up again. ‘Oh, yeah. I almost missed the most important bit. You’ll be pleased to hear that the Champagne region is, of course, famous for its booze…’

  There’s a mighty cheer from the Beer-drinking Society as Shane says the magic word.