Page 12 of Only One Tour Bus

My mom calls, and I excuse myself to take it, walking just outside the entrance of the café to talk to her. “Hey, Mom. I can’t talk too long. A tour started today.”

“Hi, beta.” I roll my eyes. I guess I’ll always be a child to her. “I won’t take up too much time, then. How is the tour going?”

“Good. We’re combining two tours because they weren’t fully booked so I’m working with a kind of annoying tour leader, but it should be fine.” I leave out the bit about one of us getting less tours, and therefore less pay, depending on how this goes. I don’t want to worry Mom. Or disappoint her.

“Have you spoken to Rob about the plans you had for new tours?”

Ah, yes. My plan to offer more specialized tours. One of the reasons the company is struggling, and why we have to do this combined tour, is that the company doesn’t have anything to offer other than what’s already on the market. There are plenty of cheap tours, expensive tours, averagely priced tours, tours for all ages. While some companies are offering specialist tours, they don’t offer very many. And Europe is getting only getting easier to travel without a tour at all.

“He doesn’t want to change anything. Says it’s not the right time.”

“But it’s such a good idea!”

“I think it is. But maybe it’s not. I don’t exactly have the business experience to make that determination. Rob could be right to ignore me.”

“No. Rob is just afraid. My daughter is great at everything she puts her mind to. With her intelligence, hard work, and great attitude, she can’t fail.”

“That’s such a mom answer.” But the words have the opposite effect on me than Mom anticipates. She’s so supportive, but it makes me more anxious that I won’t live up to that support. I don’t want to do something that would prove her wrong.

She and Dad have sacrificed so much to raise me and support me unconditionally. She worked two jobs and went to college when she first moved to the States. She had no life, and little sleep, for almost a decade solid. She gave up her dreams of being a singer to do the practical job of being a lawyer, so that she could give me the opportunities she didn’t have and I can do a job I enjoy now.

I can’t let that be for nothing.

“Love you, Mom. But I really have to go.” I love her so much, but I always feel guilty that I’m not more successful when I talk to her. Which makes me talk to her less. Which makes me feel even more guilty.

“Okay, okay. Love you, too. Have a great tour and send photos. I love seeing you traveling. You’re so happy.”

I promise to send them and hang up, making my way back to Callum.

“Any of the tourists violate any international treaties yet?”

“What?” He looks at the phone in my hand. “Oh, no. That was my mom. She wanted to say hi.”

“Ah. Mams.”

“Yeah.” The gentle affection in his tone is unexpected. I mean, I would hope he loves his parents, but I wouldn’t expect him to admit it to me, even in tone. “We should get back to Greyfriars Bobby. The bus should be getting there soon.”

“Yeah. Let’s go see if this lot has decent time management skills.”

The way he says it makes his opinion on the subject very clear; he expects at least half of them to be still wandering the streets of Edinburgh, begging random Scots to take them to the hotel.

He’s got quite the low opinion of our tour babies.

I just hope they don’t prove him right.

CHAPTER 6

CALLUM

The group manages to get themselves back at the right time. They must be trying to make a good impression, but they’ll get lax with the timeliness soon enough. Wee Sunshine is having a field day with their punctuality, looking over at me and gloating with those eyes.

Let’s give it one more day before we hand out the gold stars. Hell, let’s give it until after their first night out.

The check-in happens with little difficulty, each tourist getting their bags from the bus, taking their key, and heading to their room. We have a half hour to rest and then it’ll be to the pub for the first group meal of the trip.

I’ll need longer than that to get used to the idea of being trapped in a small pub with nineteen Americans, all yelling and carrying on. A group to whom the concept of inside voices has absolutely no meaning.

“See you down here in fifteen minutes,” Asha says as she pockets her own room key.