The Summer Switch-Off, page 3
Fake it till you make it, Jodie. Come on, get a hold of yourself.
Oh right, a voice in the back of my mind bites back. Because that mantra has served you well so far, hasn’t it? It’s not like you wake up sick with dread over lectures or expect to be told you’ve failed every piece of coursework and every exam you do …
‘Do you want me to talk to you? Will that help? My brother used to be a nervous flyer and it always helped him.’ I don’t manage to answer, but she barrels on regardless. ‘Are you heading to Mallorca for a holiday? I am. A week away, all-inclusive. I can’t wait. Well – I’m a bit scared, to be honest, because it’s my first time going away by myself, but I’m sure it’ll be alright once I’m lying next to a swimming pool with a book. My boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – was always much more keen on adventures than just chilling out, so that’ll be a bit of a nice change, I think.’
This is where I’d say something about being a fellow solo traveller, and how I’m hoping to relax this week, too – but I can’t even relax my jaw right now to get the words out.
The girl carries on. ‘The last holiday I had, we went to visit my dad’s family in Jamaica, which should have been way more exciting than it sounds – it was only for some cousin’s wedding, and I ended up with food poisoning for half the trip anyway … Do you want some water?’
We’re in the air.
Thank God.
‘No,’ I churn out. My voice sounds dry and cracked. I clear my throat. ‘Thanks.’
She grabs the water out of her seat pocket and uncaps it, handing it over anyway.
I take a sip, kind of worried that if I don’t I might throw up.
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem. You’re not as bad as my brother – he used to cry. He’s older than me, so he’d always act all butch and macho and important, but then we’d get on a plane and he’d turn into a total wreck. I used to love it. I’d tease him about it relentlessly in front of his friends.’
‘Bet he loved you for that.’
‘Well, he deserved it. He’d tease me for crying over Pixar movies.’
‘I thought everyone cried over those.’
She laughs. ‘Not my brother. Those first ten minutes of Up? Not so much as a sniffle. If he didn’t used to cry when we got on a plane, I’d have thought he had a heart of stone. Do you fly much?’ She glances around as if trying to work out if I’m with anybody.
I shake my head. The plane is noisy and a little rattly, and they haven’t turned the seat-belt sign off yet. The perky flight attendant who pointed me to my seat is getting something from an overhead locker. She staggers ever so slightly going back down the aisle. My right hand hasn’t unfurled itself from the armrest yet.
Dictionary definition of ‘strong, independent woman’, huh? Yeah, right.
‘Not really,’ I tell the girl. ‘I think last time I went away was with some friends from school?’
‘Ooh, those trips are always a riot, aren’t they? We all went to Amsterdam during reading week, end of last year. Stayed in this God-awful hostel because nobody would listen to my suggestion about sharing rooms in a nice hotel. One of my flatmates got high and accidentally hired a sex worker. We ended up playing Uno with her.’
I peel my eyes open a little wider, my neck stiff as I turn to give her a baffled look. She’s smiling at me, a gap between her front teeth, chattering away as if we’re old friends. I can’t quite decide if it’s weird or comforting, but the alternative is thinking about all the ways this plane might crash (I should not have let Gran convince me to watch that Tom Hanks film about Captain Sully last week) so I decide to roll with it.
‘How does that happen? I mean, how do you accidentally hire a sex worker?’
‘Honestly, I have no idea. We were all too busy trying not to pee from laughing so hard, we never figured it out. Great story, though, isn’t it?’
‘Most definitely.’
There’s an electronic ding throughout the cabin.
‘Ladies and gents, the captain has now turned off the seat-belt signs. The cabin crew will be providing a trolley service shortly where you will be able to purchase food and drinks. If you are removing any hand luggage from the overhead lockers, please be careful as items may have moved during take-off.’
The girl next to me goes quiet, and I’ve relaxed into my seat.
‘I’m Jodie, by the way,’ I tell her.
There are hundreds of hotels in Mallorca, but we still have to spend the next couple of hours on this flight together; I can’t redo the first impression I made, but I can try to make up for it a little bit.
I stick my hand out towards her, which she looks at in amusement before I realize that this is probably a really weird thing to do. It’s a bloody aeroplane, not some networking event. What, do I expect a keynote speaker from Glossier along with the trolley service?
She grins, though, and shakes my hand firmly. ‘Luna.’
When the trolley comes around, I let her go first – she asks for a cup of tea and a Twix. I jump in straight after with my order, telling the guy I’ll pay for it all.
Luna blushes furiously and says, ‘Oh gosh, no, please. You don’t have to do that.’
‘You didn’t have to be nice to me during take-off,’ I tell her, and hand over the cash for our drinks and snacks before she can protest again.
When I pass hers along to her, she purses her lips and quirks an eyebrow at me as if to chastise me, but then she grins again and says, ‘Thank you.’
We chat a little more, but I can feel the conversation fading – I notice her fidgeting with the book in her lap, and I have a few podcasts downloaded I was hoping to listen to. We both let it drop off, turning to our own in-flight entertainment for the rest of the way.
I find myself breathing a sigh of relief I didn’t know I was holding. Maybe I can do this after all – relax. Have a holiday.
Despite all the hard work I put in, I’m not very good at the whole university thing. But this isn’t molecular biology – or even rocket science. This is a break, and a well-earned one. And I can definitely spend a week not worrying about what’s next and just enjoy some sunshine and a trashy podcast to take my mind off everything.
CHAPTER 4
Luna
The baggage carousel is broken.
It takes forever for the bags to appear, and even then they only show up three or four at a time. Then it stops for another couple of minutes, churns out another few, and stops again. It’s torture.
I tell myself the bus won’t leave without me, but I still find myself chewing on my thumbnail while the seemingly endless wait for my suitcase drags on. It won’t leave without you. It’s a resort shuttle bus. They have a list. They’ll wait.
I can’t help but remind myself about the whole pre-paid checked baggage debacle back at the other airport though, and I can feel my heart jump into my throat every time the carousel groans to life again and starts to move.
While I’m waiting, I fire off a couple of texts. I had one from Dad almost as soon as I landed saying, I see you’ve landed. Let us know when you’re at the hotel. I text my brother, bemoaning the baggage carousel and grinning at the string of GIFs of Captain Holt from Brooklyn Nine-Nine he sends back.
As I’m replying to let him know what a dork he is, a new message pings through.
It’s from Liam.
Tried calling but guess I caught you when you were already on the plane. Just wanted to say I hope you have a nice time. Would be good to talk if you get chance x
Does he want to talk because he wants to fix things? Does he even realize that there were parts of our relationship that needed fixing? As much as I miss him, as badly as my heart is aching in the space he used to be, I immediately recall the sorts of things that pushed me to break up with him.
Messages that went unanswered, hardly speaking to him for days on end, even with him only living across campus. How I was always the one putting in the effort to make plans for us because, if I didn’t, he sure as hell wouldn’t. The fact that he prioritized his new friends over me again and again, and made me feel like I was the one not spending time with him if I didn’t go along on a night out – just for him to practically ignore me if I did.
I miss Liam, but I really don’t miss all that.
It’s those memories I focus on as I fight the urge to text him back – not the ones where I was wrapped up in his arms like it was exactly where I belonged, or all the fun day trips or times out with friends I would have missed if he hadn’t coaxed me along, and the way my heart sang when he sat there with his arm around me and smiled like I hung the moon.
We probably should talk. The break-up – my breakdown – was so out of the blue I probably owe him at least more of an explanation.
But not right now – and not this week. This holiday is supposed to be completely self-indulgent and an attempt to get over him. If I’m still hung up on Liam by the time I get back home, maybe I can tell him that I miss him – and only then.
I mute the notifications from him until the end of the week.
A text comes through from my service provider saying WELCOME TO SPAIN and reminding me about all the tariff details. I open up the WhatsApp chat with my friends from uni to message everyone and see how they’re doing. It’s been quiet lately, which is weird because with seven people in it, there’s usually some conversation going on.
In my group chat of friends from home, which has also been quiet for a few weeks, I send a longer message saying that I’m off on holiday, ask how everybody’s exams were, and say it’d be nice to catch up properly when I get back next week.
I get one bland, brief reply from the uni crowd a few minutes later, and something heavy settles on my chest. It’s the same feeling I get when I see the photos they recently posted, which include Liam, but not me.
He would have told them about the break-up. That’s always been the way with us: Liam’s the extrovert, forever on his phone, messaging people, and we were constantly together so he’d read out whatever was going on, and I’d pitch in to the conversation via him. Of course he would have told them what happened, they’re our friends, but … Hardly anyone from either group has reached out to me about it, and the way my messages go unanswered now feels like a line in the sand.
The luminous orange suitcase strap I borrowed from my parents catches my eye, and I’m saved from having to speculate about the fact that mine and Liam’s friends might not be mine anymore.
I shove my phone into my hoodie pocket while I lunge for my suitcase strap, puffing slightly as I heave it off the belt and turn it upright onto its wheels.
Nineteen kilograms of luggage is barely enough to get me through the week, but now I have to carry it I’m kind of regretting it. I hope this resort isn’t full of little winding staircases I have to lug it up.
I follow the SALIDA signs, glad of my Spanish GCSE I can just about remember, and make my way towards the brightly coloured stands where holiday reps in polo shirts wait around.
I don’t see the one I’m looking for, though.
Someone brushes past me with wedge heels and a four-wheel suitcase, stopping in front of a TUI holiday rep. It’s Instagram Girl, from the check-in desk. Her messy bun still looks just as stylish as it did earlier. How it hasn’t fallen out must be some kind of miracle. I wonder if it’s locked in place by a hundred hair pins I can’t see, or by sheer willpower.
‘Excuse me, hi, sorry – I’m looking for the Casa Dorada resort?’
My ears practically twitch towards the conversation, but I try to look like I’m not eavesdropping.
‘Er, what, sorry?’
I’m so glad the rep is English. Much less glad he doesn’t seem to know what we’re talking about. (She – what she’s talking about.)
‘Casa Dorada?’ she presses, and I can hear the nervousness seeping into her voice. ‘There’s – there’s meant to be a shuttle bus for it, but I haven’t seen one. Do you know about it?’
‘I’m, er …’ He trails off as Instagram Girl taps on her phone and holds it out to the rep, presumably showing him the resort confirmation email. I know I could step in and back her up to try to help out, but all I can do is hang back nervously and listen to her handle this. ‘Hang on, mate. Hillary – Hillary, come here. Casa Dorada?’
Another rep excuses herself from a family of five and steps over briskly, clipboard at the ready. With a distinctly French accent, she asks, ‘What is this?’
Instagram Girl tries again, showing her phone to Hillary.
‘Oh! Yes, yes, I think …’ Rep Hillary looks around. ‘I don’t think they have a stand like us, yes? They will be waiting by the taxis.’
‘Really? Oh, thank you so much!’
By the taxis?
I can’t help but pull a face, unconvinced. Shouldn’t they be with the other reps? Isn’t it … more official that way?
I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but march off after Instagram Girl, anyway.
Outside, I spy Jodie, the nervous flyer from the plane, standing in a small crowd near someone with a sign. Well, first, I spot her luminous pink trousers, which stand out a mile away. She spies me, too, and gives me an awkward wave.
Didn’t she mumble something during landing about Casa Dorada? She’d been fairly incoherent, talking so quickly and quietly I’d missed a lot of it. Mostly, actually, I’d talked at her in an attempt to distract her while the plane raced towards the tarmac.
(And to try to keep myself from thinking too much about Liam, and whether I should reply to his texts once we landed. As good as my book promised to be, it hadn’t been enough of a distraction on its own.)
Instagram Girl has stopped to peer around, squinting against the sunshine pouring in from every window to pick out the sign for our resort among all the random names held up by pre-booked taxi drivers or for the business-class travellers.
I suck in a deep breath before I pluck up the courage to tap her on the shoulder. ‘Casa Dorada, right?’
‘Oh! Yeah. Are you looking for it too?’
I point in Jodie’s direction. ‘I think it’s this way.’
She flashes me a quick smile and then strides off with her long legs, leaving me to hurry after, hindered even more by my suitcase.
Sure enough, there’s a man in beige cargo shorts and a white button-down with bright blue swirly writing on the breast pocket declaring he’s from Casa Dorada. The uniform is some comfort, I suppose.
Although he doesn’t have a clipboard.
‘Names?’ he asks us.
‘Luna Guinness,’ I tell him, as Instagram Girl says, ‘Rory Belmont.’
‘Then we are all here! Bueno. Please, please, with me.’
There are seven of us altogether waiting for the bus. A couple around my parents’ age who are busy bickering in very quiet voices, an old man who looks weathered and broad and makes me think of the oak tree in the neighbours’ garden, and a woman with a wrinkled face wearing a long peasant skirt. I end up walking behind her and catch a faint whiff of something I’m pretty sure is weed.
Outside, it’s hot. The kind of still, stifling heat that presses up against you, and I can feel myself sweating already, despite still being in the shade of the airport.
I need a lemonade in my hand and a pool lounger, stat.
Instagram Girl had the right idea travelling in those clothes, I think. My leggings are clinging to me in all the wrong places, my hoodie is weighing me down, and I think my rucksack might crush me face-first into the tarmac if I bend forward even a little bit.
Our hodgepodge group shuffles in single file out of the airport. The man guiding us eventually stops at a smallish shuttle bus that’s probably white under the thick layers of dust. He gets in the driver’s seat first, putting in the key and starting up the air con. The whole van chugs and churns with the effort. He gets back out and comes around the back to take our luggage.
When it’s my turn, I say, ‘Excuse me, but – well, shouldn’t you … Don’t you have a list, or something? What if you left someone behind?’
He gives me an indulgent smile. ‘No, Miss Lola, not to worry. I have a wonderful memory, ¿sí? I know who I am collecting.’
I don’t point out the irony that he’s misremembered my name.
He heaves up my suitcase, face puffing out. ‘Ay, Miss Lola, it seems you have brought all the lists on my behalf!’
He’s so busy laughing that I don’t try and mumble some kind of explanation or defence, just flush and walk away to get on the bus.
Instagram Girl – Rory Belmont – is already onboard, tapping away at her phone from a back seat. She tilts her head and pulls a neutral, not-quite-pouting face to take a selfie, then clicks at her phone and does the same thing again but now moving slightly as if it’s for a video, and goes back to typing again. Jodie, sitting near the middle in front of the now-deathly-silent couple, has earphones in and is mumbling into her phone – talking to someone, I guess. She’s got her eyes closed and her forehead in her hands. I wonder if she’s still feeling rough from the plane, but don’t want to interrupt her to check she’s alright.
I pick an empty seat near the front of the bus. A quick call-up of Google Maps says it’s a fifty-minute drive in current traffic to our destination.
I wish I’d saved some of my water from the flight or bought another bottle at the airport. I’m so hot and so thirsty, and now all I can think about is having to be hot and thirsty for the next fifty minutes, and the cool lemonade I’m suddenly desperately craving.
Liam would be huffing and puffing and grumbling by now. We went to Lisbon last summer before uni, and he was so irritable in the heat. I got snappy back at him for not loosening up and enjoying the holiday, even though I was kind of struggling too. I guess at least this time it’s just me I have to worry about.
Just me.
Four years of always having someone to share everything with, always having plans scheduled with friends and people to join in with, and now it’s me. Alone for the first time – ever.
