‘What’s yours?’
‘My what?’ Turning on the hallway light, I walk through into the kitchen and start putting away her groceries: teabags in the cupboard on the left, fruit scones in the bread bin, milk in the fridge . . . I’ve done this so many times, I know where everything goes, including her tins of treacle pudding which, for some bizarre reason that she’s never explained, she keeps next to the shoe polish. I’m always worried she’ll get mixed up one day and end up eating black gloss polish and custard.
‘Your vice,’ she says, as if it’s obvious. Having changed into her tartan slippers, she shuffles behind me into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle.
‘Oh, I don’t have one,’ I laugh, reaching for the teapot. Mrs Flannegan likes her tea brewed properly: ‘None of that horrid bags-in-cups business.’
Resting a bony hand on her walking stick, she peers at me through her large, thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Every girl should have a vice, you know,’ she says with a click of her tongue, ‘whether it’s drinking, cigarettes, men . . .’
‘Mrs Flannegan!’ I laugh, feeling myself blush a little.
‘Don’t be so shocked dear! I was young once you know . . .’ She trails off and gives a little chuckle as she reminisces. ‘There’s plenty of time for being sensible when you get to my age. You’ve got to walk on the wild side a little, be a rebel.’ Her eyes flash wickedly behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. ‘Do something daft, impulsive, bad for you.’
‘I take sugar in my tea,’ I counter, heaping a teaspoon into my cup, ‘and if you promise you won’t tell anyone, I’ll let you into a secret . . .’
Mrs Flannegan leans her silver head closer.
‘I haven’t paid my TV licence.’
She looks appalled.
‘But I’m going to,’ I protest quickly, ‘it’s on my list!’
‘And to think when I was your age I was kicking my heels up,’ she mutters, shaking her head with disapproval. ‘In my day, you’d never catch me indoors watching telly – not that we had it in my day, but still . . .’ She looks at me with something that looks suspiciously like pity.
Our walls are paper-thin and, since I broke up with Sam, I seem to spend most of my evenings watching crap TV. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa and woken up in the early hours with it still blaring.
Avoiding her disapproving gaze, I busy myself with the tea as she makes her way into the living room and eases herself into her armchair by the fire. Immediately Snoopy, her cat, jumps into her lap and curls up like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
‘You know she’s still teasing Heathcliff,’ I say, passing her a cup.
‘She’s a terrible flirt, like her mother,’ she smiles, patting her affectionately.
I laugh and take a few sips of tea. Next to her, on the sideboard, are dozens of photographs, mostly of her grandchildren (at the last count she had nine), but tucked in the middle, in a heart-shaped frame, is one of her and her husband Alf. Taken not long before he died, they’re sitting in deckchairs on the seafront holding hands. I feel suddenly sad. They don’t make love like that any more.
‘Well, I’d best be getting back next door . . .’ Glancing away, I look at my watch. It’s getting late and I need to feed Heathcliff.
‘Of course, I mustn’t keep you, I know how busy you young ones are,’ she smiles. ‘It’s Friday night, going out somewhere nice?’
I hesitate. I was supposed to be meeting Rachel for a drink, but she cancelled as she had to work late again on some big case. Poor Rach works such long hours, I haven’t seen her for weeks; but, to be honest, when she called to cancel I didn’t mind. In fact, to be honest, I felt relieved; I’m just not in the mood to go out these days. Actually, I can’t remember being in the mood to do anything much since . . .
My mind flicks back to my engagement party, me in a red dress, drunk on champagne and happiness, my arms wrapped around Sam as we slow-danced to an old Sam Cooke song around our living room. It was a summer night. Everything was warm and fuzzy. Our future was glistening ahead of us, filled with hopes and dreams that shone and sparkled like the stars in the night sky.
And in that moment everything seemed possible. Everything was wonderful. And although it was late and all our friends and family had left, I remember feeling that everything I had ever wanted was there in that room.
Well, anyway. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve felt in the mood.
‘Yes, out on the town,’ I fib, crossing my fingers behind my back. I hate lying to Mrs Flannegan, but I can’t admit the truth that I have no plans except for another evening on the sofa with a takeaway pizza and Heathcliff, watching repeats on TV.
‘Well, have a lovely time dear,’ she smiles.
I feel a stab of guilt. ‘Thanks, I’ll try,’ I smile and, giving her a little wave, I let myself out of the front door.
Arriving back at my flat, I kick off my shoes, scoop the post off the doormat and pad into the living room. Heathcliff is waiting like a sentry by his dog bowl. Having fed him quickly, I flop down at my desk. The blank screen of my computer is waiting to greet me like a sulky teenager and, ignoring it, I set about opening my mail.
Bills, bank statements, junk mail . . . Just the usual, then. I’m about to shove it all onto the growing pile to deal with later, when I spot something else. A postcard. I perk up. On the front is a photograph of a beautiful, palm-fringed beach in Goa, Southern India. I turn it over.
Hi Rubes! Having an amazing time! Wish you were here! Amy x
The rain lashing against the window distracts me and I turn to gaze outside. Dusk has given way to darkness and so I flick on the desk lamp. My little terraced garden recedes and I see my figure reflected back at me. Pale-faced, shoulders hunched, hair scraped up into a scrunchie, I look about a hundred years old, and for a moment I barely recognise myself.
I’d always assumed that by the time I hit thirty my life would be sorted out, I’d have a career, a partner, a future. And for a while everything seemed to be going to plan. Getting my first novel published, meeting Sam, falling in love, planning our wedding – all the foundations of my life were falling magically into place and now all that was left was to build a future upon them.
And for a few dizzying months, everything was perfect. I had what every magazine article says you can’t have: I had it all.
Until one day, in the split second it takes to turn the handle on a bedroom door, I discovered that those magazines were right after all. I didn’t have it all. I had a fiancé who was sleeping with someone else.
And boom, just like that, all those foundations I’d carefully laid, all that future I was happily building, brick by naive brick, came crashing down on top of me, burying me underneath the rubble of broken dreams, betrayal and more tears than I ever thought it was possible for a human to shed. Forget breaking my heart, Sam pretty much destroyed it.
Luckily for me, the emergency services were on hand to pull me out of the wreckage. Though in my case it wasn’t the police, ambulance or fire brigade that saved my life, it was my girlfriends, Gordon’s gin, and a trip to Battersea Dog’s Home. And in time I got over it. Well people always do, don’t they? It happens all the time. Now I’m fine. More than fine. I’ve got my career, my health, my friends and family, plus Heathcliff if I need a cuddle. I’m really lucky.
And yet . . . I stare harder at my reflection. And yet sometimes I can’t help feeling like I lost myself somehow. That I’m just going through the motions. That the old me is still lying buried underneath that rubble and, try as I might, I don’t know how to find her again . . .
A gust of wind makes the French windows rattle and they suddenly blow open. I mustn’t have shut them properly earlier and I jump up to close them, shivering in the blast of cold winter air as I fiddle with the old catch. Gosh, it’s horrible out there. Maybe Diana was right. Maybe all I need is a holiday. Some sun, sea and sand. Maybe a change of scene will inspire me. Fix my writer’s block
.
I glance down at the postcard that’s blown fluttering onto the floor. I pick it up. I’ve never been to India. It seems so magical, so exotic. And I have to say, that beach does look inviting . . .
Impulsively I sit back down at my desk, snatch up my mouse, click onto Expedia, and search for flights to Goa. My sister’s coming back in a week’s time, so it’s probably a crazy idea, I mean, I probably won’t be able to get a flight last minute anyway . . . Oh look, there’s one leaving first thing tomorrow!
I hesitate, a list of all the things I need to do running through my head, all the reasons why I can’t possibly just drop everything and jump on a plane. Every sane, sensible, careful bone in my body is telling me it’s a ridiculous idea. A holiday isn’t going to fix anything. I need to stay here. I have deadlines, bills to pay, a pile of laundry, my annual check-up at the dentist’s . . .
‘There’s plenty of time to be sensible when you get to my age.’ Mrs Flannegan’s voice rings in my ears.
And it is only a week.
Before I can change my mind, I click purchase.
After all, what can happen in a week?
Chapter 4
Two long-haul flights squashed on the back row, next to the toilets, in a seat that won’t recline, a delayed stopover in Doha Airport where a cappuccino costs a small fortune, and some severe turbulence later, I finally arrive in Goa.
Phew.
If I looked a hundred years old when I left Heathrow, I look double that now, I wince, giving myself a fright as I catch my bleary-eyed reflection in a mirror as I wait at baggage reclaim.
Still, I’m here, I quickly remind myself. In India! On holiday!
Despite my exhaustion, I feel a surge of excitement. It was all a bit of a rush, but I got everything sorted:
To Do
1. Water plants
(aka half-dead spider plant in bathroom.)
2. Put lights on timer
(though let’s be honest, does this really fool a potential burglar?)
3. Leave Heathcliff with Mrs Flannegan.
(She offered to look after him and I gave her strict instructions on how he likes being tickled under his belly and not to give him too many treats. Last time she had him for the weekend he came back twice the size and couldn’t even fit through his dog door. Admittedly he didn’t look best pleased to be left with his arch nemesis, Snoopy the cat, who promptly got into Heathcliff’s basket, but I’ll make it up to him. Somehow.)
4. Buy Immodium
(also insect repellent, antiseptic ointment, plasters, hand sanitiser, headache tablets, tampons . . . I didn’t have time to go shopping so I had to do it all at Heathrow . . . in fact, sod it, just throw in all of Boots to be on safe side.)
5. Buy guidebook
(I like to be prepared. See above.)
And last but not least.
6. Shut laptop!
Spotting my suitcase, I grab it off the conveyor belt and, stifling a yawn, set off, wheeling it determinedly towards the exit. A few days of sun, sea and relaxation and I’ll be a whole new me.
It’s like walking into a sauna.
As the automatic doors slide open, I step from the cool, air-conditioned building into the tropical humidity outside. It’s still early in the morning and darkness is clinging on around the edges of the new day, but the heat is already stifling. I’m greeted by an excited crowd of people waiting for their friends and relatives, arms waving, faces smiling, voices shouting.
I smell the air: it’s a pungent mix of diesel oil mingled with incense, and I take a deep lungful. It smells like India. My excitement ratchets up a notch and for a moment I pause, trying to slowly take it all in. To observe. To let myself acclimatise. But it’s impossible. It’s like being on a diving board, I just need to jump straight in.
Gripping on to my suitcase, I charge forwards through the commotion. Busily I scan the crowds. I texted my little sister yesterday to tell her I was coming out and she texted back excitedly, asking for my flight details and saying she would pick me up at the airport.
Only I can’t see her.
My gaze passes from face to face, but there’s just a sea of shiny black hair and not a blonde head in sight. I feel a familiar tug of annoyance. Why am I not surprised? This is so typical of Amy. She’s always late. Or in the wrong place.
Or she’s totally forgotten.
I get a sudden flashback to last year, waiting for her in the pouring rain in Leicester Square. It was just after I’d broken up with Sam and we’d arranged to see a movie, only she never showed up. Or answered her phone. (That’s another thing about my sister, she has this infuriating habit of never answering her phone because she didn’t hear it, or she’s run out of credit, or she’s forgotten to charge it. Or the classic excuse: she forgot to turn it on.) I ended up spending Saturday night on my own, sitting amid a row of snuggly couples, watching What To Expect When You’re Expecting.
Trust me, I still bear the scars.
‘You need taxi?’ A small, wiry man appears next to me.
‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ I smile politely, and try to keep moving.
But I’ve barely gone two more paces before I’m swooped upon by another man. ‘Taxi ma’am?’
‘Um, no thank you,’ I shake my head, dislodging the beads of sweat that have sprung up around my hairline. They start trickling down my face in big fat rivulets. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He stares at me dubiously, and who would blame him? I’d left my flat dressed for the weather – as in, the weather in London in January, not the weather in Southern India – and I’m wearing black leggings, a black jumper and a pair of black boots. Believe me, I couldn’t look less fine.
Fine is sitting on the sofa with your feet up, drinking a cup of tea and flicking through Grazia. Fine is not melting in thirty-five-degree heat, encased in Lycra and sporting a pair of swollen cankles.
And now I’m being dived upon by a whole crowd of taxi drivers. ‘Miss! Taxi! You need taxi? I give you ride! Where you go? Taxi! Miss!’
It reminds me of a wildlife programme I once saw where all these lions were circling a herd of elephants and one became separated and was all lost and vulnerable and boom, they pounced.
In my head I can hear David Attenborough’s voiceover:
‘The taxi drivers circle the crowds of arriving passengers, hungry for a fare, until suddenly they spot one . . . jetlagged and disorientated, it’s been left stranded . . . and as it moves away from the pack and starts looking for its relative, it leaves itself defenceless . . .’
Just as I’m identifying with the elephant (trust me, you haven’t seen my cankles) and thinking, that’s it, there’s no point trying to resist, I might as well give up on my sister and be bundled into a cab, I hear a voice:
‘Rubes!’
At the sound of my name I twirl around and see a tousled blonde head bobbing up and down in the crowd and a pair of tanned, skinny arms stacked with lots of sparkly bracelets waving in the air. I watch them both getting closer, until suddenly the crowds part, and my little sister bursts forth.
‘You’re here already!’ she gasps breathlessly, flinging her jangly arms around me.
My sister always acts surprised to see you when she’s late. As if it’s a complete mystery to her how this could have happened.
‘Well yes, my flight arrived an hour ago,’ I reply, hugging her back.
‘Oh, was it early?’
‘No, it was on time,’ I bristle as we break apart. ‘Didn’t you get my text?’
She looks at me blankly.
I’m about to remind her that I texted her my flight details, but I don’t want to get into an argument already, I’ve only just arrived. Plus, knowing me and my little sister, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.
‘So how are you?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject and standing back to take a good look at her. Her hair has gone even blonder in the sun, her skin is tanned and, instead of her usual Topshop wardrobe, she’s wearing a
n embroidered pink kaftan and a pair of brightly patterned silk harem trousers. Next to me in my head-to-toe black combo she’s like an explosion of colour.
‘Wicked!’ she grins back, her teeth looking super-white against her suntan. ‘How are you Rubes?’ She jumps around exuberantly.
‘A bit jetlagged,’ I reply, feeling like her ancient, ashen-faced big sister. It’s times like these I think there are more than just ten years between me and Amy; it’s like we don’t even speak the same language.
‘Well no worries, we can get a tuk-tuk and head straight back.’ Grabbing my suitcase she starts negotiating her way through the crowd.
‘A tuk-tuk?’ I repeat uncertainly.
But she’s already sped ahead in her flip-flops. I hurry after her, sweating profusely in my boots and leggings as she charges towards the busy road.
‘Be careful!’ I shriek, as she steps into the melee of traffic and starts waving her arms around. ‘You’ll get knocked down . . .’
Oh god. I’ve been here five minutes and I’ve already turned into Mum.
As a brightly coloured rickshaw comes hurtling towards her, I have to cover my eyes.
‘Here we are!’ she says cheerfully, and I open them with relief to see that yes, I still have a sister and no, she’s not squashed in the middle of the road, but is instead shoving my bag into the back seat. ‘Hey, are you all right?’ She glances at me, curiously. ‘You look worried.’
‘Of course I’m not worried,’ I protest.
Which of course is a total lie. I’m always worried when I’m with my little sister. The two go together. Like PMT and chocolate.
‘I’m just a little nervous . . .’ I stare at the tuk-tuk, which is belching out exhaust fumes with a deafening noise. It’s basically a scooter with a sidecar perched on top and has no doors or seatbelts. ‘Is it safe?’ I ask warily.