by Hayley Doyle
I wake up on the sofa to the world’s greatest smell: crispy bacon. My dad’s buttering bread and hum-singing ‘Hotel California’. My mum enters with her hair washed and styled and a full face of makeup on. Her clothes are ironed and she smells like the ground floor of John Lewis.
‘Oh, Jesus. You didn’t sleep in your mascara did you, Chloe?’
‘Morning, Tilly Mint!’
I sit up, still wearing my tiger-print dress, and smile.
‘I’m going to Bangkok,’ I tell them.
‘Y’what?’ they screech in unison.
School finishes for the summer hols this Friday. I’ll fly out on Saturday.
‘Thailand. Bangkok.’ I look past my dad and give the man in the shopping trolley a firm nod. ‘Yeah. I’m gonna go.’
16
‘And I suppose you booked two plane tickets as well, didn’t you?’ Beth snaps.
I’m glad she’s on the other end of the phone. She can’t see me giving her the finger.
She’s been trying to speak to me since yesterday. But I had a sneaky plan. I’ve returned her call now I’ve checked in and I’m through passport control. When Beth wants something, she’ll go to extreme measures to get it, and she doesn’t want me going to Bangkok. She wants me to go with her on a yoga retreat in the Cotswolds.
‘Or I could’ve just come with you,’ Beth is saying as I browse through the paperback thrillers for some literary nicotine. ‘I’m sure Jack wouldn’t’ve minded me tagging along.’
‘Beth, this is a personal trip.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You’re being mean.’
‘Hmm. You know what’s mean, babes? Sending your mum and dad all the way home a day after they arrived—’
‘Don’t guilt trip me, they were glad to go. They hate London.’
‘Everyone’s mum and dad hate London.’
‘Look, I didn’t book two plane tickets,’ I reassure her.
‘Oh, phew. That’s a relief. Thank fuck you realised ghosts don’t need a seat and a salty ready meal—’
‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Woop! Double relief. I’m over the moon you’re only going on holiday with a figment of your imagination. Fine. I won’t be offended that you’d rather do that than hang out with me, you know, someone who has skin and bones and a pulse.’
‘And a big fucking mouth.’
I don’t tell Beth how, amongst my loose summer clothes, flip-flops, bikini and straw hat, I packed a few of Jack’s things, too. His holiday t-shirt patterned with surf boards, his khaki man-bag that predictably hasn’t been used since we went to Thailand together. Inside the bag, I found five hundred baht and the hotel keycard from the resort where we’d stayed on Koh Phangan. Something practical and something sacred, patterned with his fingerprints.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ I tell Beth. ‘I’ve found a good book. Need to pay for it.’
‘If you were with me, you wouldn’t need a book. I could entertain you with stories.’
‘Go to the Cotswolds and have a ball.’
‘On me own?’
‘Take Fergus with you.’
She growls. ‘Bye, babes.’
I buy the book and nip into Boots to buy a lip balm. I don’t need other toiletries thanks to the lovely Body Shop set I got as a present from a pupil at school. A nice touch, really, especially since I’ve not exactly been Teacher of the Year. Si walked out yesterday showered with much more end-of-term love, smelly sets and chocolates. Fair’s fair. That’s all you can ask for, eh? I mean, during rehearsals last week, Si worked hard to ensure the harmonies were tight and I sat on my phone and booked a Bangkok hotel on Expedia. Layla Birch (who decided to show up this time) caught me reading reviews. I looked back at her self-righteous little heart-shaped face and pulled tongues. It’s a wonder I got a single end-of-term gift at all.
I don’t need to go to the gate for another hour, so I head to the bar – the posh one by the designer shops. It sells caviar. Not that I’ve ever had caviar, or fancy trying it today. But the wine will be delicious. The good stuff. Better than the pub …
Oh, shit.
A memory hits me like a punch in the nose.
I’ve had this exact conversation before. Not in my head, though. With Jack, when we were here together on our way to Thailand. He’d been tetchy; very quiet compared to usual. I’d presumed he was one of those people who relaxes once their suitcase is all checked in. My dad’s like that, you see.
‘Let’s just go to the Wetherspoons,’ Jack said. ‘I know a nice quiet corner.’
‘But we can sit up on those trendy bar stools and pretend we’re stinking rich,’ I insisted. ‘I might even pop into Chanel, you know; ponder about buying a jacket and casually inspect the handbags.’
‘Chloe, can we please just go to the pub.’
‘You can’t see the planes taking off from that pub, though.’
He tensed up like Frankenstein with a pole up his arse.
‘Fine,’ he said, barely moving his lips. ‘I’ll go to the pub and you can get yourself a fancy glass of champers, and I’ll meet you on the plane.’
‘What?!’
‘Okay, the gate. I’ll meet you at the gate. But …’
‘But what?’
‘I never get to the gate early, so it might just be best to say let’s meet on the plane.’
‘No!’
Jack rubbed his eyes and inhaled: a slow, deep breath.
‘Oh, hun,’ I realised. ‘Are you … scared of flying?’
He exhaled, kept his eyes closed.
‘It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Did you know you’re much more likely to die in a car crash than—’
‘You think I don’t know all that?’ he barks. ‘I’m fucking terrified. Happy?’
‘No. Why would that make me happy?’
‘Ssh.’
‘Don’t shush me.’
‘Chloe, I need to go and have a pint. On my own.’ And he walked off.
I stood there outside the shop selling Harrods merchandise, trying not to look like a stood-up codfish. Had this come out of the blue? I thought back to the queue for check-in. I’d been pretty low key, scrolling through Instagram, WhatsApping Beth, our Kit, my mum. Then, going through passport control, I became super chatty. I told tales of family holidays, like that time in Gran Canaria when my dad was mistaken for a famous footy player. My mum totally played along to see if we’d get special treatment (we didn’t). I’d thought Jack was listening to me, but was he preoccupied instead? Worried the flight we were about to board was doomed?
I didn’t order a drink at the posh bar, although I did have a wander around Chanel, then Gucci, not paying much attention, just killing time, really, to give Jack some space. Rather than go looking for him in the pub, I waited for him at the gate. When the final call was announced, he stumbled up, beaming from ear to ear, flaunting his overbearing charm at the ground staff. My sober state was probably the only reason he was allowed onto the plane. Disappointed as I was not to have enjoyed an airport drink or three with him, I was glad he was buzzing, humming ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’ as he slotted his hand luggage into the overhead compartment.
‘I need the aisle seat,’ Jack informed me; his first direct words to me since he’d left me alone in the terminal.
‘No problem,’ I said.
‘Excuse me, darlin’?’ he asked, and I thought he was addressing me, but a stunning member of the Thai Airways cabin crew came to his beck and call and he politely stumbled through his words from his seat, asking her for a double JD neat. ‘I’m – a – ma – ma – v-very nervous fly – flyer.’
Between the passengers getting settled and the plane starting to taxi, Jack went to the loo about five times. Considering his size, this was, more often than not, a right hoo-hah. The cabin crew remained calm, although they were clearly agitated by him. Once we took off (which was not the hand-holding, flying off into the sunset moment I’d anticipated), he called for a c
rew member to give him a pep talk. And another double JD, pronto. As the crew member spoke softly about the safety of flying, I placed my hand upon his arm, but he flicked me away like he was fending off a wasp. I tried not to take it personally. When the drinks trolley came around I ordered a little bottle of white wine. A few sips helped me to relax. Three little bottles later and I was laughing my head off to a comedy starring Amy Schumer, and Jack was asleep with his head on my shoulder. He woke up in a sweet, cuddly mood without a single mention of his phobia. I didn’t dare bring it up, so it was forgotten. Until now.
‘Go on,’ Jack urges me as I stand alone by the caviar. ‘Get yourself a glass of bubbly.’
I pretend to be interested in the canapés displayed artfully in the glass cabinet, then order myself a glass of champagne; exactly what I’d wanted to do last time. As the golden effervescence glitters into my glass, I try to recall the flight back. Was Jack as terrified of flying then? Memory fails me. I’d been trying to meditate through a hangover conjured by the devil himself and injected straight into my bloodstream. At one point, I’d had to snooze on the floor of the departure lounge with my head on Jack’s hand luggage. Jeez, we’d hit it hard on that final night. I’d thought we were in denial about going home, and making every moment count. But maybe Jack needed to block out his impending fear. Or maybe it was a bit of both.
The cold bubbles kiss my lips, sneak up my nose.
‘Are you trying to find faults in me?’ I hear Jack ask.
I almost spit out the gulp I’ve just taken as I see him beside me, sat up on the high stool.
‘It’s clever,’ he says. ‘Makes sense to get over me.’
I want to enjoy my champagne. God knows it cost enough.
‘I’m not looking for faults,’ I mutter. ‘I just remembered what an arsehole you were to me last time we were at this airport.’
And great. I’m talking to myself in an airport. What if I start doing this on the plane? Freaking passengers out looking like a terrorist, whispering some sort of mantra before I blow everyone up?
‘Being afraid of flying is fear of the lack of control,’ Jack says.
‘Go away,’ I say, trying not to move my lips.
‘And also a sign of a vivid imagination. Which I have. Oops! Had.’
Well, yours truly also has a vivid bloody imagination and thanks to that, I’m failing at enjoying a quiet drink in my cocoon of me-time. I’m haunted and distracted, alone but not on my own. I’m lonely, but I’m with Jack. He’s dead, but so alive in my mind, and I’m so fucking confused I can’t see straight.
‘Same again?’ the barman asks.
I look to my champagne flute, dry and empty.
‘I better not,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Fourteen hours later, I’m sitting in the back of a neon-pink taxi. It’s a hazy, grey late afternoon in Bangkok. The rain is eager to start splashing down and it doesn’t feel like five minutes since I was last here. In reality, it’s been four months. I arrive at the Asia Palace Hotel, which, I know, sounds grand. It’s cheap, immaculately clean and as I enter the small lobby I’m greeted with many a heartwarming Sawasdee ka and Sawasdee krap and a zesty aroma of lemongrass. The hotel is a confusing blend of corporate business and backpacker, with conference rooms and a rather soulless gym either side of a rainbow-painted cafe with plastic red chairs. The lady on the reception desk tells me about the happy hour on the rooftop, where there’s also a hot tub. When she hands over my hotel keycard, I get a rush, a tickle in my tummy.
You see, I’ve always been a bit of a holiday junkie.
I’m the kid who was first in line to get a t-shirt for the kids’ club and entered myself into every competition going, even Killer Darts, which weirdly, I was pretty good at. I’d get over excited about Fanta Lemon, something you could only get ‘abroad’ back then. As a teen, once I’d been initiated into a gang of others my age, we’d buy bright-coloured bottles of cheap liqueurs, amazed we got served without ID. We’d get stupidly drunk and all snog each other, swapping addresses on the last night and, through dramatic tears, promise to keep in touch forever and ever. I don’t plan my holidays well, don’t give myself an itinerary or pre-book trips, nothing like that. But I always want to do and try everything, all in the moment. I’ll go to the club that somebody on the street is handing out flyers for; I’ll eat the food on the specials board; I’ll take a tuk-tuk over a taxi wherever possible.
And, oh my. Jack Carmichael was the same. The same! We were two loose cannons when we arrived in Bangkok, exploding with child-like bounce.
I put my keycard into the door, dragging my suitcase behind me.
The bed is huge. Two towels have been made into swans, but, thank God, there are no rose petals. I haven’t slept in a bed since the day before Jack died. I slip off my Converse and strip off my t-shirt, my bra, my joggers. This is one hell of a first. One. Hell. Getting on the plane was one, but a mild one, thanks to the uncomfortable memory. Arriving in Bangkok was another, but I was pushed along by the speed of the taxi queue. I’m not ready to go outside and explore yet, and the only other furniture is a single wheelie chair next to a small dressing table. I can’t sleep on that, can I?
I give the bed a shot.
Once I’m under the sheets, my head heavy upon the white pillows, I stare out of the window and watch the sky thicken. I don’t move until it’s dark. Night has fallen, and although I still can’t sleep, the first of all firsts comes to me. The first time we met.
17
My mum was right about last Christmas. I was knocking about with a lad I went to youth theatre with. Except, being thirty-six and not sixteen, I preferred to call it ‘casually sleeping with’.
His name is Dan Finnigan; once an angelic tenor with a flair for accents, and now a chartered accountant. We hooked up over the festive period, almost two decades after I first slept with him. By New Year’s Eve, we’d spent every night either at his place or mine, and even went to the Philharmonic to see Home Alone with a live orchestra playing the score. Rather datey for a matey.
Then I made a bold move. I booked two tickets to see a new musical premiering in Liverpool at the Everyman Theatre. A mutual friend from youth theatre, Vicki Richards, had landed a starring role and plastered it all over her social media. It was impossible to ignore. This musical, The Book of Brexit, looked set to be her big break. I told her I’d be coming with Dan Finnigan to support her.
A-MAZING. I’ll get you both into the after-show party! she replied.
Just what I’d been hoping for.
Dan didn’t thank me for the ticket, or for the after-show invite. Instead, he told me his girlfriend was coming back from Japan. Now here’s the thing. He’d one thousand per cent not mentioned this before in any way, shape or form. Nothing in his flat hinted at a serious attachment in his life: no framed photo, no perfume bottle beside his range of aftershaves, no spare toothbrush. And I’ve got to admit I was upset.
Angry.
No, upset.
Look, I didn’t love Dan Finnigan. The appeal of whatever we were doing definitely stemmed from nostalgia. But he was nice. Nice enough to want more; mainly after a few drinks.
So when he told me about his mystery woman, I not only felt spectacularly dumped, but also like a dirty rag. I was the girl the fella cheated on his girlfriend with. Thank you very fucking much, Dan fucking Finnigan.
I ended up going to the theatre on my own.
And I know I could’ve asked our Kit to come with me, or one of my mates. Most of them would’ve needed to sort a babysitter, though, and well, I just couldn’t be bothered with more knock-backs, more excuses – however genuine – as to why someone couldn’t be my date. Still, I’d see Vicki afterwards, mingle with the cast. So I dressed up, curled my hair before attempting to stylishly mess it up, my blonde still on fantastic form from getting it bleached before Christmas. I wore knee boots, which, being on the tall side, always make my legs look longer, and a short dress with a retro zigzag pattern. Actu
ally, the dress was more like a baggy shirt, but it’s one of my all-time faves. It hangs off in the right places and – God, this’ll make me sound old – it’s comfy. Our Kit had bought me giant hoop earrings for Christmas and, matching them with a thick helping of red lippy, I felt fabulous. Up yours, Dan Finnigan!
The show started with huge promise; an opening number full of brilliantly observed impressions. Vicki belted out a ballad about the pain her character felt leaving ‘EU’; but after that, it’s safe to say the story went zooming downhill.
I took my seat for the second half and noticed a man lingering on the step in the aisle beside me. Big, but not awkward, he had his hands stuffed into trousers that matched his waistcoat and jacket, smartly paired with a blue paisley shirt open at the collar. A confident grin emerged from beneath his wild beard. His eyes were sharp like diamonds.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ he asked.
Ugh. If truth be told, I did mind. If I wasn’t going to be here with a date, I’d prefer the extra legroom all to myself. But this fella was leaning towards me and resting his hand on the back of the empty seat.
‘You see that tiny space in the middle over there?’ He pointed to the block of seats opposite and I nodded. ‘That’s where I’ve been squashed during the first half of – ahem, let me lower my voice – the shambles that we all collectively witnessed. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find this aisle seat unoccupied.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ I said, with enough sarcasm to let him know I wasn’t in the mood for making friends.
‘I’m Jack.’ He held out his hand.
I took it, shook it and said, ‘Chloe Roscoe,’ befuddled as to why a full intro spurted out.
He laughed, hearty and melodic.
‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he said, unafraid to look me in the eye.
I raised an eyebrow and pouted my red lips, unimpressed.
‘You reckon?’ I asked.
And he stretched out his large legs into the aisle, sat back and folded his arms. Releasing a long, satisfying sigh, he looked across at me again, and somehow amused by me – or perhaps my giant earrings – he grinned, so widely I spotted a dimple in his cheek. I wasn’t in the mood to reciprocate.
