by Sandy Barker
‘Come on, Abs. It’ll be nice to have some pretty knickers, don’t you think?’
‘But why does it matter? I mean, who’s even going to see them? It’s not like …’ I realise my gaff and close my mouth. Caitriona knows I’m a contestant on The Stag. I should at least pretend I have a chance of winning the Stag’s heart.
‘That’s no way to think,’ says Lisa, jumping in to cover for me. ‘You have just as much of a chance as anyone else who’s going on the show. And besides, having nice undergarments gives you confidence, right Caitriona? It’s not just about who might see them, but how they make you feel.’
‘Absolutely. And I promise, I’ll make this as painless as possible. We’ll get you fitted and kitted out in no time.’
I relent. But I am definitely asking for a lollipop after this.
Chapter Five
‘Do you have everything?’ asks my mum.
I can’t believe she’s taken time off work to say goodbye―especially as Heathrow is gigantic and could swallow up someone like Mum, someone who’s only been here a couple of times in her life and never once to fly anywhere. It’s a lovely gesture, but as she is an acute worrier―a trait she has passed down to me―I can tell that’s why she came. She’s wearing worry like a cloak.
‘Yes, Mum,’ I reply, infusing my tone with as much brevity as I can. I tap a palm against my new leather bag, part of my Doe trousseau. ‘Passport, Kindle, travel calm, ear plugs, eye mask …’ She’s blinking at me, tears in her eyes. ‘It’s only a couple of months, Mum.’
She nods. Oh, god, I can practically see the lump in her throat and one starts growing in mine. ‘You’ll be absolutely fine. You’ll be too busy keeping Aunty Lo out of trouble to even miss me.’ Another lie―they’re already piling up. Well, I suppose there’s some truth to this one. Aunty Lo―Lois―is my mum’s closest friend. I’ve known her my whole life and in the absence of a ‘proper’ aunty, she’s been as much a sister to my mum and an aunty to me as a blood relation. She’s also the naughty one in the family and, hopefully, her escapades will be a good distraction for Mum in my absence.
‘And, you have Lisa’s number if you need anything―anything, Mum. You know she’ll be right round to help, all right?’
‘All right, love.’
‘Oh, and please remember, Mum, this is highly confidential, me filming the show. You can’t tell anyone, even Aunty Lo―not until it’s about to air, all right?’
‘I remember and I promise. But Abby …’
‘What? Is there something else that’s worrying you?’
‘I … I’ll miss you, love, that’s all.’
I envelop her in a hug. ‘I’ll miss you too, Mum, but I’ll call you―every week, I promise.’ All the other Does will be in ‘radio silence’ with their loved ones, but (thankfully) this is one of the provisions of my contract.
Mum clings to me, her voice muffled by my shoulder. ‘I just don’t know why you’re going all that way to find love,’ she says.
Oh, right, the enormous lie I’ve told her.
I pull back and study the concern creasing her brow. I hate that I’ve lied to my mother―again. Not only does she not know I’m Anastasia Blabbergasted, she believes I make my living as a freelance copywriter for small businesses. The few times I’ve had pieces published under my own name, Mum has bragged about me to anyone who cared to listen―and, I’m sure, many who didn’t.
I suppose that by lying all this time about my job, I’m more prepared than I thought to dive into this world of duplicity. But now I’ve lied again, telling her I’m going on The Stag because I adore the show and genuinely believe I might find love.
‘It will be fine, Mum, I promise.’
‘You are the most wonderful, most lovable person in the whole world, Abigail. You don’t need to go across the world to fall in love. It will happen, my darling girl. You so deserve it.’
The lump is back, tightening my throat and making it near impossible to reply. But what can I say to that? She’s tapped into something I’ve buried so deep, it rarely shows its ugly head. My father left us when I was a baby, never to be seen again, and in my darkest moments―those I won’t even share with Lisa―I will probe into the part of me that genuinely believes that I am not worthy of love.
And yet, here is this incredible woman―a woman who took in extra ironing in the evenings so she could buy me a dress for prom, something not covered by my otherwise generous scholarship―and she loves me so unconditionally and so thoroughly, that perhaps it seems ungrateful of me to seek out love elsewhere.
Even if romantic love is something entirely different.
‘Thank you, Mum,’ I finally manage. ‘I know I am loved―probably more so than any other daughter in the world …’ This makes her smile, although it’s tinged with sadness. ‘I just …’ I just what? Damn this stupid, stupid lie! ‘Look, they’re calling my flight.’ They aren’t―that’s another one. ‘I’d best go through.’
‘All right, love.’ She gives me a quick squeeze and when she steps back, her lips are pressed together―perhaps resignation that her beautiful, clever, and lovable daughter (her words, not mine) is going on a reality television show to find the love of her life.
I give her a weak smile and say, ‘I love you. You’re the best mum ever. I’ll talk to you soon.’ She nods, then I turn and stride towards departures.
I hope flying business class takes the sting out of that goodbye.
Honestly, if there were no emotions attached to this assignment, it would be a dream come true. Paid travel to Australia―check. A makeover―check. An entirely new wardrobe―check. A rather gorgeous Australian man waiting at the other end of this flight―check.
But there are emotions. Guilt. Terror. Worry. Check, check, check.
Gah! I need to focus on the positives. I have a job, I have a home, I have a wonderful mother, and a best friend who may very well be on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I get to write for a living. It may not always be what I want to write, but it will be eventually (I have to believe that). And I’m going to Sydney, somewhere I’ve dreamt of going for years.
That’s better―a #gratitudeattitude!
I suppose the only fly in my gratitude ointment is Jack. Well, not Jack himself, but I’m certain that fraternising with the show’s producer would be (severely) frowned upon. And that’s assuming Jack is remotely interested in me. I haven’t seen him in person since the day we met, but emails and video chats have been enough to nurture my (let’s face it, probably one-sided) crush. ‘Crush’―such a juvenile word. But I suppose when it comes to love, I am a juvenile―or at least a novice.
I need to distract myself; navel gazing as a romantically stunted thirty-something has already lost its lustre.
Right, this is my first (and possibly only) time in a business-class lounge―perhaps there’s a story here? I scan the room from my cosy spot in the corner, taking in all the amenities that (we) mere mortals could only imagine―a neat display of magazines and newspapers in multiple languages that rivals Waterstones, a fully stocked bar, signage for the beauty salon (although, this just brings back horrid memories of hot wax), lounge chairs and low tables and desks with office chairs, and a long buffet with cheeseboards, platters of charcuterie and antipasto, enormous bowls of fresh salads, and fruit platters.
Why would you ever want leave? It’s nice enough right here.
Unfortunately, this vast array of luxury and excess doesn’t spark even an inkling for a piece. I doubt that ‘Nubile Newbie Noshes on Nummy Nibbles’ will induce a bidding war between The Guardian and The Atlantic.
I head to the buffet and eye the stack of teeny plates with disdain. Are they designed to encourage repeat trips or deprivation and starvation? I’m guessing the latter. I can only image the scandal of multiple trips. ‘I say, who let the hoi polloi in here? Did you see how many times she visited the buffet? Was it seven or eight?’
I take one of the teeny plates and (strategically) pile up a neat pyra
mid of cheese and olives, then make my way to the bar and slide onto a stool. The bartender nods discretely in my direction, telling me that she’s seen me and will be with me momentarily. The fact that her eyes haven’t bugged in horror tells me I must look like I belong and I send a silent thank you to Nadia, Günter, and Caitriona, my makeover dream team.
‘Oh, hey!’ I hear beside me.
My mind knows whose voice it is, but it also knows that he’s not supposed to be here―he’s supposed to be in Sydney, where he was the last time we spoke. I turn my head in his direction.
‘Jack,’ I say, my mouth ahead of my thoughts.
‘You look great,’ he says. And not as in, ‘Wow, what an enormous difference your makeover has had―I hardly recognised you,’ but a simple compliment.
‘Er, thank you,’ I say, wishing I were more practised at being gracious. ‘But I thought …’ My voice trails off in confusion at seeing him here.
‘Oh, yeah … Why am I here when I’m supposed to be there?’ Jack grins, his perfect, perfect lips stretching wide, and I will neither confirm nor deny that my crush on him is galloping along, out of control, and very likely to trample my inexperienced heart. ‘Casting problem,’ he says, answering his own question.
‘Oh, right.’
‘Yeah, normally we’d just go with the alternate, but she was no longer available―new job up in Scotland. Besides, we needed two new Does, not just the one.’
‘Two?’
‘Yep. Turns out that one of the originals was pregnant when she auditioned, only she didn’t know it, and the other has shingles.’
‘Oh, goodness. That poor woman.’
‘Which one?’ he asks. I hope he’s joking.
‘The woman with shingles,’ I reply, and he winks. ‘Oh, you were joking.’
‘Yeah, ’course.’ We share a laugh, which sets me at ease and then it’s just me and Jack, the friendly ally who rescued me―from the giant jaws of death, yes, but also from Roberta’s scrutiny and Prue’s wrath. ‘Besides, the pregnant woman is over the moon and all loved up with the baby’s dad. We were hardly gonna hold her to the contract when we learnt all that.’
‘Right. So, you’ve been back here scouring the country for Britain’s finest, then?’ I ask, Anastasia poking her head out.
‘Yep. Found ’em too,’ he says, clearly missing the slight snark in my tone. ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ He starts rummaging in his carry-on luggage. ‘These are for you. Dossiers on the new Does.’ He hands me a manilla folder with garish red letters screaming ‘Confidential’ across the middle―just like the one in my bag.
‘Thank you. I suppose I’ll brush up on the plane.’
‘And then scrub your brain of everything you’ve already learnt about Angela and Paula.’
‘Oh, no, Paula?’ He nods. ‘Shingles or pregnant?’
‘Shingles.’
‘That makes it all the worse, poor love. I really liked her, even just from her dossier. I thought we might become friends.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty crap. She was cool.’
‘I almost want to send her a get-well card or something, but how would that go? “Dear Paula, you don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I know practically every intimate detail of your life.”’ Jack’s eyes dance with mirth and encouraged, I forge on.
‘“We were due to be fellow Does on the upcoming season of The Stag and, with your volunteering at disadvantaged schools and your close relationship with your nan (she sounds lovely by the way), I was positive we were destined to become best friends. I now hear, from the powers that be, that you have befallen foul of the pox and are unable to make the filming of the show, which saddens me no end. Please don’t ask me how I know all this about you because I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. Perhaps we will meet some day. ’Til then, sending my warmest regards for a speedy recovery. Love, Abby.”’
‘How about that?’ I ask, lifting my chin smugly.
Jack chuckles softly. ‘You’re very funny.’
‘Well, Anastasia is.’
‘Sure, but she’s just a side of you, right?’ An echo of Lisa’s voice rings through my mind. ‘Where do you think Anastasia comes from, Abby?’ It seems that Jack agrees with her.
‘I suppose so. It’s easy to forget that I am Anastasia, or that she’s me, or however it works. You know, before all this preparation for The Stag, I hadn’t realised how much I compartmentalise my life. Like when I write my recaps, I switch seamlessly into Anastasia. And these clothes, this look, that’s Doe Abby―like putting on a costume if I were an actor in a film.’
‘So, who did I meet that day at Feed Your Mind?’
‘Oh, er … just me. Abby,’ I say, punctuating my words with a slight shrug.
‘Well, from what I can tell, I like all sides of you.’ He holds my gaze and I shift slightly on my stool. It’s a lovely thing to say, but I’m not used to compliments, especially from men with gorgeous green eyes and perfect lips.
But that’s real Abby and now it’s time for Doe Abby to come to the fore and stay there. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ says Doe Abby, confidently returning his gaze. Hmm, there’s something rather intoxicating about playing a more assured, more attractive version of myself.
‘So, what would you like?’
‘You and me on a weekend away in Tuscany―no, make it a week,’ I think.
Though I doubt that’s what Jack’s asking. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘To drink.’ Jack nods his head towards the bartender who is looking at me expectantly.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, please. Lime, not lemon, if you have it.’ Apparently, Doe Abby drinks G&Ts, even though I haven’t had one in ages, and with lime. I’ll have to add an addendum to her dossier. Abby Jones―lover of G&Ts, confident, sexy, frequents business club lounges and flirts with gorgeous Australian men―at your service.
So far, I quite like playing Doe Abby.
‘Hi again.’ Jack is standing in the aisle next to my seat, smiling down at me. We’ll be taking off soon, and I’ve just completed an inventory of the clutch-sized toiletries bag that was on my seat when I boarded. There are lots of lovely products in there and I was contemplating giving myself a mid-air facial when Jack showed up.
‘Hello,’ I reply, peering up at him. Any moment now, the flight attendants will start preparing the cabin for take-off and he really ought to be in his seat.
‘So, there’s actually an empty seat next to mine and I asked the flightie if you could move. She said you could after we take off, if you like.’ It takes me half-a-second to figure out what a ‘flightie’ is but when I do, I move swiftly onto Jack’s suggestion.
I’ll admit that I was both disappointed and relieved when I learnt we wouldn’t be sitting together. It’s twenty-six hours from wheels up at Heathrow to touchdown in Sydney, including a four-hour layover in Dubai. That’s either a lot of time to get to know someone, or too much time to spend with the man you have a crush on. What if I nod off and dribble in my sleep or snore?
Aside: I’m not sure that I do snore―this romantic novice has only had one long(ish)-term relationship. It was in my mid-twenties and he never mentioned it―me snoring, that is. He was called Angus, a burly Scottish bloke who did snore―and who farted in bed. He also had a penchant for barmaids with names like ‘Cindy’ and ‘Cherie’. Not exactly a catch and Lisa tolerated him for approximately three months before convincing me to give him the flick.
All this flies through my mind as I weigh up my options―sit with the gorgeous Australian and potentially embarrass myself, or forgo this opportunity to get to know him, save myself from embarrassment, and give myself that facial?
Jack’s smile is the decider.
‘Er, yes, that would be lovely.’ His smile gets wider and dozens of tiny wings take flight in my mid-section.
‘Cool,’ he replies, just as a flight attendant approaches.
‘Sir, please take your seat.’
‘Yeah, no worries.’ To m
e he says, ‘See ya in a bit.’ He adds a wink and, in his wake, leaves anticipation tinged with a whisper of apprehension. Surely, he’s just being nice. He’s probably like this with all the Does; he’s just a genuine, thoughtful man without guile or agenda. I mean, when I made that snarky comment about ‘Britain’s finest’ earlier, it didn’t seem to land in the slightest. Perhaps he’s just not wired to be cynical or to run people down.
Like I am.
Well, like Anastasia is, in any case.
So, if Jack is just being nice, how do I reconcile the tummy flutters? It’s been so long since anyone induced them, I’m not quite sure what to do. Not only would acting on these feelings be frowned upon by my editor and his boss, it would exceedingly complicate my time in Stag Manor―as if it’s not going to be complicated enough.
As the engines rev and we speed off down the runaway and soar into the air, my stomach lurches and I can’t tell for sure if it’s the G-force or the start of something extraordinary.
Chapter Six
‘This is not a date, Abigail,’ I remind myself for the fourth time in two hours.
If it were, however, it would be the best date I’ve ever had―possibly the best date anyone has ever had―mostly because of the sparkling conversation which has flowed non-stop since I changed seats after take-off.
And that’s not the only thing flowing. I’m also on my second glass of fizz―actual champagne, from France. When I’d asked for a top-up, Jack jokingly told the flight attendant to leave the bottle and she smiled, then returned with a full bottle sitting in an ice bucket. An ice bucket! On an aeroplane!
I will need to slow down, however, because everyone knows that alcohol goes to your head faster when you fly―or is that a made-up ‘fact’ we published on Feed Your Mind? Either way, I’m a little bit tipsy and in Jack’s lovely, lovely company, the time is already flying (so to speak). Only twenty-four hours to go!
