You Only Live Once

by Jess Vallance

  ‘Argh!’ I said. ‘God. Feel all funny.’

  Saul smiled shyly, but he was clearly still unsure where to look. I stayed sitting on the floor as I finally managed to wrestle my bum back into my trousers. I sat there, breathing hard. Saul was obviously relieved to be able to look at me again.

  ‘Bit of a wobbly flight!’ he said brightly as we made our way to the hut. ‘Most people don’t wriggle around so much!’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I was just trying to …’ I stopped myself. I decided not to bring up the issue of the missing trousers again.

  Top-knot guy was sitting on his stool at reception, flicking through a newspaper.

  ‘You’ve landed!’ he said as I stumbled in, still unsteady as my body readjusted to being on solid ground. ‘Have fun?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Let’s take a look at the evidence then.’ He turned a computer screen on his desk around to face me and flicked through the images. There were three in total – I guess the machine didn’t save all of them.

  Every one was a complete disaster.

  Exhibit one: me, my eyes squeezed shut, a long trail of dribble stretching from my chin to my chest.

  Exhibit two: my arms outstretched but my head angled down, horror on my face as I realise that I’m no longer completely dressed.

  Exhibit three: a full-on bum shot. Where I’d been desperately trying to retrieve my errant joggers I’d somehow spun myself round so that all you could see were my pants, my – still quite yellow – lumpy legs and my feet flailing about at the bottom.

  Saul and top-knot guy eyed the images with interest.

  ‘Number two is sort of OK?’ Saul suggested.

  I sighed. ‘It’s the best we’ve got.’

  I didn’t exactly have much choice. There was no way I was going away without photographic evidence of the trauma I’d just been through. There was also no way I was going through the trauma again in order to obtain a more attractive shot.

  I paid my money, the top-knot guy printed out my photo and slipped it into a cardboard envelope, and I left.

  While I’d been in the air more people had replied to my photo of the Rush sign. To my surprise, there were several people questioning whether I’d actually go through with it.

  Pics or it didn’t happen!

  said a girl from my French class.

  Such a liar

  said Til.

  Til! Even Til was trolling me now.

  There was no way I was going through what I’d just been through only to have people doubting my daring. Pride about my attitude overrode vanity about my looks. I slipped the official swing photo out of the cardboard envelope and laid it on the ground. I took a photo of it with my phone, and uploaded it to Twitter and Instagram with the caption:

  I looked down! #mistake #yolo

  The likes and replies rolled in at once, and I walked home on a high, surprised and pleased, both with my own courage, and with the public approval of it.

  Ollie

  When I got home, I found Ollie in the kitchen, eating Coco Pops out of a mixing bowl and smiling a wide, unnatural smile. His face was frozen in the position, like the Joker from Batman. It was most unnerving.

  ‘What’s wrong with your face?’ I said.

  His expression remained unchanged.

  ‘I’m smiling.’

  ‘Well, quite. Why?’

  ‘It’s been scientifically proven,’ he said, his stretched cheeks making his voice sound like a ventriloquist’s, ‘that if you smile, you automatically feel happier. The very act of smiling releases a chemical from your brain and, boom, you’re happy.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  His smile fell. ‘Nope.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, you all right?’

  ‘I did it,’ I said proudly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I flew!’

  It took him a moment to realise what I was talking about.

  ‘You – what? You didn’t? Rush?’

  I nodded.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Nah. No way. You wouldn’t. It’s well sketchy down there. It’s all run by kids and the ropes look like they were picked up off the beach. I know you. You would’ve taken one look and been like, “I’m sorry but I’m not sure all health and safety legislation has been properly adhered to on these premises.”’

  I shook my head. ‘Nope. It was sketchy, but I did it anyway. Because that’s what I’m like now, Ollie. Risky. Edgy.’

  Ollie finished his Coco Pops and took his bowl over to the sink. He sat back down at the table. ‘Yeah?’ he grinned. ‘Prove it.’

  I thrust the photograph towards him. He tipped it out of the envelope and held it out in front of him.

  ‘Ha! No way!’

  I nodded once, and crossed my arms. ‘See.’

  ‘But, Gracie, what has happened here?’ He peered more closely at the photo. ‘Why are you …? Is that your …? Where are your trousers? Or my trousers, I should say.’

  I took the photo back from him. ‘They didn’t exactly fit, did they. On account of your ginormous bum. So it didn’t end so well.’

  ‘Ha!’ Ollie shook his head and grinned. ‘Amazing. A. Maze. Ing.’

  ‘It was good actually,’ I told him. ‘Properly like flying.’

  ‘Can’t believe you actually did it! What’s got into you lately, baby sis? You going crazy now your exams are over? Didn’t know you had it in you.’

  I shrugged and took an apple out of the fruit bowl. Then I put it back and took a Toffee Crisp out of the cupboard because I was young and I was only going to live once.

  ‘Just want to make the most of things,’ I said as I ripped off the orange wrapper. ‘I don’t want to be lying on my death bed and the only excitement I have to look back on is opening a new packet of Post-its. You owe me fifty quid, by the way.’

  Ollie waved the suggestion away. We both knew he’d struggle to find fifty pence, much less fifty pounds. He yawned and rubbed the back of his head. ‘You’re right, you know. There’s something in all this. Who knows what I’m going to have to look back on.’

  ‘What are you going to do, though?’ I said, picking toffee out of my teeth. ‘Your year out is turning into a decade out. It’ll turn into a life out if you’re not careful.’

  Ollie smiled but his eyes looked sad. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Tell me about it.’

  But actually it was him who told me about it.

  He just started talking. Telling me all kinds of things. Like how he thought something would come to him if he just relaxed and waited – his calling would call – but how he was starting to think there was nothing he would ever actually enjoy doing. He said that he thought he would get into computers but his maths A-level grade had been too low for him to think that a possibility any more. He even told me about a girl who he’d been seeing but had got frustrated with him never having any money – or any enthusiasm – for anything.

  ‘Have you ever noticed how everyone’s got a thing these days?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I said. ‘What thing?

  ‘OK, so look at this.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and opened Twitter. ‘Look at everyone’s profiles.’ He started to read some aloud. ‘“Passionate about fitness, healthy eating and well-being”, “Artist, illustrator and comic book connoisseur”, “Traveller. Wanderer. Environmental campaigner”. See? Everyone’s got a thing. A brand. A calling.’

  ‘Being a traveller isn’t a calling. It’s just going on holiday.’

  He ignored me. ‘Even you, you’ve got a thing. You’ve got your study and your books and your ten thousand A grades.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, chewing. ‘That’s just great. My personal brand is being square and boring.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ve got something,’ Ollie insisted. ‘That’s the whole point. I haven’t got anything. I was OK at school – not that clever, not that cool. I’ve done some pointless jobs that I was OK at, but that I didn’t love. I like watching TV and playing PlayStation and listening to m
usic but so what? Who am I, Grace?’

  Post

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy trying to work out how I could shed my own personal brand of tedium and safety and prudence, how I could disassociate myself from that and show people I was now this. Fun and brave and cool. I had rebranded. I was different now.

  Ollie sighed. ‘Ha. Sorry, sis. Bit of gut spillage there,’ he seemed embarrassed suddenly.

  ‘No. It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who you are, though. Sorry. You’re just Ollie.’

  He nodded sadly.

  ‘Anyway, you keep going,’ he said, standing up and taking an apple from the bowl. ‘You’ve got the right idea, I reckon.’

  He traipsed off back up to his bedroom and I sat at the table rolling my Toffee Crisp wrapper into a ball and thinking about how Ollie had just said more to me in the last fifteen minutes than he had in the last two years and that I was pretty sure that this was a direct result of Operation Seize the Day.

  It was interesting, I thought to myself, all this talking that was happening now I was doing things. I thought I was just going to get a few snaps of me looking carefree on horseback, but now here I was, having heart-to-hearts. First Til in the tent and now Ollie. I quite liked it, I decided.

  I was still sitting at the table when Mum came in from work.

  ‘Post for you,’ she said, sliding a postcard across the table to me. It showed a picture of the Eiffel Tower. I knew who it would be from.

  Nan often sent Ollie and me postcards featuring images from all around the world. She never went to the places – she never went anywhere as I far as I could tell – but she liked to pick up postcards from shops and send us random little notes. I turned the card over.

  Dear Grace,

  Nan here. I knew a French man once. Pierre, his name was. Well, actually I don’t think that was his name. That’s just what your grandfather called him because he was French. Handsome. He used to deliver meat from a van. One morning he asked me if I’d like to kiss him after he’d handed me a packet of rindless bacon. I said no.

  I’ve never been to Paris. Always wanted to go but too late now I’m old.

  Come and see me if you like.

  Love Nan

  She always said that. ‘Come and see me if you like.’ Like she wasn’t bothered either way. It was curious, I thought. Your own grandmother playing hard to get.

  ‘What did she have to say, then?’ Mum asked and I passed her the card.

  ‘You should go and see her,’ Mum said. ‘I know she’s difficult but she is your nan. It would mean a lot to Dad if you made the effort.’

  I was about to make some kind of non-committal yeah-maybe-soon kind of noise when it suddenly occurred to me. I’m not supposed to be in the business of turning things down. Fobbing people off, making excuses, putting things off till later. That kind of thing was for the old Grace. That wasn’t me any more.

  Maybe I would go and see Nan, I thought. I’d get on a train and buy a bunch of flowers and just GO.

  And then, as I was having that idea, a more exciting one started to form.

  I reached for my phone, scrolled down to Til’s name and pressed the call button.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Til, do you want to come to Paris with me?’

  PART 3

  During which I visit the City of Light and my grandmother becomes an unwitting internet sensation

  Mini-Break

  ‘You lezzing on to me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you asking me on a romantic mini-break with you? Because I ain’t into that, I told you. Also, not being funny, Gracie, but you need to learn to play it cool. I know you’re new to this but you don’t open with an invitation to Paris. Like, woah, too much, you know?’

  ‘Do shut up, Til,’ I said. ‘I’m serious. Do you want to come to Paris? With me. And my nan.’

  ‘Your nan?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s always wanted to go. I want to take her. But she can be a bit … much so I need someone to come with me. I’ll pay.’ Actually, Dad said he would, but it was all the same to Til.

  That got her interested. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘That’s as far as I’ve got really. But basically, we go to Paris with my nan and give her the trip of a lifetime, while at the same time seeing one of the most amazing cities in the world and having a memorable and all-round spectacular time ourselves.’

  I heard Til open a packet of crisps. ‘Sure,’ she said, her mouth full. ‘Why not?’

  Three days later, Til, Nan and I were at St Pancras International station.

  Despite claiming she’d always wanted to go, Nan hadn’t seemed particularly enthusiastic when I’d phoned to invite her on her trip of a lifetime.

  ‘Paris?’ she said. ‘Abroad?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘France.’

  ‘I shan’t go on a plane. They’re more than likely to crash, you know.’

  I decided not to get into the statistical analysis of this point. ‘We can go on the train.’

  ‘I don’t need taking out on a day trip, you know, Grace. I know you kids don’t really want to be spending time with your boring nan. I might be old but I’m not a charity case.’

  I’d been so excited about the spontaneity of whisking my grandmother away to Paris at a moment’s notice that it hadn’t occurred to me for a minute that she might resist.

  ‘I’m not doing it out of charity, Nan!’ I protested. ‘Basically, what it is,’ I lied, ‘is that I really want to go but Mum won’t let me go on my own, and her and Dad are too busy with work and Paddy and everything so I wondered if you would come with me?’

  Nan sighed. ‘Oh, I suppose so. Not for too long though, mind.’

  Nan was understandably surprised by the imminence of my suggested travel date but she nonetheless agreed. ‘I suppose I’m not getting any younger.’

  During the flurry of organisational activity in the couple of days running up to the trip, I’d completely forgotten to mention to Nan that Til was coming too.

  ‘Who’s this one?’ Nan said, turning around from the passenger seat of Dad’s car as he drove us to the station.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. This is Til, Nan. My friend. She’s coming with us.’

  ‘Hi,’ Til said.

  Nan looked at Til like she was finding her a bit confusing. ‘Til?’ she said slowly and carefully. ‘Til? Like a cash register?’

  ‘Like Matilda, Nan,’ I said. I eyed Til carefully for signs of offence, but she just raised her eyebrows in a vaguely amused expression.

  I found being at the station moderately stressful because I was both trying to deal with the paperwork and luggage aspect, as well as making sure Nan didn’t say anything inappropriate to Til, or anyone else.

  It had been quite some years since Nan had ventured abroad and either things were different back then, or else she’d just forgotten the various administrative and security procedures, because she seemed most exasperated by ‘all the stupid hoops we have to jump through’. By this she meant showing our tickets (once) and our passports (also once).

  ‘Anything else you need to see?’ she asked the nervous-looking French man at passport control. ‘My birth certificate? My medical records? My bra?’

  The man just nervously shook his head and I ushered Nan through. Unfortunately, her thick metal bracelets set the metal detector off and the female security officer indicated that she should step aside for a pat-down. Nan made a huge fuss the whole way through, including loudly announcing that if she was going to get felt up in public then they could at least let her have the ‘dusky French fella’.

  As we stood on the platform with our bags, waiting for the doors of the Eurostar train to open, I took my phone out of my pocket. ‘Let’s have a photo then, Nan!’ I said, holding it up.

  I thought she’d refuse or at least grumble some objections, but to my surprise, Nan leant on her suitcase with one hand, and spread the other arm out to gesture to the huge Eurostar logo on the train behin
d her, and smiled widely.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘I’m posting that,’ I said to Til.

  I added it to Instagram and Twitter with the hashtag:

  #NanOnTour

  Nan’s photo seemed to go down quite well with my 234 followers, as within fifteen minutes or so, fourteen people had either liked it or posted a comment.

  ‘Look, Nan,’ I said, showing the screen. ‘People like your photo.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Nan said, squinting at the screen. ‘Who does?’

  ‘Oh, just people,’ I said. ‘Some of them I know. Some of them I don’t. But they click on this little button if they like something, and that’s what they’ve done.’

  Nan peered at the screen for a bit longer, still seeming confused.

  Then suddenly she broke into a wide smile. ‘Well, we ought to give them some more then! Here.’ She took the Eurostar in-journey menu out of the pocket in the back of the seat in front and held it up next to her face. ‘Go on! Take another!’ She grinned manically.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said, opening my phone’s camera. ‘OK.’

  ‘You’re going to put it up, are you?’ Nan asked, anxiously peering over my shoulder. ‘So people can press the button to say they like it?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ I said. I posted this one to Instagram too, again with the #NanOnTour hashtag.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Til turning away to the window to hide her smile.

  Nan made me take three or four more photos of her in various poses in her seat, but I had to lie about posting them online. There were only so many photos of my grandmother on public transport that people needed to see.

  ‘How many people have liked them now?’ Nan would ask every so often.

  ‘Fifty-eight,’ I’d lie. ‘Sixty, now.’

  ‘Sixty!’ Nan chuckled to herself. ‘Well, I never.’

  After half an hour or so Nan nodded off, and I was given a break from my role as official mini-break photographer.

  ‘Sorry about my nan,’ I said to Til. Although I was glad to have someone with me, I was now starting to wish I’d asked Ollie to come instead. Someone who knew Nan like I did.