by Jo Thomas
I pay for the magazine, and hug it protectively to my chest, along with a bag of wine gums and a meal deal, as I make my way to the seating area, where I plan to settle down to savour each and every one of its pages, pretending it really is me getting on a plane and going somewhere. I put my hat, apron and name badge down beside me and open my egg and cress sandwich, giving it a quick prod for freshness, then pick up the magazine, preparing to lose myself in its pages for the next twenty minutes. My sigh of sadness turns to one of contentment. I take a bite of the sandwich and slide down into the seat.
I’m only three pages in when I hear it: a voice I’d recognise anywhere, shrieking with laughter. A shrill voice that cuts sharply through the noise of excited travellers filling the airport. I freeze, then bristle, gripping the pages of my magazine more tightly, peering over the top of it to see the familiar figure walking through the concourse in the middle of a small group of women. They all look to be in their late twenties, early thirties, and are carrying oversized handbags over their forearms and wearing expensive fake-fur bobble hats that I know I’ve seen for sale in the airport shops. My worst fears are confirmed. It’s my cousin Olivia and her friends. And they’re coming this way. My heart drops like a stone.
I look around for a quick and easy escape. The loos are within sprinting distance. I start to stand and gather my sandwich, magazine and apron. But as I do, she spots me. Damn it! Should have stayed hidden behind the magazine. Wrong call. But it’s too late. There’s nowhere to hide.
‘Bet? Is that you?’ she says, as if she is broadcasting through a megaphone.
Olivia and her father, my uncle Paul, always insist on calling me Bet, despite me explaining time and time again that I’d rather be known as Beti. Uncle Paul and my dad have a difficult relationship. It goes back years – my uncle has never forgiven my mum for picking my dad over him, and he takes every opportunity he can to get one up on them; which includes putting me down whenever the chance arises.
My heart thumping and my mouth dry, I stand up and hold the magazine to me, shielding my hat and apron. Olivia’s friends are staring at me as if waiting for me to say something exciting or funny.
‘Small world,’ Olivia says, leaning in and bumping cheeks awkwardly with me. Hers are bony and sharp. Mine are cushioned and well hidden. ‘This is my cousin Elizabeth, but we call her Bet,’ she tells her friends.
‘Hi!’ I nod at the group of women, then we stand and stare awkwardly at each other. I’m desperate for Olivia not to ask what I’m doing here.
‘What are you doing here?’ she says with that familiar teasing glint in her eye. She flicks her hair over her shoulder.
‘So . . . off somewhere lovely?’ I ask at the same time. It’s a ridiculous question. We’re in the departures lounge of an airport. Of course they’re going somewhere lovely. Everybody is. That’s why the place is humming with excitement.
‘Iceland! Reykjavik!’ She doesn’t need asking twice to step into the spotlight. It’s always been the same. We grew up together, were pushed together at every family celebration and holiday. But we’re nothing alike. Olivia was always one of the popular girls, while I . . . well I wasn’t. I never really fitted in.
She beams around at her friends, who all look exactly like each other. The long straightened hair, the fake-fur-trimmed collars, the thick foundation and outlined nude lips. At least the different-coloured bobbles on their hats are a distinguishing feature.
‘It’s Georgia’s hen weekend!’ Olivia says. The woman in the black hat with the pink bobble positively preens in amongst the huddle, like she’s a precious jewel nestled in a bed of soft pastel-coloured feathers.
‘Ah, the hen night,’ I say. Of course. They’ve talked about nothing else on Facebook for weeks, ever since the last party, a baby shower in a Scottish castle.
‘Hen weekend! No one does hen nights any more,’ Olivia corrects me with pleasure.
With an effort, I stretch my cheeks into a smile. ‘Well, have a great one. And congratulations!’ I add, hoping I can walk away with what’s left of my dignity.
‘What? This is Bet, as in your cousin, the one who’s been engaged three times?’ says the woman in a fawn hat to match her foundation and a baby-blue bobble, pointing a gelled fingernail at me and looking me up and down. The others follow suit. My cheeks are suddenly burning, and I wish I could use the magazine I’m holding to fan at the flames.
‘Ha, the very same!’ I try to joke, but inside I’m dying, actually dying. It’s not like that! I want to explain, but I can’t find the words.
‘We’ve heard so much about you,’ says a silver-bobbled hat, and I hear a snigger or two. Suddenly, I’m back at school, in the playground, being taunted by my cousin and her coven. I take a deep breath. I’m not going to let this happen.
‘Have you? All good, I hope!’ I joke.
‘So, Bet, what about the mysterious Will? Have you set a date yet? How long have you been together now?’ Olivia is practically licking her lips, like a cat teasing its prey.
‘Er, let’s see, well, about five years,’ I say as casually as I can.
‘Five years!’ the gaggle repeat, practically in unison.
‘And not so mysterious really. You have actually met him, Olivia,’ I follow up firmly.
‘Engaged! For five years! And no date set?’ says the bride-to-be.
‘Um, no.’ My backbone wobbles a bit and I’m desperate for the flight to Reykjavik to be called. ‘Not an actual date as such. Yet.’ I swallow. ‘Still planning it. You know how exhausting these things can be!’ I straighten and appeal to the bride-to-be, who nods in agreement, like I’m a kindred spirit all of a sudden.
‘Oh, Bet is always planning. She has whole folders of ideas. And she’s had plenty of practice, with three engagement parties!’ They all laugh. ‘She knows every florist and wedding favour supplier around,’ Olivia continues. ‘My dad used to joke that she should have her own parking space at those wedding fairs – do you remember, Bet?’ She laughs again, and this time a little bit of fury bubbles up in me.
That’s the problem with living in a small town: everyone knows your business and no one ever forgets. Yes, I’ve been engaged before. But with Will, it’s different. We hit it off straight away, and saw each other whenever we could, even though he was living in Bristol and I was still at home in West Wales. We just couldn’t get enough of each other in those early days. He asked me to marry him in a roundabout kind of way, and we just went for it. Despite everyone telling me it was too soon, it felt wild, exciting and impulsive. Just what I needed after my nan died, after all that sadness. Not long after that, I moved in with Will in Bristol, and I’m still there.
My first engagement was when I was just sixteen, to my first boyfriend Rhys. We got engaged at the end-of-school party and planned to marry in two years’ time, after his A levels. I checked out the registry office and decided to have a barbecue in my parents’ garden afterwards. Everything was to be done as cheaply as possible. But by the following summer, he was making plans for university and I was left in Swn y Mor, broken-hearted, the wedding plans hidden in a bottom drawer with my other childhood memories.
Then, in my early twenties, there was Tom. I thought he was the one. Tom was a chef, and was working in one of the big hotels on the seafront. We were happy. And I think that’s what annoyed Olivia the most. I’d found happiness on my doorstep, and Olivia always wanted what other people had. So she took him, and when she realised she still wasn’t content, she dumped him. We attempted a reconciliation after that, but it didn’t work. I could never really forgive him. We tried, but in the end, we wanted different things. He wanted to run a restaurant in Glasgow, I dreamed of a bar in Spain, and we finally called it a day.
Then I met Will and realised that everything about him was just what I’d hoped for. Everyone loves Will. What’s not to love about him? He’s outgoing, friendly, funny, inte
lligent and holds down a good job. Not to mention his looks: dark-haired and fit . . . his arms just ripple. He even plays lead guitar in a band in the local pub. He’s like Danny O’Donoghue from The Script. OK, he’s not Irish, but he has that same twinkle in his eye. When he arrives at a party, it gets going. That’s why he was such a great holiday rep when I met him. He made everyone feel special. And when he used to look at me, he made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
‘Still no date set for the big day then?’ Olivia cuts through my thoughts, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
‘Well, we’ve had a lot on,’ I lie quickly. We haven’t had anything on, apart from get up, go to work, come home from work, eat, sleep. Somehow, despite being engaged six weeks after we got together, we’ve never actually finalised a date.
Will’s mum was in hospital with pneumonia, and we went to visit her the first day she was taken in. It was all a bit touch and go. That evening, after a microwave macaroni cheese and a quick cuddle on the settee, Will asked me if it would be OK if he told her we were engaged. He thought it would help lift her spirits. I agreed. It felt spontaneous and exciting. And it did lift her spirits. He promised me a proper proposal once she was better, the full down-on-one-knee somewhere romantic, and I could have free rein planning the wedding.
I threw myself into wedding plans to reassure myself that it would actually happen. Keeping my file reminded me of the fun times that were to come, as real life slipped into a more mundane routine. His mum loved hearing about my plans, but the full proposal never actually happened, nor did setting the date. We just slipped into the ‘engaged’ zone. Will thought we should wait until we were ‘sorted’. Whatever that meant. Now we are well and truly stuck in a rut. And I’d do anything to get us out of it.
Bing bong, goes the tannoy. I strain my ears, hoping for the Reykjavik call to come, but it’s just a customer announcement. A passport left at security, no doubt.
‘So, Bet, what are you doing here?’ Olivia looks around expectantly, no doubt for signs of Will. ‘You’re not still working here, are you?’ she practically snorts.
I can’t tell her that yes, I am still working here. I’m thirty-two years old, for God’s sake! Is this it? A job flipping burgers and watching everybody else’s lives moving on, literally? I look up at the departures board and scan down the departing flights. Her friends are watching me like vultures waiting for roadkill.
‘Working here? God, no.’ My jaw tightens with my lie. ‘Actually, I’m off to Spain. Malaga.’ I nod up at the board. ‘A um . . . research trip.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re finally going to do it! You’re going to get that bar of yours! Bet’s always talked about living in Spain, owning a bar,’ Olivia tells her friends. It’s true. It’s always been my dream, ever since I first holidayed out there. ‘Where is Will?’ she adds, looking around.
‘Toilet,’ I lie again, feeling my head begin to pound. What am I saying? Just tell the truth!
‘She keeps him well hidden,’ Olivia says with raised eyebrows. And who could blame me after last time? ‘She and Will met in Spain. He was a holiday rep,’ she explains to the coven, who are hanging on her every word. ‘I mean, you’d be great at running a bar.’ She smiles at me and the flames of fury die down a little.
‘Do you think so?’ I reply, letting my guard down just a tiny bit.
‘Bet really knows how to organise a party. Spreadsheets, costings, themes . . . well, with three engagements, she’s had plenty of practice!’ They all guffaw with laughter, and the flames of mortification in my cheeks and the ones of fury in my belly flare up again.
And then the call comes over the tannoy for the Reykjavik flight, and relief washes over me, despite realising my break’s nearly over and I’ve barely started my sandwich.
‘That’s us!’ the bride-to-be squeals, her shriek going right through me.
‘Nice to meet you, um, Bee,’ says another woman.
‘Hope you get your bar sorted!’ adds a third, and they all nod in agreement as they start to move towards the departure gate almost as one.
‘Is that really where you’re going now? To find a bar?’ Olivia’s eyes are wide with admiration and a fair amount of disbelief.
‘I am,’ I say firmly, surprising myself. I look up at the board, and a little spark of excitement lights up inside me. Why shouldn’t it be my turn? I remember the young Beti, with her hopes and dreams, and a feeling of determination rises in me like a bear woken from hibernation.
‘Let us know on Facebook, we’ll come and see you!’ And with that they practically run in the direction of their departure gate, riding on the excitement of their next adventure, their lives moving onwards. ‘Three engagements and never made it down the aisle?’ I hear one of them ask Olivia, and then they all giggle.
I open the magazine, and there, right in front of me, is a list of bars and restaurants to rent in Andalucía. My name badge falls to the floor and rolls under the wheels of a cabin case. I look up at the departures board again, then back at the advert. What if I could just get on a flight and rent a bar? Isn’t that what people do? Would my nan approve of me using the money from the china cow she left me? I was planning to use it as our wedding fund. I chew on my bottom lip. But without a wedding date, what’s the point?
Isn’t this exactly what Will and I need to get us out of our rut, remind us of the couple we used to be? A place of our own? A fresh start? Bugger the new undies and chicken biryani I was going to order tonight. What we need is an adventure. We need to go somewhere! And as soon as we get to Spain and get settled, we’ll be able to set a wedding date and plaster it all over bloody Facebook, I just know it. This is what Nan would have wanted me to do. And it’s what I’m going to do.
I stuff my apron and hat under my arm and watch as my name badge is spat out from under the wheels of the case, battered and twisted. I listen to the roar of another plane as it takes off, and the little spark in my tummy suddenly roars into life with it.
I look at the adverts in the magazine again. One in particular leaps out at me – the Butterfly Bar. It’s right on the harbour, and within my budget too. I text Will and tell him to meet me after work. Will is good at his job, but really he just wants to play guitar in a band. And where better than in our own bar, in sunny Spain?
I bend down and pick up my name badge. Where I’m going, everyone will know my name. ‘Are you going to Beti’s bar?’ I imagine holidaymakers asking each other. Yes, I am! No more flipping burgers for me. Beti Winter is finally going somewhere.
Chapter One
‘So that’s one Gut-Buster burger with no onions or gherkins, and extra cheese, is that right?’
‘And a Diet Coke. I’ll sling a Bacardi in it, or whatever this Spanish stuff is,’ says the man at the counter, holding up a bottle of clear liquid. He’s in his twenties and is wearing a straw trilby and floral shorts, and his sunburnt nose is the colour of a cooked lobster.
‘OK. Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast. Adiós!’ I hand him the paper bag, which already has grease spots spreading across its sides.
‘Uh?’ He looks at me.
‘It means goodbye . . . in Spanish.’
‘Oh, cheers!’ As he turns away, he is already tearing into his burger.
‘Can you sweep up?’ nods Victoria. ‘And then you can go on your break.’ Victoria is tall, blonde and slim and comes from Clapham. She’s ten years younger than me. It’s her dad’s burger bar, and she’s helping out while he recovers from a mild heart attack. She finished university last summer, graduating with a 2:2 in media studies. I, on the other hand, managed to scrape a couple of A levels in art, and travel and tourism. Even then I loved the idea of living abroad.
Victoria tells me she is weighing up her options. In other words, she’s applying for ‘proper’ jobs. She hooted with laughter when I asked her how long she intended to stay in Spain. ‘God, it’s
not like I want to still be doing this when I’m in my thirties!’ She’s hoping for the BBC or Channel 4, to make it as a documentary producer.
I finish sweeping, then pull off my hat and apron. It may only be late March, but the sun is already warming up, like a sunny May day back home. I’ve been here for two weeks now, and working behind that counter in nylon uniform trousers is torture. I unbutton my shirt and slide it off to reveal my strappy top underneath, heaving a sigh of relief as the light sea breeze gently tickles my skin. The sky is a brilliant blue, like the colour of the poster paint I used to use when I was a child. The few wisps of cloud are clearing as the day heats up, and the holidaymakers are making hay while the sun shines. It’s raining cats and dogs back home, according to my mum’s latest text.
Grabbing my bag from the cupboard at the back of the bar, I make my way across the precinct, around the big palm trees planted in wooden barrels, swaying in the soft breeze, to the sandwich bar on the other side.
‘Hey, Beti. The usual?’ Craig’s deep brown, highly moisturised face breaks into a wide white smile, to match the colour of the tips of his spiky hair. He is wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt and denim cut-offs. His colourful friendship bracelets, of which there are many, slip around his wrists as he turns slices of crispy pink bacon on the sizzling grill.
‘Yes, please, Craig.’ Craig’s floury white bacon baps with brown sauce are the best, made even better by the addition of a cup of Tetley tea. He has a small lock-up shop, a chiller cabinet, a grill and a tea urn, and when he’s sold out of breakfast baps, he spends the rest of the day on the beach, topping up his tan.
‘How’s things?’ He smiles before asking in a quieter voice, ‘Any news?’ He looks at me with a sympathetic cock of the head, and though he means well, I don’t trust myself to reply, merely shaking my head and rummaging for my purse in my bag.
He hands me the bacon bap in kitchen roll. I take it like he’s handing me the secret ingredient to mending a broken heart.
