Loe raamatut: «The Lonely Hearts Travel Club»

CHAPTER 1

Wanderlust (n.) A strong desire or urge to wander or travel and explore the world

It was my wedding day. A day I’d been fantasising about since I was a little girl, a day I had spent the last twelve months planning and organising. It was going to be a rustic English country wedding, complete with homemade bunting strung from the beams of an outrageously expensive manor house and a billowing marquee set up in the perfectly manicured grounds. The harpist would pluck a simple but charming set as we glided into the grand reception room with our nearest and dearest cheering and clapping our arrival as Mr and Mrs Doherty. That was the part I was cacking myself about the most; all those people staring at me, expecting a radiant blushing bride, when really I was terrified I would go arse over tit on my train. Being the centre of attention made my stomach churn and my sweat glands go into overdrive, but I’d limited the numbers as much as I could and technically I was only half of the centre of attention.

I should be in my creamy, laced, fishtail gown by now. As I glanced at my watch, I realised the hand-tied bouquets of soft powder blue forget-me-nots, complemented by the sweet scent of freesias, should have been delivered ten minutes ago. I should be preparing to sink into the plush chair at the pricy hairdresser’s as they transformed my limp locks into a work of art.

Except that I was sat on an uncomfortable plastic sun lounger trying to hide the big fat tears falling down my slightly sunburnt face, as my best friend Marie passed me yet another dodgy watered-down sex on the beach punch from the all-inclusive pool bar.

In one hour’s time I would have married my fiancé, Alex, but this had all changed fifteen days earlier when I was half-watching a re-run of Don’t Tell the Bride whilst triple-checking the seating plan matched up to the 3D replica Alex’s sister-in-law Francesca had loaned me. She was the one who’d been to school with Kate Middleton, and managed to bring it up into every conversation I’d ever had with her. Waiting for him to arrive home after yet another late shift at work, I had become so engrossed in this episode in which the henpecked husband-to-be had got it oh-so-wrong by choosing a size eight dress for his blatantly curvy size sixteen bride, that I hadn’t realised Alex was standing in the doorframe chewing his fingernails and loosening his tie.

‘We need to talk.’ His voice sounded strangled and distant. His tie had an ink stain that no doubt I’d get chastised by his mother for not being able to scrub off. She’d pursed her lips many a time at my lack of domestic goddesstry. Alex had rebelled against it at the beginning, being the last single man in a family of smug married older brothers. I had been the breath of fresh air next to his Martha Stewart sisters-in-law. Five years later that sweet scent had soured into country air.

We’d met at a dodgy Indie nightclub in Manchester, having been dragged there by our respective best friends one wet Saturday night. Bonding over cheap lager in plastic pint pots, chatting like long-lost friends to the strains of the Smiths and the Kaiser Chiefs, as our two ‘besties’ got off with each other. After sharing a deep appreciation of cholesterol-clogging cheesy chips in the taxi ride back home, and a mutual love for garlic mayo, I knew this was something special.

The years passed, the clubbing stopped as focusing on climbing the career ladder became a priority. After years of renting mould-filled hovels with dodgy landlords, we had saved up enough to buy our own home. Alex had proudly turned down his parents’ offer of financial support, so we couldn’t live in Millionaires’ Row rubbing shoulders with WAGs like the rest of his family, but he’d revelled in our bohemian charm even if it meant our neighbours were often more likely to be guests on Jeremy Kyle. I’d loved how steadfast he was to his morals, even if at times we could have done with a helping hand.

So it was inevitable when one wet June night Alex asked me to marry him. OK, so it wasn’t the engagement of my dreams. He hadn’t even got down on one knee, just passed the ring box over as we shared an Indian takeaway, both of us on our iPhones half-watching Coronation Street. He did leave me the last poppadum, so that was something, I guess. Of course that wasn’t the engagement story we told people. No, in that one he’d whisked me away unexpectedly, showered me with unconditional adorations of love and asked a nearby elderly couple to take our photo; me blubbing and him bursting with pride, shame that they couldn’t use the camera properly, meaning we had no evidence of this. But real life isn’t like a Disney film, is it?

However, with both a mortgage to pay and a wedding to save for we’d gone out less and less. So yeah, maybe life had got a little stale; routine ruled our world and I could recite the TV guide off by heart, but we were building a future together, that’s what we both wanted, wasn’t it?

Looking up at his tired face in the doorway, I didn’t recognise the man that had bounded into the basement club years earlier asking me to dance. Then looking down at myself in stained oversized pyjamas, I didn’t recognise the fresh-faced girl who’d said yes.

‘It’s not working…I, I, can’t marry you,’ he stuttered, his thin fingers nervously twitching down his stained tie.

He’d met someone else, a girl from his work who he’d started to develop ‘feelings’ for. He didn’t want it to be like this but he had changed, we had changed. He didn’t need to spell it out but his mother was right, I just wasn’t marriage material. As with the voluptuous bride on the TV in the too-tiny dress, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. He packed his bag that night and left, as I sobbed, drank an old bottle of peach schnapps, spilling half onto Francesca’s seating plan, and curled up in a ball not believing my world was falling down around me.

‘Come on, let it all out.’ Marie rubbed my sun-heated back as tears plopped into my now warm glass. She had decided that we had to get away for what would have been the big day, so hastily booked us a week’s last-minute holiday to the Aegean coast, dubbed the St. Tropez of Turkey. This accolade had obviously come from someone who had never visited Southern France, as the once-sleepy Turkish fishing village was now a prime party spot full of neon-lit bars, kebab shops and tattoo parlours. Not that we had hit the town – the past few nights had been spent playing cards on the balcony, downing a bottle or two of cheap white wine, Marie slagging Alex off, as I fluctuated between brutal put-downs and scared sob-fests that I wasn’t strong enough to be alone.

‘Thank you. It’s just… Well, that’s it…done.’ I wiped sweaty strands of hair from my blotchy face, fixing my red-rimmed eyes on Marie’s. She winced, not just at my appearance but because her idea of guaranteed sun, hot men and an all-inclusive bar being the perfect solution to my pain wasn’t exactly going to plan.

She paused for a moment rearranging her small bum on the hard seat. ‘Think about it, Georgia, you’re exactly right.’ She paused. ‘It is all in the past and now it’s time to look to your future. And as we’re both single ladies, the best way to get through today is to show Alex a big fat two fingers and have a wicked time together. So I’m taking charge and I rule we’re going to the beach.’ Marie jumped up, stuffed our things into an oversized Primark beach bag and put her extremely large floppy sun hat on.

‘I guess,’ I pathetically murmured, gulping the dregs of my drink.

‘Come on! You can do this, I know you can. Let’s work on our tans and then tonight we’ll find a really cool place to go and have fun, just the two of us, like the old days.’

I nodded and scraped my chlorine-soaked hair up into a messy top knot and jogged to catch up with her, my cheap flip-flops loudly slapping against the wet tiles. Strolling down the small rocky path connecting the hotel to the busy beach, our eyes took in row upon row of full sun loungers.

‘Bugger, it’s a bit crowded isn’t it?’ Marie chewed her lips, clasping a hand over her eyes to see further, even though they were covered in oversized Jackie O sunglasses.

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ I sighed, my resolve slipping as I thought longingly of an afternoon snooze back in our room between crisp white sheets. The sound of laughter, cars tooting and music wafting out from the competing beach bars was making my head spin. Why couldn’t Marie just let me sleep today and wake me up once the church, the cake cutting and even the first dance had passed?

‘Come on, hun. Let’s wander along a bit, I’m sure I overheard there’s a little cove not too far away,’ Marie said chirpily, acting like a Girl Guide off on an adventure, which belied the fact she had been expelled from Brownies for giving Tawny Owl food poisoning trying to get her cook badge.

Snaking down the sandy beach, past thick fragrant bushes, and successfully navigating rocky steps we eventually arrived at a pristine horseshoe bay, which had just a smattering of sun loungers. I felt my bunched-up shoulders relax a little. We had found a small oasis of calm from the chaos of the Turkish town. With the quiet and unspoilt topaz blue bay glistening ahead of us I let my toes spread out on the sand, inhaling the balmy air which carried familiar smells of coconut sun cream and greasy chips.

We settled on two loungers and stripped off to reveal reddening skin. If she wasn’t my best friend, I could really hate Marie. Her toned figure hid the fact that she had a son, Cole, who was the unexpected result of a jaeger-bombed night of passion with Mike, a guy whom she’d met down at her local. With long, fiery-red hair that she only admitted to ‘touching up’, plus the dirtiest mind and most caring personality, she commanded the attention of any room she entered. I wished I were more like her; secretly I had always hoped that by hanging out together some of Marie’s sparkle would rub off on me.

‘Hello there, ladies. I’m Ali. Just the two beds is it?’ A local man in his early thirties with a smiling tanned face bounded over. He was topless, wearing just a necklace holding an animal tooth which pointed to his six pack, and his sculpted chest was adorned with faded tattoo script which crept down into the waistband of his battered denim cut-offs.

‘Yes please,’ Marie smiled up at him.

‘It’s suddenly got very hot around here,’ he winked, taking our money.

Marie’s eyes followed his admittedly nice arse back to his beach cabin before turning to me grinning. ‘Phwoarsome or what?’

I made a noise between a huff and a sigh. Members of the opposite sex were so far off my radar right now I needed to wear binoculars just to see them.

‘Oh come on, Georgia. You can’t pretend that a bit of eye candy doesn’t stir something deep in those closed-off loins of yours?’ Marie laughed as I rolled my eyes. ‘You know what, I’m suddenly really thirsty, want a beer?’

‘Strange that the bar is right next to his hut.’

‘Maybe.’ Marie ignored my raised eyebrow and delved into her bag bringing out a pen and unscrunching a flyer that we’d been handed for a ladies-drink-free night. ‘Anyway, while I’m gone I have a plan for you. I think it’s time to make a list. I know how much you love them, plus my mum’s always said, “if in doubt, write it out.”’ She paused with the pen lid pressed to her lips. ‘I want you to make a list of everything you want to do and see in your life. Kind of like a bucket list, but with no terminal cancer spurring you on.’ She passed me the pen, moist at the top, and the flyer, blank side up.

‘I don’t know what I want any more. I thought I knew. I had everything planned and sorted, but now I feel like I’m in some horrible limbo,’ I whined. But I took the soggy pen as it was true, I did love a good list. There was something about the control you get from emptying your head by simply jotting your thoughts down, then the satisfaction when slicing through them with a big fat tick once completed.

‘No. You’ve moped enough and now it’s time to make changes and take action,’ Marie said firmly, looking as if she was scoping out a nearby rock as a makeshift naughty step if I didn’t play along. ‘What’s happened has been shit. Really shit. But think of it like this, at least you never have to see his demon mother again, never have to worry about fitting in on their ridiculous family getaways. No more putting up with their la-di-dah ways.’ She pursed her lips and cupped her hand like the Queen waving – not a bad impression of Alex’s mum Ruth, to be honest. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if all this time he’s been taking that trust fund they offered him, but then playing the I’m one of the common people card. Bastard.’

I sniffed loudly.

‘I know it’s hard. But please try and think of the positives, hun. If you don’t know what you do want then maybe think about what you don’t want.’ She paused, adjusting her sunglasses as Ali waved to her from his beach cabin, tearing his eyes away from a nearby game of beach volleyball. ‘You don’t want to be with he-who-shall-not-be-named. You don’t want to be living in my spare room for the rest of your life. You don’t want to be some lonely boring cat-lady –’

‘– Only because of my allergies,’ I returned.

‘No. You don’t just want to be someone’s other half. You need to be a whole and we’re going to get you back on track with a plan that’s going to do that.’ She smiled gently. ‘Just give it a go, please.’ She pecked me on the top of my head, tied on her sarong and headed off to buy us both a drink, sashaying effortlessly across the sand.

I glanced down at the blank paper so creamy and fresh, scared to write anything down, as it felt like committing to achieving it. The problem was, I had always had a plan. But now? Now, all that lay ahead was an empty space like this paper in my sweaty hands.

A family had taken the sun loungers next to ours and were chatting animatedly to one another in what sounded like fast Spanish, their foreign tones seeming so exotic compared to my broad Northern accent. I’d never learned another language, apart from my French GCSE thirteen years ago, but I could barely remember any of it. Maybe that’s something I could do?

In fact, apart from this trip with Marie, I hadn’t been abroad in years. What with saving for the wedding and the house, all of my summer leave was spent doing DIY or visiting Alex’s family’s second home in Edinburgh. When I was younger I had always dreamt that my salary would be spent on exotic trips, but my pitiful wage never seemed to stretch far enough. Even when I’d found a last-minute billy-bargain to Benidorm, Alex had scoffed that it would be like going on holiday with our neighbours, that only those types of people would go book a package deal then spend all week drinking English beer in an Irish bar. When I’d protested that by those sorts of people he could have been describing my family he’d pulled me close and nibbled my neck. ‘Oh Gigi, you know what I mean. I love your family but maybe we need to think about the finances. My mum said Ed and Francesca are looking for someone to housesit their place in Devon for the week?’

To be fair, Alex had seen a lot of the world when he was growing up, so I had sacrificed my wanderlust dreams for him and his happiness, telling myself that one day I’d get some much longed-for stamps in my passport. I could cringe at how lame that sounded.

The nearby family pulled out a picnic blanket and opened a cooler box full of things I hadn’t seen before. Foods I didn’t know the name of, had never tasted but which looked and smelled amazing. This is what I wanted to do. I wanted to be the girl who would parlez a new lingo effortlessly, who would cook up exotic recipes with ingredients I couldn’t currently pronounce, who would have stories to share at dinner parties, ‘…oh, that reminds me of a time when I was doing a silent retreat in an Indian ashram’, sharing facts and tales from far-flung locations, rather than grumbling about the rising property market or council tax brackets.

OK, I can do this. I started to write…

I want to eat the world. I want to explore, travel, learn and push my limits. I want to find myself. Mountains and oceans will be my best friends, the stars will guide me home at night and my tongue will be desperate to speak and share all I have seen. I want to travel.

Yikes. My pen kind of ran away with me there. I looked at the paper in my hand and tucked my legs underneath me. Apparently I wanted to become Michael Palin. OK, so how was I going to achieve all this? Just like before, the pen seemed to have a mind of its own.

Quit and go.

That simple, hey biro?

What’s holding you back? No man, no children, soon to be no home. Just a crappy job where you constantly moan about feeling undervalued but stick it out as they have good maternity packages. Packages that you won’t need now. Sell everything, buy a backpack and go.

OK, maybe the pen did have a point. My job as a PA at Fresh Air PR, a small but growing firm near Topshop on the high street, was where I’d stayed for the past five years working my way up from post-room assistant to personal assistant to the Director of Marketing; same office, same faces, same printer problems. The thought of not having to worry if I’d chosen the right mug to brew up in, not to be forced to drink through the mundanity of the Christmas parties, to avoid listening to petty arguments over who had the best parking space and what Boots meal-deals were the best value for money sounded pretty good. I’d got too comfortable; like everything else in my life, agreeing to things I didn’t want to please others and not pursuing my own dreams for fear of failure or embarrassment. The routine of cohabitation had come naturally with Alex, even if there were times when I looked at my chore list, my shopping list and our practically empty social calendar and despised the domestic drudgery.

But where would I go and what would I do? Pen, don’t let me down. I closed my eyes, breathing in the salty sun lotion-filled air and started to write.

Go skinny dipping in the moonlit ocean

Dance all night under the stars

Taste incredible exotic food

Ride an elephant

Visit historic temples

Explore new beliefs

Climb a mountain

Make friends with different nationalities

Listen to the advice of a wise soul

Do something wild

My hand was aching but my head was whirring. Then I caught myself, as a mix of doubts and reality sliced into my thoughts. How can you do this? It’ll take months of planning, saving, and organising. Where do you even start with a trip like this?! You’d never be brave enough to touch an elephant, let alone ride one. The last time you did any exercise you nearly passed out, so trekking up Everest is out of the equation, and you cried when you had your blood taken, so how are you going to manage something wild like getting a tattoo? The wildest thing I’d done recently was sleep with my make-up on.

I much preferred the dreamy freedom of my pen than my stupid conscience.

Today is meant to be your wedding day, or have you forgotten that? It’s absurd that you’re sat here writing about a whole new life you intend to start when you know you’re not strong enough to change anything, I scolded myself.

We’ll see about that, said my pen.