“And now you’re flying to Tenerife to see him, too,” she says delightedly. “He must be quite the man, this Jamie, if you’ve been thinking about him all this time?”
“Yeah. Well, no, not really,” I admit. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about him in years, actually. But then I found this diary, and it’s literally all abouthim: this boy I never even kissed, but was totally convinced was going to be my destiny, until… Well, anyway. It just made me wonder, you know? What if itwasn’ttoo late? Not just for that — for me and Jamie — but forallof the things I never did?”
I pause, thinking about the woman from last night.
Think of me as you in twenty years’ time.
Isn’t that what she said? And then I read that diary entry, which just-so-happened to mention exactly the same thing. Me in twenty years’ time. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?
“That’s why I’m doing this,” I tell Rita, twisting around to face her again. “Because, just like I don’t want to end up like that woman in the pub in 20 years’ time, I know my younger self wouldn’t want to turn intome, and just spend her life going to her pointless job, thencoming home again. It’s like I’m on some kind of treadmill. And I’m the only one who can stop it.”
“It’s like you’re your own Fairy Godmother,” says Rita admiringly.
I nod.
“I guess so. Or my own Wise Old Crone.”
When I say it out loud, all of this sounds much weirder than it did at 1 a.m. this morning, when the idea first presented itself to me. Mind you, at 1 a.m. this morning, I was still drunk from the night before. That probably influenced my thinking quite a bit. Because now the adrenaline of getting onto the plane has subsided, I’m starting to panic again.
“Oh, God, Rita, what was I thinking?” I moan, covering my face with my hands. “This is insane, isn’t it? It’s completely insane. Who on earth runs off to Spain to see a boy who probably doesn’t even remember her? Whodoesthat? I just… I feel so overwhelmed suddenly.”
“Do you have your period again?” Rita says sympathetically. “Do you want me to ask the stewardess if she has some paracetamol for you?”
“Ooh, you can’t call ‘em ‘stewardesses’ no more,” pipes up Gerald, thrusting his head between the seats. “They don’t like that. Sexist, innit? You have to call ‘em ‘hostesses’ now.”
“Flight attendants,” says Alex in a bored voice from the window seat. “You call them flight attendants. Or cabin crew.”
He’s got his sunglasses back on and his seat reclined.
I might have guessed he’d be the kind of person who reclines his seat.
“All these newfangled words,” grumbles Gerald. “Just an excuse to be offended, innit? What do you need her for, anyway? Paracetamol, was it?”
“That’s right,” says Rita. “Summer here’s got her period.”
“I haven’t,” I burst out, feeling like I’veliterallybeen transported back into the body of my 13-year-old self. “I’m fine, honestly. I just got a bit…. overwhelmed, is all.”
“Ah, women’s troubles, is it?” says Gerald wisely. “Say no more.”
“I really wish you wouldallsay no more, mutters Alex, as if he’s King of the Cabin, and gets to decide who’s allowed to speak and when. I immediately make up my mind to talk as much as possible, just to annoy him.
“Did someone press the call button? Can I get you something?”
A smiling flight attendant is leaning over the seat. She has a tray in her hands with two glasses of champagne on it, and when she catches sight of Alex, still looking gorgeous even when he’s pretending to be asleep, her tongue darts out to moisten her lips appreciatively.
“Yes, love, it’s for Summer, here,” says Rita. “She’s got her—”
“I DO NOT HAVE MY PERIOD,” I say, my voice coming out much louder than I intended. “I’m, er, fine, thanks,” I add in a whisper. “Nothing… er, nothing to see here.”
“Right. Well, that’s good,” says the woman, making a valiant attempt to pretend this is a totally normal conversation to be having. “Because I have these for you two, compliments of the flight deck.”
She holds out the tray, positioning it between me and Alex, indicating that we’re the ‘two’ she means.
“Oh, but we didn’t order these?” I say, confused. “There must be some mistake? Unless—”
I think back to the way Alex hustled me past the crew when we boarded the plane earlier.
“Nervous flier,” he’d said, by way of explanation. “Just getting her to her seat as quickly as possible.”
