Try telling that to my new mate, April, though.
“I asked for your passport, Madam, not your life story,” says April, whose impeccably made-up face looks like it might crack if she tries to smile.
I hand it over meekly.
“The photo’s an old one,” I say quickly, as she flicks through the pages until she finds the shot of me looking vaguely startled in a supermarket photo booth. “I’ve been meaning to take a new one, but I didn’t have time. It was all a bit last minute. I still can’t believe I’m doing this! It was all so strange, really—”
“Yes, you said,” says April, unmoved. “Fairy Godmother, wasn’t it? How many bags would you like to check?”
“Just the one,” I tell her, heaving my battered old suitcase up onto the conveyor belt and watching as it rumbles its way towards the yawning hole beyond, looking every bit as dejected as I feel. “And she said she was more of a Wise Old Crone. I think she was probably just drunk, though.”
“Well, of course she was drunk,” says a bored-sounding male voice from behind me. “Because there’s no such thing as Fairy Godmothers. Or Wise Old Crones, for that matter. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Look, is there any chance we could hurry this up a bit? Some of us actuallywantto catch our flights.”
I turn and glare at the speaker: a tall guy who’s inexplicably wearing dark glassesinside the terminal, as if he’s some kind of rock star who’s trying to travel incognito.
Wait.Ishe some kind of rock star trying to travel incognito?
I narrow my eyes as I give him the once-over, taking in the jaw which could only be described as ‘chiseled’, the hair flopping attractively over one eye, and the hint of stubble around full, kissable lips that are currently turned down in a frown. He’s wearing a cashmere sweater which looks soft enough to burrow into, with perfectly fitted jeans and a battered leather jacket. He’s so handsome it’s tempting to believe he must also benice, but the tone of voice he used suggests otherwise.
Yeah, he could definitely be a rock star. He’s good looking enough. And arrogant enough, too, by the sounds of it.
“Iknowshe wasn’t arealFairy Godmother,” I tell him as haughtily as I can manage, given that we’re talking aboutactualfairies here. “I’m not stupid.”
His eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly at this. I think I might hate him.
“But if it wasn’t for her,” I go on, ignoring his amused expression, “It would never have occurred to me to do this. Seriously, I amnotthe type of person who quits her job with no notice. I just—”
“Except you didn’t quit your job, did you?” says Rock Star impatiently. “You called your boss on the way to the airport and asked to use some of your annual leave — you said so yourself. About five times, actually.”
“I might have called my boss to let her know I wouldn’t be in,” I tell him frostily. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m walking out without notice, does it?”
Or the fact that Linda told me she couldn’t guarantee I’d still have a job waiting for me when I got back. But I’m not going to think about that right now.
“It does abit, love,” pipes up an elderly lady who’s standing just behind Rock Star Guy. It’s January, but she’s wearing what looks like a beach cover-up, plus a large straw sunhat which keeps falling downover her eyes. “Taking annual leave isn’t the same thing as walking out, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” agrees the man behind her, who looks around 80, and is pushing his wife in a wheelchair. He sounds a bit like King Charles, all plummy vowels and cut-glass consonants. “You’re just going on holiday, really, the same as the rest of us chaps.”
“She’sgoing on holiday to find the love of her life, though,” sighs the wife, sounding equally posh. “Andwe’rejust going to get some winter sun. It’s not really the same, darling.”
I smile at her gratefully, pleasedsomeoneunderstands just how dramatic this last-minute holiday is for me.
“Good grief,” interrupts Rock Star Guy, looking up from his phone. “Iseveryonein the airport going to weigh-in on this, or can we get on with checking in to this flight before it takes off without us?”
Everyone looks at me expectantly; including April, who’s holding out my passport, complete with boarding ticket.
“Seat 13B,” she says, somehow managing to make it sound like she’s cursing me with this information. “It’s boarding soon, so you can go straight to the gate if you like.”
My stomach gives a sudden lurch, as if it’s been hovering at the very top of a roller coaster and has just begun its perilous descent.
“I… I can’t,” I say in a whisper, my legs trembling ominously.
“Yes, you can,” says April, smiling rigidly. “Just turn right at the top of the escalator, and you’ll —”
“No, I mean I can’t do thisat all,” I say quickly, grabbing the passport and clutching it to my chest. “I can’t get on the plane. Can I get my suitcase back?”
I look imploringly at the gaping chasm that swallowed up my case.
“Back?” says April, almost rearing backwards herself in shock. “You don’tbackonce it's gone in. It’s in the system now. There’s no stopping it once it’s in the system.”
