She says this with a finality which suggests the suitcase has entered into witness protection and is now lost to us forever.
“Fine,” I say, my voice wobbling dangerously. “Fine. I’ll just… I’ll just go home without it, then. It can go on holiday without me. I’ll just… I’ll just buy new clothes. And makeup. It’ll be fine. I needed some new stuff, anyway.”
I picture the suitcase sipping cocktails by an aquamarine pool, and dancing the night away in a tropical bar, wearing my favorite pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and that dress I bought in the ZARA sale. It almost makes me want to join it. Then I remember the flight I’d have to take to get there, to that aquamarine pool and tropical bar, and my legs lock in place, rooting me to the floor like a statue.
With a heavy sigh, Rock Star Guy steps neatly around me and hands his passport to April, who bats her heavy eyelashes at him, obviously blinded by his really quite startling good looks. Or maybe she’s just relieved to be dealing with someone relatively normal for a change.
“Alexander Fox,” she coos, opening his passport to what I’m pretty sure is a much less embarrassing photo than the one in mine. “What a great name.”
Her eyes flick appreciatively up and down his body, before landing back on his face, which she beams at coquettishly.
“Alex,” he says, going back to his phone, which is obviously much more interesting to him than anything else going on here.
I shuffle out of his way, taking deep breaths in a bid to calm myself down.
“What’s the matter, love?” says the woman in the sunhat, coming forward and touching me sympathetically on the arm. She’s wearingso many bracelets that she jingles as she walks, like Father Christmas. It’s oddly comforting. “You’re not scared of flying, are you?”
“Of course she’s scared of flying,” says the man with the posh voice, loosening the collar of his shirt. He’s obviously part of the generation who used to dress up to fly, because he’s wearing a dapper linen suit, complete with dickie bow. “Didn’t you hear the bit about how she’s feeling the fear and doing it anyway?”
“Like the strong, independent woman she’s always wanted to be,” adds his wife, looking at me admiringly from her wheelchair.
“Like a ‘cool’ girl,” says another man, who’s wearing a tracksuit which is open at the neck to show off a surprisingly hairy chest for his advanced age, and a suntan in a color that reminds me of an old sideboard my parents used to have.
Iseveryoneon this flight an octogenarian, then, except me?
“Good grief,” mutters Alexander Fox —Alex— again, raking his hand through his hair, as he glances up at us from his phone.
Well, except me and Grumpy McGrumperson over there.
“That’s right,” I say, raising my chin as if to spite him. “I’m going to Spain to face my fears, find the love of my life, and… and to be cool. Because Iamcool. I’m a cool girl. Cool girl Summer. That’s me.”
“I’m Rita,” says Sunhat Woman, offering me her hand, which is weighed down with so many rings it’s like shaking a rock covered in barnacles. “I’m not cool, but I can read tea leaves, which comes in handy as well.”
“Alice,” says the woman in the wheelchair. “And this is my husband, Julian. We’re not cool either, I’m afraid.”
“Gerald,” offers Tracksuit Man, waggling a pair of really quite impressive eyebrows at me. “You can call me Gerry, though, because Iamquite cool, to be honest with yer. So me granddaughter tellsme, anyway.”
Everyone except Alex roars with laughter. Alex just raises a hand to his forehead and rubs it wearily, as if the sound of happiness physically pains him. I can practically sense him rolling his eyes behind his stupid dark glasses.
Suddenly, I want to get on the plane, just to spite him.
“Go on, love, you can do it,” says Rita encouragingly. “And if you can’t—” she leans forward conspiratorially — “I’m planning to pick up a nice bottle of tequila in duty free. You can have some of that. Always did the trick for my Fred, did tequila. Kept his bowels nice and regular, too. In fact, if it wasn’t for—”
“At this rate,noneof you are going to be getting on that plane,” says Alex, frowning at his phone as he rejoins us. “It’s already boarding.”
As if on cue, the information board above April’s desk changes from the flight information to “NOW BOARDING: PROCEED TO GATE.” The letters flash on and off, accusingly. Everyone’s eyes swivel back to me again.
“If I ever have to do something I don’t want to do,” says Alex, who’s apparently completed the check-in process in a fraction of the time it took me (Probably because hedidn’tspend 20 minutes recounting the story of how he’s running away to Spain to fulfill the wishes of his 13-year-old self), “I do it in the smallest increments possible. One step at a time.”
“But what if I—”
“You’re scared of flying, right?” he goes on, ignoring my interruption. “So you tell yourself all you have to do is get to the airport, nothing more than that. Then you tell yourself all you have to do is check in your suitcase, and then you can just go home if you really want to.”
“I think Idoreally want to —” I begin, but he’s not done.
“Now that you’ve done that bit,” he goes on, ignoring me, “All you have to do is walk to the gate. That’s it.”
“Well, and get through security,” says Rita, her jewelry jangling loudly as she joins us. “You might have to take your shoes off for that, love, but it’s okay, because there’s duty free at the end of it, so we can get that tequila to take the edge off.”
