“If you still don’t want to get onto the plane by the time you’re at the gate, you don’t have to,” says Rock Star Guy, “You can turn around and go back anytime. Or you can get onto the plane, and you can go and do… whatever weird thing it is you’re trying to do here. Up to you.”
“It’snota weird thing,” I tell him hotly. “I’m changing my life. I booked a flight to Spain rather than doing the KPIs. I called my boss and told her I wouldn’t be in. I did both of those thingson impulse. I never, ever do things like this. You have to understand. I never take risks. Never.”
“And you won’t be taking one now either, if you don’t make your mind up,” he points out, looking at his phone again. “They don’t wait for you. It’s not like a taxi. Did the Fairy Godmother not talk you through this when she was busy turning your pumpkin into a carriage last night?”
“It wasn’t a Fairy Godmother, it was a Wise Old Crone,” says Alice, wheeling herself up to me, with Julian following closely behind her. “Did you not hear the girl?”
“Ooh, you can’t call ‘em ‘crones’ these days,” puts in Gerald, appearing behind them. “It’soffensive, innit? Everything’s offensive these days.”
“I’ll have you know, we women are reclaiming our inner Crones,” says Rita, looking at him sternly. “A Crone is just a wise woman, who’s seen enough of life to be able to pass on ‘er wisdom to the young ‘uns.I’m one. I’ve got plenty of wisdom, me.I’llbe your Fairy Godmother if you like, Summer. Seeing as the real one isn’t here.”
“Me too,” says Alice eagerly, “I’ll be your Wise Old Crone. We all will.”
Alex snorts. It’s a shame, because his little ‘one step at a time’ speech was actually quite helpful, really — but now I’m back to hating him again.
“Not him, obviously,” says Alice, sharply. “But the rest of us will. We’ll be the Gang of Crones.”
“Ooh, I’m not sure I like that,” says Rita. “Can we not just be the Fairy Godmothers?”
“I don’t want to be a Fairy,” says Gerald firmly. “Of course, you can’t saythatnowadays, can you?”
“This isn’t helping Summer get on the plane,” points out Julian, adjusting his bow tie. “So, how’s about it, Summer? Are you going to do it? Are you going to be cool?”
“Yes, I am,” I say firmly, making the decision just to spite Alex Fox by proving how wrong he is about me. “I’m going to do it. I didn’t risk my job and spend a small fortune just tonotchange my life. I’m getting on the plane. I’m going to be cool.”
There’s a short but satisfying round of applause from everyone except Alex. Even April looks like she’d be proud of me, if she was capable of normal human emotion.
“Well, you better get a move on,” she says, nodding at the board behind her. “Boarding started five minutes ago.”
I really want to move, but my legs have grown roots again, and I’m welded to the spot. I think I might just have to stay here forever; my stomach churning with nerves and the palms of my hands clammy with fear.
God, I hate flying. Why does everywheregoodin the world have to be so far away? Why did Jamie Reynolds have to open his bar in Tenerife, rather than in Margate, say? Why couldn’t my 13-year-old self have resolved to work in a call center when she grew up? Then I wouldn’t have to be here at all.
The thought brings me abruptly to my senses.
If I hadn’t come across that old diary last night, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to look up Jamie Reynolds online, and I wouldn’t have found his Instagram, filled with blue skies and sunny beaches. So I wouldn’t have impulsively — and, okay,drunkenly— booked a one-way ticket to the same place, and no, I wouldn’t be here now.
But that means I’d be at work instead. In a boring old call center, being yelled at by people whose cable TV isn’t working, and having my boss time my toilet breaks to make sure I’m not ‘taking advantage’. I’d be going home to my lonely little flat, and I’d have nothing to look forward to except maybe a trip to Costa Coffee, rather than Costa Adeje.
I’d be bored, and lonely, and completely unfulfilled, in other words.
That… wouldn’t be better thanthis.
Wouldit?
Alexander Fox heaves the kind of sigh that seems to come right from the very depths of his soul.
“Come on, Cool Girl,” he says firmly, putting a hand on the small of my back and propelling me forward. “Thinking time’s over. Let’s go change your life.”
Three
I’m not so muchrunningaway as I amcrawlingaway.
Slowly.
Glacially.
At a snail’s pace.
