My stomach drops like a stone when I realise what she means.With all the shares and repostings, my anti-Christmas rant could end up being seen all over the internet, in every corner of the globe. This could be life-changing—and not in a good way.
‘I’m going to kill him!’ I growl, grinding my teeth. Crumpet whines and paws at my leg.
‘I have to go. I’m scaring my dog,’ I say, putting an abrupt end to our conversation. ‘See you on the other side. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I didn’t make it.’
Chapter 5
After a whirlwind of packing for a holiday I didn’t plan on taking, I run out of steam. After all the exertion, my head is pounding. Maybe I’m being a bit ridiculous. All I have to do is hunker down until Lewis gets my message and deletes the TikTok, then it will all blow over. I’ll give it one last check just for peace of mind, and then I won’t look at it anymore.
In the kitchen, I stall for time by drinking more water and filling up Crumpet’s bowl until I can’t put it off any longer. OK, let’s see it.
The TikTok has reached 1.5 million views, with 100,000 likes and 3,000 comments.
With mounting dread, I force myself to read them. It’s the usual until I see something that makes my stomach start churning like a cake mixer. Someone thinks they know me, and there’s a whole comment thread about it and then a confirmation:
It’s Holly Driver. I used to work with her. Roflmao.
Nauseous from the stress and last night’s binge drinking, I throw up the meagre contents of my stomach into the sink. Leaning against the counter, I wipe my sweaty face with a tea towel and groan. Shit, I’ve been outed. This is not good.
There are no messages from Lewis or TikTok admin. Everyone’s on holiday now—kicking back, relaxing with their partners, families, and kids while wrapping presents, eating mince pies, drinking mulled wine, and singing ra pa pum pum. Too bad about me dealing with a social media shit show. Well. Fuck. Them.
‘Come on, Crumpet, we’re leaving—now!’
Wheelie and mini schnauzer in tow, and battling my chronic hangover, I set off determinedly towards Waverley station. I’m glad I had the foresight to wear my thickest coat and combat boots. The air is bitterly cold, and the sky is gunmetal grey, threatening snow. It’s nearing noon, and I haven’t booked a train ticket. But surely, the station won’t be that busy?
Wrong. At Waverley, there’s a horde of people jostling through the entranceway. I haven’t thought this through at all. ‘Stay close to me, mate.’ Luckily, Crumpet’s obedient when he’s clipped on, and he hates crowds as much as me. I grip his lead tightly and plunge in towards the main concourse. With all the chattering and suitcase wheels juddering, my headache is roaring. Focus. Get a ticket. Get on a train. Get out of Edinburgh. But where to?
I gaze at the departure board with its confusing mass of place names. Then one jumps out: Inverness. There’s a train leaving in fifteen minutes. I’ve been there. It was before I had Crumpet, but the guest house I stayed in didn’t mind dogs because I distinctly remember a labradoodle in the dining room and everyone wanting to pet it. If that one’s booked, I’m sure there’ll be others. Relief flows through me. I have a plan. Head north. Stay at a random guest house that takes dogs. I’ll book it on the train. Simple.
Unlocking my phone, I click on the Trainline app. There’s one ticket left. It’s eye-wateringly expensive, but I pay for it. It’s all coming together. I’m even starting to look forward to the adventure. We can go for walks, visit Culloden, maybe take a boat trip out on Loch Ness. I’m not due back at work until after New Year’s, so I can even stay up there for Hogmanay. By the time I get back, after all the family and Christmas drama that is bound to happen between now and then, the TikTok will be old news.
Our journey doesn’t get off to the best start when I board the wrong end of the carriage and have to push through people crowding the aisles with their bags of presents. Everyone is exclaiming over Crumpet, and there are hands reaching out to pet him, interfering with his lead. So trying to juggle my wheelie and keep him moving forward is an effort.
When I eventually get to where I’m supposed to be, I’m faced with two girls in their twenties—one of them sitting by the window and the other in my aisle seat.
‘Hi, I’m meant to be in there,’ I say to her, showing the confirmation on my phone.
The girl looks up at me. ‘Would you mind possibly swapping seats so my friend and I can sit here?’ She smiles engagingly, as if it shouldn’t be any trouble on my part to do what she wants.
‘Where is it?’ I ask, not returning the smile.
‘Over there,’ she says, pointing to a four-seater table with a guy cradling a plastic bag of Tennent’s Lager cans, one of which he’s steadily slurping from; and the train hasn’t even left yet.
‘No thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’m not sitting across from him for the next three hours.’ The smell of his lager belches will make me hurl.
‘I think he’s getting off at Perth,’ she hedges, but I’m in no mood to be trifled with.
‘No, sorry.’ I’m polite, but firm.
‘Oh, come on,’ her friend says. ‘It’s Christmas!’ Like that’s supposed to change anything. All it does is piss me off.
‘That seat just cost me £150, and I’m not paying that much to sit next to a lager-swilling lout. So please move. Or I can fetch the conductor, and he’ll sort it out.’
There’s much sighing and heaving of crop top bosoms and flouncing of hair, but both of them vacate and push off down the carriage, looking for alternative seats. ‘Bitch’ floats back to me, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass. I’ve got more pressing problems, like 1.5 million people who’ve seen me drunkenly ranting in a shower cap. Besides, now I’ve got two seats to myself. Bonus.
Stowing my bag on the rack above, I settle in next to the window with Crumpet under my feet. I glance out and catch a flash of someone with golden-brown hair wearing a red jumper. My nerves ping. Was that just ...? I really hope not. I peer cautiously over the seats in front to see if anyone boards the carriage. That’s all I need, that guy Bailey to be on the same train as me. But no one comes in, and I relax again. It must’ve just been someone who looks like him, and there are Christmas jumpers galore around at the moment.
The two girls are back, unable to find two more seats together on the full train. They sit across from the lager-swilling dude, whispering together and looking at their phones, then over at me. I’m probably being paranoid, but there’s a good chance they’ve seen the TikTok if it’s gone supernova. My anxiety levels kick up a notch just thinking about it. Don’t look at it. Just forget about it. I need to concentrate on booking a guest house in Inverness. Otherwise, we’re going to be sleeping under a bridge. There are slim pickings. One by the river has a double room, but they don’t mention if pets are OK. I ring to check and have a brief conversation with the receptionist. ‘No, sorry, love. Dogs mean extra work for the staff.’
