Callum
My favourite book when I was a kid was Peter Pan. I suppose I identified with the Lost Boys and maybe wondered what it was like to be part of them. They were all looking for a place to belong and then they found Wendy and she became that place.
Marie was my Wendy: the stepmother that was anything but horrid because in fact she was our saviour. I remembered the day she arrived in our too big, too empty house, or maybe I made up the memories based on my elder siblings’ accounts because I was barely a toddler at the time. This loud, hugely tiny woman came into the hallway, her American accent mingled with Irish brogue and she swore as she saw the four of us for the first time, four ragamuffin children who had no idea that chocolate wasn’t a proper breakfast and that bed sheets needed to be changed.
“Jesus holy fucking sunshine, look at the states of you. Shite, I shouldn’t swear. I’m Marie. Think of me as the nanny you’re not going to be able to scare away.”
And we didn’t.
Thank fuck.
I checked my phone one last time before I needed to switch it to airplane mode for the duration of the flight. As I predicted, I had a message from Marie, the ‘nanny’ who I now called mum, or if I really wanted to piss her off, mother.
Mum:Don’t catch any STD’s while you’re abroad.
I eyedthe flight attendants who were too busy dealing with storing people’s hand luggage to pay attention to me.
Me:Going to Africa for six weeks is pretty much enforcing my celibacy. Bestiality has never been in my repertoire.
Mum: I know you, Callum Callaghan. I give you two hours and you’ll have an air stewardess in the mile-high club.
Me: The politically correct term is flight attendant.
Marie: The non-politically correct terms are clap clinic and child support. I hope you have condoms in your hand luggage.
Me: Do you give Seph this same advice?
There was a lull,probably because she was bossing my father about or deciding what to say. Seph was my younger half-brother and occasionally clueless, but most of the time he was hiding his intelligence behind fake glasses and idiotic charm.
Mum:Yes, but he receives clearer instructions. Just promise me that this is for six weeks and you’re not going to found some animal reservation or vet training program and stay out there for a year.
This was an easy promise.Eighteen months ago, it couldn’t have been. Then I’d have been jonesing for a reason to hide from England and, by default, my family. Now I didn’t really want to leave.
Me:Promise. Back in six weeks, home for four, then back out for another six and we’re done. Nothing long term and you could always fly out and visit.
Mum:We’ll see. Be good. And if you can’t be good, wrap it up.
Me:Always ;)
I fussedwith the phone and turned it onto flight mode, stuffing it in the old backpack I was using for hand luggage. This wasn’t my first rodeo to Africa or most other places. I’d got lucky. Somewhere along the line I’d met a magic unicorn, rubbed its horn and got three wishes. See the world and save animals. Those two were pretty magical. The third I’d never made. Never known what else I’d wanted.
My fellow traveller was late, which was prolonging the agony. If I could’ve met her weeks ago when it had been confirmed that it would be her, I would’ve. Ten years since I’d seen her. A decade. Since then, we’d managed to keep at least a continent between us. We’d never attended the same reunions or meet ups between mutual friends; we hadn’t even crossed paths at conferences or when we’d both attended the same wildlife refuge for the same event, just on different days.
Serendipity Jones was the brilliant girl who’d always beat me to the top of the honours charts. She had been the quiet, studious student, who’d oozed magnetism and had a way with animals and people alike without even trying. Where I had been almost arrogant and slept my way through five years of vet school, she’d been the girl everyone had wanted to either marry or be.
She was the reason I almost turned this gig down. Twelve weeks, filming animals in Africa and then over in the Far East, getting enough footage for a documentary and linking it back to my work at London Zoo. It was nothing to do with the money. This was about the donation the production company were donating specifically to the research project on big cats that I was leading. They’d wanted me, so I was here.
Just fucking nervous.
“Here’s your seat, Miss Jones.” The flight attendant was smiling, directing Serendipity to her seat. I didn’t want to look, wanting to remain in my bubble where this girl didn’t exist, but like watching a horror movie, I just couldn’t fucking do it.
Serendipity – known as Wren – Jones was everything I remembered and nothing I could recall. Small framed, like the bird she was nick-named after, her brown hair was now cut short, shaped into her neck. Her eyes looked even bigger. Puppy-dog eyes. Eyes I’d never been able to say no to.
Except once.
After which,I’d lost any right to ever say yes again. Not my finest hour.
She looked older, her cheekbones sharper, her eyes wiser and she was thin with bigger tits than I recalled.
