“Can we move on from my failings yet?”
“Have you come to your senses yet?”
My bag easily takes up both seats, and its practical, ocean-blue judgement weighs heavily on me. This is the bag of a doer. A goer. Someone who remembers their keys and never cries because the barista put two sugars in their coffee and they only wanted one.
Someone who gets promoted, instead of being called into a humiliating two-hour meeting where Linda explains in excruciating detail why Andrew – he asked us to call him Andy, though, gosh he’ssucha charmer – from Accounting deserves the newly created Associate Creative Director role more than she does. The worst part is, I didn’t even apply.
Someone whose boyfriend would not be caught dead with a leggy blonde’s Louboutin heels wrap around his buttocks in the flat she moved into less than a month ago, after giving up her really rather nice Bethnal Green place because hethought they’d connect better if they spent more time together, and he isa little worried about her tendency to isolate herself.
When I think about it, maybe I do know why I’m here. I certainly can’t be there. Ethan didn’t come home last night, but it’s his flat too. And if I stay there, it’s only a matter of time until I have to face him.
In less than a week, my sister Sophie will be walking down the aisle at the wedding of her dreams. And me? Passed over. Cheated on. A failure again.
A five-day hike isn’t me. It’s so not me it’s practically someone else.
But maybe that’s what I need. To be someone else. At least for a little while.
“No.” I try to say it with conviction, but the words are drowned by another swell of tears.
The clouds have been rolling in for months, and the last twenty-four hours have done nothing to slow them down.
“No, I don’t think I have.” I sniff, prompting a glare from the woman at the next table. “But I do have a favour to ask.”
“Is it rescuing you and dragging you back to London? Because I’ll do it, but I really was planning to turn into a vegetable today. I told you Brian is making hot chocolate, right? You know how I feel about his hot chocolate.”
Marnie’s heart can be ordered thus: Brian’s dog, Rufus, Brian, Brian’s flat, Brian’s hot chocolate, the smell after it rains, her parents, and then possibly me, although I’ve never been brave enough to ask how I rank in case it’s lower. It doesn’t leave much room for anyone else, but it suits her fine, so long as she isn’t deprived of any of the items on the list for any length of time.
More tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away.
“That’s sweet of you, but I don’t need you to leave the nest. You don’t even like Scotland. When you went last year you called it the greenest place you never wanted to visit again.”
“It was the rain,” she moans. “It got into everything. Even my thong! You know how I feel about having a wet thong!”
“Oh, I quite like it when your thong gets wet,” I hear in the background.
“Brian!” A slapping sound. “Not when Rowan is crying. For the hundredth time: we’re only allowed to rub our eternal state of bliss in people’s faces when they’re…”
“Wankers?”
“Happy, Brian! For fuck’s sake. When they’re happy. Does Ro sound happy to you?”
“Not really. She sounds a bit like a drowning whale. Which is impressive, considering that whales can absorb ninety percent of the oxygen in each breath. Ninety per cent! We only absorb five. Honestly. When you really start to think about it, it’s amazing the human species has survived this long.”
“Sorry, Ro,” Marnie interjects. “He’s been on an Attenborough spree again. I swear I dream in Attenborough these days.”
“As you should! He’s a national bloody treasure, is what he is. Watch someBlue Planet, Ro. That will make you feel better. Always works a treat for me.”
“Thanks Brian,” I choke down the phone.
“Ah, you’re welcome, love.” His accent slips up the country as it tends to do when he’s expressing concern. He’s Lancashire born, like me. It is one of the things that warmed me to him when Marnie brought him into our lives. That and the dog. I bloody love that dog. “Now, remember: he’s a bastard and he doesn’t deserve you. You go to the Highlands and you find yourself a proper man. One with a sexier accent than Yobbo McYobboson over there. Must have been like having sex with a pickled plum. Marnie and I used to joke about it sometimes. Put on his voice, like—”
The sound of Brian’s voice cuts off when Marnie, presumably, begins to suffocate him with a pillow. After a short tussle, she returns to the phone, out of breath and triumphant. “Sorry about that. Now… you were asking about a favour?”
“Right. There isn’t any room in this bag for my wedding things, which is astonishing considering the size of it – honestly, if you saw it in person… I mean, it’s fucking huge, but it turns out tents and sleeping bags take up acres of space, not to mention the stove, which I’m a bit nervous about, really, as I’ve never used one before. I guess there’s a first time for everything…”
“Rowan, you’re rambling.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. What I’m trying to say is would you mind taking my stuff to Sophie’s friend’s Stef’s place? I’ll text you the address. It’s all packed in the bedroom in my orange suitcase. I’d come back down after the walk, but it seems a waste of time and I don’t know if I can…”
