My prospects are not looking good.
The problem with embarking on a multi-day walk six days before my sister’s wedding is that I’ve put a clock on the challenge. Missing the preparation is one thing. Missing the actual day will be quite another.
The West Highland Way is supposed to be one of the most picturesque trails in the United Kingdom. One hundred miles of undulating hills, sparkling lochs, and mountain views, winding from sleepy Milngavie through the Scottish Highlands and up to Fort William. A relaxed walker might complete it between seven and ten days.
I, in my over-confident, over-inebriated state, figured that I was reasonably fit and, having battled the London crowds for over ten years, a fast, capable walker, who was often overtaking other pedestrians. I, two bottles of wine deep, decided that five days would be plenty of time.
And, in the interest of saving money, I also decided that I would camp, and that carrying the weight of a tent and a sleeping bag on my back would be fine.
On so many counts, I was very, very wrong.
If I keep on at this rate, I won’t be at the first campsite by midnight, let alone sundown.
I’m hot, miserable, and bored. I want my couch, my TV, a greasy takeout and a scented candle. I want to be at home with Ethan, his hand on my thigh, gossiping about another celebrity drama on Instagram.
But Ethan cheated on me. In our bed. On my sheets.
And now here I am, a sweaty, furious mess determined to walk her feelings off and hating every second of it.
I could quit. Book a train ticket south. Swallow the indignity, the expense. But then I imagine the understanding, sympathetic, but ultimately knowing look on Marnie’s face as I slump shame-faced back into London, and I know I can’t.
I can’t go home. I can’t face Ethan. Not until I regain some of the power I’ve lost, not until I’ve written and re-written my speech, ready to dump him in a dramatic, yet utterly vindicated, manner, ideally with a hot Scottish man on my arm, who will be a secret billionaire, waiting outside in his vintage Lamborghini, about to sweep me off to the castle he happens to own.
This is so far out of my comfort zone, it’s halfway to another planet. I’ve spent the last eight years playing it safe. Staying away from risk. Protecting my mental stability at the cost of everything else.
And where has that gotten me?
I’m here now. I have to keep going.
Even if it kills me.
* * *
An hour later, I stomp my way into a clearing and take a deep breath: fresh rain, mulched leaves, and the damp smell of grass. I’ve turned the swearing into a song consisting of only one word, and the endorphins are finally kicking in. I’m almost cheerful. Maybe there’s something to this walking malarkey, after all.
Time for a well-deserved rest and a snack. I let the bag fall from my aching shoulders and rifle inside for one of the breakfast bars Erica so wisely made me pack.
“Aha!” Salted caramel and almond. It’s not in the same league as a KitKat or – I start to drool – a packet of Maltesers, but out here in the wilderness, beggars can’t be choosers.
The wilderness. Impossible as it seems, I, Rowan Turner, am not only in Scotland, buthikingin Scotland, and maybe, possibly,potentiallyenjoying myself. My legs hurt and my back aches, and there’s a pool of sweat inside my sports bra that will require the pressure washer to get off, but still. I’m here. I’m doing it.
I snap a selfie, me in myZestyhat and my widest grin, and send it to Marnie.
Fuck it. I open Instagram and post it there too, with the hashtag #hotgirlwalk. With any luck, Ethan’s obsessively checking my social media, and will see it and know that I’m not missing him, or thinking about him sitting in bed with the leggy blonde, feeding her ice cream using one of my favourite teeny tiny spoons while they laugh about the frumpy brunette he used to date, who doesn’t suit red lipstick (I’ve tried, many times) and wears too much colour and cries all the time.
Okay, maybe I’m not over it yet.
I stuff the protein bar in my mouth in a half-hearted attempt to stem the thoughts, but then my phone starts ringing, the lyrics of ‘I’m Too Sexy’ breaking the silence of the clearing.
Ethan chose it himself, snatching my phone and plugging it in, grinning all the while. And when I saw what he picked, I laughed until I cried, and he looked at me across the sofa with that lopsided smile, his fringe falling into his eyes like a puppy, beaming that he got it right, that he knew exactly what to pick.
Shit balls.
I panic. And instead of sending my cheating arsehole of a boyfriend straight to voicemail or throwing my phone into the bushes like a sensible person, I press accept.
What the hell am I doing?
It’s at this point, I realise two things: first, I have no idea what I’m going to say, and the speech I was planning to deliver is still five days of walking and ninety-six miles (give or take) away from being ready, and second, my mouth is full of what has turned out to be both an extremely hard and extremely chewy protein bar, which has practically glued my teeth together.
