“Come on, Gloatman,” I call. “We might have snacks in our bags. No point opening them here as everything will get wet.”
“Shouldn’t we stick to the roads? In case a car comes?”
“Have you seen any in the past few hours?” I ask, pointedly, turning to face him but walking backwards in the direction I’m headed. “All I’ve seen is a tractor.”
James pinches the bridge of his nose, watching me leave with a stormy expression. “Look at what you’re wearing. How the hell do you foresee yourself hiking in those boots and that dress?”
“I’ll be fine… Sometimes I walk to work instead of getting the bus in these things, and they’refine,” I say, ignoring the pain pulsing in my feet.
“Not across the bloody Scottish Highlands,” he mutters. “I’m sure people have died from doing stupid shit like this.”
I don’t respond to this. But have they?
It’ll be ok.
We won’t die.
We have fifty pounds and a mobile phone for emergencies if needed.
I give him one last prod. I raise my eyebrows in his direction, a telling quirk in my lips. “I dare you,” I say.
James watches me, his lips pressed together in a firm line. I experience a sudden rush of heat wash through me as our gazes lock. Finally, he throws his head back, closing his eyes against the rain, which has now trained his hair into a long, floppy mess. I never knew it could look so shaggy. Then, as if he’s conjured up the energy to deal with me, or has realised he’ll have to take part in order to out-character-assess me, he follows on behind, grabbing the other bag as he goes.
*
The trees are further away than I thought they were, especially when we discover there are patches of swamp, multiple slippery, rocky surfaces and long stretches of rough terrain to cross on the way there, whilst also wading through thick patches of thigh-high bracken. There’s a lake we have to walk around – not fancying the swim, despite already being damp through.
Every now and again I hear a huff behind me, followed by some choice words about our esteemed leader.
Michael’s not perfect but he isn’t evil. He didn’t do this to punish us. I mean, there’s clearly a passion tax that drives a lot of the events industry, and I’d be a fool if I said I wasn’t victim to it. I’m not totally money driven. But I would like to one day have my own flat. One without mould. Or a hole in the floor. And a wardrobe instead of a dehumidifier acting as a clothes horse. That would be nice. And yet, in the meantime I do love working in the events industry. It’s more interesting than working for, say, an aluminium company. I’m aware, however, that they do pay significantly more for marketing people. Probably because it’s so boring.
“He doesn’t pay me enough for this shit. And to abandon me with…” James pauses.
“Go on, say it,” I dare him without looking back, trying and failing to cross a patch of swamp with only a few naturally placed stepping stones to help me. There’s not really a footpath. At least, I’m not sure anything round here is forged by human feet. Anything path-resembling was formed by roaming wildlife. I lose my balance and my boot lands in the mud, coating the beautiful red suede in an unrecoverable way.
“Noooo, fuck,” I hiss. Yanking myself out to the drier piece of land, I try to stamp it out a bit but there’s no hope. And despite trying really, really hard to hold it together in front of Gloatman, I can now feel the prick of tears threatening to ruin me.
I swore I would never cry in front of him.
James opens his mouth just in time to distract me from it. “I have nothing to say you don’t already know.”
I roll my eyes. I knew he hated me, of course I did. But part of me was hoping it wasn’t quite so bad. That maybe it was more of a respected rivalry. “Let me guess. I know you think I’m the definition of petty. You probably think I’m a busybody. That I dress too brightly for work meetings? I once heard through a colleague that you criticised my makeup choices.” I sometimes go big on colour with lips and eyeshadow too. “Hmm… What else—”
“I never did that,” he interrupts.
“What?”
“I never said anything personal. How does what you wear matter to me? Whoever said that was either projecting or lying.”
“Projecting!?” I gasp. “So other people think that about me?”
“Oh hell, you need to stop caring what other people think so much. Just let it go.”
That’s easy to say, I’m sure, if you haven’t grown up in a battlefield where all you can think about is what other people are thinking and how you can adapt your behaviour to prevent them from being upset or cross or stressed. I doubt, very much, that James has zero concerns about what other people think. It’s human nature. “You’re telling me you never care what other people think about you?”
He stops beside me, staring at my mud-sodden boot. I couldweep. I sniff, as my nose starts to sting. Everything stings.
They’re only boots, Fliss. Let them go!
