Destination Thailand

‘Positive. He’s managed to screw up enough things and your acting career is not going to be one of them.’

‘You sure you don’t want to track him down and give him a piece of your mind?’ she asked, looking fired up for a fight. When we were in Turkey she’d tried to teach me how to master snappy comebacks and fierce confrontation, an area that I was useless at. I’d always leave a fight kicking myself over the things that I should have said. Marie had even written down a list of blush-inducing insults, telling me I needed to be confident, stay calm, and that above all ‘If you hesitate, you lose. Think like Eminem in his 8 Mile rap battle.’ She’d gone into acting-teacher mode, telling me to see confrontation as an invite to play then walk away with dignity, firmly instructing me that under no circumstances was I ever to repeat what the other person had said in a funny voice.

I’d tried coming up with my own putdowns including the corker: ‘Have you been on holiday to Greece, as you’re so greasy,’ but even I could tell that wasn’t going to be a classic. She’d even made me download the word a day app, hoping to extend my vocabulary with feisty retorts. But I was nowhere near ready to go all Slim Shady on Alex’s ass, my thoughts were too twisted up to be able to condense what I wanted to say to him into an eloquent put-down. Realising what a lost cause I was Marie had changed tactics, asking, ‘What’s the most powerful way of getting a man’s attention or driving him wild?’

I looked at her blankly.

‘Ignoring him. Moving on. Silent but deadly,’ she said wisely, ignoring my protests that that was also the name of a fart. Unfortunately, I had to agree with her. Realising that if Alex was getting on with his life then I had to get on with mine, I suddenly knew exactly where I needed to go.

CHAPTER 5

Lobally (adj.) Lout, stupid, rude or awkward person

‘Totally Awesome Adventours’ travel agent was just opposite Kendal’s. Its bright lights beamed like a beacon of sunshine nestled next to a drab charity shop and boarded up pharmacy. The cluttered, colourful window display of a tropical beach scene complete with wooden deckchairs, hats with corks hanging from the rim carelessly tossed onto the striped fabric alongside a blow-up kangaroo, looked out of place on the grey Manchester street. ‘Learn Spanish in Argentina’, ‘Peace out at the Taj Mahal in India’, ‘Trek the Inca Trail in Peru’, ‘Go raving in Thailand’, an array of signs called out, each promising a new experience and adventure. I wistfully thought back to sitting in the sun writing out my travel wish-list, then finding my memory box full of trips I’d wanted to take for so long. This shop offered me the chance to go and see these places for real, and now I had the money to do it.

Taking a deep breath I pushed open the door.

Two guys in their early twenties wearing matching neon orange T-shirts looked up from computers on their kidney-shaped desks, took one glance at me then quickly looked back down again. Huge comfy-looking acid yellow and lime green beanbags were scattered in the corner next to a packed bookcase with stacks of glossy travel brochures, each containing hidden gems, exotic cultures and new worlds inside. I felt a shiver of excitement – until I took in the rest of the room, which made me feel ancient, out of touch and out of place. There was a map of the world with flags where customers could pin the countries they had been and their top tips. I could only add a sad flag to Portugal; my mum had found a cheap deal one year, but moaned constantly that it was too foreign. There had also been nauseating ferry trips to France, that my dad promised would be culturally enlightening but actually turned out to be a quick booze cruise to sell on nice bottles of plonk at mates rates in the local pub car park.

Music I vaguely remembered blasting out from the bedlam of bars in Turkey played with an irritating repetitive beat. Tacked to the colourful walls were photos of nubile-looking women with wet hair excitedly waving to the camera, bar tout Manic Mel could easily have been one of them. My determination vanished as fast as those bikini babes’ morals. Maybe this was a stupid idea; these sorts of places were for carefree students, baby-faced backpackers sharing a manky hostel dorm, not a nearly-30-year-old career woman, if you could even call me that. Without Marie’s unwavering support I suddenly felt foolish being in here; maybe I’d have a look online first from the safety of my bedroom, or maybe this was just an idiotic thing to do in the first place. I tried to sidle my way to the door but it was too late to walk out of the empty shop without going unnoticed.

‘All right?’ A guy with gelled-back ginger hair, oversized ironic black geek glasses and barely-there stubble beckoned me to take a seat on the Perspex chair opposite his desk. His name badge pinned to his skin-tight T-shirt read: ‘Ask me about Awesomeness’. The other guy was engrossed in his laptop.

‘Welcome to Totally Awesome Adventours, where our motto is “Escape, Explore, Evolve” or Triple E as we like to call it,’ he said in a deep monotone as if reading a script. His smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes which looked sleep-deprived and bloodshot. I couldn’t help but think ‘Triple E’ sounded like some dodgy drug found in the underbelly of secret raves that my mum had warned me about after recently reading an article in The Daily Mail, her newspaper of choice after spotting a copy at Alex’s parents’ house one time.

‘My name’s Rick. What can I do for you today?’ He pronounced the ‘ick’ part of his name as if licking the strawberry sauce off the top of a Mr Whippy. I shuddered slightly and shifted in the trendy but uncomfortable seat. What could he do for me today?

‘Well…I’m…erm.’

‘Sorry, can you speak up?’ he bellowed, making me jump.

‘I want to quit my job and go travelling,’ I blurted out surprising myself.

‘Don’t we all, luv,’ he sniggered, rolling his eyes. ‘So, where do you want to go as part of this radical plan?’ He signified speech marks with his fingers, looking pleased with himself, shaking his head in silent mirth.

I felt his eyes take in my practical ponytail, flowered blouse and straight-legged light denim jeans. I thought it was quite a nice look, but it just echoed the rest of my bland and dull wardrobe, a bit like the owner. I’d never been into fashion, always wanting to blend in rather than stand out. Alex had said he preferred it that way, saying it was less hassle having a girlfriend who didn’t stick out like a sore thumb, but sat here I felt like I stood out a mile.

‘Well, I’d like to experience different cultures, taste exotic food and maybe learn a new language?’ I replied, self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

‘Sounds all right, that, but where’s the adrenalin? The excitement? Got some cracking bungee jumps in Oz or white water rafting in New Zealand I could book you on?’

It felt as though he was taking the piss out of me as his colleague had turned his attention to our discussion, providing Rick with an audience. God. What was I doing here? I didn’t know how to travel, how to live out of an uber-sized backpack or share a dorm room with strangers. I wasn’t ready to hang out with the ‘R-icks’ of this world. I’d fantasised about travelling without thinking about any of the practicalities and how difficult the reality might actually be.

‘Um…no…that’s not really my sort of thing,’ I muttered dejectedly.

‘Listen darlin’, I like your spirit an’ all that, but you may want to try “Tasteful Travels” down the road; they do a lovely two-week package to Spain that would be more your scene,’ he laughed.

‘Um…OK…well, thanks for your time.’ I got up from my seat and turned to the door feeling humiliated and pathetic. Of course I couldn’t just swan off to some meditation retreat in outer India, who was I kidding?

As I was about to leave I overheard the two guys talking together: ‘God! Talk about a mood killer. Can you imagine her at a full moon rave? It’d be like taking your mum–nah, your nan.’ They both burst out laughing.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing for you to worry about. Enjoy Costa Bianca,’ Rick smirked, waving his pen and pointing to the exit. I stood still, staring at his pudgy grinning face.

In that moment a tide of fury rose in my stomach. I don’t know if it was the realisation that Alex was starting a new life and family without me, that my wedding dream was over or hearing my mum’s instant dismissal of my travel dreams but my body tensed and my veins fizzed with anger. I couldn’t remember even one of the snappy put-downs Marie had taught me, so, I did the most grown-up and mature thing I could have done; I scooped a pile of brochures into my arms, knocked over a glitter ball that was artfully balanced on a side table and with a loud thud, sent a life-sized cardboard figure of bikini-clad babes doing the peace sign to the floor. The two men just sat open-mouthed gawping at me.

‘And it’s Costa Blanca, not Costa Bianca, you idiot!’ I yelled, stalking out as fast as my sensible flats would take me, slamming the door behind me, causing an inflatable beach ball to drop from the ceiling, adding to the destruction I’d left behind.

My legs were shaking, my chest was pounding and I felt like I might be sick. Running down the street I heaved the heavy brochures into the nearest bin before gripping onto it to catch my breath.

‘Hey!’ a guy’s voice shouted out. I froze. What if R-ick had called the police? What prison time came with brochure stealing? I’ve seen Orange Is the New Black and I wouldn’t last a minute locked up. I forced myself to look up but it wasn’t the stern face of the law peering down on me. No. It was much, much worse.

Stood just feet away was Alex.

‘Georgia, are you OK?’ he asked coming closer, wincing at how sweaty I was. He looked different; he was walking taller and was wearing clothes I didn’t recognise. Why, oh why, did I have to bump into him today?

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ I tried desperately not to cry and willed my heart rate to slow down. My voice sounded weird. I was gulping at smelly bin air.

‘I know. But – are you sure you’re OK?’ He pointed to the overflowing bin and the scrambled egg-like vomit I was unwittingly standing in.

I shook my head as if I could make him vanish. My legs had frozen to the spot, my knuckles had turned white, and I was gripping the bin hard for support. This was not how I had ever imagined seeing him again; in those daydreams I was confident and dressed to kill, not perspiring and panicking.

‘There’s nothing left to say. I never want to see you again,’ I forced myself to spit out defiantly, hoping that he couldn’t see my trembling chin and bottom lip.

‘OK, OK.’ He spoke like a negotiator would to a hostage taker, rubbing the back of his neck. He had had his hair cut shorter, neater, more grown up. He looked like his dad. Or maybe just like a dad. My confused and humiliated brain couldn’t focus.

‘Did you get your things from the house yet? I’ve not been back for a few days. I’m staying at…err…a friend’s place for the moment.’

I nodded, trying to swallow down a burp of bile scorching my throat. I knew exactly which friend he was talking about.

‘Thanks, appreciate it. Both gotta move on and all that. Maybe it’ll be good that you don’t have to rely on me so much now.’

I couldn’t believe this! He’d relied on me. I’d tried my hardest to fit the role of homemaker that every woman in his family neatly slotted into, and I’d done it all to make him happy. For cooking, cleaning, planning our diary, reminding him of when his mum’s birthday was and then buying her presents that she always cast aside once one of her other daughters-in-law presented some artisanal made-with-the-blood-of-a-virgin-unicorn thingymajiggy. My gift card to Next never stood a chance. But that was all I was to him; a lousy maid, chef and Filofax. I stared at him open-mouthed, cheeks flaming in embarrassment at the attempt to leave my life here in search of a new one, only to come face to face with my past.

‘I can’t believe you! I–’ I stopped mid-sentence as a woman with highlighted blonde hair and a neat freckled nose had joined us. Stephanie. Seeing her doll-like features I instantly remembered her. She’d asked to borrow my hairbrush in the ladies’ toilets at Alex’s work Christmas party last year. Bitch. She was pretty. Of course she was. She looked down at me through long lashes, her green eyes flicking between me and Alex as if working out how he had traded up so dramatically. I could almost hear her thinking, This was his ex? This bin lady?

‘Oh hi, erm OK, you ready to go?’ Alex said stumbling in between us both and taking the shopping bag from her hands, not before I noticed the slight bump under her tight striped jumper. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you and er…the bin to it. Take care.’ Alex waved bashfully and headed off down the street steering Stephanie forward without a backwards glance.

My head was suddenly filled with snapshots of them, perfectly filtered Instagram photos of their new life together. Her with her lithe body that would no doubt snap back to pre-pregnancy skinny jeans an hour after giving birth, an adventurous vixen in the bedroom, a domestic goddess in the kitchen, funny, intelligent and BFF’s with his mum Ruth. I pictured them laughing about me, at the state of me, at what I’d become, how Alex would shake his head trying to remember what had attracted him to me in the first place, how he’d had a lucky escape calling off our wedding. My face burned with shame.

My legs gave way as soon as Alex and Stephanie were lost in the crowd. I knocked over an empty can of lager as I slumped onto a cold step, holding my head in my hands. Breathe, just breathe.

‘Here ya go, luv.’ Someone chucked a few coins at my feet. ‘Get yerself a decent meal.’

I looked up mortified. ‘No I’m not a tramp, I’m just…’ I faded out looking down at the bin stains on my jeans, the dodgy sticky residue on my hands, and the tangy smell of vomit at my feet then nodded slowly. ‘Cheers.’

‘All the single ladies, all the single ladies.’ The jazzy tones of Queen B started blaring out of my handbag that had narrowly avoided falling into an open kebab box. Marie had changed the ringtone when we were away, shoved a Hula Hoop crisp on my ring finger and spun me around the hotel bedroom trying to perfect her twerking skills. I snatched my phone out of my bag, not seeing the funny side any more.

‘Hello?’

‘Georgia. Catrina,’ said my boss sharply.

I mentally ran through the week in my head. I was definitely due back at work tomorrow, not today. What the hell was she calling me for?

‘Oh hi, erm, everything OK?’

‘As a matter of fact, no, it isn’t.’ She paused as if collecting her thoughts.

My stomach did that funny clawing feeling you get when you know that as soon as they mutter the next few words everything could change. Catrina was never one to beat around the bush but also lacked the tact to pull off any emotional conversations.

‘When you were off gallivanting on holiday you seemed to forget that a memory stick containing some sort of “mood” board was left on your desk,’ she seethed.

My mouth went dry. I had selected a few photos – OK, maybe a hundred – that I liked from the internet as inspiration to show to the wedding venue before the final checks were made. And yes, maybe I did turn it into a live mood board with special effects – and, oh yep, even a backing track. I’d grabbed a work USB stick and quickly copied everything across, before Catrina came back from a meeting and clocked me wasting work time again, but I must have forgotten to put it in my handbag to take home.

‘Unluckily for you, the temp covering your work, that stuck-up cow Dawn, found this stick whilst you were tanning yourself on holiday and got it mixed it up with her own usb for the presentation at today’s pitch meeting. So instead of bloody pie charts and graphs the overseas clients and the whole of the Board, including Mr Rivers, have seen frothy bridal images and Lionel bloody Ritchie blasting out.’

Crap. This wasn’t good.

I knew how slightly over the top I’d gone with the wedding montage, if you would call adding The Best of Lionel a little excessive. Looking at personal things in work time was bad, especially when this was the second time it had happened. I just found myself getting lost in wedding blogs on my lunch hour, losing track of the time until Catrina was stood watching over me, suffocating me in her heavy perfume, glowering at me with a furious scrunched-up face. I’d been given a verbal warning for this already but that time it had just affected Catrina, not the whole of the Board. Nope, really not good.

‘Oh God. I’m…I’m sure we can explain it all,’ I stuttered in shock.

‘Georgia – did all that cheap booze last week affect your brain cells?’ Catrina seethed.

My stomach lurched. I felt light-headed, the smell of a stranger’s vomit burnt my nostrils. ‘Catrina, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry. Maybe if I speak to Mr Rivers and explain it was all my fault. I’ve been under a lot of stress planning the wedding, which didn’t actually happen, and–’

She let out a deep sigh crossed between boredom and amusement at hearing me begging for my job. ‘Georgia, it’s not going to be possible, I’ve given you enough chances to buck up your ideas and each time you throw them back in my face. So, you leave me no choice but to tell you that you’re fired.’

‘No, wait I…’ I babbled, desperately trying not to cry.

Then it dawned on me: I could try my hardest to apologise, get off this step and storm into the office, bin juice and all, demanding a chance to make this right and possibly keep my job. Or…what if I let fate work its magic, giving me a shove to freedom and into the unknown? The face of ‘R-ick’ laughing at my boring spirit flashed in front of my eyes; my mum’s voice entered my head telling me I could never be so adventurous and Alex’s patronising smile made my cheeks heat up.

Sat on that beach in Turkey I’d planned to quit my job anyway, so, yeah, this wasn’t anything like the scenes I’d imagined in which I’d leave to rapturous applause from my colleagues for my bravery and courage, not for unwittingly pitching 1001 Ways to Improve Your Wedding to important clients.

‘Georgia. Did you hear me?’ she shouted down the phone.

I made my decision.

‘Yep. Loud and clear. OK, well thanks for everything.’ My voice sounded high-pitched and wobbly.

‘OK?’ She paused, taken aback by my quick acceptance and lack of fight. ‘Well, right, good. So that’s that then. I’ll get your things couriered to your address.’

I hung up before I had the chance to tell her I no longer lived at my old address. Oh well, looks like Alex and Stephanie would be getting a bittersweet housewarming gift of post-it notes and some naff logo merchandise.

I pushed myself onto my feet and wandered down the busy high street buzzing with adrenalin, which lasted as far as Superdrug where suddenly the reality of what I’d done dawned on me. The reliable side of my conscience had a panic attack, shocked, as my other hidden, risky side looked on smirking. I was unemployed. I’d wreaked havoc in the travel agent’s, my ex was going to become a daddy and I stank of some stranger’s vomit. What had my life become?

CHAPTER 6

Serendipity (n.) The chance occurrence of events in a beneficial way

I stumbled into a nearby Weatherspoon’s, ordered a pint of fruity cider and immediately dialled Marie’s number.

‘I can’t frigging believe it,’ Marie kept repeating as I filled her in on what had happened in the brat pack travel agency, Alex and Stephanie finding me in a compromising position with the council’s bins and how Lionel Ritchie had got me the sack.

‘It was mortifying.’ I closed my eyes, willing it from my brain before downing the rest of my glass, the super-sweet bubbles slipping down my throat way too easily for a Monday lunchtime.

‘You were clinging onto a rubbish bin? Oh God, Georgia.’

‘I know! I should never have gone into that stupid travel agent’s. I don’t even know what came over me in there. I just felt like I was sick of people laughing at me, like “Oh there she goes, that stupid jilted bride that says she wants to change her life but doesn’t have the faintest idea how to do anything right. Oh here she is, boring Georgia who didn’t even know her ex got some slapper up the duff. Oh wait, Miss Green, isn’t that the bridezilla with a penchant for Lionel Ritchie?”’ If there hadn’t been a queue of people behind me I would have face slapped the bar.

‘Oh stop it. No one will think that,’ Marie tutted. ‘So what was it like seeing Sir Knob of Knobsville? I don’t know how you could have even looked at him.’

I sighed. ‘It still hasn’t really sunk in, I guess. I was too paralysed with shock and shame to react properly. But the weird thing was, as unprepared as I was to see him, I didn’t get a rush of loving emotions – just a rush of humiliation at the situation. I didn’t really feel anything for him.’

‘That’s good, Georgia. You don’t need him and yeah, well, meeting your ex whilst draped over a stinking bin probably didn’t give off the clearest “I’m over you, my life is fabulous” message, but you’re just a bit lost, that’s all. Nobody’s life goes to plan, especially not one they found in a stupid magazine quiz.’

I smiled, I knew exactly what quiz she was talking about. One warm Summer day back when we were teens, weeks before the nightmare bunker incident, Marie and I were lying on the cool stubbly grass in her back garden, scribbling our answers to a trashy ‘What kind of life will you have?’ quiz I’d found in an old copy of my mum’s Woman’s Weekly magazine.

‘But this is stupid,’ Marie had moaned as I’d asked her about her dreams and aspirations, ‘I’m going to marry Ricky Martin; he just doesn’t know it yet.’

‘OK,’ I sighed, ‘so you run off to Puerto Rico to find him – then what?’

Marie rolled over to her back and shaded her eyes from the sun. ‘Well, I want to be married by the time I’m 22 and have had my first child by at least 24.’ We both shuddered at how ancient that sounded. ‘After that, I’ll become a world-famous actress and we’ll live in Hollywood with our three model-looking children.’

‘You’d better start paying attention in your Spanish classes then,’ I teased, picking dirt out of my fingernails.

‘Nah, we’ll speak the language of lurve,’ she smiled before pulling the quiz away roughly. ‘Right then, Miss Green, what’s your life plan going to be?’

My eyes lit up as I spoke: ‘I want to travel, to see more of life than what’s on our doorstep. Oh, and also to write. Being a travel journalist would be pretty cool. Imagine waking up in a different country every day and getting paid to tell the world what you’re seeing, eating and doing?’

‘Then you can write better quizzes than what’s in here,’ Marie smirked whacking me with the rolled up mag.

‘Look what happened to my plan!’ Marie exclaimed. ‘I never did get round to marrying Ricky Martin and definitely never thought I’d be a single mum, but even though Cole wasn’t part of my original plan, I couldn’t imagine how my life could be any better without him.’

‘To be fair, I don’t think you’re Ricky’s type.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I never got to be the next Judith Chalmers,’ I sighed thinking of my unloved passport. ‘I guess I hadn’t realised how fast life passes you by. One minute you’re fresh-faced, taking the first job you’re offered, convinced it will be a springboard for better things to come, then the next, you’re older, settled and saggy,’ I said sadly, just as an unshaved old man waddled past holding a pint of bitter before hacking up a load of phlegm into a mucky handkerchief.