Come Together Page 23

  Sonia tuts loudly as we lunge through the concertina walkway on to the airplane. Her deep orange tan has a green tinge in the light. ‘You won’t be able to sit together,’ she announces, before snapping on her smile. ‘Enjoy your FunSun holiday.’

  Momentarily I can see what she’d look like with her front teeth kicked in.

  Jack and I are sitting opposite each other across an aisle. I struggle into THE MOST economic of economy class seats in aviation history and wedge my bag into the footwell.

  My heels are shredded, my shoulders aching and I’m panting like a thirsty bloodhound, so it takes me a moment to realise that the seat next to me is occupied by the Toddler From Hell. A gene pool sampler from Satan himself. He grins at me demoniacally, before opening his mouth and emitting a scream so loud that for a moment I think that even the wings of the plane might curl themselves up over the top in protection.

  ‘Oi! Shut up!’ yells the bottle blonde in the window seat, as I recoil with horror. She rummages around in the pink sports bag at her feet and produces a dummy. She wipes it up and down on her stone-washed denim mini skirt before cramming it into the kid’s mouth. ‘Any more nonsense, Darren, and you’re out of the window,’ she snarls, looking like she means every word. ‘Do you understand?’

  Darren promptly flobs the dummy into my lap and pukes up lumpy orange juice over my arm. Remind me to have my fallopian tubes tied in a childproof knot.

  Usually I love flights. I love the rubbish food and all the parcels and packages they give you with it. I love the naff, duty free teddies and the pointless articles in the airline magazines. I love the air-conditioning nozzles and the headset channels. I love the bottles of pongy perfume in the loos and the pedal taps. I love the double whammy excitement of take-off and landing. I even love the occasional bit of fairground turbulence to spice things up a bit.

  But today I hate it. I hate everything about this stinking, lousy airplane. Flight AMY1 to Fantasy Island has crashed and burned.

  There are no survivors.

  It’s a bit of a bummer, because I’ve been planning our trip there for days. I had it all worked out: the romantic early morning meeting at Gatwick like illicit lovers, the lingering smooch around duty free, the giggling and cuddling as Jack spends a fortune on my favourite perfume. I’d seen us strolling hand in hand on to the plane and snuggling up together by some private window seat. I’d even gone as far as assuming that we’d have sex in the toilets and join the Mile High Club.

  And that was just for starters.

  However, the slushy seventies soundtrack accompanying my fantasy trip now stops with a terrible scratch.

  ‘So? Why were you so late?’ I ask Jack icily, once I’ve mopped up.

  He adjusts his bag by his feet. ‘Hangover.’

  !

  ‘I see.’ I clear my throat. ‘What were you doing last night?’

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ he retorts, as one of the air hostesses shimmies between to perform the safety routine. I crane forward to look around the striped skirt stretching over her buttocks. Jack ignores me, taking his seatbelt and following the air hostess mechanically, as he clasps it together and tightens it.

  I lean back, ducking out of the way as she motions to the emergency exits. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I hiss.

  Jack gets out his Walkman from his bag and stuffs the foam ends into his ears. ‘I called you last night, through until two this morning. Nice dinner was it?’

  ‘I was at H’s,’ I protest, far too loudly, frantically trying to get Jack’s attention.

  The air hostess is in mid-mime. She’s doing the whistle on the life jacket bit. When I raise my voice, she accidentally blows and the shock of the shrill blast sets Darren off. He’s obviously not going to be outdone on his personal quest to conquer the sound barrier.

  Jack raises his eyebrows at me, then presses play, deliberately cutting off my chance to explain. I watch him smirk at the air hostess and he closes his eyes. He’s asleep before we’ve even taken off.

  ‘How could you?’ I scream in silence. ‘Just because you couldn’t get hold of me on the phone, you assume I was with Nathan. What did you think, Jack, that I was shagging him all night? Is that it? You’re so insecure and jealous that you can’t trust me for five God-damned minutes?’

  I suck in my cheeks, fold my arms and scowl at my fold-down table. I’m aware that my indignant outburst would make a good audition piece for the diva in a daytime soap, but I’m not put off. I let rip with my argument, my foot tapping ominously.

  ‘Go ahead then, you moody, irritating, vindictive, insecure git. Ruin my holiday. Turn up late, just to punish me. See if I care. You can play your small-minded, pathetic games all you like. Nathan means nothing to me …’

  I’m halfway through my vitriol when it occurs to me that Jack hasn’t mentioned Nathan. He suspects, that’s all. And I’m acting every inch of the guilty party he thinks I am.

  I give up and slump into misery.

  When the breakfast arrives, I refuse it. Instead, I watch Demon Darren flick scrambled egg at his mother. I check the back of his head to see whether he’s got 666 tattooed behind his ear.

  The truth is that it was Nathan, not me, who did the dirty last night. I’d been looking forward to seeing him. I was determined that Jack’s ridiculous paranoia was not going to become the marker for my social life. After all, my social life has been around a lot longer than Jack.

  I’d waited almost an hour before Nathan showed up at the bar in Soho. I don’t know why I bothered to be on time, or why I felt so nervous sitting there. One of Nathan’s trademarks is his unfailing ability to be late.

  ‘I’ve got a date with this amazing girl,’ he smouldered, as finally I felt his hand on my shoulder and his lips on my cheek. A flattered flush ran through me. After all, I had spent an hour getting ready. ‘She’s exquisite,’ he continued, as he straddled the stool next to me at the bar.

  Despite myself, I could feel myself patting my hair. ‘Oh Nath,’ I tutted, smiling as I reached out and pushed his knee. I’d forgotten how piercing his green eyes could be.

  ‘Marguerite,’ he whispered dreamily. ‘She’s Spanish, and so …’ He paused for effect. ‘I’m telling you. This could be the one.’ At this point, he ordered two glasses of champagne, whilst I hastily brushed down my ego from its slip on the banana skin of my vanity.

  ‘Great, Nathan! That’s great!’ I trilled, smiling tightly and remembering in a rush of déjà vu all the reasons that I’d never got it together with him in the first place.

  ‘I’m taking her clubbing. So I won’t be able to do dinner. You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Look at you, anyway. All in love with what’s-his-face. It’s so sweet.’

  I let him talk on, oohing and aahing at the anecdotes of his latest trip round the Himalayas. I hardly said anything, but as I went round to H’s after he left me at the bar an hour later, I wished I had.

  I wished I’d had the guts to stick up for my relationship with Jack instead of letting Nathan patronise it. I wished I’d told him that the way he chases beautiful women and falls in and out of love every two seconds isn’t impressive. I wished I’d told him that he’s not roguish and irresistibly charming, as I thought he once was, but immature and patently scared of commitment. I wished I’d told him to treat people with more respect and to stop being such a selfish brat. I wished I’d told him that standing me up was rude and insensitive. But most of all I wished I hadn’t gone to meet him in the first place.

  However, the necessary humility required to tell Jack how stupid I feel as a result can’t be achieved on a plane full of FunSun holiday makers. It’ll have to wait until we get to the hotel.

  I glance over at my dishevelled and incommunicative travelling companion. He’s snoring quietly and, for a moment, I feel tremendously relieved. The thought of another showdown makes me feel like hurling myself at the pilot and begging him to do a U-ey, so that I can run away to join
a nunnery after all.

  All I want is for things to be simple.

  My life was so easy when I was in the Gobi desert of singleness. There were no rows, no tantrums or misunderstandings. So, I might have been bored occasionally, but at least I knew where I stood. There was me, and there was me: we understood each other perfectly. Now I spend all my time in a complex tangle of emotions, constantly trying to justify myself.

  Take H, for example. She wouldn’t speak to me after she’d found out that I’d been to Chloe’s barbecue. I spent all of last week leaving messages for her and worrying. I even wrote a postcard to her, but she still refused to communicate. In the end, I knew I had to see her. I’m too superstitious to leave the country knowing there was bad feeling between us. So last night, having left Nathan, I sloped round to her flat.

  She wasn’t having it when I stood on the doorstep saying ‘Sorry’ thirty times without drawing breath.

  ‘Don’t you think you owe me some honesty?’ she asked, grabbing the bottle of wine I was holding out as an olive branch. I stopped mid-sorry. She’s really scary when she’s angry.

  ‘How do you think I feel?’ she continued, as I followed her sheepishly into the flat.

  ‘Like you want to tear out my throat and garrotte my boyfriend?’ I ventured.

  H wasn’t in the mood for humour. ‘Something along those lines,’ she said. She picked up the zapper and paused the Friends video. I knew then that she was serious. ‘Does the word “respect” mean anything to you?’ she asked, not offering me a seat.

  Of course it does. H’s respect means everything to me. I couldn’t have a stand-up row with her, so I crumpled on to the bean bag and fessed up. I told her about how lying to her about being ill made me feel ill, about how I felt torn between her and Jack, about how I messed things up at the barbecue and how I’d been feeling dreadful ever since.

  She listened until I’d eaten so much humble pie I wanted to throw up.

  Eventually, she folded her arms and shook her head at me. ‘When I said respect, I meant self-respect, you idiot,’ she said, flooring me with her sympathetic tone. ‘I don’t care what you do, as long as you do what you want. You don’t have to please me, or anyone else for that matter. Your sense of yourself is one of your best qualities, Amy. Don’t lose it now, just because you’ve fallen in love.’

  ‘How do you know I’ve fallen in love?’ I asked, flabbergasted. She’s never even met Jack.

  ‘The truth’s the truth. Sometimes it’s very obvious,’ she replied.

  She had to forgive me then, because I started weeping. Weeping seems to be one of my new special skills. It’s not one I knew I had before and it occurs to me that maybe I should use it to better effect. Maybe I should audition for one of those Hollywood romantic comedies where the only acting ability the heroine requires is to blub in every scene. I could make a fortune!

  I don’t know why I started to cry. It was just such a relief that H understood how I felt: that I am a Woman In Love and therefore, to some extent, my behaviour is understandable.

  ‘Stop it,’ tutted H, as she poured me a large glass of wine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sniffed.

  ‘And stop apologising. It’s all right.’ She kissed me on the cheek and thrust the glass of wine into my hand.

  I knew then that everything was back to normal, especially when she sat down and said, ‘You stupid cow.’

  ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ I laughed, crawling on to the sofa to curl up next to her.

  She clinked glasses with me. ‘Come on then, blockhead, spill the beans. I want to know everything.’

  So, over the next few glasses of wine, I told her everything. I told her about my job, about Jack, about Nathan and the party and eventually about the holiday. We had so much to talk about that it was two a.m. before we stopped.

  ‘It’s late, you’d better call lover boy,’ yawned H. ‘Tell him you’re staying the night.’

  ‘I can’t stay. I’ve still got things to pack!’

  She waggled her finger at me and licked the red wine crust on her lips. ‘You always take far too much. All you need is two pairs of knickers – wear a pair, wash a pair – a bikini and a couple of dresses. You’ll be laughing.’

  I leant down, picked up the phone, feeling guilty as I punched in Jack’s number. I should’ve called him earlier.

  H stretched like a cat. ‘You can get a cab in the morning. Not there?’

  ‘Engaged.’ I replaced the receiver.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a whole week of him,’ she said.

  Whoopee do.

  There’s a spontaneous round of applause from my fellow passengers as the plane finally lands in Greece after an hour’s delay. I don’t join in. I’m not in a jubilant mood. My feet are swollen, my eyes are puffy and I’ve dehydrated into a prune.

  Jack, on the other hand, looks refreshed as he steps into the blanket of heat at the top of the steps. I break out into a full-scale, all-over body sweat as he sniffs the air approvingly.

  ‘Weather’s okay,’ he says – as if the meteorological conditions are somehow a personal victory.

  Sonia ushers us into the terminal. I’m not fooled by Jack’s remarks about the weather. When Hamlet said that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark, he should have tried Kos.

  By the time we’ve got through customs, waited for everyone else to collect their luggage and taken our seats on a coach that would be refused entry into even the dodgiest scrapyard, we’ve lapsed into silence. In terms of sulking, we’ve reached a stalemate. When you’ve got intimate knowledge of the smell of someone’s genitals, pretending to be strangers doesn’t work. It’s like sitting an exam when you haven’t revised.

  I take in the sights of Kos through the splintered, filthy glass and chew my cuticles. I’m in a sort of holiday hell trance.

  Fantasy Island, this most definitely ain’t.

  By the time the coach finally shudders to a halt in the main resort, my eyes have glazed over. It’s only lunchtime, but there are plenty of people milling about. Judging from the high incidence of raw sunburn, they’re mostly British. They must be. Why else would they be oblivious to the thumping music coming out of the Bulldog pub on the corner?

  The feedback from the coach microphone is deafening as Sonia grabs her clipboard.

  This is her moment.

  ‘One two. One two,’ she announces in a sing-song voice, as if she’s compèring the Royal Variety Performance. ‘All right everybod-ee! This is Villa Stephan-o. Welcome to your FunSun holi-day.’

  Sure enough, sprouting above the pub and the shops, there’s a building that could just about pass as a hotel, even though the grey concrete balconies look as if they have been squashed on to it as an afterthought. Rusting steel rods poke out of the top, waiting for the next floor to be built. The two workmen on the roof, leaning against the broken Villa Stephano sign, are smoking cigarettes. They eye us tourists suspiciously.

  This must be a drop-off point. Jack can’t have booked us into this dive.

  Can he?

  Sonia is still busy roll-calling names. The Russell family next to us, all in matching red soccer strips, bustle down the gangway towards her, arguing about the fluorescent plastic sombrero that the youngest is wearing. It’s far too big and he can’t see. He crashes into all the seats, spilling his can of Coke, as he’s shouted forward by his irate father. Following closely behind is Demon Darren. He’s carried sideways under his mother’s arm like a rugby ball, squirming and dribbling green goo.

  I realise that Russell comes after Rossiter in the alphabet and that Sonia hasn’t mentioned us.

  Phew, we’re off to the posh resort.

  But then, my worse than worst fears are realised. Trust Sonia not to know her alphabet.

  ‘Come on, this is us,’ says Jack.

  I yo-yo my head between the view of Alcatraz and the view of Jack’s navel as he reaches up to grab our bags.

  No.

  It can
’t be.

  We’re in Greece. This is my holiday. And if this is my holiday, there are simple bare necessities, such as:

  Remote, detached, balconied apartment

  Large double room with en suite bathroom

  360-degree view of the sea

  No other tourists in a five-mile radius

  Easy access to romantic, reasonably priced, family-run tavernas

  At least one deserted beach to claim for duration of one’s stay

  I’ve seen the TV holiday programmes. I know my basic consumer rights.

  What’s going on?

  Leaving Jack to organise things, that’s what’s going on. Jack, who couldn’t organise a shag in a brothel.

  The football kids are already running riot in the reception area of Villa Stephano by the time we’ve booked in and have been handed our FunSun holiday schedules, KARAOKE EVERY NITE – LIVE reads a big sign above me.

  Live?

  I’ll be dead by the end of this.

  There’s no light in the corridor on the fourth floor. I stand in the dark by an abandoned bag of cement whilst Jack fumbles with the lock to our room. There’s an overpowering smell of mould. After two minutes of fiddling, Jack growls in frustration and flings his weight against the door. It swings open and he stands aside to let me pass. As I do, a cockroach scuttles in the opposite direction.

  Great. Even the cockroaches can’t wait to get out!

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ says Jack defensively, as if reading my thoughts.

  Well no. The slums of Calcutta are bad.

  I place my bag on the floor and slowly look around. The two single beds are separated by a stand with a broken lamp on it. Crammed against the wall is an oversized table. It has a cracked vase on it and I put my hand out to finger the dusty plastic flowers.

  ‘Thoughtful touch,’ I manage, wanting to hurl them across the room.

  Jack opens the window on to the balcony and looks out at the stunning view of the building next door.

  Perfect.

  And so close.