Destination Thailand

CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_9e527c1b-b6c5-59f6-b4f6-9728c9f68635)

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.