The Great Ex-Scape

by Jo Watson

  “You have destroyed my grandson’s chocolate.” Her voice got even louder and the man sitting across from us glanced in our direction.

  “I’m sorry. Here.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her a fifty-rand note. “Get him another one.”

  “It was the last one,” she said, but snatched the money anyway.

  “Well, I’m sure there’re many other chocolates out there.” I didn’t bother concealing the sarcasm in my voice.

  The old woman sat up straight. “Are you sassing me?” Vocal volume really growing now!

  “Shhhhh,” I hissed at her, putting my finger over my lips in a desperate attempt to silence her.

  “Don’t you dare shush me. And what on earth are you doing on the floor anyway?” Too loud! Way too loud. People were starting to turn and stare.

  I looked up again. Matt and Sam were getting closer, and I started panicking. I needed to get out of there, unseen. So I shot up, grabbed my bag and started power-marching away as fast as I could, hoping that I wouldn’t be seen. Only I was.

  “Val?” It was Matt.

  Shit! My power-march turned into a jog which soon turned into a run as I scuttled across the airport.

  “Val. Wait!” he called. And then I heard another voice.

  “Matt, what the hell are you doing?” Sam said. “Come back here. Immediately!” She sounded furious. I didn’t blame her.

  “Val. Stop!” Matt called out again. But I didn’t. How the hell was I ever going to look at him again when just the sound of his voice made me so embarrassed and panicky that I wanted to puke? I picked up pace and took a sharp left, and to my absolute joy, found this section of the airport jam-packed with hundreds of jostling bodies.

  International departures. I pushed my way straight into the dense crowd and started weaving through them, going deeper and deeper into the sea of noisy, moving bodies.

  When I was satisfied that I was right in the belly of the beast and that there was no way I could be seen, I took refuge behind a large group of Chinese tourists and let out a long, loud sigh of relief.

  Behind me stood a very large man with a sunburnt wife the color of a lobster. I could tell immediately that they were foreigners who’d come here on safari. She was kitted out head-to-toe in those trinkets you buy from game reserve shops, including two huge elephant head earrings. I was so intrigued by the way they swung so violently every time she moved her head, that when I suddenly found myself at the counter I was shocked.

  “Huh?” I looked at the woman behind the counter who was now talking to me. “I didn’t get that?” I said.

  “Ticket, please,” she replied.

  “Ti . . . Oh. No. I don’t have one,” I said, ducking down a little now that my Chinese protectors were gone.

  “Ticket, please,” she repeated. Very slowly this time.

  “I’m not really catching a flight,” I whispered to her. Her face crunched up, and she looked at me as if I were speaking in ancient tongues.

  “I know this is a little odd, but please can I just stand here while you help other people? I’m trying to hide from someone.” I rolled my eyes and tried to give her a knowing sisterly look. “You know. Men,” I tutted. But my attempts at sisterly bonding were not working on this puckered-lipped waif. She glared at me.

  “No, this would not be all right,” she spat. Her pitch-black hair was scraped back into a perfect ballerina bun. It was so tight that it looked like it was pulling her eyes and forehead back, DIY Botox. Her lips were stained a deep mauve color—very on fleek—and her eyelashes were as long as a cow’s.

  “Ticket, please!” She sounded like a stuck record now. I bit my lip and shook my head, refusing to move.

  “Hey, lady!” the American with the lobster wife shouted out. His deep voice was so loud and booming, that once again a few people turned.

  “Miss, I must insist that if you do not have a ticket, you must leave the line immediately.” The woman spoke again, her mauve lips enunciating the words.

  “Yeah!” The American agreed, and suddenly two other people joined in and the general volume of the conversation increased several more decibels. I looked around nervously and then, much to my horror, I saw Matt again. I turned my back on him and lowered my head to the counter.

  “Well?” the woman at the counter asked.

  “I . . . I . . .” Terror washed over me in violent waves that made me start sweating.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you’re holding up the whole queue,” someone else from the crowd shouted.

  “I’m going to miss my flight if this carries on,” another person chipped in.

  “Yeah!” the American seconded. “And then I’ll have to sue you and the airline.”

  “Ticket!” the woman behind the counter pressed.

  I looked around, everyone was staring at me and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt’s head turn. Shit! Our eyes locked for a second and then he started moving towards me. I turned quickly.

  “Ticket, I want one. NOW!” I yelled in her face.

  “Which flight?” she asked.

  “I don’t care,” I hissed at the woman. “Just get me on the next flight to, to . . .”

  “Val!” Matt was shouting now. I vaguely heard the woman behind the desk mutter something about some island somewhere. I didn’t care.

  “Yes! That one. That flight! Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

  I turned and watched in jaw-dropping horror as Matt started getting closer and closer, pushing his way through the thick crowd.

  “Move it, move it, move it!” I tapped my hand on the counter as the woman typed.

  “That will be—”

  “I don’t care,” I cut her off, thrusting my credit card and passport at her. Who the hell cared what it cost? I needed to get out of there.

  “Luggage to check in?”

  “No. Carry-on.”

  “Okay, then enjoy your—”

  “VAL!” he screamed. I grabbed the ticket from the woman’s hands and ran through the international security gates as fast as I bloody could, not stopping to look behind me.

  20 Aug.

  Dear Diary,

  I know it’s been a while. But I’ve been so busy and this Matt thing is all I can think about. It’s driving me fucking crazy. It’s like I have a song stuck on repeat in my head. And I don’t know how many hints I’m meant to drop either? There is only so much laughing and leaning and staring and touching a girl can do before she comes across as a total creep. The only thing I haven’t tried yet is taking actual clothing off and cartwheeling in front of him with my lady parts in the air!

  I’m starting to wonder if he’s even picking up on my signals. My friends think he is and is deliberately shying away from them, because he knows how intense our connection is and that scares him.

  But I’ve watched the movie He’s Just Not That Into You. Isn’t that just a thing that friends are meant to say to each other? So as not to hurt your feelings? Although, I do take some comfort from the fact that Ginnifer Goodwin’s character got together with that love-cynical bartender guy. But, on the other hand, Jennifer Connelly’s character did end up alone. (But that was because Bradley Cooper had an affair with Scarlett Johannsson, I mean . . . who wouldn’t? Look at her! I digress!)

  At least this has all given me an idea for work. Have been doing research for a new article “Real friends tell you the ugly truth, not the pretty little lies”—it’s about the lies we tell our friends, but shouldn’t.

  1. She tells you that your new haircut is cute, “you can totally pull off the pixie cut,” even when it makes you look like a boy

  2. When she changes her profile pic to one that she thinks makes her look sexy, but it’s just a little too slutty and try-hard.

  3. You tell her you totally like her new boyfriend because you don’t want to hurt her feelings, but clearly the guy is a loser and totally beneath her.

  Need to run and think of four more lies we tell our friends. Have managed to get lists of seven p
ast editors at the moment. YAY! Anyhoooo . . .

  More later . . .

  P.S. I AM SO IN LOVE WITH MATT

  P.P.S. I HAVE NEVER EVER FELT THIS WAY ABOUT ANYONE BEFORE

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I had no intention of boarding any flight bound for any island today. All I intended to do was sit at the bar and wait until I was sure Matt and Sam and whoever else was at the airport were gone. Then I would leave and catch a flight back to Johannesburg.

  Yes, yes . . . I knew how cowardly, not to mention expensive, this little mad escapade had just made me look. Running away from the problem, quite literally. But I was running away for a good reason: self-preservation!

  I once watched a YouTube video of a snake that pretended to die dramatically by thrashing and twisting around like that girl from The Exorcist. I was seriously considering this as my next option if running away didn’t work. If I walked out of here and Matt and Sam were still there, I may be faced with no other option but to fake my own dramatic death right there and then on the airport floor.

  I felt as if I was in some kind of a strange, surreal daze. Like a big heavy blanket of fog had descended on me. My phone beeped for what felt like the hundredth time, and I looked down at it. My friends had clearly learned of my crashing and burning and were all very concerned.

  Annie: You okay? I just heard what happened!

  Boy, did bad news spread fast. I turned my phone off and slipped it back into my bag.

  “Hey. Hi!” I raised my hand in the air and waved at the barman. My arm felt unusually heavy and somewhat hard to lift. “Another vodka, lime and soda. Please,” I said when he turned.

  I looked up at the TV behind the bar. A familiar program was playing and I found that somewhat comforting. It was season 3 of the UK’s Big Band Battle, in which wannabe rock-star hopefuls competed to win a recording contract. The band that was currently playing was called Six Feet Over It.

  The lead singer was totally over the top. He was trying very hard to be sexy. He gripped the mic in the way he might grip the naked flesh of a woman, running his hand up and down the mic stand suggestively as he thrust his pelvis and sang passionately.

  Their music was definitely of the cheesy, eighties power-ballad ilk, but it wasn’t entirely offensive. It was the kind of music that you would probably find yourself singing along to at a wedding, if you’d had a glass of champagne, or seven. The song reached its dramatic crescendo whereby the lead singer threw himself onto the stage floor. He grabbed his chest as if he was having a heart attack and then raised his head, looked directly into the camera and grimaced as if he was having a painful bowel movement. I rolled my eyes. That was taking it a tad too far, methinks.

  I downed my new drink when it arrived and realized it was probably a good idea to leave it there. I stood up, slapped some money down on the counter and decided to move on to a duty-free shop. I took a few steps, then, suddenly, I heard my name.

  “Valeria Ivanov.” It was a woman’s voice and there was something warm and comforting about her tone. It was almost motherly.

  “Valeria Ivanov.” The voice spoke again and I felt compelled to find out where it was coming from.

  I walked slowly through the mad rush of people in the airport.

  “Valeria Ivanov.” The voice called again. “This is the last boarding call for Valeria Ivanov. Please proceed to gate twelve for immediate boarding.”

  I looked to my left, and there it was. As if this was some kind of sign. As if it had been put there purposefully, just for me. Gate 12. A shiny, golden beacon calling my name—literally. I stared at the gate for a while. The pretty-looking woman standing there lowered her mouth to the microphone.

  “This is the last boarding call for Valeria Ivanov. Flight F765, departing from gate twelve.” The woman gazed around with a concerned look in her eye, and for some reason I felt bad for her and touched by her concern. Then she turned to the man next to her and spoke.

  “She’s not coming.” And with those words, something inside me flicked on. Something inside me screamed to life and I suddenly found myself shouting.

  “WAIT!” Everyone around me stopped walking and looked. “Wait for me. I’m coming!” I shouted again. I hobbled towards the gate on still unbendable knees.

  “Valeria Ivanov?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” I replied passing over my ticket and passport.

  She smiled at me. “I’m so glad. We were starting to think you weren’t going to make it.”

  “I’m here,” I said, “and I’m going to make it!” I said that line with a kind of poignant reverence. Yes, I was going to make it. Wasn’t I?

  She tore my ticket in half and handed me the smallest piece. I gripped it in my hands and followed her down the carpeted corridor and straight up to the open door of the plane. The air hostess at the gate smiled at me.

  “Welcome aboard,” she said. And for some reason I wanted to cry at the kindness in her voice. I had to fight the urge not to hug her. I walked down the aisle to what looked like the only empty seat on the plane.

  I slipped my small bag into the overhead storage compartment and sat down, buckling myself in. I did a double take when I saw who was sitting next to me; the Americans from the queue. The man shot me a curious eye.

  “So, you’re coming then?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I am.” I smiled back at him. “But to where?” I asked.

  “Huh?” He looked at me oddly and then glanced at his wife.

  “Where are we going, exactly?”

  His eyes flashed with surprise. “Réunion,” he said slowly.

  “Re-who-where?” I asked. I’d never heard of the place in my entire life!

  The plane started moving and then it suddenly dawned on me. What the fuck was I doing? I’d just boarded an international flight by “accident” and I had no idea where the hell I was going.

  15 Sept.

  Dear Diary,

  Yes! I know. It’s been a while. But I’ve been away, burning in the fiery pits of friend-zoned hell.

  Half of my friends think that maybe I need to accept the fact that I could be in the friend zone, and the other half still think that it can’t possibly be platonic. Platonic friends don’t spend so much time together. They think that maybe he knows how serious a relationship this would be if we got together, and maybe he’s just not ready for it? (That’s the current working theory from Lilly and Annie anyway.) Jane and Stormy are leaning more towards the whole, “he’s not into you” thing.

  I don’t know what to think anymore. I went to see a psychologist, not because I’m depressed or anything like that, but because I felt like I needed an outside opinion. But apparently psychologists don’t like to ever give opinions on things. I thought it was their job to give opinions and help you figure out what the right thing to do was. But NO! She kept saying, “What do I feel should happen?” “What do I think he feels?” “What do I think it means?” “What do I think that will mean for me?”

  HELLO . . . If I knew the answers to any of those questions, I would not have come to you.

  Anyway . . . Whatever . . . More later . . .

  CHAPTER NINE

  Réunion Island; a French island in the Indian Ocean. It’s known for its volcanic, rain-forested interior, high mountain ranges, coral reefs and tropical beaches.

  Well, according to the in-flight magazine I’d browsed during the flying anyway. The flight had been short, only a few hours, I hadn’t expected that. Since I’d never heard of this strange place, I was sure it was going to be somewhere far away, like in the Bermuda Triangle. Instead, having it right off the South African coast made the fact that I didn’t know it a little embarrassing.

  The flight had given me a chance to talk to my new American friends though. Pam and Bob, who hailed from Texas and had come on an African safari to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. I’d told them my entire story and they’d weighed in, and both agreed. Matt definitely had feelings for me, because there was
no such thing as a truly platonic friendship, they said. I felt somewhat better when I finally disembarked. That is, until I realized I had no idea what the hell I was meant to do next.

  I stood in the airport looking around. I couldn’t quite believe I was here. The people rushing past me all looked like they were in high holiday spirits. I stood there considering my options, before deciding that the best thing to do would be to book a flight straight back to South Africa.

  “What do you mean there’re only two flights a week and the next one is full?” I asked the woman behind the counter.

  She looked at me and repeated the same thing, a little slower this time. “There are only two flights a week between Réunion and South Africa, today’s one back is full and the next one is in three days’ time.”

  “Three days?” I couldn’t quite believe it. This threw a spanner in my works. I couldn’t stay in the airport for three days, could I? At that, Pam and Bob walked past me.

  “Goodbye,” I called after them. “Where are you staying, by the way?”

  “Saint-Gilles,” Pam called out as she walked. “It’s meant to be beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” I waved at them and then pulled my phone out. I went straight to a last-minute booking website and typed in the location and my desired dates. Suddenly, my screen was full of tropical beaches, bright green palm trees, cocktails with long, twirly straws and carnival-colored fruits. A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Sudden images of me on the beach with my face buried in a colorful drink raced through my mind and made me feel very, very happy.

  I flicked through the pictures and finally found what I was looking for; white beaches, crystal waters, lush green lawns, a colonial-looking hotel and the kind of breakfast buffet you could spend an entire day hanging out with. I pressed a few more buttons and just like that, I was booked in. Maybe three days of sea, sand and fresh air was exactly what I needed to forget this entire disastrous mess. I’d had to dip into my emergency savings fund, but hey, if this wasn’t an emergency then what was?