The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. On behalf of the crew I ask that you please direct your attention as we review the emergency procedures. There are six emergency exits on this aircraft . . .’

  My eyes flick hungrily to the emergency exits. Why? I (mentally) slap myself around the face and (physically) relax my body into my seat. I want to do this thing.

  Even though I was all ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL AM I DOING?’ the whole time I was tearing up my travel plan, I kept on shredding it until the pieces were too small to contemplate sticking back together again.

  After I had hung up on Richard without telling him categorically that it was over between us, and without insisting I was definitely, 100 per cent going travelling, I could have died of self-loathing.

  Why was I even on the verge of contemplating trading in my imminent travelling adventure for domestic cohabitation, just because the potential cohabiter had snapped his fingers?

  The realization I’d drifted so far from who I used to be scared me. Life was fun when I was spontaneous and happy-go-lucky but somewhere along the line I developed an irrational need to be in control. And the real killer is, when I look back over the last few years, I’ve never been less in control of my life.

  Even though deep down I’ve always known my desperation to escape Mothston and the people in it was tied up with that awful night with Dean Jones, it wasn’t him I blamed for it. It was me – for letting myself get in that situation in the first place. Dean shouldn’t have done it, and Ellie shouldn’t have made me think it was all my fault, but it was never them I hated.

  Admittedly, I did derive a SMALL amount of satisfaction from hearing through Mum that Dean resents his job cold-calling to sell conservatories nearly as much as he resents his unemployed, live-in girlfriend. And likewise, when Mum mentioned a couple of years ago that she’d run into Ellie’s aunt, who revealed that Ellie had been diagnosed with irreversible bowel incontinence, I found a TINY bit of pleasure knowing that she sometimes shits herself in public.

  That’s not HATE, though.

  I was the one I really blamed.

  That’s why I’m not sorry Alex came back into my life, even though I got hurt. He brought out the person I used to be. And on reflection, she was a better version of me.

  And so I know what I’m doing now is a good thing. It’s how I always said I’d do it one day. I never wanted a step-by-step itinerary, or adventures with deadlines that I can tick off once they’re done. I’ll go where my mood takes me, and stay as long as I’m enjoying it and leave when I’m ready for something new. And I’ll come home when I’m ready – whether that’s one month, six months or five years.

  So I won’t be rushing for the emergency exit before take-off, because my fear is etched with something else. Something I don’t think I’ve experienced properly for a long, long time. Excitement. The scary kind that comes from not knowing what’s in store. The excitement I felt as a kid when my folks were taking me to Spain and I had no idea what would be there, and where I’d be sleeping, and who I’d meet. Or when I sent off my UCAS form with my university choices, and I knew I was committing to living somewhere new with people I didn’t know and doing things I’d never done before, but I didn’t know where, who or what.

  I’ve got my first three nights booked at a hostel in Bangkok, and a vague plan to spend Christmas Day in Aus with Jess, my uni mate, but other than that . . . WHO THE HELL KNOWS?

  I lean back and close my eyes, smiling slightly to myself, until a forceful thud on the back of my headrest sends my head catapulting forward, making me sigh.

  I turn and peer over the top of my seat at her mum, with a mildly irritated look on my face, then turn back round.

  That’ll teach her.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you may have noticed, we’ve just turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign. If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of you or in an overhead locker. Could you please take your seat and fasten your seat belt?’

  Right, Holly. This shit just got real.

  I slide my seat belt into its clasp and close my eyes again, thinking about what my taxi driver said earlier.

  ‘The problem with the world,’ he’d asserted emphatically, meeting my eyes in the rear-view mirror, ‘is that everyone’s in such a rush to get somewhere that they forget to enjoy the journey.’

  Granted, he was talking about the traffic – he’d passed a massive accident on the other side of the motorway on his way to collect me and the road was a bumper-to-bumper assembly of honking horns and angry shouts, apparently.

  But really, it’s a metaphor for life, isn’t it? What’s that wanky bollocks everyone always says? ‘Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans’ – that’s it. That’s the thing with wanky bollocks – there’s usually some truth in it.

  Anyway, it’s lucky the taxi driver knew about that accident on the motorway – I could have still been sitting on his back seat right now if he hadn’t known to take a detour. Instead, I’m just minutes away from a completely fresh start.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll shortly be making our ascent. Please can we ask you to make sure your window blinds are open and your table trays are in the upright position for take-off? Please turn off all personal electronic devices, including laptops and mobile phones.’

  Well ahead of you, Captain. My phone has been off since I left my flat. I spent all last night on the phone promising to look after myself (Leah), promising to get stoned in an Australian hippy town called Nimbin (Susie) and promising to stay in touch with news of any men I meet/fancy/see naked (Jemma). No word from Alex. I wondered whether I should call him, to say goodbye. And I almost did – I had my finger on the call button. But then my folks turned up early and I had to sit with them promising to buy a bum bag for my valuables (Dad) and to get out of the bloody dark ages and join Facebook so I can update my status and post some photos (Mum – she’s got nineteen friends, apparently).

  I couldn’t face calling him today – I have to look forward, not back – and I couldn’t bear the disappointment of constantly checking my screen to see if he’d called, and seeing he hadn’t. So I turned it off as soon as I got into the taxi.

  It felt meaningful at the time but a bit stupid now. Should I check it quickly now as it’s my last chance?

  I glance at the cabin-crew lady doing her final checks. She’s trying to squeeze a duffel coat into a packed overhead locker a few rows in front, so I pull my BlackBerry out of my bag and turn it on, waiting for the screen to load up. A few seconds later it starts vibrating, and notifications of six missed calls and three text message appear. Crikey.

  The first call is from Richard. Oh God, I forgot to call him back. I’m a terrible person. Actually, no I’m not – see how he likes playing the waiting game. For months now I’ve sat by waiting for whatever affection he decides to throw my way, whenever and wherever it suits him – honoured that it’s me he chose to give it to. I can’t believe I nearly got sucked back into that yesterday. I felt so disgustingly grateful that he was telling me he loves me and offering me a place to live that I almost forgot I don’t want his ridiculous, conditional, narcissistic love in his shiny, characterless bachelor pad anyway.

  Nor do I, Harold concurred when I said that out loud to her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t entirely sure whether she was even invited.

  The remaining five calls are from . . . Alex.

  I suck my breath in and click into my messages.

  Alex.

  Alex.

  Alex.

  ‘Hi, folks. We’re now ready to depart. Could all members of the cabin crew please start making their way towards their own seats, ready for take-off?’

  What does Alex want? After a week of radio silence, he decides in my last hour in the country that he really needs to contact me? After a week of me hoping he’d call. A week of me trying to work out what I’d say if he did.

  I click on the first
text message, and take a sharp breath – my annoyance at his timing turning into something else. Something I can’t quite describe.

  I click on the second message. My heart is palpitating like I’ve just taken three Pro-Plus and washed them down with a can of Red Bull.

  ‘Can you put your bag under the seat in front of you, please?’ The cabin-crew lady, suddenly beside me, makes me jump. ‘And that needs to be turned off now.’

  Clicking into the third message, I stare at the words.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she says impatiently. Her tone snaps me back to reality and I shake my head.

  ‘No,’ I whisper, turning off my phone and slipping it into the back of the seat in front of me with trembling hands.

  She pauses, peering at my face, which I’m pretty sure is devoid of colour.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’ she asks, her tone warmer, her face registering concern.

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumble, as my mind processes those three words from Alex. The three words I’ve been waiting to hear from Alex since that rainy September, eleven years ago. ‘I feel fine.’ I force a smile. ‘Thanks.’

  She nods, then continues quickly down the aisle to complete her final checks, before walking briskly back to her own seat and strapping herself in.

  And I do feel fine, I realize, as the plane makes its bumpy journey across the runway.

  I feel different somehow, I acknowledge, as it lifts smoothly up off the ground, and heads towards the clouds. But I feel fine.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ALEX

  October 2011

  I pull the book from my satchel and hold it aloft for the class to see.

  ‘Who can tell me what Romeo and Juliet is about?’

  Bhumi Khan folds her blazer tightly across her front and then raises her arm. Three or four others follow suit.

  ‘Not seen it,’ answers Gareth Stones, who isn’t one of the three or four. Slumped into his chair, his body is almost linear.

  I ignore him. ‘Bhumi?’

  ‘It’s a love story, isn’t it?’ she answers. ‘DiCaprio and Danes get it on.’

  Stacey Bamber looks at Bhumi as if she’s just farted. ‘Danes and DiCaprio both die, fool. It’s about not always getting what you want.’

  Stacey nods, satisfied with her answer.

  ‘You’re both right,’ I adjudicate. ‘It’s a love story and a tragedy, but at its heart it’s a story of two feuding gangs. The Montagues and the Capulets.’

  Gareth’s eyes awaken for a second, but he immediately remembers his disinterest. Which is fine. Holly was right: I was concentrating on the wrong half. Gareth is never going to read Shakespeare in his time or mine. My strategy now is to hold the attention of as many of the others as possible by making the syllabus relevant to their lives. If the work interests them, it follows that Gareth won’t have a captive audience for his juvenility. This is how I’ll articulate it in my interview next week.

  I circulate copies of the play. Gareth has a query.

  ‘Yes, Gareth?’

  ‘Is it true that Mr Rodgers is nailing Ms Pritchard?’

  Bhumi gasps, then covers her open mouth with her palm. There are sniggers, but most of the class is rapt, eager for my response.

  ‘Gareth, I’ll be happy to have a discussion on nailing when I’m confident you know anything about it.’

  Gareth’s face turns crimson amid the guffaws of his classmates. He cannot seem to muster a comeback, and I worry that I’ve gone too far. What if he submits a complaint to Mr Cotton? He’ll never appoint me Head of English then.

  I review the clock above the door. Five minutes until we can all go home. My thoughts once again start to linger on what lies ahead tonight when Gareth straightens himself.

  ‘I guess we can discuss it now, then,’ he says, scratching his armpit. ‘Seeing as I’ve been nailing your mum.’

  The room falls into a silence punctuated only by the whistle of the autumn wind through the tall conifers adjacent to the gym. I haven’t yet formulated a response of my own when Kenny rises to his feet, slowly but purposefully, and strides towards Gareth. I know instantly that I need to intervene, but it’s as though I’m in a dream where something terrible is happening and I cannot move.

  Gareth’s frame retracts so that his chair scrapes against the floor. The rest of the class looks at Kenny and Gareth, then me, then Kenny and Gareth, as if they’re spectators to a game of tennis.

  I shuffle from behind my desk. ‘Sit down, Kenny.’

  Undeterred, Kenny grabs the front of Gareth’s shirt before I’m close enough to come between them. Gareth is stiff with fright, even though Kenny is a good six inches shorter than him. He might have turned out to be an innocent bystander at the stabbing, but a month in a young offenders’ institute seems to have earned Kenny a reputation as someone not to be messed with.

  He draws Gareth nearer.

  ‘I’m not even joking, you best shut the fuck up about people’s mums,’ he threatens, just as I take him by the shoulders.

  But I’m redundant. Having said all he apparently wanted to say, Kenny returns to his seat while the rest of the class gawp at Gareth. He shrugs his shoulders to show that he is not defeated but his face, completely drained of colour, betrays him.

  ‘OK, I think we’ll call it a day.’ I take a few seconds to steady my voice and think about what to do next. ‘Kenny, stay behind, please.’

  The class stands in slow motion, the usual Friday-afternoon stampede replaced by a disbelieving shuffle, girls whispering to one another, boys lifting the tops of their jumpers over their mouths to hide cackles and smirks. Bhumi is the last out, leaving Kenny and me alone.

  ‘Why isn’t Gareth here? Why is it just me in trouble?’

  Sitting at my desk, I bury my face in my hands for a brief moment. Any other day and I’d be able to think about this lucidly. I examine the clock again, and I know the next few hours are going to feel like an era.

  I exhale wearily. ‘You’re not in trouble, Kenny.’

  ‘Why am I here then?’

  ‘Because I want to make sure it stays that way. Something tells me you and Gareth wouldn’t have gone into the corridor and shaken hands. I just want you to stay here until he’s out of the way. I’ve got things to do anyway, we don’t even have to talk.’

  I pretend to mark some mock exam papers and after ten minutes of silence I release Kenny and follow him into the now sleepy corridor. He nods goodbye as we part, and there is nothing hidden in the gesture, no malice or disgruntlement or resentment. It feels like progress.

  I get there an hour early, but I’m too fidgety and nervous to sit, so I take up a position midway along the metre-high barrier where I’ll be able to see her arrive. I check myself and regret my outfit. These brogues resemble canoes with chinos, and they look too new. She’ll take one look at me and either laugh at my attempt to be hip or be freaked that I’m dressed like I’m going on a date. I attempt to scuff the shoes on the barrier, without success.

  Needing a distraction, I draw my phone from my pocket.

  ‘I thought you were meeting Holly?’ is how Kev answers.

  ‘I’m an hour early.’

  Kev snorts. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, cockermouth.’

  ‘The thing is . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Holly doesn’t know I’m here to meet her.’

  HOLLY

  I stretch my arms and legs as far as the ceiling and seat in front of me will allow, blinking. I must have dozed off. It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning according to my watch, which is still on Melbourne time.

  ‘Whaa ime issin unden?’ I yawn loudly.

  ‘Eh?’ asks Ryan, yanking his headphones out of his ears.

  ‘What time is it in London?’ I repeat.

  ‘About six in the evening, I think.’

  ‘Crazy.’

  I’m bored, and too uncomfortable to get a proper sleep, so I pull out the carrier bag I shoved under the seat in front of me, and empty my airport purchases
onto my tray.

  With the tiny koala bear Babygro over my hand, I use my fingers to walk the matching bootees over onto Ryan’s tray.

  ‘G’day, mate!’ I say in a babyish voice.

  Ryan laughs and grabs the Babygro, regarding it thoughtfully while biting his lip.

  ‘Can’t believe I’m going to be a dad in six months,’ he sighs eventually. ‘And that I’m moving to London. And that I have to drink my beer warm from now on.’

  ‘Get used to it, dude,’ I tell him, grabbing the Babygro and repacking the bag. ‘And that warm beer thing is just a myth, perpetuated by you Aussies.’

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, me leaning against my window and staring out at the clouds. It’s weird to think I’ll be back on British soil in less than an hour. The past twelve and a bit months have flown by. Before I went away, a year would drag on endlessly, but this has gone in the blink of an eye. When I think back to my flight out of London, it seems like a lifetime ago. So much has happened. And there are people who have come into my life who feel like they’ve always been there.

  ‘You sad to be back?’ asks Ryan, reading my thoughts.

  Am I? I think about all the adventures I’ve had. The sights I’ve seen. The drinks I’ve drunk and the sunshine that’s soaked into my skin. And then I think of home. And my folks. And my friends. And Harold, who hurtfully replied to the postcard I sent her with a message from York, saying she’s happier now than she’s ever been, and that she’s now known as Harry. I think of summer picnics on Blackheath Common and pubs with log fires on winter nights.

  ‘No,’ I grin, truthfully. ‘I loved every minute and wouldn’t change a single bit for the world, but I’m proper excited to be back.’

  ALEX

  ‘She’s not expecting you to be there?’

  I hadn’t planned on telling anyone this little detail, lest they make me doubt even more the wisdom of what I’m doing. I suppose there was a part of me that hoped Kev would reassure me.

  I look around. Half of London seems to be waiting for someone. To my left is a tall, goateed man wearing a black suit, patent shoes and chauffeur’s cap. To my right a man of sub-Continental appearance is dressed in beige trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt. Handwritten signs inform me they are waiting for Kerrigan and Lovejoy respectively, and these formalities cause me to consider abandoning this whole idea. Kerrigan and Lovejoy will be escorted to their cars and driven home in comfort to their loved ones, who will probably have a coq au vin on the hob. What am I going to do? Carry Holly’s bag and look on idly as she works out which tube we need. I don’t even have any money for a taxi. We’ll have to take a detour to a cash machine. Just what you want after a twenty-three-hour flight from Melbourne via Dubai.