Hope

by Angharad J Davies

  “Nervous flier, are we?” The stranger looks at me sympathetically.

  “No, not really.” I manage a small smile. “More worried about what’s at the other end.”

  The stranger looks confused and then decides an explanation would be too much trouble. He turns to the woman next to him to check that she’s okay. I turn to the window in relief. Conversation was not really part of the plan on this trip.

  I pull my flight bag onto my lap and start rummaging. Becky had pressed a small cardboard box into my hand at the airport and I had looked at it in dismay. Becky looked worried, but Nic was unrepentant.

  “Don’t look like that. They’re entirely natural and will just help you drop off.” She gently squeezes my arm. “It’s a long flight, Sarah. Take them just in case.”

  I was starting to think it wasn’t such a bad idea. Even waiting for runway clearance seemed to take forever. The way it was going I’d be a nervous wreck by the time I reached Bangkok, and I had an overnight bus and ferry ride to look forward to at the other end. I quickly pop one of the small white pills from its foil packet, and before I can overthink it, down it with a gulp of lukewarm, bottled water. I lean back and close my eyes, feeling the growing rumble of the engines as they prepare to propel us into flight. Tuning out the monotonous voice of the pilot and instead into my favourite red bikini memory, I drift off to sleep as the plane climbs steadily above the clouds.

  A few hours later I stir, and realise the flight attendant, is gently shaking me awake. Still half asleep, I murmur a response as to whether I’d like chicken or salmon. I forget my choice almost immediately, focusing instead on the mildly anxious and unsettled feeling in my stomach. Not the excited nerves from before, but a deeper worry; one that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  The stranger shuffles to pass my tray and I open the hot, foil packet to find a pink fish fillet. I slowly pick at the food, ruminating at my unexpected change in mood, until the attendant returns to clear the remainder of my dinner. I resist the urge to self-medicate with a small bottle of red wine from the drinks trolley, and instead return to a method of anxiety relief I haven’t used for a few years. I spend a little while focusing quietly on my breathing, earning a few suspicious glances from the stranger next to me. Gradually the growing feeling of unease dissipates, and I try to remind myself of all of the amazing things that await me at the end of my flight. The meditation starts to work its usual magic and I start to feel calmer.

  My flight companion decides to stretch his legs after dinner, and I take the opportunity to avail myself of the small, confined facilities. As I slowly lurch along the aisle, squeezing past passengers bored with sitting, and avoiding harried flight attendants, I spy the slim figure of a woman in front of me queuing for the next available vacant compartment. She turns to smile in acknowledgement as I wait patiently behind her, and I find myself having to snatch a breath. Short, messy, dark hair and beautiful green eyes; such a striking resemblance. And in that moment, a dream had broken and I instantly know why I had woken feeling so bleak. Still staring, I half raise my hand in apology, turning and walking to find a vacant bathroom on the other side of the plane.

  Grateful for the solitude the cool, small room affords me, I sit numbly on the seat and give myself permission to weep as the awful memory of my dream floods back. This time it was not of some imagined version of my mother’s crash, but instead a very real memory; the end of my relationship.

  A tear streaked face looks up at me from her crouched position on the bedroom floor; lips gnawed and bruised, quivering with pain and hurt. I found it almost impossible to look into those incredible green eyes; eyes that I had once lost myself in, spied her soul through. Grief, pain and anger battle hard with shame at my treatment of the woman that I still love so much, but the monster has been released and will not now be quieted.

  “No, I don’t see the point in relationship counselling. What is the hell is someone else going to bring to this particular party?” The sarcasm was designed to sting and Hope hung her head, embattled and exhausted.

  My mother’s crash had happened about nine months before, and in that time I had made Hope’s life a living hell, moving from a life as a ghost-like, grief-stricken recluse to one as a total bitch; ice-cold and immovable. Each morning I would look in the mirror with something akin to hatred at the stranger staring back at me, but I could seem to do nothing to find even a smidgeon of the person I had been before.

  Hope wasn’t the only person who had suggested counselling. Blod had campaigned hard to get me to a bereavement specialist, but I was adamant. I didn’t need help, I just needed time. Why did no one seem to realise that if I wasn’t gay then my mother would never have died. A ridiculous assertion now, but back then it seemed very, very real to me. Anger, shame, guilt, grief; all of it bottled up for months and then spewing forth, vitriolic and corrosive. Eating away, minute-by-minute, at everything that was good about me, everything that was good about us. What seemed even worse was I could no longer stand to look at Hope, but neither did I have the courage to end it, and that only increased my self-hatred, adding to the swirling vortex of negativity in my head.

  I’d since wondered whether I’d used those months as a punishment. Was that my reason for not sending her away? So I could inflict even more hurt? Whatever the reason, I look back at who I was then and a part of me withers inside. It was all utterly inexcusable.

  I look back at the tear-streaked face, at the body that had recently become so frail crouched on the floor, and I have to turn away. Hope’s quiet voice follows me to the door.

  “Sarah, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. I’m trying to understand and to help you sweetheart, you know I am. But you’re so distant, so cold, and it’s really starting to get to me now. I feel like I’m losing myself.” She descends back into shuddering sobs. The bitch in me surveys the destruction of the bedroom, ignores the quietly persistent voice of reason in the back of my head, and replies in a similarly low, but ice-cold tone.

  “Then you had better leave and save yourself.”

  Hope moved out the next day, without us having exchanged another single word. I remember standing motionless at the window of the flat, watching for all of the time it took her to pack up her car and drive away. I hadn’t heard from her again.

  My stomach lurches. I tell myself we must be experiencing some turbulence.

  Twenty four hours later I’m shown to my room on the beachfront at my hotel. Grubby, tired and hungry I drop my flight bag to the floor and sit myself at the bottom of the enormous bed. All through the remainder of the journey I have been unable to shake a feeling of dread, beyond either nervousness or excitement. I wasn’t sure what I was doing there, what I wanted, needed or expected. A switch had flipped somewhere in my head and I wasn’t sure why. It filled me with apprehension. Not the start to the holiday that I expected.

  I drag in a breath to the depths of my lungs and try desperately to clear the fog in my weary head. Tired of thinking, tired of feeling, I know I have to try and let it all go; that time would hopefully help me make sense of everything. I decide to lay low for a few days and not venture far beyond the hotel to give myself time to breathe. With that decision made, a warm glow of relief spreads slowly through my tired and aching body. I sink myself into the soft, white bed linen and am soon sound asleep.

  8

  I look out of the window of my hotel room at the approaching sunset, and just can’t suppress a smile. This beautiful spot at the north of Sairee Beach just couldn’t have been more perfect. Ko Tao was everything I hoped it would be. I was in the ubiquitous picture of paradise, with golden sand, sparking turquoise waters and gently rustling palm trees. My hotel was a short distance away from the town, so I it was unlikely that I’d run into Hope accidentally. Even so, for the first few days of my stay my heartbeat still kept an above average pace, in ever present awareness that she could be just around the corner.

  As I’d promised myself, I’d spent the fir
st few days quietly at the beach and hotel. It never ceased to amaze me, the difference that sunshine makes on your view of the world; the warm rays seeping into my pores, energising both body and spirit. I had started to develop a few small freckles on my nose and cheeks, a consequence of the beaming rays of light on my skin. I had treated myself regularly to Thai massage; the expert hands of my masseuse doing even more to relax the ever present tension in my neck and shoulders. Within a few days I had begun to feel almost normal, and when I managed to get through a full week without sight of the woman I had come to find, my heartbeat started to slow just a little more each day.

  I had just come back from a refresher diving lesson on the beautiful island of Nangyuan, north-west of the main island. Thronged with boats, tourists, snorkelers and divers, the two small beach-linked islands were surrounded by an incredible array of sea-life. I’d spent hours in the amazing blue waters, finding some peace amidst the coral and iridescent fish, losing myself in the muted tranquillity of their world. I’d forgotten just how much I loved the water.

  I’d started to develop a tan, and the ever-present dark circles under my eyes had started to fade, a consequence of a week’s worth of deep, uninterrupted sleep. I looked really quite healthy, and a sparkle had re-entered my previously sad, grey eyes.

  I smile to myself again, amazed that a single week here could make this much of a difference.

  Having showered and dressed I decided to finally escape the confines of my hotel and venture out. Sairee Beach in the evening was alive with bars and restaurants; residents, visitors, instructors, learners, fishermen and hawkers all contributing to a teeming social life. I wander slowly down the beach, happy to be alone, watching other worlds collide briefly with my own.

  I stop at a bar halfway down the beach, drawn by the soft orange glow of a line of fire pits in the sand. It’s busy, but I spot a free Thai chair close to one of the fires, surrounded by a group of young men and women. I’m beckoned forward to the space by one of the group, a tanned young man in typical backpacker gear; flip flops, vest top and colourful, loose cotton trousers.

  “Did you want a seat?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I fold myself into the recumbent chair, and look around for a waiter. Ordering a cold beer, I bring my attention back to the group of people sitting around me. With everyone’s eyes on the newest member of the group, I manage a small uncomfortable smile.

  “Sorry to intrude, but it’s really busy here tonight.”

  “To be honest, it’s pretty busy here every night. And don’t worry about it. The more the merrier.” Tanned man shows off a distinctively northern English accent, and smiles to reveal a row of very white, very even teeth. “You out here travelling?”

  I quickly shake my head. “No, just here for three weeks on holiday. Been here for a week already.”

  He nods and takes a long swig of beer from a bottle running with condensation. I remember mine is in my hand and gratefully do the same.

  I’m quickly given an introduction to the group by Pete, my new acquaintance and am not really given more than a passing glance by anyone except a woman sitting on the other side of the fire, who was also tanned with mid-length brown wavy hair, and appearing to be in her mid-twenties. I couldn’t help but appreciate her attractiveness and did my best not to stare back.

  “So are you all travelling together?” I ask, becoming increasingly curious about the very mixed bag of individuals sitting with me.

  “No, no.” It’s his turn to shake his head. “We all met a few days ago on a boat trip. We’re all travelling with at least one other person, except Kate over there who’s travelling on her own.” He points to the previous object of my attention who, clearly not be able to hear our conversation, looks at us with some curiosity. “I’m travelling with my mate, Ben.” Ben raises his bottle to me in acknowledgement. “We’ve spent a lot of time on the beach for the last month, so we’re off to Cambodia in a couple of days for a change of scene.”

  “Nice.” I smile with genuine envy. The thought of escaping life for a while was more than inviting.

  “You should think about doing it yourself.”

  “What, at my age?” I quickly dismiss the idea, but Pete is having none of it.

  “Lord, we see people travelling of all ages, don’t we Ben?”, who nods in agreement whilst downing the last of his beer. Pete quickly signals the waiter for three more. “Remember that doctor we met in Nepal who had just retired, Ben? Lost his wife to cancer a couple of years ago, and then decided to retire early and bog off round the world for a year,” he explains.

  We lose ourselves for a while in light conversation, Pete and Ben more than happy to share tales of their travel adventures in an effort to persuade me of the benefits of escaping life for a while with nothing more than a rucksack. The more they talked, the more I wondered whether I could.

  During the conversation I become increasingly aware of Kate’s regular attention, and presume it’s a bit of relief for her to no longer be the only single female traveller in the group. I see her looking over at one stage, and in an effort to be friendly, smile gently in her direction. I’m rewarded by a warm smile in return.

  Pete moves away, beckoned over by a small mixed sex group to discuss plans for Cambodia, and immediately Kate rises from her seat and moves to take advantage of the newly created space on my right. As she sits, I’m treated to a waft of a soft floral perfume and I close my eyes in appreciation of the distinctly feminine smell.

  “Hi, I’m Kate.” I open my eyes to find a small, tanned hand being held out toward me.

  “And I’m Sarah.” I take the proffered hand, conscious that it seems a somewhat formal method of introduction given the circumstance. I also realise that I’ve missed a distinctive accent; antipodean I think, but as I’m really bad at distinguishing Australians from New Zealander’s, I say so and simply ask.

  “I’m from New Zealand originally,” Kate laughs at my self-deprecation. “But I went to the UK to go to Uni and never left. I have dual citizenship as my Mum’s from Sussex.”

  I let my curiosity get the better of me, and firing question after question, find out that’s she worked in investment banking for a few years, but hated it. That she’s saved up as much money as she could with an idea of starting her own business, but felt the need for some time away first. That she’s halfway through her year out and will be moving on to other parts of Asia in a few days’ time. I realise then that given the timeline she’s just described, she’s closer to my age than I initially thought. There must be something in this travelling thing for her to look this good.

  Taking advantage of a gap in my inquisition, Kate asks a question of her own.

  “So what brings you to Ko Tao?”

  “Here on holiday.” My short response results in a narrowing of eyes and I realise that I’m being inexcusably rude. “My aunt bought me the trip as a birthday present. A thirtieth birthday present.” I smile to try to soften my initially brusque reply, and Kate nods her thanks.

  “That’s extremely generous. I usually get a L’Occitane gift box from my aunt.” She laughs, and nudges my arm gently with her hand. There must be a slight breeze coming off the sea as I feel the hair on the back of my arms rise. I look up at a gently smiling Kate, and a warm feeling centres in my chest. I slide further into the low-lying chair, my relaxed mood seeming to be further fuelled by the endless bottles of beer making their way from the wooden hut that served as the bar. Kate follows my lead, and we lie companionably mirrored on our chairs, chatting about nothing much, watching the flames in the fire pit and listening to the sound of the waves, now almost invisible in the darkness.

  Little by little the group breaks up, and I realise just how late, or early, it is when Kate and I are the last two left. Reluctantly, and with a bit of a wobble, I move to rest on my knees and retrieve my flip flops from the side of the chair.

  “Well it’s been really nice meeting you.” This time it’s my turn for formalities, and I hold
out my hand. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip.”

  Once again her small, soft hand slides into mine, only this time I know it’s not the breeze that is causing the hair on my arms to rise. Kate moves marginally closer, and once again I smell that wonderful fragrance.

  “What are you up to tomorrow?” she asks quietly. We’re all going out snorkelling to Shark Bay and then on to Coral Bay. It would be great if you joined us.” She moved closer still, and I struggle to focus on the invitation. I look up to find her face so very close to mine. I take a deep breath.

  “I’d love to.” I’m not sure where the whisper comes from, but it’s greeted by a smile of such energy, that it would even beat the supreme wattage of Blod’s.

  “That’s great!” Kate rises to stand, and using our still connected hands, pulls me to stand with her. She places a hand on my waist to steady me, the beer now really starting to have an effect. “Let me walk you back to your hotel.”

  That was something I really wasn’t ready for, and even my alcohol induced happiness had some limits.

  “No, that’s okay.” I place a hand on her arm to soften the rejection. “It’s really not that far and I don’t want to put you out.” I sense some disappointment, but know that I’m doing the right thing.

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” Kate smiles. “We’re meeting here at nine in the morning for some breakfast, before we head off to the boat.”

  “I’ll be here.” I squeeze her hand gently before gently releasing it. “Have a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You too.” She turns in the direction of her hotel, and I watch as she walks through the quiet alley toward the centre of town, casting a quick but meaningful glance at me over her shoulder, before disappearing between the closed bars and shops.