Flying Solo: The new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy coming this summer from Zoe May!

by Zoe May

  My dad suddenly suffered two heart attacks a few months apart and ended up in a wheelchair. He was made redundant. He had heart surgery and my mum became his carer while he was recovering, taking a break from her sales job. Except then, the company she’d been working for went bust. Both my parents were unemployed, and our landlady put our lovely house up for sale. My parents ran out of money and we ended up moving in with my mum’s sister, Jill. My mum called the council one afternoon to ask if there was any support they could offer us, and cried with shame over tea and biscuits in Aunt Jill’s kitchen after the council informed her we’d have to register as homeless before we could get any support. She swallowed her pride and gave in. The council offered us accommodation in a dodgy shelter known for drug use or a room in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town, which would have left us totally isolated since my parents sold the car months before.

  In the end, we just stayed with Aunt Jill, spending a year living in her tiny two-bedroom flat. She converted the living room into a bedroom for me, but it was never really a proper room. I slept on a sofa bed, which would be switched back to a sofa during the day, so my dad could sit and watch TV while I was at school. Aunt Jill did her best to try to make me feel some sense of ownership of it though and I had a corner where I kept all my things and a few posters on the walls, but it wasn’t the same as having my own bedroom. I missed my old room and our house so much, but I didn’t want to complain. My dad was in constant pain and I didn’t want to make him feel even worse by admitting how unhappy I felt. Instead, I’d just ask my mum every week if the council had found us a house yet. I must have been asking too much, because eventually, my mum snapped, shouting at me to stop nagging her. So I stopped asking and resigned myself to Jill’s sofa, when finally, we got a break.

  The council got in touch and offered us a house! It was on the edge of town, but my parents didn’t mind. What mattered to them was that we’d have our own space, our own home, a foundation upon which to rebuild our lives. I’d have my own bedroom again. No more sleeping on the sofa! My parents were so relieved, and their enthusiasm was infectious. We moved a few weeks later. My room was nothing like my old one. It was small and cramped and the walls were woodchip magnolia, but I still had a few bits of furniture from our old house, including my chest of drawers and dressing table, so I tried to settle in. My parents still didn’t have any money and couldn’t afford to decorate like they’d decorated our old house. Our place was furnished with mismatched second-hand stuff we found at charity shops or were gifted by friends. It took a while, but eventually we managed to get things feeling fairly homely, and then, just before Christmas, when we’d been in the house for about six months, the council informed us that the land had been sold to a housing developer and we’d have to move again. My parents were distraught.

  We were allocated another house. It was slightly bigger than the one we’d had and it was closer to Jill, but my parents were so on edge and demoralized that they couldn’t bring themselves to unpack half our boxes. They were convinced something would go wrong and we’d have to move again. For years, there were piles of boxes in the corner of each room. We never made ourselves at home and the house always had a slightly bare feel to it. There was no clutter, no decorations, no pictures on the walls. It was like my parents wanted it to be minimalist, so we could pack up and leave quickly and easily if need be. It wasn’t until I was sixteen or seventeen that my parents finally accepted that the house was pretty much theirs and they probably wouldn’t have to move again any time soon. It was only really when I was getting ready to go to university that they finally unpacked the last of the boxes and my mum began to adorn the house with little homely touches like scatter cushions and throws and fairy lights. My parents are still in the same house now, and these days, they’re perfectly settled and happy, but their struggle affected me. It was the reason I came up with my Life List. I guess you could say I wanted to be in control. I wanted to have a stable, comfortable life with a good job, a good home and a safety net. I didn’t want to end up moving around again. I promised myself that when I was finally in a position to get my own place, I’d make it as cozy and homely as possible. I’d make up for all those years of feeling a little bit lost.

  That’s why I fell so in love with my and Paul’s house. It dates back to the Victorian era and it may be a bit shabby around the edges, the walls having distorted over the years to become slightly lumpy, with the floors and ceilings a little tilted and askew in places, but I’ve always considered those things to be quirks rather than flaws. It’s an old house full of historical details that I just love, like a walk-in larder in the kitchen where I’ve always imagined families from a hundred years ago storing jam and pickled foods, nuts and grains and oats for winter. Paul and I get weekly Tesco deliveries, we don’t exactly stockpile, so we filled the larder with books. I love that. It’s like our own tiny library. I ventured nervously into it a few days after Paul left, curious to see if he’d packed any books for his trip, but they were all still there. I didn’t know whether to take that as a good sign or not. Is he planning to come back at some point? Will he curl up on the sofa with a cup of the lemon and ginger tea he’s always loved and read them? Has he simply abandoned them? Or maybe a removals man will come knocking to collect the things he’s left behind?

  I let out a gusty sigh and get up to pop another piece of bread in the toaster. Everything in this house, including the toaster, has been carefully chosen. The toaster isn’t just any old toaster, it’s a really cool retro 1970s one. It’s a pastel blue shade, which matches perfectly with the bone china hand-painted crockery I found at a craft fair and the vintage cutlery I got from Etsy, even the coasters. As I wait for my toast, I take in my coordinated kitchenware, and realize that Paul’s right. I may have my reasons for wanting to make my house homely, but I have probably taken things a bit too far. The toaster pings and I pluck the hot slice, placing it on my plate. I head back to the dining table, where I sit down on one of the antique mahogany dining table chairs Paul and I picked up for a bargain price at a secondhand furniture shop, and upcycled at home over the course of a couple of weekends. I feel a twinge of unease as I picture Paul sanding each chair down in the backyard. He probably wanted to be doing other things with his weekend, and yet he was stuck in a backyard surrounded by wood dust.

  I nibble on my toast and try to push the sadness and regret out of my mind. What’s the use in wallowing in self-pity over all the things I’ve done wrong? No. There’s no point in that. I need to think positively and stay focused on what I can do to salvage the situation. Once I’m in India, I’ll explain everything to Paul. I never wanted to burden him with my sob story before. Paul went through far worse than me as a kid. His dad, who he adored, died suddenly from a stroke when Paul was just seven years old. My story of not having had a nice house always felt like a fairly minor inconvenience in comparison. But I can see now that it might have helped if I’d opened up. Hopefully, Paul will understand, and we can move forward.

  I called Paul’s mum the other day, and she was as shocked by the whole thing as I am. She confirmed that Paul is indeed in India and told me that he’s staying at an ashram. An ashram! I googled it and I can’t get over how strange the place seems. I take a sip of my coffee and reach for my phone. I scroll through the ashram’s website for what must be the dozenth time. I’ve been trying to be positive about this trip, but I can’t pretend the ashram isn’t a dauntingly weird-looking place. It’s pretty, full of lush trees and winding terracotta paths, but it’s also populated by long-haired hippies who all wear white robes and look spaced-out in every picture. The founder is some yoga master and philanthropist known as Guru Hridaya. I looked up the meaning of ‘Hridaya’ and apparently, it’s Sanskrit for heart. Guru Hridaya is a portly, not particularly attractive, man in his fifties and when I showed his picture to Priya and the girls at work, they giggled, cracking mean jokes that Paul had ‘left me for him’. They know the best way to help me cope is to laugh
, but I have to admit, I am surprised by Paul’s decision. Of all the places and all the people he wants to escape to, a random guru in a strange ashram? I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that this is what my tough, northerner, Manchester United supporting boyfriend wants. But maybe I’ll see the appeal in person.

  I spoke to my boss, Nigel, and booked off some holiday. Nigel was pretty surprised that I want to jet off to India, but I insisted it was an emergency and he reluctantly agreed. After all, Paul’s right, I haven’t taken a holiday for years, so Nigel let the short notice slide. My tickets are booked and in just a few weeks, I’ll be on a plane, jetting far away from England and home furnishings.

  I may be leaving my comfort zone, but I’ll do whatever it takes to win back my man.

  Chapter Five

  I’ve got this, I tell myself as Priya drives along the deserted motorway towards Heathrow. It’s 4.15am and the roads are empty, shrouded in an early morning mist. I went to bed at 8pm last night, setting my alarm for the early hours, but I didn’t manage to sleep at all. I tossed and turned, plagued with last minute worries about whether I’m doing the right thing or whether I’ve completely lost the plot. I’ve never travelled as far away as India before. One of my close friends from school and I embarked on an interrail trip around Europe during our gap year, but the furthest away from home we got was St Petersburg. And yet now here I am, about to hop on a plane to southern India, alone.

  I know in theory it should be fine. People go to India every day. Intrepid solo travelers go there all the time, just like Paul, in the spirit of exploration and finding themselves, but while struggling to sleep at midnight, all I could think about was everything that could possibly go wrong. What if I’m on a rickety Indian train and it derails like you see in those horrific news stories from time to time? What if I get bitten by a rabid dog and die? Sure, I had my jabs last week, but they don’t always work. What if a sleazy guy takes a shine to me and I get harassed? What if someone mugs me on a dark street somewhere and I end up alone, in the middle of a strange unfamiliar place, with no money and no phone and… Oh God. The thoughts make my palms sweat even now so I quickly push them out of my mind. No. I’ll make it to the ashram safely. But what if I get there and I’ve still got my phone and my wallet and I haven’t been bitten by a rabid dog, and then I find that Paul’s had some kind of epiphany and fallen in love with Indian life? What if he’s found a beautiful hippy girlfriend and they’ve been experiencing all the joys of tantra together? The possibilities for disaster are truly endless.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Priya asks, glancing from the road ahead over at me.

  I suddenly realize I’ve been gazing ruminatively out into the fog and Priya and I haven’t spoken for quite a while.

  ‘Umm, yeah, I guess,’ I sigh, although the words don’t exactly ring true.

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve been tapping your toe non-stop for the past ten minutes and your nails are bitten down,’ Priya points out.

  I hadn’t even realized I’d been tapping my toe. I glance at my fingernails, the polish chipped. Priya’s right, I have bitten them down. My nail care has gone out the window lately and there have been a few times when I’ve caught myself absently biting my nails while imagining this or that nightmarish scenario about my trip. In my last apocalyptic daydream, Paul had reinvented himself as a yoga master and was touring India, leading workshops surrounded by dozens of lithe sexy hippy girls, all of whom were contorting themselves into bendy positions I’m not even remotely capable of.

  ‘I suppose I am a bit stressed,’ I admit. ‘I am going quite a long way away.’

  I decide not to tell Priya about my fears of Paul becoming a lothario yoga master.

  ‘You are, but India’s cool. It’s different, but I think you’ll be okay,’ Priya assures me, nodding to herself, before glancing at a road sign towards Heathrow.

  ‘You think?’ I echo. ‘You were the one who encouraged me to do this!’

  Priya laughs. ‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I?’ She pulls a face while I glare at her.

  ‘Yes, you did!’ I tut.

  Priya laughs, sounding ever-so-slightly nervous.

  ‘You’re going to be fine!’ she states, and I get the feeling she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

  I stare at her, unimpressed. Is she having doubts now too?

  She glances over at me, a bright enthusiastic smile plastered on her face. I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Look, the thing about India is if you smile at India, India smiles back,’ she tells me. ‘It’s not like the UK. Nothing runs on time. Buses are always late. People are late. Trains are late. It’s disorganized and chaotic and crazy, but you just have to go with the flow. It’s a weirdly spiritual place. Honestly, if you put out good energy, you’ll get it back.’

  ‘Put out good energy?!’ I parrot back, narrowing my eyes at her. ‘Since when do you talk about energy?’

  ‘Trust me. Smile at India, and India will smile back,’ Priya insists.

  ‘If you say so!’ I reply skeptically. ‘But what if the last thing I feel like doing is smiling?’

  Priya gives me a sympathetic look and reaches over to squeeze my knee, her other hand on the wheel.

  ‘Oh…’ she murmurs. ‘Okay, scratch that. Screw the energy side of things. Let’s make sure you’re fully prepared instead. Have you packed your mosquito repellent?’

  She focuses back on the road.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply affirmatively.

  ‘Anti-histamines?’ she adds.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Sunscreen?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Diarrhea medication, because no matter how good your energy is, every Brit visiting India needs that,’ Priya warns, glancing over.

  ‘Yep, I’ve got that too,’ I reply, hoping I won’t have to use it. The last thing I need on top of being dumped is a case of Delhi Belly.

  Priya covers a few more essentials, from how many rupees I’ve taken out, to whether I’m aware of Indian toilet etiquette. She insists that people in India use their left hand to wipe after going to the toilet, and that it’s culturally unacceptable to eat with your left hand.

  ‘People eat with their hands in India, but if you eat with your left hand, everyone will look at you. It’s totally gross!’ Priya tells me.

  ‘Okay, I won’t,’ I reply, even though I’m only half-listening.

  I find myself gazing out of the window, unable to stop fretting.

  ‘Have you got your toothbrush?’ Priya asks.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got that,’ I reply.

  So far, I’ve packed all the things Priya insists I’ll need, which makes me feel a little better. My vibes and energy and smile may be a bit lacking for this trip, but at least I seem to have packed the essentials.

  ‘Flip flops?’ Priya asks.

  ‘Well, I’ve got my Prada wedges,’ I tell her, knowing she’ll be familiar with the ones I mean since I bought them during a shopping expedition we took a few months ago to a designer outlet centre just outside London.

  The Prada wedges I found are utterly gorgeous and they were a total bargain. There’s no way she’ll have forgotten.

  ‘You mean those pink suede ones? Don’t those have a massive heel?’ Priya asks.

  ‘Kind of… I mean, it’s only two or three inches,’ I assure her.

  ‘Only two or three inches?’ Priya protests. ‘You’re going to an ashram, Rachel, not to the races. You can’t stomp around in India in Prada wedges. The terrain can be really rough over there and even when you’re in the ashram, people aren’t going to want to listen to you clomping about. They going to be trying to meditate!’

  I don’t reply. I’m too busy picturing people sitting meditating. People don’t really do that all day, do they? And anyway, I find it hard to believe that I’m going to be the only person wearing heels. Lots of people like wearing heels, regardless of whether they’re in an ashram or not.

  ‘You do realize that ashrams are about st
ripping back to basics, right?’ Priya asks, and I can feel her giving me a stern look. ‘No one’s going to be dressing up. No one’s going to be wearing heels, and certainly not designer ones! People probably won’t even be wearing make-up.’

  ‘No make-up?’ I echo.

  ‘Yes. It’s an ashram! It’s not the office or a City bar. You’re meant to shun things like make-up,’ Priya comments as she veers around a roundabout.

  ‘But I look like a sick Victorian child without make-up,’ I remind her.

  Even Priya has been known to ask, on the very rare occasions when I’ve come into work without my usual lashings of foundation, blusher and bronzer, if I’m feeling okay.

  ‘And anyway, how am I meant to win my boyfriend back without make-up on?’ I scoff.

  ‘Oh, come on! Paul isn’t going to be swayed by a bit of eyeliner,’ Priya laughs.

  ‘Hmph,’ I grumble. ‘And anyway, thanks for denying that I look like a sick Victorian child without makeup!’ I tease.

  Priya snorts. ‘Well, you could possibly do with a bit of sun!’

  ‘Great,’ I grumble. ‘Guess I shouldn’t have packed my fake tan either, then?’

  ‘You didn’t?’ Priya spits.

  ‘Of course not!’ I insist, even though there might just be two bottles of the stuff in my suitcase.