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

by Zoe May

  ‘Do you speak to the girl much?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ Seb replies. ‘We’re friends online, but she’s living with her family now, taking time out. I don’t think she particularly wants to talk to me.’

  I nod, not knowing what to say. The whole situation sounds intense and I can see that it’s probably the sort of thing that time heals. I’m about to say something to that affect when Meera comes barreling over, carrying a few dishes.

  ‘Brought you some more parathas!’ she enthuses, placing a plate of steaming parathas on the table.

  She sits down next to me and begins tucking into her food.

  ‘Cool!’ Seb replies, smiling brightly. ‘Thanks.’

  He reaches for a paratha and gives me a small, sad, private smile. I smile back, wishing there was something I could do to help.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sun streams through the beams of my treehouse. I pull back my mosquito net and watch particles of dust swirling in the light, while listening to the sounds of the birds chirping. Eventually, I crawl out of bed and pull back my treehouse curtain. I gaze out over the treetops. The sun is rising and it’s already a warm, ambient, gleaming day. Weirdly, as I take in my surroundings, I feel almost at home. It’s been a while since I arrived now and funnily enough, despite how unplanned and unexpected this trip has been, I feel like I’m settling in. I’ve made memories since I’ve been here. I’ve had conversations with new friends – deeper conversations that I’ve had for ages with people back home in London. I suppose that’s the kind of thing that makes a place a home – it’s memories and connections, not necessarily cushions and soft furnishings.

  Seb interrupts my thoughts, appearing from the kitchen with a bottle of water in one hand and a towel in the other. He’s wearing a loose vest, gym shorts and running shoes.

  He must sense my eyes on him because he suddenly looks my way. I feel happy noting the way his eyes light up when he catches sight of me.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, waving up at me.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply as I make my way down the ladder.

  Seb approaches as I climb down. He looks incredibly gorgeous – all blue-eyed and tanned and healthy and handsome. I should really be getting used to his good looks by now, but I still feel girlish and almost giddy every time my eyes land upon him.

  ‘Are you heading to the gym?’ I ask, stepping off the ladder and glancing towards his bottle of water and running shoes.

  ‘Yeah! I felt like I should burn off the parathas,’ he laughs, rolling his eyes a little.

  I wonder if either of us are going to mention the conversation we had last night. When Meera came along, we instantly switched to lighter topics. I can’t help wondering how Seb’s feeling now, and yet I don’t want to bring it up and make him uncomfortable.

  ‘Cool! I should probably do the same,’ I comment, even though I have absolutely no intention of working out right now.

  ‘Do you want to come?’ Seb asks.

  ‘No, I’m alright. Maybe tomorrow.’ I shrug.

  Seb nods. ‘So what are you up to this morning?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Coffee!’ I laugh.

  The truth is, I have no plans. My only real plan is to make coffee, sit down at the picnic table and hope the peacock reappears so that I can admire him, but I don’t feel like telling this to Seb. Peacock-spotting doesn’t seem anywhere near as valid as a gym session.

  ‘I think I’ll just relax, unwind, maybe check out the hammocks and do some reading,’ I say, gazing over at the hammocks slung between the palm trees at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘Sounds nice.’ Seb smiles. ‘Well, see you later then.’

  ‘See you later!’

  Seb breaks into a light jog and runs out of the guesthouse. He’s clearly in the mood for exercise. The Swoosh on his Nike trainers becomes a blur as he jogs away. He must be one of the only people in the ashram who wears Nike running shoes. Other people here would probably deem such shoes to be emblematic of Western consumerism - the antithesis of enlightenment, but Seb just does his own thing. He doesn’t feel the need to put on a performance of being ‘spiritual’. He makes his own rules and I like that about him.

  I head to the kitchen to make my coffee. I still haven’t gotten round to buying my own kitchen supplies so pinch a bit of Seb’s coffee again and boil up some water on the stove. As the water’s boiling I think about Seb and the things we spoke about last night. I knew there would be a significant reason for him coming here. After all, you don’t just up sticks and relocate to India over nothing, but I had no idea quite how serious the reason would be. I thought he was just a player who had drunk too much and taken too many drugs and was having a quarter-life crisis. I didn’t realize how much more there was to the story. I’d never have imagined that there was a pregnant girl, an abortion, and that Seb would be feeling so much guilt and sadness over everything. It’s like he’s punishing himself in some way, denying himself the things he took pleasure in before this girl got pregnant, as some kind of penance. Poor guy. He may think he’s made a mistake, but he’s a good person, that’s obvious. He wouldn’t even be here beating himself up over everything if he wasn’t. I hope if this trip teaches him anything it’s that he has a good heart and he’s not a bad person.

  As much as his celibacy frustrated me before, I now respect it. He needs to do whatever it is he needs to do in order to process what’s happened. Hopefully, he’ll come out on the other side of all this feeling less guilty and no longer beating himself up. I might have found his celibacy vow annoying before, but I’m definitely going to stop lusting after him now. Or at least try. I’m certainly going to stop wishing he’d give up his vow for me. He needs this. He needs to do whatever it is he feels is right to move on. He needs to get over his past just as much as I need to get over Paul and move on from that stage of my life.

  My water boils. I make my coffee and head outside.

  I sit down at the picnic table and take a sip. Something catches my eye on the table, and I look down to see a snail, slowly streaking its way along the table leg. I feel a pang of sadness. Paul and I always had an in-joke about snails. He told me once that the first time he realized he was in love with me was when he watched me leave his flat for work one morning, back when we were first dating, and saw me stoop down and pick up a snail from the front drive, before carrying it over to the garden and placing it safely within the shrubbery, where it wouldn’t get stamped on. Apparently that small caring gesture made Paul realize I was the woman for him. I thought it was hilarious when he told me and from then on, whenever we saw a snail, I’d joke that it was ‘Cupid’ – the snail that made him fall for me. We were once in the Royal Botanical Garden in Kew back in London when we stopped by a tank of snails and I shrieked excitedly, pointing at the glass.

  ‘Look, it’s Cupid!’

  Paul rushed over and planted a massive kiss on my lips as a pair of elderly ladies eyed us strangely.

  ‘Things haven’t really worked out, Cupid,’ I sigh, plucking the snail of the picnic table and placing it in a nearby bush.

  I sit back down, wishing the peacock would make an appearance. But never mind. The leaflet about activities in the ashram is still on the table. I pick it up and flick through to see what’s happening today.

  I scan the listings. The ‘Get in touch with your spirit animal’ workshop is taking place.

  A mischievous part of me feels like going. It sounds so bonkers and yet it would no doubt make for a hilarious story. Priya and everyone else at the office would laugh out loud if I told them I’d tried to channel my inner goat, or dog, or whatever animal I truly am.

  I check out the time and place the workshop is being held, cross-checking the map at the back of the booklet to try to figure out how to get there.

  As it turns out, the workshop is being held in a studio not far from the guesthouse and it’s on in just a couple of hours. I figure I can have a shower, read my book or maybe attempt to write in my diary for a
bit, lounge in the hammocks and then make my way there. I may as well. When in an ashram and all that…

  Just as I’m having this thought, the peacock saunters into the guesthouse. There he is! He looks even more beautiful than I remember, his striking feathers shimmering in the bright morning sunlight. He approaches, looking regal and proud.

  As he nears my table, I realize I have a massive goofy grin spread all over my face. It hits me that two weeks ago all I wanted was for Paul to propose. All I wanted was for him to put a ring on it. I was so desperate to tick the goal of getting engaged off my Life List and now here I am, sitting in an ashram, smiling at a peacock, feeling completely mesmerized and content. This moment was never on my Life List and yet I couldn’t be more grateful for it. Maybe life is better when it’s not planned.

  ‘Morning,’ Meera says, distracting me.

  ‘Morning!’ I reply, glancing her way.

  She looks almost as colorful as the peacock, wearing a beautiful purple sari, her hair falling in shiny waves over her shoulders. She smiles and heads into the kitchen, emerging moments later with a steaming cup of chai. She sits down opposite me.

  ‘So how was last night then, huh?’ she asks, taking a sip of chai and giving me a cheeky look.

  She clearly suspects something happened between me and Seb, or at least suspects something is going to happen.

  ‘It was good!’ I laugh, before sipping my coffee.

  ‘And…?’ Meera perseveres.

  ‘Well, Seb’s obviously gorgeous and I really like him but I don’t want to stand in the way of his pledge,’ I explain. ‘He seems to be taking it really seriously.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Meera sighs. ‘I understand. It’s a shame though.’

  ‘I know,’ I admit. ‘Under different circumstances maybe it would work out, but I suppose we both have stuff to deal with right now.’

  Meera smiles, a little sadly. She clearly liked the idea of matchmaking.

  ‘That makes sense,’ she admits.

  We chat about the restaurant last night, the amazing food and the peacock, who it turns out, is called Raja, meaning king, and is like a pet to Meera. I tell Meera that I’m thinking about going to the spirit animal workshop.

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s a good one!’ Meera insists, her eyes flickering almost wickedly.

  I’m about to ask her to elaborate when some new guests arrive, ready to check in.

  I head back to the kitchen to wash up my mug and then go to get ready.

  Having had a shower and got dressed, I take my book on female corporate empowerment and make myself comfortable in one of the hammocks. My book may not be the most spiritual choice of reading material in the world, and I can see now why the man on the plane seemed surprised that I was heading to this ashram with such a book. I’d feel embarrassed to read it in the mail hall or somewhere where other people could see. It’s like caring about corporate success makes you a sell-out here. But I’m proud to be a lawyer. This ashram wouldn’t even be possible were it not for laws protecting people from anarchy and crime.

  That’s the problem with the hippy narrative. It depends upon privilege. Fortunate Western hippies who happen to be able to take months out of their lives to do yoga and meditate in India, act like they’re above the ‘sell-outs’ who facilitate their ‘enlightenment’ in the first place. While going on about the importance of doing yoga all day and meditating and leading alternative lifestyles, they forget about the pilots who flew the planes to get them here, the engineers who designed the roads, the tech geniuses who run the social networks that keep them in touch with their families back home, the banks that facilitate the funding of their trips, the medics that can provide care if something goes wrong, and all the workers who maintain the irrigation systems and waste disposal and food provisions that keep them healthy and well. Those people aren’t spending their days meditating and yet their contribution to the community is invaluable.

  I guess that’s why I can’t identify with hippies. I don’t need to spend all day meditating to feel enlightened. In spite of how much I may have been over-working in London and losing touch with myself and my sense of happiness, I’m still proud to be a lawyer. Upholding the law is important and reading books that help me do that is fine, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I rock my hammock gently and gaze at my toes. Birds chirp above me as I open my book.

  I get through a couple of chapters, broken up with a lot of daydreaming and then I realize it’s time for the spirit animal workshop. I feel a twinge of unease. Am I really doing this? Part of me wants to simply carry on lying in the hammock, but I should do something unique while I’m here.

  I leave my book in my treehouse and head over to the hall where the workshop is taking place. There are quite a few people hanging around outside, waiting for the workshop to start. There must be a couple of dozen people. Most look a little nervous, as though, like me, they can’t quite believe they’re doing this. Although there are a couple of die-hard hippies who look completely relaxed and confident as though they do this sort of thing all the time.

  I linger at the edge of the group. I’m not really sure whether to speak to anybody. No one is really chatting. The atmosphere is quiet and anticipatory, almost tense.

  I begin to feel awkward, when a man who must be in his early forties appears, striding confidently towards the front door of the hall. Everyone turns to him and I realize he must be the teacher. He’s wearing baggy harem trousers and a slouchy grey t-shirt over a lean, yoga-toned body. He’s bald but has a long wispy grey beard that he’s gelled into a point.

  He takes a key from the pocket of his trousers and unlocks the door, pulling it wide open.

  ‘Welcome everybody. Namaste!’ he says, gesturing for us all to head into the hall.

  ‘Namaste,’ a few people reply.

  ‘Welcome. Hello. Good morning!’ he says enthusiastically to each person as we file into the hall.

  He has a thick American accent and I find myself wondering what led him to end up teaching spirit animal workshops in an ashram in India.

  The hall is incredibly beautiful inside. It’s circular with a domed glass ceiling, and it’s flooded with light. In spite of the looming weirdness of the workshop, the atmosphere of the hall is still uplifting.

  ‘Welcome to this workshop!’ The instructor says, striding into the center of the hall once everyone has filtered in.

  ‘Hello everybody and welcome,’ he says, smiling beatifically.

  ‘My name is Jasper and I will be your guide today, assisting you in getting in touch with your spirit animal,’ he says.

  I try not to smirk.

  ‘Have you ever had a recurring dream about an animal? Have you ever been followed by an animal or connected with an animal in a way that feels unique or special? Have you ever crossed paths with an animal and helped that animal in some way? That animal might be your spirit animal.’

  Jasper carries on talking about the unique connection between people and animals and how our spirit animals may represent a part of ourselves we have not yet ‘manifested’. He claims that by engaging with our spirit animals, we can reach our true potential.

  ‘Now let’s start with some stretches,’ he suggests, launching into a lunge.

  Half the attendees start doing serious yoga moves. One girl even drops into the splits.

  I opt for a lunge and a few arm stretches. While I’m lunging, feeling a strain in my left hamstring, I gaze across the room, experiencing the odd sensation of someone looking at me. I spot none other than Blossom. Urgh. She’s lying on the ground, performing some kind of sun salutation, while giving me daggers.

  I quickly look away, but I can’t help rolling my eyes. What’s her problem?! Has she not had her fill of getting at me? Why does she feel the need to glare at me today as well? It’s not like I’m trying to compete with her for Paul, I’m not even bothered about that. She can run off into the sunset with him for all I care. All I’m interested in right now is doing my lunges and trying to
get in touch with my spirit animal. Maybe I am more enlightened than her after all, because she could clearly do with taking a leaf out of my book and getting into this workshop instead of giving me evils.

  I swap legs, stretching out my right hamstring and even though I know I shouldn’t, I glance over at her again. She’s still shooting me daggers!

  I turn around, presenting my back to her and continue with my stretches.

  ‘Okay now that we’re all limbered up, let’s get in touch with our spirit animals!’ Jasper suggests.

  I shoot him a look, trying to catch a trace of humor or wryness. Surely, he can’t say something like that with a straight face? But apparently, he can. He looks completely sincere. In fact, he’s folding his hands together in prayer and closing his eyes. What the hell?

  ‘I call on the spirit of the eagle, the wisdom in the eyes of the owl, the fragile flutter of the butterfly’s wings, the growl of the bear, and the grumble of the gorilla…’

  I snigger and glance around the room, expecting others to be as amused as I am, but everyone else looks somber. Some people are even praying too, with their hands together and eyes closed. How do these people take everything so seriously? I feel so out of place. I’m beginning to wonder if I should have stayed in my hammock, reading, after all.

  Finally, Jasper opens his eyes and looks around the room, taking us all in.

  ‘I hope you’ll all find this workshop a very enlightening experience,’ he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. I have my doubts.

  ‘Now, it’s time to channel your spirit animal. Close your eyes and be at one with your animal self,’ Jasper insists.

  I need to stop smirking and at least try to take this seriously. I chose to come to this workshop after all. I close my eyes.

  Right. What animal am I?

  Am I a bird? No. A bird doesn’t feel quite right. If I was a bird, I’d be the one flying around, travelling the world. I wouldn’t have simply followed Paul over here.

  Am I a sheep then? A follower? No, not quite. If I was a sheep, I’d probably be wearing the white ashram robes by now and be a follower of the guru. I’m a bit more independent than a sheep.