What if you had a second chance…to find yourself?

Instead of slipping on her something borrowed and tripping up the aisle to wedded bliss, Georgia spends her big day crying into a warm Sex-on-the-Beach, wondering where it all went wrong.

Encouraged to make a bucket list of her new travel goals by best friend Marie, it’s not long before travel-virgin Georgia’s packing her bags for a long-haul voyage to Thailand.

Yet, Georgia’s big adventure doesn’t seem to be going to plan. What with strange sights, smells and falling for every rookie traveller scam in the book, Georgia has never felt more alone.

But the good thing about falling apart is that you can put yourself back together any way you please. And new Georgia might just be someone she can finally be proud of…

This year it is time to find the place where you truly belong…

Coming soon from Katy Colins

The Lonely Hearts Travel Club

Destination India

Destination Chile

The Lonely Hearts Travel Club

Destination Thailand

Katy Colins

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Katy Colins 2016

Katy Colins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474046701

Version date: 2018-07-23

KATY COLINS

Author of ‘The Lonely Hearts Travel Club’ series

Katy completed her first novel A Dogs Tale at the age of 11 which received rave reviews…from her Grandad and English teacher. This was just the encouragement she needed to carry on writing.

As a qualified journalist with articles published in Company magazine and The Daily Star she crossed sides to work in Public Relations before selling all she owned to backpack solo around South East Asia and finally put her thoughts into words, writing as she travelled.

Katy currently lives by the sea in France where she is on a one-woman mission to educate the French about the necessity and technicalities of making a good cup of tea. When she is not writing about romance, travel and adventure, she loves travelling, catching up with family and friends and convincing herself that her croissant addiction isn’t out of control – just yet.

You can find out more about Katy, her writing and her travels on her blog www.notwedordead.com or via twitter @notwedordead

Subscribe to her blog for your free quick guide to Thailand, inspired by Destination Thailand!

When life gives you lemons you take ‘em and run because … free lemons. Seriously though, sometimes you don’t realise how far you’ve come until you look back. This is for you past Katy, I told you it would all work out.

Huge gigantic thanks to my noisy, fun and ruddy inspiring family. Mum and Dad - you never doubted me and gave me the courage to be brave, say yes and always try my very best. I hope I have made you proud.

A special shout out to Paula Stokes an intelligent and insightful lady with a keen eye for detail. Your ongoing support would make my grandparents proud.

To Gregoire Pruvost for supporting me, feeding me cake and chatting over ideas in another language. Je t’aime. To my wonderful friends including my bezzo Jen Brown, a true diamond. My life is better because you are in it.

To Victoria Oundjian and Lydia Mason for your priceless editing expertise in polishing this book so that it gleams. Also a huge thanks to everyone at HQ for believing in me and to the other HQ authors for welcoming me into this new family with virtual hugs and enthusiastic support.

I probably wouldn’t be writing this if it wasn’t for Rosie Blake and Kerry Hudson. Because of the WoMentoring Project I got to meet two kick ass women who encouraged me to pour my soul into this wild journey.

Thank you to my writing gang Holly Martin, Kat Black, Helen Redfern, Rachael Lucas, Cesca Major and Emily Kerr, I never knew hot tubs in a powercut and villagers chasing us with jam could be so much fun.

I am forever grateful to the awesome people I met along my travels. Special thanks to the following individuals who truly inspired both mine and Georgia’s journey: Jenny Silkstone, Rachel Bryant, Laura Hughes, Lars Hognestad, Adam Whitley, Desiree McCaffrey, Mary Wade, Brent Alexander, Ryan Harrison and Zoe Collie.

To my Twitter friends, super lovely book and travel bloggers and supporters of NotWedorDead.com, big thanks for tirelessly cheering me on, we may have never met IRL but that doesn’t mean you don’t rock my world.

And finally, a squishy big thanks to you lovely reader for buying, reading, sharing and reviewing. If you enjoyed my little book then please tell all your friends, I’m sure they are just as awesome as you.

Gather your rosebuds while you may.

Grandad, this is for you.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Endpages

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

Wanderlust (n.) A strong desire or urge to wander or travel and explore the world

It was my wedding day. A day I’d been fantasising about since I was a little girl, a day I had spent the last twelve months planning and organising. It was going to be a rustic English country wedding, complete with homemade bunting strung from the beams of an outrageously expensive manor house and a billowing marquee set up in the perfectly manicured grounds. The harpist would pluck a simple but charming set as we glided into the grand reception room with our nearest and dearest cheering and clapping our arrival as Mr and Mrs Doherty. That was the part I was cacking myself about the most; all those people staring at me, expecting a radiant blushing bride, when really I was terrified I would go arse over tit on my train. Being the centre of attention made my stomach churn and my sweat glands go into overdrive, but I’d limited the numbers as much as I could and technically I was only half of the centre of attention.

I should be in my creamy, laced, fishtail gown by now. As I glanced at my watch, I realised the hand-tied bouquets of soft powder blue forget-me-nots, complemented by the sweet scent of freesias, should have been delivered ten minutes ago. I should be preparing to sink into the plush chair at the pricy hairdresser’s as they transformed my limp locks into a work of art.

Except that I was sat on an uncomfortable plastic sun lounger trying to hide the big fat tears falling down my slightly sunburnt face, as my best friend Marie passed me yet another dodgy watered-down sex on the beach punch from the all-inclusive pool bar.

In one hour’s time I would have married my fiancé, Alex, but this had all changed fifteen days earlier when I was half-watching a re-run of Don’t Tell the Bride whilst triple-checking the seating plan matched up to the 3D replica Alex’s sister-in-law Francesca had loaned me. She was the one who’d been to school with Kate Middleton, and managed to bring it up into every conversation I’d ever had with her. Waiting for him to arrive home after yet another late shift at work, I had become so engrossed in this episode in which the henpecked husband-to-be had got it oh-so-wrong by choosing a size eight dress for his blatantly curvy size sixteen bride, that I hadn’t realised Alex was standing in the doorframe chewing his fingernails and loosening his tie.

‘We need to talk.’ His voice sounded strangled and distant. His tie had an ink stain that no doubt I’d get chastised by his mother for not being able to scrub off. She’d pursed her lips many a time at my lack of domestic goddesstry. Alex had rebelled against it at the beginning, being the last single man in a family of smug married older brothers. I had been the breath of fresh air next to his Martha Stewart sisters-in-law. Five years later that sweet scent had soured into country air.

We’d met at a dodgy Indie nightclub in Manchester, having been dragged there by our respective best friends one wet Saturday night. Bonding over cheap lager in plastic pint pots, chatting like long-lost friends to the strains of the Smiths and the Kaiser Chiefs, as our two ‘besties’ got off with each other. After sharing a deep appreciation of cholesterol-clogging cheesy chips in the taxi ride back home, and a mutual love for garlic mayo, I knew this was something special.

The years passed, the clubbing stopped as focusing on climbing the career ladder became a priority. After years of renting mould-filled hovels with dodgy landlords, we had saved up enough to buy our own home. Alex had proudly turned down his parents’ offer of financial support, so we couldn’t live in Millionaires’ Row rubbing shoulders with WAGs like the rest of his family, but he’d revelled in our bohemian charm even if it meant our neighbours were often more likely to be guests on Jeremy Kyle. I’d loved how steadfast he was to his morals, even if at times we could have done with a helping hand.

So it was inevitable when one wet June night Alex asked me to marry him. OK, so it wasn’t the engagement of my dreams. He hadn’t even got down on one knee, just passed the ring box over as we shared an Indian takeaway, both of us on our iPhones half-watching Coronation Street. He did leave me the last poppadum, so that was something, I guess. Of course that wasn’t the engagement story we told people. No, in that one he’d whisked me away unexpectedly, showered me with unconditional adorations of love and asked a nearby elderly couple to take our photo; me blubbing and him bursting with pride, shame that they couldn’t use the camera properly, meaning we had no evidence of this. But real life isn’t like a Disney film, is it?

However, with both a mortgage to pay and a wedding to save for we’d gone out less and less. So yeah, maybe life had got a little stale; routine ruled our world and I could recite the TV guide off by heart, but we were building a future together, that’s what we both wanted, wasn’t it?

Looking up at his tired face in the doorway, I didn’t recognise the man that had bounded into the basement club years earlier asking me to dance. Then looking down at myself in stained oversized pyjamas, I didn’t recognise the fresh-faced girl who’d said yes.

‘It’s not working…I, I, can’t marry you,’ he stuttered, his thin fingers nervously twitching down his stained tie.

He’d met someone else, a girl from his work who he’d started to develop ‘feelings’ for. He didn’t want it to be like this but he had changed, we had changed. He didn’t need to spell it out but his mother was right, I just wasn’t marriage material. As with the voluptuous bride on the TV in the too-tiny dress, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. He packed his bag that night and left, as I sobbed, drank an old bottle of peach schnapps, spilling half onto Francesca’s seating plan, and curled up in a ball not believing my world was falling down around me.

‘Come on, let it all out.’ Marie rubbed my sun-heated back as tears plopped into my now warm glass. She had decided that we had to get away for what would have been the big day, so hastily booked us a week’s last-minute holiday to the Aegean coast, dubbed the St. Tropez of Turkey. This accolade had obviously come from someone who had never visited Southern France, as the once-sleepy Turkish fishing village was now a prime party spot full of neon-lit bars, kebab shops and tattoo parlours. Not that we had hit the town – the past few nights had been spent playing cards on the balcony, downing a bottle or two of cheap white wine, Marie slagging Alex off, as I fluctuated between brutal put-downs and scared sob-fests that I wasn’t strong enough to be alone.

‘Thank you. It’s just… Well, that’s it…done.’ I wiped sweaty strands of hair from my blotchy face, fixing my red-rimmed eyes on Marie’s. She winced, not just at my appearance but because her idea of guaranteed sun, hot men and an all-inclusive bar being the perfect solution to my pain wasn’t exactly going to plan.

She paused for a moment rearranging her small bum on the hard seat. ‘Think about it, Georgia, you’re exactly right.’ She paused. ‘It is all in the past and now it’s time to look to your future. And as we’re both single ladies, the best way to get through today is to show Alex a big fat two fingers and have a wicked time together. So I’m taking charge and I rule we’re going to the beach.’ Marie jumped up, stuffed our things into an oversized Primark beach bag and put her extremely large floppy sun hat on.

‘I guess,’ I pathetically murmured, gulping the dregs of my drink.

‘Come on! You can do this, I know you can. Let’s work on our tans and then tonight we’ll find a really cool place to go and have fun, just the two of us, like the old days.’

I nodded and scraped my chlorine-soaked hair up into a messy top knot and jogged to catch up with her, my cheap flip-flops loudly slapping against the wet tiles. Strolling down the small rocky path connecting the hotel to the busy beach, our eyes took in row upon row of full sun loungers.

‘Bugger, it’s a bit crowded isn’t it?’ Marie chewed her lips, clasping a hand over her eyes to see further, even though they were covered in oversized Jackie O sunglasses.

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ I sighed, my resolve slipping as I thought longingly of an afternoon snooze back in our room between crisp white sheets. The sound of laughter, cars tooting and music wafting out from the competing beach bars was making my head spin. Why couldn’t Marie just let me sleep today and wake me up once the church, the cake cutting and even the first dance had passed?

‘Come on, hun. Let’s wander along a bit, I’m sure I overheard there’s a little cove not too far away,’ Marie said chirpily, acting like a Girl Guide off on an adventure, which belied the fact she had been expelled from Brownies for giving Tawny Owl food poisoning trying to get her cook badge.

Snaking down the sandy beach, past thick fragrant bushes, and successfully navigating rocky steps we eventually arrived at a pristine horseshoe bay, which had just a smattering of sun loungers. I felt my bunched-up shoulders relax a little. We had found a small oasis of calm from the chaos of the Turkish town. With the quiet and unspoilt topaz blue bay glistening ahead of us I let my toes spread out on the sand, inhaling the balmy air which carried familiar smells of coconut sun cream and greasy chips.

We settled on two loungers and stripped off to reveal reddening skin. If she wasn’t my best friend, I could really hate Marie. Her toned figure hid the fact that she had a son, Cole, who was the unexpected result of a jaeger-bombed night of passion with Mike, a guy whom she’d met down at her local. With long, fiery-red hair that she only admitted to ‘touching up’, plus the dirtiest mind and most caring personality, she commanded the attention of any room she entered. I wished I were more like her; secretly I had always hoped that by hanging out together some of Marie’s sparkle would rub off on me.

‘Hello there, ladies. I’m Ali. Just the two beds is it?’ A local man in his early thirties with a smiling tanned face bounded over. He was topless, wearing just a necklace holding an animal tooth which pointed to his six pack, and his sculpted chest was adorned with faded tattoo script which crept down into the waistband of his battered denim cut-offs.

‘Yes please,’ Marie smiled up at him.

‘It’s suddenly got very hot around here,’ he winked, taking our money.

Marie’s eyes followed his admittedly nice arse back to his beach cabin before turning to me grinning. ‘Phwoarsome or what?’

I made a noise between a huff and a sigh. Members of the opposite sex were so far off my radar right now I needed to wear binoculars just to see them.

‘Oh come on, Georgia. You can’t pretend that a bit of eye candy doesn’t stir something deep in those closed-off loins of yours?’ Marie laughed as I rolled my eyes. ‘You know what, I’m suddenly really thirsty, want a beer?’

‘Strange that the bar is right next to his hut.’

‘Maybe.’ Marie ignored my raised eyebrow and delved into her bag bringing out a pen and unscrunching a flyer that we’d been handed for a ladies-drink-free night. ‘Anyway, while I’m gone I have a plan for you. I think it’s time to make a list. I know how much you love them, plus my mum’s always said, “if in doubt, write it out.”’ She paused with the pen lid pressed to her lips. ‘I want you to make a list of everything you want to do and see in your life. Kind of like a bucket list, but with no terminal cancer spurring you on.’ She passed me the pen, moist at the top, and the flyer, blank side up.

‘I don’t know what I want any more. I thought I knew. I had everything planned and sorted, but now I feel like I’m in some horrible limbo,’ I whined. But I took the soggy pen as it was true, I did love a good list. There was something about the control you get from emptying your head by simply jotting your thoughts down, then the satisfaction when slicing through them with a big fat tick once completed.

‘No. You’ve moped enough and now it’s time to make changes and take action,’ Marie said firmly, looking as if she was scoping out a nearby rock as a makeshift naughty step if I didn’t play along. ‘What’s happened has been shit. Really shit. But think of it like this, at least you never have to see his demon mother again, never have to worry about fitting in on their ridiculous family getaways. No more putting up with their la-di-dah ways.’ She pursed her lips and cupped her hand like the Queen waving – not a bad impression of Alex’s mum Ruth, to be honest. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if all this time he’s been taking that trust fund they offered him, but then playing the I’m one of the common people card. Bastard.’

I sniffed loudly.

‘I know it’s hard. But please try and think of the positives, hun. If you don’t know what you do want then maybe think about what you don’t want.’ She paused, adjusting her sunglasses as Ali waved to her from his beach cabin, tearing his eyes away from a nearby game of beach volleyball. ‘You don’t want to be with he-who-shall-not-be-named. You don’t want to be living in my spare room for the rest of your life. You don’t want to be some lonely boring cat-lady –’

‘– Only because of my allergies,’ I returned.

‘No. You don’t just want to be someone’s other half. You need to be a whole and we’re going to get you back on track with a plan that’s going to do that.’ She smiled gently. ‘Just give it a go, please.’ She pecked me on the top of my head, tied on her sarong and headed off to buy us both a drink, sashaying effortlessly across the sand.

I glanced down at the blank paper so creamy and fresh, scared to write anything down, as it felt like committing to achieving it. The problem was, I had always had a plan. But now? Now, all that lay ahead was an empty space like this paper in my sweaty hands.

A family had taken the sun loungers next to ours and were chatting animatedly to one another in what sounded like fast Spanish, their foreign tones seeming so exotic compared to my broad Northern accent. I’d never learned another language, apart from my French GCSE thirteen years ago, but I could barely remember any of it. Maybe that’s something I could do?

In fact, apart from this trip with Marie, I hadn’t been abroad in years. What with saving for the wedding and the house, all of my summer leave was spent doing DIY or visiting Alex’s family’s second home in Edinburgh. When I was younger I had always dreamt that my salary would be spent on exotic trips, but my pitiful wage never seemed to stretch far enough. Even when I’d found a last-minute billy-bargain to Benidorm, Alex had scoffed that it would be like going on holiday with our neighbours, that only those types of people would go book a package deal then spend all week drinking English beer in an Irish bar. When I’d protested that by those sorts of people he could have been describing my family he’d pulled me close and nibbled my neck. ‘Oh Gigi, you know what I mean. I love your family but maybe we need to think about the finances. My mum said Ed and Francesca are looking for someone to housesit their place in Devon for the week?’

To be fair, Alex had seen a lot of the world when he was growing up, so I had sacrificed my wanderlust dreams for him and his happiness, telling myself that one day I’d get some much longed-for stamps in my passport. I could cringe at how lame that sounded.

The nearby family pulled out a picnic blanket and opened a cooler box full of things I hadn’t seen before. Foods I didn’t know the name of, had never tasted but which looked and smelled amazing. This is what I wanted to do. I wanted to be the girl who would parlez a new lingo effortlessly, who would cook up exotic recipes with ingredients I couldn’t currently pronounce, who would have stories to share at dinner parties, ‘…oh, that reminds me of a time when I was doing a silent retreat in an Indian ashram’, sharing facts and tales from far-flung locations, rather than grumbling about the rising property market or council tax brackets.

OK, I can do this. I started to write…

I want to eat the world. I want to explore, travel, learn and push my limits. I want to find myself. Mountains and oceans will be my best friends, the stars will guide me home at night and my tongue will be desperate to speak and share all I have seen. I want to travel.

Yikes. My pen kind of ran away with me there. I looked at the paper in my hand and tucked my legs underneath me. Apparently I wanted to become Michael Palin. OK, so how was I going to achieve all this? Just like before, the pen seemed to have a mind of its own.

Quit and go.

That simple, hey biro?

What’s holding you back? No man, no children, soon to be no home. Just a crappy job where you constantly moan about feeling undervalued but stick it out as they have good maternity packages. Packages that you won’t need now. Sell everything, buy a backpack and go.

OK, maybe the pen did have a point. My job as a PA at Fresh Air PR, a small but growing firm near Topshop on the high street, was where I’d stayed for the past five years working my way up from post-room assistant to personal assistant to the Director of Marketing; same office, same faces, same printer problems. The thought of not having to worry if I’d chosen the right mug to brew up in, not to be forced to drink through the mundanity of the Christmas parties, to avoid listening to petty arguments over who had the best parking space and what Boots meal-deals were the best value for money sounded pretty good. I’d got too comfortable; like everything else in my life, agreeing to things I didn’t want to please others and not pursuing my own dreams for fear of failure or embarrassment. The routine of cohabitation had come naturally with Alex, even if there were times when I looked at my chore list, my shopping list and our practically empty social calendar and despised the domestic drudgery.

But where would I go and what would I do? Pen, don’t let me down. I closed my eyes, breathing in the salty sun lotion-filled air and started to write.

Go skinny dipping in the moonlit ocean

Dance all night under the stars

Taste incredible exotic food

Ride an elephant

Visit historic temples

Explore new beliefs

Climb a mountain

Make friends with different nationalities

Listen to the advice of a wise soul

Do something wild

My hand was aching but my head was whirring. Then I caught myself, as a mix of doubts and reality sliced into my thoughts. How can you do this? It’ll take months of planning, saving, and organising. Where do you even start with a trip like this?! You’d never be brave enough to touch an elephant, let alone ride one. The last time you did any exercise you nearly passed out, so trekking up Everest is out of the equation, and you cried when you had your blood taken, so how are you going to manage something wild like getting a tattoo? The wildest thing I’d done recently was sleep with my make-up on.

I much preferred the dreamy freedom of my pen than my stupid conscience.

Today is meant to be your wedding day, or have you forgotten that? It’s absurd that you’re sat here writing about a whole new life you intend to start when you know you’re not strong enough to change anything, I scolded myself.

We’ll see about that, said my pen.

CHAPTER 2

Drapetomania (n.) An overwhelming urge to run away

Two hours later my head was still fizzing with ideas that maybe, just maybe, I could actually see the world, become a backpacker and change my life. Leaving sunken footprints in the sand, letting the cooling water of the shore lick my sunburnt feet, I closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh sea breeze. Our wedding vows would have taken place by now. Our spoken promise to love, honour and cherish each other for as long as we both shall live. A single tear fell down my cheek but I shook myself. Now it is the time for you. To make a vow, a promise, an oath to myself that is just as life-changing, but one I have full control over: to be happy.

I half-jogged back up the hot sand to a snoring Marie. Thankfully Ali was nowhere to be seen otherwise her unsexy catching-flies impression might have blown her chances with him. Tucking my travel wish-list back in her beach bag under her Heat magazine and bottle of sun cream, I gave her a nudge before she spluttered to attention.

‘What?…where?…who?’ She threw herself upright wiping the saliva from her mouth.

I smiled at Marie’s sleepy face and matted hair. ‘Hey, I’m going to head back to the hotel.’

‘Great idea, pass me that bottle of water and we’ll go. How long was I asleep? Did I miss anything?’ she asked between gulps, wincing at the heat and combing her fingers through her hair.

‘Nah, not much,’ I said casually, deciding to give the list some more thought before I told her my radical ideas. ‘So what happened with Baywatch boy?’ I asked nodding towards Ali’s cabin.

She huffed and flicked back her head. ‘Turns out he’s gay.’

I tried to stifle a laugh. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I did my classic lean-over-the-bar-to-suggestively-pick up-a-straw-manoeuvre. I swear that technique has never failed before.’

‘Isn’t that how you ended up pregnant with Cole?’ I teased.

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Exactly! See, I told you, it’s a golden flirting style. Anyway, he didn’t even flinch. It was like my cleavage sparked nothing in his underwear department.’

‘So because of that you think he’s gay?’

‘No. But even when I licked my lips and walked over to him, Kim Kardashian-butt out and everything, he was too obsessed with watching these guys playing beach volleyball to notice!’

‘Maybe he just really, really loves sport?’ I suggested. She rolled her eyes, annoyed at having such a blot on her impeccable seduction record.

‘Trust me, I know. Let’s just say he was more interested in watching the guys grease up with sun lotion, than keeping track of the score.’

‘Ah, oh well. Hey, you know that I still love you.’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Sorry, Georgia. We came here to help sort you out, not for Turkish hotties to put me in a bad mood.’ She stroked my arm. ‘At least I know my straw technique still works, well for straight men anyway,’ she laughed.

Listening to her talking it suddenly hit me that this was what I’d need to be doing now that I was single. Finding ways of attracting men’s attention. If Marie found it hard Lord knows how I was going to cope. I physically shuddered at being reminded that I was now flying solo. I was no longer someone’s better half, fiancée, or girlfriend. It was just me and soon I’d have to dive head-first into the ever shrinking dating pool. Oh God.

‘You OK, hun? You’ve gone a little pale under your sunburn.’ Marie’s voice brought me back to the present.

‘Yeah, yeah. Just a little tired.’

‘Right, well let’s head back, get some food and then we’ll get ready to head out and see what nightlife this town has to offer. And I’m not taking no for an answer.’

It was our last night here, and even though I’d handled the day pretty well so far, who knew what a few more cocktails could do to my fragile resolve? However, in the spirit of making changes to what now seemed like a pathetic life, maybe being forced out of my pit and into the bright lights of bar street would be a good idea.

‘Fine,’ I nodded

‘What?!’ Marie leaned over and hugged me. ‘I was convinced you’d say no.’

‘Well, maybe I’m going to try saying yes to more things from now on,’ I smiled.

‘That’s great, Georgia. See, I knew coming here would be the best thing for you. Tonight’s going to be awesome I can just feel it.’

*

Although being scrawny rather than slender, due to my recent loss of appetite – surely the only bonus in a breakup – looking at my reflection, I didn’t recognise myself. Staring back was a glamorously made-up woman, her slightly acne-pocked skin camouflaged in heavy bronzer, her glossy brown blow-dried hair framing her almond-shaped eyes, and a slick of lipstick staining her angel-bud lips. Marie had insisted on giving me a makeover, so the face that shone in the glass was nothing like the old Georgia, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. I felt self-conscious in my outfit. My hot pink clutch bag matched the vertiginous stilettos that she’d pressured me into borrowing, ignoring my protests that I walked like a drunk Tina Turner in heels.

‘We’ll walk slowly then.’ She shushed me by shoving a pale gold dress in my hands. It was the same one I’d bought on a whim a few years back, all hail Beyoncé. I’d never taken the tags off it after Alex had commented how it looked like I’d stolen it off a cheap hooker; I did have to admit that Queen Bey wasn’t going to be quaking in her rhinestone-studded boots at the sight of me. Marie must have packed it in secret. I wished that I’d had time to change into the baggy linen trousers and safe blouse I had picked out before Marie had hidden them. That had been a fun game.

We eventually made it out into the balmy evening to the chirp of crickets and smell of petrol fumes and headed to the harbour, where fifty-foot masts swayed on the inky blue water highlighted by white sugar-cube villas that shone from the hillside in the distance, their lights twinkling like fallen stars. This stunning setting was unfortunately butchered by the line of identical bars and nightclubs opposite the water’s edge. Every bar had A boards advertising fishbowls, free shots and buy-one-get-three-drinks-free offers in neon swirly handwriting. A girl wearing furry boots, tiny sequin hot pants and a bikini top that just covered her nipples danced over to us, wrapping her tanned arms around our shoulders trying to steer us into the bar she was working for.

‘All right, ladies! My name’s Mel, you ’ere on ya hols? Well you’ve come to the right place. The cheapest and best drinks in town are right ’ere. I’ll do ya three cheeky Vimtos for the price of one, any triple spirit an’ a mixer for just a paaand and chuck in a couple of shots too!’ The manic-eyed blonde half-screeched at us in a thick cockney accent without taking a breath. I glanced at Marie who looked as uncomfortable as I felt at having this strange woman half-woven around us.

The bar she was adamantly pulling us into was deserted. A sad bucking bronco waited patiently to chuck overweight tourists around in the corner, and the bar staff were leaning on the bar smoking while pathetic strobe lights bounced off the empty tables.

‘It’s like waaaaay early but trust me, this is the place to be. In a few hours you’ll be wantin’ to lezz up with me for nabbing you a table, as it’s gonna be kerazy!’ Manic Mel explained, looking at our half-terrified, half-disappointed faces.

A couple of other bar touts were peering over to see if she was going to get her catch or if they could have a go once we’d walked on. Seeing them eyeing us up like vultures, working out the commission they could get from us made me want to grab Marie’s hand and run back to the safety and quiet of our hotel room.

‘Yeah, go on then,’ Marie said, instantly crushing my hopes for a speedy exit. It’s your last night here, don’t be such a square, Georgia.

‘Awesome!’ Manic Mel cracked her thick make-up into a fake smile. ‘Follow me, ladiez!’

Back home the wedding guests would be dancing to ‘Come on Eileen’, hitting the free bar and trying to ignore Alex’s arrogant best man Ryan wafting his willy about as he streaked round the marquee with his tie on his head Rambo-style. But here I was, trying to drown out the Freddie Mercury tribute act, listening to Marie being chatted up by a group of baby-faced lads wearing matching ‘I got off my tits in Turkey’ T-shirts, and feeling my shoulders throbbing from sunburn. I wasn’t quite sure which was the lesser of two evils.

‘Georgia! This is Rickaaaay!’ Marie shouted over the music, doing her best Bianca Jackson impression as the lad she had her arm around looked on bemused. He was either too young or too drunk to know what the hell she was on about. ‘Him and his mates are from Cardiff.’

‘All right?’ Ricky headed in for a peck on the cheek but stumbled and half head-butted my cheekbone. Once all this cheap alcohol wore off that was going to sting like a motherlover.

‘Oww. Yeah fine,’ I said, rubbing my face, messing up the make-up that Marie had carefully applied following a YouTube contouring video in our room. I went to head back to our table to grab some ice – Manic Mel was right, this place had livened up since we’d arrived – but Marie caught my arm.

‘Come on, don’t stop now!’ she pleaded, her eyes alight with what was either happiness or a vodka-glaze before pulling me back out to the dance floor. ‘This is bloody brilliant. It’s so amazing to see you smiling again,’ Marie shouted over a Bohemian Rhapsody remix. ‘Also I think you’re well in there,’ she sang in my ear, nodding her head towards Ricky who seemed to have learnt his dance moves from the Inbetweeners film.

I scrunched up my face. ‘I dunno.’

‘I’m telling you, he’s gagging for it!’

I winced. ‘I really don’t think I’m ready for that.’

‘Maybe you just need to get it over with. Rip that plaster off?’ she suggested as an enthusiastic dancer hip-bumped past us.

I stared at Marie, remembering the last time she had tried encouraging me to ‘get it over with’. Memories of being 15 and waiting in the cold bunker, flooded back. Marie clocked my deadpan expression and wrapped her arms around me.

‘Sorry, forgot I’m not the world’s best cupid,’ she said gingerly.

‘It’s fine, but I need to take it at my own pace. And I don’t want to be rude but Ricky may still be a virgin.’

‘You could be a cougar!’ She burst out laughing. ‘No, I understand, but hey, it’s nice to know you’ve still got it. Plus, I read somewhere that if you don’t use it then it’ll seal back up,’ she giggled before spinning me around.

As she was teaching Ricky and his mates our signature lawn mower move there seemed to be some sort of commotion near the entrance. Expecting to see some ‘Z list’ Turkish reality TV star, Marie pulled us through the partygoers to get a better view. But where a fame-hungry wannabe should have stood was in fact a pretty woman wearing a long white dress, grinning and holding hands with a guy wearing a black suit. They were soon followed by energetic ladies all in matching sage green prom-style dresses as it dawned on me…we were being joined by a wedding party.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I glared up at the sky. On the night when, by this time, I should have been slow dancing with Alex, I was now face to face with an actual wedding, in the company of the kind of fun hosts who got the wedding customs out of the way before hitting the clubs to really party together. Alex would have hated that.

Actually, Alex would have hated this entire trip, from the plastic sun loungers, to the karaoke bars, to the flashiness of the Turkish men. He probably would have looked down at what I was wearing and commented on how much slap I had on. Grabbing Marie’s hand I led her to the ladies’ room.

‘OMG! Are you OK?’ Marie asked with concerned wide eyes. ‘I take it you saw the unwanted visitors. I can go and ask the bouncers to remove them if you like?’ She began bouncing on the spot Rocky-style.

‘No, it’s OK. I might be a little bit sick, but that could also be the luminous fishbowl we drank.’ I leaned onto the cold stone of the basin. ‘Oh Marie, seeing them has made this feel so real.’

‘What do you mean? Do you need to sit down?’

I shook my head. ‘Did you see the look that groom was giving his new wife? Did you see that? God! I could sense the hormones from way over here. It’s been years since Alex looked at me like that. Years! Maybe I’ve had a lucky escape, like you said. Maybe this is the perfect time for me to make some serious changes in my life. I’ve made a list like you asked.’ Marie looked totally confused, forgetting her brainwave on the beach. I rooted around in my clutch bag, spilling half of the contents on the tiled floor, and thrust the paper at her.

‘Read this. This is what I want to do with my life now. I’m sick of pining for what I probably never had anyway. I was so caught up in the wedding planning, making sure it would live up to the expectations of his mum and perfect Francesca, that I hadn’t thought about the actual marriage. The vows were the last thing I had to write, even though I nagged him into writing his, as I found the words just didn’t come,’ I admitted for the first time ever.

Marie tried to focus her hazy drunken eyes on the list.

‘I’m terrified of what the future will hold, but it has to be better than sharing my lovely home with a cheating fiancé, working a job I hate to pay the bills and being in more debt because of how much the wedding had cost. This should be the time in my life when I’m out there exploring, seeing the world, learning new things and finding me.’ I felt very passionate and might have been shouting slightly. God those cocktails were lethal.

For a few seconds Marie didn’t say anything. Then a huge grin broke out over her squiffy face. ‘This is awesome, hun. I really think you should go for it. God, I’ll miss you, but what better time to get out there than now? I’m so proud of how you’ve coped with everything and even seeing that couple tonight, you’ve done so bloody brilliantly.’

‘Thank you, but honestly I couldn’t have done any of it without you.’

‘Yes you could. You’re so amazing.’ She was definitely slurring now.

‘No, you’re the amazing one.’

‘No, you are!’

A girl with a humongous bouffant broke up our love fest as she barged past to dry her hands. ‘I want whatever they’re drinking,’ she called out to one of her friends in the stalls as we fell into a fit of giggles. Looking up at the clock near the sinks I realised we were leaving this country in a few hours’ time and we still hadn’t packed.

‘We need to be making a move, hun,’ I said. From the way she was swaying I guessed she was ready to head off too.

‘Aww, yeah you’re right. I’ve had such a good night! I know, you should come back here and get a job like lovely Mel, that could be a bit of travelling for you?’ Marie slurred, taking my hand to move past the ever growing queue for the ladies’ toilets. The bride and groom had long since been swallowed up amongst young Turks on the packed dance floor.

‘Err, yeah maybe,’ I absently replied.

We made it safely outside and out of the grip of commission-hungry touts. I could still hear snippets of a banging bass line and felt the buzz of adrenalin pumping through me. Under the bright light of the stars that were reflected in the pitch-black water lapping at the quayside I felt alive with excitement and anticipation at what my new future had in store. If I could survive coming face to face with another bride on what should have been my wedding day, then surely I could survive anything.

Back in the calm of our hotel room Marie was fast asleep in minutes after I stripped her off, tucked her in and turned up the air con. I took off my make-up, got into my cotton pyjamas and tied my hair into a low ponytail, letting the soft sheets wrap themselves around me. My head was spinning from the alcohol, the emotion, and the fact I’d survived coming face to face with a bridal party tonight of all nights.

I should be lying with Alex in the marital suite at the country house after drinking champagne in the huge free-standing bubble bath, making love as Mr and Mrs and marvelling at how perfectly the day had gone. The day of my dreams. But that’s the thing with dreams, they hardly ever become reality. No, what would have happened is this: the night would have ended in us rowing about why his mate Ryan had alluded to other women during the best man’s speech. My embarrassing uncle Ron, that we only invited to avoid any family politics but actually none of us wanted there, would have started an impromptu and uncensored karaoke during the cake cutting causing Alex’s parents to have strong words with their son over why he had married into such an uncouth family. Alex and I would have been too tired to even run a bath, let alone drink any more booze and we’d have fallen into a drunken snoring state on either side of the huge bed still in our clothes. Why start making love now when we hadn’t got jiggy in months? We’d settled into sluggishness and I’m positive that’s not the name of a Kama Sutra move. I’d put Alex’s lack of interest in me down to the stress and nerves of the wedding, or the fact that he was tired from working late again. I was so naïve! And to think he’d been getting it all along from someone else.

I looked fondly over to Marie; actually, lying slightly intoxicated next to my half-naked best mate in Turkey wasn’t too shabby a way to spend tonight either. Right now I was happy to remember today, not as the day I was supposed to get married, but the day I made a plan for my new life.

All I had to do now was put it into action.

CHAPTER 3

Hiraeth (n.) Homesickness for a home you can’t return to, or that never was

Manchester welcomed us home in the way it knew best; grey drizzle kissed our shoulders as we stepped off the plane and it hadn’t stopped raining since. But even the non-existent Indian summer that the weather presenters had predicted couldn’t dampen my spirits. Our non-stop excited chatter on the flight home about where, how and when I’d be saying au revoir took my mind off the impeding task ahead.

I still needed to move the rest of my things out of my old house to Marie’s spare room, something I’d hoped magic fairies would have sorted for me whilst I was away. There was never an impish elf around when you needed one. Marie had tried to encourage me to stick to my guns and fight to stay in the house that I half owned. ‘Alex should be the one to leave, go live with whatever skank he has these feelings for,’ she’d told me straight one evening over a game of chase the ace. She was probably right, but the thing was I couldn’t bear the thought of living there on my own, going through the front door to an empty house where memories bled through every brick. I’d never lived on my own before and certainly wasn’t strong enough to start now. Plus I didn’t have the energy to fight, to confront him about it, I just wanted it to be sorted so I could move on. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. Tonight was all about a bath, an early night and devouring the giant Toblerone that had somehow fallen into my shopping basket in duty free.

We whizzed through customs and were soon outside Marie’s flat as the surly cabbie chucked our bags onto the rain-soaked pavement miraculously avoiding any puddles. Welcome home.

With Marie on the phone to Cole I pottered about turning up the heating, chucking out gone-off milk and putting the kettle on.

‘OMG!’ Marie burst into the room screeching, her hangover dramatically lifted. ‘My agent just called telling me I’ve been offered a call back on the audition I did!’

‘That’s great news. Where, what, when?’

‘I leave tomorrow. I have to be away for a few days as the director’s filming on location but asked for me personally to come for the second audition. It’s the one I tried out for ages ago – you know, the stuffy costume drama with an edgy twist?’

‘Oh yeah.’ I remembered that there was something she had been getting nervous about around the same time that I’d had to choose between having the DJ start straight after cutting the cake or move the speeches until later. It had been a stressful time for us both.

‘They want to urbanise Jane Eyre and film it in Brixton, not the Lake District, or wherever it was the first time. I’ve just got a few lines, but my agent reckons if I get in with the director then it could lead to bigger things,’ she said excitedly.

‘That’s brilliant news! Well done you.’

‘The bad news is I won’t get to see Cole for a few more days, which is killing me, but Mike said he’d keep hold of him, with his mum’s help, till I get back so FaceTime chats will have to suffice till then,’ Marie said sadly.

Considering Cole’s dad, Mike, had just been a one-night stand, he really had manned up and between them he and Marie had childcare duties perfectly organised. I often caught Mike’s longing look at Marie when he brought Cole back from a weekend at his house and wondered if they would ever make a go of it, doing the whole parent thing together. From the outside they seemed perfect for each other and both totally adored Cole, but whenever I questioned Marie she changed the subject saying that just one man in her life was all she needed.

‘Well, fame comes at a price,’ I smiled, ‘but hey, it’s not too much longer and imagine Cole’s face when he gets to see his mum on the telly.’ Marie shrugged, but secretly I knew how much this childhood dream of becoming an actress meant to her, especially as she has Cole to provide for. She had fallen into mobile hairdressing as a means to pay the bills but her heart lay in drama and plots, not dye and perms.

She chewed her lip. ‘So that means we need to get your things from Chez Prick this evening as I won’t be able to help otherwise.’ She was right. Damn it.

I couldn’t ask my mum and dad to help, especially with my dad’s back. I scrolled through my phone contacts list mentally calculating any possible candidates whom I could call to help move my boxes. Skimming past the names of Alex’s friends, distant relations, old schoolmates with whom I hadn’t had contact for years bar the annual Facebook happy birthday posts, I realised that there was nobody.

Nobody.

I had never been a popular child, but I had imagined that in my glamorous late twenties I would at least have a circle of friends so close-knit that they would make the cast of Friends look like they were sharing an awkward lift ride. Another thing to add to the travel wish-list – make more friends.

‘Sorry, hun. Moving my paltry boxes is the last thing you need to be doing when you should be packing for your new role.’

‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll just chuck a few clean knickers into my case and I’m good to go,’ she smiled. ‘It’s more important that we get you away from that knob. You ready to go now?’

It took all my strength to nod. I didn’t want to go; I didn’t want reminders, to see our small but sweet house where the kitchen tap leaked unless you jammed a teaspoon under it, the floorboards which squeaked if you stepped on them in certain places and the comforting sound of the central heating when it whirred into action. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the house. But it wasn’t my home any more. It couldn’t be. As much as I wished that none of this had happened, something deep down in me knew I wasn’t going to be the wailing woman scorned, begging for him to take me back. My parents raised me better than that. No, I needed to go grab my stuff and move on with my new life plan. Baby steps and all that.

It was dark outside when we pulled up. I held the front door key in my unsteady hand as Marie guided me to the door, swearing as she stumbled over a wonky paving slab. No one was home. We walked from room to room in silence. I smelt our smell and felt my resolve slipping.

‘So where do you reckon he’s piled up your stuff?’ Marie broke my pathetic thoughts.

‘Probably the spare room and under the stairs,’ I guessed. They were always the two places we would dump stuff we didn’t need any more.

It’s just bricks and stone, Georgia, get a grip. The house represents all the lies that he has spun. The future you can’t have and don’t want any more. Nothing more.

I opened the door to the box room, surprised to find neatly stacked and packed cardboard boxes labelled with my things. ‘Winter clothes, books, CDs, other,’ Marie read with a similar shocked expression. Alex was messy, disorganised and allergic to cleaning. I’d expected my possessions to be stuffed into bin bags, but this? This was new.

‘I’ll get these in the car, you carry on looking around,’ she instructed.

The smell of bleach and lemon hit me as I slowly walked into the master bedroom. The bed was made, an empty glass lined the dust-free bedside table, and without my things – jewellery strung over the mirror, shoes lined up against the wall and books piled on the floor – it looked bigger and barer. No pink pyjamas on the creased pillow, no used make-up wipes in the bin and no magazines dropped on the floor.

‘I think he’s put your joint things down here, hun,’ Marie called up.

She was stood in the doorway of the large cupboard under the stairs holding out a scribbled note that Alex had tacked to the door. ‘Here’s most of the joint stuff I thought you’d want. The bigger items like the fridge and bed I’ll leave to you to decide ownership of. Alex.’

I looked around at unwanted Christmas presents, board games, and garden furniture that had been piled up in the far corner next to the ironing board and hoover. It was depressing to see what five years of a relationship looked like: a cracked photo frame, potato masher and an expensive but hardly used smoothie maker. Was that it? I felt my eyes prick with tears. I didn’t want to sort out ownership, to saw things down the middle. I just wanted to be out of here.

‘I’m not sure I can get all that in the car, hun,’ Marie said softly.

‘I don’t want it. Any of it. I’ll buy new things. Things that are just mine with my own money.’ I roughly wiped my eyes.

‘OK…if you’re sure.’ Marie stroked my arm protectively. I nodded before placing my house key on top of the kitchen counter, the spotless kitchen counter. I didn’t leave a note. I had nothing more to say.

I started crying as soon as we shut the front door. Sadness that I’d never watch TV settled on the comfy sofa or use the oven to cook again. Stupid small things. Shutting that door felt more symbolic than it should have done. I felt exhausted, even though I knew it was the right thing to have a fresh start and let him live here with the joint memories taunting him, it still felt like a heart-wrenching big step into my new life. A life that I had no idea how to function in.

CHAPTER 4

Epiphany (n.) A moment of sudden revelation

The city centre was full of harassed office workers and early-morning shoppers. Three strangers had almost collided with us on the busy street already, their eyes glued to their phone screens, including a huge stocky man who barged into me almost knocking me to the ground.

‘Where did your parents say they were meeting us?’ Marie asked.

‘Err, Kendal’s,’ I said absently, rubbing my shoulder.

‘Ah, should have known. Remember when your mum used to take us there as kids? We felt so posh! Desperate to spot a Corrie star before drowning ourselves in the perfume samples. Look, there they are!’ Marie shouted, waving excitedly up the street.

My smiling but tired-looking dad waved back, my mum had her hands full gripping her handbag to her chest warily glancing at a Big Issue seller huddled under a nearby shopfront.

‘Morning. Sorry we’re late.’

‘Oh there you are, lazy bones. You never were an early riser, I said that to your dad, didn’t I, Len?’ My mum clucked, not letting her husband answer before she busied past, giving me a peck on the cheek and shooting a look of suspicion to the seller.

‘Morning love, good to have you back.’ My dad hugged me, enveloping me in his familiar smell of soap and washing powder.

‘So, what’s this about you going off to be a huge star!’ My mum turned to Marie.

Marie laughed. ‘Ah not just yet, Sheila, it’s more Hackney than Hollywood, but don’t worry, you’ll all be invited to the premiere,’ she smiled, before pulling out a fiver for the Big Issue seller who wandered off grinning.

‘Oh I hope so. Isn’t that exciting, Georgia?’ She didn’t let me answer before she was off again. ‘I bet your mum must be so proud. Who would have thought all those years ago when Georgia brought home the new girl in class with a southern accent and an allergy to chips and gravy that she would transform into a successful movie star! It’s a shame we haven’t got long as I want to hear all about it. But Len has an appointment in town for his back. It’s been giving him gyp again,’ my mum said, linking Marie’s arm.

Ten minutes later we were settled on squishy sofas with a tray of cappuccinos and shortbread biscuits laid out in front of us. As my mum had a mouthful of coffee and Marie had nipped to the loo, my dad was able to start the conversation.

‘So pet, how’ve you been? You’ve caught the sun a little. Weather must’ve been good,’ he grinned pointing at my peeling nose.

‘It was great, but just being back it already feels like a distant memory,’ I said sadly, still unable to shake this cloud that had settled around me since last night. I’d cried all the way back to Marie’s after leaving my old house. Then tortured myself even more by opening the few boxes we had packed in her car. Under neatly folded clothes, CDs and Harry Potter books was a shoebox filled with ticket stubs and bottle caps from our first dates, blurry Polaroid photographs and pages torn from magazines with exotic beaches, advice on booking a couples trip and places you must see before you die. I’d tipped it all into the wastepaper bin along with my travel wish-list scrunched up at the bottom of my case. Who was I kidding?

‘Ah, holiday blues,’ he sighed. ‘That’s totally normal, especially after everything you’ve been through.’

‘So, did Marie have you dancing around till the small hours with attractive Turkish men?’ my mum asked. My dad cleared his throat and shifted on his seat.

‘Not really, you know it was never going to be one of those kinds of holidays.’

‘Well, probably for the best. I’ve read so many awful articles about women parading down foreign streets wearing hardly anything and drinking too much then waking up missing an organ, or worse.’ She raised a thin eyebrow. ‘So what was Turkey like? Was your hotel nice? Was it clean?’

‘It was lovely, beautiful in fact.’ I took a gulp of my latte. ‘It gave me a lot of time to think.’

‘Ah, so you’ve told them about your globetrotting plans then eh?’ Marie plopped on the sofa downing her coffee as if it held the elixir of life.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ My mum swiftly turned her head sparrow-like at me. I picked up my cup to stall for time. She scoffed at stories of confused women grabbing their passport to ‘find themselves’. She viewed them as irresponsible and selfish with heads full of hippy mumbo-jumbo.

I took a deep breath. ‘Well, not quite. When we were away Marie encouraged me to make a little list of the countries I’d like to see and the things I’d like to experience.’

She let out a shrill laugh. ‘Oh our Georgia has always been one for daydreaming, hasn’t she, Len? Remember that time when she decided to run off to join a convent after watching The Sound of Music on repeat? She was convinced the bus at the end of the road would take her to Austria but only managed to do the town circuit before we found her with a plastic bag full of Tesco strudels by the church hall.’

My dad smiled at the memory before clocking my flustered face. ‘I’m afraid you got your sense of direction from me, pet.’

‘It’s lucky you’ve got me around as otherwise Lord knows where you and your dad would end up,’ my mum cooed.

‘Actually, Sheila, Georgia was serious about this trip,’ Marie piped up.

The room stood still for a moment. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I do hope you are joking?’ My mum was death-staring me out.

I let out a small fake laugh: ‘Yeah, yeah. Just a joke, wasn’t it, Marie?’

Marie looked confused. ‘You said you wanted to get out there and explore more. It wasn’t just a silly game,’ she mumbled into her mug.

‘Hmm. Well, we’re just glad to have you both back in one piece. I couldn’t cope over there with that foreign food and UV factors. No, much better to stick with what you know.’ My mum shook her head, looking queasy at the thought of a dodgy dim sum.

‘I don’t know, love.’ My dad turned to my mum. ‘They say travelling is a great soul enricher.’

‘Ha,’ she snorted, ‘a soul enricher! Well, you tell me that when she’s lying in some third world hospital after eating a steak that turned out to be a rabid dog. The muggings, the rapes, the murders. Oh no, I’m much happier she’s staying here. She couldn’t cope with all that.’ She wafted her hand around.

It was as if those things didn’t happen in the UK – well, maybe not the dog steak – although the kebab shop by Marie’s did smell a little dodgy at times. ‘Is that what you think of me?’ I mumbled.

‘Oh Georgia,’ she sighed, ‘you’ve been in a pickle here, but you can’t just up and leave. What about your job, your friends…us? I think you’re being ridiculous. You’re 28 years old and have had a bit of a shock, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean running away and leaving everyone else to pick up the pieces.’ She looked appalled at the thought.

We sat in an awkward silence. Thankfully Marie understood that situations like these were not the time or the place for a heated disagreement, no matter how much she was chomping at the bit to stick up for me.

‘Well, I think it’s a cracking idea, love,’ my dad grinned, breaking the stifling atmosphere. ‘Before I met your mother, me and a couple of mates had a lot of fun interrailing around Europe. May not seem that exotic now, but we got up to some right adventures on that trip.’ He sighed wistfully, lost in a faded memory. Before he could get any more nostalgic, my mum swiftly dug a sharp elbow into his arm that signalled him to stop encouraging their daughter.

‘Well, it was just that. A silly idea, so don’t worry.’ I stared pleadingly at Marie to move the conversation on before my mum collapsed, but she was fiddling with a sachet of sugar, no doubt sulking that I’d ridiculed her travel wish-list plan. ‘So, how did you spend Saturday?’ I asked as breezily as I could, knowing that Alex hadn’t just hurt me when he’d called off our wedding. My mum had been bragging about it for months to anyone and everyone we knew. There’s going to be a chocolate fountain, a harpist and even rumours that Kate Middleton’s going to show up, I mean can you imagine?!

‘We just had a quiet day; the weather was very poor so we pottered around the house. The photos would’ve been awful with the grey skies, love,’ my dad said.

‘I guess. Did Marie tell you I gave him back my key last night? Well, not to him personally. I don’t even want to think about hearing from him again,’ I babbled, feeling that ache in my stomach at leaving our house last night claw at me.

My parents quickly fixed their gaze deep into the bottom of their cups, my mum shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘What?’ I asked, as confusion rose in my voice.

Her pale blue eyes filled with tears. ‘We need to give you this letter, Georgia. It’s from him.’ My mum slowly pulled a sealed envelope out of her handbag. ‘Your dad…well, he sort of asked him to write it.’

I rubbed at my forehead. ‘What? I don’t understand. Why would you be speaking to him? When did you speak to him?’ Marie looked as clueless as I did. My dad was tearing up pieces of the paper napkin under his shortbread, avoiding my stare, getting buttery fingers and crumbs everywhere.

‘Your dad found out some news that’s…quite upsetting. We only discovered this after you left to go to Turkey and we didn’t want to ruin your week away by telling you,’ my mum said blinking quickly.

Something was scratching my throat, my mouth had gone really dry but I’d already finished my cup of coffee. ‘Mum, you’re scaring me now.’

‘OK, well please don’t get too upset. So, your dad was picking up a few bits for tea from Morrison’s –you know we usually prefer to go to Asda, but it was on his way back from that new Homebase they’ve built down Larkberry Lane so he decided to stop there.’

‘OK…’ I willed her to speed things along, knowing it was unlikely given that her normal conversations involved describing things in inane detail, usually to do with a friend of a friend that I’d never met or heard of even though my mum was adamant I knew them.

‘Well, as he hadn’t been to this store before he wasn’t sure of the layout, and whilst walking down one of the aisles looking for blueberries, for a flan I was making for the church fete, he saw Alex…and that tart.’ She pursed her lips as if someone had just passed wind.

The thought of them doing mundane things like food shopping made my stomach drop. So they were together then. It wasn’t just ‘feelings’ he had developed or a drunken quickie. That explained why our, no probably their, house was so spotless. There must have been a new woman’s touch to the place. My stomach clenched like it did when I tried on skinny jeans in the January sales, squeezing in that extra roll of flab from devouring a whole tin of Quality Street.

My mum leaned over the coffee table and lowered her voice. ‘The other thing is they were stood in the baby care aisle looking at…nappies.’

I heard Marie take a sharp intake of breath. It took a moment for this all to click.

‘She’s pregnant, Georgia,’ my dad said sadly.

His words swam around me; I felt like I was in that stage between dreaming and waking, where you kind of know where you are, but everything doesn’t feel real. I could hear them loudly whispering to each other.

‘I knew we should have told her earlier.’ ‘No, you said to keep it quiet until the baby was born.’ ‘What the actual fuck?’ (That last one was Marie who looked as gobsmacked as I must have done, ignoring my mum’s shock at her potty mouth.)

‘How…how pregnant is she?’ I eventually managed to spit out.

‘Well, your dad’s no expert and I haven’t seen her, but Denise Williams, who works on reception at the doctors, said she’d seen her recently and she looked about five or six months gone,’ my mum said gripping my hands, that were now shaking.

The receptionist at Alex’s work, Stephanie something or other, for whom he had ended our relationship, was pregnant.

‘Wait, what’s in that letter?’ I was suddenly horribly aware of other diners staring at us. My dad prised the letter out of my mum’s grip and leaned forward, placing his hand on my knee and passing it to me.

‘I didn’t know what to do. I was so angry at him, after all these years treating him as part of the family and to do this to you. I just lost my rag. I marched over to him demanding answers and he started to make excuses and moved her out of the way. So I…swung for him.’

I gaped open-mouthed like a guppy fish. My dad punched someone! Not just someone, but my ex-fiancé! My dad, the kindest softest man I knew, had a hidden feisty Rocky Balboa inside his calm shell. I didn’t know what was more surprising.

‘I’m not proud of it and violence is never an answer but I just saw red.’ He looked at the floor, shamefaced. ‘This spotty security guard saw the commotion and marched me out of the store as Alex ran over to apologise and explain to the jumped-up teenager that he didn’t want to go to the police. It was there that I told him in no uncertain terms that I wanted the house paperwork to be fast-tracked, that he would make sure you received your share quickly and that it was highly favourable to you. I want him out of your life and thought by getting everything ready it would help. He’s nothing but trouble and I truly believe you’ve had a lucky escape.’ He paused for breath, having worked himself up retelling this tale.

‘Go Len!’ Marie shouted, almost high-fiving him.

I opened the envelope in a daze. Official bank and mortgage forms tumbled out. In a formal letter stating which document I needed to sign in order for Alex to buy me out, money I guessed that would be coming from the bank of his mum and dad, he added how sorry he was, but it was for the best that we not contact each other again. I didn’t know what to say.

‘He also sent us a copy so I could see what you were coming back to and that he didn’t try to get you back. He’s made his bed and now he needs to lie in it. I’ve looked over the bank’s terms on the house and the money you’ll get back is above the price you should have got. I just tried to protect you. I’m so sorry, Georgie.’ My dad looked like he was close to tears. Marie just sat there grinning, shaking her head in disbelief that someone had finally punched Alex. I let the news sink in as my mum rushed to the ladies’ room in a fluster. The sudden silence was filled with the dulcet tones of James Blunt playing out of the speakers above our heads.

I was suddenly reminded of an out-of-the-ordinary night a few months ago. Alex had taken me to dinner in this new restaurant in town, he’d just received a bonus at work and wanted to treat me, something that hadn’t happened in ages. We drank cocktails in a bar which overlooked the whole of the city, ate melt-in-your-mouth steaks with all the trimmings, followed by the best tiramisu I’d ever tasted. Embarrassingly, I’d even considered running to the kitchen to persuade the chef to let me have the recipe so that I could pass it to our wedding caterers. The wine flowed and we’d actually had a few non wedding-related conversations as he uncharacteristically showered me with clunky compliments. I remembered that his phone had seemed to buzz more than usual as it lay on the white linen tablecloth, but he took my hand and dismissed it as a problem with work, not even glancing to look at the persistent caller before placing it back in his pocket.

The alcohol had affected my thinking; Alex works for an accountancy firm, which doesn’t open at weekends, let alone 9.30pm on a Saturday night. It must have been her. Maybe she had just taken the test; maybe those two blue positive lines had just appeared. The start of a new life and little did I know, the end of ours.

I massaged my temples as my mum reappeared. Glancing down at her watch she gave her husband a sympathetic look: ‘We have to be going soon to get your dad to this appointment. They fine you if you’re late.’

‘Oh OK.’ I looked at their faces, creased with worry and pain for their only child. I remembered when Alex and I had got engaged (retelling the fake story of course); smiles all round, Cava corks popping and wedding chatter over the dinner table. They were so pleased that I was settling down and was being taken care of by a good man from a wealthy family. As parents they couldn’t have wished for more for their only daughter, even if I knew at times that they felt inferior compared to the very different social circles that his parents mixed in. My dad had shrugged it off, telling me they didn’t need to be bezzie mates with my in-laws, just as long as I was happy, and that hopefully longed-for grandchildren wouldn’t be far behind. Another disappointment.

‘You going to be OK, pet?’ my dad asked.

I shook myself together and plastered on a pathetic smile. ‘Sure. I’m fine. Like you’ve all said, I’ve had a lucky escape. Better to be a jilted bride than a divorcee at 28, eh?’ My joke fell flat as my dad gave me another bear hug.

‘You deserve better than him. This will be the making of you I’m sure of it. Look after yourself, kid,’ he whispered as tears pricked my eyes.

‘I will, Dad. Good luck at your appointment. I’ll call you later.’ I waved them off, my mum’s heels clacking on the tiled floor as she brushed the crumbs from the sleeve of my dad’s jumper.

‘Shit, I can’t believe it, what a bloody bombshell.’ Marie shook her head, flicking through Alex’s official papers which now had coffee ring stains on them. ‘Still, imagine his mum’s face when he comes clean about an illegitimate grandchild, they certainly won’t like that at the polo club.’ She looked up at my pale face. ‘Sorry. But you have to admit Ruthless Ruth will be having kittens at this. Right, I’m going to get a later train as we need a drink, or retail therapy or both.’

I let out a deep sigh. ‘No, no, don’t do that. You can’t be late for your new role, as much as a vat of vodka has my name on it I’m not going to be jumping off into the nearest canal or anything. Have a safe journey and call me when you get there, OK?’

Marie nodded uncertainly. ‘You sure? I really don’t want to leave you after that.’

‘Positive. He’s managed to screw up enough things and your acting career is not going to be one of them.’

‘You sure you don’t want to track him down and give him a piece of your mind?’ she asked, looking fired up for a fight. When we were in Turkey she’d tried to teach me how to master snappy comebacks and fierce confrontation, an area that I was useless at. I’d always leave a fight kicking myself over the things that I should have said. Marie had even written down a list of blush-inducing insults, telling me I needed to be confident, stay calm, and that above all ‘If you hesitate, you lose. Think like Eminem in his 8 Mile rap battle.’ She’d gone into acting-teacher mode, telling me to see confrontation as an invite to play then walk away with dignity, firmly instructing me that under no circumstances was I ever to repeat what the other person had said in a funny voice.

I’d tried coming up with my own putdowns including the corker: ‘Have you been on holiday to Greece, as you’re so greasy,’ but even I could tell that wasn’t going to be a classic. She’d even made me download the word a day app, hoping to extend my vocabulary with feisty retorts. But I was nowhere near ready to go all Slim Shady on Alex’s ass, my thoughts were too twisted up to be able to condense what I wanted to say to him into an eloquent put-down. Realising what a lost cause I was Marie had changed tactics, asking, ‘What’s the most powerful way of getting a man’s attention or driving him wild?’

I looked at her blankly.

‘Ignoring him. Moving on. Silent but deadly,’ she said wisely, ignoring my protests that that was also the name of a fart. Unfortunately, I had to agree with her. Realising that if Alex was getting on with his life then I had to get on with mine, I suddenly knew exactly where I needed to go.

CHAPTER 5

Lobally (adj.) Lout, stupid, rude or awkward person

‘Totally Awesome Adventours’ travel agent was just opposite Kendal’s. Its bright lights beamed like a beacon of sunshine nestled next to a drab charity shop and boarded up pharmacy. The cluttered, colourful window display of a tropical beach scene complete with wooden deckchairs, hats with corks hanging from the rim carelessly tossed onto the striped fabric alongside a blow-up kangaroo, looked out of place on the grey Manchester street. ‘Learn Spanish in Argentina’, ‘Peace out at the Taj Mahal in India’, ‘Trek the Inca Trail in Peru’, ‘Go raving in Thailand’, an array of signs called out, each promising a new experience and adventure. I wistfully thought back to sitting in the sun writing out my travel wish-list, then finding my memory box full of trips I’d wanted to take for so long. This shop offered me the chance to go and see these places for real, and now I had the money to do it.

Taking a deep breath I pushed open the door.

Two guys in their early twenties wearing matching neon orange T-shirts looked up from computers on their kidney-shaped desks, took one glance at me then quickly looked back down again. Huge comfy-looking acid yellow and lime green beanbags were scattered in the corner next to a packed bookcase with stacks of glossy travel brochures, each containing hidden gems, exotic cultures and new worlds inside. I felt a shiver of excitement – until I took in the rest of the room, which made me feel ancient, out of touch and out of place. There was a map of the world with flags where customers could pin the countries they had been and their top tips. I could only add a sad flag to Portugal; my mum had found a cheap deal one year, but moaned constantly that it was too foreign. There had also been nauseating ferry trips to France, that my dad promised would be culturally enlightening but actually turned out to be a quick booze cruise to sell on nice bottles of plonk at mates rates in the local pub car park.

Music I vaguely remembered blasting out from the bedlam of bars in Turkey played with an irritating repetitive beat. Tacked to the colourful walls were photos of nubile-looking women with wet hair excitedly waving to the camera, bar tout Manic Mel could easily have been one of them. My determination vanished as fast as those bikini babes’ morals. Maybe this was a stupid idea; these sorts of places were for carefree students, baby-faced backpackers sharing a manky hostel dorm, not a nearly-30-year-old career woman, if you could even call me that. Without Marie’s unwavering support I suddenly felt foolish being in here; maybe I’d have a look online first from the safety of my bedroom, or maybe this was just an idiotic thing to do in the first place. I tried to sidle my way to the door but it was too late to walk out of the empty shop without going unnoticed.

‘All right?’ A guy with gelled-back ginger hair, oversized ironic black geek glasses and barely-there stubble beckoned me to take a seat on the Perspex chair opposite his desk. His name badge pinned to his skin-tight T-shirt read: ‘Ask me about Awesomeness’. The other guy was engrossed in his laptop.

‘Welcome to Totally Awesome Adventours, where our motto is “Escape, Explore, Evolve” or Triple E as we like to call it,’ he said in a deep monotone as if reading a script. His smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes which looked sleep-deprived and bloodshot. I couldn’t help but think ‘Triple E’ sounded like some dodgy drug found in the underbelly of secret raves that my mum had warned me about after recently reading an article in The Daily Mail, her newspaper of choice after spotting a copy at Alex’s parents’ house one time.

‘My name’s Rick. What can I do for you today?’ He pronounced the ‘ick’ part of his name as if licking the strawberry sauce off the top of a Mr Whippy. I shuddered slightly and shifted in the trendy but uncomfortable seat. What could he do for me today?

‘Well…I’m…erm.’

‘Sorry, can you speak up?’ he bellowed, making me jump.

‘I want to quit my job and go travelling,’ I blurted out surprising myself.

‘Don’t we all, luv,’ he sniggered, rolling his eyes. ‘So, where do you want to go as part of this radical plan?’ He signified speech marks with his fingers, looking pleased with himself, shaking his head in silent mirth.

I felt his eyes take in my practical ponytail, flowered blouse and straight-legged light denim jeans. I thought it was quite a nice look, but it just echoed the rest of my bland and dull wardrobe, a bit like the owner. I’d never been into fashion, always wanting to blend in rather than stand out. Alex had said he preferred it that way, saying it was less hassle having a girlfriend who didn’t stick out like a sore thumb, but sat here I felt like I stood out a mile.

‘Well, I’d like to experience different cultures, taste exotic food and maybe learn a new language?’ I replied, self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

‘Sounds all right, that, but where’s the adrenalin? The excitement? Got some cracking bungee jumps in Oz or white water rafting in New Zealand I could book you on?’

It felt as though he was taking the piss out of me as his colleague had turned his attention to our discussion, providing Rick with an audience. God. What was I doing here? I didn’t know how to travel, how to live out of an uber-sized backpack or share a dorm room with strangers. I wasn’t ready to hang out with the ‘R-icks’ of this world. I’d fantasised about travelling without thinking about any of the practicalities and how difficult the reality might actually be.

‘Um…no…that’s not really my sort of thing,’ I muttered dejectedly.

‘Listen darlin’, I like your spirit an’ all that, but you may want to try “Tasteful Travels” down the road; they do a lovely two-week package to Spain that would be more your scene,’ he laughed.

‘Um…OK…well, thanks for your time.’ I got up from my seat and turned to the door feeling humiliated and pathetic. Of course I couldn’t just swan off to some meditation retreat in outer India, who was I kidding?

As I was about to leave I overheard the two guys talking together: ‘God! Talk about a mood killer. Can you imagine her at a full moon rave? It’d be like taking your mum–nah, your nan.’ They both burst out laughing.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing for you to worry about. Enjoy Costa Bianca,’ Rick smirked, waving his pen and pointing to the exit. I stood still, staring at his pudgy grinning face.

In that moment a tide of fury rose in my stomach. I don’t know if it was the realisation that Alex was starting a new life and family without me, that my wedding dream was over or hearing my mum’s instant dismissal of my travel dreams but my body tensed and my veins fizzed with anger. I couldn’t remember even one of the snappy put-downs Marie had taught me, so, I did the most grown-up and mature thing I could have done; I scooped a pile of brochures into my arms, knocked over a glitter ball that was artfully balanced on a side table and with a loud thud, sent a life-sized cardboard figure of bikini-clad babes doing the peace sign to the floor. The two men just sat open-mouthed gawping at me.

‘And it’s Costa Blanca, not Costa Bianca, you idiot!’ I yelled, stalking out as fast as my sensible flats would take me, slamming the door behind me, causing an inflatable beach ball to drop from the ceiling, adding to the destruction I’d left behind.

My legs were shaking, my chest was pounding and I felt like I might be sick. Running down the street I heaved the heavy brochures into the nearest bin before gripping onto it to catch my breath.

‘Hey!’ a guy’s voice shouted out. I froze. What if R-ick had called the police? What prison time came with brochure stealing? I’ve seen Orange Is the New Black and I wouldn’t last a minute locked up. I forced myself to look up but it wasn’t the stern face of the law peering down on me. No. It was much, much worse.

Stood just feet away was Alex.

‘Georgia, are you OK?’ he asked coming closer, wincing at how sweaty I was. He looked different; he was walking taller and was wearing clothes I didn’t recognise. Why, oh why, did I have to bump into him today?

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ I tried desperately not to cry and willed my heart rate to slow down. My voice sounded weird. I was gulping at smelly bin air.

‘I know. But – are you sure you’re OK?’ He pointed to the overflowing bin and the scrambled egg-like vomit I was unwittingly standing in.

I shook my head as if I could make him vanish. My legs had frozen to the spot, my knuckles had turned white, and I was gripping the bin hard for support. This was not how I had ever imagined seeing him again; in those daydreams I was confident and dressed to kill, not perspiring and panicking.

‘There’s nothing left to say. I never want to see you again,’ I forced myself to spit out defiantly, hoping that he couldn’t see my trembling chin and bottom lip.

‘OK, OK.’ He spoke like a negotiator would to a hostage taker, rubbing the back of his neck. He had had his hair cut shorter, neater, more grown up. He looked like his dad. Or maybe just like a dad. My confused and humiliated brain couldn’t focus.

‘Did you get your things from the house yet? I’ve not been back for a few days. I’m staying at…err…a friend’s place for the moment.’

I nodded, trying to swallow down a burp of bile scorching my throat. I knew exactly which friend he was talking about.

‘Thanks, appreciate it. Both gotta move on and all that. Maybe it’ll be good that you don’t have to rely on me so much now.’

I couldn’t believe this! He’d relied on me. I’d tried my hardest to fit the role of homemaker that every woman in his family neatly slotted into, and I’d done it all to make him happy. For cooking, cleaning, planning our diary, reminding him of when his mum’s birthday was and then buying her presents that she always cast aside once one of her other daughters-in-law presented some artisanal made-with-the-blood-of-a-virgin-unicorn thingymajiggy. My gift card to Next never stood a chance. But that was all I was to him; a lousy maid, chef and Filofax. I stared at him open-mouthed, cheeks flaming in embarrassment at the attempt to leave my life here in search of a new one, only to come face to face with my past.

‘I can’t believe you! I–’ I stopped mid-sentence as a woman with highlighted blonde hair and a neat freckled nose had joined us. Stephanie. Seeing her doll-like features I instantly remembered her. She’d asked to borrow my hairbrush in the ladies’ toilets at Alex’s work Christmas party last year. Bitch. She was pretty. Of course she was. She looked down at me through long lashes, her green eyes flicking between me and Alex as if working out how he had traded up so dramatically. I could almost hear her thinking, This was his ex? This bin lady?

‘Oh hi, erm OK, you ready to go?’ Alex said stumbling in between us both and taking the shopping bag from her hands, not before I noticed the slight bump under her tight striped jumper. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you and er…the bin to it. Take care.’ Alex waved bashfully and headed off down the street steering Stephanie forward without a backwards glance.

My head was suddenly filled with snapshots of them, perfectly filtered Instagram photos of their new life together. Her with her lithe body that would no doubt snap back to pre-pregnancy skinny jeans an hour after giving birth, an adventurous vixen in the bedroom, a domestic goddess in the kitchen, funny, intelligent and BFF’s with his mum Ruth. I pictured them laughing about me, at the state of me, at what I’d become, how Alex would shake his head trying to remember what had attracted him to me in the first place, how he’d had a lucky escape calling off our wedding. My face burned with shame.

My legs gave way as soon as Alex and Stephanie were lost in the crowd. I knocked over an empty can of lager as I slumped onto a cold step, holding my head in my hands. Breathe, just breathe.

‘Here ya go, luv.’ Someone chucked a few coins at my feet. ‘Get yerself a decent meal.’

I looked up mortified. ‘No I’m not a tramp, I’m just…’ I faded out looking down at the bin stains on my jeans, the dodgy sticky residue on my hands, and the tangy smell of vomit at my feet then nodded slowly. ‘Cheers.’

‘All the single ladies, all the single ladies.’ The jazzy tones of Queen B started blaring out of my handbag that had narrowly avoided falling into an open kebab box. Marie had changed the ringtone when we were away, shoved a Hula Hoop crisp on my ring finger and spun me around the hotel bedroom trying to perfect her twerking skills. I snatched my phone out of my bag, not seeing the funny side any more.

‘Hello?’

‘Georgia. Catrina,’ said my boss sharply.

I mentally ran through the week in my head. I was definitely due back at work tomorrow, not today. What the hell was she calling me for?

‘Oh hi, erm, everything OK?’

‘As a matter of fact, no, it isn’t.’ She paused as if collecting her thoughts.

My stomach did that funny clawing feeling you get when you know that as soon as they mutter the next few words everything could change. Catrina was never one to beat around the bush but also lacked the tact to pull off any emotional conversations.

‘When you were off gallivanting on holiday you seemed to forget that a memory stick containing some sort of “mood” board was left on your desk,’ she seethed.

My mouth went dry. I had selected a few photos – OK, maybe a hundred – that I liked from the internet as inspiration to show to the wedding venue before the final checks were made. And yes, maybe I did turn it into a live mood board with special effects – and, oh yep, even a backing track. I’d grabbed a work USB stick and quickly copied everything across, before Catrina came back from a meeting and clocked me wasting work time again, but I must have forgotten to put it in my handbag to take home.

‘Unluckily for you, the temp covering your work, that stuck-up cow Dawn, found this stick whilst you were tanning yourself on holiday and got it mixed it up with her own usb for the presentation at today’s pitch meeting. So instead of bloody pie charts and graphs the overseas clients and the whole of the Board, including Mr Rivers, have seen frothy bridal images and Lionel bloody Ritchie blasting out.’

Crap. This wasn’t good.

I knew how slightly over the top I’d gone with the wedding montage, if you would call adding The Best of Lionel a little excessive. Looking at personal things in work time was bad, especially when this was the second time it had happened. I just found myself getting lost in wedding blogs on my lunch hour, losing track of the time until Catrina was stood watching over me, suffocating me in her heavy perfume, glowering at me with a furious scrunched-up face. I’d been given a verbal warning for this already but that time it had just affected Catrina, not the whole of the Board. Nope, really not good.

‘Oh God. I’m…I’m sure we can explain it all,’ I stuttered in shock.

‘Georgia – did all that cheap booze last week affect your brain cells?’ Catrina seethed.

My stomach lurched. I felt light-headed, the smell of a stranger’s vomit burnt my nostrils. ‘Catrina, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry. Maybe if I speak to Mr Rivers and explain it was all my fault. I’ve been under a lot of stress planning the wedding, which didn’t actually happen, and–’

She let out a deep sigh crossed between boredom and amusement at hearing me begging for my job. ‘Georgia, it’s not going to be possible, I’ve given you enough chances to buck up your ideas and each time you throw them back in my face. So, you leave me no choice but to tell you that you’re fired.’

‘No, wait I…’ I babbled, desperately trying not to cry.

Then it dawned on me: I could try my hardest to apologise, get off this step and storm into the office, bin juice and all, demanding a chance to make this right and possibly keep my job. Or…what if I let fate work its magic, giving me a shove to freedom and into the unknown? The face of ‘R-ick’ laughing at my boring spirit flashed in front of my eyes; my mum’s voice entered my head telling me I could never be so adventurous and Alex’s patronising smile made my cheeks heat up.

Sat on that beach in Turkey I’d planned to quit my job anyway, so, yeah, this wasn’t anything like the scenes I’d imagined in which I’d leave to rapturous applause from my colleagues for my bravery and courage, not for unwittingly pitching 1001 Ways to Improve Your Wedding to important clients.

‘Georgia. Did you hear me?’ she shouted down the phone.

I made my decision.

‘Yep. Loud and clear. OK, well thanks for everything.’ My voice sounded high-pitched and wobbly.

‘OK?’ She paused, taken aback by my quick acceptance and lack of fight. ‘Well, right, good. So that’s that then. I’ll get your things couriered to your address.’

I hung up before I had the chance to tell her I no longer lived at my old address. Oh well, looks like Alex and Stephanie would be getting a bittersweet housewarming gift of post-it notes and some naff logo merchandise.

I pushed myself onto my feet and wandered down the busy high street buzzing with adrenalin, which lasted as far as Superdrug where suddenly the reality of what I’d done dawned on me. The reliable side of my conscience had a panic attack, shocked, as my other hidden, risky side looked on smirking. I was unemployed. I’d wreaked havoc in the travel agent’s, my ex was going to become a daddy and I stank of some stranger’s vomit. What had my life become?

CHAPTER 6

Serendipity (n.) The chance occurrence of events in a beneficial way

I stumbled into a nearby Weatherspoon’s, ordered a pint of fruity cider and immediately dialled Marie’s number.

‘I can’t frigging believe it,’ Marie kept repeating as I filled her in on what had happened in the brat pack travel agency, Alex and Stephanie finding me in a compromising position with the council’s bins and how Lionel Ritchie had got me the sack.

‘It was mortifying.’ I closed my eyes, willing it from my brain before downing the rest of my glass, the super-sweet bubbles slipping down my throat way too easily for a Monday lunchtime.

‘You were clinging onto a rubbish bin? Oh God, Georgia.’

‘I know! I should never have gone into that stupid travel agent’s. I don’t even know what came over me in there. I just felt like I was sick of people laughing at me, like “Oh there she goes, that stupid jilted bride that says she wants to change her life but doesn’t have the faintest idea how to do anything right. Oh here she is, boring Georgia who didn’t even know her ex got some slapper up the duff. Oh wait, Miss Green, isn’t that the bridezilla with a penchant for Lionel Ritchie?”’ If there hadn’t been a queue of people behind me I would have face slapped the bar.

‘Oh stop it. No one will think that,’ Marie tutted. ‘So what was it like seeing Sir Knob of Knobsville? I don’t know how you could have even looked at him.’

I sighed. ‘It still hasn’t really sunk in, I guess. I was too paralysed with shock and shame to react properly. But the weird thing was, as unprepared as I was to see him, I didn’t get a rush of loving emotions – just a rush of humiliation at the situation. I didn’t really feel anything for him.’

‘That’s good, Georgia. You don’t need him and yeah, well, meeting your ex whilst draped over a stinking bin probably didn’t give off the clearest “I’m over you, my life is fabulous” message, but you’re just a bit lost, that’s all. Nobody’s life goes to plan, especially not one they found in a stupid magazine quiz.’

I smiled, I knew exactly what quiz she was talking about. One warm Summer day back when we were teens, weeks before the nightmare bunker incident, Marie and I were lying on the cool stubbly grass in her back garden, scribbling our answers to a trashy ‘What kind of life will you have?’ quiz I’d found in an old copy of my mum’s Woman’s Weekly magazine.

‘But this is stupid,’ Marie had moaned as I’d asked her about her dreams and aspirations, ‘I’m going to marry Ricky Martin; he just doesn’t know it yet.’

‘OK,’ I sighed, ‘so you run off to Puerto Rico to find him – then what?’

Marie rolled over to her back and shaded her eyes from the sun. ‘Well, I want to be married by the time I’m 22 and have had my first child by at least 24.’ We both shuddered at how ancient that sounded. ‘After that, I’ll become a world-famous actress and we’ll live in Hollywood with our three model-looking children.’

‘You’d better start paying attention in your Spanish classes then,’ I teased, picking dirt out of my fingernails.

‘Nah, we’ll speak the language of lurve,’ she smiled before pulling the quiz away roughly. ‘Right then, Miss Green, what’s your life plan going to be?’

My eyes lit up as I spoke: ‘I want to travel, to see more of life than what’s on our doorstep. Oh, and also to write. Being a travel journalist would be pretty cool. Imagine waking up in a different country every day and getting paid to tell the world what you’re seeing, eating and doing?’

‘Then you can write better quizzes than what’s in here,’ Marie smirked whacking me with the rolled up mag.

‘Look what happened to my plan!’ Marie exclaimed. ‘I never did get round to marrying Ricky Martin and definitely never thought I’d be a single mum, but even though Cole wasn’t part of my original plan, I couldn’t imagine how my life could be any better without him.’

‘To be fair, I don’t think you’re Ricky’s type.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I never got to be the next Judith Chalmers,’ I sighed thinking of my unloved passport. ‘I guess I hadn’t realised how fast life passes you by. One minute you’re fresh-faced, taking the first job you’re offered, convinced it will be a springboard for better things to come, then the next, you’re older, settled and saggy,’ I said sadly, just as an unshaved old man waddled past holding a pint of bitter before hacking up a load of phlegm into a mucky handkerchief.

‘It’s easily done, babe.’ Marie paused. ‘OK, I’m going to be real with you for a second, and don’t get mad. I hadn’t wanted to say anything because, you know, the whole not getting married thing, but actually, hun, you’ve changed. Going away with you last week reminded me what the real Georgia was like. Not the one who fusses over Alex, who stresses about table runners and ruddy place mats. Not the one who checks the weather to see if they can put their washing out rather than if it’s hot enough to head to a beer garden, not the one who pretends to enjoy eating kale and drinking pomegranate juice. You never used to be like that, but over time you’ve changed. So maybe you did get lost along the way, but now it’s like you’ve been given a ticket to start again, to reinvent yourself and do exactly what you want. Not go along with what Alex likes, or follow Catrina’s direction, but actually think: what does Georgia Green want to do?’

‘I guess,’ I mumbled tearing the moist edges of the beer mats in front of me. She was right, about all of it. Kale is bloody nasty.

‘I’m serious hun, if I was in your situation, but obviously minus a child, then I’d be out of here faster than when Big Claire orders her kebab at closing time. The world is your oyster. Go and grab it by the pearly balls!’

*

‘Oh hello, I’ll be with you in just one tic. Oh you silly bugger just work!’ A woman was wrestling with an ancient printer almost half her petite size. Papers were strewn everywhere and a strange gurgling noise was blaring from the knackered machine. ‘This is why I write everything down. Don’t trust these impetuous things. You know where you are with a paper and pen.’ She ran a wrinkled hand through her grey hair, flattening down loose strands that had formed a halo in the dust-particled light streaming through the window.

I’d taken Marie’s advice and left the pub having googled nearby travel agents, one I hopefully wouldn’t be humiliated in. ‘Have you changed the ink recently?’ I suggested stepping over documents flung on the floor to get a closer look. ‘We used to have the same model at work and all it needed was a good whack. Like this.’ Without thinking I thumped down hard on the lid. It wheezed to life then began churning out copies like brand new.

‘Oh my days. Thank you so much. Do you know how long I’ve been faffing with this? Turning it on and off again, trying different paper and I never once thought to do that.’ She beamed a genuine heartfelt smile at me.

‘No problem. Glad to be of service.’

‘So now that’s working, I can properly introduce myself and make you a cup of tea, the least I can do for saving my sanity!’ She wiped her hands on her trousers and came round from behind the desk, cautiously placing her pale pink court shoes amongst the carpet of paper between us. ‘Welcome to Making Memories. Owner, explorer and technology-phobe Trisha at your service! How can I help you?’ She stuck her ink-splatted hand out to me.

This small slightly sweating woman was a world away from the intimidating chimps at the other travel agency. Trisha was more like someone’s grandma. In fact, how had she not yet retired? Her cotton wool-coloured hair was loosely pulled into a low chignon and gold necklaces jangled against her crinkly tanned neck. She was wearing a smart trouser suit with a name badge and smelled like incense and sun lotion.

I shook Trisha’s hand and smiled down at her. ‘Hi. Georgia. Wannabe backpacker, gherkin hater and printer fixer who would love a brew,’ I said gratefully.

‘Coming right up! Eurgh I hate gherkins too, why ruin a perfectly good burger by plonking slimy bogey-coloured strips on the top?’

‘Exactly!’

Trisha smiled. ‘Oh, and please excuse the mess, usually there are two of us here but Deidre’s had to take some time off. To be honest I’m not sure if she’s coming back. Her son’s just had a baby you see, a little girl, so now it’s babies rather than brochures,’ she chuckled. ‘I’m so pleased for her but I could probably do with another pair of hands around the place, especially where modern technology is involved.’ She laughed lightly, awkwardly hiding some dirty mugs behind a framed picture of a handsome young man grinning by the Empire State Building. ‘I guess it’s good to keep busy though. Right, now for tea.’

Even though this shop had a prime position just off the packed high street, I’d walked past it every day not giving it a glance. It was a beautiful old room. I remember my dad telling me that there used to be an old bank on this street, I guess a few of these smaller shops must have been born from spare bank rooms when it moved location. Looking past the messy stacks of paper, a striking ornate marble fireplace drew my eyes, my feet sank into the faded, thick plum-coloured rug that partially covered decorative floor tiles, and large lanterns hung from the high ceiling that was iced with gilt trim carvings. So grand, for such a small travel agent’s.

Apart from the stacks of bright, glossy brochures the rest of the room was dark, muted colours with a weathered world map above the fireplace and an ancient-looking globe standing proudly in the corner. A melodic tune emanated from some hidden speakers; it sounded aboriginal and enchanting.

Trisha noticed me tilting my head to listen. ‘It’s from a remote Botswanian tribe I stumbled across when I visited the country many years ago. The bushmen from the Kalahari Desert performed at this tiny camp I was sleeping in for the night and their voices, rhythms and unusual dance moves were nothing like you would find down the local discotheque back home. I just fell into a trance and persuaded the tribesman to let me tape them on my Dictaphone. It’s not the best quality, but it takes me back.’

‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ I admitted, as Trisha returned to making the tea, humming along.

Brochures on a walnut bookcase were meticulously separated into areas – exactly how I would have placed them, with European breaks at the top followed by Russia, China, Asia, Africa, the Americas, Australia and New Zealand and even Antarctic brochures. Trisha had the whole world covered here. My fingers reached out instantly to a South East Asia brochure. I lazily flicked through pages of colour from Indonesia, Malaysia and Thailand, each exotic image drawing me in.

‘You take milk and sugar, love?’ Trisha called out, making me pop the brochure back on the shelf nervously.

‘Just milk please.’

‘Ah, sweet enough are you?’ She smiled, repeating my dad’s favourite catchphrase.

‘Yeah, something like that,’ I grinned and padded over to the far wall that was covered in postcards from all over the world. Must be from happy clients, I thought, absently picking one that had dropped to the floor and turning it over. ‘Greetings from Uganda! You were right Trish, the tilapia is incredible here. Who knew I’d be choosing fish over greasy kebabs, how things have changed hey! Having an incredible time. It’s hard work getting around this beautiful country, especially in the heat, but it is so worthwhile. Hope all is good with you and you’re following the doctors’ orders? Love Stevie x’

‘Ah, most of those are from Stevie, he’s such an adventurer,’ Trisha said warmly. I quickly put the card back on the wall, flushed from reading her personal messages. Who was Stevie and why did Trisha need to be following doctors’ orders? I thought she seemed quite sprightly, albeit a little tired-looking.

A liver-spotted hand passed over a cup of tea, breaking my thoughts. Beckoning me to sit on the sofa with her, Trisha explained that she’d picked up the beautiful emerald green teacups in Iran eighteen years earlier. Sat close up Trisha didn’t look like your typical explorer; there were no stuffed animals hung on the walls, none of those round brown hats you imagine adventurers wearing or rifle guns proudly displayed. She looked like she would be more at home watching Bargain Hunt rather than bartering for crockery in an exotic eastern market.

‘Your shop’s beautiful, how long have you had this place?’ I waved my hand around the mysterious room, taking in the heavy aubergine velvet drapes hung majestically at the windows and a large sumptuous chandelier casting droplets of golden light from its vertical glass shards. It was a mix of safari meets Moroccan boudoir.

‘Ah, this is my baby,’ Trisha beamed as if seeing the room for the first time. ‘Never got round to having children of my own as me and my wonderful late husband Fred spent most of our time globetrotting. When we finally settled in Manchester I’d unfortunately missed that boat. His health wasn’t in the best condition back then so we used every penny we had to buy this place and focused our energies here.’

‘It’s a stunning space; you must actually enjoy coming to work here every day?’ A world away from my nondescript desk in the ugly grey office building I used to work at.

‘I truly love it and have been very blessed to have loyal clients help me, but I’m not getting any younger and the day will soon come when all this gets passed on to my godson, Stevie.’ She nodded towards the collection of postcards. ‘He’s about your age and just one of the few family members I have left.’ She rubbed her neck, wincing slightly. ‘He’s always sending me postcards from the countries he travels to, mostly on work trips. We have a lot of itchy feet in our family if you know what I mean!’

‘Athlete’s foot?’ I asked.

Trisha let out a long chuckle. ‘No dear, I mean that our feet itch to be on the move. To travel. That’s why sometimes I worry that when my time is up Stevie will struggle to cope with staying in one place indefinitely. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good boy, but exactly like his mother was when she was his age, always looking for the next challenge and country to discover. I don’t think he’s lived in one town for longer than a year, keeps you on your toes our Stevie!’

God, this guy sounded like the polar opposite of Alex, who wouldn’t have moved to turn off the television if he’d lost the remote. Imagine leading such an exciting and fun life, always on the road, travelling all over the world. I could understand why the poor lad didn’t want to come rushing to Manchester to help his godmother’s business, it would be such a comedown.

‘I saw you earlier actually, running with a handful of brochures from those idiots up the road. I wanted to open my door and shout out for you to come in here as I was certain you wouldn’t find what you were looking for in that noisy, childish place. They should be ashamed, being so dismissive of anyone who isn’t 18 years old, doesn’t look like them or is only clutching pocketful’s of Daddy’s money on some sort of enriching gap year,’ Trisha said before breaking into a laugh. ‘Ha! The only thing those kids will be learning is how to get out of a Bali jail after being caught with marijuana on them. They think that traveling is just risking their lives, livers and futures for a jaunt around Asia with their eyes completely closed to the beauty and hospitality that receives them. But you – you remind me of me when I was your age.’

I spilled a little of my tea. ‘Oh, erm, really?’

‘Now, of course I don’t know you, but I don’t think you do either. That can be confusing, scary but also exhilarating.’ She had a point. ‘Over the years I’ve become pretty adept at understanding others; you need to, if you want to see the world. You also have to understand that everyone has a story and many of those stay hidden unless you really look for them.’ She sipped her tea. ‘So, have you just finished work for the day?’

‘I got fired.’ The words tasted bitter in my mouth.

‘Ah, I see. I’ve also noticed you’re not wearing a ring on an important finger and I look into your eyes and see a sadness, so I’m guessing there has been some recent mess-up in the love department?’ I fidgeted slightly, almost getting swallowed up on this cloud of a sofa. ‘You want to make changes in your life, but are scared of what these will mean, both to you and others around you.’

‘Yeah, something like that.’ She was right, of course. After I gave Trisha a much shortened story, as apparently I was sat with ‘Mystic Meg’, she rose and handed me the South East Asia brochure – the one I’d previously picked up myself.

‘It sounds like you’re new at this game, so I don’t want to fling you in some Outer Mongolian goat shed. Not just yet, anyway,’ she smiled, taken back to some distant memory. By the look on her face I thought maybe I did want to stay in some stinky goat shed.

‘I think Thailand would be perfect for you. They mostly speak English; it’s a country full of joy, charm and smiles. Just what you need to be around at the moment. It has beaches, jungles, metropolitan cities and the capital, Bangkok, is a place I’d advise anyone to go at least once in their life.’

‘That does sound pretty great.’ I thought back to my travel wish-list that I’d hastily unscrunched from my wastepaper bin, mentally checking things off: ride an elephant, laze on white sandy beaches, get some culture and visit temples. The images shining from the sleek pages were so tempting. Suddenly my mum’s shrill tones clanged in my head: Who would help me if I got sick? What if someone tried to drug me, or even worse, force me to become a drugs mule?

Trisha must have sensed my hesitation: ‘For the first-time traveller it can all feel a bit overwhelming, so why don’t we look at joining you onto a tour group? That way you’ll be with people in similar situations to yours; maybe first-timers or nervous about solo travel, but you also have the safety and ease of the trip being planned for you?’

I hadn’t even thought about that as an option. ‘Yeah, I reckon that could work,’ I smiled, giving Trisha the date I wanted to leave – basically as soon as possible – and she began tapping at a clunky keyboard.

‘Let me see… I think all my popular Thailand tours are booked up as it’s so last-minute. Looking at your dates of travel and discounting geriatric retirees, the only one I could book you on is this one.’ Her printer spluttered into life, acting as if it had always been so efficient. ‘It’s a family-owned business and will hopefully open your eyes to the world.’

The itinerary consisted of Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Kanchanaburi, and island-hopping, with organised visits to temples, street markets, cooking classes, language school and paradise beaches. ‘It sounds perfect,’ I breathed, noticing the uneasy look on Trisha’s face as she chewed her bottom lip. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing, nothing. The accommodation isn’t going to be 5-star luxury and at times it may feel far from home, especially after everything you’ve told me you’ve been through. My advice would be to keep your mind open and if it all gets too much then you must head to the Blue Butterfly Huts on this island here.’ She pointed to an ant-sized speck in the ocean off the larger Koh Phangan island called Koh Lanta. ‘They’ll look after you.’

An hour, nearly a full pack of biscuits and a few more cups of tea later, we had everything finalised; I was booked onto the six-week tour leaving in ten days! I didn’t want to worry about what I’d do once that was over and I was back here again. Stop trying to make plans for the future and just, for once, go with the flow. Trisha helped me apply for a fast-tracked Thai visa, sorted my travel insurance, booked me in for a few immunisations and gave me a list of all the things I needed to buy and pack. My cheeks were hurting from smiling; there was no going back now.

OM effing G! Georgia Green was going travelling.

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