I’ve been there. That will be my first point of call. I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
Oh, that night in the hotel! The almost.
There’s no way I’m going to let that pass. No way. And I’m also not going to pass on this opportunity, shining like a laser in my face, to go back to university. The stars are finally, finally, finally aligning and the universe is totally giving me the signs to go for it.
I took a taxi to the airport. Nobody was home at my papa’s villa to give me a ride, to wave me off. The goodbyes were completed a short while ago, before the first trip to Liverpool, and in truth, they’d failed to have any sort of impact on anybody. Including me.
My life has ended in Dubai. I should never have come back.
‘Never go back,’ I say to myself, handing my passport over.
Then, I stop, keeping a grip on my passport.
‘You okay?’ the guy on the desk asks.
Never go back. My own advice. And yet here I am, going back.
I close my eyes, think about the dancing fountains and recall that wonderful feeling of warmth as I listened to the music, made that decision, envisioned Jim behind me, urging me on.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say.
I release the passport.
I never did catch up with Katie, but we chat on WhatsApp. She’s being positive about my decision, in a polite, two-dimensional way. The chat is pretty boring, if I’m honest. She’s engaged to the ‘lettuce’, which is nice. I’m a bit upset that I found out on Instagram and not from her directly, although I know it’s nothing personal. It’s the modern world, isn’t it? In the staged photo, she’s kissing her guy, her hand stretched out to the camera as if to say talk to the hand, but her palm has ‘I said yes!’ written across it in black marker pen, a retro filter added for a whimsical touch. Like I say; nice. That’s her life.
Mine is waiting for me in Liverpool.
I board the plane.
34
Jim
I’m fucking terrified.
Thirty-three years of age and I’ve never been on a plane before.
Two days ago I was stealing from my own car and now I’m jetting off to the Middle East. My head’s wrecked. It doesn’t soften the blow having everyone I know waving me off from Manchester Airport. I’ve been silent the whole way, sitting up front as Griffo drives the minibus, letting my league of Scousers gab away to each other in the back.
Helen was gabbing away to Lisa, who was trying to entertain Maisie, who was stealing crisps from Rocco, who was crying. Emma was listening to Snowy relive tales from his tour-managing days, revealing that whatever happens on tour doesn’t actually stay on tour. Mikey and Tori were arguing, kind of about the same thing, him saying how he wanted to move them all to Dubai so he can teach music at an international school and Tori yelling at him to sort his life out and move them all to Dubai so he can teach music at an international school.
The Americans stayed behind with the kids, and of course, my ma.
It seems to take forever to check in, the queue moving ever so slowly. My entourage are waiting in the Costa, but the very thought of caffeine gives me the jitters. My fingertips are sweaty, my knees like jelly. A dryness coats my throat and droplets of sweat dance around my brow. I should’ve got a haircut.
‘Is there a bar in there?’ I ask the fella in front.
I don’t want to be scared. But, Christ, I am.
The fella looks befuddled, and I realise that maybe he doesn’t speak English. But he indicates his head to the signs pointing to the departure lounge and nods. This relaxes me, for a short while, and gets me through the last part of the queue.
My hand trembles as I take hold of the paper boarding ticket. I drop my passport not once, not twice, but three times whilst waiting for my suitcase to plod along the conveyor belt. I’ll be surprised if they let me on the bloody plane, the way I’m behaving. I look dodgy as fuck.
‘No going back now, lad,’ Snowy says when I join them all in the Costa.
I pull him to one side, eager to know.
‘So?’ I ask, quietly.
Snowy gives a slight shake of his head, glancing towards Helen. ‘Bottled it, mate.’