hug, a single kiss and steps away to allow the next person to have a go, as if saying ta-ra to me is some sort of dance ritual.
‘Hold on,’ I say. ‘Why are you leaving me here?’
Nobody answers my question, and if anything, they ignore me, gathering their bags and putting their coats back on, telling Maisie and Rocco to put the empty cups in the bin like it’s a game they’ll enjoy.
‘No, I’m being serious,’ I reiterate. ‘Aren’t you coming in to have a pint with me?’
Emma squeezes my arm. ‘We can’t do that. Passengers only.’
Well, at least she’s remembered I’ve never done this before.
Showered with hugs and kisses, I disconnect myself from everyone and tell them I love them.
‘Now, piss off,’ I say. ‘The lot of you. Piss off. I’ll be back in a week.’
Christ, they’re all getting on my bloody nerves. And guess what? They won’t even piss off. They just carry on faffing about, Helen wanting another coffee and Snowy thinking he’s lost his wallet before he realises Rocco’s sitting by the bin with it, shaking it like a tambourine. Lisa’s flirting with Griffo, oblivious to how obvious she is. I’m just going to have to go. I can hear an out-of-tune sing-song of ‘safe travels’ behind me, but I walk on, waving one arm and refusing to turn around.
Once I’ve got a pint in my hand, I feel okay. More than okay. Boss.
I like it here, in the airport. There’s a buzz mixed into the boredom that’s lit a fire in my belly. It’s fun wondering where everybody else is going. This is such a different sort of wondering to the one I’ve been used to in the toll booth. This time, I’m not watching, I’m doing. Just like every other person here, I’m bloody well going somewhere. I’m going to find Zara. I’m not going to get all cosmic or anything; that’s all bullshit. The fact is, she crashed into me. And yet I made a lot of decisions that day. Some were forced upon me, yeah, but they were decisions all the same. It’s led to something bigger. It’s getting me out. Maybe we did crash for a reason.
A second pint confirms my feelings on that point.
I’d been anxious that I’d get a bit lost in the airport, not know how to find the correct gate, board the plane in time. But, I have to say, the whole experience has come to me with ease. Even getting onto the plane itself (which I thought I might chicken out of) is a breeze. The tunnel is a boss trick, you don’t even realise you’re on the plane until you’re, well, on it. Christ, them pints have gone to my head. I should’ve eaten something.
As I work out how to fasten my seatbelt, I find myself chatting to the woman in the seat beside me. She’s Iranian, married to an English fella, and they’ve lived in Dubai for two years. They like it a lot, says it’s an amazing place to raise a young family. She’s got two sons.
‘Why Dubai?’ I ask.
‘My job, actually,’ she tells me. ‘But my husband found work easily, too. There’s plenty of opportunity. Is this your first time to Dubai?’
‘It’s me first time flying.’
‘Oh my God. Really?’
‘Yep.’
‘So, I should ask you. Why Dubai?’
I give her a smile with one side of my mouth.
‘A girl?’ she asks.
‘Sounds daft, doesn’t it?’
She returns the smile. ‘Good luck.’
My comfort zone has been left behind on that shabby seat in the toll booth. The plane taxies to the runway. It powers its engines and roars forward, tilting back and shooting into the sky. What am I doing? Jesus Christ.
What on earth am I actually doing?
35
Zara
Learning from my mistakes, I knew to fly direct from Dubai to Manchester this time.
I’m so exhausted with travelling. I’m not sure when I’ll finally grind to a halt. This isn’t like hopping on a bus in Thailand with just a backpack and a plan to get drunk, jiggling about for half a day across bumpy roads to get to Laos with more drinking objectives. Nor is it like being passed from one parent to another, seven thousand miles apart. Yo-yoing to and from Liverpool has made me so drained, it keeps my nerves from spinning out of control. Perhaps all this to-ing and fro-ing from here to there and back again has just become the norm; an intensified version of my whole life, really.