Never Saw You Coming - Hayley Doyle Page 0,117

alright?’ I ask. I place my half-drunk beer onto the kitchen bar, catching a glimpse of my freshly tanned arm. Christ, I might look pretty healthy after this trip, less like a vampire.

‘She’s probably joking,’ Cheryl’s saying to Leon. ‘How well do you know her?’

‘Well enough to know she wouldn’t bail on a brunch,’ Leon replies.

‘Er, what’s going on?’ I say. For the first time since I arrived, I feel as though I’m standing in the wrong place, that I need to disappear. There’s an edge to the atmosphere, a haze of things being out of joint. Cheryl and Leon are talking aloud but it’s as if they don’t want me to hear. Their friends are still out on the balcony and although I could easily rejoin them, I’m eager to know what the problem is. And there’s clearly a problem.

‘Look, man,’ Leon says. ‘Zara ain’t coming tomorrow.’

I shrug.

Okay. Maybe I expected too much.

It’s fine.

But, fuck. The sudden nausea I’m experiencing isn’t nice. It brings my high crashing down to an awful low. I tell myself to get a grip; that things never usually go to plan.

‘Well, it was probably quite likely,’ I say, holding it together. It’s hard. ‘I was taking a bit of a mad risk.’

‘She said she’s in England,’ Cheryl says.

I snort a short laugh, pick up my beer and swig. ‘Of course she is.’

‘Man, I am so sorry,’ Leon says. ‘Unless she’s talking shit.’

‘Nah. God knows what she’s doing, but from what I know of her – and it’s not much – she doesn’t ever seem to be in the same place for longer than five minutes,’ I sigh. ‘Christ almighty. What the hell’s she doing back in England? And what the hell am I doing here? Ah, for Christ’s sake.’

Here I am, surrounded by a couple of bloody strangers, in the fucking desert.

Cheryl reaches out, compelled to give me a hug. I’m not too comfortable about her doing this. I stiffen up. This is just weird.

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Leon says.

‘Find out what?’ I ask.

‘If she’s talking shit. I’m gonna video call her.’

‘Leave it, mate. If she doesn’t wanna come, she doesn’t wanna come.’

‘Are you serious?’ Leon cries. ‘Ah, man. This is your girl. You’re her guy. You can’t give up now. Let’s find out what’s going on here. And look, if Zara’s just making up excuses, seeing you here’s clearly gonna change that. Okay, so the surprise won’t happen how we planned it tomorrow, but come on, who cares? Right?’

This is all a lot of faff; a lot of fuss. Leon and Cheryl’s attention was welcoming at first, maybe due to the jet lag or the excitement of actually getting here, but it’s making me feel super claustrophobic now. If only I could just close my eyes and open them to find I’m back in my living room, watching my telly, drinking instant coffee and eating toast, waiting for Snowy to drag me out for a pint.

Except, no.

That thought, so comforting when I used to sit in the toll booth, doesn’t give me that warm and fuzzy feeling right now. It makes me feel cold, and it’s nothing to do with Cheryl keeping the air conditioning at Baltic. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to sit alone in my flat above the chippy. I want to stay here. With the dry desert heat and the sandy floors, with the powerful sunshine and the bold moon, with the adventure and the ambition. It’s all-encompassing. Although I’m sweating from my pores, I don’t want to escape before I’ve even experienced it.

‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it. Call Zara.’

39

Zara

Wong’s is open and busier than when I’d sat outside in Jim’s car. Perhaps because it’s later in the day, and the dark evening is enticing locals to get themselves a chip shop dinner; fish and chips and mushy peas, or something else from the extensive menu lit up on the wall, mainly featuring Chinese dishes and British food deep-fried in batter.

‘Yes, love?’ the Chinese man behind the counter asks, after I’ve waited my turn in the queue. He’s working super efficiently, shovelling large portions of fried potatoes onto white paper and drowning them with salt and vinegar before wrapping them up into tight parcels.

‘Does Jim live upstairs?’

The man smiles, nods many times, and acknowledges the suitcase I’m lugging behind me, so he opens the hatch on the counter allowing me to pass through. He’s already started to serve the person

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