about how time passes by beautifully with a book. I don’t mind reading, especially by the pool or on the beach, but today I’ve been struggling enough with the most banal celeb gossip. I’m not sure I could focus on a book.
Although …
It’s still another six hours until my flight.
I finish my drink and head to WHSmith, browsing through the A–Z of fiction, reading the back of anything that catches my eye. There’s a theme unfolding; I notice anything with the words ‘lie’, ‘deceit’, or ‘stranger’ in the title. Hmm. The more blurbs I read, the more all the stories start to sound the same. I move on to fact. Some healthy lifestyle hardbacks: interesting. I read a few vegan recipes. Everyone will be vegan one day, so this book tells me. Then, I find all the biographies. Who was that guy Jim had been reading about?
Oh God. Zara!
Why is everything I’m thinking directed towards Jim? Why? Yesterday morning I’d been in love with Nick, and now I’m pining after Jim? What will tomorrow bring? Tears over letting another random guy slip through my fingers? I need to stop this train now before it derails – let’s face it, I’m already on slippery tracks.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ a shop assistant asks.
Startled, I pick up the first book I can get my hands on, lying in a pile on the table beside me.
‘Found it,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ And I make my way to pay.
It’s a biography, paperback, about an old movie star, Judy Garland. It’s only when I’ve already paid for it that I realise I know who Judy Garland is. Well, was. She was the actress who played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, one of my favourite childhood films. This could be kind of cool. Maybe I should tell Jim about it when I’ve finished.
Oh, wait. Jim’s gone.
Have a good one, Jim. Kiss.
Kiss?
No, I’m reading far too deeply into a simple goodbye note. A goodbye note. And what did he mean, ‘have a good one’. Have a good what? Flight? Life?
The champagne bar beckons me. I climb up onto one of the high stools and order another glass of Merlot, large. I open the first page of the Judy Garland biography, attempting to let some words sink in. But, oh, here I am, flying back to Dubai tonight, only a day after arriving in the UK. I’d been so sure about leaving Dubai, and now I’m completely unsure about returning.
I know what I need to do.
I need to speak to somebody in Dubai. Tell somebody I’m coming back. That might make me feel better, or at least give me a sense of purpose; a genuine feeling that I’m going home.
I’ll have to use a payphone, though. How retro.
Does this train station even have a payphone? Are they still a thing? Will I need some money or can I use my card? And who should I call? It’s quite intense, calling a pal long distance from a public phone. Of all the ways you can make contact with people these days, a phone call now seems the most drastic. The least breezy. If I’m going to call anybody, I guess it should be Katie, but I’d much rather see her face-to-face, and all will be super between us after thirty seconds. Besides, she won’t answer her phone. She’ll see some long, unknown number from abroad and think it’s someone cold calling her about insurance.
Agh. Hold on.
I don’t even know Katie’s phone number. I don’t know anybody’s phone number because all of my numbers are still in my phone.
God, I’m so directionless. So pointless.
I open my passport and turn to the back page. My next of kin; my papa. His number is written there in black and white, to be called in case of an emergency. Is this an emergency? Holy crap, I’m crying. I’m drinking wine, one page into the life of Judy Garland, and crying. And I can’t stop them flowing, the tears, they’re just falling, falling, running away from their ducts. I’m not even making any noise; I’m barely breathing. Seriously, I’m just so desperate to know where the fucking hell I belong.
Oh, look.
There’s a payphone. Beside the bar.
I’ll call my papa. Yes. I’ll let him know that I’m on my way back, and say that maybe once he arrives back from Saudi, we can all go to dinner somewhere fancy.
The payphone accepts card; wonderful. I dial the number written in my passport.