and Kylie is playing some venue called the Echo Arena tonight. But I don’t know anybody in this city other than Nick and I needed a bed. I needed to stop, reset, breathe. And God, I needed to get out of that fucking Peugeot. So, the satnav finally led me to this hostel.
‘I never want to be on my own,’ I say quietly, opening my purse, digging out my card.
‘No problem,’ the young girl behind the desk says, monotone, scrolling through her phone with one hand. A sign on the wall behind her says Ask _____ for help, the name Ida scribbled into the blank space with a marker pen. Ida – presumably – is petite, but in a different way to me; a shirt buttoned all the way up to the top, an undercut in her hair, not a trace of make-up on her gaunt, freckled face. ‘You want a bed in a shared dorm?’
‘God, no!’ I cry, horrified.
Ida, who speaks with a Scandinavian lilt, seems to be taking a selfie, pulling a blank, serious expression from behind thick, square spectacles.
‘But, you never want to be on your own?’ she asks, gazing at her own image.
‘I was thinking out loud. I didn’t want to be on my own tonight.’
‘Okay …’
‘I mean, I wasn’t supposed to be on my own. And it sucks.’
‘Well, like I suggested, you can have a bed in a shared—’
‘No way, I’ll be thirty-one next month.’
‘Whoa …’ Ida puts down her phone. ‘That does suck.’
‘Thanks.’
We stare each other out. Ida, clearly at ease with this. Me, pretty freaked.
‘Do you have parking?’ I ask.
Ida clicks away at the mouse, yawning into the computer screen behind the desk. Then, she stretches her arms up high and yawns again, a loud, satisfying noise accompanying the whole motion.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ she asks.
‘About parking. My car’s outside and I don’t think I’m supposed to be parked there.’
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘No, you can’t park there.’
‘So, where can I park?’
‘Don’t know. I don’t drive.’
Well, this is just great. Just. Great. All of my material belongings are packed into that car like badly stacked Tetris blocks – ALL of them – except for my ski wear which currently resides at my papa’s villa in Dubai. Every shoe, every earring, every trinket is right here. My coffee mug decorated with a pink and silver ‘Z’. A small collection of Trolls from my teen years. My yoga mat. Two bottles of Shiraz which I should be drinking right now, in celebration. A brand new A3 sketchbook, tucked between the layers of my clothes.
And, of course, the mop.
‘Are you okay?’ Ida asks. The concern in her voice, on a scale of one to ten, zero.
‘No, not really.’
‘Room fifty-two. Fifth floor.’ Ida slams a chunky key ring on the desk. ‘Oh, and I forgot to mention, the lift’s broke.’
Snatching my room key, I shuffle out of the hostel. I’ll just have to grab my overnight essentials once I find a legal place to park. The cold feels bitter between the fine rain and wind sneaking around the city’s cobbled side streets. Fighting tears against the miserable night air I smooth down my hair, for – what a surprise – it’s finally starting to frizz.
I climb behind the wheel of the Peugeot and drive in circles, circles and hey, more goddamn circles. A multi-storey parking lot close to what looks like the shopping district will have to do. About a fucking mile away. I park up.
‘Tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ I say out loud as I open up my suitcase, aware that I look like a mad woman. But there’s nobody to see. My voice echoes around the empty lot. I know I shouldn’t, but I look at my phone. I’ve got two emails and one Whatsapp. I open the latter. It’s from Katie.
Are ya there yet? Followed by an emoji of a plane.
I can’t possibly reply to that right now.
The emails are junk, irrelevant.
Wrapping my army jacket close around my body, I head back to the hostel with my toothbrush, clean underwear and a stripy shirt for beneath my denim pinafore tomorrow, all stuffed into my canvas tote bag. In the distance, bangs echo through the sky. I’m reminded of Dubai where hardly a week goes by without some sort of firework spectacle. The walk is slightly uphill, past a host of pubs, packed to the brim with what looks like a mixture of students and regulars, karaoke blaring from behind the steamed-up windows. Groups of