“Huh. We’re probably the only ones, don’t you think? Booking last minute, I mean. It hardly seems like the sort of tour most people would book on a whim.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. So, why did you?” she asked, emphasising “you”.
“I slept with my flatmate and he’s decided he’s in love with me.”
“Ahh. And you’re not in love with him?”
“Correct. And you?”
“I think I left my husband. He’s an alcoholic.”
I had not expected that. Rendered verbally impotent, all I managed was, “Oh.” She clenched her jaw, drew her mouth into a tight line and nodded, all while blinking back tears. Instinctively, I laid a hand on her knee and she let me. Heavy stuff for first thing in the morning.
Georgina appeared in front of us again, lifting a microphone to her mouth as the bus—sorry, coach—pulled away from the kerb. Not having to project this time, she spoke quietly into the mike with a deep, throaty voice. “Good morning, everyone.”
Again, like schoolchildren, we replied en masse with a sing-songish, “Good morning.”
“As you can see, we’re underway. Our drive to Dover will take around two hours, then we’ll catch the ferry to Calais—with the coach—then on to Paris. We should arrive around 5:00pm. We’ll get you situated at the campsite and then we’ll get back on the coach for the Paris night tour, which I know you’ll just love.”
A panicked voice from the seat in front of me spoke in a not-so-subtle whisper to the woman next to her. “Campsite? She said campsite. Are we on a camping trip?” I peeked between the seats to see her frantically searching her phone, probably for the confirmation email. “Oh, my God. Is that why they made us pack sleeping bags?” she hissed. I tapped her on the shoulder. Her head swivelled and two chocolatey-brown eyes fixed on mine.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi.” Her seatmate turned around and joined the between-the-seats huddle.
“It’s not a camping trip,” I said, hoping to reassure her with the confident tone of my whisper. She looked dubious, so I explained. “We’re staying in cabins at a campsite. We’re not camping.” I saw her visibly relax, then turn around and rest her head against the seat.
Her seatmate introduced herself. “I’m Danielle.”
“Hi. Cat.” I pointed to Louise, “Lou.”
She pointed at the woman next to her, “Jaelee.” Jaelee swung her head back around and offered a relieved smile.
Although we were being quiet, I suddenly realised that the rest of the coach was silent. When I lifted my head, I saw Georgina staring at us with a look that could turn someone to stone. Yep, definitely a former schoolteacher. I had to stop myself from saying, “Sorry, miss.”
Jaelee and Danielle turned towards the front and Lou and I threw each other a look, then ducked behind the seats, stifling giggles. Maybe we were going to be the naughty ones, rather than the four Kiwi guys up the back.
Georgina continued her first-day spiel. I knew all about these from Sarah, because I’d helped her perfect hers when she was touring. It took nearly the whole drive to Dover and was all about the logistics of life on the road with fifty-five people. I tuned out of a lot of it as I watched the London traffic and busy streets evolve into green hilly countryside, with pastoral scenes of sheep and cows lazily wandering around paddocks.
When I heard, “Let’s talk about the difference between tourists and travellers …” I tuned back in. This is a philosophy the Parsons girls subscribe to—although Sarah more so than me, because she’s more intrepid and I tend to consider travel a means to finding good food and drink.
The theory says that the traveller embraces the differences of each new location and the tourist bitches and moans about them, often incessantly. I was very much an appreciator of different places, particularly the wine, the beer, the cheese, the bread—well, you get the drift. But unlike me and my fellow travellers, tourists should just stay home and watch Netflix.
My phone vibrated inside my bag and I retrieved it without thinking. Alex—for the third time that day. I felt a twinge of guilt, which vanished as soon as I read the text.
I’ll miss you.
I sighed heavily. How had he not got the message? I was leaving the country to get away from this mess—from him—so things could blow over. I put my phone away without replying.
So, yes, I may have been a traveller, but first and foremost I was an escapee, a runaway, a fugitive from love.
I was ridiculous.
Ten Years Ago
“Catey? Are you okay?”
I want to punch that concerned look right off Scott’s face. Instead, I glare at the offending screen.
“Do I look okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“You’re still logged into your email.”
“What?” He leans over my shoulder.
“On my laptop.” I point at the email. “You’re still logged in.”
“Oh, fuck.” I snap the lid shut and stare at the inverted Dell logo.
“You said you ended it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I leap up, my fury making it impossible to sit. “Bullshit. Why—why—would I have agreed to this stupid trip if I knew you’d just rush home to her afterwards?”
“I …”
“‘I hate being here with Catey,’” I sing-songed. “Do you? Do you really, Scott?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. “Wow. That’s … you said you loved me—yesterday. Yesterday you said that. Was it a lie?”
“No. Yes. I—”
“Which is it, Scott? Oh, my God.” My hand flies to my mouth. “Do you love her?”
“I … yes.”
“But … but why did you say you love me, then?”
“Because I do.”
“That doesn’t make any frigging sense! You can’t love both of us.”
“I know! But I do, and I’m all fucked up.”
“Oh, poor you. Poor Scott!”
I collapse on the end of the bed, the weight of his revelation sucking me down.
“You did this, you know,” he says quietly.
My head snaps up. “What?! It’s my fault? You stuck your dick into someone else, and you’re blaming me?”
“That’s crass, Catey. And you left! You did. You moved to London without me.”
“For a year! Just a year—and I asked you to come with me.”
“I came.”
“Not to stay.”
“I never wanted to live in London. That was your thing. There’s nothing for me in London.”
“There’s me.”
“That’s not what I mean, Catey, and you know it.”
“Well, what do you mean, Scott?”
“You have your sister, your friends, but …”
I can no longer look at his contorted face; I don’t want to feel any empathy towards him. “I stupidly hoped you’d want to come with me, but when you said you didn’t want to, I thought we’d be all right, that we could make it work. It was just a year, Scott.”