2. Two

It turns out changing your life is a lot less dramatic than you might think.

It’s actually quite boring, if you want to know the truth.

I mean, I can’t speak for everyone who does it, obviously. It’s not like I’m the world’s foremost expert on leaving your life behind. This is my first time. My debut, if you like. I’m a rookie life-leaver. And I’m sure there are people out there who flawlessly pull-off soap-opera style exits, complete with suspenseful music and a desperate love-interest chasing them frantically through the airport, but in my case, it’s so far involved a lot of queuing, a not inconsiderable amount of admin, and a stony-faced woman at the check-in desk, whose name-badge identifies her as April, but who’s definitely more of a January, personality-wise.

I’ve always hated January.

And airports, for that matter.

Ever since that ill-fated flight to Majorca when I was thirteen, and I threw up in my mum’s handbag when the turbulence got really bad, I’ve been terrified of flying — to the extent that I just don’t do it. But here I am, standing at the check-in desk at Gatwick airport, less than 24 hours after booking the flight online, getting ready to face my fears and change my life.

Try telling that to my new mate, April, though.

“I asked for your passport, Madam, not your life story,” says April, whose impeccably made-up face looks like it might crack if she tries to smile.

I hand it over meekly.

“The photo’s an old one,” I say quickly, as she flicks through the pages until she finds the shot of me looking vaguely startled in a supermarket photo booth. “I’ve been meaning to take a new one, but I didn’t have time. It was all a bit last minute. I still can’t believe I’m doing this! It was all so strange, really—”

“Yes, you said,” says April, unmoved. “Fairy Godmother, wasn’t it? How many bags would you like to check?”

“Just the one,” I tell her, heaving my battered old suitcase up onto the conveyor belt and watching as it rumbles its way towards the yawning hole beyond, looking every bit as dejected as I feel. “And she said she was more of a Wise Old Crone. I think she was probably just drunk, though.”

“Well, of course she was drunk,” says a bored-sounding male voice from behind me. “Because there’s no such thing as Fairy Godmothers. Or Wise Old Crones, for that matter. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Look, is there any chance we could hurry this up a bit? Some of us actually want to catch our flights.”

I turn and glare at the speaker: a tall guy who’s inexplicably wearing dark glasses inside the terminal, as if he’s some kind of rock star who’s trying to travel incognito.

Wait. Is he some kind of rock star trying to travel incognito?

I narrow my eyes as I give him the once-over, taking in the jaw which could only be described as ‘chiseled’, the hair flopping attractively over one eye, and the hint of stubble around full, kissable lips that are currently turned down in a frown. He’s wearing a cashmere sweater which looks soft enough to burrow into, with perfectly fitted jeans and a battered leather jacket. He’s so handsome it’s tempting to believe he must also be nice, but the tone of voice he used suggests otherwise.

Yeah, he could definitely be a rock star. He’s good looking enough. And arrogant enough, too, by the sounds of it.

“I know she wasn’t a real Fairy Godmother,” I tell him as haughtily as I can manage, given that we’re talking about actual fairies here. “I’m not stupid.”

His eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly at this. I think I might hate him.

“But if it wasn’t for her,” I go on, ignoring his amused expression, “It would never have occurred to me to do this. Seriously, I am not the type of person who quits her job with no notice. I just—”

“Except you didn’t quit your job, did you?” says Rock Star impatiently. “You called your boss on the way to the airport and asked to use some of your annual leave — you said so yourself. About five times, actually.”

“I might have called my boss to let her know I wouldn’t be in,” I tell him frostily. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m walking out without notice, does it?”

Or the fact that Linda told me she couldn’t guarantee I’d still have a job waiting for me when I got back. But I’m not going to think about that right now.

“It does a bit, love,” pipes up an elderly lady who’s standing just behind Rock Star Guy. It’s January, but she’s wearing what looks like a beach cover-up, plus a large straw sunhat which keeps falling down over her eyes. “Taking annual leave isn’t the same thing as walking out, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” agrees the man behind her, who looks around 80, and is pushing his wife in a wheelchair. He sounds a bit like King Charles, all plummy vowels and cut-glass consonants. “You’re just going on holiday, really, the same as the rest of us chaps.”

“She’s going on holiday to find the love of her life, though,” sighs the wife, sounding equally posh. “And we’re just going to get some winter sun. It’s not really the same, darling.”

I smile at her gratefully, pleased someone understands just how dramatic this last-minute holiday is for me.

“Good grief,” interrupts Rock Star Guy, looking up from his phone. “Is everyone in the airport going to weigh-in on this, or can we get on with checking in to this flight before it takes off without us?”

Everyone looks at me expectantly; including April, who’s holding out my passport, complete with boarding ticket.

“Seat 13B,” she says, somehow managing to make it sound like she’s cursing me with this information. “It’s boarding soon, so you can go straight to the gate if you like.”

My stomach gives a sudden lurch, as if it’s been hovering at the very top of a roller coaster and has just begun its perilous descent.

“I… I can’t,” I say in a whisper, my legs trembling ominously.

“Yes, you can,” says April, smiling rigidly. “Just turn right at the top of the escalator, and you’ll —”

“No, I mean I can’t do this at all,” I say quickly, grabbing the passport and clutching it to my chest. “I can’t get on the plane. Can I get my suitcase back?”

I look imploringly at the gaping chasm that swallowed up my case.

“Back?” says April, almost rearing backwards herself in shock. “You don’t back once it”s gone in. It’s in the system now. There’s no stopping it once it’s in the system.”

She says this with a finality which suggests the suitcase has entered into witness protection and is now lost to us forever.

“Fine,” I say, my voice wobbling dangerously. “Fine. I’ll just… I’ll just go home without it, then. It can go on holiday without me. I’ll just… I’ll just buy new clothes. And makeup. It’ll be fine. I needed some new stuff, anyway.”

I picture the suitcase sipping cocktails by an aquamarine pool, and dancing the night away in a tropical bar, wearing my favorite pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and that dress I bought in the ZARA sale. It almost makes me want to join it. Then I remember the flight I’d have to take to get there, to that aquamarine pool and tropical bar, and my legs lock in place, rooting me to the floor like a statue.

With a heavy sigh, Rock Star Guy steps neatly around me and hands his passport to April, who bats her heavy eyelashes at him, obviously blinded by his really quite startling good looks. Or maybe she’s just relieved to be dealing with someone relatively normal for a change.

“Alexander Fox,” she coos, opening his passport to what I’m pretty sure is a much less embarrassing photo than the one in mine. “What a great name.”

Her eyes flick appreciatively up and down his body, before landing back on his face, which she beams at coquettishly.

“Alex,” he says, going back to his phone, which is obviously much more interesting to him than anything else going on here.

I shuffle out of his way, taking deep breaths in a bid to calm myself down.

“What’s the matter, love?” says the woman in the sunhat, coming forward and touching me sympathetically on the arm. She’s wearing so many bracelets that she jingles as she walks, like Father Christmas. It’s oddly comforting. “You’re not scared of flying, are you?”

“Of course she’s scared of flying,” says the man with the posh voice, loosening the collar of his shirt. He’s obviously part of the generation who used to dress up to fly, because he’s wearing a dapper linen suit, complete with dickie bow. “Didn’t you hear the bit about how she’s feeling the fear and doing it anyway?”

“Like the strong, independent woman she’s always wanted to be,” adds his wife, looking at me admiringly from her wheelchair.

“Like a ‘cool’ girl,” says another man, who’s wearing a tracksuit which is open at the neck to show off a surprisingly hairy chest for his advanced age, and a suntan in a color that reminds me of an old sideboard my parents used to have.

Is everyone on this flight an octogenarian, then, except me?

“Good grief,” mutters Alexander Fox — Alex — again, raking his hand through his hair, as he glances up at us from his phone.

Well, except me and Grumpy McGrumperson over there.

“That’s right,” I say, raising my chin as if to spite him. “I’m going to Spain to face my fears, find the love of my life, and… and to be cool. Because I am cool. I’m a cool girl. Cool girl Summer. That’s me.”

“I’m Rita,” says Sunhat Woman, offering me her hand, which is weighed down with so many rings it’s like shaking a rock covered in barnacles. “I’m not cool, but I can read tea leaves, which comes in handy as well.”

“Alice,” says the woman in the wheelchair. “And this is my husband, Julian. We’re not cool either, I’m afraid.”

“Gerald,” offers Tracksuit Man, waggling a pair of really quite impressive eyebrows at me. “You can call me Gerry, though, because I am quite cool, to be honest with yer. So me granddaughter tells me, anyway.”

Everyone except Alex roars with laughter. Alex just raises a hand to his forehead and rubs it wearily, as if the sound of happiness physically pains him. I can practically sense him rolling his eyes behind his stupid dark glasses.

Suddenly, I want to get on the plane, just to spite him.

“Go on, love, you can do it,” says Rita encouragingly. “And if you can’t—” she leans forward conspiratorially — “I’m planning to pick up a nice bottle of tequila in duty free. You can have some of that. Always did the trick for my Fred, did tequila. Kept his bowels nice and regular, too. In fact, if it wasn’t for—”

“At this rate, none of you are going to be getting on that plane,” says Alex, frowning at his phone as he rejoins us. “It’s already boarding.”

As if on cue, the information board above April’s desk changes from the flight information to “NOW BOARDING: PROCEED TO GATE.” The letters flash on and off, accusingly. Everyone’s eyes swivel back to me again.

“If I ever have to do something I don’t want to do,” says Alex, who’s apparently completed the check-in process in a fraction of the time it took me (Probably because he didn’t spend 20 minutes recounting the story of how he’s running away to Spain to fulfill the wishes of his 13-year-old self), “I do it in the smallest increments possible. One step at a time.”

“But what if I—”

“You’re scared of flying, right?” he goes on, ignoring my interruption. “So you tell yourself all you have to do is get to the airport, nothing more than that. Then you tell yourself all you have to do is check in your suitcase, and then you can just go home if you really want to.”

“I think I do really want to —” I begin, but he’s not done.

“Now that you’ve done that bit,” he goes on, ignoring me, “All you have to do is walk to the gate. That’s it.”

“Well, and get through security,” says Rita, her jewelry jangling loudly as she joins us. “You might have to take your shoes off for that, love, but it’s okay, because there’s duty free at the end of it, so we can get that tequila to take the edge off.”

“If you still don’t want to get onto the plane by the time you’re at the gate, you don’t have to,” says Rock Star Guy, “You can turn around and go back anytime. Or you can get onto the plane, and you can go and do… whatever weird thing it is you’re trying to do here. Up to you.”

“It’s not a weird thing,” I tell him hotly. “I’m changing my life. I booked a flight to Spain rather than doing the KPIs. I called my boss and told her I wouldn’t be in. I did both of those things on impulse. I never, ever do things like this. You have to understand. I never take risks. Never.”

“And you won’t be taking one now either, if you don’t make your mind up,” he points out, looking at his phone again. “They don’t wait for you. It’s not like a taxi. Did the Fairy Godmother not talk you through this when she was busy turning your pumpkin into a carriage last night?”

“It wasn’t a Fairy Godmother, it was a Wise Old Crone,” says Alice, wheeling herself up to me, with Julian following closely behind her. “Did you not hear the girl?”

“Ooh, you can’t call ‘em ‘crones’ these days,” puts in Gerald, appearing behind them. “It’s offensive, innit? Everything’s offensive these days.”

“I’ll have you know, we women are reclaiming our inner Crones,” says Rita, looking at him sternly. “A Crone is just a wise woman, who’s seen enough of life to be able to pass on ‘er wisdom to the young ‘uns. I’m one. I’ve got plenty of wisdom, me. I’ll be your Fairy Godmother if you like, Summer. Seeing as the real one isn’t here.”

“Me too,” says Alice eagerly, “I’ll be your Wise Old Crone. We all will.”

Alex snorts. It’s a shame, because his little ‘one step at a time’ speech was actually quite helpful, really — but now I’m back to hating him again.

“Not him, obviously,” says Alice, sharply. “But the rest of us will. We’ll be the Gang of Crones.”

“Ooh, I’m not sure I like that,” says Rita. “Can we not just be the Fairy Godmothers?”

“I don’t want to be a Fairy,” says Gerald firmly. “Of course, you can’t say that nowadays, can you?”

“This isn’t helping Summer get on the plane,” points out Julian, adjusting his bow tie. “So, how’s about it, Summer? Are you going to do it? Are you going to be cool?”

“Yes, I am,” I say firmly, making the decision just to spite Alex Fox by proving how wrong he is about me. “I’m going to do it. I didn’t risk my job and spend a small fortune just to not change my life. I’m getting on the plane. I’m going to be cool.”

There’s a short but satisfying round of applause from everyone except Alex. Even April looks like she’d be proud of me, if she was capable of normal human emotion.

“Well, you better get a move on,” she says, nodding at the board behind her. “Boarding started five minutes ago.”

I really want to move, but my legs have grown roots again, and I’m welded to the spot. I think I might just have to stay here forever; my stomach churning with nerves and the palms of my hands clammy with fear.

God, I hate flying. Why does everywhere good in the world have to be so far away? Why did Jamie Reynolds have to open his bar in Tenerife, rather than in Margate, say? Why couldn’t my 13-year-old self have resolved to work in a call center when she grew up? Then I wouldn’t have to be here at all.

The thought brings me abruptly to my senses.

If I hadn’t come across that old diary last night, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to look up Jamie Reynolds online, and I wouldn’t have found his Instagram, filled with blue skies and sunny beaches. So I wouldn’t have impulsively — and, okay, drunkenly — booked a one-way ticket to the same place, and no, I wouldn’t be here now.

But that means I’d be at work instead. In a boring old call center, being yelled at by people whose cable TV isn’t working, and having my boss time my toilet breaks to make sure I’m not ‘taking advantage’. I’d be going home to my lonely little flat, and I’d have nothing to look forward to except maybe a trip to Costa Coffee, rather than Costa Adeje.

I’d be bored, and lonely, and completely unfulfilled, in other words.

That… wouldn’t be better than this.

Wouldit?

Alexander Fox heaves the kind of sigh that seems to come right from the very depths of his soul.

“Come on, Cool Girl,” he says firmly, putting a hand on the small of my back and propelling me forward. “Thinking time’s over. Let’s go change your life.”