4. Four

Dear Diary

Know what I’ve been wondering? I’ve been wondering what it’ll be like looking back at these words in, say, 10 or 20 years’ time. What will I be like? What will have changed? Will I even remember the people and places mentioned here? Will I have traveled the world, or will I still be stuck here in boring old Margate? The most important question of all, of course, is what will I be doing with my life? Will I be a famous singer? (I hope so!) Will I be married to Jamie Reynolds? Will I still be ALIVE, even?!

Well, this year will decide all of that (except maybe the ‘being alive’ bit. I think that’s probably out of my hands….), because this is the year I have to decide which subjects to take for the next two years . I’m terrified, because if I don’t choose the right subjects, it could ruin my whole life. Literally. I want to do music, so I can become a famous singer, but Mum and Dad say I should do economics, just to be on the safe side. Then again, Jamie Reynolds is doing art, and if I want him to notice me, I really need to make sure I’m somewhere he’ll see me, so maybe I should do art too? Like, I don’t think manifesting is going to be enough if we’re in different classes? Or will it?

I don’t know what to do. I feel like my entire life will hinge on this decision, and it’s just so much pressure. I think I could cope better if I didn’t have my period because it makes me really overwhelmed and anxious, but that’s life, I suppose.

Taylor Swift was on TV tonight. She was brilliant! I SO want to see her in concert one day!!!

Summer XOXO

“What does XOXO mean?” asks Rita, looking up from the diary and almost knocking me off my seat with the brim of her hat. “Is that a code for something?”

“No, it’s kisses and hugs,” I tell her. “But that’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?” She looks at me expectantly, the bottle of vodka poised halfway to her lips. “Is it the bit about Taylor Swift, then? Did she sing something really inspirational that made you want to go to Tenerife?”

“No,” I say, frowning. “I think she sang Tim McGraw. That’s not the point either, though. It’s—”

“Was he in your class, too?” says Rita. “This Tim McGraw? Or did he do economics?”

“No, I did economics,” I say, frustrated. “That’s the point. I did economics when I really wanted to do music. And now here I am, looking back at this diary entry 20 years later — well, almost — and, actually, nothing has changed. I didn’t travel the world. I am still stuck in Margate. I’m not any kind of singer, let alone a famous one.”

Beside me, Alex shifts slightly in his seat, and I angle myself away from him, lowering my voice so he can’t hear me.

“I let myself down, Rita,” I say sadly. “I let my younger self down. I didn’t do any of the things that were important to her. I didn’t do anything at all, really. I just kind of settled. And I don’t want to be someone who settles. I don’t want to be someone who has regrets. I want to do something with my life. I want to—”

“Do art?” she says.

“I did do art too, actually,” I admit. “But I only did it so I could see Jamie Reynolds more often. I can’t draw to save my life.”

“And now you’re flying to Tenerife to see him, too,” she says delightedly. “He must be quite the man, this Jamie, if you’ve been thinking about him all this time?”

“Yeah. Well, no, not really,” I admit. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about him in years, actually. But then I found this diary, and it’s literally all about him: this boy I never even kissed, but was totally convinced was going to be my destiny, until… Well, anyway. It just made me wonder, you know? What if it wasn’t too late? Not just for that — for me and Jamie — but for all of the things I never did?”

I pause, thinking about the woman from last night.

Think of me as you in twenty years’ time.

Isn’t that what she said? And then I read that diary entry, which just-so-happened to mention exactly the same thing. Me in twenty years’ time. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“That’s why I’m doing this,” I tell Rita, twisting around to face her again. “Because, just like I don’t want to end up like that woman in the pub in 20 years’ time, I know my younger self wouldn’t want to turn into me, and just spend her life going to her pointless job, then coming home again. It’s like I’m on some kind of treadmill. And I’m the only one who can stop it.”

“It’s like you’re your own Fairy Godmother,” says Rita admiringly.

I nod.

“I guess so. Or my own Wise Old Crone.”

When I say it out loud, all of this sounds much weirder than it did at 1 a.m. this morning, when the idea first presented itself to me. Mind you, at 1 a.m. this morning, I was still drunk from the night before. That probably influenced my thinking quite a bit. Because now the adrenaline of getting onto the plane has subsided, I’m starting to panic again.

“Oh, God, Rita, what was I thinking?” I moan, covering my face with my hands. “This is insane, isn’t it? It’s completely insane. Who on earth runs off to Spain to see a boy who probably doesn’t even remember her? Who does that? I just… I feel so overwhelmed suddenly.”

“Do you have your period again?” Rita says sympathetically. “Do you want me to ask the stewardess if she has some paracetamol for you?”

“Ooh, you can’t call ‘em ‘stewardesses’ no more,” pipes up Gerald, thrusting his head between the seats. “They don’t like that. Sexist, innit? You have to call ‘em ‘hostesses’ now.”

“Flight attendants,” says Alex in a bored voice from the window seat. “You call them flight attendants. Or cabin crew.”

He’s got his sunglasses back on and his seat reclined.

I might have guessed he’d be the kind of person who reclines his seat.

“All these newfangled words,” grumbles Gerald. “Just an excuse to be offended, innit? What do you need her for, anyway? Paracetamol, was it?”

“That’s right,” says Rita. “Summer here’s got her period.”

“I haven’t,” I burst out, feeling like I’ve literally been transported back into the body of my 13-year-old self. “I’m fine, honestly. I just got a bit…. overwhelmed, is all.”

“Ah, women’s troubles, is it?” says Gerald wisely. “Say no more.”

“I really wish you would all say no more, mutters Alex, as if he’s King of the Cabin, and gets to decide who’s allowed to speak and when. I immediately make up my mind to talk as much as possible, just to annoy him.

“Did someone press the call button? Can I get you something?”

A smiling flight attendant is leaning over the seat. She has a tray in her hands with two glasses of champagne on it, and when she catches sight of Alex, still looking gorgeous even when he’s pretending to be asleep, her tongue darts out to moisten her lips appreciatively.

“Yes, love, it’s for Summer, here,” says Rita. “She’s got her—”

“I DO NOT HAVE MY PERIOD,” I say, my voice coming out much louder than I intended. “I’m, er, fine, thanks,” I add in a whisper. “Nothing… er, nothing to see here.”

“Right. Well, that’s good,” says the woman, making a valiant attempt to pretend this is a totally normal conversation to be having. “Because I have these for you two, compliments of the flight deck.”

She holds out the tray, positioning it between me and Alex, indicating that we’re the ‘two’ she means.

“Oh, but we didn’t order these?” I say, confused. “There must be some mistake? Unless—”

I think back to the way Alex hustled me past the crew when we boarded the plane earlier.

“Nervous flier,” he’d said, by way of explanation. “Just getting her to her seat as quickly as possible.”

That must be it. They’ve brought me a drink to help calm my nerves. And they’ve brought him a drink for… helping me calm my nerves? I don’t know. I’m not about to say no to a freebie, though, so I pick up one of the glasses, and turn to Alex expectantly.

“No thanks,” he says, stony faced. “I’m fine with water.”

He takes a plastic bottle of Evian from the seat pocket in front of him and waves it at the flight attendant to prove his point.

Wow, he really is a complete fun sponge, isn’t he? It’s almost as if he’s sad, so he’s determined to make sure everyone else is, too.

“Well, I’ll take it if he doesn’t want it,” says Rita, whisking the second glass off the tray before anyone can object.

“Oh. It wasn’t really for… But okay, sure,” says the crew member, backing away slowly. “I’ll be back for the glasses later.”

“What were you sayin’, love?” asks Rita, draining her glass. “Before we got distracted by your period?”

“I. Don’t. Have. My. Period,” I tell her again in a stage whisper. “I was just saying that I feel a bit stupid now, going all the way to Spain on what’s probably going to be a wild goose-chase. Even if I do track Jamie down, what if he doesn’t remember me? What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me?”

“What if he’s married?” puts in Alex, still without opening his eyes.

“I thought you were pretending to be asleep?” I say, annoyed. “Anyway, he’s not married. I had a good look at his Instagram, and he’s very much living the single life.”

“Sounds like a real catch,” says Alex dryly. “Single in his thirties and working in a bar.”

“He owns the bar, he doesn’t just work in it,” I reply, attempting to flip my hair sassily over my shoulder, and almost blackening his other eye in the process. “And anyway, you can’t talk, can you? You’re going on holiday on your own, so I’m guessing you’re single in your thirties too, aren’t you?”

I have to admit, I’m curious to know the answer to this one. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, even. I feel like he’s too good-looking not to have one, really. But then, why wouldn’t they be with him, if so?

And why do I care?

The arm next to me stiffens, and his mouth settles into its customary frown, but he doesn’t bother to answer me; or even to glance in my direction. He just keeps sitting there, like my own personal Dementor, determined to suck the joy out of every second.

“There’s nothing wrong with going on holiday on your own,” says Rita cheerfully. “We’re all doin’ it, ain’t we? We’re like the three amigos! Two Crones and a Young Man.”

She raises her glass in a toast, and what’s left of the champagne sloshes right onto my cleavage, then dribbles down my front to land on the diary, which I’m still holding. Alex smirks.

“I’ll get that for you,” offers Gerald, popping up from behind us again with a napkin in his hand. I bat him away, and pick up my diary again, mopping at the cover with my sleeve.

“So, what are you going to say to this Jamie when you see him, then?” asks Rita. “Are you going to tell him he’s the love of your life?”

“Um, no, I… I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I tell her cautiously, not wanting to admit that there’s a solid chance Jamie Reynolds won’t even remember me. “And I don’t know that he is the love of my life. But it’s not really about Jamie. Or not just about Jamie, anyway. He was just the catalyst, I suppose. It’s more about… about missed opportunities, I guess. Regrets. All the things I could have done differently, and how my life might have turned out if I had.”

I look down at the diary in my hand.

I feel like my whole life will hinge on this decision.

It didn’t, obviously. No one’s life depends on whether they take Music or Economics at high school. Surely. But, all the same, I can’t help wondering what might have happened if I’d made a different choice back then. Or choices, even. All the ‘what ifs’ presented by this diary have been jostling for space in my head ever since I dug it out of that box of memorabilia last night, and I just can’t let them go now that they’ve presented themselves.

What if I could change my life?

And what I told Rita was right: it’s really not just about Jamie Reynolds. It’s about all of those ‘what ifs’. About living a life without regrets. About—

“The road not taken,” says Alex from beside me. “The Sliding Doors moment.”

“Yes. That’s exactly it,” I reply, amazed that he, of all people, seems to know what I’m getting at here.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he says tetchily. “You’re not the only person in the world who has regrets, you know.”

He manages to say this in a way that suggests I’m a self-centered princess who thinks everything revolves around me. Which is only partly true.

“I’m well aware of that, thanks,” I reply frostily. “What are yours, then? Come on, I’ve told you mine.”

“You’ve told everyone yours,” he says under his breath. “It’s all we’ve heard about for hours now.”

“Oh, we’re not complaining, are we, Gerald?” Rita interjects. “I love a good story, me.”

“Absolutely,” replies the disembodied voice of Gerald, who obviously has no issues with his hearing. “But where does this Tim McGraw lad fit into it all? That’s what I want to know?”

I twist around in my seat and start to explain myself yet again, and, by the time the seat belt sign comes back on, signaling that we’re coming in to land, I’ve told the story so many times that it’s spread through the entire cabin, and I’m being treated like a minor celebrity.

Julian and Alice insist on buying me a miniature bottle of wine and a tub of Pringles from the food service. Rita asks to take a selfie with me. Even Libby, of hen party fame, stops by our row on her way to the bathroom to swap Instagram handles with me, so she can keep track of my progress.

“We need updates,” she says, leaning over Rita and her hat to get to me. “We need Stories. Maybe even a few Reels, if you have the time. We need the receipts.”

“My Fred loved a good reel,” says Rita, who’s decimated her vodka stash and is now making eyes at my plastic cup of wine. “You can say what you like about him, but he was a fine dancer, that man.”

“It’s just so romantic,” sighs Libby. “It makes me wonder what my first love’s up to these days. You will post some updates, Summer, won’t you? I can’t go home without knowing what happens now.”

“I’ll do my best,” I agree, crossing my fingers tightly under my tray table just in case whatever happens with Jamie Reynolds turns out to not be the kind of thing I’ll want to put on Instagram. “It probably won’t be all that interesting, though.”

“Oh, nonsense,” says Libby good-naturedly. “So, do you think this woman really was your Fairy Godmother, then?”

“I’m more worried that she really was me in 20 years’ time,” I reply, twisting a strand of hair anxiously around my finger. “That’s a possibility, too.”

“So, more like the Ghost of Christmas Future, then?” says Gerald, who’s continuing to blatantly listen in to everyone’s conversations.

“It were New Year, Gerry, not Christmas,” says Rita. “There’s no Ghost of New Year’s Eve Future, is there?”

“Are you sure she didn’t just say ‘get me a beer’, rather than ‘get out of here’?” says Libby thoughtfully. “Because that would make more sense.”

“Don’t listen to her,” says Rita, patting my knee reassuringly as Libby sashays off down the plane. “Who knows, maybe this time next year you’ll be the one jetting off on your hen do, Summer? I love a good wedding, me. Don’t you just love a good wedding, Alexander?”

“Nope,” comes the mumbled reply from the joy-sucking wraith in the window seat. “Waste of time and money.”

“Don’t listen to the last of the great romantics over there,” says Rita, winking at me. “I have a feeling this is all going to work out perfectly for you, Summer. And my Fred always told me to trust my feelings. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

I cling onto the armrest as the plane dips suddenly, leaving my own heart feeling like it’s floating somewhere near the ceiling. We’re just about to land. I suddenly feel like I might throw up again; not just from the movement of the aircraft, but from the sheer horror of realizing that this is it — I’m actually doing this… thing. There’s no turning back now. Well, not without having to spend a huge amount of money and take yet another flight, anyway. I start to reach for the sick bag in front of me, but then Alex’s words from earlier come back to me.

All I have to do is take this one step at a time. Get off the plane. Collect my suitcase. Find my way to the hotel.

And after that?

Er, I have no idea what comes after that. Sorry.

But as the plane dips again, and Alex wordlessly offers me his hand to cling onto, I feel like I’m ready for it.

Whatever ‘it’ turns out to be…