The Birthday That Changed Everything: Perfect summer holiday reading!. Debbie Johnson
glass objets d’art probably shattered across the city, and shocked poodles in parks covered their ears with their paws.
‘I’m going home!’ she yelled after me, oblivious to the mounting concern of nearby stallholders, and strode off. Hopefully in the direction of the bus stops on Cornmarket, but entirely possibly to the nearest stockist of voodoo dolls, air rifles or nose piercings.
I clenched my eyes against tears, and reminded myself for the millionth time that she didn’t mean it. Most of it. That I was the grown-up, the mother, and no matter how much I was crumbling inside, she was hurting too.
It might have been stress-induced psychosis on her part, but she was right about one thing at least – it was time to stop seeking solace in the biscuit barrel. I’ve never been the kind of person who loses her appetite due to heartbreak. I’m far more likely to go the other way. At tough times in my life, a multipack of Penguins has often been my only friend. If I carried on like this, I’d put on masses of weight, be the size of two Latvian lap-dancers, and feel even worse about myself than I did already.
Since Monika-gate broke, Lucy had, predictably enough, refused to see her father, and had given no consideration at all to meeting the new love of his life. Or the ‘teeny trollopy whore’, as she affectionately called her.
Ollie had done both and, bless him, reported back hilariously on how Dad was now dressing in Bart Simpson T-shirts and pink Crocs in an attempt to look younger. I’d tried hard not to pump him for too much information, but he’s a bright boy – he gave me a full run-down before I had the chance to even consider interrogating him. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I can’t lie – she’s not a munter. In fact she’s pretty fit, if I’m honest, which feels wrong when your dad’s holding her hand. But she talks weird – like a Russian villain in a spy film. With this really deep voice. So there’s always the chance that she’s actually a man and Dad just hasn’t discovered her internal willie yet.’
Which I must admit I found strangely comforting.
I wandered along Turl Street and out on to the High, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pack of cyclists waging guerrilla warfare on pedestrians. No, this definitely wasn’t one of those good days in Oxford. It was the new Oxford, setting for the new me, and my new, vastly unimproved life. The one where I felt completely and utterly alone, adrift in a sea of misery.
In fact, all the beautiful people and the beautiful buildings were just making me feel worse. For the first time I could understand the urge to take a semi-automatic weapon, climb the stairs of St Mary’s Church tower, and just let rip.
I stopped outside the travel agent’s, looking at the offers in the window. We hadn’t booked anything for this year. Simon had been reluctant to commit to our usual two weeks in France. He said he was getting bored of it. Now I knew he wasn’t just bored of France. He was bored of his entire life. He’d been gone for six weeks now – which equated to 294 blow jobs by my reckoning. That probably made things a bit less boring for him.
For me, it had been a torment of tedium combined with near paralysing anxiety. Six weeks of yo-yoing between ‘I can do this’ and utter desperation. Six weeks of total loneliness. Six weeks of watching mindless TV and doing household chores and wearing false smiles; my heart leaping every time the phone rang or the door was opened. Just in case he’d come home. Of worrying about the kids and worrying about me and worrying about a future I couldn’t quite get a hold of.
Six weeks of total crap, in all honesty.
Maybe, I thought, I needed a holiday too.
Ollie had told me his dad and Monika were heading off to Ibiza for a week. Clubbing in San Antonio. The thought of Simon waving his forty-one-year-old hands in the air and blowing a fluorescent whistle at a beachfront rave was one of the few things that had made me crack a smile in recent days. A lesser woman than I would hope he’d overdose on E and get trampled to death by a tranny in platform heels.
The door pinged as I wandered in, and I sat down, plonking the cookie box on the seat next to me. My new life-partner.
‘How can I help you today?’ said the sales assistant, who had ‘Nikki’ printed on her name badge. Nikki had disconcertingly huge bleached-blond hair, and skin that looked like it had been marinated overnight in a vat of Bisto.
‘I’m looking for a holiday,’ I replied. ‘I’m not quite sure what, but something special. We all need a really special holiday. So knock yourself out, Nikki – anywhere in the world, anything at all. Money,’ I added, safe in the knowledge that I still had access to Simon’s credit card, ‘is no object.’
‘Well, that’s the kind of challenge we thrive on in the travel consultancy business!’ she said, keeping a straight face. I was about to laugh but then I realised she meant it.
Her fingers started to fly over her keyboard, her face frowning in concentration. She was murmuring to herself as she worked; a steady subconscious flow that sounded something along the lines of ‘Yes! No! All booked up! No availability there…maybe…possibly…Ebola virus outbreak…border control…diamond mines…mosquito nets…’
‘Stop!’ I said, leaning over the desk to break her concentration. I had visions of ending up on a camel-back tour of Alaska or blue-tailed-skink-watching in Cameroon.
‘When I said anything, what I actually mean is a holiday with a beach. A swimming pool. Cocktails. Possibly the opportunity to do “Macarena”-style Euro-pop dances with waiters in restaurants. Lots of activities for the kids. Other teenagers, but nobody too scary who might teach them how to use flick knives or get one of them pregnant. And somewhere I can get a tan just like yours.’
Her face froze like a teak mask, clearly unhappy at this dull change of direction.
‘Well, my tan comes from the Boots in Summertown, but I presume you’re looking for somewhere a bit further afield than that?’
Suitably chastised for my lack of adventurous spirit, I watched her manicured nails go back into overdrive. Occasionally she paused to ask me a question, like how old the kids were (easy), if they liked water sports (um…possibly) and if I was into tennis (yes, if it involves watching men in tight white shorts at Wimbledon).
After what felt like a lifetime of waiting and watching, she finally looked up from her screen, a brilliant smile breaking out on her face. She had great teeth too – I wondered if they were from Boots as well but didn’t dare ask.
‘I’ve got it. It’s in Turkey, and there are just two interconnecting rooms left. Very nice, exclusive resort – lots of planned activities for young people, like sailing, windsurfing, water-skiing, as well as for adults. Tennis lessons. Golf if you want it. Beauty treatments, spa. If you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit tired – I think this is just what you need. A perfect holiday.’
She was right. I was tired. And more than a bit…A perfect holiday.
Now, that sounded even better than another cookie.
‘You mean to tell me there’s no fucking hairdryer in this dump?’ said Lucy, stalking round our rooms as though she’d just been stranded on a landfill site and told to lick old tins of cat food for tea. ‘You told me there would be!’
‘I’m sure there is, somewhere, Luce, I’ll look later…’ I answered, puffing a bit as I dragged the suitcases through the door. Ollie followed, hefting the biggest case into the corner and kicking it straight.
‘I’ve got a solution, Lucy,’ he said. ‘When you’ve washed your hair, go down to the kitchens and stick your bloody head in the microwave.’
He accompanied this with a mime of a skull exploding.