Page 40 of Swiping Right (and other disasters)

“Oh, my swiping days are over,” said Seymour. There was a slightly uncomfortable pause while they both fell silent.

Kiera looked up to see a picture of a north African souk on the wall of the café. “I think I need to go on an adventure,” she said.

“Oh, yes. That sounds like a great idea. Maybe somewhere abroad?”

“Yes,” said Kiera, warming to the idea.

“Where are you thinking? New York, Paris, Barcelona, Morocco, Greece?”

“Well, all of those places sound amazing. I’ve not been to any of them,” said Kiera.

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” In her excitement Seymour sat up straighter. She clasped her mug in both hands. “I’d love to go to Barcelona for the first time again. It’s such an incredible city, and you have the advantage of the beach, too.”

“Really?” asked Kiera. Seymour nodded and descended into a monologue about all the things she loved about the Catalan capital. Her face lit up as she described the Arc de Triomphe – which Kiera had no idea was a place in Barcelona. She was only aware of its Parisian equivalent. Seymour described the old town, with its winding alleyways and pavement cafés. She described the coastal Barceloneta and its beach-front café bars and within twenty minutes, Kiera knew where she was headed on her adventure.

“Did you go there alone?” asked Kiera.

“No.” Seymour drained her cup. “But I’ve been to lots of places alone. There’s something brilliant about travelling without anyone else. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want, and you don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Perhaps you can even be whoever you want,” mused Kiera, beginning to like the idea of a solo adventure.

“Well, I suppose so,” said Seymour. “Have you got a few minutes? Cool, ok. I’ll be right back. I’ve got a guidebook for Barcelona upstairs in the flat and I’ve marked all the places in it that I enjoyed.”

Kiera gazed out of the window, itching to get home to her laptop so she could book her trip. “It’s a bit out of date now,” said Seymour, sitting back down beside her a few minutes later with the well-used guide book. “But the best bits of Barcelona don’t change.”

The bell at the entrance to the café rang, and Seymour smiled at Kiera before taking her place back behind the bar to serve her customers. Kiera idly wondered what it might be like to go to Barcelona with Seymour as her guide. She seemed so knowledgeable. She shook her head. No, this was about independence.

She opened the book at a well-read page that described the old town and its attractions. There was a paragraph about bicycle hire circled in green biro. She imagined Seymour sailing through the rickety alleyways in the pictures, a linen shirt sailing behind her, her hair flowing. No. Stop. Independence.

Over a glass of wine that evening, Kiera booked her long weekend away. There was something wonderfully freeing about being able to just go somewhere without discussing it with Chrissie or anyone else. She recalled the amount of time they used to spend negotiating the details of where they would go, the kind of accommodation they wanted, the dates they would choose. The talks would be endless and incredibly draining.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kiera arrived on Spanish soil in the evening. The sun was setting as she checked into her hotel. She paused just long enough to put her minimal luggage in her room and then headed straight back out. She’d seen a pretty pavement café, decorated with twinkly lights, from the taxi that had taken her from the airport. She needed food, and that seemed like a great place to start.

“You were right,” she texted to Seymour later that evening, “travelling alone is amazing. Check out the free limoncello the waiter delivered to my table after dinner.” She captured a snap of her liquor and pressed send.

“Ooh, maybe you’re in there with the waiter,” texted Seymour, with a winking emoji. Kiera giggled. The world was opening up, and she intended to drink it all in.

The next morning, she hired a bicycle to take around the old town of Barcelona. The winding streets, unexpected little squares and quirky buildings were the ideal backdrop to her tour. She regularly stopped to look more closely at something, safe in the knowledge she wasn’t on a schedule and had no one to answer to but herself. The sunshine was strong and she could feel it doing her good, seeping in through her skin.

When she stopped for lunch in a hidden square, she sent Seymour more pictures of the morning’s highlights. Seymour responded immediately with heart emojis. She began to wonder if Seymour was always this effusive. Or maybe there was something else there? No, she thought to herself, the café-owner clearly had plenty going on in her own life, and perhaps her love life, too. Not to mention she was younger, and gorgeous with it. Kiera would never be her type. The hearts made her smile, though, and she imagined Seymour sashaying into the square and sitting down with her to share a few Aperol Spritz. Kiera sighed, giving up on trying to stop these images appearing. There was no law against fantasising, after all. If that was what it was.

Kiera spent the evenings reading, enjoying the peace of a quiet corner in a restaurant, or sitting in the hotel bar. There was a glorious anonymity to this holiday. It made her feel more three dimensional than she had for some time. She had spent so long trying to find something – or trying to keep something. She’d tried (and failed) to hold on to Chrissie, and then gone all out in her search for love, or sex, or something. She was enough. And for once, she believed that.

One of the guidebook’s top recommendations was the magic fountains. The pictures did not do justice to the grandeur of the architecture of the Placa de les Cascades. The enormous, ornate square with its giant circular fountain was located at the foot of a hillside dominated by beautifully-engineered waterfalls. Kiera had arrived mid-afternoon, and took a slow walk up the steps, alongside the flowing water, to the top, where the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya stood. It was an imposing presence, containing a wide array of art and sculpture from the region.

Once she had had her fill of culture, she went outside, bought a double espresso from the kiosk, and sat at the top of the first water feature, looking down on bustling Barcelona. She could see people milling about, up and down the steps, tiny specks readying themselves by the large fountain, cars that were so small as to look like toys whizzing around the traffic system beyond. She took a sip of the intensely strong coffee and smiled to herself. Here she was, above it all, surveying her surroundings, completely content. She wasn’t responsible for anyone, and no one from work could reach her. This was, perhaps, real happiness.

As darkness fell, she began to make her way down the steps to the main fountain, where crowds were beginning to form and food stalls were opening up to sell their wares. She bought herself some churros and found a low wall to perch on. There was a buzz of expectation in the crowd before the opening bars of music began. Appropriately, the song was Barcelona, by Freddie Mercury and Monserrat Caballe. And as the music swelled, so did the fountain, with lights and shapes and vast sweeps of water. It was a truly impressive and humbling sight. Kiera felt her heart soar along with the music. This was what her life could be.

The weekend flew by in a whirl of Gaudi architecture, rich and regular tapas and good books. By the time Kiera got on her flight home, she felt like a new woman.

“Thank you,” she texted to Seymour. “I owe you for suggesting I come here. This has been the best weekend. I am renewed (in a non-hippy way) xxx”. She pressed send and switched off her phone, ready to take to the skies.

When she landed at Birmingham International and switched on her phone, Seymour’s was the first name she saw.

“You’re welcome,” said the text. “And I will take payment in the form of lunch next week, please xxx.”

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