Page 16 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
And it had been the same the day before that, and the afternoon of our arrival in the Czech capital; me kayaking alone on the Danube, me wandering out on my tod to gaze at the beauty of Prague at sunset, and me heaving my weary legs to the top of the astronomical clock’s tower to admire the fabulous three-hundred-and-sixty degree view, as my boyfriend tapped his increasingly impatient foot, back on the ground. Each and every magical moment was my gain and Callum’s loss.
Had I known things would go downhill so fast, eighteen months after pulling him at the aforementioned neon-lit, high-vaulted nightclub cellar in Bath, whilst Radhika and Kelly got in another round of drinks, I would have spared myself the bother.
And as for Rufus, the toffee-nosed guy I had briefly dated before him, well, funnily enough that had ended after a trip from Bristol airport too. Me being me, I’d decided it was a good idea to tiptoe across the stepping stones of his parents’ ornate swimming pool at their villa in the south of France (after a couple of glasses of red wine). Him being him, Rufus was far from impressed when I fell into the pool in front of his entire family and had to be rescued by the gardener since nobody else wanted to get their expensive clothes wet.
“Earth to Willow!” an excited Radhika cries, bringing me back, thank goodness, to the present.
“Oh, sorry. I…” I actually feel a little disoriented and grip the handle of my luggage tightly, unsure how I’ve fallen into such a deep daydream in an airport full of hustle and bustle. “I was miles away.”
“Well, you will be soon… if you hand over your ticket and passport to that woman and get in the flipping queue. What are you waiting for? Snap out of that trance and let the holibobs begin!”
“Okay, okay.” I giggle (although definitely not at the holibobs bit… if my friend really has to use an alternative word to holiday, let it be the slightly less irritating ‘jollies’). I walk to the queue, and the butterflies immediately loop-the-loop in my stomach, just as they always do before I’m thrust into the air in what is essentially a tube with wings at two-hundred-and-forty plus kilometres an hour.
Kelly is already halfway to the check-in desk, eager to get to Portugal as soon as possible to inspect the eco accommodation she’s secured. I hope the reality lives up to the hype. It certainly looked the epitome of enchanting and relaxed on the website, but then looks can be deceiving. And don’t I know it?
We inch our way along the bendy orange-belted lines, doubling back on ourselves every time we seem to be forging ahead, until we finally reach the desks. The airline staff are either poised for their next customers or weighing cases beneath the long panel of glossy tangerine boards, and at this last hurdle, a British-style queue stretches ahead again, neat and orderly. Eventually it’s our turn. We peel left and right to separate desks, and I hold my breath as my check-in official and I contemplate my luggage, which contains a tonne of hairstyling tools and accessories as per usual.
But it’s Radhika who has to pay for excess baggage… or remove some of her stuff. She flings open her case with a mighty sigh, not remotely tempted to get out her credit card. It’s painfully obvious she’s overpacked, her case is bulging as if it’s stuffed down a three course meal. It’s all I can do not to laugh hysterically. Instead I put my hands in a praying motion to my check-in lady, assuring her I’ll be ten seconds, and throw myself into mother hen mode, helping Radhika decide what to jettison and handing her plastic bags to put it all in ready to dump, ever mindful that if my eco-warrior friend Kelly were to see all this waste, we’d both be banished from the quinta before we’d even set foot in it.
Over my shoulder, I clock the exasperated expressions of our fellow easyJet passengers. My friend is now holding up hordes of people as she dithers over a fat tub of body glitter versus a family-sized bottle of coconut hand cream. Blimey, they look angry. And that’s when I do a double take; the flash of a fire engine-red UWE Bristol baseball cap; the sense of a familiar-yet-unfamiliar frame; chestnut tufts of hair, and the collar of an expensive-looking polo shirt. My stomach churns, my pulse ratchets.
No. It can’t be. I am stuck in yet another trance, imagining myself behind the counter of my café a couple of months ago, that’s all. I snap my head back to the situation at my side, intent on living in the here and now, trying to leave all the stress that petition-issuing idiot has caused me miles behind.
Radhika finally sorts herself out just as I reclaim my passport and my own check-in lady narrows her eyes with a giant tut. I frog-march my embarrassing friend to the bins and she discards various bottles of shampoo, hairspray, sun cream and shower gel with another mammoth sigh, returning the plastic bags to me (in my defence, they are recycled plastic bags… and now they’ll get another lease of life– one that is hopefully less stressful) before Kelly has spotted us in the distance.
“Utterly ridiculous.” Radhika won’t let the crummy start to the holiday go. “Now I’ll just have to go and buy exactly the same bottles in the Superdrug store over in Departures. It’s no secret how these places make their money.”
She’s sporting a frown that matches her environmentally conscious counterpart, Kelly, who has upped her disapproval to a glare and is marching purposefully toward us. “Great, no doubt madam saw all of that and will be attempting to fix me up with local Portuguese honey and herbal toiletries instead.” Radhika grits her teeth at the highly likely scenario.
“So, then,” says Kelly, mercifully glossing over Radhika’s current pickle. “We’ve only got an hour and a bit before the flight, and getting through security is bound to take a while given that it’s summer. Let’s whizz through the duty free shop and on into Starbucks for an iced tea and a chill-out before we board. I wouldn’t normally go all consumer conformist, but I must confess I have a soft spot for their Iced Passion Tango Tea. It’s got hibiscus and lemongrass in it which is giving me some serious ideas for my ice cream.”
Radhika screws up her face when Kelly isn’t looking. Whereas I make a mental note for once, wondering if I might infuse that little pairing into custard. Unlike Kelly’s usual taste combo brainwaves, this one sounds sublime. And then I remember my current quandary. A bit like the way you wake up in the morning after something awful has happened the day before, and for a few blissful seconds, you’ve completely forgotten it… until the ‘it’ slaps you fiercely across the chops: I have to double check if that man lurking in the check-in queue was who I thought he was. Nah, it was probably just a random person that had shapeshifted to the beat of my darkest fears. Sure, any number of dark-haired men could have bought the same hat. I’ve never been to uni. For all I know, those baseball caps are handed out during freshers’ week to thousands of students.
I turn as furtively as I can to pan the scene behind me again, but unless the red-capped male is hiding behind the pillar, there’s not a trace of him. Phew! The relief washes over me like a power shower and I’m overcome with instant happiness. I must have been imagining things. I take a deep breath, determined to get in the holiday swing. A relaxing break away in the sun in a beautiful destination has become such a rarity in my life, it would be a crime to fret about this. I owe it to myself, my friends, and everyone who is covering for me back at TCTC to enjoy every moment of it. Who knows when I’ll get the chance to go away again?
Minutes later our water bottles are deposited in the bins (with Kelly understandably up in arms at the situation) before we join another queue to go through security. But despite my commitment to loosening up, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. Once again, nobody behind me fits the bill of my earlier ‘vision’. Still, my fidgeting only increases as I get closer to the body scanner. I just can’t help it. This is as compulsive as scratching an itch. An airport official homes in on me, and I don’t need to be told I’ll be taken aside for a thorough pat down if I don’t nip my haywire body language in the bud. Which is precisely what happens when I reach the front of the queue, hardly helped by Radhika chortling at me in the background, now safely through. What a joke, with all the random bits and pieces inhertravel bag. I’m sure she’s got half of Boots in there!
“Let’s hope the next queue is shorter,” Kelly greets me after my completely avoidable ordeal, barely giving me a chance to put my sandals, scarf, belt, bangles, and rings back on.
“Guys, go on through without me and order me an iced coffee,” I say as calmly as I can.
Kelly furrows her brow. She’s a stickler for the three of us doing everything together as if we are a family unit of ducks.
“Honestly, I’ll be with you before you know it.” I wave her and Radhika off. “I just want to get dressed again in peace and quiet, that’s all. Plus my bag could do with a complete repack after the embarrassment of the search. I can’t bear getting on a plane and not knowing where all my bits and pieces are.”
I could just insist that I need to pick up some lipstick or an eyeshadow as I pass through the non-negotiable shop that is strategically sandwiched between security and departures, but I never particularly bother with makeup unless I’m on a night out. Besides, that would only give Radhika ideas about adding to her own mammoth collection, and then Kelly will be drinking iced tea alone.
I also know I must be coming across a little weirdly by flat-out rejecting Kelly’s suggestions. It’s totally out of character for me– just as it would be for Radhika. Not because Kelly is bossy or a control freak. She’s just always been the natural leader of the group. In a threesome, there is always one who makes the decisions.
Once my friends are a blur in the distance, I make another sneaky scan of the bodies queuing on the other side of security, and then dip into the perfume aisle, loitering over the various tester sprays, where I’m immediately pounced on by an eager salesperson. I feign interest and sniff at every thin strip of card presented to me, each of them dripping in heady fragrance. By my calculation, if Tiago wasn’t a figment of my imagination earlier, and was a very real person standing in that queue– happening to be hiding behind a pillar when I last looked back at the easyJet line– then it’ll take him around twenty minutes to pass through the shop. In other words, I have to find enough stimulation among the cosmetics, chocolates, and bottles of gin, to keep me here for ages, all without raising the missing person alarm with Kelly, or the shoplifting alarm with the store. This will be no mean feat. Small wonder that I end up panic-chatting my way into a makeover on one of the counters of the upmarket cosmetic concessions that are dotted about.
“Shall we go for an exciting change of style this afternoon?” the makeup artist asks. “I’m thinking of jewel tones to accentuate the striking colours of your eyes… It’s not every day I get the opportunity to work on such an exclusive blank canvas. Apologies for my ignorance but what’s the term for your… erm… eye colouring, erm, condition?”
“Heterochromia, and you’re all right,” I reassure her. “It’s passed down from my father. For some reason I’m the only one of his three daughters who has it, though.”
“Well, lucky you,” she replies, and I know she genuinely means it.
Heterochromia is more than a condition. It’s a quirk I have learned to love, but it has taken time. Thankfully, I never got ribbed about it at school. I guess my fantastical hairstyles diluted the effect of my eyes. On a subconscious level, I know that’s why I went all out with the big, bold tresses, to detract everybody’s attention from my face.
