Page 66 of The Lucky Escape

‘That sounds outrageously healthy,’ Patrick said. ‘The healthiest.’

‘I’ve not judged myself on this trip,’ I said. ‘Well. Much. I’ve just … been in the moment. And it’s made me understand that I don’t think I’ve ever just been in the moment since, to be honest, I got to be bloody Tallulah on stage when I was fourteen years old. I’ve policed myself and bullied myself ever since then, and going home … I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m not. I’ve been keeping some screwed-up scorecard that marks up all the times I’m a good person and all the times I make a mistake, and if the good tally doesn’t outweigh the bad – which, let me tell ya, it very seldom does – I write myself off as an idiot who is twenty times worse than every single other person on the planet.’

‘Annie,’ Patrick said. ‘I knew you were hard on yourself, but I didn’t know it was that bad.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t think I did either until now. And the sun, the sea, the conversations, just the time away, having fun – I’ve never been more myself. I’ve spent twenty years trying to become something I’m not, and in three weeks here I’ve been able to see the actual truth about who I am and what I want, and that’s been so exciting.’

‘Wow,’ said Patrick. ‘Annie Wiig, coming home and ready to rule.’

‘Literally,’ I said. ‘Yeah. I’m so over being a problem to fix. I think I’m understanding that I’m not a problem, I’m just me. And me is pretty awesome.’

‘I co-sign that declaration.’ Patrick grinned. ‘And for what it’s worth – seeing you see in yourself what I see you in you is so, so hot.’

I tipped my head back and laughed. ‘Oh really?’ I said, and he reached up to my neck to pull me in for a kiss.

32

Our last night was a haze of five very fancy courses in a sky-high restaurant, an incredibly heated snog up against an alleyway wall where a group of young lads told us to get a room, and a somewhat misguided double vodka shot in a karaoke bar we found ourselves in. I then lost a round ofrock, paper, scissorsto Patrick and so had to get up and perform a rousing rendition of Barbra Streisand’s ‘Don’t Rain On My Parade’.

‘Incredible,’ marvelled Patrick as I returned to our table. ‘You can actually sing!’

‘Don’t sound so surprised!’ I squealed. ‘I don’t have balls to drop and ruin my pitch, do I?’

‘Evidently not.’ He laughed, and we made out and did another shot and when the karaoke took a break and Diana Ross’s ‘I’m Coming Out’ started to play on the jukebox I leapt up and started singing along before heading to the dance floor. And that’s where I stayed for song after song until Patrick finally gave in and joined me, and we danced together – drunk, sweaty, happy – singing the lyrics at eachother until it was 3 a.m. and the bar was closing. We made the sensible decision to find a shop to buy two big bottles of water to rehydrate on the way home.

It would have ended if we’d gone back to our hotel, and even though we had to leave for the airport at 10 a.m. the next day we wordlessly seemed to agree to keep the night going. I suppose by refusing to end the night, we were keeping the whole trip going. It was strange to know that after more than twenty-four hours of travel we’d be back home, and whilst thoughts of seeing Freddie were exciting, not much else was. The most exciting thing was here with me, so what did I have to go back home for?

We found a twenty-four-hour corner store and as well as the water bought what we always did: Tim Tams for him and a mini tub of Pringles for me. Then we settled on a bench set back from the breeze off the water, still with views of the harbour. I wanted to be exactly where I was. How many times could I have said that in my life?

‘Can we talk about what happens at home?’ Patrick asked, lightly.

I crunched down on my crisps and, licking the residue from my fingers, said, ‘I don’t know. Can we?’

‘To some people, this could seem like a lot,’ he suggested.

I grinned. ‘Good job I’ve been taught by an incredibly handsome man that it doesn’t matter what other people think.’

He searched my face as if looking for something I wasn’t giving him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But also …’

‘Do you want my last Pringle stack?’ I asked, and it had exactly the reaction I had hoped it would: he laughed, and the tension of the moment was broken.

‘You’re an idiot,’ he said.

‘An idiot you fell for,’ I retorted.

‘You said you’re obsessed with me in your text to Kezza, so I don’t know who the bigger fool is.’

He reached across and swiped the can from me, gleefully relishing in my shock as he pawed at the last of the pack. I shook my head as if I couldn’t believe him.

‘I’m going to ask them to put you in economy on the way home,’ I said. ‘See how you like that.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ He laughed, brushing his hands together to get rid of the Pringle debris. ‘You couldn’t go half an hour without coming to the back of the plane to find me.’

‘I hate that that’s true,’ I said.

‘I see through your crap,’ he told me. ‘I see through it all.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay, you, that’s enough cockiness. You’ve reached your quota.’

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