Page 68 of The Lucky Escape

‘Your boyfriend is a cute kind of a man.’ He beamed.

33

Leaving the Australian sun and returning to an England that was officially in mid-autumn plunged me into a perpetual state of mild discomfort. My toes were cold, even in boots, and I had to keep a scarf permanently clamped around my neck to ward off the chill. I had a tan, though, which made even a polo neck jumper look chicer, and it wasn’t until I was out of my oversized linen summer dresses and back into proper trousers that I realized I really had gained a dress size, maybe even two – and looked all the prettier for it. I suited more fullness in my face; I looked content and healthy. And when I’d gone to pick up a pizza from the Italian place for tea the waiter had called mebella.I knew I was supposed to rage against unsolicited compliments and that I’m more than how I look, but I’d been getting takeaway there for two years and it was my first time being called beautiful by the flirty owner. It felt like a sign: I looked different, I felt different, and even Giuseppe atL’Antica Pizzeria da Michelecould tell. It was all I could do not to launch into a rousing chorus of ‘I’m Every Woman’ on the walk home.

Life was wonderful. I’d left feeling like the biggest loser in London, but I’d come home a happy winner, renewed with a sense of purpose. New Annie was triumphant and it was plain for everyone to see.

What you doing?Patrick’s text pinged once I’d eaten.

I would say I broke into a smile, but I hadn’tstoppedsmiling. I’d told Adzo that I didn’t think we’d flown home, I’d simply floated us. I’d had a body part physically attached to Patrick – my boyfriend! – the whole way; we’d held hands in the car to the airport, and stood enmeshed together at check-in and through customs, fingers outstretched and searching under the bar in the departure lounge. We’d talked about how we wouldn’t let the real world change what we’d become in our little Aussie bubble, but we’d still been clingy, right up until we kissed goodbye when he dropped me off at home, lingering over each other’s mouths until the Uber driver asked us if we were sure we didn’t just want to get out together, since we seemed attached at the mouth anyway.

Unpacking,I typed back.By which I mean making several piles on my bedroom floor because everything needs to be washed. How does sand get in the things that didn’t even go to the beach??Then I added:What you doing?

Dots on the screen signalled he was writing back. I flopped down on the floor, resting my back against the bed. I was exhausted after the carby pizza and chilly walk, and wouldn’t last much longer before hitting the hay. I’d waited as long as I could to go to bed so that I could try and get back on UK time as soon as possible.

It feels strange that you’re not in the room across the hall from me anymore,he sent back.Or that we won’t share a bed tonight …

We’d made a decision before we landed that we neededto be in our own homes for the first night back so we could do all the logical stuff getting back from a trip involved – laundry, food shopping, trying to sleep – but no sooner had he pulled away in the cab than I’d started to pine for him. The house was too quiet, and I’d got used to the way a place felt with somebody else in it. Knowing Patrick was within the same four walls of the hotel suite as me had become a comfort. I’d loved knowing he was around, reading in the next room or showering as I FaceTimed home. I wished he was in the house with me, even if he was on the couch as I did my chores upstairs.

‘Falling for somebody on a three-week holiday is the real-life equivalent ofmonthsof dating if you measure it out in hours, surely,’ Adzo had commented during a brief phone call to get all my gossip. ‘Do the maths. Twenty-four hours a day for twenty-one days is …’ She quickly added it up. ‘One hundred and twenty-six four-hour dates. That’s a lot of dates. It’s practically a year of dates! You’ve spent more time with him than most couples rack up in their first months together.’

I can keep tradition and make coffee for two in the morning?I volleyed back to Patrick, smiling at the thought of making it one hundred and twenty-seven dates. Adzo was right: in terms of time spent together, we’d clocked up our time. No wonder I missed him.

I’ll be there,he replied.In fact, I can bring breakfast.

Perfect.Sleep tight.

You too,he said.Dream of me.

I didn’t need to dream, though. Real life was good enough.

Frustratingly, I lay staring at the ceiling with jet lag at 6 a.m. I’d slept like a log for seven hours, but suddenly was wide awake. I knew that after lunch I’d be desperate for a nap thatwould probably last all afternoon, but what can you do when your body clock is telling you it’s 2 p.m.? I decided to make a start on the piles of washing and go for a walk around the block, picking up some groceries on my way.

As the sky got lighter I circled around the back streets and up through the park – my old running route. I couldn’t wait to have Carol back from Mum and Dad’s so I could walk with her again. She’d fill the house with more life, too. The cold made my breath visible in front of me and I blew shapes like I was a kid, and by the time I got near the high street one of the cafés was starting to show early signs of life, so to avoid going home I slipped in for a caffeine fix and a scroll of my phone, doing what I thought of as my ‘correspondence’: replying to all the texts I’d missed when I was away.

I ordered a pot of tea and messaged Freddie to tell her I’d see her at the weekend, when we came to pick up Carol. I asked if I could get some dog content in the meantime – photos and videos to keep me going. In the Core Four WhatsApp I scrolled through everything that had gone back and forth in my absence, filling myself in on Kezza’s family-finding progress with her social worker, Brianna’s husband’s new boss and Jo’s continued obsession with rewatchingMork and Mindybecause, ‘Nobody does it like Robin Williams. I miss him!’ She was due any day now and desperate to fill up her time to take her mind off it. I let them know I was back and asked when the next Core Four summit would be, assuming it would be after the baby came. I didn’t tell them that Patrick and I were girlfriend-and-boyfriend official. All I knew is that inevitably Kezza had let slip about the kiss, and I reiterated in the thread that any stories I had to tell would have to be done in person, adding in a winky emoji to whet their appetites.

I texted Fernanda to ask if I could stop by soon with some Aussie thank-you souvenirs, and I texted Dad and Mum separately to say I was home safe, and briefly logged on to Instagram but immediately logged off because within three seconds it made me feel icky. Freddie had said to me before:Annie, everyone knows privacy is the new luxury. Only old people post about their lives anymore.I didn’t have the patience for the highlight reels of other people.

Instead of social media, I flicked through the few photos I’d taken, and the ones Patrick had airdropped me on the flight, stored in my private and unpublished archive, for my pleasure only.If a memory isn’t shared online, did it ever really happen at all?I decided yes, and that it was even sweeter that way. I scrolled up my camera feed to start from the beginning, where the photos were mainly selfies and snaps of my passport next to a glass of champagne, and an image of the view out of the plane window. It was so interesting to see, though, because as the trip went on the photos became less of ‘stuff’ and more of Patrick, or me and Patrick. There he was in his robe at the villa, so much paler than when we finally headed home. Then, the first beach trip, our glasses clinking at the wine tasting, a video of him driving us to the music festival. There were a sequence of shots from the night we’d canoed out on the river – a series where I was caught unaware, then turned to see him, then laughed, and another where I was covering my face.

I paused on the next one: the final one he took before I’d demanded he stop. My hair was loose and windswept, and I had golden freckles across my nose. I was laughing again, forcing a double chin and revealing the crooked front tooth I’ve always said I’d one day get fixed, and gazing off camera, just above it, my pupils as wide as the rest of my eyes. I waslooking at Patrick, and it was a look of … Not love, but definitely something close. How early had I fallen for him? He’d walked into my existence at such a crucial moment and made it feel – almost, just maybe – like everything else was worth it. I dreaded to think how sad I’d be without him brightening up my days and making me believe the bad days were over.

Maktub.

It is written.

Without overthinking it I made a photo of us on the last day of the trip my phone’s background wallpaper so I’d see it every time I picked up my phone.

Let me know when you’re up,I texted him.I’m thinking about you.

On the way out of the café I passed a hairdresser’s. It wasn’t my usual place across in Spitalfields, but there was a sign in the window advertising a free 9 a.m. slot. And it hit me: I wanted my hair cut. I’d always hidden behind my hair. I relied on it being long and in front of my face, and if my face was now going to have as much delight in it as I’d just been reminded of in those photos then I wanted to proudly show that off. I wanted to see this brave new world I was going to conquer. I didn’t want to hide anymore.

‘Hi,’ I said tentatively, peering around the door to the only man in the shop – a squat bloke in a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tattooed forearms. ‘Can I have that appointment?’ I pointed to the blackboard advertising it.

‘Sure you can, love,’ he replied. ‘Come in. What are you after?’

When I left fifty-five minutes later my hair was cropped close to my head, shaved at the neck and longer on top, with alittle fringe, inspired by Twiggy in the Sixties, but darker. And what’s more? It looked fabulous.

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