Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
A little bit of Callum’s all I need, I find myself singing to the tune.
Oh Lou Bega, what have you done to me?
I have woken up in a ridiculous mood and is it any wonder?
Firstly, I use ‘waking up’ in the loosest sense of the term because I don’t feel like I’ve had any sleep.
I feel like I just got killed in a collision with a beautiful man and an electric buggy, then experienced nothing, then came to in my bed on the same day all over again, which is really quite hard to describe when, up until this point, I have been a normal human being experiencing normal human things.
Secondly, ‘yesterday’ was a total debacle and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I know I should be kind, try to cut myself some slack, because I’m in a very strange set-up and of course that’s going to take its toll on my general wellbeing.
But also, URGH! When did I become the kind of gal who has genuine thoughts like ‘oh, I’ve said too much, I’m just going to have to kill him’ or ‘oh, he’s not doing exactly what I want so I will need to secretly drug him with Pro Plus’.
What the hell?!
I have become a monster. I am the person who features on those gripping true crime documentaries. If I ever do get out of this loop, I’ll probably end up a notorious criminal with a catchy moniker like, I don’t know, Nutty Nina.
Nutty Nina and her Stale Tube Hair Strike Again
Will anyone catch the beautifully coiffed but criminally insane mob boss?
I peel myself out of bed after another unsatisfying death sleep and quite simply refuse to put the same outfit on.
It’s been laid out, just waiting to be worn, every single day now and I am suddenly so sick of all that black.
In an act of great defiance, I play pick ‘n’ mix with my wardrobe, pulling out the most colourful things I can find.
And so, as I trudge towards Heathrow, at least I have this quite frankly insane outfit to add a little pep to my day.
We’re talking wide leg trousers with great big pink hearts all over them (bought for a festival) plus the hot pink tie-dye Fontaines DC T-shirt I picked up at a gig last year.
Daisy-yellow belt. Matching yellow Gola trainers. I look like a child’s drawing.
This fabulous outfit is literally the only thing making me feel positive or hopeful about today.
Hamish had felt like my get-out clause, the man I could sail off into the sunset with, and now I can’t think of anything worse than sailing anywhere with him.
I thought he’d offered an escape from all this but no matter how hard I’ve tried, he just keeps being really bloody annoying and not at all like the man I thought he was.
So how else am I meant to get out of this mess?
I’ve tried to be late and avoid my tragic and sombre death to no avail.
I’ve tried to find that spark with Hamish but all my sparks are misfiring in Callum’s direction like a faulty bonfire night sparkler.
It strikes me that I could try staying in bed all day and waiting it out?
But the prospect of doing literally nothing to try and escape this situation makes my skin itch.
I’m a doer, a problem solver. So where are the answers to this problem? Is Hamish really the only answer?
That would suck, the idea of spending any more time with him is making my heart sink.
Am I in my own personal hell?
Maybe this is death, I consider morbidly. Perhaps I am just stuck in an eternal long haul flight to Australia with nothing but my stupid ex-boyfriend for company, oh, and my arch nemesis to taunt me by doing confusing things to my insides.
Is this what purgatory is?
I’m in such a funk that I accidentally wheel my suitcase through the discarded egg sandwich at Heathrow, which means I am leaving a trail of egg and cress wherever I go. People sniff and wrinkle their noses as I walk past and I don’t even feel embarrassed.
I feel nothing. Numb.
I can’t even muster the energy to engage with Arsey Alan, who today has some choice words about the smell of my suitcase when I place it on his conveyor belt at baggage check.
I spot Mel giving him her longing looks again and offer her a weak smile, all the while wondering what is wrong with us women?
! Why do we pick such wrong ’uns to fall for?
I don’t bother reading the email from Kat as I walk through security.
What’s the point? I already know exactly what it’s going to say.
By the time I reach duty-free, I am a grumpy shell of my former self, trailing round like a lost soul.
I wander aimlessly into Harrods and it’s only when I stop to gawp at the hundred-pound chocolates that I feel a glimmer of something for the first time today.
Have some fun!
The thought pops into my head so quietly I almost miss it.
‘Have some fun?’ I repeat to myself dully. That’s not especially easy when I’m stuck at the airport about to board a thirteen-hour flight to Singapore.
Tsk. You’re Nina Moss. You’ve turned stranger places into successful parties. Have at it!
Hmm. I guess my subconscious might be right. I once created a beautiful birthday party at an abandoned underground toilet in Shepherd’s Bush.
Hope sparks up somewhere deep in my brain for the first time since I got dressed this morning.
I could just have some fun, right? Now that I live in this world where the old rules don’t work, I could just see what life would be like if I really didn’t give a damn?
Didn’t care about what other people thought of me for the first time in my life.
Didn’t mind if I said something silly, which to be fair I do quite a bit of anyway.
Maybe that but without the recriminations.
I’m a hell of a one for beating myself up after saying something stupid.
Today, I could totally speak my mind. And just enjoy it.
There’s no point being down in the dumps, is there?
Carpe diem!
Pumped up, I take a box of hugely expensive chocolates and potter over to the till. I smile warmly at the person behind the counter.
‘Yes, I am buying these,’ I tell her.
‘An excellent choice. Would you like them gift-wrapped?’
‘I’ll probably just smash my way through them on the flight but, why not?’
‘Why not, indeed,’ she replies, delicately encasing them in tissue paper and bows before taking my card.
‘Actually, I’ll take one of those too please,’ I add, gesturing towards a jeroboam of champagne. ‘Make that two.’
‘Certainly.’
I leave Harrods almost a thousand pounds worse off, and with nothing but a box of chocs and six litres of champagne in my hands.
Fuck it.
Usually, I’d be panicking about whether or not it was acceptable for me to smuggle six litres of champagne onto a long-haul flight.
I mean, I think technically it’s allowed but is it socially acceptable?
I’m voting no. Still, do I give two hoots about that today?
No I do not, my friend! Today, I am flying by the seat of my heart-covered pants.
I’ve tucked the booze into the laundry section of my massive weekender, which I love even more now.
It means that my bag is now monstrously heavy but Nutty Nina cares not a jot.
I lug it onto my shoulder as I head towards the departure gate.
Quite frankly, I can’t be arsed to swap seats so that I can maximize my Hamish time. If he is my key out of here, then that feels bleak indeed, and I’m not that mad about putting it off for another day.
I hop on the walking pavement, anticipation building at the thought of seeing Callum again soon.
‘Hey,’ Callum says, when I find myself walking straight into him on the travelator.
‘What are you doing here?’ I squawk as he steadies me with those goddamn arms.
He gives me a curious look.
‘Coming to Australia with you. You know that, right?’
‘I do know that,’ I say. I can’t tell Callum that what I meant was, why isn’t he walking on the normal pavement, can I?
But it is weird that things are changing every time I repeat this Monday.
I know the stuff that’s in my control is changing because I’m the one living this relentless day.
But why is other stuff changing too? What made Callum get on the travelator today?
Is the entire concept of time starting to slowly chip away?
Are pieces of my day going to start disintegrating as time becomes more and more fragile, the more I loop?
This feels like another question for the science boffs.
With my brain truly fogged-up, I end up looking into Callum’s beautiful face and saying: ‘Am I going to become some sort of husk?’
Callum scans me for, presumably, further signs of insanity.
‘What’s wrong, Moss?’ he asks.
‘Just considering the meaning of life,’ I sigh.
‘Big topic.’ He rubs a hand across his jaw. ‘For the record, you don’t look like a husk to me. You look good. Nice outfit.’
‘Are you … joking?’
He shakes his head.
‘Because I took a kid-in-the-sweet-shop approach to getting dressed this morning.’
‘It works.’ He shrugs, like giving me a compliment is normal behaviour for him.
‘Are you unwell?’ I ask as we step off the travelator.
‘Quite well, thank you,’ he says.
‘You are a man of multitudes,’ I manage.
‘Aren’t we all?’
My phone starts to ring and I’m pleased for the distraction, even though it’s yet another thing I hadn’t expected.
‘It’s Kat on videocall,’ I say, staring at it.
‘Are you going to answer it or just continue to look at your phone?’ Callum asks, amused.
I give him a hard stare.
‘This doesn’t usually … oh, never mind.’
I leave Callum to find the right gate while I meander off in the direction of a vending machine to take the call.
‘Hi, Kat.’