Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
‘SERIOUSLY?’ I wail as I wake up on Monday agaaaiiiinnnn. ‘You have got to be kidding me!’
Oh dear God. Death by USB port? Why are my tragic and sombre endings getting more ridiculous by the minute? It feels like Fate is getting increasingly pissed at me with every passing Monday.
Because, you guessed it pals, here I am waking up on Monday Eight.
Location: normal flat. Attire: sleep socks and silk pyjamas happily in place.
And this time, also fizzing with frustration that I didn’t even make it to Perth yesterday.
Oh no, I got zapped by a deficient charging pod while unplugging my phone at Singapore airport.
Irritation prickles through me just like yesterday’s electricity surge.
‘So, am I going to get less and less of this Monday from now on?’ I shout out into my dark bedroom.
Yes, I am having a conversation with thin air.
Let’s just go with it. ‘What do you want from me?! I’ve done everything right!
I have learned my lesson about men, I’ve stopped trying to meddle with the past. Hell, I even wrote a plan for my future! ’
I leap out of bed and scrabble around in my already-packed carry-on bag, pulling out the notebook. Although, of course, the notes aren’t there, because I made them in the future.
Groaning, I flop back onto my bed.
And that’s when a tantalizing thought takes hold.
What if I just … don’t go to the airport?
Yes, that’s it! Of course! I can’t believe I haven’t tried this before.
There’s nothing forcing me to get out of this bed and onto that flight.
Maybe it’s the airport’s fault? Or the concept of travel as a whole.
Perhaps if I just stay in one place for the rest of my life, I’ll be fine.
Hmm. That doesn’t sound ideal to be quite honest with you.
If I can’t travel then how will I make trips down to Cornwall to see Mum?
Or go on ridiculous mini-breaks with Penny where we eat ourselves silly and pretend to be cultured?
And am I really being my new future-facing self if I opt to spend the day rotting in bed?
Right, stop that. No point getting het up about the possible outcomes of this. I must take baby steps. I’m just not going to go anywhere today, that’s all! It has to be worth a shot.
I climb back under the sheets, pull my duvet right over my head, and clamp my eyes shut. If in doubt, sleep the day away.
My phone starts chirping immediately.
I ignore it.
But it turns out it’s not that easy to get back to sleep with a relentlessly beeping phone.
Who else is up at this time of day?!
Huffily, I drag it under the covers with me and see a series of increasingly stroppy messages from an unknown number.
Time to get up, Nina
Carpe diem
DON’T MISS YOUR FLIGHT NOW!
Why is my phone being so passive aggressive and creepy?
Who is messaging me at this hour? Freaked out, I reluctantly haul myself out of bed and pretend to go through the motions.
I’ll make it look like I’m going, then make a dash for it when the time is right.
Showered, dressed and with still-wet hair, I’m ready to go.
I grab my charger and keys from the bedroom dresser but a shock of pain makes me cry out.
Looking down, I see a long, thin cut on the pad of my thumb.
A tiny red balloon of blood bursts out from one end, like a celebration gone wrong.
The jagged edges of my tatty plastic keyring must have caught my skin.
Muttering to myself, I press a tissue against the wound, find a plaster, and pull the old keyring off.
I’ve been meaning to change it for ages and there’s a new one, still beautifully boxed, right there on the dresser.
I switch it over and wrestle my massive bags out of the flat.
As I make my way to South Ealing Underground station, I spot the fox, wagging its tail at me.
‘Hello, old friend,’ I say.
It’s still dark as I reach the Tube entrance, just a glimmer of orange on the horizon.
Maybe I could break the cycle here by wandering off into the distance?
My favourite coffee shop is actually just around the corner.
It won’t be open for hours but I could go and wait outside.
Smell the cinnamon buns as they bake first thing.
My stomach rumbles and I find myself longing to do something as simple as ordering a drink at Bread & Buns.
I miss normality so much! I miss the sound of the huge coffee machine whirring into action, the gurgle of the milk frother, my table by the window where Penny and I like to people watch.
The lush green pot plants I tried to emulate at home but inevitably killed.
Lovely owner Joe who politely laughs at my ‘Cappuccino? Cappucci-yes!’ joke which I definitely did not steal from the Trolls World Tour movie, which I also definitely did not see at the cinema because I am a grown woman.
But most of all I yearn for freedom. The chance to make my own decision about where I’m going to be today. After eight solid days of Monday, I’ve grown used to feeling penned in. I’m worried I’m just accepting it.
It takes less than a second to decide that I will be brave.
I will make choices for myself. I will step out of this pen!
I pivot on the spot, a smile breaking out as I go to cross the road.
I can do this! Of course I have autonomy over myself!
My whole body feels giddy as I check for traffic in the twilight before stepping out onto the road.
The sound of screeching tyres makes me instinctively pull back.
A car I swear wasn’t there two seconds ago stops right in front of me, blocking my path.
‘Taxi to Heathrow Terminal Two, love?’ the driver calls out of his open window, his vehicle literally blocking my way across the street.
I give him a frightened stare.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, waving at his absolutely abysmal parking.
‘It’s Nina, right? You need to get to the airport.’
That second sentence sounded a lot more like a statement than a question. How does this random London cabbie know my name and, worse, where to find me? I didn’t order a taxi.
My stomach bottoms out as I realize I cannot get past, and I sure as hell am not getting in a car with a stranger who knows my name.
‘Better go,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘We don’t want you to be late.’
Fear takes hold and I turn and run, down to the Underground and straight onto a waiting Tube train.
‘This is a Piccadilly Line train to Heathrow Terminal Five,’ announces the familiar voice as I perch at one end of the Tube. Shaky doesn’t cover it. Is Fate ordering me taxis now?
As my hair dries in the stale underground air, I consider my options.
One: Go through the motions, again.
Two: Stay on the Tube. Just don’t get off.
At this point, I can’t really imagine a better way to spend my day than riding the Underground around London.
Anything has got to be infinitely better than getting on yet another chuffing plane.
My carbon footprint must be through the roof right now!
If I ever get out of here, I will have to live off-grid in a bid to make amends.
Maybe keep chickens and grow my own vegetables and, I don’t know, compost things.
I shut my eyes and picture Future Me with a little vegetable patch in my back garden and Callum’s there mowing the lawn and—
Oh dear. I’m delirious. Fantasizing about a future with a man who I’m supposed to be ruling out of my life.
We’re approaching my stop and I decide not to get off. Sure, some hideous and possibly quite silly destiny might await me even if I do spend the day riding the Underground but so what? Anything is worth a shot at this point.
I move over to a spare seat and sit down, my suitcase between my legs and my weekender balanced on top of it.
I fold my arms around the luggage as if it might offer me some protection.
‘The next station is Heathrow Terminals Two and Three, Nina.’
I freeze, not sure if I heard that right.
I stare, wide-eyed, at the information flashing up on screen, which all looks normal, but I swear the Tube announcer just said my name.
The train rattles to a halt, the doors open, and I sit tight.
Defiant. I will not be bullied! I am Nina Moss and yes, I do have autonomy over my decisions today thank you very much.
I wait.
The Tube does not move.
‘Please mind the gap between the train and the platform, Nina.’
Oh for heaven’s sake! She definitely said my name that time, and I swear I picked up a little edge to her usually calm, reassuring voice. She might have asked me to mind the gap but what she was really saying was: ‘Get the heck off this Tube, you lunatic.’
I shift uneasily in my seat. The few fellow passengers who have been joining me on this eternal Tube ride to Heathrow are starting to look grumpy, today.
I remind myself that no one likes it when a train sits in the station.
God forbid we might be one or two minutes later than planned! That’s just normal London shenanigans.
‘Nina, you have arrived.’ Now she’s going off-piste from the usual Underground script. And worse, the other passengers are now very definitely sending their angry looks towards me, as if they somehow know that I’m the reason they are being held up.
My resolve is waning but I stay glued to my seat, telling myself they can’t really know, can they? These people are total strangers!
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your driver speaking. We’re being held at a red light while we wait for one final passenger to disembark at this stop. Hopefully we’ll be on our way again shortly.’
Argh! I can’t handle this. Before I am physically sick right here on the Tube, I leap out of my seat and rush off the train.