Chapter Six
Millie: I assume you’re joking????
Abby: This is rage bait for sure
Gemma: are you sure we’re related?!
Millie: And she wonders why we have a secret group chat
Sara: I KNEW IT
Millie: Joking obviously!
Sara: So he is famous then???
Abby: I refuse to believe you’re not joking actually
Millie: Shall we just disown her?
Gemma: i say we don’t tell her
Abby: @Sara is he on your cruise?
Sara: Yes!
Millie: Wild
Gemma: this is so unfair!! the way I would let him ruin me
Millie: I prefer Jax
Gemma: yes because you’re attracted to toxic men
Abby: Coming from you Gem?
Millie: J4S are too young for her taste
Sara: Please just tell me who he is.
Millie: The fact that you even asked means you don’t deserve to know and I stand by that
Gemma: i think that’s a fair comment
Abby: It’s Gus Kenwood from Just4Summer
Sara: So he’s an actor?
Millie: SEE ABBY. SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE!
Gemma: sara, i am ashamed to be your sister.
Abby: Wow. Ok. Just4Summer is a massive British boyband. 10 hit singles. 6 albums. 14 years of fame. There’s no way you haven’t heard their music.
Sara: You’re all so dramatic. Fine, I’ll google him.
Millie: YOU’RE SO OUT OF TOUCH. I HOPE YOU’RE HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE!
Gemma: those are both songs btw lol
Sara: What are?
Millie: SARA I SWEAR!
I’m ashamed to say I spend the better part of the night googling him. I even decide to request room service, eating dinner on my balcony, diving deeper and deeper into Augustus Marcus Kenwood’s digital footprint.
What I discover is a whole world of fandom, from fanfic to two-hour YouTube compilations of the band hanging out and chatting with fans.
They’ve performed internationally and just come off a world tour earlier this year promoting their sixth and album so social media is practically burning up from all the new buzzy content.
Each band member seems to have procured themselves a character.
From what I’ve been able to deduce, my eyes starting to get heavy, a sure sign I’ve overcooked this unassigned research project: Jax is the bad boy, Callum is the looker, Will is the mother hen of the group and Gus is apparently the joker.
There are a million pictures of him pratting about on stage.
The next morning, I’m still waist-deep in internet gossip when I call Abby to explain everything.
“Hello,” she says, brightly. “I need every detail, but first, turn your camera on. I want to see where you are.”
I give her a quick tour of my room followed by a view of the sea.
“Tell me about this boyband then,” I say, plonking down on the bed. “How have I gone so long without hearing of them?”
“Because you’re not very cool.”
“I’m cool!”
“Sure,” she laughs. “You must’ve heard their recent hit single, ‘Come Again’.”
“Maybe?” I shrug. Abby rolls her eyes before singing the chorus. It’s the sort of hit single that plays on all the major radios. Very pop rock. And I have heard it before, she’s not wrong.
“Ok, fine, I’ve heard it.”
“That’s his part actually,” Abby says. “But it was his bandmate Will who wrote it. And Callum is on the track too.”
“Right. So, there are four of them, and they play instruments too.”
“There were four. But yup. Gus and Will play guitar, Callum’s on piano.
And Jax, he had this whole saxophone bit at concerts but that was mostly for a laugh.
” I scroll through pictures of them while Abby talks.
I could tell her I’ve been stalking them for hours and now know pretty much all the headlines, but I humour her instead.
There’s no doubt they are all attractive.
Jax is the tall, dark and handsome sort.
Will has dark hair and light eyes with broad shoulders – he clearly spends a lot of time in the gym.
Callum is insanely pretty. But Gus, the curly-haired oaf, well, he’s got that boy-next-door vibe to him.
And hands down, he has the best smile of the group.
I remember the glint in his eye when he winked at me yesterday on the dock.
I chew on my thumb as a wash of heat brushes through me.
I should confront him about the spritz incident – maybe he’d apologise.
Because right now, the two versions of him don’t add up.
“Why are you so interested anyway?” Abby asks.
“Oh. You know – not every day you meet a popstar.”
“You met him?”
“I… I mean. No. Yes, but it’s a small cruise so…
I’ve seen him around. But I haven’t met him, met him.
” Why am I lying? I have met him. Why do I shield my sisters from so much?
It’s as if admitting I’ve met him would mean I have to tell her about the first night and me hanging over the ship, sobbing uncontrollably. And I don’t want her to worry.
“Uh huh,” she says, grinning. “He’s my favourite one, you know. I always thought he looked the most fun.”
“Really?” I say, trying to keep my face impassive. I remind myself that I don’t actually know this person. He’s nobody to me. I spoke to him for all of ten minutes. And now I’ll be doing my best to avoid him for the remainder of the cruise.
Abby prattles on and I listen, thinking about how this stranger has seen me at possibly my most vulnerable, but my own sister hasn’t.
Not because I’ve never felt vulnerable around her, but because I’ve never wanted the girls to see that side of me.
When Mum passed away, the grief was so life altering I’m sure it changed me physically.
But I couldn’t just focus on my own pain, I had three younger sisters to keep upright too.
It was easier to push those big feelings down when I was around them.
I wonder if, over the years, they’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t feel at all.
“Right, it’s almost time to disembark,” I say.
“What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Split.”
“Are you going on a tour?”
I scrunch my face. “I’m not sure yet. I went on one yesterday and it dragged on a bit. I might go wandering on my own and see the city properly, you know?”
“Sure, but just be safe,” she says.
“Abby, I’m always safe,” I say.
“Yes, that’s true,” she confirms too easily. I guess maybe too safe. Maybe being a little reckless wouldn’t do me any harm?
So, when we arrive in Split, I decide to be spontaneous and go it alone.
No tour, no schedule, just me and my comfy sandals, my favourite white summer dress and a small handbag for essentials.
I’m mindful that the cruise is departing earlier than yesterday, partly because our stopover in Dubrovnik tomorrow is considered a main attraction.
The cruise packs it in. There are no overnight stays in the cities since it stops at almost one a day.
It’s one of the reasons I picked this cruise – I loved the idea of spending every night in open water.
I explore an endless maze of narrow windy lanes, wandering past ancient churches and market stalls.
I stop off to pick up some souvenirs for the girls: beaded bracelets for all three and a small, bejewelled jewellery box for Abby.
Trinket like things that will take up hardly any space in my luggage.
The hours fly by too quickly. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been wandering when I stumble upon a charming café serving pastries and artisan cakes with fresh fruit and a shiny glaze on top. I pick one, pay, then take a seat out front along the wall, tucked beneath the awning.
I take my phone out to snap some photos but the screen is dark. Shit. I click on it a few times, then twist in my seat to hide it from the sun some more. When I still can’t make it brighter, I take my sunglasses off and squint.
Fuck.
I somehow have 5 per cent battery.
How?
Did my video call with Abby earlier totally drain my battery? I could have sworn it was fully charged. I try not to panic, but of course, I panic. A few notifications come in all at once, and in a rush to read one that’s come from the ship, the phone crashes out.
And then it’s dead.
No, no, no…
I stand up, looking around at the neighbouring businesses.
Would any of these quaint shops or stalls have phone chargers?
They must do, surely. But all I do is freak out.
I haven’t been mindful of the time. I was waiting for the one-hour reminder to return to the ship. Clearly, that came through ages ago!
Double fuck!
I launch out of my seat and back into the café.
“Excuse me? Sati? Molim vas.” It means, “Time? Please.” At least I bloody hope it does. I only learnt a handful of phrases before flying out and most were in Italian.
The man gives me a pitying smile as if he can tell I’m a very uncultured British woman – which, alas, I am. It is a deserved reaction.
Thankfully he replies in perfect English. “It’s a quarter to three.”
My eyes go round. “Did you say three?”
He nods before busying himself with something else.
Bugger.
RUN.
I bolt out of the café, my hat blowing off in the wind as I go. I grab it off the cobbled street and grasp it in the same hand clutching onto my bag and run as fast as my sandals will allow me – which is very inefficient and quite slow, in all honesty.
It doesn’t help that I also appear to be lost! And hot. It’s too hot to be running anywhere. The sun is relentless.
How have I managed to completely lose track of time?
I’m never so careless! This is my punishment for having too much fun.
No wonder my phone’s dead, the number of photos I’ve taken was enough to kill the battery alone.
How am I that tourist?! What an idiot. This is why smart, uptight Sara exists.
This is why I should have gone on a tour.
Now look at me!
They’ll wait for me, I tell myself, as I bolt down a dead-end alleyway and have to double back on myself. I practically throw myself at a passer-by.
“Excuse me?” I gasp. “Do you know the way to the port? Ships? Erm… You know, boats?” The tiny elderly woman gives me dagger eyes.
She says something that sounds like a swear word and waves me away with her hand.
Good.
“Have a great day!” I call after her.
Just perfect!
Surely, I can find the main square or at the very least an English-speaking tourist?! I can’t be so lost I can’t even find my way out of the city. That’s mental. Am I so used to having map apps at my disposal that I have become blind to direction?
Answer: yes.
I am screwed.
I ask three more people. One smiles and nods at me like he understands, and hope fills my blood like a drug. Turns out he is British but just as much of a tourist as me and doesn’t have service.
Just bloody wonderful!
Another woman refuses to help me. But the final person speaks English and sort of knows the way. His directions are unhelpfully detailed, but I take a shot at it, flying through the alleys and the long, cobbled steps, until finally there’s an opening which leads to the port. I break into a sprint.
The port is in sight!
The port where my ship is!
The very ship that is already sailing back out to sea.
Motherf—!