Destination India (26 page)

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Destination India?
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Destination Thailand

Wanderlust (n.) A strong desire or urge to wander or travel and explore the world

It was my wedding day. A day I’d been fantasising about since I was a little girl, a day I had spent the last twelve months planning and organising. It was going to be a rustic English country wedding, complete with homemade bunting strung from the beams of an outrageously expensive manor house and a billowing marquee set up in the perfectly manicured grounds. The harpist would pluck a simple but charming set as we glided into the grand reception room with our nearest and dearest cheering and clapping our arrival as Mr and Mrs Doherty. That was the part I was cacking myself about the most; all those people staring at me, expecting a radiant blushing bride, when really I was terrified I would go arse over tit on my train. Being the centre of attention made my stomach churn and my sweat glands go into overdrive, but I’d limited the numbers as much as I could and
technically
I was only half of the centre of attention.

I should be in my creamy, laced, fishtail gown by now. As I glanced at my watch, I realised the hand-tied bouquets of soft powder blue forget-me-nots, complemented by the sweet scent of freesias, should have been delivered ten minutes ago. I should be preparing to sink into the plush
chair at the pricy hairdresser’s as they transformed my limp locks into a work of art.

Except that I was sat on an uncomfortable plastic sun lounger trying to hide the big fat tears falling down my slightly sunburnt face, as my best friend Marie passed me yet another dodgy watered-down sex on the beach punch from the all-inclusive pool bar.

In one hour’s time I would have married my fiancé, Alex, but this had all changed fifteen days earlier when I was half-watching a re-run of
Don’t Tell the Bride
whilst triple-checking the seating plan matched up to the 3D replica Alex’s sister-in-law Francesca had loaned me. She was the one who’d been to school with Kate Middleton, and managed to bring it up into
every
conversation I’d ever had with her. Waiting for him to arrive home after yet
another
late shift at work, I had become so engrossed in this episode in which the henpecked husband-to-be had got it oh-so-wrong by choosing a size eight dress for his blatantly curvy size sixteen bride, that I hadn’t realised Alex was standing in the doorframe chewing his fingernails and loosening his tie.

‘We need to talk.’ His voice sounded strangled and distant. His tie had an ink stain that no doubt I’d get chastised by his mother for not being able to scrub off. She’d pursed her lips many a time at my lack of domestic goddesstry. Alex had rebelled against it at the beginning, being the last single man in a family of smug married older brothers. I had been the breath of fresh air next to his Martha Stewart sisters-in-law. Five years later that sweet scent had soured into country air.

We’d met at a dodgy Indie nightclub in Manchester, having been dragged there by our respective best friends one wet Saturday night. Bonding over cheap lager in plastic pint pots, chatting like long-lost friends to the
strains of the Smiths and the Kaiser Chiefs, as our two ‘besties’ got off with each other. After sharing a deep appreciation of cholesterol-clogging cheesy chips in the taxi ride back home, and a mutual love for garlic mayo, I knew this was something special.

The years passed, the clubbing stopped as focusing on climbing the career ladder became a priority. After years of renting mould-filled hovels with dodgy landlords, we had saved up enough to buy our own home. Alex had proudly turned down his parents’ offer of financial support, so we couldn’t live in Millionaires’ Row rubbing shoulders with WAGs like the rest of his family, but he’d revelled in our bohemian charm even if it meant our neighbours were often more likely to be guests on
Jeremy Kyle.
I’d loved how steadfast he was to his morals, even if at times we could have done with a helping hand.

So it was inevitable when one wet June night Alex asked me to marry him. OK, so it wasn’t the engagement of my dreams. He hadn’t even got down on one knee, just passed the ring box over as we shared an Indian takeaway, both of us on our iPhones half-watching
Coronation Street.
He did leave me the last poppadum, so that was something, I guess. Of course that wasn’t the engagement story we told people. No, in that one he’d whisked me away unexpectedly, showered me with unconditional adorations of love and asked a nearby elderly couple to take our photo; me blubbing and him bursting with pride, shame that they couldn’t use the camera properly, meaning we had no evidence of this. But real life isn’t like a Disney film, is it?

However, with both a mortgage to pay and a wedding to save for we’d gone out less and less. So yeah, maybe life had got a little stale; routine ruled our world and
I could recite the TV guide off by heart, but we were building a future together, that’s what we both wanted, wasn’t it?

Looking up at his tired face in the doorway, I didn’t recognise the man that had bounded into the basement club years earlier asking me to dance. Then looking down at myself in stained oversized pyjamas, I didn’t recognise the fresh-faced girl who’d said yes.

‘It’s not working … I, I, can’t marry you,’ he stuttered, his thin fingers nervously twitching down his stained tie.

He’d met someone else, a girl from his work who he’d started to develop
‘feelings’
for. He didn’t want it to be like this but he had changed, we had changed. He didn’t need to spell it out but his mother was right, I just wasn’t marriage material. As with the voluptuous bride on the TV in the too-tiny dress, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. He packed his bag that night and left, as I sobbed, drank an old bottle of peach schnapps, spilling half onto Francesca’s seating plan, and curled up in a ball not believing my world was falling down around me.

‘Come on, let it all out.’ Marie rubbed my sun-heated back as tears plopped into my now warm glass. She had decided that we had to get away for what would have been the big day, so hastily booked us a week’s last-minute holiday to the Aegean coast, dubbed the St Tropez of Turkey. This accolade had obviously come from someone who had never visited Southern France, as the once-sleepy Turkish fishing village was now a prime party spot full of neon-lit bars, kebab shops and tattoo parlours. Not that we had hit the town – the past few nights had been spent playing cards on the balcony, downing a bottle or two of cheap white wine, Marie slagging Alex off, as I fluctuated between brutal put-downs and scared sob-fests that I wasn’t strong enough to be alone.

‘Thank you. It’s just … Well, that’s it … done.’ I wiped sweaty strands of hair from my blotchy face, fixing my red-rimmed eyes on Marie’s. She winced, not just at my appearance but because her idea of guaranteed sun, hot men and an all-inclusive bar being the perfect solution to my pain wasn’t exactly going to plan.

She paused for a moment rearranging her small bum on the hard seat. ‘Think about it, Georgia, you’re exactly right.’ She paused. ‘It is all in the past and now it’s time to look to your future. And as we’re both single ladies, the best way to get through today is to show Alex a big fat two fingers and have a wicked time together. So I’m taking charge and I rule we’re going to the beach.’ Marie jumped up, stuffed our things into an oversized Primark beach bag and put her extremely large floppy sun hat on.

‘I guess,’ I pathetically murmured, gulping the dregs of my drink.

‘Come on! You can do this, I know you can. Let’s work on our tans and then tonight we’ll find a really cool place to go and have fun, just the two of us, like the old days.’

I nodded and scraped my chlorine-soaked hair up into a messy top knot and jogged to catch up with her, my cheap flip-flops loudly slapping against the wet tiles. Strolling down the small rocky path connecting the hotel to the busy beach, our eyes took in row upon row of full sun loungers.

‘Bugger, it’s a bit crowded isn’t it?’ Marie chewed her lips, clasping a hand over her eyes to see further, even though they were covered in oversized Jackie O sunglasses.

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ I sighed, my resolve slipping as I thought longingly of an afternoon snooze back in our room between crisp white sheets. The sound of laughter, cars tooting and music wafting out from the competing beach bars was making my head spin.
Why
couldn’t Marie just let me sleep today and wake me up once the church, the cake cutting and even the first dance had passed?

‘Come on, hun. Let’s wander along a bit, I’m sure I overheard there’s a little cove not too far away,’ Marie said chirpily, acting like a Girl Guide off on an adventure, which belied the fact she had been expelled from Brownies for giving Tawny Owl food poisoning trying to get her cook badge.

Snaking down the sandy beach, past thick fragrant bushes, and successfully navigating rocky steps we eventually arrived at a pristine horseshoe bay, which had just a smattering of sun loungers. I felt my bunched-up shoulders relax a little. We had found a small oasis of calm from the chaos of the Turkish town. With the quiet and unspoilt topaz blue bay glistening ahead of us I let my toes spread out on the sand, inhaling the balmy air which carried familiar smells of coconut sun cream and greasy chips.

We settled on two loungers and stripped off to reveal reddening skin. If she wasn’t my best friend, I could really hate Marie. Her toned figure hid the fact that she had a son, Cole, who was the unexpected result of a jaeger-bombed night of passion with Mike, a guy whom she’d met down at her local. With long, fiery-red hair that she only admitted to ‘touching up’, plus the dirtiest mind and most caring personality, she commanded the attention of any room she entered. I wished I were more like her; secretly I had always hoped that by hanging out together some of Marie’s sparkle would rub off on me.

‘Hello there, ladies. I’m Ali. Just the two beds is it?’ A local man in his early thirties with a smiling tanned face bounded over. He was topless, wearing just a necklace holding an animal tooth which pointed to his six pack, and
his sculpted chest was adorned with faded tattoo script which crept down into the waistband of his battered denim cut-offs.

‘Yes please.’ Marie smiled up at him.

‘It’s suddenly got very hot around here.’ He winked, taking our money.

Marie’s eyes followed his admittedly nice arse back to his beach cabin before turning to me grinning. ‘Phwoarsome or what?’

I made a noise between a huff and a sigh. Members of the opposite sex were so far off my radar right now I needed to wear binoculars just to see them.

‘Oh come on, Georgia. You can’t pretend that a bit of eye candy doesn’t stir something deep in those closed-off loins of yours?’ Marie laughed as I rolled my eyes. ‘You know what, I’m suddenly really thirsty, want a beer?’

‘Strange that the bar is right next to his hut.’

‘Maybe.’ Marie ignored my raised eyebrow and delved into her bag bringing out a pen and unscrunching a flyer that we’d been handed for a ladies-drink-free night. ‘Anyway, while I’m gone I have a plan for you. I think it’s time to make a list. I know how much you love them, plus my mum’s always said, “if in doubt, write it out.”‘ She paused with the pen lid pressed to her lips. ‘I want you to make a list of everything you want to do and see in your life. Kind of like a bucket list, but with no terminal cancer spurring you on.’ She passed me the pen, moist at the top, and the flyer, blank side up.