Around the World in 80 Dates
A chronically single girl’s six months to find ‘the one’
The Midway Check-In
It’s been a long old road, but here we are, almost three months into my journey with three more to go. I’ve been through highs and lows, princesses and a fair few frogs, and I’ve still got a plethora of places to explore.
The longer I go about this, the more I learn about the standards I’ve accepted in the past and the ones I never will again. I also think I’ve perfected my kissing technique tenfold, but I’ll need someone from the last three months to weigh in on that.
I read over it and sigh. It’s unbearably bad. Dry, boring, lacking in character and void of humour. It feels forced, like a caricature of myself that isn’t even bold enough to be a caricature. That’s what I get for trying to write a midway check-in after churning out eight articles within two days. But what else have I had to do? I’m all alone, for the first time since that train in Brussels.
Not for much longer, though. Two days of solitary living were enough to teach me that I am not in the right headspace for this. So, a call was made and a cavalry was summoned. A cavalry I hear from the moment they enter the hotel lobby.
I stash my laptop in my bag and leap from my seat, barrelling towards them with outstretched arms. Paige almost flies back into the wall as I reach her and throw myself into a hug, but she doesn’t let it deter her from squeezing me back. Sara, on the other hand, pays me no mind. She’s too busy checking that the room’s equipped with everything she emailed about. Once satisfied, she takes the key card and turns to look me over.
‘Have you eaten today?’ she asks.
I nod, thinking back to the share bag of chocolate-covered pretzels I demolished.
‘Was it substantial?’
I shake my head.
She prattles on and on about nutrition as we make our way towards our room. Within an hour, she’s been out and back to source us healthier snacks and fairly loaded focaccia sandwiches, and Paige has unpacked her braiding hair and made a start on my scalp. I sit cross-legged at her feet, munching on layers of mozzarella, sundried tomatoes and spinach, and feel one long, deep exhale leave my body. I’ve missed this. I’ve missedthem, as annoying as they are. I start to curl up like a satisfied cat in the sun, but a rough slap on my shoulder sets my spine straight again.
‘Sit still!’ Paige says.
I squeal. ‘I’m trying!’
‘Not hard enough. Do you want these to look cute or not?’ she asks, ever so slightly muffled as she holds a piece of hair in her mouth.
She tugs hard at a section of hair for emphasis before concentrating back on the braid. I huff a deep breath through my nose and cross my arms in small protest, before making sure I sit as still as humanly possible.
‘I cannotbelieveyou ended up on a date with a racist,’ Sara tuts, shaking her head.
Ever since she got in from her sandwich run, she’s been curled up in an armchair catching up on my articles. Braiding position aside, I’ve been trying not to look her way out of fear of the expression I may happen to catch. But this time she’s unavoidable. She cranes her neck round to the side to look me up and down in disappointment.
‘Well, I obviously didn’t know he was racist when I agreed to the date,’ I say. ‘I don’t typically expect people who date me, a Black woman, to have such overt racism within them.’
‘Nah, you can never be too careful,’ Paige says. ‘The streets are full of weirdos with an agenda who seem to get a kick out of hating the women they’re with. Just because someone dates you, doesn’t mean they even like you nowadays.’
‘God, is it really that rough?’ Sara asks.
She leans forward with the kind of intrigue you see members of the general public get as they stare too hard at road accidents or taped-off crime scenes.
‘Considerably so. So, as a betrothed woman, you’re going to have to sit this one out,’ Paige says. ‘How did Noah react when he found out?’
The name catches me off guard, pulling a small, discreet flinch out of me. I recover briskly, praying that neither of them caught it.
‘He threatened to go back there and beat him up.’
Paige drops my hair to clap her hands together in a raucous round of applause. ‘That’s my boy.’
‘You barely know him,’ I say.
‘But Ifeellike I do through all of your stories. You literally never shut up about him,’ she says. ‘I’m gutted he’s not here this week. Where’s he at?’
I feel my stomach turn in on itself, and muster all the energy I have to remain composed.
