Page 138 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘I’m sorry, for dragging you into all this. For turning your life upside down.’

‘You didn’t turn my life upside down, you saved my life.’

As their eyes met, they shared a quiet feeling of gratitude and Flick seemed to finally relax. ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’ she asked, after a moment.

Maggie smiled. ‘Depends how you define crazy.’

Tangier. The gateway to Africa. It was like nowhere Maggie had ever been before. As soon as she stepped foot on the shore, into a bustling hive of activity, it felt a world away from Europe. Even the air, filled with fragrant spices and exotic perfumes, smelled faraway and exotic.

The old city was twenty minutes’ walk from the port. She’d waited to disembark until after the large queues of passengers going on excursions had dispersed. There was no sign of Him or Birdy, but there were so many people, it would have been easy to miss them in the crowds. Plus, it was so incredibly hot, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d decided to stay on board and enjoy the air conditioning. Perhaps Flick would see them when she did her tour of the ship.

Still, if she did, there would be no way of her knowing until she returned. She was still without a phone, which was a major inconvenience. And yet, rather unexpectedly, one that Maggie was finding completely liberating. She felt completely untethered from her life, but it was a life that no longer fit her. No longer did she feel the dread of an email waiting for her in her inbox, someone’s text appearing, a bad news alert or a social media post to remind her that her life was nothing like it apparently should be. The pressure to be constantly checking. The habit of constantly reaching for it, when she was nervous or bored or lonely. She was completely uncontactable.

And in a world where everyone wanted to be connected, Maggie had discovered that actually, what she wanted was to be disconnected.

After exiting the ship and having her key card scanned by a crew member, who gave her strict instructions on what time to be back on board, she headed into the old town. It was like stepping into a different world. Encircled by a medieval wall were twisting, hilly streets of cobbles that led eventually to the top of the Kasbah, with its incredible views across the water towards Europe.

With no phone to take a photo or look at a map, Maggie allowed herself and her mind to wander. Meandering through the backstreets, she thought about her future, wondering what was next. Soon she would be back in the UK, but where before she’d felt only dread and trepidation, now she felt a new sense of optimism.

She was fifty. Fifty! It was insane and ridiculous and unexpectedly liberating. How strange that she’d always viewed it as some big dead-end when in fact, it felt like a beginning. A much-needed reset. The past was gone and the future was now a blank page.

She’d decided she was going to take up George’s offer of his sofa bed until she found a job, saved up some money, and got back on her feet. In her more hopeful moments she even vowed she was going to start painting again. She’d loved having the gallery and exhibiting other artists’ work, but in many respects it had been a way for her to hide. When her brother had died, so had that creative part of her. How could she ever feel inspired, when Charlie’s life had been so cruelly snuffed out?

And for years she thought it was gone for ever. That desire to create, to breathe life into something. But being on this trip, seeing art again and not just through her own eyes, but through Flick’s, had reignited something inside of her. Was it creativity? A passion?

Or was it courage?

The courage to look deep inside herself and realize that part of her had never gone. That little girl who refused the colouring-in books and was forever sketching outside of the lines; the teenager who saved all their money to buy canvases and oils and holed themselves up in their bedroom, her parents’ old Roxy Music records on an ancient record player, volume turned up high, trying to make sense of her confused, hormonal world with streaks of vermillion and burnt sienna and cerulean blue.

She was still here.

Her mind flicked back to that night on the Amalfi Coast, when she’d told a complete stranger that she had come to Europe to study art history. Sander, the handsome Dutchman. Maggie remembered how he’d assumed she was on a sabbatical and taken a photo of her that he’d never sent. Not that it mattered. She smiled fondly at the memory. It seemed so long ago now, even though it was only a week or so ago, but so much had happened since.

Because he was right. She had been on a sabbatical, but it wasn’t from work, it was from herself. And it had just taken something extraordinary to find that part of herself again and bring her back to the world. Maybe you have to lose everything to find the stuff that’s important. It’s like being in the dark, you always look for that chink of light. And that something extraordinary and that chink of light was meeting Flick, and this trip, and their friendship. And realizing she was braver and stronger than she ever thought.

After stopping for a refreshment at one of the local cafes, she ventured further into the ancient medina. Steeped in history, its narrow alleyways were filled with shops and stalls stuffed with an array of goods: kaftans, pottery, traditional leather slippers in an array of vivid colours, bejewelled lamps and perfumed oils. Plunged into the bustling souks, it was easy to get lost without a guide. Tradesmen inviting you to drink mint tea, shopkeepers and street-hawkers wanting you to look at their wares.

Everywhere she looked was a feast for her senses. She passed jewellers and watchmakers, leather craftsmen and basket-weavers. Stalls selling pyramids of brightly coloured spices, reminding her of pigment from paints. It was dizzying. At every corner, she weaved herself further and further into the labyrinthian maze.

Until quite unexpectedly, there he was ahead of her.

He was standing at a stall, haggling over something. He looked hot. Annoyed. The tradesman was holding up a leather bag. They were both shaking their heads. Then, feeling eyes upon him, he turned and saw her.

And suddenly there they both were. In the middle of a souk, in Morocco. Thousands of miles away from her flat where she’d last been together with him.

‘Theo.’

Afterwards she was sure she had said his name out loud, but in reality it got caught in her throat and barely came out as a whisper.

A few seconds. The time it takes for the second hand on a watch to move a few clicks around the dial. Then, before she knew what was happening, he ducked around the corner and vanished out of sight.

WTF?

And now her surprise had turned into anger and disbelief. That was it? After all that had happened, he was running away? And for a second time. What a pathetic excuse for a man. And now she was trying to follow him, but it was a maze, a labyrinth. Hagglers and tradesmen waved their wares in front of her, a shopkeeper beckoned her inside – no, please, I need to find someone.

She couldn’t have lost him. Not again. Not again.

And then she saw a familiar figure.