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‘Hmm… that’s true. I know you’re only trying to help but I don’t think I should be making life-changing decisions right now,’ I said miserably. ‘It’s too much.’
‘It is too much, yes. But life-changing decisions happen all the time. You either decide things for yourself or the universe conspires to make things happen. George made a decision that changed your life forever and now it’s your turn. Sometimes, life unexpectedly shakes you to the core and other times, it sends you a gift.’
‘You think this is a gift?’ I asked.
‘Mais oui,’ Margot replied.
My natural instinct was to say no again, switch off my phone and snuggle back under the duvet. It was a comforting thought, but I could see it wasn’t sustainable long-term. Besides, maybe this was a way to show George I had just as much ambition for my life as he did. That I could do travel and adventure and drinking and partying like he wanted. And maybe… that would change his mind? Would it change his mind? Please God, let it change his mind. Eight years couldn’t be over just like that, could it? What other choices did I have? Go back to the bistro? No. Get another job? God, no. Stay in bed? Mmm, yes. Or try something new and go. I had no home, no money, and no George. I had to say yes. It was time for home bird Holly to fly.
Nine
Three weeks later. 2nd December
I dragged my suitcase through St Pancras station on the hunt for the Eurostar terminal. My winter clothes were all packed away in storage, so I’d made the best of a bad situation, using my honeymoon suitcase and pre-wedding outfits. It was either that or ask George for the code to the unit and I didn’t want him to know I was going until I was gone. All my lovely jumpers, leggings, jumpsuits and waterproofs, everything that would have been useful for a ski resort in fact, was under lock and key somewhere, hidden in a London warehouse. Mum had bought me a couple of hats and Auntie Pam had lent me her salopettes, which were so old, they were almost back in fashion. My shoe situation was particularly dire, with only my trainers, spiky boots, flip flops and wedding shoes to get me through. I’d saved for six months to buy the gold sparkle Louboutins and there was no way I was leaving them in a shoebox to rot.
I wandered through the station as someone played a jaunty ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ on one of the free pianos. It was 2nd December, so the world had gone into full Christmas-frenzy. A bright-blue Christmas tree made from Tiffany boxes stood in the centre of the walkthrough and a never-ending stream of different-coloured bubbles filled the air, from the top floor of Hamleys. The train didn’t go until 9.45 p.m. but Dad had always taught me to arrive three hours early for every trip, no matter where I was going, and that sense of travel panic was entirely ingrained. I had no choice but to turn up at 6.45 p.m. in case of some imaginary emergency. I stood idly by for a little while, watching as another random commuter took a turn on the piano. The station had been decorated to resemble an enormous Christmas cracker, with streamers running the entire length of the concourse and oversized tat making up a bizarre installation. I was stood next to a plastic comb three times the size of the shoppers, as people rushed past on all sides, and snapped it for my Insta with the captionTime for a snowy adventure #SoloTravel #SingleBelles #BestLifeto prove to George I wasn’t moping around at home. My suitcase was too big to lug around the shops, so I bought a hot chocolate and meandered over to the check-in area to make sure I wasn’t delayed. Three hours I could just about cope with; any more than that and I’d have to distract myself with food to pass the time.
I scanned the departures board and saw a muddle of different places listed. Lille, Avignon, Papignon… where was I going again? Paris, then on to Geneva. Yes, Paris, Gare du Nord – where was that then? Not on the board, as far as I could see. I knew I needed to change somewhere, but where? I scrabbled about in my handbag to find my ticket. Tissues, hand gel, lipstick, purse, where was my bloody ticket? I was about to faint with stress when I found it folded in the zipped pocket of my bag and pulled it out to check. First stop was Paris. Yes, I thought so. Right. Lovely. So why wasn’t there a 9.45 p.m. train to Paris on the board? I went through the trains again, one by one, but my train wasn’t there. There was one at 9.25 p.m., then one at 10.05 p.m. Oh bloody hell, was I looking at the Arrivals board? No, definitely Departures. Well, where the fucking-fuck was the train then? I spied a tall, blonde lady in station uniform and made a beeline for her.
‘Hi, sorry, can you help me with something? I mean, er…bonjour, je m’appelle…’
‘We’re still English this side, my love. Have you got a ticket?’ she said, smiling.
I handed over my ticket in a fluster, then added my passport for good measure.
‘I’m meant to be on the 9.45 p.m. to Paris but I can’t see it anywhere on the board?’
‘That’s because you’re on the 19.45,’ she said, inspecting my ticket closely and giving it a rub, ‘you’ve got a little mark over the numbers so I can see how you’ve missed it.’
I felt sick. ‘Have I missed it?’
She laughed. ‘No sorry, I didn’t mean you’d missed the train, just that I can see how you might have missed the right time.’
‘Ah thank God, so I haven’t missed it? It’s twenty past seven now?’
‘Is it? Oh, I see. Well in that case, yes, you might have missed it.’
‘Nooooo!’ My heart dropped. Dad would be furious. ‘Have I?’
We both looked up at the board where there was a flashing red ‘Final Boarding’ sign next to the 19.45 departure. The security queue snaked all the way back to the entrance, so there was no chance I’d make it if I joined the back.
‘Come with me, duck, and we’ll see what we can do,’ the lady said, ambling to the front of the Fast Track queue. ‘We’ve got another one ’ere lads. Meant to be on the quarter to eight, ain’t she?’ she said, handing them my passport and ticket with a peal of laughter.
‘Right, through you come, then. Suitcase up on here for checking, please,’ the security guard said. ‘Don’t worry, plenty of time.’
I could see my dad shaking his head in despair. Absolute rookie error. It was 7.33 p.m. as they checked and stamped my passport and vaguely pointed me towards the ramp for Platform 5. They say if you have a body, then you’re an athlete. Not true. I ran as fast as my pale skittle legs would carry me, up the travelator, dragging my ginormous suitcase behind me and by the time I reached the top, I thought I was going to keel over and die. Doors were opening and slamming all over the place and whistles were being loudly blown at both ends of the train. I was meant to be in Coach K but of course the coach in front of me was Coach A. I didn’t have time to run down the platform, so I opened the nearest door, leapt onto the train, pulled my suitcase up behind me and collapsed into the only empty seat in an over-packed carriage. I’d made it. That was the most important thing. I was on the train and against all odds, I was on my way.
I felt three sets of eyes on me as I settled into my chair. I was in a four-seater with a table, surrounded by virtually identical teenagers. Twin girls and a boy, with white-blond hair, golden tans and matching ice-blue hoodies. The ski equivalent ofLove Island.
‘Good afternoon, madam, can I get you a drink?’ An angel tinkled a wobbly drinks trolley towards me full of booze and handed me a paper napkin and a packet of peanuts. The combination of her smiling face, the free nuts and all the teeny, tiny bottles of gin was like Christmas come early. I could see why people loved the Eurostar.
‘Amazing, yes please. Thank you so much – have you got any Tanqueray and cucumber?’ I asked hopefully. The world had gone mad for gin – even the local Wetherspoons had twelve different types these days.
The waitress splashed my gin with a Mediterranean Fever-Tree and passed it across. Let the ski-season begin! I took a huge slurp as she moved on to the Brady Bunch.
‘I’ll have a red wine please,’ the boy said. Very posh. I was drinking cider out of a shoe at his age.
‘Can I check your passport for proof of age, please?’ she said, then turned to me. ‘I presume you’re happy for them to drink alcohol?’ As if they weremy children.
