Katy Colins - Destination India

Mike stood up to give Marie a peck on the cheek and a small glass of wine, which she almost necked in one.

‘You … you’re going to Bollywood?’ Marie faced me.

‘Pretty cool, huh?’ Mike chipped in.

Marie turned to him. ‘So you knew about this?’

‘Only just heard before you got here, babe,’ Mike said, putting his hands up defensively and making a speedy exit back to the bar, mumbling something about buying a bag of pork scratchings.

‘Right, great, well I hope you have a fantastic time,’ Marie said through gritted teeth. Shelley must have picked up on the tension between us and hurried off to the fruit machines.

‘I’m sorry for not calling you before now. I’ve been meaning to call you for ages,’ I said quietly.

‘Mmmm.’ Marie gulped her drink and avoided eye contact. ‘Well my number’s not changed.’

An old man hacking up a load of phlegm and the repetitive tinny music from the fruit machines were the only sounds breaking this awkward silence that had settled around us.

‘So, Bollywood, huh?’

‘Marie, it’s not like that.’

‘Oh really?’ She whipped her flaming red hair towards me, put a hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes. ‘Tell me, Georgia, what is it like?’

‘Well, you’d actually laugh about it,’ I said, rolling my eyes at how the trip to India had even come about.

‘You think this is funny?’ I stopped smiling and looked to the floor. ‘You want to know something funny?’ By the look of her pinched mouth I wasn’t sure that I did. ‘I encourage my best friend to go off backpacking after being a jilted bride; I was there fully supporting her, helping her to get over the really shitty thing that had happened to her. And what do I get in return?’

‘Wait I –’

‘No you wait. If I don’t say this now when will I get the chance again?’ I nodded and swallowed the lump in my throat that had suddenly risen.

‘I understand that you’re busy with work but I never hear from you; you never return my calls or answer my texts. Then I randomly walk in here for a drink with my boyfriend and see you and your cool backpacking friend sitting here laughing. Only to find out that you and her are jetting off to India tomorrow, to a place I’ve always wanted to go. I mean, fucking Bollywood! Did it not occur to you that maybe, just maybe, your actress friend would want to experience that with you? Or are you too busy being backpacker businesswoman Georgia to notice?’ Her eyes filled with tears but she blinked them back.

‘Marie, I’m sorry. I understand that it might look like this from your perspective, but trust me, it’s nothing like that.’ I placed my hand on my chest feeling like I wanted to cry too.

‘Is this because I’ve got a kid? Or because I’m just working as a mobile hairdresser? Not cultured enough or fancy enough for you now?’

‘No!! Of course it’s nothing to do with that. I’m sorry for being a crap friend; I’ve just had a lot going on but as soon as I get back I’ll make this up to you, I promise.’

She continued to glare at me. ‘It might be too late then.’ With that she turned on her heel and got lost in the pub.

I should have raced after her, apologising to her for being a shitty friend recently, but the truth was I was tired. Tired of messing things up, tired of having people tell me they were worried about me, tired of letting people down and feeling their disappointment.

I was tired of it all.

Drawn (adj.) Tense; fatigued

We’d overslept. I must have cancelled the three alarms I’d set on my phone as the sound of the pre-booked taxi impatiently beeping its horn woke me with a start.

‘Shit! Shell, get up; we are really fucking late!’ I jumped from my bed and flung on some clothes before hopping into my shoes.

‘What?! Ah man,’ Shelley cried, tumbling from the sofa to her unsteady feet.

After the bust-up with Marie we’d stayed in the pub until closing time, nursing a bottle of wine as I’d resolved that this trip would be the solution to all my problems. I’d be like Trisha and come back a changed woman. That plan had seemed possible at eleven o’clock last night but wasn’t going quite so well this morning.

My small flat turned into a hive of activity as I raced from room to room chucking last-minute bits and bobs into my bag. I triple checked I’d turned off the heating, locked the windows and hadn’t left the oven on. Not that I could even remember the last time I’d used it but you never could be too careful.

‘We have to go; this taxi fella’s not happy,’ Shelley called from the front door as I did a final scan that I’d unplugged everything. ‘Georgia, come on!’

‘Coming!’ I called back, lugging my backpack onto my back. I had to admit that it did feel nice having it back on.

In the taxi to the airport, driven by the world’s most pissed-off driver, my empty stomach fizzed with anticipation and excitement. Working in tourism I thought I’d always be jetting away to exotic places but I had just been too busy to take any time off. Even though the circumstances weren’t ideal for this trip, at least I got to add another stamp to my passport.

We paid the driver and raced through the packed departures hall, scanning the large boards for our flight. We were so behind schedule it wasn’t even funny.

‘There!’ I pointed. ‘New Delhi – desk twenty-nine to forty-one. Shit, it says the desks are closing in like five minutes! Hurry!’ I raced off as fast as I could with a lumpy, heavy backpack on, leaving a tufted-haired yawning Shelley staggering after me.

‘Good morning. Can I have your passports and tickets please,’ the overly made-up woman at check-in asked. We looked like bedraggled rats compared to her. ‘You’re leaving it a little late, ladies.’ She pursed her glossy, plump lips.

‘Here and here.’ I wheezed and smiled apologetically before passing over my documents as Shelley rustled in her bag for hers.

‘OK, my ticket is here –’ Shelley slapped the piece of A4 paper on the desk ‘– and my passport is …’ Her thin hand rummaged around her slouchy hobo bag. ‘Wait, it’s in here somewhere …’

‘Shelley?’ Watching her arm frantically searching amongst the folds of multi-coloured cotton I felt my stomach clench.

‘It’s in here somewhere. God these bloody bags. Jimmy is always calling me Mary Poppins for the amount of crap that gets swallowed up in here.’ She smiled tightly and continued to force her hand deep into the inside pockets.

The check-in lady raised a thick, painted-on eyebrow at us – they were painfully on fleek – before peering at Shelley’s ticket. ‘Everything OK, Miss Robinson?’

‘Fine,’ Shelley said more breezily than she looked.

‘Shell? You packed it, right?’ A taste of bile caught at the back of my throat watching her grow more panicked with every second that passed without finding it.

‘Miss Robinson, I’m afraid if you do not have your passport you will be unable to travel today,’ the check-in lady unhelpfully reminded us before glancing at a silver watch on her tanned wrist.

‘I understand that.’ Shelley flashed a tight, fake smile at the woman whilst looking as if she was desperately trying to restrain herself from lurching across the desk and punching her.

‘We overslept,’ I said, wanting to fill this tense wait. She nodded and looked us up and down as if that explained everything.

A few moments later Shelley glanced up. The colour had completely faded from her face. ‘It’s … it’s … not here.’

My stomach lurched. ‘No!’ I gasped. I stared at her, desperate for her to break into a huge grin and pull it out of her bag, waving it around saying: ‘Ha gotcha!’ But instead Shelley looked like she was about to cry or pass out or both.