Katy Colins - Destination India

‘I’m so sorry. That took longer than I thought …’ I faded out once I took in my mum’s pissed-off, tight face and my dad’s disappointed, creased forehead. Their dinner plates were empty whilst my spaghetti carbonara had congealed into a disgusting buttercup-yellow sticky mound.

‘We couldn’t wait any longer.’ My mum pursed her lips.

‘Oh, right – course. Sorry,’ I mumbled, trying to get my fork into the dried-out sauce, after scraping a layer of skin off the top. I couldn’t stomach it so pushed the plate away. ‘So, tell me what else you got for your birthday,’ I said to my dad who was struggling to make eye contact with me.

‘Well, the lads down the local clubbed together and bought me a new –’

The sound of my ringtone cut him off. ‘Sorry.’ I winced. ‘I won’t be long.’ I picked up my mobile and headed back outside once more.

‘Georgia!’ Dan said cheerfully on the other end. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal!’

‘Wow, erm, great.’ Was it strange that a slight nugget of worry was dancing in my stomach? No, this was too good to let pass, especially not to those Totally Awesome Adventours bastards.

‘The only thing is I’ll need your copy in, like, the next hour or so. That going to be a problem?’

I shook my head. ‘Nope. I’ll get onto it right away.’

I hung up and was just about to go back inside, working out how quickly I could get away and back to my office, when the main door of the restaurant opened and out came my parents, wrapped up in their winter coats.

‘Mum, Dad? Where are you going?’ I called out and jogged over to them. ‘We’ve not had dessert yet,’ I said, rubbing my arms for warmth.

‘Georgia. We’re going home. We came here to see you, not to sit staring at an empty third chair and being gassed by strange men’s farts,’ my mum snapped. ‘Have you forgotten it’s your dad’s birthday? That all he wanted was to see you and spend some family time together?’

Even though I did need to be making a move myself I didn’t want tonight to end like this. My stomach dropped and my cheeks grew flushed. ‘I told you I was sorry; I’m just caught up in the middle of something that I needed to get sorted. But it’s done now. I’ve managed to get us into Itchy Feet ; you know that magazine I mentioned a few weeks ago?’

My dad cleared his throat before giving me a weak smile. ‘That’s nice, love. Sorry to be a party pooper but I’m just feeling a little tired – you know how it is getting older and all that. Another time?’

I nodded and bit my lip. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Georgia, it’s late. Let’s just call it a night. You can get back to your work and we’ll see you soon,’ my mum said, fastening up her coat before giving me a peck on the cheek.

‘Well call me soon! Oh and happy birthday, Dad,’ I called out behind them.

I was about to head back inside the restaurant to grab my jacket and pay the bill when I heard my mum talking to my dad in a not very hushed whisper. ‘Also, have you seen how tired she looks? I swear owning this business is getting too much for her.’

‘I think she just needs a good sleep and a little TLC, Sheila,’ my dad replied.

‘Hmm, I hope you’re right. It’s not normal how hard she is pushing herself, trying to prove something that doesn’t need to be proved. I’m worried about her – that’s all, Len.’

‘I know you are, we both are but she’ll be OK. She’ll figure it out. She’s a Green after all.’

I trudged into the restaurant. Did everyone think I was a complete failure? I was doing fine. More than fine.

Workaholic (n.) A person who works compulsively at the expense of other pursuits

‘I heard that you help people like me? I just came in on a whim really as I don’t know if anyone can really help me.’ The woman sat opposite me spoke in a whisper of barely audible breath that seemed to come in bursts from her rattling chest.

She was slowly shredding a Kleenex apart between her long thin fingers, not realising what she was doing as she spoke. She was getting ripped bits of tissue everywhere, all over the floor and her knee-length, plum-coloured cord skirt. I noticed her fingernails were impeccably painted, a deep red that shone against her pale trembling hands. I remembered doing that when I was in her position, thinking that if my nails were perfect then everything else in my jumbled-up life would follow suit, that somehow a lick of nail lacquer would make it all OK. It was only when the tiny flecks started to chip away that you were brought back to reality.

I looked down at my own hands as she sipped her cup of tea. My fingernails were bare, my cuticles ravaged and the thinnest line of white kept trying to break through before I bit it off again, not through sadness this time but through stress. Going for a manicure was on my to-do list, one of many I had on the go. Go to the gym, join a gym, learn how to use the smoothie maker my mum bought me at Christmas, be home enough to have time to use the smoothie maker, make a date with my best friend, call my parents more; all these things including go and get a manicure had been long forgotten. Tomorrow, I always seemed to tell myself. Tomorrow.

‘So he packed everything whilst I was away at a work team-building weekend and just left. I came back to find our flat half empty and a note explaining what he’d done,’ Nice-Nails Lady whispered.

I winced. ‘God, I’m sorry.’

I tilted my head and passed her a fresh tissue, whilst at the same time trying to keep an eye on Kelli who was chatting to an equally unsure-looking man in the corner of the shop.

I hadn’t realised how much of my time would be spent acting as a counsellor to customers. Fresh from messy break-ups they would wobble in here looking for a calming place to talk to people who understood that love doesn’t always go to plan. My experience of being a jilted bride had kick-started the idea of the business as I had been in the exact same position as they were now – feeling unsure, scared, but desperate to make changes to my life – when I first donned a backpack and went off to travel. These customers today were still coming to terms with what had happened in their lives but I knew that booking into one of our travel tours would soon cure them of pining for their exes.

‘He had been having an affair with our neighbour.’ Nice-Nails Lady sniffed loudly, grabbing another tissue to wipe her chapped nose. My heart ached for her. I knew this pain. And not to seem too heartless I also knew it did get better. I wanted to shake her thin shoulders, to rattle the plastic beads across her neck and sing out loud that it would get easier, that he had probably done her a favour, that she would look back at this in a few years’ time shaking her head at how upset she’d been over something that now seemed so insignificant. For me, going travelling – having that time and space away from everything I knew back home – fixed so many of my problems, gave me the confidence to believe in myself once more and inspired me to create this business. Plus, I met Ben and reignited the hope and desire to love again. If only I could move us past this flirtationship stage we had found ourselves in, where we were surely out of the friend zone but nowhere near to being in a proper relationship.

‘This was all six months ago and since then I’ve just been in some awful nightmare, hoping I’ll feel happy and like my old self again. I visited Spain on a foreign exchange programme when I was younger and I just remember having such a carefree, happy time. That girl, that version of me feels like she has died but I’m desperate to get her back, which is why I’m here today.’ She blew her nose and gave me a sad smile, before telling me about her hazy student days in a small Spanish village teaching English to adorable children, drinking cold sangria outside on heady evenings, longing for the neighbour of the homestay she was staying in to notice her.