Staunch

‘Darling, nip to the shop and get a paper for me, will you?’

‘No. When you say “paper” I know what you mean. I’ll get you a Guardian if you like.’

‘The Guardian! Stop being ridiculous. Just go to the shop. I’ll give you the money.’

‘Nan, the Daily Mail is a Nazi rag. I’m not doing it.’

‘You know I only get it for the crossword. Puzzles are supposed to stave off dementia, you know. Just go to the shop for me. I so rarely ask you to do anything.’

‘Fine.’

I always – always – end up buying my nan a Daily Mail. I am always utterly baffled by this. She worked in the public sector all of her life and is evangelical about the NHS, yet she cannot bring herself ever to consider ‘leftie’ activities such as reading the Guardian or voting Labour. From what I can gather, this is purely based on a vague idea that it’s ‘a bit common’.

We make it onto the aeroplane, with me now trying to hide the Mail amid all the hand luggage. It’s bad enough to have to buy it, now I have to be seen with it, FFS. I also bought Nan a coffee, which now she doesn’t want.

‘It’s just so big. Why do coffees these days have to be so big?’

I’m not going to argue with that one. I totally agree.

Nan genuflects as we get onto the plane. Ann and Rose are in the row behind us; I find myself sitting in the middle seat, in between Nan and an Indian lady of about Nan’s age. Her name is Mrs Sharma, and I will discover later that Mrs Sharma’s daughter-in-law works in my office.

Mrs Sharma’s presence seems to spark off a sense of competition between the two old ladies on either side of me. Every time my nan and I start a conversation, Mrs Sharma asks me if I can help her use the headphones or take the lid off her yoghurt.

‘You’re a good girl. Come and see me at my flat when we arrive in Goa. Come to the gates and ask security for Mrs Sharma. They all know me.’

I nod and smile and fail to make it through more than three minutes of a film at a time without someone tapping me on the arm and asking me how long it is until we arrive and why is aeroplane coffee so bad and what is that you’re watching and how long until we arrive.

After a while Nan doesn’t like being upstaged and fortunately Mrs Sharma falls asleep, so Nan and I can gossip about her and then about all of our relatives who we saw at Christmas. I really do love my nan. She is an excellent person to gossip with.

Then we have another minor drama when the person in front of Nan has the audacity to put their seat back so they can go to sleep. I have rarely seen a woman so outraged.

‘Nan, don’t worry about it. Shall we just swap seats?’

‘No. I’m not having that. It’s not fair. I’m calling the stewardess and asking her to tell them to stop it. This is ridiculous.’

‘Nan, I know it’s annoying, but I don’t think you can –’

It’s too late. She’s already pressed the button and is making a face I know better than to argue with. An extremely nice stewardess explains that she knows it’s annoying but she can’t ask them not to. Nan and I swap seats. She remains outraged.

However, by the time we are due to land – despite our very, very long day – we are in a state of high excitement. We will be landing in India! I have never set foot in India before, and this heralds a trip of great adventure and family history and maybe even – finally – self-discovery!

We pull in to land and I brace myself for the wheels hitting the ground. Instead, the plane swoops sharply back upwards and there is a collective gasp across the cabin.

‘Is that supposed to happen?’ Nan asks, reaching into her handbag for her Valium.

Mrs Sharma clutches at my arm convulsively.

‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ I tell them both, inwardly resigning myself to imminent death. A relief, in so many ways.

While we circle Goa Airport repeatedly, an announcement kicks in.

‘Sorry about that,’ says the captain. ‘We need to make another attempt at landing as there are dogs loose on the runway.’

‘Dogs loose on the runway’? Dogs? Is this a joke? I presume this is an elaborate cover story for something that has gone horribly wrong. How can there be dogs loose on the runway?

‘Welcome to India, darling,’ my nan chuckles.

March 2017

After months and months of hanging out with The Lecturer, things had escalated. We saw each other most days; we frequently stayed up texting until 4 a.m. Sometimes we’d both press play on horror films at the same time in our respective beds, and chat throughout.

I’d grown fond of him, to the point where I now couldn’t imagine my life without him. For his part, he constantly told me I was wonderful and beautiful; he found it so hard to talk to people except for me, I knew more about him than anyone else on the face of the planet.

One night while drinking cocktails and putting the world to rights, nose-to-nose on a sofa, we finally kissed. And I suddenly felt like I never wanted to kiss anyone else again. I looked at his face and I truly wondered how I never noticed he was so fucking beautiful, back at the beginning. I have always been one for the whirlwind; I never really believed someone could grow on you. But this one sneaked up on me. I appeared to be, somehow, in love with him.

I texted him when I got home that night: We need to talk about What Happened.

He replied: Lunch tomorrow? I’ll buy you beer and a hotdog. See you in a few hours, lovely Ellie.

Despite my hangover, I woke up the next morning in a state of high excitement. It was unseasonably sunny, which I took to be an excellent omen, as I put on a 1950s sundress and lipstick. I texted Emma, who had long predicted that I would end up marrying The Lecturer.

‘OMG, I was right! It’s finally happening. Let me know how it goes – I’m going to need every detail. Fuck, he’s been after you for so long, he’s going to think it’s Christmas!!!’

The morning at work was interminable. I was incapable of getting anything done, as I kept putting on more lipstick and counting down the minutes.

We arranged to meet in our usual spot, and we walked in the sunshine along the South Bank, where we sat outside and he bought me the promised beer and hotdog.

‘So, about last night …’ I said.

‘Yes. I believe you might have some questions for me.’

‘Well, more of a statement. Lecturer, it turns out that I seem to have fallen in love with you.’

I waited for him to be delighted.

‘Oh, Ellie. I’m so sorry. I did not foresee this …’

It transpired that he was in the middle of some sort of trial separation from the long-term girlfriend I thought he’d long ago split up from. He was apparently ‘confused’ about life. He had thought our increasingly flirtatious friendship was a safe space because I would never be interested in ‘someone like him’.

‘You’re wonderful and I’m regretting this even as I’m saying it,’ he told me. ‘But I’m afraid I’m no use to you. We both know you could do far better. Besides, be honest, how long would it be before someone like you got bored with someone like me?’

‘But …’

‘No. Don’t.’

We walked back to work in silence. I texted Emma to say the grand declaration had not gone according to plan.

‘Do you need wine?’ she asked.

‘I think I just need to go home and cry.’

I did exactly that. And then I told The Lecturer I didn’t want to talk to him for a while and got straight onto Tinder, where I rushed headlong into a terrible mistake.

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