My Single Friend (42 page)

Despite this, there’s one thing I can’t disagree with: enough is enough. I can procrastinate no longer, hesitate no more. Whatever happens today, Henry
must
be told the truth . . .

‘OHMYGOD!’ I gasp. ‘OHMYGODOHMYGODDD!’

I am sailing past an exit sign marked
Manchester Airport
.

Which means I am sailing past the exit for Manchester Airport.

Which means . . . oh Christ: I’m not going to make it!

Wailing in frustration, I beat the steering-wheel with my fist.

‘YOU STUPID WOMAN, LUCY!’ I howl as tears of desperation blur my vision. ‘YOU STUPID COW!’

I glance through the side window and the passengers in a Fiat Punto are staring at me as if they suspect I’ve dabbled with psychedelic drugs.

‘I’M A STUPID COW!’ I yell, trying to explain. They look even more worried.

I spend five minutes shouting obscenities and frantically searching for the next exit. When I reach it, I swerve into it, cut up the driver in front and push my way to the lights at the roundabout.

Panting and sweating, I glance at the clock. One hour to take-off. I can still do this.

The lights change to green and I slam my foot on the accelerator, whizzing round the roundabout until I’m back on the motorway, heading to the airport again.

My brain is on overload, but there is no way I’m going to miss the exit this time. I flick on my indicator and speed along a road signposted
Departures
. I abandon my car outside the doors, leaving on my hazard lights and other passengers tutting in disapproval as they battle with their luggage.

I vault over a crash barrier in the departure lounge, push through a throng of youngsters wearing
Ripley Junior Swimming Team
sweatshirts and elbow through a scrum of people clustered round a flight information board.

The first stop on Henry’s trip is Madrid and, as I scan the board, I feel a stab of hope when I see a stack of delays. If Henry’s is one of them, I’ll be able to get to him. Then I spot the line:
CFKHH to Madrid – go to check-in desk number 32
.

My stomach does a triple somersault with pike:
they’re still checking in!

I race to the desk and am confronted by the sort of queue you’d find outside a bread shop in Bolshevik Russia. I start at the front, scanning faces. But after five minutes of sprinting up and down – and recognizing no one – I am forced to accept that they’re not here.

Then I get a brainwave. I dive to the front, ignoring the conspicuous looks of displeasure.

‘Sorry,’ I plead. ‘This is life or death.
Really
.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ says the bloke at the front. ‘Go on, get on with it.’

At the check-in desk, I am greeted by a surly bottle-blonde who’d easily fit in as a meeter and greeter on Death Row.

‘Passport,’ she demands, typing randomly into her computer.

‘I haven’t got one.’

She reaches up to the desk, refusing to make eye-contact, and feels around with her hand.

She looks up.

‘Passport,’ she repeats sullenly.

‘I haven’t got one,’ I say again.

She frowns as if I am the worst thing to have happened to her all year. ‘What?’

‘Well, I do have one but I don’t have it with me. The point is—’

‘You want to fly to Madrid, but you haven’t got your passport?’

‘Actually I
don’t
want to fly to Madrid, I want to know if my friend has checked i—’

‘Where’s your ticket?’ she interrupts.

‘I haven’t got one of those either because I don’t—’

‘E-ticket reference number?’

‘No. You see, I don’t want to fly.’

‘You want to fly to Madrid, but you don’t have a passport or ticket or e-ticket reference number?’

‘
I don’t want to fly to Madrid!
’ I shriek.

She looks at me, taken aback. ‘If you’re going to take that tone, madam, I’ll call security. This airport has a strict policy on abuse – verbal and physical – towards its staff. Look.’

She points at a notice above her head that says:
This airport has a strict policy on abuse – verbal and physical – towards its staff.

‘Sorry,’ I reply, hiding my frustration. ‘
I
don’t want to fly to Madrid, but the man I’m in love with is about to. All I want to know is whether he’s checked in. Because if he has, I’m screwed. But if he hasn’t, then I can go and declare my undying love for him.’

She looks lost. ‘Let me get this straight. You
don’t
want to fly to Madrid?’

I try to stay calm. ‘No.’

‘All you want is to know whether another passenger has checked in?’

Finally. ‘Yes.’

She turns away and starts typing something into her computer again. Eventually, she turns back to me.

‘I’m not at liberty to give out that information.’

‘What?’ I say.

‘I’m not at liberty to—’

‘I heard you . . . but why?’

‘Data protection. Terrorism. You name it.’

‘Do I look like a terrorist?’ I ask.

‘What does a terrorist look like?’

I stand there, wondering what to do next.

‘Please,’ I whisper. ‘
Please
let me know. If ever you’ve been in love with somebody, then you’ll understand why I need to know. Please. His name is Henry Fox.’

She looks into my eyes. Then returns to her computer.

She leans towards me, her face hard as nails. ‘If you tell anyone . . .’ she hisses.

‘I
swear
,’ I tell her, deciding she’s my new best friend.

She goes back to her computer and types something in again.

‘He’s already gone through,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’

I try to think of an ingenious method to get through security, but after an infuriating conversation with another official, I’m forced to accept that the measures to combat global terrorism are also enough to scupper a slightly unfit twenty-eight-year-old PR woman.

With increasing determination, I decide to buy a ticket to Madrid, so I can get through the security gates. But after another episode at the sales desk, the fact that my passport is in a box in south Liverpool is clearly a show-stopper.

I stand in the airport concourse as most of the western world seems to be heading off on holiday and take out my phone. I’d wanted to do this in person, but now I’ve no choice. Closing my eyes, I wait for it to ring.

It goes straight to voicemail.

‘OH GODDD!’ I cry, but nobody notices.

Despite it being the last thing I want to do, I pull up Erin’s number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

‘OH GODDD! I cry. Again, nobody notices.

For forty minutes, I pace up and down, trying to come up with a plan so brilliant it deserves recognition by the Nobel Prize committee. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t happen.

I look at my watch for what must be the seven-hundredth time today and it is eleven forty-five. Henry’s flight has gone and so has he.

My head is fuzzy with disbelief as I slump through the crowd and back through the doors. Numbly, I head to my car with tears biting the skin on my cheeks. I reach the spot where I parked my car in a daze and take out my car keys. Then I realize: my car isn’t there.

I look up to see a tow truck pulling it away. And I don’t even bother chasing after it.

By the time I’ve tracked down the company that towed my car, taken a taxi to the compound, waited in a queue, filled out a rainforest of paperwork, paid the fine and retrieved my car, it is mid-afternoon.

The fine is astronomical: the equivalent of food bills for a month, pension contributions for two months or – most distressingly – a third of a pair of strappy sandals from Gina.

Under normal circumstances, I’d be fizzing with pique about this, but today the thought evaporates from my brain as fast as it appeared. The drive home feels as if I’m in a computer game: a hazy, unreal world that I struggle to focus on. The only issue in my head is Henry – and why I didn’t say anything sooner. Why I didn’t
do
anything sooner.

I know that, technically, I could phone him in Madrid, but it feels way too late. He’s gone. How could I ring him to say, ‘Sorry I’ve not mentioned this in twenty years but I’m in love with you. If it’s not too much trouble, could you hop on a plane home and spend the rest of your life with me?’

I pull into the garage beneath our new flat and there is an empty feeling in my stomach telling me that I should eat. But I’ve never felt less hungry. I traipse up to the apartment, pausing to gaze through the stairwell window. The dock is bustling with people soaking up the sunshine and thoroughly enjoying themselves. It’s a concept that feels totally alien today.

I get to the apartment and push in my key, prising open the door.

It’s then that I spot the envelope.

There’s one word on the front: ‘Lucy’. Seeing my name written in Henry’s distinctive handwriting makes me gasp. With my heart racing, I fumble to open it and head for the balcony. I sink into a chair, scanning the letter, unable to devour its contents fast enough.

I read the letter over and over again, unable to catch my breath, my cheeks wet and raw. Finally, I stumble to the bathroom, where I stare into the mirror at my mess of a face.

‘God, you’ve screwed up, Lucy Tyler.’ Saying it out loud makes it feel gratifyingly harsh. ‘The love of your life has been in front of your nose for twenty years and you’ve never noticed. Worse than that . . . he loves you! He loves you, but he’s buggered off round the world –
to try to get over you
.’

I unravel a piece of loo roll and hold it to my nose, which is so red it looks as if it’s been sandpapered. I am mid-blow when I hear something.

Knocking.

I stop and gawp at myself.

Dominique had her keys this morning and the only other people who know my new address are Mum and Dad, who are still in hospital.

Could it be
. . .

Of course it couldn’t. He’s on the plane, the woman at the airport said so. Get a grip on reality, Lucy. Stop fantasizing and act like an adult.

The knocking starts again.

Despite myself, my heart is hammering as I head to the door.

It
cannot
be Henry. It’s not possible.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

The second I see him I am struck by how handsome Henry is, how irresistibly sexy. I’m looking at a man who, thanks to
Project Henry
, is the ultimate manifestation of female desire, who turns heads wherever he goes.