Happy Endings (26 page)

‘You know, crazy, innit,’ continued Mental Mike, taking a sip of his Fiji Bitter. ‘You know, people just get up, go to work for eight, nine hours a day, come home, watch TV, go to the pub, eat a kebab, go to bed and then do it all again the next day. Mental.’

‘That does sound a bit mental,’ said Tom with a smile. Tash had her hand on his leg and was gently rubbing it backwards and forwards. ‘But life doesn’t have to be that way. It doesn’t have to be this way either. We can’t travel all the time and we can’t work all the time either.’

‘Balance,’ said Tash, finishing his sentence for him. ‘Life is all about balance.’

I’d seen Tash down on the beach first thing in the morning doing her yoga. Her beautiful, graceful body, arching slowly and purposefully into a new position, where she’d stay before flowing effortlessly into another. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. I’d already asked her if she could teach me a few moves, hoping to keep a piece of her for the rest of my trip and maybe my life. I wanted to be more like her.

‘She’s right,’ said Mhairi in her lovely Scottish accent. ‘I used to work long hours, was always stressed out, but then I stopped because I realised I couldn’t keep doing it. I’m only twenty-five for God’s sake, not forty-five.’

‘And what did you do?’ I said.

I was in awe of Mhairi too. She seemed a lot like me. Down-to-earth and searching for that impossible dream of being happy, but she was actually making it happen. She also had her Ed by her side. Jamie, a fellow Scot, who was really funny, had gorgeous eyes and was always quick with the compliments. Mhairi and Jamie had a bit of the hippie in them, but in the best possible way.

‘I was working in sales, but I hated it and so I started a small business. It isn’t much. I make jewellery and knitwear, scarves and the like. It’s doing all right. My sister’s taking care of it while we’re away.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ I said, taking a drag on my cigarette.

‘Yeah it is. Just working for me. Being who I want to be, instead of some office drone, always being told what to do all day. I make less money but I’m happy.’

‘Yeah, that’s exactly it, innit,’ said Mental Mike. ‘It’s mental people don’t all think like that. Who gives a shit about money, yeah? It’s happiness what counts. It’s doing what you want, when you want. Sticking two fingers up to the man, yeah.’ Mike gave two fingers to some imagined man in the sky to prove his point.

‘And what about you, Kate?’ said Jamie, suddenly looking across at me. He was peeling the label off his beer bottle. ‘What did you do in the real world?’

I giggled for no reason and then lit up a cigarette.

‘Public relations. I hated it. Well, I didn’t at first, but like you said, Mhairi, I became something I wasn’t. I knew if I didn’t stop, get away while the going was good, I’d end up at forty, depressed, and still with no idea what I wanted to do with my life.’

‘Good for you’ said Jamie, lighting up his own cigarette. ‘Once I’ve got a few more years in the kitchen, I’m going to open my own little café in Edinburgh. Organic, fresh, cool little bohemian place, coffee in the morning, lunches and so on.’

‘Sounds magical,’ I said, falling in love with his dream as much as he was.

‘Mhairi can sell her stuff, make a little hippie commune in Scotland where we can eat well, live well and be happy.’

‘Can I come too?’ I said, only half-joking.

‘You’d be more than welcome,’ said Mhairi with a smile, reaching across and putting her hand on mine and then giving it a squeeze.

‘But don’t you think though, like, people just need to chill the fuck out, yeah, and everything will be all right?’ said Mental Mike, seemingly having a conversation with himself. We all agreed that, yeah, people did need to chill the fuck out, before Mike went to get us all another drink.

I looked around the table while he was gone. Mhairi and Jamie and Tom and Tash, two beautiful, wonderful couples, but unlike in Thailand and Australia when I’d wished Ed was with me, I didn’t anymore. I knew this was about me as an individual. I needed to find my path and then worry about Ed and me. Talking to Emma when I had my meltdown in Melbourne made me realise I needed to embrace my trip. I needed to stop making everything about Ed and start making everything about me. I was what I needed to work on and when I’d figured that out, maybe, just maybe, I could sort out my feelings for Ed too.

‘How did you know what you wanted to do?’ I said to Mhairi. ‘After you decided to quit the rat race, how did you decide to start your own business?’

‘I don’t know really. I always liked making things, but I’d never considered it could be my job, you know. I started small, made a few things and before I knew it, people couldn’t get enough. It was then I decided to quit my job and make a go of it. I suppose it’s about having the guts to follow your dreams. Know what you want and go after it.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘And having a boyfriend who’ll give you that gentle push,’ said Jamie with a smile, jabbing Mhairi playfully in the side.

‘And that too,’ said Mhairi, smiling. ‘So what about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?’ she said, looking at me expectantly.

‘Just something . . . different,’ I replied.

It was the beginning of the second week and Mhairi, Tash and I were heading across the island to Sunset Beach. We’d heard it was incredible and so we’d decided to make a day of it. The boys were heading back to the mainland to help pick up supplies and probably have a few beers and some real food in the process. My time on the island had been idyllic to say the least, but after nearly ten days of the same generally meatless food, I was craving a big, juicy burger.

It was another perfect day as we ambled around the rocks that led to the secluded little bay. We took our towels, laid them out and sat down. We were completely and wonderfully alone. In front of me was mile after mile of clear blue ocean, which eventually met and merged into a cloudless cerulean sky. All I could hear was the gentle lapping of waves on the beach and that was it. And there, looking out at the world and feeling smaller than I ever had, I finally thought of an answer to Mhairi’s question.

I did want something else, something meaningful, and after talking with Mhairi about it the other night, it came to me. During my late teens and even at university, I’d thought about teaching. It had value and meaning and it would be a challenge. I’d decided against it because I was too afraid. Afraid the pupils would eat me alive, afraid that in front of thirty eager little teenagers, I would freeze and be a failure. I wasn’t afraid anymore though. I had travelled the world and if I could do that, I could do anything. I wanted Mhairi’s happiness, her confidence and her outlook on life. I just needed the guts to follow my dreams.

‘Teaching,’ I blurted out, breaking the silence.

‘Sorry?’ said Mhairi.

‘The other night you asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. I want to be a teacher. An English teacher, actually, at sixth form.’

It felt good to say it out loud for the first time. It made it seem real. I chose sixth form because it was such an important time in my own life. Those two years helped define and shape so much of the rest of my life and I wanted to go back and help shape more lives. I wanted to teach, but I also wanted to give back and share the lessons I had learnt from losing my father, getting hit by the car, falling into the wrong career and travelling. I felt like I could be a positive influence on teenagers’ lives.

Mhairi smiled at me.

‘That’s brilliant. I think you’ll be an amazing teacher.’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

‘You don’t need to hope,’ said Tash. ‘You will be.’

And with those three words I looked out towards the horizon at the hundreds of miles of ocean and felt the warm breeze on my face. I smiled because at last I knew what I was going to do. It would mean going back to university, but I was ready for the challenge. I had a couple of months left of travelling and I was going to enjoy them. No more worrying about Ed and thinking about things I couldn’t control. I was done being afraid.

To: Emma Fogle

From: Kate Jones

Subject: Bula!

Em,

Just a quick email as I don’t have much time. I’m back in Nadi, which is the main town on mainland Fiji. I’m about to head off to the airport to get my flight to Peru (via New Zealand). I just had the most amazing two weeks of my life. I was on a desert island with the best people. It really gave me time to think and reflect and I’m so happy (again). They having something here called Fiji time. What’s amazing is that when you arrive Fiji time just seems like this excuse for being lazy and getting nothing done, but the longer you’re here, you realise it’s actually a way of life. It’s more than just an expression, it’s a philosophy on how to live and I must say I rather like it. Hopefully I can bring a bit of Fiji time with me back to London!

Thank you so much for the talk you gave me in Melbourne. You were totally right. I was wallowing and not being myself, but thanks to you and Fiji, I’m back! I can’t wait to get back to see you again. You’re probably going to be massive! For the first time in our lives you might be bigger than me! I can’t wait to see that. I’ve also made a decision about my career, but we can talk about that when I get back. I hope everything is going well and you aren’t so tired still. I can’t wait to see you as a yummy mummy, you’re going to be A-mazing! South America awaits . . .

Love K x

Ed

Dad was a drinker. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he definitely liked a drop of the hard stuff, or as he called it, the good stuff. He was an old-fashioned, hard-as-nails bloke. He had the kind of body, even at sixty, where you could see the layers of hard muscle that sat on him like a medal of honour. He’d never done anything but manual work his whole life and it showed. When I was a young boy he worked on building sites and then when I was a bit older for the council, fixing roads. His hands were dry and cracked and his body had scars from work accidents and drunken late-night fights.

Dad grew up in a different era. Most Saturdays I’d be sent to the pub at the end of our street to get him home for tea. I used to love getting a fleeting look at his world, his life outside the house that didn’t involve me. The pub was filled with cigarette smoke and the vinegary smell of alcohol on a deep red carpet. Men in trousers and shirts played darts and pool, talking loudly about things I didn’t understand. Men I saw during the week with families, off early to work or coming home late with barely a word to say, in that pub would lift me up and sit me on the bar, shout loudly, sing songs and tell jokes. Then there was my dad. His beery breath and wet kisses on my eight-year-old skin were forever locked in my mind.

Today was different though. When I walked in, Dad was sitting alone in the corner like a relic from a different age trying to go unnoticed. He was slumped over a pint of something flat and brown, while around him young kids in baseball caps, tracksuit bottoms and trainers talked loudly over pints of fizzy lager. As soon as he saw me his face lit up. I smiled back and walked over. Dad had always been a handsome man, but he was starting to look his age. His salt-and-pepper hair was now just salt and his strong face was starting to wane and look tired. The lines that had once given him character now made him look haggard.

‘All right, son.’

‘Hi, Dad, another?’

Dad looked down at his pint, as if he was actually trying to decide. We both knew the answer. ‘I’ll get a menu as well,’ I said and walked over to the bar.

I’d come to tell Dad about my recent unemployment, but, standing at the bar and looking over at him, I wasn’t sure I could. He’d always been so proud of me. Every time I went back home to see him and Mum, he’d take me out and parade me around like a trophy. ‘This is my son, works in the City he does, earns a fortune, don’t you son?’ The phrase preceded me into every room.

‘Here you go,’ I said, sitting down and pushing a menu across the table towards him.

‘I never eat here. Too expensive. Not worth the money. Decent chippy over the road. Half the price.’

‘Just get something, my treat,’ I said and he smiled a proud fatherly smile.

‘I’ll get it next time.’

‘OK, Dad, next time.’

He never did, of course, but I didn’t mind. I liked the fact I could take care of my old man. My brother, Joe, was off up the country, the last I heard still unemployed and living with some girl, and my sister, Becky, was in Southampton with a couple of kids and a useless husband. I was the successful one, the one who’d really made something of himself and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

‘What’s new?’

‘Not much, working too hard,’ I lied.

‘That’s my boy,’ said Dad with a sparkle in his eyes.

Dad had always worked hard, up at the crack of dawn and out the door before the bird farts, he always said. He’d been working since he was fourteen and he still worked now. Only now, at sixty, his body couldn’t keep up and so he was a site manager. The fact was, he couldn’t do the graft work anymore and so, like a once-great racehorse, he was put out to pasture. He’d retire in a few years, get his pension and that would be it. He didn’t have much to look forward to. ‘Earn it while you can, son, and then retire. Buy a place in Spain; get out of this shithole.’ He looked around the pub where he’d spent probably as much time as anywhere else in his life. ‘How’s Kate? Still off gallivanting around the globe like the Queen of Sheba?’