Cost is an issue, so we decide to get a Megabus from London to Edinburgh instead of flying or taking the train. It’ll take most of the day – over nine hours, in fact – but it’s only about ￡20 so it’s worth it. I know a nine-hour bus trip doesn’t sound great, but I’m so excited my stomach keeps swooping. Nine hours on a bus with Rhys. Him and me together, squashed up close, with no distractions, no other people. We can talk and kiss and cuddle. I can fall asleep on his shoulder. It’ll be unbelievably romantic and perfect.
And, after that, Edinburgh. Tartan and shortbread and bagpipes. A whole new city to explore, unhindered by agenda-setting parents or teachers. Just me and my boyfriend. And in the evening, after the inevitable hand-in-hand romantic walk, it will be just me and my boyfriend in a hotel room. A hotel room with a double bed and a door that locks.
Calm down, heart. It’s not time for racing yet.
We make actual plans, like that we will climb Arthur’s Seat and go and find the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, but in my head everything gets a bit fuzzy after the hotel-room bit.
I don’t tell Tem any of our plans, which makes me feel guilty and a bit sad. I’m not sure when it started to be OK to keep secrets from Tem. Before my decision not to tell her about my meds, I’d never even lied to her. That seems like a long time ago now.
The only people in the world who know about the trip are me and Rhys, and that fact just makes it all the more perfect.
I arrange to work extra hours at the kennels during the first week of the Easter holidays so I can take time off for Edinburgh and also be able to afford it. The free time I have I divide between Tem, Rhys and my mother’s family. Bell is hyped about her upcoming operation, counting her teeth every night and poking her tongue out between the gap where her front teeth used to be. I tell her that the Tooth Fairy gives an extra gift when there’s an operation involved, which turns out to be a mistake.
‘Like another tooth?’ she asks, eyes wide. She’s developed a lisp since losing her teeth, plus a breathy little whistle every time she speaks.
‘Er . . . no.’
‘Like a gold tooth?’
‘What? No, Bell. Like a present.’
‘Is it a puppy?’
‘No, Bell.’
‘A kitten?’
‘It has to fit under your pillow, remember?’
‘A hedgehog?’
‘It’s not alive.’
‘A violin?’
This goes on far longer than could possibly be considered cute.
I count the days, watching the clock on my work shifts and sharing long jackbytes conversations with Rhys in the evenings where we talk about our options as tourists (slightly limited by our lack of a car), whether we should try haggis or not (obviously), what we’ll do on the bus for all those hours (KISS).
And then it’s Wednesday morning. I’ve packed everything I need for Edinburgh into an innocuous-looking weekend bag, just like the kind I usually take between my two houses, and glance into Bell’s bedroom before I head down the stairs. She’s fast asleep, so I decide not to wake her up.
‘Let me know when you’re back at your dad’s,’ Mum says as I head into the hall.
‘Sure,’ I say. I think there’s still a part of me that’s waiting for her to read my mind, gasp in shock and call off the whole trip. ‘See you later. Love to Bell.’
She gives me a quick hug. ‘Bye, love.’
I close the door behind me and let out a breath, pulling my bag up over my shoulder and taking the left turn out of the driveway that will take me towards the train station.
When I get there, Rhys is already waiting. He’s wearing a rucksack on his back and his face breaks into a huge smile as I appear.
Hi. He leans slightly down to kiss me. Ready for an adventure?
Ready! Or, at least, as ready as I’ll ever be, I think. I desperately want to do this, and I’m so excited to have this time with Rhys, but I’m still me. I’m still anxious.
The train into London takes about half an hour, and then it’s another twenty minutes on the Tube to Victoria. It’s standing room only on the trains and so we are crammed together for most of the way, unable to talk. We make faces at each other instead and mouth the occasional question – Did you bring any toothpaste? and the like – and I lean into him as he rests his chin on my head.
At Victoria we buy food and magazines for the journey. The magazines are totally not necessary – I have four books in my bag – but something about long journeys calls for magazines. Rhys gets a large coffee for himself and a hot chocolate for me and then we’re ready. We join the queue for the bus.
‘Can’t take that on,’ the driver says to Rhys. He’s gruff, with a thick Scottish accent and an even thicker beard. I can see by the expression on Rhys’s face that he can’t lip-read through all the facial hair and my stomach clenches. The driver looks at him, waiting for a response. ‘Right?’ he says. ‘Drink it all now or throw it away.’ He looks at me, then gestures to my cup. ‘You too.’
Rhys, brow furrowed, turns to me. With his free hand he signs, What?
We can’t take the drinks on the bus, I sign.