“Fuck.” I groaned and sat up slowly, trying to collect my bearings. Both my watch and the room’s digital clock told me that it was almost eleven. It was light outside, so I assumed that meant it was eleven in the morning, although in Scotland, I couldn’t always tell. I picked up a menu and worked out that I was still at The George, the hotel we were in last night. My laptop, and the small overnight bag I flew with were sitting on the desk, and after scanning the room for my shoes, I realized they were still on my feet. I searched around for my phone and eventually found it in my suit jacket’s pocket, but the battery was dead.
I used the hotel phone and dialled our home number, but it clicked over to the messaging service. I tried again just in case Sarah couldn’t find the cordless, which was usually the case, but that went to the service, too. I tried to remember Sarah’s mobile number, but I couldn’t—I didn’t think I had ever actually dialled it. It was saved in my contacts and I just pressed call.
I decided to order room service. I was starving and badly in need of a shower, so I took one while I waited for my food to arrive. For the second time in an hour, I was grateful that I had the foresight to pack a change of clothes, deodorant, and a toothbrush.
As soon as my food arrived, I poured myself a coffee and dialled Luke, but I got his voice mail. His number I could remember because it was printed on our business cards. Then I tried the office. They would have Sarah’s number on file somewhere, but there was no answer there either. It was the office, my office. How the fuck could there be nobody there? I needed to buy a phone charger.
I ate as quickly as I could as I typed out emails to Liz and Mel, asking where the fuck they were. If they weren’t in the office, then it was highly unlikely they were logged into their work emails.
Surprisingly, Mel messaged me straight back:
I’m at that relocations expo in Docklands.
I told you I was coming to talk to the Australian building company that are here.
Why, what’s wrong?
I tried my home number again from the hotel as I typed out a reply to Mel.
Where the fuck’s Liz? There’s no one answering the phones in the office!
I cleaned my teeth and stuffed my suit into my bag, making ready to leave and waiting for Mel’s reply.
Her nan died. The funeral’s today.
Shit, I’d forgotten all about that.
Did we send flowers?
I forced my work shoes into the small carry-on bag and pulled on my boots.
We did.
Was all I got back from Mel.
I’m still in Scotland. My phone’s dead. Do you have Sarah’s number on you?
I wanted to leave and get a phone charger, but I waited for Mel’s message to come through.
No, just your mobile and home number.
I didn’t bother to reply. I shut my computer down, stuffed it in the bag, and made my way down to the reception. The girl behind the desk wished me a great day, and the valet waved down a cab for me. I managed to get on a flight immediately, leaving no time to buy a charger.
As soon as I reached my car back at Gatwick, I plugged in my phone and started the engine. It took a few seconds for the screen to light up and the service to kick in, and when it did, all fucking hell broke loose. Text messages, missed calls, voice mails . . . my phone continued to buzz and chirp and vibrate. Sarah, Sash, Mai, and Archie.
My hands shook as I opened the first message from Sarah.
Pretty Girl: Hey Aussie husband, just letting you know Sash is here with me. Luke had to get an earlier flight or something and said you’d have his balls if he let me stay on my own, so I called Sash. No need to rush back. I don’t know why you don’t just get a flight in the morning. I love you x
Pretty Girl: Morning, I’ve tried to call, but I’m going straight to voice mail. I’m a little worried, babe. I’ve no idea where you are, where you’re staying, or anything. Call me when you get this plz. X
Pretty Girl: Okay, so I don’t want you to panic or anything, but I’m not feeling so great, and I’ve just been for a wee and there was blood in it.
“No. Fuck, shit. No. Fucking no.”
I put my car into reverse and pulled my car out of its parking spot. My head and my heart were pounding so hard I could feel my entire body vibrate. As I approached the barrier, I realised not only had I not paid my exit fee at the terminal but also the ticket was actually still in my suit jacket’s pocket, in my bag, in the boot of my fucking car.
I slammed the palm of my hand down on the steering wheel at least three times and said the word “fuck” a whole lot.
I carried on towards the barrier and pressed the lost ticket button, slid in my credit card, and paid the extortionate maximum rate that could be applied for short-term parking.
As dangerous as it was, I read the rest of the string of messages from Sarah as I drove.
Pretty Girl: Sasha’s on the phone with my doctor now, finding out what we should do. I feel okay, just a little warm and really sick, but that’s nothing new, is it?
Pretty Girl: Call me. Plz. X
I did exactly that. It was three in the afternoon so the M25 had yet to become a car park. I wove my way through the traffic at speeds that even scared me at times. Each and every one of my calls to Sarah went to voice mail.
I scrolled through and found the next message was from Sasha.