As for James and I . . . well, it’s a lot like going for this run. I’m doing my thing, he’s doing his. We’re together, but that doesn’t mean we have to be joined at the hip. Who wouldn’t want a cosmic girlfriend? Also, and this is the main thing: As if I’m going to win the competition! As if I’ll ever go to Mars! Pigs might fly!
I’m looking so far into the distance that I trip and fall onto my hands and knees. My palms are flecked with rock dust: an inverse night sky.
18
As I switch off the car engine, I have to remind myself to breathe. One small step for man, I think, as my feet hit the tarmac.
I think I’ve always underestimated Center Parcs. Calling it a “holiday village” conjures a whole host of nightmarish images. Gurning families, decaying chalets, a theme-park-sized swimming pool, and water slides as tall as skyscrapers. But this Center Parcs is located in Sherwood Forest. The ancient woodland is expansive and peaceful, and the living accommodation looks classy: honey-coloured wooden cabins, with big windows and clean lines.
I take my rucksack out of the trunk and head towards Lodge 355. Inside, it’s basically an IKEA showroom. There’s an angular grey sofa with a matching footstool. On the wall is a black-and-white print of a woodland scene. Off to the right is the kitchen area, full of shiny white cupboards and wipe-clean surfaces. The sort of person who might live in a place like this is a single, organised businesswoman, with a name like Jenny. Jenny wouldn’t put her bags down by the door. She’d take them into the bedroom and put her clothes straight into the wardrobe, so that’s what I’m going to do.
The bedroom is a study in maroon. Maroon walls, maroon bedcovers, maroon lamp. Maroon is a word I haven’t thought about for a very long time. Maroon is Jenny’s favourite colour. It hides stains, while adding a touch of sophistication.
I put my rucksack on the bed, chastising myself for not owning more elegant baggage. Then I take out my clothes and hang each crumpled item in the wardrobe.
Next, I plonk the supplies I picked up on the way here on the kitchen counter: a bottle of red wine, half a baguette, and a packet of salami. This is perfect. A simple charcuterie. Jenny would approve. I prepare my food slowly, enjoying opening and closing cupboards, discovering the crockery and cutlery that is to be mine for the next two days. The plates are white and round as full moons, fecund with possibilities.
I take my meal to the sofa. This is such a small thing, to be here in Center Parcs with a salami sandwich and a glass of wine, but the adrenaline is coursing through my bloodstream. I feel as though someone is filming me for a documentary about my life. As though I am about to achieve something so great, so momentous, that every boring thing I have ever done suddenly has great significance.
“What was she doing the day before her future was decided?” people will ask. “Sitting on the sofa eating a sandwich,” others will answer. There will be a collective gasp.
I switch on the TV and flick through a few channels. Take Me Out. Four in a Bed. The Secret Life of the Zoo. I take a swig of red wine—my first taste of alcohol in three months—and briefly quiz myself. First man in space? Yuri Gagarin. First to set foot on the moon? Everyone knows that. Last to set foot on the moon? Damn it, I’ve forgotten.
“The pygmy marmoset can rotate its head up to 180 degrees,” an earnest young zookeeper says straight to the camera. I switch off the telly.
I open Spotify on my phone and type Mars into the search bar. There it is: “Mars, the Bringer of War” by Gustav Holst. I hear the urgent plucking of strings and I increase the volume. I imagine myself floating up, up, out of Jenny’s skin, and out of Sherwood Forest.
I pick up my phone and text a single word to James: Hope.
19
What do you mean? That was his first reply, but there were others.
How was your journey?
Having fun in Liverpool?
Fuck, Solvig. Pick up your phone.
I’ve completely forgotten what my text message meant. Something highly profound and utterly stupid, no doubt. As I trek towards the conference centre, I manage to cobble together a reply: Meant to say: hope you’re having a good evening. Oops! Talk later.
It’s 7:30 a.m. and I didn’t bring anything with me for breakfast. I’ve cleaned my teeth, but my mouth still tastes sour. The wine went to my head fast. I ended up working my way through Holst’s entire Planets suite. I was laughing by the time I got to “Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity,” but then, halfway through “Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age,” I became maudlin. If only I hadn’t polished off that whole bottle, I could have gone for a run this morning. There are plenty of healthy people out here, jogging around the forest trails.
It’s hard to get my head around being in a holiday park for such a serious occasion. I wonder why the organisers chose this place. I’ve seen the Center Parcs adverts enough times to know that there’s a gigantic water slide here. I can’t help but picture the conference involving us having to fling ourselves down the slide one by one, shouting: “To infinity and beyond!” I do know that Center Parcs was founded in the Netherlands, same as the Mars Project. I wonder if it was picked for that reason, or just because it’s a convenient location. The ancient landscape of Sherwood Forest feels apt, in any case. It has areas of woodland dating back to the
