When they finally go to bed, I pour a coffee and settle down with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. This is what it’s come to. My big adventure has ended with me sitting in on a Saturday night with a packet of chocolate biscuits.
After several hours of contemplation and lots of crumbs, I realise that it’s over. I haven’t got the heart to go on with this stupid farce any more. I’ve already lost enough – my job, my house, a couple of thousand pounds, not to mention the not insignificant matter of pride. I feel totally defeated. I’ve cried so much in the last few days that Kate now has a man-made stream in her back garden. Well, no more. I’m going to find a job, somewhere to live, beg the credit card companies for mercy and start again.
I call Sarah, the only other person I know who’ll be sitting in on a Saturday night, but the phone rings out. Brilliant. The whole bloody world is out having a great time except me.
When Kate and Bruce return, I tell them that I’m giving up. Bruce pours us a nightcap, then disappears to bed. That man has the patience of a saint.
‘Are you sure?’ Kate asks.
‘Positive. It’s time I grew up and faced reality, Kate. I can’t keep chasing pipe dreams for the rest of my life.’
She nods like an indulgent mother – a normal mother, that is, not one like mine, who’s probably at this moment doing bedtime crunchies with Ivan. I choose not to dwell on the fact that my mother’s love life is more successful than mine.
‘Well, you can stay here until you get organised,’ she offers.
What would I do without her?
At seven o’clock the next morning, there’s an almighty banging on the door. On a Sunday! If this is a police raid, then they’ve got the wrong house. Unless they’ve come for me on behalf of Mastercard.
Kate, Bruce and I all reach the door at the same time. We let Bruce open it and hide behind him, brave to a fault.
‘Jess!’ he exclaims.
Kate and I peek over his shoulders. Jess is standing there looking like she hasn’t slept for a week and has been dragged through a hedge backwards.
‘When’s your next trip, Carly?’ she stammers.
‘There isn’t one. I’ve given up on the whole idea.’ I can hardly speak for shock.
‘No, you haven’t, you’re going. Where was the next one supposed to be?’
My mind’s gone blank. No, it hasn’t. Tom, Ireland.
‘Em, Dublin, but I’m not…’
‘YES YOU ARE,’ she bellows at me.
My God, what is wrong with her? She’s always the calmest and most composed of us all.
‘Now, get your bags packed, quick,’ Jess goes on.
Kate finally finds her voice. ‘What’s going on, Jess? Tell us what’s happened.’
She rummages in her bag before pulling out a newspaper. She holds up the News of the World. The headline screams:
BASIL AND THE RANDY RESEARCHER.
‘The press have got my flat surrounded. I’m leaving the country before they find me. Cooper, why are you still bloody standing there? Get a move on, I’m not keeping the taxi waiting all day.’
Oh, the excitement! Just when I thought things couldn’t be any more bizarre, I’m now wearing dark glasses, on the run from the tabloid press and sharing an airline bottle of wine with a Randy Researcher. And I seem to have gone from giving up the search to being right back on it, and not of my own free will. This is a mercy mission, I tell myself. I’m only doing it for Jess. If it was down to me, I’d still be drowning in self-pity and wailing into Kate’s biscuit tin. A few days in Ireland suddenly seems like a pretty good idea.
Jess is bearing up remarkably well. There was a brief moment of panic when a nervous looking girl at the ticket desk informed us that the next flight to Dublin was fully booked, but we salvaged the situation by flying business class. Isn’t this what all fugitives do – flee the country while drinking champagne and eating smoked salmon sandwiches?
Dodging anyone who looks even remotely like they could be carrying a press badge, we keep our heads down as we stride through Dublin Airport and over to the nearest car hire desk.
‘I’m sorry, madam, but the only car we have available today is a Fiat Uno.’
Is she serious? I’m 5’8” and Jess is three inches taller. One of us is going to have to travel on the roof rack and since I was the only one who remembered to bring her driving licence, it would have to be Jess. She looks less than amused.
In the end, by using Vaseline, yoga and removing several layers of clothing, we manage to fit in. Lord knows how we’re going to get out again. We’ll need a harness and a crane.
As we hit the motorway for our drive south, I marvel at Jess’s composure. She hasn’t shed a tear. If this were Kate, Carol, Sarah or me, we’d be on our third box of tissues, wailing and beating our chests by now. But not Jess – she’s always been the strongest of the five of us. I can honestly say that I haven’t seen her cry since she was fourteen and she got drunk on illicit cider smuggled into a school disco. She had been inconsolable because the DJ refused to play ‘Stand and Deliver’, by Adam Ant. It was a very emotional time, fuelled by hormones and Strongbow.
As I drive, she starts to relax, as much as she can in an Uno. I still can’t believe I’m here, although now that I am, I’m feeling a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. I’m not sure I’m ready to fall on my face again, so if I
