The Reluctant Roadtripper (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 1

Fort William, Scottish Highlands

Pet peeves. I have a lot of 'em.

I loathe surprises for a start. If anyone ever tries to throw me a surprise party, I fully intend to disown them.  (I'm harsh like that.) And I actively search for spoilers on TV shows I'm watching because I can't stand not knowing what is going to happen in advance. (I know, it's bloody weird.)

I also hate "staycations". I even despise the actual phrase - it makes no sense to me. And, when I go on holiday, I want to be as far away from home as I can possibly be. (I have my reasons. They're coming, I promise.)

Oh, and of course, like I'm sure we all do, I detest hangovers.

Which brings us to this morning. And the hangover that might finally kill me.

My stomach lurches as I try to sit up and peel my eyes open at the same time. I manage the sitting-up part only; multi-tasking is clearly not on the agenda yet today. There is banging inside my head.

Oh, wait, there's banging outside my head, too. Someone is knocking on the hotel room door. Loudly and repeatedly.

"Mirren! Open up!" Recognising my best friend's voice, I practically topple out of bed and stumble blindly towards the door.

"You look as bad as I feel," Vanessa says as soon as she sees me. She has a bottle of water in one hand and a packet of paracetamol in the other, and she extends both towards me. "I thought you might need these."

"And I think you might be my guardian angel," I reply gratefully, taking a massive gulp of water. I place the painkillers on the bed for now. I'm not quite sure if pills will stay down yet. 

For someone who apparently also feels hungover, Nessa appears - on the outside at least - to be as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Clear-faced, shiny hair, sparkling eyes. I, on the other hand, look like I should be hiding under a bridge somewhere waiting to scare the Three Billy-Goats Gruff. But I learned a long time ago that hangovers aren't created equally. I suppose I should just be glad they largely haven't gotten worse as I've gotten older, as so many people have promised me they do.

Apart from this one, of course . . .

"You need to get a move on," she tells me briskly. "The bus is picking us up in fifteen minutes."

"Shit," I mutter, scanning the disaster zone that is my room. The contents of my suitcase, so neatly packed yesterday, are now spread out all over the floor; Marie Kondo's worst nightmare. Jumbled up and hopelessly tangled, much like my messy recollections of the last twelve hours or so. Nothing is sparking joy right now, that's for sure. 

What possessed us all to get so drunk last night? I wonder now. After we disembarked from the train in Fort William and dropped our bags off at the hotel, we had decided dinner and "a couple of drinks" would be nice. The sensible option.

Famous last words.

Cut to two a.m., and all four of us somehow found ourselves at an impromptu house party, hosted by one of the locals we'd met in the Wetherspoons a few hours earlier. Doing shots and . . . Oh fuck, did we end up playing strip poker? A memory, fuzzy around the edges, returns to me, and I shudder as I recall tossing my bra across an unfamiliar living room. I'd never understood the rules of poker, so that would certainly explain why I potentially ended up with my tits out.

That was my favourite bra. I really hope I retrieved it. Right now, in the mess that is my room, I have no way of telling.

Nessa leaves me to check on the others, and I start throwing everything back into my suitcase without any care whatsoever, whilst frequently dry-heaving. My dry eyes protest as I force my contact lenses in, and brushing my teeth nearly prompts me to puke. How on earth am I going to survive a journey in a mini-bus? How will any of us? I'm already pitying the driver!