Twist Of Fate

Thirty

HARRY 

The journey to the seaside seems to take forever. I'm glad Chloe has a plan because when she has a plan, she is less of a chore to be around. When she has a plan, she is focussed and determined, and she makes stuff happen. When she has a plan, she can think for herself and make more plans to improve her original plan. When she has a plan, she doesn't pester the life out of me, and this gives me time and space to think.

When she doesn't have a plan, she is skittish and timid, needy and doe-eyed, worried and miserable.

This afternoon she is on a mission: A mission to get us across the country to some town she has decided upon, and now seems fixated on. She examines her beloved road atlas constantly, and after she bit my head off in the cafe when I suggested she be a little more discreet I am hesitant to tell her to put it away. I was hungry and bad-tempered back there, and probably shouldn't have snapped quite so harshly the way I did, but in all honesty she took me by surprise by snarling right back at me, shutting my argument down and pretty much going on strike until I let her have her own way. It was such a bird's thing to do - Sofía is exactly the same about everything. I have long since learned it is far easier to let them think they're in control of the situation, just to buy myself a few minutes' peace, and an easy life.

We sit on slow, lumbering buses that have no air conditioning, only windows that open a crack to allow in exhaust fumes and puffs of summer heat. My tshirt sticks to my body, insulated by the cheap nylon seat covers that irritate the backs of my legs, and more than once I feel beads of sweat trickle down the sides of my face. I am in desperate need of a shower, but I don't want to bring it up to Chloe and disturb her concentration. Plus, it's really nice to be left alone for a few hours to my own thoughts while she gives me the silent treatment. I should piss her off more often. 

Our journey takes us along leafy streets with huge houses, the sort I could only ever dream of living in, the sort that makes me think of middle aged women dressed all in white, with expensive perfumes and hairdos, glittering with diamonds and holding delicate glasses of champagne. I imagine large, airy living rooms; bright, gleaming kitchens; roaring fires in the winter and cocktail parties in the summer. I imagine families that go skiing over Christmas, and visit the south of France in the school holidays, dads with dark hair and permanently olive skin, kids that go to private schools and do tennis and cricket and horse riding at the weekends. 

When Chloe isn't reading her atlas she is staring wistfully out of the window at the mansions flitting by, and I wonder if she is longing for the same as me: to be part of this world of comfort, safety and security. After her devastating teenage years it would stand to reason. 

It is past tea time when she finally announces, as we are getting off what feels like the fiftieth bus of the day, and with an undertone of disappointment, that this is where we will be staying tonight. It is another rural space, with fields stretching for miles into the distance and trees to hide us from the view of passing traffic. I am weary as I pitch the tent, from both the heat and hunger, and she seems to sense this as she offers to pump up the air mattresses while I sit down and eat my half of the last of the sandwiches from the shop in Guildford. The ground beneath me is warm and bone dry; there mustn't have been a drop of rain here in weeks. When the beds are ready I barely say goodnight to Chloe before crawling inside the tent and collapsing onto mine without even bothering to get inside my sleeping bag. Outside the tent I hear the rustle of the sandwich wrappers and the crackle of the bottle of water as she eats her half of our makeshift dinner. I don't even have time to feel bad for leaving her alone, because before I can formulate the thought properly I am asleep. 

***

Chloe's determination hasn't waned by the morning. She is up before me again, and I can't be bothered trying to make conversation this early in the morning. For once, though, she doesn't seem perturbed by this. She has channelled all her energy into making it to this destination, and I am happy to follow her and nod and grunt in all the right places. She has clearly planned out today's route to within an inch of its life, yet although she seems bright-eyed and bushy tailed, there is a strange aura surrounding her today; one of distinct melancholy despite her keenness to get wherever the hell we're supposed to be going. We spend another full day on and off buses, followed by another uncomfortable night in a farmer's field in the middle of nowhere. The next morning though, something feels different. Her keenness has developed into urgency and she is talking faster and breathlessly, seemingly full of nervous energy.