fly off to Singapore with Edwin at the start of term, or spilling over
with worry that I’m setting myself up for more heartache.
I also keep experiencing intense jolts of disappointment when I consider the prospect of not going to Australia. Which is nothing compared with the prospect of not going anywhere with Edwin, but
I can’t deny the empty crunch in my stomach at the thought of relinquishing the waterfalls and surf breaks of Great Ocean Drive, the lush vineyards of the Barossa Valley.
I suppose I just never imagined this scenario, even in my wildest dreams. Six months ago I imagined nothing but Edwin and Fiona snuggling up into cosy matrimony. So despite the fact that the
salsa trip smashes my budget into tiny pieces, I actually can’t wait to get there and give my inner turmoil a holiday. Like Cate said, this is the first trip we’ve all been on for ages,
and it feels like a fitting thing to do before I fly off to . . .
wherever
.
We arrive at Liverpool Airport at an ungodly hour in the morning on Friday – hence the cheapo flight – as the sun is starting to rise in a beautiful clear sky. This is obviously not
ideal because it is an unwritten law that any good holiday should begin by leaving behind the shittiest weather possible.
‘How’s the school break been for you, Emily?’ I ask, as we find a parking space.
She throws me a look. ‘Chaos, but fantastic. I took five eight-year-olds ghyll scrambling yesterday. Brilliant fun, although I was very glad to deliver them back to their parents
afterwards . . .’
Em’s always been as certain that she never wants to be a mum as Cate and I are that we do, which sometimes seems a bit strange given how great she is with kids.
‘Right, Em,’ Cate declares after we’ve pulled up in the car park and she’s dragged out her luggage. ‘Lauren and I have had a long discussion and we are going to do
everything in our power to get you and Joe together on this holiday. It’s our duty. Our mission. And we have chosen to accept it.’
‘He hasn’t really made a move,’ Emily replies dismissively. ‘Maybe he isn’t interested.’
‘Of course he’s interested,’ Cate replies, then she leans in and scrutinises Em’s face so closely you’d think she was searching for blackheads. ‘You
haven’t met someone else, have you?’
‘How on earth did you leap to that conclusion?’ Emily asks, looking alarmed, but Cate is now too busy waving to the group outside the terminal building to respond. There’s only
a few of us who took up the offer of the salsa holiday; all of us, probably crucially, are single and without families. But we’re joining several other groups over in Spain so hopefully
it’ll all be good fun.
As we head towards them, it strikes me how very British our tiny gang looks. This is despite Marion’s attempts to salsa-fy matters by making us all wear bright red T-shirts that say
Caution: Hot Surface! Lakeland Salsa Club (tel 015395 6393 for details)
. We are, collectively, the direct opposite of what salsa dancers should probably be. There are no fireballs of
burning, Latin energy. With the exception of Esteban, Will and Joe, who’ve all got passable tans, most of us are on the pasty side. Marion’s perm is wilting after the strain of lifting
her bag on to the trolley. Frank is eating a tuna sandwich produced from his rucksack, and even gorgeous Jilly is looking a bit flustered.
‘I’ve obviously only come for the T-shirt,’ Joe says, appearing next to me.
‘Flattering, aren’t they?’ I reply, forgetting to hate him for a second.
He laughs. I decide to shuffle away before he gets the impression I’m prepared to tolerate him. The holiday starts in the terminal, before we get on the plane. I go to the bar and return
to find that Marion has decided to launch into an impromptu group dance outside Boots.
It’s excruciatingly embarrassing, until a security guard comes and asks us all to desist. ‘These terrorism laws
with worry that I’m setting myself up for more heartache.
I also keep experiencing intense jolts of disappointment when I consider the prospect of not going to Australia. Which is nothing compared with the prospect of not going anywhere with Edwin, but
I can’t deny the empty crunch in my stomach at the thought of relinquishing the waterfalls and surf breaks of Great Ocean Drive, the lush vineyards of the Barossa Valley.
I suppose I just never imagined this scenario, even in my wildest dreams. Six months ago I imagined nothing but Edwin and Fiona snuggling up into cosy matrimony. So despite the fact that the
salsa trip smashes my budget into tiny pieces, I actually can’t wait to get there and give my inner turmoil a holiday. Like Cate said, this is the first trip we’ve all been on for ages,
and it feels like a fitting thing to do before I fly off to . . .
wherever
.
We arrive at Liverpool Airport at an ungodly hour in the morning on Friday – hence the cheapo flight – as the sun is starting to rise in a beautiful clear sky. This is obviously not
ideal because it is an unwritten law that any good holiday should begin by leaving behind the shittiest weather possible.
‘How’s the school break been for you, Emily?’ I ask, as we find a parking space.
She throws me a look. ‘Chaos, but fantastic. I took five eight-year-olds ghyll scrambling yesterday. Brilliant fun, although I was very glad to deliver them back to their parents
afterwards . . .’
Em’s always been as certain that she never wants to be a mum as Cate and I are that we do, which sometimes seems a bit strange given how great she is with kids.
‘Right, Em,’ Cate declares after we’ve pulled up in the car park and she’s dragged out her luggage. ‘Lauren and I have had a long discussion and we are going to do
everything in our power to get you and Joe together on this holiday. It’s our duty. Our mission. And we have chosen to accept it.’
‘He hasn’t really made a move,’ Emily replies dismissively. ‘Maybe he isn’t interested.’
‘Of course he’s interested,’ Cate replies, then she leans in and scrutinises Em’s face so closely you’d think she was searching for blackheads. ‘You
haven’t met someone else, have you?’
‘How on earth did you leap to that conclusion?’ Emily asks, looking alarmed, but Cate is now too busy waving to the group outside the terminal building to respond. There’s only
a few of us who took up the offer of the salsa holiday; all of us, probably crucially, are single and without families. But we’re joining several other groups over in Spain so hopefully
it’ll all be good fun.
As we head towards them, it strikes me how very British our tiny gang looks. This is despite Marion’s attempts to salsa-fy matters by making us all wear bright red T-shirts that say
Caution: Hot Surface! Lakeland Salsa Club (tel 015395 6393 for details)
. We are, collectively, the direct opposite of what salsa dancers should probably be. There are no fireballs of
burning, Latin energy. With the exception of Esteban, Will and Joe, who’ve all got passable tans, most of us are on the pasty side. Marion’s perm is wilting after the strain of lifting
her bag on to the trolley. Frank is eating a tuna sandwich produced from his rucksack, and even gorgeous Jilly is looking a bit flustered.
‘I’ve obviously only come for the T-shirt,’ Joe says, appearing next to me.
‘Flattering, aren’t they?’ I reply, forgetting to hate him for a second.
He laughs. I decide to shuffle away before he gets the impression I’m prepared to tolerate him. The holiday starts in the terminal, before we get on the plane. I go to the bar and return
to find that Marion has decided to launch into an impromptu group dance outside Boots.
It’s excruciatingly embarrassing, until a security guard comes and asks us all to desist. ‘These terrorism laws
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