Ho ho bloody ho
If this backfires, I’m going to spend Christmas alone in a holiday let apartment surrounded by sheep and no turkey, just that weird fish haggis.
Mum, Tristan, and Callie think I’m flying into London tomorrow. I will have to make something up like I’ve gone to a retreat in Bali to find myself so I don’t have to tell them the truth.
Maybe it’s not too late to back out? I’m still at the airport, I could book the first flight back to London.
Although they are actually turning off the lights now… what is going on? I thought airports never closed?
I hadn’t worked out vital details past disembarking. Now I’m standing in a deserted airport 20 miles from the main town and not a taxi office insight.
“Hey,” I ask a man mopping the floor. “What’s the quickest way to get to town now?”
He nods to the exit. “Number 6 bus goes to Lerwick. Stay on until the end.”
“Great.” I sigh with relief. I’m not walking 20 miles in arctic conditions. “When’s the next one?”
He checks the big clock on the wall. “You are in luck, about 50 minutes?”
This man has clearly never used a metro system if he thinks a 50-minute wait is ‘lucky.’ “How long does it take?”
“It’s got a few stops. About an hour.”
“Thanks.” Damn.
It’s so slow, Karl will beat me to Lerwick at this rate, and he doesn’t depart New York until tomorrow.
I’m going to have to go straight to the pub, which is not part of the plan. I wanted to freshen up. I’ve got that sexy, exhausted, disheveled plane look going on that you achieve only on long-haul flights. When you have to sit in a zombie-like state tilted 45 degrees so that hours worth of dribble cakes into your chin.
I smell like a zombie too. Ho ho bloody ho.
It’s definitely longer than 50 minutes by the time the bus arrives, and I’m the only person on it. I
try to do my make-up in the dark and mask the smell of airplane sweat with layers of deodorant.
The closer the lights of Lerwick loom, the sicker I feel. Not only will he reject me, knowing Danny, but he’ll also feel obliged to look after me in Shetland until he can send me back to the U. K. That’s all I need… his pity and concern.
Then he’ll message Tristan, who will also become really concerned, no doubt staging an intervention. My moment of madness will become a point of embarrassment for the next decade… until I do something even stupider, of course.
Way to go, Charlie.
“Last stop.” The bus pulls to a halt a few doors down from the location of my demise, ‘The
Lounge.’
It’s a small-town bar with live music and open night mics, one of the only bars in the town.
It’s not expecting a guest appearance from a transatlantic visitor.
I drag my two suitcases and guitar case off the bus and hover outside the bar.
“Do you need help?” The guy doing the door eyes my homeless chic look dubiously.
“Is it Open Mic night?”
“Yeah.” He says, looking at the suitcases. “Are you part of a band?”
“No. It’s just me, I’ve come from… New York.” I hesitate.”I’m here to surprise someone.”
He laughs at me like I’m a lunatic. “Holy shit! You’ve literally stepped off the plane?” I grit my teeth. “I couldn’t risk not getting a slot.”
“So?” I ask. “Can I have a slot?”
“All the way from New York. Sure.” He grins, “You can go up after Timmy has finished.” Timmy must be the one making the awful sound with bagpipes. “Five minutes?”
Panic seizes my heart.
“We don’t get too many requests.” He explains, looking at me as if I’m imaginary. “Timmy and the band from Unst mainly.”
“Everyone will be shocked at you… all the way from New York!”
“Uh-huh.” I rasp. “Look, can you sneak me through the back? It’ll ruin the surprise if I come through the front door.”
He grins. “Follow me.”
He turns suddenly, causing me to bang into him. “You’re not famous, are you?”
“No.” I look around the paint-chipped walls of the pub. Why would I be playing here if I was famous?
I drag the suitcases and the guitar down the alleyway to a back entrance bashing the guitar against the wall as I try to maneuver all my baggage.
“Wait here, Timmy will be off in two minutes?” I nod and take a peek around the door to the bar.
He’s here.
Danny is here.
I try to breathe but can’t like someone is clutching my throat and stopping the air. I rub my throat. My mouth is so dry, and tight I can’t speak, never mind sing. I can’t do this.
I’m going to be sick.
I’m going to pass out.
My heart is going to explode in my chest.
I’m having a full-blown panic attack.
I peep inside again. He’s going to get the shock of his life; I just hope it’s not a nasty one.
He looks the epitome of serenity, leaning against the bar, perched on a bar stool with Edme sitting beside him. He’s got a week worth of stubble and is wearing a wool jumper with holes in it. He could pass for a sexy sheep farmer.
For the forty thousandth time since I landed, I wondered how I could be so ridiculous to think this is a good idea.
They are laughing and drinking scotch together.
Edme is covered in mismatching jewellery like a Christmas tree and claps her hand out of rhythm to the bagpipes.
“Who’s the request for?” The barman asks as Timmy lets out one final painful blow.
“Danny.” I choke “and Edme!”