Surfing the Clouds – a novel

Prologue

June 18 1990

The rain almost drowned out the sound of retching coming from the cubbyhole in the corner, laughingly described by the manager as an ensuite. Almost but not quite. Carrie shuddered, feeling a sudden chill despite the humid heat in the room. It was quite dark, the thick stone walls pierced by just a small window, the bleak sky outside allowing little light through the door which was open onto the veranda.

 Mike had been ill all night, the climb from the bus stop on the main road uphill to the village of Naggar, and then the even steeper ascent to Naggar Castle, laden under heavy packs and in blazing sunshine, had taken its toll. It was the first time either of them had been sick since coming to India, but Carrie was worried. He’d had a fever for more than 12 hours now, and had been vomiting and running to the toilet all that time. She paused from writing her diary, her pen hovering over the page. It could be pneumonia or malaria, she thought. Or something even worse. Calm yourself, Carrie, it’s probably just a bad dose of Delhi belly, and being a typical man he’s milking it. She put her pen down as he emerged from the bathroom, shaky on his feet, looking ashen despite his tan, grey rings under his eyes.

 “Why don’t you try and sleep,” she told him, pulling back his sleeping bag so he could get inside. Despite the fever he was shivering. “I’m going outside and read my book.”

 “But it’s pouring,” he protested.

 “I’ll sit on the veranda. It’s sheltered. I need some air anyway.”

 He climbed up onto the rickety bed and into his sleeping bag, pulling the zip up and tucking the bag under his chin. Carrie stepped outside onto the wooden balcony which accessed all the rooms on the first floor. It was covered by a tiled roof, and overlooked a cobbled courtyard, and beyond that, what she assumed were mountains. The foothills of the Himalayas. Although it had been hot and sunny yesterday when they got off the bus from Kulu, they had been so busy walking, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and reaching their goal, the much talked about Naggar Castle, they hadn’t taken time to look around them. The guidebook said transport to the castle was a ‘little problematic’ – it wasn’t wrong.

The former headquarters of the Raja of Kulu Valley didn’t took too regal now, Carrie thought, not in this pissing rain.

 As they had painstakingly climbed the almost vertical road through Naggar, no castle was to be seen. “Surely it isn’t those two sheds teetering those stones on the top of the hill,” she had commented, pausing for breath. It was.

 The monsoon-like rains began just as they staggered into the castle reception. Close up it was beautiful and very old, but there wasn’t a turret or a moat in sight, much to Carrie‘s disappointment. Paperwork out of the way, they were soon in their sparse room trying to recover from the bus trip and trek up the mountain. As the rain moved in, any view disappeared, and had been blanked by dark clouds and sheeting rain ever since.

 Carrie sighed and settled herself on some steps at the end of the veranda overlooking the valley up which they had climbed. The rain clattered onto the castle roof, and poured in huge torrents from gutters. The noise was ear shattering but also remarkably comforting. She turned her attention to her book, but could not concentrate. She hoped he would get better soon.  Okay, she was being selfish, but they had only four weeks left in India and she didn’t want to miss anything, especially a trek into the Himalayas.

 As Carrie sat there, half reading, half day dreaming, the rain stopped. It didn’t ease and then turn to drizzle as it would have done at home. It just stopped. And with equal suddenness, the clouds dispersed. Blue sky began to break through. She saw the tip of a mountain. Then there were more peaks, all emerging from the mist which hung on in the valley. But as the sun warmed the rich and fertile land, so different to the plains around Delhi, the mist too was chased away, leaving the valley below exposed. There were trees and golden fields, the occasional rooftop and, snaking through the valley far below, the Beas River on which, miles away and days before, they had literally risked their lives white water rafting.

 Carrie raised her eyes upwards, revelling in the silence, breathing in the so-clean air, hearing only her own heartbeat. She was looking at a never ending mountain range. Those closer and lower were stone grey and green, while those in the distance, rising majestically towards the now azure sky, were a softer grey, their tops capped with white snow. Somewhere out there, though she couldn’t see it, was Mount Everest, the roof of the world. Three weeks ago she had been in the grey streets of London. Today she was in the Indian Himalaya. The reality brought tears to Carrie’s eyes. Below her in the courtyard, a waiter dressed in pristine white was setting about placing chairs and tables for the castle’s guests. The hot Indian sun was drying the wet ground and foliage.

Mike should see this too.

 She walked into the bedroom ready to shake him awake, but stopped herself at his bedside. Her entry into the room had disturbed him, and he turned onto his back, a lock of thick dark hair falling over his forehead, and staying there, sticking in the sweat which dampened his still fevered brow. Carrie decided to leave him. The view would still be there tomorrow. She leaned forward and gently pushed the hair off his forehead. He started a little but did not open his eyes. She brushed her finger against his flushed cheek, all the while staring at his face. It was then she saw, for the first time, that he was beautiful.

Chapter 1

October 1989

Alone in her bedsit, Carrie was well on her way to being pissed again.  She’d almost emptied one bottle of red wine, and was contemplating opening another. It was 2am on a Friday morning in the middle of October. Soon she would be 25. Old, and alone. Shit. She slurped the dregs from her glass.  At this ungodly hour of the night most people would have been in their beds, snuggled up to someone else, instead of boozing all on their own. Not Carrie Delaney.

 This had become an almost nightly ritual. She felt a twang of guilt as she topped up her glass, draining the bottle of its very last drops of crimson liquid. “Ach, to hell with it!” she swore out loud to no one in particular. Sure she deserved it, didn’t she, she worked bloody hard, in that stupid job, every effing night. She turned her attention to the wine bottle. This was her social life. She patted the bottle like it was a dear old friend before collapsing back onto the sofa and staring at the rubbish on the screen.

 At least tomorrow was Friday, or rather, she glanced at the clock, today was Friday. With a bit of luck and the usual early Friday deadline, she might be out of the office before nine. Then maybe she could go out for a proper drink, or head to the cinema or go for a meal, if she could find someone to go with.

 The TV programme ended, so Carrie decided to forgo the second bottle of wine. It’d keep to tomorrow night, seeing as it was highly unlikely she would be out anywhere. She would probably be too knackered, anyway, and the few friends she did have in London would have headed out long before she finished at the Herald office.

Oh, her friends were jealous. It sounded like such a great job, sub-editor at one of the top tabloids in the UK. Her old schoolmates were impressed, and those who’d been on her journalism course were green with envy. They were all being paid a pittance slogging their guts out on weekly rags, while she had struck lucky and made it big early. And her parents loved to boast about Carrie’s success. It was a good job, well paid, and despite what other people seemed to think, it wasn’t too stressful. It was just the hours that were a problem.

It was after 10 before Carrie woke next morning. She followed her usual routine, dragging herself out of bed to make some toast and tea, before crawling back under the duvet and flicking on the television that sat on top of the drawers in the tiny bedroom. She should get up and go to the gym or head out for a jog, but she couldn’t be bothered. Anyway, her head hurt. After the toast and tea, Carrie flicked off the TV and curled up again, shutting her eyes in a bid to get rid of the red wine headache. She eventually dozed off, and when she woke it was almost noon. Three hours before she was due into work.

 Her head was feeling much better, just a little fuzzy, so Carrie dragged herself into the cupboard sized kitchen and pulled across the curtain of the shower, which, for the sake of space, was in the corner. The kitchen sink doubled as a washbasin, and the communal toilet was across the hall of the once proud Victorian House, now divided into nine bedsits. The landlord had packed as many into the building as possible.

 People were always telling her to stop pouring money down the drain renting this shabby little place and buy somewhere instead, but since she joined the Herald two years ago, Carrie had been saving her money. To buy her own flat, maybe, but having a mortgage was not one of Carrie’s dreams. It was a practicality, yes, but her dreams were different. She didn’t care much for fancy clothes, and had no need for a car in London. Most of her holidays were spent with her family down in Devon, and as her social life was non-existent, the only thing she spent money on was wine and beer, and far too many ready-meals to zap in the Herald microwave each evening.

 No, her dreams were of more exotic things, of travelling to far off lands, of taking total control of her life, and of meeting a handsome man who would love her forever.

  In between times, she had to get ready for work. It wasn’t much of a task really. As a sub-editor, Carrie never left the office, so had no need to wear suits and high heels like the reporters or ad reps. She just had to sit on her backside and work on a computer for eight hours. After showering, she pulled on a pair of khaki cargo pants, and a white teeshirt. The waistband of the trousers nipped her as she fastened the button. If she stood up straight there was no spare tyre hanging over the top, but if she slouched in what she had to admit was her normal position, a very decipherable roll was visible. The teeshirt was tight too, and as usual she seemed to be spilling out of her bra on the left side only.

 Carrie checked her watch. It was 12.30, she didn’t have to leave for another hour and three quarters, so she pulled off the trousers and slipped into her baggy jogging bottoms. Her stomach breathed a sigh of relief.

The phone rang and she knew without a doubt it would be her mother, who called practically every day. But you never know. Perhaps it was one of her old friends.  “Hello,” her voice was almost nervous.

 “Hello darling, how are you? Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

 “I’m fine Mum, just pottering. How’s Dad’s back?”

 “It’s not great, but you know him, he’s been up and about, talking about getting the paper up in that spare room, he just can’t sit down and do nothing.  I keep telling him he’ll only do more damage if he doesn’t rest it. Maybe you should have a word with him.”

 Carrie’s father had damaged his back last week when he missed his step from a ladder while stripping paper in the spare room. He had been determined to get the room decorated before her brother Jonathan and his wife Susan came to stay for the weekend, but it wasn’t to be. Even though Jonathan and Susan would be quite happy to use Carrie’s old room, which had the double bed, her father had been adamant the newly-weds should have a ‘room of their own’ for their visit.

 Carrie didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Before the wedding Susan regularly stayed, sleeping in Carrie’s bed, while Jonathan was in his own box room, and the spare room had lain full of junk as ever. Now they were married and it was okay for them to sleep together under Wendy and Alan’s roof, it was apparently imperative they have their own room. Carrie smiled to herself. She had visions of her parents turning the box room into a nursery before long in a bid to encourage Jonathan and Susan to start a family quickly. Wendy and Alan were keen to be grandparents, and didn’t want Jonathan and Susan harbouring any modern ideas about enjoying married life together for a few years before lumbering themselves with a baby.

 She forced herself to return to the subject of her father’s back. “Just tell him I said he won’t get it finished in time for the weekend, no matter what he does today, so he may as well take it easy, and then at least he might be fit to go to the Golf Club for a pint with Jonathan, rather than ending up flat on his back in bed,” Carrie said.

 “You are so right. As if he’s listen to either of us mind. There’s a letter here for you, by the way, from Australia. Must be from Aunt Lorrie. It’s probably your birthday card. You know how she likes to send them early.”

 “Forward it on to me, will you?” It was another 10 days until Carrie’s birthday, but she wouldn’t get too many cards this year. Best make sure and get Aunt Lorrie’s to add to the display.  “I suppose I really should write and give her my address.”

 “Of course you should. It’s been two years since you moved up there, and I’m sure she sent you a card last year, and at Christmas, and no doubt there was a postal order or something in them,” her mother admonished.

 There had been, and Carrie felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t written to Aunt Lorrie and Uncle Sam in Adelaide. But she just couldn’t be bothered.

 “I sit at a computer all day mum. It’s hard to motivate myself to start writing when I come home.”

 “I don’t expect you to write letters at 12 o’clock at night, silly girl. But I’m sure you’d find time if you just got out of bed a little earlier in the mornings.”

 “Okay Mum, point taken,” Carrie was not in the mood to continue this conversation.  “Look, I’m going to have to go, I’m meeting a friend for lunch,” she lied.

 “Is he anyone nice,” her mum leapt in.

 “He is a she, mum, and yes she is nice, but she might not be so nice to me if I’m late, so I’m going to go now. Give my love to Dad, and I’ll ring tomorrow and speak to Jonathan.”

 Carrie put the phone down, wishing she was meeting someone for lunch. But staggered starts meant there was no set lunch or teatime at work, and she didn’t have any friends living nearby. There were a few of girls she got to know when she went along to the morning session of Weight Watchers at the Leisure Centre, she had even met up with them on one of her night’s off, but the conversation had focused on children, husbands, where to buy the cheapest vegetables, and which supermarket stocked the widest range of ‘Weight Watchers from Heinz’ foods. As the only drink being consumed was no-point mineral water, and as she had felt obliged to order a Caesar Salad, it had been quite a dull night. A bottle of wine and late night TV were much better company.

 She tidied round the flat, and at 1.15pm considered going down the road to the Seven Eleven to get potatoes and cook herself a proper meal before work. A strict vegetarian, Carrie used to be pretty good in the kitchen, cooking up great concoctions with aubergines, courgettes, Quorn, eggs and copious amounts of cheese. But such meals took planning and time, and an hour after getting out of bed was not the time.  Instead, she opened a tin of baked beans, buttered a couple of slices of toast, and grated cheese on top of the hot beans.

 With lunch out of the way, she searched in the freezer compartment of her fridge for something to take to work for tea. There were two vegetable provencal meals, nothing else. She must go to the supermarket tomorrow.

 An hour later Carrie was back in her tight trousers and on the tube heading from Ealing into Central London, a small pack on her shoulders containing her vegetable provencal, a Mars bar, crisps, mints, and an apple – her concession to healthy eating. At Victoria, she found herself at it again, her usual railway station hobby – spotting the backpackers.  They were hard to miss. Young people from all over the world, sitting on their heavy packs, studying tourist maps of London and England, eating Burger Kings, and waiting for the train that would bear them on the next stage of their journey. Some may have just arrived in London, and were debating where to take the tube in the search for cheap accommodation, others were maybe heading off into the country, or to another city. They were mostly in twos, some looked tired, some were even arguing, but they all looked fulfilled. Carrie was jealous. How she longed to join their ranks. But soon she would be too old to be a backpacker.

 Today there was one girl standing on her own. Carrie checked if she was waiting for a man to come from the loo, or from the ticket desk. But no, the girl remained alone, staring at the electronic timetable. She was slim, blonde, and suntanned. Her clothes creased but clean. She was wearing sturdy boots, and couldn’t have been more than 21. Carrie reckoned she was probably European, maybe Australian. The timetable changed, and Brighton came up. The train would leave from platform 15. The lone girl flung her heavy pack on her back with practised expertise, and headed off in search of platform 15. What would be waiting for her in Brighton, Carrie wondered, filled with admiration.

 She reached the office with just a minute to spare. The early shift were already at their desks, Jane and Greg were subbing stories, while chief sub Brian was swearing at a cub reporter’s incompetence. “If she’s told me once that this assault victim was a dark haired young woman, she’s told me five times. Useless! I’m sending this one to you Ryan, you’ll have to cut out all the repetition and a lot of other crap.”

 Ryan lifted his head from a copy of that day’s paper, where he was studying the racing form. “Doolittle’s Da looks a good bet for the 4.15, what d’ya think Brian.”

 “Naw, my money’s on Pink Princess. She won me fifty quid last week and I’m hoping it’ll be a hundred today.” Noticing Carrie slipping into her seat, Brian continued: “Well, hello miss. How are we today?”

 “Fine,” Carrie mumbled. She flicked through a copy of the Herald. Plenty of showbiz stories from America, funny foreign briefs, pictures of scantily clad women. Not much of what she would call real news. It was the same as it always was.

 “Anyone want tea?” she called. There was a general mumble of consensus. “Now you’re talking,” Brian boomed, pushing his large blue mug with the dinosaur on it towards her. Carrie scooped up the mugs and headed into the kitchen.

 By seven o’clock she’d subbed five stories, one lengthy one about a film star’s divorce trauma and how the new man in her life was helping her get over it, two foreign snippets which she had to try to make funny in just one sentence. The one about the grandma who was practicing for a yodelling exam when police broke in because neighbours had thought she was being attacked was quite funny, but it was difficult to get a humorous slant on the story about the Belarussian man whose penis enlargement had gone drastically wrong. Then there was the 24 paragraph court case about the alleged drug baron which had to be subbed into seven paragraphs, not omitting any of the pertinent detail, and finally a picture story about a milkman who was being hailed a hero after he broke into a pensioner’s home to find the frail old man stuck in a bath of cold water, where he had been trapped for 12 hours.

 “What did this milkman do that was heroic?” Brian asked, glancing at her headline which read ‘HERO MILKIE SAVES PENSIONER’S LIFE.’

 “Nothing much,” Carrie replied. “I suppose he did put a shoulder to the front door and found the poor old man in the bath.”

 “Not exactly heroic, can’t you use a different head,” the chief sub pressed.

 “Well the whole gist of the story is about what a hero this milkie is, and him saying ‘Shucks, it was nothing really,’ so it’s hard to leave it out of the headline.”

 “Okay, we’ll go with it. I don’t suppose anyone’ll complain,” Brian acquiesced, and Carrie breathed a sigh of relief.

 By seven it was time to join the queue for the microwave. Such an unhealthy lifestyle, Carrie reflected, as she waited for the sports editor’s beef goulash to be zapped in order to insert her veg provencal. Practically all staff started work at 2pm or later, so none were heading home before 10. Some of the married men had homemade meals, lovingly prepared by their wives, to reheat, but most either ordered in from the Chinese, Indian or pizza parlour, or brought their readymade meals in to microwave. 

 There weren’t in fact that many married men, or women for that matter. Most were single, some were divorced. When Carrie told people she worked at the Daily Herald, they were impressed that she had achieved so much so quickly. But in fact most of the subs were in their early twenties, so were the reporters. The hours meant many people moved on to nine to five jobs wherever they could find them once they got married. Some waited until the kids were born, others stuck it for a few months, even years, enjoying the money, but eventually realising that their families were more important. For some, like Brian, that realisation had come too late. Carrie considered admitting to people that the job at the Herald was not as glamorous as it sounded, but enjoyed their praise and envy too much to burst the bubble.

  As the evening progressed the mood around the subs’ desk lightened. It was Friday. Okay, so it would be back to work for all but two of them on Sunday, but tomorrow was a day off for everyone, and if they kept at it, they would all get home early tonight. Brian was in great form. Pink Princess had won him more than £100 and he was looking forward to placing his winnings on another horse tomorrow. Jane and Greg were clock watching from 7.45, Jane was planning to drive home to Oxford until she was back on duty at 2pm on Sunday, and Greg was heading for a session with his mates at the Rose and Crown in the city centre. Bernice and Jim, who were on the middle shift with Carrie, were talking about going for a drink to the wine bar round the corner, in honour of Jim’s 51^st birthday. His wife, who divorced him three years ago, was living on the Costa del Sol, and his three children were grown up and working elsewhere. Bernice was obviously feeling a bit sorry for him. Carrie liked Bernice, a bubbly 23-year-old who had started in newspapers when she was 16 and had conscientiously worked her way up. She was pretty and confident, and she and Carrie often enjoyed a good laugh together.

 “Fancy heading to Botties Carrie?” Bernice asked. She turned to two of the unfortunates who had drawn the late shift. “Mark, Niall, what about you two?”

 Niall, always ready to party, said he’d be there, but Mark said he had a date. Everyone stopped talking. All eyes turned on Mark. Quiet, shy Mark who rarely spoke. He blushed crimson.

 “Spit it out then, who is she,” Brian was glad of the distraction from the particularly boring political column he was attempting to pre-sub. “Who is she?” he repeated.

 “You’re all very nosey.” Despite his blushing Mark was enjoying being the centre of attention. “She’s just a girl I met at the gym.”

 “Fit is she?” said Niall, with a lecherous laugh. “Wouldn’t mind a gym babe myself. Has she any mates.”

 “I’m sure she has, and yes she is fit, very fit. Mike will tell you. Oi, Mike!” Mark was trying to get the attention of Mike Somers, a freelance photographer who rarely joined in with the rabble at the subs’ desk.

 Mark was making the most of his moment. “Tell them what Lisa’s like.”

 “Very nice,” said Mike non-committally.

 “Well, is she hot, well built, you know Mike man? Nice isn’t a word we journalists use.” Everyone was laughing at Niall who was always funny but could be very crude.

 “She’s a good looking girl, and I’d say she could run rings round you on the football pitch,” Mike volunteered. Niall’s eyes lit up.

 “So you’re taking her on a date then Mark,” Jane enquired.

 “Yes, we’re going to see a late film.”

 “Whoopey Doo,” quipped Niall. “Why don’t you take her out and get her pissed and find out what she’s really made of. Wimp.”

 “We’re not all studs like you.” Mark was joking but Carrie could tell he was getting annoyed. Niall didn’t want to give up. “I suppose there’s still something to be said for a snog and a quick grope in the back row. You know, the last time I took a girl to the flicks we were just…”

 “No one will be going anywhere unless there’s a bit more working and a bit less talking,” roared Brian, and thankfully Niall had to save his story for another time.

 With the pages mostly through, the time dragged until 9pm when Brian packed up his stuff, briefed Ray who was deputy chief sub on the state of play, and told Bernice, Jim and Carrie to head for home.

 “You coming to Botties?” Carrie asked Brian, but she already knew the answer. At 42, Brian had one failed marriage behind him, and two kids who lived in another part of the country. He was doing a steady line with a woman he doted on, and had no intention of letting work and the boozing that often went with it get in the way this time.

 “Naw, love, see you Sunday,” Brian boomed, heading off towards the tube. Carrie, Jim and Bernice walked round the corner to Botties Wine Bar, and ordered a bottle of white while waiting for Niall. Ray turned up too, and they sat on until closing time enjoying the craic, before separating at Victoria.

 Carrie caught a taxi from the station back to her flat. She normally walked, but it was well after midnight, and a cold dark night. It had been a good Friday evening. It was very rare they headed out for a drink together.  Jim’s birthday had been a great excuse, and he did seem to enjoy himself. But she’d kept pace with the others and only managed four or five glasses of wine. And it was Friday night after all. Back in her flat, Carrie uncorked the bottle of red she had saved from last night. One glass wouldn’t hurt. She sat in front of a horror movie. Carrie got pissed again. Alone.

Chapter 2

In honour of the weekend, Carrie allowed herself an extra hour in bed the next morning, knowing she had the whole afternoon to do whatever she wanted. It was bliss. After a late lunch she headed to the supermarket. Her head still slightly fuzzy from the wine the night before, she walked round Tesco in a daze, getting frustrated when the woman in the checkout queue in front disappeared in search of the box of Weetabix she hadn’t realised was part of the ‘buy one, get one free’ offer, and held up the queue behind her for at least a minute.

 You’d think some people had nothing else to do on a Saturday afternoon, scowled Carrie to herself, as she struggled to carry the five plastic bags the two streets home. After unpacking she sat down with a cup of coffee. The flat was neat, Carrie had always been a tidy person, and as she surveyed her surroundings she realised she had absolutely nothing planned for her day off. This was not new. When she first started working at the Herald she had made sure every day off counted. No one worked on a Saturday so she could always arrange to meet someone or go somewhere. Her second day off varied, and was more difficult to plan for, but she used to manage, even if it was just an afternoon at the cinema, or a swim with one of her old college friends. Now her calendar was always blank.

 The hours she worked made it hard to keep up with her friends. She had practically lost touch with the mates she had been to school with in Devon. Most had stayed in the south west, some were married, some even had kids. She did speak to Rosie occasionally, and Rosie had visited her in London a few times, but hadn’t been up since she’d met Michael. By the way Rosie was talking the two would soon be getting engaged. Next time Carrie might see her could be at her wedding, if she even got an invite.

 The thought depressed Carrie. She was losing touch with her old friends more and more as time went by. I will do something today, she pledged. But what? She supposed she could ring Annette and find out what she was up to, but Annette would no doubt already have plans. A few months younger than Carrie, Annette was on an eternal manhunt in search of her soulmate. Blonde, slim and incredibly fit, she was never short of offers, but hadn’t met Mr Right yet.

 Despite not seeing as much of each other as they used to, the two remained best friends. They had rented a flat together at university in Manchester, and had both successfully applied to do a year-long journalism course in London. But after the exams ended, both passing honourably, their paths had diverged. Annette went home to Northern Ireland where she got a job on a weekly paper in the town in which she had grown up, while Carrie had wangled herself some work experience at the Herald. Her enthusiasm had impressed Zachery Jones, the editor, to the extent he had offered her some paid freelance shifts. That allowed her to pay her rent and stay on in London. After six months as a freelance, Carrie was offered a staff post and had stayed there ever since.

 She didn’t kid herself. She knew that it was her willingness to make herself available and her enthusiasm, at least in the early days, that had impressed the editor, rather than her talents as a journalist which she had to admit were largely untested.

 Had someone told her when she was on her course that she would get herself a job as a sub-editor on a national daily, with a neat salary of £20,000 a year, without ever doing a day’s slog in the offices of a weekly, she would not have believed them. But here she was, and despite the hours and the impact on her social life, she knew that financially and professionally, it was just too good a job to give up.

 Meanwhile Annette, bored by the routine back home and desperate to flee the nest, had applied for literally dozens of jobs in the 18 months after she returned to Ireland. And finally a year ago she was offered a reporter’s post with the Advertiser, a group of free weekly newspapers in west London. She accepted the job, exclaiming that the £11,000 salary was four grand more than she had been earning back home, and fixed herself up with a room in a shared house in Acton from where she could get the tube to Uxbridge where the Advertiser office was based.

 Annette enjoyed the job, Carrie knew. Her colleagues were all one of a kind, talented journalists aspiring to big jobs on Fleet Street. They were young, full of fun and full of ambition. They spent evenings together in the gym (Annette trained three nights a week after work and once at the weekends), in the pub, hitting the city, or going to the cinema.  Annette had made a whole new group of friends and Carrie envied her that.

 While she hated to admit it, she also envied Annette’s looks. Her long blonde hair looked great in a pleat, swinging loose round her shoulders, or in a high pony tail. She had near perfect teeth, and kept her 5ft 8ins tall figure in shape with her regular workouts. Her skin was flawless and swarthy, so she appeared to have a suntan all year round. Annette wasn’t vain about her looks, but knew how to make the most of them.

 Unlike Carrie. At university the two had been inseparable, and were always the centre of attention. Carrie’s long deep brown curls contrasting so strikingly with Annette’s blonde sheaf. Carrie had a curvaceous figure which looked so cute beside her friend’s lean toned body, and Carrie had a way of making people laugh which ensured the twosome always drew a crowd, male and female.

 How things had changed, thought Carrie as she finished her coffee. Since then she had put on a good two stone, and her curves were now fat. In a fit of madness, she had taken her hairdresser’s advice, and had her curls cropped. Instead of the easy ‘just run gel through it in the morning and off you go,’ routine the hairdresser had raved about, Carrie found her hair just stuck straight up in a spike no matter how much gel she applied, and she had to soak the back, where she lay on it, every morning, otherwise she would have looked ridiculous.

 To add insult to injury, the long hours on the computer had taken their toll on her eyesight. She was now officially short-sighted, and had the choice of glasses or contact lenses. Sensibly she wore the glasses for work, but then it seemed hardly worth the bother of putting the lenses in any other time.

 Just now, she didn’t feel good about herself.

 Come on Carrie girl, no good sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, she thought, pulling herself off the sofa and putting her cup in the sink. She picked up the phone and dialled Annette’s number. It rang and rang, and she was just about the put it down when Annette breathlessly answered.

 “Hello, five two three two,” Annette always answered her phone the same way.

 “I thought you were out jogging or shopping or something, I was nearly going to hang up,” Carrie admonished.

 “Carrie, how are you?” It was a question that did not require an answer. “Sorry, sorry, I was just in the middle of Imaccing my legs, and the old cream was getting everywhere. I just had to wash the last bit off. Course I’ll have to shave those hairs that are left behind. There seems to be more each time. Do you think it’s because the more I de-fuzz my legs the stronger the hairs grow back?”

 It was a question Carrie hadn’t contemplated in some time. “Dunno,” she replied. “But they do say the more you shave the thicker the hair grows back, so maybe it’s the same with that stuff.”

 “It’s not supposed to, in fact I think they say the hairs should grow weaker. Maybe I should go to a salon and get them properly waxed, it’s awful lying on the leg press and suddenly realising you’ve practically a jungle growing out of your lower legs. So embarrassing.”

 Carrie did not believe Annette would allow her leg hair to do much more than peep above the surface, but she humoured her anyway. “Don’t worry about it, dear, I’m sure all the men in the gym find other parts of you to look at rather than your hairy legs.”

 “Well, I did buy a nice pair of Lycra shorts and crop top in the sale at Super Sports and I must admit, they did look pretty cool in the gym,” said Annette. “Not that it got me anywhere. Most of the women in there are right skinny gits, and everyone’s wearing the gear now. In fact, there was only one girl in in leggings and a baggy teeshirt. She was a bit porky mind you, and she’d have looked gruesome in Lycra.”  She paused for breath. “So, what have you been up to?”

 Carrie was ready for the inevitable question. “Same as usual. Work, groceries, sleeping. I went to the pub with some of the guys from the office last night. That was good fun. Apart from that nothing really.”

 “Well I’m glad you got out. Any eligible young men in that group?”

 “There are a few young men, but I wouldn’t consider any of them eligible, whatever that means.”

 “What about Ray?”

 “Still gay.”

 “And Niall?”

 “The biggest male tart I know. No thanks.”

 “Greg?”

 “Practically engaged.”

 “Ryan?”

 “Come on, you know his baby’s just a few months old.”

 “I suppose Jim’s past it?”

 “He’s a 50.… sorry 51-year-old divorcee with three kids. I’m not that desperate!”

 “Well that Mark sounded nice.”

 “Mark is nice, but he’s not vaguely interested in me. Anyway, he’s found himself a girlfriend.”

 “You’re joking!” Annette was all ears. She had met Mark a couple of times, and pronounced him shy but cute. But when he had failed to pay her any attention, she concluded he was gay. “So he’s not a homosexual after all. Maybe he’s bi.”

 “I don’t think so Annette, I would say he’s just a normal guy who doesn’t play around like Niall, and took his time finding the right girl.”

 “He could have had the right girl, that night at the Metro, if he’d just allowed me to snuggle up instead of practically ignoring me.” Annette was obviously put out that she could no longer excuse Mark’s failure to notice her by pronouncing him gay.

 “Anyway, that’s Mark out of the running, so there are no eligible men in work,” Carrie thought she had concluded that part of the conversation, but Annette was not giving up.

 “There’s always that photographer, what’s his name, Mick, or Mike or something?”

 “Mike Somers? I didn’t think you’d met him. He’s a nice guy Mike, at least I think he is. He seems to do nothing but work, and doesn’t come out with the office except for the Christmas meal. I suppose you saw him when you gatecrashed the office party last December?” Carrie had actually urged Annette to come to give her moral support in her pursuit of Chris, an ad rep who had been paying her a fair bit of attention in the build-up to Christmas. She was sure she’s pull him that night, and had made great efforts with her clothes and make-up, aided of course by Annette. But it was all in vain when he arrived for the Christmas dinner with his wife on his arm. No one had ever told her he was married.

 “Yeah, he was there at Christmas, but I didn’t get the chance to speak to him, he’d gone before I’d drunk my first cocktail, remember. But he looked pretty hot,” said Annette.

 “I don’t think I’ve exchanged more than 10 words at a time with Mike, and that’s normally ‘Where’s the pic to go with whatever the story is,’ so I don’t think Mike would even take me under his notice. He could be gay too, for all we know, or married, or a pervert, God only knows.” Carrie didn’t think Mike could be any of these things, but maybe it would force Annette to change the subject. It worked.

 “He didn‘t look like a pervert to me. And I know all about them. Did I tell you about the man I interviewed about the dangerous road in Hanwell? The one who started pestering me afterwards?”

 “No.” This was a new one on Carrie.

 “He kept ringing me. It got to the stage that he was ringing every hour, and I had to get Andrew in the office to pick up my phone each time in case it was him. He was pleasant enough on the phone, but he kept asking me to go out with him. When he realised he wasn’t getting through to me he started sending faxes, and they were bloody disgusting. Some of the things he said he would like to do to me would have made you sick. It was very embarrassing. I had to go to the editor and he wrote to the bastard threatening to go to the police. Apparently he denied the faxes were from him, liar, but he’s left me in peace since, thank God.

 “Anyway, enough on that,” she went on, barely pausing for breath. “So what are you doing tonight? Fancy popping over to Acton? There’s a couple of ones from work coming down and we’re going to meet at the Kings Head in Chiswick before heading to the Brass Monkey for a bit of alternative comedy. Elaine’s coming too. You can stay with me if you don’t mind kipping in my bed.”

 Elaine was one of the three girls who shared the house with Annette. Another Irish girl, she was great company and never short of a story or two. She worked in an old folk’s home, and was full of great anecdotes about what the old dears in her care got up to. Carrie liked Elaine a lot.

 “I’d love to, if you don’t mind me tagging along,” she said.

 “Course not. The more the merrier, and who knows, maybe we’ll both get lucky tonight!”

 “Some chance for me,” Carrie grunted. “You know, I can hardly fit into any of my clothes now. I just don’t know why.”

 “Sure you do. You don’t exercise, plonker. And you don’t eat healthy. I’ve told you that before. Just wear black, it’s slimming. And wear your lenses. You’ll look great.”

 “Thanks Annette. Look, I’ll be over about eight, okay.”

 “Okey dokey. See you then, and don’t be late.” Carrie put the phone down.

 She dialled her mother’s number and was relieved to hear her dad had taken it easy and left the spare room untouched. His back was a little less stiff, but when Carrie called he was off to the newsagent for his paper and some tobacco for his pipe. Jonathan and Susan had been held up in traffic and weren’t due to later that afternoon. She said she would speak to them tomorrow.

 When she arrived at Annette’s door Carrie was wearing navy and white, not black. The navy trousers, made of a soft material which fitted at the hips and flowed wide at the legs, followed the line of her curves, rather than biting into her as jeans would have done. The white shirt was fitted, showing off the waist that Carrie didn’t believe she had any longer. On her feet she wore comfortable navy shoes with a small heel that made her look elegant in the flowing trousers.

 “Carrie, you look lovely,” enthused Annette. “Come on in. Samantha and Debs are here too, but they’re heading to a rave in Brighton of all places.”

 Annette’s other flatmates Samantha and Debs were two Kiwis in London for a good time. They spent what they earned temping going to raves all around the country. They were fun time girls and Carrie always felt slightly in awe of them, however friendly they were to her. She was glad they were going elsewhere tonight.”

 “G’day Carrie,” boomed Samantha. “She had a deep husky voice which could as easily have been male as female. Despite their 10 months in London the girls had not lost anything of their New Zealand accents. Carrie knew from Annette they were busy trying to work out a ploy which would allow them to extend their visas. Both claimed to love London, particularly the wide variety of single men living in the capital and beyond.

 “Evening,” said Carrie shyly. Turning to Annette, she indicated her clothes. “I decided against black seeing as we’re heading to a comedy club. I might have been mistaken for Jo Brand and forced to go on stage…”

 “Jo Brand, the comedienne,” guffawed Samantha. “You do look a bit like her, mate.” Catching a warning glance from Annette, she went on: “Course you’re much thinner than she is, and your hair’s nothing like her’s now it’s grown a bit.”

 “Your hair is lovely Carrie,” Elaine, who had been sitting in the corner painting her toenails, interjected. “You couldn’t see your curls when you had it so short. You’re nothing like Jo Brand. Sure you’re not even as funny as her!”

 Carrie sat down, relieved Elaine had spoken up. She took the bottle of lager Annette offered her, and settled back to enjoy the companionship of the room. She was not aware that Annette was looking at her with some concern. Annette knew Carrie was lonely, and was finding the anti-social hours tough going. And yes, Carrie had put on weight, and cutting her beautiful hair was a mistake.

 But when she looked at her friend she saw a curvaceous 24-year-old with clear skin and grey green eyes. There may have been slight shadows underneath, but these if anything gave those eyes more definition. Carrie was chunkier, true, but her face remained slim.

Her dark hair, tucked behind her ears, was regaining its lustre, no longer trained into submission with gel and wax, and her curls sprouted in total disorder, making her look younger than her age. Carrie had once been aware of her own good features, but seemed to have stopped seeing those, instead concentrating on the spare tyres and specs. Annette hated to see her so disheartened and unhappy with herself.  She would sort Carrie out. That would be her mission.

 Or one of her missions. Tonight she was going to concentrate on another mission. Finding a boyfriend. He had to be tall, good looking, fit, caring, rich, independent. That wasn’t much to ask for, was it? For a brief moment her mind conjured up an image of that Mike Somers, deep in conversation with Zachery Jones at the Herald Christmas bash, then disappearing into the night before she had even been introduced. Maybe she should get Carrie to engineer a meeting someday.

 Elaine was telling them how the home had lost one of its old ladies that day.

 “What, you mean she wandered off?” asked Debs, with apparent sincerity. “Did you find her?”

 “Don’t be daft. She died,” Samantha explained unsympathetically.

 “She died in hospital,” Elaine explained. “She was near 90 mind you, a spinster with no family at all. Just a little budgie. You know, when they took her into the hospital last Monday, she cried and cried and cried. For days. Matron went to see her every day, and couldn’t get any sense out of her. The nurses said she wasn’t in pain, so they couldn’t work out what was up.

 “Then yesterday she stopped moaning long enough to tell Matron she wanted Bertie, her budgie. Well Matron knew she wasn’t long for this world, and hated to see her so unhappy that she lifted Bertie’s cage from the home, hid it under a big towel, and took it onto the ward. She had to pull the curtains round the bed of course. Then she took the towel off and Mrs Johnston talked to Bertie for almost an hour.”

 “Seriously?” Carrie asked.

 “Yes, and that budgie just chirped and chirped and seemed as happy to see Mrs Johnston and she was to see it.”

 “So how come she died?” Debs was concerned.

 “She was going to die anyway. That’s not the point,” said Elaine, a little exasperated at being interrupted. “Anyhow, some of the other patients on the ward were a bit concerned by the chirping noise. They didn’t know it was Bertie in his cage, they thought a bird might have come in and got trapped. So they told the nurses who told the doctor who told the consultant. Eventually they opened the curtains round Mrs Johnston’s bed, and found Matron looking very embarrassed with Bertie in his cage on the old lady’s lap.

 “So Bertie was ordered off the premises. Not hygienic, apparently, but at least they gave Mrs Johnston time to say a proper goodbye.”

 Elaine took a slurp of her beer. “And you know what, Mrs Johnston started smiling right there and then, and smiled all the way through to four o’clock today, not a cheep out of her, excuse the pun.” She smiled around the room at her own joke.

 “Then she died very peacefully. Matron said that Bertie was a great comfort to her in her last hours. He was her only family. Isn’t that sweet.”

 They all contemplated for a moment.

 “What will happen to Bertie?” asked Carrie, always an animal lover.

 “Last I heard he was singing away very happily,” said Elaine. “After all, he is going to be the sole beneficiary in the will!”

 They all laughed, and Carrie settled back to finish her drink. It was going to be good night.

Chapter 3

It was a good night. The pub was packed, the atmosphere electric, and the comedians hilarious. Carrie got chatted up by a plump accountant with a rapidly receding hairline and John Lennon glasses, while Annette spent the entire evening giggling and flirting with a Brad Pitt lookalike, who took her phone number and promised to ring, but failed to make any arrangements for another date. There had been large amounts of beer consumed, and the traditional late night curry at 1am.

 Elaine, less drunk than the others because she had to work the next morning, steered them back to the flat, and somehow they undressed and found their way into bed. Carrie was smiling when she woke the next morning, her head a little groggy, but not bad at all.

 Annette, in the meantime, was suffering bigtime.

 “Shit,” she moaned. “Why did you let me drink so much Carrie, you know I can’t hold it like you. God, I really threw myself at that Paul fellah.” But Annette began to smile at the memory. “He was pretty gorgeous though. Hmmm.  What if he doesn’t ring?… Go find me some paracetemol, please.” She fell back onto the pillow, and Carrie obligingly climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen in search of the tablets. Empty coffee cups and half consumed biscuits indicated that they had still been eating after the curry, which meant it must have been very late before they got to bed. Debs and Samantha had stayed the night in Brighton, Elaine, poor thing, was already away to work. It was 10.30am.

 Carrie boiled up the kettle and made some tea and toast, then climbed back into Annette’s double bed in the hope of a good gossip. But Annette took three sips of the tea, baulked at the sight of the toast, and turned over and went back to sleep.

 Carrie didn’t feel like sleeping. She had to be in work by three, and was going to hang out at Annette’s until it was time to get the tube. She slowly ate her toast, cursing her friend for not having either Marmite or marmalade, sipped her tea, and climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Annette. She put on her jeans and flat shoes, a woolly jumper and her warm coat, for it was a chilly morning, and headed out for a walk. There weren’t many around. Some people dressed in their Sunday best, part of a dying breed that still headed to church in this capital, others walking dogs, but that, for the most part, was it.

 She chuckled to herself as she thought of Rodney, the guy who had latched onto her last night. Carrie knew she was very fussy. There was no way in a month of Sundays she would fancy someone like Rodney, for he was too short, too fat and too bald for her, but it was nice to feel that someone had been attracted to her. She vaguely remembered him asking for her phone number while they hung around finishing their drinks after the comedy acts ended, but she had let him down gently. “I‘m concentrating on my career at the moment, Rodney, and my work at the Herald means I don’t have much time for a social life, and certainly not a boyfriend. Best not start something we can’t finish,” she explained, feeling flattered, if a little guilty, by his hurt expression. Deflated, poor Rodney hadn’t persisted, and she had waved him goodbye at the door of the pub as she headed with the others to the Indian restaurant.

 Carrie turned into a small park. The grass was coated in fallen leaves in innumerable shades of orange and yellow, the trees which had been shedding them beginning to look stark as winter approached. Weak sunshine peeped occasionally through the cloud, and, as she headed across the grass towards the duckpond, Carrie drank in her surroundings. She felt good this morning, bathed in the warmth of friendship. It was good to be alive. At the pond, she was greeted by dozens of ducks, looking at her beseechingly. “Sorry,” she apologised out loud. “I don’t do this often enough to remember things like bread.”

 But as she continued around the park, she remembered she would soon be catching the tube back into the centre of London for her eight hour shift. Then it would be home to her empty bedsit and her television. Some life. Her mood darkened as she headed back to Annette’s.

 The extra sleep had done her friend some good. Annette now pronounced herself ready for a fry-up, and the two girls headed to the café around the corner. The wind was picking up, the sunshine had long gone, and though it was only 12.30 it felt like it was fast approaching night time.

 In contrast, the café was warm and welcoming. It oozed smells which promised a stomach full of grease and fat, the perfect hangover cure

  “One full English and one veggie breakfast, please, with plenty of tea,” Annette ordered, then leaned forward with her head in her hands as the waitress moved away.

 “Why do we do this Carrie,” she asked, not for the first time. “How come you were so bright and chirpy this morning. Haven’t you got a hangover?”

 “Not really,” Carrie replied. “I probably drink that much red wine during the week my body sees the beer as a refreshing break.”

 “Do you really drink that much?”

 “Och, I’m not that bad, just a bottle or so a night.” Carrie looked at Annette, suddenly embarrassed, “I suppose that is bad, isn’t it.”

 “It is a lot Carrie, what’s wrong that makes you drink so much, especially on your own?”

 Carrie contemplated the salt and pepper pots. She was already depressed thinking about the week ahead. She needed to confide in someone. “I hate my life at the minute, if the truth be told. I feel I don’t have any fun anymore, I don’t have anything to look forward to. I even miss my mum and dad, and Jonathan.”

 She looked up. “I don’t really have anyone here, Annette, except you, and I’m too tied up at work to get to see much of you. Anyway you’ve got a load of new friends, soon you’ll not want to bother with me anymore.”

 “Don’t be daft,” Annette said. Their pot of tea arrived. “I’ll always be your best mate, you know that, but I hate to see you so depressed. Is it your job?”

 “I suppose that’s what it boils down to. It would be alright if it was normal hours, I don’t hate the work.  But it just seems that’s all my life is now, work. I’ve lost interest in everything else.”

 Carrie felt tears pricking her eyelids. She normally told people how much she loved her big important job, her independence, her life in London. Only Annette suspected she wasn’t happy, but this was the first time she had really opened up to anyone.

 “I’m just fed up, Annette,” she said, unsuccessfully blinking back the tears. “Life just seems to be passing me by and in 10 years time I’ll be a sad old spinster still working stinking hours.”

 The fries arrived and both girls tucked in. Annette seemed contemplative, Carrie stayed silent, having sunk deep into a despair she thought she might never emerge from.

 Neither spoke until both had pushed their plates away, and pulled their mugs of tea into centre stage in front of them.

 “Why don’t you do something about it?” Annette broke the silence.

 “What do you suggest. You know there aren’t any other shifts available, and it’s too good a job to walk away from.”

 “Why is it? It’s only good if you’re enjoying it. Okay so the money’s not bad, but you always earn enough to get by on. You could try for a local paper, I bet you’d love it, you could even move back home.”

 “I can’t do that.” Carrie’s voice was despondent. “They would all say I’d failed. Anyway, what then? I’d be stuck in another job, and because I left this one there would be no way back up for me. They’d say I couldn’t hack it.”

 “Who really cares what ‘they,‘ whoever ‘they’ may be, say? Anyway, what would you like to do with your life?” Annette seemed exasperated. A hangover did not do much for her patience.

 “Get out of London for a start.”

 “Well, why don’t you book yourself a holiday for next year. You could go to the Canaries or Tenerife or somewhere like that even in January or February. Or leave it until the summer and head off to Spain or Greece. If you can find a cheap enough package deal I’ll come with you.”

 “I might take you up on that,” said Carrie. “But two weeks in a packed out hotel where you have to get up with the sun to bagsy a bed by the pool isn’t really what I mean. I know it would give me something to look forward to, and I’d probably have a great time, but that’s just really a quick fix. And then you come back down to earth again. Back to work.”

 “Loads of people have to make do with quick fixes like that every year. And even more can’t afford them. That’s life Carrie, you have to make the most of it. And if you’re not happy doing what you’re doing, do something else.”

 Carrie was starring into her empty tea mug, almost embarrassed. “What I really want to do is travel,” she said. “I want to get on a plane with a rucksack on my back and head off somewhere exotic like India, or China, or South America, I don’t care where. As long as it’s different and exciting, somewhere I can meet new people, get to know a bit of the world, instead of sitting in front of a computer as life passes me by.”

 “Well, why don’t you?”

 “Why don’t I what?”

 “Why don’t you just do it instead of sitting there dreaming or moaning about it. You said you’d plenty of money saved. Hand in your notice, buy yourself a ticket to wherever, and off you go. If you don’t do it now when you’re young, fee and single and have the money you might never get the chance again.”

 “But I can’t just pack up and leave,” Carrie protested.

 “Course you can. You say you don’t have anything here. You don’t see that much of your mum and dad and anyway they’ll be waiting for you when you come home, so will I. So might that Rodney even!”

 Carrie allowed herself a chuckle. Annette carried on. “If you need money when you’re travelling I’m sure you’d get freelance work.” She focused hard on Carrie’s face. “Now’s the time to do it Carrie, when you don’t have a husband, kids or a mortgage.”

 Carrie took a large swig of tea, leaned back and shut her eyes. It was a familiar scene, one she replayed in her imagination so many times. She could see herself, burdened under a backpack, checking onto an international flight at Heathrow or Gatwick. Bound for a country she had seen only in her mind and on television, no idea of where she would be sleeping that night, excited by the thought of what lay ahead. Sunshine filled days, no work, experiences she could only hope to dream about.

 But reality was never far away. It was almost 1.30, and she had to be on the tube in half an hour. She said as much to Annette and the two of them headed back to the flat, where Carrie gathered her things together.

 Both girls were silent, Annette suffering badly and planning to go back to bed for another few hours, Carrie’s mind working frantically. She now had two images in her head, the carefree girl about to board the plane in search of her dreams, and the miserable sub-editor married to her desk. She packed up her clothes, pinched a tin of pasta shapes from Annette for her tea that night, and walked to the front door.

 As she opened it, she turned to Annette. “I think I might do it you know,” she said. “In fact…” She paused.  “I don’t think.  I am going to do it. I am going to do it!”

 Her voice rose higher and higher as she repeated the words, her face beaming. “I really am Annette, I’m going to go and see the world. Thank you,” she hugged her rather bemused friend. “Thank you for encouraging me. I’m going to see the world.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go, I’ll call you.”

 Carrie’s step was light as she strode towards the underground. She felt like a burden had been lifted. “My God, my God,” she kept repeating. She was almost dizzy with happiness. She had finally made a decision about her own life, and boy was she going to make the most of it. She would be on the train for three quarters of an hour. That should give her time to sort out the details.

 It is difficult to think straight when you are light headed with excitement. Where to go was no problem, there was so much choice, and she would discuss the order of each destination with a travel agent who knew a globe better than she did. Money wasn’t really an issue either, she had close to £4,500 in her savings, and Annette was right, she probably could pick up work along the way, even if it wasn’t in journalism. She wasn’t too proud to pull a pint or two. The main problem would be finding someone to come with her. No way would she contemplate travelling alone, seeing all these different places without someone to share them with. And she had no sense of direction, she would never find her way around towns, cities and airports alone, no matter how good a map or guidebook. She didn’t fancy sleeping alone in strange places either. Plus there were those awful stories that turned up every now and them. Single women travellers mugged, raped or even murdered. She shuddered at the thought.  No, finding a travelling companion was a priority, but she couldn’t foresee it as a difficulty. Hundreds of young people head off around the world every week, and thousands more would like to. Somehow she’d meet up with one of these wannabe backpackers.

 What about work. Should she tell them her plans? Carrie knew she would not be handing in her notice until a few weeks before she set out, but would it hurt to tell her fellow subs? Word might filter through to management, and they might question her commitment. No, she would keep quiet for now.

 Brian was at his desk tucking into a chocolate biscuit. “Afternoon,” he said. “You’re looking remarkably pleased with yourself, must’ve been a good night last night.” The other subs giggled knowingly. “Was he good, eh Carrie?” teased Niall.

 “Yeah, not bad,” replied Carrie, unoffended by the banter. She sat down and began switching her machine on, aware that the smile remained fixed on her face, which was flushed red.

 Bernice was looking at her strangely across the computer consul. “He must’ve been a bit of alright that even the start of a shift here can’t wipe that smile off your face,” she commented when the others appeared not to be listening.

 “There was no he,” Carrie said smiling. You couldn’t exactly count baldy Rodney a ‘he.’

 “Well something’s happened. Have you won the pools or something?”

 “Actually, I’m going to leave work and travel round the world!” The announcement came forth so loudly it was sheer good luck Zachery hadn’t heard. Her heart was pounding and she held her breath in expectation, waiting for everyone to clamour around, congratulate her, voice admiration for her brave decision. Instead they all kept rattling away at their keyboards, their interest non existent. Brian was the first to say anything. “Join the queue, love. When I get me book published I’ll be out of here,” was the best he could manage.

 “I’m away too,” said Greg. “Helen and I are going to start up a business together when we’re married, make lots of money.”

 “Doing what?” asked Niall.

 “This and that, you know, use our entrepreneurial skills.”

 Jane piped up. “And I’ll be on my way when the editor of the Oxford News retires, hopefully sometime this century.”

 They all chuckled to themselves and got on with their work.

 “But I mean it,” Carrie persisted. Even this indifference was not going to knock her enthusiasm. “The money’s in the bank and I’m going. No reason why not. I just have to find someone to go with.”

 “You are serious then?” Bernice asked. Nice of her to be interested. “Totally. I’ve been planning this for,” Carrie checked her watch, “all of three hours, and I’m really going to do it, honest, Bernice, I will.”

 “Are you gonna tell Zachery?” Bernice seemed concerned. Carrie knew what she meant. To demonstrate lack of commitment at work could get you in trouble, and, as Zachery was always happy to comment, no one was irreplaceable, and there were plenty of young journalists out there itching for a job on the Daily Herald.

 “Not yet. Not that he can fire me for having ambition, even if it isn’t to occupy his office. I’ve got to sort out a few things before I set a date to leave. I need to book my flights, buy a rucksack, find someone to travel with…”

 “Like who?” Bernice was instantly incredulous. “Who has the time and money to just drop their job and step out round the world. I’d love to, but there’s no chance of me getting any further than Watford with my mortgage.”

 “I know someone who’s thinking about going travelling,” Mark piped up. “But I don’t suppose he’d be suitable.”

 “You’d never know. I‘d prefer a female companion,” said Carrie, “but never say never. Who is he?”

 “My great uncle. He made a packet building metal trailers and retired early. Since Aunty Anna died, he spends most of his time off on fancy holidays. Last I heard he was talking about heading to Australia.” He contemplated for a brief second. “Mind you, I daresay Trevor would stay in upmarket hotels. And he’s big into bird watching, maybe not the type of travelling companion you’re looking for.”

 “Well no, I don’t suppose I’d quite stretch to upmarket hotels. Mind you, he seems a dear old chap, Mark, it would be interesting to meet him.”

 “What I failed to mention is that he’s also a right lecherous old git, Carrie,” Mark admitted. “I would feel bad letting him loose on you.”

 “Thanks.” Carrie received a story to sub and for the next half hour lost herself in a feature about a family whose child needed  pioneering surgery only available in America. It was a heartrending story, which left Carrie feeling both sad and grateful for her own lot at the same time. When she sent the story back she realised her resolve to make the most of her own life had been somehow strengthened.

 Bernice asked if Annette might not be a good travelling companion. Or what about her old school friend Rosie? Carrie explained that it was most likely Annette couldn’t afford it, and would hate the thought of sleeping in a bag that hadn’t been washed in weeks, let alone under canvas, while Rosie was a homebird, and too wrapped up in Michael to consider going away for more than a couple of days. She almost laughed at the thought. She had enough trouble enticing Rosie to come up and see her for a weekend in London, she could just imagine the reception she would get if she tried to persuade her to leave her home, job, family and above all Michael for a year or so. She would ask her of course, but unless something had changed dramatically in Rosie’s life, she could predict the answer.

 For the rest of the afternoon, and the entire week that followed, Carrie and her friends drew up a shortlist – and it was pretty short – of possible travelling companions. One by one they were eliminated. At each stage, or during a conversation with a potential fellow traveller, Carrie had stressed her parents must know nothing about this. She wanted to present Wendy and Alan with a fait accompli, plans intact, foolproof, unchangeable. She didn’t want them trying to persuade her to stick with her job, her career, the stable life she was leading. If only they had known how close to instability she was. Perhaps they did. She never asked.

 By the following Sunday, Carrie had progressed no further. She still had no one to go with, and without a travelling companion, she was going nowhere. Then Ray came up with an inspired idea.

 “Why don’t you advertise? Just stick an ad in the Evening Standard or Time Out or…” remembering where he was, he quickly added, “or the Herald, saying you are looking for someone to travel round the world with. See what that comes up with,” he said.

 At first Carrie just laughed. “I’m not looking for a lonely heart, idjit. Just cos that’s how you pick up your boyfriends doesn’t mean it would work for me.”

 Ray was obviously offended. “I have never advertised in the lonely hearts columns of any publication,” but he began to smile. “Okay I may have answered a few adverts….” Laughter erupted around the table. “But my granny advertised.”

 He ignored the incredulous looks he was getting. “Granny James loved her summer holidays. After Grandad died, she couldn’t get enough of them. But mum and dad, and Uncle Lee and Aunt Ethel weren’t able to go more than once every couple of years, and there weren’t too many of her own friends willing to bare themselves on the Costa del Sol, so she put an advert in the Evening Standard,  and got loads of replies. She met a couple of them, settled on a lady she liked, and the two of them have been going off together a couple of times a year ever since. They are still best friends. Granny said that ad was the best money she’d ever spent.”

 Carrie’s mind was racing as she stared at the one paragraph story on her screen. When she looked up she realised Ray, Bernice, Brian, Jane, Mark and even Mike who was leaning over Brian’s desk discussing a photograph, were all staring expectantly at her.  “Okay,” she said. “An ad it is then. I’ll think about how to word it tonight.”

Chapter 4

‘Adventurous, fun-loving vegetarian girl in mid-20s seeks female companion for round-the-world trip. Must have GOSH. Non-smoker preferred. Box no 922.’

“I’m not too sure,” said Jane. “Fun-loving sounds a bit OTT,” she glanced at Carrie. “I mean I know you are fun-loving, every single girl of 25 should be, but somehow it sounds a bit desperate. And does it make any difference whether or not you’re a vegetarian?” She looked at the words in front of her again. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

 Carrie contemplated. “I spent hours on this at Annette’s last night, and the Kiwis insisted I include fun-loving. And they are travellers, after all.”

 “Ha! From all I’ve heard those two girls are fun-lovers all right,” interjected Niall. “But sure they flew from Auckland to London and haven’t gone anywhere since, so I don’t think they count as real travellers. You should ask the opinion of someone who has actually done a bit of real travelling. Like Mike. He headed off round Europe a couple of years ago. Ask him what would make him sit up and take notice of an ad.”

 “Carrie?” The draft advertisement had reached Brian who seemed a little amused. “What does GOSH mean?”

 “Good sense of humour, what do you think. Don’t you ever read the small ads?”

 “Yes, but any I’m reading are normally looking for someone with a GSOH Maybe you’d better do a bit of sub-editing on your own material.”

 “Oh gosh,” gasped Carrie. Realising what she’d just said she began to apologise, red faced, but stopped mid-sentence when she spotted Mike out of the corner of her eye. Perhaps he could contribute something to her efforts at drafting an advertisement.

 Glancing at her computer, she decided the glamour actress telling ‘all’ about her how her implants had leaked could wait a few minutes, and she scurried over to the picture desk where Mike was studying negatives with a magnifying glass.

 “Hi Mike!” he glanced up and smiled. “Hiya, what’s the problem?”

 “Well,” she suddenly felt a bit foolish. “I’ve spent all week trying to write an advertisement to find someone to go travelling with, and the best I’ve come up with is this. The others said you’d done a bit of travelling, so I wandered if this would inspire someone to hop on the plane with me, so to speak.” She thrust the hand written piece of paper in front of Mike. “Oh, don’t mind the typo, it’s already been pointed out,” she added with a rueful smile.

 Mike ran his eye over it quickly. “I’d leave out fun-loving, vegetarian and non-smoker,” he said quickly. “The fun-loving sounds like you think you are a great laugh all of the time, and no one is, the vegetarian and non-smoking would put people off. If you get a response you can talk about that when you meet them. And you’d be amazed how many people suddenly become smokers when they discover an endless supply of cheap fags.”

 “So what would you suggest?”

 “Just something simple like…” He thought for a few seconds. ‘Fancy travelling the world. Question mark. Single girl, 25, seeks female companion for the adventure of a lifetime.’”

 “It doesn’t sound like some sort of sexual come on, does it?” Carrie asked nervously. Mike ignored the question.

 “You could add something about how long the trip will last, and stress you want to go soon. That way you shouldn’t get too many timewasters. Or perverts,” he said. Carrie was scribbling away.

 “I’ll give it a try. Thanks Mike. By the way, where did you go to?”

 “Nothing as exciting as what you’re planning. I just inter-railed round Europe for six weeks with a mate. It was great. Super for photos.”

 “Lucky you, eh. Didn‘t it give you itchy feet?”

 “Not really.”

 “Oh.” Carrie felt a little put down.

 “Anyway, Dee wouldn’t be into backpacking. She might get her hair messy. And it’s never so easy to drop everything when you’ve a mortgage to pay.”

 “Right.” Carrie was surprised. She hadn’t realised Mike was married. She made a mental note to quiz Bernice about it. Bernice knew most things.

‘Fancy travelling the world? Single girl, 25, seeks female companion for a year-long adventure of a lifetime. If you think you have the time and the dosh, contact me at Box 922.’

 Annette whooped as she read the ad allowed from the classified pages of Time Out. The whoop almost blasted Carrie‘s eardrum down the phone. “Good one Carrie, that should get a few replies. Who came up with that?”

 “Mike, would you believe,” said Carrie, rubbing her right ear, having transferred the phone to her left.

 “Oh the gorgeous Mike,” swooned Annette.

 “He may be gorgeous, but he’s practically married, so don’t be getting any ideas,” Carried admonished.

 “Married, to who? You never told me.”

 “Well, apparently they aren’t officially married, just living together. Some blonde bimbo by the sounds of it. Bernice says they’ve been on and off for years, but sounds like it’s more on than off at the minute.”

 “Shame,” said Annette. “Must go. The editor wants us in his office for a slagging. Apparently sales of that old rag The News are up, and we’re down again. We get the same thing every six months, and I’ll swear he’s just making it up. Give me a ring if you get any replies.”

 Carrie had given people a full 10 days to reply, and the wait was awful. She just wanted to get on with things, to get flights booked so it all became more real. At the minute the whole thing just seemed like an airy fairy dream, and this delay was interminable. Already she had been into Trailfinders travel agency, and had gone through their magazines, looking at the different options for round-the-world trips. There were so many places she wanted to stop at, but she knew she would have to be selective, this time at least. She was only planning to travel for a year, which seemed a very long time, but knew that there was no point in stopping in 50 places and spending only a week in each. She wanted to really get to know each country. As she daydreamed, different scenes started to form in front of her eyes, and Brian had to warn her, not for the first time, to get back to work. It was Friday, and she was on the late shift. She was heading to the Time Out office to collect her replies first thing tomorrow. She planned to go straight to bed when she got home. She needed a clear head for her day off.

 As Carrie walked up to the reception desk in the magazine office, her stomach was churning and she felt physically sick. What if she had no replies? What if she had hundreds? How would she cope?

 “Can you check if there’s anything in Box 922 please?” she asked the petite brunette behind the large reception desk.

 “You’re early,” the girl commented, ducking under the desk. “We’ve only just opened up. A lonely hearts ad was it?”

 Nosey cow. “No actually, it was a travel ad.”

 The brunette head popped back up over the desk. “You’re not the one looking for someone to go round the world with, are you?” She suddenly seemed very enthusiastic. Carrie felt embarrassed.

 “Yes actually I am.”

“Me and me mate Lisa saw that ad and we thought we’d just love to do it, ‘cept we don’t have the money. And I wouldn’t leave this job, not in a million years. I just love it. Here you go.” She handed a large bundle on envelopes of varying sizes to Carrie, who said a quick thanks, and hurried towards the door before the girl changed her mind about leaving her job and latching onto Carrie. “Good luck,” she called after Carrie’s receding back.

 Carrie had planned to put the letters in the handbag and head home, but inquisitiveness got the better of her, and she headed into a nearby coffee shop for a swig of caffeine and a quick peep.

 Two hours later she was still there, drinking her third coffee (and eating her second Danish pastry). There had been 23 replies in total, which Carrie reckoned was pretty good. Not too few, not too many. But it wasn’t long before she had the list wheedled down to just 10. Despite the fact that she had stressed she wanted a female companion, six of the replies had been from men. Three seemed to be genuine enough, guys wanting to go backpacking, and willing to join up with her, but the other three were from jokers who in different ways made it clear they thought her ad was just an alternative way of looking for sex. “Perverts,” she sighed as she pushed the envelopes, including the photo of the overweight guy in the bath with only a rubber duck covering his privates, into the reject pile. Mind you, she’d have to show them to Annette and the girls later, give them a laugh. And maybe the office. She smiled at the thought of Mark’s face, or even Jim’s if they read some of the disgusting remarks in the letters!

 The other letters were rejected because the writers were too young – one was from a 15-year-old girl in Surbiton wanting to leave home on the strength of her piggy bank – or too old, like the retired teacher and grandmother-of-12 who had never left England but felt she should see the world before she died. Oh, and did she forget to mention she had 23 great grandchildren! In some it was clear the writers didn’t have the money, and in a couple Carrie got the distinct impression the girls envisaged luxury hotels in the Bahamas or a cruise around the Indian Ocean. Somehow Carrie didn’t think grotty backpackers’ hostels would be their thing. Then there was Chelsea, who said she would get a job immediately if Carrie could wait a couple of years before heading off, and could Carrie please let her know as soon as possible, because otherwise she just planned to stay on the dole.

 Her stomach rumbling because of too much coffee and rich Danishes, Carrie made her way home. She went through all the applications again in case she’d misinterpreted one, and by four o’clock that day had the list down to six, having rejected four more because, as a journalist, she prided herself in being able to read their personalities from the way a person wrote, and decided she wouldn’t get on with them. She put them on a reserve list, in case none of the six others worked out.

  Glancing at the clock, Carrie leapt up in shock. She’d better get to Waitrose. Annette and Elaine were coming for dinner and she’d also asked Bernice to come by if she could so they could go through the replies with her and put them in some sort of order. She’d best get going.

 Carrie cooked a mean vegetarian chilli, with rice, tortilla bread, guacamole and sour cream. Bernice surprised Carrie by actually turning up – she was normally clubbing it on a Saturday night – and the four of them tucked in heartily, washing the food down with glasses of wine. Once the table had been cleared off, it was down to business.

 Carrie first presented the girls with the final six. She knew there would be disagreements ahead, best limit it to six candidates instead of unveiling the full 23. She would save the rest for later. .

 The first was Sally. Aged 28, a teacher from Croyden, she had travelled extensively in America, and was keen to see other cultures. She could easily take a year out of school, and had enough in her savings to pay for the trip tomorrow if necessary. She listed her hobbies as hill walking, swimming, watching films and children. Apart from the children bit, Carrie thought she sounded great.

The others couldn’t disagree, although Bernice had a thing about teachers. “They are sooo boring,” she protested. “They wear plaid skirts and flat shoes and never let their hair down.” Elaine disagreed. “My sister is a teacher, if you don’t mind, and she never wears plaid skirts. Okay, I’ll concede the flat shoes, but she is on her feet all day. And she and her teacher mates aren’t at all afraid to let their hair down. Every end of term, half term, exceptional closure day, Baker Day, Saturday, is an excuse to party. Our Irene certainly isn’t boring.”

After further discussion it was agreed that a meeting should be arranged with Sally.

 Jill was 32 and engaged. She lived in Hampstead and commuted into London where she worked as a cinema manager. Her hobbies, she cited, were films (of course), eating, travelling and camping, though she admitted she had never been any further that France and Spain. She spoke in glowing terms about her fiancé John who would lend her the money to go on the trip with Carrie and who was so supportive of the idea of her taking off for a year. Every sentence, however, was punctuated with references to John.

 It was generally agreed that this girl could not stick a week away from her doting fiancé, let alone a year. And even if she did, Carrie would be fed up to the back teeth with references to John, who was probably a very decent fellah, but in the eyes of those assembled in the room, sounded like a bit of a dork. Jill was added to the reserve pile.

 Alexandra claimed to be fun-loving, which impressed Carrie, despite the fact that this description had been rejected from her ad. She was only 22, and had finished at university where she had obtained a 2:2 in English and PE the previous June. Since then she had been looking after children for a family friend while contemplating her future career. She felt a year’s travelling would be the perfect opportunity for her to decide what to do with her life. She loved sport of all descriptions, played Lacrosse and hockey, had recently returned from a rock climbing trip in Spain, and loved ‘a drink and a good time.’ Money wasn’t an issue as her parents were, in Alexandra’s own words ‘loaded’ and would be happy to pay her way.

“She sounds a bit spoilt,” observed Annette.

 “Yeah, she may not be up to mucking in with a pleb like you in deepest India,” said Elaine. But all four agreed that Alexandra had potential. Her name was added to the pile that contained only Sally.

“I put this girl in the last six because I suppose I felt a bit sorry for her,” Carrie admitted, passing Helene’s letter around. Helene, 26, opened by saying she wanted to be honest with Carrie, in the hope that this would make her see how genuine she was about travelling and how much it would mean to her.  It appeared she came from a broken home, and had been abused by her father. She ran away from her family in Huddersfield when she was 16 and had never been back since. She married when she was 19 and had a baby at 21, but the child had a heart defect and died before it was six-weeks-old. Her husband had begun to drink more and more, and eventually started beating her. She left him and lived for three months in a Women’s Aid shelter. She started doing a computer class and now worked for a community group in Brixton teaching other women computer skills.

“Well, she’s hardly got the money to go round the world,” exclaimed Bernice, who was the first to read Helene’s letter.

  “Read on,” said Carrie. “Quickly,” urged Annette and Elaine who were getting impatient to hear Helene’s story.

 It turned out her father had died leaving an unexpectedly large amount to each of his three children. Solicitors had tracked Helene down, and now she had a neat £45,000 in the bank earning interest.

 “Going off on a trip like you have planned would mean the world to me,” she wrote. “It would help heal all the hurt I’ve suffered.”

 Bernice let out a guffaw. “She can’t be for real. She’s pulling at the heartstrings. This girl should be a writer.”

 Annette was of a similar view. Elaine was more sympathetic. Some women did have such awful luck, maybe it was all true. In the end they all agreed Carrie should meet Helene to see if she was indeed, for real.

Margaret was 34, single, and worked for a haulage company based in Southampton, although she spent most of her time in their London office. Having started work with the company when she was 16, Margaret said she was on a high salary, and loved to travel. Most of her trips had been 18-30 holidays to Spain, Portugal and Greece, but since she’d turned 30 she found her options were more limited. She had travelled to Peru two years earlier to trek the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, lost city of the Incas, but had suffered altitude sickness and couldn’t complete the walk. She said she had no ties, could rent her flat out at the drop of a hat, and would love to join Carrie on a real journey.

 Margaret’s letter did not give much more detail, but Carrie felt it said enough about the type of person she was and she sounded okay. As there was nothing controversial to discuss about her letter, the girls all agreed Carrie should meet Margaret, but as Bernice was tucking the letter back into the envelope she found Margaret had, for some strange reason, enclosed a photograph of herself.

 “My God!” exclaimed Bernice, pulling the picture out.  “Let’s see,” Carrie, Elaine and Annette all grabbed for the photograph. A large round face smiled out at them, attached to what, it had to be said, was a very overweight body dressed in unflattering leggings and a tent of a teeshirt.  “This girl doesn’t look like she could walk the length of herself, let alone climb to Machu Picchu!” muttered Carrie. “What on earth did she enclose that for. That would put me off immediately.”

 “Maybe that’s why she did enclose it,” said Elaine. “In case you said something rude, or were really shocked when you saw her face to face. She’s giving you the option of rejecting her because of how she looks now, rather than getting her hopes up and then being rejected later. I think you should give her the chance. She’s pretty brave.”

 “Yeah,” Annette agreed. “You never know, that might be an old photo, she might be a lot slimmer now. And she sounds nice enough. It’s not fair to be fattist.”

 “Okay, okay,” Carrie conceded, putting Margaret’s letter along with Sally, Alexandra and Helene’s.

 The last of the six was Chloe who was 18, fresh out of school, and looking for something exciting to do before she headed to art college. Chloe said she felt a trip to different places would be of great benefit to her personally and in her artwork, and said she would love to visit the great galleries of the world.

 “She doesn’t mention how she would fund the trip,” pointed out Annette. “And to be honest I think she’s too young. Remember what you were like when you were 18, and had no experience of work or the real world. I think you’d probably find the age gap too much, and you might end up baby minding her.”

 “I agree she’s too young,” said Bernice. “My sister is 19 and I just don’t seem to have anything in common with her or her friends. It’s like they live on another planet. Annette’s right, you do get a different perspective on life after a few years work – I imagine she would be all idealistic and romantic, especially if she’s arty.”

 “I didn’t fancy traipsing round art galleries all the time anyway,” said Carrie, placing Chloe’s letter on the reserve list.

 So that was the list whittled down to four. Pleased with her day’s work, Carrie decided it was time to let her friends read the other letters, and it was the wee small hours before they crashed out, sleeping on whatever they could find that felt soft.

Chapter 5

 Carrie slept late the next morning, something she hadn’t been doing so often since she’d made her decision to go away. No point in wasting her time off sleeping when she could be looking though travel brochures, visiting camping shops, planning what clothes to pack in her rucksack, and getting a bit of exercise, for she was sure she would need to be fitter than she was when she reached the Himalayas. That was one part of the world she had no intention of missing.

 She hadn’t been drinking as much either, so today the hangover was more severe than it had been for some time. She couldn’t bear ringing her potential travelling companions today. Tomorrow she’d feel fresher.

 She headed to bed straight after her late shift finished, and at 10am next day, having already been for a walk around the nearby sports fields, she was sitting, pen and phone in hand, ready to make her calls. Carrie’s day off this week was Thursday, so she hoped to see one of the girls at lunch that day, one that evening, and then two on Saturday. By Sunday she hoped she have a companion, and would be ready to set dates and plan itineraries for real. She felt a rush of adrenalin just thinking about it.

 Margaret could make lunch on Thursday, Sally couldn’t do anything other than Saturday evening, but it would have to be early as she had another engagement. Helene had no problem with Saturday lunch, and Alexandra, who she finally located in the locker room at a gym, said she’d love to meet up on Thursday evening.  Carrie asked all the girls to meet her in Covent Garden, where she knew a couple of different restaurants which were busy but not too expensive. She wasn’t sure whether she should buy the meals, which would soon add up, or expect her guests to pay their own way. Never mind, she’d worry about it at the time.

 Work seemed to drag on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and it was a highly nervous Carrie who woke to a bright, frosty morning on Thursday. ‘Time to get fit,’ she told herself, and pulled on her new jogging bottoms, teeshirt, fleece and running shoes. She figured that the run to the playing fields, followed by a couple of laps of the pitches and back would be around two miles. Not a bad distance to start off with. By the time she’d finished her training regime, she’d be ready for Everest.

 With a smile Carrie stepped out into the cold air, gasping as it hit her. The jog – nice and steady, nothing too showy – down to the playing fields was fairly easy, though she supposed it was slightly downhill. Her route levelled out around the playing fields, and less than half way round she was beginning to feel very out of breath. By the time Carrie completed the lap she thought her lungs would burst. And there was still the uphill run home! She opted to leave the second lap for another day, and slowly and painfully jogged her way in the direction of her flat. She ground to a halt about 500 yards from the gate. Puffing and panting, conscious of the sweat staining her grey sweatshirt and the redness of her damp face, she tried to hold her head high as she walked on wobbly legs to the front door. Oh well, it was a start.

Her face was just about cooling down as she caught the tube into Covent Garden. Wrapped up against the cold, Carrie allowed her mind to wander to hotter climes, imagining the searing sun beaming down on her in India, the palm fringed beaches of Thailand, the hot springs of New Zealand. God, she couldn’t wait.

 Carrie spotted Margaret the minute she stepped out of the lift at Covent Garden tube station. She was even bigger in person than she had been in her photograph. Carrie approached her tentatively, suddenly realising how nervous she was. This was like conducting an interview, and she had always imagined being the interviewer rather than the interviewee was the easy bit. It didn’t feel like it at this minute.

 “Margaret?” she said holding her hand out to the large woman standing against the wall at the station entrance. She was wearing leggings again and an enormous duffle coat. “Carrie, great to meet you,” boomed Margaret, pumping Carrie’s hand up and down enthusiastically. “Can’t wait to find out where you’re planning to go, it all sounds so exciting. Mind you, I’ve only got an hour though, so shall we go to eat straightaway?”

 “Yes, sure, there’s a wee Italian place just round the corner, if Italian’s okay for you.” She looked closely at Margaret and was sure she could see a smudge of chocolate on her upper lip. She must have been snacking already.

 They sat at the back of the restaurant, and spent a few minutes studying the menu. When the waiter came over, Margaret announced she would have the tagliatelle with garlic and lemon as a starter, and a large pepperoni pizza as her main course. Carrie felt herself panicking. What if she didn’t have enough cash to pay for all this. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself, ‘you can use your credit card.’

 She ordered garlic bread to start, with a medium Margherita pizza, and a glass of white wine, with full strength Coca Cola for Margaret, and then it was down to business. As Margaret expertly twirled the pasta around her fork, she revealed that she had gone on the 18-30 holidays in search of a boyfriend. She had travelled with her mate Joan, and five years ago Joan had struck lucky and met Harry. The two were now married with twins, but that left Margaret on her own. “I did have the odd fling after a few drinks, but none of them ever lasted,” she confessed. “I’ve never really had a real boyfriend. When I was too old for 18-30 I decided to give the adventure holiday a go. One of the guys at work said that lots of single people take part in those type of holidays.” She sighed deeply. “Some chance. My travelling companions were mostly middle aged couples, or kids in their early twenties, and they all seemed to be there for the scenery and the culture and the trekking rather than the social life. Most people were in bed by nine each night and up at the crack of dawn. It was really boring.”

 “But wasn’t Peru stunning?” Carrie asked, amazed how anyone could find Machu Picchu boring. It looked so fantastic in the brochures. “It was nice to look at,” said Margaret, “but it was quite cold up in those mountains, and Lima was just a big dirty city and you had to watch your back wherever you went. When we reached Cusco, the altitude hit me hard, and I had to give up on the first day of trekking. I suppose I didn’t expect it to be so tough.”

 “Did you, em, try to get fit before going?” Carrie enquired.

 “They said you needed to be moderately fit, and I think I am,” Margaret came back, pushing her cleaned pasta dish to one side. “The food was awful too, you couldn’t get a decent meal anywhere.”

 “So why do you want to go round the world?” Carrie thought she’d get straight to the point. “The food will be very different in a lot of the places I’m hoping to go, and I anticipate doing a lot of walking, so you really would need to be more than moderately fit. I couldn’t guarantee endless sunshine or a lively social life either.”

 The pizzas arrived and after asking the waiter for extra parmesan ground on top, Margaret said: “A girl at work went off and did the same thing for six months. In the course of that she lost more than two stone, and found herself a gorgeous Australian boyfriend. She took some great photos and the sun was always shining. That’s why I want to go. “Oh,” she continued before Carrie could say anything. “And I’m bored at work. I’ve been doing the same job for 16 years and fancy doing something different.”

 Carrie looked at Margaret as she chomped away hungrily at her pizza. She knew what it was like to want to do something different, but Margaret’s reasons for travelling were not the right ones. She wanted to suggest that she read up on healthy eating, get a bit of exercise, then she would have more chance to losing weight and finding a partner than she would running away on a dream trip which would probably turn out to be a nightmare for her. But she couldn’t say that. So she chatted about her work, where she planned to travel to, and listened to Margaret talk about her friend’s twins, husband and detached house in Surrey. By the time she had finished her pizza she had run out of conversation, and was feeling drained by the whole thing.

 “Coffee?” she offered, hoping and praying Margaret would decline. “I’d love one, I really would,” the other woman replied. “But I really must get back to the office, shall we just get the bill?”

 “Yes, sure.” Carrie motioned to the waiter who brought over the itemised bill a few seconds later. She went to lift it from the plate, but Margaret reached over and grabbed it first. “My treat,” she boomed.

 “No, honestly, I should be treating you,” said Carrie, embarrassed. “Not at all, I’ve loved our little chat.” Margaret called the waiter over again, put some notes in the plate and told him to keep the change. “I’m not trying to bribe you mind, I’m sure you’ve loads of people to see, but I really did enjoy our lunch. After Eight?” Carrie shook her head, and Margaret scooped to two chocolate mints up and stuck them into her handbag.

 They walked out of the restaurant together and separated on the corner. Carrie promised to be in touch within a week, but as she watched Margaret’s retreating back she knew there was no way she would be inviting her to come with her. She was a nice woman, but sad. As Carrie walked towards the tube she hoped one day Margaret would find what she was looking for.

 It was just gone 2pm. Carrie was to meet Alexandra at 6pm, back at the station. She didn’t fancy travelling all the way back to Ealing, so she headed to the National Library, where she spent two very fruitful hours reading up on India and Hong Kong. Then she had a coffee, took a walk around Regent’s Park as dusk fell, then headed back to the West End. She arrived at the tube at 5.50pm and settled against a wall to wait for her next ‘interviewee,’ praying that this meeting would be more successful than the first.

 A few minutes after six a young woman with flowing blond hair rushed up to the entrance to Covent Garden station, wearing a long coat with fake fur collar and cuffs, and woolly hat, and big brown walking boots. Carrie knew it was Alexandra because she was carrying a copy of Hello magazine, along with at least three shopping bags. Not the most innovative way of recognising someone, but better than wearing a red rose.

 Alexandra stopped, looked breathlessly around her, and then slumped against the wall. She jumped upright again as Carrie approached, and the two shook hands and began talking about what a beautiful day it had been. Cold, but bright.

 Carrie took Alexandra to a café that specialised in baked potatoes, and listened as Alexandra filled her in on what she had bought that afternoon. “I thought I was going to be late for you. I was trying these jeans on in this wee shop near Leicester Square, and they were too big, so the woman went to get me a smaller pair, and they were just right, then when I went to pay there was this awful queue but  I really wanted them and the woman had been so helpful, so I just stood there and willed the checkout girl to go faster and I think I just made it.”

 Carrie liked her. She was open and cheerful, slim and very attractive. Inwardly she vowed to complete the two laps of the playing field by the end of next week. She watched as Alexandra, after ordering a baked potato with sweetcorn and tuna, animatedly showed off the multi-coloured knitted jumper she had bought earlier that day, and, though she opted not to take it out of the bag in such a public place, a matching bra and knickers set in burgundy lace from Anne Summers.

 “I hope you don’t think I’m a shopaholic, it’s just meeting you gave me an excuse to come into town today, normally I’m stuck in Bromley looking after Abby and Sam. They’re two and four, and really very sweet, but childminding is definitely not the career for me. Not that I ever really thought it was, I guess I’ll probably go into something sporty. I might even do a PGCE and become a PE teacher, that would be a laugh. I just can’t make up my mind yet.”

 Just when Carrie was beginning to think that Alexandra may be just a bit to self-obsessed for her, the younger girl tossed back her hair, composed her face into what seemed like a sincere look of genuine interest and said: “So tell me about you and all these fantastic plans you have…”

 For the next three hours the two girls talked about everything under the sun, from meddling mothers to favourite sexual positions – Carrie was still amazed she’d brought that one up! By the time they had eaten their meal, desert, and consumed two bottles of red wine between them, Carrie was practically set to ask Alexandra to be her travelling companion. But sense prevailed. She had two more people to see, and who knows, perhaps they would get on even better. She couldn’t imagine it. Alexandra was funny, intelligent, adventurous, and definitely sounded like she lived up to her reputation of being a fun-loving girl. She was almost disappointed when, shortly after nine, Alexandra said she would have to go and catch a train home from Victoria.

 “Mother and father hadn’t a clue what I was doing when I was three years at Uni,” she explained, “but now that I’m living at home now they sit up for me and worry if I’m late. I’ll give them a buzz, but I did promise to be back by nine.” Glancing at her watch she grimaced. “And I don’t particularly want a hangover when giving the little horrors breakfast tomorrow morning.”

 As they parted outside the restaurant after splitting the bill, Alexandra automatically gave Carrie a kiss on the cheek, and they promised to be in touch.

 On the tube home Carrie was even more ecstatic then she thought imaginable. She had found someone to travel with, she was certain of that. And it hadn’t been hard at all.

Chapter Six

Work on Friday was a pain. Everyone was itching to get away early, and for some reason tempers seemed to fray quicker than usual. Jane was particularly distracted, and at one stage snapped at Carrie for “talking non-stop about her bloody travels.” This was so unlike Jane that Carrie felt humiliated and had to dash off to the ladies in case she started tearing up. What had she done that was so bad to Jane? Fortunately Jim was able to put her in the picture as they were queuing at the microwave, Carrie anxious to taste her Lean Cuisine pasta and vegetable bake. It turned out Jane had been for an interview on Monday, her day off. The editor of the Oxford News had finally decided he was going to retire, and Jane wanted the job more than anything. It meant she could be close to her mother, and, according to Jim, “get on with her life again.” Her divorce had been unpleasant, but she wasn’t 40 yet. Jane was ready to pick up the pieces.

 “They told her she would hear by the end of the week, and Jane considers Friday to be the end of the week and she still hasn’t heard anything. I keep telling her no news is good news, but I don’t think she believes me. She’s completely stressed up about it,” said Jim.

 Poor Jane, no wonder she got snappy, listening to someone else blethering on about their plans when her whole life feels like its hanging in the balance. “I didn’t realise, I should speak to her…” Carrie started out of the kitchen in the direction of the sub’s desk, but Jim called her back. “She doesn’t want anyone to know, she only told me because she had to swap days off. Best not to mention it.”

 The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully and Carrie was home by 9.30. Until now she had put off mentioning her plans to her parents, but the meeting with Alexandra made her more certain than ever she was going to go ahead with it.  She knew Wendy and Alan would be sitting in front of the fire listening to classical music with a glass of wine each, as they always did on a Friday. They’d be in mellow mood. No time like the present. She settled down with the telephone.

 “Hi dad, how’re you?”

 “Carrie love, great to hear from you, haven’t spoken to you in ages. Everything alright.”

 “Everthing’s fine dad, how about the back?”

 “Not a twinge. I think it’s the nutmeg I keep in my back pocket. I thought it was an old wives’ tale at first, but I haven’t looked back since your mother made me carry it about. She’s panting by my side, wanting to talk to you. Take care love, see you soon…”

 Carrie’s phone chats with her father were always brief, in contrast to those with her mother. Wendy had obviously had more than a glass of wine, because she slurred the odd word, and was effusive in her spreading of the gossip. Carrie listened, nodding and making the odd comment here and there, but not really paying much heed to the news that Harold and Mildred’s yappy little Spaniel had disappeared for a whole 10 days before being found, hungry and dirty but alive, in a rabbit hole in the field next to their house. Actually, perhaps there was a story there…!

Finally, when her mother made her customary enquiry about how work was, Carrie plucked up the courage to drop her bombshell.

 “Well, mum, it’s okay, but I’m going to be leaving soon.”

 There was a confused silence. “What, you’ve got another job? Or you’re coming home?” Wendy’s voice rose a few decibels at that last suggestion.

 “I haven’t got another job, and I’m not coming home. At least not home for good. I’m going to go travelling. Around the world.” There, she’d said it. Now to wait for the reaction.

 There was a gasp at the end of the line, then Carrie heard Wendy tell Alan that indeed their daughter was finally going to do something she’d been talking about for years, and go and see the world.

 “Mum, mum!” she called into the phone, until she heard Wendy breathing directly into the receiver again. “Mum. Are you mad?”

 “Mad, of course not dear. I’m delighted. All those holiday programmes that used to have you glued to the television, all those times you’ve gone on about how wonderful it would be to be in A, B or C, and all those dreams you seemed to give up when you took that job on the Herald.  We’re delighted, your dad and me. Aren’t we Alan, just delighted.”

 “I’m not just popping over to Spain or Italy mum, I’m going to go around the world.”

 “I should think so, Europe is for namby pambys, here, here’s your dad…”

 Alan came on the line again, his voice a lot calmer than his wife’s. “You’ve thought this through, I take it.”

 “Yes dad.”

 “And who are you going to travel with?”

 “I’m pretty certain it’ll be a girl called Alexandra, she’s lovely, but it might be someone called Sally or Helene. It’s a long story. I’m not going on my own.”

 “Or with any strange men I hope,” said Alan.

 “No such luck!” Carrie laughed.

 “So when are you off?”

 “Och, it’ll be a while yet. Look, tell mum I’ll come down home next weekend. I’m due Sunday off for a change, and it’ll give me a chance to go through everything with you.”

 “Better tell her yourself, love, she’s going apoplectic beside me. See you next week then.”

 It was another quarter of an hour before Carrie managed to get Wendy off the phone, but her mother’s excitement was infectious, and by the time the call ended, Carrie realised she could not think of a time when she had ever been this happy, at least not in her adult life. She poured herself a glass of red wine, and flicked the television on. Tomorrow she’d meet Helene and Sally. By this time tomorrow night she would have made a decision.

 Saturday dawned dark and wet, and Carrie’s resolve to put on her running gear went quickly out the window. She couldn’t settle back to sleep, and when she attempted to do some housework couldn’t keep her mind on the task. She was certain she would pick Alexandra to go with her. Everything indicated it was the right decision. She had money, time, energy, enthusiasm, was single and, by the sounds of it, had very supportive parents. And Carrie liked her. She would even go so far as to say that despite knowing her for only a few hours, she would consider Alex a soulmate. Was it worth meeting up with these other two, she asked herself.

 She even got a far as dialling Helene’s number with a view to cancelling, but slammed the receiver down before the dialling tone sounded. Even if everything did work out with Alexandra, she would always wonder what these girls would be like. Anyway, what else had she to do with her Saturday? Annette was spending the weekend at Alton Towers, of all places, with friends from work, and she knew Bernice would be clubbing it and she didn’t really feel like tagging along. And she had to admit she was somewhat intrigued to see what poor old Helene was really like.

 So at noon Carrie was back on the tube heading back to Covent Garden. She had decided to take Helene to the Italian restaurant, the atmosphere had been good and the food not too expensive. And she was also a bit afraid the staff at the potato shop would remember her from the other night when she and Alexandra had sat giggling and guffawing at the table as if they were well and truly pissed.

Covent Garden tube station was busy, mostly with tourists, and Carrie stopped near the main entrance hoping it would not be difficult to spot Helene. She didn’t look at people’s faces, just at their mid-section where she supposed a copy of Hello would most likely be held. She started after one woman, who also had OK and Cosmo poking out of her shoulder bag, but stopped short when the woman turned to look around outside the station and Carrie realised she was white haired and definitely in her sixties. Helene could have lied about her age, true, but not to this extent.

 “Carrie?” a soft voice asked. She turned to look towards the street – for some reason she had been watching people leaving from the lift – and saw a petite, coloured girl smiling shyly at her. Carrie shook her hand warmly.

 “Shall we get some lunch?” she said by way of introduction.

 “Perhaps we could just grab a coffee,” said Helene. Carrie’s stomach was rumbling, but she realised that maybe a meeting over lunch sounded a bit formal, and could make the other girl feel uncomfortable.

 “Coffee’s fine,” Carrie replied, and led the way to a small coffee bar just across the street. They found a table, Helen ordered an expresso and Carrie opted for a cappuccino with a jam donut.

 “You don’t work on Saturdays then?” Helene asked.

 “Nope. It’s the one day of the week I know I don’t have to go in.” Carrie had told Helene she worked at the Herald when she had phoned her about meeting.

 “Do other people cover Saturday’s news then?” she asked.

 “Oh, there are reporters in seven days a week, but because we don’t make up a paper on a Saturday for Sunday, the subs don’t have to go in. I just sub edit other people’s stories you see, I don’t actually write them.”

 “Still, it sounds really interesting. It must be hard to give it up.”

 “It is and it isn’t. I enjoy it some of the time, but not all of the time, and I don’t think I want to be doing the same thing in 10 years’ time. To be honest, what’s hardest to give up is the salary and the prestige of working for a daily newspaper, if you know what I mean. And there‘s always the fear I might never find another job as good.”

“I do know what you mean,” said Helene, sipping delicately from her small expresso cup. “I love my job too. I know it doesn’t sound like much, and I don’t have any real qualifications like degrees and the like, but I feel I make a difference to people’s lives. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot since I replied to your advert.”

 She paused for another sip and Carrie found herself watching her closely, wondering how this tiny, gentle little thing could have had such a tough background.

 “You said you wanted to be honest with me Helene, so I’ll be honest with you. I was shocked by your story to the point that I doubted whether it could all be true.”

 Helene didn’t seem to be offended. “No, I’m a Christian. I don’t lie, certainly not deliberately. And it is all true, especially when I say travelling would be a great way to try and heal all the hurt.”

 She looked down at her nails, as if embarrassed. “I’m sorry Carrie, I hope I haven’t wasted your time, but I’ve changed my mind about wanting to go away. I feel it would be running away from the problems I do have, and yet I know some of them would travel with me. There’s not a night I don’t go to sleep, or a morning I don’t wake and I see my little boy’s face. It’s not a memory I want to lose, but it’s a pain that won’t go away either in Brixton or Timbuktu. I have to stay here and deal with it. For now anyway.”

 Seeing Helene’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, Carrie impulsively reached across and took her hand. It wasn’t really in her nature to be touchy, but this woman’s pain was palpable.

 “But if you did go away you would find a whole lot of new memories to go with the old ones, and they would be happy memories. You would have less time to dwell on the old ones,” said Carrie, realising as she said it that if she persuaded Helene to go ahead with her plan to travel, and then opted to go with Alexandra, she would be the bitch from hell.

On the other hand, maybe they could all go together.

 “Thanks, but it’s not just that. Like I said, I love my job, and while it’s not well paid, it is helping other women who have suffered to make something of their lives. I mentioned your ad to my supervisor and she came back next day and said they could make my job full-time, they would like me to start taking courses down in Tooting as well.  I’m not doing it for the money, as you know. I’m doing it for the love of it.”

 Seeing Carrie starring at her unblinking, Helene laughed. “I’m not going to use all my dad’s money to start up a shelter for battered women, don’t worry. I’m not that altruistic! But I hope one day I will have more children, and I want them to grow up in a house full of love. The love costs nothing, but the bricks and mortar do. That’s what I’m going to use my money for, I’ve decided. It would be great to blow it all on a round-the-world trip, but I guess I’m just too sensible.”

 “Well here, I hope this year doesn’t cost me anything close to £45,000!” exclaimed Carrie, “otherwise I’ll be well and truly bankrupt.”

 “So I hope I haven’t wasted your time too much…” Helene started.

 “Of course you haven’t. It’s been lovely meeting you,” Carrie really meant it. “Maybe I can give you a ring when I get back, just to let you know how I got on and find out how your job’s going. I could even do a wee article on your work and see if any of the weeklies are interested in it.”

 “I’m don’t think any of them would be interested in me,” Helene laughed, “but I do meet some real characters. It would be great to hear from you when you get home, and maybe you’d do me a big favour?”

 “Sure, if I can.”

 “Send me a postcard from somewhere really beautiful. Then I can pin it up on the wall beside my computer to spur on my happier daydreams.”

 “Absolutely,” said Carrie, pledging there and then to send Helene a card from every beautiful place she visited.

 Both girls had finished their coffee, and while Carrie would have loved to chat on, she sensed Helene was feeling a little uncomfortable. Soon, she stood up to leave. “I must go, I am sorry to have wasted your time, I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing with your day off than listening to me.” She proffered a pound for the coffee and ignored Carrie’s attempt to decline.

 “I hope you find someone really good fun to go away with, and I’ll look forward to getting that card,” Helene said and then, with a wave of her hand, she headed out into the grey rain.

 As she had done on Thursday, Carrie headed back to the library to shelter from the rain, grabbing a slice of take-away pizza en route. A jam donut really wasn’t enough to get a girl through the day. Sitting down to read up on China and South East Asia, she found her mind wandering back to Helene time and time again. She probably would have enjoyed Helene’s company for the trip, although she was a bit uncertain whether Helene was the type of Christian who didn’t drink or let their hair down. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the best pairing. Not that it mattered now, she didn’t have to make a choice. She felt sad as she recalled Helene’s face as she spoke of her little baby, but Helene had found a niche for herself in life, and despite her sadness was looking to a brighter future. Carrie’s eyes fell upon a colour photograph of group of little children playing at the edge of a paddy field somewhere in rural China. Their parents were working in the field, the sun was beaming down, and the fields were surrounded by towering mountains. So idyllic. Carrie sighed. Just now her future felt very bright too.

 Sally should have been easy to spot. She did, after all, turn up at the station wearing climbing boots, gaiters, a Gortex coat and carrying a rucksack. But Carrie had missed all those things in search of the Hello magazine, and it was only when Sally lifted it out of her rucksack and held it in front of her that Carrie realised this was the teacher from Croyden.

 Baffled as to why she had chosen to dress like she was about to depart for foreign lands immediately after their meeting, Carrie had to endeavour to keep the smile off her face as she introduced herself. At the same time she was trying to work out where to take this woman as both the Italian and potato restaurants were a bit too dressy for boots and gaiters.

 Sally was tall, with short brown hair cut in a no nonsense style, and she spoke in a jolly hockey sticks voice that reminded Carrie of Bernice’s warning about teachers being a bit straight. Somehow this was contradicted by Sally’s mode of dress. It turned out she had a meeting with a father of a pupil back in Croyden at 8.30pm to discuss his daughter’s Duke of Edinburgh expedition, which was planned for next March.

 “He’s divorced and not bad looking,” Sally confessed to Carrie, “so I thought I’d dress the part to make a big impression. And hopefully I’m making an impression on you too. See, I’ve got all the gear. Haw, haw. I know how to kill two birds with one stone,” and she laughed at her own humour.

 They headed into a pub which did not have a strict dress code, and Carrie ordered a glass of wine, while Sally requested a pint of bitter. Carrie felt that as it was only 5.30pm, it might be a bit early to eat, but Sally insisted they order sausages, mash and mushy peas now, before there weren’t any left. “Need to get my strength up girl, you’d never know, I might need it later tonight, haw haw!” laughed Sally in a loud suggestive manner that drew the attention of half the pub.

 “So what do you have in your rucksack, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 Sally proceeded to pull out packet upon packet of photographs showing her hill walking in all parts of the British Isles, sometimes on her own or with rambling groups, and sometimes with her students. She taught at an all-girls’ school, and while her main subject was geography, she also helped out in the PE department. “It’s a great school, a great school,” she kept repeating.

 Carrie had taken a look at the photographs so as not to appear rude, but after the fourth packet, when Sally was three quarters of the way down her second pint, which Carrie had again paid for, she thought she’d have to put a stop to this or she’d scream.

 “You said you’d travelled extensively in America. Where all did you go?” she asked.

 “Did I say extensively? It’s not like me to exaggerate. I spent a week in New York once, at a conference. It was fun. We went up the Empire State Building, saw where John Lennon was shot, climbed the Statue of Liberty, and did some great shopping. I’d love to go back and see the rest.”

 “And do you think you’d enjoy travelling all over, staying in cheaper hostels and living out of a backpack?” Carrie asked.

 “I’m used to living out of a backpack,” barked Sally, offended.

 “But, judging by these photos, when you’re on a walking trip, you spend most nights in good quality hotels. The places I’d be staying in would be rather more downmarket. There wouldn’t be any spas or cable TV.”

 “Really?” Sally looked surprised. “Well I’m sure we could compromise. I’m happy to do without the cable so long as there’s a hot bath with plenty of bubbles every night. That’s what you need after a good day on the trail. Did I tell you about the time we headed up Ben Nevis, it was so tough, my friends and I…” she stopped mid-sentence. “I’d love another pint to wash down that mash,” and then she continued talking, stopping only when Carrie stood up to go again to the bar. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could tolerate. And she seemed to be buying all the drinks as well as paying for the food.

 By the time Carrie returned from the bar she had decided Sally was definitely not the sort of travelling partner she was looking for, so there was no point in making any more effort to interview her, so to speak. On the other hand, it was only a little after six on a Saturday night, and she had nowhere to go but home, so she may as well enjoy a couple more drinks in the pub before Sally had to go to meet her parent. ‘God help him,’ Carrie thought as she took her seat opposite Sally. ‘When she breathes her beery breath all over him he’ll be taking his daughter out of the school, let alone the Duke of Edinburgh scheme!’

 But despite consuming another two pints (five in total) before leaving to catch her train to Croyden, Sally still seemed stone cold sober and every bit the sensible school mistress – if you excused the garb. Carrie had been quite warming to her and her tales of mischief and madness at St Hilda’s, or was that St Helga’s? She giggled as she sat on the platform waiting for her train back to Ealing. Good job she hadn’t had anything more to drink. She’d have ended up inviting Sally to come with her!

 But no. She’d promised Sally she’d be in touch, but now Carrie knew for sure she would be heading off round the world with Alexandra. She’d ring her tomorrow and they could get together to start making real plans.

Chapter 7

“Four weeks to go, four weeks to go, hey ho ma deario, four weeks to go!” Carrie sang loudly and very out of tune as she bounced around the flat. In exactly four weeks’ time, on Saturday June 2^nd, she and Alexandra would be in the international departure lounge at Heathrow waiting to board an Air India flight to Delhi. When they had settled on this date on a dull day back in November, June 2^nd had seemed such a long way away. Now it was just round the corner. Carrie had been pretty pissed off when Alex had asked that they hold off going until the summer. Carrie had wanted to be on her way by February, sure why hang around? But Alex had been persuasive. Her older sister Gemma was getting married early in May, and Alex was bridesmaid.

 “Please, Carrie, I know it seems a long time to wait now, but it’ll soon fly in. And it’ll give us both plenty of time to prepare.  You’ll be able to get down the gym and get fit, and it’ll give me time to save up a bit more money too,” Alexandra had pleaded.

 “I thought your parents were footing the bill?”

 “Well they are, mostly, but I do have to contribute something, for appearance’s sake as much as anything. Our Gemma thinks they give me too much as it is. She‘s got a real chip on her shoulder about it.”

 Carrie knew that waiting a couple of extra months wouldn’t really make a big difference, except that she was finding it even more difficult to concentrate on work. But last week she had finally handed her notice in.

 Zachery hadn’t seemed too surprised when she told him.

 “So the time has come,” he proclaimed.

 “You knew?” Carrie thought the secret was well confined to the subs desk.

 “The entire staff of the Herald, and that includes the Glasgow and Belfast offices, knows, I’m surprised it hasn’t been announced in the paper,” he laughed. “We will miss you Carrie. You’re a good worker, that’s why we liked you in the first place. You know I can’t guarantee you your job back when you come home, but there are always freelance shifts going, so don’t be a stranger.”

 “Thanks Zachery.” Carrie had never known him to be so nice.

 “I’ll pass your resignation on to the powers that be.”

 She thanked him again, but just as she was walking out of his office, he called her back. “If you ever find yourself in Adelaide I know a fellah there who edits a group of weeklies. Irish guy, wrote some controversial political stories which didn’t go down well, so he decided to clear out and under. Remind me to give you his address before you go.”

 “I will.” Carrie was delighted, she had been dreading handing in her resignation for weeks, and it had been much less painful than she had anticipated. Zachery had actually been pleasant, more than pleasant in fact. Maybe she’d misread him over the past few years.

 “Four more weeks to go, four more….Oh for God’s sake Carrie, shut up!” The song was beginning to irritate her, what must it be doing to Dave. It reminded her of an evening many many years ago, when she and her brother Jonathan, just children at the time, were told it was three weeks to Christmas. The two of them had swung each other round and round chanting “Three weeks to Christmas, three weeks to Christmas” over and over again until Jonathan had got dizzy and fallen, smacking his head on the stone hearth and necessitating a trip to casualty and six stitches. But they’d been removed before Christmas Day so all was well in the end.

 “You nearly done in there,” she yelled into the kitchen where Dave was still in the shower. There was no answer. He must be washing his hair. Carrie settled herself on the settee to wait for him and tried to concentrate on a magazine, but something was bugging her. It took a few seconds before she sussed out what it was. They hadn’t had sex last night. That was it.

 Why should that annoy her, she wondered. They were often too tired for sex after a night out, and many a night Dave would go home to Balham while she would return alone to Ealing. It wasn’t like they were living together or anything like that. In Carrie’s mind that kept things more interesting. No it wasn’t just the absence of sex last night, it was Dave’s attitude, he seemed distant, a bit cold, nothing like he’d been when they’d first met.

 Dave arrived at the Herald the Monday after Jane’s leaving party. It had been a great night out, all the subs, reporters, the entire sports department and whole back bench had been there. Even Zachery had put in an appearance. The night started at eight when the early shift, which included Jane, headed to a Spanish bar near Oxford Street for tapas, joined by the others as the later shifts cleaned up. Once everyone was fed and watered, it was onto a salsa club where they drank and danced into the wee small hours. Jane was in great form, in fact her whole personality seemed to have blossomed since she heard she’d got the job at the Oxford News. “Life begins at 40, and I’m 40 in three months,” she told her colleagues. “My divorce is behind me, I’m totally over that cheating ex-husband, and I’m really ready for life to begin.” The others were delighted at this transformation, and greatly amused when she clicked with a rather handsome – and much younger – Latin type at the club, leaving with him sometime after 2am. “Don’t worry guys, I’m a big girl now, I can look after myself!” she called back to them as she staggered out of the club, arm in arm with the dark haired stranger.

 So that was Jane gone, which left an empty seat at the subs’ desk. Brian called a team meeting. “They are going to advertise for someone to fill Jane’s position, but they’re taking their time about it. Trying to save money as usual, either that or Zachery’s got his eye on someone who may not be available yet.

 “In the meantime, we’re getting a freelance, who also happens to be a mate of Zachery‘s. Dave Robinson’s his name, he’s been working for BBC World Service, but apparently wants something London based, so is freelancing until a permanent job at the Beeb comes up. That’s the story anyway. He’s starting Monday.”

 Carrie was on the early shift that Monday, and was first in when Dave arrived. Apart from the fact that he looked a bit dorkish in a shirt and tie when practically everyone else was in jeans, she didn’t think there was anything remarkable about him. He was tall, probably over 6ft, with straight blond hair, cleverly cut to disguise the fact that he was receding ever so slightly, and John Lennon style glasses. She reckoned he was about 35.

 But she reassessed her impression of him when he opened his mouth. He had the most beautiful voice. Deep yet soft, caressing, yet masculine at the same time.  And when she turned to look at him, he had the palest blue eyes imaginable behind the thin rimmed glasses. And his smile – well it took her breath away.

 As she was the first in, Carrie got the task of showing him how to set up the computer, how to call up stories, although she stopped short at telling him how to sub. This guy was obviously way more experienced than her. He struggled a bit with the computer, Carrie had forgotten how confusing it could be on your first day, but seemed capable and confident. The others seemed to like him too, in fact Bernice positively drooled.

 “He’s gorgeous, Carrie. Those eyes, and that suit.” Bernice liked a man in uniform. “If I wasn’t seeing Graham I’d have my claws out for him. I’ve checked, he’s 34, single, and apparently wanted to be based back in London so he could find himself a wife.” She looked at Carrie quizzically. “Why don’t you have a go at him?”

 Carrie laughed. “I’m definitely not wife material, and I’ve plenty on my mind with organising my trip without worrying about a man.”

 “True, but it’s only December and there’s a lot of cold lonely nights between now and June,” said Bernice.

 Carrie had to admit Dave was good looking. She liked the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled, and she just loved it when he touched her arm to get her attention. Little shockwaves ran all the way to her brain and beyond. So when 9pm arrived and her shift ended, she plucked up the courage to ask Dave if he fancied a drink to celebrate his first day. On the other side of the desk Brain raised his eyebrows, while she was sure she could hear Niall and Bernice sniggering. She turned pointedly to Niall.

 “You’re finished now too Niall, why don’t you join us?” she asked.

 “Cheers mate, but I’ve got an important date waiting for me at home.”

 “Right,” Carrie could hear him laughing as she and Dave walked out. “Okay, so it’s just Inter Milan on Sky, but I’m not into playing gooseberry to those two,” he was telling anyone who would listen.

 In the pub Dave told her about his career with the World Service, which had taken him all over. He was educated at Cambridge, had two younger brothers, and his parents still lived in the family home in Woking. As he spoke about his work in places like Japan and Argentina, Carrie was intrigued as to why he would pack it all in an come back to London.

 “I’d had enough of wandering,” he said. “I want a home of my own, a garden, and maybe a wife and kids. I know I’ll get back into broadcasting soon enough, I’ve plenty of contacts in the Beeb, it’s just a case of waiting for the right position to come up. Meantime, I get to try something different, and meet some rather interesting people.” He was staring straight at Carrie and she felt herself blushing. She automatically pulled her stomach in – at least her new size 14 jeans weren’t cutting into her belly, and ran her fingers through her curls, which were now approaching the horrible stage where your hair is neither long nor short – the growing stage, it was called, and she knew that it went on forever, especially with curly hair.

 She became conscious Dave was looking rather distractedly at her cleavage, which was bursting forth out of her blouse, particularly as she was leaning forward across the table towards him. Embarrassed, she sat upright and glanced at her watch. It was almost 10.

 “I suppose I’d best be getting home,” she started, but Dave put his hand on her’s. “Have another drink,” he said, “and tell me about this trip you’re planning, it sounds great.”

 So they’d spent another hour in the pub that night before going their separate ways, and had popped in for a drink either alone or with people from work a couple of other evenings after an early or middle shift. But things didn’t really get going until the Christmas party.

 The company had booked a function room in a hotel, complete with dinner, band, cabaret and dancing for the Saturday before Christmas. Last year, Carrie had persuaded Annette to come with her, but this year she was almost relieved when her party clashed with her friend’s office do. She wanted to focus her attention on Dave.

 And Dave obviously felt the same. When she arrived he admired her purple cocktail dress and high black sandals, teased her about the purple feather boa she’d flung around her neck, and marvelled at the way the hairdresser had been able to iron out her curls into a sleek style that vaguely resembled a bob.

 Later that evening they had danced cheek to cheek, and when the lights were dim and everyone around them drunk and distant, they had kissed on the dancefloor. A light kiss at first, but then Dave’s lips had become harder, his tongue probing her mouth, darting deep then withdrawing to caress the tip of her own tongue. Held closely against him on that dark dance floor, other couples occasionally swaying into them, she felt his desire pressing against the sheath of her dress, and her groin melted towards him. Her belly felt hot, her legs were jelly, she wanted him to devour her there and then. It had been so long since she had been with a man, since she had felt lust like this!

 Without discussion, they left the hotel and got a taxi back to Carrie’s flat. Dave had paid the bill. Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, snuggled under his arm while his other hand ran up and down her leg, on top of her dress, then under, sneaking up to the edge of her panties and sending flames licking into the very core of her, she had visions of them bursting through the door, flinging clothes everywhere, falling on her bed and making mad passionate love, like they do in films.

 In reality, things were a bit different. In the harsh light of the flat, Carrie became aware her make-up was smudged, her hair had begun to frizz, and Dave didn’t look so becoming with purple lipstick smeared all over his mouth either. Both seemed embarrassed to be there together. It was like going back to high school, when you kissed a boy behind the bike shed and were afraid to even talk to him next day.

 “Coffee?” Carrie offered.

 “That’d be great,” Dave replied, looking around the flat at her pictures and books. She sighed as she stood waiting for the kettle to boil, coffee jar in hand. So much for the uninhibited passion.

 He came up behind her quietly. First he nuzzled the back of her neck, just where her hairline started. He put his hands on her hips and caressed her curves. Then, with his hot breath still on her neck he slowly moved both hands upwards to cup her breasts. Carrie let out a gasp.

 “Maybe I’ll save the coffee for tomorrow,” Dave muttered. His voice was slightly hoarse, throaty, nothing like normal, and it was oh so sexy. Carrie thought her knees would buckle, but she stood firm, leaning on the edge of the sink.

 Behind her Dave sunk to his knees. He gently removed first one black sandal, then the next, his fingers burning each ankle in turn. As she stood barefoot, unaware of the coldness of the lino, he slowly ran his hands up under her dress, touching her legs, then her panties, stopping briefly to caress the mound of her belly, before moving up towards her breasts. Finding the bodice of the dress too tight, he slowly lowered his hands and stood up. His breathing was hot and heavy in Carrie’s ear as she tried to remain still while he undid the zip at the back of the dress. Then his hands rounded her shoulders, and the dress slipped to the floor.

 He turned her round and stepped back. Carrie knew she was not a supermodel, she knew she had a spare tyre around her waist and her breasts were pendulous rather than pert. At least she had invested in some lacy underwear. But right now, regardless of the Fairy liquid bottle behind her, the mugs in the drainer, and the fact that she still held the coffee jar, she felt like the sexiest woman on the earth.

 Dave gently took the jar from her hand and led her to the bedroom. She passed him and turned on the bedside light. He closed the door – that was better, the make-up and lipstick weren’t so obvious now.

 With total lack of self-consciousness, Carrie, dressed only in her undies, walked across the small room towards this gorgeous man with pure desire in his eyes.

 But all that had been months ago, Carrie thought. Since then they had enjoyed great sex and, despite the hours they both worked, something akin to a social life. She had met his parents at their mansion in Woking, and had taken him to Devon for a weekend where he and her parents had all got along swimmingly. If he stayed over he would harry her out to the leisure centre gym as often as he could. He cooked great meals, paid for top restaurants and seemed to enjoy watching her clean her plate.

 Mind you, she thought as she threw down the magazine, there haven’t been so many meals out recently, or even meals in for that matter. Since he’d started working at the BBC two months ago he’d been doing even more irregular hours than before, and Carrie had been seeing him less and less. It didn’t worry her unduly. She was under no illusions. He was good fun and great in bed, but she was going away for a year and didn’t expect Dave to be waiting for her on her return. Still, he was now very much a part of her life as it was now, and she wanted it to stay that way. Until June 2^nd that was.

 She shook herself. It must be just her imagination. He was taking her out for dinner tonight. They were going to a Chinese in the city centre, one with a very good reputation, and she was looking forward to it. Okay, so he had to go home to see to something at the flat in Balham first, but she’d be seeing him at seven o’clock.

Dave emerged naked from the shower, rubbing his hair with a towel. “Darling…” she said in her breathiest, most alluring (or so she thought) voice.

 “No way, Carrie.” He knew exactly what she was after. “I’ve got to get home.”

 She watched as he threw his clothes on, kissed her brusquely, and then left.

 “You’ll not be able to say no tonight mate,” Carrie said to the closed door, as she went to search her laundry for his favourite bra and knickers, the red lacy ones she has splashed out on last week.

Chapter 8

After phoning her mum for a quick chat, Carrie tried to reach Alex. It was 11am but she suspected Alex would still be in bed. Despite working four days a week looking after the two children, her mentality was still very much that of a student – do as little housework as possible, go out as much as possible, and lie in as late as possible.

 The phone was answered by Alexandra’s father, Major Smyth. His first name was Edward, but Major Smyth was how he had been introduced and this was how Carrie had always addressed him. It had been expected.

Alex, it appeared, had headed into the city centre already. Carrie was delighted. Her soon-to-be travelling companion had been talking about buying a sleeping bag and new rucksack for weeks now and had promised she would go in today. Carrie had been beginning to think that, like everything else, Alex would leave it to the very last minute.

 The friendship that had developed the first night they met was as strong as ever, although Carrie now admitted she got a bit carried away when she considered Alex could be a soul mate. Or maybe it was something to do with the bottles of wine they had consumed. She couldn’t quite remember, but she suspected that the other girl was a bit self-centred, used to getting things her own way, and had no idea of how to tidy up after herself. The odd night she stayed at Carrie’s flat, she left chaos in her wake, blankets, pillows, coffee cups, take-away food containers, all strewn everywhere. She never lifted anything up and put it in the bin or tidied it away. It alarmed Carrie slightly, but she pushed any feelings of doubt to the back of her mind. All Alex would possess when they were travelling would be her rucksack and its contents, and surely she couldn’t make that much mess with those!

 Then there was Alex’s passion for men. With her blond hair, brown eyes, long legs, size 10 figure and extensive, expensive wardrobe, she attracted attention wherever she went, and thrived on it. Carrie remembered her batting her eyes at the waiter in the potato restaurant that first night, and how he kept coming back to refill their peanut bowl when they were drinking after their meal. She had noticed no one else got the same service. Now she realised why. Annette, who seemed somewhat suspicious of Alex, had warned Carrie she might be the type to pick up men along the way, even run off with one of them, leaving Carrie alone in the back end of nowhere.

 “She’s not like that, Annette,” Carrie reassured her friend. “I mean she will pick up men and probably have sex with a load of them – hopefully not in the same room as me, mind you – but she’s definitely not the type to settle on one guy.”

 She had bitten the bullet and expressed this concern to Alex, though, but Alex had promised nothing would take precedence over their plans or jeopardise their friendship. And true to her word, in the few times Carrie had seen Alex in recent weeks, she had hardly mentioned any new men. Ironically, even though they would be spending 24 hours a day together for a full 365 days, the girls had seen little of each other. Last November, they had holed up in Carrie’s flat for a full weekend planning their itinerary. They had designed their own route, and fortunately there had been only a few disputes along the way. Carrie really wanted to see Africa, Alex wasn’t so keen. In the end Carrie decided that in order to see Africa she would have to forego somewhere else. And even with a full year, time was limited. The route was agreed (no Africa), and the tickets reserved. After that they spoke regularly on the phone, but only met up once every two or three weeks.

 Carrie lifted out the large map of the world she had mounted on card and put out of the way behind the sofa. Their route was marked on it in heavy black pen. She never tired of studying it. London to Delhi, Delhi to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Bangkok, Singapore to Jakarta, Jakarta to Sydney, Sydney to Auckland, Auckland to Hawaii, Hawaii to Los Angeles, Miami to Caracas, Rio de Janeiro to London. And only four weeks to go! God, but she was the luckiest girl alive.

 She hoped Alex would get the sleeping bag and rucksack today. That meant she hadn’t anything big left to buy. Carrie didn’t have Alex’s laid-back attitude, she had her gear practically packed, having bought most of what she needed in the January sales. She sighed. Somewhere, she was nervous something might still go wrong. Especially when Alex had taken so long to get sorted out. A rucksack is pretty vital, for God’s sake, she thought. But maybe Alex had been reluctant to get ready too early because she was busy with Gemma’s wedding. Gemma was a lovely girl, Carrie thought, her eyes staring at the map, but her thoughts elsewhere. A few years older than Alex, she was much more down to earth. Her fiance was a nice guy too. She had met them a couple of times in the past few months. Mind you, Gemma had been a bit odd on their second meeting. She had taken Carrie to one side and thanked her for giving Alex this opportunity of a lifetime.

 “I’ve worried a lot about Alex,” she said, “and even mum and dad have been a bit concerned about what she’s going to do with herself. She was the baby of the family, Eddie and James and myself are that much older, and she has always been spoiled, and gotten her own way. You couldn’t depend on her for anything, so it’s great to see her commit to something. She really did muddle her way through university and doesn’t seem to have any ambitions for a career.” Gemma had laughed. “Sometimes I think she’s just looking for a rich man to marry her and take care of her the way mum and dad have. Maybe seeing how other people live, especially all the poverty in the world, will make her reassess her life.”

 Carrie had actually wondered if Gemma, a lecturer in a further education college, was a little jealous of her younger sister.

 Still, it would probably be a life-changing experience for both of them. Carrie had dragged herself away from the map and was tying up the laces on her running shoes. She was still a size 14 but at least she was a fit 14, she thought, as she set out to do her twice-weekly four laps of the local playing fields.

 Dave seemed very fidgety, to the point that he had literally thrown his chopsticks to one side in exasperation and was eating his beef Chow Mein rather sloppily with a knife and fork. Carrie, who was a dab hand with chopsticks and couldn’t wait to use them in China, listened attentively as he told her about a sound problem he’d had when producing a report on the rising number of caesarean sections in maternity hospitals for a news bulletin yesterday. His job must be very stressful, she acknowledged.

 After main course, Dave declined a desert, but ordered a second bottle of wine. Carrie quite fancied something sweet but thought she’d best stick with a coffee. She was just licking the froth off her cappuccino when Dave made his announcement. Out of the blue.

 “I don’t think we should see each other anymore Carrie.”

She looked up at him, the sympathetic smile she’d had on her face since they had sat down falling off, replaced by a look of shock. Her mouth dropped open. She must have made a pretty picture. “I’ve met someone else.”

 Now that was a bit too much. She choked into her coffee cup, blowing creamy cappuccino froth all over the table. “Pardon?” Could she have heard him right?

 “I said there’s someone else.”

 “Who is it?” Carrie demanded, not sure whether to be angry or upset.

 “That doesn’t matter.”

 “Someone from work?”

 “Sort of.”

 “What in God’s name does sort of mean?”

 “It means it doesn’t matter who she is. We can’t carry on seeing each other, that’s the issue.”

 Carrie took a deep breath. She would not cry. Sure, she was almost expecting this. But for some reason a glimpse of crimson lace subtly tucked under the V of her black blouse made her begin to well up. She had spent money on this bloody underwear, money she could have taken away with her. Just for him. She took a gulp of coffee willing the tears away. But the coffee was hot and scalded her throat, prompting tears of pain instead.

 Dave reached over and took her hand. “I’m sorry, I really am. You’re a lovely girl and I’ve really enjoyed our time together, but…”

 “Still beautiful am I?” Carrie asked caustically.

 “Of course you are. Even more so that when we first met.” His hand reached out and touched a tendril of dark hair which was hanging over one eye. “But there’s no future for us Carrie. You’re leaving the country in a month. It’ll be over between us then anyway.”

 So that was why he was dumping her. He was getting in first. Otherwise she’d be dumping him in a month. Maybe there wasn’t even anyone else. Poor Dave.

 Carrie felt better now. She could handle this civilly. “You’re right. And I’ve so much to do before I go, I guess we wouldn’t have had much time to see each other.” She smiled at him as fetchingly as she could while knowing that her mascara was probably smudged, and thought of the crimson lace. “Maybe you’ll come back with me tonight, just spend one last night together, you know…” She had slipped her bare foot out of her sandal and was moving it up his leg.

 Dave jumped backwards as if he’d been burnt. “No!” Shocked by the vehemence of his toneCarrie felt like she’d been slapped.

 “Well in that case I’m going home now,” she snapped, sliding her seat back and standing up.

 “I’ll walk you to the tube.”

 “You will not. I’m perfectly capable of doing that alone. Good luck Dave, with your career and the rest of your life.” She began to walk away, leaving him with the wine and the bill. “And your new woman,” she called back over her shoulder, walking out of the restaurant and ignoring the looks of the other diners.

 She refused to be seen in tears on the tube, nor did she want to be snivelling on the five-minute walk from West Ealing station back to her flat. En route she stopped at a Seven Eleven and bought a litre of cheap red wine. Once inside, she threw off her dress, unscrewed the top of the bottle, and sat cross legged on the sofa, wearing her lacy undies and big blue towelling dressing gown.

 Pouring herself a glass she started to sob, then she began to howl. It wasn’t hurt, not really, for she had never told herself she was in love with Dave. It was the humiliation of being dumped. For the first time in ages, Carrie sat in her flat and got drunk alone.

 The ringing phone roused her from a befuddled sleep in which she and Dave had been having wonderful sex in what appeared to be the back seat of a double decker bus, and then suddenly she found she was not the one having getting all loved up, but she was a passenger watching Dave romping with someone else. She could not see the woman’s face. Lifting her head from the pillow, she realised she had a mother of all hangovers. And she had to bloody work today.

 Carrie crawled over to the phone, catching a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror on the way past. She looked wretched. And she was still in those damn crimson knickers.

 “Hello.” Her voice was croaky from sleep and all the crying.

 “Carrie?” It was Alex.

“Hi Alex.”

“You sound different.”

 “Just not at my best. I had a shit night last night. Dave dumped me.”

 Silence.

 “You still there Alex?”

 “Yes.”  She sounded a bit distracted. “Carrie, I’m sorry, I’ve some bad news. Really bad.”

 Carrie was instantly wide awake. “Not Gemma, the wedding?” she gasped.

 “No, all’s fine there.”

 “What is it then? Has someone died?” There was another painful silence.

 “I’m really sorry Carrie, but I have to cancel the trip.”

 Carrie felt what little colour there was in her face drain away. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was high pitched, almost hysterical.

 “I can’t go away with you Carrie. I haven’t saved up enough money.”

 “You’re winding me up, Alex, or at least you’d better be.”

 “I’m not. I’m serious.”

 “Your parents are paying for the trip. You said they would. Right from the start. And you’ve been saving all the money you make from childminding. So how come you suddenly don’t have any money?”

 “Mum and dad said they’d help me out, but they didn’t offer to pay the whole thing. They loaned me money to pay for the tickets we’ve bought, but they want at least half of that back. And I’ve only managed to save £300 odd from childminding. I had to buy things along the way.”

 “Yeah like those fancy jeans you were wearing last time I saw you, and that leather jacket you were flaunting when we were supposed to be looking for our first aid stuff – which incidentally I ended up paying for.”

 “I buy things I like Carrie. I always have.”

 “So what am I supposed to do now?”

 “I don’t know. Go by yourself, plenty of girls do. Or ring up some of those others that answered your ad.”

 “And what about the money you’ve spent on flights?”

 “Dad checked it out. We’ll lose our deposit, but mum and dad are happy to cover that.”

 Carrie sat down. She felt sick and dizzy and it wasn’t the hangover. Her whole world was falling apart. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. Why now Alex, with less than a month to go?”

 “There’s another reason Carrie, you’ll hear soon enough, so I may as well tell you. I’ve met someone.”

 “You’re always meeting someone. It never lasts.”

 “This is serious, I think I love him.”

 “Oh yeah. Well then he must be rich and ready for marriage.”

 “Not just yet. But maybe some time.”

 God, how right Gemma had been about her spoiled little sister. “So who is it? Anyone I know?”

 “Yes, you know him well.”

 Carrie’s mind was working overtime. “How well?” she demanded.

 “You were with him last night.”

 “Dave? You’re seeing Dave?” She should have suspected.

 “Yes.” Alex didn’t even have the grace to sound embarrassed. “You’d find out sooner or later, so I thought I’d be honest with you now. And I knew you and he would split up when you headed off, so I didn’t really feel like I was pinching your boyfriend or anything.”

 “Except that you were meant to be heading off with me, you silly cow.” Carrie knew a million other expletives, but ‘cow’ was the best she could come up with at the time.

 “I’m not going to stay on the line to be insulted any longer. I’ll be in Trailfinders tomorrow afternoon to cancel my flights and get my deposit back. Let me know before lunch if you want to transfer them to someone else.” And with that Alex put the phone down.

 Carrie curled up on the sofa and cried even more. Last night had been a blow, but this was a catastrophe. What in God’s name was she going to do? She could not cancel, she was going on this trip, even if she had to go alone. But that thought terrified her. She had to find someone else, and she had to find that person within the next 24 hours.

 Feeling sorry for herself was not going to get her anywhere. Glancing at the clock she realised it was already noon. She was due in work at 2pm.

 After a shower and a cup of strong coffee, Carrie picked up the phone and called Annette. Perhaps Annette would think again and come with her if Carrie could help her pay for the tickets.

 Annette was aghast. “I never really trusted that scheming little bitch. Now she’s completely buggered up your life. God, Carrie, I wish I could go, it would be great, but I couldn’t afford it. I couldn’t have saved up the money six months ago and I certainly can’t do it within the next month. Then there’s my job. I know the pay’s not great, but I’m doing pretty well, and I do enjoy it. What about those other girls you interviewed, Helen was it, or one of the others?”

 “I’ll dig rambling Sally’s number out later, she was the only other possibility. I’ve spoken to Helene a few times since we met and I know she’s totally committed to her job. She’ll not want to go, although I will ring her this afternoon.”

 “You sure you’re alright to go to work, pet?” asked Annette, her voice full of concern.

 “Yes. It’s a better alternative to sitting here and killing myself.”

“Christ Carrie, you look like shit.” Brian didn’t mince his words. “If you’re sick you shouldn’t be here.”

 “I’m not sick. I’m just fucked off and fucked up,” said Carrie.

 Ray, Mark and Bernice who had all been tapping away on their keyboards stopped and looked up, surprise on their faces. Carrie never swore. Things must be really bad. They waited expectantly for an explanation.

 “Alex has decided to cancel the trip. She hasn’t got enough money and mumsie and dadsie aren’t going to pay for her this time. Oh, and she’s shagging my boyfriend.”

 All eyes were upon her, mouths open in shock as Carrie took her seat and flicked the power on button.

 “So here I am, flights worth hundreds of pounds booked for a month’s time, and I’m on my own.”

 It took a few seconds for the news to seep in and then everyone started talking at once. Bernice made the mistake of coming over and putting her arm around Carrie’s shoulders, which prompted a new flood of tears. Alexandra was being called all the names of the day. Suddenly it seemed that those who had met her hadn’t liked her, and those who hadn’t met her hadn’t liked the sound of her.

 Brian looked a bit uncertain what to do. There weren’t too many stories being subbed. He looked towards Zachery for guidance and got only a shrug. He’d give them five minutes and then he’d have to tell them to get on with their work.

 By now the entire Herald office was buzzing with the word that Carrie had not only been dumped, she’d lost her travelling partner who, incidentally, had been the one sleeping with her boyfriend. Zachery sighed to himself. Pity about the triple fire death in Essex. This really should have made the front page. He was fond of Carrie, and reminded himself not to be so generous next time Dave came knocking looking for shifts.

 As the five minutes neared an end, Brian began to make subtle clearing of the throat noises, and gradually people turned back to their work. Soon Carrie was deserted, staring at a blank screen. She didn’t think she’d be much use that day.

 “Carrie?” she turned round. Mike had come into the office in the midst of all the commotion and had come over to express his sympathy. She’d just stopped crying. Any more kind words would set her off again. She wished he would just go away.

 “I’m fine Mike, honest.” Without looking at him she began opening files on her desktop.

 “Have you found anyone else to go with?” he asked.

 “Not in the past three hours, no!” She knew she was being snappy but she just wished he would disappear.

 “What about I come with you?”

 Carrie turned towards him so quickly she creaked her neck. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, her hand automatically reaching up to rub the ache. “You’re taking the piss and I’m not in any mood for jokes Mike.”

 “I’m totally serious.”

 Looking into his dark eyes, Carrie realised he was serious. “But I’m leaving in a month.”

 “That’s no problem. I can buy Alexandra’s tickets, today if you want. I’m freelance, I work or I don’t work, it’s up to me. And I love to travel. I can rent the house out. So what do you think?”

 “You are serious…”

 “Carrie!” Zachery’s voice caused Mike to jump back and Carrie to start. It seemed he had overheard some of their conversation. “Why don’t you head off now. You look pretty sick to me. Come back tomorrow when you’re more refreshed. I want to get as much good work out of you in your last three weeks as I can.” He turned to Mike. “Leave those negatives of the arson attack with picture desk. They’ll develop them for you, and then you clear out too. I think you two have things to talk about.”

 This really was all happening too fast.

 Mike glanced questioningly at Carrie and she nodded weakly back. She felt defeated. She couldn’t possibly go away with Mike. What would her father say? She saw Bernice smiling slyly at her.

 “A new travelling partner and boyfriend in one go, you worked that one well Carrie,” she whispered. Could that be a note of envy in her tone? Carrie felt herself break into a feeble smile. Why couldn’t she go with Mike? It sure beat travelling alone. And he had a girlfriend, so what could her father say? And did it matter anyway? She was 25, and a big girl.  With a renewed sense of optimism, Carrie headed to the front door where Mike was waiting for her.

Chapter 9

Sitting opposite Mike at a table in a corner of the virtually deserted Buck’s Head Pub, a short walk from the office, Carrie realised she was incredibly nervous. She sipped her fizzy water and fidgeted with her onyx ring, a gift from her parents, as she waited for him to get his change and join her with his pint. She glanced surreptitiously in his direction. He was chatting to the barman, and she found herself compering him to Dav. He was as tall as Dave had been, but otherwise very different. While Dave had been blond, Mike was dark; while Dave had been talkative, even loud at times, Mike was quiet; Dave preferred smart dress, while Mike was most definitely a jeans and teeshirt guy. He was handsome, if you liked that sort. She shook herself. Here she was looking at Mike as – what? A potential boyfriend. When really the question was what would he be like as a travelling companion? That was what she had to find out, and quick.

 “So,” he said, taking a seat opposite her. “Where should we start?” Before she could answer he went on. “What date are we leaving, and how long exactly are we going for?”

What’s with the zealous enthusiasm. Was he teasing her?  

Ignoring the ‘we,’ Carrie filled him in on the itinerary as it stood, she knew the dates, even times of each flight off by heart, and as she listed each destination, she became more and more animated. She sensed Mike watching her intently.

 “Mike, what makes you think you can just drop everything and go?” she asked. “I mean when I spoke to you about the ad last year you said you had a mortgage and girlfriend. What will she think about this?”

 “I have a mortgage and I suppose Dee was my girlfriend at the time.” He stopped to slurp his Guinness. “Dee’s a model. She rents a room at my house as a base when she’s in London, but most of the year she’s off on shoots. She’s probably been to every place you’ve listed and more.”

 “How will she feel about you heading off for a year? With me?” Carrie was almost afraid to add that last bit. If Dee was an international model she was not likely to be the least threatened by a size 14 brunette with mid-length frizzy hair!

 “Oh, Dee won’t mind. We’ve known each other since primary school. We lived close to each other in Leicester.” Funny, Carrie had never detected Mike speaking with a Midlands accent, but then they hadn’t spoken very much in the past.  “We kept in touch through college, and she did a bit of modelling for me when I first started in photography.”

 “Glamour modelling?” Carrie interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

 Mike laughed. “You must be joking. I wouldn’t know where to look! I prefer my models to be fully dressed, at least when I’m working with them. The fact is Dee and I have been on and off for years. More off than on, but she is hard to resist when she turns up out of the blue having just flown home from Bolivia or somewhere. She’s a lovely girl. You’ll have to meet her.”

 “That’d be good. Will she be in London this month?” Carrie hoped not. This Dee sounded much too intimidating.

 “She’s at the house this very minute. She’s working in and around the city for the next three weeks, so you can meet her any time.”

 “Maybe you best run it past her first, before making any plans with me.” Carrie couldn’t bear to be let down again.

 “Dee won’t mind. Anyway, I don’t tell her what to do with her life, and she doesn’t tell me what to do with mine.”

 “What about money, Mike. The total cost of the flights was £1,800. If you were to take Alex’s place, I expect she would be demanding the money immediately. And there could be a fee for transfer of tickets on top of that.”

 Mike was unperturbed. “What do you think freelance photographers get paid Carrie?” he asked.

 “I really haven’t a clue. I suppose it depends how much work they do.”

 “It does. But selling your photographs, your skills and your time to national newspapers can be very lucrative. I don’t just work for the Herald, you know. I do a bit for the Sun, the Mirror, the Guardian and sometimes the Independent, plus I do some corporate stuff for big companies. That pays even more.

 “I’ve worked my butt off since I was 21, first to get established, then to buy the house, then to put something aside for a rainy day. Well, I think that day has arrived, hopefully not so rainy mind,” he laughed. “And I also think I deserve a break from it all.”

 “So you reckon you’d have spending money as well?” Carrie was still worried.

 “Carrie. Money isn’t an issue, really. And time isn’t either. I have enough behind me to go without any work for a year, but it’s a great opportunity for me to develop other aspects of photography. Nature, scenery, wildlife, people, the options are endless. It’s exciting, I’m excited.”

 He stopped and looked at her. “Look, I know you don’t know me too well, and I know I’m probably not as inspiring company as Alexandra or Bernice or any of your other friends, not to mention I am a man…” he paused in case she was likely to dispute that. When she didn’t he continued, “…but I’d be there to look out for you and keep you company and split the cost of rooms, and I promise I won’t jump on you, or abandon you or anything like that.”

 Carrie smiled, mostly at the thought of Mike jumping on her. “I’d hope you wouldn’t do any of those things.”  She thought for a few minutes. How would her parents react to news that she was going on a year-long holiday with a man? She wasn’t looking forward to telling them, but by the same token she knew they’d be devastated for her if she had to call the whole trip off. She looked at Mike. He really was a nice guy, and if they didn’t get on, well, maybe she would just have to go it alone. But the same could have happened with Alex. No point in prevaricating with ifs and buts. It was time to make a decision.

 “Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Carrie found she couldn’t stop smiling. Maybe the world wasn’t such a bad place after all.  “So, if we’re going to spend the next year together, we’d best tell each other all there is to know.”

 Mike was one of a family of six. His working-class parents were both retired and lived in a council house on the outskirts of Leicester. He had three older sisters, all of whom were married. Irene and Joanna were housewives, while Jessica was a teacher. His older brother Sam was a fireman, while his younger brother Kevin worked for a big car manufacturer. Sam was married while Kevin, like Mike, was single. Mike had a total of nine nieces and nephews. He moved to London permanently after studying photography in the capital but visited the family home at least once a month. He played squash occasionally, went jogging when the mood took him, but didn’t have any other hobbies because he spent so much time working. Outside of his family, Dee was his closest friend, most of the people he associated with were other photographers. He loved a drink, though he rarely got drunk, and enjoyed watching films, mostly in the comfort of his own home, which was a three-bedroom terrace off Fulham Broadway. He was 28 and drove a 1988 Ford Escort.

 “That’s about it. My life history. Now I’ll get us another drink and you can tell me all about you.”

 It was 8.30pm before Carrie opened her front door that night. Only seven and a half hours since she had walked out the same door, tearful and convinced her whole life was falling apart. How things had changed in that time. And how the time had flown. She had Mike had remained in the pub discussing the trip, and how they would turn Alex into Mike, and what they needed to do over the next month, and what he needed to buy to prepare, until six o’clock. Carrie was impressed to see that after his two pints of Guinness, Mike had begun drinking pints of orange squash, and as she stuck to mineral water, their conversation had remained sober and sensible.

 They popped into a coffee bar for a sandwich at six, and chatted more until Mike remembered he had a function to cover at a hotel in Teddington. They agreed that Carrie would phone Alex first thing the next morning and all three would meet at the Trailfinders office at lunchtime, assuming Alexandra played ball. Carrie would then head in for her 3pm shift.

There was a lot to be done tomorrow, Carrie thought, as she changed into her pyjamas. It was early, but all the emotion, not to mention the hangover which had eventually faded after lunch, had drained her. She would go to bed, and tomorrow she would be ready to face Alex, ring her parents, and reorganise all that had to be reorganised. For a guilty moment she thought she should ring Annette. But she was so tired. That could wait until tomorrow too.

 Carrie was rudely awakened by a loud buzzing. She leapt out of bed, confused and disorientated. Her clock showed 11. Could that be am or pm? The buzzing sounded again and she realised it was her front door. It was dark outside. Who the hell could it be at this time of night?

 Shrugging her dressing gown over her shoulder she opened the door slightly, first making sure its chain was on. She peered out, squinting without her glasses. There was Annette standing, a big smile on her face, carrying a plastic bag in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

 “Well, let me in,” she demanded. “I thought I’d be waiting for you to get back, and here you are, in your pjs already. You must’ve finished early tonight.” Annette glanced around the darkened living room. “Don’t tell me you were in bed. God Carrie, you didn’t go into work, you poor thing. You’ve been here alone all day. I should have realised. I’m so sorry.”  Carrie unfastened the chain, unable to get a word in as Annette breezed in..

“Well, I’ve just the thing to cheer you up, homemade vegetable lasagne and…” she flicked on the main light, plumped the bags on the table, and with a flourish pulled two bottles from the carrier bag. “Fizz. Not, I might add, of the alcoholic type, I didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight after the state you were in this morning, but the mineral water type, presented beautifully in this designer green glass bottle. Tastes best that way, I’m told.”

 Carrie had barely moved since Annette had come through the door. Now, as she looked at her friend, trying so hard to help her, she started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. She just couldn’t stop.

 Annette smiled at first, then looked confused, then concerned. She went over and put her arm around Carrie’s shaking shoulders and led her friend gently to the sofa. “You’re hysterical pet, I knew I should have called you earlier. I’m sorry.”

 Carrie finally managed to regain her self-composure. “I’m fine, Annette, really, better than fine. I have been to work, but they let me off early.” She reached out and hugged her friend. “You made veggie lasagne today, just for me, and waited up all evening so you could bring over to me?”

 “Yes, I thought it might make you feel better.” Annette seemed confused.

 There were tears in Carrie’s eyes as she hugged Annette even closer. “You’re the best friend I could ever wish for, you know that,” she said. “And I’d love some lasagne. That BLT sandwich at teatime wasn’t enough for a girl who needs to build up her energy for the Himalayas.”

 “You’re still going then?” Annette looked relieved.

 “Yes,” Carrie was on her feet getting plates, cutlery and glasses. “And you’ll never guess who’s coming with me!”

 Annette had stayed the night and headed to work late, using up some lieu time she’d built up covering a council meeting the previous week. They’d had a full fry-up in a café, going once again over the events of yesterday which had kept them up chatting until 2am.

 At 10am Carrie was ready to ring Alex. The call had been short and to the point. She told Alex a friend was willing to take her place on the trip and would buy the tickets for all flights from her at their full price. That way she would not lose her deposit. However – Carrie thought this one was worth throwing in – Alex would pay any additional cost that might arise in order to transfer the tickets to her friend. After a brief chat with Major Smyth who was obviously in the background, Alex said she agreed, in principle, depending on the cost of any transfer, and she and her father would meet Carrie and her friend at Trailfinders in Kensington High Street at 1pm. Carrie didn’t volunteer the name of her friend and Alex didn’t have the cheek to ask.

 Next on the list of calls was her parents. Wendy answered. “Hello darling. Glad to hear from you. We wondered why you didn’t call yesterday. How’s things?”

 “Fine mum, except there’s been a bit of a change of plan as regards my trip.”

 “And what would that be? You’re still coming home the week before you go, aren’t you?”

 “Yes, and I’m still leaving on the second. It’s just Alex isn’t coming with me, but don’t worry, I’ve found someone else.”

 “Oh Carrie! I’m calling your dad in for this. Hold on.” She heard Wendy open the kitchen door and yell for Alan, who must have been working in the garden. Her mum explained that that Alex had let Carrie down and what wouldn’t she like to do to her. Then she returned to the phone. “I’ll hear about that little madam Alex in a minute, but who’s going with you now. Not Annette surely?”

 “No, unfortunately not. It’s a photographer from work. Mike Somers.”

 There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “A man!” her mother exhaled.

 “Well, yes, but he’s a very nice man mum. Look let me tell you the whole story.”

 By the end of the conversation Carrie had persuaded both her parents that Mike was harmless, and Alan even admitted he was happier now that she had a man to look after her. Alexandra was more likely to have attracted trouble, Alan said. Far too pretty for her own good.

 Carrie told them about Dave too, listening to her mother’s soothing condolences, and was able to assure them that Mike wasn’t her new boyfriend.

 “Well,” said Wendy. “Once he sees you in that lovely peach bikini we bought in Dotty Ps on a beach in India he is bound to fall in love with you.”

 “I don’t think so mum,” said Carrie, smiling at the thought.

 “You’d best take precautions young lady, because you don’t want to be getting into bother when you’re so far from home. If you know what I mean.”

 “I’ve no intentions of getting pregnant, mum, assuming that is what you mean,” Carrie assured her. “And in India I’m more likely to be wearing woolly jumpers and boots than bikinis, I don’t think there’s too many beaches in the Himalayas!”

 In the background her father reminded Wendy that this Mike had a girlfriend who was an international model. “He’s not going to play the field when he has that waiting for him at home, now is he?”  he stated. Huh. Carrie tired not to be offended.

 The call ended with Carrie reassuring her parents she would bring Mike down to meet them before they went away. She knew that wouldn’t be a problem as it was something the two of them had agreed in the Buck’s Head yesterday. She would also have to fit a visit to Leicester in over the next four weeks.

 ‘I should be losing weight, burning up all this nervous energy,’ Carrie thought as she waited in the lobby at Trailfinders. She’d arrived too early, but at least she could spend her time flicking through brochures. Mike was next to arrive, and she filled him in on what she had told Alex. “We’ll get her to pay the transfer cost, her dad can well afford it,” said Carrie. “I’m sure it won’t come to as much as losing her deposit. Were you able to get the money?”

 “Yip.” Mike patted the back pocket of jeans. “Every last penny of it. I kept looking over my shoulder on the way here. I thought I might be mugged. Mind you, my camera equipment is worth at least that much and….” He stopped as Carrie jumped up and Alex and Major Smyth walked towards them. At least Alex had the decency to look slightly embarrassed and hang her blond head a fraction. It was hot and sunny outside, and she was dressed in a red shift dress and red sandals with a low heel. The dress was short and showed off long tanned legs. She had a red scarf tied in her hair and was wearing lipstick to match. Cruel bitch, thought Carrie bitterly.

 “Mike,” she began to introduce them. “This is Alexandra and Edward.” For some reason this little show of disrespect made Carrie feel good. “Major Edward Smyth,” the major said as he shook Mike’s extended hand, stressing the ‘Major’ and ‘Smyth.’ Carrie almost laughed.

 The sales assistant who dealt with the transfer of details was helpful and efficient, and the whole process took less than an hour. There was little conversation between the two parties, although Alex did seem to be fishing for more information about how Mike and Carrie had got together. She wasn’t getting any, but while she and her father stood at the door to the Trailfinders office waiting for a taxi home, Mike casually flung his arm around Carrie’s shoulders as they walked towards the tube.  “This’ll give her something to talk to Dave about,” said Mike. Once out of sight they both fell about laughing, before disappearing underground and catching a train to work.

The remainder of May was hectic. During the first week, Carrie had taken Mike to the shops where she had bought her hiking and camping gear, and helped him get kitted out, swinging a little discount because of the amount they were spending. They agreed not to take a tent with them, they would hardly be camping in India.

 Mike had encouraged Carrie to go along to the gym at a council leisure centre. “You don’t have to pay any big joining fee there, just do an induction course and then pay each time you go,” he said. “Running is good, but you should spend a bit of time on the stepper. If we’re going to be in the Himalayas,” he checked the date on his watch, “in less than six weeks I think we would be both getting a bit of uphill exercise in.”

 So Carrie was heading to Ealing Leisure Centre each morning before work or shopping.

 She went to Mike’s house one Wednesday evening after her day off and met Dee. As expected, she was tall and exceptionally slim, but while Carrie had imagined her with long blond hair, she had a very short auburn crop. She had beautiful cheekbones and full lips, but her skin was a little rough and her teeth weren’t that great. ‘God help me, what must she be thinking about me?’ Carrie thought. But when Dee produced a portfolio of some of her work, Carrie could see why she was so in demand as a model. While in reality her skin was a little flaky, in these pictures it was smooth as anything, flawless, glowing, and her teeth didn’t matter because, in common with many supermodels, Dee didn’t smile either in these pictures or on the catwalk apparently.

 “Wow, these are fantastic,” Carrie enthused.

 “Yes,” said Dee, who was wearing faded navy jogging bottoms and a large sweatshirt which Carrie rightly assumed was Mike’s. “I clean up quite well. All that make-up is hell on my skin though, and I’m getting a lot of agro from my agent about getting my teeth done. She seems to think the moody look will soon be out, and if I don’t get my smile sorted out, I could be out of a job.”

 Shit, can she read my mind? Carrie felt guilty.

 Dee ran her tongue across her top teeth and grimaced. They were fairly white, but crooked. “I can’t bear pain, and despite what everyone keeps telling me there has to be pain when you get your teeth capped. And I kinda like my teeth. They’ve been with me for 28 years.  Anyway, I’ll soon be too old for modelling, so while I’m in London I’m building up contacts. What I really want is to open my own agency in the next few years.”

 Carrie found Dee easy to talk to and good company. She stayed the night in Mike’s small boxroom and spent the morning helping Dee pack for a weekend assignment in Edinburgh. As she was leaving, she felt she had to ask something.

 “Dee, are you okay about me going away with Mike?”

 “Course I am luvvy. Mike and I spend most of the year apart as it is. I’ll miss him when I come home to London, but we’ll probably write even more regularly while he’s away.  And you never know, I’ve a busy year ahead of me. There’s a good chance I could be in China when you’re there, or Australia, and I’m bound to be in the US, maybe at the same time as you two, so you’ll probably both see me sooner than you realise.”

 She smiled at Carrie. “Mike’s a great guy, he really is. A gentleman. He’ll look after you. I’m lucky, I know he’ll always be there for me. I love him and he loves me. He always has.”

 Carrie left for work thinking that while Mike was claiming his relationship with Dee more off than on – she noticed they had slept in separate rooms last night – Dee seemed of the opinion that it was more on than off. Never mind, she had no intention of coming between the two of them.

Chapter 10

The view from window of the National Express coach was uninspiring, but anyone watching Carrie would have thought it was the first time she had seen the delights of the scenery alongside the M4. Clutching tightly onto a newspaper, she stared unblinking out the window, her eyes red rimmed yet bright, as if full of unshed tears. Leaving her family had been more difficult than she had ever imagined. She had envisaged herself on this day so many times before. She would be bubbling over with excitement and confidence, every bit the independent young woman. In reality, she spent the whole journey on the verge of tears. Wendy and Alan had offered to come to Heathrow to see her off, but Carrie had put them off. She would spend tonight at Mike’s, and his parents had come down to stay too.  They would probably come to the airport. Anyway, it was much easier to say goodbye in the privacy of your own home.

 She had been at home for the last week. Mike had driven her down the previous weekend and stayed a couple of days, getting to know Wendy, Mike, Jonathan and Susan, as well as a variety of relatives who all called in to wish Carrie bon voyage. Carrie felt there wasn’t as much obvious camaraderie between her parents and Mike as there had been with Dave, but after he left Wendy and Alan said he was a very pleasant young man, who they felt they could trust, which, Alan added, was more than could be said for Dave. Jonathan and Mike had got on very well, and the six of them had had a lovely Saturday night out, eating in a pub by the sea, where they had a few drinks before closing time.

The weekend before that, she had been up to Leicester, where she spent a Saturday night with Mike’s family. She had to admit they were all lovely, the small house was very homely and there was never a dull moment, with Mike’s different siblings and their offspring popping in and out at will. After Mrs Somers’ special casserole on Saturday night, the family headed down a local working man’s club where Carrie experienced an atmosphere never to be found in London. She was readily accepted by Mike’s family, and was almost sad to leave on Sunday morning, at the same time excited that this was her last week at work.

 It had been a good week. Carrie had discovered that the best way to make time pass quickly was to work hard. Zachery seemed pleased with her, and as well as giving her the address of his friend in Australia, made her promise to ring him as soon as she got home. “We’re bound to have shifts going, you know, and we’d hate to lose you,” he said.

 They had a knees-up for both Carrie and Mike in the Buck’s Head after work on the Thursday, and Carrie’s last day passed in a slightly hungover daze. She snoozed most of the journey down to Devon later that night, grateful that Mike hadn’t overdone it the night before and was feeling fit and able to drive.

Now she was heading the opposite direction on the motorway, and she wished she could buck up out of her depression at leaving her family. The coach stopped for a break, and Carrie decided to give Annette a ring from a payphone. She had a couple of pounds left on a phonecard. She cheered up as she listened to her friend talking about the council meeting she had to go to next Tuesday which was bound to go on after midnight, and then she would have to write everything up before deadline on Wednesday.

 By then Carrie would be in India. She could feel adrenalin beginning to flow again through her body.  Annette promised that she and Elaine would see Carrie and Mike in a pub in Fulham that night, just for a quick drink to say goodbye, and then Annette rushed off to interview a couple who had just had quadruplets and were struggling to cope in their one-bedroom council flat.

 Carrie opened her newspaper and started scanning for foreign news. There were snippets on politics and tragedies in China and India, a flood in South America. It all sounded so much more exciting than Mrs Thatcher’s spending plans.

Once she arrived at Victoria, Carrie had to make her way to Fulham, laden under her rucksack, packed for a year, with her money belt concealed under her clothes. Mike had offered to drive in and collect her, but the Friday traffic would have been bad, and anyway, she was going to have to get used to carrying her belongings on her back.

 But it was a puffed and sweaty Carrie who arrived at the door to Mike’s house, the 10-minute walk from the tube proving almost too much.

 “Heavens Carrie dear!” said Mrs Somers, opening the front door. “You look wrecked. Are you sure you want to go mountaineering. I believe they have nice beaches in India.” She helped Carrie unload her rucksack. Getting a heavy pack off was difficult, she had found. Getting it on was even harder!

 “Don’t you worry, I’ll find a beach or two to lie on on the way round, but maybe not in India.” She kissed Mrs Somers’ plump cheek. “Where’s Mike?”

 “He’s gone to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases to get his yellow fever jab. He had to cancel his appointment on Tuesday because something came up at work. He spent the morning doorstepping in Downing Street. There were some upheavals in the cabinet. I didn’t pay much attention to be honest.”

 “Oh well, yellow fever sounds bad, but it’s one of the least painful. Did he tell you what it was like after typhoid and cholera. Both at once too. When I went to the toilet, I found I couldn’t reach round to, erm, well you know,” Carrie suddenly felt embarrassed. She didn’t really know this woman very well.

 “Well, as long as you didn’t have to get anyone else to wipe your bottom for you!” Mrs Somers laughed. Now Carrie was really embarrassed. “Tea?”

 When Mike returned, they spent the rest of the afternoon check listing everything they needed. “This,” Carrie said, patting her flat, flesh coloured money belt, designed to sit flush against the skin and therefore be hidden from sight, is the most valuable thing I have ever had in my possession. Two thousand pounds in travellers’ cheques, 12 flight tickets, my Mastercard, my immunisation certificates, God I feel sick just thinking about what would happen if I lost it.”

 “You don’t lose it,” said Mike, who was taking a more conspicuous sporty pouch which didn’t sit flush to the waist, and therefore was not easily concealed under clothes.

 Looking at it again, Carrie said: “You should have one of these Mike, much better, much safer.”

 “I’m perfectly happy with this, thank you very much. You just worry about keeping your own stuff safe, and I’ll worry about mine.”

 At seven thirty, Mike, Mike’s parents, Carrie, Annette and Elaine met up in a wine bar off Fulham Broadway. They only stayed a couple of hours, and again there were tears when Carrie said farewell to her friends. “Write to me at the poste restante in Delhi,” she pleaded, “and I’ll write or send at least a postcard every week, I promise.”

 “I know you will pet,” said Annette as she hugged Carrie close. “Look after yourself and the gorgeous Mike Somers. He’s even more delicious than I thought he was. If the two of you aren’t an item by the time you get back, maybe I’ll have a serious go!”

 “He’d be delighted, I’m sure.” Carrie hadn’t missed the admiring looks Mike had cast in Annette’s direction on the few occasions they had met over the last month. She didn’t blame him, it was nothing new, Annette always attracted male attention. Mind you, she had been out with some guy called Alistair who worked at a rival newspaper on at least three occasions. Now that sounded serious. “Keep me up to date on the Alistair situation,” Carrie added, as she let her friend go. She hugged Elaine and the two girls headed off for a night out in town. No clubbing for Carrie. She needed an early night. Tomorrow she was off to India.

 In fact she spent a restless night, far too excited for sleep. Mike’s boxroom felt claustrophobic, and at one stage she got up and made herself a cup of tea. Carrie reckoned it was about 4am before she got to sleep.

 She woke with a start. What time was it? Grabbing at the travel alarm beside her bed she realised it was 9.30. Why hadn’t anyone wakened her? They had to leave for Heathrow at 11. Carrie darted into the bathroom for a quick shower. She debated washing her hair, decided against it, flying always made it flat, then changed her mind and washed it anyway. Who knows when she might next be in a warm shower.

 She hadn’t packed a hairdryer, so had to go downstairs with it wet. She may as well get used to that. Carrie had spent hours debating what to wear for this first leg of her trip and had finally decided on grey jogging bottoms, a teeshirt and a thick red fleecy sweatshirt. These were the warmest clothes she was intending taking with her and therefore the bulkiest, so it seemed wiser to wear them than carry them. And it often got cold on a plane when the air conditioning was on. The thought of the plane made her feel queasy. She hadn’t mentioned her fear of flying to Mike. She had been sure the excitement of the trip would outweigh her nerves, but with an eight-hour flight looming, she suddenly felt very sick.

 Downstairs Mr Somers was laying out DIY tools and Mrs Somers was ironing Mike’s jeans.

 “Well, how’s the globetrotter this morning then?” asked Mrs Somers, handing Carrie a cup of tea. “You look a bit pale.”

 “Just tired. I think I was too excited to sleep. Where’s Mike?”

 “Oh he’s just gone into town to get his hair cut.”

 “Into town. You mean Fulham?”

 “No, London, he says he always goes to the same place near King’s Cross.”

 Carrie nearly exploded. “We’re meant to be leaving for the airport in less than an hour. We’ve got to get organised and he’s away to get his hair cut.”

 “Don’t worry,” Mrs Somers was remarkably calm. “When he gets back he just has to pop these on,” she indicated his jeans, “and organise his room so we can decorate and tidy it for his new lodger.”

 Carrie shook her head. She knew Mike had a photographer friend renting his room for the next year, but she didn’t realise he had planned to have the room done up.

 She heard Mr Somers chuckle. “He’ll be ready to go love just a soon as he helps me cut the paper lengths. I can hang paper okay, but I’m not too good at cutting.”

“I hope you’re joking,” Carrie was too nervous to have a sense of humour. She tried to swallow some toast, but it threatened to come back up again. As she poured another cup of tea the front door opened, and Mike bounded in.

 “Nice haircut,” commented Carrie. “But could you not have got it done earlier in the week.”

 “Yes, but I‘d rather make you nervous. Right,” Mike grabbed his jeans and hurried upstairs. “Almost ready,” he shouted down. “Then we’re off.”

 The traffic on the M25 was bad, and Carrie was sweating by the time they reached the check in desk for the Air India Flight. There was no queue.

 “Funny,” she commented to Mike. “When you’re heading off to Spain for a fortnight you have to queue for ages to check in, yet here we are, off to India, and there’s no-one. Maybe we’re very early.”

 Mike checked his watch as the Indian lady wearing a dusty pink Sari on which was pinned an Air India badge, weighed their rucksacks. “Late, more likely,” he said.

 “These are classed as unusual shaped luggage. You will have to tighten all the straps, take them down to the end and put them each in a crate,” the check-in lady said, indicating the end of the desks where there was a pile of large crates. Someone there will take them from you. She handed them their tickets. “Boarding will be through Gate D in an hour and 20 minutes. Enjoy your flight.”

 As they gathered together their tickets and boarding passes, an Asian businessman stepped into the queue behind the. “Well at least we’re not last,” murmured Carrie, as they packed their rucksacks into the crates and handed them over to a man in a Servisair uniform. “See you in India, I hope,” she called after the pink and black pack as it disappeared, in its crate, onto a conveyor belt and into the black abyss beyond. She suddenly felt naked. Now all she had was the clothes she was wearing and the flesh coloured money belt tied tightly round her waist. Mike was carrying the small backpack they planned to share. In it was his camera equipment, books, Carrie’s glasses to put on when they were airborne, photos of their families, sweets to suck on take-off, and small bottles of water to stop them getting dehydrated during the flight. All Carrie wanted, just now, though was a strong drink to settle her nerves.

 “Coffee?” said Mrs Somers in that bright way of her’s. “And I think you should both have a full dinner. It is lunchtime, and you’ll probably not have a decent bite for hours, you know what airplane food is like.”

 “Rot, woman. They’ll probably not have a decent bite for months, not until they reach Australia at least,” said Mr Somers. “It’ll just be curries and boiled bananas after this, son. I’d go for a decent fry, or a big steak, if I was you.”

 Carrie baulked. She didn’t feel she could eat a thing. At least these nerves would keep her weight down over the next year. To keep Mrs Somers happy, she forced down half a prawn sandwich in one of the airport cafes while Mike and his dad tucked into the all-day breakfasts.  Finally, it was time to go through to departures.

 Tears welled up again as Carrie hugged and kissed Mike’s parents, glad her own weren’t there – she might have changed her mind! Finally, they walked through passport control and into the international departure lounge.

 “Shall we go down to the gate, or do you fancy a drink or something?” asked Mike.

 “A large gin and tonic, please,” Carrie sat herself on a plastic seat at a plastic table close to the bar. Mike returned with a bottle of lager, and she started to sip the g&t. Mike looked at the screen showing departures.

 “Carrie, I think we’d best get a move on. Final call for boarding is flashing up.”

 He had barely finished when the public address system burst into life. “Would passengers Delaney and Somers, last remaining passengers travelling Air India flight 366 to Delhi, please make your way to Gate D as your flight is boarding. Final call for passengers Delaney and Somers.”

 “Come on,” shouted Mike, as Carrie threw as much of the gin into her as possible. Damn, she really wanted to go to the loo before take-off. No time.  Gate D seemed interminable miles away, but Carrie and Mike were probably there in minutes. The departure lounge was empty, everyone else must already be on board. Another attractive Air India lady, again dressed in a sari smiled politely as she checked their boarding passes, and they walked through the departure gate into the tunnel that took them to the front of the plane.

 Carrie froze as she stepped into the 747. “It’s huge,” she gasped. “This thing can’t possibly fly.” Looking up at her was a sea of Asian faces. For a moment Carrie felt disorientated. When you board an Iberian Airlines plane to Malaga you see very few Spanish faces. She had expected the same on this flight, but, as far as she could see she and Mike were the only white people on board. The steward led them to their seats, thankfully at the emergency exit halfway down the plane.

 Sinking into her seat, Carrie nudged Mike’s arm. “Everyone’s Indian. There aren’t any other white people,” she said.

 “What did you expect,” Mike said, fastening his seatbelt. “Package tours to India are becoming a bit more common, but most of these people either live in Britain and are visiting their families in India or vice versa.” He looked at her earnestly. “You’re going to be the foreigner for the next year Carrie, even when we’re in America or Australia, where the skin colour is the same as ours, you’re still going to be the foreigner.” He smiled. “You’ll get used to it.”

 “I know all that, I just feel like we’re in a different country now, and we haven’t even left the tarmac.” She sniffed. “It even smells different, sort of….”

 “Curryish.” They said the word at the same time, and both started to smile. “Relax, Carrie,” said Mike. “This is the day you’ve been looking forward to for months. We’re off to India, sit back and enjoy it.”

 “I will, I will, once I’ve got a drink or two in me,” Carrie smiled. “I’m fine Mike, just a bit nervous and excited, that’s all.”

 She maintained her composure during the in-flight emergency drill, kept her breathing calm as two of the flight attendants buckled themselves into pull down seats directly opposite them as the plane taxied, but shut her eyes and gripped the armrest fiercely as the plane began to accelerate for take-off. This was the moment she always dreaded most. Her stomach was churning and panic was seeping out through every pore.

 Then she felt a warm hand close round her’s and prise it from the armrest. Mike took her sweaty hand, letting her grip his. She opened her eyes for a brief second. He was looking at her with concern. “I forgot to mention I’m afraid of flying,” she gasped, clamping her eyes shut tight again and praying fervently.

 Once they were airborne, Mike let go of Carrie’s hand and started reading a book. An hour and a half later, Carrie was still clutching the armrests, her eyes shut. “Where the hell are the drinks?” she demanded eventually. British Midland would have served pre-dinner drinks, a full meal and wine by now, and we’d have already landed if we’d been flying to Belfast.

 “I don’t think they’re serving drinks,” said Mike looking round. “But I’ve seen a couple of people coming from that curtained area with glasses, so maybe its only drinks on request.”

 “I need something. Just a brandy and coke, to calm my nerves. Maybe I’ll sleep. Please Mike, will you get me one. I really need it.” Carrie was babbling.

 “Okay, seeing as you’re in such a state.” Mike unfastened his belt and headed towards one of the curtained serving areas. “Make it a double,” Carrie called after him.

 While Mike was out of his seat, Carrie remembered she needed the loo. She headed to the toilets at the back of the plane, again marvelling at how huge it was and how many people were on board. There didn’t seem to be an empty seat. She hated standing, with no seat belt on, but there was a queue for the toilets. Funny, she thought, it’s all men.

 Back in her seat, Carrie quickly downed the double brandy. Unfortunately, she needed the loo again, so decided to ask for another one on her way back. They didn’t charge anything for the drinks, they just didn’t walk around with them.

 Two hours later all the passengers had been served with sandwiches – Mike ate Carrie’s – and Carrie had been to the toilet at the back of the plane twice more. People were beginning to look at her.

 When she needed to go for a fifth time, she headed to the front of the plane, so it was different people who stared at her. She tried to sleep but had no luck, and her nerves were so bad that she wasn’t able to eat the curry dinner that was served later on, even though it was all vegetarian. Mike was happy, he had two helpings of sandwiches and two dinners.

But despite all her terrors, it was a smooth flight, and as every hour ticked by painfully slowly, the end came nearer. With just an hour to go before they were scheduled to land Carrie paid one last visit to the toilet (her eighth) before she and Mike pulled their well-thumbed Lonely Planet Guide to India from the bag and began debating where they would stay. They had discussed this in London, but then it had seemed very abstract somehow. Now it was real. As the flight attendants resumed their seats for landing, Mike quizzed them about Delhi, where to go, where to stay. But both attendants were from Bombay, the plane’s final destination, and didn’t seem to know a lot about Delhi.

 Without saying anything, Mike again took hold of Carrie’s hand during the plane’s final descent, and looked out at the lights below, the sprawl of Delhi stretching virtually as far as the eye could see. Despite his efforts to encourage her to take a look, Carrie remained motionless, her eyes firmly closed, once again a prayer on her lips.

Chapter 11

Delhi Airport was remarkably quiet, even though it was 8.30am local time. Still the middle of the night London time, mind you, and Carrie was feeling a little jaded. They had been standing in a queue to get through passport control for almost an hour. Mike was chatting to a Dutch guy in front of them – they hadn’t been the only Westerners on the plane after all. This was Ron’s third trip to India, and Mike was quizzing him about where to stay.

 “I always stay in the Rajput Hotel, near Connaught Place, work pays for it so it’s pretty good, but probably dirt cheap. I’ll be getting a taxi straight there once we get out of here,” Ron offered. “Come in the cab and maybe you’ll get a room there. Otherwise there’s plenty of hostels, but I’ve never stayed in any of them.”

 Mike looked at Carrie. “What do you think?”

 “Sounds good. As long as it’s not too dear. We may as well share a taxi anyway.”

 After finally getting through passport control, they had to wait another three quarters of an hour to change travellers’ cheques into rupees, giving them plenty of time to work out that100 rps was around £3.30, and finally followed Ron out of the airport.

 “Bloody hell!” Carrie gasped. It was like stepping into a sauna, a stifling dry heat. For a few moments she thought she was not going to be able to breath properly. “Hot,” commented Mike. Carrie could feel her face redden as her blood vessels rushed to the surface in a bid to cool down. Sweat was already beginning to prickle the back of her neck. Ron led the way to a line of yellow and black taxis and they climbed into one which was showing a considerable amount of rust under its bright paintwork.

  With a jolt, the taxi began moving towards the exit of the airport. Carrie let out a squeal as the driver pulled out onto the main road blaring his horn and not giving way to oncoming traffic. She clutched Mike’s arm, noticing that he too had gone pale. Was their driver a nutter? Had the taxi’s brakes failed? Apparently not, for the driver continued to plough on regardless of other road users and it soon became obvious every other vehicle on the road was doing the same. No one used indicators, they pointed a finger to vaguely indicate which direction they intended to go in. They drove on the left, but there the similarities to British driving ended. Carrie again said a silent prayer, she had survived eight hours in the sky, surely she wasn’t going to be killed in a crazy taxi in Delhi! Her ears were ringing with the sound of horns. Outside she could see ramshackle buildings, cars that were falling apart, yellow and black motorised rickshaws, lorries with colourful mobiles dangling in their front windows, and rickshaw bikes, even the odd leathery cow, all fighting for space on the road. It was too much to take in. Carrie leaned back and forced herself to breathe deeply, not a great idea as the driver also seemed to be a chain smoker.

 Finally, they pulled off the main road into the haven of a palm fringed driveway and stopped outside an imposing pink edifice. A man dressed in splendid Indian costume came forward and helped them out of the taxi. Two porters were instantly at the boot, lifting Ron’s suitcase and their two backpacks out and carrying them up the hotel steps. From the distance Carrie could hear splashing, like someone playing in an outdoor pool. It looked and sounded wonderful. All she could think of was a cold drink, a shower and a bed. She started to follow Ron up to the door.

 “Carrie, I don’t think we can stay here.” Mike was still standing beside the taxi.

 She looked around, annoyed. “Why not, Ron said it was dirt cheap.”

“I doubt it, this is a five-star hotel.” Mike was indicating a brass plaque beside the front door. “Hold on mate,” he shouted to the porter heaving his rucksack up into the foyer. “Leave that.”  The porter looked confused. “That one too,” Mike ordered, and a second porter set down Carrie’s pack.

 Ron re-emerged from the foyer. “They do have a room, the price is negotiable but,” he looked embarrassed, “it’s not quite a cheap as I thought.”

 “No, seems a bit upmarket,” said Mike. The man dressed in the Raj costume tried to persuade them to stay, and Mike had to actually physically wrestle his backpack from the porter who seemed determined to get in into the hotel.  “Thanks mate,” he called to Ron as he walked back down the drive. “But this is a little out of our range. Thanks for the taxi ride, and we’ll maybe see you round.” Ron shrugged and heading into the air-conditioned lobby.

 Carrie struggled to hoist her pack back on, noticing the porters didn’t bother to offer to help, not now they weren’t going to spend money at the hotel. She was disappointed, but knew Mike was right. They had to find somewhere more affordable. Luxuries were a thing of the past.

 Sweat was running down her back and trickling from her knees under her jogging bottoms. Why had she worn these to travel in, why? They walked for several minutes, ignoring the various rickshaw drivers who kept stopping to offer them a lift. After buying two bottles of oddly named but surprisingly good ‘Thumbs Up’ cola from a stall, and almost getting into a fight with the young lads manning the stall when they started to walk away with the bottles, they gave in and got into an auto rickshaw. With all the lorries and buses around, this was even more terrifying as the taxi – they were totally exposed and vulnerable – but by now Carrie was almost too tired to care.

 The rickshaw driver took them to a hostel he said his friend ran near New Delhi station, which cost 225 rupees a night and was a real dump. Dark, grotty and dusty. Carrie’s nose turned up at the sight of the room he showed them. The beds looked like they’d been slept in and not changed. “No way!” she said, and Mike didn’t seem inclined to argue. Out came the Lonely Planet, and hassled by beggars, hoteliers and rickshaw drivers they wearily trudged in the direction of another hotel recommended in the guidebook. A man took them in and showed them a room. It was sparse and dirty. An even bigger dump than before.

 “I’ve had enough,” said Carrie, as they again emerged into the dusty heat. “What about this 55 Hotel in Connaught Place. It says its 250 rupees and a bit more upmarket than some of the other hostels. Let’s get a rickshaw there.”

 So they did. And while it was nothing as luxurious at the Rajput, it was clean, had white sheets and a proper bathroom and even offered room service. Okay, so it had gone up to 450 rupees, but by this stage neither Mike nor Carrie cared.

 Inside the air-conditioned room, Carrie unloaded her backpack, pulled out a towel, clean underwear and toiletries, kicked off her trainers and spent five minutes under a wonderful lukewarm shower. God that felt good. She dried up, put on her bra and knickers and debated how best to re-enter the room. She wouldn’t mind Mike seeing her in a bikini or swimsuit. But in her underwear. That was a bit too personal. She wrapped the damp towel around her and opened the bathroom door. Mike was lying on his back wearing boxer shorts and a teeshirt. He continued to look at the ceiling as she walked past towards the other single bed.

 “I ordered us room service,” he said. “Two omelettes, a couple of bottles of water and tea. That okay with you?”

 “Brilliant,” Carrie enthused, turning her back while she pulled on a long teeshirt which covered her hips. She didn’t feel like putting anything else on, not if she was going to sleep. “The shower’s great too Mike, not too hot, not too cold,” but as she finished, she heard the bathroom door close. Mike was gone.

 He emerged from the bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist, which he fortunately kept in place until he had put on some underwear. He was just pulling on a teeshirt when a knock came to the door. Food. After her forced starvation on the plane, Carrie was more than ready for it.  She glugged the water down greedily and then tucked into the omelette, the best she had ever tasted! The tea was too sweet, but welcome nonetheless.

 Neither of them said much as they ate. When she’d finished Carrie set her plate and mug on a dressing table. Her bed, with its pristine white sheets, looked so inviting. But maybe Mike wanted to go and explore.

 “So here we are,” she ventured, realising she suddenly felt nervous in his company. Just the two of them, so far from home. “What would you like to do now?”

 “Well, the Red Fort sounds like a good option, or maybe we should just head to the Main Bazaar now, I could get some sandals, seeing as I haven’t brought any with me,” said Mike enthusiastically.

 “You’d like to do that now?” Carrie tried to sound keen, she didn’t want to fall out with Mike on their first day. She could keep going if she had to.

 Mike was smiling at her. “Sorry, I’m teasing. I need some sleep. You look like you could do with a few hours too.” He set his plate on top of her’s and moved to the window, pulling down the blind, before leaping onto his bed. “Great isn’t it? Being here, doing what we want to do, when we want to do if. Sleeping when we feel like it.” He smiled across at her. “See you in a few hours,” and turned his back to her.

 Thank God for that. Carrie climbed in under the sheet which had just one thin blanket on top. Cosy in the air-conditioning. ‘I’ll never be able to sleep, I’m much too excited,’ she thought. But her eyes closed and a dreamless sleep descended.

Carrie wasn’t sure if it was her dry mouth, her rumbling stomach or the sound of Mike in the bathroom which wakened her. Either way, she felt pleasantly rested and relaxed when she opened her eyes, the room now practically dark. It must be night outside. She debated what to wear, and quickly pulled on a lightweight crinkly skirt that fell below her knees and never needed ironing, matched with a black vest top. The skirt was the only ‘good’ item of clothing she had with her, but somehow shorts didn’t seem appropriate. Despite the heat outside, she was still on London time and weather.

 The bathroom door opened. “Did you have a good sleep?” Mike asked. He was dressed in light canvas jeans and the same teeshirt.

 “Brilliant, I thought I’d lie awake for ages, but I think I must’ve dozed over in minutes, and I didn’t even dream. What about you?

 “Best sleep I’ve had in ages, must’ve been the jet lag. Shall we go for something to eat?”

 “Please,” Carrie’s tummy was bubbling with nerves as well as hunger. They were about to tackle Delhi again. She headed into the loo.

 Her scream had Mike dashing to the door. “What is it?” he demanded. Carrie was standing in the corner pointing to a large black beetle thing crawling in the shower.

“It’s just a cockroach,” said Mike, sounding a little exasperated. “We’re going to see a few of these boyos I think.”

 “But this is a good quality hotel,” gasped Carrie. “I thought it was clean.”

 “It is clean,” said Mike, but cockroaches come up from the drains.” He turned on the shower, and Carrie watched as the disgusting black beetle scurried frantically, its skinny legs working furiously to keep out of the water before finally disappearing down the plug hole which was an open hole with no cover of any form on it. Mike lifted a bottle of shampoo, Head and Shoulders, Carrie noticed, he must have dandruff, and placed it over the offending hole. “That should stop the wee blighters getting back up. Put the plug in when you finish using the sink,” he instructed as he left a trembling Carrie alone in the bathroom.

 Stepping out of the hotel into the bustling street, Carrie found the heat as unrelentless by night as it was by day. They walked around Connaught Place, a circular ‘square’ with eight appropriately named Radial Roads all meeting in one crazy roundabout in the centre. Beyond that they didn’t venture too far, making their way the short distance to Nirula’s Restaurant, recommended in the guidebook, where they sat among a clientele made up of mostly white travellers, drank a weak beer, and ate gooey dhal.

 Back in their room, Carrie poured them a duty-free brandy and Thumbs Up which they drank slowly, talking in hushed voices about the journey so far before she headed into the bathroom – no cockroaches in sight – and pulled on her light cotton pyjamas. Mike was already asleep when she climbed into bed, exhausted.

 It was after 10am before they woke next morning, and, having decided the 55 Hotel was too expensive to remain there, they checked out and, packs on backs, again found themselves walking through the choc-a-bloc streets of New Delhi heading towards another hostel recommended in the guidebook. At the door a man assured them it was full, got them into his auto-rickshaw and drove them to another luxurious five-star hotel.

 Carrie leapt out of the rickshaw in a fury.  “Just because we come from England doesn’t mean we’ve loads of money,” she spat at the man. “We can’t afford a place like this. Come on Mike.” Mike shrugged his shoulders at the man, gave him a look that said ‘I wouldn’t mess with her,’ and followed Carrie back out into the dusty road. They started walking again, and found themselves back at the very first hostel they had turned down yesterday.  Now, 225 rupees didn’t seem so bad, so they agreed to take a little room with a raised ‘en suite’ located somewhere along a long corridor on the fifth floor of the ramshackle building that didn’t look likely to have a fire escape.

 In the colourful Main Bazaar that afternoon they both bought sandals, while Mike ordered a pair of trousers from a tailor dressed all in white whose mounted certificates indicated he had trained in London.

 That evening they ate in a vegetarian restaurant where they ordered a veggie thali for 10 rupees, or 33p. What a bargain! Mike had vowed not to eat meat in India. From what he had read and heard from others, that seemed the soundest way of avoiding Delhi Belly or worse. In this restaurant, the chefs worked in a kitchen that opened onto the street. Inside, with the exception of Carrie, all the customers were male, and each and every one stared at her unashamedly, which she found a bit disconcerting. She also got a shock when a large cockroach scuttled across the floor and actually touched her foot! Still, she reflected as she cleaned her plate, the food was delicious. If she kept eating like this, she wouldn’t lose any weight in India and hell – everyone was meant to lose weight in India!

 The man who had been staring at her for the past five minutes was walking towards her. Carrie tried not to look him in the eye, but had no choice when she realised he was talking to her in very good English. “Can we have photograph, please?” he asked, waving a camera.

 “You want me to take a photo of you?” Carrie asked, unnerved. Thankfully she could see Mike, who had been paying more attention to the architecture of the Red Fort than she had, rounding the corner behind her.

 “No, me and you.” Taking her silence – Carrie was somewhat confused – as a positive response, the man waved to one of his friends who was watching from a distance and gave his friend the camera. Then he put his arm round Carrie’s shoulders and she was forced to smile while the cameraman insisted she say ‘Cheese.’ She could see Mike chuckling away.

 “God how embarrassing,” said Carrie, as the Indian men moved away having thanked her profusely. “Do you think it’s because I’m wearing shorts?” she asked, indicating the beige canvas shorts which stopped just a couple of inches above her knee. They were hardly revealing.

 “They probably just think you’re a movie star or something,” laughed Mike. “Mind you that Canadian girl at breakfast told you not to wear shorts and sleeveless teeshirts in India.”

 “Sure it’s too damn hot for anything else. I’m perfectly respectable,” protested Carrie. “Anyway, I’d not get a suntan if I wore trousers and long sleeves.”

 After the Red Fort, they headed back to the Main Bazaar where Mike picked up his tailor-made trousers. All credit to the little tailor, they were well-made and a perfect fit.

They had already been in Delhi for four days, and it was time to move on. As this was to be their last night, they walked the 20 minutes from the hostel to Connaught Place where they found a bar and had a couple of beers. Carrie had been feeling very ‘dry’ despite the occasional brandy and Thumbs Up. Having said that, Golden Eagle beer left a lot to be desired.

 It was hot back in the room. After one night in the 225rps hostel, they had moved again, to a different hostel where a room cost just 70rps. They were learning fast. This room had no ensuite, which was a relief, as the last one stank like a public urinal, but the one window in the room opened onto a communal stairwell and there was no natural light at all. The window was covered by mesh and had to be left open all the time otherwise there wouldn’t have been any air at all. And so privacy was non-existent. Not that they needed any.  The sheets hadn’t looked too clean either, and last night Carrie had sweated the bit out in her sleeping bag. God she missed the air conditioning of the 55 Hotel, she had hardly slept a wink. Now Mike was unpacking something strange from his pack. It appeared to be a net curtain!

 “What’s that?” Carrie asked, despite the answer being pretty obvious.

 “A net curtain. Mum said to bring it, it would do as a mosquito net. She gave me one for you too, if you want it.” Mike passed her a rather off-white piece of net that smelt of Lenor, or maybe that was Comfort.

 “What do I do with it?” Carrie asked. It wasn’t big enough to suspend from the ceiling over the bed in the manner of a normal mosquito net.

 “Sleep under it, use it as a sheet,” said Mike. “It’s cleaner than these sheets” – he’d made the mistake of sleeping under one last night and had woke complaining of a strange odour coming from his bed – “and it’ll keep you safe from the mossies. A lot cooler than a sleeping bag.”

 “True.” Carrie took the proffered curtain, and hoped Mike would soon head out to the smelly toilet down the corridor, she really wanted to get undressed. But Mike stripped down to his boxers and began cleaning his teeth with water from a bottle without even making a move in the direction of the horrible bathroom.

 “Are you waiting on something?” he looked at her quizzically.

 “Just thought you might be going into the loo.”

 “No, I’ll only go in there if I absolutely have to, why, do you want me out of the way?”

 Carrie felt herself blushing. “I was just going to get undressed.”

 Mike laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll avert my eyes.” Seeing that she still looked perturbed, he went on. “Look Carrie, we’re going to be sharing a room for the next year, so you might as well get used to it. Think of me as your big brother, or,” seeing her face, “your sister. We’re stuck with each other, so you’d best forget about being modest.”

 Red faced, Carrie proceeded to strip down to her bra which she then surgically removed underneath her pyjama top. She sat on the bed to whisk off her knickers, remaining seated while she pulled on her bottoms. At times like this she almost wished Alexandra was there.

 When the operation was complete, she cast a glance in Mike’s direction, to find him totally engrossed in his book and not paying her the slightest bit of attention. An image of Dee’s tall, slim body flashed before her eyes. It was highly unlikely he would find her sexually attractive. Stop thinking of him as a male sexual object, she told herself. He’s just a friend, family almost. Carrie heaved a sigh, it was bad enough getting used to this foreign country without having to deal with this foreign relationship. She lay down on top of her sleeping bag and pulled the net curtain up to her chin. Hmmm. It felt good to be covered up, but by something so light. She said a silent thank you to Mrs Somers.

 The Main Bazaar, Delhi, was something of a revelation at 6am. There was none of the mad hustle and bustle of later in the day, no one trying to sell you this or that, or persuade you to get into their rickshaw. But the street was anything but deserted. Some vendors were already setting up for the day, others were still sleeping, not in soft beds under a homely roof, but on carts and rickshaws, even on the stalls themselves. Carrie was shocked. This must be how these people lived, sleeping under the stars, night after night, washing only under public taps, trying to earn a measly living by selling their wares to a population which in general had little money to spare. She silently vowed not to shun those street vendors who had pestered her over the past couple of days. Buy something, anything, she told herself. At least that might in some small way ensure they had a meal or maybe a real bed sometime.

 Carrie felt guilty. Despite her net curtain, she hadn’t slept well, the heat and claustrophobia of the small room, combined with a paranoid fear that if the building caught fire she would never find a way out – this one seemed no safer than the last – had kept her awake long into the wee small hours. When Mike woke her at 5am she felt she had just fallen asleep.

 Still, she was leaving Delhi, and off to see the Taj Mahal. A shiver of excitement ran through her. They had booked their seats of the 7.05am Taj Express the previous evening, and had carefully planned the day, not wanting to waste it wandering around for somewhere to stay. As the train left the slums of Delhi behind Carrie could swear the air smelt different, less polluted somehow.

Three hours later they were in a rickshaw heading to the Tourist Rest Home, which, as the guidebook had promised, was a cheap haven after the horrors of Delhi. Rooms which opened onto a veranda and a courtyard complete with tables, chairs and palm trees.

 Unfortunately, they had to change rooms twice in two days, firstly because the loo didn’t flush as Carrie discovered to her embarrassment after having a dose of the runs – God help the man who had to sort it out! Then the following day  the man with the hosepipe who watered the air conditioning managed to soak the carpet of their new room while Mike and Carrie were out, so they returned to discover the floor was not only soggy, but the room smelt of rotten carpet. Never mind, Agra Fort – a vast improvement on the Red Fort – and the Taj Mahal made up for it all.

 Initially they were a bit taken aback by the sheer number of people at the Taj. Here were more families, less ragamuffins and the only people to pester you once you once inside the gates were licensed photographers.

 Carrie was trying to get a bench in front of the Taj Mahal to herself so Mike could take a photograph, but every time she got in position an official photographer would come up and point his camera at her. “No,” Carrie squealed, time and time again. Amazingly, wealthy Indian families were practically queuing up to get their pictures taken for a fee that would have fed a rickshaw driver and his family for a month.

 It was late afternoon. They had hoped to see the Taj Mahal at sunset. Looking out from one of its large arched windows, across the water, Carrie could see Agra Fort, a beautiful mystical sight. It was silent in the large hall, so peaceful. She could not believe she was really here. It was less than a week since she had left London, yet home, work and the tube seemed a different world.

 “Carrie,” Mike was calling her from across the room. “Look.” The sun was beginning to set. It was beautiful. She realised that for the first time since arriving at the Taj Mahal they were alone. No gabble of voices, no one shouting “Photo missus, photo missus.” Together they walked to the front foyer of the building, their feet treading silently on the shiny marble floor.  At the front they stood and looked down at the long thin pond that stretched endlessly in front of them, bordered by dwarf conifers. There were a few people round, but not too many.

 “Time for the photograph, I think,” said Mike, and they both headed down the steps at speed, breaking into a run as they passed the pond to the marble bench that must be the most photographed spot in all of India. One of the few official photographers hanging on started towards Carrie as she sat down, but when he saw Mike produce his Nikon he stepped back. The setting sun and the stunning white marble memorial formed a breathtaking backdrop and exhilarated by her surroundings Carrie, dressed in lightweight trousers and long-sleeved top she had picked up in the bazaar, posed and preened. Mike allowed himself a quiet smile. At this moment Carrie was the happiest he had ever seen her since they left London.

 That, of course, was before the second bedroom switch. But as the over-watered air conditioning made sleeping conditions much better than they had been at the grotty hostels in Delhi, it was a much more refreshed couple of travellers who boarded the 7.30am train back to Delhi the following morning.

Chapter 12

 “I’m not staying in Delhi another night, Mike, I’m not!” Carrie was adamant. They had planned to travel north that day to Simla, an old English hill station popular with western tourists. It was also considered Himachal Pradesh’s gateway to the Himalayas. But they hadn’t succeeded in getting information on any buses, and the first train to Kalka, where they would have to change before boarding a narrow-gauge train to Simla, wasn’t until 10.45pm.

Mike sighed, and Carrie wondered if she was annoying him. “Okay,” he conceded. “I’d like to get on too. We’ll leave our bags in left-luggage, and just potter around. I want to take some more photos, and we’ve hardly written any postcards yet.”

 At left-luggage they were made to empty the side pockets of their backpacks. Realising everything wouldn’t fit into Mike’s small rucksack, Carrie darted off to a stall outside the station and returned with a zip-up shoulder bag. She transferred the contents of her side pockets into the new bag and hauled it over her shoulder, following Mike back out into the blazing sun to kill 10 hours in Delhi

 They had booked berths in a carriage called a three-tier sleeper. Above their heads, where there would normally be a luggage rack, was a narrow bunk. After the first station, when a number of passengers got out, people started folding up the back of their seats, and each seat back also became a bunk. It was now around midnight. Carrie was still holding onto the zip-up bag. She would put the bits and pieces back into her rucksack when she’d had some sleep. Mike used the chain he had brought for occasions such as this to attach their rucksacks together to a leg of the bench. Carrie was looking forward to lying down, certain the motion of the train would lull her to sleep. She folded up her towel as a pillow and tucked the zip up bag safely behind her head as she lay down.

 It was hot, despite the rhythm and rocking of the carriage, Carrie couldn’t sleep. She was sweating under her money belt which was irritating her skin. She sat up and looked around. All the narrow benches were occupied buy prostate bodies. It was semi dark in the carriage, she felt safe and secure. She unclipped her money belt and went to put it into the bag behind her head, but on second thoughts tied it to her bra strap and wrapped it in her towel. Now it was safely under her head. The train chugged on and Carrie slept fitfully on the middle bunk. Below her she could hear Mike breathing softly. Above her a man’s leg hung over the side of the narrow bench. She hoped he wouldn’t fall.

 The gentle touch on her hair roused but didn’t waken her. She was dreaming. The touch was that of her lover. But she had no lover, and she was on an uncomfortable narrow plastic bed on a train. Carrie started, her hand instinctively reaching above her head.

 It grasped for the bag, which wasn’t there. Carrie felt her heart stop and her stomach heave. She had put her money belt into the bag, she remembered. She rolled over onto her knees, a low cry coming from her lips. As she raised herself her money belt became dislodged from the towel, and swung in mid-air, dangling from her bra strap.

 Thank God. Relief swept through her. She must have looked laughable, on all fours on the narrow bunk, the priceless money belt hanging from her bra strap. But Carrie couldn’t laugh.

 She jumped down and shook Mike violently. “My bag’s gone, my bag’s gone, I thought my money belt was in it but it was tied to my bra but I thought I’d put it in it, I thought I’d lost everything.” Carrie was almost incoherent, sobbing violently.

 Mike was up instantly. The train was stationary. A sign outside indicated they had reached Chandigarh Station. Mike ran to the door, there were people on the platform, but no sign of a bag like Carrie’s. He wakened the family sleeping opposite. None of them had seen anything. Mike moved down the carriage, asking everyone who opened their eyes if they had seen anyone board and leave the train. No-one had seen anything though people seemed genuinely concerned. Ask the guard, someone suggested. The guard wasn’t much use either. Instead of keeping an eye on who was getting on and off the train, he was snoring away in a top bunk. Soon the train started to pull out, leaving Chandigarh, and Carrie’s belongings, behind.

 She was shaking. Mike got out some water and made her drink it and take deep breaths. “Calm down,” he was saying. “You’ve got your passport, your travellers’ cheques, your tickets, your money, all the valuable stuff, yes?”

 Carrie nodded. She had stopped crying but was still wracked with deep sobs, rather like a child who has cried itself to sleep but continues to sob long after its eyes have closed. “What was in the bag then?” Mike asked.

 “All the stuff from my side pockets. My diary, my contacts book, my driving licence, health certificates, yellow fever certificate, the books we bought today, my glasses prescription.”

 “None of those are vital,” said Mike reassuringly.

 “The yellow fever certificate?”

 “You only need it when you’re re-entering the UK from South America, and if we get as far as Heathrow I think we’ll be okay.”

 “My contacts book. All those names and addresses people have been giving me over the past six months, all gone.”

 “You can write to them and ask them to send them out again, nothing’s irreplaceable, eh.” Mike had an arm around Carrie’s shaking shoulders. He gently wiped a tear away. Then he smiled. “You should see your face,”

 “What’s wrong with it?”

 “Well, and don’t take this the wrong way, it’s a bit dirty. Soot coming in the window I expect.”

 Carrie’s hand went defensively to her cheek. “And all these tears and rubbing the eyes with those dirty paws,” he turned Carrie’s hand over to show how dirty it was, “has made it even worse. That’s a real tear-streaked face if ever I saw one.”

 His kindness touched her. She started to laugh, still slightly hysterical. The family opposite them had resumed their sleeping positions, their expensive looking luggage, as it had been before, spread around the floor. Indicating the bags, she said: “You realise someone is hidden behind a shed at Chandigarh Station at this very moment, cursing himself for picking the wrong mug. I’m sure he doesn’t need three bottles of sun cream, a leaking bottle of Vaseline intensive care lotion, my contacts book, Immodium tablets, and who knows what else!

 “Oh God, and my diary!” She smiled weakly at Mike. “Maybe they’ll make money out of me yet by turning my diary into a bestseller. Bollywood, here I come.”

 “That’s more like it.” Mike gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before removing his arm. “Now keep your money belt where it’s supposed to be and try and get some more sleep. It’s nearly five, I think we’ll be in Kalka before too long.”

 Daylight in Kalka. Carrie and Mike transferred their baggage into the packed wooden carriage of the narrow-gauge – translate that as toy – train. The seats were wooden with straight backs. Although it was early, the sun was already hot, and passengers were letting down the windows. A new family sat opposite them, this time an attractive young woman with three very pretty children, and an older, rather overweight and therefore presumably wealthy husband. Their smiles were friendly, but Carrie was still feeling insecure. She was struggling with a mixture of relief that she still had all the important things in her money belt, anger with herself for being so stupid and not securing the bag better and for almost putting her money belt into it, and a real feeling of vulnerability. She felt violated.

 But she cheered up as the train started to wind its way painfully into the hills, lush and green compared to the dry land around Delhi. It was a slow journey, during which the train passed under 96 tunnels and bridges, finally reaching Simla, at 7,000ft above sea level at 2pm.

 Carrie was exhausted after the trauma of the robbery and 15 hours on the go, but they turned down offers of help from the dozens of porters who literally flocked to the windows of the train.  As they wearily trudged the 2km uphill in the direction of the YMCA, apparently the place to stay in Simla, tiny porters wearing only flip flops passed them carrying two, maybe three suitcases on their shoulders.

 The YMCA was full. “Come back tomorrow about 11.30,” the manager said.

 “Bugger that,” moaned Carrie. Mike looked at her. She was pale despite the tan she’d picked up over the past few days. Her hair was stuck to her head with perspiration, and her face still dirty and tear streaked. The St Christopher she wore around her neck, a gift from her friends at the Herald, had turned from silver to black, she had rings of dirt around her neck.

 A porter who had followed them all the way from the station was hovering hopefully a few yards away. Mike beckoned him over, and to Carrie’s relief he took her heavy pack across his shoulders. He began to take Mike’s from him too, and despite Mike’s reluctance he eventually had to two packs on his back. As they walked downhill in search of another hotel, Carrie became aware that they were surrounded by small shabbily clothed men bent double under huge bundles and suitcases. They were here to skivvy for the rich Indian holidaymakers who had escaped to the hills from the hot dusty plains, and who strolled around along the Mall, built in the style of a street in an English country town, as if they were walking along the seafront in Brighton on a lazy summer day. And she was one of them, she realised with some shame.

 The White Hotel was the fourth one they tried. There they were able to get a good room with a decent bathroom and an amazing view into the valley for 215 rupees. They paid the porter 20 rupees, less than the 50 he’d asked for, and Carrie felt a sense of guilt as they closed the door in his face.  She did not want to be cruel. Equally, she did not want to be ripped off.

 She opened the window, which was covered on the outside by a wire mesh to keep the monkeys out. The air in Simla was fresher, the sky bluer.

 “You shower first,” Mike offered. She smiled at him. “Thanks for being so good to me last night. I was pretty stupid, you could’ve been angry, but you weren’t.”

 “You weren’t stupid. I’d never have thought of tying my money belt to my bra strap!” he joked. Carrie moved towards her bed, unfastening the belt as she did. She opened it up, just to reassure herself everything was still there. It was, but to her disgust the money and the tickets were soggy with sweat! Euch! She would have to wrap them in plastic.

 Later that evening, after a much-needed sleep, Carrie and Mike queued at the GPO in Simla to telephone Wendy and Alan. This would be their first call home, and Carrie was almost sick with nerves. What if someone had died since she’d left and they hadn’t been able to contact her.  Her nerves turned to frustration when she finally got a slot in a cubicle. Her parents’ phone was engaged.  “Oh mother,” she moaned. Wendy was probably gossiping to one of her friends, complaining how they hadn’t heard anything from Carrie yet.

 They were back in bed by 10.30 having eaten nothing but bananas they bought from a fruit seller, and next morning headed to the YMCA where they were given a room with a view. It was available for four days only, said the manager, adding that the place was normally booked three months in advance. That afternoon Carrie spent two hours relaxing on the Y’s quiet terrace overlooking the hills (why did they take her sun cream?) and got through to her mum that evening, the two and a half minute phonecall costing 200 rupees. They didn’t have time to say a lot, except to reassure each other everything was fine. Wendy promised to ring Mrs Somers, and they were cut off. Mike would ring his parents in a couple of weeks, and the two sets of parents would pass messages between each other.

 They strolled along the Mall back to the hostel. It was a balmy night. There were no cars or rickshaws in the Mall, traffic was banned, and they gleaned from the guidebook that during British rule, Indians had also been banned. Back at the room they settled on their beds to read. The room was anything but luxurious, but it was comfortable and roomy. The fireplace in the corner, obviously unlit, made it feel homely. Carrie sighed and turned her attention back to Jilly Cooper’s Rivals. She was ready for anything now.

 “Wake up Mike,” she called. “There’s a lovely breeze, the sun is shining, and the laundry man’s coming.”

 Mike grunted and turned over. Carrie had always thought she was bad in the morning, Mike was even worse. The bathroom was down the corridor, which meant no toilet stench in the room, but Carrie had to dress before heading down to the shower to undress and get washed. A small price to pay.

 Back in the room, Mike was still wearing nothing but his boxers. His torso was still a palid British colour, but his neck, face and arms were showing a deep tan.

 “You look like a typical Brit on holiday,” she laughed.

 “Oh aye. And have you looked at yourself in your underwear recently? Plenty of white flesh there too madam.” Carrie flung her pillow at him, and ducked as it came flying back. She plumped it up and put it back on her bed before lifting a photocopied sheet of paper off the dresser.

 “Right, washing. Bloody hell, five rupees per item.” She crossed to her pile of dirty clothes. Seven teeshirts, two pairs of shorts, two bras, a very smelly towel, those grey joggers, the trousers and top she had worn at the Taj Mahal, five pairs of socks and seven pairs of knickers. “Do you think socks count as one item or two?”

 “Probably two.”

 “Blimey, that comes to 32 items, which makes,” she thought for a few seconds, using her fingers to help with the calculation, “one hundred and sixty rupees. That’s a bit much, don’t you think.”

 Mike was scrimmaging through his backpack. Five teeshirts – Carrie had noticed he rotated them and actually wore each teeshirt more than once if he could get away with it, without smelling any worse than she did – three pairs of shorts, the canvas trousers he had flown in, four pairs of boxers, three pairs of underpants, six pairs of socks, a towel. It was going to add up to quite a lot.

 Half an hour later they were giggling in one of the shower cubicles, trying to stay silent when anyone came into the bathroom, scrubbing underwear and socks with the Palmolive soap Carrie had brought from home. They had dispatched the laundryman – they liked to think of him as the dohbi wallah – with all the larger items.

“Ten minutes. A full 10 minutes. It should be hard after that.”

 She had a strong voice for such a tiny person, and the waiter in the YMCA restaurant didn’t hang around to argue, scuttling back to the kitchen with the offending egg.  Carrie tucked into her own eggs, and watched the egg being returned to the English girl before it was sent back to the kitchen for a second time.

 “Who does she think she is?” Carrie muttered to Mike. “Bossing them around. Look at her, she’s skinny as a rake, and it looks like all she’s planning to eat is that egg.” Carrie was still perturbed that she hadn’t lost any weight despite having been in India more than a week.

 Suddenly, the guy sitting opposite the girl leapt up from the table, his chair clattering on the floor, and ran from the room, his toast half eaten on his plate. The girl looked annoyed, then embarrassed, then concerned, before she too darted out of the restaurant. When the waiter reappeared with the egg which must have been very well cooked by that stage, the two diners had gone.

 That afternoon, after a long hard walk uphill to the Jakju Temple, a colourful building dedicated to a God that looked like a monkey, Carrie and Mike sat relaxing on the terrace with a fresh lime soda each. They were soon joined by the couple from breakfast, both wearing large-brimmed straw hats.

 As they were alone on the terrace, it would have been rude not to have said hello, though Carrie had already decided she didn’t like them and was doing her best to pretend she didn’t see them.

 “Hi,” Mike called out to the girl. “You didn’t fancy your egg this morning then?”

 The girl threw back her short blond head and laughed. She nudged her friend and the two moved to seats next to Mike and Carrie. Damn, now she would have to chat to them. Considering how isolated they felt in India, they hadn’t really made much effort to make friends with other western travellers so far.

 “I was desperate for that egg, but I asked for it to be hard boiled, and told the man it had to be boiling for 10 minutes, and they bring me a soft-boiled egg that looked like it had just been dunked in the pan for a couple of seconds,” the girl explained.

 “But their eggs are lovely and fresh,” defended Carrie.

 “I bet they are, but when you’ve the runs like we’ve the runs, you have to have everything cooked to death, right PJ.”

 Her companion nodded. “You probably noticed my hasty exit.” It was Carrie and Mike’s turn to nod. “A serious dose of dysentery. One minute you’re fine, the next there’s an explosion. At least I made it in time this morning. Wasn’t so lucky at the Taj Mahal though. That was nasty. Bet you’ve never sat in the back of a rickshaw with your pants full of shit before.”

 Carrie stared open mouthed. Disgusting. Mike, meanwhile, was laughing almost uncontrollably.

 “The best bit was,” the girl obviously thought this was very funny too, “he was wearing white trousers at the time!”

 Carrie looked again at the man with the exploding stomach. He was about her age, with receding hair which was a brown colour, and thick rimmed glasses. Suddenly an image of him desperately trying to control himself on the steps of the Taj Mahal flashed before her eyes, and she too started to laugh.

 “When you’ve had the diarrhoea problems we’ve had this trip, you lose all inhibitions about toilet matters,” the girl was explaining. “Christine,” by the way. She held out her hand. “PJ and I come from Yorkshire. We’ve been in India 11 days and have had the runs for seven. And we’re going home in a week’s time. Great eh.”

 No wonder she’s so skinny, thought Carrie, poor thing. It wasn’t doing PJ any harm, mind you, he must have been a right porker before he got the runs.

 They spent the rest of the afternoon chatting on the terrace, and that evening,  PJ joined them in the TV room to watch England and Ireland draw 1-1 in their first game in the 1990 World Cup final.

 Mike and Carrie spent the next day walking to the leafy Glen in the valley below Simla, and later met up with PJ and Christine and a couple on honeymoon for a drink in the Rendezvous Bar and Restaurant, which vaguely resembled a real pub. At one stage, Carrie headed to the toilet, doing an about turn as soon as she opened the toilet door and returning to the others desperately trying to control her retching. “You don’t want to know,” she told the five concerned faces looking her way.

 It didn’t take too much persuasion to get PJ and Christine to join them on the trip to Kulu, 235km up the valley, but the journey was tough. They sat squashed side by side, three to a seat in a fanless bus. As the miles jolted slowly by, Carrie became increasingly uncomfortable, she was desperate for a wee.

 Finally, at a stop in a small hillside village she spotted a sign which read ‘Laedies.’ She leapt out of the bus, giving Mike and PJ firm instructions not to let it leave without her. She darted in the toilet door. “Oh God,” Carrie gasped, feeling the bile rise in her throat. The floor and loo bowl were covered in shit, flies were everywhere, and the smell was gross. Desperate as she was, Carrie could not bring herself to stop long enough for a wee. She would have to hold on.

 Several miles further on and in another village, she was at the point where she could hold on no longer. A local man pointed down the hillside, and here she found a red brick shack. ‘Follow the smell, Carrie, follow the smell,’ she told herself. This had to be it. Bracing herself she stepped into a room that was even worse than before. Here there was no door, no cubicles, no hole in the ground, just a concrete floor covered in excreta and flies.  Carrie held her breath, pulled down her shorts and peed long and hard, before escaping outside where she vomited into some bushes.

 Pale faced, she climbed back on the bus, feeling smelly and dirty and conscious that she had not washed her hands. Mike looked at her sympathetically. “There’s no excuse, no excuse,” Carrie was muttering. She felt like crying. “I know this is a poor country, but they have water, surely there is no excuse for such disgusting filth.” She leaned her head against the window and the rain began to fall.

 It poured as they climbed through the valley alongside the Beas River, but in spite of the rain, the scenery was spectacular. Twice their bus was halted, firstly when two minivans had a minor collision on the road just ahead. Within minutes, six busloads of people were crowding around the immobile vans, along with dozens of intrigued locals. It took far longer to clear the road of people than it did of the two damaged vehicles.

 Then the bus had to stop when it came across a brightly coloured lorry, or Public Carrier vehicle, lying on its side. Fortunately, no one disembarked this time, and the bus was able to drive on past.

 Tired and hungry, but exhilarated by the beautiful surroundings, the four of them headed to a restaurant that evening where they were told they could not drink alcohol, something they were all crying out for, on the premises. Bugger that! Then they heard someone speaking Mike’s name and all turned in slow motion. Who on earth would know Mike here of all places?! Miracle of miracles, it was Ron, the Dutch guy from the airport. What business he was on in Kulu they neither knew nor cared. Ron seemed to know his way around, and after a quiet word with the waiter, the five of them were soon drinking cold beer subtly concealed in a metal jug, although if the alcohol police had been alert they would have spotted that the water jugs had a head that would have done a pint of Guinness proud!

 Slightly tiddly, they piled out of the restaurant. Marijuana was growing everywhere and on the way back to the hotel, Carrie and Christine pulled some leaves off a plant.

 “I’ll just have a little nibble,” said Carrie. “Maybe I’ll get high!”

 Ron was dismissive. “That’ll not do anything for you. Wait here a minute,” he instructed the four of them. Less than five minutes later he returned with a large black block. “Now this is the real thing,” he said, and they all headed back to Mike and Carrie’s room, via one of the street’s many ‘Beer Shops,’ where they bought several bottles of the delightful Golden Eagle.

 Ron produced some Rizzlers and tobacco and began crumbling the cannabis into a joint. He, Mike and PJ were soon passing it round and having deep conversation about Indian politics between sips of Golden Eagle. Carrie was in two minds. She didn’t smoke and didn’t intend to start now. But she’d never tried marijuana or drugs of any description, and as there was no real legal issue in India, well, why not?

 “I know.” She pulled a bag of crisps out of a plastic bag, emergency rations they hadn’t gotten round to eating on the bus. “You can eat this stuff, can’t you?”

 “Yeah,” Ron drawled. “Take a bit longer to hit, that’s all.”

Carrie and Christine began nibbling crumbs of the cannabis along with the crisps and the beer. After half an hour Carrie felt totally normal, although the men seemed a bit squiffy. So she had a larger crumb, and then she had more of them.

 “So,” Christine asked, as she sat beside Carrie on one of the beds. “How long have you and Mike been together?”

 Carrie laughed. “What do you mean together?”

 “What does together normally mean. How long have you been a couple?”

Carrie swigged another gulp of beer. “We’re not a couple, we’re just travelling partners.” Christine sniggered.

 “Honest, I was meant to be travelling with this girl called Alexandra, but then she started sleeping with my ex-boyfriend, and I ended up with Mike. I‘ll tell you the whole story if you like.”

 When the story finished half an hour later Christine announced she was off to bed. As she pulled on her sandals, she whispered conspiratorially to Carrie: “You could do a lot worse than Mike. I’d hold on to him if I were you, he’s pretty cute.”

 The party continued until near midnight, when PJ headed off to be with Christine, and Ron disappeared into the night as mysteriously as he had come.

 Tired and a little drunk, Carrie got ready for bed. It was only when she realised she was walking round the room in her bra and knickers that she realised just how tiddly she was. She pulled on her pyjamas and fell into bed, complaining that she didn’t know what all the fuss was about that marijuana stuff. It was pretty useless.

Three in the morning and Carrie was awake. She was shivering, unable to focus. She tried to get up to go to the loo but was barely able to stand. The room was spinning. She started to talk, but she didn’t know what about. Mike was soon awake, leaning over her bed, a look of concern on his face. “Mike, Mike,” she moaned. “My tongue’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, I can’t talk, I’m going to choke. I need some water…”

 She gulped down the two bottles of mineral water they had but her thirst continued to rage and her mouth was still as dry.  Mike set about filling the bottles up with water from the tap in the ensuite and dissolving purifying tablets in it. Carrie was still mumbling incoherently, complaining about her tongue sticking in her mouth.

He helped her drink more water, now tainted with that disgusting taste and smell of the tablets. “I’m dying, I’m dying,” she moaned. “Tell my mummy and daddy I love them, Jonathan and Susan too. Tell Annette I love her. You too Mike, I love you too,” she muttered over and over again. “Mike, I’m going to die.” Between crying and talking, Carrie remained awake until 5am, determined to stop herself going to sleep in case her mouth dried up she couldn’t breathe. Mike knew there was no point in calling a doctor, all she was suffering from was the effects of too much marijuana. At dawn she finally fell into a restless sleep and Mike too was able to close his eyes.

Chapter 13

She felt hot sun on her face, but couldn’t bear the thought of opening her eyes. She lay there on her back, still, conscious of the sound of her breathing. That was a good sign, breathing was an indication she was still alive. Inside the room was silent, although faraway she could hear horns, voices, the general hubbub of an Indian day. Her mouth was still dry, she poked a parched tongue out and tried to wet her cracked lips, but to no avail. She needed water, she needed to open her eyes.

 Carrie gasped, blinded by the bright sunlight. It was hitting her bed through the closed window. She realised she was sweating under her net curtain. At first she thought she had a hangover, but, miraculously, her head didn’t ache when she moved it. She leaned over the edge of the bed and thankfully tilted the water bottle to her mouth.

 “Eugh!” She spat out the little she hadn’t swallowed. It tasted like the swimming pool in Ealing. ‘I can’t drink that,’ she moaned to herself, looking round the room for Mike, but it was empty. Carrie closed her eyes again and tried to think. Her head felt fuzzy, and she was afraid that if she stood up, she would fall over. Slowly, memories of the night’s horrors came back to her. She had eaten a huge amount of marijuana, no wonder she had been ill and hallucinating. She recalled lying there in the darkness, struggling to keep her mouth wet, terrified she was going to die. Damn bloody drugs, she cursed. Never again, never ever again. She dragged herself to her feet and over to the grotty little bathroom in the corner. The shower was a tap at about head height with no rose on it. It was cold, although in this climate cold normally meant lukewarm. Carrie peeled off her sweaty pyjamas and heaped them in the corner. The stream of water felt good, she let it pour into her face, over her hair, down her exhausted body.

 She was dressed in shorts and vest top and was roughly drying her hair with her towel when Mike appeared back in the room. “You’re up?” he sounded surprised.

 “Of course,” Carrie replied non commitally. She wondered how much Mike remembered about the night before. After all, he had been smoking the stuff. She knew he’d made her the purified water, but maybe he slept through the rest.

 “How’re you feeling?”

 “Not bad.”

 “Truthfully?”

 “Well, I don’t have a headache, but I am a bit fuzzy. I guess I ate more of that stuff than I realised.”

 She turned her back to Mike to fold her pyjamas and was shocked when he moved quickly up behind her and turned her round roughly. His face, only inches from hers, was angry. “Darn right you had too much. We kept telling you, but you wouldn’t listen. Oh, you knew better, and then you keep me up all night talking shite and whinging about your dry mouth, and demanding water, and making me run round after you.”

 Carrie stepped back, stung by the venom in his voice. “I’m sorry, Mike, I am,” she felt tears brimming.

 “Go on, cry.” Mike walked to his bed and sat down, his back to her. She didn’t know what to say so she remained silent. “You scared the shit out of me Carrie. You might have seriously OD’d. I thought I was going to have to find a doctor, and where the fuck would I find a doctor in Kulu in the middle of the night?” He ran his hands through his already tousled hair. “In the end I decided I had to stay with you, and thank God you came down fairly quick. But it wasn’t good.”

 Nervously Carrie went and sat beside him. He held his head in his hands.

 “What if you’d died?” he said, not looking at her. “What would I have told your parents?” He seemed really upset. Carrie reached out and put her arms round him.

 “Sorry,” she murmured.  For a moment he allowed himself to lean against her, his shoulders heaving, then he shook himself free and stood up.

 “Anyway. You’re not dead, and Christine and PJ are waiting for us to have breakfast with them in the café. Here’s some water, I’m sure you’ll be needing it.”

 Neither of them spoke on the way down to the café, Carrie afraid that more apologies would only make things worse. She must have scared Mike last night, hell she had frightened the life out of herself. Mike was right, they were a long way from home, and a long way from any decent hospitals. In future she was going to be sensible, not take any risks or do anything silly.

 “White water rafting tomorrow then,” PJ enthused. His stomach had improved considerably over the past three days. Carrie nearly fell off her seat. “Wouldn’t that be a bit dangerous?” she asked tentatively.

 “Not half as dangerous as washing half a kilo of marijuana down with beer,” guffawed PJ. Carrie cringed, realising that Christine was laughing and Mike even had a twitch on his mouth. She was so embarrassed. PJ continued: “It says here no one under the influence of drink or drugs should go white water rafting. Maybe we’d best leave you behind Carrie!”

 “She’ll be fine by tomorrow,” interjected Mike. “I think she’s learned her lesson, haven’t you Carrie?” Carrie nodded dumbly, afraid that if she spoke she would cry. And crying was something else she wasn’t going to do again this trip. At least not in front of Mike. “Come on,” he grabbed her hand and pulled her up from the table where her porridge remained barely touched. “You need some air. Let’s walk into the hills. You two coming?” he called after PJ and Christine.

 Carrie felt better now that Mike’s anger seemed to be fading, and the cool breeze that blew into their faces as they trekked along a little used road into the hills above Kulu reinvigorated her. But it was thirsty work. As they passed an isolated dwelling, a small, wrinkled man in a Tibetan style hat beckoned to them from his veranda. “Come, come,” he called. “Engleesh?” he asked, indicating that they sit on the rickety wooden stools scattered over the veranda. The old man disappeared inside and a few minutes later re-emerged with four cups of chai, the sweet tea everyone drank here.

 Their host, who revealed he was 69 but looked much older, spoke a little English, and took great pride in showing his visitors photographs of his family. When Mike produced his camera, he jumped up with great dexterity for one so frail and disappeared into the chasm of his home. “You’ve offended him Mike,” Christine chastised, but a few minutes later the little man re-appeared, dressed in what was presumably his best suit. He stood proudly outside his tiny home while Mike took a series of pictures. At no stage did he remove his colourful hat.

 As they walked away, carrying an envelope with the old man’s address so that Mike could send him a photograph, he waved his arms in the air and called after them: “Freedom is a gift from Heaven.”

 Freedom certainly was a gift, and Carrie intended to make the most of it as she paddled as hard as she could up the mighty Beas River the next morning. The sun was beaming, the scenery was fantastic, her post-marijuana dizziness had gone, she’d had a great night’s sleep, and here she was paddling for dear life in a rubber dingy on some very frightening water. It was fantastic. The four of them were in the boat with two other Indian tourists and Mojo from Snow Leopard Adventures, and they had been told that this first 5kms upriver would be the hardest.  The rough waters threw the boat all over the place, and it took all Carrie’s concentration not only to paddle, but to keep her seat on the rim of the prow of the boat. After the 5kms they stopped in a field for a drink and a snack with other members of the Snow Leopard Adventures group as well as Ajeet, the enterprising Indian who had founded the company. Then they had another 11kms to cover on admittedly less choppy but no less stunning water before Ajeet drove them all back to camp in his Range Rover where they were treated to probably the best Indian meal they had had since arriving in the country.

 After dinner, the four of them headed down to the rocks by the river to dabble their feet in the cool water. The sun was boring down on them. PJ covered his balding head with a large white handkerchief knotted at the corners. They all had red cheeks and noses, and red arms and knees. Carrie lay back on a rock and watched the occasional little white cloud scurry across the azure sky. Such a beautiful day, she thought. The exercise, the companionship, the scenery, it was unsurpassable. She thought of Bernice working away at a computer at the Herald, of Annette out on some scoop, of dear Alex, screaming at those two youngsters, and she felt so lucky, so very blessed to be here.

 Mike was sitting on a rock not far away, his feet in the river water. He too seemed to be lost in thought. “Mike,” she called over gently. He looked across and smiled at her, a forgiving smile she thought. “I’m so sorry about everything, really, I’ll not be so stupid in future, honest,” she said. Her row with Mike, which had simmered under the surface since yesterday morning, was the only cloud on an otherwise clear horizon. She couldn’t bear for him to stay angry with her.

 He smiled again. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you. I should have made more effort to stop you eating the stuff. I was just worried about you, that’s all. Anyway,” he lay back on the rock, shading his eyes with his hands. “You told me you loved me, how could I be angry after that!”

 “Ohmigod!” Carrie’s hands flew to her face which was glowing with a redness not caused by sun alone.  “Did I?”

 “Yeah,” drawled Mike. “Me, and your whole family, the entire staff at the Herald, Christine and PJ, even Alex got a mention.” He laughed at her face. “Don’t worry about it,” he assured, before pulling his hat over his face and effectively ending the conversation.

 It was June 16^th, and Christine and PJ were leaving Kulu in the early hours of the 17^th to begin the long journey back to Delhi, then home to the UK. They had checked out of their hotel room before heading off to the river and had left their belongings in Mike and Carrie’s room. Exhausted by the day’s sun and exercise, Carrie and Christine went to bed shortly after 10pm, while Mike and PJ headed off to find a more upmarket hotel to watch England draw with Holland in the World Cup. At 3am Carrie woke briefly to hug Christine and PJ farewell. They left in the darkness, with promises to get in touch once Carrie and Mike were back home. Home seemed such a long way off, still nearly a year, Carrie thought as she drifted off to sleep again. She didn’t envy Christine and PJ their journey back to Delhi one bit.

 But it was time for Mike and Carrie to move on too, and the next morning found them on a bus heading deeper into the Kulu Valley, to the village of Naggar. As the rickety bus wound its way uphill, Mike grew increasingly pale, complaining of a headache and bad stomach. He didn’t look good.

 The following afternoon, Carrie sat quietly in the corner of their room. The rain almost drowned out the sound of retching coming from the cubbyhole in the corner, laughingly described by the manager as an ensuite. Almost but not quite. Carrie shuddered, feeling a sudden chill despite the humid heat in the room. It was quite dark, the thick stone walls pierced by just a small window, the bleak sky outside allowing little light through the door which was open onto the veranda.

 Mike had been ill all night, the climb from the bus stop on the main road uphill to the village of Naggar, and then the even steeper ascent to Naggar Castle, laden under heavy packs and in blazing sunshine, had taken its toll. It was the first time either of them had been sick since coming to India, but Carrie was worried. He’d had a fever for more than 12 hours now and had been vomiting and running to the toilet all that time. She paused from writing her diary, her pen hovering over the page. It could be pneumonia or malaria, she thought. Or something even worse. Calm yourself, Carrie, it’s probably just a bad dose of Delhi belly, and being a typical man he’s milking it. She put her pen down as he emerged from the bathroom, shaky on his feet, looking ashen despite his tan, grey rings under his eyes.

 “Why don’t you try and sleep,” she told him, pulling back his sleeping bag so he could get inside. Despite the fever he was shivering. “I’m going outside and read my book.”

 “But it’s pouring,” he protested.

 “I’ll sit on the veranda. It’s sheltered. I need some air anyway.”

 He climbed up onto the rickety bed and into his sleeping bag, pulling the zip up and tucking the bag under his chin. Carrie stepped outside onto the wooden balcony which accessed all the rooms on the first floor. It was covered by a tiled roof, and overlooked a cobbled courtyard, and beyond that, what she assumed were mountains. The foothills of the Himalayas. Although it had been hot and sunny yesterday when they got off the bus from Kulu, they had been so busy walking, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and reaching their goal, the much talked about Naggar Castle, they hadn’t taken time to look around them. The guidebook said transport to the castle was a ‘little problematic’ – it wasn’t wrong.

The former headquarters of the Raja of Kulu Valley didn’t took too regal now, Carrie thought, not in this pissing rain.

 As they had painstakingly climbed the almost vertical road through Naggar, no castle was to be seen. “Surely it isn’t those two sheds teetering those stones on the top of the hill,” she had commented, pausing for breath. It was.

 The monsoon-like rains began just as they staggered into the castle reception. Close up, it was beautiful and very old, but there wasn’t a turret or a moat in sight, much to Carrie‘s disappointment. Paperwork out of the way, they were soon in their sparse room trying to recover from the bus trip and trek up the mountain. As the rain moved in, any view disappeared, and had been blanked by dark clouds and sheeting rain ever since.

 Carrie sighed and settled herself on some steps at the end of the veranda overlooking the valley up which they had climbed. The rain clattered onto the castle roof and poured in huge torrents from gutters. The noise was ear shattering but also remarkably comforting. She turned her attention to her book but could not concentrate. She hoped he would get better soon.  Okay, she was being selfish, but they had only four weeks left in India and she didn’t want to miss anything, especially a trek into the Himalayas.

 As Carrie sat there, half reading, half day dreaming, the rain stopped. It didn’t ease and then turn to drizzle as it would have done at home. It just stopped. And with equal suddenness, the clouds dispersed. Blue sky began to break through. She saw the tip of a mountain. Then there were more peaks, all emerging from the mist which hung on in the valley. But as the sun warmed the rich and fertile land, so different to the plains around Delhi, the mist too was chased away, leaving the valley below exposed. There were trees and golden fields, the occasional rooftop and, snaking through the valley far below, the Beas River on which, miles away and days before, they had literally risked their lives white water rafting.

 Carrie raised her eyes upwards, revelling in the silence, breathing in the so-clean air, hearing only her own heartbeat. She was looking at a never ending mountain range. Those closer and lower were stone grey and green, while those in the distance, rising majestically towards the now azure sky, were a softer grey, their tops capped with white snow. Somewhere out there, though she couldn’t see it, was Mount Everest, the roof of the world. Three weeks ago she had been in the grey streets of London. Today she was in the Indian Himalaya. The reality brought tears to Carrie’s eyes. Below her in the courtyard, a waiter dressed in pristine white was setting about placing chairs and tables for the castle’s guests. The hot Indian sun was drying the wet ground and foliage.

Mike should see this too.

 She walked into the bedroom ready to shake him awake, but stopped herself at his bedside. Her entry into the room had disturbed him, and he turned onto his back, a lock of thick dark hair falling over his forehead, and staying there, sticking in the sweat which dampened his still fevered brow. Carrie decided to leave him. The view would still be there tomorrow. She leaned forward and gently pushed the hair off his forehead. He started a little but did not open his eyes. She brushed her finger against his flushed cheek, all the while staring at his face. It was then she saw, for the first time, that he was beautiful.

 The realisation hit her with a shock. Of course she had always known Mike was good looking, anyone with eyes could see that. But looking at him lying there, all hot and vulnerable, she saw a beauty that was nothing to do with looks alone. God Carrie, don’t you dare, she scolded herself. Don’t you dare start to fall in love with Mike Somers. After only three weeks. It would only spell disaster. She headed outside into the fresh air and stood leaning on the balcony, surveying her surroundings. It’s the scenery that’s making you feel all soppy, she told herself. What you need is a damn good shag.

 Not much chance of that in Naggar, unfortunately. There were hardly any other tourists, anyhow, they would soon be moving on. Fortunately, Mike was feeling much better the next day, so they strolled down into the village to check the bus times to Manali in the morning, then did a mini-trek (well Mike reckoned he was up to the 2kms mentioned in the guide book) to a village further up the hill. The village itself was a revelation. It was like stepping back in time a couple of centuries. The houses were wooden and built on stilts. The animals slept below. All farming was done by hand, and the people carried all their produce on their backs. There was no road, no cars and no machinery. Dozens of children, all very Tibetan in appearance and wearing colourful but raggedy clothes, called “Alloo, Alloo,” in beautiful sing song voices, and kept coming up to Carrie and Mike, pulling at their clothes, touching Carrie’s hair, demanding they take photographs of them and hand over paisos. Surrounded by wild marijuana, Carrie felt a little queasy, and shook her head aggressively when the children pointed at them saying “Ippies, Ippies.” On the way back down to Naggar, they were chased by a ferocious-looking dog who kept coming to within a yard of their heels, and then thankfully withdrew. They also discovered the most enormous, vividly turquoise-coloured butterfly either of them had ever seen. It had been an entertaining afternoon. Tomorrow they would hit the road again and head to Manali from where, all being well, they would start their trek into the Himalayas.

Chapter 14

Just when you think bus journeys can’t get any worse, they do, thought Carrie as she struggled for air in a rear corner seat, where she was buried under two rucksacks, a sunhat and a bottle of mineral water. The bus to Manali arrived half an hour late and was a real boneshaker, with cracks everywhere, seats that were all askew and wobbled precariously at every bump, and a door which kept flying open. As it drew closer to Manali, so more and more passengers climbed in, until Carrie found herself being squeezed into the position she was now in.

 She finally tumbled out, stiff as a poker, and the task of finding somewhere to stay began all over again. They headed towards Old Manali, a favourite on the hippy trail, and even there it took time to find a decent place to stay. In the end they settled on an odd-looking little wooden building with a very English name – Asha Cottage – just off a bumpy lane bordering some paddy fields. The first floor room had a balcony, and the bathroom – though that was a rather glamorous description of the hut with a tap and a toilet – was at the bottom of a muddy bank.

 In the morning, Carrie woke to the sight of the neighbouring paddy fields being ploughed by two lazy oxen and an impatient little man. Behind the stepped fields were huge pine forests stretching up the hillsides, and behind that the snow-capped mountains.  Stunning.

 They headed back into town to arrange a trek, having already set their hearts on doing a 12-day hike over a high mountain pass to Chandra Tal lake. The Lonely Planet made it sound like the toughest and most rewarding walk in the area.

 “No chance,” the man in the tourist office told them. “It is too early in the season, there is too much snow for trekking over Baralacha La to Chandra Tal.” Seeing the disappointment in their faces, he added: “You can go to Chandra Tal by a different route, I have a group from Sweden leaving in two days. You can join them, yes?”

 Reluctantly Carrie and Mike agreed. It wouldn’t be as long or as high or as exciting as the walk they had planned, but they had to go somewhere.

  Fate, as it happened, intervened. On their way to the bank to withdraw money to pay for the trek, they found themselves in a queue behind Alison and Headley, who revealed they had persuaded one of the trekking agencies to allow them to do the Chandra Tal walk.  “Why don’t you come with us?” Headley said enthusiastically. “Our agent wasn’t too happy about sending porters and a cook for just two people.  It will make it much cheaper for us if there’s four in the group. And we’d love the company.”

 “Oi,” Alison hit him a thud. “You were just trying to convince me that it would be wonderful going off into the wilderness on our own. I think you used the word romantic. Don’t worry,” she turned to Carrie and Mike. “Me head’d be turned if I was stuck with only Headley to talk to for a fortnight. Sambit, the agent, said most of the porters wouldn’t speak any English. It’ll be more fun if there’s four of us.”

 Carrie and Mike didn’t need any more persuasion. They pushed their guilt about the Swedes to the back of their minds and headed off to meet Alison and Headley’s.  By the end of the day, they had paid 3,000 rupees each for their trek into the Himalaya mountains.

 “We’ll have to phone home and tell everyone we’ll be in the middle of nowhere,” Carrie insisted that evening. “I need to know everyone is alright before we go, it’s been more than a fortnight since I spoke to mum.”

 But they had a bit of a shock at the post office. Apparently, there were no telephones capable of making international calls in Manali. They should have phoned from Simla. Carrie was frantic. “What if someone is ill or has died?” she panicked. “I won’t be able to enjoy myself if I’m worrying about people at home all the time, or knowing they are worrying about us and why we haven’t been in touch.”

 “We can’t do anything about it at this stage,” said Mike. “They knew we were heading in the mountains – they’ll probably know it’s a problem with phones.”

 The post office clerk, who was puffing serenely on a joint, intervened. “You can send telegram to England,” he said.

 “Great,” Mike turned to Carrie. “At least that way we can let them know why we haven’t been in touch, and then we’ll ring as soon as we get back to Simla.” The clerk handed him a form to fill in. “Don’t be such a worrier Carrie, you only stress yourself out.”

 It was true, she was a worrier. She always had been, to the point that her worrying used to worry her mother. Like mother like daughter. The likelihood was no-one had died or was seriously ill. And even if they had, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. At least the telegram would keep her mum and dad up to date – if it ever reached them. ‘Oh ye of little faith’ she admonished herself, as Mike set about dictating a telegram which they had agreed would go to his parents. ‘Trekking – stop – No telephones – stop – All well – stop – Call Wendy – stop.’ The paper was stamped and disappeared. Mike turned round with a smile. “Okay, let’s go eat.”

 ‘It had to be my turn, I suppose, but God this is awful’ thought Carrie as she rinsed her mouth with water from the tap. She was sitting on the loo with bad diarrhoea and had ended up vomiting into a bucket at the same time. Those tablets Mike had got from a shop in town that claimed to be a pharmacy weren’t working too well. God only knows what was in them. She looked at her watch before flushing the toilet. Almost 4pm, she’d been throwing up like this since five that morning. Mike had managed to get her a bucket, but she still had to slither and slide up and down that mucky bank every time she needed the loo. Worst thing was, they were heading off on the trek tomorrow.

 Carrie dragged herself back up to the comfort of her sleeping bag. Three hours later she was sitting on the balcony waiting for Mike to come back with some cold orange juice. She had developed a craving for it just before he headed out for something to eat. He should have been back by now, he’d been gone ages. And in the distance she could hear sounds like gunshots. Carrie was worried. Maybe there was a riot in the town, maybe Mike had been hit by a stray bullet, maybe right now he was bleeding in a ditch or bumping along a road in a makeshift ambulance in the direction of a hospital. Tiredness and dehydration made her mind run riot and she was relieved when she finally spotted his shadowy figure stumbling along a path that skirted the paddy fields – the quickest route to town. Her worry abated, her mouth watered at the thought of the cold orange juice.

 “Sorry,” he called as she stomped in the door. “No orange juice, just Frooti, and it’s warm. Bloody restaurant was crap. There were about two people there and I must’ve waited an hour to be served. I was about to leave when they brought out my veg curry, and it was cold. I ate it anyway. How’re you feeling?”

 “Better,” she replied, but I can’t believe you couldn’t get any orange juice. I don’t like mangos.”

 “It was the best I could do.” He tossed a carton at her. “Town was really busy too, some sort of fiesta, they were letting off firecrackers all over the place.”

 Carrie opened the carton and took a slug. The warm juice was sweet and wonderful. She gulped it down, and reached for a second carton. Hell, mangos were great!

 “Thanks Mike. This is just what I need. Not cold, not orange, but fantastic. Bloody hell it’s good to feel normal again. Chandra Tal here I come!”  She whooped and threw herself onto the firm little bed, revelling in the anticipation of a full, vomit free night.

 Six thirty next morning Carrie was back in the horrible little bathroom ‘tapping down,’ before dressing in her ‘trekking gear’ and ensuring her rucksack, now deplete of most of its bulk, which was in a locked cupboard in Sambit’s office, was in order.  An hour later she and Mike were in town to meet Alison, Headley, Sambit, their guide Dileep and a jeep in town to begin the long drive to Darcha, from where they would begin the walk. The road would take them over the Rhotang Pass, which the Indians claimed was the highest road in the world.

 Carrie patted her stomach as she sat in the cramped jeep. It was feeling much better, a little tender after yesterday, but definitely better. In fact, she rubbed it again for reassurance, flatter. It was flatter, she was thinner than she had been two days ago. She silently thanked the bug that had cleaned out her insides and kept her off food for a day. ‘Maybe I will lose weight in India after all,’ she thought to herself. The image of herself looking slim cheered her immensely. 

 The road to the pass was rough and twisty, the jeep barely passed 30kms per hour and it was very hot inside. They stopped several times on route for chai, which Dileep explained was made with tea, ginger, sugar and condensed or powdered milk. At the Rhotang Pass, 3,978 metres above sea level, the road sliced through the snow, edged by a wall of ice at least 10 feet high, and above that, snow peaked caps and an incredibly blue sky. Carrie rapidly felt her spirits, if not her strength, returning.

 As Darcha approached, the road deteriorated and, just before the village, it disappeared altogether. In front of them the river which passed below a road bridge had burst its banks and was flowing at speed over the road itself. The murky brown water poured over a ledge, a frightening sight.

 They all sat and looked, silent. Finally, Dileep hopped out of the jeep, shouted something to Sambit, who then began hurrying them out. Once they were assembled on the dusty road, the roar of the flooded river in their ears, Sambit began talking. “Okay, the bridge is down, so we have to leave the jeep here. You have to cross many rivers on your trek, and this will be good for you. We camp, just at the other side, yes. It will be no problem.”

 Carrie grabbed Mike. “He wants us to walk over that,” she gasped in disbelief. But Mike was already beginning to unlace his boots.

 “Yes,” he grinned. “The trek starts here I guess.” He hesitated. “Are you not up to it, how’s your stomach?”

 Seeing Alison was already in her bare feet, Carrie took a deep breath. I can do it, she thought to herself, I can do it. “My stomach’s fine, just a bit hungry actually.” They hadn’t eaten since an omelette at 10am. She unlaced her walking boots, tucked her thick trekking socks inside, hauled on her backpack, grabbed the boots, and braced herself.

 “We go in twos,” said Sambit. “Always in twos crossing rivers.”

 “Aargh! That’s cold,” Carrie yelped. The water was indeed ice cold. Sambit had a hold of her arm, and she wanted to shake him off, but seeing the rapids falling away below her decided not to.  In front of her Dileep and Alison were making steady progress, and behind Mike and Headley were laughing loudly and seemed to be enjoying the experience. Shit, it was cold. She let out a sigh of relief when she finally stepped out of the icy water to the dusty ground on the other side. That had been tough. Sitting on the bank, she watched her toes change colour as blood and heat once again seeped through them.

 Camp was just a few yards from the river bank, and there waiting for them were their four porters, who would accompany them and Dileep into the mountains. The porters, all small, wirey and very dark skinned, had travelled to Darcha by bus the day before. The tents were already pitched, and Anand, the cook and the only one of the four who could speak English, directed Carrie and Mike to a small green A frame tent. Inside two rather grubby roll mats covered the groundsheet. Carrie dropped her pack and crawled in. This was to be her home for the next 10 days, maybe more.

 Outside, the sun was still shining. Dileep got stuck into the dope, and Anand began rattling up something which smelt wonderful in his tatty kitchen tent, in which the four porters would sleep. Only Dileep, as the esteemed guide, had a tent of his own. Sambit bid them farewell and headed into the town for the night.

 It was 6pm. Dusk began to fall, slowly at first, then suddenly it was dark. The sky was ablaze with more stars than Carrie had ever seen in her life before, and in the black beyond they could see the occasional satellite picking its way through the orbit of the earth.

 The mountains surrounding Darcha seemed to have grown in the darkness, their silhouettes highlighted by weird flashing lights, beautiful, but frightening. “The Aurora Borealis,” Headley explained sitting next to Carrie. She continued to watch it, mesmerised and frightened by its power at the same time. They ate their meal of dal, rice, vegetables and chapatti, sitting on groundsheets in the rapidly cooling air, and after dinner enjoyed the singing and dancing antics of Anand who was obviously the joker of the party.

 But it was cold and Carrie was tired. They struggled to unfold their sleeping bags by candlelight, Mike cursing because they had forgotten to buy more batteries for their torch. Carrie climbed into her bag, fully dressed. Now she felt like a real trekker. Lying awake, watching the Aurora flashing on the other side of the green canvas tent, she marvelled yet again about how she had come to be here.

 “Well?” Mike lay on his side facing her. “Happy?”

 “More than happy,” Carrie said, turning towards him. “I can’t believe we’re actually going to start trekking tomorrow, I’ve been planning this for what seems like years.”

 “So you reckon you can cope without the booze for a few days?”

 “Course I can. Sure we’ve hardly drunk anything since we’ve been here, you can’t call that disgusting Golden Eagle drink!”

 “True,” Mike agreed. “But this is real back to nature stuff, drinking water from streams, climbing glaciers, sleeping under the stars, walking at high altitude, early to bed, early to rise…”

 “Yeah, makes a girl healthy, wealthy and wise. I know, you don’t need to preach to me Mike.”

 “I’m not preaching, I just want to say one thing,”

 “What?” Carrie rolled onto her back and looked up at the roof of the tent, still flickering with the illuminations of the Aurora.

 His hand reached out and touched her shoulder gently. “Thanks for letting me come with you, even if I am an old grouch. This is something I wouldn’t want to have missed for the world.”

 Carrie looked into those intense eyes, occasionally lit up by the lights in the sky. His hand was still on her shoulder. Her heart did a little flutter. Damn. “You are a right old grouch, but I’m glad you offered to come with me.” She turned away from him and felt his hand slip away. “Night Mike,” she called, and closed her tired eyes on her confused mind.

 They were up at 7.30am and after a tasteless breakfast of a parantha bread stuffed with potato and tomato ketchup, they began a 12km trek along a little used dusty road which was actually the main Manali to Leh highway. Not quite the M25, it had to be said. There wasn’t a vehicle in sight. It was very hot, but they were able to guzzle delicious cold, clear water from streams along the way. Carrie’s pack was lighter than it had been on the trip so far and contained only what she needed for the trek. Once they left Darcha and civilisation behind, Mike persuaded her it was safe to put her money belt and its contents into her pack, rather than wearing then round her sweaty waist, but she was still a bit wary. She didn’t expect the porters to rob her, but it was obvious they didn’t have much. She glanced back at them and felt a wave of guilt. Poor guys, they had brought up the rear for most of the day, loaded down under huge bundles which included tents, paraffin, food for 10 days, and cooking equipment. Despite the rough dusty road, they walked in their flip flops, only Dileep and Anand had boots.

 The road wound gently uphill, and the four trekkers chatted amicably on the way. Headley and Alison had been travelling since last July, practically a year, and were now talking about extending their trip for another year. He was 22 and hailed from Cardiff. Carrie loved the Welsh accent and was happy to be regaled with tales of their travels to date. Headley was tall, though not as tall as Mike, and very lean. Alison, on the other hand, was quite small, probably no more than 5ft2. She wasn’t what Carrie would call skinny, but she was toned and fit looking, probably from all the trekking they’d done over the past few months. Alison’s face wasn’t traditionally pretty, but it was attractive. She had big grey green eyes, high cheekbones, and her skin was tanned and a bit weathered. What amazed Carrie most about her appearance was her hair, which was straight and black and hung well down her back. Carrie had more than once wished she’d had her hair cropped for this trip, it would have been so much easier to handle than the unruly mop she struggled to pin back with a slide every morning. She wondered how Alison coped with her hair. The two had met in Loughborough where Headley had been studying engineering at the University, and Alison had been a drama student at Loughborough Art College. Both had done their finals a year ago and set off on their trip soon after. They were young, enthusiastic, and highly entertaining. They were also very touchy feely. Carrie felt a pang of jealousy as she glanced at them during one of their breaks. Headley was sitting on the ground with his back against his rucksack, while Alison lay and gazed up at the sky, her head resting in his lap, his hand caressing her forehead as he and Dileep discussed the delights of Bombay versus the delights of Delhi – were there any? Carrie thought, amused.

 At around 4pm they arrived at Deepak Tal, a small lake surrounded by ice glaciers with icebergs floating in the water. Carrie and Alison lay back in the sunshine while Dileep, Anand, Headley and Mike amused themselves in a very competitive game of skimmers.

 Before the end of the day, they had to cross two more rivers which were flowing over the road, finally arriving at a green area where they set up camp for the night. There was an air of friendly camaraderie as they laid out their beds for the night, played cards, wrote diaries, attempted some rock climbing nearby, and ate the hot meal cooked by Anand.

 A new moon hung low in the sky and again the night was lit up by another spectacular light show.

 Dileep was looking a little worried at breakfast next morning. He confessed that due to the time of year, getting back to Manali in 11 days might be just a bit over ambitious. The walk was more likely to take 14 days, and, he warned, they had two waist deep rivers to cross.

 Headley assured him that was no problem for them. Carrie and Mike looked at each other. They didn’t plan to turn back, not at this stage. Mike did a few quick calculations. Even if it did take 14 days they should still get back to Delhi in time for their flight to Hong Kong – just.

 After breakfast – today it was parantha, honey and peanut butter – they returned to the dusty trail, stopping for a lunch of honey and dry bread at a peculiar little ‘café’ in the middle of nowhere, where they met a group of Indians just finishing the Chandra Tal trek, having done it in the opposite direction. They assured them the snow en route wasn’t too bad, but the rivers were high.

 They faced several steep uphill climbs, but Carrie was feeling fit, and stormed ahead. Good woman Carrie, she congratulated herself. All that training in the gym and all those laps of the park have paid off.

 “Come on, slow coach,” she called back to Mike from atop a hill – she cut a peculiar shape in her fluorescent pink walking boots, little straw hat with red ribbon, orange tie-dyed shorts, and white teeshirt with a large picture of Winnie the Pooh leaping through a hoop on the front. Mike hid a smile as he reached her. ‘What must the porters think of us?’ he wondered, conscious that he too was wearing a pair of garishly coloured Hawaiian type shorts, loaned to him by a friend, and very lightweight and comfortable. He glanced down, they were already looking pretty grubby. Jim would hardly be wanting them back next year. He hurried after Carrie, who seemed determined to stay in the lead.

They reached their camp at 4pm, a flat but rocky piece of ground beside a little temple, or shrine. It was chilly, so Carrie decided to stay in the tent and read until dinner was ready. She was soon joined by Mike. For a brief moment she wondered if he had noticed she was a bit smelly, hell, she hadn’t washed anything but her face, hands and teeth in three days. But she decided not to ask him, anyway, he probably smelt as bad as she did. Either way, the only smell she was aware of in the tent was the smokey fumes from Anand’s fire.

 “Don’t you want to sit with the others?” she asked.

 “No, I think I’ll read for a bit.” Mike unrolled his sleeping bag and tucked his feet inside, laying his head on his pack and opening his book. Carrie turned back to her Sydney Sheldon and was just getting to a really good bit when Mike started to talk again.

 “Tell you the truth, I’m a bit tired listening to Headley. And Alison’s nearly as bad.”

 Carrie was intrigued. She’d never heard Mike say a bitchy word about anyone, apart from Alexandra of course, and that wasn’t really bitchiness, just plain truth. “What do you mean listening?” she asked.

 “Maybe it’s just me, but when you try to have a conversation with Headley it always turns into a detailed diatribe about what they’ve done, and how great it was, and how they did it better than anyone else. And he keeps telling me that when I’ve travelled a bit, I’ll know what he’s talking about. If pisses me off, that’s all.”

 “I know what you mean.”

 “You do?” Mike looked relieved. “I don’t think Alison’s as bad, is she?”

 “Worse, she is so besotted by Headley that all she talks about is what he did, where he did it, how he did it, and how well he did it. She never shows any interest in what we’ve done or what we plan to do. I noticed the two of them did most of the talking that night we went out to eat in Manali, but I was interested in what they had to say then. I thought they would eventually talk about other things.”

 “Seems they don’t, or won’t,” said Mike. “They treat us like we’re total novices. I told him I’d backpacked it around Europe, yet Headley, while admitting he’s never even been to Spain, let alone anywhere else in Europe, is arrogant enough to say Europe’s only for poufs. And that’s quoting him exactly.”

 “Wanker.”

 Mike laughed. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.” He lifted his book again. “At least we can still hold a sane two-way conversation with each other, if that’s any consolation.” He returned to his reading.

 It was true, Carrie thought, despite being in each other’s company 24 hours a day for the past month, they had never run out of things to talk about. They didn’t need Headley and Alison, they were fine with each other. She pledged that if either of them started talking at her without giving her any say again, she would just walk away.

 Next morning Carrie was alarmed to find her daily contraceptive pill had gone soggy in its bubble. Instead of falling out as a whole tablet, she had to scrape it out of the foil with her nail. She wondered if it would still work, but then it didn’t really matter, seeing as she wasn’t having sex. She had stayed on the pill after the split with Dave because it kept her periods light and regular and she didn’t have the any problems with cramps. And who knows, she might get lucky along the way. Mike’s face immediately flashed before her eyes, and she quickly dispelled the image. Once she got back to civilisation, and she meant Hong Kong, not Delhi, she’d find a bit of romance.

 She swallowed the powdery mess down with a gulp. She had more things to worry about today. They were due to reach the 16,000ft high Baralacha La that afternoon, and in-between times had a 15km uphill hike ahead of them. It was parantha and tomato ketchup for breakfast again today, and Carrie did not feel the most energetic as she hoisted her pack onto her back at 8.20am.

 Their route took them across several icy glaciers and past another lake afloat with icebergs. The worst glacier was a steep uphill slog for about 50 metres. Headley and Alison adopted a sidestep, while Carrie, recalling the two ski trips she had been on when at school, opted for the old herringbone style. Mike got up ahead of them all, with no style at all. As they climbed higher, Carrie began to feel weak. Her legs went wobbly, she was shaky and dizzy, and at times was so short of breath she did not think she would be able to go on. Trekking expert Headley said she could by hyperglycaemic, and so despite not feeling hungry she did her best to tuck into the lunch of noodles and spiced tomato soup prepared by Anand. He and the porters had managed to hitch a lift in an ambulance along the road to Baralacha, and when the group arrived at the barren pass at 1pm, their tents were already set up and dinner was on the boil.

 Carrie looked around as they ate their food. Her head was aching like never before, her eyes hurt when she moved them in her sockets. Everyone was quiet, even the porters who were well used to the thinner air.  At 16,000ft they were less than 2,000ft lower than Everest Base Camp. Carrie knew people had died at this altitude.

 They had reached the pass earlier than anticipated, and talked briefly about carrying on, but Dileep decided they should stay put. Everyone was suffering from altitude sickness to some degree. The tents looked inviting, the only comforting thing on this barren plateau, a mixture of rocks, snow and glaciers. Inside, their roll mats were laid on a rocky surface, but Carrie didn’t care. She lay down and closed her throbbing eyes. Her lips, cracked and painful, stung when she tried to moisten them with her tongue. Mike lay down too, his head ached, and outside, Anand was giving Dileep an Indian head massage. It was only mid-afternoon, but all Carrie wanted to do was sleep.

 Unfortunately, altitude sickness does not allow any escape into sleep. When she did doze off, her mind was filled with terrifying dreams, and when dawn broke Carrie felt wretched. Had she been anywhere else in the whole wide world, she would have pulled the blankets over her head and stayed put. But she was in the Himalayas, it was 5.15am and Dileep was outside the tent urging them to get up.

 Anyway, Carrie had no choice but to leave the tent. She needed a pee. ‘Shit’ she thought, ‘even going for a wee here isn’t simple.’ She looked around for the nearest boulder big enough to hide behind but could see none. She began to walk away from the camp, staggering like a drunken man over the rocky plateau in her hunt for a boulder. Jobby rocks, as they had been affectionately nicknamed, had been generally easy enough to find en route, though they often hid a pile of old toilet roll abandoned by hikers who had done the trek in previous years. But here at Baralacha there just weren’t any jobby rocks. She finally stopped when she figured she was far enough away from camp not to be seen clearly and hunkered down to wee, her urine not clear and healthy but very deep yellow, a sign she was dehydrated.

 How Carrie got through the six and a quarter hours walking that day, she didn’t know. Their trail took them over a huge plateau of mud and slushy snow, several feet deep. Painfully, the porters were still walking in their flip flops and bare feet, but were now leading the trail, their charges struggling behind with their headaches and tiredness. They had to cross two deep rivers, which despite keeping their boots on, left their legs and feet frozen to the bone. Camp was on a green patch, much less barren and a few degrees warmer than Baralacha, but Carrie was feeling too ill to do anything but lie wrapped up in her sleeping bag in the tent.

Things hadn’t improved by the next day, and one point she threw up, not that she had much in her stomach to be sick on. Headley dug into his medical kit and gave her a drink containing salt and glucose, but that only made her feel sicker. Dileep, Anand and Mike insisted she empty her backpack, and they shared her belongings between them. What a wimp, Carrie thought, as she trudged slowly along. She thought about curling up in her warm comfortable sitting room, pulling the curtains and shutting out the outside world, opening a bottle of wine and watching a video. Simple pleasures eh. The thought that she would one day be able to enjoy these things again, with a new level of appreciation, kept her going. She tried to ignore that in the vision, Mike was cuddled up with her on the sofa.

 They had been walking for three hours, mostly over shale and shingle, when their path was blocked by a river. Dileep decided they should walk a couple of kilometres upstream to find a safe place to cross, but the river remained fast and furious. Finally, he admitted they would have to cross regardless. Carrie braced herself as she put her arms around Mike and Dileep’s shoulders. Linked together, the entire party stepped into the freezing water, picking their way across carefully, the current easily enough to sweep away anyone who lost their grip of the human chain. The water roared above Carrie’s thighs, and for a brief time she forgot about her headache, concentrating only on getting to the other side. Fortunately, the sun was beaming, and once everyone was safely across they took a rest on some rocks, allowing their socks and boots to steam dry in the sunshine, congratulating themselves on having got this far.

 By the time they reached camp, Carrie was feeling better. She ate her first food of the day, two bowls of vegetable soup and noodles, and even braved washing her hair in an ice-cold stream in the mistaken thought it might perk her up a bit.

 But no, next morning Carrie’s head was as bad as ever, and an early river crossing soon after they left camp at 8.10am didn’t help. Ahead of her was 20km of hard walking, initially up and down a track along the side of a cliff, no more than a foot wide, which was a hair-raising experience that drained every ounce of energy Carrie felt she had. The track led them into a barren valley and somewhere at the bottom, Dileep promised, was the moon lake, Chandra Tal, where they would camp that night.

 Lunch was half a packet of biscuits between them all, and they resumed walking after just a short rest. The valley just kept on going, and there was no sign of any lake. For a time, they found themselves in the middle of a thunderstorm, and had to keep walking while being battered with stinging hale. Carrie was soaked and miserable.

 She had had enough. As she struggled to the top of a steep hill, her legs weak and wobbly beneath her, she found she couldn’t breathe properly. Mike was by her side in an instant.

 “I can’t go on, Mike,” she gasped. “My head aches and I can’t breathe. My legs keep giving way, I can’t do it Mike, I can’t.” She sat on the wet ground, and buried her head in her arms, sobbing loudly and gasping for breathe. She had promised not to cry in front of Mike again, and despite feeling ill for most of this trek she had kept that promise to herself. But not any more.

 Mike put his arms around her and hugged her close to his damp coat. He allowed her to sob, watching the others disappear further into the distance. “Don’t worry,” he told her soothingly. “You will make it, you’re tough, Dileep says we’ll soon be going down and then the altitude sickness should go. You just seem to have had it worse than the rest of us, maybe because you were sick before we left,”

 “I can’t keep going,” Carrie sobbed.

 Mike tucked his fingers under her chin and turned her face to him. “You can and you will. At the moment you don’t have any choice, but there’s a village just a couple of days down the road and Dileep reckons we could get a bus back to Manali from there.” He hugged her to him. “Keep thinking about that, in three days you could be back in a real bed, with plenty of good food, a nice shower.”

 “Still feeling sick?” Dileep appeared beside them. Carrie nodded miserably.

 “She’ll be okay, sorry you had to come back Dileep,” said Mike.

 “No problem.” Their guide sat beside them.

 “She’s exhausted,” Mike confided, as if Carrie wasn’t beside them. “In fact, we all are, the rest of us are just coping better. How can that Sambit send a group of people into the mountains with nothing but paranthas and noodles?”

 “It is bad,” Dileep conceded. “It’s the worst food I’ve ever had on a trek. I used my own money to buy the potatoes, eggs and cabbage we had the other day from the café, I’ll be getting that back from Sambit.”

 “God Dileep, I didn’t realise that,” said Mike. “Thanks. I’ll be having words with that Sambit when we get back. If Carrie had had half decent food on the way she wouldn’t be in the state she is now.”

 “True. And you know what’s worse…” Dileep paused, and Mike shuddered. He didn’t think it could get any worse. Dileep shook his head. “We’ve enough food for tea tonight and then we’ll have nothing left.”

 Mike was aghast. “How many more days before we get to civilisation?”

 “We should reach a little village tomorrow night. Hopefully we can buy some food from them, but there’s another couple of days walking after that.”

 Carrie’s ears had picked up. “Village, does that mean a bus?”

 “Perhaps,” said Dileep. “We’ll find out when we get there.”

 “Tomorrow night.” Carrie felt suddenly better.

 “Shall we carry on?” Dileep asked. He reached over and grabbed Carrie’s pack, hoisting it above his own.

 “No,” she protested. “I can manage, honest.” But Dileep insisted, and he headed off in pursuit of the rest of the group while Mike and Carrie lagged behind, finally reaching Chandra Tal and camp three hours later.

 Clouds hung over the lake, taking away from its beauty and, Carrie thought, perfectly reflecting her mood. The sight, however, of three men with blonde hair ploughing stark naked into the chilly waters of the lake went some way towards lifting her spirits. It was just such an incongruous scene.  On closer inspection the naked bathers turned out to be the Swedes.

They sat together around a campfire that evening, after Carrie had managed to keep down a bowl of soup and three spoonfuls of noodles. The Swedes listened sympathetically to their plight, and lack of food, and revealed how they had porridge for breakfast, proper sandwiches, biscuits and chocolate at lunchtime, and rice and a variety of vegetable curries each night.

 “We obviously made the wrong decision when we switched parties,” Carrie moaned to Mike in their tent. But as Mike said, they weren’t to have known.

 The sight of Anand taking a bath in the lake wearing nothing but a pair of fluorescent green boxer shorts made Carrie’s morning. It had been an eventful night. A horse had run into their tent, waking Carrie who leapt up yelling. The horse ran off, but Carrie insisted on checking everything was intact in their rucksacks. She was convinced it had been a robber. It was Anand assured her next day that it had been a runaway horse, as it had been sniffing around his tent too.

 Carrie’s head still ached, but they were due to camp in a village that night, and apparently the village had a shop. Carrie felt her mouth watering at the thought of Frooti and Bourneville chocolate. And there might be a bus! This could be her last day’s walking. With these positive thoughts in her mind. Carrie trudged along painfully, a clicking Achilles tendon adding to her misery. Mike patiently listened to her moaning. He had been wonderful to her through all this, a real saint, she thought, time and time again, constantly resolving to keep her mouth shut and stop complaining.

 “Yee ha!”

 Mike jumped in surprise, Carrie sounded almost animated.

“Smoke, look, over there.”

 Sure enough, smoke was drifting up into the sky from a chimney of a small stone house in the valley below.

 “That must be the start of the village, we’ve made it.” Carrie put a bit of spring into her step.

 Unfortunately, the stone house was the village, shop and café all rolled into one. Inside lived a couple, who, like the children outside Naggar, were very Tibetan in their appearance. They were delighted to see the visitors, making tea and handing out biscuits which Dileep paid for. Carrie immediately felt better.

 But there was bad news. The road up to the village had been closed for nine months, hence there was no Bournville, no Frooti or any fresh produce. Nothing had got through, including buses. Amazingly they did have some potatoes, so Anand disappeared off to rustle up some dinner. Carrie instructed him to make her plain boiled potatoes, the more she thought about it the more she craved them. The thought made her mouth water. Boiled potatoes. They seemed like such a luxury.

 When her potatoes arrived, they had been sliced and boiled, but for some reason Anand had then let them go cold before giving them to her. Only the Irish know how to cook potatoes, she thought to herself, remembering the delicious spuds Annette’s mum served up when she had visited her friend’s home.

 Still, they made her feel better and as she and Mike joined the rest of the group in the café for cards and local wine, she realised that for the first time in six days, her headache had gone.

 “Only two more days and we reach the bus, okay,” Anand assured Carrie as he helped her on with her pack the next morning. He was in foul form, having drunk copious amounts of the local wine in the café the night before. Carrie, on the other hand, felt great, her only problem this morning was her clicky ankles, but she could live with those.

 Their route wound downhill along a road, which in places disappeared under huge glaciers and in other places was buried under landslides. No wonder the bus couldn’t get through. The sun popped out occasionally, and Carrie felt almost human again. On the way they met two shepherds with hundreds of sheep and goats, and it was all hands on deck as they helped the smaller kids and lambs cross a river.

 Mike was snapping away with his camera and promised to send the shepherds a copy of the photographs. As they descended further, the road was skirted with glistening waterfalls. By the time they reached camp, the sun was shining more powerfully, and Mike and Carrie headed down to the stream to wash their clothes, which they spread out on rocks to dry.

 “Only ourselves to wash now,” Carrie commented as she flattened a teeshirt on a rock.

 “God help whoever sits next to us on the bus,” said Mike. “We’re probably minging. If you go a day at home without showering, you feel disgusting, yet we haven’t washing for 10 days or something, and I don’t give a damn.”

 “Guess what.”

 “What?”

 “I did a pooh!” Carrie was triumphant.

 Mike seemed equally delighted. “At last, when?”

 “Earlier, I found a big jobby rock and managed it. It was just like a little squirt of toothpaste, but it was a pooh. Now I know those bits of me are still functioning okay.” Carrie had been really worried that she hadn’t even felt the desire to do anything other than pee since the day she had had the vomiting and diarrhoea, and that was ages ago. She had felt close enough to Mike to share this intimate concern with him.

 “Well done,” he hugged her. “When we get back to civilisation, we’ll have a drink to celebrate. We’ll hunt for a bar that sells something other than Golden Eagle.”

 “Kingfisher’s nice, but you know, even a Golden Eagle would taste good now.”

  Laughing with Mike on that rock, the sun shining down, her clothes steaming in the heat, surrounded by a beautiful valley, a pooh successfully evacuated, Carrie already felt that the hardships of the last few days hadn’t happened.

 Another relatively gentle 16km walk the next day brought them to the cosy little village of Chatru, which also had a quaint little café, where they were once again able to enjoy tea and biscuits, although they couldn’t buy much as Headley was the only one with any money left, and they needed to save that for the bus back to Manali. Still, Anand stocked up on some provisions and they had chow mein for lunch and a delicious potato subzi with dal and rice for dinner.

 The food and the oxygen-filled air left Carrie feeling totally revitalised the next morning. This was definitely going to be their last day on foot and would take them through the Spiti Valley to Grampu village where, Dileep had promised, there would be a bus. En route, they stopped at a funny little café where two beautiful Tibetan-looking girls served up chai and local beer, the colour of milk. Anand covered his face with ash and worshipped the fire. He was very serious about it all, and Carrie and Mike didn’t like to intrude and ask why. Headley, always a mine of information, thought it was something like a Puja ceremony the sherpas in Nepal do before climbing Everest, as way of thanking the mountain Gods. If that was the case, pity he hadn’t done it before they started out, Carrie thought. Perhaps then the mountains would have been more kind to her.

 There was a panic as they reached Grampu, just as a bus left for Manali. It was 3.30pm, and they were all tired and hungry. But the bus trip would be a long one, they would feel more ready for it the next day.

 Grampu wasn’t quite what Carrie expected. It comprised two pokey little shops, neither of which stocked chocolate. Her craving was reaching gigantic proportions. The village was perched on the top of a hill, and as Mike struggled to tie their tent down on a grassy area close to what seemed like a cliff edge, she wondered if the little tent would last the night.

She turned her attention to her diary. It was July 4^th, day 33 of their trip. They had been in India just over a month. She thought about the last few days. It had been tough, at times she had hated it, but someone might read this diary someday and she didn’t want to sound too negative. Despite the fact that my trek has been hampered by ill health, virtually from beginning to end, I can truthfully say that I have enjoyed the last 11 days, she wrote. Of course it was hard work, and it’s true to say that you set out each morning with the sole aim of reaching your next campsite as quickly as possible, but along the way there were sights to see and people to meet, inner strengths to be found, patience to be tested and at the end of it all, a remarkable feeling of self-achievement. Now that was literature! She paused, and realised Mike was reading over her shoulder, causing her no annoyance whatsoever, as she had been reading her diary out to him all along.

 “Truthfully enjoyed it! Bollocks!” he laughed. “Who are you trying to kid?”

 “My mum might read this when I post it home,” Carrie defended. “I don’t want her to be shocked.”

 “But each day you start with ‘feeling terrible again today.’ So how’s a positive summing up going to change things?”

 “I overcame a lot to get here, you can’t deny that,” Carrie was really quite indignant. “I was sick, then there was the altitude, then my ankles, and no food, so my sense of achievement is probably greater than yours.”

 “Well, I suppose you did make it to the end, despite being such a wimp,” Mike conceded. Carrie gave him such a shove he fell backwards onto the ground.

 “Thanks a lot. Are you coming to get some tea?”

 “In a sec.” Carrie picked up her pen, she had something to add to her diary entry. What’s more. I might have actually lost some weight!

Chapter 15

They had been on the bus for more than an hour and could still see Grampu in the valley below them. The rusty old vehicle was so full there were no seats left so they all had to stand, and it was a nail-biting trip so far. Carrie wondered if they would ever reach Manali. The road wound up the hillside towards the Rhotang Pass, with Grampu still in sight. After two painfully slow hours, they reached the Pass, and then the journey became even more terrifying as the bus virtually freewheeled around this endless series of hairpin bends. Carrie was terrified. Flying will be easy after this, she thought, clutching onto the back of the seat beside her and praying the driver didn’t lose concentration, misjudge a bend, meet another vehicle and find his brakes had gone. There wasn’t even a barrier on the outside of each bend to stop a vehicle toppling over in the event of any of these scenarios! Mike, Headley and Alison were all standing behind her, and none of them were saying much. Mike actually looked a bit pale, perhaps she wasn’t the only nervous passenger here.

After five hours the bus pulled into the relative safety of Manali, and Carrie and Mike gladly scrambled out and retrieved their bags from the roof. Carrie longed to find a hotel and have a shower, but Mike insisted their first visit should be to Sambit in his comfortable office. He was determined to get some compensation for the lack of food on the trek and they had to pick up the rest of their belongings. He urged Headley to confront Sambit with him, and Headley reluctantly agreed.

They collected all their bits and pieces from the locked room in Sambit’s office, so their packs were once again full to overflowing. Carrie was looking forward to sorting her’s out, putting things in the right place, washing her disgusting trekking clothes. Such a simple pleasure, she smiled to herself. As Mike and Headley stayed behind to talk to Sambit, Carrie and Alison sat on a low stone wall outside. They didn’t say a lot. Headley and Alison had refused to complain about the lack of food during the trek. All Headley could say, not very helpfully was ‘this is India.’ The atmosphere wasn’t great, it was obvious this confrontation with Sambit was all Mike and Carrie’s doing.

Och well, at least he’s giving Mike some back-up now, Carrie thought, becoming aware of raised voices coming from the agent’s office. Dileep was in there too, giving Sambit a piece of his mind. From what she could gather he was threatening never to work for him again.

Mike was smiling when he came out, but Headley just looked embarrassed. “He gave us each 600 rupees back,” Mike said. “He was all apologies, but I told him it wasn’t good enough. Dileep was great, he told him how sick you were, and how it was lucky any of us got back in one piece with the rations he’d sent us out with.”

“Well done. Six hundred rupees isn’t bad,” Carrie was pleased, and Mike looked rather proud of himself. Headley and Alison had walked down the hill ahead of them. “And what did our friend Headley say in support of you and Dileep?” she asked.

“Absolutely nothing. But he did take his 600 rupees.”

“Huh, typical.”

“According to Sambit, a sack of food, including the porridge for breakfast, was left behind on the bus that went from Manali to Darcha, and came back to Manali again. He’s blaming Anand for forgetting it.”

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

“Probably. If this happened too often none of the porters would work for him and he wouldn’t be able to run treks. We were just unfortunate I guess.”

It was hard to believe, but they had to try three hotels before getting a room. Although they had been gone less than a fortnight, it was now ‘out of season’ in Manali, so although the place was still busy, hotel prices had dropped amazingly. One place which had cost 250 rupees per room when they were last in Manali now cost only 100 rupees.
The room they eventually got was large and had an attached bathroom with a hot shower! Carrie stood under it, the dirt and grime of the last 12 days slowly washing out of her hair, off her skin and down the plughole. Wonderful, she thought, clean for the first time in 12 days. I won’t recognise myself.

That was true. The bathroom had a tiny mirror, and when Carrie looked in it the face that stared back at her was rather shocking. Her skin was dark, a combination of suntan and weather, her bottom lip had an upright scar in the middle of it, a remnant of the cracked lips she’d suffered in the early part of the trek. Her eyes, Carrie squinted to see if she could be right, seemed to be somewhat sunken, and – she looked even closer – she had cheekbones for the first time in her life! Her wet hair hung almost to her shoulders. It had definitely grown.

It was cooler in Manali now. She pulled on her jeans, delighted to find they must be at least three sizes too big, and a vest top, neither of which had been into the mountains. She felt slim for the first time in ages, but it had been a rather drastic diet. Tonight they were heading out for dinner to a Tibetan restaurant with Dileep, their porters and Headley and Alison, and Carrie was determined to eat as much good food as she could stomach. She’d think about maintaining her diet tomorrow, but for now all she could think of was hot food and cold beer.

Chapter 16

“Heavenly.” Carrie stretched out her legs and kicked off the thick duvet. She had to get up and go out for something to eat. Mike was already dressed and reading his book on a soft chair in the corner, his eyes occasionally wandering to the window where below them the bustle of the Hong Kong waterfront continued unabated. She stepped out of the high divan, allowing her toes to curl into the thick carpet, and headed into the bathroom where earlier she had spent half an hour in a huge, hot, bubbly bath. The temperature outside was as hot at Delhi, although the air was not so stagnant. Here in this luxury room at the Hong Kong YMCA it was beautifully cool, the unobtrusive air conditioning promising a good night’s sleep. Pity it was only for one night.
“I suppose we’d best go get something to eat,” she called out to Mike as she brushed her teeth. “But shall we have a San Miguel first?”
“Definitely,” Mike crossed the room to the mini bar and pulled out two ice cold cans of the Spanish lager. He passed one through into the bathroom where Carrie was now splashing water on her face in an attempt to wake herself up. She hadn’t slept a wink last night, there hadn’t been anywhere comfortable to even sit, let alone lie down at the airport, the flight had been delayed, and they hadn’t arrived in Hong Kong until 6pm. Still, she checked her watch, they had been here two and a half hours, and she absolutely loved it. Such a contrast to Delhi. She knew that tomorrow they would have to search for less auspicious and cheaper accommodation, but tonight she was going to make the most of the luxury of the Hong Kong YMCA. So what if it cost 544 Hong Kong dollars, sure that was only £40 – Mr Access could handle that okay! This was a treat they deserved.

The last few days in India had been pretty exhausting. With Headley and Alison, they had travelled through an electric storm and a pea souper fog from Manali to Simla, where they found themselves back in their old room at the YMCA. Two days later, they bid farewell to Headley and Alison. It hadn’t been a particularly emotional parting, Carrie reflected, a cursory handshake, a quick hug, no plans to keep in touch.
Carrie and Mike had enjoyed their last couple of days in Delhi more than their first visit. They walked around the bazaars taking photographs and chatted with a new confidence to the many locals who came up looking for money. They had been green with inexperience when they had first arrived here, neither of them could deny it.

Carrie slid into her jeans, admiring her newly acquired figure. The jeans were way too big now but looked good tightened with a belt. Her black silky vest top showed off her tanned arms, and her hair was definitely longer and glossier. She examined its roots close -up. The grey that had plagued her since she was in her early teens, and was getting worse each year, had grown through. She would have to get some hair dye, which shouldn’t be difficult here in Hong Kong, and put it on before they headed into China.
The thought of the next stage in her journey both excited and worried her. China was unknown territory, possibly as poor as India, maybe as dirty. She shook herself. ‘You’ve a few days in Hong Kong, just enjoy them,’ she told herself. She took in the comfort of the bathroom and laughed at its sheer extravagance. Twenty four hours ago they were heading to one of Delhi’s poshest restaurants, a special treat to fill in the time before going to the airport. They had been able to leave their bags at the YMCA after checking out at 10am, and had spent the day wandering the city like lost souls. At the Gaylord Restaurant, Mike allowed himself the first meat he had tasted since arriving in India, while Carrie scoffed a delicious paneer tikka. They even shared a bottle of Indian wine which was rough but very relaxing.
They had hung about in the lobby of the YMCA until midnight, when they took a rickshaw to the airport. But there was no comfort in the airport seats and the time had dragged until they were able to check-in at 2.45am.
Then there was that embarrassing scene at security. Carrie cringed at the memory. The female security officer had obviously never seen a Lil-let tampon before. She poked and prodded and held it up beside her ear and shook it. “Is this battery?” she asked Carrie.
“No,” Carrie was flushing and extremely conscious of Mike standing behind her chuckling. “It is a tampon, for ladies.” She leaned closer to the security woman and whispered. “When they have their period.” Please God don’t ask me to demonstrate how to use it, she prayed.
Fortunately, the woman decided to call in a male guard, and together they took the tampon out of its plastic wrapping, pulled down the little green string, checked nothing could be hidden inside, and handed it back to Carrie, all out of shape. Fat lot of use that’s going to be now, she thought, but gratefully accepted the proffered tampon, and scurried away from the scene of her humiliation.
She had expected some hassle over the contents of the dozens of small vials of contact lens neutraliser she had stashed not only in her pack, but also in Mike’s. The vials were attached together in fives and contained the clear liquid she needed to put her lenses into each day after their overnight disinfection. It had been a real bug bear to have to carry so many of them, but as she didn’t know where she would find anymore before Australia, she’d packed enough for five months. They went through security no problem.
The plane had been due to leave Delhi at 5.35am but a technical fault delayed it until 8am. “Do you think they’ve had time to fix the fault?” Carrie asked Mike nervously as they boarded for the second time. Earlier, ground staff had allowed half the passengers onto the plane, then told them to go back into the departure lounge. Wearily, they had all trudged back to the lounge doors, only to be told by security they weren’t allowed in. And so they stood for 20 minutes on the tarmac while security wrangled with someone from the airline before they were finally allowed back into the comfort – if you could call it that – of the airport.
They were on the plane for eight hours, because it included a one-hour stop in Bangkok. Carrie, admitting it was too early in the morning to start boozing, remained silent and sober throughout the flight and set down, grateful once again of Mike’s comforting hand during both take offs and landings.
He managed to persuade her to look out the window as they descended into Hong Kong Airport. Carrie had heard that the planes came down in the middle of the skyscrapers, and it was true. Just metres from their rushing wings, or so it seemed, families were in their flats, eating, washing, watching TV, apparently oblivious to the sight or sound of a 747 just outside their windows. Weird!

They were through security, passport control and collected their luggage in a matter of minutes. Again so different to India. An airbus dropped them at the door of the YMCA in Salisbury Road, just behind the harbour. They had prebooked the room, and expected to find the usual hostel, but this was most definitely not a hostel. It had several stars outside the front door. A uniformed porter took their scruffy packs and led them to their room.

Actually, she would have liked to stay in the room a bit longer, but it was almost 9pm and they were both hungry. Carrie’s stomach was empty, she hadn’t eaten a thing since Gaylords, and she was still dehydrated, hence she only visited the airplane toilets on four occasions. Well that was something! She needed to eat.
They had toyed with room service, but Carrie in the end persuaded Mike they should go to a restaurant and then find themselves a decent pint. He didn’t take too much persuasion.
Carrie rubbed her lips together before smudging them with a YMCA tissue. She hadn’t worn make-up since before the trek, but a night out in Hong Kong definitely warranted some glamour. She added a touch of eyeliner, and headed back into the bedroom, where Mike drained the last of his San Miguel before they headed out into the sultry night.
They opted for a vegetarian restaurant, which was rather posh, and the food wasn’t great. All the diners were very glamorous, beautiful elfin faced ladies in skimpy tops and short skirts, such a contrast to the dress of the Muslims and Sikhs. The gents were dapper, many in suits, some even in suit trousers cut off like shorts. But the waitress seemed a little off with them, their meal came too quickly, and their plates were hastily cleared away. They had never had such unfriendly service in India. ‘Maybe we missed a sign on the door which read no jeans or trainers,’ Carrie mused.
Outside, it was still humid, but there was a slight breeze blowing from the harbour. “Where shall we go then?” Mike asked. “There’s Chinese bars, American bars, Japanese bars….”
“I know it’s disgraceful, but what about that English pub it mentions in the guidebook, the Lion’s Head or something like that?” Carrie felt a bit ashamed, but for tonight she just wanted something familiar.
“Sounds good to me. Maybe I’ll have a pint of Guinness. Come on.” He flung his arm loosely round Carrie’s shoulder as they made their way in the direction of the pub. She shivered, and felt his arm tighten. She said nothing. This shiver was nothing to do with the night air.

“It’s just like home, isn’t it Mike, it’s wonderful!” Carrie was perched on a barstool drinking her second pint of Becks beer. Mike was still on his first Guinness, and seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. When he declined a second pint as she ordered her third, she began to get a bit fed up with him. It was obvious he wanted to hit the sack, while she wanted to party.
There wasn’t much chat out of him, so she sat back and surveyed the clientele, a fairly even mix of Chinese, or maybe that should be Hong Kongese, and western tourists. Carrie sipped her pint, it was so much better than Golden Eagle, and realised this was the first time she had actually felt tiddly since, gosh, she really had to think. Despite drinking the odd beer and swig of Indian whiskey, and the bottle of duty free brandy they had eventually abandoned, half full, at Naggar, she hadn’t had alcohol in any large amount since leaving England. Boy, she‘d missed this feeling. She could just sit here and drink all night. But it looked like Mike was quite literally falling asleep into his pint. She smiled to herself. He was quite sweet really. Then, with a stab of jealousy, she remembered he probably wanted to be well rested for tomorrow.
Damn, she knew there was something gnawing away in the pit of her stomach, something that was taking the edge off every pleasure she had experienced since getting off the plane earlier. Dee, she almost hated the sound of the girl’s name. Dee, she was the blot on Carrie’s horizon, but she couldn’t exactly say anything, Mike was so excited.
Dee’s letter had been waiting for him, along with letters from his family and a photographer mate, at New Delhi GPO. Carrie had been devastated that there was nothing for her. Her parents had promised to write, so had Annette. A kindly clerk explained that any letters addressed to Post Restante Delhi, not New Delhi, automatically went to the Kashmir Gate GPO, an hour and a half away by bus. So, not knowing if they were going on a wasted journey or not, they had taken the trip to Kashmir Gate where Carrie found a letter from her parents, one from Annette, and one from Jonathan and Susan.
The two of them sat in shade in the park in Connaght Place that afternoon and consumed the news from home, Carrie so interested and delighted by everything that she read she gave little thought to Mike’s mail, which he too was reading intensely, every now and then letting out a chuckle, a smile constantly on his face.
It was only when they were walking back to Delhi YMCA for their final night there that he mentioned Dee’s letter.
“There’s going to be a bit of a surprise waiting for us in Hong Kong,” he ventured.
“Has someone sent us out money?” Carrie joked. Now that would be a nice surprise.
“No, it’s Dee, she’s arriving on Sunday for a three-day shoot, so she’s suggesting meeting up. That okay with you?”
Carrie was taken aback. She knew there was a chance they would encounter Dee somewhere along the way, but so soon? She felt pain, quite literally, in her stomach, and for a brief moment thought she was going to be sick. She took a deep breath.
“Great, it’ll be lovely to see her,” she lied, adding after a quick mental calculation, “she’ll be getting in the day after us then.”
“She actually arrives in the early hours of Sunday morning. She’s staying at the Hilton,” he rolled his eyes, “there’s no roughing it for these model types, so she’s given me the number and wants us to call sometime after noon on Sunday.”
“I bet you’ll be glad to see her.”
“I will.” He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes were focused on a spot somewhere in the distance, he was no doubt dreaming about Dee’s gorgeous body. Carrie could have cried.

So now he was resting himself in preparation for tomorrow. Carrie downed her pint. There was no fun getting drunk alone. A brief image of herself in her flat with her bottle of red wine for company flashed before her eyes. She had been happy getting drunk on her own then. Now, she realised, she didn’t want to do anything unless she could share it with Mike.
With that rather depressing thought, she nudged his arm, almost making him fall off the barstool. “Home, I think, Sleeping Beauty,” she said.
“Sorry, I just can’t keep my eyes open. This Guinness must be strong,” he drained the last mouthful and together they left the smoky bar and walked silently back to the Y, stopping off briefly at the famous harbour on the way. It was beautiful, no doubt about it, Carrie thought. On the other side of the dark water was Hong Kong Island, a stunning skyline of partially lit skyscrapers, and huge neon hoardings, reflecting in the water a thousand times over.

The bed was the coolest, cleanest and softest Carrie had slept in in six weeks. When Mike shook her gently the next morning she quite literally didn’t know where she was. With sleep filled eyes she gazed up at his handsome face. It took a few seconds to realise he seemed a bit frantic.
“Wake up, its 10 o’clock,”
“It can’t be, I set the alarm for 8.50, before we even went out last night.” Carrie reached out for her watch. It was indeed 10 o’clock, but her alarm clock said 7.30. “Damn, I forget to put the clock forward, sorry Mike.”
“It’s okay, but we’d better get going if we’re going to leave our bags here while we find somewhere else.”
“Okay,” Carrie couldn’t bear to drag herself out of the comfort of the bed. “You shower first.” He looked somewhat exasperated. “I’ll be up and ready to go in as soon as you’re out, honest.”
She threw her head back on the pillow as she listened to the shower running. No hangover, that was a relief, although she’d only had three pints. At home that would’ve been nothing.
The shower was strong and hot and wonderful. Somehow she didn’t think she’d find the same in any of the hostels in the celebrated Cheung King Mansions.
An hour later they were tucking into a gorgeous cheese omelette in a café in the middle of a shopping centre on the ground floor of Cheung King Mansions. Above them was a maze of flats, hostels, offices and even restaurants. It had all been a bit daunting when they first arrived, but they were soon surrounded by a number of men offering them rooms.
The first one they looked at had an attached toilet and shower, but was incredibly small, with barely room for two camp beds. A tiny old man with very little hair but a white pointy beard had urged him to follow them to the seventh floor where he rang a bell outside an iron gate, and then disappeared. A woman, who didn’t seem to speak any English, opened the gate for them, and without asking any questions showed them to a room with two beds, a dresser and colour TV, and the luxury of a window, even if it did look out into a type of funnel surrounded on all sides by other windows, many of them almost hidden by protruding lines of washing. There were also the remnants of lines long defunct, no longer hung with clothes, but instead bent under the weight of years of rubbish dumped from windows on higher floors. Pretty it wasn’t. Fascinating it certainly was. This would do.

Chapter 17

They were back at the little room on the seventh floor shortly after 12. Mike was agitated, it was clear he wanted to call Dee as soon as possible. Carrie remained alone in the room as he went downstairs in search of a public phone.
He was back 15 minutes later, not even attempting to conceal his smile. “She got in about 3am, and she’s only just up so she’s well rested and dying to meet us,” he declared. “I said we’d be over at the Hilton about 1.30, we can either grab some lunch there or head out for something. Is that okay?”
“Do you mind if I don’t join you this afternoon?”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Absolutely nothing, but I wouldn’t mind wandering around the shops down below for a while, then I’ve got letters to write, and I want to buy some cards and get them off home before we go to China. I’ll meet you guys later. Tell me where the Hilton is, and I’ll see you there in time for dinner this evening.”
“You sure you’re feeling alright?” Mike sounded concerned.
“I’m 100 per cent. You guys spend a bit of time together. Actually,” she thought about the indignity of the hair dyeing process, “I could do with a bit of time to myself.”
An expression of hurt fleetingly crossed Mike’s face, but perhaps that was just her imagination. “If you’re sure?” he asked.
“I am.”

On her own two hours later, she looked at the map in the guide book which showed where the Hilton was. It shouldn’t take her too long. And it was actually nice to have time on her own. But as she wandered around the bustling shops, struggling at times to keep her place on the pavement, she began to feel lost. She darted into the first chemist shop she spotted and returned straight to her room, the black hair dye in her hand.
Colouring her own hair was always a messy process, and Carrie knew this was going to be worse than usual as the bathroom shower was positioned directly over the toilet, and any water from the shower would spray all over the loo onto the floor where it would slowly disappear down a drain. She hoped the dye would not stain the plastic toilet seat. There was only one way to find out.
Carrie washed her hair, and carefully distributed the black gunk through it. At least she knew what to do, it was fortunate they sold L’Oreal in Hong Kong as well as the UK. She covered her stinky wet hair with the plastic headscarf type thing provided in the box and sneaked quickly back to her room to allow the colour to develop.
But 35 minutes later all was not well. There wasn’t a drip of water coming out of the showerhead in the bathroom. Aware that she didn’t really want the dark brown dye to end up jet black, nor did she want her hair to fall out, Carrie had to swallow her pride and advise the hostel manager of her predicament.
Approaching him with her transparent headscarf glued onto the now black mess, with rivulets of black dye running down her forehead, cheeks and neck, not to mention two black ears, she felt like a complete pillock. “Excuse me,” she muttered. He seemed to be engrossed in paperwork. “Excuse me,” she called again louder. The man, son of the wee old man who had first shown them the room, looked up and smiled.
“Hello, how are you?” he asked politely. If he thought her appearance strange, he gave no hint of it.
“Fine thank you, but I can’t get the shower to work.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, sometimes the water pressure drops. It will be on soon, maybe an hour.”
“An hour!”
The man nodded towards her head. “You need shower now?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s sort of urgent.” Carrie could feel her face colouring.
“Okay, no worry. Get the lift to the 12th floor. I have another hostel there. Turn left, left again, then right, and you will see a gate, like this. Ring the bell and tell the man Su sent you to use shower. Okay.”
“Thanks” Carrie backed away from him, nodding her gratitude and almost knocking over his petite wife who was carrying a load of folded sheets. “Sorry, so sorry,” she repeated, before she disappeared out the gate clutching her little sachet of post dye conditioner.
It should have been fairly straightforward after that, but it wasn’t. The lift took ages to arrive. There were dozens of lifts in Cheung King Mansions, the place was a real maze, and, as Carrie had already pointed out to Mike, a fire trap. So she was quite alarmed when the lift door finally opened to see it packed with uniformed firemen. Her first instinct was to panic, where was the fire? Should she be fleeing the building? Where were their hoses? Why had they stopped when they were on their way to fight a blaze? She stayed put, shaking her head as they urged her to join them. “It’s okay, I’ll get the next lift,” she tried to say, her alarm about the potential inferno making her forget about her hair.
“No miss, we insist, there is plenty of room,” said one particularly handsome fireman, tall for a local, with a lovely smile. Cute too, she thought. So she stepped into the lift and pressed for her floor. It was only as it slowly began to grind its way up to the 12th floor that the smell of ammonia, intense in the heat and confined space, reminded her of the gunk on her head. She was sure she could hear sniggering behind her. God, this is so embarrassing. Come on lift, come on, she thought, her face burning red. When it reached the 12th floor the firemen stood aside to let her out. She scarpered, not even bidding the firefighters farewell as they carried on upwards.
The gate was where it was supposed to be, that was something, but despite her constant ringing of the bell it took five minutes before anyone opened up. “Su sent me. From the seventh floor. I needed the shower, and he has no water. Can I use your shower, please,” her voice had tailed off into a plea.
“Of course,” the man said politely enough, though it was clear he was trying not to laugh. Finally, she managed to stick her head under a spray of lukewarm water and watch the black liquid flow over the toilet lid and onto the floor, disappearing into the drain and on to the sewers that flowed below Hong Kong. The water eventually ran clear and another question was answered – no, the dye did not stain the plastic toilet.

At 7pm that night, Carrie, wearing a short black skirt and matching top which exposed her midriff was waiting in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel. She picked the outfit up for the equivalent of £4 in a shop in one of Hong Kong’s back streets when she had been out with Mike that morning. Blimey, she looked around her. They had thought the YMCA was posh, this was in another sphere altogether. She sat herself down, conscious that her well-worn flat sandals, still marked with Indian dust, did not exactly do her outfit justice. Still, she felt good, she tossed back her dark curls, then suddenly remembered to pull her fringe forward and not to tuck her hair behind her ears – the dye had left stains on her skin. She held her shoulders back and stuck out her chest, which was smaller than it had been in England but would still put Dee’s two poached eggs to shame, and pulled in her virtually non-existent stomach. She knew her face glowed with a healthy tan, and she had been very careful when applying her make-up. She did not intend to be intimidated by Dee tonight.
But the sight of the two of them emerging from a lift made Carrie want to run. Mike was tall, dark and incredibly handsome in his jeans and what appeared to be a new shirt, crisp and white and designed to show off his deep tan. Right beside him, almost as tall, was Dee, also tanned, wearing what had to be a floaty designer dress, strappy sandals with two-inch high heels, and perfect make-up. She looked every bit the supermodel she was. Her cropped hair was beautifully cut and highlighted.
Carrie was suddenly embarrassed by the cheap material of the £4 skirt and top, the scruffy sandals, and the hair blackened with dye from a bottle. She watched as Dee clung onto Mike’s arm, and he threw his head back and laughed warmly at something she said. They looked such a perfect couple.
Mike caught sight of her and the two of them quite literally bounded over. Dee reached her first, engulfing Carrie in a hug which left her practically suffocated by her perfume. Opium, it reminded her of the scent her college flatmate Jill always wore. Dee pushed her back and, with her arms resting on Carrie’s shoulders, declared she looked just fantastic.
“Thanks,” Carrie murmured.
“That outfit looks great Carrie,” Mike enthused. “She picked it up this morning in a shop near Cheung King mansions, it was only, what was it Carrie, four quid or something?”
Carrie’s cheeks were burning. “It’s a bit of a luxury, spending money on clothes,” she explained to Dee. “But they looked as if they would fold up small and fit in my backpack without creasing too much.”
“Well, they really suit you Carrie, look how slim you’ve got, and such a great tan on your arms and legs, shall we go and eat, I’ve built up quite an appetite this afternoon,” Dee looked meaningfully at Mike, causing a frisson of jealousy to course up Carrie’s spine. As they walked towards the restaurant, she thought about how Dee had commented on the tan on her legs and arms. She knew the patch of midriff she was showing was as white as the day she had left England, but she didn’t think anyone would be rude enough to point it out, however indirectly.

The rest of the evening was painful. At dinner Dee filled them in on what had been happening at home, news about Mike’s family and her own, details of where she had been and where she was going. Carrie played little part in the conversation, and barely tasted the food. Fortunately, Dee had said she could put this meal on expenses.
They walked out to a bar after dinner, and as they sipped their one drink Mike told Dee about India, trying to pull Carrie into the conversation. She did contribute occasionally but couldn’t bring herself to be animated. Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. She downed the last drop of beer from her glass, and announced she had a headache and was going home to bed. Mike insisted he and Dee walk her back to Cheung King Mansions. They came all the way to the hostel gate with her before disappearing back to the Hilton for no doubt more sex.

Safely in her room, Carrie threw herself on her bed and cried. She hadn’t felt this depressed since leaving home. There was no point in denying it. She was falling for Mike, big time. But he was in love with Dee, and who could compete with that. This was not part of the plan. She had spent more than six weeks with this man, she had smelt his stinky trainers, heard him grunting in the loo in some of the less well sound-proofed en-suites, knew how often he washed – or didn’t wash – his underwear, and discovered he snored when he slept on his back. These things would normally put her off any man, but in Mike she considered them endearing.
For a brief minute Carrie considered packing it all in and going home, but she had never been a drama queen. Mike was a fun travelling partner, they shared the same interests. She would just have to steel her heart and accept that he would never be her’s. Pretend he’s gay or a girl or something like that. The thought made her chuckle for Mike was definitely not a girl. His towel had come undone in front of her one day. No, Mike was definitely all man.

Carrie slept well, despite her emotional trauma, and was surprised when Mike arrived back shortly after eight the next morning. He was back in his shorts and scruffy teeshirt.
“Still in bed, missy. Time you were up, we need to get breakfast if we’re going to do a bit of sightseeing today,”
“I thought you’d be spending the day with Dee.”
“No, we’ll see her again tonight, if that’s okay with you, but she’s working all day. How’s your head, by the way?”
Carrie was startled, she’d forgotten about the feigned headache. “Much better, too much window shopping yesterday, I guess.”
“Too much boot polish, I would think,” Mike laughed, looking pointedly at her hair.
Carrie was offended. “Don’t be so rude. I had to colour it. As I’m sure you noticed I had grey roots.”
He laughed. “I did notice the white streak where you part your hair if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s alright for you who doesn’t have a grey hair in your head.”
“Oh I have a few, just not as many as you. What’s so funny?”
“Well, seeing as you noticed I’d dyed my hair, I may as well tell you what a palaver it all was…”

Half an hour later they were ordering another of those great omelettes in the café, Mike still chuckling about the incident in the lift with the firemen. After breakfast they toured the streets of Hong Kong, finally visiting a post office to buy a large envelop to send home their presents from India. Carrie wasn’t sure if Alan would ever wear the colourful Tibetan hat, but maybe it would give the guys at golf a laugh. She hoped Wendy would like the shawl. They also included the India guidebook and some of Mike’s films.

That afternoon they took the Star Ferry across from Kowloon to Hong Kong Central, where they walked through the marvellous skyscrapers, the new Bank of China tower the most amazing modern structure Carrie had ever seen. They found their way to the historic tram which had been running people to the top of Victoria Peak since the mid-19th century. Their car slowly made its way up the steep hillside at an incredible angle and from the top the view was fantastic. The skyscrapers gave way to a harbour full of boats, large and small, fast and slow, ancient and modern. Beyond that the buildings of Kowloon and the hills of the New Territories, and to either side the hazy islands which form the lesser-known Hong Kong. Powerful telescopes allowed them to see buildings at close range and even read the names of the airlines on the planes at the airport.
They remained on the peak until dusk. As the neon signs began to light up around the harbour, they took the tram down.
“It’s like falling into a black abyss full of multi coloured stars,” Carrie whispered almost reverently to Mike.
He nodded, smiling. “You can tell you’re a journalist,” he commented.

Mike hadn’t arranged to meet Dee until after nine, so they took a ground level tram to a place the guidebook called ‘Poor Man’s Niteclub,’ an open space which by day is a car park, and at night becomes a thriving mass of food and market stalls. Although it was early evening, the place was already seething with traders, locals and tourists. Carrie and Mike took a seat at a tin table and ordered a beer each from one stall. They were surrounded by different stalls, all apparently specialising in seafood. There wasn’t a vegetable in sight. Carrie shuddered. In one area live eels were being dunked in boiling water for a few seconds before being pulled out, still wriggling, and stuck in a pot of cold water. Then they were hoisted out of this, and their blistered scales rubbed off before they were put out of their misery by having their heads chopped off! On another stall, live crabs were going through the torture of having their legs ripped from their bodies.
“What’s a vegetarian doing in a place like this?” she asked Mike.
“You wanted to come, anyway it’s fantastic.” All around them people were rushing, shouting orders, carrying plates of food and bowls of rice, killing fish.
“It’s certainly a change from the Hilton,” Carrie acknowledged.
Fortunately, one of the waiters spoke good English, and while Mike tucked into a huge plate of squid and rice, Carrie had a dish of green veg and garlic, and a bowl of boiled rice.
“That tastes even better than the food last night,” she ventured, running her finger around her dish to get the last of the juices. “Mind you, I can’t see Dee in a place like this.” She stopped abruptly, it was out before she had realised.
“Dee wouldn’t be seen dead here,” Mike agreed, much to Carrie’s surprise. “She didn’t mind roughing it when she was younger, but she’s been living the high life too long. I’m surprised she even lowers herself to stay in my house.” He glanced at his watch, it was after 8.30. “We’d best be getting back. Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us?”
“It’s been a fantastic day, Mike, I’ve really enjoyed it, but I’m pretty tired, honest.”
“It’s not like you to miss the opportunity to go for a few drinks.”
“True, but you two need a bit of time on your own,” Mike opened his mouth to protest. “Dee’s lovely, honest, but she’s your friend.”
“She’s flying out to Japan tomorrow.”
“All the more reason for you to spend time alone with her. Just give her a hug from me and tell her I’ll see her when she next pops up, wherever that might be.”

There was a set of weighing scales on the ferry on the way back to Kowloon. Carrie popped in her 20 cents and held her breath. Eight stone nine pounds! She was delighted, this was the lightest she had been since her early teens. It meant she had lost a stone and a half since leaving England. She pledged to have fruit for breakfast instead of omelettes, she didn’t want to pile the weight back on again.

Alone in her room again, Carrie realised she wasn’t particularly tired. She was in Hong Kong, for God’s sake, what was she doing going to bed at nine o’clock.? She grabbed a towel and crossed the corridor to the bathroom where she had a lukewarm shower. It had been a hot sticky day. Then she donned her jeans and a teeshirt, grabbed her book, tightened her money belt, and headed out.
She made a beeline for the Lion’s Head because it was nearby and the bar staff were mostly English or Australian. She’d noticed at least two people in there on their own the other night, and one of them was sitting reading. No reason why she couldn’t do the same.
Inside the bar, she felt her nerve begin to fail. It was pretty busy, lots of western tourists drinking, smoking and generally having a raucous time. Carrie ordered a half pint of Becks and searched out a seat, finally locating one in a dark corner at a table occupied by three lads. She checked it wasn’t taken, and they happily invited her to sit down. At first, she tried to read her book, but it was too dark to see properly. Plus she felt pretty stupid, there was no way she could concentrate with this racket going on. Maybe she should just drink up and head back to her room.
“You on holiday, or just passing through?” one of the lads asked.
“Passing through,” Carrie replied. “Well, we’ve been here a few days, we’re hoping to get a boat to China in a couple of days.”
“I’d love to get you… on a slow boat to China,” crooned one of the other lads.
“Shut up Chris,” said the first lad. He held out his hand. “I’m Jordan, this is Harold, or Harry to his friends, and old Tom Jones here normally goes by the name of Chris.”
“Nice to meet you,” Carrie shook hands all round. “So have you been in Hong Kong long?”
“She’s a poet and she didn’t know it,” proffered Chris. Carrie thought he seemed a bit drunk.
“Ignore him, he’s just a pisshead,” said Jordan. “We’re here just one night, we’re heading on to Australia tomorrow.”
“And you thought you’d spend your only night in Hong Kong in an English pub!” Carrie was amused.
They all looked at her. In fact, they seemed to think it was a rather strange comment. “But this is an Aussie bar,” said Harold – she couldn’t quite think of him as Harry – “it says so in the guidebook.”
Obviously they had different guide books.
“We thought we’d get in the mood for Aus,” explained Jordan. “We only got in at seven and we‘ve to be at the airport at half twelve tomorrow, so we’re not going to get to see the real Hong Kong. Let me buy you a drink and maybe you’ll tell us all about it.”
The three lads were students off to travel around Australia for their two-month summer break. Carrie filled them in on her adventures in India but found that after an hour or so she had lost the attention of Harold and Chris, who had gone to the bar but hadn’t returned, and could now be spotted with two young blondes. Fortunately Jordan seemed very interested in all she had to say. She accepted another drink and watched him at the bar. He was tall and well built. His hair was fair and quite long. He had blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose. She gathered from what he said he was something of a rugby star. She imagined his muscular arms under his teeshirt, and felt a stirring in her belly. She had promised herself some sex in Hong Kong, and she could do worse than Jordan. She quickly dabbed some lipstick on her mouth. She wanted to make sure he didn’t get distracted at the bar like his mates.

She had told him she was travelling with Mike but had assured him that they were just friends. “Like brother and sister really,” she whispered, leaning against him as they staggered in the direction of Cheung King Mansions. “Sure he’s off shagging his girlfriend right now, and she’s a bloody supermodel.”
“And you sleep in the same room?” Jordan seemed incredulous.
“Yes,” she giggled. “But not when they’re shagging.”
“How could any man sleep in the same room as you and not want sex with you I don’t know,” Jordan’s voice was husky and incredibly sexy.
“Well, Mike’s not just any man,” said Carrie.
Jordan seemed a little more wary when they reached Carrie’s room. Mike’s pack, his clothes, trainers, and wash things were scattered around the room.
“You sure this guy isn’t your boyfriend?” Jordan asked.
“I’m sure,” Carrie pushed him onto her bed. He sat down with a bump. In the harsh light in the bedroom, he looked very young, and extremely desirable. Carrie knew she was drunk, but she felt like being naughty. Sure she would never see him again after tonight.
Standing in front of him, she slowly peeled her teeshirt off, letting it drop on the floor. Jordan’s eyes widened but never left her. His breathing seemed to be getting faster and faster. She undid her belt, and unbuttoned her jeans, pulling the zip down a little way to reveal a tantalising glimpse of her pink knickers. Jordan didn’t move, he just kept on staring, panting rather dramatically. She was surprised his tongue didn’t hang out.
Carrie reached behind her and undid her bra, but before she had the chance to remove it Jordan let out a groan and a gasp and clutched his crotch.
“Oh God, oh God,” he moaned. “I’m sorry.”
His face was flushed, she couldn’t tell if it was with embarrassment or as a result of the orgasm. Carrie felt her face reddening too. Tonight she felt quite sexy, but she’d never ever had this impact on a man. The fact that he had ejaculated without them even touching turned her on. She grabbed a towel from the top of her pack and threw it at him.
“The bathroom’s across the corridor,” she said. “Go clean yourself up.”
Jordan scuttled off. God, she hoped she hadn’t sounded like she was chasing him. She wanted him to come back, badly. In his absence she removed her bra and closed her eyes, touching the erect nipples and stroking her slim stomach. Her hand crept into her pants, but she pulled it out quickly. She wanted him to do this. Carrie pulled her teeshirt on over her bare bosom, and, jeans still open, lay invitingly on the bed.
Ten minutes later he still hadn’t come back and Carrie was panicking that he’d done a runner. But his wallet lay on the side table. When Jordan re-entered the room his face was still extremely flushed. He looked like a man who’d just had a good wank. And not in the least bit embarrassed. Oh, the arrogance of youth. Maybe he has jacked off, Carrie thought, that means he’ll last all the longer for me. Jordan tossed something paisley coloured into a corner and sat on the bed beside her. This time there was no hesitation. He leaned forward and kissed her hard, his tongue reaching into her mouth, probing deeply, as a hand gently traced the contour of her bosom under her teeshirt, then slipped up inside and closed around her soft flesh. His other hand followed, teasing a nipple, before he grabbed the teeshirt and hoisted it over her head.
Carrie pulled off his shirt, admiring the muscular chest with its little triangle of hair. He continued to caress her breasts, then bent over to kiss them. Carrie had waited long enough. She grasped at his belt, unfastening it with an expertise which surprised even herself and pulled down his zip. As he shrugged out of his jeans, she pulled her own off. Now they were practically naked on the small single bed. Jordan’s cock was swollen and pulsating. It had taken him no time to get aroused again. Carrie grasped it in her hot hands and rubbed, before bending over, her ass in the air, to put in into her mouth, lapping it with her tongue. Groaning, Jordan reached out and pulled down her knickers, his fingers exploring between her legs. He groaned even more as he felt her wetness.
Carrie didn’t want any more accidents. With a final suck she released his penis and pulled off her knickers. At least she had had the good sense to look out a condom from the depths of one of her backpack pockets while he was in the loo. She straddled him, fiddling to pull the rubber out of the packet, then, with trembling hands, slid it over his quivering penis.
In a second she was astride him, his penis buried deep insider her. She rocked back and forth, wanting to prolong the pleasure. Jordan reached up and touched her breasts, his thumbs darting over her nipples. It was too much, wave after wave of orgasm washed through her and she cried out loud, not caring how thin the walls were.
“Oh my God, oh my God, Carrie, Carrie…” Jordan was practically shouting as he too reached orgasm.
Then there was silence. She collapsed on top of him for a couple of minutes until their hearts slowed and their breathing became less frantic, then rolled to one side, careful not to fall off the single bed.
“Wow,” said Jordan. “That was something else. I could do with a fag right now.”
“I didn’t realise you smoked,” said Carrie, his mouth hadn’t tasted like that of a smoker.
“I don’t, but isn’t that what you’re meant to do after sex like that?”
“I suppose.” It had been damn good sex. She rolled up onto an arm and looked into his face, still flushed, his eyes bright with excitement. “What will you do after Australia Jordan?” she asked.
“I told you, I’m going to Bath to study politics.”
“I thought you’d just done your finals, haven’t you finished at university.”
“No, the three of us have just finished our A levels, I’m starting at Bath in September.”
Shit, Carrie thought. “Just how old are you Jordan?” she asked warily.
“Eighteen,” he replied. “You know, they say you should always remember your first time, and I sure as hell won’t forget this.”
“Your first time?”
“Yes, couldn’t you tell?”
“No, well apart from that first little incident.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, but I did alright in the end, didn’t I?” He needed reassurance.
Carrie reached out and stroked his hair. “You were great.” She ran her hand over the contours of his chest. She had just seduced an 18-year-old virgin. Should she be ashamed? As she touched him she noticed his penis stirring back into life. She sat up and reached down to touch it, and Jordan stretched his neck to lick her nipple. The box of condoms lay on the bedside table. Ashamed, certainly not. She had a young and eager Adonis in her bed, she was going to make the most of it.

Carrie had a hangover when she woke next morning. Jordan had left for his hostel on the 16th floor sometime around 3am. He wanted to meet her for breakfast before he, Harold and Chris headed to the airport, but she had refused. Things would have been more complicated in the morning, she was certain of that.
Blinking in the sunlight which had somehow found its way down the funnel outside and in through their window, she groped for her watch, knocking the condom box onto the floor. It was nearly 10am, she’d best clear this mess up before Mike got in.
Carrie got out of bed and realised she was naked. What’s more, the door wasn’t locked. Wendy and Alan would be mad if they knew, she could have been raped in her sleep.
She wrapped the used condoms in an empty crisp packet and concealed them in the bin under a discarded plastic bag, sweet wrappers and some tissues. She returned the box, now down to eight, to its hiding place in the dark pocket, and picked up her clothes, dumping them in a pile together on the only chair in the room. Pulling on a towel she made for the shower, hoping it would clear her head.

Mike was waiting outside the door of the room when she returned. He looked tired, she thought.
“Well, are you well refreshed after your early night?” he enquired.
“More refreshed than you, by the look of it, or maybe you went to bed too early.”
“Hardly,” Mike replied. “We had cocktails with about 10 other models, photographers, make-up artists and God only know who else.”
“That doesn’t sound too intimate.”
“It wasn’t.”
Carrie unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“Bloody hell, it stinks in here,” Mike crossed over the room and pushed the window open wider, as Carrie became aware that indeed the room was stuffy with the scene of stale alcohol, cigarette smoke engrained into the clothes she had been wearing in the pub and, how embarrassing, a vague aroma of sex. Fortunately Mike didn’t make any further comment as she started to dress, but instead began poking in his pack looking for clean clothes. He was still in the white shirt and canvas trousers he had put on for his meal out last night.
“What the hell…?” He held up a pair of paisley boxer shorts, holding them with the tips of his fingers, his nose wrinkled in disgust. Carrie quickly grabbed the offending shorts and prayed he hadn’t noticed how crusty they were.
“You didn’t have an early night at all. You went out and picked up a man, didn’t you?”
Carrie couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. “I went to the pub, yes,” she was defensive. “Why should you be the only one out enjoying yourself?”
“You knew you could have come with us.”
“I don’t want to play gooseberry to you and Dee thanks very much. I am entitled to do my own thing you know, we’re not glued together.”
Mike held up his hands. “Fine, fine, but maybe the next time you’ll get him to take his pants home with him.”
“No problem.” With that Carrie turned her back on him and began combing out her wet hair. Damn men, she thought.
There was silence for a few minutes. Carrie broke it. “Anyway, what time’s Dee flying out?”
“Not until tonight.”
“So when are you going to say goodbye?”
“I already have.”
“You mean you’re not seeing her again today? Why?”
“Oh, they have to retake a shoot that didn’t work out yesterday, and everybody seems a bit stressed out, so I thought I’d let them get on with it. They’re leaving for the airport at five, so I haven’t really got time to see her again.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Not if we’re going to go to Lamma Island,” Mike sat down beside her, pointing to a page in the guidebook. “You said you wanted to spend a day in the sun, so let’s get a boat and do a bit of relaxing.”
Carrie could have hugged him. She’d read about Lamma Island in the inflight magazine, and had been harking on about it ever since. Mike, however, felt that there were other parts of Hong Kong more important to see. It seemed he’d changed his mind.

They had a wonderful day and weren’t back in their room until after 11pm. The boat trip to Lamma had been stunning. Arriving at the port, they followed the main street for half an hour across the island to the beach. As there were no vehicles on Lamma, the street was little more than a concrete path. From a distance the beach looked beautiful, white sand and few people, but on closer inspection, they found the sea was full of all sorts of rubbish swept in from the more populated parts of Hong Kong. It was quite disgusting, yet little children were swimming in the midst of it. Every half hour or so, a team of men in bathing trunks would venture into the water with rake like implements and pull out as much of the rubbish as possible. Fifteen minutes later more would have replaced it. Mike ventured out on the rocks past the debris and was brave enough to dive in for a swim. Carrie was quite content to lie on her towel, allowing some rays to finally reach the parts which hadn’t seen the sun at all. She probably looked a bit odd in her bikini with her white belly and thighs, but she didn’t care. She lay back and allowed the warmth to caress away her hangover. She felt guilty about last night. She wasn’t normally into sex on a first date, but she wasn’t likely to be starting any sort of relationship over the next year, and she was what she supposed could be described as a red-blooded female, after all. She had been sensible and taken all the right precautions, Jordan had enjoyed it as much as she had, she had nothing to feel guilty about.
A scream dragged her back to the present, and she leapt up. There seemed to be some sort of commotion going on in the sea. Carrie’s heart stopped. It must be a shark, and Mike was out there right now! She leapt up in time to see a large, shiny black creature, about three foot long, shooting up the beach from the sea. On either side, the lifeguards were pummelling it with their rakes. In seconds it had stopped in its tracks, beaten to death, and was hastily removed from the beach.
Mike appeared beside her, and she was relieved to see he still had all his parts. “What was that?” she asked.
“A guy in the water reckoned it was a huge eel or a sea snake,” Mike replied. “I nearly died when I heard all the screaming. Thought it was a shark.” He shuddered. “I hate sharks.”
Neither of them deigned to approach the water again, and by late afternoon both had had enough of a roasting for one day. After a cold shower at the edge of the beach, they ventured back across the island, through jungle like vegetation and sub-tropical plants, watching out for snakes and huge spiders lurking in gargantuan webs. They reached the village as dusk fell and ate in one of the seafood restaurants, where again diners picked live fish from the tanks, which were served up mere minutes later on plates topped with exotic vegetables.
It was 10pm before they caught the ferry back to Central and then crossed to Kowloon. Once in bed, Carrie fell into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter 18

Hong Kong was wonderful, but it was time to move on. It was July 18th, day 47 of their trip. They would catch the boat to Canton in Southern China later that evening. The terminal for the Pearl River Shipping Company ferry to Canton was large, air conditioned and immaculately clean. Just like in an airport, they checked in their packs, carrying with them only what they needed for the overnight trip, walked through customs and boarded. Their bunks were clean comfy little beds in a dormitory with about 20 others, and a clean little towel was neatly folded on each bunk. The boat began moving out of Hong Kong Harbour at 9pm, it was due in Canton at seven the next morning.

It was a big bustling city – not as big as Hong Kong, but equally as busy. In fact, totally mad. One thing Carrie and Mike hadn’t bargained on was not being able to find a guidebook to China written in English. They realised too late they should have bought one in Hong Kong. The other, perhaps even bigger problem was that nothing whatsoever was written in English. Hong Kong was bi-lingual, and India’s colonial history meant that English was widely spoken and most signs were written in both languages. Here in China, everything was in Cantonese, and although beautiful to look at, the Chinese script meant nothing to Carrie or Mike.
Disembarking, they changed £100 for 845 FECs, or Foreign Exchange Certificates, the currency only foreigners were officially allowed to use. But they had heard FECs could be exchanged for Renminbi, or RMB, the ‘people’s money’ on the black market, and so quickly found a local person delighted to exchange 100FEC for 120 yuan. Everybody did it. They followed two fellow tourists who had a Lonely Planet guide to the Ghangzou Youth Hostel, where they got a clean, fairly large twin room with mosquito nets and a very convenient hat stand!
Canton was coming down with bicycles – there were more of them on the road than there were motor vehicles, and so the best way to get about seemed to be by bike. On the first day, Mike and Carrie took to the streets on foot, in search of an elusive guidebook, finally picking up a map of Canton written in English. Next day, they hired bikes and followed cycle lanes to the Ghangzhou Ferry Terminal to buy tickets for the trip to Yangshou, known among backpackers as the poor man’s Guilin. The terminal turned out to be several kilometres upriver, a pleasant cycle, if it hadn’t been for getting across the city centre road junctions on the way there and back. As in India, no one gave way to anyone else, and Carrie was amazed the place wasn’t littered with injured cyclists. At one stage she dismounted – Mike had already made it across the road – and stood waiting for a ‘green man’ to allow her to cross. Five minutes later, the man was still red and it became apparent he was going to stay that way. With her heart in her mouth, she stepped out into the traffic and wove her way to the other side, arriving pale and breathless.
When they reached where the ferry terminal, according to the map, was supposed to be, there was no sign of it. At a hotel, a sympathetic receptionist pointed them in the right direction, and wrote a note requesting two tickets to Yangshou in Chinese for them to hand over at the ticket desk. Thank God, because the people at the kiosk didn’t speak English.
Tickets successfully bought, they cycled to the beautiful Memorial Garden for the Martyrs of the 1927 Revolution, the centrepiece of which was a dome shaped tomb commemorating more than 5,000 Communists killed by the Kuomintang, and an impressive huge stone sculpture of a hand holding a rifle. Then they cycled north of the city to the Mausoleum of the 72 Martyrs, where they found an arch topped by the Statue of Liberty, along with a display of granite stones donated by Chinese organisations worldwide. There was one from Liverpool. It made Carrie feel closer to home.

Slightly saddle sore, and still without a guidebook, Carrie and Mike took a taxi to the ferry terminal the following morning.
“Bloody hell!” she exclaimed, arriving at the bottom of a narrow staircase leading down to their deck. “The Fields of Athenry or what?”
Mike looked at her bemused. “Have you finally cracked up?” he asked. “This is China, not Ireland.”
“As the prison ship set sail across the bay…” Carrie hummed. “Prison ship, that’s just what this is like.” True enough, the deck was long and narrow, its sides lined with narrow bunks, on two levels, and in the middle of the deck, double bunks were placed head to head.
“God, I hope we’re not stuck in the middle,” Carrie muttered, her eyes scanning the end of each bunk for their numbers. Thankfully their bunks along the ship’s walls, and each had a tiny window at the top. Carrie flung her bag onto the bottom of the bed, then nosedived in herself. The bunk above was so low it was difficult to sit up. There was no seating area on the boat at all, except for the rather plastic looking ‘restaurant’ upstairs, where they had been told to go at 6pm to get their rations, part of the package. It looked like they would be spending a lot of time looking out their little windows.

It was still early and Carrie dozed off. She woke blinking and trying to focus. She had her contact lenses in and they had dried up a bit. She sat up and bumped her head on the bunk above. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, expecting a bit of sympathy from Mike who was sprawled on his belly on his bunk, feet to the window, chatting to two strangers.
None was forthcoming. She was ignored. She hoisted herself down to the foot of the bunk and took a look at the Irishman deep in conversation with Mike. He had a sweet face, sparkling eyes, and fine fair hair. Her gaze lowered, and she let out an audible gasp. That drew the attention of not only Mike, but the Irish lad and a girl sitting on the floor beside him.
“What’s up?” Mike asked.
“Oh nothing,” Carrie was flustered. “Just can’t believe the time.”
“It’s only 10.”
“Well, that means I’ve been sleeping for a couple of hours at least.” She forced herself to take her eyes away from the large set of Irish bollocks that were hanging out the side of the fair-haired man’s shorts and look at his face. “Hi, I’m Carrie,” she held out her hand.
“Colm,” he held his hand towards her but she could contain herself no longer. She dissolved into laughter. She wasn’t looking, but in her mind she could clearly see Colm’s scrotum which had, unbeknown to him, escaped the lining of his shorts. Colm and his friend, who introduced herself as Lisa from New Zealand, were looking at her as if she were very rude. Should she tell Colm? No way. She would be so embarrassed, and he would be even more so.
“Sorry, I’m just so excited at being on this boat heading into the depths of China. Look at that wonderful view.” She indicated out the window, where on a riverbank not far from the boat, an ox grazed. Beyond that the horizon fell away to nothing. Unfortunately, it wasn’t at all scenic.
“It was good leaving Canton, but it’s pretty boring now,” Mike said. “Will we take a wander round? I could do with stretching my legs.”
“What’s got into you?” he hissed as they walked away. “That was really rude.”
Carrie could contain herself no longer. As they reached the stairway, she burst out laughing again, and it was another five minutes before she could tell Mike about Colm unwittingly flashing his tackle at her. Mike laughed too, but Carrie could tell he was feeling a certain sympathy for the Irish lad. Fortunately, by the time they returned to their deck, Colm had shifted position, and if his bits were still hanging out, at least she couldn’t see them!

Carrie slept well in her little bunk, and at 9am next morning they disembarked at the town of Wuzhou where buses were waiting to take passengers the remainder of the way to Yangshou, a journey of some 10 hours. Comfort wise, the buses were just a little better than those in India, and it was so hot. The sun just blazed down. Colm and Lisa were on a second bus, and they had it even worse, because they and half the Chinese people on the bus with them spent most of the journey throwing up, both inside and outside the bus. Revolting!
The scenery improved as they headed north, and as the afternoon wore on, the limestone mountains which make Guilin so famous and so photogenic appeared on the horizon. They reached Yangshou at 6.30pm, the bus dropping them off at a hotel which claimed to be the ‘Hotel for Foreigners!’ That night Carrie, Mike, Colm and Lisa ate at a very Western style café named, funnily enough, Lisa’s Café, where Carrie’s Spaghetti Napolitana cost the equivalent of 20p and where large delicious bottles of cold beer were served for something like 14p a pint. At that price it was cheaper than coke or water.
Not much chance of me staying sober in this place, Carrie thought to herself cheerfully.

They spent the next day touring the town and getting their bearings. Their plan had been to base themselves in Yangshou, hire bikes, and cycle out into the countryside, staying at other local villages on route. But that seemed impossible. They were told there were no local maps and only one village had any type of a hotel. As they toured the market, where weird meats and entrails were sold, alongside beautiful fresh vegetables, and live ducks trapped together under netting, they weighed up their options. They could easily spend another two weeks, even more in China. But where should they go from here?
The answer was easy really. They had to make for Beijing.

After much contemplation, they decided to spend a few more days in Yangshou. It was so beautiful. And so they cycled out into little villages where people worked in the fields, and where toddlers with slits in the back of their trousers hunkered on the ground to wee or pooh. They watched in amazement as tiny, stiffly padded bras practically walked off the market stalls, bought by enthusiastic young girls with small breasts; they laughed at the hoards of Japanese tourists who followed their flag-bearing guide like obedient sheep. All wearing shorts over their white, smooth legs, white strappy sandals over socks pulled halfway up their calves in a see-through patterned nylon material.
They climbed the famous Moon Hill in the midday sun, arriving at the natural crescent cut out of the hill just below the summit soaked in sweat. Mad dogs and Englishmen indeed. They desperately wanted a cold drink, but Carrie insisted Mike wait until they reached the very top. For there, she knew, sat an enterprising Chinaman, sheltering under a Coca Cola umbrella. Each day he toiled up that hill carrying a wooden box containing ice and tins of soft drinks and beer. Each day he probably sold four if he was lucky. Many people made it no further than the crescent. Sure there was no need. A cold drinks vendor was there too.
They took a three-hour boat trip to Xing Ping where they smiled as they watched a toddler play happily with two ducks. Their smiles faded when they realised the ducks were tethered and half dead, their discomfort growing as the little boy pulled the sick birds by their necks, sat on their backs, hauled their wings and tortured them. Animal welfare was not a high priority in China, that was already evident in the markets. On the 25km cycle back from Xing Ping, they witnessed three fairly major accidents in the space of five minutes. In one a cyclist appeared to have head butted the front windscreen of a bus. It wasn’t pretty.
On their second last day in Yangshou, they met two East Germans, visiting China for the first time. One of them, Kristian, told them that a year ago this would not have been possible. Before the demolition of the Berlin Wall, East Germans were not allowed to go to China. Carrie’s journalistic mind kicked in. She would interview these two lads. Perhaps one of the broadsheets at home would be interested, the Guardian maybe.
That night, she pledged not to drink any beer, but stick to water, and headed down with Mike to have dinner at Lisa’s with the two Germans. As usual, Carrie began to sweat seconds after getting out of the shower, the humidity was so high. Earnestly she sat and interviewed the two Germans, sipping her water, notebook in hand and shorthand coming back easily, every bit the professional. Kristian told her how they had watched the Tiananmen Square Massacre on television. How he had pulled parts of the Berlin Wall down with his bare hands. How he and his friends had staged a vigil and beat a ‘Drum for China’ during last year’s turmoil. Now he was in China in the flesh. It was good stuff.
Carrie was feeling proud of herself when she and Mike returned to their room after the interview. “That went well, don’t you think?” She wanted Mike to tell her what a great interview she had done. After all, he’d been out on jobs with lots of top reporters. She wanted reassurance that she’d done well.
“Yeah, it went okay. I got a good couple of photos of the two of them talking.” Mike’s camera had not been out of action since they arrived in Yangshou, everywhere there were images to be captured, the wizened face of an old man, a child playing in a drain, the sun setting behind the limestone peaks. It was a photographer’s paradise.
“Do you think the Guardian or someone might publish it?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“I think it will be old news, Carrie. It’s been a year since the wall came down, a year since Tiananmen. But they might look at it as a feature, you never know, you might get lucky.”
Carrie was disappointed. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
“I thought you’d enjoy doing it, and I wanted to hear their story. It was good experience for you.”
“I suppose so, I’ll write it up anyway.” She crossed to the mirror. “Shit!” she exclaimed. Her face was dotted with small bits of white tissue. She had been using tissues to mop up the sweat which was practically dripping from her during the interview. It had stuck all over her face. “Why didn’t you tell me I was covered in tissue?” she demanded.
Mike looked sheepish. “Well, you were being all professional. I thought it would only embarrass you if I pointed it out in front of the others,” he defended himself.
Carrie looked back into the mirror. She could laugh or she could cry. She started to laugh. They were on holiday after all!

Chapter 19

They bought tickets for the bus to Guilin and two ‘hard seats’ on the train from there to Beijing from a waiter in their Yangshou hotel. En route to Guilin, their bus driver was stopped for speeding by police with a hand-held radar. Unbelievable! After paying an on-the-spot fine, he continued on his way at the same breakneck speed as before.
They had a long wait in Guilin and put in time eating in a restaurant and hanging about in the train station. Carrie was half asleep when she headed off to the loo, the seats in the railway station were anything but comfortable, it was 12.30am and she longed to be in a cool comfortable bed with crisp white sheets. She found the toilets up a dark stairwell and locked herself into the cubicle. Normally the holes in the ground were open to all, it was nice to have some privacy for once.
Not so nice when she tried to get out, for no matter what she did, the toilet door would not budge. The place sounded like it was deserted. There was no answer to her anguished shouts for help. There was not enough space to crawl under the door. Carrie leaned against the cubicle. She had broken out in a cold sweat. She might miss her train! Mike may not be able to find her! She could be locked in here for hours, even days! Finally, she pulled herself together, and climbed gingerly onto the lock on the door, which held her weight, and hoisted herself over the top of the cubicle, landing painfully on her feet. Blinking back tears, she scuttled back down the dark stairs to the waiting room, glaringly bright, where she found Mike in conversation with a couple who had just arrived in Guilin. He was flicking through a rather battered Lonely Planet Guide to China.
“There you are,” he said as she approached. “I thought you’d got lost.”
“Worse than that, I got locked in the loo and had to climb over the top of the door to escape.” Mike and the couple with him began to laugh, and Carrie felt her face flushing red. Sometimes she really didn’t like Mike Somers at all.
“David and Kerry here are heading back down to Canton tomorrow, so they’ve very kindly said we can have their guidebook,” Mike explained.
Carrie looked at the couple. “That’s brilliant, but don’t you need it?” she asked.
“No, we’ll get the ferry down to Hong Kong and we fly back to London in three days’ time. Mike was saying you hadn’t been able to find one, and this is no place to be without a guidebook,” said David. “It’ll lighten our load.”
“How long have you been in China?”
“Nearly three weeks now, not long enough really, there’s loads of places we’d love to have seen, but we’ll come back, won’t we Kerry?”
The girl nodded wearily. David took the hint. “We’ve been on the go since five this morning, so we’re off to find somewhere to kip for the night.” He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders. “Enjoy Beijing, it really is something else,” he said as the two of them walked towards the station exit.

The journey to Beijing would take around 32 hours, so Carrie and Mike were relieved to find that the ‘hard seats,’ which were the cheapest way to travel, were in fact slightly padded, although the backs were totally upright. For the first 15 minutes they had three seats each to stretch out on, but then a group of four arrived, forcing them to sit up.
It was a horrible night, during which Carrie got no sleep at all. The revolting man opposite kept clearing his throat and spitting on the floor, then sticking his horrible burgundy stockings, with which he wiped up the gob, on the seat beside her. At 6.30am, loudspeakers started blaring out marching music, comic strips, news and train announcements, and the food trolley with rice, meat and vegetables did the rounds – not very tempting for breakfast. The group of four sharing their seats stuffed their faces and continued to do so most of the day. Carrie and Mike spent the day reading and looking out the window at the flat, flat fields, and the odd town.
The situation began to heat up when the man sitting opposite Carrie insisted on closing the window. It was already stuffy in the carriage. Carrie jumped up and opened it, swearing at him in English. Immediately the man snapped it shut again. One of his travelling companions began shouting excitedly at Carrie, waving her arms, and indicating in such a way Carrie thought she was suggesting she and Mike should find another seat. Wouldn’t I just love to, thought Carrie, but there were no other seats free, and anyway, she wasn’t going to move just to suit stinky old burgundy socks.
Minutes later, however, Carrie felt herself growing embarrassed. Mike had pointed out that all the windows in the carriage were now shut. Carrie sat back and looked out the window. The train was rising up onto a bridge, below it a vast expanse of water, the massive Yangste River. Once the river crossing was complete, Mr Burgundy Socks stood up and opened the window, smiling and making appeasing gestures at her. Around the carriage, other windows snapped open. Carrie wished she could find a stone to crawl under.
Night began to fall. Her ankles were swollen, she felt like someone with elephantitis. No matter what position she put herself in, she could not sleep. Mike, sitting by the window opposite, seemed to be dozing, his head pushed against the glass. Carrie tried to sleep, but it was impossible as every other part of her body went to sleep first.
Incredibly, at 12.30am the next morning, twenty-four hours after the journey had begun, the foursome left the train, and Carrie and Mike had three seats to themselves. It was a blessing. Carrie finally managed to fall asleep, wakened only by the wail of the Chinese Opera around seven the next morning.

At 9.15am they staggered off the train into Beijing, both stinking with sweat, and black with ingrained dirt and soot which had blown in through the windows in the hours they were on the train. The guidebook said find a number 20 bus, but this was no easy task as Chinese numbers, like their letters, are in a totally different script.
Mike got out his camera and snapped a photo of Carrie standing with her swollen ankles at the gates of the train station, peering bleary eyed into the guidebook. Within seconds, a policeman was by his side and for a minute Mike thought his camera was going to be seized. Fortunately, the man just indicated Mike put it away. They had been warned not to photograph official buildings in China, obviously they should take the warning seriously.

Finally, with the help of four Germans, they found their way to the Qiao Yuan Hotel, considered to be the in-place for backpackers to stay in Beijing. On the banks of the canal, it was a huge building, and the sight of dozens of other westerners made it all the more welcoming. Carrie and Mike booked a twin room for the night instead of beds in a dormitory. The room had a TV, an ensuite with a bath, soft beds and clean sheets. Bliss.

The Qiao Yuan appeared good on the surface, but the air conditioning in Mike and Carrie’s room did not work, and the heat was stifling. They opened the window hoping for a breeze, not thinking about the fact that the room looked out onto the canal. Carrie was in the bed nearest the window, and next morning her face was a mass of mosquito bites. As the day wore on it became more and more swollen, and it was all she could do not to itch continually.
The canal bank was lined with restaurants offering great food. With western tourists in mind, some even catered for vegetarians. But it was much more expensive than in Yangshou.

The day after they arrived, Carrie and Mike caught the bus to Tiananmen Square, Carrie was full of anticipation. She was agitated as she sat beside Mike, peering out the window.
“Do you suppose we’ll see any evidence of the massacre?” she whispered. She didn’t want anyone to overhear.
“I don’t know,” Mike admitted.
“You’d think there be some evidence of the day, there were hundreds of students killed, in cold blood, it was awful,” Carrie said. She was to be disappointed. Tiananmen Square was large and very beautiful and was packed with Nikon-bearing Chinese holiday makers and hundreds of young servicemen who appeared to be on leave. Cameras were snapping all around, everyone smiling happily. Carrie scoured the pavements for blood and bullet holes, but of course there were none to be found. But the numbers on each stone had almost disappeared – it probably took a lot of scrubbing to wash away the blood of hundreds of young freedom fighters, she thought bitterly.
They paid 5Y to get into the Great Hall of the People, where instead of seeing the auditorium which seats 10,000, the elaborate dining hall, and the rooms decorated the depict the states of China, they were shown along several corridors lined with junk souvenir shops, screens where families could get their photos taken, empty rooms with rolled up carpets and a bare dining hall that could as easily have been a school gymnasium. Obviously the Chinese authorities were keeping as much as possible under wraps.
They visited the theatre with a group from the hotel where they witnessed a variety of acts ranging from fantastic acrobatics to a woeful magician who actually managed to kill a fish on stage! Outside it had cooled down and torrential rain was falling. Hopefully that would keep the mosquitoes at bay, thought Carrie, as she headed back to her room.
Next day, they braved taking to the streets, and in the afternoon wondered around the Temple of Heaven. It was beautiful but spoiled by the number of tourists. At the famous Echo Wall, at least 50 people were yelling all at once, their ears pressed to the wall as they waited for an answer. How anyone could hear a whisper amid all the palaver Carrie didn’t know. The same with the Echo Stones, where you are meant to hear you clap echo so many times depending on which stone you are standing on. With so many people having a go it just sounded like a continuous round of applause.
The room at the Qiao Yuan was pricey and there was no point in paying for air conditioning that didn’t work, so Carrie and Mike cycled the 6km or so to the Lon Tan Hotel on the opposite bank of the canal. It was an interesting cycle along a little used street lined on one side by the canal where people were fishing with huge bamboo nets, and on the other by small, brick-built Coronation Street type houses with little courtyards full of potted plants.
They were shown the dorms at the Long Tan which had five beds to a room, and were cool and clean, so they booked a room and next morning caught a minibus to their new accommodation. In the dorm, they found a serious looking young Englishman named Mark listening to the World Service, and caught up on the goings-on back home before making their way to the Friendship Store, a rather strange name for a shop which bans the people of its own country.
But it was wonderful. They were able to buy such delicacies as French bread, baked beans and cottage cheese, and, after struggling to open the bean tin with Mike’s penknife, sat on the steps of the Friendship Store and picnicked on their purchases! Refreshed, they caught a bus and then tube train, much cleaner than the London Underground, to the Beijing Hotel.

Carrie inhaled deeply as she walked into the hotel. It was here Kate Adie, a journalist she much admired, and the BBC crew had stayed during the Tiananmen events. They had bought a book written in English and containing explicit colour photographs giving the Government’s perspective on the events of June 4 1989. Maybe I’ll send this to Kate when I get home, thought Carrie. She would probably find it interesting if not intriguing.
That night they had trouble finding anywhere to eat near the Long Tan. Restaurants seemed to open around five and close by eight, when everyone takes to the streets watching everyone else go by. Finally, they found a little place that closed literally seconds after they got in. With the help of Mr Logic’s note, Carrie was able to communicate that she did not eat meat. The waitress, who spoke a little English, said they had no vegetables, just Beijing Duck. In the end Carrie had to make do with three plates of cold pickles!

Two days later it was decision time. The dorm was comfortable, but Mark and a Swiss traveller who also shared their dorm, didn’t go to bed until really late, and World Service was blaring all the time. Carrie was bored, there was nothing around the area they had moved to – it had taken them two hours to find breakfast this morning, and even then they’d had to settle for a dry cheese sandwich in the Beijing Hotel. But a room in the Qiao Yuan would cost them 60Y a night, leaving only 33Y between them per day. Not a lot considering they planned to pay 25Y each for a trip to the Great Wall.

With no decision made, they tackled the crowds at the Forbidden City, so called because for hundreds of years the public would have been killed for entering its beautiful but forbidding gates. The price of entry to the Imperial City, home of the Ming and Qing dynasties, their concubines, eunuchs and servants since it was built in the early 15th century, was no longer a death sentence, but 18Y payable in FEC. Portable cassette players featuring Peter Ustinov giving a guided tour cost 20Y. Sorry Peter, Carrie thought, we’ll go this alone.
What was indeed a beautiful and impressive and surely unique cluster of buildings enclosed behind a moat and high wall was spoiled to some extent by the thousands of people mulling through. The high arches of the Meridian Gate and the Supreme Harmony Gate were like bridges over a river of human bodies, drinking coke and mineral water, eating buns and ice creams and, despite the warning signs, gobbing.
Looking through the windows of the three great halls, including the Hall of Supreme Harmony which houses the stunningly ornate Dragon Throne, was like trying to catch a glimpse of a rate animal at a busy zoo on a weekend. Carrie found she was being carried along by the crowd, claustrophobic in the stifling heat. They decided not to pay the additional 10Y each to see the exhibition depicting the life of little Puyi, the last Emperor, but the Emperor’s living quarters in the Hall of Mental Cultivation did give them an insight into how these people lived.
After four hours in the Forbidden City, the crowds had dispersed to virtually nothing. Now was the time for Mike to get out his camera, and as he snapped the stunning architecture, and now empty courtyards, Carrie sat on the stairs leading up to Emperor Puyi’s quarters and, closing her eyes, could visualise the scene in the film The Last Emperor, when little Puyi ran carefree to the edge of the steps where below him, his 100,000 courtiers bowed their heads.

Next day found Mike and Carrie on the bus to the Great Wall of China. Their first stop was at the Ming Tombs, where they had to cough up another 10Y each for entry. The underground Tomb, where an emperor and two empresses are buried in a huge vault, lay undiscovered for 400 odd years and, thought Carrie, was undoubtedly an exciting find for some archaeologist. The bus then took them to the wall at Badaling. Again, they were frustrated by the number of tourists, everywhere you could have your photo taken dressed as Marco Polo or sitting on a camel. Mike and Carrie pushed their way through the tourists and reached the closest high peak. They carried on and soon were alone. Alone on the Great Wall of China! Suddenly there was no noise, the voices below were dispersed in the wind. The sky above was blue. Carrie smiled as Mike took her photograph. It was hard to believe she was really here.

Back in the city, they arranged with a waiter at the Great Wall Bar to get two hard seats to Guangshou for two days’ time. At first, he was charging them 155Y, but when they said they could get the tickets for 120Y from someone else, he quickly dropped his price to 115Y.
They spent the evening in the dorm, Carrie wanted to get her interview with the East Germans written up and Mike had letters to wanted to get in the post. As ever, their roommates were sitting in. Carrie wondered why they had come to China – they never seemed to go anywhere or do anything. Swiss was knitting, of all things, and Mark had evidently grown bored of the World Service and was now tuned into Radio Moscow!

Carrie yawned her way through four hours in the History of the Revolution Museum the next day. Mike, however, seemed engrossed in the battles between the warring Northern Warlords, the Japanese, the British and the PLA. It appeared to Carrie that history in China ended in 1949 with the founding to the Great People’s Republic – what a hero our Mr Mao is, no mention of the extremes of the Cultural Revolution and certainly nothing about June 4 last year. Most of the exhibits were poor quality black and white pictures, Chinese documents and letters and faded ornaments and clothes with enlightening descriptions such as ‘a soup bowl,’ and ‘a jumper.’ But the explanations of the pictures and literature were excellent, there was just a hell of a lot of reading.
Back outside in the heat, Carrie and Mike sat down for a drink and were immediately approached by a man who introduced himself as an Iranian Muslim.
He insisted on buying them a beer. “Are you married?” he asked, pulling his chair up close to Carrie.
“No,” she replied, then caught Mike’s warning glance.
The Iranian moved closer. “You are very beautiful,” he said, smiling at her, his face close to her’s. Carrie tried hard not to laugh. “To an Iranian,” he added.
Pratt, she thought.
“May I come to your room please?” he enquired, apparently in earnest. At this point Mike grabbed Carrie’s hand. “Sorry mate,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “I don’t share my woman with anyone,” with which he put an arm possessively around Carrie’s waist and they walked away from the bar. Carrie wanted him to leave his arm where it was, she had had no physical contact with anyone since that night in Hong Kong, and she could do with a bit of loving. Mind you, she’d draw the line at the amorous Iranian.
“Mike, I really liked him. Why couldn’t he have come back with us?” she teased.
Mike pinched her waist before letting her go. “Because, my dear, I think old Swiss and Mark are very happy with a foursome, I think five would be just too much for them!”

On their last full day in Beijing, they paid a visit to Chairman Mao himself. The queue to get into the Mausoleum in Tiananmen Square was long, but it only took 10 minutes before they were ushered past a pale and sadly waxen Chairman lying in a glass case in the centre of a red carpeted room. It was a bit like being on a conveyor belt, and Mike, who made the mistake of coming to a halt alongside the embalmed body, got a few harsh words from a security guard.
On the way out, they bought some Chairman Mao Mausoleum cigarettes to send home to people, but they could have also bought Mao thermometers, badges, and keyrings from the numerous souvenir shops making a killing since the Chairman’s death 14 years earlier. A visit to the Military Muesum was followed by a trip back to the Qiao Yuan to collect their tickets for the train. After a meal and a few drinks, Mike and Carrie cycled back to the Long Tan along virtually deserted roads. It was almost midnight on August 8th 1990.

The 36-hour journey to Canton was as painful as the 32-hour trip from Guilin had been, only four hours longer. It was shortly after 6am on August 11 before Carrie and Mike reached the Guangshou Youth Hostel where they had to wait for an hour to get a room, and stand over the grumpy maid until she changed the sheets. Even after a shower, Carrie was convinced she still stank. She didn’t care, but slept for five sticky, wonderful hours.

Canton Market was worse than that in Yangshou. Terrified animals sat squashed in tiny cages, watching as others of their species were chopped up, skinned and gutted, their flesh still hot, blood gushing everywhere. Killing methods were not exactly humane, and the animals being mutilated included ducks, chickens, frogs, badgers, monkeys, pigs and even kittens. They were too late to see any dog meat, that speciality had sold out when they were still sleeping.
Next day, Carrie and Mike had to haggle over tickets on the ferry back to Hong Kong. They were 9Y in FEC short for two second class tickets, and the woman refused to allow them to make up the difference in RMB. She told them to go to a bank, but it was Sunday! Carrie had a brainwave and offered her the difference in Hong Kong dollars. Yes, she would accept those. They were on their way back to Hong Kong, and to Cheung King Mansions.

Finding a room this time was more difficult, the hostel they stayed in before was all booked out, and they ended up in what was essentially a tiled cupboard with an attached toilet and showerhead for HK$130. That night they ate a meal off banana leaves in the Delhi Mess, an Indian Restaurant on the third floor of Block B in Cheung King Mansions.

Carrie was full of nervous anticipation the next day when they headed to the Post Restante to collect their mail. Her mum and dad were bound to have written. She couldn’t wait to hear all the news from home. But when they got there, she was disappointed. All that was waiting for her was one letter from Jonathan.
Mike had six letters. She was hurt and angry. Tears began to burn her eyes, and she had to turn away from him.
“I’m sure they will have written,” he said, coming up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe they’ve sent their letters to Bangkok, or Singapore. Perhaps they didn’t realise we’d be coming back to Hong Kong.”
“All your family seemed to know what we’re doing. Looks like mine doesn’t give a damn.” Tears were flowing freely now. “I really miss them, I really need my mum, and I know she can’t be here, but a letter would be something. Do they not care? Surely they realise that when you’re away from home any link, even just a short letter, means a hell of a lot.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her hand.
Mike pulled her close and she snuffled into his teeshirt. “You can read all my mail, most of them are addressed to you as well, anyway. And sure Jonathan’s written, he’ll fill you in on everything.” Carrie didn’t move until he stepped slowly back.
“Let’s find a nice bar and treat ourselves to something to drink other than cheap beer, and we’ll read these together.” Carrie nodded, and they walked hand in hand to a rather posh looking wine bar, where she enjoyed the first glass of chilled dry white wine she had had since leaving home.

Chapter 20

Carrie’s mouth was dry, and she felt faint. Beside her Mike was looking a little agitated. All their fellow passengers, except one couple trying to deal with a toddler who had spewed all over the floor and his mother’s coat, had headed off in the direction of customs, and Mike and Carrie were still there, waiting for their backpacks. “Where are they?” she asked, for about the 10th time. “I dread this every time we arrive at an airport, but I never really thought it would happen.” She clutched her money belt for reassurance. All the vital things were in there, but everything else she possessed was in the black and pink backpack. There was some reassurance in knowing that Mike’s pack was also missing. At check-in they had been told the bags were ‘a funny shape’ and they were sent off on a security trolley. “Don’t worry.” the airline lady had said. “They will be on the same flight as you.” Fateful last words it seemed.
The conveyor belt eventually stopped moving, and Carrie and Mike made their way rather dejectedly through passport control where, using their luggage tags and a computer, a kindly lady was able to trace the bags to 35,000ft above the ocean on a Cathay Pacific flight from Hong Kong to Bangkok due to arrive at 6pm. Well at least they weren’t lost on a flight to Iceland or somewhere equally far away. The lady assured them their bags would be delivered to their hotel, one which they rapidly chose out of the guidebook, before changing money (£1 = 43 Baht) and paying 190 Baht for a taxi to the hotel, a journey which took 75 minutes because the driver ‘got confused.’
Unbelievably, the driving was worse than in India, it seemed acceptable to swap lanes continually, to overtake on the inside and outside lanes or even the hard shoulder, to hog the middle lane in a slow van, to shoot up at speed behind someone then jam on your brakes, to pull out in front of someone in the hope that he jams on his brakes….an absolute nightmare.
Carrie clutched Mike’s arm in the back seat. Her nerves were in tatters. What with that incident in the plane when she had actually been dozing when the pilot switched on the seatbelt signs because they had hit turbulance, the plane bounced a bit, Carrie woke up with a start, opened her eyes to see flashing in front of her the words ‘Life vest is under your seat,’ felt the plane wobble, thought this was it, had a hot flush, screamed, and almost succumbed to a coronary.
And then there were the missing bags. She took a deep breath. ‘I will survive,’ she murmured.
The Merry V Guest House looked okay outside but was like a prison indoors. All there was in each room was two metal framed beds, and the walls which divided the rooms were made of plywood and didn’t reach the ceiling, so there was no privacy whatsoever. They grabbed some food in the restaurant, then sat and waited nervously for their bags, which arrived, remarkably in one piece, at 10.30pm! Carrie had never been so glad to see a piece of luggage in her life!
Buddha is pretty big in Bangkok, so the next day they made their way by bus to the Reclining Budda Temple to see the 47-metre-long reclining gold Buddha and lots of smaller Buddhas. After lunch they headed across town to Sin and Sex City planning to watch some Thai Boxing. Much to Carrie’s disappointment, and probably Mike’s too, the most sinful thing that happened in Sin and Sex City were two different men offering Mike the opportunity to watch 10 minutes of an erotica film for free. But they weren’t here for sex, oh no, but something much more physical, Thai Kick Boxing.
Walking through the streets of Bangkok was not pleasant, the air full of pollution, Carrie could actually taste the car exhausts. Inside the boxing arena, young Thai men danced to a repetitive rhythm played by live musicians, before going through a religious ritual, and then kicking, punching and kneeing the tripe out of each other. Only a few quiet fans sat near Mike and Carrie, the diehards were packed into another stand in the arena where they could reach the touts easily.

“We’re getting soft,” Mike announced as they sat at lunch the next day. “We don’t need to stay another night, we should be on that bus tonight, getting away from here.”
“What’s wrong with staying?” Carrie asked
“If we were in India or China we wouldn’t think twice about travelling overnight to get somewhere. It we get the bus in the morning, we’ll waste a whole day travelling, we’ll get to Chumpon after dark and probably end up walking round for hours looking for somewhere to stay.”
“But we’ve already paid for our room.”
“I’m sure they’ll give us our money back. We can pay a little to leave our luggage there for the day, then we’ll catch the 9.30 bus tonight. We’ll be sunning ourselves in Chumpon tomorrow. What do’ya think?”
The idea of lying on a beach was very tempting. Bangkok was too noisy and smoggy.
“Can we take the ferry up the river today then?” Carrie asked hopefully. Perhaps that would get them away from the pollution in the town centre.
Mike seemed happy enough, so they headed back to the Merry V, packed quickly and checked out of the room. They took the ferry upstream as far as it would go, and hopped out for a beer before catching the return ferry back. The trip was cheap and interesting and they marvelled at the pretty houses on stilts, all boasting an array of colourful window boxes.

“You think you’re so bloody smart,” screamed Carrie at the top of her voice.
“Well you never fucking take charge when it comes finding where to go, you just follow me!” Mike was equally mad.
“I said it was probably the Southern Regular terminal, that’s what those Germans in the Merry V said.”
“Yeah, well the guy on the bus said it was the Southern Air Con.”
“What guy on the bus?”
“The one sitting across from me.”
“That wanker – he didn’t look like he had a clue about anything.”
“He lives in Bangkok, he should know more than a bunch of ruddy Germans.”
“The ruddy Germans have been to the terminal. Yer man’s probably never been out of bloody Bangkok. We’ve been hanging around all day for this fucking bus, and now we’re going to miss it.”
“What do you want me to do. Now if you’d shut up and get moving, we’ll be at the Southern Regular before half nine.”
“I’m going back to the Merry V. I said we should wait to tomorrow, you just want to be a masochist all the time. If there’s a painful way to travel that’s how you want to do it.”
“Fine, go back to the hotel, I’m going to fucking Chumpon.”

Mike started to walk down the main road in the direction of the other Southern Terminal. Traffic continued to fly along the road beside him. Carrie was sweating. They had already changed buses three times to get here, and here wasn’t even the right damn place. They had argued all day about which terminal the bus would leave from, and had finally agreed to head to the Southern Regular, but without telling her Mike had been persuaded by this jerk on the bus to go to the Air Con. When they got there it was all shut up, and they had had to begin walking to the other terminal. Carrie hadn’t a clue how far it was. She was struggling under the weight of her bag, sweating in the heat, her ears buzzing with the never-ending honking of horns, lungs choking with the fumes, and her blood boiling.
Who does he fucking think he is? she muttered under her breath. Throughout their screaming session, she had been oblivious to the stares of passers-by on the busy Bangkok street, now she felt uncomfortable as she stood alone. She would never find her way back to the Merry V. She wouldn’t admit it to Mike, but she did tend to let him lead the way. She began to walk after him, slowly at first, then faster. She couldn’t bear to miss this bus. He had stopped someone in the street, they were pointing across the road and nodding. Mike glanced round, saw her following and began to practically run in the direction of a set of traffic lights.
Carrie did her best to catch up, and soon they were picking their way across the road. The Southern Regular Terminal was in front of them, and there, on stand three, was a bus to Chumpon. With no time to waste, they bought two tickets, and Carrie climbed aboard to get a seat while Mike chained their packs together and put them in the hold.
Would Mike sit beside her, she wondered. The bus was practically full, but there was one other double seat vacant. It would be better to sit separately, they might have two seats each, but then, if the bus filled up, they might have to sit beside total strangers.
She was calming down now, her breathing was becoming more regular, but she was still mad with Mike. She would find her own way from now on, she vowed. The way he was getting on you’d think she couldn’t do without him. She didn’t need him. She glanced up to see if he was heading her way. She still wanted him close.
Mike came on board and without a word swung himself into the seat beside her. Carrie pressed her cheek to the glass and watched as the last couple of bags and a few animals in cages were loaded. Within minutes the bus was on its way. Mike leaned his head back on the headrest, his eyes closed. He was still angry.
When she woke sometime in the middle of the night she found Mike’s head was on her shoulder, his right hand lying casually on her knee. Her neck was stiff, but she didn’t want to disturb him. Instead, she gently caressed the grimy hand, he sighed in his sleep. Whatever she said to herself, Carrie knew she couldn’t do without him.

“Shit, it’s half five!” Mike’s shout caused Carrie to start out of her sleep. She was no longer holding his hand. “We were meant to be in Chumpon at four, we’ve maybe missed it.”
Carrie rubbed her eyes, she didn’t really care, they’d end up somewhere, wouldn’t they. “Chumpon was the last stop, remember,” she reassured him. “We’re maybe just running late.”
Mike remained agitated, staring out the window until finally spotting a sign reading Chumpon 19km. They relaxed for the last half hour. It was after all much better to arrive in a place at 6am than 4am.
They found a hotel easily and slept for the morning. In the afternoon, Carrie decided to get her hair cut. It had been getting more and more unruly as the weeks had gone by, and now she was only happy with it if it was pulled back in a ponytail.
“I need layers in it, what do you think?” she asked Mike, preening herself in front of the small and rather speckled mirror in her room. They had discussed their row, apologised to each other, and had a good laugh about what the two of them screaming blue murder at each other in the centre of Bangkok must have looked like. They were friends again.
“Up to you,” he said non-commitally. “I wouldn’t cut it short though.”
“God no, I’ll never have short hair again, at least not until I’m 50 or something like that, when I get my blue rinse in.”
They found a little shed that purported to be a hairdresser’s, and Carrie settled herself in what appeared to be a barber’s chair. There were two hairdressers and no other customers, and both fussed over her for several minutes, lifting her hair up, dropping it down, tilting their heads this way and that. “I want some layers,” Carrie said, speaking loudly in the hope of being understood, lifting her hair up and indicating she wanted the thickness cut out of it. “But I don’t want it short.” The main hairdresser smiled at her, said something which made her companion laugh, and moved her across to a basin where her hair was washed in cold water and rather foul-smelling shampoo. They didn’t ask her if she wanted conditioner.
Then the cutting began. Carrie held her breath. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. There was hair falling everywhere, on the floor, into her teeshirt, onto her lap. Finally, the woman stopped cutting, and began blow drying. Carrie’s curls were soon flattened against her head, which looked half the size it had done when she came in. Once she got out, she would have to wet it, turn it upside down and shake it to see what shape it really was. But the ladies seemed pleased with their work. They stood behind her making admiring noises. Then, just as she was about to get out of the seat, one leaned forward and touched her breast. Carrie jumped back in the seat, slapping at the foreign hand, but only hitting herself instead. The woman made placating noises and then urged her friend to do the same thing. Carrie sat there, terrified. The ladies chatted for a few seconds, nodding their approval, then allowed Carrie to get up. She paid them the requested Baht, and a few more, and escaped as quickly as she could.

Outside Mike was sitting in the sun reading and English newspaper.
He glanced up, his face registering shock which he was quick to hide. “It’s different,” was his only comment.
“Forget the hair, those bloody women started to grope me up,” Carrie gasped. “They both had to have a feel of my boob.”
Mike was laughing. “They probably aren’t used to big boobs, most of the Thai women aren’t exactly well-endowed. They were probably just intrigued, take it as a compliment,” he said. “I’m sure it’s not often they have a gorgeous woman with fair skin and a beautiful body in the salon.”
Gorgeous. Beautiful. Mike started to walk away. “Come on, I’m getting hungry.” He had never used words like that to describe her before. “Pity they are such shit hairdressers,” he called back. Carrie shook her head. Nothing moved, she felt bald. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
They hit the beach next day, catching a minibus, actually an open van with two benches in the back, to and from Chumpon Cobana, a beautiful beach 14km from the town. The beach was deserted, but the sun didn’t begin to shine until mid-afternoon. Nevertheless they pranced about in their swimwear, exposing parts to the sun that had been concealed under clothing since London, with the exception of that one day in Hong Kong. Despite the dull sky, by the time they headed back to the hotel they were both completely frazzled.
After consulting other travellers and a few locals, they had decided to give the resort of Phuket a miss and head instead to Koh Tao, a smaller, less commercialised island. They were catching a bus at 10pm that night to get a boat to the island at midnight, and had time to kill, so they went to the cinema to see a Thai film. Everything, trailers included, were full of sex and violence, with the exception of the American, or was that British, film ‘High Spirits,’ dubbed of course, which promised no sex or violence, just good honest fun. Judging by the rest of what was on offer Carrie didn’t think it would be a sell-out in Thailand.
Just before 10pm they reached the tourist office, only to be told the boat to Koh Tao wasn’t running that night. Dejected, they trundled back to the hostel and had to pay 120 Baht for a room with two double beds and a smelly toilet.
They were woken early in the morning by the noise of hammering as the room across the passage in the hotel was for some reason being demolished! Then it was back to the Tourist Office to leave their bags for the day. Neither of them could face the beach again, their sunburn was too bad. Sitting dejectedly on the steps, one of the men from the Tourist Office took pity on them and offered them a free lift to a local sight, a cave beside a little monastery. There they found the rather badly preserved body of a famous, supposedly 85-year-old monk who had died in 1982. In front of his glass case was a gold statue of the monk, and a huge photo. Behind the building was a huge cave, full of ancient Buddhas, all from India, an image of a reclining Buddha and hundreds of stalactites, all lit by red, blue and green lights. The jeep ride to and from the monastery gave them the chance to see a little of the countryside, which was green, lush and not heavily farmed. All the palm trees were leaning heavily to one side. The Tourist Office man explained in broken English that a typhoon last year had done a lot of damage. What about the National Forest Park? they asked. Unfortunately, thanks to the typhoon, their guide explained, it was no longer there.
They were back in Chumpon by 1pm, only nine hours to wait, thought Carrie dejectedly. There was nothing left to do but eat and drink so they spent most of the afternoon drinking Mekong whisky in a bar where a group of singers were rehearsing for the evening session. They were joined by a local girl who kept calling for their drinks to be topped up. It took them a while to realised she worked at the bar. Nonetheless it was a pleasant way to while away a few hours.
Things changed very suddenly when a group of obviously drunk Thai men arrived. One was very bad, and in a fit of fury turned over their table, glasses and plates shattering all around. His mate began arguing with another guy who appeared to be trying to keep the peace. In a matter of seconds all hell broke loose. Chairs and tables went over heads, glasses smashed, fists were swinging every direction.
Terrified, Carrie got out of the bar as quickly as possible, followed by the girl. But Mike, empowered by the whisky, thought he could play the role of peacemaker and remained inside, trying to talk to the battling Thais. Carrie had to go back in and with the help of the waitress practically drag Mike outside. He rarely got drunk, she didn’t want him killed just because boredom had made them drink more than they should on a dull afternoon.
They remained outside as the situation indoors calmed, and eventually men began staggering out of the bar, several of them covered in blood. Worst injured was the drunk’s mate, but undeterred by the blood pouring down his face and shirt, he climbed onto a motorbike and sped off. The police arrived and the really pissed man who started the whole thing was led away and presumably arrested.
Stepping gingerly over the broken glass in a bid to retrieve her sunglasses, Carrie found their table had virtually been demolished, their drinks gone.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, taking Mike’s arm. But they only got a few yards when the waitress who had been chatting to them all afternoon came rushing up in a panic. “You pay, you pay,” was all she could say. The bill was for a full bottle of Mekong whisky, they had drunk less than half, and the waitress had a good share of it. Carrie refused to pay the full amount.
“Wait a minute, wait,” the girl rushed back inside and re-emerged with the rest of the bottle of whisky, the only glass thing that hadn’t been broken. They took the bottle, paid for it, and left, glad to be out of there unscathed.
There were still several hours to kill, so after food they headed back to the cinema for yet another Thai offering, this time all violence and no sex. Just before the film ended, Carrie saw a strange movement on the back of a seat about three rows in front. She squinted in the darkness, focusing on the moving black object. She gasped as it scuttled away, followed by another black blob. Rats! In the cinema! She couldn’t wait to get out.

At last it was time to catch the minibus to the boat, which turned out to be extremely small and totally overloaded with supplies, mattresses and people. Both bottom decks were packed with bodies, so Carrie and Mike and a South African couple had to get themselves comfortable on the roof. Still tiddly from the whisky, Carrie fumbled about in the dark trying to get her contact lenses out as the boat rocked below her, before endeavouring to find the toilet.
She was pointed to a door the end of the main deck. It looked like there was nothing behind it, only sea. Knocking nervously, she heard no reply and pulled the door open. On the other side were two planks and two handrails. Nervously, clutching tightly on the rails, she turned herself round so she could face the door, struggled to get her shorts and knickers down, and squatted gingerly over the sea far below. The boat was already moving, and other vessels were lit up behind. After completing her ablutions – needless to say there was no loo roll – she staggered over the dozens of lifeless bodies to a spot where she could safely haul herself up the six foot onto the roof. An hour later she needed to go to the toilet again. It was going to be one of those nights. Carrie cursed Mekong whisky and imagined the crew of the boats behind them laughing at the girl in the red sweatshirt with the large white backside who kept stepping out the back of the boat.

Chapter 21

It wasn’t a great night. The crossing was rough, and Carrie and Mike had to haul out their sleeping bags to keep warm under the starry sky. Around 7am, the ferry pulled into a beautiful palm fringed bay. In the distance they could see some bamboo huts but decided not to stay here as it was the man port. Seconds after they disembarked, a man in a tail boat turned up with photographs of some bungalows on the other side of Koh Tao, seven minutes by boat. “Only 40 Baht a night,” he assured them. The South Africans, Terry and Lynn, were also persuaded to come, and so the four of them climbed into the little boat for the short trip around the paradise island, stopping at a tiny bay, where the sea was clear and blue. Rocks and palm trees fringed a sandy beach, and there, amid the trees were little bamboo bungalows on stilts. There was a restaurant on the hill, and more huts beyond the rocks, but Mike and Carrie chose a hut by the beach.
Their accommodation was basic to say the least. The floor was made of bamboo strips with inch wide gaps, the walls were thin bamboo with lots of holes. There were two windows, closed by pulling across a piece of plywood. The floor was covered with a plastic mat, a mattress and two pillows, and a mosquito net hung from the roof.
It was paradise. Carrie couldn’t believe it. They spent the afternoon washing clothes in water they pulled from a well, watched a stunning sunset, swam in the warm sea, an ate Thai vegetable curry at the restaurant on the hill. Bliss.
There was not a lot of entertainment on Koh Tao, which made it so perfect. On the second day they walked across the island with Terry and Lynn to buy postcards and potatoes and vegetables which they cooked that night on an open fire on the beach. Mike and Terry’s efforts to catch some fish had proved fruitless. Carrie sat on the little balcony of her hut reading out of the sun. The burns she had got on Chumpon were still painful.
On the third day there were several new arrivals. Two American girls moved into the hut next door, and a cruiser moored out to sea, unleashing a group of well to do westerners who spent the day skinny dipping and barbecuing in the nude.
A number of other travellers staying in the bungalows seemed to take their cue from this, and for the entire afternoon the beach became a nudist colony. Sitting in their midst was an English lad they had already nicknamed Adrian the Alien. They had chatted to him the previous evening and he seemed to be continually stoned. Beer was expensive on the island, but marijuana was cheap and easily available. They even sold it in the restaurant. Adrian looked and sounded like your stereotypical hippy, living in a time warp on this tiny island. For the past two days he had been wearing swimming trunks, today he was completely naked.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to drop. Carrie heard a high-pitched laugh and looked up to see Mike bent over talking to the two girls who had moved in next door. He had just come out of the sea and his muscular body was glistening in the sun. His hair was wet, and he shook his head as if to get water out of his ears. She felt a little glow inside her. He was so handsome. They had had to share a double mattress these past two nights, each sleeping under their own net curtains, Carrie wearing only a teeshirt and knickers, Mike dressed just in boxers.
So often she had longed to reach out to him, to hold him, and have him hold her. She wanted his hands to caress her, his lips to touch hers, yet she could say or do nothing. He may have called her gorgeous a few days ago, but he had never shown any interest in her in any other sense. She’d never known a man to be so faithful, but then he had Dee to go back to.
Mind you, he was now sitting down with those two girls. She felt a pang of jealousy. Both girls were slim and suntanned, one had long blond hair and the other a tidy blond bob. And they were topless.
Carrie wanted to go over and join in, but she felt excluded. She sighed and tried to concentrate on her book. It was impossible.
Half an hour later, as the sun began to set, Mike and the Americans approached. She had to put her hand up to shield her eyes from the orange glare of the setting sun. Both girls were still topless, the bobbed girl had large boobs, while the tall one with the long hair had what she supposed would be described as small pert breasts.
She swallowed. “Hi,” she hoped her voice sounded normal.
“Carrie, this is Chloe and Christie, they’re from New York,” Mike introduced. Carrie leaned forward and shook their hands. She wished they would cover themselves up.
“Nice to meet you. I heard you arriving this morning, so I figured you were Americans.”
“Gee, sorry, I hope we didn’t disturb you too much. That overnight boat’s a bugger,” said Chloe with the long hair.
“And there’s not much soundproofing in these huts,” added Christie, flashing a white smile in Carrie’s direction.
“I said we’d all eat together tonight, Terry and Lyn might come to,” Mike said. “So I’m off to have a wash. See you two later.” Carrie was sure he winked at Chloe before disappearing into the hut for his towel. Maybe it was just her imagination.
“Yeah, we’d best go and get changed. Come on Christie. See you later Carrie. About eight, yeah?”
Surely Chloe didn’t fancy Mike, Carrie thought, as she stood in the stone bathroom pouring water from the large trough known as a mandi over her head. She must realise we’re together. She doesn’t know we are just friends.
Did Mike fancy Chloe? Why not. She was a good-looking girl. But so far he hadn’t looked at another woman on this trip. He wouldn’t be unfaithful to Dee, would he?
Carrie found it hard to relax as they six of them ate at the restaurant. Mike and Chloe were definitely flirting with each other, and Mike made it clear that he and Carrie were just mates who had teamed up for the trip. Depressed, she drank too much beer, and puffed on a joint, despite swearing she would never touch the stuff again after her experience in India.
Terry and Lynn disappeared for an early night, and Carrie found herself left to chat with Christie. Mike and Chloe, at the other side of the table were sitting so close they were practically on each other’s knees. Carrie continued to throw the drink into her, and Christie managed to keep up. She was a nice girl Christie, Carrie thought, easy to talk to, funny, affectionate, pity about her bitch friend.
It was nearly midnight before they left the bar. Any attempt Mike may have made earlier to hide his attraction to Chloe had been forgotten. His arm was around her shoulders and her’s was around his waist as they all staggered back down to the beach.
“Carrie, I’ll see you shortly,” he called after her. “I’m just going to walk Chloe home, make sure she doesn’t get lost.” He, Chloe and Christie burst into a fit of giggles.
“Guess I’d best come keep you company then,” Christie said, linking her arm through Carrie’s. “You don’t mind if I hang out in your hut for a while, I think three would be a bit crowded in ours.”
“No,” Carrie muttered, “Feel free, but I’m getting ready for bed.” She pulled off her shorts, bra and vest top, slipped into the loose teeshirt she slept in, and lay down on her side of the mattress. Beside her Christie took off her shorts revealing a skimpy white thong. “What about a drink?” Christie urged. “It’s not late yet. There’s half a bottle of Mekong here, let’s have a swig of that.”
“That came from Chumpon,” Carrie livened up a bit. “There’s a bit of a story behind that bottle.” She had Christie in stitches as she told her about the rumpus in the bar, and the waitress chasing after them to ensure they paid. Then she started to tell her about Alexandra and the other odd bods she’d interviewed in her bid to find a travelling partner.
The two of them laughed and laughed. Then they fell silent. From the bamboo hut next door came the unmistakeable noise of two people making love. Tears came to Carrie’s eyes. Christie started to chatter brightly as if to drown out the noise. Then she stopped.
“You really love him, don’t you?” she asked.
Carrie lay on her back, nodding and trying to bite back the tears.
“Why don’t you tell him.”
“He’s got a girlfriend, Dee, she’s really beautiful, he’s not interested in me. Like he says, I’m just his mate.”
Christie was lying on her side, leaning on one arm, looking into Carrie’s face. “You’re beautiful too,” she said, her voice a little husky. “You have lovely skin and a gorgeous smile. I look at you and I want to kiss you.”
Carrie knew she should have been shocked, but she wasn’t. Instead, she felt a frisson of excitement shoot up her spine. She opened her eyes and looked up at Christie. The pillow was comfortable under her head. The alcohol made her feel warm, sexy. Christie leaned over her, her bosom, heavy under the thin material of her teeshirt, rubbing against Carrie’s bare arm. Her mouth came down on Carrie’s, soft, and small, unlike any mouth Carrie had ever kissed before. Carrie did not kiss her back, but nor did she resist, and when Christie’s tongue probed between her lips, she opened her mouth to let it in. Gently Christie released her and sat up and looked lustily into Carrie’s eyes. With a hand she wiped away a tear that had left a small pool in a hollow under Carrie’s eye.
Then she pulled her top off, her large breasts tumbling forward. Carrie caught her breath, her loins were stirring. She knew she should not be doing this. She closed her eyes and lay motionless as Christie’s mouth came down on her’s again, harder, more demanding. Unable to help herself, Carrie began kissing Christie back, shivering as the other girl’s small, soft hand crept into the hollow of her neck, then moved down, over one breast, then the other. Carrie groaned, and Christie’s two hands tugged at her teeshirt. Carrie sat up and in one movement it was off. She could see the desire in Christie’s eyes, and she knew the same desire was reflected in her’s. Christie gently laid her back down. It was quiet in the hut, all Carrie could hear was the hum of the crickets outside and the gentle moaning of the man she loved having sex with another woman only a few yards away. She closed her eyes and imagined Mike was making love to her, it was his hand running over her breasts, creeping down into her pants, tonguing her nipples to a point of ecstasy. She reached out, her arms rounding Christie’s shoulders, then sliding down and cupping Christie’s beautiful bosoms, with their dark erect nipples. For a moment she allowed herself to caress Christie’s golden skin, revelling in the quickening of the other woman’s breathing, marvelling at the softness of those breasts and the tautness of those nipples.
But as Christie’s fingers began to probe between her legs, she was overwhelmed with a sense of guilt, then horror at what was happening. She couldn’t do this. Her stomach heaved and she felt a wave of nausea.
“I can’t, I’m sorry, but I can’t!” Carrie grabbed her discarded teeshirt and leapt up. Christie was lying back looking at her with an amused expression. “Of course you can baby, you were loving it, and so was I. You’re beautiful baby, don’t run out on me now.”
Carrie pulled on the teeshirt. “I’m not a lesbian,” she practically shouted, pulling open the hut door and running outside onto the balcony.

Carrie needed to get away. It was a warm and balmy night. She didn’t need shoes or a jumper. It was past 2am. The huts were quiet, all the travellers asleep.
Fuck it, fuck it, she swore to herself softly, making her way down to the water’s edge. What had she been doing? Perhaps she could have blamed the dope or the alcohol, but she had enjoyed it. That’s what made her feel most guilty.
The moon cast a long silvery shadow across the velvet black sea. Carrie felt dirty, almost violated. She stripped off her teeshirt and knickers and walked into the water, gasping at its coolness on her skin, but not stopping until it was above her bare breasts. She dived under and swam a few strokes, before stopping and balancing on the sandy seafloor. It was cool, she wrapped her arms around her under the water. She closed her eyes and remembered the touch of Christie’s hand on her skin, the taste of her soft lips. Almost unconsciously, one arm slipped down her stomach and between her legs. Her other hand caressed her nipples, stiff with the cold. Despite the coolness of the sea, she was hot and sticky, throbbing for sex. Carrie shut her eyes, hearing only the sound of the lapping waves and her own breathing as she rubbed herself to a wonderful orgasm, unleashing the passion that Christie had made rise in her.
Satiated she swam a few more strokes, and did some tumbles, her distress beginning to ease. By the time she emerged from the water she felt almost normal. She sat quietly, allowing the gentle breeze to dry her skin, before pulling on her pants and teeshirt by the rocks at the edge of the sea.

“Nice night for a dip.”
Carrie almost jumped out of her skin. She thought she was alone on the beach. She squinted in the direction of the voice. There, sitting on a rock just a yards away, was Adrian the Alien. How much had he seen? Had he heard her groans in the sea? Should she run away?
He was dragging on a spliff. “Fancy some?” He held the cigarette out.
What the hell. She scrambled up onto the rock beside him, accepted the joint, and took a long drag. She passed it back to Adrian and shut her eyes. That felt good.
“So what’s up?” Adrian wasn’t looking at her, he was staring out to sea where the moon continued to cast its silver shadow.
Carrie wasn’t going to tell him what had gone on with Christie, but he had probably seen Mike and Chloe in the bar earlier. “Mike was next door shagging that American girl. All that grunting and groaning kept me awake. I thought I’d get some air and, well, the sea looked very inviting.”
“Yeah, it’s great at night.” Adrian continued to gaze unblinking out to sea. “So he was only making out with one of those two, was he. I got the impression they came as a package, two for the price of one.”
“No. Christie was with me.”
“You’re lucky she didn’t try to jump you. I was with them on the beach for a while and they were telling me they’re open-minded lovers, but they like a bit of the other now and then.”
“You think they’re lesbians.”
“AC DC I’d say. Probably not the real thing though, it’s trendy to be a bit sexually different. In a few years they’ll be married to respectable husbands and have the usual 2.2 kids,” said Adrian, taking another drag on the joint.
Carrie looked at him in the moonlight. He was thin and tanned and during the day wore a skimpy pair of trunks. The only other clothes she had ever seen him in were the faded blue shirt and khaki shorts he was wearing now. He sat on a blanket. She wondered how long he had lived on the island, the staff here all knew him well, so he must just be a drop out. God only knows how he pays for his room and food, she thought. He’s probably into free love. It’s a pity he hadn’t picked up with Chloe and Christie. That would have saved her all this anguish.
“So you and Mike aren’t together in the biblical sense then?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“We’re just travelling companions. I was meant to be coming away with another girl, but she let me down, and Mike took her place at the last minute. We’ve got on really well.”
“But no romance?”
“Mike’s got a girlfriend. She even met up with him in Hong Kong. He really loves her. I don’t know what he’s doing messing about with that Chloe.”
“It’s hard to resist temptation sometimes, although I’m surprised Chloe was the temptress.” Carrie found him looking into her eyes. “He’ll come to his senses, don’t worry, it’ll just be a fling. I get tempted to sometimes, but my wife would kill me if she thought I even so much as looked at another girl, so I just control myself until I go home.”
“You’ve got a wife?” Carrie didn’t conceal her surprise.
“Yes, and two gorgeous children back in London. Don’t look so surprised.” He was smiling at her. “Jill and I met in Thailand 10 years ago. I was bumming around doing the hippy thing and putting off starting work as long as possible, and she was on a two-week break with a couple of friends. We met in a bar in Koh Samui and I fell in love right away.
“I followed her home, got a job in the city, and now work 60-hour weeks on the Stock Exchange. We got married eight years ago, and every summer made a point of taking four weeks off to travel together, but when the kids arrived, it wasn’t so easy. We went on a couple of package tours to Majorca, but I hated it. So we came to an agreement. I can go where I want for a month every year, we have a family holiday at Easter, and Jill is happy to be at home with the kids.”
“She’s very trusting, I can’t image any woman letting her husband wonder round a Thai beach surrounded by half naked women for four weeks every year.”
“She does trust me. I have to trust her too remember. There’s plenty of blokes fancy Jill. But she knows where I am, I’ve been coming her for the past three years. It’s a real escape from work, I just sit, get stoned, drink, talk to whoever happens to be around. You know, chill out. I suppose I am being a bit of a hippy, for a month every year anyway. Pity I never get time to grow my dreadlocks again. Here,” he pulled the blanket out from underneath him. “Sunggle up under here, you look a bit cold.”
Carrie moved closer to him, and he wrapped the blanket around them both. He wasn’t an alien after all, he was a lovely, decent hard-working fella. Not bad looking too, if the truth be told, but definitely off-limits. She leaned against him and closed her eyes, drinking in the calmness of the night, the sound of the crickets, the lapping of the waves.”

She was wakened by someone shaking her gently. At first she was confused. Her neck was stiff, her bottom numb and she wasn’t in bed. It was still dark. “Someone’s out looking for you,” a voice murmured.
“Oh God, Adrian, sorry, I must have fallen asleep,” she apologised, but didn’t move away from the warmth of the blanket they shared.
“No worries,” he said in a soft voice. “Over here,” he called out loud. Carrie heard someone swear as they struggled over the rocks in the darkness. As he approached, she could make out Mike’s face in the moonlight. It looked angry.
“There you are, I was worried sick.” He looked from her to Adrian, “But I see you’re perfectly okay.”
Adrian’s arm remained round her shoulder. “Me and Carrie have just been getting to know each other a little better,” he drawled. “Seein’ as you were occupied elsewhere.”
Mike ran his hands through his tousled hair. “I thought you’d been abducted or something. Christie came in in a flurry a half hour ago. She said she’d fallen asleep after you went back to our hut and when she woke, you’d gone.”
Carrie sighed. “So you left your love nest to come looking for me, that’s big of you Mike, but I can look after myself.”
“It wasn’t a love nest,” Mike spat back.
“It sounded like you were making a pretty good job of feathering it earlier on,” said Adrian. “Maybe you weren’t up to handling two little birdies though.”
“What’s it to you what I do? I’m going back to the hut Carrie, it’s up to you what you do.” Mike stormed off into the darkness.
Carrie was silent.
“Well, well, well, if that’s not a jealous husband I don’t know what is,” said Adrian. “He didn’t like seeing you and me cuddled up here together one wee bit. Seems like it’s okay for him to have a shag, but not you.”
“I didn’t shag anyone!” Carrie was defensive. How much had she said to him about Christie.
“I know that, and you know that, but Mike there doesn’t. And if I were you, I’d let him think what he likes. A bit of the old green-eyed monster can do wonders for a relationship.”
“We’re not in a relationship,” Carrie said huffily.
“Not now, maybe, but stick together and you never know what might happen, just as long as he keeps his python in his pants. Now, little Carrie, I’m off to get some sleep. There’s plenty more dope needs a puffin’ tomorrow.” He got to his feet and helped Carrie up. Together they walked back to the huts. As they drew near, he caught her hand, pulling her to a halt.
“Things will seem a bit shit tomorrow,” he said, “but in a day or two you’ll both have forgotten last night, and it’ll be all okay, so don’t dwell on it too much.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead before disappearing off to his hut behind the rocks.

Adrian was right. She did feel shit the next day. She had a pain in the pit of her stomach as the memory of Mike with Chloe, and what had happened with Christie kept returning. And her head ached from too much alcohol. Her throat hurt from smoking. Never again, she swore. Mike had left the hut early for a swim. She kept her eyes closed as he dressed to go to the restaurant for breakfast.
“Are you not coming?” he asked, his voice was gently.
“Just bring me some bread and water, will you. I’ve got a pretty bad headache,”
“Yeah, I feel pretty shit myself, though the swim helped. I’ll see you later.” He opened the door but hesitated before going out. “Sorry about shouting at you earlier. It was a bit of a weird night. Too much drink.” With that he closed the door and disappeared.
Carrie remained in the hut all day, dozing and reading, her head sore and her heart hurting. Mike walked across to the port with Christie and Chloe, they had lunch there and didn’t come back until early evening. Mike tip-toed into the hut to change before dinner, Carrie pretended to be asleep, she didn’t want to see either girl again.
Fortunately, as darkness fell and the air cooled, Carrie fell into a deep sleep, disturbed only when Mike came in, stumbling over the packs in the dark. “What time is it?” she muttered.
“Half twelve.” He sounded sober. Had he been to bed with Chloe? Maybe Christie too, if what Adrian said was true. Mike lay down beside her and she turned away from him. She didn’t care, she was too tired.

At eight the next morning, Carrie was in the sea swimming with strong strokes, enjoying the caress of the early morning sun on her face. Mike was still sleeping. Hungry, for she had eaten practically nothing the previous day, she wrapped her sarong around her wet swimsuit and headed up to the restaurant.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes, eat your heart out Ursula Andrews,” drawled Adrian, sitting along at a table tucking into an omelette which Carrie imagined was laced with marijuana. She ordered fried egg and toast and joined him. “You’ll not be swimming later on, there’s a storm brewing, and when it rains here it really rains.”
Carrie didn’t believe him, the sky the clear, the air calm.
“Too calm,” commented Adrian, “wait and you’ll see. Oh, here comes lover boy.”
“Morning Carrie, Adrian,” Mike sat down with them.
“And where are your two lovely ladies?” enquired Adrian.
Mike shot him a dirty look. “If you mean Chloe and Christie, they’re busy packing to cross the island. They’re catching the boat out tomorrow morning, and apparently there’s going to be a storm today, so they’re heading to the port early.”
“See, I told you,” Adrian said to Carrie. He meant about the storm, but Mike looked confused. Neither of them enlightened him.

It was a spectacular storm. The wind was like a typhoon, the rain lashed down. All round the beach palm trees were bent practically to the ground, and Carrie wondered that the hut in which they were sheltering didn’t blow away. It was fantastic. She grabbed her waterproof and headed out. “Get a photo of this,” Mike she yelled across the wind, balancing precariously on a rock, her hair already saturated, her eyes blinking back the sand that was swirling in the air.
Mike captured the scene, marvelling at the blackness of the stormy sea just metres from their front door.
The storm ended as quickly as it had begun. Their perfect beach was now strewn with palm leaves, the huts were still standing, and miraculously the rain had only come through the walls, not the roof.
Carrie was sitting on the balcony when Lynn came over, picking her way carefully across the debris.
“Awful, isn’t it,” she called. “We’re going to head to the port, although we’ll still catch the boat with you the day after tomorrow. It’s much more fun wandering around the shops in town that trying to salvage our clothes in a leaky hut. I like the beach in the hot sunny extreme, not the wet, windy extreme, don’t you.” Carrie smiled. Lynn was just such a big girl’s blouse.
That night they sat quietly reading on the balcony. Adrian joined them for a while, but was so stoned he didn’t know what day it was, and his speech came out in a real slow drawl. It was hard to believe that in a couple of weeks this same man would be fast talking his way to some deal on the Stock Exchange, or singing his little girl to sleep. She smiled at the thought. You couldn’t not like Adrian.
“It’s good to be free,” he observed, before wandering off into the night.

If the boat trip to Koh Tao had been memorable, the trip back was even more so. The ferry was slightly larger than the one that had brought them to the island, and again Mike and Carrie headed to the roof. About half an hour into the trip the sea grew rough, and the captain shouted up that it was a bit windy en route, and maybe those on the roof should come down. But Carrie was feeling seasick, and the cabin would have been too claustrophobic. She sat holding onto the guard rail which was only about a metre high, enjoying the wind in her face and the sun warming her body. But two hours later, the sea had really roughed up. The sun was still shining, but the boat was being tossed all over the place. By this stage Carrie and Mike, and the three others on the room, were lying flat on their backs for fear of being blown overboard.
“You must come down,” the captain’s voice boomed up at them. An Australian traveller was first to swing his leg over the guard rail and lower himself to the deck. Mike volunteered to go next, and Carrie held her breath as he struggled to keep his balance when he stood up. The boat lurched as Mike lowered himself down the cabin walls, and Carrie cried out, thinking he was about to be flung into the sea. His face, looking back up at her, was pale as he reached the deck, where a crewman pushed him into the cabin.
“I’m not going over there, no way,” said a small dark-haired girl who looked Chinese but spoke with an American accent. “I’m staying right here. At least if we go down, we’ll not be trapped inside.” Her boyfriend remained on the roof too, holding the girl’s hand and from the snatches of conversation Carrie overheard, reassuring her that there were no sharks in the sea around her. The captain seemed to have given up on them. Carrie remained lying down, one hand clutching the guard rail to her right. But every time the boat lurched one direction, her head bashed against the rail. Afraid to move too much, she detached Mike’s straw hat from his pack and put it on her head. Now every time she slid headfirst into the rail, she had some padding. She soon forgot about the other couple on the roof, staring straight into the sky, hearing only the roar of the sea and the wind. I could be alone in the whole wide world, Carrie thought to herself gasping in the gale, exhilarated beyond belief.

It was with wobbly legs they disembarked in Chumpon at 4pm that day. They were due in Singapore in less than a week to catch their flight to Indonesia, so they really needed to get moving, but the bus to Hat Yai didn’t leave until 10.30pm, so Mike reluctantly agreed with Carrie that they should spend another night in Chumpon. Exhausted from the boat trip, they were in bed by nine, and at the bus station next morning to catch a bus to Hat Yai. The driver was another speed merchant, but they reached Hat Yai by four and caught a bus to Songkhla, a vibrant town full of shops, stalls and people. Not much choice in the few restaurants for a vegetarian though, thought Carrie as she tucked into her usual fare of fried rice and vegetables.
They spent the next day exploring the town and beach, drinking from a coconut shell in a little café on the edge of the sand, and wandering round the fish market. That night, eating at a seafood stall, they were horrified to find they were surrounded by huge rats, scrambling in an out of the open drains. It quite put Carrie off her food.

“What’s that?”
“What?” Mike’s voice suggested he was still asleep.
“That sort of scurrying noise.” They both listened.
“Water,” said Mike, “running outside somewhere.”
Carrie wasn’t convinced.
“It’s in the room,” Mike said eventually. Carrie screamed.
“Rats, there’s rats in this room. “She pulled her knees in under the chin protectively. “Do something Mike!”
She squeezed her eyes firmly shut as Mike flicked on the light, imaging rats running everywhere, under the beds, in their packs, across the dresser. Then she heard him laugh. “It’s just a little mouse,” he said. “A tiny mouse, trying to eat this old sweet wrapper.”
“Just one mouse?”
“I don’t see any others. Anyway, he’s gone now, down this hole. Don’t be such a coward. Open your eyes.”
Carrie tentatively opened her eyes. There was nothing to see. Mike was busy scrunching up a page of the Bangkok Post. “I’ll stuff this into these two holes, then the wee blighter won’t be able to get back in, okay.” Carrie hoped so, but for the rest of the night her restless sleep was dogged by images of rats with heads the size of humans leaping on top of her.

Carrie couldn’t wait to get away from Songkhla and its rats, so next day they got a shared taxi bus to Hat Yai and spent the day putting in time. The bus to Kuala Lumpar in Malaysia didn’t leave until the next day. That night, tempers frayed as they spent an hour and a half wandering round all the restaurants and cafes in Hat Yai trying to find somewhere that served food that did not contain meat. In the end they stopped at a stall where Carrie was able to have a greasy omelette and Mike ended up with a bowl on horrible beef stew.
They were silent walking back to the hotel, and Carrie felt guilty. There was loads of choice for anyone who ate meat or fish, and Mike had been hungry long before they eventually did stop. She knew he was suffering because she insisted on being a vegetarian. Stupid bloody country, she cursed to herself. You’d think someone would know how to cook vegetables in some way other than frying them.

Chapter 22

“This is some way to see Malaysia,” Carrie commented, looking out the endless rows of rubber trees. “Did you see lots of signs are in English? It’s weird after all that Thai script.” She settled back into the reclining seat. Above them the air conditioning whirred away. “This is a great bus, isn’t it,” she said, not for the first time. “These seats are really comfy. Five pounds to travel for 24 hours, it’s a real bargain.”

 “You’re in a better mood,” Mike commented.

 “It’s this country, I mean, look at what I had to eat at the café when we stopped for lunch. Three! Three different vegetable dishes, and that rice was cooked to perfection. It’s a good job we’re only in Malaysia for less than 24 hours, otherwise I’d eat too much and put on all that weight I’ve lost.”

 “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on a pound or two,” commented Mike.

 “You must be joking, I don’t want to turn into that roley poley I was before I left London, no way,” said Carrie, subconsciously admiring her tanned, definitely slim legs.

 “I liked the roley poley Carrie,” he said.

 “Well I didn’t,” she scowled. Why did he have to be so contrary. “Adrian liked me this way,” she jibed.

 “Adrian was so stoned he didn’t know what he was doing half the time.”

 “Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing,” Carrie was enjoying winding Mike up, but he wasn’t biting.

 “See those houses,” he pointed out the window. They were entering a small town. “They look good and solid, a bit like estates at home. The roads are clean too, there must be more money in Malaysia than Thailand.”

 It began to grow dark, and for some obscure reason the driver didn’t turn on the lights. Before long, a TV screen at the front of the bus burst into life, and they were subjected to a loud Thai, or perhaps it was Malaysian film. Carrie was relieved when it finished. She pulled on her fleece, the air conditioning kept the bus cool, reclined her seat as far as it would go, and slept.

 When she woke they were in Singapore, already bustling in the early morning. The traffic was heavy, but well behaved. Cars and buses stopped for people at pedestrian crossings, she could hardly believe it. The architecture was a mix of modern tower blocks and quaint old buildings, and, according to the guidebook, Singapore was the food capital of South East Asia. She was excited. Pity they could only stay for two days.

 They found a lovely room in a hotel which the owner said had just reopened after being renovated following a fire. It was clean and fresh – there was still plastic covering the pillow – and Mike gave Carrie a laugh when the ‘never been used before’ towel turned his skin green after the shower.

 Their first port of call that afternoon was the Poste Restante. Carrie felt sick with nerves as they queued to ask for their mail. Would her mum have written? Would anyone else have written? What if she had no letters?

 Relief, she had no less than seven letters, two as well as a postcard from her mum, one from her dad, a letter from Annette, one from her Aunty Helen, and one from Darryl, a New Zealander she had been friendly with at college. She had written telling him she would be in New Zealand, and she hoped to meet up with him.

 Mike had his usual good supply of mail. Two, she noticed, were in Dee’s handwriting. As they were at the post office, they phoned home to say thanks for the letters. Wendy and Alan were delighted to hear from her. “Everything is great here, we just miss you, but it’s so wonderful to hear your voice again. Dad’s back’s still playing up a bit, but he gone to see the chiropractor, Mr Lewis, and it seems to be working wonders,” Wendy was trying to fit as much in as possible. “Aunty Lorrie wrote to say you have to come and stop with her in Adelaide, you won’t be forgiven if you don’t, oh, and the big news is, Susan’s pregnant!”

 “Mum, that’s fantastic!” Carrie shouted back down the line. The bleeps were going, her four minutes were almost up. “Trust you to save the best to last, give them loads of hugs and kisses from me, and mum…” Mike was gesticulating madly outside the booth. “Ring Mrs Somers please.”

 “Of course I will. Dad sends his……” The line went dead. Carrie wiped tears from her eyes. It was so lovely talking to them, she wished the conversations didn’t have to be so short. Susan pregnant! Now that was a turn-up for the books. She had been so sure they would wait a while. She was going to be an aunty. She blew her nose loudly and headed out to tell Mike the news.

 They read their mail over a snack and a couple of drinks in a hawker’s pad on Raffles Quay and slowly made their way back to the hotel via little bars and cafes, chatting all the time about the news from home, their differences pushed aside by the joy of hearing from their loved ones.

 “We have to do some shopping,” Carrie said over breakfast next morning.

 “Why? We don’t need anything,” said Mike.

 “Yes we do. What do we keep saying we miss when we’re stuck in a hotel room?”

 “Match of the Day, a decent cup of coffee, a cool breeze, a pint of Guinness, Walkers Crisps, the London Underground, though I never thought I’d say it, and…. Blimey, I can’t think of anything else.”

 “Music, news. We’re always saying how good it would be to have a tape player or a radio. Let’s go and buy one. We’ll get it cheaper here than anywhere else.”

 Mike was reluctant. He knew he’d be the one to have to put it in his pack, but Carrie insisted they spend their second day scouring the shops and in the end they used a credit card to buy a portable stereo.

 That night they sat in their room snacking on French bread, cheese and real French wine, listening to the radio, before heading to a vegetarian Indian restaurant where they had a fantastic, dirt cheap Thali.

 On the way back to the hotel, they called into the Midnight Lounge for a nightcap. Not that they stayed long. The place was very dark, full of women, and a beer cost $26 instead of the usual $5.

 Before long a man approached them. “You would like lady to talk to,” he said to Mike, apparently oblivious of Carrie. “Nice lady talk to you, just $21.”

 “No thanks,” Mike declined as politely as he could. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered to Carrie. “I don’t like the way these people are looking at us.” They gulped their drinks and left quietly, conscious the stoney stares of the women and the few men in the bar followed them out the door.

 “Bugger, bugger, we’ve done it again,” moaned Carrie, as they practically ran to the departure gate for their Garuda Airlines flight to Java. The bottle of Bacardi she’d bought for £4 felt heavier with each step.  “We shouldn’t have stopped for something to eat, but that stall did have delicious curries.”

 “We’ll be okay, just keep moving,” said Mike.

 In the end they were okay, and a bumpy hour and a half after boarding the plane they were in Jakarta Airport where they changed their money.

 “I hope you’re good as maths Carrie,” said Mike. “This is ridiculous. What did the guy say the exchange rate was?”

 “Three thousand three hundred rupiah to the pound. That means 1,000rp is around 30p. I feel quite rich with this bundle in my hand.”

 “It won’t be there too long. According to this sign it’s 3,000rps each on the bus.”

 “Oh no, a whole pound!” gasped Carrie in mock disbelief. “You’ll soon get used to it Mike, you’ve got used to all the other currencies.”

 “True, but you’d need a calculator for this.”

 The bus to Jakarta’s main train station took them through heavy traffic, but that was nothing new. “This place doesn’t look so bad,” Mike commented, as they drove into the station. “Maybe we should’ve stopped here.”

 “No, we said we’d go to Yogyakarta tonight, so we may as well get there. We haven’t really much time on Java, may as well go to the interesting bit.”

 They were on the train at 7.30pm, and after much stopping and starting in the early stages of the journey, were soon chugging off into the Indonesian night.

 They watched the golden sunrise over a green and fertile countryside, a patchwork of palm trees, paddy fields, and tropical shrubs, and reached Yogyakarta, commonly called Yogya, at 7.30am. They had the usual bit of trekking round before finding accommodation in a losman and after a few hours’ sleep hired a couple of bicycles and headed in the direction of Prambanan, the biggest Hindu temple complex in Java.

 China already seemed a long time ago, and getting back on a bike was not as easy as it should have been. By the time they reached Prambanan, 17kms outside Yogya, Carrie’s backside was more than a little tender.

 “It so reminds me of India,” she said as they wandered amid the mass of stones which once made up 224 temples. “This,” they were standing in front of Shiva’s Temple “has been beautifully restored, the statues are fantastic, especially Ganesh.” She cautiously reached out to touch the stone monument to Shiva’s elephant headed son. “Eerie, really. God, I can just picture Anand, remember how he was in the mountains. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see him again.”

 It was growing dark as they headed back down the road to Yogya, but the road was gentle, and despite their sore bottoms they were back to the hotel in time for dinner.

 “I know we want to stay off the beaten track, but where there’s westerners there’s always vegetarian food,” Carrie said contentedly sipping on a cold beer after finishing her rice and vegetables. She was tired from the cycle and from the overnight journey, but she was relaxed and very happy. Her thoughts turned to home. She could hardly believe Jonathan and Susan were going to have a baby, sure they hadn’t even been married a year. She checked her watch – it was September 6^th. They were due home at the end of May, and unless Susan was only a week or two pregnant, which was unlikely, the baby would arrive before she got home. Oh well, she’d see it soon enough after. I can’t believe Susan is going to have been pregnant and have given birth by the time I’m back, she thought. While she’s struggling with back ache and haemorrhoids and going through all the agonies of childbirth, I’ll still be on holiday, enjoying myself. We’re only a quarter of our way through this trip. Nine more months is wonderful, bet it seems longer for Susan though.

 Carrie’s thoughts turned to Mike, who was chatting with a local youth, anxious, as so many of them were, to practise his English. Mike had endless patience with these enthusiastic language students, whereas Carrie tried to ignore them. Part of her couldn’t be bothered, and another part was nervous. It was always men who came up to them. Maybe they were trying to chat her up. She had heard plenty of stories about Indonesian men picking up Western holidaymakers. In fact, a lot of them seemed to be walking about with fair skinned girls on their arms, mostly blondes admittedly. Carrie was not attracted to the Indonesian men. Most were small with thick dark hair which they wore long. And they kept their fingernails long, longer than a woman’s, it was so unmanly.

 She found herself looking at Mike’s hand as it fidgeted with a pen on the table. The nails were short, a bit grubby admittedly, but the fingers were long and slender, the back of the hand suntanned with some dark hairs growing towards his slim wrists, where some beads on a leather straps showed signs of fading with wear, sun and washing. Mike has lovely hands, she thought, but then Mike has lovely everything.  How would they get through the next nine months? If anyone had asked her, she would have described their relationship as a love/hate one. In fact, those are the words she’d used in her last letter to Annette. Of course she hadn’t actually said she loved him like a woman loves a man, she wasn’t so stupid as to tell anyone that, but she had said she loved him like a brother, and by the same token hated him like a sibling who every now and then drives you mad. He did have some habits that weren’t too endearing, she had to admit. He never remembered to put the seat down on the toilet after he had used it, although that was only a problem when the toilet had a seat, which wasn’t really that often. And she didn’t think he cut his toenails often enough. And she wished he didn’t wear that silly little Indian symbol around his neck, it looked real poofy. Of course Chloe had thought it was wonderful. She wondered where Chloe was now. As far as she was aware, the two girls planned to spend a month in Thailand. Hopefully they’re well behind us now. Carrie didn’t want to see them again, ever.

 “I don’t believe we’re doing this, I really don’t,” Carrie slid into her sleeping bag. It was cooler up here in the mountains. “Three hours sleep. I’ll never sleep knowing I have to get up again in three hours. It’ll only be midnight. Loads of people probably won’t have even gone to bed and we’re getting up to climb a bloody volcano! A bloody active volcano at that! I can’t believe it.”

 “Would you shut it,” Mike sounded impatient. “I told you if you didn’t want to go just stay here. Sleep all night long and I’ll see you at dinner time tomorrow. Don’t feel you have to come.”

 “I want to come. I’ve climbed the Himalayas, I can climb a wee Indonesian volcano, even the middle of the night.”

 “Not so wee,” Mike reminded her, “nearly 3,000m high, and bubbling inside.”

 “As long as it doesn’t erupt while we’re up there.” She was silent for a moment. “It was smoking quite a bit today. Do you think it might…?”

 “Shut up and go to sleep!” Mike buried his head under his bag.

 “Okay, okay.” Carrie turned away and wondered what on earth had driven her to this.

 They had no intention of climbing Mount Merapi when they arrived in Kaliurang earlier this morning. The 26km journey into the hills had taken more than an hour on the public bus, all they wanted to do was enjoy the scenery and the cooler air for a couple of days. Then they met Ben and Ronnie who were sitting chatting animatedly at a table in the Vogels hostel and restaurant. They seemed to be pouring over maps similar to those on display on the wall of the restaurant. Mike got up to take a look and called Carrie over.

 “Awesome,” he commented, pointing to a photo taken from a great height and showing the green farmland of Java spread out below. Another picture showed the crater of a smoking volcano, while others showed views of a rugged mountainside, taken high above the clouds.

 “Merapi,” said a heavily accented voice behind them. Carrie and Mike both started, they had been lost in the beautiful photographs. “The photographs do not do it justice. You have to go and see for yourself.”

 “Not likely,” laughed Carrie. “My mountaineering days are over. Have you climbed it?”

 “Oh yes, many times, and every time it is more beautiful than the last.” The man, who was probably in his 40s, with short, slightly greying hair and the look of an athlete, held out his hands. “Christian,” he introduced himself. “I work here, in Vogels. Would you like to climb tonight?”

 Carrie was about to open her mouth to protest, but Mike got in first.

 “It looks brilliant mate, but we’re only in Kaliurang for two nights, then we’ve got to get back to Jakarta, we came here for the bushwalks and waterfalls,”

 “And swimming pool,” Carrie interjected.

 “That’s a pity. If you don’t climb Merapi, you will always regret it,” said Christian in a foreboding voice. “Talk to Ben and Ronnie here, they just got down this morning. Then think about it.” He held his hand out again and they both shook it.

 “A bit odd, don’t you think,” Carrie said under her breath.

 “He’s alright. What do you think?”

 “You’re not serious!”

 “I might be. Let’s talk to these guys.”

 Well Ben and Ronnie, two Australians were on such a high you’d think they’d just won a million. They had left shortly after midnight last night, and climbed in the dark, reaching the treeline at sunrise. “It was fantastic,” enthused Ben, spreading his arms for dramatic effect. “Like being on top of the world man, all you could hear was your own breathing. I’ve never done anything like it before, it was amazing, you gotta go up there mate.”

 “Wasn’t it a bit tough?” asked Carrie tentatively. “Don’t you need to train for something like that?”

 “How long have you been travelling?”

 “Nearly three months.”

 “Well, if you’ve been carrying a pack on your back for three months you’re fit enough. You’ll do it, no worries,” he beamed a glittering smile in Carrie’s direction. “Trust me.”

 So, at 7pm that evening, they sat in the restaurant with three other travellers while Mr Christian gave a talk on what to look out for on the ascent of Merapi.

“The mountain is 2,911 metres high, and erupts every five minutes, it is one of the world’s most active volcanoes,” he began. He saw Carrie’s worried look. “Don’t worry. They say this volcano could erupt any time, but I have a radio and if there is going to be an eruption, I would get a warning. I have had no warnings about tonight.

 “But,” he went on, “you must treat Merapi with respect. Three and a half years ago some British climbers went missing for four days. They stayed too long at the top, and when they got back to the treeline if was foggy, they took the wrong path.”

 Christian handed them two hand-written maps between them, showing the route to the base of Merapi from Vogels, and another showing the terrain of the mountain. ‘Black sand,’ ‘treeline,’ ‘orange rock,’ ‘big boulder,’ ‘lave,’ ‘avalanches’ ‘DANGER.’ In spite of her nerves, Carrie felt herself getting excited. This did look like a challenge, and, she glanced at the photos on the wall, it would be pretty spectacular up there.

 “How long will it take?” asked a British lad named Chris.

 “Most people are back by 2pm next day. One climber made it up and down in four hours 40 minutes in 1987, that’s the record at the minute. The slowest was 17 hours when a Swiss guy had to carry his girlfriend down. Never force someone who is finished already to keep climbing to the summit. You are climbing close to 3,000 metres above sea level, the air is thinner there, volcanic gases surround you and every step may be an effort.

“We feel responsible for people entering our village as a guest, and if someone is missing, the villagers don’t care about their work and join the rescue team to look for the missing person, so please, register at Kinahrejo village before starting. It costs 300rp.”

 So here she was, trying to get some sleep before the ascent of Mount Merapi. Beside her Mike was already asleep, his breathing slow and even. Carrie tossed and turned. She was too nervous even to shut her eyes.

 She tried to pretend Mike wasn’t shaking her shoulder, burying her head under her sleeping bag. Eventually she peered out at him, blinking in the light from the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. “You go on with the others, I think I’ll just stay here, it’s too cosy to get up,” she murmured, laying back down and closing her eyes.

 “Aargh! You bastard!” Carrie jumped up, her face stinging from the cold water Mike had just squeezed onto it from a wet flannel.

 “Up you get,” he commanded. “In an hours’ time you’ll be lying her awake wishing you had come with us but knowing it’s too late.”

 Cursing, Carrie climbed out of her sleeping bag and pulled on her shorts, teeshirt and the never-off-her-back red sweatshirt. As an afterthought she pulled her grey jogging bottoms on over her shorts, it was chilly up here at night.

 They were climbing with John, an English lad; an Austrian named Chris; and a rather gorgeous Dutch guy named Franz, and they set off from Vogels at a brisk pace. So far, they hadn’t even seen the famous Merapi yet, but could feel its presence, somewhere out there in the distance. Their route was well lit by moonlight and took them through a park where they had to climb a series of rough steps, then onto a dirt track which led to the village. There they knocked a door, waking the little man who must go through this routine every night, and paid their 300rps.

 The next section was not too difficult, steep in places, but there were a few downhill bits as well. The next section took them an hour and a half and led them to the rather oddly named Bomb Monument, built as a monument for peace. It was already becoming apparent that British John, who they soon nicknamed the human avalanche, was a bit clumsy on it, he kept tripping over and walking into things, leaving the rest of them laughing. But John just laughed too, and they encouraged each other along in the darkness.

 The Bomb was a welcome sight, and it was from here they got their first sighting of Merapi, ominously large and incredibly far off in the moonlight. They ploughed on. The track was steeper, and climbing was hot and thirsty work. The litre and a half of water each of them carried had to be drunk sparingly. Carrie’s teeshirt was soaked in sweat, her hair clinging to her forehead, damp with sweat and due. They reached the ‘black sands,’ a 40-metre stretch of volcanic sand at 3.30am. Climbing through the loose sand was a struggle, but they were close to the treeline and it was too early for sunrise.

 “I think we’d better rest,” said Chris. He had climbed Merapi before. “We are near the treeline now.”

 Mike and Franz nodded their agreement, Carrie didn’t have the energy to respond, but flung herself down on what looked like a flat rock. A few feet below her she could hear the human avalanche puffing and panting as he struggled over the last few metres of the black sands.

 “Bloody hell, I’m hot,” John groaned. “That was f’ing hard work, sorry,” he added, looking at Carrie.

 “You mean it’s fucking hard work,” Carrie vehemently. “I should be sound asleep now, instead of sitting here shivering on the side of a due-to-erupt volcano.”

 “Don’t worry, we’re nearly there and the view is worth it. Here, have this if you’re cold.” He held out a batik sheet.

 “Oh, I couldn’t, you have it,” Carrie protested. But John insisted, and a minute later Franz popped his cap on her head. “That’ll keep some of the heat in,” he smiled at her, his brown eyes making her heart flutter. Oh to be alone with him at 3.30am in different circumstances, she though, taking the opportunity to snuggle up between Franz and Mike when she could.

 They rested for 40 minutes, then tackled the last stage. Carrie knew it would be steep, but in places it was sheer rock, and she had to pick her way up using both hands and feet, and haul her way up and over slippery mud using tree roots as grips. Still, she felt strong, and kept up with Chris and Franz, while Mike kept his eye on the human avalanche at the rear.

“Where is it,” she moaned, for it seemed like they would never reach the treeline. Then suddenly it was there.

 The sky was beginning to grow lighter, so they attempted to climb onto the ridge above to get a good view of the sunrise. But the ridge was made of basalt, and huge chunks of rock would give way under foot or even in your hand. As she gingerly climbed up, testing every rock two of three times before allowing her weight to rest on it, Carrie was aware that any slip could be fatal. Not only was there a very steep drop below, but a person falling would be ripped to pieces on the sharp rocks.

 They reached the top and sat and waited. To the east, the sky was glowing golden, then orange, but bugger it if the clouds didn’t begin to swell, and soon what was the orange ball of the sun was obscured. “This happened last time I was up here,” said John, who had his camera at the ready. “A photographer’s nightmare, I’m supposed to be sending these pics to a travel agent back home. Now I’ll probably have to come up here again.”

 Beside him Mike was snapping away, for despite the disappointing sunrise, the tableau below them was remarkable.  Below them a carpet of cloud glowed golden in the sunlight. Carrie chomped on a sandwich. It was like looking out the window of an aeroplane at the clouds below. Only better, she thought, I climbed up here by myself. In the dark! And even that hadn’t been so bad, for despite the shadows cast by the moon she had not felt scared, in fact it had all been extremely calm and beautiful, a unique experience. She was glad now she had got out of bed.

 The scramble up to the smoke hole on the volcano’s crater was also a unique experience, and very frightening. Two steps up, three steps backwords. Rocks were flying everywhere, and the difficult ground took its toll on their already tired legs. They reached the smoke hole at 6.30am.

 “Where’s all the molten lava,” Carrie asked, blinking as she peered into the smoke hole. “I thought we’d see it all red and bubbling. This sulphur smoke stinks.” She sat down for a rest. “Over here,” called Franz, “I think I see a bigger hole further up.”

 “You coming?” said Mike, turning to follow Franz. “John, you think you can get up a bit further and stay in one piece?”

 “No problem,” enthused John.

 “I’ll stay here,” said Carrie, and stared at the beauty around her as the others moved further across the summit, their voices and scrambling fading. Carrie had never heard such silence. No wind, no rustle of trees, no birds singing, no cars or voices. It was so quiet it was almost deafening. Below her the steep, rough volcanic rock fell away, tumbling in the cotton wool sea of the clouds. The air was so clear, warmer now the sun had risen. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

 At first it was just a gentle rumble. Her stomach possibly. But then it grew louder and louder, destroying the perfection of the moment. Carrie’s first reaction was annoyance, whatever the noise was it was interrupting her meditation. But then she began to ask herself what it was, this rumbling.

 “Shit,” she scrambled to her feet. Merapi was about to erupt! Fucking Christian and his radio had got it all wrong. Her stomach lurched and she felt the blood drain from her face. Above her, she could make out the other four picking their way over the rocks in her direction.

 “It’s going to erupt!” she screamed at the top of her voice. She didn’t know if they could hear her, she certainly couldn’t hear them. “Come down, come down!” Carrie gesticulated violently. Mike was gesticulating back, but they certainly weren’t hurrying themselves, and the rumbling seemed to be growing quieter. Carrie realised he was pointing out into the azure blue sky. Her eyes followed his finger. There a passenger plane was moving slowly across the sky, miles away from Merapi, but close enough to be heard.

 A plane, just a plane, Carrie sighed to herself, her weak legs giving way as she sank onto the rough ground. She sat motionless as the boys approached. She had enjoyed her few minutes of solitude, but it was nice to have company again.

 The climb down turned out to be even more terrifying than the climb up. Carrie’s hands and legs were scratched and cut over and over again as she struggled to keep her balance on the rocks. At times they had virtually sit and lower themselves over shale and shingle. There was no marked path from the treeline to the summit, so they had to keep their bearings. It was here markers such as the big boulder and orange rock were vital. To Carrie’s relief they reached the treeline at 9am. Going down the black sands was easier, and Carrie was grateful of the cool damp mud on her cut hands as she lowered herself down the steep parts. Chris said the best way to get down to the village was to run. The human avalanche declined. “I’m still in one piece, and I want to make it back that way,” he said. “If I start running, I’d probably break my neck.” Chris said he would walk down with John, and Franz, Carrie and Mike began bounding on down the track.

 “This is great,” she called out passing Mike. “It’s far easier on the knees and takes no effort at all.”

 “Pity you’re such a slow coach,” called Franz, overtaking on the right. “Race you to the swimming pool!”

 They stopped running before they got to the pool, and at a little wooden bar in the tiny village of Kinahrejo they ordered five cold beers and drank them when Chris and John arrived. It tasted damn good.

 It was half twelve when they reached the village. The entire trek had taken 12 hours, they had made good time. The open air swimming pool looked inviting. All the boys went in in their underwear, but Carrie declined. She didn’t fancy exposing her grimy bra and M&S knickers to not only her fellow climbers but the few locals who sat by the pool laughing at the antics of the westerners. Plus the water was ice cold, she had tested it with her feet. She’d could wait for a nice cool mandi.

 Back in bed that night, revelling in the thought of at least eight hours uninterrupted sleep, Carrie thought about the climb once again. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it Mike,” she said. “I’m aching all over, my scratches are still stinging, but I feel really good. It was great being with Chris, John and Franz. That was real camaraderie, wasn’t it. We all got each other through.”

 “We did,” Mike agreed. He turned to face her. “You did really well you know, Franz was very impressed.”

 “Was he?” Carrie felt herself blushing.

 “Yes, he was saying what a pity it was you were leaving tomorrow, I think he had a soft spot for you.”

 Carrie smiled to herself. Franz was gorgeous, and he definitely seemed to like her. Was Mike jealous at all? She didn’t really care. It was nice to know a man was interested in her, especially after the fiasco on Koh Tao.

 Five am came too quickly, and Carrie and Mike were soon on the bus back to Yogya where they had to get the train back to Jakarta. Their flight to Bali left next day. They had a bit of a panic when they were told there were no seats on the 7am train, but after a lot of discussion, led mostly by Mike, they were able to get two third class tickets.

 What a nightmare. Thirty six hours on a Chinese hard seat was wee buns compared to this. The carriage was disgusting, cramped and claustrophobic, dirty and crowded. There were no fans, no air conditioning and the windows only opened a crack.

 The toilets had no doors, and hoards of people were sitting both in the toilet cubicles and in the corridor immediately outside.

 “Thank God we didn’t have breakfast,” Carrie said, fanning herself with her hat. “If I’d had tea or juice or anything I’d have been dying to go to the loo.” She thought of the journey ahead. “I don’t think I’ll last 14 hours without a toilet though.” The thought panicked her, and she immediately felt her bladder fill up.

 Three hours into the journey, the train broke down in the middle of nowhere and everyone piled out. The perfect time to find a bush and go to the loo, Carrie thought, but now there were too many people and she wasn’t going to go too far from the train in case they got it fixed and it took off without her. She needn’t have worried. It took two hours to get the engine going again, and from there to Jakarta it seemed to stop every quarter of an hour for about 10 minutes each time.

  Carrie could hold on no longer. “Don’t let the train go without me,” she shouted as they pulled into a station. She leapt out the open door, bolted towards the brick buildings lining the platform, and found the sign for ladies. The toilet was a hole in the ground, not very clean, but she didn’t care. She wee’d long and hard, pulling up her shorts practically before she had finished, and darted back onto the train, her face flushed with heat and adrenaline. Then, needless to say, the train remained stationary for the next half hour.

 The heat was unbearable, but neither Mike nor Carrie took anything other than the occasional sip of water. Neither wanted to need the toilet again. It was just too stressful. All day long people selling weird food, drinks, cigarettes, fans and squeaky kids’ toys and hooters walked up and down the carriage. The food looked horrible so they ate nothing other than some peanuts.

 Finally, at 11pm, after 16 hours on that hellish train, they reached Jakarta, and took a ride in a tuk tuk, a small motorised vehicle rather like the rickshaws in India, to Jalan Jaksa, where someone led them to a room, a café for food and some cold drinks.

To be continued…