Timidly, we ventured downstairs, retracing last night’s steps through the unbelievable maze of corridors and stairs. Our wheelie suitcases banged hard on every step, and our approach had to be audible through the entire house. Yet when we recaptured the lobby, it was deserted. All the doors were shut, and there was no evidence of life.
“I suppose we ought to pay,” Steve whispered reluctantly. “Awful as it was, it was still accommodation.”
I shuddered. “That’s injury to insult,” I ventured, and Steve grimaced. He pinged the old-fashioned porter’s bell on the desk several times, but nothing happened.
Vocal assistance was required. “Hello?” he shouted. “He
llo
?” His voice echoed dimly around the hall.
“What should we do?” I murmured. “Can’t we simply go?”
Steve shrugged, looking uncertain, and pinged the bell a few more times.
Nothing.
I desperately wanted to get away. “Tell you what,” I suggested. “Write down your address and a telephone number and they can send us an invoice or something. And then let’s go.”
Steve was still not convinced. He went across the lobby and knocked at the nearest door, and the one next to it. Still nothing.
“Okay,” he finally concurred. “Let’s do what you said.” He retrieved the biro from inside the ledger and wrote his address and telephone number under his name. Mission accomplished and overcome by the urge to run, we hightailed it out of there like two prison breakers.
“Come on, let’s go, go, go,” Steve encouraged as I flagged on my way down the drive, and I picked up pace again. Thus we continued for another fifteen minutes, advancing perhaps a half a mile down the deserted country road, before I gave up. We were both soaked to the skin. I could see the muscles playing on Steve’s broad back right through his wet T-shirt as he splashed ahead.
“You promised me a romantic getaway,” I panted, “not an all-weather assault course. Slow down, I can’t go on this fast.”
Under the circumstances, I thought this was a perfectly reasonable observation. However, Steve stopped in his tracks as though I had slapped him. Suddenly, he turned on me.
“Yes, I did promise you a romantic getaway, and I had romance and luxury in mind. This isn’t what I’d planned and I’m jolly pissed off. You don’t need to rub it in. I’m really fed up,” he shouted at the top of his voice. His eyebrows had knitted together in a menacing line and his face was puce.
I had never seen him like this and inadvertently, I took a step back. Bad move! My foot sank into a muddy puddle, my body tilted backwards and I overbalanced. Suddenly I was lying spread-eagled in the mud. Raindrops were falling on my skywards-pointed face and, out of sheer disbelief at my bad luck, I remained where I was, utterly unable to move.
Steve towered over me with a forbidding expression on his face and said nothing to start with. “I suppose this will be my fault as well,” he eventually managed.
Duh.
“Of course it bloody is,” I snapped, knowing that I was being unreasonable but unable to help myself. “Will you at least help me up?”
“Why is it my bloody fault?” Steve yelled, seriously enraged. “I didn’t trip you over. You managed that all by yourself.”
“Yeah, because you startled me when you shouted at me,” I retorted angrily.
“Bloody woman,” Steve muttered under his breath, calmer now. For an instant, I thought he was going to pull me up, but hold on, no! There was no help forthcoming.
He turned away and walked up the lane, dragging his case behind him and leaving me in the mud, my suitcase standing in a puddle.
How dare he!
Ten types of anger were roiling in my chest as I struggled to my feet ungracefully, the mud making disgusting sucking sounds as it reluctantly relinquished my body from its slimy hold. My coat, my trousers, my hair—all ruined.
I lost all rational thought and charged after Steve, ramming into his back at full pelt. He nearly, but not quite, fell. He still wouldn’t stop walking, so I grabbed his hand and spun him around to face me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I spat. “What do you think you’re doing, leaving me there in the mud?”
“What does it look like?” he responded testily. “I’m going to look for somewhere dry, somewhere where we can eat.”
I dimly noted his use of the plural pronoun, but I didn’t take the bait.
“You can’t abandon me here,” I shouted, pummeling his chest with my fists.
“I’m not abandoning you,” Steve defended himself patiently. “With that look on your face, you were never going to accept my help. If anything, you were going to pull me down.”
I opted for denial and indignation. “Of course not,” I protested vehemently. “Why would you even think that?”
For a millisecond, Steve looked dumbfounded but quickly recovered. He laughed softly. “I know you too well, my love.”
“Don’t ‘my love’ me, you…you…” I started, searching for a suitable insult, but Steve clamped his hand over my mouth.
“Now, now,” he tried to soothe, “don’t say anything you’re going to regret.” He tried to smile and his face almost relaxed, but I didn’t reciprocate.
Hell and damnation, I seethed inwardly. If I wanted a blazing row, I deserved a blazing row.
We were locked in this unhappy half-embrace for quite some time before Steve let go. Feeling a red rage at his treatment of me and fueled by frustration and disappointment at the miserable outcome of this “romantic” getaway, I grabbed my case and, head held as high as possible, mud trickling down my back, I splattered down the lane away from Steve without looking back.
Within minutes, I came to a junction where the abysmal mud-path joined a proper tarmacked road. There was even a signpost nailed to a tree directing hapless drivers and joyless walkers back to Pitlochry. It was
only
ten miles. I swallowed down my despair and sneaked a look behind me. There was no sign of Steve.
I went over to the sign post and stood by it, taking shelter under the tree and deliberately facing away from the muddy lane. If Steve did come after me, I wanted him to have a moment’s worth of panic, finding me gone. Truth be told, I was awfully mixed up and confused. Somewhere at the back of my mind I was dimly aware that none of this was exactly Steve’s fault
.
Perhaps, I thought, I had better go back.
I straightened up, ready to retrace my muddy steps. Still partially hidden by the tree, I suddenly spotted a Range Rover turning out of the mud road. For a fraction of a second, I got a full frontal view of both driver and passenger. The driver meant nothing to me, but the passenger was Steve. I was stunned with disbelief. What were the odds of a car coming down that lane, of all lanes, today, of all days, picking up Steve along the way, but not me?
With a great lump in my throat, I tried to draw attention to myself. I attempted a wave, but my coat snagged on a branch and the movement was cut short. By the time I had disentangled the sleeve, the car had turned fully and progressed down the tarmacked road toward Pitlochry, its red tail lights bobbing up and down as it traversed the ubiquitous potholes. They seemed to be mocking me as they whisked Steve ever further away from me and closer to civilization.
Now bloody what?
After watching Steve zoom down the road in a dry, comfortable and speedy car, I got angry all over again. How dare he leave me in the wilderness?
Eventually, I started walking along the road toward Pitlochry. The going was slow but I figured that I would get there in about three hours if no lift came my way. My tummy was rumbling most impressively, reminding me that I hadn’t had breakfast, and I would have gladly given my life savings for a hot cup of tea.
Fifteen minutes later, a car
did
come along the road heading toward Pitlochry. The driver offered me a lift but insisted on covering her passenger seat with a plastic sheet that she appeared to keep handy in the boot for just these occurrences. Having taken a cursory look at myself in the mirror, I hadn’t been able to blame her.
She dropped me at Pitlochry station where I had half expected Steve to wait for me. That, I had concluded during the short drive, would be the redeeming moment. Perhaps he simply hadn’t seen me under that tree. Actually, there was no way he could have seen me.
So,
I reasoned with myself,
he had probably kept an eye out for me the entire way to the train station
. And not having found me there, I had somewhat illogically assumed that he would have waited for me.
Surely
he would have sensed that I was behind him, not ahead?
Evidently, he had not. In fact, he had probably consulted the timetable, seen that he had only barely missed a train to Edinburgh, and drawn the only logical conclusion from his perspective—that
I
had left without waiting for
him
. He had to have caught the next train, dieseling ahead of me and leaving me behind in this little place.
Shaking with cold and wet, and beyond feeling anything much else, I took myself off to the restrooms and performed an emergency change of clothing. Somewhat more presentable, I went to the dismal café to have a spot of breakfast and then caught the next train out of there.
A selection of fast and slow trains later, I eventually made it home, taking
only
about ten hours. I was numb with confusion and shock.
Unsurprisingly, I woke feeling shattered and miserable on the bank holiday Monday morning. The petty argument between Steve and me weighed heavily on soul. There was a leaden taste in my mouth and my tummy churned hot and heavy.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I berated myself for letting a misunderstanding escalate beyond belief. Knowing that this was in large part due to me overreacting didn’t help matters at all. I added guilt to the mix of unhappy emotions as I stomped restlessly around the flat.
“Why couldn’t you have picked me up and given me a hug,” I demanded angrily of an absent Steve. “That was all it took. I was tired and disappointed, and I knew you were too, but still, you’re the man, c’mon, you were supposed to be in charge, right?”
My reasoning was shaky and I cringed at the self-righteousness of it all. How vulnerable human interaction could be; how easily a situation could spin out of control without either party meaning to.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I ranted at myself once more as I stomped restlessly around the flat. What was I supposed to do?
“And why is he not
ringing
me?” Remorse at my own pitiful behavior was beginning to morph into anger at his lack of empathy when the phone stubbornly remained silent.
At lunchtime, I crumbled and tried to ring Steve. He ought to have been at home. He wasn’t scheduled to work, I was certain of it. Yet there was no answer on his landline, and his mobile went straight to voicemail.
“Rrrrgh!” I raged, then told myself to calm down. He was entitled to sulk. He probably thought I had actually run away. If only I hadn’t sheltered out of sight under the bloody tree!
Becoming ever more agitated, I called Rachel. When I couldn’t get hold of her either, frustration drove me out of the flat and toward her house, which was only a short five minute walk away. Once in front her black front door, I rang the bell incessantly for five minutes. Rachel wasn’t in.
“Bloody hell!” Tears of misery and self-pity sprang to my eyes. “Where is everybody when you need them?”
I desperately needed to unburden myself to someone. I needed advice. Still standing in front of Rachel’s house, I tried ringing her again and this time she answered.
“What’s up?” was her familiar greeting, although her voice sounded slightly breathless.
“Can I talk to you? Can we meet? I need to talk to someone.” My misery burst out of me in great waves. Nonetheless, there was a small silence on the other end.
“Sure,” Rachel eventually responded, somewhat hesitantly. “How about…how about dinner? I’m not home right now but I could be back by…”
Clicking and swooshing noises suggested that she had covered up the handset as though she were talking with someone else. I felt even more alone and bereft. And mystified—what was with the secrecy?
“I could be back by six. How’s about a nice takeaway at my place, like the old days?” Rachel sounded cheerful and jolly, but her tone struck me as just a tad over the top. False. Put on. I swallowed. I was probably imagining things.
“Okay. Six is good. See you then,” I agreed and rang off. Damn and triple damn. How was I to kill the hours until six o’clock?
I started walking back toward my flat but found myself turning right toward the Tube station rather than left into The Crescent. I desperately, desperately wanted to see a friendly face. Perhaps I would drop in on Dan.
Ha, fat chance
, a little voice in my head told me as I sat on the Tube hurtling toward Clapham.
He won’t be in. More fool you, you ought to try ringing him at least, give him some warning. In case he has a visiting lady friend, or something
.
I smiled ruefully to myself.
Good point
. I would phone him as soon as I got off the train. And if he was busy, I would simply amuse myself taking a walk on Clapham Common until it was time to meet Rachel.