backpack

chapter one

On the day we buried my mother, I deduce, I have poisoned myself with alcohol and drugs, and woken up in hospital. I console myself with the knowledge that it's what she would have wanted.
This must be a hospital, mustn't it? I'm in a single bed, strapped in tightly by sheets. I can't move, any more than my mother can. I'm in my own coffin. Nothing is particularly sore except for my stomach. I feel sick, but I haven't got a discernible injury. One of my legs feels bruised, and I am suddenly scared that it's a phantom pain on an amputated limb, but there is a leggy bump under the sheet. I think I'm intact. I have a blinding headache, and I feel fuzzy, much more so than on a normal New Year's Day.
This place smells of disinfectant, but not in a reassuring way. Half disinfectant, half sick. I'm attached to a machine. It must be hospital. This is alarming. The only thing I want to do is to burst into tears. I try to remember why. I should be happy. I force myself to be happy. It's only the comedown that's making me sad. I was happy last night. I was relieved.
I don't think I even made it to midnight. What a way to greet the year: passing out and probably forcing some doctor to inspect the contents of my stomach as the clock struck twelve. I wish I was at home, nursing this monstrous hangover. Mum was ill; I'm not. I don't want to lie here and do nothing. I can get up and go. That's all I need to do. I'll get up in a minute and find my clothes.
I have a hazy memory of being in an ambulance - a quick flash of lying down, driving fast, drifting. Someone with me, trying to make me sick. Shouting at me to wake up. I couldn't do it. I went back to sleep. Now I feel, appropriately, like death. I will get up in a minute - I have to - but I'll just have a rest first. I've always wanted to go in an ambulance. I'm half-heartedly cross not to have been awake enough to appreciate it. I suppose most people aren't. A broken leg or something would provide the optimum ambulance experience.
Cars swerving out of the way, me storming through the red lights, lots of people concentrating only on me, and all because I took a line too many of coke, or had one too many vodkas, or both. I can't believe I missed that.
I often feel like I do now, but not so dramatically. I know if I drank enough water and juice and coffee, and filled up on carbohydrates, I'd be all right by tonight. I need a full English breakfast at the café. The very thought makes me heave. I wonder how to call a nurse; I don't think I've got much of a voice.
I can't remember how, exactly, I got into this stupid state. I know yesterday was the funeral. I certainly didn't collapse then. I made a supreme effort to be as dignified as possible, and I think I carried it off extremely well, though it appears that the dignity didn't last until the sun set. That's unfair; it probably did, since that would have been at about 3 p.m. But not much beyond.
It was a hypocritical service at the church in Hampstead, an establishment I happen to know Mum last attended on Christmas Eve twelve years ago, and then she only went to get a glug of Communion alcohol. 'Ghastly!' she exclaimed on her return. She banned us both from attending in future. God lost her soul by serving bad wine. He must be gutted.
Yesterday, the ban lifted, I sat in the front pew, smelling the old musty smells, and I rejoiced. I sang the hymns I'd chosen for her: Lord of all hopefulness, Jerusalem, All things bright and beautiful. These are the hymns you know if you don't go to church. I sang them loudly, discarding my self-consciousness. I was glad she was dead. Glad for her, glad for me, and glad for the fact that my boyfriend, who left me three weeks ago, came back to comfort me. Tom sat next to me, looking suitably sombre. His presence beside me electrified me. Tom always dominates any space he's in. He is a big man, and in the past few years his waistline has taken on a life of its own. The same thing has happened to all his friends. Boys don't have to care when their lifestyle catches up with them. Girls do. Life isn't fair.
His dark hair and rosy cheeks had been shampooed and scrubbed respectively. He looked sensitive and full of regret. But he was still my Tom, and he still knew Mum. His solemnity, like mine, was just for show. Together, we looked handsome, and that knowledge bolstered me further. God knows what I must look like now, in a hospital gown and crinkly knickers.
Yesterday, I was wearing a black scoop-necked dress I bought months ago in New York with the funeral in mind, a black fur coat that I'd taken from the back of Mum's wardrobe, and killer heels, with deep red lipstick. I enjoyed the bimbo-widow look. Tom, who never wears a suit, was wearing a black one he'd had made in Hong Kong, years ago when he was lithe. He couldn't have done the jacket up if he'd tried. His hair was shining. He looked completely unlike his normal, dishevelled self, and I loved him for doing that for me. My brother Will was on my other side, and I was proud of him too. He looks like Mum did in her heyday: tall and blond and striking. The same as me really. The vicar talked about her for a little bit, which was risible. He didn't know her. She didn't know him, and if she had she wouldn't have liked him. He said she had 'touched the lives of those around her', which must be the catch-all, bottom-of-the-barrel citation. He must have to bury unrepentant infidels all the time. I bet they outnumber the faithful.
Oh God, here we go. I grab a strange, kidney-shaped plastic container beside my bed just in time to vomit into it. A radioactive green liquid comes out. This should make me feel better, but it doesn't. I try to remember that my underlying state is happiness, but for now the nausea has penetrated all other feelings, and grown there, like cancer. Where is Tom? Where is Will? Where is my scoop-necked dress?
I can picture the burial, and it is unreal, like a film. It was, of course, freezing, though I was snug in my dead minks. The sky was slatey, the grass was that bright green it goes just before it rains (a toned down version of my sick). Towards the end it began to drizzle. There were very few people. Dad was there, and Lola had made sure he brought a child with him, lest he should enjoy being alone for a moment and leave her. Poor Briony was standing, three years old and bewildered, at the burial of a woman whose name may not be mentioned in their house. She behaved admirably. A few of Mum's horrible family had turned up. She was always coy about why exactly she never saw them and they never sent more than a terse card at Christmas. I know the reason, now. They were all beautifully dressed, rich, so-called Christians from the country - the kind of people who not only go hunting, but host the hunt ball and rub foxy gristle on their children's faces - and looked satisfied to see her finally lowered into the ground. I hated them all.
Will skulked at the back, where they had to turn and stare if they wanted a quick look at him. He had the air of someone furtively having a fag, but of course he wasn't. He was just hiding from the people he's always wanted to meet.
I remember Tom behaving appallingly. While all the ashes to ashes stuff was going on, and I knew it was my moment to be sad, the only one I was allowed, and I was feeling dull and empty instead, he started moving his arm down my back, slowly, until he was stroking my bottom highly inappropriately. I found this horribly funny. Mum would have too, but only because of all her relatives, and her ex-husband, standing around looking pompous and hypocritical, like Prince Philip at Diana's funeral. I tried hard not to laugh, but it got worse and worse. Tom was straight-faced. How dare he? That was my mother, in that box. It seemed so stupid. Mother in the box. Jack in the box. I felt a huge snort of hysteria coming, and whipped out my orphan's handkerchief in time to bury my face in it and pretend to cry. My hair was blowing everywhere. I pictured us all in a long shot from far, far away. Maybe an aerial shot. We were archetypal mourners, yet I don't think there was a single person there who was genuinely pained that she was dead. I couldn't believe it had finally happened. Will was sad, but that was only because he hadn't met her. Nothing surprises me now about my family. They are too bizarre to make up. Still, it probably makes me more interesting than someone who had a boring old crappy normal childhood.
I am becoming agitated. I really want to cry, but I mustn't start or I might not stop. My tummy hurts. Being here is intolerable. I should be at home with Will and Tom, watching telly and making resolutions. I don't like being ignored. I find a button with a picture of a 'toilet' lady on it, and press it. I want someone to take away my green sick, apart from anything else, and bring me a glass of water. There is no discernible sound, and nothing happens. I bet everyone's hungover. Perhaps all the nurses have called in sick. I wish the curtains weren't drawn round my bed. There are noises in the ward, but I don't seem to have the energy to get up and have a look, or, indeed, to whisper for a passer-by. Hospitals are full of farting, shouting men, and I don't want to invite one, inadvertently, into my boudoir.
Will pissed me off when he phoned, last week, the day after I found her on the floor. When I picked up the phone, he said, 'Hello, who's that?' I hate people who ring you up, forcing you to stop whatever you were doing and answer the phone, and then demand to know your name. They could be anyone. They have to tell you their name before you tell them yours; that's the rule. So I said, 'More to the point, who's that?' He said his name was William and he needed to speak to Anne. I told him he couldn't. Then he said that, although I didn't know him, he was my brother. I'm still shocked. I wish I'd known I had a big brother. I'd have made Mum see him. As it was, he was writing asking to see her, and she was saying she couldn't face the trauma. She was so weak, that woman.
I have a niggling feeling when I think of Will now. I hope I didn't say the wrong thing to him yesterday, because the wrong thing could be completely, disastrously wrong. I don't expect I did.
After the service, all the strangers stomped around my home as if it was a village hall or a pub. They complained that there was no loo roll left, and asked where we kept the bottle-opener. Everyone was there, except for the one person who had barely stirred from her comfy chair for fifteen years. Now, that was strange. We'd got loads of nibbles in from Waitrose. It cost me a fortune but, I reasoned, I don't need to worry about money now. I thought we'd have masses of food left over, but we didn't. The mean relatives not only ate everything I'd bought, they also found Mum's store of chocolate treats. She certainly doesn't need them. Tom and Kate and I had a secret stash of vodka, which they didn't find. We made everyone else drink the cheapest wine in the shop. I owed Mum that much.
I think the vodka is where the day's drinking began, but I wasn't necking them back, just keeping my courage up. Cunningly, we had them laced with Coke, and all the oldsters thought we were on soft drinks. One lecherous relative bought into the whole 'innocent kids' act and slipped me a fiver, presumably unaware that I'm £250,000 richer now. I stumbled a bit in my amusement, and grabbed the table to stay upright. I wandered off, found Briony painting my old Tiny Tears with nail varnish in my bedroom, and gave her the money.
'Buy a nice toy,' I suggested. 'Something that makes a big loud noise.'
'A BIG LOUD NOISE!' she agreed enthusiastically. 'I'll buy it with money.'
'Like a trumpet,' I told her. I don't know why I bother, she's hardly going to be visiting the shops on her own. She seemed keen on the trumpet, so maybe she'll nag until she gets one.
At one stage I was sitting on the stairs with Tom, drinking a very strong 'Coke' and watching in amusement as the horse-faced wankers who'd disowned Mum for having the misfortune to get pregnant at sixteen nosed around her house. Thank God we'd had the professionals in to clean up. They'd have loved it if it had been as encrusted as she liked it. It was her Miss Havisham house.
'Do you promise to be nice to me now?' I pestered Tom. He always gets annoyed when I talk like this and I only do it by accident, when I'm drunk. I forestalled his protest, however, with my killer punch. 'I'm an orphan now, you see.'
Unfortunately, my father was within earshot. 'You are not a bloody orphan!' he hissed furiously, trying not to attract anyone's attention, and thus attracting more. Tom laughed loudly. Dad was livid.
'Not technically,' I conceded, taking Tom's hand for moral support. 'I just mean, I half am. More than half really; I've never lived with you.'
'You've got me and you've got your stepmother,' he said. 'That's as many parents as most people get. You are twenty-seven, you know. You're not a child.'
I glared, and downed the rest of my vodka. My father is a twat, and he doesn't even know it. I was dying to tell him many, many things, but it would just have delighted the onlookers, who ignored Mum for thirty-two years and then flocked in from the country to nose around her house. It's their fault she turned out like she did. She hardly had a fair start in life, being turfed out by Tories when she was just a child.
Sniffling a little, I remind myself sternly of my position on Mum, from which I am not allowed to deviate. It is as follows: she messed up my life when she was alive, so now that she's dead I'm not allowed to mope around. I've got to see that the sun starts shining right now. It is symbolic that we buried her on New Year's Eve. I hope it is less symbolic that I woke up to greet my new life in a crappy NHS hospital with yellow paint peeling off the walls. Me, the sad drunks, and the cute children with leukaemia, tragically hospitalised over the holiday period. If I tip my head even slightly, I can feel everything inside it washing around. It is agony. I shall make a resolution. By this time next year I will have radically changed my life. Tom will have realised that his future is with me. I want us to go travelling. Somewhere hot, to start new lives and have fun, and not be stressed.
'That is a splendid coat!' exclaimed an arse-faced woman, nodding towards my fur, which I had hung up conspicuously, savouring the glamour. Even though she was just saying it as an excuse to stand around me waiting to see if I continued arguing with Dad, I do agree with her. I shall tell everyone except these wankers that it's fake. And I'll never see this lot again. 'You know,' she continued, 'I rather think I remember Anne in this. Lucinda gave it to her when she had the, um, embarrassment.' She looked significantly at William.
Will, meanwhile, was shifting from foot to foot while an elderly man, possibly my grandfather (yes, that is how close my family is) talked at him.
'She never even told us!' the old git was explaining. 'We just noticed one day. She took that coat off, and there it was, clear as day. Threw her out, of course. Not impressed with bastards. She never did make anything of herself.'
Will's expression is murderous. I wonder whether this fat old twat knows he's talking to the bastard. I think he probably does. Will probably wishes he'd just stayed an orphan, like me. I can't wait to get to know him properly. We'll look after each other, form a new, non-dysfunctional family.
The curtains part and a woman ambles in. She's not a nurse. Next to this lady I am fragrance itself. She's wearing a hospital nightie which gapes open so I can see her knickers. She's quite old and clearly confused, as she first walks all the way over to my bed and then starts climbing into it.
'My bed!' I rasp crossly. My mouth is dry. These are the first words I've uttered. She ignores me, so I haul myself into a sitting position (ouch), untucking sheets as I do so, and push her back. She sits down abruptly on the floor, still looking glazed. I would call a nurse, but I can't seem to get the impetus. I leave her sitting there, and snuggle back down, and try to remember how I came to this. After the house, memories are fuzzy.
There is a scene of impossible glamour. I am in a gorgeous bar with Tom and Will and Kate and Guy. It is dark outside, but it's early. Everyone is wearing black and grey and deep red, the colour of my lipstick and of my second favourite coat, which I am now wearing (I wouldn't take a fur into Soho). It is very squashed but we don't mind. We are actually sitting on the floor, at my instigation, but we are still the epitome of cool. I am sipping elegantly at a glass of vodka. Outside it is cold, but nobody minds that, because we have come together into this warmth to escape the climate. People smile and talk. I look at my dearly beloved boyfriend, who is cradling me in his strong arms, and I look at my brother. I don't really know him but I love him. Kate is my best friend. She's beautiful. I've always envied her Asian blood. One Indian grandmother, it seems, is all it takes, and you end up with a year-round tan, huge dark eyes, and glossy hair. Kate's lifestyle will never catch up with her, but I can't resent that. I love her.
Guy is saying that he's going to be looking for a new flatmate soon. I rouse myself sufficiently to ask if it can be me. I realise I can leave the Hampstead house for ever, now. We will sell it. I will live here in Soho with the beautiful people. I look at Guy, waiting for his answer. He always claims his hair is 'sandy', but we all know ginger when we see it. He's shorter than me - shorter even than Kate. He knows how to party, and he's horribly untidy. We'll be good flatmates.
'Can't see why not!' he replies.
I feel loved and wanted. Outside, there are no homeless people, only smiling, lovely people. At the bar I decide to buy a whole bottle of vodka to stop myself having to go back again. I wonder why I've never done that before.
'My mother has died and I'm happy,' I announce, beatifically, to the barman.
I repeat it when I get back to the others. It is my little haiku.
'That is a fucking horrible way to be talking,' Will bursts out after I say it for the fourth time. 'Even if you felt that you should never bloody say it.' I remember that I must ask Will about what his life was like in between being adopted and meeting me last week. I've been meaning to ask him but I always forget.
'With respect, mate,' says Tom in his mockney, 'you don't know how hard the past few years have been for Tans. Make allowances, yeah?'
Everyone loves me. I am happy indeed.
Then I am walking around in the cold with Will. I don't know where Tom and Guy and Kate went. This frightens me a little, but I keep talking. I hear my voice, but I don't know what it is saying. 'The thing with working in the media is, you mix with the sort of creative people you might not meet elsewhere and that means you live a different kind of life. I think I live quite a bohemian life, and that has to be a good thing for me as a person …' and so on, and on. I must have had some coke. One of the others must have given it to me. Will stops me talking.
'Tansy,' he says. 'Tell me about our mother. Tell me what she was like. Please. You're the only connection to her.'
Urgh. This is the last conversation I want to have. We have reached some park gates. It's Regent's Park. I think I'll climb over.
'You don't want to know,' I tell him. 'Come on.' I start trying to climb the gates. William pulls me back.
'For fuck's sake. Come back here and tell me. Of course I want to know.'
'She was a terrible woman. She was drunk all the time, and she never admitted she had a problem. But she's gone now.' I found a little package in my pocket. 'Why don't we have some more coke? I will anyway.'
'Come and sit down,' says Will, 'and talk to me.' So I do.
All I have after that is a flash of the interior of the ambulance, and a niggling bad feeling. I'll have to ask Will, try and get him to tell me whether I said anything I shouldn't have said. Will I be able to ask him in such a way that if I haven't told him, it won't matter? I will when I'm sober, I expect. I can be a clever girl sometimes.
I have the thick feeling in my head that comes from coke. I have the throbbing that comes from alcohol. I have the shakes and the misery that always follow such happiness. I have an old woman sitting on the floor by my bed. I want to see a doctor, yet I don't want to, because I know they'll tell me off. But I have the perfect excuse for using the NHS's resources to clean me up after my self-indulgent excess. I can pretend, convincingly, that I was so upset about Mum that I had to seek oblivion. I can present it as a halfway suicide attempt. They'll never know that I'm glad she's dead and it was just normal high spirits. I think I'm going to be sick again, and there's no other receptacle. I untuck acres of sheets, and get out of bed, on the side where the woman isn't. I wobble alarmingly. I quite like the perverse aesthetics of this regulation gown. I remind myself of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, or maybe a Channel 5 drama about anorexia, not that I'd be a convincing anorexic. Perhaps I'm one of those girls who gets sent to a mental ward by her cruel family who don't understand her and make her have a lobotomy, and I'm battling bravely to get out, while learning about life from the other inmates who really are mad. Dad may not think I'm an orphan, but I do. I'm a sick orphan. These paper knickers are classic. I feel dizzy. And extremely sick. I stumble.
Within moments, I'm back in bed, and the smelly old lady has gone, and my curtains have been opened to reveal that I'm on a mixed ward - gross - and that I am by far the youngest, prettiest person here. What a bunch of shuffling, hacking losers.
'What happened?' I ask the nurse who accomplished all this, assuming poor-little-orphan persona.
'What do you think happened?' she snaps as she fills in some charts. 'You took an overdose, didn't you?'
'Did you pump my stomach?'
'Not personally, no.'
'It was my mother's funeral.'
'We know. Your brother explained. You were lucky to have someone responsible to look after you.'
'Well, I haven't got my mother any more, have I?' I say sharply, and look at her with eyes that are as big and as hurt as I can make them. She doesn't know any different.
A bit later, a doctor fills me in. 'You could have died,' she says. 'Do you know that? We're not here to preach, but hard drugs are extremely dangerous, and I think you should perhaps consider some treatment for your dependency.'
'That's just silly,' I tell her. 'I've never done this before. My mother just died. I won't do it again. I'm not dependent - it was a one-off. I'm sorry for wasting your time.' I am being as nice, and contrite, as I possibly can. I think she's just staying and chatting to me because I'm so much more wholesome than the other people, with their papery skin and their sunken eyes. Normally an insult such as 'dependency' would have me bristling, but today I can't be bothered. She says I can go home this evening. Because I'm fine, you see.
I'm happy now. My worries have vanished. As I sit in my rumpled bed with tears streaming down my cheeks, I know, for the first time in my life, that I'm going to be uncomplicatedly happy. I'm going to go somewhere hot with Tom, to get away from arse-faced people and the NHS, and we'll have adventures. My new life will begin very, very soon indeed.

chapter two

Ignoring them, I press my face to the window to see the last of England. Through the double glass, it is unimpressive, and I am furious. Dawn is breaking, in an insignificant way. Sky, runway and grass are grey. In the distance, an area of cloud is silvery grey: this is the advent of the day. If you didn't know, you'd never realise. The airport buildings are ugly and I am leaving. It's been a disappointing year, it's winter again, and, entirely against my better judgement, I am going away. Good riddance, I say silently. Goodbye, Gatwick; goodbye, London; goodbye, job. Goodbye, friends and enemies alike. Everybody in my life is equal now; everybody, significant or not, is left behind. I'm on my own. Fuck you, Tom. Fuck you for doing this to me.
Behind me, the cabin is full of people who hate me. I can hear the man next door talking. 'Did you hear what she just said?' he asks his neighbour on the other side. 'Actually, I wouldn't like to repeat it.'
The plane sets off along the runway. At first it just drives like a car, and then the experience is transformed as we get faster and faster, and louder and louder, and the wheels leave the ground. Gatwick is surrounded by fields, which grow smaller as we ascend, and then wisps of cloud appear next to my window, and a moment later, everything is covered. All I can see is lumpy cloud stretching out for ever.
That's it, then. For some reason, I have left the country. For a while back there, I thought I wouldn't make it. I heard my name on what the airline woman claimed was the third time they'd called it. 'Final call for passenger Harris, flying to Singapore,' a woman read, in a slurred and echoey way. 'Please proceed immediately to gate fifty-four where your plane is about to depart.'
I had been drinking coffee and reading the paper, for two hours. My corner of the café was resolutely unwelcoming; my most hostile 'go away' vibes, as well as my bags all over the other chairs, had kept everyone from my table. I had read the paper from cover to cover. I had not dwelt on my imminent departure from my native shores, or my recent departure from my dear flat, or, above all, the fact that that arsehole had abandoned me. I hadn't even thought about how my old life, or Tom's sex life, would continue without me. Above all, I had not seriously considered returning home and going back to bed. This had taken a considerably concentrated spell of reading the finance news, and now it was eight twenty-three. The plane was taking off at eight-thirty. Normally I am first at the gate, leaving plenty of time for the last-minute upgrades that never happen, and then for reading the inflight magazine and trying to work out which movies we're going to get. Perhaps I didn't really want to go today, but I knew that if I missed this flight, boarding pass in hand, I'd end up getting up in the middle of the night tomorrow and doing it all again. Anyway, I had decided to go. Backing out now would be pathetic. It would be meek. It would mean I was dominated by men. It was never a serious option.
The time to back out would have been three weeks ago, immediately after backing in. I couldn't countenance the idea of missing the plane, of being back in bed and, sheepishly, being discovered when Guy came in to snoop through my stuff, for no other reason than because my subconscious had kept me reading an article about ISAs.
Outside, it was still dark, which I think had lulled me. I could see a few dark shapes of planes looming, scary in the dullness of the dawn. In the terminal, the artificial light made the people in their casual travelling clothes look grotesque. A family gallumphed by, their faces bright white, their features hideously pronounced. They were wearing coordinated purple shellsuits. Only in England, I muttered to myself. And Wales, I added hastily. And maybe Scotland as well. Take me to Asia. In Asia they have style.
I knew that the only way I was going to reach the plane in the next seven minutes was by moving faster than anyone else in the building. I abandoned the paper and half of my third cafetière of coffee, and I slipped off my heels and ran like hell. Snotty children and disabled people blocked my way at every turn. I shoved everyone aside equally rudely, old, young and ugly alike. I might well have toppled an old woman right over but didn't have time to look back; there was certainly a small commotion behind me. I tore along the moving walkway, which bounced up and down alarmingly. I shouted 'Excuse me!' at the top of my voice, and leaped over suitcases. My tights laddered, even though they were twenty-pound ones from Harvey Nicks. I knew I should have trimmed my toenails. I saw a little car, with some bags on the back, and rushed over to it, breathless. I jumped into the back and got the breath together to say, 'Gate fifty-four,' but the boy who was driving (pink, spotty face) said he wasn't a taxi and went in the opposite direction, compelling me to leap off again. This, despite the fact that he had no people on board.
'Cunt!' I yelled at him. Not very poetic, but I was under a lot of stress. A pair of pre-pubescent boys, lagging behind their parents, sniggered. The adults glared.
As I approached the gate, things became eerily silent. Chairs were empty, and a bored woman strolled around half-heartedly hoovering. An Asian man was moving a cordon, and closing a door. He saw me - heard my pounding feet first, no doubt - and held it open, while another woman appeared from nowhere and pushed me down the walkway. I ended up in the arms of an orange lady with leathery skin, who bundled me down the aisle. Every door slammed shut behind me.
I was hot and sweaty and red in the face, with my shoes in my hand and my big toe peeping out, its nail a fashionable burgundy. Every single passenger looked up, looked away again quickly, and smiled and murmured as I passed. In business class, the pampered folk sipped disdainfully at their champagne. I wished I could take a seat among them. There were plenty of spare ones. I did ask for an upgrade, but when the man saw my backpack he practically laughed in my face. Through the curtain, in economy, it looked just as bad as I'd expected. Jammed in. Everybody was uncomfortable, waiting for their free alcohol to make them feel better. I shuffled past a badly dressed family I'd noticed earlier, and looked at them with pity. How can they be going to Asia? They must be changing planes and carrying on to Australia. In fact, they could even be Australian. The man looked up at me. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms that, I am sure, sagged around his bum when he stood up.
'Don't worry, love,' he said. 'You made it by the skin of your arse!' And then he laughed long and hard, and his wife joined in. So much for my stylish exit from England.

We have levelled out at what I think is thirty thousand feet. The orange lady reappears, pushing a trolley. She looks at me with narrowed eyes, but she has to serve me because I am indirectly paying her salary.
'Bloody Mary, please,' I tell her, remembering, belatedly, to smile. Bloody Marys are the best plane drinks, because the tomato juice cancels the dehydrating alcohol, and also because they're harder to make, which shows the cabin crew who's boss, and irritates people further back who are gagging for their free booze. Serves them right for all laughing at me. Baldie pretends not to notice when the stewardess holds my drink out for him to pass it to me, so I reach across, and Mrs Orange looks at my hand, which, annoyingly, is shaking.
It shouldn't be shaking. It must be the exercise and stress of nearly missing the plane, as well as the singularly objectionable people with whom I am now confined. Not to mention all the coffee. When the orange lady escorted me to row 23, I was furious to see this bald man in my window seat. He looked up, embarrassed, and started to pick up his stuff - he appeared to have moved in comprehensively, with his paper in the seat pocket, his blanket tucked in, and his shoes off. The plane started to taxi.
'Just sit here for now,' said Mrs Orange, pushing me to his horrible middle seat.
'No I won't,' I announced. 'That is my seat, and I booked it two weeks ago especially for take-off.'
'Then you should have got here on time,' she told me firmly. The bitch.
I wasn't giving up my window seat because a bald man couldn't be bothered to put his shoes on. I was still the centre of attention, and I didn't care at all. Meekness is grossly overrated; you can almost always get what you want by being brazen (as for inheriting the earth, serves them right). If people dislike you enough they'll do anything to make you go away. After a brief stand-off, Baldie sighed and moved, looking around at the audience and rolling his eyes. Mrs Orange stalked off because she had to stand at the front and do the actions. My seat was still warm. From his bum. Horrible.
I didn't watch the safety stuff, apart from my favourite bit, the emergency exit. It reminds me of the cartoon Aladdin, when Robin Williams (in a rare burst of funniness, possibly because he's a cartoon genie so you can't see his smug face) points out the exits from the magic carpet: 'The emergency exits are located here, here, here, here, here, here and here.' My half-sister Jessica fell off the sofa laughing at that a couple of years ago, at the age of seven, and the memory of her stupid hilarity always makes me smile. It didn't particularly make me smile today but it took my mind off the fact that I am leaving everything I know, without a travelling partner. I wonder how Jess will have changed, next time I see her.
When they got to the bit about mobile phones, I remembered that mine was switched on, and retrieved it from my pocket, where it had been bruising my hip. I decided there was time for a quick call, and dialled the office.
'I won't be coming in today,' I told my secretary.
'Oh?' she said, and I could hear the distant sound of typing. 'Will we be seeing you tomorrow, do you think?'
'No, I don't think so,' I said, and that was as far as I got. The orange woman was by my side, having abandoned the pseudo-falling oxygen mask to attend to me. She leant across and took the phone from my hand.
'I was resigning from my job,' I said.
'And I don't care,' she replied. 'You know you're not allowed to use a mobile on the aeroplane. I'll look after it for you.'
'Where are you?' asked the phone in a tiny little voice.
The audience was loving this, in a snide way. I was the one-woman inflight entertainment, and we hadn't even taken off yet. By now the plane had taxied to the end of the runway, so Mrs Orange held on to my phone and flounced off to sit on her stupid jump seat.
'For fuck's sake,' I said. I had been planning a dignified and enigmatic exit, and now it was comprehensively ruined.
'You could have been speaking to the Queen, love, and it wouldn't have made any difference,' said the bald man, taking it upon himself to assume I was talking to him, which I wasn't. 'She could have been resigning as lady-in-waiting!' he added to the woman on his other side. 'It interferes with the radio signals,' he added, back to me again.
'I know,' I said, and turned to the window. Grey grey grey.
'So why do it?' he persisted, speaking loudly for the benefit of the neighbours.
'Fuck off, you cunt,' I said, for his ears only, and turned back to watch the take-off. And then we were gone.

As I reach across Baldie for my drink, I can see Mrs Orange taking in the fact that I am trembling and concluding that I am scared of flying. She smiles, now, with a modicum of faux-warmth, and hands me an extra little bottle of vodka, which I stow in the back of the seat in front. I have a look around inside, in case Baldie has left a copy of Playboy or anything else I can embarrass him with.
'Are you going to be all right?' she asks. She has mentally switched to the 'passengers with fear of flying' lesson.
'I expect so,' I tell her, and smile a little fake smile in the hope that she will keep slipping me alcohol without my having to ask for it. She probably used to be quite pretty before she toasted herself and bleached her hair to straw. I wonder what her boyfriend would be like. He probably wears a fringed suede jacket and tight trousers, and he'll be at least fifty, with tough skin as well. Matching leather. I wonder whether she ever shags the passengers. Only the desperate ones, I imagine. Perhaps she and this bald git will get it together later.
I see him looking at my shaking hand.
'Parkinson's,' I tell him.
The thing is, I'm not scared of flying. I love flying. It makes me happier than almost everything. It is unlikely, but it works. Mum used to spend the rare flights she ever took concentrating on keeping the plane aloft with her willpower, but I hand over that responsibility to science. Science, I know, will be better at it than Mother ever was, and even she never caused more than a little turbulence when her concentration lapsed. Quite apart from that, flying is the only time when responsible adults get to sit down, read, watch films, sleep a bit, and have meals brought continuously, with free alcohol on tap even in the morning. If they're sick, there's not only a bag, there's also someone who has to take it away with a smile. Someone whose job it is to attend to your comforts and needs. I'm surprised people don't enjoy flying more. It's not just a way of getting somewhere, it's a time to let go, for once, and let somebody else take charge.
Today, however, I appear to be in a bit of a state. Anyone would be, I suppose, with this much alcohol and this many drugs coursing around their veins, and after so active a night. My heart is still thumping from the stimulants. I had a last going-away party with my friends last night. We ate a Thai curry that I made Guy get, and we drank lots of wine, and I'd got the drugs in specially, and afterwards, when everyone had gone home, I let Tom stay the night, partly for old times' sakes and partly because I have no idea when I'll next get to have sex. After freezing him completely for three weeks, I needed his comforting familiarity. I still love him, and I thought I might have an outside chance of changing his mind.
It didn't work. An hour after going to bed I crept up again, and took my bulging backpack from the cupboard, and went outside to wait for the taxi. Tom and Guy had both said they'd get up to say goodbye, but when the moment came, I just wanted to go. I phoned Will on the way, because he was the person I most wanted to say goodbye to.
I look back on the life that I'm leaving and the unexpected way I'm leaving it. The crunch came on Sunday, three and a half weeks ago. I was in my flat, in a dressing gown I'd nicked from a hotel in France, in the middle of the afternoon. Tom and I were fighting, but I wasn't unduly worried because I knew we were actually doing it, going travelling in Asia, in less than a month. Meanwhile we were trading half-invented accusations and damning character assessments, almost mechanically.
'You think you're so fucking hot just because you're good-looking,' I told him. 'You think that means you can treat me however you want. You're just a spoilt brat, and you have no idea how people are meant to relate to each other, and it's all because you're insecure. By the way, you're getting really fat.'
'So I'm spoilt and insecure?' he asked. 'Well, at least I'm not sick enough to use my bloody mother as an excuse for everything when I didn't even care when she died.'
'You don't understand anything.'
'Well, in that case you'll be glad to hear that you won't have to put up with me much longer. I'm not coming away with you.'
'You fucking are.' This, I thought, was a particularly mean new tactic. I was occupied with where to go. I couldn't storm out, as I wasn't dressed because we'd been having sex all afternoon. The flat was so tiny that I couldn't slam a door without knocking something over. A window would probably fly open. A three-room flat above a porn emporium, which you share with Guy, is not a good place to argue. This hypothesis has been frequently tested, especially in the past month.
Tom came over to me and put his hands on my shoulders.
'Tans,' he said, 'I've been meaning to tell you this for a while, but the moment has never been right. I've cancelled my ticket, and got the money back, and I've arranged to stay on at work. I'm not coming. Really.'
I was stunned. I stared at him, trying to work out if he meant it. He continued, 'It was always your thing, going away. My heart was never in it but I went along with it because it meant so much to you. I never thought you'd actually do it. Now we can't seem to talk to each other for ten minutes without screaming, and I think you'll have a better time on your own.'
'But it'll be different when we're travelling.' I was amazed. 'That's the whole point. That's why it doesn't matter that we're fighting now. When we go away, everything'll be all right.' I said this clearly, explaining the obvious to a child.
'No it won't, Tans.'
I suddenly realised what he'd done. 'You fucking bastard!' I screamed. I looked around for something to throw at him. 'You've tricked me! You never ever intended to go, but you let me buy my ticket - you just wanted to get rid of me. You devious fucking arsehole. You've engineered it all to be shot of me. Well, you fuck right off. I'm never ever speaking to you again. Have a horrible life.'
He wanted to stay and talk, but I wouldn't have any of it. I wouldn't even look at him.
After he left, I got the bottle of wine out of the fridge and managed, through my tears, to open it. I poured it into a pint glass, put on my skiing socks for comfort, and picked up the phone. My world had collapsed.
'Go anyway,' advised Kate firmly. 'You should have got out of that relationship ages ago. This could be the best thing that ever happened to you.'
'Don't you think he's a horrible bastard? Isn't it the nastiest trick you've ever heard?'
'I don't think Tom's a bad human being, but yes, he's horrible for you and an awful boyfriend to you. You're not thinking of staying behind, are you?'
I nodded and grunted, and reached for the fridge, where I found an aluminium carton of cold noodles.
'You are, aren't you? Don't. Look at yourself, Tans. You're miserable. You need to stop drinking so much and cut down on the charlie. You need to get away from London. Not that I won't miss you terribly.'
I paused to execute an enormous swallow. 'Stop drinking?' We always drank.
'Not completely. Just stop losing control.'
'I do not lose control. It's not my fault.'
'Yes you do. Tom takes advantage of that. You should dump him, for good. Your relationship is no good for either of you. I mean, you can drink for fun, sure. Just try to stay in charge. Whether it's your fault or not, it's your responsibility. I mean, look at your mother.'
'Don't you dare compare me to her!'
So my best friend was abandoning me too. For the rest of the afternoon, I industriously devoted myself to the task of blotting out sorrows and shame as effectively as possible, by drowning them, snorting them, drowning them again just to be sure they weren't holding their collective breath, and writing them down. I decided I wouldn't go. I decided I had to. I didn't know what I wanted. I hoped I might wake up in hospital again. In a state that weirdly combined the anaesthesia of alcohol with the hyperactivity of cocaine, and with last night's remnants still swooshing round my bloodstream, I picked up the newspaper and flicked through, reading the headlines and nothing else. I had no attention span - it had been bred out of me by a job in which I had to read every paper every day, listen to the headlines, get to grips with a story just enough to pass it on, and then forget it. My social life was similarly a series of quick, cheap highs. My life was crap. Tom had walked out on me in a way that was, finally, unambiguous. My best friend thought I was out of control. Life was hopeless. The only person who might support me was Will, and he was in Scotland. I chucked down the paper and picked up another section, crying tears of self-pity.
'It's not my fault,' I said angrily as I leafed through the travel supplement. 'It's not my fault, it's not my fault.' I wondered whether Guy had any drugs in his room. I hoped he'd come home soon and sort me out. There was a travel feature about Vietnam. I didn't know whether to read it or not. Vietnam was our first stop. I could recite our fantasy itinerary in my sleep: Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore. Fly to Delhi. Go and see the Dalai Lama. Hang out in India. Fly home from Bombay. I knew nothing of any of those places. It was Tom's project, and all he'd been doing was finding obscure locations for my banishment. Sending me away for a fucking year.
I called Will. 'It's not fair, Will,' I complained. 'What shall I do? I can't go on my own.'
'Why can't you?' he asked. 'Of course you can. You want to travel, don't you? You've got the money, you've got the ticket, you've lost that deadbeat which is the best news I've heard all week - I think he's gay anyway. Go. For Christ's sake, I can't believe you're even considering not going.'
'Do you want to see the back of me as well?' I demanded petulantly.
'Sis, you can be a silly girl sometimes. I want what's best for you. So does Kate.'
I was distraught. 'I'm scared!' I wailed. 'I want someone to look after me.'
Some part of me was waking up and was displeased with what it was observing. Some little unaddled part was looking on coolly and wondering how it had come to this. Wondering who this pissed girl was, drinking herself into oblivion, refusing to accept responsibility for her actions, and heading, as though on purpose, straight, and with admirable singlemindedness, down a path to destruction thoughtfully cleared for her by her mother. That part of me knew there was only one option.
From my cooler, airborne perspective, however, I don't think that existence was so bad. I don't think it merited this drastic action. It didn't compare to Will's situation, for instance. I know who my parents are, or were. I've never had to worry about money. I've never been shunted between foster homes and I've never slept on the street except for the time Kate and I slept in the park when we were fourteen to see what it was like. No, my life was fine. I was simply suffering from Paradise Syndrome.
That was a bad afternoon. It isn't like I was always like that. The next day, supported by Kate and Guy, I decided to go, mainly because if I stayed, Tom would have me exactly where he wanted me. I phoned everyone I knew asking if they wanted to come with me, and hoping they'd advise me to stay, but they did neither. Every single person thought I should go on my own. So much for friends. I thought Tom was going to change his mind, but he didn't. He just said, 'Hey, cool. You'll have a better time on your own.' I walked away from him and, for the first time, I forced myself not to look back. Not for a while, anyway.
The orange woman is strolling down the aisle. I call her over.
'Yes, could I have another Bloody Mary?' I ask her. Then I remember, belatedly, to smile and try to ingratiate myself. 'Please?' I add. She is expressionless. Her skin clashes criminally with her red uniform. This airline should never have employed her.
The further I get into the unknown, the better London looks. Going away has, admittedly, been exceptional for my social life. For the past fortnight I have had dinner out every single night, and not only have I not paid once, I have also not put on any weight because of the rushing around I've had to do the rest of the time. People were remarkably nice, once they knew I was leaving. They bought drinks, gave me drugs, and told me secrets which made my own eventful life look like a Blue Peter summer picnic. Trevor, I learned, has closet heterosexual tendencies, while Miles, in the office, has thrice snogged Amanda, the best journalist in the place, even though Amanda's married and Miles is engaged. He doesn't seem to find a conflict between the repeated groping and the fact that he is shortly to promise eternal fidelity to his girlfriend, whom I've only met once and who seemed a bit of a drip; an earth-inheritor if ever there was one. Amanda, meanwhile, didn't know I knew and kept on about wedded bliss and how I must find myself a husband while I was away. 'It's not just that there's someone to cuddle up to in bed,' she explained drunkenly, 'it's the companionship, it's someone there you can tell anything to.'
'Anything?' I asked her.
'Yes, everything. Honestly, Tansy, you've no idea what it's like.'
I managed never to get so wasted that I let her know I knew. Normally I can't keep a secret when I'm drunk.
They make surprisingly good Bloody Marys on planes. I wish they still did peanuts, though. These biscuity things are a waste of time. If people are so feeble as to be allergic to nuts, they shouldn't be going to Asia.
Tom will have woken up by now and found me gone. I think the fact that I left without waking him means that I win not only that particular game, but also the set and the match. With any luck he'll feel like a loser, the one left behind while I jet off to the sun.
I found it hard, when I got up, to work out what was my heart pounding with excitement, and what was the coke. I think it was mainly coke. My travelling outfit was out neatly on the chair - black trousers, Ghost vest top for when I get there, with a cardigan for now, and my fur coat for leaving London in December. I had to wear tights - now ruined - under the trousers because it was so cold I could write my name on the inside of the window. The flat is usually warm because it's so small, and when it's cold indoors I know it's going to be freezing outside. Specially at night. My room was all packed up with boxes - my dear tiny boxroom - and my pictures were off the walls. It didn't look like my room at all. In fact, it isn't my room now. Dad'll collect my boxes this afternoon, and Guy's friend Mo will move in next week. So it's not my room and I don't live in Soho. I'm a nomad, a traveller, a tourist. I can't stand the word 'backpacker'. I'll never be one of them.
I crept down the stairs for the last time. Out on the street, life was still going on regardless. A bloke was pissing in our doorway, and just avoided splashing my shoes. 'Yer fuckwit,' I told him, still the inner-city dweller. I have long discovered that the only way to get through to the wasted people is to be - or act - wasted oneself. There were the usual Soho sounds of vomit and laughter. A prostitute tried to steal my cab, but she was no match for me. Not with her spindly little track-marked arms and her junkie confusion. One push and she was gone. I got my bags - my big backpack and massively oversized hand luggage - into the boot. The driver held the back door open for me.
The streetlamps lit up patches of Dickensian fog, and I could see my breath.
'There you go, love,' he said, and I got in and huddled up, smiling. Only here, I thought, would you find a cabbie with a Romanian Cockney accent. I tried not to look back. Once we turned off Old Compton Street, I explained to him what to do.
'You have to get me to Gatwick by six,' I told him, 'and don't speak until we get there unless it's a real emergency. OK?' The joy of Soho, I have long thought, is that you can be as rude or as weird as you want, and there's always someone worse.
'Keep on your hair,' he muttered, and I snuggled into myself, a blonde, urbane adventuress, going away while everyone else is either going home, or about to get up, or both (in which case they are bound for a crappy day at work). I watched the houses, all alike, pass by, with their curtains closed, their inhabitants sleeping, as London got grimmer and grimmer until we reached the airport.
Will wished me good luck again when I phoned from the taxi. He sounded quite touched that I'd called, even though I woke him up. Since the funeral, his life's been transformed. He's got a flat in Edinburgh which he rents with the money Mum left him, and as a result of that he's got a job. He's got me as family, and I've got him. He's being coy about it, but I think he's seeing a woman as well. An authentic rags to riches story.
'Take care, then, sis,' he said. I love being sis - my fond, ironic name. 'If anyone gives you any hassle, I'll come out there and do them.'
I hoped someone might phone me, but they didn't. Who would call, anyway, at five in the morning? (Tom? No.) Dad did phone, at the least convenient moment, when I was in the check-in queue, claiming he'd tried to ring last night but it was engaged all the time. Either that's true or it was a safe bet of a lie. He was up with Archie, he said, so he'd thought he'd give me a bell now. He held the phone to the baby's ear, and Archie allegedly said goodbye. He sounded quite cross about it. Archie is the youngest of Dad's dynasty, for the moment, and I am the eldest. Perhaps that means we should have a special bond.
'You've packed then?' Dad supposed sleepily.
'I'm at the airport,' I reminded him, 'and anyway, I did most of it last week.'
'Of course, you would have done,' he said. Then he tailed off pathetically. My father is crap, absolutely laughably hopeless. Archie started crying.
'Just like my mother.' I finished his train of thought for him. Just like she used to be, years and years ago. Archie screamed at this point. Dad always claims that his new family don't like being reminded of the fact that he had a family before, but what he really means is that Lola doesn't like anyone to remember that he was married when she met him, and indeed when they conceived Jessica. The children don't care at all. Though Archie now appears to have developed a sudden sensitivity, just to spite me. I can't say I feel any bond with Archie, or indeed with any babies. They're no fun until they can talk (even I admit it's fun teaching someone to say 'bollocks', as I did with Jessica). They also appear to do nothing for Lola, but it doesn't stop her dropping one about every six months and handing it over to an au pair. She must be crazy to trust my father with an au pair in the house.

There are no babies on this plane, which is something. I can hear my neighbour's conversation with the woman next to him, and count myself extremely lucky to be offensive enough to be spared.
'Going to Singapore, are you?' he begins. 'Well, I go often, and the thing I have noticed' - emphasising the 'I' as though that proved it really was interesting - 'is that although it is often considered the most, quote, civilised, unquote, of Asia's cities, it is mightily foreign. For example, you should stay out of the Indian quarter, where you might as well be in India itself - very much a case of hold on to your moneybelt. There's Little China. That speaks for itself. It is, quite literally, a little version of China. And you can't visit the city without going for a cocktail at Raffles. Now, I really insist on that …' On and on he drones. The woman on the other side of him, who probably lives in Singapore, is clearly bored.
I look to the window, and discover that it is still cloudy all around, which is disappointing. The world should be spread out below me by now. At this rate I'll need my fur after all.
This plane is full of people fleeing from Christmas at home, so desperate to escape the festivities that they trust a metal box to fly. They want an interesting New Year. One where they don't find themselves at a party full of their enemies, or standing on the pavement in the rain and realising it's ten past twelve, or indeed in hospital. My last New Year swiftly became a standing joke among all my friends.
I try to imagine this New Year, in a month. My challenge is to find something to do, and some people to do it with, by then. Tom and I were going to head for the countryside in the north of Vietnam, and do a bit of walking. At least, that's what we said we were going to do. We never would have done, really. Neither of us is strong on voluntary exercise. I imagine we would have been more likely to settle in a bar somewhere, and order champagne. I hope you can get champagne in Vietnam. It won't be much of a New Year if you can't.
I will meet people, I'm sure I will. I'll meet soulmates, other people like me. Whereas these people, my fellow flyers-away with the lack of style sense, will escape for a few weeks, and then, unlike me, they'll go back, smugly, to Britain in January, showing off their tans and complaining about the weather. Back to their stressful jobs and families, to drink too much, take too many drugs, work too hard and plan the next holiday. Most of these sorry people will either be staying in Singapore or flying on to unimaginative places like Australia. I bet I'm the only one flying on to Saigon.
I call the orange woman over and ask for neat vodka. She smiles patronisingly. 'You sad and pathetic loser,' say her eyes. 'Certainly, madam,' says her mouth.
It occurs to me that I like drinking, taking drugs, and working hard. I appear to have overlooked this fact lately. I've got into this dramatic situation because I wanted to make things work with Tom, and now I've lost him and I'm here anyway. I'm livid that nobody stopped me.
The person in front, who has dandruff, reclines his seat and crushes my knees. I think it's a man, but it could be a lesbian. I wedge my knees firmly into the small of his or her back and wriggle them around a bit. It becomes a battle of wills, but I get bored and recline my own seat instead to see the film. I feel someone's knees there, and hear a loud, male Australian voice saying, 'Why do I always sit behind the arsehole?' I turn round and smile. 'Sorry, darl,' he says politely. I flick him a finger so quickly that he'll wonder whether he imagined it.
The movie is Dr Doolittle, and I cannot bear to watch it, even ironically. I try to read, but can't concentrate. Instead I put my Walkman on to shut out the dreadful surroundings, and concentrate on how enlightened this trip will make me. There was enormous social mileage in going away alone; there will be more still in coming back having done it. I will be able to do yoga, to meditate without getting bored, to say, weakly, 'Just a cup of hot water for me, please,' when everyone else is having espressos.
Above all, I'll be skinny and brown. I'll wear little sarongs and tiny vests, and I'll stand around looking lovely and thinking deep thoughts. Tom will beg me to go back to him but I will have met someone intriguing and devoted, and I will look sorrowfully upon Tom and tell him not to dwell on what might have been. I'll tell him that it could all have been so different if he'd joined me on the spiritual and physical journey, but that now I have left him far, far behind. Perhaps I will have tales of soul-searching: 'I spent six months on a beach in Thailand staring into the depths of my self - it wasn't a pretty sight'; 'I sat in a slum in Calcutta with rats running around my feet and cockroaches in my hair, and I suddenly realised what true happiness was'; 'It wasn't until I'd lived in the monastery for three months that I truly felt free from the shackles of The West.' Yes, the year itself will be a small price to pay. I'll grit my teeth, and it will pass, and then I'll get to go home again.
In anticipation of how ill I will get in Asia, I consume everything in the plane lunch, including the chocolate, and two bottles of wine.
On the screen, Eddie Murphy is having a conversation with a hamster. I am glad to have left in the bleak midwinter. London has been unbearable: bitingly cold, dark grey, and grumpy, with 'Have yourself a merry little Christmas' playing in shops. I am on the way to Vietnam. I will be there tonight. This is a good thing. The beginning of my new, calm, Buddhist persona. Are they Buddhists in Vietnam? I don't think they're peaceful enough. I will become a belligerent Buddhist.
Baldie is asleep with his mouth open, exhausted by a bout of staring sidelong at my tits and picking his nose. His carefully tucked-in blanket has slipped off, revealing that his waistband is too high, bisecting his paunch. The woman next to him has wisely moved seats on some flimsy pretext or other. Here I am, leading the travelling life; rubbing shoulders with the kind of people I wouldn't speak to at home. He makes me feel sick. In Asia, however, people will be beautiful, and the other westerners will be similar to myself. High-powered, professionally successful, but open-minded and sickened by the materialism of their lives. I'm not sickened at all, actually. I like materialism. I am a material girl.
I open my little bag, which I wore under my cardigan so no one could count it as hand luggage. Time to touch up my lipstick. I've only brought three with me: an understated brown, a deep red evening colour, and, my normal colour, pale-ish pink. I figured I can easily pick up some more at duty free. I've also got a novel to read, a diary which I must try to remember to write so I can look back on it when I'm old (otherwise I'll forget I was alive at all, like the woman in the ward last year), hairspray, hairbrush and body spray. It was hellish having to pack so light.
In between fitful bursts of sleeping, I ponder my alarming situation. Although I've told everyone I'm staying away for a year, I don't have to. If travelling proves to be boring or slummy, or if I can't find anyone to talk to, or get malaria, then I can go back. I'll stay with Will, and I won't see my friends until such time as it would have been acceptable to decide that London really is the best place in the world, and give up on the rest of it. Meanwhile, I have a connecting flight to Vietnam in 90 minutes. Vietnam is a chic destination. I imagine it to be war ravaged yet laid back. I can make it amply clear that I am British and not American, thus not in any way responsible for horrible drawn-out deaths, napalm, birth defects et al. Nor am I French, so I am also not responsible for colonial atrocities. I am glad I'm going somewhere that, although comprehensively screwed, has not been screwed by the British. We're not that bad, really.
I disappear into sleep, which feels as fluffy and soft as the clouds that remain beneath the window.
Waking fuzzily, I have a minor panic as I realise I am late for work. Then I remember, and imagine, with pride, the office this morning. Probably at this very moment.
'Where's Tansy?' asks somebody, someone who doesn't know me very well. Let's say for now that it's Sarah because she hasn't been there long.
'Oh, she's gone,' says Miles-the-unfaithful. Paul, who is leaving as well, looks envious, because he's still working out his contract. He made such a big thing about leaving, and he's only going to another paper.
'She'll be in the air right now,' he calculates. A hush descends on our corner, the funky corner, and they all wish it was them. Ha. My desk sits empty and tidy, reproaching them for their staid lives.
I snooze again.

When we land in Singapore, Baldie smiles a wary, I-forgive-you goodbye. I forgive you because I lust after you. Or because I don't know if you were joking about the Parkinson's. He is one of the deluded people who leap to their feet the moment the wheels touch the runway and start getting their bags down, so they can queue in the aisle for ten minutes. He chucks down my coat.
'You won't be needing this!' he exclaims.
'Oh, I'm not staying in Singapore,' I tell him, being enigmatic.
'Oh no?' he says, lips flopping fishily. 'Where then?'
I try to think of somewhere intriguing yet cold. 'Tibet,' I say, in a moment of inspiration.
'Tibet?' He looks surprised. 'It'll be far too cold!' He can't think of anything else to say (no tourist tips to offer), so he begins to shuffle with the queue, even though we haven't reached the gate yet. People are just squashing up closer to each other to foster the illusion that they are progressing off the plane. Before he squeezes right away from me, I call over to him.
'Everybody else is probably too polite to tell you this,' I say loudly, 'but I think it's only fair to let you know that you have a significant body odour problem.'
The person behind him eases out of the crush and sits back down. A few people look at me on his behalf, with disgust, but the man himself doesn't look back. His whole head goes deep red. I feel slightly better. My hangover is beginning to disperse. The next one hasn't kicked in.