Touching down on British soil, to the driving wind and rain didn’t do anything to improve my mood. Weariness also added to my depression and as we queued with the remainder of the passengers through passport control and baggage collection, it was impossible not to wish I was back in the land of Turkish sunshine. I had managed to text a very quick message to Ahmed before the plane took off but I really needed to talk to him.
As we trudged past customs, my friend suggested we stop for a little breakfast at one of the airport cafés as we had a little time before the transfer bus would pick us up. Imagine my surprise when I spotted a familiar and unwelcome individual standing by the arrivals gate clutching a sorry-looking bunch of flowers. It was none other than Serial Shagging Simon, my cheating ex fiancée waiting alongside other friends and relatives welcoming loved ones home.
As he approached us, he said “I remembered you’d be flying home today and looked up your arrival time on the internet; thought you’d like a lift”. As I opened my mouth to tell him that I would rather walk barefoot across broken glass and then bathe in vinegar; my so-called friend shoved me aside and gave him her trolley to push, abandoning me to soldier on with my duty-free laden luggage alone.
Fortuitously, my friend jumped into the front passenger seat of Simon’s car, leaving me to climb into the back. Owing to the three cans of energy drink she had downed on the flight, she wittered on non-stop for the duration of the journey with the cd blaring away in the background; but all was not lost as this provided me with the perfect excuse to have a nap during the drive home.
Once back in the old hometown and with my friend deposited at her flat, Simon decided to take the scenic route to my parents’ house. “I’ve missed you” he said with James Blunt playing in the background. “I’ve never stopped wanting you”. Unimpressed with his declaration and even more so with his choice of music, I pointed out that I wanted to be spoon-fed chocolate mousse by a nubile sex god, but clearly that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon either; and that life was full of disappointments.
“Look, we’ve got to talk” he continued as my parents’ house came into view. “You see the thing is, it’s not working out with me and Sharon …” As he pulled up outside the house and unloaded my cases from the boot. I handed him some spare change I had in my pocket and said “Tell you what Simon, why don’t you take that and go and phone someone who cares”. And with as much dignity as I could muster, I carried my suitcases up the familiar old garden path and into my family home.
“This isn’t over” he shouted at the slamming door.