What I Did On My Holidays Read online

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am.’

  Oh dear. The downcast tone of his voice confirmed the worst.

  Never let it be said that my darling Callum didn’t have fabulous timing. On the dance floor, he never missed a beat. When it came to telling a joke, he always knew the exact right amount of time to pause before delivering the killer punchline. But having decided he was going to dump me, he was going to do so the night before our long-awaited two-week holiday in Majorca. My thirtieth-birthday holiday! What kind of timing is that?

  Over the course of the next ten minutes, the terrible truth came out.

  During the month that we had been apart, Callum had been doing a lot of thinking. He knew that I wanted to settle down eventually, so he thought he had better tell me sooner rather than later that it wasn’t going to be with him. We were neither of us getting any younger, he added, reminding me with a jab of my upcoming thirtieth birthday, which would fall smack bang in the middle of our holiday. What a great birthday that would be now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for me deeply, he said, or think I wouldn’t make someone a wonderful wife. It was just that he didn’t think he could give me everything I needed right now – he wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment with anybody, he added – and that realisation made him sad. It was best that we didn’t take things further. He didn’t want to mess me around. That’s why he wasn’t going to be coming on our trip.

  I couldn’t believe it. Callum and I had been planning our annual holiday for months. OK, so it’s perhaps more accurate to say that I had been planning that holiday for months, but I had no reason to believe that Callum was any less enthusiastic about the prospect of going away than I was. He knew it was especially important to me to do something different over my big birthday. I wanted to mark the occasion in style. And yet, with less than ten hours to go, when he was supposed to be at my flat in south London, eating a specially prepared Spanish-themed supper before we got an early night ready for our crack-of-dawn taxi ride to the airport train link, Callum was at his flat in north London, telling me, over the phone, that our eighteen-month relationship was over.

  Couldn’t he have dumped me after the holiday? That was my first muddled reaction. I asked him. Apparently not. Bless his sensitive little heart, Callum told me next he’d wrestled with the idea of going on the holiday and wielding the axe upon our return, but decided that ultimately I would be more upset if he came on the trip and dumped me as soon as we got back. Likewise, any effort he made to celebrate my birthday with me would only look deceitful in retrospect. Besides, knowing what was coming up would ruin the fortnight for him. How could he enjoy himself when he was already feeling so guilty?

  ‘It wouldn’t be honest,’ he said. ‘Not when I’ve already made up my mind to break up with you.’

  How thoughtful.

  I tried to stay calm. Callum and I had forked out the best part of £1,200 each for our flights and accommodation. Was he really going to junk that? If I could just get him to Majorca, I was sure all this nonsense could be sorted out . . .

  ‘You’re just tired,’ I told him, struggling to keep my voice calm as I brushed off everything he’d said. ‘You’ve been working so hard up there in Newcastle. Let me come over to your place and bring you some dinner. As soon as we’re back in the same room you’ll remember what it is you like about me,’ I added with as much humour as I could muster. Believe me, it wasn’t easy as the panic began to rise. ‘Please, Callum. You haven’t had a day off for a month.’

  ‘I have had a day off,’ said Callum. ‘I’ve had every weekend off, in fact.’

  ‘You said you didn’t . . .’

  ‘I just didn’t want to come back to you.’

  ‘What? Did you come back to London?’ I asked.

  ‘A few times. I hid out in my flat,’ he confirmed. ‘I kept the curtains drawn in case you came round.’

  Oh, no. All this honesty was too much. I had been pacing the kitchen as Callum and I talked. Now it was time to sit down again. ‘You actually hid from me?’ I squeaked.

  ‘I did. I had to. I just couldn’t face you. I’m sorry, Soph, but if I’m honest, I’ve been feeling this way for a lot longer than the past month. Us going out and working together too. There were times I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I thought being away from you for a while would make things better. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. But it didn’t happen. The longer I went without seeing you, the more I realised that I wasn’t really missing you. Not at all. And now I’ve got a fortnight off, I don’t want to spend it pretending things are still OK. I want to spend it on my own.’

  ‘You came to London and you didn’t see me?’ I was still stuck on that point.

  ‘I wanted some thinking time,’ said Callum. ‘It’s not a nice thing for you to hear, I know, but I wanted to get things straight in my head before I talked to you.’

  ‘And now you’ve got things straight in your head and we’re over?’

  ‘That’s pretty much it,’ he agreed. ‘Yes.’ He sounded relieved by my summary.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ There had to be someone else. What else could have happened to change his mind in such a short period of time?

  ‘There’s no one else,’ he promised me.

  ‘Then come to Majorca. We need to see each other right away. We can’t talk about this properly on the phone.’

  ‘I know,’ said Callum. ‘It’s not ideal. I really hate to do this to you other than face to face. I feel really bad about it, especially with it being your birthday holiday and all.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you come to my flat?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want you to persuade me to go to Majorca. Not when I’d made up my mind not to go.’

  But at least he didn’t expect me to miss out on that well-planned trip because of him.

  ‘We’ll see each other when you get back. You should still go,’ he continued. ‘I know how much you’ve been looking forward to it.’

  ‘I was looking forward to going with you,’ I reminded him. ‘I wanted to be with you when I turned thirty. How can I go on holiday and have a good time now that I’ve been dumped?’

  ‘Perhaps it will help you get over me,’ Callum suggested. ‘Two weeks in the sun. It will change your whole perspective, I bet. I won’t expect you to pay back my half of the accommodation, of course,’ he added generously. ‘Unless, maybe, you can get someone to go with you. If they could pay my half . . . that would be really helpful . . . I’ve had an expensive month.’

  Though obviously not because he’d spent a fortune on a birthday gift for me. ‘Who?’ I snarled. ‘Tell me who can I get to go with me to Majorca with less than eight hours until the taxi arrives to take us to the Gatwick Express?’

  ‘Um . . . you could tweet it,’ he said helpfully. ‘Someone might know someone with a fortnight off starting tomorrow.’

  Now I was angry. ‘You’ve ruined everything!’ I yelled.

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ he said.

  ‘There is every need to shout,’ I told him.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Callum. ‘I’m really sorry.’ He said it again and again, but he wasn’t going to change his mind. It was obvious to me that while I was sinking into despair, he was feeling happier by the second. The worst was already over for him. He’d done what he had to do. He’d told me we were finished. He’d handed over the baton of pain. I could hear the relief in his voice as the conversation began to wrap up. That tipped me over the edge.

  ‘Fine,’ I shrieked. ‘Fine. See if I bloody well care.’

  ‘You’ll have a great time in Majorca,’ he said as he ended the conversation.

  Have a great time? What on earth was he thinking?

  ‘Oh, I will,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll have a bloody good time. Just you see if I don’t.’

  So that was that. I heard nothing more from him that night, and yet as the clock ticked towards midnight, I was strangely certain that when morning came,
Callum would have relented. Back in his frankly grotty flat for the night, he would start to see the appeal of two weeks in the sun. And I was sure the thought of all that money potentially lost in a late cancellation would bug him too. So I formulated a strategy of sorts. I couldn’t sleep, but I was careful not to bombard him with texts and calls. Every time I had the urge to text, I made a cup of tea. I got through a whole box of tea bags. It was harder than I had ever imagined, but I told myself I just had to trust that if he thought I might be taking him at his word, he would wonder whether he’d made such a good decision.

  All was not lost, I promised myself. Our flight wasn’t until half past eight. As long as he got to my place by five thirty, we’d be fine. I’d check us in online. We’d just bring hand luggage. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get through security at that time in the morning. But five thirty came round without so much as an SMS from the man I loved. I sat by the door with my suitcase in front of me. I texted him one more time.

  ‘Please come. I can meet you at the airport,’ I said. ‘We can get separate accommodation. We don’t even have to sit next to each other on the plane.’

  ‘Your text woke me up. You’ve got to go on holiday without me,’ Callum replied. ‘We’ve split up. I’m not changing my mind. Bon voyage.’

  Oh! There was something about that ‘bon voyage’ that made me angry again. Angry enough to do something completely out of character. With that flash of rage empowering me, I thought I might just call his bluff. I thought perhaps I really, really could go on holiday without him. That would show him. Why should I miss out on my long-anticipated fortnight away just because he didn’t want to go with me? In a matter of hours he’d realise he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d change his mind. He’d probably book another flight and follow me. I would be there in Majorca waiting for him. I could see it now. I would be sitting at a bar by the pool, sipping a cocktail, reading my new Marian Keyes. And when he turned up, I would just say, ‘What kept you so long?’

  Yes, in my head it would all work out. I was going on my own. I pictured myself striding through Gatwick’s South Terminal looking like Cameron Diaz starring in the Hollywood version of my life. I was strong and independent and definitely not the kind of girl who would miss out on her thirtieth-birthday holiday because of some stupid man . . .

  But I couldn’t hold on to the vision for long enough to make it stick, and by the time the long-booked cab arrived, though I was sitting by the front door with my suitcase between my knees, theoretically all ready to go, my feeble confidence had ebbed right away. The taxi driver honked his horn antisocially. He did it again a minute later. Longer and louder this time. I had to go out to tell him that I wasn’t going to Gatwick before he woke the whole street up. I paid him £20 for his trouble, and then I went back indoors and slumped down on the floor like a sack of spuds.

  ‘We’re not going on a summer holiday . . .’ sang a little voice inside my head.

  Chapter Six

  What a disaster. Having sent the taxi away, the reality of my situation finally dawned on me. I really wasn’t going on holiday. Callum had dumped me. I should have been queuing at the check-in desk at Gatwick. Instead, I was sitting on my doormat, staring into space as though I had been hit on the back of the head with a mallet.

  For the time it should have taken me to get to the airport and check in, I remained in a ball of misery just behind the front door. I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my chin upon them. I placed my iPhone on the floor beside me and stared at that for a while, willing the damn thing to ring, but it didn’t ring. At half past seven, an email came through. I leaped to check it, sure for just a moment that Callum would have written to let me know more about his sudden decision, but it was only an email from a company selling cut-price swimwear. They were offering a further 50 per cent off their sale prices. Fat lot of good that was to me now, I snorted. When the email came through a second time, giving my heart another unnecessary jolt, I practically threw my damn phone down the hall.

  ‘Oh, Callum,’ I groaned, covering my face with my hands, ‘how could you do this to me?’

  The sudden change in my circumstances was surreal. Was there another Sophie in a parallel world preparing to board that plane at Gatwick with the man of her dreams still beside her?

  Outside my flat, London life continued as normal. The rest of the street was getting ready for the day ahead, for school and for work. My neighbour’s children – children I had only ever heard and never actually seen – had a ferocious squabble about who would be taking the Nintendo DS to school. Every word was clear through the paper-thin wall that divided our flats. Their mother intervened at top volume. The DS would be staying home. Later, I heard their front door slam and the noise of squabbling children drifted away down the street. Minutes after that, the guy who lived on the top floor of my building thundered down the communal stairs. Late for work again. It sounded as though he fell down the final four steps. He did quite a bit of swearing at the bottom. In the flat directly above mine, I heard the slower, quieter sounds of the old woman who lived there making her solitary breakfast. I heard her turn on the tap to fill a kettle. I heard the scraping sound of a chair pulled out from beneath the kitchen table. The same routine every day. Would that be me in fifty years’ time?

  The thought of a solitary old age jolted me into action. Callum and I could not be over. Not like this. I knew we had much more to talk about. I dragged myself from my spot in the hall to the kitchen table, and at the moment that our flight would have taken off, I began to draft an email to him, telling him what I thought we had to save. What about all the good times we’d had? We’d been joined at the hip for so long. I worked on that email for an hour and a half. Since both of us had the day off, I suggested, why didn’t we get together over lunch and have a proper discussion about it face to face? If I could just persuade him to see me, if I got myself dressed up and did my hair and acted like it didn’t really matter, I was sure he would reconsider. I was reading my hopeful entreaty through a final time to make sure it was perfect before sending it when an email from the office came through.

  It was from my nemesis Hannah. It was entitled ‘WTF’.

  To: Sophie Sturgeon

  From: Hannah Brown

  Re: WTF

  6 Jul 2011 10:10

  Callum has just walked down the corridor. I thought you guys were supposed to be leaving for Majorca this morning. WTF is going on?

  Of course, while I was sitting on the floor feeling sorry for myself, I had considered the horrible prospect of having to tell everyone at the office that Callum and I had split. I’d felt my stomach turn as I thought of Hannah and Alison’s snake-eyed sympathies. They wouldn’t care about my pain. Far from it. In fact, I wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised if Alison, upon hearing the news, immediately rushed off to offer Callum her bosom to cry upon.

  Telling my workmates was always going to be awful. However, it had not occurred to me that the terrible moment would have to come so soon. It had certainly not occurred to me that Callum would decide, since he wasn’t going to Majorca, that he wouldn’t take his annual leave after all. I felt dizzy as I imagined him going about his daily life as though nothing had happened, putting on his suit and tie and going into work, while I had been sitting at my kitchen table, my life in suspension, writing an email that begged him to reconsider our split.

  I was desperate to know what reason he had given for his unexpected reappearance at Stockwell Lifts and how he seemed to feel about it, but at the same time I didn’t dare ask Hannah for more information. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for Hannah to offer up more information herself. Five minutes after the first email came another one.

  To: Sophie Sturgeon

  From: Hannah Brown

  Re: WTF

  6 Jul 2011 10:15

  OK. So I cornered him over by the coffee machine. I said, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on holiday with Sophie?’ and he told me that you’
ve gone to Puerto Bona by yourself! Email me at once and tell me why you’re in Majorca and your boyfriend is still in this shit-hole.

  Where should I start? Evidently, Callum had not told her that we had split up. At least, not yet, but I was only halfway through crafting my reply by the time Hannah emailed me again.

  This time, her email was entitled ‘WTF!!!’ with three exclamation marks.

  Callum just told Alison that you two have split up! That is crazy. Are you telling me you broke up right before you were setting off on a romantic holiday? What happened? When? Last night? This is incredible. I thought you two were heading for the altar.

  That last bit dripped insincerity – Hannah had never said any such thing to me. In fact, she’d often implied the exact opposite, given Callum’s reluctance to introduce me to his family or spend any of the big annual holidays with me – but once again, I didn’t have time to respond before Hannah continued.

  So it was his decision! I went over to his office on the pretext of borrowing a stapler and asked him if he wanted to talk about it. He said he didn’t think it was fair on you to say much about the situation, but he did tell me that it was he who ended it. God, Sophie, you must be gutted. I know I would be.

  Hannah’s email was swiftly followed by an email from Alison, who had been the first to hear the news from the horse’s mouth.

  ‘I am so, so sorry,’ she wrote. ‘I can’t tell you how bad I feel on your behalf.’

  Yeah, right, I thought. I imagined Alison pulling her blouse over her head and doing a victory lap round my desk. The idea of her knowing that Callum was single – however temporary I hoped it would be – made me very nervous indeed.

  Then Mary, who scheduled the lift engineers’ site visits, texted to find out if the rumours were true. She’d never heard anything so awful as being dumped before a fortnight away, especially with a big birthday right in the middle of it. And then Candace, Callum’s own PA on the Newcastle project, emailed to ask if I was OK, since Alison had telephoned to tell her the whole story. I couldn’t believe it. I had been thinking I would have at least two weeks to get used to the worst having happened before I had to tell the witches in the office and already the news of the break-up was spreading like a fire in a tissue-paper factory. Soon, it seemed that every woman who had ever worked for Stockwell Lifts had emailed or texted to offer me her support. My iPhone had never been so busy. Buzz, buzz, buzz every thirty seconds. I imagined Hannah writing a bulletin for the Going Up blog or, God forbid, mentioning the disaster on Twitter. At this rate by twelve o’clock it would be on the BBC news.