He surveys me in the rearview mirror, and I’m slow to muster a smile.
“Cheer up, love,” he says, in a soft, deep voice.
And that does it. Something inside me snaps, and before I can stop myself, I bite back.
“I am allowed to look grumpy if I want to. It is my face and my prerogative not to smile. You don’t know what’s going on in my life, and it is not my responsibility to make the world a prettier place for you, OK? So just keep your eyes on the road, please.”
His dark eyes grow wide in surprise, and he dutifully returns them to the tarmac ahead. I know I should stop talking, rein it in, but it’s like this bubble of rage has been sitting in my stomach for I don’t know how long—but now that I’ve popped the cork, out it spews.
“And you know, maybe I don’t want to look cheerful. Maybe I’ve got nothing to look cheerful about. Maybe I’m doing everything wrong and I’ll have ‘died with unrealistic expectations’ engraved on my bargain basement headstone.”
I sink back into the seat, having scared myself a bit. I’m not sure the author of Tiger Woman meant me to “unleash my inner roar” on a poor, unsuspecting stranger.
“You’re over from London then,” says the driver, shifting awkwardly in his seat.
Oh right, so now he thinks I’m some angry city cow. It’s not city living that has made me angry. I cross my arms and turn to glare out of the window at the evening sky. We’re driving along the seafront now, a huge expanse of dimpled, wet sand merging into a gray-blue sea. I try to catch my breath, taking a moment to absorb the sight.
The driver is watching the road, his shoulders relaxed, a finger tapping on the wheel, unflustered by my outburst. Obviously, I should apologize. I know I’ve overreacted and none of what I’m feeling is this cabdriver’s fault. But if I try to be nice, I think I might cry, and I really don’t want to cry on him—that would be even more awkward than him thinking me rude.
* * *
*
I’m booked into the Weighbridge, a hotel on a cobbled square in the center of St. Helier. It’s got a spa, several restaurants, and a beautiful view over the harbor. Ridhima, one of the assistants at work, got me a great deal as long as I hashtag the hotel in social media posts. At first glance, it seems the ideal central location from which to explore the rest of the island.
As we arrive, I snap a quick photo out of the window for Instagram.
“Thank you,” I say to the driver as he drops me off. Giving him a hefty tip, I mutter an apology.
“Good luck,” he says, in a way that implies I’m going to need a great deal of it because I’m clearly bonkers. Fair enough really, given my earlier meltdown.
My hotel room is exactly what I need: clean and comfortingly neutral. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a hotel alone before—only ever with a friend or boyfriend. Do I wish David were here? No, he’d only be calling the front desk to inquire about the duvet tog rating or checking if the TV has Sky Sports. I shall relish the luxury of having a king-size bed, a giant bathtub, and all this space just for me. I start running a bath and take a small tub of Pringles from the minibar. I know these things are a rip-off, but since my outburst in the cab, my hands won’t stop shaking. I need to give them something to do.
Who was that person who exploded at that poor man? That wasn’t me; I don’t get angry like that. I didn’t even know I was worried about any of that stuff. I know I’ve been a little all over the place since losing Mum, but deep down, I’ve always felt like an optimist. Maybe what Dee said in the car got under my skin, about needing to be realistic when it comes to love. Maybe I just need to accept I’ll never be the happy-go-lucky person I was before Mum died.
I pour myself a strong gin and tonic and open the balcony window to look out at the cobbled square and the harbor full of boats beyond. The sound of people enjoying themselves in the bar below rises up to meet me. Walking back to the bathroom, I turn off the bath tap and splash my face with water. Don’t waste this weekend being melancholy, Laura—this should be a happy weekend, a celebration of what your parents had, an adventure discovering your Jersey heritage.
Pulling my bag onto the bed to unpack, I notice it feels lighter than it should. Then I see the zip color is wrong; it’s dark gray, rather than black. I frown as I open the case; on top is a man’s white work shirt, a travel-size stick of men’s deodorant . . .
For a moment, I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. These are not my things; this isn’t my bag. As it dawns on me that I have picked up the wrong case, I close my eyes for a moment. This is all I need; now I’ll have to go all the way back to the airport to retrieve mine.