I tap Ruby’s voicemail next, her recorded voice erupting from my phone like hot lava.
‘Cleo babes!’
I raise the phone to my ear because wherever she called me from is noisy – a din of music and background voices.
‘I’m at that place, you know the one with the blue neon lights and the waiters in rubber trousers? And you’ll never guess who I think is over at the bar. That guy … ah fuck, what’s his name, the one from last summer, remember he had that part as an extra on Hunger Games and told us he’d met Prince Harry?’
Someone shouts something to Ruby, a harsh sound, and I hold the phone a little away from my ear.
‘Sorry, Clee, that was Helena, you know, the temp from my work? Someone spilled their drink down her dress and he’s bought us all shots to say sorry. Don’t think it’ll cover the cost of getting that dress cleaned though, whatever he was drinking was sick orange. At least she’s pissed enough not to care.’
Someone in the background is counting, loud and excited. I grimace at the sound of drunk people egging each other on.
‘Better go, Clee,’ Ruby shouts. ‘I’ll down an extra one for you.’
And then she’s gone, sudden silence, and I breathe out slowly. I watch my breath drift away down the cold Irish hillside, and not a single part of me regrets not being in that bar last night drinking shots of something that would have given me a headache this morning. I think back over Ruby’s message. She didn’t ask me how things were going, or even if I’d arrived safely. It felt more like a ‘look what you’re missing’ call than an ‘I’m missing you’ call. Not intentionally unkind, just a reminder of how breakneck London life can be, and how you can so easily get wrapped up in blue neon lights and rubber trousers.
It’s strange. I spent most of my teen years fixated on the idea of making the well-trodden pilgrimage to London, of living cheek-by-jowl amongst writers and publishers, of going to sophisticated parties where brogue-wearing literary agents laughed at my wit. But dreams change, or else people do. I know now that there are people who find the pace of the city suits their bones. Rubes, for instance. Then there are others who stay for a while and slowly realize it isn’t their for ever. Am I one of these? It’s a difficult realization to accept. If I am, where will I go? What will I be next?
I pocket my phone and check to make sure Mack isn’t in the vicinity, and then I cup my hands round my mouth and have a go at primal screaming. It’s feeble. I’m embarrassed. Clearing my throat, I swallow hard and have another go. This time, I really try to give it some welly and the sound that leaves my body is part strangled cat, part hulk with a throat infection. It’s not what I was going for. I get to my feet. Limber up. And then I roar, feeling the air around me displace with shock. Wow, that felt good. I roar again, a mountain （fine, large hill） lioness, throwing all of my frustrations behind the sound until my voice is hoarse and my shoulders ache with the effort.
Primal screaming isn’t on my Salvation bucket list, but it turns out it should have been.
As I walk slowly back down the hill, I resolve to be more positive. It’s only a week until Mack can bugger off. Because obviously he is the one who has to go: I’m here to literally figure out my life; he’s just here on some tourist trip. So until then I am going to be polite, maybe even nice, so I can bring him over to my way of thinking.
I’ll pretend I’m spending a week with a slightly annoying random room-mate, like they get assigned at American universities.
It’s raining again. I’m not even going to bother noting the weather down any more, people should just assume it’s raining unless I say otherwise. I’ve had the lodge to myself for the last couple of hours, a glorious taste of what it’s going to be like all of the time when Mack leaves. I’ve lounged in the bath and tried out the red-velvet armchair beside the fireplace, a perfect spot for reading or planning the future with a glass of wine. There’s a loaded bookcase I’m looking forward to exploring in detail, and a poke around in the cupboard beneath the TV offered up a few games – a deck of cards, Monopoly, a box of chalks. There are spirits too – tequila and a couple of different whiskeys. The TV doesn’t actually work; there’s a note in the handbook explaining that it’s really more of a monitor for the DVDs that are in a box on the bookcase. Actual DVDs! I didn’t look at them; I’m spacing out the moments of discovery for delayed gratification.