Friday the 13th

“There must be something we can do?”

He starts shaking his head before I’ve finished speaking.

“We can't, I'm afraid. It’s a government rule. If we let her fly, we’ll get an instant fine  – and they’ll probably send her straight back at passport control.”

“Can’t you just pretend that you didn’t see it? That you didn’t check it properly?”

He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to kill an old lady with his bare hands.

“No.”

There has to be a way – there’s always a way, isn’t there? This can’t be happening. We’re at the gate, I can see the stupid fucking plane. We’ve got speedy boarding for god’s sake. Why are there so many made up rules in this world? 

“Oh come on. Can’t you just let her on? Please. It’s my sister’s 40th.”

Pathetic. As if he gives a shit about a stranger’s birthday. I should have said someone was dying.

“Please?”

He’s had enough of me. A woman with pearlised eyeshadow and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes has joined him as back up: the heavy. 

“Sorry, you can’t travel to Europe without at least three months on your passport. There’s nothing we can do”, she says without blinking, her tone unmistakably final. 

Well that’s it then. It’s over. All our plans turned to merde.

My sister is going to be gutted if Abby can’t come. Abby (who couldn’t wait for this weekend) is going to be gutted. But it’s not just about that, is it? I don’t even have to say it — she knows.

“Right. Bita, you’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a grown woman – you’re 44 years old for God’s sake – you can do this.”

The duo of doom are looking at us in amazement. 

“I’ll send you the boarding pass and you’ve got your passport.”

“No, I can't go on my own. You know I can’t. I don’t want to!”

Abby smiles the knowing smile of a wise old owl. 

“Look, you don’t have a choice, so you’re just going to have to get on that plane by yourself. You can do it, you’ll be fine. Bita. You. Will. Be. Fine.”

Look at her. She’s like Mr Miyagi. Or Yoda. Or Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society. This is why I need her with me! 

“But what about when I get there?” I try to make my voice sound as unpanicked and unwhiny as possible. 

“Just do what we were going to do — get an Uber to the place.”

My heart is pounding.

Me, getting on a plane on my own. Walking around the airport in Paris, on my own. Looking after my passport, my bags, ON MY OWN. 

“No, I can’t go on my own! I’m not doing it!”

I resist the urge to stamp my foot, but the tears are brewing.

“Bita, you’re being mental. I’m going to try to find another way to get there. You have to get on this flight. Just go – you’ll be fine.”

It’s happening. I have to accept it.

We say our goodbyes and I watch her leave.

And now I’m all alone.

Affecting my most imperious posture, I walk past the dicks at the desk, into a gate full of strangers.

In case the above hasn’t made it abundantly clear: I don't like to do things on my own — not beyond the walls of my house. I’m the absolute antithesis of an independent woman. I hate being out in the world without a companion.

Sure, I can just about sit in a coffee shop by myself (a relatively recent achievement). But travel? On a plane? To another country? I’ve never even contemplated doing such a thing. And now, I feel… abandoned, terrified, like I imagine children feel when they’re put on a flight with instructions to meet a designated adult on arrival. Except there is no adult waiting for me at the other end. Just the promise of me having to find my way to where I need to go, ideally without losing my things or getting killed. It’s not a fun prospect. None of it is. Sitting on a plane with nobody to chat to, no vibes. It’s going to be boring. You can’t have fun alone, that’s just a cold, hard, shitty fact. Everything about being solitary is necessarily quiet, contemplative. It’s a frozen fjord, it’s a silent disco, it’s lasagne for one. I can read my book, sure, but there’ll be no jollity, no frivolity. I’m not going to laugh – not unless I want to look completely insane. What would I be laughing about anyway? And strangers will talk to me – yes, I’ll be a magnet for other loners, the friendlies, like this one:

“You going to Paris?”

I mean we’re sitting in a gate for a Bristol to Paris plane, so, no, I’m going to Timbuktu. 

“Yes.” I smile. Should I ask her the same pointless question? Feels rude not to.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, we’re going to a dance festival – there’s a whole group of us.” She waves her hand in the general direction of everyone. Maybe they’ll all come over and then I’ll have to chat to all of them. Maybe we’ll exchange names and then I’ll be expected to remember their names and pretend to be interested in what they're saying until it’s time to get on the plane. I don’t want to make new friends. I was quite happy with the one I had, the one that got sent away.

“What are you doing in Paris?”

I thought it was over, but apparently we’re just getting started.

“It’s my sister’s 40th.”

“Oh she lives in Paris?”

I’m trapped. Locked in a labyrinth of questions.

“No, she lives in London. We’re just going for the weekend.”

“Oh lovely, how long you going for?”

God damn you Abby and your stupid stupid passport stupidity.

“Just until Sunday.”

“Ahh I love Paris.”

She says it the way someone would say ‘I love rattlesnakes’. As if loving Paris is actually quite rare. As if she’s going right against the grain with her love of Paris.

I smile. “Yeah”.

“My name’s Jenna by the way.”

Oh good, we’re exchanging names.

“I’m Bita, nice to meet you.”

Beat.

I take this opportunity to reach down and pull my book from my bag. I open it and start reading. Or I try to. I read the same line seven times, but it won’t go in. Not with Jenna sat next to me. I can sense that she wants to keep talking. Urgh, this is why I need someone with me – as a force field, a flesh and bones barricade against the world. I need back-up, reinforcement. If Abby was here, we could sit in companionable silence – companionable being the operative word. I could read my book safely in the comfort that nobody would be trying to exchange pleasantries with me, because I was with someone. When you’re alone, you're exposed. You’re weird. Like the Elephant Man; a lone figure in the centre of an anatomical theatre, packed with peering inquisitors. That’s how I feel – like a big weird freak, sitting in a room full of strangers. It’s always been like this. 

I remember getting the bus home from town as a teenager and begging Abby (the same, long suffering Abby) not to get off at her stop and instead come back to mine so that I wouldn’t be left to travel the remaining eight minutes alone. What was I afraid of? What am I afraid of now? 

The most obvious answer is other people. Strangers. What they might say, what they might do. They’re threatening, unknowable, and sometimes they smell. For all I know Jenna could be the head of a human trafficking ring or a passport thief or a psycho with a burgeoning penchant for cannibalism. And on the off chance that she isn’t a hardcore criminal – even if she’s queen of the fucking philanthropists – she’s still going to talk to me, and make me talk to her. It’s a shit sandwich. At worst: I’ll end up dead (and possibly eaten), at best: trapped in a tedium that will make me wish I was dead.

But it’s not just the botherers and the cannibals that I’m afraid of. It’s me. I’m afraid of myself. I feel… inept. I want someone else to do the thinking, the passport holding, the adulting. I want a carer, a mum of sorts. And here I am, on my own, about to travel to a different country with only myself to rely on. I’m basically a marmalade sandwich away from being Paddington.

They’re saying something over the tannoy. Speedy boarders are being called to get on the plane – that’s me! I’m a speedy boarder! I shove my book in my bag, open Whatsapp and check the boarding card that Abby’s sent me. 4C and 4B – although obviously one of those will be empty. I get up and join the small queue by the door.

“What seat number are you?”

It’s Jenna. My very own Chekhov’s Gun, back for the final act.

“I’m 4C.”

“Oh I’m 4A!”

Of course she is. My brain moves like a Cheetah on Red Bull. Maybe I can stack both of my bags on top of each other on the empty seat? Yes, that’s what I need – a physical barrier, a wall! Feels a bit Trumpian, a bit cunty, building a wall to keep Jenna out. But who am I kidding? I’m definitely going to give it a try.

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So this is 44

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I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now