‘Exactly. Go for it, Libs, what have you got to lose?’
For the first time in years, I feel genuinely excited.
Chapter 4
I am jolted awake to the sound of the captain announcing in a thick Spanish accent that we are about to make our descent into Meh-hee-co. I blink myself fully awake. This is probably the third time I’ve woken during the flight in a cold sweat. The first time, I woke yelling, ‘I’VE GOT A TEXT!’ which seemed to confuse a lot of people and the cabin crew came running over to make sure my phone was in flight mode.
‘This is happening,’ I mutter. ‘This is really happening.’
The past week has felt like a bizarre dream. One minute I’m moping around feeling sorry for myself over Arrogant Josh, and the next, I’ve all but forgotten about him as images of Cameron fill my every waking thought. And when I found myself in London posing in a series of awkward angles. Hands on hips, twisting this way and that, pretending to laugh, pretending to look seductive, pretending to care about something meaningful, all I could think was, ‘What will Cameron think of these pictures?’. Even when they said, ‘Can you look less dreamy,as though you have something really, really important on your mind?’
I answered, ‘No problem.’ After all, my generation has literallyeverythingto worry about, but it was still a struggle not to think about Cam and his kind eyes and lovely smile.
‘I’m anxious about global warming, never owning my own home and my massive brand-new credit card bill because of all the outfits you want me to bring,’ I told them. To which they looked confused and said, ‘No. We meant just like what sandals are you going to wear tonight.’
In the end, they got fed up and told me to think about my moustache. Then they ordered me to go to ‘FacesRUs’ beauty salon nearby as a matter of urgency to get my lip threaded. They also advised me to get my roots touched up, my nails done, some Tatti lashes glued on, and my eyebrows shaped before they could go any further.
‘Will that salon do all of those things?’ I asked.
They sniggered as though I’d asked the most ridiculous question. ‘You’ll have to make appointments at lots of different salons, but tell them LoveIT sent you and they’ll squeeze you in. But tip big or they’ll do a crap job on you.’
They handed me a pile of fliers with salon after salon offering to transform my hair, nails and ability to lure men. It took a dark-haired, ponytailed lothario all of twenty seconds to chop off a third of my hair and snip, snip, snip into it. He fanned it out over my shoulders, making cooing noises as he admired his handiwork and then clicked his fingers for someone else to come and finish it off. I had little time to feel bereft at the clumps of hair lying around my feet because I was wheeled over to the sink and plonked on a vibratingchaise longueto have my head yanked back, massaged and conditioned. All for only three hundred pounds and thirty-six pence, which included a tiny paper bag, plus a tiny thirty-pound bottle of hair rescue serum toput in the tiny paper bag plus a forty-pound tip. Poor, poor credit card.
So here I am, hurtling through the Northern Hemisphere on my way to see Cameron IN REAL LIFE. All waxed, plucked and with a brand-new haircut (a long choppy bob enhanced with the eye-wateringly expensive beach waves and highlights). My stomach is full of butterflies and for the entire flight I have been imagining there will be an attraction between us. A bond. A special thing.
I am also hoping that Arrogant Josh will see me on TV and regret treating me so badly and I will be forever his ‘the one that got away’.
I bring up the list of information Cameron has sent through. Even just saying his name in my head is making me feel excited and mortified all at the same time. The thought of us together on a stretch of deserted white sand, turquoise water, warm sea breeze making our sarongs flap, cocktails in hand, is sending quivers up my spine.
I scroll past the information telling me that this year, theLove on the Islandexperience will take place deep in the sweltering rainforests of Mexico. I try not to think about dense tropical jungles, man-eating snakes, spiders the size of my own face and permanently damp sweaty hair. Because on the positive side, Mexico is the hummus capital of the world.
I find the information telling me that prior to the show, all potential contestants will temporarily stay in a holding villa on arrival. We will each have a chaperone to keep us company while we acclimatise to the hot weather. In bold letters there is a reminder that even though we have been selected, there is no guarantee that we will be picked to start the show as part of the original line up. It all sounds very uncertain. But even if I only get to meet Cam face to face so that I can make a good secondimpression, the trip will be worth it. Whatever happens after that, I suppose, is down to fate.
As the plane shakes its way down to the ground through a series of air pockets and light feathery clouds, the lush expanse of tropical forest comes sharply into view. The coastline is striking because there’s barely any difference between the vivid cobalt blue of the sea and the sky. They are separated by a thin strip of sand and what look like high-rise hotels. Then the sheer size of Cancun city appears below me and it is breathtakingly enormous. We swing out to sea and circle back around, flying low above the white beaches and dark green forest. There are perfect circles of vibrant turquoise waters dotted across the landscape that look otherworldly. The country is vast. Simply vast. As we touch down on the runway, the captain says something rapidly in both English and Spanish and before I know it, passengers are jostling to get out of their seats.
Once the jet bridge is fitted to the plane and people start to get off, I ease myself out of my seat and reach up for my travel case. Lois insisted I take some hand luggage, in addition to my two massive suitcases crammed full of clothes and impractical, sky-scraping sandals. It is all far too excessive, but she was adamant that I go prepared for any eventuality. At the thought of our teary goodbye, my soul splinters. We have not been separated like this since she was sent to Leeds for a nursing post, and I was shipped off to Durham on a teaching placement, during our university days.
I follow the crowd along the narrow bridge into the main terminal, tracking the signs to Immigration and Passport Control, down an escalator and across a large concourse that is rapidly filling with people making their way over to join theincredibly long queues. It takes me nearly an hour to get through to the baggage claim area where I look for the carousel with my flight from England on it. Every carousel is packed with people grabbing at luggage. I cast my eye around for a trolley and spot one in the far corner. It has been abandoned for a good reason, wonky wheels, but there doesn’t seem to be another one available. I half drag, and half push the trolley over to the carousel. Suitcase after suitcase spills out onto the conveyor belt. Soon, everyone has claimed their luggage but me.
I am hot. I am sticky. I am tired and I am on the verge of a substantial meltdown. I need those cases. They have all of the clothes, the sandals and the make-up I need to make myself lookLove on the Islandready. I cannot go on the show without them. A message pings into my phone. It is from my chaperone, CHAP 3, saying the driver is waiting for me at the exit and can I please hurry up or he will leave without me as he has another pickup to do, and I am making him late.
I explain to CHAP 3 that my bags have not arrived yet, and they reply to say that always happens, and that they will arrange for my suitcases to be delivered to the villa if they turn up.
If? If? IF?
This is doing nothing for my sky-rocketing blood pressure. CHAP 3 says the main thing is that I do not miss my lift and become stranded at the airport. The holding villa is in a secret location and only my driver knows how to get there.
OH. MY. WORD.
I swallow a lump of panic and clutch my carry-on case tightly. Thank goodness Lois insisted I take one. I make my way through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ doors where I am greeted by a serious-looking officer. He takes one look at my upset face and beckons me over.
‘You have things to declare?’ he says sharply.
I shake my head. I am struggling to hold back my tears as they pool in my eye sockets, ready to spill out. ‘I don’t even have any luggage to declare,’ I say mournfully. ‘My two suitcases, with everything I need to survive, have not turned up. I waited and waited and now my driver is going to leave without me. What will I do? I have nothing to wear. Ineedmy suitcases.’
He is not interested in my lost luggage or the imminent lack of day into nightwear options. Not in the slightest. In fact, it is almost as though I’d not even mentioned lost luggage.
‘Open,’ he barks.
