Page 18 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘Thank you.’ I glanced outside. Most buildings were either boarded up or abandoned; there was a pile of rubble on the opposite side of the street and the view of the sky was obscured by an overhead lattice of thick cables and wires, some of which hung dangerously low. Was I ridiculous to be attempting this trip, I asked myself? I could have been on a beach in Florida now, watching the sunset with a cold drink in my hand.

‘You’ll be quite safe, honey,’ a woman piped up in an American accent. She was sitting on the floor with her laptop plugged into a power point, a steaming cup of tea beside her. ‘Five minutes in that direction,’ she jerked her head, ‘you’ll be right in the centre of things. There’s even a Starbucks if you’re not up to experimenting yet.’

‘Thanks.’ I replied, mildly affronted that I looked like someone who would only stick to international chains when abroad. Starbucks, though … what an unexpected treat.

‘Perhaps you would like our chauffeur, Lila, to take you somewhere?’ asked the receptionist.

The chauffeur, who’d been watching TV in the lobby, gave me a toothless smile and waved his hand towards the minibus which had collected me from the airport.

‘That’s very kind, but I think I’ll take a walk and get some air.’ My knuckles were still white from the journey, and I was feeling queasy.

The hotel was costing me about twenty pounds per night, so I hadn’t expected to be picked up in a limo. But neither had I expected the taxi to be crammed with five large men on what seemed to be the equivalent of an Indian stag weekend, or missing a driver’s door, seat belts, and a chunk of the floor near my feet where the metal had rusted through.

I picked up my backpack and, remembering the warning from the woman in the loo about leaving luggage unattended, I collected my suitcase and set off through the narrow pot-holed streets in search of coffee.

‘We’re not in Honeybourne anymore, Toto,’ I misquoted to a small fat puppy fast asleep behind a lamppost. I bent to stroke it before the dangers of rabies came back to me, and straightened again. ‘Sorry, pup. Better safe than foaming at the mouth.’

I knew from the guidebook I’d bought at Heathrow that the tourist centre was called Thamel. And within minutes I found myself in an area where ribbons of fluttering prayer flags criss-crossed the streets. It was crowded, colourful and confusing; a cacophony of sound making my head spin. People advertised their wares at the tops of their voices; they tooted car horns, revved scooters, and blasted music from doorways. My ears rang with the melodic sounds of singing bowls being thrust in front of me and demonstrated by insistent sellers. Cashmere pashminas, silk scarves and yak blankets in every size and hue were waved at me, along with buddha statues, incense sticks, and elephant-printed baggy trousers.

Brontë would have loved it, but I was tired from my travels, overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle. Plus, I was having major regrets about bringing my suitcase with me. What had I been thinking? It was impossible to steer the wheels over the cobbles and I kept bumping into people. I felt stupid, naive and very alone.

Finally, my senses overloaded and my stomach rumbling, I found a café with a menu in English, which lured me in with the smell of freshly roasted beans and the promise of high-speed internet.

As soon as I was settled with a large coffee and a cake, I logged onto the wi-fi.

Instantly a barrage of emails came in from ShopSwift. George wanted me to read over a report he’d written, the finance department had a raft of queries on recent invoices, Anna messaged to wish me luck and remind me that under no circumstances should I respond to any work emails and, disturbingly, Lee wanted details of the terms I’d agreed with Vap-A-Rise. I answered all the emails except the one from Lee, to which I replied by reiterating Anna’s instruction not to do any work and referring him to her. I felt a prickle of unease at the thought of him muscling in on my clients as soon as my back was turned, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Correspondence complete, I FaceTimed Kat.

‘Mags!’ my sister squealed. ‘Thank goodness you’re still alive. I haven’t slept since dropping you off at the airport.’

‘Ditto.’ I said, yawning.

‘Hey, I bumped into your friend Sadie yesterday.’ Kat stifled a yawn of her own. ‘She had no idea you were going away and said you haven’t been at book club for months. Why’s that? You loved it.’

A memory flashed up of the last time I’d seen the group; the anxious expressions, the too-tight hugs, all of them walking on eggshells, trying to say the right thing.

‘I left,’ I confessed. ‘I made them feel awkward. No one likes to moan about their kids when your friend’s only child is dead. I felt like a constant reminder to them to count their blessings.’

‘Oh Maggie.’ Her expression melted. ‘That’s so sad.’

I shrugged. ‘That’s life. Anyway, I’ve lost my reading mojo, so it’s probably for the best. So do you want to hear about my trip so far?’

I told her about my two long flights and the journey to the guest house in the rickety minibus and how I’d seen a cow wandering down the street on its own. I missed out the bit about the doom-monger with ringworm at the airport.

A waiter approached me to take my empty plate. ‘Can I get you anything else, mam?’

I was still hungry. I’d only eaten airline meals and snacks for the last twenty-four hours. I tried to see what other customers around me were eating, but all I could surmise was that they were enjoying it, whatever it was. ‘Yes please, what do you recommend?’

‘First time in Nepal?’ He nodded at the guidebook on the table.

I nodded.

He opened his arms wide. ‘Then it has to be dal bhat.’

‘Sounds great,’ I said, not quite sure what I’d agreed to.

‘What’s Brontë’s itinerary for the next few days?’ Kat asked.