There are certain people who you meet in life, who you just know have been given to you by The Universe. I’m not wildly into all that stuff, so in theory the law of attraction shouldn’t work for me – apparently it only works if you truly, deeply believe, not just if you want to. I want to, and I try to visualise the things I want, but I find it difficult to see them through my own eyes. It’s as if I am looking down on myself, at my life, at my interactions with others – that I am not in control of my own destiny. When Carrie smiled at me in the bar – no, when she rolled her eyes in the travel centre, there was an instant bond. For me, at least. I recognised it because it’s not the first time it’s happened.
I think back to the moment that I first saw Sam. He was sitting at the bar, pint in front of him, chatting easily with the barman – I heard snippets of the conversation, something about United’s latest signing, and the state of the Champions League. I have no interest in football. I can’t even bluff it, like some girls can – knowing just enough to keep a man interested. Men are stupid when it comes to football. As soon as a girl fires off a useless nugget of information that is even remotely accurate, they hook on to it, and the entire game, the money behind it, the reasons for it all, are meticulously mansplained – making him feel superior, like he has explained a universal truth. While the girl smiles and nods and knows she’s achieved her goal, pardon the pun, as a brand-new shiny cocktail appears in front of her, and he slides his stool ever so slightly towards hers.
I’ve seen this happen so many times, and I’ve considered learning a small nugget of my own, just to get the reaction. But I’ve found it easier to go with my own plan – which is to feign absolute ignorance of all sports and to look positively bored when the man has floundered for another way to reel me in. I prefer my way.
I watch Carrie as she interacts with Rory. They are sitting on cushions, outside the ger. Smoking. Giggling. Martin is leaning back on his cushion, his face pressed into the guidebook again. I’m happy for a bit of quiet time to reflect, to watch.
Carrie is fascinating to watch.
Sam was fascinating to watch, too. I sat at a table in the corner, just far enough away so that I could see him, observe his mannerisms, hear snippets of his conversation. I liked his accent. I definitely have a thing for accents, especially on men. He sounded like he was from Essex, but trying to hide it. He wasn’t going for that over-the-top exaggerated take on the accent that most of the new wave of tedious reality stars are fond of affecting. I was interested in how his accent might change when his environment did – if others like him were to appear. It sounds like I’m watching wildlife – observing baboons in their natural habitat – but really, humans and animals aren’t so different at all. I know this. I watch them a lot. Watch, listen, learn. You have to know what you’re dealing with before you can try to infiltrate.
Sam didn’t notice me that night. Why would he? I did my best to blend into the background. I watched as others approached him. Men, women. Some that he clearly knew, some that he was only just getting to know. He was an interesting creature. I watched him snake a hand around the back of a thin blonde girl in an electric-blue shift dress, her spaghetti straps falling off her tanned shoulders. I watched as others gave him admiring glances from afar. The thing about Sam was, he wasn’t even my type.
Neither is Carrie.
I haven’t had many close friendships, with men or women. They seem to burn intensely like an oil fire, and then they are doused hard and fast, with barely a flutter of ash to remind anyone that they ever existed.
I need to do things differently this time. I don’t want Carrie to be extinguished too quickly. I need to feed this one more carefully, stoke the coals, add in just the right amount of accelerant to keep things exciting.
I lie back on my cushion, arms behind my head, staring up at the sky through the chimney hole. It’s a deep, bright blue, with perfect puffs of white cloud moving slowly away from us. I think of that song that all the stoners used to play in the nineties. The Orb’s ‘Little Fluffy Clouds’ with that piece of hypnotic sampling about the skies in Kansas, and I feel myself drifting into a trance. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the rhythmic sound of drums. The party is starting.