What Goes On Tour Camping – Chapter 1

Friday, June 28th, 1996 
London

5pm - Skipper and I walk hand in hand down the clattery metal stairs leading to The Pit - the bar where groups meet the night before they leave London to tour Europe. It’s lovely thinking that neither of us is meeting flocks. We can chat to any crew heading out on tour tomorrow, or any, like us, who have just come down to see who is around. We can have a drink, or two, or even three, and relax. We aren’t rushing around getting ready to head out on tour tomorrow. Bliss.

Our plan is then to go back to our double room for some late ‘afternoon delight’, before heading out for dinner together. This is what having a boyfriend should be about.
Skipper pushes The Pit door open and holds it for me to enter ahead of him, such a gentleman. We join hands again for the short walk from the door to the bar.

There are a couple of Terrific Tours staff, in their distinctive lime green shirts on the far side of the bar, but I can’t make out who it is from this distance. It’s still 30 minutes until the pre-departure meeting starts, so the place isn’t packed yet. A few tourists are milling around, looking at the posters of Europe on the walls, and a few small groups are drinking and chatting.

On the nearest side of the U-shaped bar, a woman sits alone with her back to us. She catches my eye as she’s wearing the most stunning shade of emerald green I’ve ever seen, in what looks to be a velvet dress. The late afternoon sunlight through the window behind her, and us, is illuminating her flaming red hair. The emerald green and the flaming red make a breathtaking combination.

As we get closer, she turns her head slightly to the left to look at something, or to look for someone. Her skin is milky pale, and her profile is striking. Her nose is a perfect ski jump, below her nose, full glossy lips are parted just a little, relaxed.

Skipper notices her too. He stops dead in his tracks, pulling me to a stop beside him.
‘What?’ I ask him. He ignores me.
‘Shona?’ He’s looking at the woman.
She turns her face further around when she hears her name.
‘Skipper! Aye, it’s me. I wasnae sure I’d find you,’ she says, in a broad Scottish accent. Her lips move into a smile. That smile is directed at MY boyfriend.

My blood runs cold.
Red hair?
Scottish?
What is she doing here?
What does she want with my boyfriend?
She had her chance with him, and she dumped him.
I prepare myself for a fight to the death. Perhaps a little over dramatic, but I AM ready to fight for my boyfriend.
When Shona swivels her bar stool and lowers herself to the floor, all the fight is knocked out of me.
Shona, from Scotland, is pregnant.