THE RELUCTANT ROADTRIPPER

Fort William, Scottish Highlands

Pet peeves. I have a lot of 'em.

I loathe surprises for a start. If anyone ever tries to throw me a surprise party, I fully intend to disown them (I'm harsh like that). And I actively search for spoilers on TV shows I'm watching because I can't stand not knowing what is going to happen in advance. (I know, it's bloody weird.)

I also hate "staycations". I even despise the actual phrase - it makes no sense to me. And, when I go on holiday, I want to be as far away from home as I can possibly be. (I have my reasons. They're coming, I promise.)

Oh, and of course, like I'm sure we all do, I detest hangovers.

Which brings us to this morning. And the hangover that might finally kill me.

My stomach lurches as I try to sit up and peel my eyes open at the same time. I manage the sitting-up part only; multi-tasking is clearly not on the agenda yet today. There is banging inside my head.

Oh, wait, there's banging outside my head, too. Someone is knocking on the hotel room door. Loudly and repeatedly.

"Mirren! Open up!" Recognising my best friend's voice, I practically topple out of bed and stumble blindly towards the door.

"You look as bad as I feel," Vanessa says as soon as she sees me. She has a bottle of water in one hand and a packet of paracetamol in the other, and she extends both towards me. "I thought you might need these."

"And I think you might be my guardian angel," I reply gratefully, taking a massive gulp of water. I place the painkillers on the bed for now. I'm not quite sure if pills will stay down yet.

For someone who apparently also feels hungover, Nessa appears - on the outside at least - to be as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Clear-faced, shiny hair, sparkling eyes. I, on the other hand, look like I should be hiding under a bridge somewhere waiting to scare the Three Billy-Goats Gruff. But I learned a long time ago that hangovers aren't created equally. I suppose I should just be glad they largely haven't gotten worse as I've gotten older, as so many people have promised me they do.

Apart from this one, of course . . .

"You need to get a move on," she tells me briskly. "The bus is picking us up in fifteen minutes."

"Shit," I mutter, scanning the disaster zone that is my room. The contents of my suitcase, so neatly packed yesterday, are now spread out all over the floor; Marie Kondo's worst nightmare. Jumbled up and hopelessly tangled, much like my messy recollections of the last twelve hours or so. Nothing is sparking joy right now, that's for sure.

What possessed us all to get so drunk last night? I wonder now. After we disembarked from the train in Fort William and dropped our bags off at the hotel, we had decided dinner and "a couple of drinks" would be nice. The sensible option.

Famous last words.

Cut to two a.m., and all four of us somehow found ourselves at an impromptu house party, hosted by one of the locals we'd met in the Wetherspoons a few hours earlier. Doing shots and . . . Oh fuck, did we end up playing strip poker? A memory, fuzzy around the edges, returns to me, and I shudder as I recall tossing my bra across an unfamiliar living room. I'd never understood the rules of poker, so that would certainly explain why I potentially ended up with my tits out.

That was my favourite bra. I really hope I retrieved it. Right now, in the mess that is my room, I have no way of telling.

Nessa leaves me to check on the others, and I start throwing everything back into my suitcase without any care whatsoever, whilst frequently dry-heaving. My dry eyes protest as I force my contact lenses in, and brushing my teeth nearly prompts me to puke. How on earth am I going to survive a journey in a mini-bus? How will any of us? I'm already pitying the driver!

When I tumble out onto the pavement, a mere five minutes late, Michelle and Debbie both take one look at me and start laughing. That's not exactly reassuring.

I dont think I can really blame them, though. I must look a bit of a sight in my massive sweatshirt and wrinkled leggings, my hair piled on top of my head in the world's most legitimate definition of a "messy bun". My oversized sunglasses thankfully cover most of my face, with its pallid complexion and Uncle Fester eyes.

In short, I'm winning no beauty pageants today. Unless there's one called "Miss Hungover Mess 2023" . . . I reckon the odds on me placing first in that particular contest would be pretty good today.

"What's with the early start anyway?' I mutter, as Nessa takes my suitcase and throws it into the boot of the minibus. Could you even call it a minibus? It's more like a big car, emblazoned with the company logo - Scots-2-Go. The driver is nowhere in sight.

I'm so glad I hurried.

"It's ten to eleven, Mir. It's not like it's the crack of dawn." Debbie rolls her eyes. She's always moodier than usual when she's hungover.

I know, I know . . . Like I'm one to talk.

"Whatever," I mutter. My stomach lurches again. "Can we just get on this bus already?"

May as well get this shiz over with.

"I don't know if this helps at all," Nessa hisses as I stalk past her. "But the driver is really cute. So at least we have something nice to look at . . . Apart from the scenery, obviously!"

I've been vocally the least enthusiastic about this trip, and Nessa knows it. She's been trying every tactic she can to get me on board. To be fair, mentioning the hot driver has probably been her best plan so far. I've always been partial to a pretty face. However . . .

"It doesn't help," I grump. I glance down at my outfit again, remembering just how pale and puffy my face looked in the mirror earlier. If all had been right with the world, and my life wasn't an utter shit-show, I'd be lounging by a pool in a pretty bikini right now, holding a colourful cocktail, and possibly considering some sort of fling with a handsome waiter. Unfortunately, those fantasies were ruined when our plans to go abroad fell apart.

I'm not really in a holiday romance - or even flirtation - mood anymore. And I'm really not looking the part for it anyway.

There's just enough space on the bus for us to all get a double seat to ourselves, much to my relief. I sink down into a seat, clicking my seatbelt into place and hugging my half-drunk water bottle to my chest like a security blanket. My heavy eyes drift close involuntarily, and I find myself hovering somewhere in the limbo between consciousness and dreamland.

I'm vaguely aware of the male voice as the driver reappears from wherever he'd vanished to. "I see what you mean," he says to Nessa with a laugh as they both step onto the bus. "Are you sure they'll cope with this drive?"

There's an odd lilt to his soft accent, which catches me off guard; it somehow trails a direct hit of fizzy deja vu through my bloodstream. I shiver, but I put that down to one of the hangover's many side effects and pull my sweatshirt in tighter against my body. I do briefly try to open my eyes to take a look at this guy, but my eyelids feel like they have weights attached to them. The same way they do whenever I wear false eyelashes, but far less glamorous, of course.

"They'll be fine," Nessa assures him. "And, just to be on the safe side, I've given them all a bag to puke in if necessary." She's so practical. "But I probably wouldn't try to engage with them just yet. Give them an hour or two to become a bit more human."

"Shut it, Ness!" Debbie shouts. I wince at the sharpness of her tone. Nessa simply laughs. I'm now convinced she switched to water halfway through the night; there's absolutely no way she's as hungover as the rest of us.

Then the engine rumbles into life, the vehicle pulls away from the kerb, and I let the gentle vibrations lull me into a slightly more comatose state, at least temporarily.

Unfortunately, the respite only lasts around half an hour before sleep casts me back out, and I find myself back in the land of the barely living. My eyes flutter behind my huge sunglasses as I try to focus on what's in front of me.

We've stopped for some reason (I'm going to assume roadworks - you can't seem to go anywhere without being held up by them these days - the joys of modern life!), and my eyes fall on the owner of the lilting sexy voice (because, yes, it is sexy). I don't have the clearest of views, admittedly, but I suspect Nessa was right about him being hot.

And . . . he's looking at me?

I'm not 100 percent convinced of this at first, of course, but his eyes seem to keep flicking towards me and if I didn't have the shades on it would be very awkward, as I'm now blatantly eyeballing him too.

I can only see half of his face, reflected in the mirror at the front of the bus, and part of that is obscured by the peak of the black company-branded cap he's wearing. But I can see enough to glean that there's a strong jaw covered in scruff. A wide mouth that looks like it would be prone to smiling. He's wearing glasses with trendy light tortoiseshell frames, and I can't quite discern the colour of his eyes from my position . . . but some weird intuition is telling me that they'll be hazel, and I wonder when my brain is going to catch up.

Because I know him, don't I? I'm almost certain of it.

And he seems to know me, too. Or at least he thinks he does. The way he's glancing over at me lets me in on that.

Ah . . . My brain has finally arrived. "Sorry for the delay," it's shrieking, as it forces itself back inside my aching head. "Got a bit held up at the hotel, but I'm here now. So . . . How can I help?"

We puzzle together as the driver chances a look in my direction again. Of course, he doesn't know we're actually making eye contact. It's a little bit thrilling.

Achingly familiar somehow.

I realise I haven't felt butterflies like this in a long time. Although, maybe this is just another symptom of my hangover?

Brain starts to fill in the blanks. "Here's what we need to do," it tells me. "Firstly, get rid of the stubble." My gaze briefly flits towards my legs, which I remember I really need to run a razor over - thank goodness for leggings! "Not yours, silly. His stubble." And so, mentally, I shave him. Just his face, obviously. Anything else would be weird.

"Then we need to remove his glasses." I do that too, closing my eyes and reassembling the amended half-image inside my head.

"Now make him about ten years younger," Brain instructs me, and my eyes snap back open as I suddenly understand what it's been trying to tell me.

Yes, I realise, as my heart somehow flutters and sinks all at once. I do know this guy.

The driver and guide of our six day tour of the North of Scotland - the guy that's going to be with us pretty much 24/7 - is someone I had no reason to ever expect to see again.

"Mir!" At that point, Debbie comes to life once more. Way too loudly again, of course. As if someone has got her remote control volume stuck on high. I long to locate her mute button. "I've just remembered, I've got something of yours. Catch!"

She doesn't give me a chance to react.

And, as my favourite bra hits me square on the top of my head, one of the straps hooking itself around the circumference of my bun, I see one half of Owen Sullivan's face light up in a grin.

Shit.

Like I said, I've never been a fan of surprises . . .