I do as he suggests, and amazingly, the costume fits. Although I discover the impracticality of the outfit the minute I try to jump down from the van. It’s impossibly figure-hugging and the mermaid tail impedes natural movement quite a lot, especially when you’re trying to be semi-athletic. Luckily, Adam is there to catch me, otherwise I’d be face-down in the mud before we’ve even started.
More cars are arriving, and when Adam finally has to go, I’m left standing in the middle of a field in a ridiculously glam dress, with my snorkel sticking out of my Channel backpack and a black binbag at my feet holding a Jellyfish costume.
Where the bloody hell has Marcus got to?
He said he’d be here for eleven and it’s already past eleven-thirty. I don’t usually mind being looked at, but in this situation where I haven’t a clue what I’m doing, I just feel foolish and vulnerable. And now the Hulk, who’s been staring over for a while now, is ambling over. He’s obviously seen Adam leave and decided now’s the time to make a move on the mermaid.
Grabbing the black bag, I start walking towards a car that’s coming through the entrance, and when I look back, to my relief, I’ve managed to head the Hulk off. For now…
Then I stand by the gate, looking along the road every now and again, praying for Marcus’s car to appear round the bend. I try calling him several times but his phone goes straight to answer machine.
What on earth is he doing?
I agreed to take part in these ridiculous shenanigans as a favour to him. The least he could do is phone and let me know why he’s late getting here! What if he doesn’t turn up at all? We’re miles from anywhere here. How on earth will I get back to civilisation?
My heart lurches hopefully at the sight of a vehicle. But it’s just a battered old jeep and as it pulls in through the gate, the driver – another woman wearing a camouflage top with mud painted on her face – waves gaily at me and points in the direction of the others.
I smile back, but stay where I am.
I have no intention of taking part in this farce – especially if Marcus isn’t here to be farcical with me! But oh, God, she’s getting out of the jeep and waving me over now. And everyone else, gathered around her, is looking over at me expectantly. I appear to be holding up the proceedings.
With a sigh, I trudge over the muddy field and join the group, which now comprises about thirty people, all chatting or larking around, clearly relishing every second of this weird event.
‘Okay, folks, welcome!’ says the Jeep lady, who now has a pair of ginormous flippers on her feet and is clearly in charge. Most of the others are holding flippers, which I suppose makes a lot of sense. They do tend to go with snorkels.
Right, that’s my excuse not to do it, then. I’ve forgotten my flippers.
‘So…my name’s Polly, in case you’re a newcomer, and looking around, I can see a few.’ She beams at me and I smile obligingly. ‘In case anyone thinks this is just an excuse for a jolly down the pub, let me remind you we’ve been running this event since nineteen-ninety-two, and we’ve raised many thousands of pounds for charity.’ She pauses for effect, and a few people clap. ‘Having said that, mine’s a double whisky, okay?’
There’s a ripple of laughter.
Someone nudges me and I turn to find the Hulk looking down at me, his mask under his arm. ‘Nice outfit,’ he murmurs, his hot breath in my ear.
‘Er, thanks.’
‘No flippers?’
‘I forgot them.’
‘You need flippers.’
‘Aw, I know.’ His almost mono-brow looks like two fat slugs having a smooch and I lean away from them as politely as I can, shrugging as if I’m devastated not to be able to take part.
‘I’ve got a spare pair of flippers in the car. You can borrow them if you like,’ he says, addressing his comments to my cleavage, which I have to say is pretty impressive in Krystle’s mermaid dress. I’m by no means a big girl up top, but the outfit is definitely ‘maximising my assets’. The Hulk, who’s clearly in agreement, shuffles even closer and I can smell the fumes from last night’s beer on his breath. I’m wedged between him and Batman, who’s chatting to a girl in a sexy Viking outfit with horns on her head, so I can’t escape.
And then the organiser woman, Polly, starts herding everyone down to the bog and finally, I can breathe.
Where the hell is Marcus? I won’t be responsible for my actions when he eventually appears!
I line up with everyone else along the channel and stare into its gloopy depths that reflect the dreary grey sky. The fine ‘mizzle’ is making sure everyone is already well and truly soaked, but even so, the thought of getting into that venomous water is horrifying. But I haven’t got flippers, I remind myself, so no problem!
‘Here you go.’ A pair of bright orange flippers is thrust in front of me.
‘Oh.’ I turn to find Slug Brows learing down my cleavage again. ‘That’s very kind of you, but really, there’s no need.’
‘No. Have them.’
Gritting my teeth, I take them. And at that moment, my phone pings. I scrabble in my backpack and pull it out, and there’s a text message from Marcus.
Great news! The agency’s got me a job. ‘Lounge performer’ on Canary Island Cruises. On a train to Southampton now. Enjoy the bog snorkelling. See you in January! Marcus
I stare at the text, reading the words over and over, as if somehow I might have got it wrong. My head is spinning. I’m in the middle of a nightmare featuring lots of weird people in silly costumes, and I’m going to wake up any moment?
But no…clearly not…Marcus has gone.
I shake my head, biting my lip hard to hold back the tears, as a wave of crushing rejection crashes over me.
I’m pleased for him, of course. This is his dream and his text veritably sparkles with his excitement. It’s just that meeting Marcus was sort of my dream. I was looking forward to us spending time together, getting to know each other. But now he’s gone with just a text message by way of explanation. He never even mentioned my decision to move to London with him. He probably I’d said it. So now he’s gone…sailing off across the English Channel, while I’m faced with navigating a channel of a rather more depressing kind. All on my own…
A stiff breeze has picked up, blowing mizzle relentlessly in my face, and I want to lie down on the wet grass and cry. Or laugh hysterically.
This is what rock bottom feels like.
I desperately want to go home but I don’t have any transport. And besides, if I don’t do this, I’m going to be letting down all the sponsors who’ve pledged money for Fen’s food bank van. And then Jaz and Katja will have even more reason to hate me…
A whistle blows and the first competitor slides into the water, snorkel on, and starts swimming along the channel, his head with its bright red plastic swim cap bobbing up and down. A rank smell of bog water rises up. It’s like cabbage that’s been boiling for days mixed with the smell of a bin full of fish bones on a hot day. Everyone starts cheering and clapping, but I can’t summon up the energy to join in.
Someone is in position at the finish line, far in the distance, waving a flag every now and again, and Polly is at the starting point with a stop-watch. Every minute or so, she blows her whistle and another competitor sets off.