By the time we’d made our way outside to the airport carpark and into the unrelenting torrential rain which, Victoria explained, had been torrentially raining for much of the evening, we were positively hysterical. Positively hysterical in that we were absolutely, definitely hysterical but also positively hysterical in that our hysteria was free of any negative feeling at all. A pair of excitable helium balloons, bumping up against one another in a crazy wind.
Drenched, we sit in the car, listening to the fat rain pummel and pound and bounce down and up and down again onto the roof.
We sit there together, Victoria and I, trying to catch our breath, in between wind-down giggles and throaty noises, acutely aware that our wet bums and bodies are soaking through the car seat upholstery and that the whole vehicle will probably smell a bit like wet dog pretty soon but neither of us mention it.
Still sat in the carpark, watching individual puddles meet the edges of other puddles to make mini carpark ponds, Victoria passes the conversation baton to me.
‘Tell me everything’, she instructs in such a tone that I absolutely understand this is non-negotiable and that I must, indeed, tell her everything.
‘I am so sorry about the rain’, she says for the third or fourth time. I tell her she can’t assume responsibility for the Swedish weather and I haul out the old cliche about being from Glasgow and being used to it (the rain). I apologise for being so l late and for keeping her up, waiting around. She tells me I can’t assume responsibility for Ryanair’s scheduling mishaps.
I can’t see anything as we follow the motorway and winding roads to Victoria’s house. She can’t either and misses the exit we should’ve taken. She apologies profusely about the further delay but I am glad we have more time to share the car and our secrets.
Carrie Not the Kind of Girl You'd Marry 