It was rush hour in the London underground, a bad time for a backpacker to be jostling for space with morning commuters. It was two weeks after Diana died, and the city was still in mourning.

Angie clung to the overhead plastic handle and sucked in her stomach, flattening herself against the carriage wall, trying not to crush the newspaper the suit beside her was reading. “Goodbye England’s Rose”. The headline added to the sombre silence and reverential atmosphere that hung in the air like a cloud.

She emerged at Tufnell Park tube station, cursing at the drizzling rain. She pulled her hood over her head, hoisted her backpack up a notch with a bounce.  The smell of petrol fumes and cold hit her, rain splattering her face as she trudged down High Street towards the place she had called home for over a year.

Rounding the corner, she caught sight of the squat – Number 7.  The classic up-down Victorian terrace, once regal and proud in its day, stood neglected and wounded, bandaged up with wooden boards and waterlogged council notices. The front yard was overgrown with weeds, the rusty front gate at an angle off its hinges.

Gingerly, she climbed the crumbling wet stairs and tried the door.  It was unlocked. It creaked open into a dark, musty passageway. Stumbling, she nearly tripped over a pile of unopened mail and TNT magazines at the entrance.

There were sounds of life coming from the rear of the house, the tune from Eastenders, and some muted voices. She shrugged off her pack and it dropped to the carpet with a thud. Relieved, she massaged her shoulders and nudged open the lounge room door. It was dank and dreary, smelling of stale cigarettes and bong water.

Her eyes adjusted to the light. Dean, the Kiwi, was sprawled out on his back on the carpet. Rick, the Cockney, his mouth over the big glass bong, his face illuminated by the tv screen, lifted his eyes, and stared at her in surprise.

“Fuck me! You’re back.’

The words came out his mouth in a curl of smoke.

Dean sat up blearily. “Angie! What happened?”

Angie edged towards the armchair in the corner and shrugged, fighting back tears which suddenly stung her eyes. Wearily she sank down into it, fingering the masking tape that held the torn leather of the armrest in place.

“Just came from Heathrow,” she sniffed. “Took a plane from Portugal last night.”

The hubcap-come-ashtray was overflowing with ash and butts. Obviously their policy never to empty it had been strictly observed while she was away.

A girl emerged from the kitchen wearing tiny shorts, a big woolly jumper and ugg boots. She eyed Angie cautiously. “Who’s she?” she asked of Dean who was now repacking the bong.

“Angie, meet Laure,” Dean waved his hand absently in the air. “Laure’s French. Angie’s the one who left with that weirdo Paul to go to Europe.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “I knew she’d be back.”

Angie smiled weakly at the girl, thinking it hadn’t taken long to be replaced in this house.

“Laure’s got your room now”, coughed Dean looking up from his bong packing. “Want some,” he offered up the bong and a lighter.

Angie shook her head.

“I hate to have to say it, but you were right, Rick” she rubbed her eyes. “Paul is a psycho. I couldn’t stand much more of his possessiveness. It was all a bit of nightmare in the end.”  She studied her fingernails, biting her lip, trying to steady the quiver in her voice.

Laure knelt down and squatted beside Angie. “They said you were going for three months. Don’t worry, we can share the room. There’s another mattress.”

They watched Eastenders in silence for a while. Laure went back into the kitchen. Angie followed, recoiling at the sight of a sink piled high with dirty dishes. Laure put the kettle on. “We have the tea.”

A cockroach scuttled across the counter and Laure made a shooing sound. “Merde!” she spat. “This kitchen is disgusting.”

“So where are the others? You know… Rachel? Tim? Annette?”

“They go to Ireland,” Laure placed teabags in two stained mugs. “A squat in Dublin. There’s room for them there. Two bedrooms.”

Angie looked around the kitchen, her heart heavy, her eyes bleary and hot from crying and from tiredness.

Laure looked at her kindly, handing her a mug.

“They were worried about you. You could go too. To Dublin. Here,” she fished around in the kitchen drawer and produced a bar coaster. “Here’s their number.”

******

Angie lay on a mattress in Laure’s room, noticing the water damage in the corner of the ceiling which had spread and was now lifting the paint on the wall near the window.

But surprisingly, Laure had made the room look okay, cosy even.

A row of tealight candles flickered on the mantelpiece, illuminating a poster of Monet’s lily pond. Laure’s clothes hung neatly on hangers, arranged by colour in the wardrobe which had no doors. Three pairs of stylish shoes were on display on one of the shelves.

An oil burner gave off a heady scent of cinnamon and cloves.

Instead of curtains, Laure had attached some colourful sarongs and the bedside lamp had a deep red scarf draped over it, giving the room a rich glow.

Laure lay on the bed smoking. “Now tell me about this Paul, hmm.”

Angie described how they had met at the Rose and Crown just around the corner from here. He was from Brisbane in Queensland.

“You know what they say about Queensland, Laure. It’s a warm place for shady people.”

Angie giggled, knowing this was beyond the comprehension of a French girl who had never been to Australia. “We got on so well at first. I really liked him and it made sense for us to go together.”

Her eyebrows knitted as she remembered their first terrible fight in Lyon.

She propped her head up on one hand, looking up at Laure. “From the moment we got on that channel train to Paris, he started acting like he owned me. He was all moody and possessive. Even jealous because I talked to the old balding guy sitting opposite us. Can you imagine that?”

Angie’s stomach knotted as she thought about it. Things improved once they found a hostel on the left bank and then a cute restaurant in Montmartre where they shared the reasonably-priced set menu and two bottles of red wine.

They had staggered back to the hostel, laughing hysterically as they dodged the dog poo and she had nearly twisted her ankle in the cobblestone alleyways.

They pashed in the corridor at the hostel, but she had made it clear she did not want to have sex with him. She had said that from the start. It was a condition of them travelling together. They were not a couple. He was angry.

By the time they got to Lyon he was insufferable, making comments here and there about her being a tease, and then rolling his eyes at her inability to read a map, sulking on the train, refusing to answer any questions she asked, leaving her with the backpacks for over an hour at the station while he went to “take a piss” and then they nearly missed the train.

He criticised her for the way she spoke to people. “What d’ya say that for?”  “Why would you tell ‘em that?”

She felt hen-pecked and on edge. She didn’t want to experience Europe this way. She’d come here to have fun.

She had lost it outside the Bureau de Change in downtown Lyon, yelling at him in the pouring rain. They were both exhausted, weighed down by their cumbersome backpacks, huddling under an awning, stomachs growling with hunger, rain threatening to turn their Let’s Go Europe into sludge.

They agreed to continue to Barcelona. He picked on her pronunciation, insisting she pronounce the lisp in the Bar-tha-lona.

“I don’t have to lisp just cos the locals do,” she yelled. “I’m not a fucking baby.”

“You’re so immature,” he retorted.

They went their separate ways.

She joined friends on the Costa Del Sol for a whirlwind week of partying. Sleeping till midday, a few hours on the beach in the afternoon before sundown. An early evening siesta before a late dinner, then night clubbing until the sun came up.

They agreed to meet up again in Madrid. While she had been partying, Paul had bought himself a banged-up old Ford Escort and a tent from an English couple and had explored a bit of Spain on his own. He was keen to continue on around Europe with her. Angie liked the idea. She had missed him, despite everything. She liked his humour, his intelligence and wit, and had grown tired of the shallowness of her party friends. She wanted to immerse herself in the culture and history of Europe, read some books, check out some museums and churches.

In his two-man tent they finally made love. It was intense, deeply satisfying, almost spiritual in the humid darkness. Slippery with sweat, they stifled their moans of pleasure while other campers prepared and ate their meals just metres away from them.

Laure ground her cigarette out and sat cross-legged on the bed. “It all sounds… very… sexy. So what went wrong?”

Angie sighed and sat up to face Laure.

“After that it got even worse. We travelled around Spain and Portugal, staying in campgrounds or free camping on beaches. We stayed in this commune place in Albufeira where we made friends with some East German backpackers. There was one guy in particular, Falk his name was. Paul got extremely jealous. Accused me of sleeping with him. He turned really nasty. I was literally scared of him. His mood swings. He’s so erratic – one minute he was fun and sweet and the next prickly as all hell. I never knew where I stood. I couldn’t bear it anymore. So Falk gave me a lift to the airport in Faro and I got on the next flight home.”

Angie took a deep breath and swiped at her wet eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ve written him a note.” She handed Laure a folded piece of paper. “If he comes back looking for me, could you give it to him?”

Laure got off the bed and sat opposite Angie on the mattress. She put the note in her shirt pocket. “Don’t cry anymore ma chere. You have a plan. Everything will be ok,” she patted the pocket on her shirt. “I will give Paul the letter if he comes. You’ll have a great time in Dublin.”

Angie hugged her new friend. “Merci mon ami.”

Inspired by Paul Kelly’s song.