The Unpretenders - Chapter 4

Isobel stood motionless at the foot of her bed and stared intently into her open suitcase, which was resting upon it. "Having second thoughts?" I asked.

"No," she said, looking up, "I was just wondering if they have toothpaste on other planets."

"Oh, almost certainly," I assured her. "If they have teeth, they must have toothpaste."

"What do you mean, if they have teeth? Don't you know?"

"To be honest, Julian has never described his species to me. They may not even be humanoid."

"Great! So you're saying that we could be going to live on a planet infested with bug-eyed aliens, who don't even have any toothpaste."

"Maybe. But isn't that better than remaining on a planet infested with human beings, who do have plenty of toothpaste?"

"Okay, you have a point."

"In any case, I don't think Shanala Five is a planet of bug-eyed aliens."

"Why not?"

"Because if it were, Julian would have warned me."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty sure."

"You're not filling me with confidence, Sophie."

"Just pack the darn toothpaste already!"

It may have seemed like a trivial concern, but Izzy's question about off-world toiletries led me to think about a whole host of other, more serious, practicalities - which I had hitherto overlooked. Healthcare, for example. What did Julian's race know about human physiology? Food. Would it be nutritionally adequate? Climate. Would it be too hot, or too cold? Atmosphere. Would the ratio of gases be suitable for us? Sex. Would their males be anatomically compatible with human females? And, even if they were, would there be a mutual attraction?

I thought it inadvisable to raise any of these points with Isobel, so kept them to myself. It was too late to back-out now, anyway, as we had already written our farewell notes, emptied our bank accounts, and booked the taxi cab. The money itself would only be needed if we had to revert to Plan B, which basically meant fleeing to France. Not that a few thousand pounds would last very long, but it would be enough, until we could find work. Neither of us had much of an appetite for Plan C any more (suicide); not since we discovered the possibility of moving to other planets. Still, death was never very far from our minds. And it remained, as ever, the final solution.

Isobel dragged her suitcase into the hallway and placed it next to mine. The idea of packing was, admittedly, a little premature, at least as far as interplanetary travel was concerned. However, I reasoned that it would be a good way to demonstrate our sincerity and determination, proving to Julian that we weren't merely acting on a whim. And, if all else failed, it would also ensure that we didn't simply return home with our tails between our legs. In other words, we were committed to leaving, one way or another, and nothing was going to stop us.

"How long will it take?" said Isobel.

"About half an hour," I replied, thinking that she meant the car journey.

"No, I mean to Shalala - or whatever it's called."

"It's called Shanala. And I really don't know how long it will take."

"You didn't ask?"

"No. Does it matter?"

"I suppose not."

The taxi arrived five minutes early and the driver kindly helped us with our luggage. "Going anywhere nice?" he asked Isobel, as she joined me on the back seat.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," she warned him.

Nobody was amused. "France," I declared, nudging her in the ribs with my elbow. "That's the final destination, anyway. But first we're going here."

I then leant forward and handed the driver a post-it note, which Julian had scribbled his address on. He'd given it to me after conceding to my so-called terms and conditions, pertaining to the performance of my essay. One of which, of course, was that it should take place at his own residence. Another was that Isobel would accompany me. So whilst Julian was certainly expecting us, he was also about to get a whole lot more than he bargained for.

"Take in that lovely blue sky," said Izzy, mischievously, as she lowered the window. "It may be the last time that we ever see it." Of course, she knew full well that the driver could hear us, and was being deliberately provocative. "Look at those magnificent oak trees," she went on. "I wonder if they have anything similar in..."

"France!" I interjected. "Yes, I'm sure they have oak trees in France, Isobel."

"Actually," said the driver, "oak forests make up some twenty percent of the country. They use it to make wine barrels."

"How interesting," said Isobel, sarcastically. "I wonder if they have wine on Sha..."

At this point I had no choice but to forcefully cover Isobel's mouth with my hand, which prompted an equally forceful response from her. When she failed to break free, however, she reached down and lifted my skirt up, knowing that I'd have to release her in order to avoid embarrassment. The battle then resumed and we were soon grappling on the back seat like a couple of... well, schoolgirls.

Quite what the driver thought about our behaviour, I have no idea. He certainly didn't attempt to stop us though, so perhaps he had children of his own. In any case, Isobel stayed relatively quiet for the remainder of the journey, only breaking her silence to whistle the X-Files theme tune.