The Broken Hearts Honeymoon

by Lucy Dickens

  ‘Sounds great,’ says Flo. ‘I could do with stretching my legs so shall we go for a walk?’

  ‘Yeah, brill,’ answers Lucas.

  ‘Find a nice garden or temple or something to take a little walkabout in?’ She turns to me. ‘Fancy it, Charlotte?’

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’m going to take it easy for the rest of the day. You go ahead.’

  They wave goodbye, as do Jack and Cliff. I’m completely alone. I freshen up in the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I make a face and roll my shoulders.

  ‘What shall we do with you this afternoon?’ I whisper to my reflection. She answers me by rattling off a list of things I need to do: you could reply to the email from Adventure Awaits; you could tell them you aren’t going to be taking the internship any more; you could write some article ideas, like you promised yourself you would; you could have a good think about your future.

  Or I could just climb into bed. That feels like it could set me on a dangerous path, but succumbing to the loneliness feels like the only thing my mind and body are capable of right now.

  I leave the bathroom then hesitate. If I take the elevator down, I’ll be out in the bright, fresh air, in a new place with new things to take my mind off old things. If I take the elevator up, I’ll be heading down a dark rabbit hole. I pull out my phone and consider WhatsApping my family, asking their advice, which would really be asking them to talk me into going outside. But even that feels like too much energy.

  I take the elevator up, find my pod, let my slippers drop to the floor, climb in, put in my headphones, and close the curtain.

  An unknown number of hours later, a feeling intensified by the lack of natural light, I wake to hear a small whisper outside my capsule. I pull out my headphones, which are uncomfortable inside my ears, the music long-since stopped, and sit up.

  ‘Charlotte, are you awake?’ the quiet, Australian voice says again.

  I stay completely still for a moment, tempted to ignore her, but then feeling bad I open my curtain.

  ‘Ahoy,’ I whisper.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight. Lucas and I are going to head out to dinner together, do you want to join us?’

  They are so sweet. But this is their honeymoon, they shouldn’t feel they have to invite me, and I’m not going to be the person their friends and relatives see in every photo when they get home and ask, ‘Who’s that random girl?’

  ‘Thanks so much but I have a bit of a headache, I’m going to stay in tonight and catch up on rest. That way I’ll be bright and ready for the geishas tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asks, already grabbing her purse.

  I nod, and when she’s gone, I crawl out of my tunnel and slide on my slippers. I shuffle out of the dorm and make my way towards the bright landing by the elevators where I spotted some vending machines earlier.

  At the vending machine I’m faced with an array of instant ramen noodle bowls choices and I don’t really know what I’m doing so I just feed in some money and press a button, hoping for the best.

  I wait a few seconds. Then a few more. I wonder where I can find a kettle because if this is your average Pot Noodle I’m going to need some boiling water.

  Ting!

  I open a door near the bottom of the vending machine and, well, shit me, it’s a proper, large bowl of hot soupy noodles topped with vegetables and slices of pork. This is nothing like the ramen bowls Matt and I would devour throughout university, let me tell you. Who knew?

  I’m guessing my fellow bunkmates won’t appreciate me eating this inside my capsule, so I shuffle towards the lounge and sit like the lonely little self-induced Billy-No-Mates that I am and slurp away.

  It’s delicious. I’m not being sarcastic, it’s proper yum, and I feel hugged from the inside. Is the ‘chicken soup for the soul’ movement actually kicking in for me? I polish it off in record speed and then head back to the vending machine to find a dessert and end up taking a can of coffee and a matcha-tea-flavoured KitKat back to my pod with me. And once that’s devoured I change into my PJs, put my headphones back in, and capsule myself back away from the world. Tiny me in my tiny hotel room, in a country with a population of over 120 million, 6,000 miles from home, completely out of reach of Matt, and he of me.

  Guess what I did last night? You’re going to kill me, I text to my siblings.

  Turns out a can of vending machine coffee isn’t the best nightcap and I had to slither out of my pod twice in the night for a wee. By the second time, I was very awake, and my head was beginning to ache for real as the room was getting stuffy with the curtain closed. So I padded to the lounge where a couple of other late-nighters were on their devices, and sat sipping on a water and cooling off.

  Within seconds Marissa and Gray both reply with, What did you do?

  I was wallowing, okay, hear me out. Wallowing, and intent on continuing my self-destruction, it turned out.

  I looked at Matt’s Instagram.

  At this point, Mara jumps in. Are you actually an idiot?

  WHAT it was right there like a big red button and I had a headache and shut up.

  Believe me, every bit of me shouted at myself while I typed his name into the search bar but I did it anyway. His profile opened out in front of me, a tapestry of patchwork pictures of his face and our life and I scrolled like a twat, tormenting myself about what was no longer. There should have been some snaps from our wedding on here by now. In fact, there should be a photo of Matt in his own capsule on another level of this very hotel, and I could have done a cute matching one, and everyone would think we were annoying but we wouldn’t care because we were happy. We were happy.

  What did you see? asks Marissa. I unfollowed him when you split up.

  Same, Benny jumps into the conversation. Lovely loyal lot.

  Nothing at first, he hasn’t updated it for five weeks, not since that photo of the sky with his thumb in.

  Twat, Gray types.

  Marissa, who evidently thinks the same way I do, adds, Did you check for ones he’d been tagged in?

  Let me guess: of course you did, Mara states.

  Yes, Miss Marple, I did – I just wanted to see if he was in any photos with Katie. But there was nothing.

  So you called that a win and went to bed? replies Mara, and I know that she knows that I so did not do that.

  What I did was, as I discovered five seconds later, something completely idiotic. I went to the list of people he’s following. I typed ‘K-A-T-’ and she appeared. I recognised pretty preppy Katie from her gym-bunny icon alone and I clicked into her profile.

  And there it was. A photo from five days ago. A group of friends in a pub, Katie in the middle, Matt next to her, their arms touching.

  But she didn’t tag him? Marissa asks. That’s a shady move.

  He wasn’t tagged, but nobody else was either. I don’t get the feeling they’re trying to hide anything, she’s just not a tagger.

  Gray, instead of his usual ‘wit and charm’, simply types, Sorry, Charlie.

  Do you want me to have a word with him about any of this? Benny adds.

  No, thank you though. Just venting, I say, because if I can’t share my feelings with these people any more, who else is there? He looked happy, without me.

  For a while, after I’d closed Instagram, I sat with my sadness, staring at the dark sky outside the window of the lounge, the Kyoto street not quiet, but quieter, and let the dusty shatters of my heart settle inside my chest. Before I did any more damage to my self-esteem, I turned my phone off completely and went back to my capsule, but I don’t think I slept any more.

  But we’re in a new day in a new city I have yet to explore. Today is all about spring and beauty and serenity here in Kyoto, because we’re heading to the annual geisha festival that celebrates the cherry blossoms through dance and music. We’re going kimono shopping, or viewing, I’m not sure which, and we’re going for a long
look around an exquisite temple.

  Before we leave, I stand under the shower for a while, trying to wash off any lingering melancholy that sticks to my skin.

  I hum ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair’ as I lather in a blob of shampoo, trying to trick my mind into no longer fixating on The Photo.

  Because, whatever, right? Scrub lather. So he’s at a pub with his ‘wild oat’. I’m in Japan. Scrub scrub lather lather. I’m on the trip of a lifetime, seeing the most amazing things. I’m on my honeymoon – alone. Wait, that last one was supposed to be cool and empowering too.

  Scrub scrub lather lather.

  I know where I’d rather be. That’s right, I would rather be here, scrub lather, than with him, pressed against him in a pub, I would rather be in Japan. SCRUB LATHER.

  ‘Then BE in Japan!’ I shout at myself, pulling my hands from my poor scalp. I breathe for a moment and step back under the water. Be in Japan. Be present.

  I wish I could truly be here without him. I wish everything didn’t circle back to him but I just don’t know how to pull the threads of the two of us apart. I can’t figure out who I am without straying into who we were.

  The last of the suds wash down the drain. Time to get dressed.

  Chapter 9

  Folds of kimono

  And layers of history

  But still I undo

  ‘Is that Kaori?’ Flo squints into the sunshine outside our capsule hotel.

  I look up from my itinerary and follow her gaze, but all I see is a woman wrapped in sun-catching floral silk, a kimono scattered with peach, pink and yellow petals embroidered into the folds. She wears a sky-blue flower in her hair with a matching sash around her waist and a proud yet slightly shy smile.

  I remove my sunglasses. ‘Jesus Christ, it is! She looks stunning.’

  At that point, the three men leave the hotel and do a double take, and we all bustle around Kaori, taking in the details and marvelling at the exquisite fabric and intricate tailoring.

  ‘You didn’t have this in that suitcase of yours, did you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I went early to a kimono shop I know very well. I will be taking you there this morning and you can try on kimono if you would like. I always rent the same one, I love this pattern, and today I plan to wear it all day because of the special festival.’

  As Kaori walks us the short distance to the kimono rental store, I begin to notice something, a lot of very colourful somethings. ‘Kaori, there are way more people wearing kimono here than in Tokyo, is that because of the geisha festival?’

  ‘Yes, in part.’ Kaori walks slowly and carefully. It’s a nice pace after the hecticness of the city we left yesterday. I don’t feel like I could move my legs fast and drag my heavy heart along today if I tried. ‘Miyako Odori – the festival – is a big cultural event here in Kyoto which is all about the geishas performing the spring cherry-blossom dances. Kimonos are not always, but typically, worn in more formal occasions or during cultural times like this, so you will probably see a few more women, and men, dressed in kimono. But also, Kyoto is more traditional than Tokyo, so you will see a few more people wearing them, even when it’s not festival time. Many of them tourists. So don’t be afraid to wear one.’

  We arrive at the shop and while everyone is picking kimono to try on, I branch off to the side and study some fabric.

  I hate feeling like this. Have you ever gone to a party and you love the host and the people are great and the atmosphere is awesome but you feel like an alien in your own skin? Like you can’t – you wish you could but you can’t – shake loose and just go with it? Everything you do feels stiff and forced and your insides are all tight and worried? I used to get that occasionally, unexpected bursts of anxiety that would make me feel like I was wearing someone else’s mask. Matt could tell, sometimes (not all the time), and would hold my hand, making me feel less alone.

  My fingers trace a waterfall design painted on a vast piece of silk hanging on the wall, the water spiralling down until I can’t reach any further.

  ‘Charlotte, which one do you like?’ Flo asks, coming towards me with a hot-pink kimono in her arms, which is going to look just gorgeous on her.

  ‘I’m not sure … I’ll look around a little more first.’ Flo and Lucas go off to get dressed, with some help, of course, and I walk around the shop. Cliff and Jack are looking at the men’s kimonos and chatting with Kaori, and the sales assistant walks over to me.

  He bows and I do the same. ‘May I suggest a kimono for you?’ his voice is quiet and he speaks English carefully.

  ‘Hai, domo arigato,’ I reply and bow again for good measure. Yes, thank you so much.

  He selects a turquoise and green kimono, decorated with a peacock feather design, and while I go through the motions trying it on, wishing I could turn off the thoughts in my head, I do acknowledge that it does look beautiful. Not because of how it looks on me, specifically, but because it is just stunning.

  This reminds me of trying on wedding dresses. In particular, that time with Mum, when I had my mini meltdown. I felt like I was all dress and no inner peace there, too.

  There is a shaded courtyard behind the shop with tatami mat flooring and simple calligraphy art on the walls, and Kaori has us pose for photos.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I ask the sales assistant. ‘Would you please take a video of us all on my phone?’

  He agrees and we pose for the camera a final time.

  ‘So who would like to rent their kimono and wear it for today?’ asks Kaori.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lucas says, proud and tall in his petrol-blue ensemble, next to his pretty-in-pink wife.

  Cliff and Jack, in their matching navy blue, decline. ‘I think we old-timers have enough trouble getting around, I can see one of us tripping and breaking a hip,’ says Jack, though none of us think of them as old-timers.

  I decline too. It was nice to dress up but I’m not in the headspace for any more attention on me. I’d like to be an invisible, miserable old bitch, please.

  After I’m back in my own clothes and we’re waiting for Cliff and Jack, the sales assistant comes over to me again. I’m running my fingers over the sea-greens and electric cyans of the peacock feathers printed on my kimono, the silk cool and heavy to the touch, and trying to imprint it on my memory.

  He hands me something wrapped in tissue. When I open it, I see it’s a palm-sized flat, rectangular bag made of the peacock-feather silk. ‘For you,’ he says. ‘This is omamori, a good-luck charm.’

  ‘For me?’ Oh bloody hell, the tears are coming again.

  ‘It is good luck to carry on the outside of your bag and you will know you’re making good decisions.’

  I love it and thank him a million times, and as we’re walking away from the shop, I show Kaori.

  ‘Oh, that’s very nice, you will have a lot of luck with that,’ she says. ‘Normally, omamori are bought at temples and shrines, and they have different ones for the different things you want success with in your life. Inside is a prayer blessed by a priest, but you shouldn’t ever open it and read the prayer because then it doesn’t work. The kimono seller has a brother who is a priest at one of the temples in Kyoto and he makes them for him. This is a general “good luck” charm and doesn’t have a prayer in it yet, but I think it has heart because it was given to you in kindness.’

  Kyoto was once the capital of Japan, and it has such a different vibe from Tokyo. Centuries of history and tradition seem to tuck themselves into every nook, every passageway, and behind every doorway here.

  We walk to the Gion district, also known as the geisha (or geiko) district, which is where the Miyako Odori festival will be held. Along the way we catch glimpses of sloping-roofed pagodas rising into the sky from different parts of the city. We walk along a quiet canal lined with willow trees and through narrow alleys between wooden buildings that house ochaya, teahouses.

  ‘Have you read Memoirs of a Geisha?’ Kaori asks us as we go past a particularly grand-l
ooking teahouse with high red and dark wood-stained walls. A small crowd of people wait outside the closed gate. Some of us nod. ‘This is Ichiriki Chaya, it is a very exclusive, members-only teahouse and this is where the author set a lot of that book. It is over three hundred years old and anybody who wishes to be entertained by geisha here has to develop a very good relationship with the ochaya first, as well as be able to afford it. It’s very exclusive.’

  It looks it. It looks like the kind of place where I’d be laughed all the way out of Japan if I set foot in there to ask to use the loo.

  ‘Why are people waiting out the front?’ I ask. ‘Is there a celebrity in there?’

  ‘The geisha are the celebrities around here,’ Kaori answers. ‘They are hoping to catch a glimpse of real geiko who work at the teahouse.’

  We move on, fascinated, until Kaori stops us again in front of a low building with a curved lip of a roof over the entranceway and a taller, temple-like building behind. A cherry blossom tree drips pink on either side of the entrance and red paper lanterns swing in the soft breeze above a raised curtain of purple and white.

  ‘This is the theatre for the Miyako Odori dance,’ she says to us and we all say ‘Ooo’ and step inside.

  The Miyako Odori geisha dance is both the same and opposite from the Kubuki show back in Tokyo. Where that was all men, and about the dramatics and stylisation, this is all women, and about beauty and detail. But both have an air of grace and great cultural importance.

  Plus, the cherry blossoms here are incredible. Damn right they get a whole festival dedicated to them.

  I settle in and watch the show, which unfurls in front of my eyes like a dream of times gone by. My mind drifts along with the music from time to time, but like the maiko, the apprentice geiko, who also dance on the stage, I keep practising bringing my mind back to the present, and to all these people around me, the beauty of the dance, the detail of the imagery, the ringing melodic music and the awestruck silence of the audience, and not to the parts of my heart that sit in my chest like the dropped petals of the cherry blossoms.