As Luck Would Have It

by Zoe May

  ‘Not even Lauren knows this much about me,’ I comment as I climb out of the jacuzzi, my skin rubbery and wrinkled.

  The floor’s slippery and I’m a little tipsy. Will gives me a hand, helping me out.

  ‘Well, if we’re going to be a married couple, we need to know each other inside out!’ he says.

  ‘I guess.’ I laugh, wondering just how intimate this holiday is going to be.

  Chapter 10

  You know those pictures you see in guidebooks of Marrakech with the pretty spices in colourful peaks, a stalls adorned with glowing lanterns, silver teapots, curled toe leather slippers and woven rugs? Well, it’s like that, it’s absolutely gorgeous, but those pictures don’t capture the smells, the noise and the commotion. They don’t capture the full sensory overload. The air is fragrant with the rich scent of spices, leather bags fresh from the tannery and sizzling meat from kebab stands. Every three steps, a vendor tries to tempt us into checking out their wares. A few of them have called out ‘blue eyes’ to get my attention. One even called me ‘Miley Cyrus’, which I was actually quite chuffed about. Will and I have been walking for five minutes and I’ve already had a handbag thrust into my arms, an embroidered kaftan, a hand-painted plate, even a painted ladle. The pictures don’t capture the stray cats that prowl along the streets, slinking past your legs. They don’t capture just how winding and labyrinthine the souks really are.

  ‘So, what we need is something that looks like gold, but is actually really cheap and rubbish. And we’ll haggle the seller down as much as possible,’ Will says, weaving through the crowd. Unlike me, he seems completely at ease in the intense environment, despite having been lounging in a jacuzzi quaffing champagne only half an hour earlier.

  ‘Yep. Cheap and rubbish. Got it,’ I reply, as we wander down a narrow passage lined with stalls.

  I never pictured myself wedding ring shopping in Marrakech and ‘cheap’ and ‘rubbish’ were hardly the adjectives I thought I’d be using if I did ever go shopping for a ring, but when you’re faking marriage, this is how it goes. Will and I are hoping that if we get gold bands, Medhi will be off our case and we’ll be able to fly under the radar as a married couple during our stay here.

  Suddenly, I feel something on my back and yelp, spinning around. It’s a monkey. A literal monkey. A man is trying to put a monkey onto my back. Will pulls me out of the way as I shriek. The monkey is wearing a little hat with a bell on it and a tailcoat.

  ‘What the hell?!’ I cry as we hurry away.

  ‘They put the monkey on you and try to charge you for a picture,’ Will explains.

  ‘Right …’ I utter, brushing dust from my shoulder. I couldn’t feel further away from Chiddingfold right now.

  Will and I pass another dozen stalls, but I think we must be in the apparel part of the souk, because all they seem to be selling are robes, slippers and bags.

  Will pauses to examine some sparkly pink slippers with a curly upturned toe. Surely, he’s not getting them for himself? A present for his mum, perhaps? I’m about to ask, when something catches my eye. It’s a jewellery shop, its gold wares glinting in the sun. I wander over to it and spot rings.

  ‘Will!’ I call out. He looks over.

  ‘They’ve got rings here,’ I tell him.

  ‘Great!’ Will puts the slippers down and wanders over.

  We both eye the gold rings on display in a glass cabinet by the counter. They’re perfect – simple, classic and earnest-looking. Just like wedding rings ought to be. The seller, who seems to have a personal penchant for gold, with gold chains around his neck and hoops in his ears, eyes us checking out the rings.

  ‘They look like wedding rings, don’t they?’ I say to Will.

  ‘Yeah, they really do,’ Will replies.

  I ask to see them, and the seller opens the cabinet and takes out the tray of rings. I reach for one and slip it on my wedding finger. It feels odd to slide a ring on a finger I’m so used to avoiding when it comes to jewellery. The ring I’ve chosen is a perfect fit and I hold out my hand, admiring it.

  ‘Looks good, eh, Will?’ I say, nudging him.

  For some reason, his face has misted over. He looks miles away.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He springs back to the present, clocking my ring. ‘Yeah, it looks great.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to try one on too?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. He has an oddly distracted look about him that I can’t figure out.

  ‘I … actually, I have one with me already,’ Will says.

  ‘You have a wedding ring?’ I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah, I’d forgotten about it, which is kind of bad, but I just remembered. It’s in my wallet.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. He flips it open and pulls a ring out of a small pocket inside.

  ‘Oh … You carry your old wedding ring around?’ I appraise the gold band, which Will is now sliding onto his ring finger.

  ‘It’s actually not my ring,’ he says, holding his hand up to admire it. It seems to fit perfectly.

  ‘Then whose is it?’ I balk.

  ‘It was my dad’s. I started carrying this around with me after he died. It’s been in my wallet for years. Literally years! So long that I’d practically forgotten about it, but looking at the rings, I suddenly remembered about it and it occurred to me that I could wear it,’ Will remarks, his faraway distracted expression now making complete sense.

  ‘Are you sure, Will?’ I say gently. It’s one thing buying cheap rings for the sake of a fake honeymoon, but I don’t want Will to think he has to do something that’s going to make him genuinely upset.

  ‘Yeah.’ Will smiles, looking at the ring. ‘It’s funny, all this time, I’ve known it was there, but I haven’t really looked at it. I was a bit scared to in a way, in case it would bring back memories and get me down, but now I’m looking at it and wearing it and I don’t feel bad. It feels surprisingly nice, actually. Sort of comforting.’

  I smile sweetly at him and place my hand on his back, giving him a gentle rub.

  Will looks over and smiles at me tenderly. I feel a stab of affection for him. The closest interaction I’ve had with Will over the last decade has been seeing him on TV, in a suit, looking slick and professional, yet the man standing here now, the man in his red check shirt, with messy hair still ever so slightly damp from the jacuzzi, gazing at his father’s wedding ring, is worlds away from that man. Will isn’t the corporate suave media guy I thought he’d become, he’s still Will the sweet, emotional soul I fell for so many years ago.

  ‘So, what’s the cheapest price you can do for this ring?’ Will asks the vendor, gesturing at my hand.

  We haggle the vendor down to a fiver. I know the ring isn’t gold, but who cares? It looks real enough, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help feeling a tiny thrill of excitement as I wander out of the shop with a gold band on my finger. A simple gold ring. I never wear jewellery as understated as a wedding ring. If I wear rings, they’re usually blingy with a massive costume jewellery rock in the middle or something, but mine and Will’s fake wedding rings feel so simple, so serious, so mature. I can’t stop staring at the gold band on my finger, even while we’re walking out of the shop back into the souk.

  ‘How do I look, hubby?’ I ask, pouting at Will, while holding my ringed hand to my face and wiggling my fingers.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Will laughs.

  I glance at his ring, sparkling on his finger. ‘Are you really sure you’re okay wearing that? We could always get you one, they are only five quid, after all.’

  Will holds up his hand and takes in his ring. ‘Yeah, do you know what? I actually quite like wearing it,’ he insists brightly.

  I think back to Will’s dad, Gary. One thing I’ll always remember about him is the way he used to have a nickname for everyone in the village. He had this easy-going, naturally matey way with people. I’ve never met anyone else quite like that. He used to call me ‘Picasso’ because of my interest in art a
nd while coming from some people, a nickname like that might have seemed a bit annoying, when Gary said it, it was just funny and sweet and chummy. He could get away with it. He even called my mum ‘Lashes’ on account of a phase she went through of wearing false eyelashes. The way he came up with nicknames for everyone just showed how well he tried to get to know each person. He was so good humoured, and his nicknames were his way of being friendly, breaking the ice and putting people at ease.

  ‘Do you remember how your dad called me “Picasso”?’ I remark.

  Will laughs. ‘Oh God, yeah. Or “Frida”,’ Will recalls. I suddenly remember how his dad also called me ‘Frida’ after Frida Kahlo.

  ‘Only Gary could pull that stuff off!’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, he had a knack about him,’ Will says fondly. ‘I’ve lost track of the number of nicknames he gave me. Must have gone through dozens, everything from “Peter Pan” when my growth spurt came on late to “Beckham” during my football phase.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ I laugh. I know Will adored his dad and that his death can’t have been easy for him, but it’s nice to see him joking around like this, remembering the good times.

  ‘Shall we get some food?’ Will asks as the air becomes increasingly fragrant with the smell of spices. ‘There are tons of outdoor restaurants in Jemaa el-Fna,’ Will tells me as we walk in the direction of the smell of food coming from the main square.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I agree.

  ‘It can be quite full on though,’ Will warns me as we get closer.

  ‘Ha! I think I can handle it, Will,’ I scoff. Just because I come from a tiny Surrey village doesn’t mean I can’t handle Marrakech. I mean, honestly.

  We arrive at Jamaa el-Fnaa. It’s enormous, with sellers spilling out of the souk onto the square, laying rugs on the ground to sell their wares. Many of them try to get my attention, brandishing the prettiest lampshades, handbags, and sparkling slippers at me as I pass. The sellers blend into pop-up restaurants, which are being set up across the square. The restaurateurs lay out tables and chairs, the legs of which clatter against the paving stones, while their co-workers fire up grills and chop up ingredients, getting ready for the night’s trade.

  I’m so busy checking out the enticing pop-up restaurants that I barely notice an oncoming donkey cart ploughing towards me at an alarming speed.

  ‘Ahhh!’ I shriek, jumping out of its path.

  I catch my breath when a soft lilting tune distracts me. I turn to see a cobra. A real-life cobra. It’s bobbing its head along to the sounds of a flute played by a skinny man with a lined face sitting next to it, blowing into his instrument which makes the most peculiar sound like a mystical bagpipe. There’s a little dish next to them containing a few dirham notes. The cobra bobs and weaves its head in time to the music. I grab Will’s arm, my hand slick with sweat, praying the snake can’t sense my fear.

  ‘Let’s get away from here!’ I hiss.

  Will laughs. ‘I told you it could be full on. Snake charmers are a bit of a thing in Marrakech, although I think there’s a crack down on them. They remove the teeth of the cobra or sew their mouths shut so they can’t strike anyone.’

  ‘Oh …’ I reply, my fear suddenly replaced by sympathy for the snakes.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Will asks.

  ‘I’m fine!’ I reply, although my voice sounds a little tight. Will’s right, Jamaa el-Fnaa is quite intense. I’m a single mum who spends most of her time at home and in the space of five minutes I’ve been accosted by a man with a monkey, nearly been ran over by a donkey cart and come face-to-face with a cobra. I could do with a sit down.

  We walk to the opposite side of the square, as far away from the cobra as possible and find a small outdoor restaurant selling tagines. We place our order and settle down at one of the tables, looking out onto the square. Of all the places in the world to people watch, Jemaa el-Fnaa is a fascinating spot. I take in the commotion of souk sellers, restauranteurs, snake charmers, even fortune tellers, hustling for business from tourists, many of whom look as bemused as I felt five minutes ago. A waiter brings over our tagines and we tuck in. They’re delicious – succulent, spicy and steaming on a bed of fluffy couscous.

  At one point a rowdy group of English guys walk up to our restaurant. One of them – a tall, bleary-eyed bloke – checks me out and I brace myself, worried he might try to talk to me. I really can’t be bothered with some sleazy chat-up line from a boozy Brit abroad, but the man glances at Will, and then looks down at the ring on my finger, shrugs and walks away, immediately losing interest.

  ‘Oh my God, these things really do work!’ I stare at my ring in wonder.

  I explain what happened to Will and he laughs.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the idea!’ he says, taking another bite of his tagine.

  ‘I know, but it just felt like … magic!’

  Will smiles.

  I finish my tagine and we make our way back to the hotel. Marrakech doesn’t have as many streetlights as Surrey or London and the streets are much darker now the sun has set, the only light as we walk to our hotel being the glow that spills from a couple of shops shutting late. There’s a chill in the air now and I pull my cardigan tight around my body.

  ‘Come here,’ Will says, holding his arm out to me and beckoning for me to cosy up to him.

  ‘Is this part of the marriage act?’ I ask, eyeing Will’s open arm. I look down the road. The hotel isn’t even in sight yet.

  ‘No, I just thought you looked cold,’ Will says.

  ‘I am actually,’ I reply, shivering.

  ‘Well, come on then!’

  ‘Okay.’ I take a step closer to him. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I can immediately feel his body heat. His body is like a radiator. He must be one of those naturally hot-blooded people. Leroy was a bit like that. He’d sleep naked night after night with just a duvet over him, while I’d wrap up in fleecy pyjamas, fluffy socks and create my own warm cocoon on my side of the bed with a blanket. I’m sexy like that.

  Walking alongside someone while they’ve got their arm slung around your shoulder is actually harder than it seems unless you put your arm around their back. I try walking with my arm just sort of flapping between mine and Will’s bodies, then I try holding it up behind Will’s back, kind of suspended in mid-air, but that just looks ridiculous and it’s not exactly comfortable either. Plus, we’re a little bit out of step and I’m pretty sure that would be corrected if I just latched onto him.

  Will grabs my hand and clamps it to his hip. ‘That’s better,’ he says.

  I smile, a little awkwardly, feeling Will’s taught hip under my palm. The tragic thought hits me as we walk that this is the closest I’ve been to a man since Leroy. It feels strange, but in a good way, like a feeling I hadn’t realised I was missing. There’s a certain innate sense of comfort to being close to someone, to walking down the street, arm-in-arm with another individual. It takes me back to the good aspects of being in a relationship, when you’re with someone who loves and supports you and everything feels just that little bit less stressful, from the small things, like walking down a cold street together and sharing body warmth to everything else coupledom entails, like talking over problems and going halves on bills. A good relationship is like a coat of armour, protecting you against the hardships of life, but a bad one is like having your skin torn off and being even more exposed than ever. I’ve been so raw from the whole Leroy thing for so long that I’ve barely even remembered the good aspects of relationships, and even though there’s nothing particularly romantic between me and Will, it’s nice to be reminded, nonetheless.

  I glance over at Will as we get closer to the hotel. He looks as pensive as I feel, and I can’t help wondering what he’s thinking. It feels strange that today is only the first day of our holiday, it feels like ages ago that we were getting into the taxi in Chiddingfold.

  We walk up to the entrance of Marrakech Palace.

  ‘Good evening!’ Medhi says, as we pa
ss reception. He looks between us, smiling broadly. It’s only then that I realise how couple-like we must actually look, walking arm in arm. For once, we’re not faking it.

  ‘Hi Medhi,’ Will and I both reply. We chat to him for a while about our evening, mentioning having dinner in Jemaa el-Fnaa. Naturally, we leave out the bit about bartering for cheap rubbish wedding rings.

  The reception counter is quite high and so I rest my hand on it, hoping Medhi will spot my ring, but despite having been obsessed with our lack of wedding rings earlier, he doesn’t glance towards my hand once.

  I fake a cough, mid-conversation, bringing my ring hand up to my face in the hope that maybe now, Medhi will notice my wedding band, but he still doesn’t appear to register it. He doesn’t look once at Will’s hand either, even though he’s placed it prominently on the counter too.

  Will and I exchange a slightly exasperated look.

  ‘Breakfast is between 7 a.m. and 10.30 a.m. We serve a traditional Moroccan breakfast as well as continental,’ Medhi says, still completely oblivious to our rings.

  ‘That sounds brilliant,’ I reply, meaning it. Breakfast these days tends to consist of one of Hera’s rusk biscuits washed down with strong coffee. I used to be the kind of person who enjoyed leisurely breakfasts all the time. I used to have business meetings over breakfast. I haven’t been out for a proper breakfast since Hera was born. It’ll be really nice to have a decent one in gorgeous surroundings.

  ‘See you in the morning then,’ I say, waving with my ring hand, but Medhi still doesn’t seem to notice my ring. Oh well, at least I can flash it over breakfast.