‘Oh right,’ I nod. ‘Sorry, I don't watch it.’ As Helena's eyes narrow a fraction I am aware that I’m being just a little bit bitchy, but I don't like her. Or her swimwear. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Helen,’ I say, trying to animate my face. ‘Lunch, Si?’ I don’t hang around for his answer, heading off across the manicured lawn.
‘Um, that was a bit rude,’ he says, catching up with me.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you cut her dead and then left.’
‘I don't watch her programme,’ I shrug. ‘What else was there to say?’
‘You could have just done pleasantries. It was awkward, Fia.’
‘How about we forget the restaurant this lunchtime and order a room-service pizza?’ I suggest, changing the subject. Something makes me want to get out of the public areas in fear of Helena and her strung torso resurfacing. It’s making me angsty.
‘Fine, whatever,’ he says, thrown by the tangent. ‘Fia, are you listening? Helena?’
‘All right. I'm sorry. I just didn't want to talk to her.’
‘You don't need to apologise to me,’ he says. Absently he tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. He's done this a million times, always taking care of me, but instinctively I lean into his fingers. I don’t remember doing that before. A look of surprise and then confusion crosses his face. He lets it slide though as I straighten up and look away. ‘I asked her to join us for a drink tonight, so you can apologise to her yourself.’
‘What?!’
‘What was I supposed to say? I wasn't going to walk off like you. So I said she should join us for a beer.’
I am not an aggressive person. Sure, I can hold my ground when a contractor is messing me about and battle through a model's petulant sulk, but I'm not aggressive. Aggressive would not have simply accepted a wedding-cancelling text; aggressive would have hunted Greg down and marched him back to inform each guest personally. On his knees. However, I suddenly feel aggression roll up through my body and explode in my head. For the first time I truly understand the term ‘to see red’.
‘But I don't want to have a beer with her,’ I hiss. He cocks his head at me and his brows pull together at the wave of hostility I’m projecting.
‘One drink, Fia. You can do that. You have drinks with people you don't want to spend time with every week.’
‘No.’ I cross my arms and just stop my foot from stamping.
‘Yes.’
‘Will not.’
‘Will so.’ Yes, we have always argued like this. Like we are still ten.
True to childish form, I continue the fight by storming off, into the villa and, as I fully expect, he follows.
‘Don't walk off. This is not going to go away.’
‘Maybe I'll stay in tonight, then.’ I'm only just not shouting now and I don't know really where it is coming from.
‘I'll go by myself then. I bet Helena is a blast. I'll bring you back some stories.’
I’m sure he only says this because he knows I hate missing a good night out. But the ‘No!’ that escapes me is based on something else. I cannot bear – simply cannot bear – the thought of Simon and her alone together at dinner. And that's when it hits me, square in the face that I am jealous. I, Sofia, am jealous of someone else being with you, Simon. Having or holding, for dinner (or worse), from this day forward. Oh. My. God. My hand is already on my mouth and I suspect my eyes are wide as saucers.
‘No? Why?’ Simon asks. He isn't shouting. Instead he is looking at me very intensely, like he wants me to work something out.
Swallowing is unexpectedly difficult as my mouth is alarmingly dry. The air is so thick in here that I drag a long deep breath in the hope of grasping some control. Epic fail.
‘Why, Fia?’ he presses.
‘Because I don't want to share you,’ I confess, my voice small.
‘Why?’ He takes a step forward. My heart is thundering too much for me to move. My lips are so arid now that I can't help but lick them quickly. I see his eyes flick to them, and it almost topples me.
‘Because I want you.’ It’s only a whisper but he hears it loud and clear, and his lips are on mine before the second is out.
Thus end the years of our platonic sleepovers. We don’t see daylight for the rest of the afternoon. As a result we are both ravenous by dinnertime.
I’ve only one unused dress left and it is very short and white. It shows up the tan I’ve managed to accumulate and also affords me a chance to wear the infamous Miu Mius. Walking to dinner takes forever, as we constantly stop for crucial kissing, and we reach the restaurant with daft smiles plastered on our faces.
The thatched restaurant is open to the elements and there’s a small dance floor where, after our food and celebratory champagne, the dancers perform a Sega display, with their brightly coloured skirts waving like flags and the Creole rhythm drum-rolling our fabulous loved-upness.
‘Dance with me?’ Simons asks, as the dancers disperse and the house band strikes up.
‘Oh yes,’ and I am in his arms in moments. He spins and dips me for the first two songs and internally I am thanking my lucky stars that I’ve found a man – a straight one, no less– who can dance. Result!
‘Mind if I cut in?’ The tap on my shoulder makes me bristle.
Helena. She’s looking at Simon expectantly, dressed in something so slinky her mother would be shocked and wearing last season’s ugliest Zanottis on her feet. Of course I bloody mind, but before I can open my mouth, Simon says, ‘Sure,’ dropping my hands and turning to her. Which leaves me standing like a clown.
My feet are already moving before I understand my plan, which turns out to be to take my embarrassment back to the villa. These heels were not designed for storming anywhere. I can only manage a livid teeter. The effect is not the same.
Suddenly the theme from Titanic snakes through the air. (So, I thought it was a romantic ringtone at the time, now it just seems prophetic.) Hearing it has me confused. What can he possibly want?
‘Why are you calling me when clearly you prefer to text?’ I snap.
‘Fi.’ He says it like a greeting.
‘Greg,’ I counter.
‘How’s Mauritius?’
‘Blissful. What can I do for you?’ I desperately want to hold it together.
Then he doesn’t say anything. I hear the clickety-clack of my heels on the path as I walk, mixed with his breathing in my ear, all the way from England. The combination has me spooked. Eventually, I say ‘You know, silent calls don't really have the same impact when the recipient knows who's calling.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what? The silence?’
‘The wedding. How I handled it. The timing. Everything.’
I keep walking as otherwise I think my knees might buckle a little. Is he saying, ‘Sorry. Can we try again?’ or something else? See, the thing is that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I dread the answer being the former.
‘Okay,’ I say, carefully.
‘Okay?’
‘Okay, I accept that you’re sorry.’
‘That's it?’ He sounds a little peeved.
‘Um, I guess. Did you want me to make you grovel more?’
‘I just couldn’t do it. The marriage thing.’ The Marriage Thing. So glib. That annoys me.
‘Clearly. Or tell me.’ I’m snapping again.
‘Or tell you,’ he concedes. Coward.
‘I’ve moved out,’ he announces. I don't know why this surprises me, but it does. I’ve expected a show-down in the flat when I get back.
‘Probably best,’ I nod. The change in my footsteps makes me look around. I've walked off the path and up into the wedding gazebo. The wooden decking has a deeper, mellower timbre than the tarmac. It settles me.
‘But there’s some joint stuff that we need to share out,’ he goes on, and it dawns on me that this call is simply to secure custody of the Wii. Leaning against the low fretwork wall of the gazebo, I wonder what I ever thought I
was doing, with all my Bridezilla plans. Enough now.
‘Sounds good,’ I say as brightly as I can muster, ‘I'm back in a couple of days. Come over as soon as possible.’
I hit ‘End Call’ and turn towards the villa. Below me on the path stands Simon, hands in pockets and a look of thunder on his face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I ask. I don't know why he's looking aggrieved – he’s not the one who got dumped on the dance floor.
‘You disappeared. Surely the question is what’s the matter with you?’ His voice is measured but doesn’t match his face.
‘What, other than you binning me for Miss Fast Lane?
‘Why is everything about you?’ he groans, crossly. ‘It’s always about you. One dance, Fia, that was all. One dance. What was I supposed to do, turn her down, leave her looking stupid? You already did that at lunchtime.’
‘No. Heaven forbid,’ I snark. ‘So I get to look stupid instead as you drop me for her?’
‘I'm sure no one even noticed.’
‘No, not with the speed you transferred,’ I spit. Why am I being evil? I know he was just being nice, that’s what he does. And to be fair, he’s entitled to dance with whoever he likes. I just... I just wanted it to be me.
‘What was I? Vulnerable? The easy holiday fling?’ God, I can’t stop spouting this stuff now. Somebody stop me.
‘Trust me Sofia, there isn’t anything easy about you.’ It’s not a compliment. He runs his hands through his hair. I've never seen him so angry except for when he was fifteen and Ned glued all the pages of his porn mags together. He couldn’t even complain to their parents. ‘And what was I then? The rebound? I see you called your unintended the moment you're feeling ignored. I caught the end of the conversation. I get the picture.’ What picture? Furiously I try to recall what was said. He supplies me with the answer. ‘“Sounds good. I'm back in a couple of days. Come over as soon as possible.” Well, I tell you what Fia, I can’t do it next time. I can’t watch you marry him. This last time nearly killed me, I won't do it again.’ And then he walks away, head down, shoulders hunched.
Oh nuts. That’s not what’s going on here at all. I move to catch him but I don’t get anywhere. One of my heels is wedged in the decking. I try to pull it out, but it's having none of it. Stupid shoes, they've brought me nothing but misery. Leaving it is easy, as is taking off its mate and lobbing it at a hibiscus bush before I start running.
It takes me a while to find him. He isn’t in the bar and thankfully he isn't out dancing. The villa is empty, so I can only think of the beach, which is where he turns out to be, sitting, watching the moonlit waves, running sand through his fingers.
‘You're always quick to jump to conclusions, you are,’ I say, dropping down next to him. ‘So hot headed.’
‘Pot. Kettle. Black,’ he replies, dryly.
‘Great minds think alike?’ I try.
‘Not when it comes to your marital choices.’ Ouch.
‘He rang me, Si. He rang me.’
‘And you picked up?’ He’s appalled.
‘Of course I did. I'd rather speak to him than converse by text. I can’t make anyone grovel by text.’
‘And?’
‘And what you heard was me saying I'd prefer to get things finished as soon as possible. We agreed that he'd come over and we'd split the shared stuff we had. He's already moved his stuff out.’
‘Oh.’
‘Quite. So that’s all it is now.’ I’m playing with the sand too now. ‘We've gone from intending lifelong vows to division of chattels in just over a week. How depressing is that?’
‘Depressing that it wasn’t to be?’
‘No, Si, depressing how wrong I was. How close to a catastrophic mistake. But bloody amazing too that I escaped in time.’ I lean my head on his shoulder. ‘And awesome that you were there to escape with me and show me the better plan.’ I feel him kiss the top of my head. He still likes me. Yay! ‘I'm sorry.’
‘No, I'm sorry.’
‘I’m sorrier.’
That wolfish grin returns. ‘How about I take you to bed and I show you how sorry I am?’
Well I’m not going to argue with that...
The following evening is our last and we walk through the grove towards the beach to watch the sunset. I realise now that it wasn’t my lost marriage that I’d been mourning, but my lost wedding, and I’m not proud of it. But on the up side, I’ve finally seen what has been in front of me for so long. The best mate – in all senses – that I could ever have wished for.
Our spot by the water’s edge has been taken by a couple who’ve opted to have their nuptials on the beach. He’s dressed in linen shorts and a white shirt; she looks beautiful in a simple white maxi dress. They are completely oblivious of us, eyes only for each other. Even so pared down, their wedding has everything mine didn’t.
‘I’d like my real wedding to be like that,’ I say, ‘in the surf.’
‘Barefoot?’ He sounds incredulous. I nod.
‘Fancy it?’
He turns to face me and I hold my breath. He knows what I’m asking. His eyes crinkle as his smile slowly fills his gorgeous face.
‘I do.’
About the Author
Pernille Hughes studied Film & Literature at university (yup, watching flicks and reading books for three years – good times!). Lured by the temptation of freebies she took her first job in advertising, but left when Status Quo tickets was as good as it got. After a brief spell marketing Natural History films, she switched to working in children’s television, which for a time meant living in actual Teletubbyland, sharing a photocopier with Laa-Laa. Now, she lives in actual Buckinghamshire, sharing a photocopier with her husband Ian and their four spawn. While the kids are at school she scoffs cake and writes in order to maintain a shred of sanity. She tap-dances most Monday nights, but is clearly not Fred and Ginger’s secret love child…
Twitter: @pernillehughes
Blog: www.writingfromtheedgeofdistraction.blogspot.com
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/pernille-hughes
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THE ANNIVERSARY
***
Margaret James
Destination: Tuscany, Italy
The summer visitors had flown in like swallows, but my favourite café in the heart of Lucca was comparatively quiet.
There were just two other customers. They were sitting over a late breakfast, eating chocolate croissants, holding hands and kissing now and then.
I was on my third espresso. Nick still hadn’t turned up. I checked my phone again. It was gone eleven. I thought – he isn’t coming, after all.
The teenage waiter was looking at this caffeine-junkie of a lone inglese with curiosity.
‘Perhaps the signorina would like an almond pastry or a few biscotti?’ he suggested.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll stick with coffee, grazie.’
I felt too sick, too worried and too anxious to eat anything.
I sipped some water from the glass and then I took another slug of caffeine.
Maybe, I thought, I’d got the wrong café?
No, it was this one near the Duomo, the one which had the white wisteria frothing over it, the place I’d seen him last time. He’d said he would be there at half past nine.
It was so unlike him to be late.
I’d wait fifteen more minutes, I decided, before I went back to my hired Fiat and drove out of the place, still high on caffeine and higher still on disappointment, grief, regret; a toxic mix of feelings I knew I should be trying to control.
My friends and family said I should move on and get a life.
But there was no way I’d let him go.
‘Rose.’
Suddenly, he was there in front of me, weighed down by his ruck
sack which he now slid off and dumped upon the pigeon-spattered cobbles.
‘My God, you startled me!’ This was an understatement. I shook so much I almost dropped my cup. My coffee slopped on to the tablecloth. ‘I didn’t see you coming across the square.’
‘You were looking the other way,’ he told me as he flexed his shoulders, stretched and smiled, revealing perfect teeth in a summer-tanned but very English face. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. I was held up. Nowadays there are so many rules and protocols, red tape and stuff.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I found I was smiling, too. ‘You’re here, and that’s the main thing. I thought you’d changed your mind.’
‘That’s a woman’s privilege. Rose, I’ve been looking forward all this year to seeing you. I want to hear about what’s happened, how you’ve been getting on, if you’ve been good. But not too good, I hope?’
‘No, not too good,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t forgotten what you said the last time, about having fun, how it’s important to have fun.’
I paid my bill. Nick picked his rucksack up again, slung it on one shoulder, held out his hand to me. I took it and together we walked across the square, down narrow mediaeval streets and cobbled alleys hung with signs and washing to where I’d parked close to the amphitheatre. Once the scene of suffering and carnage, nowadays its Roman arches were all filled with cafés, shops and holiday apartments, and there was a busy market in the central oval.
‘You look gorgeous in that pale green dress,’ he told me.
‘You look pretty hot yourself,’ I said. ‘I always liked that shirt. Where did you get it, did you say – Topman, Portobello Market, Oxfam?’ Yes, it was the caffeine talking. No, I didn’t mean to sound so frivolous. I didn’t want to flirt with him or trade in silly banter.
I wanted this to be a perfect day.
We reached the alley where I’d somehow managed to wedge the car into a tight apology of a space against a crumbling, poster-covered wall. ‘When did you arrive?’ he asked.
Sunlounger - the Ultimate Beach Read (Sunlounger Stories Book 1) Page 29
