Honeymoon for One

by MacIntosh, Portia

  ‘There’s no narrative. It’s just a bit of fun,’ Freddie replies.

  Marty massages his temples for a moment, recomposing himself.

  ‘I hate to sound like your mom, but I gotta… You’ve had your fun, now it’s time to go home.’

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘It’s probably Ali,’ I tell Freddie. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Do I need to pay this one off too?’ Marty calls after me.

  ‘Probably, if you want to live,’ I say to myself under my breath.

  As I open the door the sunny warmth outside pushes its way in. With the air con on, it’s easy to forget just how hot it gets outside. Ali isn’t far behind it.

  ‘What’s the plan today, sweet cheeks?’ she asks me as she pushes past me.

  She’s wearing that ridiculously obscene swimsuit with all the cut-outs again, the kind you usually only see Victoria’s Secret models wearing on Instagram, and you’re always certain they don’t spend much time in them. If I went swimming in that thing I would emerge from the water with a boob poking out of each armhole. I suppose Ali’s are made of stronger stuff – she doesn’t have to compete with nature giving them a mind of their own.

  ‘You and that sort, Freddie, wanna grab some lunch?’

  Ali realises that Freddie and Marty are also in the room.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she says.

  ‘Hi,’ Marty blurts in a real slow, breathy voice. His jaw is hanging heavy as he stares at my friend.

  ‘This your dad?’ she asks Freddie.

  Freddie cracks up.

  ‘No, this is my manager, Marty,’ he tells her.

  ‘Nice.’ She turns back to me. ‘So, lunch? Max asked me if I wanted to grab something with him before work but… I think that’s run its course now, don’t you?’

  ‘Judging from the timescale I’d say, yes, you are usually bored of them by now, but you two seemed great together,’ I reply.

  ‘Nah,’ she corrects me. ‘Anyway, we’re going home in a few days, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I can do lunch, but I’m not sure about—’

  ‘Lila,’ I hear Marty call from behind me.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You got a minute?’ Marty asks with stiff movements of his head, beckoning me over.

  I feel my face scrunch with bafflement at what they would possibly want from me.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ I tell Ali.

  ‘What?’ I ask them in the hushed tone it feels as if the situation requires.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ Marty asks me.

  ‘Ali,’ I reply simply. I'm not sure what else he wants to know.

  ‘I want to go on a date with her,’ he tells me.

  ‘Erm, aren’t you married?’ Freddie reminds him.

  ‘Separated,’ he insists, showing us his blank ring finger – except it isn’t, he’s still got his wedding ring on. He quickly removes it. ‘Force of habit. Freddie, tell her I’m separated. Just trying to get a divorce deal that doesn’t involve handing over my testicles.’

  ‘That is true to the best of my knowledge,’ Freddie says, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Ali is grown enough and terrifying enough to take care of herself and make her own decisions,’ I say, also choosing my words carefully – she’d kill me, if she heard me say ‘old’. ‘Ask her if you like.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply.

  ‘Okay,’ he says excitedly, taking a deep breath before heading over to talk to her. He approaches her as she’s checking out her reflection in the back of a spoon. I almost feel sorry for him.

  ‘Hey, princess,’ he says – take it from me, that’s a terrible start.

  ‘No,’ she replies right off the bat. ‘Not in a million years.’

  ‘What?’ he asks with an embarrassed laugh. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Me and you,’ she replies, tapping him on the nose with the spoon before putting it back down on the worktop. ‘Never going to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re not my type,’ she tells him firmly. ‘Your son is,’ she continues, pointing at Freddie.

  Ouch.

  ‘Ay, come on,’ Marty insists. ‘What do you want from me? I’m a successful businessman, I got money, I can be charming, I’m Italian – we’re the most romantic people on the planet.’

  Ali purses her lips, as though she’s thinking things over. She isn’t though – I can see the cogs turning in her head and the little glimmer you can always find in her eyes before she’s about to get creative with her rejections.

  I latch onto one of Freddie’s arms, pre-emptively cringing.

  ‘This isn’t going to be nice for anyone,’ I tell him. ‘Nothing makes her angrier than someone who can’t take “no” for an answer.’

  ‘Let’s unpack those one at a time, shall we?’ she starts. ‘First up, your money is no good here, chief. You might be charming sometimes, but you’re not doing it right now. And finally, that “Ay, I’m Italian” line might work in the States, but you’re in Italy now. Mi fai impazzire.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ he asks her.

  ‘See what I mean?’ She ignores his question. ‘You’re just plain old American here, darling. So that old Mickey Blue Eyes routine isn’t going to work on me.’

  ‘I can make you famous,’ Marty says in a last-ditch attempt to turn this around. I imagine that line works for him sometimes – I suspect only in LA though, where everybody wants to be a star.

  ‘No way,’ Ali replies firmly. ‘Not falling for that one again. Not after all the time and money it took me to get the video taken down from that German website.’

  Freddie stares at me, his eyes wide with curiosity.

  ‘Oh, God, don’t ask,’ I whisper to him. ‘Don’t ask and absolutely don’t ask to see it.’

  Marty stares at Ali for a second. Stunned into silence, he just blinks for a moment. Finally, he retreats back over to where Freddie and I are standing.

  ‘I’m in love,’ he tells us.

  ‘What?’ I squeak in disbelief. ‘She just spoke to you like you were crap.’

  ‘I know, and I am into it,’ he says excitedly. ‘I want to make her my third wife. Could you have a word?’ he asks me. ‘Convince her it’s a good idea.’

  I don’t want to be rude to a person I have only just met – even if he’s done nothing but offend me and those around me – but I can’t convince Ali it’s a good idea, because all I have is evidence to the contrary.

  ‘Sorry, it sounds like her mind is made up.’

  ‘I’d leave it, man,’ Freddie advises. It sounds as if he’s got the measure of Ali already. He knows she’ll chew this guy up and spit him back out again and again and again.

  Marty itches the back of his head for a moment.

  ‘You want to stay here, finish playing your weird little game,’ Marty says. ‘Convince that girl to go on a date with me, I’ll let you finish your vacation in peace.’

  Freddie and I look at each other. He doesn’t want to go home yet. I don’t want to bow out of the competition (I’m saying that because I am not prepared to even consider whether I am feeling as if I don’t want Freddie to go home either) …

  ‘Give me a minute,’ I tell him.

  ‘He-e-e-ey,’ I say, in my nicest ‘I need a favour’ voice.

  ‘Oh no, what?’ Ali replies. I’m sure her brow would be furrowed, if she could move it.

  ‘First of all, what was that thing you said in Italian earlier?’ I ask her, buttering her up. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s something dirty Max taught me,’ she replies. ‘Now, come on, out with it.’

  ‘You remember when we went out for lunch the other day, and you said you owed me one, after I went on that horrible double date with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Wait, no… you want me to go on a double date with him?’

  Ali makes no effort to lower her voice to spare anyone’s feelings.
/>   ‘No, of course not. I want you to go on a solo date with him.’

  ‘I mean, I get that I owe you one, but obviously I’m not going to do that…’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Is there a reason you would want me to do that?’

  ‘He’s Freddie’s manager,’ I tell her quietly, hoping my calming tone will rub off on her and she’ll lower her voice too. ‘And he’s trying to make Freddie leave and go back to work, but we’ve got two more rounds of Mr & Mrs Valentine Island and I’ll be quids in if I win. I can use the money for the expensive hotel suite I paid for but haven’t actually been sleeping in…’

  ‘Because I’ve commandeered it,’ she says. She thinks for a moment. ‘Are you sure this isn’t you trying to hang onto Freddie for a few days longer? Because, if you like him, a few days isn’t going to make this any easier, when he goes…’

  ‘It’s for the money,’ I insist.

  Honestly, I can’t even entertain the alternative right now. My head is all over the place…

  ‘And I wouldn’t even ask if Marty wasn’t your type,’ I add. ‘Older, good-looking, successful.’

  ‘Would you throw a future double date into the deal?’ she asks. ‘Just in case I ever need one.’

  ‘Okay, sure,’ I reply. It could never be as bad as the last one.

  ‘Ergh, OK, fine, I’ll take one for the team,’ she says loud enough for Marty to hear.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, clapping his hands together. ‘Shall we go get some lunch?’

  ‘Okay, sure,’ she says. ‘You’re paying, Mr successful, rich, sometimes charming Italian man.’

  ‘Seriously, I mean it… I’m in love,’ Marty tells me as he passes me. ‘I’ll take good care of her.’

  He takes Ali by the arm – standing a couple of inches shorter than she is in her heels, which I know will be really upsetting her – and leads her outside.

  I can’t help but laugh at Marty telling me he’ll take care of Ali – he’s the one that’s going to need to watch his back.

  ‘Love’s young dream,’ Freddie says with a faux sigh. ‘Speaking of which… didn’t we say we were going back to bed?’

  I smile.

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Well, we’d better get a move on, because we have another round of Mr & Mrs Valentine Island to win this afternoon,’ he says. ‘You know, I worked it out, and we could come last in this round and still make the final.’

  ‘Amazing,’ I reply. ‘We make a pretty good team, don’t we?’

  ‘We do,’ he replies.

  He pulls me close and kisses me. I feel myself melting into his arms and it feels so good, but so terrifying at the same time. Ali is right: if I am falling for him, what does it matter if he goes home today, tomorrow or the day after that? Whichever day it is, he’s going to go back to his life and I’m going to go back to mine.

  I just need to put it out of my mind for now and make the most of it – and make sure I keep my head in the game, and win this competition!

  32

  What a difference a week makes.

  It doesn’t seem like yesterday (because it wasn’t actually much more than that) since I was heartbroken, cheated on, crying my eyes out, panicking about being by myself.

  Today, in a bizarre and shocking plot twist, Freddie and I are cooking together.

  Not in the kitchen – we haven’t just decided to go full-couple and spend the rest of our time playing house. We’re at a pop-up kitchen at the beach bar, competing in the Mr & Mrs Valentine Island semi-finals.

  Freddie and I already have such a lead at the top of the leaderboard that we have already qualified for the grand final. Still, it’s good to try your best so that’s what we’re doing, up against four other couples.

  Daniel and Eva are still in the competition, hot on our heels. I glanced over at them earlier and noticed them having some kind of argument, so I’m not sure how much of a threat they’ll be today.

  Today we are making pasta and the dishes we are making are to be judged by one of the hotel’s top chefs. Everything I’ve eaten on Valentine Island has been insanely delicious so naturally I’m feeling the pressure.

  Freddie, on the other hand, is cool as a cucumber, because Freddie has the confidence of knowing what an awesome chef he is.

  Back home, cooking was usually down to me, what with Daniel misinterpreting my ‘work from home’ status as ‘housewife’ status. I can cook, but I’m no expert. Freddie, though, he seems as if he knows his stuff.

  ‘I can’t believe how amazing you are,’ I marvel as I watch him washing basil leaves.

  ‘Cooking?’ he replies.

  ‘Well, right now it’s the cooking, but it’s everything,’ I admit. ‘You just never cease to amaze me.’

  ‘Try it first,’ he says. ‘Then we’ll discuss how amazing I am.’

  I love his cheeky little smile when he cracks a joke.

  ‘Anyway, it’s just pasta,’ he says. ‘Most people can make pasta, right?’

  ‘I’d probably just buy it ready-made,’ I point out.

  He smiles.

  ‘You know what this needs – some cream in the tomato sauce,’ he says. ‘Can you check the supply area for some? Maybe ask behind the bar if not.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I reply, happy to be helpful. I take note of what kind and how much we need, which Freddie finds funny. I just want to show as much care and attention to this as he is showing.

  I hurry over to the table where all the cooking supplies are. Earlier, Freddie, the resident chef in this faux relationship, gathered up everything we needed, so I haven’t even taken stock of what there is.

  With no sign of any cream I pinch one of the scrumptious-looking mozzarella pearls. It’s the perfect size for popping into my mouth without anyone noticing. By the time I reach the bar, the evidence is gone.

  Thankfully a very obliging barman agrees to fetch me a small amount of cream. I feel very pleased with myself for this. Our pasta is going to have something extra, that nobody else’s has. Not just the cream, but Freddie’s expertise.

  ‘Lila, we need to talk,’ Daniel says, taking a seat on the barstool next to me.

  ‘I’m sure we do,’ I reply. ‘About our house, our car, the bills we need to pay, how we’ll divide our Blu-ray collection… but not today, buddy.’

  ‘I’m not your buddy, I’m your fiancé,’ he replies.

  I glare at him.

  ‘No, you’re not. Being engaged is a purely verbal thing. We were engaged because we said we were, because we were getting married. We’re not getting married now, so we’re not engaged, so you’re not my fiancé.’

  Incredible, really, that I’m having to point this out to him.

  ‘This isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he continues. ‘It’s about Freddie.’

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me about Freddie,’ I snap. ‘My love life is nothing to do with you any more.’

  ‘Okay, but—’

  ‘No, stop it,’ I insist. ‘Just leave me alone. I’m happy, I’m having a nice time – why are you trying to ruin it? Why did you give me that creepy kiss last night?’

  ‘I was just playing the game.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ I reply. ‘You really went for it.’

  ‘I just wanted to show you… to remind you… what we had,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t care. I don’t need reminding of what we had – I think about it every time I see you.’

  ‘Well, that’s good?’ he says.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I correct him. ‘I see you, and Eva, and it reminds me what you did, and what you were willing to risk for… for what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admits. He places a hand on the small of my back. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Daniel,’ I snap. ‘Get your hand off my back and leave me alone. Go back to Eva.’

  ‘But Freddie—’

  I don’t let him finish, I just thank the barman for my cream and head back to Freddie, to h
elp him finish the cooking.

  ‘There you are,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. ‘I thought you’d gone across to Naples for it.’

  ‘Nope, just the bar,’ I reply. ‘My God, this smells amazing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he replies as he pours the cream in, taking the sauce from a bright red to a creamy orange colour. ‘Matteo was walking from table to table, seeing how people were doing. He told me after the judges taste our food we can eat it.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Freddie laughs.

  ‘I knew you’d like that,’ he says.

  I help out where I can, but Freddie is doing pretty much everything, so my jobs are mostly small things, which keep me out of the thick of the cooking action.

  Freddie plates up our dish. I’m not really sure what it is, but it looks amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever met a pasta dish I didn’t like. Creamy-looking sauce (our secret weapon for winning this), fresh basil leaves, mozzarella pearls. It looks like something they would serve here; I couldn’t be prouder.

  The chef doing the judging doesn’t speak English, so Matteo translates as he judges each dish.

  When the chef arrives at our table – last but certainly not least – he looks us up and down. You can just tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t think we’ll be up to much and, while he might be right about me, I know he’s wrong about Freddie. The proof is in the pudding – well, the pasta, anyway.

  ‘He asks where you learned to cook,’ Matteo translates.

  ‘From my mom, I guess,’ Freddie replies.

  ‘Chef wants to know if your mother is Italian,’ Matteo continues.

  ‘Nope,’ Freddie replies. ‘American.’

  The chef mutters something else in Italian. His expression is blank, bordering on angry, but it gives nothing away.

  ‘He says this pasta is best,’ Matteo tells us. ‘He says he would cook this pasta.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I laugh.

  ‘He says this pasta is the winner,’ Matteo tells us before announcing it to everyone else.

  The chef gives us both a congratulatory handshake – he must be impressed. After, Freddie picks me up and spins me around. He’s done this a few times and I always thought it was for show – I suppose it still is, but still, it makes me dizzyingly happy.