Was this happening? My stomach fluttered and I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face towards me. He kissed me again, passionately. ‘I like it when you do that,’ he said.
He traced his lips over my lips, then my cheek, following the line of my neck down the right side, leaving soft kisses that gave me goosebumps, then licking in long strokes, and finally tiny bites. He tugged gently on my hair, then a little stronger, pulling my head back, and exposing my neck to his kisses.
He moved his hands to cup my breasts. I arched my back, and he sucked my right nipple in his mouth. I moaned with intensity, all other thoughts immediately leaving my head.
‘I thought you’d be the noisy type.’ He licked between my breasts and looked up at me.
‘Do you like noisy?’ I asked coyly, letting my fingers float across his perfect chest and abs, honed to perfection, smooth and taut.
‘God,’ he moaned, ‘I love it.’
I’d always dreamed of a summer fling, but nothing like this.
I curled my legs around his back, locking my ankles, pulling him closer to me. Without thinking, I leaned forward, licked his neck, then whispered in his ear, ‘I want you.’
His hot breath was on my chin, on my neck, as he ground into me. Our bodies rocked against each other. He grabbed onto my thighs where he was holding me, so hard, that he left fingerprints. I scratched my fingernails down his back. The pain and pleasure pushed us both over the edge in a large shudder. He groaned and fell into me, gently placing me back on the bed, kissing my lips gently.
We stayed there for a minute, not moving.
‘I did not know this was going to happen,’ I said, panting from the effort.
‘Why are you panting? I did all the work!’ He laughed.
I swatted his arm. ‘I was doing a lot of hip action there too, buddy. It takes yoga classes to get that flexible.’
He leaned back and looked into my eyes. ‘That was amazing.’
‘Sleep time?’ I asked, suddenly exhausted and wanting to feel his warm body pressed against me all night.
‘Sleep time,’ he said, kissing me gently on the tip of my nose. ‘My bed is king size. It’s comfy, I promise.’
He tossed me a T-shirt and shorts from the top of the wicker basket. ‘I only wore them earlier today for ten minutes – they’re clean.’
When I put them on, they smelled of him slightly, his minty aftershave. I collapsed onto the bed and yawned again, almost slipping instantly into sleep.
Nick crawled on the bed next to me, one arm around me, tucking my hair away from my face. I wanted him to kiss me, but before I could do anything, I fell asleep feeling his soft warm breath tickling my skin and listening to the sounds of the ocean in the distance.
Chapter 3
‘Good morning, sleepy,’ Nick said, standing there, his perfect body in perfect boxers, smiling, an orange juice in his hand. ‘Do you want coffee?’
I nodded limply, because everything seemed to hurt my head.
‘Hangovers,’ he’d said, ‘are the version of adult nightmares that you can’t wake up from.’
We laughed and delicately tried to eat toast and sip water. Then we spent an hour laying next to each other, our arms and legs touching, intertwined, chatting about places we wanted to visit, and places we’d loved, and our favourite books, and music – all the things that you loved discovering about another person. And there was no doubt about it, Nick was a nerd, a poetry nerd at that. He liked Yeats, but mostly E.E. Cummings. I knew that he liked his coffee extra black, extra shot. That he visited him mum every second Saturday. That he would move to Canada if he could, to the west coast.
Finally, I knew I had to get up and go back to my hotel, to shower, and sleep, and feel human again. I mused about how to say goodbye without making it uncomfortable or strange. Of course, I wanted to see him again, but I had no idea if he felt the same way. For a moment I stood awkwardly in my black dress, my shoes in my hand, looking around his room. Did we swap numbers, or email addresses, or something? Or maybe we just kissed … and said goodbye like mature adults and went on with our lives.
‘How about a seafood lunch later?’ Nick said casually, pulling on a T-shirt after a quick shower. ‘I’m flying back tonight, but I could see you before three o’clock.’ He paused. ‘Only if you want?’
Sure,’ I replied excitedly. He wants to see me again.
‘My number is 04—’
‘Wait. My phone is out of battery and there’s no way I’ll remember that.’ I laughed but then it hurt my head a little, so I stopped. ‘Ouch.’
‘Poor you. OK here’s my number.’ He said quickly scribbling it on a piece of paper and handing it to me. ‘Text me where and when, and I’ll be there.’
‘Great,’ I said and pocketed it, giving him a long hug before slipping out the front door.
Outside, I walked quickly back across the sandy beach where just hours ago I’d been naked. The sun was up and blinding already at this early hour, there was no breeze, and the humidity sat heavy in the air. I was sweating in seconds as I trudged through the sand, step by step. I wandered down a road and then left along a small beach cove. Where was my hotel? And, where was I? Feeling confused and disorientated, I’d turned down a few streets and walked for a while, before realising they were dead ends. Was I even going the right way?
After the longest, hottest walk I’d found I’d taken a wrong turn, and had to backtrack twenty long, hot minutes before I arrived at the hotel, feeling like a limp dishrag.
Slipping into my deliciously cool room, I showered and took a quick power nap. When I got up, I’d looked at the crumpled piece of paper on my bed with Nick’s phone number. I read the numbers aloud 0402 773 944. Before I could second guess myself, I texted him Hey you, hope your head is feeling better. My hotel apparently does a great seafood lunch. Freshwaters, at 1pm? And then I’d put his number in my purse, and called down to reception to book a table near the pool for two.
Excited, I jumped in the shower again and spent an hour getting ready. I put on my sea-green maxi dress and sandals and I styled my hair straight and then spent a lot of extra time giving it beach waves. By the time I was finished it was just past 1 p.m., so I grabbed my phone and purse and took the lift to Freshwaters. The waiter seated me at one of the best tables right next to the pool, and the sun was shining so brightly, I had to wear sunglasses. I ordered two glasses of sauvignon blanc, because I knew he liked really crisp, dry white wines. I laughed, then, because I already knew what he liked and didn’t like. I picked up the menu and planned what we’d eat for lunch. We’d start with the calamari rings – fried to perfection – then grilled Yasawa lobster to share. I’d have the panko fried mussels, because for some reason he doesn’t like mussels, and he could have the Fiji crab, as long as he promised to save me a bite, or two. Or maybe we’d just splurge and order two of them to be sure.
I grinned. It felt strangely like I was waiting for a boyfriend. Not a boyfriend, my boyfriend. And I liked it.
I checked my phone, but he hadn’t responded. He’s coming though, I reassured myself, he seemed excited to see me again. I ate a bit of the complimentary sourdough bread, my teeth sinking into the warm crust, and invented a list of reasons he was ten minutes late. He’s trying to find the place. He decided to walk and took a wrong turn. He’s not sure what shirt to wear.
The poor waiter kept on trying to take my order, as the restaurant filled up, and I kept on saying could you wait a bit longer please. I swallowed a sip of wine and watched all the other happy couples ordering platters of seafood. I quickly sent him a text. Hey there, are we still on for lunch? I checked my phone – yes it had signal, yes international roaming was switched on.
I tried texting Tansy – I’m in Fiji! Tell me if you get this, possible issues with phone. And I’d sent a quick photo of the sun, the pool, the palm trees. And she’d written straight back – AMAZING! Can’t wait to see you xxx.
After another five minutes, I looked at the s
econd glass of wine I’d ordered, and I realized it was possible he wasn’t late. A strange, queasy feeling churned in my stomach. Had he stood me up?
But there had to be a reason. He had fallen asleep, yes that was it. We’d been up most of the night. Or maybe he was packing and the time had gotten away from him. Because he had been so lovely last night, he was a good guy, wasn’t he? As the waiter closed in on me, his notepad ready for my entrée order, I picked up my phone, closed my eyes and thought, just do it. I found his number, saved under ‘Naked Nick’, and pressed ‘call’. I put the phone to my ear and felt like I was going to faint. What if he answered and didn’t want to talk to me? What if it was someone else’s number?
I waited for the ring tone, but there was nothing. All I could hear was a beep beep beep and a robotic voice saying ‘this number is not connected. Please check the number and dial again’.
I checked the number, and then looked at the piece of paper he’d written it on. Had I got the number wrong? I tried it again, this time punching in the numbers, one by one. But it was the same robotic voiced response.
Oh God. I felt a flame of embarrassment wash over me. He’d given me a wrong number, and I was sat here, at bloody Freshwaters, dressed up like a ham at Christmas, and completely by myself like an absolute idiot. I turned around, suddenly paranoid, as if I was about to catch him hiding in the bushes laughing at me. But the only people in the bushes were kids jumping into the pool, and all around me people looking at each other in a lovey-dovey couple way.
He wasn’t coming.
I felt like I was going to cry, but I couldn’t cry by myself at a table in a frou-frou restaurant. I tried to keep a shred of dignity, but I could feel the tears brimming and the lump in my throat, as I called the waiter over, apologized, told him my friend wasn’t coming and asked him to charge the wine to my room.
Thank God for large sunglasses. On the way back to my room, I could feel the hot tears at my eyes. He’d given me a fake number. He’d lied. What else had he lied about? Everything? If he wasn’t into me, he was a great actor, and that had been as Oscar-worthy performance.
Suddenly I wasn’t the bright, self-confident girl I had convinced myself I was after all these years away. I was me, seven years ago, standing in a white dress at the end of the aisle and someone was whispering to me those three haunting words.
He’s not coming.
Chapter 4
Murray and I met in university. I was doing a bunch of classes including anthropology, art and psychology, trying to figure out what I really wanted to do. He was a straight-A economics and computer studies student. Our paths would never have crossed had I not needed a tutor. I was taking Psychology 101 and needed desperate help with computer statistics. A friend suggested Murray would help me out, so I texted him immediately.
When we met over coffee to discuss tutoring, he was so geeky I knew he was going to make the perfect coach. He dressed in too-loose jeans. He was slightly pudgy. He walked self-consciously. He didn’t look at anyone directly when he first met them because he was too shy.
I felt totally relaxed in his company. I didn’t bother wearing make-up and I said what I thought. After a few months of weekly catch-ups, we became more like friends, and started meeting for coffee before tutoring, going to the movies afterwards, which turned into dinner, which turned into long drives down to the beach, where we talked about everything. He’d never had a girlfriend before, and so I was surprised when he kissed me at first. Besides, it was comfortable and good. We fitted together so easily. And we made each other really quite happy. I was the energy and fire, and he was the solid anchor – that seemed to balance us.
He was practical and calm, he taught me the best ways to save, about interest rates and how to accumulate Flybuys points (until then I’d had no idea what that even was). I got him dancing for the first time. We took a trip to New Zealand, and went on a fast speedboat. Although the entire time he kept saying how risky it was, afterwards he was as exhilarated as a little kid on Christmas morning.
Two years later, he proposed at the top of Centre Point Tower after a dinner of oysters and Champagne. It was terribly clichéd, but he looked so sweet in a dinner jacket, on one knee, that I said yes. Part of me was excited, and part of me was terrified. I knew I loved him, but …
But. It’s a horrible word to use, especially when you’re talking about someone you should be happy with, for ever after.
But. We had completely different ideas for our future. I talked about doing a worldwide trip then buying a small place near the woods with a large veggie patch within walking distance to the cute local store.
Murray was focusing on getting his first role in an international tech company, and climbing the ladder. He talked about things like security, and stocks, and mortgages, and planning where we’d go when he got long-service leave after twelve years.
I dreamt about a cottage with an apple orchard. An apple orchard! Who doesn’t want one of those? And maybe renting a place in Tuscany for a year, or the French countryside, or living like locals on a sleepy Greek island. He dreamt about a nice suburban house, on the Sydney busline. Ugh, I thought, who wants one of those?
I wanted to do up an old van or bus, put a bed in it, and travel around New Zealand. He wanted a 4WD for all the kids we were supposed to be having, except I didn’t even know if I wanted kids. Ever.
I couldn’t see the life he wanted becoming mine. And neither could he see the life I pictured becoming his. His felt too fixed to me, too vanilla. And mine felt unstable to him, too spontaneous. We pushed back the wedding date. Twice.
Finally, we talked about saving enough to buy our suburban house and the country cottage, and, even though that felt big, we said in small voices, we can do this. We booked a wedding date, in the early spring, and this time we committed to it.
A few nights before the wedding, Murray turned over in bed and held me really close and kept saying, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ I didn’t know if it was him or me he was comforting, but for the first time I felt a distance between us. My best friend, Tansy, already married, told me it was just cold feet. Perfectly normal. Everyone went through it.
The night before our wedding, I was packing the final parts of my over-priced wedding underwear, preparing to stay at Maggie’s house. Before I left, Murray held up his three-piece tux to show me. We didn’t believe in fate jinxing us – but maybe we should have. He was so proud that he’d lost weight to fit into it. He asked what I thought, and I said he’d look amazing. He was looking at me strangely, and he kept asking, ‘What’s wrong, Em? What’s wrong?’
I said nothing. That I was fine. Excited. But then I felt wetness run down my cheek. I was crying. But they were tears of happiness, weren’t they?
I told myself it was nothing. I kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Tears of happiness.’
The next day was our wedding day. I was standing in a small makeshift marquee next to a colourful spring garden. Dressed in white. My hair in soft waves, half pinned up, a crown of flowers. Soft blush make-up. A long lace dress, a sea-green sash around my waist to match my eyes. I held a bunch of wild pink roses, tied with string. We’d chosen soft pink peonies, bunched, at the end of each row. The aisle had no carpet, and instead was just flushed with white petals.
The sun was out, and it was a gorgeous spring day. The celebrant was waiting at the end of the garden, peering at her watch and trying not to make it look obvious. Murray was late. People in the congregation were waving their programmes in front of their faces, like fans. My mum was pacing, muttering under her breath, ‘Where is he? Where is he?’
I stuck my head out of the marquee. The string quartet had finished ‘Pachelbel’s Canon in D’ and they glanced across at me. I made a circling motion with my hand, a play it again sign. They nodded, and picked up their instruments. The guests started looking around because it was very obvious that something wasn’t right, or, really, that someone hadn’t turned up yet. I bet everyone thought it would be
me. Because it was never Murray. Murray was never late.
‘Give me my phone,’ I’d said to someone. ‘Where is my phone? I’ll call him. He’s in traffic, maybe there are roadworks down on the M2. Or the M4.’ I was babbling about roads, and traffic lights, and where they were doing roadworks, and someone had my phone in their hands, and I was reaching for it, and still talking about the M7 or M2, and trying to figure out what road he would be taking to get here.
Then someone was whispering, ‘He’s not coming.’ He’s not coming.
***
Someone got me in a car. Someone took my dress off. Someone covered me in a blanket because I was shaking. Someone made sure I ate something. Someone put me in the shower. Lay with me through the night, while I tried to sleep. Someone kept bringing me tissues, and a million hands patted me on the back. For the first few days everything was a blur.
When I finally got out of bed, Tansy helped me throw that awful bad-juju dress in the garbage bin. Mum helped me get money back on the honeymoon to Europe. I couldn’t have done any of those things myself. Maggie wanted to know if she could clock him. Amy said she’d slash his tyres. God, I love my friends. They were all I had, when my world fell apart for a while.
He texted me. I’m sorry.
And a few days later I managed to respond. OK.
He texted me. I hope you’re OK, and that you find what you really want.
I didn’t know how to take that. Was he right? I thought I knew what I wanted, but then … maybe I didn’t. For days I thought about his text and what it meant. Murray was someone who was born knowing exactly what he wanted. In all likelihood, his head probably popped out of the birth canal and, before the rest of his body was out, he was saying, ‘I want a white-picket-fenced house in the city, on the busline and a stable job for life! Pronto, people!’ I mean, he was genius-level smart, so it’s completely possible that he could talk on entry to this world.
Just As You Are Page 4