Ibiza Summer

by Anna-Louise Weatherley

  ‘Would it make any difference if I really was twenty-two?’ I asked, frantically searching for a drop of hope as the walls started to close in around me, making me feel claustrophobic.

  But he didn’t answer. He just shook his head sadly as he took my hand in his. ‘Please don’t cry. Be strong. Be brave, because you know, you’re one of the bravest women I’ve ever met. I admired your courage so much when you opened up to me that time on the beach. It’s a lot for a young –’ and he paused again, ‘– a lot for anyone to deal with.’

  I knew he had made up his mind. We would never get to live our Ibiza dream, not now, not ever. I would go home and he would still be here and there would just be memories – memories that would fade in time like an old photograph that has been left in the sun. They would gradually slip away, the years making them all fuzzy and distorted and I knew, right in that moment, that nothing in my life would ever be the same again.

  t was stuffy and hot as we headed towards the airport in a taxi, and no one spoke. We were all too wrapped up in our own private thoughts for chit-chat.

  Saying goodbye to Rex had been the hardest thing I had ever had to do, next to burying my dad. I didn’t want to imagine a life without Rex. He had switched the lights on in my heart, in my soul. Since I had found him, I had seen the world in vibrant colour for the first time. And now it would be dark again and I would be alone.

  He had kissed me so tenderly before I left, and even though I knew it would be our last ever kiss and that my heart would never miss a beat in the same way again like it did with him, I told myself that this was not really goodbye and that somehow fate would intervene and throw us back into each other’s arms just as it had brought us together. I knew I was kidding myself like I always did, but I needed to protect myself from the stark reality of it; the cold, dreaded truth that had hurt so much and continued to hurt me now. He had held me in his arms and it had felt like he would never let go, our hearts and spirits forever intertwined with our bodies. I had suddenly been aware of the fact that I would never have this feeling again. It would never be the same with anyone else. The little in-jokes that we had that made us laugh; the conversations we’d had that had brought us close together and strengthened our love.

  Eventually, he had loosened his grip on me in his arms and said it was getting late and that he was worried about me walking home in the dark. But I wasn’t scared; somehow the night gave me a kind of comfort, a warm, dark blanket wrapping itself around me, sheltering me from the agony of leaving him and hiding my pain. I had looked at him for what I knew was the last time I probably ever would and I said, ‘I love you, Rex Brown.’ That’s all there really was left to say in the end. Yet somehow, saying it didn’t nearly explain the regret and sense of loss I was feeling or how much I really did love him, and I wished I could think of bigger, better words.

  I had picked up my little rucksack and turned to look at him, just one last glance. He looked so beautiful, almost like a memory fading in front of my very eyes. I realised that I didn’t even have a photograph of him. Not one. We had been far too caught up in the moments we’d shared, too busy falling in love to even think of such things. But now it seemed like an oversight. I had nothing to hold or look at and remind me of him when my memory would inevitably begin to fail me. I suddenly panicked, another layer of despair adding to my prospering pain, because when I tried to picture his face I found that I couldn’t visualise all the little details: the way his eyes shone like emeralds as they caught the light, or how he always seemed to cock his head to one side whenever he asked a question; and the harder I tried, the more unclear the image of him became, and I squeezed my eyes together in a desperate attempt to clear my brain.

  The queue to check in was long and full of our fellow holiday-makers returning home, back to their everyday lives and whatever they might hold. I watched as I saw gangs of girls and lads who had just arrived in Ibiza, looking pale and excited at the prospect of what a few weeks on this amazing island would hold for them, just as we had been three weeks ago. I was envious of their anticipation, of the delights they would encounter and how these would take them to places they never knew existed in their minds. Maybe they too would fall in love? I was sure of one thing: they would never feel the same after their Ibiza experience. Rex had been right. There was something about the island that was a little bit magic.

  I decided to go outside for a bit of fresh air. Ellie had said that this was fine – I think she understood that I needed to be alone, to think and work things out in my head. So I walked through the electric sliding doors and found a grass verge just outside the airport that was out of the way of all the holiday-makers, and smokers madly chuffing away on their last cigarette before they boarded their flight, and I slumped down.

  The sun was scorching and I loosened the ties of my strappy top that was digging into my neck slightly and pulled my knees up to my chest. I had experienced so many emotions these past few weeks: happiness, sadness, fear, rejection, relief, and guilt – right through the spectrum, and I suddenly felt exhausted. Above all though, I realised I had connected with someone like I had never done before and that it had taken me on a journey that was so much more than I could ever have imagined. I had discovered part of myself that I didn’t know existed, a part of me that could love another human being with such passion and intensity that it made my head swim and my heart swell – and it had felt so good, so unbelievably good, and I knew that this was also the reason I felt so bad. Wherever there is up, it seems there is also down, and the higher you travel the further it is to come back to earth. I wondered when the pain would stop. Would I one day wake up and be free of it? Or would it be a pain that would gradually fade away, like the sea washes away the names of two people in love written in the sand?

  And as I was thinking this, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. No, it couldn’t be, could it? But it was. A beautiful little butterfly had landed on my right knee, just as it had done that time with Rex on the beach. I gasped loudly because it was just so strange and coincidental, and I looked around for someone, anyone, who could witness this mini miracle, because I swore no one would have ever believed it. I could hardly believe it myself. It was somehow fitting, though, like a final message sent to me from Rex, from my dad, from whoever it was that was watching over me, because I felt sure that someone had to be. I was convinced it was looking at me, this tiny little butterfly, with its vibrant, iridescent wings and its antennae twitching, telling me that everything would be OK and that I was safe and loved and that I would be happy again some day, despite the pain I felt now. I stared at the small creature, which was now blurred through my tears, and wondered if in fact everything in life goes full circle and that whatever journey you take you always come right back to the place that you started and everything begins again. And it gave me peace, that little butterfly, a moment of peace as my heart was breaking.

  s I sat on the plane, watching everyone cram their bags of duty free into the overhead lockers and fight over the window seat, I once again found myself thinking of home. In spite of everything, it was strangely reassuring to know that in a couple of hours’ time Greg would be picking us up from the airport and Mum would be waiting for us at home, no doubt having cooked something yummy like her special homemade lasagne. I would stroke Montague, and call Willow and hope that things would be OK between us – and even if she had found a new friend, perhaps it would be all right and we could all be friends and hang out together. I realised now that nothing ever stays the same and that things must change and move on.

  A man over the loudspeaker said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard flight BK347 to London Heathrow. Please ensure all electronic equipment and mobile phones are switched off for the duration of the flight . . .’ and I remembered that I still had my mobile on, so I reached inside my bag to get it. I saw that there was a text message and I presumed it must be from Wils because no one else ever texted me. But it wasn’t.

  LOOK INSIDE YOUR BA
G. LOVE R X

  I felt my heart flip in my chest and frantically began fumbling inside my rucksack for whatever it was that he might be referring to, but all I could find was my old junk: some socks to keep my feet warm on the flight and an old copy of Gloss magazine I’d bought on the way here. But then I unzipped the little secret pocket. Inside was an envelope.

  My dearest Isabelle,

  I’m writing this from my sick bed, so please excuse the bad handwriting as it’s not the easiest thing to write with your left leg sticking up in the air.

  It’s a beautiful day outside. I can see from my window that the sun is shining and there’s a gentle breeze – just the right sort of weather for a trip to Cala Jondal. Only I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go there again. Not because of the leg or anything, but because it will always remind me of you – of us and the times we spent there together – and I know that if I do ever go back, it will never feel the same. Please don’t be sad, Iz. The last three weeks have been too amazing for sadness, wouldn’t you agree? As you might say, it would be ‘churlish’ to think otherwise (and I don’t mean that in a facetious way! Ha ha!).

  You are one of the most special people, if not the most special person, I have ever met in my life (and remember I’ve been around a bit longer than you, not being funny or anything) and it has been a privilege to have spent this time with you. Although some might say that three weeks is no time at all, to me it has felt like a precious lifetime.

  I realise now that you were meant to come into my life for a reason; to show me what it feels like to love and be loved, and for that I will always thank you.

  Don’t beat yourself up over the whole age thing, although I know you will. What matters is that we found each other and, although the heart is deceitful above all things, I know that you are a decent and honest woman and will someday make the most amazing wife and mother. I truly envy that guy.

  To me you will always be like that butterfly on the beach, a beautiful butterfly that flew into my life and enchanted me and then flew away again. This is how it was supposed to be.

  I’ll never forget you, Isabelle Jackson, and neither will Ibiza. Just like this amazing island, you captured my heart and will forever be a part of me.

  Be safe, be happy, but above all, be you, because you are beautiful, inside and out.

  I have enclosed some things I think you should have. I don’t need them any more. For me, the memories will always be enough.

  Promise me that one day you’ll swim with the dolphins.

  Goodbye first. Woof Woof.

  Love,

  Rex x

  And inside the envelope were the beads that Juan Pablo had given him and a shell that I presumed could only be from our beach, one that he had used to write the giant ‘I love you Isabelle’ in the sand, and I clutched them to my chest tightly.

  I noticed that he’d written something in small handwriting at the bottom of the letter.

  P.S. If you’re still wondering how I knew your name that first time we met, check your photo wallet.

  I frantically located the little black photo wallet in my bag and stared at it for ages in the vain hope that some kind of clue would leap out at me, but I couldn’t see anything other than photos: one of me and Wils taken at her sixteenth birthday party, a couple of Montague and me at home, one of Ellie with Mum – Ellie looking her usual glamorous self . . . I went through the wallet twice, but there was nothing. I was about to give up, then something caught my eye. On the back of the wallet, among the many stickers and pictures of Wils and me, was this faded photograph of me and my dad – you know, one of those sticker-type ones you have taken in a booth where you can choose a funny frame – and underneath I had written, Isabelle (aged ten) and her daddy xxx. It was one of the last photographs ever taken of my dad and me, and I had completely forgotten it was there. Rex must’ve seen it that time my vintage bag had exploded in front of him at Alfredo’s party, and guessed it must be me in the picture.

  I smiled as I stared at that tiny picture; I looked so young, with a chubby face and wide eyes, and my dad looked so wonderful and strong and loving, and we both looked so happy, neither of us knowing what the future held for us, just living in that moment in time. And I thought how much Rex and my dad had in common in a strange way, because I knew he’d been right all along: just because someone isn’t there any more, doesn’t mean that we will ever stop loving them.