by Jo Watson
I grabbed the sausage and shoveled it into my gaping mouth, washing it down with the glass of orange juice and a butter-laden bagel. Everyone stared at me, but no one dared to speak.
“Val.” The sausage almost fell out of my mouth as I tried to talk. “Val, I need you to go down to the shops and buy me two, no, five Mars Bar chocolates, six bags of jelly beans and bread—I need bread.” Right now, I needed bread like a junkie needed their early morning fix. Before I’d even finished giving Val these instructions, I’d already started killing a crumpet, dripping it into syrup and practically inhaling it down. No one ventured to argue, or suggest that I shouldn’t mainline with pure sugar. Val jumped into action.
But the food could only push the emotions away for so long. I looked up at the clock. The minute hand seemed to be ticking in slow motion and I felt like I was trapped in a surreal dream, where the landscape was tilting and the clock face was melting down the kitchen wall like a Salvador Dali painting. It was hard to walk; my brain was struggling to send messages to my sluggish legs, which were now encased in psychosomatic concrete.
I crawled to the lounge and poured myself onto the couch, clutching a bag of newly arrived jelly beans. I needed a distraction. Badly. I flipped to a reality show, confident that I would find solace there. Someone always had it worse—like the guy with four arms and wayward warts, or the person trapped in their house under the piles of magazines and toothbrushes that they’d been hoarding since 1966 or, better still, the woman who went into labor while trapped on a steep cliff face in The Himalayas, or something equally as morbidly fascinating. But the current show was about a guy who baked cakes, and unless his arm got trapped in the electric mixer and he was forced to gnaw it free with his teeth, I wasn’t interested.
I was happy when my family finally left and Sue and Val joined me.
“So now what?” The tears welled up again. “What do I do next?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.” Sue took me by the hand. “But we’re here for you, whatever you need.”
“Whatever!” Val echoed the sentiment and took my other hand. I felt mildly better knowing that they were there for me. I thought back to the time that Val and I had rallied around Sue when she’d found her boyfriend in bed, literally, with another woman. At the time she didn’t think she would survive the pain and humiliation, but she’d come through it fine. More than fine, actually, she’d recently landed a job as an intern at a glamorous magazine where she got copious amounts of free face cream. And she’d just started dating a med student.
Maybe I would be okay, too? One day.
But right now, the future looked pretty damn bleak.
What the hell had happened?
Maybe he was having an affair? But how? We practically lived together. Maybe it was something more benign; perhaps he was just scared? Or maybe he was worried about marrying a woman he’d never taken out for a test drive. I wasn’t exactly the most sexual person, and I had also liked the idea of losing my virginity on my wedding night. Twenty-three and still a virgin! It all seemed so stupid and pathetic now in the face of so many maybes.
I dismembered another jelly bean and that’s when I noticed my engagement ring. The perfect, two-carat, heart-shaped diamond made my stomach churn, and I ripped it off my finger, leaving a red mark behind. We all stared at it for a moment in absolute silence, and then Val spoke.
“Pawn it. Sell it and buy yourself something awesome. Like a Porsche sports car.” Michael was pretty flashy with money, and my ring was no exception.
“No!” Sue jumped in excitedly. “Let’s burn it in a sacrificial fire. In fact, let’s burn everything of his, starting with those revolting corduroy pants he always insisted on wearing!”
I studied my ring. It was so beautiful. And I hated it.
It reminded me of him and the empty promises he’d made. In fact, everything reminded me of him. His presence was rudely painted across everything I owned. The couch I was lying on, the TV that he’d hung on the wall, the carpet he used to trip on and the happy photos of our beach vacation on the coffee table.
Oh my God, the honeymoon!
We were meant to be leaving for Thailand this afternoon! We had very expensive, paid-for-in-full reservations for the honeymoon suite at the White Sands Hotel and Spa. I cringed at the thought.
“I can’t take this anymore. I have to phone him.” I pulled my phone out and started dialing the number that felt ingrained in my DNA. But before I could finish, Val snatched it away.
“Wait. Just think about this for a second. What are you going to say to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Won’t talking to him just make it worse?” Sue offered. “And what if he doesn’t answer? No one’s been able to get ahold of him. Or what if he tells you something you’re not strong enough to hear right now?” Sue’s tone was sensitive now.
“Like what?” I felt my stomach tighten into sickening knots. “Do you think there’s someone else?”
They both hugged me. “I don’t know, sweetie. But I do know it’s a bad idea to phone him now. Give yourself a little time to calm down. Besides, you can barely think straight, let alone hold a conversation, thanks to your brother’s magic white pills.”
I knew they were right.
“Fine. I won’t call him, but I need a drink.”
“Um…I don’t think that’s a good idea either. Remember what your brother said. No alcohol.”
“Fine. Then bring me another chocolate!”
* * *
There are moments in a person’s life that change everything. Shake things up. Steer you in a different direction and push you onto another course, toward different people, places and things. These moments don’t come around often, but when they do, they rip through the very fabric of your world.
I knew that this was one of those moments. I knew this, because I’d had one of them before when I was twelve.
Ever since that age, I’d known exactly what I wanted from life. I had planned it down to a T, to the second, to the minutest detail imaginable. The reason for this, I guess, was that I’d been shown a very good example of how not to live—thanks to my dramatic mother. She was a theatre actress of some fame and status, which was something she liked to remind everyone of…constantly. After she divorced my dad when I was five, I endured what can only be described as hell. We moved around frequently, from one play to the next, one rehearsal to the next, one man to the next. The musician, the actor, the director, her yoga teacher, her voice coach and even some magician who turned out to be a criminal. When they locked him up, he vowed to escape, as “no handcuff could hold him.” To my knowledge he’s still there.
My mother had terrible taste in men. She was drawn to bad men like a hippie was drawn to tie-dyed T-shirts and world peace. She also had some rather terrible hobbies: drunken, scantily clad parties laced with cocaine were a regular occurrence. On many occasions, while on my way to school, I’d have to navigate my way through a sea of unconscious bodies lying limp and littered across our living floor. My dad finally won the custody battle when I was twelve, and that’s when everything changed for the better.
I moved into an ordered world of perfect symmetry and seamlessly structured routine. A beautiful, neat home with a stepmom who drove me to school and cheered me on at hockey practice and two older stepbrothers who adored me. We took holidays twice a year to the same place, our beach cottage on the beautiful Natal Coast of South Africa, and ate the same meals on the same days of the week. My new life was predictable and I loved it. My “new” family took me under their wing as if I were a damaged little bird, which at the time I was.
I loved my new life so much that I vowed mine would be exactly the same. Everything would have its place and everything would fall in line with my plan.
Michael had been part of that plan:
Law school. Work at my dad’s firm. Married by twenty-five (at the latest). First child by twenty-six. Two boys and two girls. Live in a double-storey house
in a leafy suburb not too far away from my family. Vacations at the cottage. Roast chicken on Sundays.
But in less than twenty-four hours, my entire plan had gone up in a puff of stinking smoke. I wasn’t just “not getting married,” I was losing everything that I’d meticulously planned for since the age of twelve. And then another thought hit me. A memory that made my body ache.
“Won’t it be romantic if we conceived our baby on our honeymoon?” Michael had said one night.
I rubbed my throat. The lump that was forming made it hard to swallow.
I started to cry again. I grabbed the remote and randomly pressed buttons until I got to The Discovery Channel….
Swirling, turquoise waters. White sands made luminescent by a low-hanging tropical sun. Massive palms, swaying seductively in the cool sea breeze and gentle waves lapping on the shore. It all looked so peaceful. So beautiful and, most importantly, so remote.
So, so far away from the farce that had just become my life.
And then a thought hit me. It was so decisive, and it slammed into me with such force that I almost fell off the couch in shock. It was also, by far, the craziest thought I’d ever had in all my twenty-three years on this planet. A part of me couldn’t believe it was even mine.
I was going to go on my honeymoon! Alone.
I leapt off the couch, suddenly imbued with purpose. I ran into my bedroom and rummaged through the drawers for my passport and ticket. Crap! The flight was leaving in a few hours. My brain went into hyperdrive trying to upload the list of everything I needed to pack. I tore around my apartment tossing whatever I could find into a bag. I grabbed Buttons and dropped her off with my neighbor, a lonely old woman with a purple rinse who loved nothing more than painting my cat’s claws and knitting her little jerseys.
I thought about my friends and family. I knew they’d be worried and wouldn’t want me to go. So I decided it would be better to sent them an email from the plane, when it would be too late to talk me out of it. I typed the message so it would be ready to send.
Guys, I’m going on my honeymoon by myself. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. Love you all and thanks for the support. XX
An hour and fifteen minutes later I was tearing through international departures at the O.R. Tambo International Airport like a woman possessed. The gates where about to close and I was officially the last person to board the plane. Judging by the death stares being thrown my way, the other passengers weren’t pleased I’d kept them waiting. But quite frankly, I didn’t care.
Out of breath, I collapsed into my chair, pressed Send Message, fastened my seat belt, sat back and tried to relax.
But I couldn’t.
I felt unnerved. I had an eerie feeling that I was being watched. And I was. I turned to investigate and was met by a pair of dark, almost black, piercing eyes. Pitch-black hair framed angular, unusual features, which came together in the most dangerous face I’d ever seen. He was dressed in black. Black sneakers, black pants and an old, faded black shirt that gave off a distinctly I–don’t-give-a-fuck attitude attitude. I could see the hard geometric lines of a tattoo peeping out of his sleeve. A black leather cuff was fastened around one of his wrists, just above another tattoo running the length of his forearm. He was clearly a drug addict, or a drummer in a Goth band, and he was definitely depressed and into vampire movies! His face was cold and serious, but then…
Then…
The corners of his mouth curved into the slightest, crooked smile as he glanced from my feet, to my face and back again. I felt the lick of his eyes on my skin as he gave me the once, twice over. And although I was fully clothed, I’d never felt more naked in my entire life. I turned away as quickly as possible, but even with my back to him, I could still feel his probing, dark eyes.
And then indignation rose up inside me. Who the hell did he think he was, looking at me like that? I decided the best way to deal with this situation was to turn around and face him with all the defiance I could muster. So I swung around with bravado, my accusing eyes met his and I surprised myself when a word came tumbling out.
“What?” I glared at him.
His smile grew bigger, and a twinkle illuminated his black eyes as he looked down at my feet. My eyes followed his and that’s when I came face to face with two pairs of goggly eyes. They were attached to two pink, fluffy bunnies, with cute pink noses and big floppy ears.
I ‘m wearing my slippers!
I could feel my face going red-hot with embarrassment. My eyes looked from my slippers to my pants and then up to my top. And I realized that I wasn’t just wearing my slippers…
I’m wearing my pajamas!
Chapter Two
Have you ever tried to relax when you’re so embarrassed that all you want to do is climb under a bush or, in my case, into the overhead storage compartment and into someone’s hand luggage? Have you ever tried to relax when you know there are dozens of curious eyes watching you? Dozens of lips curled into smirks, brows raised in query and the sound of whispers all around?
“Oh my God, Tony, look at what that poor girl’s wearing.”
“She must be mad.”
“She’s probably sick.”
“Shame, maybe she’s depressed or schizophrenic or something sad like that.”
Yep, at this stage telling me to “sit back, relax and enjoy the flight,” like the overly enthusiastic stewardess was doing, was just not going work. At least I was able to dispose of the slippers under the seat. Unfortunately, what I wasn’t able to dispose of were my bright-pink, practically luminous pajamas with the picture of the smiling fork and spoon holding hands plastered across the front, with the slogan that reads Spooning Leads to Forking.
Sue and Val had given them to me at my bachelorette party. And, oh, how we’d laughed!
I certainly wasn’t laughing now. Even if everyone else was.
But it was the inevitable toilet run that I was dreading the most. I’d been holding it in for as long as humanly possible, but with each passing moment, and each pass of the drinks cart, it was becoming harder. I’d even rejected the free alcohol that had been offered to me in an attempt to keep it at bay. But finally, seven hours into the flight, I realized that my camel-like bladder was failing. And I knew it was time to make the walk of shame.
I glanced in the direction of the restroom; my seat couldn’t be further away from it if I’d been sitting on the wing of another airplane. There were at least thirty rows of people between me and my destination. I took a deep breath, trying to psych myself up—it wouldn’t be that bad. I’d already suffered the worst humiliation in the world; this would be a piece of cake in comparison. So what if a hundred people were about to see me in my pj’s. It wouldn’t be that bad, surely?
I got up, my legs were shaking and my mouth was dry from total dehydration. I started shuffling down the aisle and decided I would smile at people as I went. Perhaps if I looked friendly, they wouldn’t notice the blindingly pink pajamas. But I think the smiling just made it worse….
I carried on walking; a mother put her hand over her son’s eyes when she saw him starting to figure out what my pajamas meant. Another mother pulled her child close…she looked frightened. At one point a man gave me a little meow and another one winked. Yeah, yeah, real comedians.
A few seats up a group of Chinese tourists started taking photos of me, as if I were some bearded woman at a freak show. Wasn’t that a bit excessive? I threw my head back and tried to look dignified, but inside I was dying.
I was so happy and overcome with relief when I finally reached the toilet that I flung open the door and practically hurled myself inside…
Whack! Thump!
I bumped into something. Very hard. When I finally orientated myself, I came face to face with Goth Guy—that’s what I’d named him as I’d mentally cursed him for several minutes after our initial contact—and he was rubbing his head.
“What happened?” I asked. I could see he was clearly in pain.
> “I just got beaten up by a girl, that’s what happened. You were coming in so quickly, at the exact time as I was coming out, that you hit me and I fell back and bumped my head on the wall.”
I gasped! “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“It’s okay. It was an accident.” He was still rubbing his head and when he took his hand away, I could see a giant red bump had formed.
“Oh my God! You have a bump.” I was so embarrassed.
“It’s okay. I’ll get you back when you least expect it,” he said, and shot me a wicked smile.
I felt a shiver shoot up my spine. What was he saying? That when I was sleeping, he was going to creep up behind me and whack me over the head with something hard? I eyed him up and down. If this comment had come from anyone else, I would’ve been able to dismiss it as a joke. But coming from him, I wasn’t sure.
He must have sensed my concern, because suddenly he extended his hand.
“Hi. How are you?” he asked casually.
I was confused, but reciprocated.
“Fine, thanks.” I noticed he had a South African accent like mine, which threw me. In my mind I’d decided he was from Holland—Amsterdam, where they smoked a lot of weed—or some really cold, depressed country like Russia.
“We haven’t officially met. I’m Damian.”
Aha! Now that was more like it. Wasn’t there a horror movie where Satan’s child was named Damian? This I could work with. I’d expected a Lucifer or a Xavier or Beelzebub or something equally evil sounding. My suspicions about him were definitely confirmed.
“I’m Lilly,” I said dismissively. The last thing I wanted to do was encourage interaction with him, especially when I noticed the tattoo on his forearm read Depeche Mode. I knew exactly who they were. There was a girl at university who listened to them; she was very pale, practically translucent, had long, black dirty hair, wore fishnet stockings during the day and looked like she was about to suck someone’s blood. Enough said.
He smiled that crooked smile at me again and then walked away. I stared after him, reflecting on the two interactions we’d had.