How to Find Your (First) Husband

by Rosie Blake

  Nervous I might have missed Andrew leaving his hut, I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, scanning the beach and then resting on the hut. There was movement in the window, a shadow! I might have made a small, excited noise.

  Zeb had stopped pedalling and when I lowered the binoculars I realised he was looking at me.

  ‘Soooo,’ he said, indicating the binoculars. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘Explain what you’re looking at.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, panicking.

  ‘Rubbish.’

  His blue eyes were trained on me. I licked my lips. Could I really tell him? No, I couldn’t tell him, I would sound crazy. He would laugh.

  ‘Oi, woman, I am here to help. Stop worrying and let me aid your secret mission. Why the focus on that hut?’ He pointed. ‘Why the binoculars? What are we scoping out, 008?’

  I took another sideways look at him. Something about his expression prompted me to clear my throat and start to explain.

  ‘I’m looking for a man,’ I admitted in a half-whisper, unable to look him in the eye. A pause. I sneaked a quick sideways glance. His expression hadn’t changed. He wasn’t pointing and laughing…yet.

  ‘A specific one, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, a specific one.’

  ‘A famous one?’

  I shook my head quickly. ‘No.’

  ‘An ex-boyfriend?’

  I went to shake my head and did a sort of half shake and nod.

  ‘Oh no,’ Zeb said, putting his head in his hands. He looked at me, one eye through the gap in his fingers. ‘Are you an actual stalker? Are you going to be on the front of the Daily Mail in a week’s time?’

  I went to punch him on the arm, just stopping myself as I remembered I didn’t know this guy, not really, and that might be a bit over-familiar. And might confirm his fears I was a violent stalker.

  I breathed out, trying my hardest to look the least mad I could look.

  ‘We were best friends when we were really young and then we had one of those weddings in the playground, you know the type?’

  ‘Ahhhh.’ He lowered both hands. ‘Yes I do, Penelope Smith, you little beauty,’ he said to the sky.

  I couldn’t help a giggle. ‘Well I always wondered what happened to him. Wanted to see him. We had been close and well…’

  As I said it all aloud, I realised how deranged it sounded. How could I explain to him that it was an instinct in my gut, something I had dreamed about for years? I felt certain about it in my core. I should be here, I should be finding Andrew Parker.

  ‘So that’s why you came all the way out here for this man. All this way. From England.’

  ‘Er…’ I faltered, not sure whether to correct him.

  I found myself saying it anyway. ‘LA actually,’ I corrected. ‘LA, to England to Malaysia,’ I finished, feeling strangely proud of myself.

  ‘Well,’ Zeb paused, his brow furrowed. It was strange seeing him so serious; he nearly always seemed to be on the edge of a joke, eyes sparkling with some fresh amusement. ‘Well that is pretty extreme,’ he concluded.

  As he was finishing his sentence, it finally happened: the hut door opened and a figure appeared. I scrabbled to raise the binoculars again as the man, my man, walked out of the doorway onto the terrace. Andrew was dressed in combat shorts now, still bare-chested. He put his hands on the balcony in front of him and seemed to be breathing in the fresh air. I inhaled with him, smelling plants, orange

  and promise.

  Zeb prodded me in my side. ‘Is that him?’ he whispered as if he might hear us from where we bobbed on the waves.

  I nodded, quickly adjusting my binoculars to focus in on him.

  He was taller than I thought but just as gorgeous. Now that he wasn’t wearing aviators, I really wanted to get a close-up of his face. Well I would, I supposed as I twisted the dials, the hut and him blurring in and out. How the hell does Mum work these things? I had to get over there, I had to do this. I automatically started to pedal towards shore.

  ‘Come o…’ My sentence fell away as I noticed movement behind Andrew. A woman appeared, framed in the doorway, a woman in a tiny T-shirt and little bikini bottoms, hair mussed up. A woman. Oh no. I sank lower in the peddle boat as if I could disappear into the seat.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Zeb pointed.

  I practically launched myself onto him, pushing his hand down. ‘Don’t, they’ll see.’

  The two figures on the terrace turned in our direction to stare out at the sea.

  I froze half-bent over Zeb as if we were playing musical statues. My brain raced with questions. Maybe she was his sister? Or the room maid or, argh, DON’T PUT YOUR ARM AROUND HIM, ROOM MAID, DON’T DO…

  ‘She looks nice,’ Zeb said, his voice wobbling as if he were about to giggle. Then he caught my expression. ‘Oh I’m sorry, this is bad.’

  ‘It IS bad,’ I insisted as Andrew put an arm over her shoulders.

  ‘But you don’t actually know that’s him, do you?’

  ‘Well, I, it’s hard to tell from this distance, he looks familiar,’ I said, my voice wavering with uncertainty.

  ‘Look, Iz, it’s probably not him, is it? I mean, when was the last time you actually saw him?’ Zeb’s voice sounded serious and the look he gave me made me feel like he’d reached over and dropped pebbles in my stomach. I gulped, concerned that I would break down here on the peddle boat.

  ‘A while ago but…’ I faded away, not really sure any more and feeling silly and exposed.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching across to me and stopping just before we connected. ‘If you really want to know, why don’t you just ask at Reception? See if it’s him.’

  ‘I can’t just…’ I trailed off, realising he was right. Why couldn’t I do that?

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit…weird?’ I asked, biting my lip.

  ‘Weird asking whether he is staying in a hut or weird going to stake out his place with binoculars for a second day running. Hmm, weird, weird, weird…’ he repeated, one finger on his lips.

  ‘Fine, you make your point,’ I said. ‘And I wasn’t “staking out his place”, I just…Well, you know nothing.’ What are you five years old, Iz? Way to defeat someone with your powerful argument. Not.

  We paddled in silence for a while and I almost forgot why I was there as the heat of the day and the views out to sea and around the island made my head spin. Zeb had slung an arm over the side of the boat and was looking relaxed and at ease. Up ahead a tiny island covered in thick green trees sprouted out of the water like an enormous piece of broccoli.

  ‘The snorkelling is great round there,’ Zeb pointed.

  ‘How do you already know that?’

  ‘I’m an early bird,’ he shrugged. ‘Went out this morning. It was amazing. We could go later?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh I’m too busy,’ I said quickly, not sure I wanted to spend more time with Zeb. Something about him made me feel silly, as if I had three legs and no sensible thoughts at all. We were close to shore now.

  He was wearing the binoculars around his neck and raised them once in a while to peer through.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked him as he trained them on my face, forcing me to hold a hand up as a shield.

  ‘Not sure, I think I’ve done something funny, you are basically a pink blur.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said peddling faster.

  ‘A really pretty pink blur,’ he corrected, making me look in the opposite direction, tongue too big for my mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, glancing over at the hut and holding out a hand for the binoculars. ‘He’s moved,’ I explained, panic rising in my voice.

  Zeb handed them over and I focused in on the shoreline, moving the binoculars over various sunbathing bodies, kids splashing in the shallows, to the Mystery Man. Got hi
m. My body relaxed and without thinking I muttered, ‘I don’t remember his eyes being shaped like that.’

  ‘Funny eyes, eh?’ Zeb chuckled.

  I lowered the binoculars. ‘Not funny, just different,’ I explained, looking through the lens once more. ‘But maybe eye shape changes with age. It’s possible, isn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Like noses. Noses keep growing forever.’

  I touched my nose in alarm and looked at him. ‘Is that really true? How big is my nose going to be?’

  Zeb looked at me solemnly. ‘Who’s to say, Isobel, who is to say?’

  Chapter 18

  Traipsing into the hotel reception, I felt my pulse drumming through my body. My hands were slippery as I clutched the handles of my bag. I felt nauseous, ready to turn and run… LOOK RELAXED my brain shouted, which only made me perspire more. Taking a long, slow breath I focused on the receptionist with the kindest eyes and headed their way. He was young and wearing a jaunty Hawaiian shirt buttoned to the neck. Leaning over the counter and looking up shyly through my eyelashes, I asked him in a half-whisper, ‘Could I, do you, could I check the name of a guest staying with you?’

  He frowned at my question and clicked on his computer. ‘Name?’ he asked.

  My stomach gurgled and I put a hand over it, giggling with nervous relief. ‘Andrew. Andrew Parker,’ I whispered.

  He stared at the computer, his kind eyes scanning back and forward. I could hear the tick of the eight clocks behind him, all telling the time around the world and felt like the ticks were growing louder with every passing second. TICK, TICK, YOUR TIME HAS COME, ISOBEL. THIS IS IT.

  The kind eyes looked back at me and with another frown the receptionist said, ‘No booking.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘No booking. Would you like to book?’

  ‘No, no, you see I am booked. So you have no one of that name here?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh I’m not a ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Well,’ I swallowed, my throat scratchy. ‘Thank you for checking, thank you,’ I repeated, stumbling backwards.

  He wasn’t here, it wasn’t him and there was no one of that name at all.

  And then, as if to confirm it, the man from that hut

  appeared in Reception and walked straight past me to the drinks machine. The girl followed too, running up the short flight of stairs. ‘Mark,’ she called, ‘will you get me a lemonade?’

  ‘Sure, darl,’ he called back in an Australian accent.

  Mark. Australian Mark.

  Not Andrew Parker.

  I felt like someone had plonked me right back at Square One.

  Walking aimlessly around the complex, feet dragging along the ground, I found myself sitting on one side of a see-saw in the children’s play area. It was silly to feel this low; I should have known it wasn’t him immediately. He had seemed too tall, his hair too blond.

  I couldn’t just sit back and wait for him to magically appear. I had to muster the energy to search for him. I could start with the other hotels and B&Bs; perhaps I would get lucky early on? I hadn’t booked my return flight yet but my funds were already worryingly low and this mission couldn’t last forever.

  I would have to go back sometime; I needed to find a new agent, update my show reel, focus more on what I wanted from my career. Randy hadn’t been right, I knew that. I needed to find someone who wanted to help me present programmes I was really interested in. This could be a restorative break. I was seeking change, I knew that really; I hadn’t liked to admit that this change seemed to be so tied up with finding Andrew, but he seemed important. I had always wondered what my life might have been like if we had stayed in touch. Perhaps I would have more success in my career with someone like Andrew supporting me, cheering me on? I needed answers and he seemed to be holding a whole handful of them and he was somewhere, somewhere close and I would find him.

  Digging into the woodchips with a toe, I smiled at the memory of our school playground, sharing the see-saw with Andrew who would bounce with his feet, soar into the air, his bottom leaving the seat, his hair flying up so he looked like he’d been electrocuted, and then his laugh as I did the same. The rush of the wind, the simple pleasure of playing made me suddenly wish that someone else was sitting opposite.

  My phone rang out in the silence. I pulled it out, eyebrows lifting as I read the name on the screen. Stewie. ‘Hello,’ I said, my voice on the wrong side of gloomy.

  ‘Was it my clothes?’ he started without a greeting.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My clothes, was it my clothes; my ex hated the way I dressed, said I was colour blind, was it that?’

  ‘What do you mean, Stewie?’ I asked, my brow crinkling.

  ‘Were they the reason you broke up with me?’ he asked, his voice rising. ‘Was it my clothes?’

  Oh. Christ. I took a breath, not really feeling I had the mental energy to deal with this conversation right now and hoping on hope I might suddenly walk through a tunnel.

  ‘I’m not that shallow, Stewie,’ I said.

  ‘So you didn’t like them,’ he crowed triumphantly.

  ‘What? No, your clothes were fine.’

  ‘Is it because I’m receding? I have spoken to friends and there are transplants for that. I’m considering my options. They can do amazing things with hair from your anu—’

  ‘It wasn’t your hair, clothes or anything like that, Stewie, god, give me some credit.’

  I smiled briefly at a mother as she arrived in the park, two children in tow, heading straight for the swings.

  ‘Well I have made a list of things so I’ll read to you from it and you stop me when I get to it.’ He started reciting things before I could interrupt. ‘Was it the long absences? Was I too unimaginative in the bedroom? Was it my love of wrestling? Was it because I kept clipping my nails in bed even after you asked me specifically not to do that…?’

  Eugh yes, that was gross I thought as I tuned out for a while. This couldn’t continue though. I hadn’t realised Stewie had such low self-esteem. ‘Stewie,’ I called.

  ‘… was it because I refused to sleep on the window side of the bedroom because that side wasn’t my normal side? Was I a bad listener? Was my crush on Jessica Alba overwhelming? Was it because I couldn’t cook? Was it—?’

  ‘Stewie,’ I repeated, making the mother look up in alarm at me. Why was I always shouting at Stewie down the phone?

  ‘… because…’

  ‘Stewie, stop this, don’t be absurd. It wasn’t any one thing; it was just not right, it was…’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ he whined.

  ‘Look.’ I breathed out slowly, my toe burrowing further into the wood chips. ‘We were just not quite right; it didn’t feel like we’d found our soulmate, did it?’

  ‘Soulmates?’ he repeated uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, you know, when two people are totally immersed in each other, when they’re completely excited about seeing each other, when that other person brings out the absolute best in them and they just can’t imagine the world without them in it and it hurts, hurts to be apart…’ I realised I’d raised my voice again and was now breathing heavily into the phone, carried away by my soliloquy.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said quietly. ‘So, do you see?’

  There was a pause and I pictured Stewie puckering his mouth in thought. ‘So it WASN’T my clothes?’ he confirmed.

  Dear diary,

  Andrew and I are getting married tomorrow. Everyone at school has been talking about it this week. I am really excited and Andrew says it will be good because we always hang out together and are best friends already. Dad always said marriage was a sign that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with someone and I know Andrew and I will always
be together so I think it is a good idea.

  I x

  Chapter 19

  Two hotels and five B&Bs later and I was none the wiser. There’d been a very exciting moment in the second of the hotels when the receptionist had misheard and phoned Mr Marker’s room to summon him to meet his beau. Mr Marker had been pushing eighty and had proceeded to invite me back to his room for some brandy. I’d politely declined.

  The whole debacle was proving utterly hopeless and I’d found myself alone in a beach bar, bottle in hand, watching the sun sink on another day. Even a Skype call from my mum had failed to rally the spirits, despite the fact that she had spent much of it dancing around the kitchen convincing me that she was channelling good energy my way. She’d sprained her ankle towards the end and Dad had been summoned to ice it and prop it up on the terrifying squirrel cushion.

  The waitress, a middle-aged woman wearing a lime green dress and the most enormous earrings, brought me over another beer.

  ‘Best view on the island,’ she commented, hands on her hips, her gaze on the wide expanse of sky streaked with a hundred shades of orange.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I nodded.

  ‘Romantic,’ she cackled, her earrings wobbling as she laughed. ‘Boyfriend?’ She pointed to the empty chair next door to me and for a moment I was alarmed that she thought I had an imaginary man.

  ‘Just me,’ I said in a voice that I hoped didn’t sound too bitter.

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I laughed, bringing the beer to my lips. ‘Actually,’ I said, lowering the bottle and looking at her. Should I? Would it be another dead-end?

  She raised one eyebrow.

  ‘I’m, um, sort of looking for someone. He’s here on the island somewhere. English. Andrew, Andrew Parker?’ I paused after his name, hoping to see a glimmer of recognition in her brown eyes, a quick nod of her head which would set her earrings off again. I got no such thing.