How to Find Your (First) Husband

by Rosie Blake

  ‘Speak again soon.’

  He started to bluster, as he always did at the end of phone calls, and I laughed softly, a glow in my stomach, and told him I loved him.

  Wading into the sea, letting the surf wash against my calves, I followed the trail of a boat moving steadily around the coast. To my right, a jumble of rocks emerged from the water, pushed up against the bank. I walked towards them, throwing up droplets in the shallows. Sitting on one of the flatter rocks, the stone warm, heating my bare legs, I looked back over to the other end of the beach, perhaps imagining the sad little gathering of people in the cafe now bemoaning the loss of the hut and my arrival.

  From this distance it was hard to tell whether the tiny pin people in the cafe were crying, but in my mind it became so. I called Mel four times but it just went straight to answerphone every time and I didn’t want to snivel through a message. Wallowing in self-pity, I scrolled through my phone, once more hovering over various names and then realising with a sigh that I was on my own for this one. I had to go back there and brazen it out. If I was serious about winning Andrew back, I couldn’t let this setback be the end of things. Pushing my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I felt a bit of strength restored. What I needed to do was ask the universe for help – I knew if Mum was here that would be her advice.

  Standing up slowly on the rock, smooth under my feet, swirling with greys and browns from a bygone age, I stared at the horizon in the distance and then at the sky above and, summoning my mum’s confidence, called in a loud, clear voice, ‘You can do this, Isobel Graves, you are a strong, fantastic wo… Oh crap.’ Laughing at myself and feeling refreshed, I hopped off the stone onto the darkened sand, feeling it spill over my toes. I would never be that girl.

  Tossing my hair behind me and pocketing my mobile phone, I started to walk back towards the hut to begin again. A sliver of sun was pushing the clouds apart, broken up now by larger patches of cerulean blue. I might not be able to chant without feeling like a fool, but I could go back and face the music alone.

  Then, as if someone up there had engineered it, my phone started buzzing. Without thinking, I pressed ‘Call’, only realising at the last moment that ‘Stewie’ had been the name on the screen. I was so not in the right place for this now, I thought as I cringed and pulled the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, the one word filled with guilt. I should have rung him back before now; I should have done lots of things before now.

  ‘I won’t be long, Isobel,’ he said, which just made me feel worse. ‘I know you haven’t called to give me some space.’

  Wow, Stewie was giving me way more credit than I deserved.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, Stewie, I—’

  ‘And I have been thinking,’ he said, his accent pronounced as if he were reading from a cue card. I let him go on. ‘You were never as into me as I was into you, Isobel…’

  I held my breath, not wanting him to say it but not wanting to interrupt him.

  ‘And I knew that really, but I just kept trying.’

  Oh wow, Isobel Graves, you really are an uber bitch. I gripped the phone, suddenly desperate to say something to make him feel better.

  ‘You’re really kind, Stewie, and you have always been nice to me and I am so sorry about how I behaved in the end,’ I said, needing to apologise.

  He let me, sighing once down the phone.

  ‘You are going to find someone who will be much nicer to you than I was, and I am really sorry that we didn’t work out.’

  ‘Well maybe once you’ve had some time to think about things…’ His voice was tinged with fresh hope.

  ‘I think it’s best not,’ I said quietly, feeling dreadful for the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Look, this is costing me a lot of money. So I better…’

  He trailed away and I quickly jumped in.

  ‘I’ll call you another time, Stewie, okay, when I’m back in LA, check you’re okay, not that you won’t be…’ I quickly reassured him. Wow, Isobel, could you sound more arrogant? Oh you will be terrible because I dumped you, poor man…

  ‘Okay. That’d be good.’

  ‘Great, well, you take care of yourself,’ I babbled, wanting to cram my apology into that sentence. He had never been a mean person, had never deserted me when I was mooching around LA despairing at the state of my life.

  ‘You too.’

  I felt lighter when I’d hung up, a little guilt-ridden still, but that had to be expected. That hadn’t been so awful and it must have taken Stewie quite a lot of effort to make the call. I would phone him when I was back; I wanted to. As I looked down the beach, I realised I could be home sooner than I thought. Taking a huge breath, I started over the sand, rehearsing what I would say, trying to take a leaf out of Stewie’s book and be brave.

  Man, what was today? Burn-a-Hut-Break-Up-With-Your-Boyfriend-Day – on to the next Big Apology. Not sure I would log this in the diary as one of my Top Ten Fave Days.

  I returned to find Duncan lying prostrate on the sand, wearing a pair of the most obscene budgie smugglers I had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on.

  ‘The horizontal fluorescent stripes accentuate my massive knob,’ he called out, his eyes still closed.

  Liz had found a broom from somewhere and was sweeping the last of the splintered wood, ash and other paraphernalia onto the sand, finding time to stare at me intermittently between brushstrokes.

  ‘Where’s Andrew?’

  ‘Sorting a hotel room; he doesn’t want to stay in the hut,’ mumbled Duncan.

  I felt my toes curl and a rush of blood warm my cheeks. Andrew was having to traipse around searching for a HOME because of me.

  Duncan patted the sand by his side with one flat hand and, then, when I didn’t respond, repeated the action whining, ‘Izzz, get over here or I’ll set your hair on fire.’

  ‘That is not funny, Duncan,’ the prim voice of Liz admon­ished him from the balcony.

  Without looking at her, he called, ‘It is a little bit funny.’

  I tried to disguise a tiny laugh in my hand and moved to sit down on the sand.

  Duncan opened one eye. ‘Sexy top,’ he commented.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied, wondering whether that was why I had been summoned.

  ‘Right, you moping loser,’ he began. ‘Stop hanging your little head and looking like a puppy that’s been kicked.’

  ‘I don’t look like a puppy.’

  ‘Okay, fine, one of those abused kittens in the RSPCA ads.’

  ‘I don—’

  ‘Shh, Isobel, let me finish. So you nearly burned the hut down. Stuff happens. No one’s hurt and we got our things out so it’s all good. Well, apart from for that guy that owns the hut, but let’s hope that he has insurance.’

  ‘But…’

  Duncan held up a hand and I fell silent.

  ‘Andrew is getting a room up the road and, as long as you promise never to cook us a lovely meal again, things will turn out peachy. Just peachy. End of lecture.’

  I didn’t really know immediately what to say to that; sifting sand through my hand, I felt grateful for the

  pep talk.

  ‘Thank you.’ My voice was low and quiet.

  Duncan opened up an eye again. ‘Good, I’m glad you’re over it. I’ve been lying here thinking of different ways you could make it up to me.‘

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ I sighed. ‘And it wasn’t even your hut.’

  ‘But I have been through an emotional trauma, and probably do need tending to.’

  I got up to leave while he was still talking and, as I walked away, heard him carry on regardless. ‘So if you could just let me nuzzle a bit, I might feel comforted…’

  Focusing on the long, faint shadow I was making, sporadic weeds pushing their way through the sand a
s I walked towards the hut and Liz, I licked my lips and mentally prepared. Liz had sourced a small silk handkerchief for her hair and continued to sweep as I approached, sighing at intervals like she was auditioning for a part in Les Mis.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the hut, Liz, and thanks for, er, helping clear it up and for last night, the bed and that. Can I help?’

  She looked at me with large round eyes. ‘I’m nearly finished; you lie down.’

  I bristled at the suggestion that I would just want to lounge about and, seeing an abandoned dustpan and brush, grabbed at it and started forming little piles, mostly of sand, to make Liz realise that I too could play the martyr, I too could get my hands dirty. I clambered over the wood, sweeping dangerously close to her perfectly painted toenails. She stepped over me and went inside.

  Andrew rounded the corner just at that moment and spotted me kneeling on the hard wood floor, dust on my knees (not a great deal in my dustpan) and a smudge on my forearms.

  ‘Thanks, Isobel,’ he said.

  I couldn’t resist peeking up through my lashes at him and whispering, ‘Not at all,’ in my most I-have-been-sweeping-so-much-all-morning-and-I-am-so-weary voice.

  Liz appeared in the doorway, hands on hips, and I stood up quickly before she could say anything, stretched and asked, ‘Did you find somewhere?’

  I could feel Liz’s annoyance wafting over me in waves as I tried to focus on what Andrew was saying.

  ‘…Up the track next to the yellow house.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  He walked off to join Duncan and I quickly carried on brushing in case he turned around to look back at me.

  Liz’s pale legs walked past me, leaving her dusty, dainty footprints behind.

  Pondering my next move, relishing the memory of the look Andrew had given me, I swept absent-mindedly. Perhaps it had been a small step towards forgiveness and I hadn’t completely ruined things after all? His quiet thanks suggested I hadn’t completely blown it. What I needed to do now was to demonstrate to him the type of caring, reliable person I could be. I needed something to nurture, something to care for. No more fancy dinners, trying to impress him that way – something safe, something simple. Something to show I could look after things.

  Perhaps I could secretly injure him and then win brownie points by nursing him effectively? Good bits: he would see my caring, committed nursing side. Bad points: I would have to injure him beforehand. Perhaps I could put something in his path that he would trip on? I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. This was a problem that I could solve. I suppose I could injure something and care for it in front of him. I looked over at Liz and Duncan, at their limbs, then stopped myself. Note to self, Isobel: stop being a psycho.

  Focus, focus. Okay, okay, I could injure an animal, like a mouse or a bird or a stingray or something. Then nurse it back to life.

  ‘We’re going to move all our things and then grab some juice. Coming?’ Duncan called.

  I stood up, knees clicking, one hand on my lower back. ‘Definitely.’

  As Andrew walked ahead of me, backpack slung over one shoulder, I couldn’t help a slow smile. I could do this, I could win him over. There’s nothing like a good plan.

  I had tried to be caring ALL DAY and it was getting really tiring. I had asked after everyone’s health, had shown deep concern when Duncan had sneezed, throwing myself across the table to place a nursely palm on his forehead to see if he had a fever (he did not) and had even cared for a little insect that had been trotting across our table, ensuring its safety by cupping my hand around the path it was taking to protect it from danger. Andrew hadn’t noticed any of these things.

  I then decided to show my caring nature on the beach by defending the benefits of the sand fly even after two had bitten me on the legs. I had been especially careful when snorkelling to avoid harming coral and had given the others a lecture on the importance of not damaging the environment. Andrew had just carried on playing Frisbee. I had even ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ when Liz stubbed her toe on a big shell (ha, ha, the shell got Liz, Stubby-Toed Liz).

  Caring and nurturing just wasn’t cutting it, I thought when back in the hotel room after my shower.

  I needed a new plan, a new persona; I needed Andrew to appreciate a different side to me.

  How about fun-loving? Everyone loves a party girl, a girl who is at the centre of things, a girl who seems to have no cares, who wears hot pants and doesn’t worry about cellulite, has a tattoo, drinks and dances and drags everyone along with her. Glamorous, sexy with one of those laughs that just makes you want to laugh, too. I started to do the laugh; it was lower and louder than my normal laugh and I adjusted the volume till I thought I’d got it just so…

  ‘Are you laughing at yourself?’

  I appeared to have my hands outstretched, and lowered them delicately to my side as I turned to Andrew.

  Oh maaaaaan.

  ‘There was a funny…funny-looking…moth,’ I finished lamely, pointing to a corner of the room.

  ‘Let’s see.’

  ‘Oh, he, he isn’t around any more. He left. Moth stuff,’ I shrugged. Moth stuff?

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  He actually looked sad and I now wished there was a funny-looking moth around to buck him up a bit. Then I also remembered my new plan, my new persona. I was Party Girl. That happy-go-lucky girl with a great laugh. I felt relieved I’d had time to practice and I did a little mini version. Andrew didn’t look like he wanted to laugh too, but I assumed he was just not over the moth disappointment.

  ‘Soooooooo,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘What brings you to my abode?’ Abode? I realised with a panic that this might be how Party Girl speaks.

  ‘Duncan and I were going to go to the bar for a drink and wondered if you wanted to come?’

  He looked sort of blushy and endearing and, as he asked, my heart did a little leap.

  ‘I totes would, Batman.’ I clicked a finger at him.

  Okay, Party Girl needs to not be a dick I told myself. Moving on from the clicking and calling him Batman, I asked, ‘Is there a theme?’

  ‘Theme?’

  ‘Well it sounds like a night out, so we probably need a theme.’

  Everyone knows that the best nights out involve fancy dress and as Party Girl I felt it was my duty to make sure this night out was the best night out ever.

  ‘Theme?’ said Duncan wandering into the room. ‘We should absolutely have a theme. Tarts and other tarts?’

  ‘That’s not a legitimate theme, Duncan,’ I said in a voice that was definitely not Party Girl’s. I quickly corrected myself by doing the new laugh. Both boys took a step back.

  ‘How about…?’ Then I realised I didn’t have a theme. I should have planned this. I started to panic. Was I already utterly useless at being Party Girl? ‘HATS!’ I shouted desperately. ‘We should totally get…hats.’

  ‘Er…Okay, I suppose,’ said Duncan, ‘if it will make you happy.’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘I don’t have a hat,’ said Andrew.

  Duncan slapped him on the back. ‘I’ll sort you one, mate.’

  ‘Great!’

  Chapter 29

  There was a wooden terrace outside the bar with long tables and benches running down the length of it. Colourful flowers floated in bowls and fairy lights were strung along the balustrade throwing light on to the sand below. A sliver of a moon meant that the sea from here was just a dark patch of inky blue and you couldn’t tell where it ended and the sky began.

  The bar smelled of coconut, warm bodies and perfume. I was perspiring a little under my chosen hat: a straw cowboy hat that had seen better days. Party Girl was, of course, wearing a strappy dress and a push-up bra. She was also wearing a necklace of plastic flowers that she always took on holiday and never had the guts to wear. It shouted: ‘I a
m Fun’ (or ‘I grew up in Hawaii’). Either way, people would totally want to hang out with her.

  Duncan was wearing a baseball cap that said, ‘I DO IT DOGGY’ above a picture of a dog and Andrew was wearing a large hot-pink sombrero.

  ‘Gosh, that’s very…’ I trailed off realising that Party Girl should love the look. ‘Bold.’

  ‘It’s Duncan’s,’ he explained.

  ‘I have a hat for every occasion.’ Duncan winked at me.

  ‘You certainly do.’

  We sipped at our drinks and looked around the bar. There were a few couples scattered about, two guys playing pool and a gaggle of what looked like gap year students who were giving each other henna tattoos. I was pretty sure stripy apron owner of the hut was in residence, too, chatting to another middle-aged man, and I lifted my drink at him sheepishly when he caught my eye. I was almost relieved when I saw Liz arrive. She had clearly got the hat message, too, and was wearing a black floppy sun hat and looked like a strawberry-blonde version of Audrey Hepburn.

  Andrew scooted up to make room on the bench for her and I offered to fetch another round of drinks. Returning with shots (standard fare for Party Girl) and a jug of vodka orange, I grinned round at the hatted clan. This was surely going to be a memorable night. Theme, check, drinks, check, good times, rolling.

  We’d been drinking and chatting and it was all going fine. We’d played pool. I’d joined up with Andrew and cheered in a very loud way on potting both the black and the white simultaneously. Then Andrew explained the rules through gritted teeth. We had lost: no fair.

  Now we were back at the table and talking again. This wasn’t quite the crazy go-getting evening I had envisaged. Andrew had just stifled a yawn. Everyone knows what a Party Girl should do to liven up an evening, I thought, smiling to myself. She should start a sing-along, one of those spontaneous ones where strangers join in and everyone ends up linking arms and making best friends. I felt confident having seen it in plenty of movies and cleared my throat. Looking over at Duncan, I started to croon.

  ‘Hey, Duncan, do you remember…?’