“I could ask you the same thing.”
“You gave me a fright.”
“I’m sorry. But, in my defense, you gave me one too. You left dinner so suddenly I was worried you might be unwell. Then there was no answer when I knocked on your door.”
“How did you know I wasn’t just asleep? And can you please get that torchlight out of my eyes?”
“Of course. Sorry.” He switches it off and we are plunged back into darkness. For a moment I am completely blind, unable to make out anything. I realize that all the internal lights in the hotel have been turned off, apart from a dim one in the reception area.
“I didn’t know,” he continues. “But I was worried when you didn’t answer, so I bribed the night concierge into opening your door.”
I blink in the direction I last saw him standing. “You what?”
“I didn’t really have much choice.” His voice is now on my other side and I jump. He moved stealthily, like a cat. “It was that or wake Nadia and have her call the police.”
“Oh my God. Do you always overreact?”
“Do you always fall sleep outside when you have a perfectly good hotel room inside?”
He has a point, I suppose. Still, I am petulant. “Why were you even looking for me?”
“Like I said, you left dinner very quickly. I was worried.”
I lean back against the lounger and stare up at the stars. “I would have thought you’d have been too busy to worry about me.”
I hear him sit down on the lounger next to mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“I just thought that maybe, you know, you and Kimberly might be busy.” I say her name in a silly voice. He doesn’t answer immediately, and I squeeze my eyes shut, aware I sound like a jealous girlfriend. When he does answer his tone is amused.
“You thought Kimberly and I would be busy doing what, exactly?”
“You know.”
“Nope. No idea.”
“God, do I have to spell it out to you? She’s a gorgeous young woman. You’re a…reasonably attractive, youngish man. You connect the dots and do the math.”
He laughs, loudly, like he did that day in the field.
“Youngish?”
“Yes.”
“OK. So let me get this straight. You thought I was somewhere, senselessly shagging the hot young waitress that I met about, oh, I don’t know, three hours ago? By that math I’d say you put two and two together and came up with five.”
I hate that he uses the word “hot” to describe her; it is another reminder of everything I am not. Before cancer I was often described as pretty, but never hot. At least to my knowledge. Now I stand no chance. Next to her, I am like a pale, shriveled-up worm left too long in the sun.
“I saw her flirting with you.” I scowl. “And you’re only human, male at that. You can’t blame me for jumping to conclusions.”
“I can, actually. Yes, she offered to show me around her staff quarters, which may or may not have been a euphemism for something else. And to be honest, she seems perfectly nice. But just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I have sex with anyone offering it. I do have some morals.”
I smile in the dark, but make a harrumph noise. “I wouldn’t know. I barely know you.”
“I know. But I’d like that to change.” His tone is quiet and serious, and I feel a thrill run through me at his words. I don’t know what to say, so I just sit quietly. He sighs and shuffles around, stretching his legs out on the lounger and interlacing his fingers together behind his head.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m keeping you company.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. I want to.”
“Why would you want to sleep out here when you have a perfectly good hotel room inside?” I echo his earlier words.
“I don’t know. I guess I prefer the company.”
We lie on our individual loungers, so close I can hear him breathing, and look up at the night sky.
“There’s the Southern Cross,” I say after a while.
“So it is.” He chuckles. “I almost had that tattooed on my shoulder once. Thought it was a good way to show the world what a proud antipodean boy I am.”
“Seriously?”
“I was drunk. It seemed a good idea at the time.”
“So what stopped you?”
“I don’t really want to say.”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“OK, well, now you have to tell me; it’s only fair.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I’ve already embarrassed myself tonight by jumping to conclusions. If you tell me it might help me feel better.”
He sighs. “I was in the chair, the guy had the needle poised and ready, and then I saw a picture on the wall that I, in my drunken wisdom, decided was much cooler, so I got that instead.”
I wait. He is silent.
“So?” I prompt. “What did you get?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t tell half a story. That would be incredibly annoying. Just tell me.”
He sighs again, exaggeratedly. “Fine. Homer.”
“Sorry, Homer?”
“Simpson. Homer Simpson.”
I stifle a laugh. “You got Homer Simpson tattooed on your shoulder?”
“Yes. Holding a can of Duff beer.”
“Why? I mean, seriously?” I laugh outright then. “How could you think Homer was cooler than the Southern Cross?”
“Like I said, I was drunk. And in my inebriated state, I thought Homer was a good representation of the way I should view life.”
“Which is?”
“Fearlessly, I suppose. Although stupidly could be another way of saying it. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched an episode, but I have. A fair few, in my younger days. He never lets anything stop him from doing what he wants, or going where he chooses. And somehow, no matter what scrape he gets himself into, it always works out OK in the end.” He says it emotively, rousingly, as if he’s giving a motivational speech.
“I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Ah, well, it was worth a try.”
“He’s a fictional cartoon character who walks around scratching his nuts and saying ‘Doh!’ all the time. I mean, he’s funny, sure. But inspirational?”
“Hey, you’re not saying anything I haven’t already said to myself. I plead youth and too much alcohol.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice it when we were swimming.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles sheepishly, “that was on purpose. As I said, it’s up on my back, top of my right shoulder. I kind of kept that side away from you as much as possible and, anyway, you were so enchanted with the sunset you weren’t really looking at me.”
“Huh.” I muse.
“What?”
“Well, it just goes to show, doesn’t it?”
“Show what?”
“That you just never can tell about some people. You seem like this professional, straight-up, serious kind of guy. And now I find out you’re partial to the devil’s brew and a bit of ink. You’re like Popeye.”
“I don’t like spinach.”
“OK, apart from that. Look, there’s a satellite.” I point to the eastern side of the sky, where a light is slowly making its way overhead.
“So it is. Do you really think alcohol is the devil’s brew?”
“No. I’m fond of the odd tipple myself. More so before the diagnosis.”
I wince. There it is.
“What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“Any shameful secrets you’d care to share?”
“No.”
“No, you have none, or no, you don’t want to share?”
“The first option. I’m p
retty tame. No wild youth to speak of.”
“You’re still young,” he teases, and then he realizes what he has said. “Shit. I’m sorry, Ava, that was thoughtless.”
“It’s OK, honestly.”
“I think you’re pretty admirable, you know. What you’re doing. And brave.”
I feel warmth at his words. So he didn’t describe me as “hot.” This was better. I’d take it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After a busy few weeks and three more articles run, the number of likes on the page Amanda set up almost doubles, and I receive so many messages of support and offers of help that I decide, sadly, that I can no longer reply to them all. I want to, but there are so many it would take up valuable time that I just can’t afford. Instead, Amanda does a communal post to tell everyone that I appreciate their messages and their thoughts.
A date has been set, and a venue chosen.
After much deliberation and facing truths I found hard to face, I picked a date in mid-January. Apart from some pain, manageable still, I feel OK. But I have no idea how long that will last, and I don’t want to be wheeled down the aisle in a wheelchair, or, worse, be unable to participate at all. January gives us two months to plan everything. Plus, it will be the height of summer. My favorite season, and more chance of a fine day.
As well as the barn at Marmalade Farm and the luxury boutique accommodation at Taupo, we also checked out a vineyard in the Hawke’s Bay, a converted woolshed in Wanaka, and a retreat nestled among native bush on the Coromandel Peninsula. They were all incredible venues that any bride would dream of being married at. Nadia tries her hardest to convince me to choose the luxury resort, Mum likes the serenity of the retreat, and Amanda likes the idea of a plentiful supply of alcohol on hand at the vineyard.
But none of them feels right. It might have been different if I were actually getting married, but I’m not, and they just aren’t me. Nadia has more lined up to visit for magazine articles but I am tired, so I say no. Tired of car trips and nights in motels. I want to enjoy them, and I try—the scenery in this country is breathtaking, after all—but my body aches if it is in one position for too long, and I develop locational insomnia, unable to sleep under unfamiliar ceilings. I don’t feel on the verge of death, but I don’t know what the verge of death feels like, and I’m terrified of dying in a bed strangers will sleep in after me.
So I break Nadia’s heart and I choose the one place that I can’t stop thinking of and dreaming of when I am away from it. She comes to the house to get the story for the latest issue, and I break it to her gently.
“I’ve decided to have my wedding day on the beach, next to the ocean,” I tell her.
“The beach.” She grimaces slightly, as if she’s having to reimagine her outfit choice.
“Yes.”
“Fiji?” she asks hopefully.
“What? No.”
“Rarotonga?”
“No.”
“Somewhere else equally as tropical and where they serve cocktails with little umbrellas? Preferably at the end of a short plane ride?”
“No. Right here.” I point off Kate’s deck.
She sighs. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not big enough, for a start.”
“It’s not a wide stretch of beach, no,” I admit. “But it’s plenty big enough for my family and friends.”
“And what about everyone else?”
“Who else?”
“Well. You’re making this thing public, right? So many readers want to come along and show their support.”
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “Just stop right there. This is not open to the public, no. This is a very private day, just for my friends and family. And you and whoever else you need to do the story, but that’s it. I never agreed to anything else.”
“I just assumed it was implied.”
“You know what they say about assuming,” Amanda, who is sunning herself in one of the deck chairs, pipes up. “Means you’re an ass.”
“That’s not quite how the saying goes,” I say quickly as Nadia frowns. “Anyway, that’s irrelevant. Sorry, Nadia. But it’s my decision and this is what I want.”
“It’s up to you; of course it is. This is your day. I just think it’s a shame that the people who are following your journey can’t be a part of it.”
“If they care as much as you say they do, they’ll understand,” Amanda says firmly. “Like you say, it’s Ava’s day. She needs to feel comfortable and she wouldn’t with a bunch of strangers around, as well-meaning as they may be.”
I throw Amanda a grateful look. She knows me so well.
“Of course,” Nadia agrees.
She means well, I’m sure of it. She just sometimes forgets to take her journalist hat off in the search for a good story.
That night, I get a message from James. I haven’t seen or heard from him since the night we slept under the stars beside Lake Taupo, but he’s never been far from my thoughts. I keep remembering what it was like to wake up to a dawn sky and him asleep on the lounger next to me. Studying his face, I felt like something had shifted between us, and the whole morning while he shot photos of me on the jetty and around the lake, it was as if we were both on the verge of saying something. But neither of us did, and he left before I checked out.
When a photographer called Steven turned up at the next article shoot, the one at the vineyard, I’d been disappointed.
“No James?” I’d asked Sophie nonchalantly as she adjusted the waistline on the beautiful ivory dress I was wearing for that article.
She’d given me a shrewd smile, even with pins clenched between her teeth. “He’s overseas on some assignment for National Geographic.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“He’s very good at what he does. Very in demand.”
“Far too good to be taking photos of me, that’s for sure.”
“He enjoyed it, actually. Said you were a star pupil.”
“Really?” I felt ridiculously proud at her words, but sad that I might not see him again.
So when my phone beeps and I see his name pop up with an instant message, I’m surprised. I am outside on the deck enjoying the belated birthday present Kate bought me, even though, as I’d pointed out, she’d already given me a bottle of perfume on my actual birthday.
She’d shrugged. “Call it an early present for next year, then.”
Her present was a swing seat, a wide three-seater that I could lie down on and watch the stars, or just sit and swing and watch the ocean and the clouds. Both pastimes I found particularly soothing.
His message says,
Hi, Ava.
I message him straight back:
Hi! Where in the world are you? I hear you’re off on an adventurous photo expedition.
James:
Not so glamorous, I was in Burma covering the Rohingya situation. Back home now though.
Ava:
Oh sorry! Hope I didn’t upset you with my flippancy. You must have seen some pretty sad stuff.
James:
It wasn’t fun, that’s for sure. I’m not upset though. In fact, funny you should say that. I wrote and deleted my first message to you about six times. I don’t know whether to ask how you are, or whether that’s a stupid question. I don’t want to upset you.
Ava:
It’s not stupid. I’d rather you ask than not. Shows you’re thinking about me.
James:
Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you.
I freeze. My heart doesn’t.
Ava:
Why?
James:
Truthfully, I don’t know.
Ava:
Oh. Well, thanks for being honest.
James:
You made me promise to, remember? OK. So the reason I’m messaging…do you want to meet? I was thinking dinner?
Ava:
Are you asking me out on a dat
e?
I hold my breath and watch as the three gray dots that indicate he is typing something blink at me for an inordinately long amount of time. They blink while the moon rises further overhead; while shooting stars flash across the sky; and somewhere in the universe whole solar systems implode. They blink as the tide gently recedes into the distance and the earth tilts on its axis.
James:
I think so.
Ava:
You know I’m dying, right?
James:
Yes.
Ava:
Did my mother put you up to this?
James:
No, absolutely not.
Ava:
Are you asking me out of pity?
James:
No! I’m asking because I enjoy your company.
Ava:
In that case I’d love to.
James:
Really?
Ava:
Of course. Name a time and place. My calendar is wide open. For the next few months at least.
James:
I’ll pick you up. Tomorrow night. Six o’clock.
Ava:
I shall be waiting.
James:
Good night, Ava.
Ava:
Good night, James.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Not quite what you were expecting, is it?”
“No.”
He looks crestfallen. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s better than I was expecting.”
His face brightens again. “Really?”
“Let’s face it, when it comes to dining out in this town, the options are limited. And while I do enjoy both the Indian cuisine at the Maharaja and the Thai at the Lemongrass, sometimes you just can’t beat good old fish ’n’ chips.”
We are walking along the grassy beachfront in town, having just ordered and collected our dinner from Erik’s Takeaways. Even though James is carrying the newspaper-wrapped bundle, I can smell the food, and it’s making my stomach rumble.
Photos of You Page 13