Authors: Jo Watson
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.
Bizarre!
Truly bizarre.
He was the weirdest person I’d ever met.
My bladder gurgled at me, if that’s even possible, and I jumped inside. I’d never been happier to see a toilet in my life and the relief was instant. But when I got up, and caught my reflection in the mirror, I came face-to-face with what can only be described as a monster.
Black mascara lines crisscrossed my face like a zebra’s stripes, the smeared red lipstick made me look like I had some kind of contagious rash and my hair was so large and bushy that a family of seagulls could’ve easily moved into it. At the back of my head I could see one poor pearl clip desperately clinging on for life. Suddenly the Chinese tourists and their cameras made sense.
I grabbed a handful of toilet paper, drowned it in water and began rubbing. God, I hated waterproof mascara that had set! No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to remove it all. I was also cursing the fact that I’d worn ColorStay lipstick that promised “forty-eight hours of high-gloss color and shine. For lips that say…kiss me.” Well at least I knew the stuff actually worked, not like some of the other things I’d been conned into buying…
“Apply once a week and lose 100cm from your thigh.”
“Apply daily for lashes that appear 200 x thicker, fuller, longer and stronger”…
Why exactly? So you can go bungee jumping with them?
I sighed. This world was so full of empty promises.
* * *
Two hours and
only
two glass of wine later, I started feeling woozy.
Very, very woozy. I looked around and the aisle was undulating. The plane was tilting and the chair I was sitting on had turned to jelly. Very disturbing. Suddenly I heard a
pssst.
“Hey, pssst! Pssst!”
The noise was coming from the direction of the floor, so I glanced down and that’s when the two pairs of goggly eyes winked at me.
Really, truly, they winked!
One even turned to the other and said something.
“She doesn’t look very well, does she?”
“No, no.”
The other bunny said in a British accent.
“Pale. Very pale.”
I looked around to see if anyone else had seen that, but everyone’s faces had started melting. I began to panic—my heart started pounding and my palms became very sweaty. What was happening to me? And then I remembered…my brother’s little white pills! I’d taken one earlier.
Crap!
He’d warned me not to drink alcohol.
I was struck by a sudden wave of intense nausea! My head started spinning, my arms felt like they were floating and the bunnies started laughing. The waves of nausea were becoming more and more intense and I didn’t think I could fight it any longer. I looked at the toilet; it was so, so far away.
There is no way,
no way,
that this was happening to me! I had suffered through the worst twenty-four hours of my life, and now it was just going to get worse? The injustice of it stung me as I angrily grabbed the sick bag. This was not happening.