Authors: Jo Watson
I dug in my handbag for the hotel details, found the number and called. But the next available shuttle wasn’t until 10 p.m. I looked at my watch and it was only 7 p.m. What was I going to do here for three hours? All I wanted to do was bathe, wash my hair, soak my face and brush my teeth.
Crap!
“Hi.”
A voice from behind made me jump and I was surprised to find Damian standing there with a strange look on his face. God, I hoped that look didn’t mean
I’ve seen you in your underwear, lady.
I gave him a half-hearted nod, but all I could think about was what direction I’d been facing when I’d bent down to pull my jeans up.
“I need to apologize. It was wrong of me to say that stuff about you looking like a heroin addict. I heard what you said in there, and I’m very sorry. If I’d known I would never have…”
I cut him off abruptly. I didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s okay. Let’s leave it. I insulted you and you insulted me. Now we’re even.”
Our eyes met and I held his gaze.
“Deal,” he said, extending a hand for me to shake. I took it and was surprised to find it was pleasantly soft, not that I was expecting him to have scales and horns and warts…or maybe I was.
“So where’re you going?” Damian asked.
“Nowhere right now. My hotel shuttle can’t pick me up for another three hours.”
“Why don’t you just take a taxi?” He’d pulled out a bottle of water and started slugging it down. Some of it missed his mouth and ran onto his shirt. He poured water into his hand and ran it over his face and hair, obviously in an attempt to cool down. His wet hair was now slicked back and for the first time I could actually see his whole face. He was…
gorgeous?
WTF?
Okay, now I
knew
I was
definitely
losing my mind. I don’t like guys like this.
At all!
I like big, tall, muscular, blond jocks who wear polo shirts, Lacoste shoes and pastels. Guys who play tennis and wear Calvin Klein underwear. I like guys with tans, neat hair, perfect teeth, shoes without holes, shirts without holes, body parts without holes and no tattoos. I hate tattoos. Damian was none of these things. He had a small build, was pale, his hair desperately needed a trim and his clothes looked like they came from a thrift store.
I forced my brain to snap back to reality.
“I…I don’t trust taxis.”
He smiled at this.
“And where are you going?”
Damian shrugged. “Not sure. I think I am pretty stranded.”
“What you mean?”
“I had to give that guy all my money to avoid the…um, intimate search he was about to perform.”
“You could probably get some more at your hotel.”
“I don’t have a hotel.”
“So where are you sleeping?”
Damian shrugged again. “Not sure, I was going to go to a backpackers hostel, but now I guess I’m sleeping on the beach until I can get more cash.”
He was making absolutely no sense.
“Why don’t you just go to an ATM?” It seemed so obvious to me.
“I don’t have a card.”
“What?” I looked at this guy with the clothes and the backpack and I wondered what on Earth his story was. Who the hell didn’t have a bank card? That was like not having a Facebook profile or Twitter account. It was madness.
“I’m backpacking. I just did Europe and moved around from place to place earning money from odd jobs, and now I’m going to explore the east.”
This guy was completely nuts.
“Anyway,” he spoke again. “I hope you don’t have to wait too long for your shuttle, Lilly.” He gave me one last smile, turned and started walking away from me.
I watched him walk away and a thought started bashing about in my brain. I didn’t like the thought. I didn’t like it one little bit.
No! Don’t say it, Lilly! Don’t you dare bloody say it!
“You can stay with me.” The words came tumbling out of my mouth, and I regretted them immediately.
Damian turned around with a shocked look on his face.
“I mean, just for one night, while you figure out what you’re going to do for money. I have this big suite,” I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “Deluxe honeymoon suite. And it’s got a separate lounge area, so…”
Damian stepped forward and his eyes met mine with such intensity that I felt unnerved.
“You sure?”
“No, I’m not sure, but…what the hell, I guess.” I shrugged my shoulders, and looked around. “Besides, you’d be doing me a bit of a favor. I really want to get to the hotel, and I don’t want to take a taxi alone, so…”
He smiled that crooked smile at me again. He smiled a lot for someone who listened to Depeche Mode.
“Well, if I’d be helping you…” He strode out into the street and called a taxi with brazen confidence.
God, this was a bad idea. The worst idea. Ever. But it was too late!
Chapter Four
There’s awkward:
Like your dad catching you making out with your boyfriend when you’re fifteen (and it’s not just first base).
Or enthusiastically going in for a hug, when the other person was only going for a handshake (and your boob accidentally grazes their outstretched hand).
I could keep going, but I think you get the message.
And then, there’s Awkward (with a capital A):
Like sitting in the back of a taxi with a total—and slightly weird—stranger who you’ve accidentally invited on your “honeymoon”.
If I’d thought the plane ride was painful, well, this was definitely worse. We were squashed together in Thailand’s answer to a taxi, called a Tuk-Tuk: a tiny little creature that looked more like an enlarged tricycle with a box attached to it. We were so squashed, in fact, that whenever the Tuk-Tuk went over a bump (which was pretty often) our bodies would press together in ways I’d really rather they didn’t. There was a lot of…
“Oops, sorry!” (That was my boob.)
“Sorry!” (Elbow dangerously close to crotch.)
“Excuse me!” (Boob again.)
To say I was relieved when the ride came to a stop was an understatement. The Tuk-Tuk pulled up (chugged up) to a somewhat palatial-looking hotel and I was momentarily caught up in the romance of it all: the luxurious five-star-ness of it, the turquoise sea in the postcard background, the fragrance-filled, colorful flowers floating in bowls of water and the warm glow of atmospheric lighting.
“Impressive.” I’d almost forgotten Damian was there when he came up behind me and spoke.
“Yes my fiancé…” I corrected myself, “My
e
x
-fiancé
always said, the more expensive something is, the better.”
“Yeah, my parents are like that,” Damian said casually. “They always fly business class and refuse to stay in anything less than a five-star-plus hotel.”
This revelation shocked me.
I’d built up a mental image of Damian, and this little tidbit of information about wealthy parents certainly wasn’t part of it. I’d imagined something a little more— how shall I say this?—dirty! In my mind his dad was a Hell’s Angel or some such leather-clad thing. He probably had his own motorcycle repair shop and his mother was a tattoo artist, with body piercings and blue stripes in her hair. And they lived in a house with cigarette burns on the carpets and cat hair on the couch, because his mother was also a cat hoarder. Terribly judgmental of me, I know.
My curiosity had
definitely
been piqued, and I decided to pry, as subtly as possible.
“Um…” I was trying to sound casual, so I threw in another one. “Um, so where do your parents stay…um?” (Okay, maybe that hadn’t worked as well as I’d imagined, but he didn’t seem to notice.)
“They live in Camps Bay.” He said this phrase as casually as someone might do when they say “pass the salt.” But there was nothing casual about this statement, at all.
And now I was downright floored.
Let me try to explain Camps Bay in Cape Town, although I doubt I could do it the slightest bit of justice. For starters, it’s the most expensive place to live in the whole of South Africa—perhaps even in the whole of Africa. Not to mention that it has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. All the houses are perched on cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. They’re the kind of homes that have their own helipads and butlers named “Giles” or “Hamilton,” and where women have walk-in closets the size of small African countries. Now, my parents are what I would call wealthy, but this was on a whole other level.
I eyed him up and down as he walked in front of me carrying my suitcase, which was very gentlemanly of him, I must say. Damian was definitely a curiosity. Son of possibly billionaire parents dressed in a crappy T-shirt, walking around without a bank card, and in possession of a dirty backpack and split ends.
How on earth was that even possible?
I followed him into a rather spectacular entrance hall, up to the reception desk where an exotic beauty greeted us.
“Welcome to the White Sands Hotel and Spa.” She flashed us a perfect smile. I was struck by how absolutely stunning and graceful Thai woman were, with delicate, petite features and the tiniest waists in the world. (I hated them!)
“Hi, I’m checking in. The reservation is under the name…” I hesitated again. “The name Edwards.” Some buttons were pressed at lightning speed and then she nodded.
“Mr. and Mrs. Edwards. Congratulations on your wedding.”
I jumped in to correct her, “No, no we’re not…”
But before I could finish, Damian cut me off, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer.
“…not able to keep our hands off each other.” And then he turned to me with a goofy smile. “Isn’t that right honey-bunny-sweet-cheeks?” He was really milking it.
The woman smiled at us.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed at him.
“Shhh, go with it. In places like this they bring you all sorts of free stuff like champagne, especially when you’re on honeymoon.”
Now this guy could probably buy the whole province of Champagne in France and he was getting excited over a free bottle of bubbly. Like I said, a curiosity.
“Come with me, please, I’ll show you to your room,” the petite woman said, stepping out from behind the desk in an exquisite traditional Thai dress.
When we walked all the way through the hotel and out the other end into a beautiful lush garden, I realized that the honeymoon suite must be separate from the rest of the hotel. The evening air smelled sweet and sticky, and I looked around. The moon was almost full and hung so low, it felt like I could reach out and touch it. The sea was only a short distance away now and it had been turned into a silver liquid under the moon’s glow. The sand, too, had been transformed into something that shimmered. It was all very magical and this should have pleased me, but it didn’t. Because a movie started playing in my head.
Roll romantic music and in three, two, one. Action!
Michael, big, beefy, beautiful and strapping, strides onto the beach in his swimwear. He turns, his oiled chest glistens in the moonlight, and he smiles. He holds out his hand and I run. I run and jump into his arms. He swings me around, and we go tumbling onto the soft, cool sand. His big body rolls over me. He strokes my face.
Michael:
(Looking intently into my eyes) I love you, Lilly.
Lilly:
I love you, too.
Michael:
I’m so happy you’re my wife.
He kisses my forehead. He kisses my cheek. He kisses me on the lips, and I kiss him back. It’s slow and passionate and then everything goes soft-focus and the director pans to a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The romantic music swells.
CUT! Cut, cut, cut! CUT!
Suddenly there is a searing pain in my chest, as though someone had plunged a knife into my solar plexus. My heart is beating fast, but it is fighting against the strong grip of an invisible first tightening around it, trying to squeeze the life and blood out of it. This is the pain of my heart breaking. And in that moment, I wanted to be on my
real
honeymoon.
“Are you okay, Lilly?” Damian is right next to me. “You look pale.”
Somehow,
somehow,
I had to keep these thoughts about Michael at bay. They were pure torture and I knew that if I allowed myself to keep entertaining them, I would be allowing him to keep hurting me. So I took a deep breath (it hurt like hell), I tried to smile (my face felt tight) and I kept on walking (my legs were jelly).
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” But I wasn’t.
We finally arrived at the suite. It was situated behind a neat perimeter of palm trees for maximum privacy, I guess, giving honeymooners the opportunity to do what honeymooners do best. It was also close to the beach. We walked up four small stairs and onto a wooden deck, where an inviting plunge pool greeted us—again, probably there for the purpose of “aqua aerobics.” The receptionist stopped and handed Damian the keys, which made me very uncomfortable.
“I hope you’ll be happy here. I’ll get someone to bring your bags and some complimentary champagne and snacks.” The elegant woman turned and glided away and I felt Damian elbow me in the ribs.
“Told you. Free stuff.” Despite myself, I smiled. A real one. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t carry you over the threshold?” he said with a joking tone in his voice.
“Not at all. I’m probably too heavy anyway, considering the amount of food I’ve sucked down in the past twenty-four hours.”
Damian flicked his eyes at me quickly before putting the key in the lock and opening the door.
“Nonsense. You look great.”
WHAT?
Did I hear that correctly? Were my ears deceiving me? Okay…rewind!
I implied I was fat, and he told me I “looked great.” Not good, not nice, not okay. But great! I was speechless, for several reasons really. First, it’s a bit of a weird thing to say to a stranger. Second, it’s a bit of a weird thing to say to a stranger. Third, it’s even weirder to say to a stranger whose non-honeymoon you’re on. And last, I was clearly not his type.
I don’t have any tattoos and piercings in strange places. Nor do I listen to depressing music and write angst-filled poetry about my inner child and pharmaceuticals. And I’ve never worn a pair of skinny black jeans in my life! (My thighs are too big.)