Sissy and Nigel’s honeymoon, in the earliest days of the new millennium, was very nearly the best three and a half weeks of Sissy’s life. She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed the wedding as such – it had been lovely of course, but she’d become so stressed about all the arrangements, and then she’d hated being the centre of attention, and although everyone told her she looked beautiful she knew she didn’t really, that’s just what people said to the bride. Her dress had been nice enough, but they’d teased and lacquered her hair until it was like cardboard, and her face had looked as if she’d been crayoned (she knew she should have trusted her instincts and done everything herself), and she didn’t need to wait to see the photos to know she looked terrible. The food had been OK and the speeches hadn’t been too humiliating, but no-one had danced much – Sissy was worried that the space had been too big, the lighting too bright, to tempt anyone but the aunts and uncles out – and she’d found herself stressing, convinced people weren’t enjoying themselves, wishing the evening would just hurry up and end. It had been a relief to collapse into bed, all thoughts of consummation abandoned; they’d been together for years anyway so it didn’t matter, not really.
It was only once they’d arrived in Australia that Sissy had finally begun to relax. She and Nigel spent a week in a fancy hotel on Magnetic Island, where they had their own private terrace, complete with hot tub and sweeping sea views the colour of swimming pools, and where on the beach thirty yards away the sand was soft under their feet and coconuts fell like gifts from a more benevolent universe. And after that they took a trip in a Winnebago up the coast, not knowing where they would stay each night or what the next day would bring, and Sissy had adored it, even more than the luxury of the resort. Nigel made her feel safe, as though she didn’t have to worry about everyone and everything for a change, and they found deserted postcard beaches where they set up camp and built fires and cooked fish they’d caught themselves, and she hadn’t realised life could be so magical. She found herself falling ever more in love with her new husband, delighting that he was such a decent person, so optimistic about life, so practical and manly, so much fun. It was all too perfect.
So when, near the end of their trip, Nigel had confided over breakfast that he was worried about a mole on his left leg, just above the knee, saying that it had seemed to really grow and darken while they’d been away, Sissy hadn’t catastrophised like she normally did (especially after what had happened to poor Camilla while they were at Bristol), and instead she’d felt sunny and positive and had reassured Nigel that it would all be fine. They agreed to get it checked out though, just to be on the safe side, ensure it wouldn’t spoil their stopover in Hong Kong. So as soon as they got to Cairns a couple of days later Nigel found a doctor, and she’d taken one look at the mole and sent him straight to the hospital, and that’s when the river of dread had started flowing inside Sissy again, the one that had never quite stopped since, not since that sunny afternoon long ago, on the other side of the world.