‘Is everybody relaxed?’
‘Uh huhh . . .’
Very far from it.
In place of waves we are listening to something repetitive on a cello. It brings to mind the string quartet April and I booked for our wedding.
‘Excellent. Now relax your toes.’
I would be happy never to even hear the ‘W’ word again, but now Zoe has invited me to be her ‘plus one’ at Rachel’s wedding in August. Last time I was a ‘minus one’.
‘Kneeees,’ says Gus.
The girls are all travelling out by ferry on the Friday before the wedding; I’m in no hurry to be there, so I’ve played the work card and will fly out first thing on the Saturday morning. I’ve even bought my ticket. All I need now is a passport. That essential piece of paperwork is in the front pocket of the suitcase I left in April’s room eight and a half months ago. I assume she has unpacked our sandals, sunglasses and mosquito repellent and, in regard to my possessions, thrown them into the nearest volcano. And in a way, I hope she has. Better that than have the still-packed Samsonite standing in the hallway of our new home, gathering cobwebs like Miss Havisham’s wedding cake. Whether April would deliberately destroy a legal document or not, I don’t know, but I’d bet not. I could apply for a new passport, of course, but that feels cowardly. And besides, it would only be delaying the inevitable.
‘Aaaand face.’
Face the music, people say. But I’ve never known what that means; what’s so terrible about facing music? Music doesn’t throw bricks or slash your car tyres. Grasp the nettle at least makes sense, but even that brief and shallow sting would be welcome compared to the reception I can anticipate in my hometown. Since walking out on April I have missed Christmas, my birthday and those of both my parents. It’s their fortieth wedding anniversary at the start of August, and I would very much like to be there. Dad, for all his outward displays of antagonism, oafishness and indifference to all things romantic, has never forgotten to give my mother a card and a bunch of flowers on their anniversary. This year he’s upping the ante and splashing out on a piece of ruby jewellery; he’s been on the phone twice in as many weeks, calling when Mum’s out so he can confer with me on what to buy: ring, necklace, earrings. But if I want to attend their anniversary party without ruining it, I need to first show my face and allow it to be slapped, punched and screamed at. Maybe even get my teeth knocked out. And wouldn’t that be poetic.
‘And let’s bring out the balloons,’ says Gus. ‘This week I’m going with yellow, but any colour will do. Just so long as it floooooats.’
Zoe is going to Brighton for Rachel’s hen party a few weeks from now, and while Rachel parades along the beach in a veil and an L-plate, I will head north to grasp the nettle, take my medicine, face the music and grab my passport.
‘Are we floating?’ says Gus.
My passport can’t weigh more than a few ounces, but it’s giving my little blue balloon some serious problems.