Читать книгу: «Just As You Are»

To every girl in the world – be fabulous.

Do the things. All the things.

And always wear cute knickers – just in case.

Chapter 1

On the first morning of February, I woke up drooling on a stranger’s arm.

‘Oh God, sorry.’ I said, horrified, trying to wipe off the small patch of my saliva from the strangers’ navy-blue jumper. Shit, it looked like cashmere. Hoping I’d got it all, I looked up at the man whose arm miraculously tasted like mint toothpaste and wood shavings.

His steely blue eyes were staring at me, a hint of shock glimmering across their surface. His skin was smooth and tanned. His hair was short, slightly wavy and styled to the right, a light blonde like white chocolate. He was well built, like a fit, broad Swede who biked everywhere and sailed yachts. He was wearing brown boat shoes, beige linen pants, and a thin, navy-blue wool jumper which I had just salivated on. Everything about him screamed ‘expensive’. Including the large titanium watch on his tanned, left wrist. He would have been about thirty-five, maybe a little older.

I wiped my mouth quickly, eliminating any traces of sleep saliva from my face. What was Thor doing in economy? And how had I not noticed him when I’d sat? But then I remembered, I’d taken a valium because I’m not a great flyer and I’d fallen asleep as soon as I sat in the middle seat. And here he was now that I’d woken up, perched on the aisle like a glowing angel.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’d been praying the universe would find me someone. MY PERSON. And here was this Scandinavian Norse God, deposited next to me on a jumbo jet. Of all the seats, in all the planes. Here we were.

We both looked down to where I’d been lying on his arm just moments before. Small little saliva marks had dried on his sleeve, like salt did on your clothes after being at the beach. He took a tissue, pulled a face and tried to wipe away my mouth imprint.

‘I should at least have waited until you bought me a drink first,’ I joked awkwardly, readjusting so I was back in my seat.

He looked at me strangely. ‘The drinks are free.’ His voice was low, gravelly, and had a slight Northern European lilt.

‘Shall we have one then?’ I said hopefully. I would never usually be so presumptuous, to ask a gorgeous man, to have a drink with me after I’d drooled on his arm, but it seems the valium had reduced my filter to zero.

‘It’s 4 a.m.’ He said curtly, reacting exactly how I would too, had some stranger left their tongue lolling about on me.

‘Well yes in Australia, it’s 4 a.m., but somewhere else in the world it’s happy hour.’

He paused for a second, before finally saying ‘I suppose.’

Oh God, isn’t this how lifelong romances begin? Yes, we met on a plane. Your mum drooled on me, but she was adorable. I couldn’t help but love her. Yes, your dad was a tricky one at first, but after being single for so long, I thought why not, and suggested a drink – how could he resist?

With a flutter of excitement, I flicked my light on and hoped the attendant would arrive quickly, before he changed his mind.

A slightly irate, and brusque flight attendant arrived at my seat, with a curt, ‘Yes?’

‘Bloody Mary please.’ I said and looked over at Norse God, hoping she’d think we were together, a couple, a thing.

‘Water and a whisky.’ He smiled and it was glorious. Glorious teeth. Beautiful lips. It seemed to melt her too because she almost skipped away saying she’d be ‘Back in a jiffy.’

‘So, what do you do?’ Norse God asked.

‘Well I … um … I’m travelling.’

‘I gathered that, considering you’re on a plane.’ He stared at me, up and down. I was hoping my long, dark blonde hair wasn’t the humid mess it had been in Thailand, even in the airport – humidity did bad things to my hair. I instantly regretted the, lets wear something comfy on the flight idea and hoped he didn’t mind my oversized black jumper, white singlet top and black stretchy leggings.

‘I meant, what do you do for, uh … income?’

Perhaps he was struggling with the thin cabin air, or he’d taken a valium too, because I thought, did he just ask what I did for money?

‘Gentleman first.’ I smiled at him, thinking I couldn’t tell him I’d most recently been working at Los Tacos in London, where the Mexican/Spanish fusion of fast food meant the kitchen deep fried everything before it went out; enchiladas, burritos, tacos, you name it – they were cooked, or worse microwaved, and then dipped in a vat of bubbling oil until they were crunchy. It was like serving a heart attack on a plate, but people gathered, usually very drunk people, for a plate of golden crispiness, stuffed with low-grade minced beef.

I shuddered remembering all the double shifts I’d had to do, just to be able to cover my rent and save for my next shoestring trip to Europe. I’d eaten pot noodles for breakfast, and free heart-attack tacos for lunch and dinner. Oh, the glorious life of a backpacker. Before that, I’d been a little more successful, working for a few years as a glorified filing and coffee girl, aka PR Assistant, but when the company hit a downturn, I was made redundant. And I needed another job pronto. But no one was willing to hire someone whose visa was almost up – hence why I ended up at deep fried Los Tacos hell.

‘I’m a buyer for clothing companies. Spend a lot of time in Asia, India, but now on the way back to meet some friends for a holiday in Fiji, before I’m off to New York.’

Yep. I definitely couldn’t tell him about what I’d really been doing for work.

I jumped in before he could ask about me again. ‘Family? You have kids?’

A wife? I asked silently.

‘No kids. Single.’ He shrugged.

‘Oh?’ My stomach flipped. Maybe this was happening. ‘Me too.’

‘So, you didn’t say what you did? Or where you’re off to?’ He said.

‘I’m heading back home to Sydney, via Fiji, after travelling for quite a while.’

‘How long?’

‘Seven years.’

‘Wow. Where did you go?’

When I first left Australia, all those years ago, I went all ‘Girl Meets World’, being single and independent, trekking around Argentina, Chile, Peru and Bolivia. In Panama, I got a job at a bar, and there was an Irishman I liked – but I think I liked his accent more than I actually liked him, and despite some flirting, nothing ever happened. I did a whirlwind tour of the USA, shoestring style, before being persuaded by friends to join them at their swanky new villa in Bali.

Bali was hot and humid, full of post-career, corporate hipsters obsessed with yoga classes and shots of turmeric juice. At my yoga class, or the local market where I sold jewellery and bags, everyone smelt like sweat and none of this laid a good ground for romance. The closest thing to a crush was a drunken kiss with an English backpacker, who thought my name was Alyssa for the first hour. He was quite good-looking and funny, until he decided to have five vodka shots in a row, and passed out on the sand.

The only other thing of note happened during a full-body massage from Wayan, a local healing man. My towel slipped off accidentally as I was turning on the table, exposing one pale boob to the elements. He rushed out of the room, blocking his eyes, saying, ‘Sorry, Miss Emma, sorry,’ as if he’d tugged the towel himself and now had to deal with the nightmare consequences of this action. This was not the idea I had in my head when I read in Cosmopolitan magazine – that no matter how you look when you’re naked, men aren’t going to complain. Nope, they’re just going to rush from the room screaming.

After two years in Ubud, I flew to the UK, where I travelled around Wales and Scotland, and learnt I had a love for whisky and was especially fond of haggis.

I was adamant that I didn’t want to live in London. London was just a larger, busier, more historical version of Sydney. And I needed something entirely different. Although my friends urged me not to, I moved to a small riverside town by the border of Wales, where everyone lived in quaint little cottages, and it rained a lot. I rented a granny flat from a lovely family who had a veggie patch in the backyard – my dream – but the winter seemed to go on forever and froze all the seeds, so nothing ever grew. I spent days drinking tea, and painting the misty, rainy moors – and I wasn’t bad. In fact, I thought my paintings turned out really well, and even considered selling them at the local markets, but in the end, I totally chickened out.

That life was glorious. No men though, unless you count balding fifty-something businessmen at the counter in Boots, who raised their eyebrows at me as if they were looking for a bit on the side. Erm, no, thanks. (Embarrassingly I later realised this eyebrow raising was probably due to the fact that I’d been queuing from the wrong side of the counter, accidentally jumping in front of people. Apparently, the English hate queue jumpers but are far too polite to actually say something.)

After a few months by the river, my bank balance had dwindled – living in the UK is a lot more expensive than Bali. And even though I tried my best, I couldn’t get a job. Turned out the town only wanted engineers and concreters, and I can’t even pour a drink without spilling it, let alone a concrete slab.

Down to my last few hundred dollars, I took the train to the city. London. Where everything was grey. In a small windowless office, I was interviewed by a senior manager for a public relations role. I’d worked in marketing in Australia as an assistant before I’d left, so I’d seen a lot of PR and events, but not actually done much more than send emails and organise people’s calendars and travel.

When they offered me the job on the spot, I said, ‘Absolutely!’

I moved to London and into a house of ten people. Ten. And it still cost more than half of my salary for a teeny room, with a single bed and a tiny window. There was even a queue to get into our damp small shower every morning (thankfully, I had learnt queue etiquette by then, because that kind of behaviour in a house of ten people would probably get you stabbed at night).

I smiled at Thor. ‘I started off in South America, travelled for a while through the US, and Bali, then flew to England and, of course, around Europe. I loved it – the food, the people, the mountains, especially the smell of pine forest in the middle of Winter in Austria, the Alps are so beautiful.’

‘That’s a lot of travelling.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘Isn’t it horrible being cramped back here in economy? It was a last-minute flight for me, and business class was full. You too? And how did you save up enough to stay in hotels for seven years? You must have some job.’ He leaned in excitedly, as if I was about to tell him I was heir to a throne.

Yep, Thor seems to be all about the dollars, I thought. Well, this love affair will be short lived then. I looked at him and said in a small voice. ‘I didn’t live in hotels. I lived in a house in London with ten other people. I worked at a Mexican fast food restaurant, and I spent most of my travels staying in hostels, because I was backpacking.’

He laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke, throwing his head back and slapping his knee. When he saw I wasn’t joining him, he stopped abruptly. His lips turned down slightly in disgust.

‘Backpacking.’ He said, like someone would say ‘Urine Drinker’. ‘Aren’t you too old for that?’

He sat back, grabbed the inflight magazine, opened it and pretended he was deeply absorbed in an article entitled ‘Top Beauty Spas in Copenhagen’. No wonder he’s single, I thought. He was most definitely not my person.

When the flight attendant arrived with our drinks, she must have sensed the tension. Couple’s fight. Instead of being the soft understanding type, she was the other. The Swooper. Diving onto my once-potential-boyfriend like an eagle spotting fresh prey. She plonked down my Bloody Mary without a look, and then handed Norse God his whisky, so her hands met his.

‘Sir let me help you with anything else you need. More pillows? Blankets?’

I drank my Bloody Mary quickly and loudly, so the sound of straw slurping interrupted any potential romantic spark. In my mind I was saving her, because if backpacking didn’t please him, I’m sure flight attendant-ing wouldn’t either. But she didn’t pick up on that because she looked at me painfully. He stared through both of us, as if we didn’t exist. He downed his drink, passed her the glass, curled up away from me and towards the aisle, and went to sleep.

For the last two hours of the flight I watched Bridget Jones’s Baby again, so I could remember that maybe it did work out for thirty and forty-something singletons, and when I cried and got puffy, I told The Swooper I had allergies, and asked if she couldn’t bring me an aspirin and another Bloody Mary.

***

I finished eating my delicious minty watermelon and took a last sip of milky coffee. The sound of the sea in the distance, crashing waves, and then the roll of the tide on the sand, was like a lullaby. I felt the sun beat down upon my skin, the rays making my muscles melt, thinking, I’ll just close my eyes for a bit.

When I woke up the sun was almost behind the hill. I’d spent the entire afternoon sleeping? Oh, well, that was the beauty with holidays, it really didn’t matter. Suddenly, I realised I’d spent the whole day on the balcony day bed, in the sun. Oh, God – my skin! I rushed to the mirror, expecting to see lobster red, but thankfully I’d put on a thick layer of sunscreen before drifting off, and instead I’d gone a slight brown with only a hint of small red around the chest. At least I no longer looked like a goth.

The Fijian air was warm and humid, even at night, and I sweated just pulling on a maxi dress and throwing my long, wavy, dark blonde hair, which was now huge and frizzy – as big as a planet and twice the size of my head – into a loose, messy bun.

The pathway below my room gave way to a lush fern garden, beneath a strand of palm trees. A short sand walk took me to a soft white sand beach. The sea was calm and frothy, small waves washed up on the shore, but otherwise it remained flat and glassy. I kicked off my shoes and walked into the water, feeling the waves wash with warmth over my bare feet. I looked up at the sky and put my arms up and shouted, ‘YEAA!’ This was the sense of freedom I loved, the newness, the variety, places that were beautiful and where I could marvel at the world. There was so much sky out here. So many places to breathe.

Further out, someone was fishing off a dock. I thought about raising my hand in greeting but then thought better of it. What local wants a strange sky-yelling tourist waving at them as if they were long-lost BFFs?

Thinking of BFFs, I was stunned to realise I’d left the UK without even telling Maggie or Tansy, my best friends in Sydney, that I was coming home. They had no idea that right now I was standing under a full moon in Fiji. This wouldn’t have happened before when we were single and free, nope, the whole gang would have been together, probably downing Pina Coladas or doing shots of something terribly girly, like Malibu.

But now there were kids, lots of kids, and my friends were mothers – busy, tired, distracted. Before I’d left, they’d all been married and had baby bumps, and little ones running around. The truth was, we’d all lived in the same city, but emotionally it was as if the Grand Canyon had opened up between us and our lives had all fallen away from each other.

Would it always feel this distant? I felt a bit like crying, and you can’t cry on a holiday. It’s simply not allowed. In true London fashion I knew what I needed to buck up – a stiff drink.

The sun had set and the night sky was scattered with stars. I headed to the open-air beach bar for the complimentary welcome drinks. A swarm of people – mostly couples, some with kids – were standing about chatting and meeting each other. The women had on long dresses and strappy gold sandals, the men had beige shorts and polo T-shirts, with jumpers slung around their shoulders. I started to laugh because they all looked a bit like each other, and then I felt sad again, because if my friends were away with their families they’d look like this too, which made me miss them even more.

Right, Emma, I told myself, get a grip. I thought my floral maxi dress might be making me weepy, the way it was all floaty, so I went back to the room to change into my shorter, black wrap dress and applied some red lipstick and two coats of extra-curl mascara. Although I would never have a thigh gap, or wear size eight jeans, at least I’d won the genetic lottery of eyelashes: mine were super long and everyone always commented on how they framed my sea-green eyes. My friend Tansy had once said my eyes were so beautifully large that I must have been a cow in a previous life. I wasn’t sure how to take that, because really it sounded quite awful, but she assured me it was a very good thing and with her smaller, dark eyes she was incredibly jealous.

Back at the beach club, I marched straight up to the bar and ordered two whiskys. Neat and straight up. I downed the first one and it felt like fire in my mouth. I love that feeling. So, I downed the second one. Dutch courage. I didn’t know a soul here. Was I expected to just go up and start chatting to random couples with kids? And what do you say? Hello, how’s your tan line? Your hair in this humidity? Which one is your husband?

Husband. I’d almost had one of those, I thought. But then, I shook my head, and thought No, Emma, now is simply not the time to think about that.

Anyway, I didn’t want to focus on the past. I wanted to figure out my life. Plan for the future. As soon as I landed in Sydney, everyone would be asking me – what now? What next? And I wanted to tell them, I’m staying. I’m settling down. I’m doing what you’ve always wanted me to do. Tansy had always joked that I’d had wings for feet, because I’d been struck by the travel bug ever since my first trip at nineteen, to Lake Tekapo, a creamy spearmint glacial lake in the middle of New Zealand’s South Island. It had been a beautiful, picturesque small village, with snow-capped mountains dotted all around it, and the most wonderful spring lupines with cherry pink and smashed violet blossums. I still remember holding a warm coffee, and eating a freshly baked cheese scone, sitting in front of that lake just after dawn as the sky turned a firey red, the biggest grin on my face. It was so peaceful, and it made me feel like there was nowhere to be, and nothing to do – like I had all the time in the world.

From then on, I travelled whenever I got the chance – Fiji, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Japan. It was mountains that tempted me, or large sandy beaches, places I could enjoy the peace. I liked silence. Places I could get out my makeshift easel and paint, or just take a white pad and sketch the landscape in charcoal, or pencil, or pen – whatever I had with me. It was like my own little meditation and zen, just me and nature.

Who knows how I’d recently ended up in busy, bustling London. Sometimes, on the weekends, I’d take the train to France, to the countryside just for the day, so I didn’t have to hear the sounds of the tube, the midnight sirens wailing down the street. I wanted to stay every time, but London called me back – cities offered jobs, opportunities, they were the places you could earn as much money as possible, and ‘make it’. I’d move to a small country town in a second if I could. I’d tried before in Wales, but I didn’t have any skills or trades, and no one in a small town seemed to want to hire someone who wanted to work in marketing or public relations – there was just no need. So I’d moved back to London, and realised maybe I did belong in a city after all.

Sure, I’d never wanted to settle down before I’d left, but now I was older. I was in my thirties. My mid-thirties. Things were going to be different. Maybe I could be like Tansy and Maggie now too. With a husband and a few kids. Yes, me! Why couldn’t I? Hadn’t I spent the whole of last year telling myself it was time to stop living out of a suitcase? To get a job that didn’t revolve around refried beans. To finally settle down. Not to mention that I wanted to find someone that I really liked, to date, to live with. To marry.

Before I could chicken out, I asked the bartender for a piece of paper and a pen and wrote down my new future, aka The Plan:

1 Get a job

2 Get a house

3 Get a partner. Marry him.

There, simple. That was what I would do.

Chapter 2

I ordered another whisky to celebrate The Plan and was about to slide onto the bar stool, in case I got too tipsy downing another Scotch, when I dropped my room key on the sand. I stepped back to try and look for it, at the exact time someone was stepping forward, because I felt my body slam into something hard – like a wall of cement. I tried to right myself, but my shoe went one way, and my foot went another and, before I knew it, I was on the ground in a heap, my knee-length dress hiked around my upper thighs.

‘Sorry, are you OK?’ A hand appeared in front of my face. It was a rather nice hand, square and large and quite like you’d imagine a tradie’s hand to be, but without the rough bits or anything covered in grime or paint.

When I looked up, a very good-looking man with his good-looking hands was standing above me. ‘I’m Nick,’ he said in a broad Australian accent. He had kind chocolate brown eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He was admittedly gorgeous, with blond hair, a dark sandy colour, and tanned olive skin. He was about six foot, with broad shoulders. He was wearing dark blue shorts, a fitted blue plaid shirt and white slip-on sneakers. The cool kind.

‘And I’m better when I’m dressed,’ I said, grabbing on to Nick’s hand and letting him pull me up. He looked away like a gentleman whilst I straightened my dress and brushed the sand off. I could feel the heat of the blood, still in my cheeks. Had I shown my bum to the world? To Mr Gorgeous? My knickers?

‘That was some tumble.’ Nick stared at me.

‘Yes, I’m training for the Worlds. Floor is my best. I was about to do a back flip, but you got in my way.’

‘Funny that, I thought you were looking for something in the sand. A room key perhaps?’ He opened his palm and there was my white room key.

‘How did you—?’ My heart was beating so loudly, as if it were trying to escape my chest. At any moment, this gorgeous guy would make an excuse to leave. To go back to his girlfriend. Or wife. I bet he had a lovely, pretty woman, beautiful and slim with blonde hair, who went to the gym more than three times a week. She was probably an Instagram influencer or model, because they mostly were nowadays.

‘Stealth.’ He smiled. ‘Is that whisky?’ He pointed to my glass.

‘Single malt.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Are you?’ I could feel him staring at me.

‘A girl that drinks whisky? Absolutely.’ I tried to hide my smile. Was this gorgeous man flirting with me? Stuff like this didn’t ever happen to me. Broiled chicken cheaters happened to me. Vanilla guys who were into computers happened to me. Hot men on islands did not happen to me.

Nick smiled at me, and his eyes crinkled in the most adorable way. I opened my mouth to say, Well, have a good night, expecting he was just being pleasant because he was on holidays, and his wife was probably eyeing me up and wondering why her wonderful husband was talking to the awkward girl at the bar who’d just fallen in the sand. But then I stopped myself. There are times in your life when there is a moment. A moment that presents itself as a possibility. The universe had conspired to plant this man right in front of me. Bumping into me. Literally. And it had to be for a reason.

Ask him to have a drink with you.

This was one of those moments when the man in front of you is gorgeous, and maybe he’s not living in a granny flat with his parents, or a workaholic with a heart problem, and it’s not a weird blind date, and he might be taken, or not, but still, you think – just go for it.

Ask him to have a drink with you, I thought again. I mean, it’s just a drink. Why not? Why the bloody hell not!?

I took a deep breath, smiled and said, ‘Well, I was about to have a shot too. Are you up for it?’ I held my breath and waited for him to respond.

‘I am,’ Nick said, laughing. ‘But none of that girly shit.’

My heart did a little cha-cha. ‘You mean, no Cocksucking Cowboy?’

‘Slippery Nipple,’ he chimed in.

‘Jam Donut?’ I teased.

Nick held up his hand. ‘OK, that’s the only one I’ll let you consider. Because it tastes like—’

‘Gummy snakes!’ I interrupted.

‘Exactly!’ He laughed and nodded at the bartender. ‘Two Jam Donuts, please,’ Nick ordered. The bartender had no idea what that was, so in the end we got two shots of Baileys with a dash of chambord. We cheers-ed and tossed them back quickly.

‘Ugh, that was sweet.’ I shuddered.

Nick ordered two whisky chasers, and paid for both rounds. A true gentleman.

‘So, what are you up to tonight?’ he asked. ‘Did you watch the game?’

‘Game? No.’ I almost snorted. ‘I hate sports.’ I thought it best to be honest, and not pretend I was really into cricket or rugby, and then have to listen to him prattle on about his team for the next thirty minutes.

‘All of them?’ Nick asked.

‘Well, except that Japanese show of people falling into the water whilst trying to balance on slippery apparatus.’

‘Oh, Kamikaze! I love that too.’ Nick grinned.

‘Were you here watching …’ I put down my whisky to use air quotes ‘… the game?’

‘No.’ Nick leaned in. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I kinda don’t like sports either.’

‘What?’ I feigned shock and horror. ‘How un-Australian!’

‘It’s true. I think I was dropped on my head as a child.’

‘Your head does look a little lopsided.’ I grinned.

Nick laughed. ‘So, what brings you to Fiji’s top sports bar, then?’

‘This is a sports bar? I thought it was welcome drinks.’

‘It’s both.’ Nick smiled. ‘But mostly a place where guys get to hang out all day, every day.’

I nodded. ‘Ahh, a man-cave. A male den. A place to grunt away from the ladies.’

‘Yes, we’re on our best behaviour right now,’ Nick teased. ‘How’s our English sound to you? Can you understand us? I’ve been really practising losing my grunt accent.’

‘Hmmm.’ I squinted at him, feeling my heart beat faster. He was cute and funny, and had great banter, and he didn’t seem to have anywhere to go. He was staying longer than a man who was here with his girlfriend or wife would stay. And in an instant, I knew – I kinda liked him. There was something so likeable about him, something so easy, something I felt I could trust.

‘Better keep trying,’ I teased.

‘So, what brings you to Fiji, to the land of snorkelling and sun? Kids? Husband?’ Nick asked casually.

‘None of the above. I’m just here for the weekend and I thought I’d try my luck at winning big on the turtle races. Mumma needs some new shoes.’

Nick looked down at my black Havaiana thongs on my feet and said, ‘Yeah, I wasn’t going to say anything, but—’

‘Hey!’ I slapped him playfully on the arm. ‘Don’t get me started on your shirt.’

‘My shirt? What’s wrong with my shirt?’

‘Um, I could lay it out and have a picnic on it.’

‘Wow. Are you asking me to take my shirt off? You move fast. I don’t even know your name.’

I laughed and blushed. ‘Emma.’

‘So, Emma, besides trying to update your wardrobe at the local ocean bar, what brings you to this island?’

‘Just a few days in the sunshine.’

‘Same as us,’ Nick said.

‘Us?’ I looked around. ‘Seeing imaginary friends now, are you?’

He chuckled. ‘The boys, Brett and Mark, headed back to the villa. I’ve got a timeshare unit down by the beach so we fly over from Sydney as much as we can, especially since the summer is almost over.’

‘And Fiji is so warm, thank goodness, warm enough to swim.’

‘You going swimming later, then?’ Nick asked.

‘Maybe.’ I laughed. My head was saying yes, yes, YES, but I was trying to play it cool.

‘Well, this bar closes soon,’ Nick said. ‘Did you aim to be so fashionably late?’

‘Are you saying I’m fashionable now?’ I teased.

Nick laughed. ‘Not quite. We can talk more about your clothing choices later, as it may take some time.’

Just then the lights flicked on and off. Welcome drinks were over.

‘Shall we?’ Nick said, pulling out my chair for me.

I followed him down a side pathway through a row of huts and bures. Down at the beach the entire place was quiet, except for the small whoosh of waves lapping at the shore. Everyone else was tucked in their beds. The moon was full and round. A white streak of moonlight flashed across the water. The tide had gone out, and the waves were soft and round, gliding without any mermaid froth.

Nick grabbed my hand and pulled me until my feet hit sand. Soft, cold sand. He seemed to hold my hand for a beat, but then let me go.

‘How good a swimmer are you?’ He looked at me.

‘I’d beat you in an eggbeater contest.’ I could feel the warmth of the whisky flushing through my veins. It made me feel like being reckless on my last few nights of freedom.

‘You’re on!’ Nick said, unbuttoning his shirt.

‘I’ll have you know,’ I said, pulling my hair from its bun, ‘I’m an avid aqua aerobics-er. Is that a word?’

He looked at me curiously. ‘Aren’t you a bit young for that?’

‘Ageist.’ I threw my sandal at him.

He laughed and ducked. ‘Oh, man, do you wear one of those cap things?’

‘Those caps are kinda cool, I’ll have you know. Possibly ironic. Maybe even hipster?’

‘Yes, possibly cool for the mid-seventies age range. Thankfully you are cap-free tonight. Just so you know, I bet you look better without it.’ He winked.

He took his shirt off, revealing a taut chest, tanned and smooth with not an inch of hair. Yikes! He looked even hotter than I imagined. There were curves of muscle around everything. His shoulders were like boulders. His chest broad and smooth, and his stomach muscles, without an inch of fat, were etched deep. He had the defined diagonal hip muscles of swimmers and runners. I could see every pair of muscles that made him up. I tried not to look, but kept stealing glances.

‘Emma, are you OK?’

‘Huh? Yes, yes, I’m good.’ I’d stopped undressing, and was standing there, my mouth open. My eyes wandered all over him as I took off my other sandal.

Nick was now taking off his shorts and his boxers. Wait. What? His BOXERS?

‘Wait, what is happening here?’ I said, trying to suppress my laughter.

Suddenly Nick was standing in front of me and, oh, my God. He was naked.

I burst out laughing. ‘Why are you naked?’

‘Why not? Aren’t we swimming?’ Nick said, not making a move to cover himself up. This guy had confidence.

‘I want to tell you something,’ he said.

‘That we’re naked?’ I laughed.

‘Yes, Emma.’ He smiled.

‘Are you a nudist?’ I couldn’t stop laughing.

‘No, Emma. Actually, I want to tell you something else,’ he started.

‘I’m sorry’. I could hardly breathe I was laughing so much. ‘Can we have a serious conversation while you’re naked?’

‘Can we?’

‘I’m really not sure.’ I tried to stop laughing and compose myself. ‘Wait, is this the way you get girls back to your villa?’ I said, trying not to look there. His package.

‘It’s not about sex, Emma,’ Nick said.

Oops. It wasn’t? Because I was still sneaking mini-glances at his nether regions.

‘It’s about just being comfortable with who you are.’

Clearly this boy was very comfortable.

‘You can go in with your underwear on,’ he offered.

‘Now where’s the fun in that?’ I laughed. I would never see this guy again, it was Fiji, why the hell not. I took my dress off. And stood in my black lace bra and lacy bottoms. At least someone was seeing my French lingerie! Hurrah! I hadn’t bought them for nothing. I shimmied off my pants. And unclasped my bra.

Naked. I was bloody naked! I gave a quick glance around to make sure no millennial was hiding in the bushes, filming us – I’d be on YouTube in no time, going viral. Doing it for size fourteen women everywhere.

I felt totally exposed. But surprisingly good. Also, I wanted to sneak a little glance at him down there. But that felt wrong. And weird. And he was looking at my eyes. And not at any other places on me.

He was staring at me intently. I held my breath. I thought he was about to lean in and kiss me. I started to close my eyes, thinking, yes, please kiss me, but he said, ‘I want to tell you …’ he paused ‘… first one in is the winner!’ and started sprinting towards the ocean.

‘Not fair!’ I gave it all my might, running as hard as I could. Running made my boobs jiggle, and then I wondered how my stomach looked so I snuck a glance to see. It looked OK. A bit soft. And white. But OK.

Nick was athletic as well as muscular, and he got there yards ahead of me, diving into the cool ocean. I splashed into the sea after him. The water was warm and soothing, and felt amazing. I waded out to my thighs and dived in. I closed my eyes, and felt the water rush over me. It felt strange to be in the salty sea, without any clothes. And rather great too.

When I emerged, Nick was a few metres away, gliding over the small waves.

‘So what do you win?’ I asked, swimming closer to him.

‘That’s up to you. Loser gets to decide.’

I splashed him with a huge wave of water. He was surprised and made a few choking noises. ‘OK, nice, death by drowning to the winner.’

‘Well, it wasn’t a fair race. You had a head start.’

‘You want another challenge?’

I laughed. ‘I do.’

‘Wow, I think it’s too early for “I do’s”, Emma. Now you’re practising for our wedding. You do move fast.’

I sloshed more water his way, then turned onto my back, kicking as hard as I could so all the water would go in his direction.

When I stopped, I expected him to complain again. But he’d disappeared.

‘Nick?’ I turned to my right, to my left. I couldn’t see him at all. The sea flattened out.

‘Nick?’ I called out, spinning around. He hadn’t come up to the surface yet. I hesitated. I swam a little further out, to where I couldn’t stand, but it was as black as black further out, and scared me.

‘Nick!?’ I counted to five. Now I was getting worried.

Something tugged at my leg. I’d heard about this, that most shark attacks happen at night and close to the shore. I thought I’d dreamt it at first, but there it was again. Tug. I gave a loud squeal, convinced it was a shark that had taken Nick and was now coming from me, then swam as fast as I could back to where I could stand, in the water reaching my hips, my heart beating out of my chest. Where was Nick?

Something tugged again at my leg. I yelled out, ‘Help!’

Suddenly the shark emerged from the water laughing, stood and splashed me. ‘God, Emma, you’ll wake the entire hotel of people trying to sleep.’

‘What … the …? You …’ I was so mad, I tried to push him away, but he grabbed each of my wrists in his hand. He had nice hands, and now they were pulling my hands towards his chest.

‘Were you going to try and hit me with your tiny, ineffectual fists?’ He had a twinkle in his eye.

‘Not ineffectual. As you may likely find out.’ I could barely speak. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. My body seemed to crave his; it was all I could do not to grab him and kiss him. I’d never wanted someone to touch me, to kiss me so much. I could hear the blood pulsating in my ears.

Suddenly he reached out and pulled me into him. Our bodies pressed together. I felt his warm skin against mine, his breath hot on my neck, and a delightful buzz spread out across my chest. My mind ticked over. He was a stranger. And this was a naked hug. Was that weird? Should it be? Oh, God, was he getting excited? Um, down there? Before I could think of anything else, he’d put his hand on my right cheek.

‘Emma,’ he said in a soft, serious voice.

‘Nick,’ I whispered, staring into his chocolate melt eyes. The entire beach disappeared from sight. It was just him and me.

He leaned forward, smelling of warm whisky, and ocean water; his lips found mine. I closed my eyes. He gently kissed me, no tongue, but I felt breathless. My body shuddered.

‘Emma.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re shivering.’

‘Well, I’m cold.’ And this situation is making my body quiver in ways it never has.

‘Let’s get you back.’

‘But I—’ I wanted to stay out there and kiss him all night.

‘We can go swimming again later.’ He stepped back.

‘OK,’ I said, and was glad he kept holding my hand, feeling the warmth tingle up and down my arm.

‘Can you wait here a second?’ he asked. ‘Just stand in the shallows.’

‘A naked girl by herself at the beach? You better be quick.’ I turned to face the ocean, so no one could catch a glimpse.

He dashed off before I had a second to watch his body. I couldn’t believe this was happening. My last travel hurrah, and I was going to return with this story. What a story. My friends would never believe me.

In a few minutes he was back with two fluffy towels, one already around him, and a jumper for me.

‘Oh, and this.’ He held up a bag of chips and a bottle of whisky. ‘I nicked it from Brett’s stash.’

He held the towel around me, and then handed me my black dress, underwear and his jumper – which smelt like the ocean, and felt so warm. He took a sip of whisky and handed it to me. The liquid warmed up in seconds.

‘C’mon,’ he said. Dragging a few logs together, he started to make a fire. It was crackling in no time, and he laid out the towels for us to sit on.

‘Well, this is quite nice,’ I murmured, sitting down in front of the fire. ‘I didn’t realise it got this cool in the evenings in Fiji – isn’t it meant to be summer here all year round?’

‘Sometimes it gets cool, which is nice, because then you can cuddle up by a beach fire.’ He sat next to me, near enough to touch me. I could see the flames and reflection dancing on his face, in his eyes.

‘So, what’s your story, Emma?’ he asked.

I felt my body leaning slightly towards his. ‘Well, I’m a retired aqua aerobics World star, who’s bringing pink petal caps to the masses. And you?’

‘I’m a retired picnic rug, who got tired of people walking all over me.’

‘That’s terrible!’ We both laughed.

He paused. ‘Now, truthfully?’

‘Well, I’ve been travelling around the world for seven years, working here and there, and now here I am in Fiji.’

He gave a low whistle. ‘Wow. Seven years. I’m impressed. I think I’m heading back to London for work. Maybe via France. And Austria. Don’t tell me you’ve been there too?’

‘Why, yes, I have,’ I said and realised he was leaning close to me too. A burst of warmth and excitement spread across my chest. I wanted him to kiss me, and I didn’t even know what I was saying. I felt tongue-tied and nervous, and when I do that – I talk.

‘In fact, it sounds like you need travel advice, and, wouldn’t you know it, besides specialising in petal caps, I am a great travel guide and know lots of random facts about all kinds of things.’

‘Like?’

‘Like it would take one million two hundred thousand mosquitoes, each sucking once, to completely drain the average human of blood.’

‘Morbid, but interesting.’ He chuckled.

When we stopped talking, there was only the sound of the breeze through the palm trees.

‘How great would it be to do this, and travel, for the rest of our lives?’ I said.

‘Depends how you travel,’ he pointed out.

‘Good point. How about hiking in the wild, the mountains, waking up to fresh air and trees every morning, then a few nice hotels thrown in so you can remember what it’s like to wear a bathrobe, rather than a scratchy towel the size of a postage stamp?’

He laughed. ‘Yep, I know all about those towels. I spent some time on a boat travelling around Antarctica.’

‘Antarctica! What were you doing there?’

‘This sounds cheesy – but I took some time to volunteer with seals and penguins.’

‘Yep, you’re right, sounds very “I’m a dolphin trainer” to me,’ I said, trying not to laugh.

‘Do dolphin trainers even exist?’ he teased.

‘In every woman’s fantasy they do.’ I winked.

‘Oh, we’re sharing fantasies now!’ He laughed. ‘You do move fast.’

I playfully swatted his leg. ‘Well, right now, my fantasy would be to live by the ocean, perhaps in a palm tree.’

‘I hope you’ll wear clothes,’ he teased. ‘Could get sore.’

I suddenly became aware that I’d been completely naked before – it was strange to think that I hadn’t felt that awkward, that embarrassed, in fact I hadn’t really given it a thought.

‘I’m not the crazy idiot that decided to take off my clothes.’

‘Aren’t you?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Well.’ I nodded. ‘Perhaps I’ll call it peer pressure from a picnic rug.’

‘I’m not sure anyone would believe an inanimate object made you take off your clothes.’ Nick laughed then took a swig of whisky. There was a moment of comfortable silence between us, before he looked over at me with his gorgeous chocolate eyes. ‘So, if you could, would you stay in Fiji for a while, then?’

‘Why not? Sun, sand …’ I paused. Was it sex? God, was that the perfect trilogy?

‘And?’ he teased.

I waved my hand as if I were shooing away a fly. ‘You know the answer to that.’ Then I changed the subject. ‘So, what’s every man’s idea of a woman’s fantasy job?’

‘Well, personally speaking, I go a bit crazy for someone trekking up a mountain or taking photos in a double barrel wave.’

‘I’ve trekked through a jungle in the Amazon. Does that count?’ I asked coyly.

‘It sure does.’ He leaned in, putting his hand lightly on the small of my back. My stomach did a small flip as he asked, ‘Can I get you another whisky? Water?’

I couldn’t breathe for a second because he’d got too close, and now I could only smell the wonderful scent of his aftershave. Up close, I noticed he hadn’t shaved in a day or two and I wondered what his stubble would feel like. His perfect jaw line, his full lips.

‘I … I’ll just have a water,’ I stammered. ‘Actually, no, I’ll have a whisky.’

‘Both?’ He dug around in the bag in front of him. ‘I don’t want to get in trouble for looking like I’m trying to get you drunk.’

‘Are you?’ I teased, still thinking about his lips.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Yes? But more no. I mean – how can I answer that?’

He handed me the bottle of whisky. I took a sip and let the warmth flush around my body. He pointed at the stars.

‘That’s Sirius there; look closely, can you see it flashing? It’s one of the nearest stars to us, but if you are patient you’ll see it has flashes of green and blue.’

‘Now, Mr Penguin Trainer, you’re just showing off,’ I said, my head tilted to the sky, trying not to look at him.

‘Am I?’ He was staring at me, instead of the stars.

He took a deep breath and looked back at the stars. ‘Where are you headed next?’

‘Who knows?’ I shrugged, trying not to think about kissing him. ‘Alaska,’ I said dreamily, thinking about my list of places to travel next. ‘Or the Galapagos Islands.’

‘I hear Alaska’s beautiful, but expensive.’

‘Kinda like Antarctica.’

‘Will you be volunteering with penguins?’

‘Maybe wolves.’ I smiled. ‘But they’re not as high on the totem pole as dolphin trainers or penguin volunteers.’

‘I’ve heard. Sadly, wolves are down near otter trainers or snake collectors.’

‘Well, I’m going there determined to bring the sexy back to wolves. Correction, sexy wolves back.’

He chuckled. ‘You’re bringing sexy wolves back. Where? In your suitcase?’

I laughed. ‘No, I meant … it was … a Justin Timberlake reference.’

‘Yes, I got that. I’m not that much older than you.’

‘Really?’ I teased. ‘Could have fooled me. Since you’ve got a lot more grey hairs than I do.’

‘Hey!’ He leaned away from me and covered his hair. ‘The truth doesn’t always need to be pointed out.’

I giggled and reached to point them out, but he ducked away. ‘And what do you have planned next, Mr Penguin Trainer?’

‘Well, me and my grey hairs may decide to step up on the career ladder, and earn lots and lots of money. Or just quit and travel. Or live somewhere near the beach. Or the country.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ I said, thinking of my perfect place. ‘A little white country cottage?’

‘With a veggie garden,’ he added.

‘An apple orchard and a bunch of chickens.’

‘Definitely chickens. Some dogs too.’

‘A chocolate Labrador!’

He laughed. ‘How good would that life be?’

I sighed and took another sip of whisky. ‘I’d give up anything for some space and wildness out of the city. But how would I make money?’

‘How do you make it now?’

‘Oh, you know, bits and pieces.’ I thought back to my Mexican burrito days. Do not talk about them, they’re as sexy as mentioning that you wear granny panties three days in a row. ‘But I really like to paint and draw.’

I couldn’t believe I’d just said that. I’d always wanted to be an artist. But I’d never actually sold a painting; in fact, showing my paintings to people made me feel awkward and unsure, like I was handing them my baby, and asking was it ugly? For that reason, I hardly showed anyone my paintings Right now, in my backpack was a rolled-up wad of landscapes – the turquoise seas of Cyprus, a piece of Dubrovnik coastline, an old door I couldn’t stop looking at in Venice. They’d probably end up shoved to the back of my wardrobe. I hadn’t divulged my secret passion to anyone.

So, I couldn’t believe I was telling Nick this fact about me. I was used to meeting travellers, and going out with them for the night, sharing silly stuff, but this felt different, it felt much more personal.

‘I’d like to see one.’

‘Maybe one day.’ I smiled at him, and was surprised to realise I meant it.

Nick took the whisky bottle, which was dug in the sand, and took a swig. ‘I’ve been focused a lot on work these last few years. Working really long nights. It’s the same thing day in and day out. Deadlines. And appointments. And bills to pay. Being single, sometimes I’m not sure when to leave the office. Nothing to go home to, you know?’

I nodded. I did know that feeling.

‘Maybe you don’t, because you’re always travelling, being a free spirit, you probably have no idea what it’s like for us nine to fivers.’

I was about to let him know that I knew all too well, when he leaned in closer to me, and I could feel the warmth of his body. The smell of whisky and ocean salt on his lips. I forgot all my words. He paused for a second. ‘Do you ever get lonely, travelling by yourself?’

I swallowed as he leaned in closer, inches from my face.

‘Maybe,’ I said, then admitted, ‘sometimes I think that’s part of the reason I keep moving around the world so much.’

He looked into my eyes, and traced his finger along my cheek. The sound of the waves against the sand was a soft lull, like someone whispering. He leaned towards me and brushed a piece of hair back from my face. My stomach flipped. I could smell sea salt on him, and mint aftershave; his lips were close. He kissed me softly and I melted slightly. His lips were soft on mine as he held my face in one hand. I lost all track of time and the night. An hour could have passed. Or a second.

Finally, he broke away. ‘Wow.’

‘A lot, wow.’ I felt light-headed and dizzy.

‘Do you want to go home and warm up?’ he said, looking into my eyes, then he held up his hand. ‘And before you ask, this is not how I get girls back to my villa. This is how I hopefully get you back to my villa.’

I nodded quickly. He put out the fire, grabbed towels and my hand and led me across the soft white sand. His villa was about fifty metres further down the beach. A white stucco town house, with white tiles inside, an open-plan kitchen, a long, carpeted corridor, and a small plunge pool at the back in a green-grass courtyard.

‘You own this?’ I think my mouth was hanging open.

‘Part own it. It’s a timeshare.’ Nick threw the bags down on his blue striped couch. ‘C’mon, let’s get warm.’

He disappeared down the hall to the right. I peered in the doorway just in time to see him stepping naked into the shower, and letting out a sigh.

‘It’s hot! And feels so good,’ he called out, leaving the shower door open.

‘Um, both of us?’ I asked from the hallway.

‘Sure, why not?’ Nick shrugged. ‘Don’t you want to warm up?’

Despite the rivers of alcohol pumping around my body, I was still shivering and cold. I caught a glance of myself in the bathroom mirror; my bottom lip looked almost blue.

‘OK, then.’ I took a deep breath, peeled off my dress and underwear and quickly stepped carefully into the shower. Nick guided my shoulders and moved me until I was in the middle of the water. My ice-cold feet and hands started to tingle as the blood rushed back into them. I paused at this point, aware of him being naked, standing behind me. I imagined him getting closer, whispering in my ear, and it shot a tingle down my back.He squeezed a line of body wash across my shoulders and started to massage it deeply into my neck, my shoulders, my arms, down my back. Warm water. Suds. He turned me to face him. Fire curled around my belly, and I wanted him to kiss me.

As if sensing my thoughts, he leaned down and brushed his cheek against my lips. I could feel the tiny stubble against my skin, his square jaw. My stomach fluttered. He cupped both my cheeks with his hands and kissed me, gently. It wasn’t the type of kiss where I was thinking, where should I put my hand? Which way do I tilt my head? Tongue? Or no tongue? We just came together, and my brain thought of absolutely nothing except how amazing it felt to kiss him. It felt right.

When we broke away from our kiss, I was so light-headed I almost needed to put my hand on the shower glass to steady myself. I closed my eyes and felt as if I were floating. When I opened them, Nick was looking at me intently.

‘Are you warm?’

I laughed. ‘Um yes.’ Because I couldn’t be warmer, but he was turning off the shower. The water stopped running, and he was stepping out and handing me a towel, and as I stepped onto the fluffy white bathmat and dried off, I thought, oh, that’s it?

And I felt disappointed by that. Not disappointed like I’d felt with Norse God – because that had been nothing. But disappointed because I liked Nick, in a way that I probably shouldn’t. I liked him more than any of the guys I’d been on awkward dating app first dates with. I liked him enough to want to see him again. I liked him in a way that made me not care about what I ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ do, because I knew what I wanted right in this moment – to be with him, to sleep with him, to stay here, and wake up next to him.

As if reading my mind, he waited until I had dried off, and wrapped the towel around my body. ‘Do you want to stay?’

I nodded.

He led me down the white-tiled hallway to his bedroom. Without saying a word, he leaned down and lifted me up – effortlessly – his muscles flexing, he slid me onto the bed. I’d always dreamed of an amazing man, a sexy, wild version of me, a beach hut somewhere, but nothing like this.

Was this happening? My stomach fluttered and I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face towards me. He kissed me again, passionately. ‘I like it when you do that,’ he said.

He traced his lips over my lips, then my cheek, following the line of my neck down the right side, leaving soft kisses that gave me goosebumps, then licking in long strokes, and finally tiny bites. He tugged gently on my hair, then a little stronger, pulling my head back, and exposing my neck to his kisses.

He moved his hands to cup my breasts. I arched my back, and he sucked my right nipple in his mouth. I moaned with intensity, all other thoughts immediately leaving my head.

‘I thought you’d be the noisy type.’ He licked between my breasts and looked up at me.

‘Do you like noisy?’ I asked coyly, letting my fingers float across his perfect chest and abs, honed to perfection, smooth and taut.

‘God,’ he moaned, ‘I love it.’

I’d always dreamed of a summer fling, but nothing like this.

I curled my legs around his back, locking my ankles, pulling him closer to me. Without thinking, I leaned forward, licked his neck, then whispered in his ear, ‘I want you.’

His hot breath was on my chin, on my neck, as he ground into me. Our bodies rocked against each other. He grabbed onto my thighs where he was holding me, so hard, that he left fingerprints. I scratched my fingernails down his back. The pain and pleasure pushed us both over the edge in a large shudder. He groaned and fell into me, gently placing me back on the bed, kissing my lips gently.

We stayed there for a minute, not moving.

‘I did not know this was going to happen,’ I said, panting from the effort.

‘Why are you panting? I did all the work!’ He laughed.

I swatted his arm. ‘I was doing a lot of hip action there too, buddy. It takes yoga classes to get that flexible.’

He leaned back and looked into my eyes. ‘That was amazing.’

‘Sleep time?’ I asked, suddenly exhausted and wanting to feel his warm body pressed against me all night.

‘Sleep time,’ he said, kissing me gently on the tip of my nose. ‘My bed is king size. It’s comfy, I promise.’

He tossed me a T-shirt and shorts from the top of the wicker basket. ‘I only wore them earlier today for ten minutes – they’re clean.’

When I put them on, they smelled of him slightly, his minty aftershave. I collapsed onto the bed and yawned again, almost slipping instantly into sleep.

Nick crawled on the bed next to me, one arm around me, tucking my hair away from my face. I wanted him to kiss me, but before I could do anything, I fell asleep feeling his soft warm breath tickling my skin and listening to the sounds of the ocean in the distance.

Chapter 3

‘Good morning, sleepy,’ Nick said, standing there, his perfect body in perfect boxers, smiling, an orange juice in his hand. ‘Do you want coffee?’

I nodded limply, because everything seemed to hurt my head.

‘Hangovers,’ he’d said, ‘are the version of adult nightmares that you can’t wake up from.’

We laughed and delicately tried to eat toast and sip water. Then we spent an hour laying next to each other, our arms and legs touching, intertwined, chatting about places we wanted to visit, and places we’d loved, and our favourite books, and music – all the things that you loved discovering about another person. And there was no doubt about it, Nick was a nerd, a poetry nerd at that. He liked Yeats, but mostly E.E. Cummings. I knew that he liked his coffee extra black, extra shot. That he visited him mum every second Saturday. That he would move to Canada if he could, to the west coast.

Finally, I knew I had to get up and go back to my hotel, to shower, and sleep, and feel human again. I mused about how to say goodbye without making it uncomfortable or strange. Of course, I wanted to see him again, but I had no idea if he felt the same way. For a moment I stood awkwardly in my black dress, my shoes in my hand, looking around his room. Did we swap numbers, or email addresses, or something? Or maybe we just kissed … and said goodbye like mature adults and went on with our lives.

‘How about a seafood lunch later?’ Nick said casually, pulling on a T-shirt after a quick shower. ‘I’m flying back tonight, but I could see you before three o’clock.’ He paused. ‘Only if you want?’

Sure,’ I replied excitedly. He wants to see me again.

‘My number is 04—’

‘Wait. My phone is out of battery and there’s no way I’ll remember that.’ I laughed but then it hurt my head a little, so I stopped. ‘Ouch.’

‘Poor you. OK here’s my number.’ He said quickly scribbling it on a piece of paper and handing it to me. ‘Text me where and when, and I’ll be there.’

‘Great,’ I said and pocketed it, giving him a long hug before slipping out the front door.

Outside, I walked quickly back across the sandy beach where just hours ago I’d been naked. The sun was up and blinding already at this early hour, there was no breeze, and the humidity sat heavy in the air. I was sweating in seconds as I trudged through the sand, step by step. I wandered down a road and then left along a small beach cove. Where was my hotel? And, where was I? Feeling confused and disorientated, I’d turned down a few streets and walked for a while, before realising they were dead ends. Was I even going the right way?

After the longest, hottest walk I’d found I’d taken a wrong turn, and had to backtrack twenty long, hot minutes before I arrived at the hotel, feeling like a limp dishrag.

Slipping into my deliciously cool room, I showered and took a quick power nap. When I got up, I’d looked at the crumpled piece of paper on my bed with Nick’s phone number. I read the numbers aloud 0402 773 944. Before I could second guess myself, I texted him Hey you, hope your head is feeling better. My hotel apparently does a great seafood lunch. Freshwaters, at 1pm? And then I’d put his number in my purse, and called down to reception to book a table near the pool for two.

Excited, I jumped in the shower again and spent an hour getting ready. I put on my sea-green maxi dress and sandals and I styled my hair straight and then spent a lot of extra time giving it beach waves. By the time I was finished it was just past 1 p.m., so I grabbed my phone and purse and took the lift to Freshwaters. The waiter seated me at one of the best tables right next to the pool, and the sun was shining so brightly, I had to wear sunglasses. I ordered two glasses of sauvignon blanc, because I knew he liked really crisp, dry white wines. I laughed, then, because I already knew what he liked and didn’t like. I picked up the menu and planned what we’d eat for lunch. We’d start with the calamari rings – fried to perfection – then grilled Yasawa lobster to share. I’d have the panko fried mussels, because for some reason he doesn’t like mussels, and he could have the Fiji crab, as long as he promised to save me a bite, or two. Or maybe we’d just splurge and order two of them to be sure.

I grinned. It felt strangely like I was waiting for a boyfriend. Not a boyfriend, my boyfriend. And I liked it.

I checked my phone, but he hadn’t responded. He’s coming though, I reassured myself, he seemed excited to see me again. I ate a bit of the complimentary sourdough bread, my teeth sinking into the warm crust, and invented a list of reasons he was ten minutes late. He’s trying to find the place. He decided to walk and took a wrong turn. He’s not sure what shirt to wear.

The poor waiter kept on trying to take my order, as the restaurant filled up, and I kept on saying could you wait a bit longer please. I swallowed a sip of wine and watched all the other happy couples ordering platters of seafood. I quickly sent him a text. Hey there, are we still on for lunch? I checked my phone – yes it had signal, yes international roaming was switched on.

I tried texting Tansy – I’m in Fiji! Tell me if you get this, possible issues with phone. And I’d sent a quick photo of the sun, the pool, the palm trees. And she’d written straight back – AMAZING! Can’t wait to see you xxx.

After another five minutes, I looked at the second glass of wine I’d ordered, and I realized it was possible he wasn’t late. A strange, queasy feeling churned in my stomach. Had he stood me up?

But there had to be a reason. He had fallen asleep, yes that was it. We’d been up most of the night. Or maybe he was packing and the time had gotten away from him. Because he had been so lovely last night, he was a good guy, wasn’t he? As the waiter closed in on me, his notepad ready for my entrée order, I picked up my phone, closed my eyes and thought, just do it. I found his number, saved under ‘Naked Nick’, and pressed ‘call’. I put the phone to my ear and felt like I was going to faint. What if he answered and didn’t want to talk to me? What if it was someone else’s number?

I waited for the ring tone, but there was nothing. All I could hear was a beep beep beep and a robotic voice saying ‘this number is not connected. Please check the number and dial again’.

I checked the number, and then looked at the piece of paper he’d written it on. Had I got the number wrong? I tried it again, this time punching in the numbers, one by one. But it was the same robotic voiced response.

Oh God. I felt a flame of embarrassment wash over me. He’d given me a wrong number, and I was sat here, at bloody Freshwaters, dressed up like a ham at Christmas, and completely by myself like an absolute idiot. I turned around, suddenly paranoid, as if I was about to catch him hiding in the bushes laughing at me. But the only people in the bushes were kids jumping into the pool, and all around me people looking at each other in a lovey-dovey couple way.

He wasn’t coming.

I felt like I was going to cry, but I couldn’t cry by myself at a table in a frou-frou restaurant. I tried to keep a shred of dignity, but I could feel the tears brimming and the lump in my throat, as I called the waiter over, apologized, told him my friend wasn’t coming and asked him to charge the wine to my room.

Thank God for large sunglasses. On the way back to my room, I could feel the hot tears at my eyes. He’d given me a fake number. He’d lied. What else had he lied about? Everything? If he wasn’t into me, he was a great actor, and that had been as Oscar-worthy performance.

Suddenly I wasn’t the bright, self-confident girl I had convinced myself I was after all these years away. I was me, seven years ago, standing in a white dress at the end of the aisle and someone was whispering to me those three haunting words.

He’s not coming.

Chapter 4

Murray and I met in university. I was doing a bunch of classes including anthropology, art and psychology, trying to figure out what I really wanted to do. He was a straight-A economics and computer studies student. Our paths would never have crossed had I not needed a tutor. I was taking Psychology 101 and needed desperate help with computer statistics. A friend suggested Murray would help me out, so I texted him immediately.

When we met over coffee to discuss tutoring, he was so geeky I knew he was going to make the perfect coach. He dressed in too-loose jeans. He was slightly pudgy. He walked self-consciously. He didn’t look at anyone directly when he first met them because he was too shy.

I felt totally relaxed in his company. I didn’t bother wearing make-up and I said what I thought. After a few months of weekly catch-ups, we became more like friends, and started meeting for coffee before tutoring, going to the movies afterwards, which turned into dinner, which turned into long drives down to the beach, where we talked about everything. He’d never had a girlfriend before, and so I was surprised when he kissed me at first. Besides, it was comfortable and good. We fitted together so easily. And we made each other really quite happy. I was the energy and fire, and he was the solid anchor – that seemed to balance us.

He was practical and calm, he taught me the best ways to save, about interest rates and how to accumulate Flybuys points (until then I’d had no idea what that even was). I got him dancing for the first time. We took a trip to New Zealand, and went on a fast speedboat. Although the entire time he kept saying how risky it was, afterwards he was as exhilarated as a little kid on Christmas morning.

Two years later, he proposed at the top of Centre Point Tower after a dinner of oysters and Champagne. It was terribly clichéd, but he looked so sweet in a dinner jacket, on one knee, that I said yes. Part of me was excited, and part of me was terrified. I knew I loved him, but …

But. It’s a horrible word to use, especially when you’re talking about someone you should be happy with, for ever after.

But. We had completely different ideas for our future. I talked about doing a worldwide trip then buying a small place near the woods with a large veggie patch within walking distance to the cute local store.

Murray was focusing on getting his first role in an international tech company, and climbing the ladder. He talked about things like security, and stocks, and mortgages, and planning where we’d go when he got long-service leave after twelve years.

I dreamt about a cottage with an apple orchard. An apple orchard! Who doesn’t want one of those? And maybe renting a place in Tuscany for a year, or the French countryside, or living like locals on a sleepy Greek island. He dreamt about a nice suburban house, on the Sydney busline. Ugh, I thought, who wants one of those?

I wanted to do up an old van or bus, put a bed in it, and travel around New Zealand. He wanted a 4WD for all the kids we were supposed to be having, except I didn’t even know if I wanted kids. Ever.

I couldn’t see the life he wanted becoming mine. And neither could he see the life I pictured becoming his. His felt too fixed to me, too vanilla. And mine felt unstable to him, too spontaneous. We pushed back the wedding date. Twice.

Finally, we talked about saving enough to buy our suburban house and the country cottage, and, even though that felt big, we said in small voices, we can do this. We booked a wedding date, in the early spring, and this time we committed to it.

A few nights before the wedding, Murray turned over in bed and held me really close and kept saying, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ I didn’t know if it was him or me he was comforting, but for the first time I felt a distance between us. My best friend, Tansy, already married, told me it was just cold feet. Perfectly normal. Everyone went through it.

The night before our wedding, I was packing the final parts of my over-priced wedding underwear, preparing to stay at Maggie’s house. Before I left, Murray held up his three-piece tux to show me. We didn’t believe in fate jinxing us – but maybe we should have. He was so proud that he’d lost weight to fit into it. He asked what I thought, and I said he’d look amazing. He was looking at me strangely, and he kept asking, ‘What’s wrong, Em? What’s wrong?’

I said nothing. That I was fine. Excited. But then I felt wetness run down my cheek. I was crying. But they were tears of happiness, weren’t they?

I told myself it was nothing. I kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Tears of happiness.’

The next day was our wedding day. I was standing in a small makeshift marquee next to a colourful spring garden. Dressed in white. My hair in soft waves, half pinned up, a crown of flowers. Soft blush make-up. A long lace dress, a sea-green sash around my waist to match my eyes. I held a bunch of wild pink roses, tied with string. We’d chosen soft pink peonies, bunched, at the end of each row. The aisle had no carpet, and instead was just flushed with white petals.

The sun was out, and it was a gorgeous spring day. The celebrant was waiting at the end of the garden, peering at her watch and trying not to make it look obvious. Murray was late. People in the congregation were waving their programmes in front of their faces, like fans. My mum was pacing, muttering under her breath, ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

I stuck my head out of the marquee. The string quartet had finished ‘Pachelbel’s Canon in D’ and they glanced across at me. I made a circling motion with my hand, a play it again sign. They nodded, and picked up their instruments. The guests started looking around because it was very obvious that something wasn’t right, or, really, that someone hadn’t turned up yet. I bet everyone thought it would be me. Because it was never Murray. Murray was never late.

‘Give me my phone,’ I’d said to someone. ‘Where is my phone? I’ll call him. He’s in traffic, maybe there are roadworks down on the M2. Or the M4.’ I was babbling about roads, and traffic lights, and where they were doing roadworks, and someone had my phone in their hands, and I was reaching for it, and still talking about the M7 or M2, and trying to figure out what road he would be taking to get here.

Then someone was whispering, ‘He’s not coming.’ He’s not coming.

***

Someone got me in a car. Someone took my dress off. Someone covered me in a blanket because I was shaking. Someone made sure I ate something. Someone put me in the shower. Lay with me through the night, while I tried to sleep. Someone kept bringing me tissues, and a million hands patted me on the back. For the first few days everything was a blur.

When I finally got out of bed, Tansy helped me throw that awful bad-juju dress in the garbage bin. Mum helped me get money back on the honeymoon to Europe. I couldn’t have done any of those things myself. Maggie wanted to know if she could clock him. Amy said she’d slash his tyres. God, I love my friends. They were all I had, when my world fell apart for a while.

He texted me. I’m sorry.

And a few days later I managed to respond. OK.

He texted me. I hope you’re OK, and that you find what you really want.

I didn’t know how to take that. Was he right? I thought I knew what I wanted, but then … maybe I didn’t. For days I thought about his text and what it meant. Murray was someone who was born knowing exactly what he wanted. In all likelihood, his head probably popped out of the birth canal and, before the rest of his body was out, he was saying, ‘I want a white-picket-fenced house in the city, on the busline and a stable job for life! Pronto, people!’ I mean, he was genius-level smart, so it’s completely possible that he could talk on entry to this world.

Deep down, I felt guilty that I couldn’t be the wife he wanted me to be. Why didn’t I want to settle down and have kids and live in a nice house? Who wouldn’t want that? I thought maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I remember Murray had once shown me pictures of great houses we could buy in a newly developed suburb that were only forty minutes from the city in peak hour. He’d had a look of excitement in his eyes. For me it felt as exciting as a root canal.

A few days later, Murray texted again, asking if we could meet. I read his text over and over for days. In the end, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t hear what he had to say.

All I knew was I had to leave – immediately. I felt a strange mix of self-loathing and guilt and anger, at Murray, but also at myself. I was unsure why I didn’t seem to want to fall into domestic bliss like everyone around me. Plus, everywhere reminded me of Murray, and I couldn’t be around the places we used to visit. Where we had coffee. Held hands. Got engaged. Planned a future. I had to get out of Australia, and not look back.

***

I arrived, relaxed and sun-kissed, at Sydney airport after sunset, where Mum and Dad were anxiously waiting. Mum gave me an extra-hard hug.

‘Hi Mum, it’s good to see you.’

Before she could utter a word, I raised my hand and said, ‘No, I didn’t meet anyone. But I took a cooking class and can make a mean lemony fish. Plus, I wove this basket.’

I held up a slightly wonky reed basket that the customs guys had ummmed about before finally letting me keep it.

‘I wasn’t going to ask that,’ Mum said.

I shared a look with Dad.

‘I wasn’t,’ Mum insisted.

Dad said, ‘Lorna,’ in a warning tone, then turned to me. ‘Hey, sweetie.’ We hugged.

‘Yes Lorna, listen to your husband.’ I said smiling gratefully at Dad. I’d taken to calling her Lorna when I was fifteen just to annoy her. When I’m irritated, it comes back out – like now, since I was feeling a bit weary that I hadn’t even stepped out of the airport, and already the Relationship Rant was beginning.

‘I mean, but did you meet anyone? Perhaps any kind of special someone?’ my mum asked, leading both of us out of the airport, marching ahead. ‘I think we’re parked over here, Ted.’

I thought about Nick for a second. ‘No one special, Mum.’

To make matters worse, she didn’t get the hint, and I had her smiling at me over the parking machine, suggesting it was time to start dating.

‘I can’t just start it, Mum. It’s not a car engine, or a board game.’

‘Well, try that on-the-line meeting thing perhaps?’

‘Online dating?’ I screwed up my nose. ‘No, thanks. It just doesn’t seem natural. Organic. Who picks out a date from a series of photos like one would pick a jumper out of a catalogue?’

‘Well, I got this top on-the-line,’ Mum said, pointing to her silky pink T-shirt. I had meant to ask where she got it and tell her not to go shopping there again. It looked strange, almost like PVC, too shiny and a little too tight, too.

‘Online,’ I corrected her again, stuffing the money in the ticket machine.

‘Just give it a go,’ she said, nodding. ‘You never know.’ She paused while my dad heaved my backpack into the boot of the car in the parking lot. ‘Ted, don’t put it in that way!’ Dad leaned in, and turned the backpack the other way. Mum nodded and slammed the boot.

‘Now, Ted, take the trolley back to the trolley bay. Why are you just staring into space like that?’ She waved her hand in front of his face. Then turned to look at me. ‘Did you know Bec has a new baby?’

‘Yeah, I saw. But how do you know that?’

She waved her hand as if I’d asked something silly. ‘Facebook, dear.’

‘But they’re not your friends on Facebook. Are they?’

‘No, but they’re your friends. I think they call it face-stalking.’

‘Have you liked one of their photos by accident?’ Oh, God, I felt mortified. How could I explain that? ‘Oh, sorry, guys, that was just my grandkid-wanting mother wanting me to have a life like yours. Please excuse her.’

‘No, of course not! Dear, give me some credit.’ She paused. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

‘Mum, please don’t do that again.’

‘Doesn’t everyone in this day and age?’ she said casually, getting into the car.

She talked non-stop as Dad drove us out of the airport and pulled onto the highway for the hour’s trip home to Sydney’s North Shore. For the entire journey I managed to get in about twenty words, and the rest of the time I heard about the Chus (our neighbours) putting in a pool, whether or not the Sinclairs (other neighbours) were having marital problems, and something about a grey cat that kept finding its way into our yard and mewing for food at the back door.

When I got home, it was 11 p.m., too late to do anything but fall straight into my old, comfy bed.

***

The next morning Mum dragged me out of bed to go to the pool.

‘I’m still jet-lagged,’ I mumbled into Mr Bear.

‘You’ll love it, Emma, it’s good for your physique.’ She looked at the empty bowl on my dresser, and raised her eyebrows. ‘Ice cream? In bed?’

‘Actually, it was yoghurt.’ It wasn’t. It was ice cream.

Mum stripped back the covers then clapped her hands, ‘Right, up you get!’ When I didn’t move, she reminded me, ‘Betty’s been asking about you ever since you left.’

‘Betty?’ My ears picked up. ‘She’s still alive?’

‘Yes, Emma,’ Mum sighed. ‘She’s only in her early seventies.’

‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’ I stumbled out of bed, threw my swimming costume and towel in a bag. The truth is, I love aqua aerobics, even though I’m decades younger than everyone else. Before I left for London, I went every Saturday to the local pool with Betty and the gang.

In the pool change room I changed into the old swimming costume I’d found in the bottom of my closet. It was chic black Speedo, size fourteen, with a large print on the front that read in white letters ‘HAWAII’. I got the right side strap on, but the left side just wouldn’t stretch. I caught sight of myself in the bright changeroom mirrors and realised something terrible: it didn’t fit. Damn.

Under these horrid lights, my pale thighs appeared clotted with cellulite. But when I stepped out of the lights, the cellulite didn’t disappear as I’d thought (hoped) it would. My belly, which had always been somewhat flat, had a roll and a mound of pudge, that I’d never noticed in London, being dressed in jeans and jackets most of the year. My arms were undefined, and, when I held them up, the lagging skin where my triceps should have been, moved with a three-second delay, as though it was perpetually trying to keep up.

My dark blonde hair, long and wavy in the best of conditions, was now frizzy with humidity and escaping like a prisoner from my ponytail, my green eyes looked dull and sunken into my face and, to make matters worse, my chin had broken out in a heap of whiteheads since I’d got back. I looked like a very large, hungover version of Kate Winslet.

Had I looked like this in Fiji? During my night with Nick? I felt horrified … surely not. But it had been less than a week and so I guessed I really had looked like this.

‘Oh God, it doesn’t fit any more.’

‘Hmmm, yes.’ She was looking me up and down. ‘It doesn’t.’

I sat on the wooden benches feeling deflated. I stared at her trim figure; her string-bean legs were smaller than my arms. How did I even come from her?

‘Well, Emma, that’s why we’re here. So you can exercise your way to a tight tum and bum!’

‘You sound like one of those annoying motivational personal trainers,’ I said glumly.

Lorna laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. I’m thinking of getting my certificate.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘You’re going to be a personal trainer?’

‘Well.’ She looked at herself in the mirror and flounced her blonde shoulder-length hair. ‘Why not? Ted’s so busy in that damn garden, he may as well live in it. I want to do something for me.’

She fished around for fifty dollars in her purse and put it in my hand. ‘Now go and get yourself a new costume from the shop upstairs.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

The class had almost started by the time I slipped into the pool wearing a new black costume and pool-regulated swimming cap. But they’d run out of the normal swimming caps, and so I’d had to buy a new petal-covered old-woman’s swimming cap, in a soft baby pink. It made me think of Nick. His hands. His kisses. But that was in the past, Emma, I told myself. Stop thinking about Fiji!

Tina, the class instructor, was getting everyone to do eggbeater legs and arms.

‘Emma!’ a raspy voice called from the other petal caps.

‘Betty!’ I exclaimed, swimming over to her.

‘How was your trip?’ she said breathlessly, keeping her wrinkled face above the water. Some grey curls had escaped out of the side of her pink petal hat and were wet and plastered across her forehead.

‘Great!’

‘Got any goss for this old girl?’

‘Well, I learnt how to do the American two-step. I celebrated the Mexican dance of the dead. And I’m very good at telling an enchilada from a burrito.’

She laughed and I could see the gold fillings in her teeth. Her robust arms and legs pumped hard, moving her thick body up and down in the water.

Tina blew her whistle, and we started running clockwise in a circle, creating a whirlpool.

‘How was London?’ Betty spluttered.

‘Grey!’ I spat out a mouthful of chlorinated water.

She laughed. ‘You are a little pale.’

‘And fat.’ I grunted.

‘Nothing like some indoor exercise for that!’ She winked.

Tina blew her whistle again. We turned against the whirlpool current and went anti-clockwise. For the next hour, it took all my effort to keep my head above the surface.

I was absolutely exhausted by the end of the class; I needed to float a little on my back before my shaky legs could kick me to the edge of the pool. And even then, it took me five attempts before I could pull myself out of the water.

Chapter 5

‘Why haven’t you called him?’ Tansy demanded.

We were sitting in Miss Marmalade, a cosy bungalow café, nestled into a corner booth, filled with plump pink cushions. Tansy, sleep-deprived, had almost fallen asleep twice in five minutes. She’d apologised – having three children meant sleep was a foreign concept. She’d also brought her toddler Brie with her, who was happily biting down on an old rabbit toy as if it tasted like chocolate.

In a few minutes, we’d managed a quick catch-up of events. Tansy had shared how it had been seven years since she’d gone to the toilet or had a shower by herself, and thank goodness for the new au pair who was looking after Toby, all of which reminded me of what my life might have been like, had I stayed and married Murray. And I’d given Tansy my highlights reel of my last seven years, finishing with Nick without adding in the not showing up to a seafood lunch bit, because I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud yet. Which had made her eyes widen. She’d muttered, ‘Oh, wow, single life,’ and then demanded I call him.

‘Nick sounds really nice. Give me one bad thing about him,’ Tansy protested on behalf of a man she’d never met.

‘He sleeps with girls on the first night,’ I pointed out then added silently, and he gives girls the wrong phone number.

‘And so did you,’ Tansy challenged me.

‘Exactly! It was a fling, and a really good one, but nothing more than that.’ I took a bite of my sourdough toast with avocado. ‘Besides, I’m not looking for a fling. I want to find someone, you know, forever.’

‘Well,’ Tansy said, thinking aloud. ‘He seems to like everything you do: travelling, he’s got banter, he’s apparently gorgeous, he’s got a good career—’

‘Which he seemed to really hate.’

Tansy raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve never regretted a job?’ Then kept on rattling off her list. ‘He’s got a timeshare in Fiji, which means he’s financially stable, he’s spontaneous, going for a skinny dip, but seemed attentive what with getting you drinks and towels, and being quite a gentleman. Yes, he slept with you on the first night – I’m not suggesting you marry him, but a little coffee date could be good,’ Tansy said, nibbling the side of her cream cheese blueberry bagel, then she put it down and yawned. ‘Speaking of coffees, where are ours?’

She looked up at the waitress in hope, who signalled they’d be out shortly.

‘I think really all he wanted was to get in my trousers.’ I smiled wryly. ‘And he did a very good job.’

Tansy looked down at my comfy extra-large black trousers, which I’d chosen because they were the only ones in my wardrobe that still fitted. ‘Well, they are nice trousers.’

We laughed. We’d always shared the same type of humour since we met at kindergarten.

‘These? Did you want a catwalk? I’ve been to Italy, I know how they do it in Milan,’ I said in a fun, teasing voice, kicking out a leg trying to look seductive, but ending up looking more like an awkward newborn fawn learning to walk.

‘Well, I think you should consider him, at least for a coffee.’ Tansy was as stubborn as a mule most of the time. But I loved that about her.

I shrugged.

Tansy swallowed audibly and paused, before finally saying, ‘Have you talked to him since you got back?’

‘Him?’ Then I realised she didn’t mean Nick, she meant Murray. He’s not coming.

Tansy must have seen the look on my face, because she quickly said, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She looked flustered.

‘It’s OK.’ I looked at her. ‘It was a long time ago. And no, to answer your question, I haven’t seen him, talked to him, thought about him. Much.’

‘Facebook stalked?’

I half smiled. ‘Maybe once. Years ago.’

‘And?’

‘He’d blocked me. But I heard through the grapevine, he’s married. Kids. House in the burbs. All the trimmings.’

‘Oh.’

I took a sip of water. ‘It’s OK, Tans, it is. I didn’t want those things.’

‘Didn’t or don’t?’ she asked softly.

‘Didn’t.’ I looked up at her. ‘I mean, I still don’t want a house with a massive mortgage, on the busline, and a nine to five job in an office for another forty years. But I think I do want to get a job, buy a house, and get married.’

‘You think?’

‘Fine, I want. Is that better?’ I decided to tell Tansy about The Plan. It was pinned to my corkboard at home, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up each morning. I’d even gone as far as to cut out some images that looked like the house I’d want (country cottage) and some really cheesy advertisements of couples laughing as they did things together (I think they were trying to sell mortgage insurance). It felt extremely cheesy, but vision boards were a thing, apparently; besides, it couldn’t hurt. I confessed all this to Tansy.

When she finished laughing, she said brightly, ‘Well, didn’t Nick give you his number? Step three, possible tick.’

I groaned. ‘Marrying us off already? Please. Anyway, the number he gave me could be a fake. It could be for the local pizza place.’

‘Well, I could go for a full meat-lovers with barbecue sauce.’ Tansy sighed. ‘I’m all for eating my feelings at the moment. Or just eating for energy. I’m so tired I can’t tell any more.’ Tansy was as slim as a rake, and tall, she’d be a size ten at the most, and had beautiful long dark hair, dark cocoa eyes, and olive skin. The last thing she needed to worry about was eating too much.

I handed her the menu. ‘I’m a supportive friend – if you need to eat everything on this menu, I’ll pay for half. I’d pay for it all, but, you know.’ I shook my wallet and a scant few coins jangled. ‘I don’t know if I could cover it.’

Tansy grinned ruefully. ‘This friend doesn’t need your money. She just wants her friend to find a partner, so she has something to do on the weekends when the rest of us are knee-high in diapers.’ She scanned the menu. ‘Although a little piece of lemon pie couldn’t hurt, could it?’

‘Get the lemon pie,’ I encouraged her. ‘Anyway, sometimes it’s better not knowing. What if I tried to call Nick, and got Luigi’s pizza palace? Sometimes ignorance is bliss.’

‘What do you mean?’

I quickly told her about sitting at Freshwaters, and his disconnected number. I brushed it off a bit, but it had really hurt. She let out a long huffy breath ‘What is with some people? God. I’m sorry that happened to you. You’re right don’t ever call him. Well you don’t have his number to call, do you? What a dick. We shall never ever speak of him again.’

I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me, she really was the most loyal friend. ‘Thanks Tansy. Anyway’ I said, keen to change the subject. ‘I do need to find a job though.’ I opened up the newspaper on the café’s table in front of us. All I could see were ads for chefs and kitchen hands, so I shut it firmly. It reminded me too much of Los Tacos, which made me shudder as the waitress delivered our coffees. ‘What about public relations? Or marketing? Do you think I could do that back here?’

Tansy narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously. ‘Need I remind you of how much you wanted to leave your marketing job? I believe you told me never to let you work in an office again.’

I laughed. ‘I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I’m older and wiser now,’ I teased. ‘Plus, I made great tea in the London office and didn’t get too claustrophobic.’

‘Hmm …’ she said, staring at me. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ I nodded my head. ‘Ever since I realized I was leaving London months ago, I’ve been sending out my CV for any PR job I can find, even assistant ones, gosh, even receptionist roles in PR firms. But not one response.’ I was feeling quite dejected about that. ‘I keep getting told “you don’t have enough experience”, or “you don’t have the right experience”. All those long days working at Forster & Wolfe, as a PR Assistant, hasn’t helped me at all.’

‘Well, then, I’ve got some good news for you.’ She took a long sip of coffee. ‘Oh, God, caffeine, what would I do without it?’ She paused and closed her eyes. ‘Sorry, I just need to let this soak in. I got a total of three hours’ sleep last night. I’m like an eternal zombie.’ Tansy downed her coffee in three large gulps. ‘Anyway, it’s a favour.’

‘For me, or you, or someone else?’

‘For everyone possibly.’ Tansy got out her phone and started scrolling. ‘When I heard you were back in town, I put out some feelers, and, well, I may have mentioned you worked in PR in London.’ Tansy looked up at me. ‘Anyway, I talked to Jess and Mona, and they talked to Beattie, and she talked to a few other people.’

When I looked blank, Tansy said, ‘Friends from my previous life, when I worked at Sony and Universal.’ Aha, I twigged. Tansy used to be a senior manager in marketing and sales, which meant we’d got a lot of red-carpet premiere tickets and stacks of free DVDs. We all missed those days a bit. ‘And they know someone, who knows someone else, who’s looking for a PR and events person.’

I sat up straighter, and felt a tingle of excitement rush through my body. ‘I could do that.’

I imagined travelling across Sydney, maybe even Australia. Putting on events, meeting clients, maybe they’d even let me draw the designs for an ad campaign, or an event invitation.

Tansy nodded. ‘I know you could! Which is maybe why I told them you were really experienced.’

‘How experienced?’ I bit my lip.

‘Well, that you’d had a lot of international experience, and had run your own events before, and been a PR superstar really.’ She looked bashful. ‘I think I just got carried away, because I wanted you to find a job so you actually stayed in Sydney, rather than leaving us again.’ Her face looked crumpled and sad.

‘Oh, Tansy! I’m here to stay now. Promise.’ I gulped. ‘But I have nowhere near that experience.’

Suddenly her face flushed with excitement. ‘I haven’t told you the best bit yet – the job is with Maker.’

My heart thumped in my chest. Maker was the place to work. It was a swish multi-service PR and media, events, advertising and marketing firm, with a stellar reputation. They were known as creative, funky with a cool edge, and the one of the leading companies in Australia. People were excited about working at Maker, because it meant international job offers would literally drop at your feet. After a few years you could walk out of Maker and stride into a top job in New York, or London, or Italy.

I paused. ‘Is there a reason they don’t want someone else, who’s actually amazing? I know you talked me up, but surely there are hundreds of people more qualified and dying to work at Maker?’

‘Ah,’ Tansy said. ‘Well, they need someone who wants to do the work, and doesn’t mind, ah, how do I put this? Being paid a nominal amount.’

‘You mean tiny.’

She nodded. ‘I mean tiny.’

‘What exactly is that, in dollar figures?’

‘I’m not sure exactly, they wouldn’t let on, just they didn’t have the full budget to cover what they wanted, so they’re looking for someone who wants to get Maker on their CV, and doesn’t mind “getting dirty”. I take that to mean what it normally does in corporate speak, which is doing a LOT of work, long hours with bad pay. But it will work out in the end for you.’

‘It will work out in the end,’ I repeated her words, thinking that if I had Maker on my CV I could get a job anywhere after that. I could be in Paris again. Or Rome. Or London. Or even better – in just a few years I could create my own PR firm in a small town, and then paint on the weekends – yes! I could do this!

‘Of course, you’re going to have to apply, just like everyone else. But at least they know to look out for you, and I’m sure they’ll give you an interview,’ Tansy said, handing me a scrap of paper with Maker’s details.

‘But my CV? I mean, I don’t really have that experience,’ I worried.

‘Em, you’ve travelled around the world by yourself for almost a decade. I’m sure you can handle some press releases and putting on some events.’

‘True, but wouldn’t I be lying?’

‘Who doesn’t lie a little on their CV?’ She shrugged. ‘Isn’t that a given? No one believes in the honesty and integrity of CVs.’ She laughed loudly. ‘Now, here comes my lemon pie!’

Right on cue, Brie dropped her dummy and started bawling as if a thousand ants had just bit her. Tansy had to abort the lemon pie mission because, instead of calming down, Brie got even louder, her red face now nearing a troubling shade of purple. Finally, Tansy picked Brie up in a wrestler-style grip, threw some money down on the counter, and waved as she stormed out – yelling, ‘Another time soon!’

I think I must have had a horrified look on my face. I was sitting looking at an empty chair, and a lone little piece of lemon pie, knowing I’d have to eat it.

She was halfway down the path when she yelled back, ‘And for God’s sake, apply for that job!’

Chapter 6

‘So how long will you be with us?’ Mum asked one afternoon, shooing my feet off the couch. I was watching Wonder Woman, and wondering where I could get a pair of gold wrist cuffs, and how I’d learn to ride a stallion bareback. Wonder Woman would never have had to fudge her CV a little.

‘On this earth?’ I asked. ‘I plan to be around a little longer, thanks for asking.’

‘Here. Home, Emma.’ Mum bustled about the living room with a duster, flicking off imaginary nano-particles of dust. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to get yourself started, a job, a house.’

‘Mum, I’ve literally been home for a few days, and am so jet-lagged I was up last night until the sun was coming up, wired like I’d been drinking too much coffee.’

‘Emma, you’re not in your twenties any more. You need a plan. Goals.’

I did have a plan. A three-step plan. Step 1, I needed a job, and, just as I put that out into the universe, along came Maker. The idea of applying had been running through my head ever since Tansy had mentioned it a week ago. But I’d been procrastinating at the thought of having to lie on my CV to get a job. I didn’t mind a slight tweak here and there – I mean, who didn’t do that? Even so, changing my CV more than that, made me feel horribly guilty. But all the other jobs I’d applied for, I’d received that terrible standard email:

We regret to inform you that you have not been successful in your application for this role. We will keep your CV on file for any other relevant roles we have in the future.

Trouble was, my CV would be filed away and no one would probably ever look at it again. At last count, I’d applied for a total of 27 roles in PR, jobs more junior than I wanted, with measly little salaries, but I’d failed to even get an interview for them. Tansy had given my CV a onceover and told me honestly, ‘Em, this isn’t going to cut it in the Sydney market. You were probably lucky to score that London gig. Basically all you did in your last role was file and answer phones.’

‘And make coffee.’

‘Right.’ I could hear her sigh. ‘That’s not PR at all.’

‘I know. The things I did just to travel around Europe.’

‘Well, you could apply to be an office assistant. Are you interested in that? You’d probably be snapped up in a second.’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, if I was you, I’d just fake it until you make it. You’re capable Em, you’re smart and savvy, and you said you listened to everyone in PR even if you didn’t do the tasks, at least you understand what they’re talking about.’

But, I wasn’t so sure. Instead, I’d sent my CV to a few recruiters, most hadn’t responded, but Shirley Henderson from Blue Recruiting, had given me a quick call and suggested a graduate intern program would be perfect, if I was looking to get my foot in the door.

‘In fact, we have openings for the next program at Ludrum, starting in three months!’

‘Three months?’ That felt so far away. My mind started to worry about paying bills and finding a new home without a job.

‘Yes, and I know they’d love you Emma. You’d get to rotate around all the different teams, copywriting, social media, publicity and media.’

‘OK.’ I said warming a little to the idea. ‘What’s the salary?’

Shirley laughed. ‘Oh Emma, it’s not a paid position, but when you finish the program in a year, it could set you up for a role as a PR Assistant.’

There didn’t seem to be many options left, and my bank balance didn’t look as healthy as it had in England – everything was going out, and nothing was coming in. And Tansy had said she’d pulled a few strings to get my CV noticed, but it needed work.

For the next few days, I kept thinking, a chance to work at Maker? Tansy was right, working at Maker opened doors into any future you wanted. Finally, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to just look at the role. I sat on my bed and flicked open the job link Tansy had given me. There it was, PR and Events Advisor, Maker. The job described multiple events, working across well-known labels and companies, and government. I scanned Maker’s list of clients – many of whom were on the front of the Sunday papers, in fact on the front and centre of all papers, and every news site. They were in every sector, in every industry.

Taking a deep breath, I opened my CV, and started tweaking it a little. The Los Tacos nightmare place became LoTa, a chic Spanish PR firm, where I managed all the events (aka food ordering, waitressing and children’s parties). I felt bad about this one, but it had only been five months, so it wasn’t like I was pretending it was five years.

My PR Assistant coffee girl days became Creative PR Advisor and Event Coordinator (because when taking meeting notes, I’d been privy to a lot of senior executive discussions. How to ‘spin’ things. How to create a ‘brand’. How to ‘pitch’. Even if I hadn’t really done that much of it myself. And towards the end they had allowed me to draft press releases, blogs and social media posts even though I wasn’t sure they were actually published.)

And my Bali days became PR Executive, connecting Australians with Indonesia, building international relationships, and raising the media profile (well, I did get an IT guy to create a website where I sold jewellery. That was media-ish).

I googled PR résumés and copied over words they used to make me sound irresistible. When it was finished, I had to admit I sounded like a PR superstar. But I couldn’t send it. I couldn’t pretend this amazing PR woman was me. It was way too far from the truth. So, I took out the glitzy senior PR words and responsibilities. But without them, my CV seemed bland and junior. No wonder I hadn’t made it through to any interviews.

And, I thought back to what Tansy had said earlier. Who doesn’t lie a bit on their CV?

So, I put a smattering of the glitzy PR buzz words, responsibilities and achievements I’d supposedly had back in and thought, there, I’ve only fudged this a bit. Feeling nervous, and still with a pang of guilt, I took a deep breath, before sending my CV to the amazing powers that be, whispering prayers of hope. Please, please, please.

***

A week later, I got a call from Maker’s recruitment team informing me I’d made it through to an interview. I was so stunned I couldn’t even speak. When they asked me what time I could make it in, I breathlessly said, ‘Any time,’ and when they asked me to spell my last name, it took me three times to get it right, I kept fumbling over the letters ‘o’ and ‘n’ and, to make up for it, or some other odd reason, I started speaking in a really posh English accent, as if that excused everything.

When I put down the phone in astonishment, I ran around the house in my tracksuit pants doing a dancing victory lap. Thank God my mother wasn’t there because I almost knocked over some ancient gold urn/vase thing from Italy that she loved so much, I was sure I’d seen her pray to it.

Maker’s recruitment team emailed through all the job details. My interview was with Donna Allbright, Associate Creative Director (three PR buzz words that meant nothing – but everything) and head of the specialist events team. They sent me through a full position description for the PR and Events Advisor role, which was a whopping seven pages long.

Finally, disclosed at the bottom of the email was the salary, in measly little numbers. Tansy was right, it was tiny. Teeny tiny. I wouldn’t be able to afford renting a mid-city apartment. No café lunches. No morning espressos. It would take me at least fifteen years before I even had enough to consider a deposit for a parking spot, let alone a house. In fact, I was looking at a Kmart budget. Beans on toast. Wearing the same work trousers three days a week – would people notice?

But it was worlds away from working on burrito Tuesday, and I was willing to do anything to not be covered in deep-fryer grease. It’s a stepping stone, I kept telling myself. It means in two years I could go anywhere. Plus, I needed to get out of my family’s house – I’d already had enough of High Knees Lorna, who this morning had strode into my room at the crack of dawn, and poured water on me from a glass, so I could ‘get prepared’ for aqua aerobics. I needed my own place, like yesterday.

***

Maker was located right in the middle of Sydney, a plush building, with black funky wallpaper and chandelier lighting. The entrance looked like a slick bachelor pad, all expensive black leather and white patent leather ottomans, the walls lined with the kind of geometric graphic print people raved about, but I thought looked like a wonky zebra. Just looking at it made me feel drunk.

There was a large TV screen that hung down over the two identical male receptionists, both with big blue eyes and light brown hair in topknot buns. The screen was flashing through headlines so fast I couldn’t keep up. It was flickering like a strobe light and I felt I might have a panic attack or epileptic fit if I kept watching it.

I sat in the foyer, waiting for Donna Allbright, trying not to stick to the black leather chair. Out of habit, I started nervously scrolling on my phone. But that wasn’t professional, was it? I put my phone in my old – and slightly frayed if you looked really close – faux-leather black bag and zipped it up. There wasn’t one magazine or newspaper on the table to flick through. I was just about to reach back in and pull out my phone to search PR trends, when the elevator doors opened and a woman walked straight towards me.

She towered above me in stilettos so high and pointy I could never balance in them, even if I was holding onto a wall. They were black and shiny as if she’d just dipped them in a fresh coat of lacquer. Her perfect slim legs were encased in slightly pleated black wool pants, and she had on a silk top with pearl buttons. Her blonde hair was long and had an unbrushed, sex-hair look. She had barely there natural-looking make-up and the focus was drawn to her bright red lips. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced. I bet she never needed a contouring kit. Her eyebrows were immaculately perfect – full and arched. She looked French. She looked designer. She looked like everything little girls ever hoped to be when they grew up.

‘Emma.’ She smiled thinly as though she’d never want to admit she was in the same room as me. I stood and hoped my palms weren’t sweaty. But she didn’t offer her hand. She just said a quick, breathy, ‘Follow,’ and led the way through the swanky foyer to the lift, which we rode for a long time in silence, into the sky.

Level 46 was a floor of colourful meeting rooms. Donna led me into a pink room – literally everything was pink.

‘This is the black room.’ She smiled elegantly, taking a seat in a fuchsia chaise, as if we were in her living room.

‘Huh?’ I stood there awkwardly like a maid who didn’t know if she should sit or bow or dust something.

‘Black room. You know, it’s like …’ she waved her perfectly manicured hand around the blush room ‘… ironic.’

‘Of course.’ I nodded too energetically and sat on the small pink stool opposite. But the way the stool was positioned meant I couldn’t quite cross my legs, so I sat with my knees open, and my body slightly forward, as if on a toilet, whilst she lay about, on the chaise, as though she were about to welcome a lover.

‘Remember, this is just a casual and informal chat. That’s how we like our interviews. It’s much more organic. Feel free to be who you are. We take that very seriously here.’ Donna paused. ‘So. What are you about, Emma?’

What was I about? Suddenly all I could think about was ice cream and lying on the couch in sweats and my mum wanting me to go with her to aqua aerobics. But she wasn’t asking what I did on the weekend. She was asking me to sell myself, my work ethic. I hadn’t forgotten how these job interview questions were set up.

‘Coffee,’ I said quickly. So quickly I hadn’t even begun to formulate what I even meant by that.

‘Coffee?’ Donna’s lips turned up slightly; was it in amusement or was it a sneer?

‘Yes, coffee. Firstly, I love it. Don’t you? And it’s, um, well, everyone drinks it. You know? In fact, people crave it. Every day. They line up at their favourite place. They’ll travel long distances to get their favourite cup. And the people who haven’t had it don’t know they crave it yet, but they do. They will.’

‘And so, you’re, um, saying that you’re … coffee?’ Donna looked dubious. She was looking over my shoes, my pants, my top, my bargain four-dollar necklace – could she tell they were all cheap knock-offs? Was she wondering, if I was coffee, what did that make her – vintage Cristal Champagne that cost over tenthousand dollars a bottle?

‘No, I’m the person selling the coffee. Behind the coffee. I’m the one who makes you want coffee, even when you don’t.’ I wriggled around a bit in my seat feeling quite uncomfortable.

‘So that sounds like you want to be a barista?’ She did an empty little laugh.

‘Well, I think coffee can be anything. You know? You could switch it out for a car. Or a lifestyle. I think creating intrigue and need is about understanding how to angle something,’ I said, trying desperately to steer our chat back into the world of PR and the role I really wanted.

‘Aha.’ She nodded politely. I couldn’t tell if that had been a win, or if I was just blathering. Because I knew the truth of it. I was blathering. ‘So, you can angle anything so I want to buy it? How?’ She looked around. ‘Make me want something in this room. Really sell it to me.’

I felt like fainting. Sell a pink room? I thought about what a real estate agent would say. What an interior designer might mention. The carpet looked expensive. The chandelier above us almost magical. The chaise was nice. But nice wouldn’t sell a thing. I moved my bag, which was behind me, to the side, where it leaned against my leg. I took my jacket off and folded it on top of my bag and then smiled at Donna.

I stood and asked her to step outside. I waited for her to stand too. She looked taken off guard.

‘Where are we going?’

I opened the door and let her out first, wondering if my idea would work. Would I be sent from the building and told never to return? Either way, I thought this was make or break. Do or die. I’d have to wing it.

I closed the door behind us and stood there like an unsure bouncer. Except, I wasn’t very mean. Donna had her eyebrows raised, and her dainty nose slightly flared, as though she’d just smelt my cheap Kmart underwear. We were both standing uncomfortably in the plush black (real black) corridor. I cleared my throat.

‘So, Donna, what you don’t know is that when I was in there, I left something behind my chair I think you’d really like. Did you see it? You probably didn’t. I was quick. It was while we were chatting about the coffee.’

‘So that coffee talk was a cover?’ Her eyes squinted with the hint of a smile; she seemed interested.

‘Yes.’ It wasn’t. It wasn’t a cover at all.

‘But the only way you get to go inside the, um, black room, and find what I’ve left for you, is if you know the password.’

‘Password?’ Her eyebrows rose.

‘Yes, password.’ I had no password. I had nothing. I was making this up as I went along.

She stood for a while, thinking. I was sweating under my arms, and into my bra, and I’m sure a little rivulet ran down my leg, which seemed to come from my general bottom area.

‘Was there a clue?’

‘Yes.’ No. There was no clue. I had done nothing. Left no clue.

‘Lifestyle?’ she asked.

I shook my head and did a laugh, as if to say, Oh, Donna, really?

‘Well, I just don’t know.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘But I’m quite intrigued.’

‘So, you want to know what’s inside the room?’ I asked.

She laughed more persuasively this time. ‘Well, yes, I do.’

‘And you’d want to buy your way in, to see what I’d left in there for you?’

She laughed again. ‘I would!’

‘Excuse me for a second.’ I held up my hand to her, quickly opened the door, stepped into the queasy pink room and closed the door immediately in her face. I waited two seconds – long enough for her to think I was actually doing something – then grabbed my bag and opened the door.

‘Well, Donna, it’s back with me now. But if you can work out the password, give me a call, and I’ll bring it back for you.’

I held out my hand to shake hers. I was leaving. I was leaving the Goddamn interview. And hopefully this little stunt would set me apart from all the other ‘sell me this room’ descriptions she’d had to live through.

Her mouth was slightly agape as she shook my hand.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ I called cheerfully as I turned and walked down the corridor. ‘Thanks again!’

When I turned the corner, she was still standing outside the door to that ironic black-pink room, her head slightly cocked to the side, perhaps still trying to figure it all out.