There’s awkward:
Like your dad catching you making out with your boyfriend when you’re fifteen (and it’s not just first base).
Or stalking your boyfriend’s ex on Facebook and accidentally 'liking' her profile picture (and she’s thinner than you).
Or enthusiastically going in for a hug, when the other person was only going for a handshake (and your boob accidentally grazes their outstretched hand).
Or buying a box of condoms at the chemist and bumping into your mother’s friend (and they are ribbed and chocolate flavoured).
I could keep going, but I think you get the message.
And then, there’s Awkward (with a capital A):
Like sitting in the back of a Taxi with a total – and slightly weird – stranger; who you inadvertently bashed in the head, wore your pj’s and threw up in front of. Who heard you pour your guts out and then cry like a baby. Who you suspect might have seen you bending over in your G-string, and who you’ve accidentally invited to join you on your 'honeymoon'.
If I'd thought the plane ride was painful, well, this was definitely worse. We were squashed together in Thailand’s answer to a taxi, called a Tuk-Tuk; a tiny little creature that looked more like an enlarged tricycle with a box attached to it. We were so squashed in fact, that whenever the Tuk-Tuk went over a bump (which was pretty often) our bodies would press together in ways I’d really rather they didn’t. There was a lot of…
“Oops, sorry!” (That was my boob)
“Sorry!” (Elbow dangerously close to crotch)
“Excuse me!” (Boob again)
To say I was relieved when the ride came to a stop was an understatement. The Tuk-Tuk pulled up (chugged up) to a somewhat palatial looking hotel and I was momentarily caught up in the romance of it all; the luxurious five-star-ness of it, the turquoise sea in the postcard background; the fragrance-filled, colourful flowers floating in bowls of water; and the warm glow of atmospheric lighting. BUT my bubble was rudely burst when I remembered I was missing the most important ingredient for a successful honeymoon – the groom!
“Impressive,” I’d almost forgotten Damian was there when he came up behind me and spoke.
“Yes my fiancé…” I corrected myself, “My EX fiancé likes to splash out. He always said, the more expensive something is, the better.”
“Ja, my parents are like that.” Damian said casually. “They always fly business class and refuse to stay in anything less than a five-star-plus hotel.”
This revelation shocked me.
I’d built up a mental image of Damian, and this little tit-bit of information about wealthy parents certainly wasn’t part of it. I’d imagined something a little more… How shall I say this? Dirty! In my mind his dad was a ‘Hell's Angel’, or some such leather-clad thing. He probably had his own motorcycle repair shop and his mother was a tattoo artist, with body piercings and blue stripes in her hair. And they lived in a house with cigarette burns on the carpets and cat hair on the couch, because his mother was also a cat hoarder. Terribly judgmental of me, I know.
My curiosity had definitely been piqued and I decided to pry, as subtly as possible.
“Um…” I was trying to sound casual, so I threw in another ‘um’, “Um, so where do your parents stay…um?” (Okay, maybe that hadn’t worked as well as I’d imagined, but he didn’t seem to notice.)
“They live in Camps Bay.” He said this phrase as casually as someone might do when they say "pass the salt". But there was nothing casual about this statement, at all.
And now I was downright floored.
Let me try to explain Camps Bay in Cape Town, although I doubt I could do it the slightest bit of justice. For starters, it’s the most expensive place to live in the whole of South Africa – perhaps even in the whole of Africa. Will Smith has a house there for heaven’s sake! And, rumour has it, so does the porn star Jenna Jameson. Not to mention that it has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. All the houses are perched on cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. They’re the kind of homes that have their own helipads and butlers named ‘Giles’ or ‘Hamilton’; and where women have walk-in cupboards the size of small African countries. Now my parents were what I would call wealthy, but this was on a whole other level.
I eyed him up and down as he walked in front of me carrying my suitcase, which was very gentlemanly of him, I must say. Damian was definitely a curiosity. Son of possibly billionaire parents dressed in a crappy T-shirt, walking around without a bankcard, and in possession of a dirty backpack and split-ends.
How on earth was that even possible?
I followed him into a rather spectacular entrance hall, up to the reception desk where an exotic beauty greeted us.
“Welcome to the White Sands Hotel and Spa.” She flashed us a perfect smile. I was struck by how absolutely stunning and graceful Thai woman were; with delicate, petite features and the tiniest waists in the world. (I hated them!)
“Hi, I’m checking in. The reservation is under the name…” I hesitated again, “The name Edwards.” Some buttons were pressed at lightning speed and then she nodded.
“Mr and Mrs Edwards. Congratulations on your wedding.”
I jumped in to correct her, “No, no where’re not...”
But before I could finish, Damian cut me off, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer.
“Not able to keep our hands off each other,” And then he turned to me with a goofy smile, “Isn’t that right honey-bunny-sweet-cheeks?” He was really milking it.
The woman smiled at us.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed at him.
“Ssshhh, go with it. In places like this they bring you all sorts of free stuff like champagne, especially when you’re on honeymoon.”
Now this guy could probably buy the whole province of Champagne in France and he was getting his panties in a twist over a free bottle of bubbly. Like I said, a curiosity.
“Come with me please, I’ll show you to your room,” the petite woman said, stepping out from behind the desk in an exquisite traditional Thai dress.
When we walked all the way through the hotel and out the other end into a beautiful lush garden, I realised that the Honeymoon Suite must be separate from the rest of the hotel. The evening air smelt sweet and sticky and I looked around. The moon was almost full and hung so low, it felt like I could reach out and touch it, the sea was only about 20 meters away now and it had been turned into a silver liquid under it’s glow, the sand too had been transformed into something that shimmered. It was all very magical and this should have pleased me, but it didn’t. Because a movie started playing in my head.
Roll romantic music and in three, two, one. Action…
Michael, big, beefy, beautiful and strapping strides onto the beach in his swimwear. He turns, his oiled chest glistens in the moonlight, and he smiles. He holds out his hand and I run. I run and jump into his arms, he swings me around and we go tumbling onto the soft, cool sand. His big body rolls over me. He strokes my face.
Michael: (Looking intently into my eyes) I love you. Lilly
Lilly: I love you too.
Michael: I’m so happy you’re my wife.
He kisses my forehead. He kisses my cheek. He kisses me on the lips, and I kiss him back. It’s slow and passionate and then everything goes soft focus and the director pans to a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The romantic music swells.
CUT! Cut, cut, cut! CUT!
Suddenly there is a searing pain in my chest, as though someone had plunged a knife into my solar- plexus. My heart is beating fast, but it is fighting against the strong grip of an invisible first tightening around it, trying to squeeze the life and blood out of it. This was the pain of my heart breaking. And in that moment, I wanted to be on my real honeymoon.
“Are you okay, Lilly?” Damian is right next to me. “You look pale.”
Somehow, somehow, I had to keep these thoughts about Michael at bay. They were pure torture and I knew that if I allowed myself to keep entertaining them, I would be allowing him to keep hurting me. So I took a deep breath (it hurt like hell), I tried to smile (my face felt tight) and I kept on walking (my legs were jelly).
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” But I wasn’t.
We finally arrived at the suite. It was situated behind a neat perimeter of palm trees for maximum privacy, I guess – giving honeymooners the opportunity to do what honeymooners do best, it was also positioned only a few metres from the beach. We walked up four small stairs and onto a wooden deck, where an inviting plunge pool greeted us – again, probably there for the purpose of ‘aqua aerobics’. The receptionist stopped and handed Damian the keys, which made me very uncomfortable.
“I hope you’ll be happy here. I’ll get someone to bring your bags and some complimentary champagne and snacks.” The elegant woman turned and glided away and I felt Damian elbow me in the ribs.
“Told you. Free stuff.” Despite myself, I smiled. A real one. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t carry you over the threshold?” he said with a joking tone in his voice.
“Not at all. I’m probably too heavy anyway, considering the amount of food I’ve sucked down in the past twenty-four hours.”
Damian flicked his eyes at me quickly before putting the key in the lock and opening the door.
“Nonsense. You look great.”
WHAT? Did I hear that correctly? Where my ears deceiving me? Okay…rewind!
I implied I was fat, and he told me I ‘looked great’. Not good, not nice, not okay. But great! I was speechless, for several reasons really. Firstly, it’s a bit of a weird thing to say to a stranger. Secondly, it’s a bit of a weird thing to say to a stranger. Thirdly, it’s even weirder to say to a stranger whose non-honeymoon you’re on, and lastly, I was clearly not his type.
I don’t have any tattoos and piercings in strange places. Nor do I listen to depressing music and write angst-filled poetry about my inner child and pharmaceuticals. And I’ve never worn a pair of skinny black jeans in my life! (My thighs are too big.)
I mean, I have a ‘Caribbean Caramel’ spray tan, long (and may I add very shiny) blonde hair with no split-ends, a French manicure and I listen to Taylor Swift and don’t take antidepressants.
Perhaps he felt obliged to be polite since I was putting him up for the night?
The Honeymoon Suite was, quite frankly, the most beautiful hotel room I’d ever been in – I briefly wondered if Damian had seen better on the numerous expensive holidays he'd no doubt enjoyed with his rich family. It was spacious, equipped with sleek, modern finishes – and beyond comfortable. It was, however, far more open plan than I'd initially imagined. It did have a lounge area, but one that wasn’t very separate from the sleeping area… something that would surely prove to be Awkward (again with a capital A), since I’d offered Damian the couch.
More awkward though, was the completely open plan bathroom, complete with outdoor shower and sunken Jacuzzi bath. Someone had already filled the bath, and sprinkled a few rose petals on the surface. A feeling crawled up from my gut again as I watched the delicate petals bob about on the surface of the water. My bouquet had been made of roses, as were the centrepieces on the beautifully appointed tables. I thought about Michael again, and this time we weren’t rolling in beach sand.
No, this time I had taken a photograph of us, cut his face out of it, stuck it on a voodoo doll and was stabbing him in the crotch with a pin! (Maybe I did need antidepressants.)
I was angry. Very fucking angry! Where the hell was he? What was he doing right now? Who was he with? Why had he left me? He probably didn’t even know that I was on our so-called honeymoon, and he certainly didn’t know that a strange man was with me. Suddenly I hoped he would find out somehow and die from the excruciating pain of jealousy. Or didn’t he care enough? Did he still love me? Did I love him? I was confused.
My face must have betrayed my feelings because Damian slid up beside me and looked at the bath.
“I hate those bloody things, they always get stuck in the drain,” he said bending down and scooping the petals out.
Although I would never have guessed it, or even predicted it, this was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for me.
“I’ll just chuck them outside,” he said, exiting with an armful of wet petals. He stopped at the door and turned, “I’ll go and have a dip in the sea while you bath, I know you said you wanted one,” he paused. “You’re going to be fine, Lilly.” And then he was gone.
This guy didn’t know me from a bar of soap, and yet he had this uncanny ability to say, and do, the right things at exactly the right time. Michael had known me for years, but I guarantee you, he would never have worked out that staring at floating red petals in a bathtub was making me feel homicidal. But Damian had.