“I’ve already sorted them into the guest room,” Owen said. “I was waiting for you so I could organise us some supper?”
“We usually have pizza on a Friday night,” Chiara chipped in before I could answer, dipping her head under the water as her mother started to protest and Owen started to offer to cook something healthier.
“Sure, we can do that,” I answered the loudest. I love pizza but I can’t look at a carb without my bum doing a Kardashian. I don’t remember when last I allowed pizza at home. Owen got a warning look not to out me. My early session with Dean the Machine at gym tomorrow morning would work it off, I told myself.
The hair and the nails and the brand names were supposed to give me a bit of protection, take the edge off. They did nothing. I don’t know why exactly, but Courtney and Chiara and Owen reminded me of being with Dad and Violet and the twins. I blame Violet, but my old therapists said it was normal for me to feel left out in those situations. I’d have to phone one of them to check, but I’m sure it wasn’t normal to feel that way around Owen and Courtney and Chiara. I asked Kari about it when I Facetimed her from the bathroom before bed. She said I was being ridiculous, just like I knew she would. But I felt it anyway, the minute I saw them at the pool. It stayed with me the whole evening, all the way through the pizza and right up to our awkward goodnights. It was like I’d walked into that picture of seaside suburban bliss that Owen sells when he talks about Eden on the Bay and Beach View Estate. They had been so focused on one another. Owen and Courtney side by side on the loungers, Courtney’s bikini inky-black on a perfect tan against the white plastic wicker, Chiara smiling up at them from the water. Ed Sheeran’s ‘Perfect’ (our bloody wedding song I’d already chosen, I could hardly believe it) pumping from a portable speaker I didn’t recognise. Wine glasses in Owen and Courtney’s hands and a nearly empty bottle in the ice bucket on the little table next to them. From that minute, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the outside of something. Mom, dad, kid. What if Owen liked the idea of having a kid, a family?
Something had changed. I wasn’t sure what yet, but I felt it even when Owen hugged me tight in bed.
“Thanks for letting them stay, babe. I know it’s hard but I appreciate it. You are being very kind.” Already it was me and him and them, him speaking for them, me on the outside. Four weeks to our wedding and Friday was no Fri-Yay. A pit in my stomach, stuffed full of pizza, churned as I fell asleep.
Four Weeks to the Wedding
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
It all starts to go pear-shaped, just like my ass.
PLUS. Proof that no good story starts with
“When I was at the gym …”
In other words, roses are red, Owen’s eye is blue. I wish I was sweet, whoop de bloody do. #VeryPerfectlyPearShaped
7
“Oh,” I wanted to slink back into our room, “hi …” I didn’t have my fucking face on yet. All I wanted was a coffee so I could be caffed up for Dean the Machine. My personal trainer was on an incentive bonus to help me shift four more kilos before the wedding. I’d promised him three grand a kilo. With four weeks left, he was seriously motivated, but kept hinting that I sabotaged him with my gin-and-tonic intake.
“Would you like a coffee? I couldn’t work the fancy big machine but I found a little Nespresso machine and pods in the other room. I love the caramel ones – I’ve had a double already.”
She’d been in my room. While I was sleeping upstairs in my bed, she had been in my things. All in the tiniest white tank-top with short pink sleep-pants.
“Uh, no, thanks. Owen is the coffee maker, so he normally works the machine and brings me a cup. I just have to switch it on.”
“That’s nice – I don’t remember him waking up early on weekends! I used to be alone in the mornings while he slept until ten.”
“Oh.” He was a stupid teenager then, I thought. He’s a grown man now, he never sleeps past nine. I would’ve said if it didn’t sound so pathetic in my head. I zipped up my hoodie top, thankful I’d chosen the Reebok one that was a little longer in front. Hid the pizza bloat. “Actually, I think I will get a coffee at the gym. I need to buy more beans for the big machine, otherwise there won’t be enough for the weekend. Nespresso is for my clients.” Scratch. I couldn’t help it. Hands off everything, you hear me? is what I meant. I didn’t want to wake Owen to make coffee and then leave him to talk to Courtney in her tiny clothes at the crack of dawn. I hoped he’d sleep until ten when I got back. We could talk to Courtney about the paternity test then.
It must’ve been nearly nine, about one squat from shooting Dean the Machine in the back of his head, when my arm started buzzing.
“You want to take that? It’s the third time it’s gone now,” said Dean, pointing at the call buzzing on my arm.
“What? Oh yes, okay, I just wanted to finish these reps before I checked.” I know he can see my legs are jelly. Wibble-wobble-wibble-wobble jelly on a plate. That’s what they look like – orange-peel jelly. He never says it. It’s why I like him. And he never says “No pain, no gain” either.
I didn’t recognise the number, and I would’ve ignored it (probably someone trying to sell me something I didn’t want) if I didn’t so badly want to stop the squats. Dean looked away, oblivious to how close he had come to death … Or could be he wasn’t that oblivious. He had pointed out the ringing, after all.
“Lily? Is that you?” It was the breathy one, her mouth so close to the phone it almost sounded porno.
“Courtney?”
“Oh, thank you jeezuz, I thought I had the wrong number ’cause no one was answering. Owen sort of had an … um,” another porno breath while my heart stopped, “accident. Jeff didn’t mean to but he accidently punched him. I’m sure he didn’t mean to, but Owen’s eye and nose are a bit banged up. There was so much blood, we came straight to the hospital emergency. The doctor says it’s bruising and a lot of blood, but nothing’s broken.” More breathing as she waited for me to say something. Swallowing. Was she crying?
“Are you at Blouberg Hospital? Who’s Jeff? And where’s Owen, I want to talk to him.” The gym music throbbed around me, the super circuit timer pinging its signal to move on.
“He can’t talk now – he’s still sitting here with his head hanging down to stop the bleeding and he has an ice pack on his eye. Jeff’s this guy I met at the airport in Durban …” Big gulps of air now. She was definitely crying.
“I’m coming,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to have all the Jerry Springer detail; I wanted to see Owen. “I’ve got to go,” is all I said to Dean as I pitched down the gym stairs, holding onto the railings like the stupid sign reminded me to. Damn legs.
I screamed into the Trauma Unit’s parking lot, pulling up next to Owen’s Audi.
“Dr De Angelo, are you all right? Can I help you?” asked one of the trauma nurses as I rushed into the reception area. A short, square, kind-looking woman, I’d seen her around when I was still working at the hospital, but I never remembered her name.
“I’m looking for Owen Fisher. Bit of a punch-up, I’m told.”
“Yes, he’s here, cubicle three. Not too many bloody noses on a Saturday morning in Blouberg. It’s not a real emergency, think the wife panicked,” she said, taking in my gym kit. Black is supposed to be slimming and not show sweat, but the fluorescent strip lights in trauma rooms are worse than the lights in a change room. She would see orange-peel jelly. And I’d forgotten my hoodie and everything was out. “Dr Salem was on duty and checked him. I was thinking of calling him back for the wife – she’s going to need something to help her calm down. Been