Something in the Water(22)

She sits back in her seat, face glowing, lost in a world of possibilities.

I take the opportunity to glance at my phone. We’ve run over by ten minutes. My one missed call up on the screen. I can see the edge of Nigel’s shoulder through the small window in the door. He’s not rushing us but I don’t want to push my luck.

“Thank you, Alexa.” We’re done for the day. I stand and press the door release button on the wall. I sneak another glance at my phone and tap the notification. The call was from Caro, not Mark. My disappointment is so sharp I can taste it. I guess he doesn’t have a job yet. I was so sure for a second there. But never mind. Early days. Early days.

The claxon sounds abruptly, bolts slide, and Nigel, slightly startled, trundles in.

I turn off the camera.





Words are said. He slips a thin gold band onto my finger.

His eyes, his face. His hands on mine. The music. The feel of the cold stone beneath my thin shoes. The scent of incense and flowers. Of eighty people’s best perfume. Happiness. Pure and clean.

We kiss, familiar voices rising loud behind us. And then the bone-shaking organ thundering out Mendelssohn’s titanic “Wedding March.”

And petals, petals fall all around us as we step out into the autumn air of London. Husband and wife.

I’m woken by a gentle knocking. Mark hasn’t woken up yet; he’s still sound asleep, nestled beside me in the vast hotel bed. My husband. My sleeping new husband. The gentle taps continue. I roll out of bed, throw a robe on, and tiptoe into the suite’s sitting room.

It’s coffee. Two tall silver coffee pots on a white-clothed trolley waiting outside in the hall. The room service waiter whispers a “Good morning” and beams.

“Thank you so much,” I whisper back, and wheel the trolley around myself into our thickly carpeted lounge area. I sign and return the bill; there’s a bloody big tip on there. Today I’m officially sharing the joy.

It’s six o’clock on a Sunday morning. I ordered the coffee last night because I thought it might soften the early start. But to be honest, I’m okay. Already wide-awake and raring to go. I’m so glad I didn’t drink too much last night. I didn’t really want to. I wanted to stay clearheaded, stay focused. I wanted to remember and treasure every moment.

I push the trolley around our plush hotel furniture and into the bedroom and leave it to stand while I pop into the shower. Hopefully the pungent aroma of coffee will wake him up naturally. I want everything to be perfect for him today. He loves coffee. I hop into the rainforest shower and soap myself, careful not to wet my hair as I wash. We need to be out of the hotel and on our way to the airport in half an hour.

Today is, technically, going to be the longest day of our lives. We’ll be traveling backward across eleven time zones and the International Date Line, so that after twenty-one hours of air and boat travel we’ll be on the other side of the world and it’ll only be ten o’clock. I let the hot soapy water flow over my shoulder muscles, my arms, the new gold band on my finger.

Snapshots of yesterday shutter through my mind: the church, Fred’s toast, Mark’s toast, Caro talking to Mark’s parents, the first dance. The last dance. Last night, finally alone. Desperate for each other.

I hear the light clink of china on china. He’s up.

And I’m out of the shower in a second and wet in his arms.

“Too early, Erin. Too early,” he protests grouchily as he pours the hot coffee out for us. I cover him in kisses and shower water.

He hands me a cup and I stand there fully nude and soaking wet as I sip it. I’m looking pretty good at the moment, if I do say so myself; I’m in shape. I sort of made a point of it. It’s not every day a girl gets married. He drinks his coffee perched on the end of the bed, his eyes playing lazily across my body as he sips.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, still half asleep.

“Thank you.” I smile.



* * *



—

We’re dressed and checked out in no time. A Mercedes glides into the Sunday morning half-light outside the hotel. The driver introduces himself as Michael but doesn’t say much else during the journey to Heathrow. We sail through the abandoned early morning streets, safely muffled in our leather-scented cocoon; the only people about are the occasional revelers, still stumbling home. Somewhere out there in the half-light, out toward North London, through locked corridors of sleeping bodies, lie Alexa, Eddie, and Holli, in bare, sealed rooms I’ll never see, about to live a day I’ll never really understand. I feel my freedom with renewed clarity.

At Heathrow, Mark leads me past the already-snaking British Airways queues toward the empty check-in desks at the end of the aisle. First. I’ve never traveled first-class before. I have that odd mixed feeling of excitement paired with middle-class guilt at the idea of it. I want it, but I know I shouldn’t want it. Mark has traveled first with clients—he assures me I’ll love it. I shouldn’t overthink it.

At the desk a woman with a dazzling smile greets us like long-lost friends returning home. Fiona, our check-in assistant, the only check-in assistant who has ever introduced herself by name to me, is infinitely hospitable and helpful. I could definitely get used to this. I suppose money buys you time and time buys you attention. It feels great. Don’t overanalyze it, I tell myself. Just enjoy. You’ll be poor again soon.