Some Kind of Wonderful

  ‘All right, Doll?’ she replies, her husky voice unable to conceal a smile. It’s a sound that has always soothed me and I can’t help but dissolve as I hear it.

  ‘Just about,’ I sigh, rearranging the black triangles of my bikini so that my boobs sit more evenly. Evidently they’ve tried to escape while I was snoozing, and decided to give passers-by a right eyeful.

  ‘Whoa!’ she gasps at my lacklustre tone. ‘Anyone would think you were the one sat at your desk with a ridiculous hangover while pretending to get shit done.’

  ‘I heard that,’ booms a voice in the background, presumably her boss Trevor.

  ‘I’m on my lunch. Don’t make me complain to HR for harassment!’ she heckles back. If I spoke in that manner at work I’d get sacked, but that’s Connie for you – endearing, blunt, bold and kind all at once. ‘Anyway,’ she says, her voice becoming soft once more as she turns her attention back to me. ‘Hit me with it. What’s up?’

  ‘It hasn’t happened?’

  ‘Yet,’ she says firmly, instantly knowing what I’m talking about – she’s the one person I have spoken to (at length) on the topic. I might want Ian and everyone else to think I’m chilled out about it, but Connie has always been my sounding board. I need her. She makes me less neurotic.

  ‘He’s not going to do it,’ I state.

  ‘Liz. The fact you think he won’t makes me think he might.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I mumble, although willing to hear more. Her suspicions are much more alluring than my own.

  ‘Think about it. You’ve always gone on about how so many proposals are predictable or naff,’ she reminds me.

  ‘So he won’t do it here?’ I preempt, remembering that I have been very vocal and judgemental about others’ romantic gestures in the past. Like when Syd from up the road took Clara to a local restaurant and arranged for the ring to be put into the dessert. I don’t think he expected her to order a chocolate mousse, but still, no one wants to be presented with a sloppy brown diamond. Or when Darren basically suggested marriage to Tanya rather than asking the question, leaving her bewildered as to whether she was engaged or not. I mean, it’s pretty simple really – find a meaningful, romantic spot and drop to one knee before asking the love of your life to marry you in a clear and concise manner. And don’t even get me started on Henry who asked Adrian while they were on the train from a boozy night out in London. There are no words for the lack of imagination, planning or even care put into that one.

  Yes, OK. I can understand what Connie means. It’s highly likely my noisy opinions have been detrimental to our own situation and left him confused. I thought I was offering clear guidance on what not to do but maybe that’s made the whole thing too restrictive. The truth is, as I’ve watched my mates, who have been in fresher relationships – like Henry and Adrian who’d only been together a year when the proposal took place – walk up the aisle and declare their ‘I dos’, a part of me has felt a little frustrated and hurt that they’ve overtaken me. I’ve felt like we’ve been superglued to our current boyfriend/girlfriend set-up and I’ve obsessed over pulling us free and getting in front of that altar too – before another mate announces they’re getting hitched to someone they met a week ago. I spend more time thinking about it than I should, but I can’t help it when everyone else seems to be growing up without me. I hate to say it, but I should’ve been first. Admitting that makes me an awful person, I know.

  ‘I’m saying the holiday isn’t over,’ Connie says calmly. ‘He probably thinks you would’ve been disappointed with a straightforward first-night attempt, so he knows he has to do things a little differently. You are high maintenance, after all.’

  ‘I am not,’ I gasp.

  ‘Are you suggesting you’re laidback? Because I hate to break it to you but –’

  ‘OK. Fine,’ I huff, cutting across her before she breaks down my flaws: impatient, critical and finickity. I know I can be anal about how I’d like the big question to be asked, but it’s a huge deal. I’ve waited long enough to hope for more than a dirty ring, a half-arsed attempt or for the question just to be blurted out when we’re munching on a Big Mac, surrounded by a bunch of wasted passengers. Not that Ian would ever be crazy enough to do that. I know how much he detests a (tasty) burger, and a night out raving.

  ‘Look, don’t get disheartened and don’t waste the last day of your holiday brooding over this. You know you get weird when you think about this stuff. You get all possessed and cray cray,’ she says in the bluntest of tones.

  I would interject and argue otherwise, but I know she’s right. I’ve obsessed over this milestone in our relationship for far too long and have often found myself daydreaming about it at the most inappropriate times – his grandmother’s funeral being one of them. Don’t judge me! I think it was just because we were in a church with all of his family. I couldn’t help wondering whether the next time we all got together like this would be for our wedding, and if it might be nice to honour Ian’s grandmother in our celebrations somehow. Like incorporating her wedding flowers into ours, or putting a picture of her up somewhere to show she’d still be with us. OK, maybe I did find myself thinking about it for far longer than I thought I did.

  ‘I don’t even think he likes me any more,’ I feel myself whine.

  ‘God, you’re annoying, I can see why.’

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘I mean it!’

  ‘He’s acting weird.’

  ‘Do you remember what Fiona said about Mike before he asked?’ she quizzes me about her older sister who got engaged after just six months of dating – without even being up the duff.

  ‘He was being a right knob. Cagey and distant,’ she prompts.

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, then! Enjoy the rest of your holiday and we’ll mull over it as much as you like when you get back. Preferably over wine, because I can’t handle all this wedding chat sober.’ I imagine her rolling her eyes theatrically as she gives a little chuckle.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I ask.

  Connie is a serial dater. Ian and I used to joke that going on dates was how she could afford to eat, buy the latest Topshop ‘must haves’ and live in London. It was fun to joke about, even if we knew she’d be disgusted over the mere thought of being paid for.

  Regardless of the bill arrangement, while Ian and I would be tucked up with a boxset back in Essex, she was out almost every night on a quest to find Mr Right. She’s still looking. I would say she’s had a string of bad luck, but actually, she’s incredibly picky and isn’t afraid to cut ties when someone shows a hint of possibly having the potential to, one day in the future – possibly decades down the line – annoy her.

  ‘I have a date tomorrow night. Tinder,’ she tells me.

  ‘Funny name.’

  ‘Ha ha ha. Very funny. He’s called Matthew and he’s a mortgage broker,’ she states. Long gone are the days where she’d be excited or nervous at the prospect of making small talk with a total stranger. Now it always sounds like she’s being a martyr, checking out all the available men London has to offer on behalf of all women everywhere. It’s a tough job, but she’s willing to sacrifice herself for the good of the sisterhood. She blogs about her experiences under the pseudonym Vix Bishop on the blog You’re Just Not The One and her exploits are just as legendary as she is. One thing’s for sure, she’s wasted in marketing.

  ‘Interesting job,’ I comment, wondering whether she’ll be praising or condemning him in her write-up. I always look forward to her posts. A few of my favourites would be the one with the guy who turned up in his gym kit after doing a HIIT class. The guy who came along with his mum – I’m not even joking. And then, the bloke who attempted to flirt with a gentle nudge, only to use too much force, causing Connie to fall over on the cobblestones in Covent Garden and fracture her elbow. All three failed to secure a second date and one thing’s for sure, her accounts of modern-day dating make me relieved I’m not single too. I’d be useless.


  ‘Hmm … well, if nothing else he’ll be able to give me some financial advice about getting on the property ladder. It’s hard for us single folk but we’re almost thirty, Lizzy. It has to happen.’

  ‘We’re twenty-eight,’ I remind her, an itchy feeling creeping over my newly tanned skin at the thought of reaching the end of a decade.

  ‘I’m thirty next year,’ she says, as though the number isn’t crashing down on her too.

  ‘Fuck,’ I say, just as Ian comes back and frowns at my choice of language. He plonks himself on his sun lounger, stretching out with his arms above his head, his ribs and muscles doing a little dance, before settling with his eyes shut.

  ‘Exactly,’ Connie says gravely. ‘Now on that bombshell I’d better go. Lunch is over and Trevor’s vein’s popping out while he tries not to shout at me to get back to work.’

  ‘I’m just here!’ Trevor says indignantly, as though he’s standing right next to her – honestly, it’s a good job she’s well liked and ridiculously talented at her job.

  ‘I’m going to the loo before I even look at my emails,’ she tells him.

  ‘You’re terrible,’ I giggle.

  ‘It’s a shame I’m too good to get rid of,’ she says, laughing to herself. ‘Right, promise me you’ll make the most of the last night there. Ring or not, you know it’s coming at some point. You and Ian are meant to be.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod to myself while looking at his hairy legs lying next to mine.

  ‘Just enjoy being away from your ruddy desk with the love of your life,’ she orders.

  ‘I will, I will,’ I smile.

  ‘Call me as soon as you’re back. We need a girls’ night!’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Bye, Chick,’ she says, blowing a kiss down the phone before hanging up.

  I breathe out a sigh as I take the phone away from my ear and hold it to my chest.

  ‘It was Connie,’ I say to Ian, extending out a pathetically bare olive branch.

  ‘I guessed,’ he replies, not bothering to look over at me.

  ‘Sorry I was a bit of a grump earlier,’ I continue, knowing there’s no way I’ll enjoy my last night here if I remain pissed off, and that I should apologize for being so irrational over some green leaves.

  ‘You should’ve just had a burger,’ he says, pursing his lips as he looks over, his brown eyes squinting at me. ‘I just wasn’t hungry, but it doesn’t mean you had to eat what I had. You’re a grown-up, Liz. You can do whatever you want to do.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t judge me?’

  ‘As if,’ he laughs, his face scrunching up into a frown. ‘It’s just food.’

  ‘Thank you …’ I say, feeling stupid for even turning it into an issue.

  ‘Cocktail?’ he asks, sitting up and looking around for our regular waiter, Sahid, who’s been on the beach with us every day – it’s like he never leaves.

  ‘Always!’ I cheer.

  ‘Two pina coladas please,’ he says when he grabs Sahid’s attention. We’ve been here long enough to not only know the cocktail list, but also what we love.

  Sahid nods in acknowledgement, a smile forming on his dark mouth, his big brown eyes glistening with joy at the same order we’ve placed over the last few afternoons.

  As he walks away I turn to Ian and see him staring ahead at a family who’ve been building sandcastles since I woke up. The young girl is pushing her younger brother out of the way because he keeps knocking down her pristine work, and the mum has to go over and sit between them, starting a new game to keep them amused.

  ‘It’s wonderful here … We’re all so very lucky,’ I say, my mind wandering off into a little daydream of loveliness where we revisit the hotel in five years with two little children to frolic on the beach with.

  Ian turns to me then and purses his lips into a tight smile.

  ‘Yeah …’ is all he manages back.

  No doubt he’s sharing my daydream of what our future will one day look like.

  3

  Almost every night since we arrived we’ve done the same thing, and that’s chill out in the hotel. There are six different restaurants, each specializing in various cuisines, and one has a different themed buffet each evening with a dozen or so desserts to choose from. To be honest, I could’ve spent the whole holiday in that eatery and been one very happy lady as a result. Whether I’d be able to fit into my aeroplane seat on the way home is a different matter.

  Tonight the theme is Italian. I thought Ian might suggest going elsewhere rather than being faced with an evening of heavy carbs but he shrugged along with my plans earlier so I booked it regardless. We did only have those salads for lunch so we’ve earned this indulgence. My mouth is practically salivating at the thought.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’ I call hungrily.

  Ian is still in the bathroom, he’s been in there for ages – and Connie said I was high maintenance. I’ve literally had a shower, thrown on my favourite white off-the-shoulder cotton dress, scrunched some mousse into my long caramel-coloured hair, dabbed some gold highlighter on my already bronzed cheeks and brushed some dark brown mascara through my lashes. I’ve been ready for about half an hour. During that time I’ve been perching on the end of the bed, watching some naff American reality TV show about wedding dresses that I’ve suddenly found myself hooked on.

  My tummy gives an almighty growl, alerting me to the fact we’re fifteen minutes late for dinner already. I go to the bathroom door and give it a little tap.

  ‘Babe?’ I prompt, trying not to nag while simultaneously vocalizing an air of urgency.

  The door opens and Ian, with a tiny towel wrapped around his waist, steps out looking a little pink-cheeked.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask, as he walks past me to grab a white shirt out of the wardrobe while barely giving a glimpse in my direction.

  ‘Yeah. Fine,’ he shrugs, a frown forming as he drops his towel and starts doing up the buttons while slipping on his boat shoes and kicking the balls of his feet on to the beige carpet to help get them on quicker.

  ‘Erm,’ I say, confused by what he’s doing.

  ‘Huh?’ he murmurs, raising an eyebrow at me.

  I point at his nether regions and the fact he’s sorting out his footwear before putting on either his pants or shorts, his little friend and two wingmen gaily swinging freely between his bare legs.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, shaking his head, cupping his manhood before going back to the wardrobe and locating some underwear. He settles for the black Calvin Kleins I bought him for his birthday six months ago – I’ve wanted to get him a pair ever since David Beckham did their campaign and looked sexy as hell. Justin Bieber nearly ruined my love for them when he took over from him. But then he turned cool again, so all was good. Plus the cast of Moonlight have more recently taken over the job – which I think is why Ian has gone with my underwear choice rather than snivelling at it.

  I watch as he pulls up his pants and cotton shorts without taking off his shoes first. It’s a lazy move that clearly isn’t making the task any easier.

  He’s being odd, distant and flustered.

  My heart feels heavy at the realization. Is there a possibility he is actually going to do it?

  A knock on the door makes us both jump.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask him.

  ‘Why would I know?’ he asks, eyes wide and looking at me questioningly, frustrated at having caught one shoe in his pants with his ridiculous antics. His bits are still flopping everywhere.

  I wait a few seconds, until he’s finished hopping himself into decency, before going to the door.

  ‘Hello?’ I ask as I swing it open, only to be greeted by Sahid. ‘Oh. Did we leave something?’ I ask, looking around the room as though I’m going to spot the missing item. I always double-check that I’ve not left anything behind whenever I leave somewhere. Sometimes, if I’m feeling super-meticulous, I even triple-check. It’s a habit. ‘Hang on, did we not sign the bill?’ I ask, turning to Ian. ‘Did you
sign it, babes?’

  Rather helpfully he looks back at me blankly.

  ‘Ma’am,’ says Sahid, with his impossibly polite and soft voice, while a bashful smile spreads across his face. ‘I’ve come to take you to dinner.’

  ‘But we know where we’re going. We’ve been there before. Some days for breakfast, lunch and dinner,’ I laugh, my tummy angrily protesting at the thought of the copious amounts of delicious pancakes, waffles and scrambled eggs I’ve eaten for brekkie during our stay. I’ll be sad to say goodbye to it all. Let’s face it, Shredded Wheat accompanied with the greenest juice our Nutribullet can muster doesn’t quite have my taste buds rejoicing in the same way.

  ‘Sir?’ Sahid says, looking past me to Ian, who’s just finished sorting out his attire and is now standing staring at us both.

  For a moment I’m not sure if he’s going to speak or not.

  ‘We thought you’d like a bus tonight,’ Sahid informs us.

  They say bus, but they really mean golf buggy. They’re forever zooming past us on those things at a ridiculous speed. I don’t understand why people that can don’t just walk. It’s a pleasant little wander through the gardens and it doesn’t even take that long, five minutes tops. That said, we’ve just been offered one, so why not! We can take in the scenery a little later when we attempt to walk off our pasta, pizza and bottomless Tiramisu.

  ‘Darling?’ I encourage Ian, who seems to be a little startled by Sahid’s gesture.

  ‘Dinner?’ he says, the same tight smile as earlier forming on his lips as his eyes skim over me.

  ‘Fab,’ I shrug, happy that he’s finally getting a move on.

  Sahid looks just as confused as we are, but doesn’t say anything. He waits for us (Ian) to gather our crap together and then leads us down the one flight of stairs and on to the awaiting four-seater buggy. Ian doesn’t sit next to me. Instead he sits next to Sahid who’s driving.