I sat on the floor in my living room, surrounded by the wreckage of my hopes and dreams. Scattered papers on my left side, a pile of used Kleenex on my right. The aftermath of the past day and a half.
The half empty box of new tissues took centre stage in front of me, and I plucked out another one so I could blow my nose.
“Callie, have you called the florist yet?” my mother called from the kitchen.
I gave a shuddering sniffle and swallowed down another batch of tears. “No, Mum. It’s on the list.”
Along with contacting the rest of the wedding guests, speaking to the caterer, getting hold of the dress designer, cancelling the hire of the vintage Rolls Royce... The list went on.
All I’d done so far was explain to the organisers at the lovely hotel we’d chosen as the venue for our wedding reception that we were no longer getting married.
The lady I spoke to sounded suitably shocked, but recovered enough to say, “I’m terribly sorry, but with only three days until the wedding, we can’t give you a refund.”
That was the icing on the cake. Cake. The tears fell harder. Of course, there would be no cake. The lovely three-tier affair that we’d chosen together would probably be distributed at the local homeless shelter, the little bride and groom that were supposed to perch on top consigned to the dustbin.
When I said “we’d chosen,” I meant my fiancé Bryce and I. No, no, my ex-fiancé.
My mother wandered through and put a glass of red wine down in front of me. “Darling, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”
I looked at my watch. “Mum, it’s only ten thirty in the morning.”
“I know, dear, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Was she saying I was desperate? No way! I was off men, forever.
“People will think I’m an alcoholic.”
“No, dear, alcoholics go to meetings. You’d just be a party girl.”
I looked up to the ceiling, praying for divine intervention. It was great that Mum was being supportive and everything, but I couldn’t help wishing she’d do it from the comfort of her own home. That way I could sit and mope in peace.
“You’ve got to get right back in the saddle, show that no-good scoundrel what he’s missing,” she continued.
It was easy for her to say. She’d had plenty of practice. She was now on husband number five. Or was it six? She’d married one of them twice, saying she couldn’t quite make up her mind.
My father had been hubby number one. He’d stuck around long enough to saddle my sister and I with the names Callista and Persephone then taken off for parts unknown. The last time I heard from him, which was eight years ago, he was running a bar in Santorini.
I’d got the better end of the deal, though. At least I could shorten my name to Callie. There wasn’t an awful lot you could do with Persephone. I often thought that had contributed to the chip my sister had carried round on her shoulder since she was a toddler.
I took a deep breath. Things could be worse. Persephone could be here too. But in a tiny miracle, she’d cried off the wedding. Apparently attending a golf tournament in Quinta do Lago with her oh-so-perfect husband was far more important than watching her only sister get married.
Or not get married, as it turned out.
“Mum, give me a break, would you?”
“Men aren’t worth crying over. Especially that one. I never liked him, you know.”
Oh, now she told me. I’d only been dating him for six years. I felt some incomprehensible need to defend him. “He wasn’t that bad. He had his good points.”
“What were they?”
I struggled to think. Maybe I was just trying to defend my own judgment. I couldn’t stand the thought I’d wasted six years of my life on an idiot.
Finally, I came up with, “He always left the toilet seat down.”
My mother stared at me and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Finally I settled for a bizarre mix of the two, causing her eyes to widen in alarm.
I was saved by the front door opening. I winced as it slammed back into the wall. My friend Kat could never make a quiet entrance.
“Right, I’ve got a bottle of wine, two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s and a movie. Then once we’ve finished laughing at Will Ferrell, I’ve got a lighter to burn all Bryce’s stuff,” she announced.
What was it with the wine? And where did she think we were going to have a fire? I lived in a flat for goodness sakes!
My mother, on the other hand, thought it was an excellent idea. “I’ll get spoons. And extra glasses. And we could use some petrol to make things really go up nicely.”
She hustled out to the kitchen.
I tried to be the voice of reason. “We can’t burn his things. What if he wants them back?”
“Well, he should have thought about that before he decided he ‘needed space’, shouldn’t he?” Kat used her fingers to form little air quotes around “needed” and “space.”
She did have a point, I suppose. And she was only trying to help. Partly because she was my best friend, and partly out of guilt because it was she who had introduced me to Bryce in the first place.
She’d apologised a thousand times for that in the past thirty-six hours, and I kept trying to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault. We were only sixteen at the time. How could either of us have known what a Grade A asshole he would turn into?
I could still remember the day I’d first met him. I’d walked into a meeting of the local amateur dramatics society with Kat, and there he was, standing across the room, talking with the director of the play he was about to star in.
I’d thought he was terribly sophisticated because he was drinking an espresso.
He was two years older than me, and I’d almost died of embarrassment when he’d sauntered over and introduced himself.
Of course, he’d still been plain old Brian then. The Bryce part came later, when he decided that no serious actor would ever be called Brian Featherstone.
He’d kissed my hand and told me I made him think of the Bard’s Ophelia. I’d rushed home to look up who Ophelia was. The potential wife of Prince Hamlet! He thought I could be a princess? I’d gone giddy just thinking about it.
After that, it didn’t take much persuading from Kat for me to join the drama group. Bryce had been the shining star, quoting Shakespeare like he knew the guy personally. Kat tended to have small speaking parts. The lead actress’s sidekick, things like that. Me, I helped to make the props and carry things.
Sort of like a rehearsal for life, really.
Three months later, Bryce finally asked me out. Well, what he’d actually said was, “My pal Andrew’s birthday celebration is on Saturday. I’d be honoured if you would accompany me.”
It didn’t matter that I knew he’d already asked Mandy Smith and she’d said no because she had tickets to a Michael Jackson tribute concert. Bryce wanted me to go with him. Me!
I leapt at the chance. I’d put on my best dress and my highest heels, then spent three hours holding onto Brian’s beer glass while he hobnobbed with the up and coming social elite of the town that we lived in. The blisters were worth it.
He’d been my first boyfriend. And, I swore as I sat on the floor in my fort made from piled up tissues, my last. It was at that moment I recalled Ophelia had gone mad in the end. Was that my destiny?
“Stop thinking about him!” Kat brought me back to reality by snapping her fingers in front of my face.
“I’m trying. But he’s been my life for six years. And there are reminders of him everywhere.”
“Yes, but we’re going to fix that.”
“I’ve already said no. We’re not hauling his stuff to the park and toasting marshmallows over it.”
She pouted. “Fine. But I honestly think it would make you feel better.” She considered for a few seconds. “How about just the photos then? We could burn them in the sink.”
“No! It would set the fire alarm off.”
She looked at me like I’d had the best idea ever. “That’s brilliant! We’d get a whole truck full of firemen. Like a home delivery of eye candy.”
“I’m going to bed now.”
“No you’re not. You’re going to get out and live life to the fullest without Mr. Four-Syllable-Words holding you back.”
I had to giggle at that. Bryce really had talked that way. He actually used to keep a dictionary in the cupboard next to his box of low-sugar, high-fibre muesli, so he could learn a new word every morning.
“So you’re saying I should find a man who only speaks in short sentences?”
“No, I’m saying you should find a man who doesn’t speak at all. He should be doing other things with his mouth.”
My mouth dropped open. “You can’t say that!”
“Why not?”
“My mother’s in the kitchen.”
“She’s been married six times. You think she doesn’t know these things?”
I wanted to close my ears. I didn’t talk about “these things.” Not even with Bryce. He was strictly a missionary man. No variation. I recalled the day when, after reading a particularly graphic romance novel, I’d suggested we might try things with me on top.
He’d stared at me, aghast. “But Callista, you wouldn’t have any comprehension as to what was involved. You’re just not that type of girl.”
And that was that. I wasn’t that type of girl.
Kat saw the blank look in my eyes. “Pack it in!”
“What?”
“You’re thinking again.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, sarcasm rising to the fore. “I’ll switch my brain off for a bit, shall I?”
She was oblivious. “I’m not sure you can do that. What you really need is a change of scene.”
My mother hurried back in with a glass of wine in each hand. One red, one white. She handed them both to me. “That’s a marvellous idea, Kat. Callie can come and stay with me for a while.”
No, no, no. No way! “Mum, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“It’ll be no trouble. Your room’s exactly as you left it when you moved in here.”
Just what I needed—boyband posters and an abundance of out-of-date hair products. “Mum, I’ll be fine here.”
“Nonsense, it’s settled. I’ll just go and grab the ice cream.”
As soon as she left the room, I turned to Kat. “Do something,” I hissed.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but this was your idea. Fix it!”
Mum returned and plonked a bowl down in front of me. She’d been a little over-generous with her portions. Much as I loved Phish Food and Chunky Monkey, if I ate all that, I’d be sick.
“Eat up, dear. Once you’ve finished, I’ll help you pack.”
I glared at Kat with murder in my eyes.
“I-I-I’ve had an idea,” she stammered. “Callie can come and stay with me for a while instead. She’s always said she wanted to do a bit of travelling.”
I’d said nothing of the sort! That was Kat’s solution? It was a terrible one. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Almost literally, because Kat was currently living in Egypt, and wasn’t it about a thousand degrees centigrade out there?
This was going from bad to worse. I grabbed another tissue and blew my nose. Why couldn’t they both just go home?
“Kat, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
That was a good question. I didn’t have a fiancé I needed to stay and pander to any more. I worked as a teacher, and we’d just broken up for the summer holidays. I had six long weeks of nothingness stretching ahead of me, and Kat knew it.
“There’s nobody to water the plants,” was the best excuse I could think of.
“What, those?” Kat asked, pointing at a sorry looking yucca plant in the corner, which was standing next to an orchid that had seen better days.
“You’re full of good ideas today, aren’t you, Kat?” said my mother. “I’ll take the plants home with me. Dave can look after them.” Hubby number five/six was a keen gardener.
“And you’re all packed. You just need to pick up your suitcase.”
Thanks for reminding me, Kat. Bryce and I had planned to honeymoon at a couples resort in Jamaica. I’d been looking forward to that trip for months. Now the tickets would most likely sit in his wallet, unused.
I was wavering. Did I dare just up and leave?
My phone rang. I recoiled in horror as I recognised the ringtone I’d assigned to Persephone. “The Bitch Came Back” by Theory of a Deadman.
I didn’t want to answer it. But I had to. If I didn’t, she’d only take it as an admission of defeat.
“Callista.” She used my full name as a greeting.
I returned the favour. “Persephone.”
“Oh, you poor thing. When mother called me yesterday and said that Bryce had left you, I immediately said to Pierre, ‘Oh, I must make the time to call Callista this week.’ You must be feeling truly terrible.”
“I’m not feeling great, no.” I wanted to add, “mainly because you’re on the phone,” but I didn’t dare.
She ploughed on. “I was just saying to mother the other week that it was inevitable, really. I mean, Bryce’s career is really taking off now, since he got that understudy role in Macbeth. It was only a matter of time.”
“What do you mean, a matter of time?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Well, before he traded up. You have to admit you were punching above your weight, don’t you? Even though Bryce was no Pierre, he still had some class.”
I felt tears pricking the corner of my eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but no words would come out. Why did she always have to make me feel so small? She never stopped reminding me how wonderful her husband, Pierre, was.
She must have heard me sniffing. “Oh don’t cry. I’m sure in a month or two, when you feel like going out of the house again, you’ll find someone more suitable.”
That was it! I’d had enough of her and her constant put-downs. Which was why I somehow found myself saying, “As a matter of fact, I’m just going off on holiday. I might find myself a new man sooner than you think.”
She was silent for a few seconds then I heard a giggle. “Oh, is Kat still there? She hasn’t been filling your head with nonsense again, has she?”
“No, she’s been very helpful. We’re going to Egypt. I’m all packed and I’m really looking forward to it.”
I could feel hysterical giggles building up inside me. Just stay calm, I willed myself. Just breathe.
“Egypt? Well, it’s hardly Mustique, but I suppose even people like you and Kat have to take a break somewhere. Oh, I’ve got to go, Pierre’s calling me. We’re having dinner with the Molinards tonight and we have to pick up a gateau on the way.”
With that, she hung up.
Kat grinned at me in triumph. “I’ll get your case, shall I?”
That was it. I couldn’t back out now. Not when I’d told Persephone I was going. My life might be a mess, but even so, I hated the thought of another “I told you so” phone call from my darling older sister.
She’d married Pierre, a French chef, two years ago after a whirlwind romance. Their wedding ceremony had been perfect. The sun shone, her dress was beautiful and nobody got drunk at the reception. They lived in Paris in their perfect apartment on a perfect street with their perfect daughter, Annie.
Nothing ever went wrong in Persephone’s life.
We couldn’t be more different.
I reached for the tissues again.
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