Being Lily. Qarnita Loxton
opposites of me. Not short (or even medium height), not strong (okay, stocky), not curvy (with Spanx), or dark eyed or dark haired or with an obvious lack of thigh gap. They were the exact things I’ve always wanted to be. The taller of the two was older and especially skinny, with white-blonde hair long on her back like Daryl Hannah in that mermaid movie. Tight blue jeggings stretched down from the bar stool at the high table, her legs so damn long one foot could rest flat on the ground even though her bum was perched on the edge of the seat. The other foot would’ve been flat in its flip-flop if it wasn’t bouncing up and down doing that weird jig thing Kari also does when she is restless. I couldn’t tell the mermaid’s age. From a few tables away she looked twenty-five, and I wondered if a close-up view was going to disappoint. Sometimes I get lucky and it’s like that.
The other girl was shorter and younger, more tanned, but otherwise a perfect replica of the mermaid. A mini-mermaid, a copy-and-paste job. Same hair (almost the same, dark roots poked through), same jeggings, same white T-shirt. Even the same silver slops, hanging from her toes as her bare feet sat on the footrest of the bar stool. Sisters? With suitcases at noon on a Friday? The bags reflected the sun into my eyes. They look like bullets, I thought. Little did I suspect the bombs their owners would bring. I forgot about the honeymoon for a minute, enough to rage in my head. Why is it that some girls just come out looking like models? Not fair! my choking stomach shouted. Owen saw nothing, still staring at his phone, thumbing the screen rapidly. Irritated by the girls, I couldn’t wait any more.
“Owen, I want to talk about our honeymoon, please. I want it be somewhere good.”
Owen didn’t look up but he stopped scrolling. I had his attention. “I can organise it, you don’t have to do anything,” I panicked. It wasn’t how I had practised saying it, but too late, it was out. I’d meant to start with How do you feel about going somewhere stunning for our honeymoon? Fuck. Dad would be proud, of course. Don’t mess around. To get what you want, you must be direct and to-the-point.
I saw a WhatsApp from Kari flash on my watch: “Wait for Owen to eat first. You too.”
Too little too late. Owen put his phone down carefully as he realised there wasn’t just breakfast on the menu. Incoming! Hangry honeymoon conversation.
“We are going somewhere good. I organised it already,” Owen said, smiling at me. His eyes creased a little in the corners. Sexy man. Guys really can get away with what women feel pressure to Botox. “You don’t have to do everything.” He reached over and took my hand. “You are making me spoil the surprise, but I’ve got a place in Franschhoek. I found a good deal even though it’s high season in March. Don’t worry, we’ll stay somewhere fancy. Go to all those restaurants you are always telling me about.”
“Oh …” I tried to pick my words more carefully, hard when I had already gone so far off script. “I love Franschhoek! But it’s our honeymoon … I was thinking of France?” I could hear my voice just a little bit too high on France. “I’ve had my best holidays there and I want to go with you. If we decide now, I can still get us visas.” Watch the whine, my spoilt little girl. I heard Mum’s voice saying that, different scene, same story.
Owen fiddled with the sugar sachets on the table. Tore open a bag of brown sugar. Didn’t look me in the eye. “Buying into the business is taking most of my savings and I need to get my mother and sisters to Cape Town for the wedding. And we were talking about building a house? I don’t think I can stretch to a honeymoon in France right now. Let’s see by the end of the year, or next year, once I’ve paid Steve out and I can see how all the sales have gone?”
“I can pay. You know I can. I was thinking to pay. It won’t be a big deal to cancel Franschhoek.” I shrugged. Bull by the horns. I default to Dad when I’m under pressure.
“I know it’s not a big deal,” he said, pausing, “for you. But can you let me at least organise and pay for our honeymoon? You and your dad are paying for everything else.” Owen’s eyes were dark but he wasn’t looking away anymore. He laughs me off when I say he reminds me of a young Robert de Niro, only missing a tilted fedora to put him in Mafia mode. Not exactly handsome, but something there. Mom let that thought slip once when she forgot to be obsessed with his being two years younger and two centimetres shorter than me. And poorer. And not Italian.
“The money shouldn’t be a thing. I plan to spend lots of it on us, you know. I don’t want all my dad’s hard work to just lie there gathering interest in my trust fund. Might as well get used to it.” I tried a little laugh – it was true enough to be funny – but Owen didn’t like the joke. The waiter slid our breakfast plates onto the table but I wasn’t hungry anymore. Owen pushed his plate of salmon scramble away.
Kari should’ve messaged faster.
“Your dad thinks I’ve got my bum in the butter. Do we have to go straightaway for a honeymoon that you pay for? Just cut my balls off, why don’t you?” He tried a laugh same as I did, but it was a little too true to be funny. I was the one who had suggested a vasectomy (“Too busy at the moment, after the wedding,” he’d said).
Before I could add anything more, something behind me caught him, and right then I could see.
It was the end of Fri-Yay and it started when he saw them and their silver bullet bags.
He forgot all about me and the honeymoon.
2
I turned. At first I wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Only the blondes were behind me. Them? Usually I was the only one who noticed skinny blondes. Owen says he only ever sees me. “You are Cleopatra meets Marilyn Monroe,” he says, “much more interesting than mermaids could ever be.” Not today. Today he stared at them. I wondered if the shiny silver bullet bags blinded him too.
The taller blonde saw us looking, turned to say something to her mini-me, then unfurled her legs. On her way up, she bumped one of the bags and it thudded over onto its side, bold black DBN flight tags flapping. Aha! Someone from Durban, Owen’s home town. She righted the bag and in three long, slow strides was standing next to our table, arms folded over her chest as if she had suddenly caught the little breeze coming off the sea.
“Hi, Owen,” she said. Her voice was small, as if she had traded hers with the mini-mermaid she’d left behind.
“Courtney?” said Owen, standing so fast the chair bounced up onto its back legs before settling, the table top wobbling a coffee spill into the saucer. He was shorter than her, nearly a head and two centimetres. She leant over and hugged him as I looked on. “Wow, I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure. I never would have expected to see you at Eden,” he said, oblivious to my sitting there, staring at them like an open-mouthed fish.
“I’m sorry to catch you like this,” the mermaid called Courtney said, looking only at Owen, even though she could’ve looked right over him if she wanted to. All too irritatingly predictable, her eyes were the right kind of watery blue. And because I was sitting down while they were standing, I could confirm that she had a very real thigh gap. “I was hoping to see you at your office when it opened. The lady there said you would be back by one.” At least close up I could tell she was nearer to thirty-five than twenty-five – the distance between our table and hers had been kind. Too many laughs and squinting into the sun had made her a good candidate for Dr Lily de Angelo’s Aesthetic Practice.
“Oh, yes, Di is there. You could’ve asked her to call me. Jeez, man, I can’t believe it is you. Do you want to sit here with me and …” Owen, my usually impeccably mannered Owen, stared at me first and then (I hope) realised he had forgotten to introduce me, “and Lily?” I refuse to consider he’d forgotten my name. He could’ve said, This is Lily de Angelo, my fiancée, or even Meet Cleopatra Monroe, but he didn’t.
Her eyes caught mine only for a second; they were back on Owen before I had a chance to nod hello.
“It’s better if I wait until you are done,” she said, or breathed out was more like it. This woman had a voice that would make men want to look after her. Annoyed the crap out of me. “I don’t wanna interrupt