Maybe he's open to this fake dating thing, that somehow morphed into a holiday fling, to end up being something else entirely. I can’t honestly say I’m mad about that.
I’ve made lots of excuses about being busy and Ant not being the right person for me. And it’s becoming clear that’s all they are. Excuses. More and more, I’m beginning to realise that wasmy sense of self-preservation talking. Plausible deniability. If you don’t care, you don’t commit, you can’t get hurt.
The truth is, if I wanted to make it work, I’d find a way. And I think maybe I do.
But there’s still that voice of doubt, of lifelong insecurity, in the back of my mind.
I’m about to ask what Ant’s thinking when the engine rumbles to life and the boat starts to cut through the water towards our next snorkel spot.
“Ten minutes to Turtle Town,” one of the crew shouts.
My moment is lost. Which is maybe for the best. This is—could be—a big step. Best to think it through carefully. Because, for probably the first time in my life, I’m in danger of letting my heart rule my head.
We’re exhausted but relaxed by the time we get back to the resort. Is there a word for that? If there is, I don’t know what it is, but it’s a great feeling. Unfortunately, we only have a couple of hours to enjoy the feeling because we have to back up and do the hens’ and bucks’ parties tonight.
“Do we really have to?” Ant moans as we flop onto the big, round outdoor bed on the lanai, our bodies salt-crusted and limp from the snorkelling.
“Honestly, if you don’t want to go to the bucks’, you can beg off. But I really don’t want to deal with the fallout if I don’t go to the hens’.” Although my personal preference would be to stay in and relax with Ant. Naked. “At least we have time for a nap.”
“Nah,” he sighs. “If you can do it, I can do it. How bad can it be?”
Turns out, on that scale of root canal to having outdoor sex on a blanket, the hens’ party is root canal squared.
After a short ride to a nearby resort on golf carts, Emily’s maid of honour, Megan, gathers us around her, clapping loudly. She’s the kind of girl who was the captain of the netball team in high school and still expects everyone to do as she tells them.
“She hasn’t changed since school,” Louise mutters in my ear. “She was Head Girl and thought that was code for Headmistress.” Called it.
“Right, ladies, what we’re going to be doing tonight is”—Megan pauses and looks around the sea of faces for dramatic effect—“learning to hula!”
I’m struck dumb. I can think of nothing I want to do less than learn to hula. Oh, wait a minute, I spoke too soon.
“And then we’re going to perform our fabulous dance for all the boys and other guests at the luau on the eve of the wedding. Isn’t that fun?” Megan squeals, clapping and shaking her hips.
Ah, no. Like I said. Root canal squared.
It’s not that I don’t think hula dancing is beautiful. It is. When performed by trained professionals. Not people with two left feet and no hip action, like me. I’m just going to butcher it and humiliate myself.
“She’s got to be fucking kidding,” Louise hisses under the cover of the excited chatter that’s broken out around us.
“Do you think anyone will notice if we sneak off?” I whisper.
“Don’t you dare,” my mother growls—yes, growls—from behind me. I wish I’d known she was there. I thought this was just an event for the younger women. Looks like Mum and Aunt Caroline are here tosupervise. “Emily has gone to so much trouble to set this up.”
I glance over at Emily, who is laughing and doing a few hula moves with her friends. Her outfit of a bikini top and sarong-style skirt makes more sense now.
Louise and I exchange rolled eyes as staff begin to move through the crowd of maybe fifteen women, handing out beautiful grass skirts and anklets, leis and flower crowns.
What follows is three hours of utter torture. There are not enough mai tais or pina coladas in the world to take the pain out of tonight.
“Lili, perhaps you should be in the back row?” Megan says as I stuff up yet another run through of what is apparently the most basic routine. The staff had arranged us according to height, which meant I was in the front row. Until now.
“Good idea,” I mutter, swapping places with the woman behind me, putting me next to Louise, who is actually pretty good at this.
“It’s all in the hip action,” she says with a dirty laugh. Easy for her to say. She has more curves than I do.
“No, no, no,” screeches Emily after yet another failed run-through. I suspect she’s been having private lessons in preparation because she seems to have the moves memorised. Not that she’s what you’d call skilled. “Okay, it’s clearly time to take a break and have something to eat.”
I hear a few sighs of relief. At least I’m not the only one who is not enjoying this.
