1
FRIDAY
Once again, I am sitting with my head between my legs.
This does nothing to quell my nausea or cool the tangled heap of steaming nerves at the base of my skull. Which is a great pity, as this is supposed to be the most exciting day of my life. And we are definitely at risk of running out of time.
Hennie’s voice breaks through the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears and the endless bed of festival noise. Bass ebbs through the ground so deeply that I can feel it in my toes, and the sensation is so strange and uncomfortable that I have to wiggle them to distract myself from it.
‘How are we doing, petal?’ she asks.
I run my hands over my scalp, ignoring the heat that seems to be emanating from every inch of my skin. She tries again, a little louder this time.
‘Nora, babe, please give me a sign of life.’
Without raising my head, I shoot her a shaky thumbs up, and she immediately clutches my hand within her own. I squeeze back, grateful for the contact. She knows it helps.
I release a shaky breath. The reality of what I am about to do has hit me all at once and, as usual, my body has overreacted.
‘I must say, Mother Nature has really blessed us with the weather for this big life event of yours,’ Hennie says, forcing a lightness into her voice. ‘We should give her thanks.’
I open my eyes to see her huge brown ones traced with thinly veiled concern, peering at me as closely as she can without invading my space.
‘Thank you, Mother Nature,’ I mumble, not feeling very grateful for the stifling heat that makes every breath feel uncomfortably warm and unsatisfying. Is the world conspiring to try and make me lose consciousness?
I follow this up with a long, muffled groan through my hands.
‘Ah,’ she says sagely. ‘Would you like to speak more on that?’
‘Not really,’ I reply apologetically, my voice barely audible.
‘Do you need a cry?’ she asks.
I shake my head, ignoring how the motion triggers a wave of dizziness.
‘Do you need a nervous wee, perhaps?’
‘Don’t believe so.’
‘Is our original idea of constant chatter to distract you not working?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Possibly working or possibly not working?’ she presses.
‘Both?’
There’s a brief pause.
‘Understood,’ she says, gently patting my shoe.
‘I’m sorry,’ I moan. ‘I’m not being helpful.’
‘Well, of course you’re not,’ she says, her patience relentless. ‘You don’t need to be. Your body is literally in crisis.’
A bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck, as if on cue.
‘Remember, you’re the priority here; this is your moment,’ she insists. ‘We’ll do whatever you want to do.’
