I immediately head outside and stare out at the busy port, listening to the seabirds and chop of waves against the steely sides. Occasionally there’s the blare of a ship’s horn.
I take out my phone and snap a picture for Dad.
He immediately replies with a thumbs up emoji which makes me laugh. I could tell him I won the lottery and he would reply the same way. He called me that night after I’d absconded and I’d put on a brave face to apologise. It’s not even that he’d spent much on the wedding, Mike and I paid for most of it ourselves, but I felt guilty nonetheless.
He’d been so excited to walk me down the aisle.
That night he’d said, “Don’t you be worrying about me, darling. I’d much rather you ran and caused a bit of a ruckus than stayed and made yourself miserable.” I wasn’t ready to tell him what happened and I’m not sure I ever will. It’s not who we are. I used to think our family relationship was surface level but more recently, I think we’re so entrenched in each other’s feelings that we don’t need to talk about them at all.
I could stand here, leaning against the railings for hours.
Although, I don’t, since a fancy all-inclusive bar awaits me.
Stepping out of my ruined sundress, I make myself presentable, in a smart jumpsuit and heels, before heading upstairs.
I realise the error in my ways the second I step out of the lift.Ah crap.Two waiters, dressed in tailored uniforms with smart red waistcoats, hold out trays with flutes of champagne on them. “Welcome to the Adriatic Angel, Mrs Locke,” the taller one says.
Married-name jump scare!
“Oh no. I’m not…” And will never be… Mrs Locke. “Sarawill be fine. Thanks.”
His cheeks redden and I realise he’s done very well to recognise my face. Even if he is wrong. I guess I could’ve changed the name on the booking. It irks me that when I booked this originally, almost a year ago, I honestly thought I would be Sara Locke by now.
“My apologies, ma’am. The Welcome Mingle is just through there.”
I force a smile and nod despite my heart sinking in my chest. Even though Iamsingle, I amnotready to mingle. In fact, I do not “mingle” unless paid to at networking events. I am decidedly too unsociable for this. Of course, I’ve managed to surround myself with extroverts in my friendship group – but alone? Not for me.
“Kill me now,” I mutter, as I step cautiously into the main area with warm lighting and a spotless, glimmering bar one full side of the room.
I just wanted a quiet drink on my own.
I wonder if there is a way out the opposite direction. Or maybe I can buy a drink then vanish outside. I glance around only to see a sign that says no glass on the deck.
If I want a drink, I’m stuck. I can hardly stay in my room on the first night of the cruise, what a sorry tale that would be. My sisters would never let me live it down.
I’m having fun. This is fun. I need to relax.
I take a barstool and make myself small. It’s clear this cruise is mostly older couples who I would guess to be in their late fifties, early sixties. And, from the way they’re interacting, I assume a few of them know each other too.
It’s like I’m in some kind of fancy country club.
I suddenly feel quite isolated. I down the flute of champagne before one of the waitstaff spots me and brings me a glass of wine he recommends from my preferred tastes. He’s good. It’s delicious, fruity and fresh.
Another guest comes to the bar, a stool scraping across the marble floors a few feet to my right. The barman is quick to greet them, quicker than he was with me.
“Just a beer please, bud,” he says. I recognise the accent, the gentle twang. He must be from Bristol or the Southwest of England. A relatively normal accent compared to the poshies chatting behind me.
I allow myself a quick glance and find a tall, handsome man with swept-back, light brown curls. He’s in a light blue shirt and loose denim shorts. He catches me looking and smiles politely. I half-expect a pretty woman to be flanking his side, maybe she’s still getting ready.
His smile lingers.
Wait.
What the fuck?!
It’s the guy from earlier. The oaf! “You!” I hiss. He raises his left brow. I don’t think he recognises me – yet. Of course he doesn’t, because that’ssoon brand for a rude knob who spills a lady’s drink and ruins her dress. He’s about to say something but I’m not interested, I’m on holiday, I’m not getting into something with some random idiot in thisgorgeous, peaceful bar, so I shake my head and look away, feigning interest in the cocktail menu.
“Excuse me?” A soft hand touches my shoulder. I spin to find a tiny old lady who must be in her eighties glancing up at me with polite curiosity. She’s dressed in a lilac skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. I open my mouth to say hello but she’s already talking again, “Are you and your husband planning on joining us? You’re very welcome to.”
