Dom gave her the window seat and he took the middle one, because he was being all husbandly and gallant. He maybe regrets that decision now, like she regrets her underwear.
Wearing their wedding clothes had been so fun at the airport because they’d felt like celebrities. Eve could feel people’s eyes on her wherever she went. She’d liked the smiles and the waves and the comments, “Aww, young love!” but now she’s feeling the pressure of fame and wants her anonymity back. What if someone took a photo of her asleep just then with her mouth wide open and posted it online? With a nasty caption? UglyAssBride.
She sighs.
“You okay?” asks Dom again.
“Yup,” says Eve.
Oh my God, she sounded snappy. Eve had assumed that they would only speak in loving tones on their honeymoon. She knew they wouldn’t speak like that forever, but she thought they’d at least last the day.
“Sorry,” she says.
Dom doesn’t reply. He keeps tapping at his phone. “Hmm?”
“Don’t worry.” She pats his leg. His knees are just about touching the seat in front.
They should have maybe said yes to the people who offered them their business-class seats, but Eve wasn’t sure they were even serious. Like, what if they’d said “Sure thing” when they were meant to laugh because it was one of those weird older-generation jokes? How embarrassing. She and Dom both get awkward about that kind of stuff. Thinking ahead, Eve had asked her mother what the right etiquette was when they got to the hotel tonight. She has never checked in to a fancy hotel before. She’s only been to the mainland, like, twice in her life. She is not sophisticated. She doesn’t care. Okay, so she does care if people are secretly laughing at her.
“You sashay straight up to the desk and say your name,” said her mother. “I guess you’ll say, ‘I’m Mrs. Eve Archer-Fern, checking in to the honeymoon suite!’ Unless you’re going full-on retro and taking your husband’s first name as well as his last name? So then you’ll say, ‘I’m Mrs. Dominic Archer-Fern.’ ”
Eve’s mother can be bitchy. Supposedly it’s due to perimenopause (too much information, no need to share everything, Mum), but Eve reckons her mother might have been a mean girl at school. She denies that so vehemently, probably because she feels guilty.
Eve’s mother “doesn’t understand why girls these days are taking their husbands’ names like fifties housewives.” Eve’s mother is a single parent, an excited fan of the #MeToo movement, and a proud feminist. Eve isn’t not a feminist, and obviously well done everyone on #MeToo, although why did it take so long? It’s just that if she starts agreeing with her mother, where will it end? People already talk about how much they look alike. Will she start wearing quirky statement necklaces and complimenting strangers on their shoes? Will her hips become…you know, like her mum’s hips? There isn’t anything wrong with her mum’s body, it’s fine for her. Body positivity and all that. It’s just that Eve would rather die.
Eve’s mum looked appalled when she and Dom announced their engagement, which is not normal. Normal mothers cry with delight, press their hands to their mouths, and then walk toward their laughing daughters with outstretched hands. There is endless evidence of this online. Not Eve’s mum. She said, “But why? Just move in together! Getting married at your age is bizarre!”
Eve found the word “bizarre” to be hurtful.
She thought her mother liked Dom. How could she not like Dom? He’s objectively perfect.
They have signed a rental lease on an apartment in Glenorchy and set it all up, but they have not yet spent a night there. Dom is going to carry her over the threshold, which is not bizarre, it’s romantic.
Interestingly, once Eve’s mum accepted that the wedding was happening, she sure did have a lot of opinions about how it should proceed.
The baby is crying again. The noise level in the plane seems to be increasing. It feels like a party where everyone is subdued at first and then their voices start to rise along with their blood alcohol levels. Someone is literally shouting.
An announcement crackles: “Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for landing.”
“Not long now.” Dom puts down his phone and takes her hand, and Eve is relieved because she feels romantic and sexy and loving again.
Maybe she should try choking? According to her friend Liv it’s a rush. Liv says it’s like when they used to make themselves hyperventilate in Year 7. Eve should try not to be so vanilla. Get a bit freaky. She puts her hand to her neck and squeezes tentatively.
No! Oh my God, it’s definitely not for her. She only ever pretended to hyperventilate in Year 7. She drops her hands. She does not consent.
An old lady is standing in the aisle looking at her. She points directly at Eve as if she’s done something wrong.
“Um…” Eve looks nervously at Dom. What rule has she broken? She sits up straight.
“I expect intimate partner homicide. Age twenty-five.”
Chapter 21
I hope I didn’t spoil their honeymoon. Honeymoons are meant to be special.
Obviously there is no guarantee.
Mine, for example, was a disaster. I would never wish that on anyone.
Perhaps the bride wasn’t a believer. Supposedly, only four out of ten people believe in psychics. I can’t verify that statistic. It’s one of those “facts” I found floating about in the polluted sea of the internet. (To be clear: I love the internet in spite of the pollution.)
I think the truth is that feelings about psychic predictions can be as layered as a German Black Forest cake. Your rational mind says, Nonsense! Your subconscious says, What if it’s true?
Sometimes it depends on the time of day. A person who scoffs in the sunshine can wake with a pounding heart in the dark depths of the night.
I don’t know how the bride reacted to my terrible prediction. I don’t know if she was skeptical or angry or offended or frightened.
I don’t know if she remembered a particular incident, an incident she had been trying to forget, downplay, or justify, and thought, What if it’s true?
Chapter 22
Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for landing.
Someone has to respond to the flight deck to acknowledge the PA. Normally it would be Allegra, but she’s stuck in the middle of the airplane, stuck in the middle of what may be the worst flight of her career. If no one responds to the PA, they’ll do it again or phone the cabin to check if they’re okay, and are they okay? Because there is still no sign of Ellie and Anders, and meanwhile the injured guy sobs and the fortune teller trots merrily on. She is currently talking to the bride and groom.
Allegra turns stiffly to face the front of the plane, and thankfully there is Kim, drawing the business-class curtain back. Allegra signals “phone” with her hand. Kim gets it, nods. So that’s under control, and once again Allegra is walking down the aisle, her skirt damp against her thighs, trying not to breathe in the toxic, gut-twisting smell of that seemingly sweet child’s vomit. (Is there some in her hair?) “Could you put your tray table back up, please, sir? Could you open your window shade, please, madam?”
Cabin prep must still be done, even while a passenger distributes deathly predictions.
