Page 54 of Postscript

‘I never said I wanted to climb Mount Everest.’ He pushes the brochure closed and it closes on my finger.

‘Ow.’

He stands up and leaves the table. But there’s nowhere really to go, we’re in our first flat, a one-bedroom with a small living space. Flat is rather a grand description; it’s more of a bedsit. Our bedroom has a wall that doesn’t reach the ceiling but separates sleeping from living. Gerry paces the small space there is to walk between the couch and the TV, like a caged lion. I can see he’s about to explode.

‘Why do you have to be so lazy, Holly?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re lazy,’ he says, louder.

‘A beach holiday isn’t lazy, it’s relaxing. Something you don’t actually know how to do.’

‘We’ve had five of these holidays already. Five different hotels on five different islands and they all look exactly the same. There’s no culture.’

I laugh at this, which makes him even angrier. I should let it go but … ‘I’m sorry I’m not as cultured as you are, Gerry.’ I open a brochure. ‘OK, let’s go to Ethiopia, live a nomad life in a desert camp and join the local tribe.’

‘Shut up!’ he roars.

I wait until the veins stop protruding in his neck.

‘Look,’ I begin again, calmly. ‘There’s a place in Lanzarote. It’s a beach resort but it also does boat trips. You can go see dolphins and whales. They even have a volcano, and you can take a coach tour to see it.’

I hold the brochure up.

‘I saw that when I was ten years old,’ he mumbles, but at least he’s calmer. ‘If you want to see dolphins and whales I’ll show you a place that has dolphins and whales.’ He leaps over the couch and sifts through the pile of magazines on the kitchen table. He reaches for the Alaska Adventure travel magazine.

‘I don’t care about dolphins and whales,’ I whine. ‘That bit was for you. There are no beaches in Alaska.’

He slams the brochure on the table. I jump with fright. Then he picks it up again and this time throws the brochure on the linoleum floor that’s burned and bubbling from previous owners’ cooking disasters. The magazine makes quite the bang.

‘Gerry.’

‘Let’s look at all the things you don’t want to do, and eliminate them, shall we?’

He throws another brochure on the ground, harder this time. ‘Iceland. That’s boring, is it? Glaciers and hot springs are so shit. No beach. Peru,’ he slams another on the floor. ‘Who wants to see Inca trails and the highest lake in the world? Not you. Cuba, what a shithole,’ he throws that on the floor too.

With each thud, I think of the couple beneath us.

He throws a few more down at the same time. Extra loud. The floor’s vibrations rattle the stove.

‘But here we go.’ He lifts the holiday brochure up in the air like a trophy. ‘Two weeks getting drunk and sunburned with a bunch of hen and stag parties, surrounded by English-speaking people and eating burgers and chips. That sounds like an adventure.’

He throws it back down on the table.

I look at it, eyes wide, heart pounding at his behaviour.

‘I want to do something different, Holly. You need to leave your comfort zone. Be braver, be more exciting! Open your mind!’

I am currently so thoroughly pissed off with everything – the wedding arrangements, the invitations, the RSVPs, the deposits, this shit flat, with Gerry, with getting a mortgage for a new house – that I don’t bother holding my tongue. And why should I, my husband-to-be has just accused me of being lazy, and boring.

‘I am leaving my comfort zone, Gerry. I’m marrying you, you absolute psycho.’

‘Nice,’ he says, straightening up.

He leaves the flat and I don’t see him for two days.

I’m still daydreaming on the couch when my phone rings and Denise’s profile image, wide-eyed, with a chocolate profiterole stuffed halfway into her mouth, fills my screen.