Air Kisses (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Honolulu airport was slightly underwhelming. Especially at 11 p.m., when you’ve just flown a long way to hang out with a man who’s nowhere to be seen, even though your flight was twenty minutes late.

I sat down outside near the taxi rank and contemplated what I should do if he didn’t show. I tried calling his mobile, but it rang out. A mild feeling of panic twinkled through me. I suddenly wanted a cigarette very badly. I contemplated asking for one from a weathered old taxi driver who was leaning against his car nearby, but he saw me looking, and shuffled over with his crumpled Kools outstretched. I hoped all Hawaiians could mind-read; it’d make for a very easy holiday.

‘You want one, pretty lady?’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. Face like yours have anything it desires.’

‘Oh, thank you. I wouldn’t normally, but… I’m a bit anxious. The guy who’s picking me up…’

‘If a man love a woman, he never late. He wait with roses.’

‘Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, we’re just, he’s… I’m just…’

‘You don’t need explain to me. But for happy life, whenever you fall in love with man, let him love you more than you love him. That the key to happy love, and good life.’

And with that he looked over my shoulder, nodded to a Japanese couple and helped them heave their suitcases into his car. He glanced over at me before he got in and nodded with a smile.

I sat there, inhaling a cigarette, and wondered if I had just met an angel. His words were almost too movie-like prophetic for me to take in, but I couldn’t deny they struck a chord. All of my relationship rules, all that stuff about keeping your emotions in bubble wrap and making men work for you, to prove they’re worthy of receiving even the first password to your heart, now looked to be merely a chintzy effort at explaining what a funny little Hawaiian taxi driver had known all along: that to be happy you needed to let go, and let your man adore you.

I smiled at the simplicity of it. I wasn’t about to fool myself into thinking I was ready to be so graceful about matters of the heart just yet; I still had some work to do on myself and my somewhat, uh, tainted perception of men. And, as Dan’s foul post-fling behaviour had shown me, I still needed to be
on guard, to cocoon myself in my code of conduct so as not to wind up a disillusioned love-fool – forever disappointed, forever getting hurt. My current instinct about having any semblance of a relationship with Dan was roughly as strong as a wet paper bag, but I figured that as long as I knew this, I was allowed to enjoy the roller-coaster ride I’d signed up for by coming here. At least I now had a more emotionally intelligent blueprint to work from when I was ready to give unconditionally again. Whenever that might be.

Following on from my emotional epiphany, as though in some form of bespoke symphony, a white stretch limousine pulled up and a driver in a suit stepped out. He was carrying a card that said ‘Princess Atkins’. Dan’s nickname for me. I almost choked on the smoke wafting out of my mouth.

I leapt up. ‘Driver, I think that’s me.’

‘Miss Princess Atkins?’

‘Um, ahem, yes.’

He smiled and came over to get my suitcase.

‘Apologies for the delay, ma’am. Awful accident on the freeway.’

‘Is Dan with you?’

‘Mr Daniel is waiting for you at the destination. Please, allow me.’

And, as he opened the door, I wished the taxi driver were here to see this.

Around twenty minutes later we pulled into the ‘destination’ – the W hotel, just out of Waikiki. The driver handed me a swipe card and told me he’d send the bag up to my room. I raced straight into the lobby bathroom and touched up a face that needed an entirely fresh start, but wouldn’t be given such a luxury. My heart was racing as I
applied concealer to ferocious under-eye bags, cheek crème to flush my cheeks and a thick layer of gloss. That was as fresh as I was getting. I sprayed on some Michael Kors – Dan loved it and I wanted to cement my signature scent in his mind like the little perfume bandit I was.

As I knocked on a door bearing the number written on my swipe card, I was sure I could actually hear my heart pounding.

The door opened.

‘Mish H, you rook amazhing.’

Dan opened the door with a rose in his mouth. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My hand went to my chest and my mouth fell open in a very unladylike fashion. He made a show of spitting out the rose, swept me up and gave me a big kiss.

‘
So good to see you again
, you beautiful little thing. How was your flight?’

‘It was… I mean this whole thing is… The car, the rose, the room… Are you for
real
?’

‘Being a gigolo, you learn how to work the ladies, if you know what I mean.’ He winked and nodded lecherously. ‘I pull this gear all the time. Last night I used a hot-air balloon and dancing polar bears.’

‘You’re mad. But so good…thank you so much. But I should warn you – if you’re going to propose, I only accept pink diamonds. And no less than five carat.’

‘But I thought you’d like copper and Swarovski crystals? I had no idea you were so shallow.’

My nerves melted the moment we started bantering. He was still Dan, and I was still me, and I still loved the way he carried on. Plus, the rose… Was that some bizarre little sign from the universe? I mean, after the taxi driver’s call about roses…

I couldn’t think that way. I was here to have fun, and be wild, and live
la vida loca
and all that Ricky Martin jazz. No strings meant no thinking long-term things. I was Sexy Magazine Girl, doing the kind of thing people expected her to be doing – drinking champagne in jacuzzis at 4 a.m. and that sort of caper.

My phone crowed.

‘Turn it off or your husband will use GPS to track you down.’

I giggled as I checked the message. It was Gabe.

Bless him.

‘Am I allowed to respond?’

‘To your husband? No. Your kids? I guess. But only if they have a life-threatening disease.’ He was speaking like he was the psychopath from a James Bond movie, while filling champagne glasses and arranging fruit and cheese on a platter.

‘It’s the plague.’

Deep sigh. ‘I sup
pose
.’

God, he was excellent. I’d forgotten how fun he was, how much fun we had, and how much fun was possible with him. Of course, he
would
have to live on the other side of the world.

The next morning, after a night of extreme drinking, starting with a bottle of Moët in the room, then cocktails,
shots and dancing downstairs at the W’s club, including Dan having a dance-off with several well-known NFL players, and winning due to his extremely crowd-pleasing body-popping, I was woken up just before eight to the sound of the Beach Boys singing ‘
Let’s go surfing
…’ at a level that would be more appropriate at, say, an outdoor concert.

‘Rise and shine, sweet Hannah. We’ve got waves to catch.’

‘Are you…what? Why? Can’t we do it later? My head…’ I rolled over and covered my head with the pillow. Which Dan promptly thieved.

‘Sleep when you’re dead, baby! Right now it’s time to get those dainty hooves of yours onto the pristine sands and two-foot dribblers of Waikiki.’

‘Right now?’ My hangover clouded my vision and my desire to be alive. A sequence of mind-blowing thumps pounded throughout every nanometre of my brain. My stomach was churning. I felt as though a fire-truckload of water might
just
satisfy my parched mouth.

‘Oh darling…’ He came and stroked my shoulder and I melted, happy that I had changed his mind.

Two slaps on the arm and then, ‘Ten minutes to go. Your lesson with a super-awesome surfing legend is at eight-thirty. Come on, princess, time to roll.’ With that, he ripped the sheets off the bed, forcing me to scramble for something, anything.

‘All
right
. I’m
coming
.’ I irritably pulled things out of my suitcase, looking for my bikini and some shorts. Of course, because I was hung over, all I could find were underpants and a collection of stupid paisley-print sarongs that I knew I wouldn’t wear but had packed because you always pack
sarongs when you’re off on a beach holiday.

‘You’re adorable when you’re angry. Especially when you take it out on harmless g-strings. Coffee?’ He had already brewed a pot and was sipping some.

He was impossible to be angry at.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘Paddle, paddle, PADDLE! Two hands, faster, faster, come on, put your back into it, come on, Han, go, GO, up, up, get up, jump, yes, YES, bend, bend…no…face the beach, the beach, not me, the bea—’

‘I AM…ah, ahh, ahhhhh!’

I fell off the back of a canoe masquerading as a surfboard.
Again
. No matter how good a teacher Dan was, and how small and easy the waves at Waikiki were, I just kept falling off. And because I was so hung over, getting back on the board and paddling back to where he was had become a colossal task that I had to undertake every few minutes. My head thumped and my guts were churning slowly.

‘Nice arse.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Seriously – I love the way your bikini rides up your bum every time you jump up on the board. I’d do you for a dollar, put it that way.’

‘Daniel. I’m shocked. I cost at least double that, thank you.’

He brought our boards together, forming a bridge with his arms. The sun was shining in his eyes, and his hair was falling over his face in a way that takes stylists hours to achieve.

‘Did you know this area was once full of dolphins? Back before this place was colonised by the…’

He was in his element. The surf was his second home, and he loved it with a passion that, ridiculously, made me a little jealous. He tried to teach me about the swell, the technique, the correct way to paddle; no surfing stone was left unturned. I was less than vaguely interested but nodded and smiled continuously until – whoa. I didn’t feel so good. I felt really, really not good, in fact.

‘Uh, Dan… I think I might be…’

Just as my wave of nausea manifested into vomit, a wave of water came and knocked my board up, back and into me. This wasn’t very helpful, as I was doing my best to be sick on the opposite side to where Dan was, only now there were no sides, just water and boards and vomit. All in one spectacularly mortifying moment, I found myself treading water, trying to hold on to my board, struggling not to take in any water as my body urgently expelled the remnants of the last night’s 264 alcoholic beverages.

It felt like I might die at any second: there were far too many input and output issues, not to mention the whole flotation thing. It shocked me to realise that in the moments
when I was gulping air and not actually being sick I was still trying to look ladylike in front of Dan, holding my hair back and aiming my sick into an area I hoped he wasn’t.

And then another wave came, bigger than the last one. I got smashed, tumbling around under the whitewash, my leg rope tugging my board and my leg with it.

Suddenly I felt arms around me, holding me up straight, and a hand pulling my hair back and telling me it was okay.

‘Dan, please, away, get away, you’ll get… swim away from here.’

I fought to get free, pulled my board back over to me and slumped onto it sideways, face down, breathing, just breathing.

‘Han, honey, it’s okay, it’s okay, the set has finished, just relax…I’ve got you, it’s okay.’

Even though I should have been feeling grateful to be alive, all I could summon up was indescribable embarrassment.

‘Did you just get covered in my…my…you know?’ I asked Dan, still breathing heavily and pushing my hair out of my face to wipe the inevitable tears that follow being sick.

‘Kind of, but
everyone’s
doing it. It’s the new matching tattoo.’

I smiled and closed my eyes. I concentrated on breathing and being still.

‘Can I go in now? I think I’m done.’

‘Nah, come on, Han – few more waves, you’ll be fine. You’re doin’ great! Seriously! Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Dan! Are you for real? I just want to go back to the goddamn beach!’

‘Stop being so dramatic, you’ll be fine.’ His tone was suddenly dismissive and irritated.

I squinted at him, incredulous, but he had already gone and climbed back onto his board.

‘I’m going back to the shore. I’ve had enou—’

I broke off as I noticed he had put his feet at the back end of his board and was gripping the nose of mine. Then he started paddling swiftly towards the shore. He turned his head and smiled. ‘Of course we’re going in, beautiful. I’m just screwing with you.’

I nodded my head and smiled. My mouth tasted awful. I washed some saltwater into it in what was a very silly move. Now it tasted bad
and
I was exceptionally thirsty.

The rest of the day was spent under heavy sedation. A big room-service breakfast, a nap, a movie, and then sushi on the beach at sunset. I felt almost human by bedtime.

The remainder of the week was not nearly so dramatic, or restful. We flew to Maui, we drove to the northern beaches, we shopped, we ate squid and ice cream, we swam, we went surfing again (sans hangover), and I noticed that on more than one occasion I was feeling dangerously similar to how I’d felt about Dan back when I first met him. Whenever these romantic, idyllic thoughts shuffled into my mind, I belted them with a large baseball bat emblazoned with the words, ‘Remember What Happened Last Time, Stupid’. The big, fat reality check Dan had served me after we’d previously kissed goodbye was waiting for me at the end of this meal too, and to think otherwise was foolish.

Oh, but the heart is a formidable opponent for the head. The idea of flying home after a week of decadence, sexiness, fun, and, well, Dan-ness gave me a sick feeling. I could sense that, despite all instruction, my walls had begun to crumble again, to the point where I was initiating cuddles and kisses
in public and leading him to the bedroom friskily, and accidentally starting sentences with the phrase ‘Next time’, even though there was absolutely no guarantee there would be such a thing, and it would be much, much more helpful to think there certainly wasn’t.

He said, ‘You’re not going home, you’re coming back to LA with me,’ so often that I actually, foolishly, started considering it. Could I do it? Was it one of those life-changing decisions I would regret forever? Was I just caught up in the whole funnymoon aspect of the trip? I decided that if he asked me seriously, then I would think about it seriously. Rather, if he could remember me once I’d sashayed through customs, then I would think about it seriously.

‘Gorgeous girl, are you ready to roll? We’ve got rockshrimp dynamite to eat.’

It was our last night together; I would fly out in mere hours. I was wearing clothes suitable for a plane ride – jeans, singlet and hoodie – so, on top of feeling incredibly clingy, I was hot, uncomfortable and irritated.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming… My bag won’t close… I can’t… bastard won’t…’ The more I tugged at the zip, the less it moved and the more upset I became.

‘Babe, settle – here, let me do it.’

‘I’m fine, Dan, I’ll get it… It’s gotta close eventually…just don’t understand why it won’t… SHIT!’

I had completely pulled the zip away from the zipper. The bag was now broken. I stared at the zip in my hand and felt tears spring to my eyes. Irrational tears over a metal clasp.

‘Han? You okay? Here, give me that, I’m sure we can get it back on there.’

As I sniffed back a tear, he tilted my face up to his. ‘Han,
baby, it’s okay. We’ll fix it, and if we don’t, we’ll tie it all up and bag it at the airport. It’s cool, this stuff happens all the time… Don’t cry, baby…’ He took me into his arms and stroked my hair.

‘I don’t think I’m crying about the bag, Dan.’

‘What’s up then? Oh… I get it… I see. It’s because you’re flying economy class, isn’t it?’

I laughed through my tears and wiped my eyes, trying to compose myself. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s cool, really.’ He always joked when he could sniff a waft of conversational seriousness, and I certainly wasn’t about to be the sole soppy loser this time.

Neither of us spoke for a minute.

‘I don’t want you to go either, Han.’ Genuineness suddenly reflected in Dan’s eyes, his voice and his grip on me. ‘I’m going to miss you so much. And all week I’ve been racking my brains as to what might happen after tonight, how soon I can come back to see you, or how I can get you to come and stay with me in LA… But all I could come up with is that I have to see you again. Soon. Tuesday, preferably. You’re my little Vomiting Gidget.’

Utterly shocked at his honesty, I nervously laughed, but he kissed me by way of stopping me. We kissed with our eyes open, and it felt like my flight and the hotel room and the broken bag disappeared, and all that remained was us. Tears fell down my face and I broke the kiss to hug him closely again. How could I leave this? What would happen next? Would he pull the same bullshit move on me as last time? Should I bring it up? No. Words spoke far louder than actions – telling him he’d upset me wouldn’t make him contact me more, it would only make him feel obligated to contact me more, which, in my mind, was even worse.

‘C’mon, beautiful.’ He pulled away and looked at me. ‘No point wasting our last moments carrying on. Let’s enjoy our night, pretend like it’s our first. And when you get home, know I’ll be thinking of your brown little kicker on a surfboard.’

The fact that he had slipped back into joke-mode signalled the ‘deep stuff’ was over. I took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. Let’s tie this stupid bag up and go.’

‘See? That’s why I love you, babe, you don’t sook out.’

He was searching for something in the kitchen drawer to tie around my bag, and spoke as though he was asking where the scissors were.

Only
he’d said he loved me.

Could he mean it? Or was it just a phrase he bandied around? Lots of people did that. He probably didn’t even realise what he was saying. But, even as I was talking myself out of believing it, I was inwardly frenzied at the idea that he might’ve meant it. Talk about throwing spanners.

‘Hey, Dan? No goodbyes at the airport, okay? I hate them. We have to make out as though I’m just catching a bus to work or something.’

‘Or going to the bathroom?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Can we make out for a bit first?’

‘Guess so.’

‘Then okay. Even though I’ll be a mess when you go through those gates. Especially as you look so good in those jeans. I’ll have to take Xanax tonight, you realise.’

‘I’m gonna get drunk at the airport bar,’ I said resolutely. ‘Talk to the barman about how sad and lonely I am, make the pianist play me a Fleetwood Mac song.’

‘Don’t miss your flight, will you. I’d
hate
for that to happen and you’d have to stay another night. Or twelve.’

The idea of another night with him made me melt. But the reality was that I was heading home tonight. And might never see him again. And, ultimately, I had to try to forget about him as soon as possible. It was too much to bear.