He drives the coast road as if it were a motorway. I hold my breath as the car careens around bends, praying we don’t meet a tractor, or worse, veer left and end up in the salt water. Sheep graze in small fields to our right, hemmed in by low, stone walls. The sun is trying to come out between the clouds. Even that manoeuvre seems tricky.
I think of past trips to this hotel, some before I’d even met him. A December wedding, frost thick on the ground, a lethal totter in high heels. A birthday afternoon tea, all crustless sandwiches and tasteless gossip. A Confirmation celebration of in-laws and out-laws, complete with pastel-coloured cake, the icing sickly sweet.
Our ration of words for the day has been used up. It would be preferable to send emojis – monkey with his head in his paws, exploding/smoking brain, sad face with one tear.
Our car struggles up the hill to the parking area. We get out, stretch our limbs, and inhale the sea air. He hauls our overnight bags from the boot. We tug them along, the wheels clattering on tarmac.
There’s a queue at reception. When it’s finally our turn, the girl at the desk chats away, as if she went to school with us, and hands over the swipe card.
In the deluxe bedroom, there is still silence between us. As he unpacks his bag and hangs his clothes, I’m half expecting the red, silky dress to slip out between his jeans and snazzy dinner jacket. And now that I conjure up that garment again, I cannot un-see it.
He gazes out at the ocean, as foam spills up onto the road.
‘Happy anniversary,’ he says.
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