But my mind isn’t in wintry Dublin. Or in the eternal summer of the Caribbean. It’s in Florence.
‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ asks Celeste.
I can’t remember the last time I was genuinely hungry, but I nod, and we lock the door behind us before making our way along the curving pathway, past the beach to the main hotel dining room. I’ve done this walk a thousand times on the virtual tour of the White Sands website, so even in darkness, everything seems familiar. The dining room is calm and spacious, divided up by tropical plants and with warm, intimate lighting.
One of the waiters brings us to a table in a corner, and I wonder if he’s been given instructions to tuck us away out of sight, lest anyone realise I’m the woman who’s been dumped. I know this is a ridiculous thought, but I can’t help having it. I pick up the menu and look at it, although I’m really looking at the other diners, thinking that they’re all on their dream holiday while I’m here being miserable.
My phone pings, and I glance at it, hoping for a moment that perhaps it’s a message from Steve to tell me that he’s sorry and that he’s missing me and that he hates Florence and is on the way to the Caribbean right now. I picture him walking up to me and sweeping me into his arms, telling me he can’t live without me and insisting that the wedding must go ahead as we’d planned. Even as those thoughts flicker through my mind, I wonder how I’d react. After all, no matter how badly I might be managing it, I’m trying to get over him. Besides, what would happen to Celeste, who’s sharing the room with me? Where would she go? (Even if I’m hopelessly romantic about some things, I’m also eminently practical. Steve turning up would be a disaster. Though certainly something to write home about!)
The message is actually from my phone provider telling me about the extortionate charges for roaming services, so I switch off my mobile data, although I don’t plan to venture further than the resort with its excellent Wi-Fi.
‘Everything OK?’
I nod, though I’m a bit tired of Celeste asking me that. I know she means well, but I’m on my fecking honeymoon with her, so it’s hardly going to be OK, is it?
‘I think I’ll have the red snapper.’ She closes the menu. ‘What about you?’
‘The Caesar salad.’
‘Why don’t you try something a bit more substantial?’
‘I’m more tired than hungry,’ I tell her. ‘It’s been a long day.’
Which is true. We were up early this morning for our eight-hour flight, and of course we’re now four hours behind GMT, so even though my watch is telling me it’s 7.30, my body thinks it’s half past eleven.
‘I was tired until I started reading the menu.’ Celeste grins. ‘But it’s so exciting!’
Celeste is a chef, and so the White Sands, with its reputation for fine dining and excellent cuisine, is like heaven to her. I know she’s not happy that my engagement was broken off, but she’s ecstatic about being on my honeymoon.
The food arrives, and while she attacks her red snapper with enthusiasm, I pick at the salad and check out our fellow diners. Most of the tables are occupied by couples; the White Sands isn’t a couples-only resort, but with the whole wedding vibe thing it has going, it’s very much geared towards romance rather than families. If you’re having a big wedding, they provide private dining, keeping the public dining rooms from being taken over by groups of revellers. As Steve and I had planned to come here by ourselves, we would have had a room-service dinner on our balcony overlooking the sea, with our very own waiter for the evening. It would have been perfect.
Among the couples sitting in the restaurant, I decide that the youngest two, who only have eyes for each other, are newly-weds. They’re both wearing very shiny wedding bands and her engagement ring is glittering in the light of the table lamp. I’m reckoning some of the older diners might be celebrating anniversaries; they’re not quite as besotted as the newly-weds, but there’s an empathy between them even when they’re sitting in silence. Along with the couples, there are also a few intergenerational families, although no children. At what can only be described as the best table in the room, in a small corner that juts out over the sea, is the only solitary diner, a man who could be anything between forty-five and fifty-five. His face is tanned and his silver-grey hair far thicker and more luxuriant than you’d expect on someone that age. His eyes, behind heavy horn-rimmed glasses, are a surprising arctic blue. His navy linen shirt is open at the neck and the sleeves are rolled up, revealing a slim watch on his left wrist and a selection of leather bands on his right. He looks vaguely familiar, but even after staring at him for longer than is polite, I can’t tell how.
‘Well, I don’t know.’ Celeste shrugs when I wonder aloud where I’ve seen him before. ‘Someone you stopped at the port, perhaps?’
I’m a customs officer, so I stop a lot of people at Dublin Port on a daily basis, usually truck drivers. And it’s not that I can profile someone simply by looking at them, but this man doesn’t look like a truck driver. Besides, I have a good memory for faces, and his isn’t one of my regulars.
‘I wonder why he’s on his own?’ I muse aloud.
‘Maybe whoever he’s with is joining him later,’ said Celeste.
‘Perhaps,’ I agree. ‘Or he could be a widower, returning to a place he and his wife once loved.’
‘That’s a bit sad,’ says Celeste. ‘Though I’m thinking if he’s a widower, he’s far more likely to be here with his new girlfriend than his melancholy thoughts.’
I tell her she has a heart of stone. I’m not sure why I’m so convinced he’s alone, but there’s something about him . . . I flinch as he looks up from the Kindle he’s reading and his eyes meet mine. I don’t shift my gaze, and pretend I’m not looking at him but at the blackness of the sea behind him. Then, thankfully, a waiter appears with more iced water and I turn to him instead.
Celeste has almost finished her red snapper and I’ve eaten more of the salad than I expected, along with one of the small warm bread rolls that accompanied it. When the waiter appears again and asks about dessert, Celeste chooses cheesecake while I opt for some fruit.
‘If nothing else, I’d get into my wedding dress no problem now,’ I observe when she comments on my healthy choices.
‘You never had any problems with your wedding dress,’ she protests. ‘You looked fabulous in it.’
She was with me when I bought it. It’s hanging up in my wardrobe at home. When we get back, I’ll try to sell it online. I remind her it was always a bit tight but that it was very slinky.
She makes a face and scoops up the last of her cheesecake.
I pop a chunk of watermelon in my mouth.