I woke up with a big happy yawn, pulling the crisp white linen of my duvet down and stretching my sleepy legs. The sun was rushing into my apartment and the birds were chirping in the newly blossoming trees. I could just make out the soft, sweet smell of flowers on the warm morning breeze. Wow, this was the perfect spring morning. This was the perfect day to be getting married. I skipped out of bed; excited for the day ahead and then I saw it…

My wedding dress. Draped over the chair like a dead, decapitated duck.

Like a sledgehammer to my stomach, those four little words came slamming back. I scrambled for my cellphone. My frantic fingers slid across the touch screen, running through the twenty-two messages that were lighting it up. They were from my friends, family, co-workers, my pedicurist and even my mother’s psychic (who was clearly going to get fired!).

But nothing from Michael.

I logged onto Facebook, heart racing with anticipation, and went straight to his page. No new activity. I went to Twitter, also nothing. I checked to see if he was still following me, he was. I checked Instagram, but again, there was no recent sign of life. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the social media planet, which was completely unlike him. Michael couldn’t sharpen a pencil without Tweeting about it. He couldn’t buy a pair of shoelaces without Instagramming a picture of them, and he couldn’t scratch his head without sharing his thoughts on Facebook. It had been one of the only things I disliked about him. Past tense. Now there were many.

My mind went into overdrive as a series of disgusting thoughts battered their way in.

Where the flaming fuck was he? Was he holed up in a dodgy pay-by-the-hour hotel with some slutty, perspex shoe-wearing stripper with tassels and an STD? Was he partying up a storm, celebrating the fact that he’d missed the wedding, dodged a bullet?

I was grateful when the rich smell of coffee and fatty sausages being cooked yanked me back to reality and gave me something physical to focus on. Because I suddenly realised that I was starving. More hungry than I’d ever been in my entire life. I followed my growling stomach into the kitchen, where I found my friends and family keeping vigil around the table. A chorus of caring “Hellos” rang out. The only response I could muster was a half-hearted nod.

But it wasn’t long before they flocked. They’d always been overprotective that way. My doctor brother, Adam, rushed to my side with a glass of orange juice, a headache tablet and a prescription for those little white pills. I’m sure he would’ve taken my temperature, blood pressure and set up an IV if I’d let him. Val and Sue ushered me to a seat and even Buttons, my cat, rubbed herself at my ankles.

The loud click-clack of expensive heels marched past me, “I swear, don’t push me on this. I might just advise my client to seek damages on the grounds of emotional injury. Not to mention damages for the money spent on the wedding.” My sister-in-law, feisty lawyer and wearer of impossibly high heels, was shouting threats down her phone. She’d been trying to track him down all morning, speaking to every single one of his relatives, no matter how distant and thrice removed. But no luck. Michael was nowhere to be found and now she was threatening to sue everyone.

My stomach growled again, angry that I’d ignored it, and I pulled the plate of sausages towards me. I’d been dieting for months, trying to squeeze my naturally voluptuous figure into that dress, especially after Michael had pointed out a few extra creeping kilos. I hadn’t eaten saturated fat, or been in the same room as a carbohydrate for at least three months, and now… I was going to make up for it.

I grabbed the sausage between my trotters and shoveled it into my gaping beak, washing it down with the glass of orange juice and a butter-laden bagel. Everyone stared at me, but no one dared to speak.

“Val.” The sausage almost fell out of my mouth as I tried to talk. “Val, I need you to go down to the shops and buy me two, no, five Mars Bars, six bags of Jelly Babies and bread -- I need bread.” Right now, I needed bread like a junkie needed their early morning fix. If bread came in pill form, I would’ve swallowed the whole bottle. Before I’d even finished giving Val these instructions, I’d already started killing a crumpet, dripping it into syrup and practically inhaling it down. No one ventured to argue, or suggest that I shouldn’t mainline with pure sugar. Val jumped into action.

But the food could only push the emotions away for so long. I looked up at the clock. The minute hand seemed to be ticking in slow motion and I felt like I was trapped in a surreal dream, where the landscape was tilting and the clock face was melting down the kitchen wall like a Salvador Dali painting. It was hard to walk; my brain was struggling to send messages to my sluggish legs, which were now encased in psychosomatic concrete.

I crawled to the lounge and poured myself onto the couch, clutching a bag of newly arrived Jelly Babies. I needed a distraction. Badly. I flipped to the Reality Channel, confident that I would find solace there. Someone always had it worse; like the guy with four arms and wayward warts, or the person trapped in their house under the piles of magazines and toothbrushes that they’d been hoarding since 1966 -- or, better still, the woman who went into labour, while trapped on a steep cliff face in the Himalayas, or something equally as morbidly fascinating. But the current show was about a guy who baked cake, and unless his arm got trapped in the electric mixer and he was forced to gnaw it free with his teeth, I wasn’t interested.

I was happy when my family finally left and Sue and Val joined me.

“So now what?” The tears welled up again. “What do I do next?”

“I don’t know sweetie,” Sue took me by the hand. “But we’re here for you, whatever you need.”

“Whatever!” Val echoed the sentiment and took my other hand. I felt mildly better knowing that they were there for me. I thought back to the time that Val and I had rallied around Sue when she’d found her boyfriend in bed, literally, with another woman. At the time she didn’t think she would survive the pain and humiliation, but she’d come through it fine. More than fine actually, she’d recently landed a job as an intern at a glamorous magazine where she got copious amounts of free face cream. And she'd just started dating a med student -- or, as we liked to call him, future McDreamy.

Maybe I would be okay too? One day.

But right now, the future looked pretty damn bleak.

“Why did he do this?” I angrily bit the head off a Jelly Baby and obliterated it between my molars. “But I love him,” I wailed, vacillating between anger and desperation.

But neither of them could give me an answer. My mind replayed our last interaction over and over again. We’d eaten breakfast together two mornings ago before I’d checked into the hotel. We’d drunk espresso. We’d chatted about the wedding and what to do if my mother got drunk and started singing show tunes.

He’d kissed me goodbye.

He’d told me he loved me.

He’d said he couldn’t wait to see me walking down the aisle.

So what the hell had happened?

Maybe he was having an affair? But how? We practically lived together. Maybe it was something more benign; perhaps he was just scared? Or maybe he was worried about marrying a woman he’d never taken out for a test drive. I wasn’t exactly the most sexual person, and had also liked the idea of losing my virginity on my wedding night. Twenty-three and still a virgin! It all seemed so stupid and pathetic now in the face of so many 'maybes'.

I dismembered another Jelly Baby and that’s when I noticed my engagement ring. The perfect, two- carat, heart-shaped diamond made my stomach churn and I ripped it off my finger, leaving a red mark behind. We all stared at it for a moment in absolute silence, and then Val spoke.

“Pawn it. Sell it and buy yourself something awesome. Like a Porsche.” Michael was pretty flashy with money, and my ring was no exception.

“No!” Sue jumped in excitedly. “Let's burn it in a sacrificial fire. In fact, let's burn everything of his, starting with those revolting corduroy pants he always insisted on wearing!”

I studied my ring. It was so beautiful. And I hated it.

It reminded me of him and the empty promises he’d made. In fact, everything reminded me of him. His presence was rudely painted across everything I owned. The couch I was lying on, the TV that he’d hung on the wall, the carpet he used to trip on and the happy, beach-holiday photos of us on the coffee table.

Oh my God, the honeymoon! We were meant to be leaving for Thailand this afternoon! We had very expensive, paid-for-in-full reservations for the honeymoon suite at The White Sands Hotel and Spa. I cringed at the thought.

“I can’t take this anymore. I have to phone him.” I pulled my phone out and started dialing the number that felt ingrained in my DNA. But before I could finish, Val snatched it away.

“Wait. Just think about this for a second. What are you going to say to him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Won’t talking to him just make it worse?” Sue offered, “And what if he doesn’t answer? No one’s been able to get hold of him. Or what if he tells you something you’re not strong enough to hear right now?” Sue’s tone was sensitive now.

“Like what?” I felt my stomach tighten into sickening knots. “Do you think there’s someone else?”

They both hugged me. “I don’t know, sweetie. But I do know it’s a bad idea to phone him now. Give yourself a little time to calm down. Besides, you can barely think straight, let alone hold a conversation, thanks to your brother's magic white pills.”

I knew they were right.

“Fine. I won’t call him, but I need a drink.”

“Um… I don’t think that’s a good idea either, remember what your brother said. No alcohol.”

“Fine. Then bring me another chocolate!”

*****

There are moments in a person’s life that change everything. Shake things up. Steer you in a different direction and push you onto another course, towards different people, places and things. These moments don’t come around often, but when they do, they rip through the very fabric of your world.

I knew that this was one of those moments. I knew this, because I’d had one of them before when I was twelve.

Ever since that age, I’d known exactly what I wanted from life. I had planned it down to a T, to the second, to the minutest detail imaginable. The reason for this, I guess, was that I’d been shown a very good example of how not to live -- thanks to my dramatic mother. She was a theatre actress of some fame and status, which was something she liked to remind everyone of… constantly. After she divorced my dad when I was five, I endured what can only be described as hell. We moved around constantly, from one play to the next, one rehearsal to the next, one man to the next. The musician, the actor, the director, her yoga teacher, her voice coach and even some magician who turned out to be a criminal. When they locked him up, he vowed to escape, “no handcuff could hold him”. To my knowledge he’s still there.

My mother had terrible taste in men. She was drawn to bad men like a hippie was drawn to tie-dye T-shirts and world peace. She also had some rather terrible hobbies; drunken, scantily clad parties laced with cocaine were a regular occurrence. On many occasions, while on my way to school, I’d have to navigate my way through a sea of unconscious bodies lying limp and littered across our lounge floor. My dad finally won the custody battle when I was twelve, and that’s when everything changed for the better.

I moved into an ordered world of perfect symmetry and seamlessly structured routine. A beautiful neat home with a step-mom who drove me to school and cheered me on at hockey practice and two older step-brothers who adored me. We took holidays twice a year to the same place, our beach cottage on the Natal Coast, and ate the same meals on the same days of the week. My new life was predictable and I loved it. My 'new' family took me under their wing as if I were a damaged little bird, which at the time I was.

I loved my new life so much that I vowed mine would be exactly the same. Everything would have its place and everything would fall in line with my plan.

Michael had been part of that plan.

Law school. Work at my dad’s firm. Married by 25 (at the latest). First child by 26. Two boys and two girls. Live in a double-storey house in a leafy suburb not too far away from my family. Holidays at the cottage. Roast chicken on Sundays.

But in less than twenty-four hours, my entire plan had gone up in a puff of stinking smoke. I wasn’t just 'not getting married', I was losing everything that I’d meticulously planned for since the age of twelve. And then another thought hit me. A memory that made my body ache.

“Won’t it be romantic if we conceived our baby on our honeymoon?” Michael had said one night.

I rubbed my throat. The lump that was forming made it hard to swallow. And then to add insult to injury, cruel fate decided to kick me in the ribs as one of those two-ply toilet paper adverts came on TV. It featured a chubby, cooing toddler and a puppy frolicking together in the soft pieces of paper. Could this day get any worse? Or had that bitch, Karma, decided to play a sick joke on me?

"Ha, ha... let's make her spend a fortune on the wedding, get her all dressed up, invite everyone she knows and then humiliate her by changing the groom's mind! Hahaha!"

I started to cry again. I grabbed the remote and randomly pressed buttons. I went past a soap opera, past a talk show, at least two different Kardashians, and another stupid reality show about rich housewives with big boobs and then I stopped on the Nature Channel…

Swirling, turquoise waters. White sands made luminescent by a low-hanging tropical sun. Massive palms, swaying seductively in the cool sea breeze and gentle waves lapping on the shore. It all looked so peaceful. So beautiful and, most importantly, so remote.

So, so far away from the farce that had just become my life.

And then a thought hit me. It was so decisive, and it slammed into me with such force that I almost fell off the couch in shock. It was also, by far, the craziest thought I’d ever had in all my twenty-three years on this planet. A part of me couldn’t believe it was even mine.

I was going to go on my honeymoon! Alone.

I leapt off the couch, suddenly imbued with purpose. I ran into my bedroom and rummaged through the drawers for my passport and ticket. Crap! The flight was leaving in a few hours. My brain went into hyper-drive trying to upload the list of everything I needed to pack. I tore around my apartment tossing whatever I could find into a bag. I grabbed Buttons and dropped her off at my neighbour, a lonely old woman with a purple rinse who loved nothing more than painting my cat's claws and knitting her little jerseys.

I thought about my friends and family. I knew they’d be worried and wouldn’t want me to go. So I decided it would be better to sent them an SMS from the plane, when it would be too late to talk me out of it. I typed the message so it would be ready to send.

Guys, I’m going on my honeymoon by myself. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. Love you all and thanks for the support. XX

An hour and fifteen minutes later I was tearing through international departures at the airport like a woman possessed. The gates where about to close and I was officially the last person to board the plane, and judging by the death stares being thrown my way, the other passengers weren't pleased I'd kept them waiting. But quite frankly, I didn’t care.

Out of breath, I collapsed into my chair, pressed 'send message', fastened my seatbelt, sat back and tried to relax.

But I couldn’t.

I felt unnerved. I had an eerie feeling that I was being watched. And I was. I turned to investigate and was met by a pair of dark, almost black, piercing eyes. Pitch-black hair framed angular, unusual features, which came together in the most dangerous face I’d ever seen. He was dressed in black. Black sneakers, black pants and an old, faded black shirt that gave off a distinctly “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. I could see the hard geometric lines of a tattoo peeping out of his sleeve. A black leather cuff was fastened around one of his wrists, just above another tattoo running the length of his forearm. He was clearly a drug addict, or a drummer in a Goth band, and he was definitely depressed and into Vampire movies! His face was cold and serious, but then…

...Then…

The corners of his mouth curved into the slightest, crooked smile as he glanced from my feet, to my face, and back again. I felt the lick of his eyes on my skin as he gave me the once, twice, over. And although I was fully clothed, I’d never felt more naked in my entire life. I turned away as quickly as possible, but even with my back to him, I could still feel his probing, dark eyes.

And then indignation rose up inside me; who the hell did he think he was looking at me like that? I decided the best way to deal with this situation was to turn around and face him with all the defiance I could muster. So I swung around with bravado, my accusing eyes met his and I surprised myself when a word came tumbling out.

“What?” I glared at him.

His smile grew bigger, and a twinkle illuminated his black eyes as he looked down at my feet. My eyes followed his and that’s when I came face to face with two pairs of googly eyes. They were attached to two pink fluffy bunnies, with cute pink noses and big floppy ears.

I was wearing my slippers!

I could feel my face going red-hot with embarrassment. My eyes looked from my slippers to my pants and then up to my top. And I realised that I wasn’t just wearing my slippers…

…I was wearing my pyjamas!