I met my fiancé Michael, EX-fiancé I mean, when I was in my first year of law school. Just out of high school, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, full of youthful optimism and my half-full glass runneth over. Michael and I met at a very pretentious play, which might as well have been written in Greek, because I wasn’t able to extrapolate a single syllable of sense out of it. The play had been written, directed and acted in by my ex-stepsister; my mother briefly married a theatre director when I was five. The marriage lasted only eight months, but I still remain friends with my stepsister Stormy-Rain. (The story goes that Stormy was literally born in the rain, I’m not sure how true this is, but I always loved to tell everyone that.)

People are surprised that Stormy and I are friends, because she is the complete antithesis of me; for starters, she wears a lot of knitted scarves and crushed velvet (even in summer), she lives hand-to-mouth as a theatre actress, director, astrologer and fire juggler. Personally, I think we were forced to bond during those terrible eight months, when our parents were either violently fighting, or drunk, high and partying.

But as much as I love Stormy -- and I really do -- I’d been dreading her play all week. I’d never enjoyed, or understood, any of them and the evening always ended with the inevitable… “So what did you think?” I reflected on some of the answers I’d lavished on her over the years, you see, I had had the foresight to kidnap one of my mother's theatre books 'Acting for Theatre: The Joy of the Fourth Wall' and used it as a reference. This had furnished me with the following answers:

“Mmmmm, wow, you really took that character off the paper and reassembled her with a *profound three dimensional depth.”

or

“Mmmmm, wow, I thought the use of kitchen sink staging techniques really highlighted the fullness of your character and her *profound complexities.”

*Note: I use the word ‘profound’ a lot, because it is the word du jour with the theatre ilk.

But as usual, Stormy’s play confounded me. She rolled around on the stage a lot and cried out for her mother. She bathed herself in a tub of green water and rolled around on the stage some more. But that night had also been very different because I’d been seated next to the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.

Michael is good looking, no doubt about it. He’s tall, muscular and blond with blue eyes and an incredible smile, which was something I’d been looking forward to seeing when walking down the aisle. Although right now, I wished Michael looked more like a short, fat, hairy hobbit with Leprosy and a limp so he’d never be able to find another girlfriend again and would die a sad, lonely and pathetic death in a damp sewer somewhere.

But of course, he didn't look like any of those things.

The attraction between us had been instant and mutual, and we'd found ourselves stealing glances at each other throughout the play. During the second half, when he turned to me and whispered, “What the hell is going on?” I knew I wanted to get to know him better.

We went for coffee after the play and worked out that his brother was the graphic designer who’d made the poster for 'A Mother's Jealous Tears' -- obviously the reason for the green water -- and that he’d been given a free ticket and felt obliged to go. During our initial conversation, we established that he was an accountant (very professional), his family belonged to a Country Club (very respectable), he owned his own house (very upwardly mobile) and we enjoyed several of the same hobbies, TV shows, music and movies. We seemed to have the same ideals; he also wanted marriage and kids and dogs and a big house.

He was perfect. He ticked all my boxes. He crossed all my ‘T’s’ and dotted the ‘I’s’. It was even better when everyone said they liked him, my friends' and family’s approval had always been important to me, so when he’d started playing golf with my dad and my brothers, I knew I was in love.

And Michael said he felt the same way too.

The funny thing though, the thing I can’t wrap my head around, is that our relationship had been perfect. We never fought, conversation was always easy and we fell into a predictable, comfortable daily routine. So what had happened?

I’d played our entire relationship over in my mind, looking for the telltale signs of dissatisfaction. But I couldn’t find any. Unless I was missing something? Stormy-Rain had said something to me once that was suddenly reverberating in my ears, “You know, if a guy’s not getting it, he’s going to go looking for it somewhere else!”

My blood ran cold. Had it been unreasonable of me to expect him to abstain for so long? He was a red-blooded male after all, and one who could probably get sex a million times a day with a million different women. Hot, thin women. It’s not like we weren’t sexual though, we’d done everything else but the actual deed. God, my mind was spinning, my thoughts were going haywire and once again I was overcome with an urge to phone him. I needed to speak to him. 

I reached for my phone and realised it was off. I suspected that my friends and family were panicking by now and had probably sent out search and rescue helicopters and sniffer dogs, so I dropped them all a reassuring message.

And then I logged onto Facebook, went straight to his page and scanned. Nothing.

Twitter. Nothing.

Instagram. Nothing.

I dialled his number and it immediately went to voicemail, and hearing his voice made me feel sick.

My heart started pounding and I broke into a cold sweat. A sick feeling was washing over me in waves.

I dialled again. Voicemail.

I dialled again. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail

Should I leave a message? But what would I say?

Hey Michael, it’s me, Lilly. I was just calling to ask WHY THE FUCK YOU LEFT ME AT THE ALTAR YOU BASTARD ASSHOLE JERK-FACE? Anyway, love you and chat soon, bye.

I was relieved when I heard a knock at the door, and I decided to take it as a sign that I should leave well enough alone. I was still wet from my bath and opened the door in my towel, just as Damian was coming up the stairs.

 “Good evening.” A man in a black suit greeted us both. “Your dinner is ready.”

“What dinner?”

“The romantic dinner on the beach that Mr Edwards…” he turned and looked at Damian now, “That Mr Edwards organised for your wedding night.”

 “That sounds great, I’m starving,” Damian said.

“No, I don’t think so!” My tone was fierce and the man in the suit looked surprised.

“But it’s all arranged, and it’s very beautiful.”

I was torn, the very mention of the word ‘food’ made my stomach growl and mouth water, but the idea of a romantic dinner with Damian on the beach, well, that was just weird.

Damian jumped in, he was making a habit of that. “Would you mind giving us five minutes?”

The man in the suit left and Damian stepped forward.

“But aren’t you hungry?” He asked.

“I am but…” I tried to pull my towel up so it covered as much of my body as possible and I wished I was wearing a Burka.

“It’s not like I’m going to play footsie-footsie with you under the table or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

God, I was torn! I started mentally making a list of pros and cons, but my stomach wasn’t having it. I was starved. Oh what the hell, I guess, besides, maybe I could get someone to take a picture of us and post it on Instagram with a soft focus romantic filter and make Michael jealous.

“Ok, give me a minute to get ready.”

***

There’ve been a few moments in my life when I’ve been overwhelmed by something so beautiful, that it literally took my breath away. Like when I tried on my wedding dress for the first time, or met my baby niece for the first time. And right now was one of those moments. Looking around, I could see that this location had been carefully planned, manipulated and manufactured for optimal romance.

“100 percent romance guaranteed or your money back.”

The actual setting was magnificent; the dinner was laid out on a table for two on a sandy embankment about 10 metres off the shore. You had to walk through warm, ankle-deep water to get there. In the middle of the embankment, in the middle of a heart made of candles placed on the sand, was a tent-like structure. It was open on all sides and draped with thin white curtains that were waving rhythmically in the warm breeze. The small table was scattered with pink flowers and more candles and was flanked by two chairs also draped in white fabric. All in all, the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.

It was stunning, and the feelings that it evoked in me were very overpowering; it simultaneously stole my breath away, while reaching deep inside and tickling every one of my senses. It really was… it was… Well, it’s really hard to describe, I don’t even think I have the adjectives to do it justice. In fact, feel free to insert them yourself.

It looked like a ………(insert adjective)……… and it made me feel like ………..(insert adverb) ……….etc, etc.

I hope I’ve painted this picture accurately enough, because it’s important for you to visualise it correctly, in order to understand why my next reaction was so surprising. Because despite it's manifold beauty described by the endless bounty of adjectives, all I could do was look at it all and laugh.

And oh, how I laughed. I laughed like a pack of hyenas.

My shoulders shuddered as I struggled to get enough air into my lungs, gasping in between the shrieks. This was not a normal laughter either -- this was hysteria. And I wasn’t able to stop it. In fact, the more I tried to control it, the worse it got. The laughter escalated until I had tears rolling down my face and I was whimpering -- at some stage I think I heard myself snort. My ribs hurt, my stomach and my mouth hurt. I looked up at Damian -- expecting him to be backing away from me with a look of terror on his face, clutching a fork in case he needed to stab and subdue me -- but he wasn’t. He was also laughing, and then he said something that made me realise that he got it.  

“I was about to say something witty about irony, but I see you’ve saved me the trouble.”

And then we both laughed.

There’s that corny saying about laughter being the best medicine. But it really is, because when our laughter had finally tapered off, I felt better than I’d felt in days! But I was bloody hungry too. However, after reading the menu several times, it soon became clear to me that I had absolutely no idea what they were trying to serve us.

The menu claimed the dishes were 'An adventure in molecular-gastronomy', and the kinds of foods on offer included ‘Seared tuna on a bed of deconstructed salad, served with a ginger mousse.’ I kept reading and the word deconstructed appeared three more times, along with other confusing phrases such as ‘sweet and sour tangerine veil’, ‘lychee bubbles’ and ‘edible sea sand foam’.

“Um…” I looked up at Damian, hoping he was feeling the same way and that I wasn’t just some uncultured slob with no appreciation for the art of modern cooking.

“Is it me or is this a little…” I was searching for the words.

“Disdainfully avant-garde, a pretentious wank!”

“Wow, you don’t pull any punches.”

“Well, I have very strong feelings about this type of food,” his face was totally serious when he said this.

“Pray tell,” I was intrigued again.

“Well, my parents LOVE this kind of cooking, it's expensive and denotes good taste and culture, you see,” he said this last part in a very posh sounding accent, which made me laugh. “We once went to this restaurant in France where they actually served crab ice cream.”

“No they didn’t.”

“It’s true, you can Google it.”

We smiled at each other and our eyes locked for a few seconds. I felt the strangest feeling rush through me, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it and as I was trying to, Damian broke eye contact.

“Hi.” He waved his arm in the direction of the waiter, “Hi, please can we have your other menu.”

“I beg your pardon.” The confused waiter looked at him blankly.

“You know, the one with the normal food on it.”

 I tried to hide my snigger. I certainly didn’t want to offend anyone.

But still the blank look.

So he tried again, “Put it this way, can I get a hamburger with chips and, Lilly, what do you want?”

“The same thanks.”

The waiter, although thrown, smiled cordially and walked off, splashing through the water as he went and finally disappearing over the beach and into the hotel.

And then I realised we were totally, I mean totally, alone. 

Alone.

In the most romantic place in the world.

Oh, did I mention we were totally alone and that it was ridiculously romantic?

I shuffled in my seat a bit. We exchanged a few awkward smiles, drank a bit of champagne, and moved our serviettes around on the table lot. At one stage I picked up a flower and smelt it…

 …AND …

…And then something terrible happened...