Chapter 20

Eve is asleep in a sticky scratchy heap of chiffon and lace, her cheek squashed against the side of the plane, when she wakes with a dramatic audible gasp for air, as though she’s been pulled unconscious from the ocean and brought back to life by chest compressions.

So that is seriously embarrassing.

“Whoa!” says her husband, Dom. Her literal husband. He looks briefly away from his phone. “You okay?” He’s catching up on all his puzzles. He doesn’t want to lose any of his streaks.

“I’m okay.” She sits up, wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, and fishes another red rose petal out of her cleavage.

The rose petal cannon launchers had been a big hit. Maybe too big a hit. Some of their friends had looked like crazed soldiers spraying bullets. Dom’s friend Zeb had literally shouted “Attaaaaack!” outside the church, which was not romantic.

She tugs at the neckline of her dress.

Her mother had said, “Eve, you can’t get on a plane wearing that dress! You’ll be so uncomfortable. Change into something comfy!”

Could there be a more depressing word than “comfy”? As if anyone needs to feel “comfy” heading off on their honeymoon.

Her wedding dress had cost fifty dollars. It’s beautiful. Not like anyone else’s wedding dress. She likes to be different, although under-the-radar different, not I’m-making-a-point different. She tried to make her voice not show-offy each time she described her dress as “vintage.”

“As in secondhand,” said her mother.

“As in not made in a sweatshop,” said Eve. “As in eco-friendly.”

She’d found it in the back of a Vinnies store in Hobart on a rack with a sign that said Pre-loved Wedding Dresses . The woman in the shop said she thought it was around forty years old. “It’s got the seventies look to it,” she said. “Bishop sleeves were big back then.”

Annoyingly, her mother had pointed out the tiniest, smidgiest little stain on the hem.

“It looks like a little sun emoji,” said Eve.

“It looks like a little drop of urine,” said her mother, but then she must have felt bad because she said, “Princess Diana had a stain on her wedding dress, so you’re in good company.”

Which, ah, no, not good company, Mum, she got divorced and died.

Everyone said Eve looked amazing and nobody mentioned the stain and she felt beautiful all day, but honestly, right now, she kind of wishes she’d changed into track pants at the airport. It’s annoying when her mother ends up being right. She will not tell her.

Or actually she will tell her, one day, as a little gift, when her mum is stressed and needs cheering up.

It would have been fine if not for the long delay on the tarmac. They would have been in their hotel room by now. Probably without any clothes on.

It’s not so much the dress but her new lingerie that’s driving her crazy. She never normally wears this sort of scratchy, lacy, sexy underwear, but her friends convinced her it was like a literal legal requirement for your wedding night.

Dom might think if she’s changed her underwear he’s got to change his moves. Do more porn-y type stuff. Like choking. Choking is so fashionable right now. No, thank you.

“I think I was dribbling,” she whispers to him.

“That’s so hot.” Dom keeps tapping at his phone.

“I can’t wait to rip off my bra,” says Eve.

Dom looks up, grins. “Sounds good.”

“Then I’m throwing it in the trash,” says Eve.

“Okay then.” Dom looks back at his phone and chews his lip.

Eve scratches her head. Her hair feels like straw because of all the hair spray and there are a million bobby pins sticking into her scalp as if she’s a hedgehog.

Dom is perfectly comfortable in his tux. He’s unclipped his pre-tied bow tie so it’s hanging loose, not quite obscuring a cheerful chocolate splotch in the middle of his shirt. He probably hasn’t noticed, or if he has, he doesn’t care. Their wedding cake was chocolate, three-tiered, with seminaked vanilla frosting and edible flowers. It looked amazing, but Eve couldn’t eat any of it! She basically ate nothing at the wedding, she was too overexcited. It felt like she couldn’t take a full breath the whole day. Now she’s starving. She could have eaten forty of those “light snacks.”

Dom gave her the window seat and he took the middle one, because he was being all husbandly and gallant. He maybe regrets that decision now, like she regrets her underwear.

Wearing their wedding clothes had been so fun at the airport because they’d felt like celebrities. Eve could feel people’s eyes on her wherever she went. She’d liked the smiles and the waves and the comments, “Aww, young love!” but now she’s feeling the pressure of fame and wants her anonymity back. What if someone took a photo of her asleep just then with her mouth wide open and posted it online? With a nasty caption? UglyAssBride.

She sighs.

“You okay?” asks Dom again.

“Yup,” says Eve.

Oh my God, she sounded snappy. Eve had assumed that they would only speak in loving tones on their honeymoon. She knew they wouldn’t speak like that forever, but she thought they’d at least last the day.

“Sorry,” she says.

Dom doesn’t reply. He keeps tapping at his phone. “Hmm?”

“Don’t worry.” She pats his leg. His knees are just about touching the seat in front.

They should have maybe said yes to the people who offered them their business-class seats, but Eve wasn’t sure they were even serious. Like, what if they’d said “Sure thing” when they were meant to laugh because it was one of those weird older-generation jokes? How embarrassing. She and Dom both get awkward about that kind of stuff. Thinking ahead, Eve had asked her mother what the right etiquette was when they got to the hotel tonight. She has never checked in to a fancy hotel before. She’s only been to the mainland, like, twice in her life. She is not sophisticated. She doesn’t care. Okay, so she does care if people are secretly laughing at her.

“You sashay straight up to the desk and say your name,” said her mother. “I guess you’ll say, ‘I’m Mrs. Eve Archer-Fern, checking in to the honeymoon suite!’ Unless you’re going full-on retro and taking your husband’s first name as well as his last name? So then you’ll say, ‘I’m Mrs. Dominic Archer-Fern.’?”

Eve’s mother can be bitchy. Supposedly it’s due to perimenopause (too much information, no need to share everything, Mum), but Eve reckons her mother might have been a mean girl at school. She denies that so vehemently, probably because she feels guilty.

Eve’s mother “doesn’t understand why girls these days are taking their husbands’ names like fifties housewives.” Eve’s mother is a single parent, an excited fan of the #MeToo movement, and a proud feminist. Eve isn’t not a feminist, and obviously well done everyone on #MeToo, although why did it take so long? It’s just that if she starts agreeing with her mother, where will it end? People already talk about how much they look alike. Will she start wearing quirky statement necklaces and complimenting strangers on their shoes? Will her hips become…you know, like her mum’s hips? There isn’t anything wrong with her mum’s body, it’s fine for her. Body positivity and all that. It’s just that Eve would rather die.

Eve’s mum looked appalled when she and Dom announced their engagement, which is not normal. Normal mothers cry with delight, press their hands to their mouths, and then walk toward their laughing daughters with outstretched hands. There is endless evidence of this online. Not Eve’s mum. She said, “But why ? Just move in together! Getting married at your age is bizarre!”

Eve found the word “bizarre” to be hurtful.

She thought her mother liked Dom. How could she not like Dom? He’s objectively perfect.

They have signed a rental lease on an apartment in Glenorchy and set it all up, but they have not yet spent a night there. Dom is going to carry her over the threshold, which is not bizarre, it’s romantic.

Interestingly, once Eve’s mum accepted that the wedding was happening, she sure did have a lot of opinions about how it should proceed.

The baby is crying again. The noise level in the plane seems to be increasing. It feels like a party where everyone is subdued at first and then their voices start to rise along with their blood alcohol levels. Someone is literally shouting.

An announcement crackles: “Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for landing.”

“Not long now.” Dom puts down his phone and takes her hand, and Eve is relieved because she feels romantic and sexy and loving again.

Maybe she should try choking? According to her friend Liv it’s a rush. Liv says it’s like when they used to make themselves hyperventilate in Year 7. Eve should try not to be so vanilla. Get a bit freaky. She puts her hand to her neck and squeezes tentatively.

No! Oh my God, it’s definitely not for her. She only ever pretended to hyperventilate in Year 7. She drops her hands. She does not consent.

An old lady is standing in the aisle looking at her. She points directly at Eve as if she’s done something wrong.

“Um…” Eve looks nervously at Dom. What rule has she broken? She sits up straight.

“I expect intimate partner homicide. Age twenty-five.”