Nice Day For A White Wedding. A. Michael L.

laughed, grinned, handed over the money and all Chelsea could pick up was that he thanked him. She’d picked some Italian up, even if it was only from watching Roman Holiday over and over again as a kid, but she was nowhere near Kit.

      Kit nodded and led her back towards the bar on the corner, picking a seat in the shade. He was almost more himself here, more dominant. His hand hovered at the small of her back as they walked, and then he pulled her chair out for her without hesitation. Sometimes he did that stuff back home, but it was different here, like he was suddenly local.

      He relaxed back into the chair, surveying the people around him with undisguised interest. Everyone seemed to be sitting out, watching everyone else. The old lady in the red dress with the poodle at her feet. The old men playing cards. The young couple laughing, hands interlaced loosely. Everyone seemed to be dressed up, like they knew they were playing the extras in the glossy version of Chelsea’s life today. The idea made her snort.

      Suddenly the waiter appeared, and Kit once again launched into Italian, talking with his hands in a way he never had.

      ‘Wine?’ he suddenly said to Chelsea, who winced.

      ‘Aperol,’ he nodded, and the waiter grinned, saying something else that Chelsea had an idea was not pleasant, before disappearing in to retrieve drinks.

      ‘What was that?’

      ‘He said you’re beautiful but unhappy,’ Kit snorted, looking at her from behind his tilted sunglasses. ‘He said English women never do well in the Italian sun. It beats them or it converts them.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘They get burnt and spend all their time in the shade, or they become obsessed with getting an even tan.’

      ‘Hmmf,’ was Chelsea’s only response.

      Kit waited until the drinks were delivered, two bright orange goblets with ice. Chelsea took a delicate sip and made a face.

      ‘You get used to it.’

      ‘That’s what they say about smear tests and London rental prices – doesn’t make them any better.’ She raised an eyebrow but took an extra gulp all the same before resting the cool glass against her neck.

      ‘You know, I take it back, you’re going to get on with my family just fine.’

      They sat in silence, Chelsea closing her eyes as she listened to the sounds of lilting Italian accents, chatting tourists and the slow horn of a boat in the distance.

      ‘Hey babe?’ she heard Kit say, almost miles away on the edge of sleep. ‘You know what the waiter said about English women? I think you may have burnt your nose.’

      The boat wasn’t what she was expecting, it was smaller and sleeker than the large ferry she’d been looking at earlier. They stepped down into the air-conditioned seating area, all the seats facing forward in rows, just like a bus. She checked her nose in the mirror in the toilet, massaging the tiniest dot of suncream into it. She was not going to be one of those English tourists. It was bad enough to turn up at Kit’s parents’ home with a burnt nose and a sweaty dress, let alone turning up with a thick block of suncream down the middle of her face. It would be fine, she assured herself, fluffing out her flat blonde hair and flicking cold water from the tap on her neck. The water seemed to be choppier, the boat bouncing up and down more violently as she struggled to turn the tap off in the little water closet. Chelsea suddenly felt very claustrophobic, being swung back and forth in the tiny toilet, and struggled to open the lock with her wet hands. Panic gripped her stomach and squeezed, and she took a deep breath, trying to stay calm as she leaned in against the door. She was flung out suddenly, as she’d heard Kit’s voice saying, ‘Chels, you okay?’ somewhere to the right of her. She couldn’t see him though, only the edge of the boat, her arms out to cling to it as that last rocking movement churned her stomach and she threw up into those vibrant, promising waters of the prettiest lake she’d ever seen.

      ***

       ‘And what is it you’re planning to do with yourself when you leave here…Chelsea?’ The careers counsellor was in her mid-twenties, her dark, knotted hair pulled back in a ratty bun. She had a large pimple on her chin that looked angry, like she’d spent the afternoon in front of the mirror trying to pop it. Despite that, Chelsea actually quite liked her outfit; dark, skinny jeans, a dark blue shirt and a black, smooth suit jacket. She had a statement silver necklace and small diamond studs in her ear. Jessica Baker had been the careers counsellor for six months, and she was living proof that you could polish a turd, give it a suit jacket and convince it that it smelled like success. Unfortunately for Jessica, despite her airs, graces and ‘local girl done good’ attitude, everyone still knew that she gave Michael Grimsby a blowjob under the headteacher’s desk in 1995, and it was still the stuff of legend.

       Even now, when she tried to tell some of the boys about different apprenticeships or training schemes, she was shut down. She told them they had potential; they asked if she’d bring it out of them in the headteacher’s office.

       Which would have been sad, if she wasn’t such a massive bitch.

       ‘I’m going to university,’ Chelsea said staunchly, leaning back on the itchy blue sofa that Jessica had asked to be crammed into her tiny little stockroom of an office, filled with motivational posters and about five prospectuses, all to local colleges, all out of date by at least two years.

       She watched as Jessica wrinkled her nose and raised her eyebrows. She tilted her head, her voice saccharine. ‘Now, Chelsea, do you really think that would be the most sensible option for someone with your…history?’

       Chelsea chewed her gum more obnoxiously, taking pleasure as Jessica winced, at the wet sound as she chewed with an open mouth.

       ‘Yeah,’ she shrugged, ‘whatcha mean?’

       Jessica shook off the irritation. ‘I just mean that you don’t seem to have done any of the things people who want to go to university do.’

       ‘Oh,’ Chelsea shook her head, leaning in as if she was concerned that Jessica was mistaken, ‘I don’t just want to go to any university. I’m going to Oxford.’

       Here, Jessica burst out laughing, a short sharp hoot escaping before she clamped her lips together, her eyes still laughing even after she was silent.

       ‘Chelsea, that’s very easy to say, but…why would you want to go there? What could it possibly offer you?’

       A way out of this place and the biggest two fingers up this school has ever seen, Chelsea thought grimly. A way to get the taste of that bastard out of my mouth. To erase this place completely.

       ‘Miss, I think what you’re really asking is what do I have to offer them,’ Chelsea said shrewdly, leaning in, ‘and I dare you to say it, Miss, I dare you.’

       ‘Well, I’m being honest, Chelsea, what about you is so special that one of the best universities in the country is going to want to take you? Your grades –’

       ‘Have jumped from Ds to As in two weeks,’ Chelsea answered.

       ‘You have no extra-curricular activities,’ Jessica grinned stiffly, her teeth gritted.

       ‘Except for the drama society, student council, science club, the environmental society and the debate club. I’m also pretty good at playing the accordion.’

       Chelsea grinned, arms crossed, taking a delicious victory in seeing the woman’s cheeks redden.

       ‘Well, even if that were true –’

       ‘Even if it were true, you would not help me,’ Chelsea said simply, tipping the silver snowglobe on Jessica’s table, watching intently as the glitter flickered