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‘Find anything?’ Gabriel asks as he re-joins me. I’m deep in the first chapter of said serial killer book.
‘I like the sound of this,’ I say, flashing him the cover. ‘Are you going to get anything?’
He looks around the bookshop. ‘No, I can’t read in English.’
I look up from my book, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly. ‘You can’t? I never realised. You read the menu—’
‘I canread,’ he corrects, ‘in French. In English I can read words. Sentences. Short articles. But I’d never be able to comprehend a whole book in English. Maybe that’s a better way to describe it.’
I close the book. ‘I get that. It’s your second language and all.’
‘Third,’ Gabriel corrects. ‘I also speak Arabic. Did you really not look me up online at all?’
‘I remember promising that I wouldn’t, and it being quite a big deal for you at the time. Romantic even.’
He pretends to look offended. ‘Still, I thought by now you would have.’
‘I’m buying this book,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll read it out loud to you.’
‘Will you do voices?’ he asks. ‘I like it when the audiobooks do voices. Like Stephen Fry.’
‘I’m no Stephen Fry, but I’m sure I can give it a go.’
I take our book—the first book on our first holiday—and pay for it. In a few years, maybe we’ll have an entire shelf of holiday books. Stories that mark our trips; memories locked between printed pages.
We get a coffee and find a place to sit in the food court. It’s busy. People stare as they pass us. I wonder if it’s because they recognise Gabriel from the TV, or because I have five stitches and two black eyes.
Gabriel fishes our boarding passes from his pocket. ‘I guess it’s finally time.’
I wriggle with anticipation as he hands me mine. The journey, printed in smudged ink, says MEL > HTI.
‘HTI?’
‘Hamilton Island,’ Gabriel supplies. ‘But from there, we’re getting a charter to Daydream Island.’
Daydream Island. These last few weeks have been like a dream. An incredible dream that I know, eventually, I’ll have to wake up from. It’s stupidly perfect and I am stupidly in love with this man, and everything, from the way he looks at me across the table to the price of the coffee we just bought, isstupid.
A week on Daydream Island with nothing to do but do nothing. It’s perfect.
‘I’ve never been on a plane before,’ I say later as we find our seats.
‘That will be repaired a hundred times over,’ he promises. ‘Paris in summer, New York in the fall. We’ll go all over the world.’
I hold Gabriel’s hand as we take off. The plane rocks and shudders as it ascends into the clouds. Gabriel hands me an earbud and shows me a playlist he’s compiled for the two-hour flight.
Melbourne spreads out below us; the Yarra winds like a serpent through the city. The country is a patchwork of yellow and brown, fields dry and burnt off after the end of harvest.
Gabriel’s thumb rubs over my knuckle but then he lets go of my hand to raise the armrest between us. He slides across the seat slightly and pulls me to lean against him and . . . it’s nice. He smells like expensive cologne, which he’s obviously sampled at the fragrance department. And he’s so warm. Comfortable. I don’t know how—because between the noise of the engine and the occasional turbulence, it really shouldn’t be possible—but I fall asleep somewhere between the seatbelt sign going off and refreshments being served. Gabriel, bless him, grabs me an extra muesli bar.
A parrot chirps through the open window, rousing me from my sleep. As far as morning wake-ups go, one can’t sniff at a tropical parrot replacing a phone alarm.
Distantly, I hear waves rolling and then, closer to home, Gabriel’s sleepy huffs.
Opening my eyes, I find our bedroom bathed in the grey glow of early morning. The clock on my beside table says it’s just after seven. From the briefing last night, I know breakfast has already started in the main hall.
Gabriel’s hand snakes around my waist and tugs my back flush against his chest. ‘I don’t get up before eight-thirty,’ he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep.
I turn in his arms. His eyes are still closed, so I take the opportunity to run my fingertips over his brow, the curve of his nose, his cupid’s bow. He puckers his lips and kisses my fingertips lightly.
