Yellow Dress

“I’m sorry,” Lucas says, his diamond earring looking tackier by the second. His bags are packed and stacked by his side – but not with swim shorts and sun cream – with half the contents of our home.

            “You can’t leave now,” I say, sounding angrier than I anticipated, “what will I do?”

            “Move in with your sister,” he says.

            “No, gilipollas, the holiday.”

He shifts from one foot to the other and checks his phone, clearly wondering if he’s dragged this breakup out long enough. I consider pleading, dropping to my knees and clinging to his ankles, but the driveway hasn’t been swept in months and these trousers are new. I wonder for a moment if I could seduce him back into the house, perhaps unbutton my shirt and jump up and down, but I’m certain Mariana is watching us from her window. A nosey neighbour is only fun when you’re on the receiving end of the gossip, not when you’re the subject of it.

            “Just go,” I say, “go.”

            To this, he lifts his bags and snakes past me, slipping through the gate with no hesitation. I watch as it swings shut behind him, the door to our seven-year-relationship closing.

            Inside, the house is a mess; cupboards have been opened and never shut, books have been rifled through – with mine discarded on the carpet – and the couch is missing its cushions. No doubt he’ll return for the couch itself once he’s borrowed his papa’s van. I place my handbag and laptop on the dining room table next to a collection of half-melted candles, their holders now missing. He’s been thorough.

            For a woman whose fiancé has just walked out with minimal explanation, I’m surprisingly composed. But the truth is, I’ve been more of a mother to Lucas than a future wife. His cooking ability is nil, he doesn’t know the cotton wash from the spin cycle, and I’m pretty sure he’d have let me brush his hair for him if I’d offered. This breakup may have come as a shock, but the relief certainly didn’t. However, seven years is seven years, so I won’t stop the tears from falling when they come.

            But for now, dinner and bath.

***

I rise from the best sleep I’ve had in years. The digital clock beside me blinks 09:48 – six hours until my flight. Lucas’ last-minute dash has left me with little time to find a holiday companion replacement, and with my sister tied to home by two small niñas, it seems I’ll be going solo. After spending last night re-packing – taking out any clothes I’d be wearing for Lucas’ sake, and replacing them with comfortable, un-sexy substitutes – I’m already ahead of schedule. I did, however, make sure to pack the yellow dress; a dress I’ve spent three months of dieting to fit into. Three months of forcing only juiced carrots and raw cabbage down my throat.

            Two hours later, I’m arriving at La Palma airport, suitcase in hand and sunglasses on. A thin-nosed receptionist greets me at the ticket desk. She eyes my ticket before looking over my shoulder theatrically.

            “Solo tu?” she asks.

            “Yep,” I reply, “just me.”

            “Dónde está tu marido?”

            “My ex-fiancé. And no, he’s not coming.”

            “Ay,” she says, twisting her mouth into an over-exaggerated frown, “eso es triste.”

            “Nope,” I say, “not sad. Can I upgrade to a window seat, please?” She doesn’t upgrade me, nor does she stop frowning. But before I know it, I’ve watched seven episodes of Supervivientes and I’m stepping off the plane into a cold, blustering Newquay. Having grown up with my time split between Spain and London, I know what to expect from British weather, but today is particularly bitter.

            The AirBnb is only fifteen minutes away in Perranporth, a dulce little cabin that reminded Lucas of something out of The Hobbit. I’ve never seen the film and he’s not here to appreciate it, so what was meant to be something sentimental is now just an inconveniently small holiday home. I hop into a taxi and give the address, grateful for the minimal communication.

            I’m always surprised by how British countryside feels poles apart from Spain; what would be terracotta at home is grey here, their trees are short and full while ours are tall and sharp, and their driving is back to front. We pass under a bridge with ‘Welcome to Perranporth’ branded across it and ‘Fuck ur mum’ spray painted underneath, a heart-warming greeting.

We’re waved into the gates of Sea Mist Holidays by a rotund woman wearing pink clogs and holding a clipboard. She waddles over to the passenger side window, the driver winding it down as she approaches.

            “Alright, my loves?” Her cheeks match her footwear in colour, and I can’t tell if this is due to sunburn or an overuse of blusher.

            “Guadalupe,” I say, “Guadalupe Pérez.”

            “Ooooh, Italian!” she says, causing the driver to stifle a laugh. “Just follow the path down towards the right, you’re in number twelve. The Lover’s Shack.” I don’t remember this title on the booking website, but hopefully it has a King sized bed.

Inside, the cabin décor truly lives up to its name. Everything is heart-shaped; the mirrors, the bed, even the dinner plates. I start to think that perhaps I’ve been placed in the wrong cabin, but the note on the side that reads ‘Enjoy your stay, Guadalupe and Lucas x’ says otherwise. I open the complimentary bottle of Cava and settle in.

Towards the end of the bottle, it dawns on me how terrible an idea it was to come on this holiday. Not only am I surrounded by reminders of my failed relationship, but all our pre-booked plans – that once sounded cute – now sound sad. A couples spa day? No thanks. Mini golf? I’d rather not. Wine tasting? Actually, I could be up for that. But despite the dread, still no tears are yet to fall.

Once my limbs are suitably numb and words slurred, I unpack my yellow dress. Its short, puffed sleeves and square neck a reward for my self-restraint. Self-restraint that has now – as I look down at the empty packet of family-sized Maltesers – gone out the window. I slip the dress over my hips and up onto my shoulders before reaching around and zipping it up. It fits like a glove. A tight, rubber glove, sure. But a glove, nonetheless.

***

Perranporth is heaving with tourists by the time I make it down to Café Neu, a canvas-roofed café that my parents and I frequented when I was young. Having fallen asleep in my yellow dress last night, I only needed to pop on some makeup and head for the bus this morning, and after perusing the charity shops and buying far too many coffees, I found myself here.

            It’s interesting how something can be taken away from you – something you thought you relied on – yet life continues on as normal. In fact, it feels easier. No longer do I have to consider Lucas’ nut allergy when I order my meals, or fight him for control of the TV. Independence looks good on me.

            I spend the rest of the day trundling between the café and the beach, stopping occasionally to listen to the jazz band that occupies a pub on the corner. As the sky begins to bruise with night, I make friends with a waitress who invites me back to her flat for a fiesta with a few other staff members. Her place is on the top floor of a nine-story-block, and with a broken lift and two crates of beer to carry, my poor dress is regretting being worn.

            One hour blurs into the next as the taste of British beer moves from disgusting to sweet. And before I know it, night has turned to morning. I say my goodbyes and stumble off into a much quieter, serener Cornwall.

Back at the cabin, chocolate awaits me on my pillow – only the one. I flick my sandals off my feet and reach round to unzip my dress, but the zip evades me. It’s higher than my drunken fingers can reach, so I give up and flop into bed. It’s tomorrow Guadalupe’s problem. 

***

Today’s Guadalupe hates last night’s Guadalupe. Not only have I woken with thunder rattling inside my head and breath like a petrol station, but my dress is also still to be removed. After sleeping in it for the second time, it seems I’ve bent the zip. I’ve tried everything within my means – a coat hanger, BBQ tongs, even moisturiser rubbed in with my toothbrush – but this zip isn’t moving. I consider asking a Sea Mist Holiday worker for help; however I can’t face the embarrassment. Instead, I do what any logical thinker would do – I shower in it. The feel of wet cotton on my skin is oddly suffocating, as though it’s shrinking around my body. I scrub citric soap into the puffed sleeves, hoping it’ll cleanse the stench of seventy-two steps and twelve lagers. Still, my hopes of the hot water setting the zip loose are shattered the moment I step out and pull on the unmoving tab.

            The shower may not have set me free from this yellow prison, but it certainly did make me smell less bruta. Defeated by the copper fastener, I head out for the day in my damp dress.

            Day sinks into night, then rises back into day again, and still the yellow dress haunts my body. It joins me in the sea, out for dinner and on morning runs. It watches me battle with desire to ask strangers for help, then fail every time. It keeps me too warm at night and too cold in the day. It makes its monies worth in compliments and loses it again in stains. One man even described it as ‘sunshine in an outfit.’ And it could be worse, I could be stuck in a three-piece-suit.

            Today, it’s joining me on my walk to the museum. As I weave between cyclists and food stalls that line the streets, I pull out my phone to see Lucas’ face lighting it up. It’s the first time he’s called me since the breakup and my stomach drops at the thought of his voice. I let it ring once more before answering it. With the phone to my ear, I can’t think of an appropriate way to start the conversation, so instead I stay silent.

            “Hello?” he says after a long pause.

            “Who’s this?” I ask, as if I’ve managed to forget about him in a matter of days.

            “Funny,” his voice is light and joyous, “how are you?”

            “Great thanks, yeah… good.”

            “Great? Damn chica, bit harsh.”

            I sidestep into an alleyway to escape the irritante sound of screaming children.

            “So… I’m outside,” he continues.

            “Outside?”

            “The house,” he says, the sound of passing cars behind him. “I’ve come to get the couch.”

            Of course he has. “I’m not home.”

            “When will you be back?” The joy in his voice is rapidly shifting to annoyance.

            “Tomorrow,” I say, “I’m in Perranporth.”

            There’s silence on the line. After a full minute, he speaks. “You went?”

            “Sí,” I say, “why wouldn’t I?”

            He goes on to tell me that he didn’t think I had it in me to go alone. That my independence only stretched so far. I tell him that I’m doing fine and have in fact made friends. He says he’s cried every day, that this is the hardest decision he’s ever had to make. I don’t tell him about the dress. When he finally hangs up, I expect the tears to come – and I don’t know if it’s the sun on my back or the smell of fresh pasties – but they don’t.

            I emerge out of the alleyway to continue my journey down Sonder Street, but as I step back onto the busy pavement, I move directly into the path of an oncoming bicycle. It swerves around me at speed and rattles into the road. The rider, a middle-aged man dressed in a grey suit and wonky helmet, darts left to right and before he can regain control, collides head-first into a car, flying over his handlebars and landing directly onto the bonnet. He lets out a low groan, the owner of the car watching in dismay from the front seat.

            Before I know it, I’m by the grey-suited man’s side, holding the driver’s t-shirt to his bleeding head – the wonky helmet wasn’t much help it seems. The shirtless driver paces beside me, his phone to his ear. Thankfully, a doctor joins me, taking control of the situation and allowing me to step back and ogle the driver. An intricate tattoo decorates his chest, the words ‘GRANT ME THE SERENITY’ woven into it.

            “You okay?” I mouth to him as I catch his eye. He mutters something into his phone and hangs up.

            “Bit shaken, but otherwise fine.” His accent is thick and gloopy but I can’t quite place it.

            “Water?” I hold out my bottle, noticing for the first time that my hand is trembling.

He notices too. “Is there a bar around here? I could do with something a little stronger.”

            “Sure,” I say.

            “I’m Dom,” he replies.

            We find a microbrewery and order drinks, Dom now wearing a Hawaiian shirt he found in his car. He has a boyish-charm about him but the occasional grey in his beard places him into his late-thirties. He’s here on holiday too, having driven down from Leeds for the weekend. We talk about music, books and travel. He compliments my dress and buys another round, his frame visibly relaxing with every sip. After three hours of cocktails and countless packets of crisps, the charge between us is tangible. By the time we leave, the sun is dropping and the museum is shut.

            “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Guadalupe,” he says, his voice low and accent thicker than ever.

            “Where are you staying?” I ask.

            “Ah, a friend’s.”

            “You surely can’t drive now, no?” Subtlety has never been my forte.

            He smiles and shakes his head.

            We hop into a taxi and head to the cabin. Lucas’ body has been the only I’ve known for so many years, I can’t imagine the feel of another. But even as we sit in the taxi, our limbs are gravitating towards each other. He slides his hand up my arm and onto the back of my neck, threading his fingers into my hair. As he kisses me, he takes hold of my dress zip and undoes it. The feel of the fastener releasing unties something inside of me, and before I can stop them, the tears begin to fall.