Free Lullaby Girl by Aly Sidgwick Page B

wrinkles. Part of me wishes I’d met him ten years ago – I’ve seen photographs of him aged twenty-five, and he looked like a fucking cherub – but in the end I’m just happy I met him at all.
    On the pillar beside us there’s a poster advertising short breaks in Newcastle to Norwegians, and I almost laugh at the sight of it. That concept had seemed unreal at first. That anyone in their right mind would want to take a holiday on this side of the North Sea. Yet that’s exactly what Magnus was doing when we first met. A boys’ weekend he’d called it, and when he failed to introduce me to the pals he was with I felt a secret thrill to have him to myself.
    ‘Why Newcastle, though?’ I’d shouted over the music. ‘Why here ?’
    ‘Alcohol,’ he’d replied, with relish, and I’d laughed, then shrugged. Apparently the cost of spirits was extortionate back home. My memory of that night is peppered with drunken blanks, but the parts I do recall were nothing short of magical. We’d shared a jug of margarita at the back of the rock bar, and even before he leaned close to perch the cocktail umbrella in my hair, I knew he was the one. ‘You have to let me paint you,’ I’d pleaded, and so we had exchanged numbers.
    How long ago was that, now? Four months? Five? Thank God I got stuck in Newcastle after my degree. These last two years I’ve been cursing myself for choosing to study Fine Art. I mean, it’s not the easiest of disciplines to apply to the world of work and pretty much set me up for a life as a starving artist. But if I hadn’t been working in that coffee shop, I wouldn’t have been drinking in the bar across the street every weekend. I wouldn’t have been there when Magnus first walked in, and I wouldn’t be sitting in the Stardust Lounge with him now.
    Magnus removes a ring from his large, delicate hand, pushes it onto mine, and gazes into my face. His eyes are richly, violently blue, and when he unleashes them on me it feels like a punch.
    ‘Mrs Brudvik,’ he murmurs, and though this will not become my name for several more months, I flush with delight. We’ve repeated this ritual over and over. More theatrical each time, as if trying to outdo the original proposal. Admittedly, that had not been the most fairytale of moments. There’d been no ring, for a start, and both of us were blazing drunk. On the end of Sunderland pier he’d chucked his fish and chips into the sea and blurted it out. ‘Fuck off,’ I’d said. ‘Not until you do it right.’ And we’d had a little fight about it. The next day, in his hotel room, he did it again and went down on both knees. Not one, but both! Maybe that’s how they do it in Norway, I don’t know. That time I said yes, but Magnus got angry because I laughed. And so on, with little imperfections each time. He must have proposed about nine times now, and shows no signs of stopping. But we both agree that that first time was the most romantic.
    I twiddle the ring on my finger and smile because it is far, far too big for me. It’s made from tarnished silver, bent oval through repeated use, and to be fair it does look quite like a wedding band. I try it on my middle finger, then my thumb, but it fits neither.
    ‘For now,’ says Magnus. ‘Next time there’ll be a real one.’
    Playfully, I push him. To our right, two elderly women are smiling.
    ‘On your honeymoon?’ asks the closest one in a broad Scottish accent.
    Behind me, I hear Magnus stifle a snigger. British accents just tickle him that way. I’m amazed he can tell the difference when he can’t understand all the vocabulary. Apparently he has an accent himself, being from a northern town, though my grip of his language is so scant that I’d never have noticed.
    ‘Yes,’ replies Magnus, at the exact same time as I say, ‘No.’ We look at each other, and his deadpan face snaps back on.
    ‘No,’ I repeat, smiling at the woman. ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Holiday, then?’
    ‘No. Well, actually,