Our Breakup Is a Public Holiday

How it begins

There was a bronze plaque on the bench where Bea had dumped Owen.

She stood in front of it with a suitcase in one hand and a bag of cheese rolls in the other.

ON THIS SPOT, the plaque began.

She stopped reading.

A woman behind her was explaining the significance of the bench to two tourists.

"Seventeen years ago. In the rain. She threw a sausage roll."

"Cheese," Bea said.

The woman turned.

"It was cheese."

Recognition traveled across the woman's face with the terrible speed of news on a small island.

"You're back!"

"Briefly."

"Have you seen the parade float?"

Bea tightened her grip on the rolls.

Her mother had mentioned that Breakup Day had grown. She had not mentioned the plaque. Or the walking tours. Or the banner above the ferry terminal, showing a cartoon heart being efficiently dismantled by two seagulls.

At nineteen, Bea had ended a relationship in public because neither of them owned a private room. Somebody had filmed the argument. The clip had raised money for the damaged pier. The next year there had been a picnic. Then a parade.

Now the council had printed her worst sentence on tea towels.

The tourist woman pointed at her bag. "Will you be doing the throw this year?"

"No."

"Only we're here for the weekend."

"Then I recommend the lighthouse."

Across the square, Owen stepped out of the council offices.

He wore a decent coat. This annoyed her. She had prepared for several versions of him during the crossing, but none had included a coat that suggested he understood his own life.

He saw her. Then he saw the plaque.

"I asked them to put that somewhere less visible."

"Underwater?"

He smiled before remembering not to.

A small boy approached with a festival program and a pen.

"Could you sign the argument?"

Bea looked at Owen.

For one dangerous second, they shared the same expression.

Then Owen took the program, crossed out the printed ending and wrote beneath it:

TO BE REVISED.