"Lilly, that's totally tubular!" Stormy-Rain was probably the only person outside of the 1970s that still used the word "tubular". And when she wasn't using words that hadn't been uttered in decades, she was making them up. A couple of months ago she'd tried to get the word "Funkadelic" circulating. For some reason, it hadn't caught on.

"Yayness, I'm so happy for you guys," Stormy said excitedly, feeling a genuine, warm, fuzzy rush of happiness as she thought about her two favorite people getting married. "So when's the big day?"

But as the words were out of her mouth, the phone's speaker delivered a loud, angry hiss. This was an all-too-familiar sound that always forced her to run to the other end of her room. But when the hissy crackle continued to drown out their conversation, she resorted to sticking her head out the window of her tiny third-floor bachelor apartment. Her cell phone reception was always dodgy, which probably had something to do with the fact that her phone was a prehistoric relic from the 90s, complete with jam-jar size buttons and an aerial that could easily take out someone's eye – as everyone was so fond of pointing out. Not that she gave three continental hoots. Besides, she just didn't understand everyone's obsession with having the world at their fingertips 24/7, and on a phone of all things! Phones were for phoning. Not for Googling and Facebooking and You-Tweetering and GPSing – such technological things that were simply beyond her comprehension.

"The wedding will be on the 20th of September," Lilly was shouting over the ever-increasing crackle. Stormy climbed out of the window and balanced dangerously on the rather rusty fire escape that probably hadn't been repaired since the turn of the millennium. She did this often in her perpetual search for a reliable signal. But the reception always proved to be a sneaky thing.

"Wait? What's Damien's star sign again?" Stormy was practically shouting now, and a street vendor looked up at her curiously. She waved and smiled at him happily, careful not to lose her grip on the railing in the process.

"Leo!" Lilly screamed back.

"Okay, hold on, I need to check something quickly. Call me back in exactly five, I'm running out of airtime. Peace out."

Stormy hung up, jumped back inside and raced across the room, almost tripping over her pet tortoise Elvis as she went. "Sorry guy," she cooed as she reached down and gave him a quick, apologetic pat on his little head.

At her bookshelf, she pulled out her large, well-thumbed astrology book and reached for her reading glasses. They were the only reading glasses she'd ever owned, and well over ten years old – the one cracked lens and wonky arm that had been sellotaped back together attested to that. But her philosophy was simple: why throw something away when it could still be used? She couldn't afford new ones anyway.

She flipped the book open with a flourish and ran her neon purple nail down the wordy index column. "Leo, Leo, Leo where are you...? AH-HA, page 22."

Stormy scanned the words on the page, 'Uhm-ing' and 'Ah-ing' as she went. She pulled out a pink pencil, which had been sharpened to within an inch of its life, and began scribbling some numbers and notes down on the back of an old envelope she'd fished out of her bin.

The phone rang just as she'd happily finished her calculations.

"Hey Lil, it's okay, you can have the wedding on the 20th, the numbers say it's a good day," she reported seriously as she answered the call. Astrology and numerology were no laughing matters; as far as she was concerned, they were as real as things like crystal healing, tarot, auras and fairies – obviously.

"Well, that's a relief, I'll let Damien know," Lilly said with a slight smile in her voice.

The hiss and crackle were gone now, so Stormy flopped down onto her beanbag. A few tiny polystyrene bits burst through the torn corner that she had been meaning to staple closed. "So where's it going to be... no, let me guess, some fancy place in the Winelands or the Drakensburg?"

There was a loaded pause on the other end of the phone, and Stormy's psychic senses started buzzing. She could tell something terrible was coming.

"Okay, don't hate me but..." Lilly's words were tentative and cautious, but their effect was immediate.

"No!" Stormy exclaimed, grabbing her chest as if she was in physical pain. "It's not...? You wouldn't...? No!"

"I'm sorry, it is," Lilly admitted sheepishly.

"Where?" Stormy took a long, deep breath, trying to quell her sudden agitation. 'Out with anxiety, in with love, light and fairy dust,' she chanted in her head, but she was failing dismally as her heart involuntarily started beating at double time.

"Prague – it's really beautiful and you'll love it there, and –"

"Lilly, you know I can't fly," she wailed, repeating her internal mantra again, 'Out with anxiety... in with...' But it didn't seem to be helping in the slightest. In fact, it was having the opposite effect. She was a split-second away from a total freak out.

"Please, I need you there, it wouldn't be the same without you," Lilly pleaded with her. "Besides, who's going to help with our mother when she gets drunk and falls off a table, or worse – gets up to make one of her famously inappropriate speeches?"

Stormy and Lilly had technically only been step-siblings for a few months, during a rather short-lived and tumultuous marriage between their dysfunctional, dramatically inclined, drug-addicted parents that had ended in an impromptu bonfire and a near police riot. Still, Stormy thought of Lilly's mother Ida as her own, since she was the only one she'd ever known. Stormy's real mother had abandoned her just hours after giving birth to run off with a hippie cult called Children of the Moonbeam. True story!

Stormy snapped back to reality as Lilly issued another loud and rather long plea. "Pleeeaaaassseee?"

"But, but, but..." Stormy was in the grip of full-blown panic and twirled her hair around her finger frantically, something she'd done since childhood whenever she felt anxious – which had been often.

"Lil, I don't know..." She winced a little as the tip of her hair-entwined finger started going slightly blue and tingly.

"It's been proven that it's more dangerous to drive than to fly," Lilly offered in a calm, soothing tone.

Stormy stopped twirling and smacked her hand down on the beanbag, causing another puff of white stuff to fly out. "And I suppose you read that on Google?" she asked sarcastically, adding a breathy scoff to the end for emphasis.

Lilly hesitated; she knew what was coming. Anyone who knew Stormy well would know what was coming "Yes," she admitted tentatively and expectantly.

Stormy rolled her eyes dramatically, even though there was no one there to appreciate the theatrical gesture, and let out her do-I-really-have-to-explain-this-to-you-again sigh. "Lilly, when are you going to realize that the world government is controlling us with fake information on the World Wide Web? I mean, next you'll be telling me that you think they really landed on the moon!"

"Didn't they?"

"Of course not," Stormy said. She had it on very good authority that the photos of the lunar landing had been faked. Once you knew what you were looking for, it was blatantly obvious.

"Please..." Lilly was really begging now. The tone of desperation in her voice was killing Stormy; if there was one person she loved most in the multiverse, it was Lilly, and she couldn't stand to disappoint her. "With a hundred cherries on top and stuff like that."

Stormy swallowed hard. She could almost taste the bitter panic as it rose up from the pit of her stomach and into her mouth. Planes were not safe! If humans were meant to fly, they would have been given wings, not arms. Planes were dangerous, dangerous things.

"But...but," she stuttered as the words got caught in her tight, panic-strangled throat.

"Please? Pretty please? Otherwise, who will be my third bridesmaid?"

"Seriously?" Stormy felt a sudden warm rush of excitement that almost drowned out the panic. Almost. "You want me to be your bridesmaid?"

"Of course! I was so bummed when your appendix went and burst and you weren't able to make it to the wedding last time. It just didn't feel right, not having you as part of my bridal party. Please, please will you do it this time?"

But then a thought popped into her head that reduced her excitement level to a mere simmer. "Hang on, you don't expect me to organize anything, do you?" Stormy and organization weren't exactly the best of friends. In fact, they made about as much sense as roller-skates on a tortoise (which she had tried once – it hadn't worked.) Luckily, her life required little organization; she lived by a self-made philosophy. It was more of an impromptu, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-panties and hope for a vaguely soft landing, kind of thing. So far it had served her well.

"Don't worry," Lilly chuckled loudly, "you know what Sue and Val are like, they're on it like crazed braidsmaid-zillas'"

Oh, thank Goddess!" The idea of organizing a wedding, not to mention doing it with Sue and Val, made her more than a little queasy. She could almost picture them with horns and hooves and wild, frenzied wedding eyes. Those two were overly enthusiastic at the best of times, but throw in some drapery, flowers and the need for color-coordinated outfits, and you would have a full-blown circus on your hands. Oh great Shiva, what the hell were they going to make her wear? She quickly pushed the peach and cream tulle-laden thought out of her head.

"Is Jess going to be Damien's best-woman?" Stormy asked. Damien's bestie was a super-hot lesbian named Jess.

"Yes, she's even wearing a suit," Lilly answered.

"She'll look so funkadelic." (No harm in giving it another go!)

"Hey! You're trying to avoid the topic! The flight! Please can we talk about it?" Stormy could hear that Lilly was trying to sound firm and persuasive. "There's nothing to worry about. Plus, Damien's cousin Marcus will be on the same flight, so you wouldn't be totally alone."

"Like that's supposed to be comforting. It's not like I know the dude from a bar of Adam..." Without even trying, Stormy had this uncanny ability to confuse every single idiom that had ever been created. But she'd never cared much for rules anyway.

Stormy ran her options through her mind a few times. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad if there was someone else on the flight with her. At least she would have someone to talk to... right? "What's this Marcus guy's star sign? If you find that out, at least I'll be more prepared to meet him."

"So you're coming?" Lilly squealed like an excitable cheerleader, something she always did when she got worked up.

"I can't miss your wedding."

"And what about a plus one – do we need to get you another ticket, or has that last guy reached the six-week mark?"

"The street magician? No, noooo, he passed the six-week mark two weeks ago."

Stormy had a very strict relationship policy: she dated men for exactly six weeks and then broke it off. To date, no one had ever made it past the six-week cut-off. But oh, how she loved those six weeks! Those blissful days spent wrapped up in the delicious honeymoon phase, delightfully ignorant of each other's foibles and flaws. By ending it then, she was ensured of happy relationship memories that never ended in pain, suffering, animosity and – in her father's case – the odd death threat. She knew all too well that long-term relationships just didn't work – her four bitter ex-step-moms could attest to that.

"I'm so excited, Storm! It's all going to be so perfect with you there! I've got to go, Val and Sue are waving invitations in my face."

"Okay. Kiss kiss, love and light, Lilly. And send love to Sue and Val, and Damien of course. And anyone else there. Just send love! Smooches."

***

The last thing Marcus wanted to do was babysit some anxious, hysterical woman on a flight – but he'd promised Damien. Who the hell was afraid of flying in this day and age anyway? And while he was contemplating the whole who the hell thing, who the hell was named Stormy-Rain? There were only two possibilities: either she had made it up, for some bizarre reason, or her parents were Acid-popping hippies. It was probably the latter. The idea that someone would willingly choose that name for themselves was too ridiculous to even consider.

He wasn't looking forward to it at all, and he didn't even know what she looked like. When he'd asked Damien how he'd recognize her, Damien had gotten a strange tone in his voice and said, "You'll just know."

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Marcus made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard metal benches that snaked around the boarding gate. The flight was only due to board in forty-five minutes and people had already started lining up like ants. He'd never understood that – scrambling to get on the plane when your seat was already allocated. Luckily, he didn't need to worry about such things; business class passengers always got priority boarding. He opened the Business Day and flipped to the stock reports. Playing the stock markets was a little hobby of his, one that had made him quite a bit of pocket money over the years. Not that he needed it – his recent promotion to partner at his law firm had come with a few extra zeros on his pay check, along with some other enviable benefits.

Marcus scanned the paper, and was just about to pat himself on the back for yet another shrewd investment when his phone started to buzz. He pulled it out of his pocket and a wave of discomfort washed over him when he saw the message.

It was from his ex, Emma. She was supposed to have been his date to the wedding, but they'd broken up two weeks ago. The break-up had completely blindsided her, or so she'd claimed. But after a year together, Marcus had realized that she just wasn't right – and by that, he meant that she simply wasn't wife and mother material. She was far too focused on her career, and when he'd brought up the topic of kids, her face had scrunched up as if she'd just bitten into a lemon.

Marcus was looking for someone very specific. Someone stable, dependable and mature. And most importantly, someone he could settle down with. He was 30 now, after all, and successful enough to provide a good home for his future family – a family he wanted more than anything, perhaps more than he would ever admit out loud. He'd never really had a family of his own, not in the traditional sense, anyway. Unfortunately, Mrs Right was proving to be rather elusive thus far.

Hey, I'd really like to talk to you, Marcus. Please call me when you get a chance. Have a safe flight and send Lilly and Damien my love. Em xx

He put his phone away without responding, and turned back to the paper. But just as he'd started on an excellent article about the pros and cons of investing in platinum, his focus was once again shattered, this time by a rather loud ruckus on the other side of the departures area.

"Excuse me."

"Sorry – zipping through."

"Thanky-thanks!"

"Scuse moi!"

Feeling irritated at the disturbance, he looked up – and that's when he smacked eyes on her. She was small, thin and rather waiflike. She was also wearing a hideous dress that looked like it had been purchased at a charity store from an aged hippie. It was a cream-colored thing, splashed with a loud, canary-yellow sunflower print. He ran his eyes down the length of the dress until he found his gaze transfixed by the ugliest pair of shoes he'd seen in a while – old, worn brown leather sandals that seemed too big for the dainty feet they were strapped onto. And to top the whole atrocious ensemble off: a scarf. Pink. Knitted. With yellow pom-poms hanging from it. He physically cringed.

"Just squeezing through. Cheerio!" Her voice was high-pitched and had a sing-song quality to it.

It wasn't only the loud jet of words flying out of her mouth that was responsible for the public disturbance – it was also her bangles. Chunky wooden things and purple plastic junk with pink feathers and large shells dangled from her slender arms and clanked together as she minced. Because she didn't simply walk – oh no – she sort of flapped about as if she had no control over her limbs. Her arms and legs seemed to veer off in random directions, knocking the odd person as she went. His eyes moved up for the first time, and he felt his mouth pop open in shock as his gaze settled on her face.

Her hair! It looked like a rainbow had thrown up on her. Pink, blue, orange and purple radiated from her scalp. The colorful strands were braided together into a plait that hung over her shoulder and was fastened at the end by a giant purple flower. He'd never seen anyone with rainbow-colored hair before; in fact, he'd never seen anyone so utterly bizarre-looking. And then it dawned on him...

This must be Stormy- Rain.

Shit. He was going to kill Damien when he saw him.