‘So I should go?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I can’t believe all the places you’ve been to, Cassie. I’m guessing there are plenty more to come. What a fascinating life you’ve led.’
Cassie smiles, but her heart’s not in it. She wants to be flattered by these comments, but she knows they’re meaningless, soon to be usurped by very different feelings and words.
Once Rose knows the full story.
Her true identity.
What she did.
‘The mains are taking a while,’ she says, fanning herself with her hand. ‘Sorry, but I must nip to the toilet. Back in a minute.’
She walks across the room to the ladies, which she’s glad to find empty. The main reason she’s come here isn’t to use the loo, although she does that anyway. It’s to take a minute to clear her head. She’s getting anxious. Scratch that. She’s been fearful the whole time – before she and Rose even had their first conversation. But now she’s way past the point of no return. All those years to prepare for this moment, which part of her always suspected would one day come to pass, and still she doesn’t feel ready. She’s so nervous she could throw up.
How she’s managed to keep talking about the past over the dinner table without faltering, she doesn’t know. Now she’s paused for breath, too many thoughts have crept in. There’s a tightness in her chest and throat; breathing feels like an effort.
Cassie exits the cubicle and crosses to the sink on unsteady legs. She grabs the edge of the porcelain basin, holding herself up, and stares into the large mirror attached to the tiled wall. ‘You can do this,’ she says. ‘You have to.’
The door swings open and a smartly dressed elderly woman enters the room, covering her mouth with the palm of one wrinkled hand as she clears her throat. ‘Hello,’ she says in a soft polite voice, smiling at Cassie’s reflection in the mirror.
‘Hi,’ Cassie replies, forcing a smile.
The woman nods her head and walks into the cubicle Cassie just vacated … without having pulled the chain, it dawns on her. Oops. How uncouth.
There’s a tutting sound followed by a flush. Cassie scowls at the mirror, slaps her cheeks and splashes some water over her face. Taking a deep breath, she attempts to clear her mind, willing herself back into whatever zone it was she occupied previously.
‘Ah, the food’s arrived,’ she says, seeing two full plates billowing steam into the shaded lamp above the table as she returns. ‘Excellent.’ Taking her seat and smoothing the napkin back on to her lap with rhythmic strokes, she adds: ‘It’s not been here long, has it? I quite like returning to find my meal waiting, but it’s less fun if you’re the one left at the table watching it go cold.’
‘It’s barely been here a minute,’ Rose says, as though she’s not bothered, although Cassie thinks she spots a flicker of annoyance cross her face. ‘Did you want any condiments? I can call the waiter back if—’
‘No, no. It looks perfect as it is.’ Cassie leans forward over her plate. ‘Mmm. Smells great. I love seabass. And your risotto looks delicious. Please dig in; ignore my chatter. I’ve done enough delaying already.’
‘So where did you head next after Amsterdam?’
Cassie winks. ‘Keen to get back to my story, are you?’
‘You did make me wait all day for it.’
‘Touché. Have a guess.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Why not? Just for fun.’
‘You’ll have to give me a clue first.’
‘It wasn’t in Europe. This time I travelled further afield. Working in the bar left me better off than expected, thanks to decent tips from tipsy tourists and seeing as how I didn’t have to pay any rent. I was finally able to afford a long-haul trip, so I seized the opportunity. Go on, guess. Where do you think I went?’
‘America?’ Rose offers.
‘North or South?’
‘North – the United States?’
‘Nope.’
‘South?’
‘Sorry. Wrong again.’
‘Oh, that’s not fair. You tricked me. Fine, New Zealand? I know you definitely went there at some point.’
‘I did indeed, but not then. Would you like me to tell you?’
‘Yes, please.’
Again, Cassie thinks she spots a flash of irritation in her companion’s gaze. Is Rose starting to realise that all is not quite as it seems? Hmm, best tread carefully. It’s not time yet for the big revelations. She needs to finish her story first.
‘You weren’t far off, as it happens: I went to Australia. It wasn’t hard to get a visa that allowed me to work over there, you see. That’s what swung it over other places, like the US. I didn’t have enough money to travel without picking up jobs along the way. Plus I’d always wanted to go there. Who wouldn’t? It’s an amazing country.
‘Things didn’t get off to a great start, though, when I made a stopover in Kuala Lumpur en route. I had my backpack slashed open by pickpockets while fighting my way through the crazy busy noisy streets to reach my hostel.’
‘No! What did they take?’
‘Cash, a camera, some clothes. Not my passport or airline ticket, thankfully. I was lucky not to lose everything. A kindly young American couple came to my aid. They helped me gather what was left, although it still wasn’t easy, scrabbling around in such a hectic spot – people everywhere, street traders hawking their wares, vehicle horns honking. They accompanied me to the hostel and even pointed me in the right direction of where to buy a new bag. I was in bits. If those two hadn’t shown up when they did, I don’t know how I’d have managed.’
‘Anyway,’ Cassie continues, in between bites of food, ‘having my stuff nicked like that taught me the importance of being vigilant at all times, particularly as a lone female traveller. I eventually arrived at my planned starting destination of Cairns, at the top of Australia’s east coast, after entering the country in Darwin and taking an internal connecting flight. I wanted to work my way down to Sydney and Melbourne via the likes of Noosa, Brisbane and Byron Bay. It was a popular route with backpackers, according to the Lonely Planet guide I’d been studying nonstop ever since deciding to head Down Under. Thank goodness they didn’t steal that in Kuala Lumpur, with all my pencilled notes inside. There was no Internet in your pocket, like today.’
‘I can’t imagine doing that kind of travelling without a smartphone,’ Rose says.
Cassie shrugs. ‘It’s what your generation has grown up with. I’m sure it makes things much easier. How’s the risotto?’
‘Lovely thanks. And your fish?’
‘To die for, melt-in-the-mouth delicious. Would you like to try some?’
Rose shakes her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She doesn’t reciprocate the offer.
Cassie returns to her story.
CHAPTER 25
I was in Australia for the best part of four years. That definitely wasn’t the plan, but it’s what happened. I did the backpacker thing for most of the first year, sometimes travelling alone, sometimes with other people I’d met in youth hostels along the way. I picked up all kinds of temporary jobs in all kinds of places, from door-to-door sales in Townsville to washing freshly picked courgettes, or zucchinis as they call them in Australia, at a remote farm near Mackay.
The farm job only lasted for one morning. I was reliant on a lift there with two other travellers; the driver got sacked after four hours of backbreaking work out in the fields, picking the zucchinis for me and my colleagues to wash. He was too slow, apparently. It meant all three of us had to leave or there’d have been no way out of there at the end of the day.
I did various other jobs too: telesales, bar work, waiting on tables, pot washing. I even cleaned trains for a fortnight in Sydney, which involved a lot of waiting around playing cards in between frantic bouts of hoovering, bin-emptying, mopping and wiping whenever a train pulled into the depot.
I loved the freedom of flitting from one place, one job, to another without repercussi
ons.
In Brisbane, I landed a sales job in a second-hand car lot, despite not knowing a thing about motor vehicles and, at the time, not having a driving licence. With hindsight, it was no skin off their nose to employ me, seeing as it was purely commission-based work. ‘You’ll be right, darling,’ the slimy sales manager told me when, naively, I mentioned my cluelessness. ‘Most of our customers are blokes. Just bat your eyelashes and flash some leg.’
That should have been enough to warn me off. Instead, more fool me, I put up with being ogled, even wolf-whistled at, by colleagues and customers alike for a couple of hours without making a single sale. I eventually had enough when I overheard two of the sales guys betting, while on a cigarette break, or ‘smoko’ as they called it, to see who could ‘root’ me first. That’s Aussie slang for having sex. I turned on my heel and walked out of the door without a word to anyone. I didn’t look back. Oh, yeah, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, but as a goodbye gift, I ran my room key along the side of a Ford Falcon I’d failed twice to sell. That felt great in the moment, although afterwards I started to worry about the car damage catching up with me. Easily solved: I hopped on a coach the next afternoon and moved on. No consequences.
In Sydney, after the train-cleaning shifts dried up, I landed on my feet with a cushy office job, selling adverts over the phone for a popular city-based food and drink magazine. Next thing I knew, after offering my services up when one of the writers unexpectedly quit, I was working in editorial. Initially I was a junior, doing the more menial tasks, but I became a full-on food and drink critic, paid to go wining and dining across Sydney’s many bars and restaurants.
How on earth did I manage this with no journalistic or culinary training? Good question. I’m not entirely sure. I was in the right place at the right time and my editor took a liking to me. ‘You have a flair for this,’ I remember her telling me after I first reviewed a restaurant, covering for a critic who was away on holiday. ‘I like your writing style. It’s different. Raw. Edgy. We need more of this kind of thing to stay relevant and attract younger readers. Good work.’
It was thanks to this job that I was able to remain in the country long beyond my initial twelve-month visa, since my employer agreed to sponsor me to stay. I went from being a traveller living out of a backpack and hostel dorm rooms, to a professional with a better salary than I’d ever earned before and a cosy apartment in the trendy inner-city suburb of Surry Hills.
There was plenty of socialising, not least because of all the establishments I had to visit for work. I settled very quickly into that lifestyle. I had a circle of friends. A place to rest my head at night that felt like home. And Sydney was such a wonderful place to live, especially in summer. I’m yet to discover another destination that manages to merge modern, big city life so effortlessly with such an amazing selection of glorious beaches, perfect for swimming, surfing or simply basking in the heat. As someone who grew up without holidays, I felt like I was living one every day. Work didn’t feel like work and, for most of my time in Sydney, I was incredibly, unbelievably happy.
I’d been in Australia for approaching three and a half years when things started to go wrong. My lovely editor left and was replaced by a guy called Mark, who’d previously worked in newspapers. I liked him initially. He was charming and, I’ll admit it, handsome. In fact, I liked him rather too much and, against my better judgement, let him pursue me romantically. After weeks of flirting, and plenty of wooing on his part, we eventually entered into a relationship. It was nice while it lasted. Then he cheated on me with an eighteen-year-old intern and I could barely look him in the eye, never mind work for him, so I quit. No sooner had I done so than the old urge to travel reawakened in me. Barely two weeks later, I was back on a coach with just a backpack of belongings to my name again, having given away the larger things I’d accumulated to friends and neighbours.
I’d managed to save up quite a bit of cash during my time in Sydney, so I spent several weeks seeing more of Australia’s amazing attractions: Melbourne and the Great Ocean Road; Adelaide and its wonderful wineries; the opal mining outback town of Coober Pedy; Alice Springs, Uluru and Kata Tjuta in the Red Centre; Kakadu National Park and Darwin.
I flew to Bali for some lovely relaxation, then on to Singapore, from which I travelled up to Peninsular Malaysia, skipping Kuala Lumpur after my bad experience there last time. Instead, I headed up to the Cameron Highlands on a rickety bus.
It got me there in one piece, thankfully, despite having to navigate some rough, narrow and very windy roads, particularly towards the end of the journey. It was worth the effort, though. The highlands were magnificent and, thanks to the high altitude, the air there was significantly cooler than I’d grown used to, which was a lovely refreshing surprise. I stayed in a former military Nissen hut – essentially a half-cylinder of corrugated metal with a door and windows – which was roomy, protected from the sun, and very comfortable. It was part of a sprawling guest house near Tanah Rata, full of other international travellers. While staying there, I enjoyed treats such as an oriental-style fondue, called a steam boat, in which you cook various meats, vegetables and seafood in a broth. I also went on a tour of a local tea plantation and factory.
It was on to lively Penang Island next, connected to the mainland’s west coast by the impressive Penang Bridge, nearly eight and a half miles long, over which I was delivered by another typically battered-looking bus. A day or two later, just about reacclimatised to the intense heat, I crossed the width of the peninsula in another couple of lovely buses, one of which broke down along the way. Eventually, I reached Kota Bharu, right at the top of the country’s east coast, near the Thai border.
I’d booked ahead at a local inn, but due to my late arrival, thanks to the bus breaking down, they’d assumed I wasn’t coming and sold my room to someone else. Not to worry, the young owner told me with a smile: they still had space for me. This was actually the laundry room, into which a bed, fan and light were quickly carried and installed, making for what turned out to be a surprisingly good night’s sleep. However, that may partly have been down to the nip of locally produced, very potent rum I had before bed, having bought a small bottle while visiting a nearby street market for food that night.
I only picked it up because of the name, Orangutan, and the striking image of the ape on its label. Saying that, it was probably in the back of my mind that the Perhentian Islands, where I was heading next, were officially ‘dry’, meaning no alcohol could be bought there, so taking a little of my own made sense.
The following morning, I shared a taxi with some German travellers to the coast, from which we took a ferry to the idyllic Perhentian Kecil. Having found simple, beach hut-style accommodation, I spent a few days lounging on sunbeds and hammocks, swimming in the crystal clear, warm water, chatting to other travellers, and eating barbecued fish fresh from the sea. Paradise! Oh, and I needn’t have worried about buying that strange rum, as despite the island being officially alcohol-free, there was in fact beer available to buy, courtesy of a mysterious man with a cool box, who appeared on the edge of the beach after dark.
Next I crossed into Thailand, spending time on the islands of Koh Phangan, famous for its wild full moon beach parties, which I thankfully avoided, and Koh Samui. They were a lot more touristy than my last island stop, but gorgeous nonetheless. Afterwards, I took the night train up to Bangkok, where I sweated and scratched my head for a few days, in between seeing the sights, wondering how anywhere so humid could be so hectic, and generally feeling paranoid about the possibility of getting scammed or pickpocketed in such a busy place. It made Kuala Lumpur look relatively tame in comparison.
I hadn’t yet made my mind up about where to head next. I had various ideas and, thanks partly to the bargain cost of living in Southeast Asia, plenty of money left to keep on going.
Then an email picked up in a busy Internet café made the decision for me. It was from Angela, my old friend and boss, sent a few days earlier. Des
pite not seeing each other for years, we’d stayed in touch. It had been a few months since I’d heard from her, though, so I hadn’t yet told her about leaving Australia. Last I heard, she was working a ‘boring desk job’ in the head office of a travel firm in London.
‘Exciting news’ was the subject of her email, which revealed that she’d met someone while working in London: a woman called Melissa, from New Zealand, who’d swept her off her feet. They were madly in love, she said, and – get this – they’d decided to move to Christchurch together to make a go of it. Angela had jacked in her job and, at the time of writing, was due to fly out to New Zealand the next evening.
I still remember her exact words: ‘I know it’s all very quick, Cassie, but when you know, you know.’
Thinking I was still in Australia, she ended her message by pointing out that you could fly between Christchurch and Sydney in three and a bit hours. She said it would be wonderful if we could use this opportunity to meet up again after so long.
Believe it or not, New Zealand was one of the places I’d been considering heading next. I’d heard so many great things about the country during my time in Australia, despite the Aussies loving to poke fun at the Kiwis and vice versa.
The only thing that had been putting me off was the fact it would mean flying back the way I’d come from, which wasn’t logical. And yet, it would be amazing to see Angela again and meet her girlfriend.
So I took the email as a sign. I made a snap decision to shelve my plans to see more of Southeast Asia and to get myself on the cheapest New Zealand-bound flight I could find.
CHAPTER 26
So began the next chapter of my life. A crucially important one, as it happens, which ultimately led me to who and where I am now – settled in Ireland.
Where I am literally right now, here in this excellent hotel restaurant, enjoying your very lovely company, is more complicated, as I’ve indicated. We’ll be getting to that soon, trust me.
The Daughter's Choice Page 18
