The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  As Andy watched he couldn’t help but blurt, ‘Still definitely a “no” on the name change, then?’

  ‘Hill is the name of my business,’ Saskia said primly.

  ‘You can still run a jewellery label called Little Hill without actually being a “Hill” yourself. Or you could hyphenate. Hill-Colbrook.’

  ‘If you’re so mad about people changing their names you could always become a Hill,’ Saskia said.

  He cocked his head. ‘You know I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t expect me to.’

  They fell into silence. This was how the argument ended every time. Andy understood Saskia’s point of view. Why should he expect her to do something he would never contemplate? But he wanted them to be a family, and he wanted her to have the same name as their children.

  The PA system crackled again. ‘Passengers on Flight BA456 to Rome, your plane is now ready for boarding.’

  Andy reached for Saskia’s bag. She quickly picked it up and heaved it onto her shoulder. When they were in line she said, ‘Why do you keep pushing for me to change my name?’

  He knew he shouldn’t have brought it up. But Saskia wasn’t finished. When they decided to get married she thought they’d be starting their own family, not that she’d be expected to assimilate into his.

  ‘Is your mother badgering you about this? Or is it something else? Are you afraid of losing face in front of the other Lords of the Universe you work with?’

  Andy grimaced and shrugged. He didn’t exactly know why he kept up the campaign. In the private chamber of his mind he could admit a small part of him felt emasculated. His best-friend’s wife Tilly had been dying to become Mrs Hugh Delahunty, ordering monogrammed towels to celebrate the moment the paperwork was complete. But it was more than that. He wanted Saskia to be his. Not chained-to-the-sink his, but his to cherish, and he wanted the world to know it. And also, well, it was what people did.

  ‘I guess I assumed you’d change your name and it’s taking a little getting used to.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to.’

  They filed past the check-in point and collected headphones in plastic bags. After they clipped themselves into their seats, Saskia said, ‘I’m sorry for being a bitch. I mean, a birch. A birch tree. I’m sorry I’m a tree.’

  ‘You’re not being any sort of tree. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m a little nervous of flying. A lot nervous. I thought I had it under control but then the flight was delayed and I kept dwelling on it. I didn’t want to say anything because . . .it’s silly.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  Andy had hardly believed it when Saskia told him she’d never been on a plane before. His first passport was issued at six months old because his parents wanted to attend a wedding on the Amalfi Coast and Millie couldn’t bear to leave him behind.

  ‘I noticed rust spots around the door,’ Saskia said quickly.

  He intertwined his fingers with hers. ‘Once we’re up you’ll forget you’re flying. It just becomes like a long, strange bus ride and then when you get out, you’re on the other side of the world.’

  The engine whirred. The noise grew louder as the plane gathered speed. Saskia could feel the moment when the wheels lifted off the ground. She let out a little gasp.

  Soon they were cruising above the crests of clouds. Through her window, Saskia could see the earth beneath them. She’d read that most crashes happened at take-off and landing, so she had another twelve hours of peace before she’d have to face death again.

  ‘We’ll be in Doha in twelve hours,’ Andy said. ‘Then it’s only a six-hour leg to Rome.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Saskia jolted forward, clasping his arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eighteen hours?’

  ‘It’s actually a very short route.’

  ‘But our flight was delayed. Now we won’t get to Rome until the third day of our marriage.’

  Andy furrowed his brow, confused.

  ‘The ink’s not even dry on our contract and we’re not going to be able to . . . keep our promise.’

  ‘Ah. But with the time difference—’

  ‘No, no,’ Saskia whispered urgently. ‘It has to be every day. We can’t use time zones to cheat.’

  ‘I see your point,’ Andy said.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Maybe in Doha?’

  ‘How long do we have there?’

  ‘It’s an hour stopover. There might be a hotel nearby.’

  ‘Will we be able to leave the airport?’ Saskia’s face was stricken.

  ‘It’s a risk. We could miss our flight.’

  ‘What about a Qantas Club Lounge? You’re a member. Do they have places where members can . . . sleep?’

  ‘I don’t think Qantas has a lounge at Doha. Or Emirates. Maybe —’ Andy reached for the magazine tucked into the pouch of the chair in front of him and flicked through it until he came to the map of flight routes.

  ‘Success! Doha has a place called the Oryx lounge. It says you can sleep there.’

  ‘That could work.’ Saskia gazed at the magazine. ‘Oh no.’ She pointed to the Oryx lounge information. In the corner of one of the photos men in suits were asleep in reclining chairs. ‘Is that what they mean by sleeping?’ She scanned the text. ‘It says it has work stations and free Wi-Fi. It seems like it’s for businessmen, not honeymooners.’

  ‘But look,’ Andy pointed to the list of facilities.

  Saskia grinned as she read from the list. ‘Showers.’

  *

  At Doha airport a man in a burgundy uniform with a carefully brushed moustache was instructing passengers as they left the plane.

  ‘Could you please tell us where the Oryx lounge is?’ Andy asked.

  ‘The Oryx lounge is located on the second floor adjacent to the book store. If you reach the car rental booths, you have gone too far.’

  Andy took Saskia’s hand. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  Saskia nearly tripped over her own feet, distracted by advertisements for Pepsi and Clinique that had been translated into Arabic. ‘I thought it would be more exotic,’ she said.

  ‘This looks promising,’ Andy nodded at the marble arch and potted palms of the Oryx lounge.

  A woman at the desk greeted them with a serene smile. ‘Welcome.’ She was wearing a head scarf and a long loose jacket, both a dark claret colour. On the counter beside her sat a gold bowl piled high with dates.

  ‘Hello,’ Andy said. ‘We’ve got a short stopover. Are we able to use the lounge?’

  The woman smiled and nodded. ‘For 256 Qatari Riyal you may use the Oryx lounge facilities.’

  ‘Do you accept Amex?’

  She smiled and processed the payment in a single seamless movement. ‘Enjoy your stay.’

  Before they left the desk, Andy leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘We would like to freshen up. Could you please tell us where the bathrooms are?’

  ‘The women’s showering facilities are down the corridor to my right.’ The hostess gestured gracefully. ‘The men’s are located on the other side of the dining room.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Andy said, as he and Saskia shuffled into the lounge.

  ‘This is some pricey waiting room,’ Saskia said. It was filled with couches book-ended by low tables covered in newspapers from all over the world. To the left was a buffet where waiters were clearing away fatty sausages and grilled tomatoes and replacing them with quiches, egg salad and trays of sandwiches.

  Daylight streamed into the lounge through floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the airfields. When they’d departed, Melbourne had still been dark. It had been a bitter morning, the sky swaddled in heavy black clouds. But in Doha the sky was blue and the sun strong and hot. Saskia lifted Andy’s wrist and read his watch. It was just after 8 p.m., Melbourne time.

  ‘We have four hours left of the second day of our marriage,�
�� she said. ‘Let’s find those showers.’

  Andy pulled her back. ‘Whoa, I’m not taking you into the men’s bathroom in the Middle East, and I am not going into the ladies.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Saskia, are you mad?’ A few businessmen turned their heads in their direction.

  She lowered her voice. ‘But you paid for us to get in.’

  ‘I thought the bathrooms would be closer together, or . . . I don’t know, I didn’t think it through.’

  They looked around the lounge. Staff in burgundy waistcoats hovered, watching them from the food service area.

  ‘This place is practically empty,’ Saskia whispered. ‘Maybe there’ll be nobody in there. Let’s just have a look.’

  ‘Sas, things are different here,’ he whispered. ‘This isn’t like that time we snuck into the bathrooms at Mamasita. We could get arrested.’

  ‘I just want to investigate.’

  She dragged him past the work stations to a desk beneath another marble arch, which looked like the gateway to a luxury spa. A pile of rolled, white towels stood in a pyramid formation on a ledge behind the counter.

  ‘I suppose I should be heartened you’re willing to risk being locked in a Middle Eastern jail for the sake of our marriage.’ Andy was looking around nervously.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said.

  They were stopped by a young man in the same wine-coloured uniform as the hostess.

  ‘Welcome to the Oryx lounge,’ he said. ‘Madam, if you wouldn’t mind, please stay in the business centre as this is the gentlemen’s bathroom.’

  ‘We were just wondering . . . we read there was somewhere in the Oryx lounge where we might be able to sleep,’ Saskia said.

  ‘We’re very tired,’ Andy added hastily, then yawned to prove it.

  The man put down his pen and came out from behind the counter. ‘There are reclining chairs and we can provide sleeping masks and pillows. Now, madam, I must please ask you to leave the gentleman’s restroom area.’

  ‘We were just leaving,’ Andy said, backing away and pulling Saskia with him.

  ‘You were right,’ Saskia said, downcast, as they made their way back to the lounge area. ‘Let’s see if we can drink 256 Qatari Riyal worth of coffee before our flight boards.’

  Andy kissed her head. ‘It won’t matter if we’re a few hours late. It will still be the thirteenth of October, the second day of our marriage.’

  ‘I guess.’ She sighed.

  *

  ‘It’s very empty,’ Saskia remarked when they settled into their seats on the plane that was barely a quarter full.

  ‘You’re not too disappointed, are you?’

  ‘We didn’t even make it one day. How are we going to get through all the challenges our marriage is going to bring if we can’t even stick to our promise for one day?’

  ‘We tried.’ Andy slid his arm around her shoulders. ‘Besides, wasn’t the main point to make time for each other?’

  Saskia shrugged, dejected. He gave her shoulder a squeeze as the plane started to move.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘How about, for the next hour, I massage every part of you I can without getting us thrown off the plane? Then you can do me. And we won’t have really broken our commitment because we’ll have made time for each other.’

  Saskia relented. ‘Okay.’

  While Andy was wringing the knots from Saskia’s shoulder muscles the flight attendants served trays of chicken with bread rolls that looked like they were made of plaster. By the time they cleared the trays away Saskia had begun working on Andy’s shoulders. The attendants moved through the cabin pulling down the window shades. They handed out blankets, then disappeared. The lights were dimmed.

  Saskia’s hands travelled down Andy’s back. Her fingers stirred the blood in the lower half of his body.

  ‘Sas.’ Andy’s eyebrow rose.

  ‘Mmm.’ She dug her thumbs into the base of his spine.

  ‘Everyone’s going to sleep.’

  ‘That’s because they didn’t drink $98 worth of coffee at the Oryx lounge.’

  ‘How would you feel about joining the mile-high club?’

  A smile crept across Saskia’s face. ‘Oh, but it’s not a very romantic start to our honeymoon.’

  ‘I didn’t think the point was romance. I thought the point was devotion. Think of it as our first challenge as a married couple. Life’s going to throw more unpleasantness at us than a questionable airplane bathroom.’

  Saskia opened her mouth in a half smile. ‘You’re right. We should do it for the sake of our marriage. What time is it in Melbourne?’

  ‘Nearly 11 p.m.’

  ‘Then we’d better hurry.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Andy said. ‘You follow me after five minutes.’

  ‘Wait,’ Saskia rummaged around in her bag. ‘Take this.’ She passed him the bottle Chloe perfume Andy had given her for her birthday. ‘Use it as air freshener.’ After three minutes she unclipped her belt.

  She kept her eyes forward as she crept down the aisle, certain everybody knew what they were up to. There were three stalls in the alcove. One was engaged, the other two doors had green vacant tabs. Saskia stood outside the engaged loo and cleared her throat. When there was no response she lifted her knuckles and rapped firmly.

  ‘Can’t you see it’s occupied?’ boomed a voice.

  Saskia jumped and hurried away from the cubicle, afraid she’d drawn attention to herself.

  The door behind her swung open.

  ‘Sas.’ Andy pulled her inside where she crumbled into giggles.

  ‘What happened?’ Andy secured the latch.

  ‘I think I just broadcast to everyone what we’re doing.’

  ‘At least they’ll leave us alone.’ He smiled.

  Pressed chest to chest, they took in their cramped surroundings. The beige walls were fitted with brushed steel panels. Saskia’s perfume mixed with the smell of recycled paper and cheap soap. The air was dry and stale.

  ‘Welcome to your honeymoon,’ Andy said. ‘We’ll have to be very quiet.’ He put his mouth close to her ear. The warmth of this breath made the hair on the nape of her neck stand up.

  ‘We will.’ She undid the buttons on his shirt and stepped forward. As she did, something gave way beneath her foot. A slurping, screaming noise rushed up from behind them. Saskia yelped and clung to Andy’s chest.

  ‘What was that?’ she whispered, her eyes darting around.

  ‘I think you stepped on the flush pedal.’

  ‘Oh, thank God. How are we going to do this?’ They looked down, they were both wearing jeans.

  ‘This can go here,’ Andy said, hooking her leg around his waist.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Saskia unshackled his belt.

  He lifted her off the ground. She placed a hand on the sink and leaned onto it, transferring as much weight as possible.

  ‘This will work. Let me just shimmy these jeans of yours down.’

  ‘Are you—’

  ‘This is better, now just—’

  ‘Careful.’

  ‘Get down for a moment while I—’

  ‘Ow! That was my foot!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Try this.’

  ‘That’s better. That’s nice.’

  Giggles curled from the back of their throats as they pressed their lips together and, under the neon bulb in a vertical twister pose, fulfilled their commitment for the second day of their marriage.

  Day 3, Tuesday, October 14

  Growing up, Saskia didn’t have many possessions. Her family had moved around a lot for the first ten years of her life. From a creaky old Queenslander with faulty wiring in Emerald, to a weatherboard home in coastal Rosebud where everything was rusty from the salt in the air, she jettisoned things each time they moved. Why pack an Etch-a-Sketch with only one working knob?

  The one thing she would never part with was a book of fairy tales she had bought for two dollars at a garage sale. It was dog-ear
ed, thick as a phonebook, and had a silver cover illustrated in a style she later learned was called Art Nouveau. The drawing was the reason she bought the book. As soon as she got it home, she covered it with tracing paper and tried to replicate the image.

  Its dog-eared pages held more than two hundred stories, most of which she had never heard of. The ones she did know, like Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, were ghoulish. There were no dancing mice or sewing birds to help Cinderella to the ball. The ugly stepsisters cut off a heel and a toe, their mutilated feet filling the glass slipper with blood as they tried to trick the prince into choosing them for his bride.

  Thrilled and horrified, young Saskia devoured the book, reading it under her doona by torchlight with her tongue pressed against her teeth. Of all the stories, the quests were her favourite. These followed poor but noble men who had to overcome a series of tasks to win the hand of a princess. They would traverse wide deserts and travel to foreign kingdoms, past castles infested with dragons and bedevilled rose bushes. Vats of oil were always being kept on the boil, threatening to be tipped over the hero’s head. These tales kept her company every night. She loved to escape into the faraway lands, away from her mother’s crying and the nag of hunger in her stomach.

  She had forgotten about these fantastical lands until she saw Rome.

  Saskia gasped when she stepped blinking into the sunshine that first morning of her honeymoon. With its domed churches and sun-blanched ruins, the sights and smells of Rome transported her to the fantasy world of her childhood, where all it took to be a hero was a good heart and a strong will.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she told Andy, sliding her arm under his leather jacket and around his waist. At six foot two he towered over her, and she was able to slip conveniently under his arm.

  ‘The eternal city,’ he said. ‘She’s pretty special, all right.’

  ‘Everything is just so beautiful. I wish our roads in Melbourne were cobbled.’ Saskia tapped the sole of her shoe on the stone. ‘Look at these houses.’ She waved her arm in the air. Here, instead of steel and brick, the walls were sunset colours of orange and pink. Above them, Juliet balconies jutted out from ancient buildings. Miniature gardens grew in pots. Laundry flapping in the breeze seemed to wave at them as they passed. A feeling of contentment swept over her.