Summer Daydreams

by Carole Matthews

  Instead, he headed to the pub.

  The Lord Dodgersley was one of the least salubrious establishments in the town centre. More commonly known as The Dodgy Arms, its floorboards were bare, the walls painted a deeply unattractive shade of matt black, the once bright-red sofas jaded and stained. But it was always busy and had a great atmosphere – until the fights started. Its main attraction was probably down to the fact that it sold cheap beer and vodka shots. Always popular with the young crowd. And also the cause of most of the closing-time brawls, of course. At night there were always people spilling out onto the pavement even in the depths of winter. Now, on a hot, end of summer evening, the place was heaving. There was a courtyard with patio umbrellas that was filled with business types who looked like they’d sloped out of work an hour early. They were all in high spirits and chatted loudly, all trying to outdo each other. Olly knew that if he sat out here, they would very soon get on his nerves. All he wanted was to blend in with the crowd and drink himself into oblivion.

  He ordered a pint of beer from the barman, then found himself a corner in which to hide and settled in for the evening. Let Nell wonder where he was. Let her stew. She’d texted him a dozen times, but he’d let them all go unanswered. It was childish, but that was just how he felt. He wanted her to worry about him, to not know what he was doing or who with.

  A couple of hours in and he was several beers up. The world was feeling fuzzy round the edges. He ordered lasagne and chips and more beer and wondered if Nell had made any dinner for him and if it was dried up by now.

  When he’d eaten, a brash group of girls came barrelling into the pub. They were skimpily dressed, out for a night on the town and you could hear them cackling even over the noise of the music, which wasn’t exactly set at an ambient volume. The hardcore evening crowd was arriving and that meant it was probably time to go home, even though his head still wasn’t straight. He’d tried to think this afternoon, think about his relationship with Nell, what was happening to them, why they constantly seemed to be at odds with each other when, previously, they’d been perfectly happy. But his brain was just a swirling mass of unconnected thoughts and no progress had been made.

  Olly downed his drink and stood up, ready to fight his way to the door. Not literally, he hoped. It was then that he realised he was a bit more unsteady on his feet than he’d thought.

  ‘Hey.’

  Looking up, he saw that Jenny was standing in front of him. He hadn’t seen her since the week she’d looked after Petal. The week that they’d shared a kiss. If Jenny was thinking about that, then she didn’t show it.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said. Did it come out slurry?

  ‘What are you doing here, drinking by yourself?’

  ‘Just needed a bit of a binge,’ he confessed. ‘Off home now.’

  ‘Don’t rush away,’ Jenny said, her voice urgent. ‘Not now I’ve just got here.’

  ‘Looks as if you’re up for a big night out.’

  ‘Nah.’ She laughed. ‘Just a few bevvies with the girls. Got to blow off steam sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Olly said. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Come and meet them,’ she said. ‘They’re a great bunch.’

  ‘Not really in the mood, Jen. I need to get back.’

  She slipped her arm through his. ‘The night is young, Olly Meyers, and so are you. Live a little.’

  He felt as if he had already lived far too much.

  ‘One drink,’ she cajoled. ‘Just stay for one drink.’

  Knowing when he was defeated, he held up his hands. ‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, there are six of us. I’ll stand you a round.’ She pulled him over to her friends. Except for Jen, they all looked more orange than was good for a woman. They also looked as if they’d walked through an explosion in a Rimmel factory before they’d arrived. It was clear that the natural look wasn’t what they were aiming for.

  Jen introduced him to them all and he instantly forgot all of their names. It had been a long session. Longer really than he’d intended. Before he knew it, a line of vodka shots appeared in front of them.

  ‘Down in one,’ Jen said with a giggle.

  This was a bad idea as he’d already lost count of the amount of beer he’d drunk. He knocked it back anyway. Another row materialised. Then another. And possibly another.

  The noise got louder, so did the music. Someone was telling bad jokes to the accompaniment of women laughing raucously. Then he realised it was him. Definitely time to go.

  He downed whatever drink was in front of him. ‘Outta here,’ he said to Jen.

  ‘Nooo.’ She pulled him to one side, away from her friends. Before she’d had time to bat her false lashes, she was pressing up against him, his back against the wall. Jen, it was obvious, had quickly caught up in the drunken stakes. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘Stay.’

  ‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘Can’t.’

  Then her lips found his. ‘We could leave now,’ she offered.

  ‘Together.’

  Her mouth was warm, soft, tempting. He could feel himself drowning in the sensation.

  ‘We could go back to my place,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Now.’

  Jen’s fingers roved over his chest, toyed with the buttons on his shirt. He opened his eyes and the seedy pub swam into view. Was this what he wanted from his life? To be drunk and snogging someone other than his wife? Someone who may be desperate for his body but, then again, could just be desperate for anyone?

  ‘Stay the night with me, Olly,’ she cajoled. ‘You know you want to.’

  But did he? Did he really want to?

  ‘Nell would never need to know.’

  But he would know. He would know that while his wife was at home worrying about him, while his child was sleeping soundly, he would know what he was doing. He would know that he was having loveless sex with someone he barely knew. In that moment, clarity hit home. This wasn’t the answer. This wasn’t the answer to anything.

  ‘No.’ He eased Jenny away from him. ‘I need to go home. To Nell.’

  Jen’s face fell, then her soft, sensual mouth hardened. ‘She doesn’t love you like I would, Olly. She takes you for granted.’ Nell did take him for granted. He couldn’t argue with that. But he took her for granted too. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do when you were married? Weren’t you supposed to take it for granted that the other person would always be there for you whatever you did?

  If Nell could see him now, she’d be devastated. What on earth was he thinking of? What a stupid fucker he was. How could he let a few drinks, an ill-judged kiss, put his family, his future, at risk?

  ‘You’re a great girl, Jen,’ he said, extracting himself from her embrace.

  But not as great as the one he had waiting for him at home.

  Chapter 61

  I went to bed at eleven o’clock, but Olly still wasn’t home. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said that I lay awake all night, fretting. In reality, it seems I didn’t. I must have dropped off at some time, though I’m sure I saw three tick by. I woke up at seven o’clock, Petal beside me and no Olly. I leave my daughter sleeping – miracle – and head into the living room.

  He is, however, on the sofa fast asleep.

  My heart goes out to him. He’s all scrunched up underneath a blanket. His hair is like Jedward’s on a bad day. Arm thrown above his head, he’s snoring like a hibernating hedgehog. Dude, lying happily by his feet, opens his eyes and sets up a tentative wag of his tail. Tenderly, I stroke the stubble of Olly’s chin, but it fails to rouse him. You won’t believe how much I missed him last night.

  I pad to the kitchen and make tea. Dude follows me, so I give him his breakfast. When the tea’s ready, I sit on the edge of the sofa and watch Olly sleeping some more.

  ‘Hey,’ he says as, eventually, I gently shake him awake. I proffer a steaming mug.

  ‘Hey, yourself. Late night?’

&nb
sp; Looking shame-faced, he nods. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ Then, at the risk of starting an argument, ‘Where did you get to?’

  ‘Pub,’ he says as he takes the tea and nurses it to him. ‘The Dodgy Arms.’

  ‘Ooo.’ One of the divier dives in Hitchin.

  ‘It was a bad move.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was.’

  Olly grins, despite the drink-induced pallor of his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m such an arse.’

  I smile back. ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘You are.’

  ‘Forgive me?’

  I nudge him up and curl in next to him on the sofa. ‘Don’t do that again, Olly.’

  ‘No.’ I can’t read the expression when he says, ‘I did a lot of thinking last night, in the wee small hours. I want to be more supportive. I want to be involved in your business—’

  ‘It’s not my business. It’s ours,’ I interject.

  ‘I know. I know that. I’m proud of you and what you’re trying to do. It just frightens me, Nell. The money involved, the pressure. It scares me.’ He shakes his head. ‘But what scares me more is the thought that I might lose you.’

  ‘That’s never going to happen,’ I promise. ‘But if we’re going to survive this, and I know it’s stressful’ – I give a small internal shudder as I think of the loan I’ve just taken on –

  ‘then we need to talk. It’s no good running away from problems. Or going to get pissed.’

  Petal comes in rubbing her eyes. ‘What’s pissed?’

  ‘It means getting drunk,’ I say. ‘And it’s not a very nice, grown-up word. So I don’t want to hear it from you.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t say it, Mummy,’ she advises.

  ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

  ‘Come and give me a cuddle,’ Olly says, and my daughter clambers across the dog, then my lap, and lands on top of Olly who gives out an ‘ouff.’

  Hah. Learn this, husband: no time for a hangover when you’ve got a four-year-old.

  ‘Daddy had a little bit too much beer,’ Olly admits to our daughter. ‘Be gentle.’

  So she bounces up and down on his stomach. Nice one, Petal.

  ‘I’ll go and start breakfast,’ I say, and leave Petal to torture him.

  Then, from the kitchen, ‘Was The Dodgy busy last night? We haven’t been there in years.’

  ‘Rammed,’ he replies. ‘As always.’

  ‘Jenny often drinks in there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. God knows why.’ A bit of toast is probably all that Olly can manage this morning. I crack open the Coco Pops for Petal. ‘There are better places to go – unless you’re drowning your sorrows.’

  ‘Touché,’ Olly acknowledges.

  ‘Did you bump into anyone we know last night at The Dodgy?’

  ‘No,’ Olly says. ‘No one at all.’

  Chapter 62

  Heathrow Airport. Ten-thirty on Thursday night. Petal is crying. I’m on the verge of tears too.

  ‘Don’t go, Mummy,’ she wails. Heartstrings. Twang!

  ‘See you next week,’ Olly says. He strokes my cheek. ‘Come back safely.’

  This is hell. Sheer hell.

  Taking Petal in my arms, I hold her tightly. As it’s late, she’s already dressed in her snuggly pyjamas so that she’ll sleep in the car on the way back. I was going to travel down to the airport by train, but Olly insisted that he drive me and borrowed a clapped out Corsa from his mate, Tom, so that he could do so.

  I wanted to leave Petal with Constance, but Olly insisted that she come with us. Now I’m still thinking it was a bad idea as I can hardly bear to be parted from her. With very little persuasion, I would turn round, go home, and not get on this flight at all. Why on earth am I going to China? I don’t even like rice. Or noodles.

  The thought of going somewhere as far away and as foreign as China, completely alone, is making me feel sick to my stomach. It also seems as if I’m going for six months rather than a week.

  Since Olly’s bender, he’s been very solicitous and much more supportive. Now I wonder why I’m going away at all.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I say.

  ‘You can.’ He kisses me. ‘I’ll look after everything at home. Don’t worry about anything. You just do what you’ve got to do.’ As Olly’s still not working, we haven’t had to draft in Jenny or Constance to help out and he’ll be around full-time to look after the Petalmeister. Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess, although I hope that he gets a job as soon as I come back as money is getting very thin on the ground and my credit card is maxed.

  My bag is already checked in and it’s time for me to go through to the departure lounge so I’m not rushing to find my gate. I’m convinced that I’ll get on the wrong plane and end up in Timbuktu or somewhere.

  ‘I love you, sweet pea.’ I hug Petal again and then hand her back to Olly. ‘I love you too,’ I tell my husband.

  ‘Love you. Ring me as soon as you get there,’ he says.

  ‘I will.’

  We hug as a family and I tear myself away from them and head to passport control. They stand and wave to me for as long as they possibly can before I disappear out of view.

  It’s a long twelve-hour flight to the People’s Republic of China. I’m squashed into the back of the plane and my in-flight entertainment doesn’t work. No movies for me, which, of course, gives me plenty of time to stress. I’m missing Petal and Olly like mad already and I feel alone and vulnerable.

  Eventually, when I’ve gone through all the rigmarole involved in air travel these days, I emerge into Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport. It’s late and I’ve never seen any-where so crowded in my entire life and, despite not being a statuesque woman, I feel as if I’m head and shoulders taller than anyone else. I am also, it seems, the only blonde.

  Just as I’m starting to panic – a lone stranger in a strange land – a man rushes forward. He has my name on a sign but, clearly, has had no trouble spotting me. This, I’m assuming, is the representative from the Golden Bamboo Accessories Company who they’ve very kindly sent to collect me.

  Mr Wu, whose English and manners are impeccable, escorts me to his car and then whisks me towards my hotel.

  Guangzhou is a huge city, lit with an excess of neon. It sparkles in the darkness. We wind our way on the busy roads through a rash of skyscrapers that Manhattan would be proud of. I’ve booked the Vacation Inn, which is a modern, anonymous box that overlooks the Pearl River. Mr Wu leaves me there. Tomorrow afternoon, he tells me, he’ll collect me and take me out to see the first factory I’ve arranged to visit.

  My room is beige and I could be anywhere in the world. I’m jet-lagged, feel dirty and my body has no idea whether I’m tired or hungry or what. I’ve accomplished my first long-haul flight alone and the relief is palpable. I’m here. I’ve made it.

  As I’m not sure what else to do now, I sit down on the bed and cry.

  Chapter 63

  As soon as I’ve stopped snivelling, I ring Olly to let him know that I got here safely. He’s pleased to hear from me, but he sounds so far away that it makes me feel even lonelier.

  It’s approaching dawn here, but it’s bedtime back at home.

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ he tells me as I sniffle a bit more down the line. ‘Don’t worry.’

  But I do worry. A few short months ago I was still serving fish and chips. Now I’ve somehow become an international business woman on the verge of negotiating a contract more enormous than I ever could have imaged. Frankly, I’m terrified. And with very good reason.

  When Olly hangs up, I shower and crawl into bed where sleep consumes me.

  It’s lunchtime when I wake and I ring room service and order from the menu, which seems to involve more burgers than noodles. Nowhere in the world is immune from the American influence, it appears.

  Mr Wu rings me to tell me that he’s on his way and I rush to get ready for my first meeting. But as I brush my teeth, a wave of nausea washes over
me and I’m sick in the loo. Maybe my stomach hasn’t recovered from the flight and a hamburger wasn’t the best idea.

  By the time I get downstairs, Mr Wu is already waiting for me in the lobby. We jump into his car and he drives me away from the plush downtown area and takes me out to the industrial area of the city where all the factories are situated. There are plenty of them. I’m staggered by the number as we pass by. Vast, hangar-sized buildings that go on for miles and miles. Mr Wu tells me that in China they have entire cities dedicated to the manufacture of zips or buttons or cushions. No wonder everything these days seems to be made in China. In among the factories are fields and fields of rice, buffalo up to their haunches in water, ancient workers in bamboo coolie hats driving carts down the highway. It’s a stark contrast of the endearingly old and the horribly new.

  Although I speak no Cantonese and the factory sales manager speaks very little English, Mr Wu does an excellent job of translating for us. I look at the factory, marvelling at the sheer scale and efficiency of the operation. I smile at the workers, but they put their heads down and don’t look at me. I take some jasmine tea, which is drunk from tiny cups, turn down the kind offer of dinner due to my delicate stomach, and get a pleasingly reasonable price for my order. Mr Wu takes me back to the hotel and I thank him profusely and say goodbye. Tomorrow, another representative will collect me and take me to another factory and I’ll repeat the process all over again. Whenever I used to hear about people travelling for their work, I was always really jealous, thinking how glamorous it must be to have a life like that. The reality of it is that I’d much rather be at home with my husband and my baby.

  The next day, I’m still feeling sickly even though I pass on the burger and eat nothing at all for dinner. I throw up again. Perhaps it’s the change of water or maybe I’m dehydrated. Perhaps I’m just not cut out to be an international jet-setter. What I’d like to do is crawl back into bed and sleep, but the show must go on.

  I’m driven out to the Golden Lion Company – this time by an impeccably dressed and polite Mr Li – shuffling our way through the clogged traffic to the same area as yesterday. I take a tour of what the Golden Lion Company has to offer and note that the set-up is very much the same as the first factory. I have jasmine tea again and that traditional Chinese delight, a plate of Pringles.