On the flip side, though, particularly as an adult now, I do miss the kinship and family that having siblings would offer. I imagine it must be like having a good friend only with closer ties. A shared sense of identity and heritage. Someone to confide in, to ask advice and to share secrets with. To have people who can never leave you.
Despite the fact they are spread on opposite sides of the globe, I see how close Melanie is to her siblings, as well as all the extended members of her family. Hardly a few days go by without another postcard or an airmail letter arriving for her. She spends much of her spare time writing letters in reply, and of course she sees her sister quite regularly up in London. Still, I can see how excited she is to welcome her little brother in person. Mel has mentioned in passing that Chris has a glass eye and how difficult it was for him growing up, which did sound pretty tough, but it doesn’t sound like a big deal now. Still I’m looking forward to meeting this ‘little’ brother of hers and befriending one of the male members of her family.
I believe his plan is to crash on our sofa for ten days or so, then he’s off backpacking around mainland Europe. We’re planning a barbecue this weekend at ours, in his honour to welcome him. Well I say, ‘in his honour’, more like any excuse to have a bash and get pissed. Obviously, Jeremy will be coming and a few other mates, including Mel’s older sister, Michelle, so it should be good craic.
Jeremy is my new boyfriend. After our near miss in Istanbul, which Mel and I have not discussed since we came home that Sunday evening, I decided it was probably for the best to avoid getting involved with anyone anytime soon as I clearly can’t trust my own judgement. Then, despite all my best intentions to give all romantic interludes a very wide berth for the foreseeable future, five weeks ago Tim invited Melanie and I up to town, to one of his now legendary dinner parties. There he introduced me to a blonde-haired guy called Jeremy. Jeremy was lovely, and we flirted all night. Like most of Tim’s friends he works in finance, lives in London and seems, thus far, to be a proper well-mannered gentleman. A couple of days after that initial dinner he called me and asked if I would like to meet up again. Not on an official ‘date’, but just to hang out. We’ve been taking it pretty slowly as I want to make sure his intentions are pure before I let him fully into my life or before I sleep with him. If Istanbul taught me anything it is to be cautious. I suspect, though, Jeremy will want to solidify our relationship and take things further this coming weekend.
It’s clear Mel is finding it difficult to concentrate at work. There’s only the two of us in the office today (Mark is off-site at one of the other offices) and I can see she’s incapable of settling. She’s constantly looking at and waiting for the telephone to ring, announcing Chris’s safe arrival at Heathrow. She jumps for the millionth time today at the shrill sound of the phone ringing again. She answers it and thankfully this time it’s Chris on the other end.
“You alright? Good flight?” she asks into the receiver, clearly relieved to hear from him. After a few easy exchanges of pleasantries, I hear her give him detailed instructions on how to get the bus from Heathrow airport up to Swindon, before suggesting he grab a taxi from the bus station in the centre of Swindon to the out-of-town business park where our office is based.
“OK, I’ll see you in a few hours then. I’ll warn the front desk and ask them to issue you with a visitor's pass for when you get here. Just ask them to call through to me, and I’ll come and escort you from the main reception when you arrive.” She hangs up, smiles over to me, the relief obvious on her face, then we both return our attention back to work. My challenge today is to fly one of the company engineers between two cities in West Africa which have no direct flights between each other. So, in order to meet his travel deadline he would have to make a horrendously long drive overland or fly back to Europe before connecting back to Africa. Complete madness in my opinion. There must be an easier way. I will keep searching for a solution.
Later that afternoon I’m on the telephone to one of the company PAs, taking down the details of yet another complicated itinerary, another puzzle to be solved, when in walks what I can only describe as an Adonis of a man; a backpack thrown nonchalantly over his shoulder and wearing only a casual t-shirt and shorts. Surely this cannot be the ‘little’ brother, the Christopher, this is a Greek God, risen up from the sea of mythology! The picture Mel has painted of him to me, made me conjure up in my mind an image of a sweet young boy. This male before me is clearly a big strapping virile man!
Having sweet-talked his way past security at the main reception, he’s found his way directly into our office and straight up to Melanie’s desk to surprise her. His casual dress and Antipodean swagger making him stick out like a sore thumb in our corporate, suited and sterile office environment, to which he appears both completely unaware and not the least bit bothered.
If he says “g’day” as a way of introduction, I think I might just burst into a fit of giggles. Honestly, all he needs is a few tin cooking pots hanging off the back of his rucksack and a hat to swat away the flies to be any more stereotypical of an Antipodean traveller who’s just landed on strange shores.
Despite this I notice, as I glance sideways out of the corner of my eye at him, whilst desperately still trying to concentrate on listening to my client on the other end of the telephone, that he brings a light-hearted and fresh energy with him. Although he’s clearly been travelling for what sounds like days, he appears full of energy, full of vigour and full of fun.
“How ya been, ya olde goose?” he says as Mel leaps up out of her chair, clearly shocked by his unannounced entrance and wraps her arms around him. “Good to see ya,” he says embracing his sister, his Kiwi accent much thicker than his sister’s, which I now appreciate must have softened in the time she’s been away from her homeland.
“Hi,” I say quite formally, my phone call now finished as I stand up and extend my hand over the top of my desk for a handshake. “I’m Victoria Turnbull. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Ah, come ‘ere,” he says, “any friend of Mellie’s is a friend of mine.” He ignores my extended hand and walks around behind my desk to embrace me in a warm friendly hug. I’m almost knocked backwards by both the boorishness of his embrace as well as his smell, which is an intoxicating mix of musky sweat and manliness.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you too, Victoria Turnbull,” he says mischievously, causing an unexpected rush of desire to shoot down through my torso and collect in a pool in the pit of my stomach.
“So, where’s this pad of yours, Mellie?” turning back towards his sister. “I’m dying to take a shower and crack open a beer. I feel like I’ve been on a plane, or a hot sweaty bus for at least a week!”
A conversation ensues between them of how to get to our house, only a five-minute drive away on the other side of the M4 motorway, but not so easy without transport and on foot.
“Do you know what?” I say to Mel, “why don’t you just skive off early. There’s nothing really urgent going on that I can’t handle here. I’ll cover for you. It’s only a couple of hours until the end of your shift anyway. If anyone calls from head office, I’ll just say you’re at the loo, call you at home and you can either come back in, or call them back from our landline at home. No one need ever know and I reckon you two have tonnes to catch up on. Go on. I’ll see you both later.”
Melanie mouths a “thank you” over in my direction, grabbing her coat and bag before heading out the door with her brother. The animated sound of their chimp-like chatter gradually becoming indistinguishable from the constant hum-drum of our office as they disappear down the corridor together. They clearly have a deep connection, even if they’ve not seen each other for quite a long time. Anyone can see from the ease of their conversation how close they are.
Three hours later, I walk through the door at home to discover the pair of them still deep in animated conversation. Understandable really. From the cups and glasses surrounding them on the side table beside the sofa a
nd placed on the carpet on the living room floor they’ve obviously passed the tea and biscuits stage and have cracked open the booze. Mel on the wine and Chris looks like he’s onto his third or fourth beer. I head into the kitchen, where a half empty pizza box lies discarded on the kitchen drainer. I bite into a slice of now cold pizza, grab a wine glass for myself, pull the bottle from the fridge and pour myself a large glass of the clear fresh liquid.
Walking back into the living room, both of them are still deeply absorbed in each other’s news. I wait for a pause in the exchange then ask,
“Do either of you need the phone tonight?” They both shake their heads. “Ok cool, in which case I’ll make myself scarce as you two are clearly catching up. I’ll head upstairs and call Jeremy. Nice to meet you, Chris, and I’ll see you again in the morning.” And with that I head out of the living room and towards the stairs, with the telephone in one hand and glass of wine in the other, completely unaware of Chris’s eyes that are following my every move as I cross the room and close the door quietly behind me to retreat upstairs and into my bedroom.
Mel spots his eyes following me. “Don’t you be getting any ideas, bro,” wagging her finger in his face. “I know you. Vicky is my friend, my housemate AND she’s just bagged herself a nice boyfriend – finally. So you just behave and leave well alone. You came up to Swindon to see me, remember? Not to cause chaos, score a quick shag, then bugger off and leave me to sweep up the pieces, do you understand? You just remember that.”
“Whaaaat makes you think I’d do anything of the sort, sis,” he smirks taking another swig of his beer. “She’ll be right.”
Upstairs I call Jeremy. It’s the first time we’ve spoken this week and the first time since last weekend when we had such a lovely time up in town wandering round art galleries and eating pasta in Covent Garden.
“Hey, you,” I say when he answers. “How have you been?”
We chat for 20 minutes or so, but I’m not really listening. I find that no matter how hard I try I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying as my mind persists on drifting back downstairs. I’m wondering what Chris and Mel are talking about and have to resist my overwhelming urge to go and gatecrash their conversation. It’s as if I’m being pulled downstairs like a magnet. I sense a change in the energy in the house, clearly brought about by Chris’s arrival, and it’s unsettled me.
“You still there, Victoria?” Jeremy asks after it becomes evident I’m not listening.
“Yes, yes … sorry. I was just distracted. So what time do you think you’ll get up here this weekend? Are you planning to come up on Friday after work, or miss the traffic and leave town first thing on Saturday morning?” I wait for his response. “Good stuff, I’m looking forward to seeing you, babes.”
“Me too, darling,” he replies. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you. It’s going to be a such special weekend.” I assume he’s alluding to the next step in our relationship which we’re both anticipating will happen when he stays over. We hang up soon after. Meanwhile downstairs I hear Mel helping Chris make up a bed for himself on the sofa.
Eventually the house goes quiet and I wait until I’m sure everyone is asleep before I sneak back downstairs, through the living room and into the kitchen, where I return my now empty wine glass to the side of the sink and grab a glass of water to take back upstairs.
Chris is fast asleep on the settee, clearly jet lagged, breathing heavily. The rhythmic sound fills the darkness. I find myself staring at him, studying his features and wondering what it would be like to touch his face. To trace the outline of his square jaw and up around his cheek bone. He is stunningly handsome, despite his facial disfigurement, which in my opinion only serves to make him even more appealing. It makes him appear even more interesting or brave, or both. Like a wounded hero, who’s been through a battle and has the scars and the stories to prove it. He is absolutely not what I expected a ‘little’ brother of Mel’s to be. He looks so peaceful right now, so tame and harmless but I get the sense that he is unsafe; fun and big trouble in equal amounts. Like a beautiful sleeping tiger. Gorgeous and unique to look at but deadly if you don’t keep a safe distance. That once in his grasp it would be impossible to break free, and like a tiger, he could kill you at whim, with one swipe of his powerful paw. Despite this, when I look at him I’m transfixed. Frozen to the spot by his powerful masculinity, and again the primal flutter of desire dances in the pit of my stomach. As I creep quietly out of the room and back up the stairs to my bedroom, I suddenly have a foreboding sense that things are about to get unbelievably complicated.
Chapter 7
Chris
I wake early, around 5am. My body clock still screwed from jet lag. I quietly pad around the house, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake the girls who are still fast asleep upstairs. I pull my map of the UK from my rucksack, studying all the places I’ve highlighted as I start to make a plan for how best to use my time, what I want to do and who I need to see in the time I have available.
First job; acquire some wheels, which shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s clear that although it is possible to criss-cross the country by rail, just like in NZ, unless you want to spend loads of time waiting for buses, paying for taxis or relying on lifts to get from the city centres out to the homes, places and people I want to see, I’m going to need my own transport.
I’ll suss out the second-hand car market first thing today. There must be an Autotrader magazine or equivalent over here in the UK, just like we have in NZ. The UK pound has dropped against the NZ dollar again since I left, meaning I’ll get even more bang for my buck. So rather than hiring a car for a couple of weeks until I go to Europe, it might work out better to buy some wheels and then flog them in a couple of months’ time when I finally fly back home.
I notice Vicky drives a small run-around. A French crappy thing, that although she seems quite proud of it, it looks like a complete pile of junk to me. Mellie’s unable to afford a car so has bought herself a small moped, which is enough to get her to and from work, up and down to the Gray’s (about 45 minutes to an hour south of here) and to the train station in Swindon if she needs to go anywhere further afield. However, riding unsteadily behind her yesterday, with my heavy pack on my back, is not something I’d like to repeat in a hurry. Apart from the fact it’s also another heap of junk, it has absolutely no power and only goes about 20mph, nor is it designed to safely carry two people. If I can’t find any decent wheels to purchase locally today, then I will resort to my Plan B and simply hire a car to get me around in the next few days at least.
I know the girls are planning a bun-fight of some sort on Saturday, so I think I’ll head off later and whizz down to see my grandparents in Gillingham, which I reckon is about 90 minutes or so drive from here. I’ll spend a couple of nights there with them before coming back here in time for the weekend.
It’s still early but I pull my clothes on quickly and decide to go out for a walk and explore the town. Maybe I’ll come across a dairy where I can buy an Autotrader. I fold up the map returning it to my pack before removing the temporary bedding off the sofa and folding it away, leaving it neatly behind the couch so it’s hidden from view. Finally, I write a note for Mellie and pin it on the fridge door in case she wakes up and doesn’t know where I’ve gone.
Gone walkabout.
Back before you leave for work.
Chris x
I put the front door on the latch, so I can let myself back in, as I don’t yet have a front door key, and I head out into the cool freshness of the dewy morning. I love this time of day, when the whole world is still enjoying its slumber and only the early morning traders are beginning their rounds. The milkman picking up the empties off people’s doorsteps, replacing them with fresh pints of milk in time for brekkie. Or the paper boys doing the early morning shift, pushing the morning news through people’s letterboxes. I admire the young ‘uns who take on a paper round, it requires discipline, it can be hard
yakka, especially in horrible weather, but that’s what builds character. However, as I begin my morning expedition, despite the odd person milling around, most of the world sleeps on and I feel like the whole day belongs to me.
“Morning, mate.” I greet a paperboy on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac. “Which is the best way to walk to town from here?”
“Left out the end of the road, up to the top of the hill and keep following the road as it bears left and eventually you’ll come to the top of the high street.”
“Thanks, mate.” I wave a goodbye and follow his instructions. Mellie and Vicky’s rented house is a small two-bed semi on a modern estate on the outskirts of the town. Well, I say, ‘town’, people in the UK refer to this as a village but by NZ standards, in the South Island at least, this place would constitute a ‘large town’. We have some places back home that have literally a post office, a petrol station and three houses and that warrants a named dot on the official map of New Zealand!
As I follow the road round to the left I pass the actual name of the village on a ‘Welcome to’ sign. ‘Wootton Bassett’. Really, surely that can’t be real? It doesn’t sound real. Rather it sounds like a made-up magical place name from a children’s TV programme. Either that or someone once won the ‘think of a quirkiest name for an English village’ competition. I chuckle to myself as I continue to follow the road towards the village centre.
Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1) Page 7
