Today is our last full day before my flight leaves from Heathrow tomorrow lunchtime, so by calling in sick at least it means we can spend the full day together before I leave for London tonight to crash at Michelle’s and head for the airport tomorrow morning. While she’s on the phone, I wander down into the kitchen and grab two glasses of water for us, adding ice from the freezer. A habit from home that I’ve continued while living over here.
“Yes, hopefully I’ll sleep it off today and be back to full strength again tomorrow. Thanks for understanding, Mark.” She hangs up the phone and comes back to bed, where I’ve returned under the covers, dropping her dressing gown to the floor and climbing quickly under the covers where it’s nice and cosy. Cuddling up together, naked skin on naked skin. I remember how body conscious she used to be when I first met her, totally embarrassed about her shape. I love the fact that she is so comfortable with me now that she thinks nothing of wandering around in her birthday suit in front of me.
“I can’t believe I’ve just done that,” she says holding her hand over her mouth like a naughty schoolgirl, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’ve never taken a sickie before in my life, ever! Melanie and I may have covered the odd hour for each other here and there when we’ve sneaked off early or been late in and I know I’ve taken many a nana-nap in the back of the cupboard after a heavy night on the tiles, but I’ve never blatantly lied to get a day off work.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it, ya olde goose. Everyone’s done it at some point. Live dangerously, Vicky.” I say holding my arm out across the back of her pillow, so she can tuck herself into the crook of my armpit as I pick up the TV remote and switch on breakfast telly in the background. The high-octane chatter of the hosts of The Big Breakfast filling the room as we lie cuddled in together.
My hand instinctively strokes the outside of her arm as I hold her close. Her skin feels so soft and smooth to the touch I can’t imagine what it will feel like in a few days’ time to be waking up on the opposite side of the world at Mum’s house in my own bed and alone. Cold and empty I suspect. An involuntary shiver ripples down my body just at the thought.
I roll towards Vicky, as if by being even closer to her I can somehow assimilate us together, morphing us from being two people into one permanent union. Without speaking she responds and turns to look at my face, reaching her hand up to gently stroke my light stubble with her soft hand. It’s the most natural thing in the world to kiss her hand as she touches my face, my lips briefly connecting with her palm, tasting the light, salty flavour as her fingers lovingly brush the side of my face.
I interlace our fingers together as she instinctively rolls onto her back, as she has done so many times for me before, inviting me to take things further. I never need any invitation to make love to Vicky, my passion for her is ever constant. If it was possible, I would stay in bed with her forever and never get up. I bury my head into the nape of her neck peppering her with short quick kisses, my lips brushing lightly against her smooth soft skin.
She looks up at me, a small smile creeps gingerly across her face despite her obvious sorrow. She takes an enormous and noisy sniff in to retract the moisture that threatens to leak out from the end of her nose. It’s most unladylike but yet my heart still flips over in my chest.
“Sorry, I was just picturing what my life is going to be like tomorrow. Waking up all alone. In an empty cold bed. You won’t be here to wipe away my tears or to hold me close.”
“Come ‘ere,” I say, halting my seduction, instead wrapping my arms around her as tightly as I possibly can. “It’s all going to be OK,” I attempt to reassure her again. “We may not know how long I’ll be away, but I will come back to you, Vicky, I promise. As soon as I possibly can. I’m going to work my ass off when I get home, build up some cash and jump on the first plane back here.”
“I’ll write every day,” she pledges.
“Me too. And we can speak every week on the telephone. I know it’s expensive, but it’s not like I’m going to Mars or disappearing completely.”
“I know, Chris. I’m just going to miss you so very much and with what happened last time, I’m just scared I’m going to lose you.” Her sobs coming thick and heavy now.
“But you won’t, sweetheart. What’s happened, happened. It’s in the past. We just need to stay focused on the future. Just remember that every day that passes is another day closer to us being back together.”
“I will. I promise. I’m sorry to be so miserable on your last day. It’s just so damn hard Chris. It’s the not knowing that is killing me. You have no idea how close I am to jacking everything in here and jumping on the plane with you.”
“Now there’s an idea,” I say expectantly, whilst also knowing that it’s an impossibility right now, “but you know that’s not possible. You have a life here, Vicky, a job, financial responsibilities, friends, and I have a feeling your family would never forgive me if I just whisked you away with no explanation!
One day, Vicky. One day perhaps once we’ve given them the chance to get used to the idea.”
She reaches up to cradle my head, pulling me in closer so that she can kiss me once again, her tongue twisting with mine.
“If this is going to be our last time together for some time, Chris, let me give you something to hold onto,” she whispers seductively, before tantalizingly blowing a light stream of cool air into my ear, sending a bolt of lightning down through my body and directly into my groin. “I want to make sure that if temptation were to come a-knocking, you remember what you’re missing.”
“I’m powerless to refuse you, Vicky even if I wanted to,” I reply honestly. “Do with me what you will. I’m all yours, Victoria,” I say before we lose ourselves in yet another passionate kiss.
***
Just over 72 hours later, I clear customs and arrive back in my homeland. For only the second time in my life I don’t feel the familiar warmth that used to fill my body as my feet reconnect with the soil of my birth. Before meeting Vicky, no matter how far I travelled, or whomever I’d met along the way, my heart would always refill instantly the moment I arrived back in The Land of the Long White Cloud. The temperature may have changed drastically from my cold departure a few days ago, the summer of late January in full bloom all around me, yet my leaden heart remains heavy in my chest, as if frozen hard by the cold harsh icy wind that whipped around me as I boarded the plane at Heathrow.
“Good to see you, Chook,” Mum hugs me warmly as she meets me in arrivals. “You look wrung out. Come on, let’s get you home and into a nice warm bath. I bet your back is feeling very stiff after all that travelling.”
“Thanks, Mum,” I hug her gratefully, her love for me oozing from every pore in her body. I might tower over her, my height as a grown man dwarfing her now but there is something undeniably comforting to be hugged by your own mother, by the person who gave you life. It’s immensely grounding, knowing that you never have to earn your mother’s affection. I will always be my mum’s youngest, her baby boy and that is a bond that none of my other siblings can ever have with her, regardless of how old we all are now.
She’s an amazing woman, not least because of the way she raised me, but also because of all the trauma I went through as a child, spending so much of my childhood traipsing back and forth to hospital appointments or annual eye surgeries and when the kids at school bullied me because I looked different, it was always her love that supported me, built me back up and restored my self-esteem. I have a feeling I’ll need to lean on her again in the coming weeks and months and I know she’ll be there for me.
I climb into Mum’s car, instinctively claiming the driver’s seat and holding out my hand for the keys. I very rarely let anyone chauffeur me. It’s hardwired into me. I’m a person who needs to be in control. I must be in the driver’s seat. I like to be in charge and as much as I love Mum, she’s a terrible driver!
Smiling warmly, she says, “I have something for you that I think might just cheer y
ou up.” She opens her bag and hands me an airmail letter addressed to me. The butterflies in my stomach give an involuntary flutter as I recognise Vicky’s handwriting immediately. Even before I turn it over to confirm the sender details, I know it’s from her. Airmail letters take anywhere from a week to ten days to travel this far around the globe, so Vicky has pre-planned this. She must have posted this in advance and looking at the postmark she sent it two weeks ago to make sure it was already here waiting for me when I arrived - just when she knew I’d need it most. As much as I want to open it immediately and devour every word, I fold it over and slide it into the top left pocket of my shirt, next to my heart, delaying the gratification of reading it until I’m alone and in private. I feel a warmth radiate through my shirt and onto my skin, as if I was actually holding her close not just this piece of radioactive paper, contaminated with her love.
After a swift shower, a cool beer and a quick dip in Mum’s pool which refreshes both my body and my mind, I lie back on a lounger on the deck that wraps around Mum’s house, still in my togs, soaking up the afternoon sun and I turn Vicky’s letter over and over in my hand. I suspect by now she will have found the unwashed t-shirt I left for her under her pillow. Closing my eyes, I imagine her curled up in bed fast asleep, snuggling into my t-shirt which she’ll have wrapped around her pillow, so she can inhale my familiar scent and gain some mild comfort from the worn-out fibres. As the sun’s rays beam down and warm my face and chest, I carefully tear open the light blue wafer-thin airmail paper and read the message penned within. Whatever she’s written in this one-page letter, I know I will sleep with it under my own pillow tonight.
“My darling Chris,
If you’re reading this, then it means you’ve arrived safely back home in Christchurch. It feels weird writing this to you now, as you’ve only just popped out and I know I will be able to put my arms around you and give you the biggest hug the moment you walk back through the door, so I want you to close your eyes now as you read this and re-imagine what that feels like, and know that I’m sending you the same love and hugs through these words as if I was there with you now...”
I remember now the moment she must have been secretly writing this back in Wootton Bassett. I’d just popped down to the local dairy to pick up some milk and food supplies. It was a pretty ordinary mundane day, and I remember Vicky rushing towards me the moment I’d returned, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me as if she hadn’t seen me in months, rather than just a few moments earlier.
“Whoa, what have I done to deserve that?” I remember asking at the time, after both of us surfaced for air a couple of minutes later.
“Nothing,” she’d replied coyly, “I just love you that’s all.”
“And I love you too, ya olde goose,” I’d laughed in reply. “Maybe I should pop out for milk and cookies more often, if it makes you miss me this much,” I’d teased, not appreciating until now the significance of the moment.
I close my eyes again, recalling the weight of her arms on my shoulders as she draped them around me, the feel of her soft lips on mine and my heart yearns for her, a physical pain aching in my chest. It’s only been a matter of days since we parted, when Vicky was unable to look at me as we said our final goodbyes at Swindon train station, but already my world is incomplete without her. As if the colours of the flowers in the garden all around me have all dimmed slightly, the vibrancy having been sucked out of them, which is exactly how I feel. Listless, heavy and sad, so instead I channel my thoughts into the only thing I know - my business.
My mind flicks to my plan to work as hard as is humanly possible over the coming months, to get these cars registered as soon as they land and get them sold as quickly as possible, hopefully making a healthy profit in the process, or making at least enough to live off back in the UK whilst I figure out a longer-term plan for us both. I make a mental checklist, my mind whirring with all the tasks I must attend to as well as think about my longer-term challenge to find a way for us to be together permanently.
I turn my attention back to Vicky’s letter, sucking out of it every last ounce of emotion and warmth, attempting to connect with her by imagining what she was thinking and feeling as she penned the words. She talks about her plan to fill her days in the weeks after I’ve left. Spending time with my sister at the gym or soaking up the bubbles in the jacuzzi at The Marriott and her plans for her weekends which include some trips home to her own family up north rather than long lonely weekends alone watching the hours tick slowly by. Keeping herself busy seems to be much of her news, that and sending me all of her love.
Finally putting down her letter after reading it and re-reading it multiple times, I pick up my own pad of airmail paper to start my reply to her. I’m not used to analysing and handling my own emotions and my writing and grammar is atrocious, having missed so much of my early schooling. Vicky is the one out of the two of us who has a head full of words and an eloquent way of expressing them, but I try my hardest, for her sake, to attempt to explain what I’m feeling and planning over the next few weeks. I finish my letter and finally hit the sack, eventually giving in to my jet lag.
The next six weeks are filled with activity, as like Vicky, I avoid long unstructured hours when my mind tends to focus on the physical distance between us. The dark cloud of depression hangs ever present above my head, threatening to sink down and swallow me up. So like her I work hard to keep myself busy. Each night I re-read Vicky’s letters, more having arrived as the days and weeks pass, sliding them safely back under my pillow once I’ve finished, before falling into a fitful sleep, my dreams haunted by images of her.
I quickly develop my work rhythm as I deal with the freight importers and New Zealand customs for the shipment which has now arrived, whilst simultaneously organising the marketing and advertising for each vehicle, managing enquiries and talking to potential buyers.
During the evenings and weekends, I’ve slipped easily back into my pre-Vicky Kiwi lifestyle. It’s a warm summer here, even by Christchurch standards and I pick up where I left off with old friends, surfing, barbecuing, drinking and smoking the odd joint together. Attitudes towards casual marijuana use over here are a lot more relaxed than back in the UK, where smoking it for personal or even medicinal use is a serious crime. Plus the plant grows naturally as a genuine weed at the bottom of our garden. The phrase ‘doing some weeding’ takes on a much more literal sense over here and I find the odd joint really helps relieve my stress and numbs the continuous nagging pain in my heart. I realise how much I’ve missed the easy laid-back Kiwi lifestyle. Everything in England is so fast-paced and so overcrowded. It takes so damn long to get anywhere, just because of the volume of people and the pollution (particularly in London) which plays havoc with my glass eye.
A few weeks after I arrive home my brother Dean comes down from the North Island for a long weekend and to catch up with me. It’s absolutely fantastic to see him. He’s left his wife, Lisa, and his two kids, Emma and Matthew, behind. As much as I would have loved to have seen them too, I’m really looking forward to spending some time just hanging out with my older brother.
Dean is my big brother in every sense. Slightly taller, slightly broader, with a mop of blond hair and deep blue eyes, he was my absolute idol growing up. I wanted to be him and would attempt to copy everything about him - much to his annoyance. I’m sure having me hanging off his leg when I was small, would have done nothing for his street cred, but to be fair to him he always looked out for me and included me in much of his life growing up.
Like me he’s also absolutely rubbish at writing letters, so if it wasn’t for his lovely wife, Lisa, who religiously keeps Mum and my sisters informed of their lives, sending them copies of the annual school photos of the kids or the round robin Christmas letter that arrives without fail every year, I wouldn’t have a clue what was going on in their lives in the North Island.
Looking across the smoky darkness of the nightclub, punctuated by strobe lighting tha
t flashes in time to the bass of the music, I spot Dean walking back from the bar carrying two Budweisers. He passes one to me before asking,
“So come on then bro, who’s this bird you’re shacked up with?” before chinking his bottle against mine, taking a swig and adding, “Is she really fit? I bet she’s really fit, isn’t she?” he says with a wink.
I cup my hand around my ear, leaning into him and shouting loudly, “Whaaat?” I can hardly hear anything over the blare of the music. We’re in the Palladium nightclub in the centre of Christchurch. This used to be a regular Saturday night haunt of mine a few years ago. I would come here every weekend with my mates to watch the light show, drink, and eye up the girls dancing around their handbags which they’d have placed on the floor in the centre of their group. The evening’s success was always measured by how attractive the girl was that you managed to pull. Now though, I have absolutely no interest in meeting anyone new, but Dean suggested we come here for a change of scene away from Mum’s.
I turn away from him to lean on the drinks ledge that looks out across the dance floor at the familiar scene of glammed up girls bopping around their handbags, attempting to look both confident and nonchalant at the same time, trying to catch the eye of an ogling male, whilst simultaneously sending the not bothered vibes in case no one shows them any interest. The whole set-up is a modern-day meat market and as much as I’ve participated in the past, I now find the whole scenario positively degrading.
“Let’s go through to the cocktail bar, I can’t hear you,” I shout directly into Dean’s ear as I gather up our beers and lead him through to the slightly quieter bar out the back.
Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1) Page 23
