by Sandy Barker
I clinked my flute against hers. “Amen.” Oops. Maybe I was more than tipsy. “We should order a bottle,” I suggested, helpfully.
“What about cocktails later? We have to pace ourselves.”
“To hell with that. Let’s order a bottle.”
“Uh, Sez?”
“Mmm.” I took a sizeable swig.
“Maybe we need more food.”
I sat up as straight as I could and had a little think. Yep, I was very close to the tipping point. I’d soon be drunk. “I totes agree.”
She grabbed a menu off the bar and read through it quickly, then signalled to the barman. “Can we get some skinny chips, please?” He seemed to ignore that she’d just ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—and a side dish.
“Of course, madam.” Madam. There was that bloody word again.
He left us alone and Cat raised her eyebrows at me—maybe she didn’t like that word either. I noted that her brows were perfectly shaped and guessed she went to the brow bar regularly.
“What on earth is a skinny chip?” I asked, eyeing the menu.
“I doubt the skinny part has anything to do with kilojoules. It’s probably just French fries.
“Oh right.” I sipped my prosecco, but just a tiny sip. Not to worry, carbs are on the way!
We sat in comfortable silence for approximately eight minutes, each of us taking micro sips of our bubbles, until the skinny chips arrived. Cat was right, they were French fries, and they were gone in less time than it took to cook them.
Cat licked salt off her fingers. “So, you’ve had some time to think about your little love triangle.” I cringed at the term. “What are you going to do?”
My mouth formed a perfectly straight line. After a moment of further contemplation, I replied, “I’m just going to see.”
“You’re just going to see what?”
“What happens.”
She shook her head, as though trying to dislodge a bug on her face, or perhaps she was trying to make sense of what I was saying. “So, you’re going to continue with both of them and just see what happens?”
“Yep,” I said with far more certainty than I felt.
“Huh.”
We sat side by side, both of us looking forward.
“That might work,” she said eventually.
“I hope so,” I replied.
*
We skipped the cocktails at Bar Termini—partly because we’d spent quite a lot of money at the oyster bar, but mostly because we were drunk by the time we left. Skinny chips and oysters do not soak up much prosecco.
We rode the tube, then the train, home. On the train, Cat suggested we open some wine at her place to keep the festivities going. As my bubbles buzz was wearing off, I wholeheartedly agreed.
Jane was home when we arrived, but was heading out for the evening, so it would just be me and Cat. I still hadn’t met Alex. I had moved from suspecting he didn’t exist to deciding he definitely didn’t.
Minutes after we arrived, Cat opened a bottle of red while I rummaged in her cupboards for two matching wine glasses. “Success!” I said, holding up a pair. Cat threw me an odd look. “What? I like them to match.” I placed them in front of her and she poured two generous glasses.
“What should we have for dinner, do you think?” she asked. Knowing my sister as I did, I took her question to mean, “what are you cooking for us?”
“Well, we’re having a red. Shall I make pasta?” She grinned in response. “You were hoping I’d say that, weren’t you?” She grinned even wider, the cheeky thing. I rolled my eyes. “Have you got everything for the sauce?”
“I think so.” She went through the cupboards and assembled an assortment of tomato-based goods on the countertop, along with a large green bottle of olive oil.
“Pasta?” An unopened packet of pasta appeared on the counter and she stood up, her cupboard foraging complete.
“What else?” she asked. She couldn’t cook, but she was a half-decent kitchen hand.
“Fresh herbs? Veggies—an onion.”
She went to the fridge and came out with a zucchini, an onion, and a bunch of slightly wilted basil.
“How about these?” she said, dumping her finds next to the cans.
“Great. Big pot?”
“Cupboard below you.” I opened the cupboard and pulled out the biggest pot they had. I knew where they kept the cutting board and the sharp knives, so I got to work while Cat went around the other side of the counter and climbed onto a stool, then watched me in silence while she sipped her wine. It’s one of the things I love most about my friendship with Cat—no need to fill every moment with chatter.
Once the onions were cooking, I took my first sip of wine. “Mmm, this is good.”
“Argentinian malbec.”
“Delish.” I took another sip while I stirred the onions.
“I have a couple more bottles. It was on sale at Tesco.”
“Let’s see how we go with this one first. I don’t want to fly with a hangover.”
“Noted,” said my sister, as she took a generous mouthful of wine, then topped up her glass. I ignored her and got down to chopping and opening cans. In no time at all, the sauce was simmering slowly on the stove and I started cleaning up.
“So, this plan of yours,” she said, suddenly very interested in the stem of her glass. “It means you are going to Hawaii with Josh in December?”
I drank some more wine and absently stirred the sauce. I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront the reality Cat had just raised. When I’d said I was going to see what happens, I’d been half-cut on Italian bubbles.
“Is that what I said?” I asked, not really wanting the answer.
“Well, no, not in so many words, but isn’t that what you meant? You’re going to ‘see what happens’.” She put the last part in air quotes. I hate air quotes, especially when they’re being used against me. “So, you’ll see Josh in Hawaii, and James—well, I guess you’ll see him whenever he flies down to Sydney or flies you back here, right?”
I chewed on a thumbnail. Am I a nail-biter now? Cat frowned at me and I stopped nibbling.
“Uh, yeah, I guess that means I’m going to Hawaii,” I said without any conviction whatsoever.
“You guess?”
“I don’t know.”
She leant across the counter and poured me more wine. “We’re gunna need a bigger bottle.”
*
The next morning, we were flying down the M4 in Cat’s car, the radio blaring far louder than my poor head would have liked. Why did my sister not get hangovers? She got the good hair. Wasn’t that enough? I was hating her a little from the passenger seat.
We’d opened a second bottle of wine—of course we had—which we drank with dinner and finished after dinner accompanied by Galaxy chocolate—not a great pairing, by the way. And we had to open the second bottle, because the first bottle didn’t even last until I dished up.
But once I did dish up, I told Cat we had to stop talking about James and Josh. We’d gone around in circles so many times my mind was dizzy and my emotions were in turmoil. Each time I heard either name, a surge of happiness, then confusion, then dread coursed through my veins. I had no frigging idea what I was going to do.
Cat had promised to deposit me in the “kiss and fly” drop-off zone at Heathrow, rather than parking and dragging out our goodbye, and after some pretty colourful swearing at some “stupid bloody idiots”—sometimes she was all Aussie—she squeezed into a kerb-side spot. She put the car in neutral and put the handbrake on, but kept it running, then got out and opened the boot.
My legs felt like lead as I climbed out of the car and found a luggage cart nearby. I rolled it over to the car, its front left wheel wobbling like a crappy shopping trolley. Wonderful. I helped Cat drag my giant backpack out of the car and onto the cart—she is just little, after all—and sat my leather handbag on top. We did all of that without speaking and I figured she was feeling as shitty as I was.
It was time.
I leant down and hugged her tightly and she returned the hug with ferocity. “I love you,” we both said at the same time. We pulled apart, both laughing through the tears that were streaming down our faces. I wiped mine away, my hangover forgotten for the moment. “Thank you so much. I’ve had the most amazing time. You’re the best sister ever.”
“Yes,” she said, as she wiped under her eyes with her forefingers. “I’m still waiting for my T-shirt.”
I laughed. “Christmas. Keep an eye on your mailbox.”
Her face crumpled and she hugged me again. “I’ll miss you,” she said, her voice ragged.
“Me too.” I had to go. The whole thing was excruciating, and I’d promised myself not to drag it out.
“Okay, I’m going to go now.”
She nodded. “Travel safe. Text me when you get home.”
I nodded back, not trusting my voice. I lifted my hand in a wave, even though she was less than a metre from me, grabbed the handle of my luggage cart, and started to push it away. It took a concerted effort to keep it from veering off to the left, but I pushed it across the crosswalk towards the terminal.
I stopped on the other side and turned around. Cat was still there, smiling through her tears. She blew me a kiss, then I turned and pushed that wretched cart into the terminal.
Goodbyes suck so fucking much.
PART TWO
Chapter 10
“So, what are you gunna do if he doesn’t show up?”
I was sitting in the backseat of my best friend, Lindsey’s, car on the way to the airport. Her husband, Nick, was in the passenger seat, and it was obvious he was intent on torturing me with ridiculous questions. He’s the big brother I always knew I never wanted.
“Ha, ha. You’re hilarious,” I replied drolly.
Lindsey swatted him as though he was a naughty fly. “Ignore my horrendous husband.” Nick turned in his seat and grinned at me. “He’ll be there,” continued Lins, “and you’ll have a ball.”
I nodded, clinging to her words of encouragement.
But Nick had hit a sore spot. I was only mildly terrified he wouldn’t show up and I’d be sitting in a hotel room halfway across the world by myself. Self-doubt can be such a buzzkill, especially when you’re about to fly somewhere you’ve never been before, to meet up with someone you haven’t seen in months.
Lins snuck her car between two four-wheel-drives and pulled up to the kerb at an odd angle. As always, Sydney airport was brimming with drop-off traffic. “Here okay?” she asked unnecessarily. I was hardly going to say “no” and have her pull back out into traffic to find the elusive “better spot”.
She put the car in park and Nick leapt out to retrieve my suitcase from the boot. I grabbed my carry-on from the seat beside me and joined Nick on the footpath.
“Have a great time, Sez,” he said, giving me a quick hug that squeezed all the air from my lungs. Nick is a huge guy.
“Love you,” Lins called through the car window with a smile. Nick climbed back in the passenger seat and gave me one of his lopsided smiles that said, “yeah, me too.”
“Love you back,” I said, waving goodbye. “Look after Domino!” I added as an afterthought. My poor cat—he’d become an afterthought. Nick’s hand waved out the window as the car pulled away from the kerb and I took a moment to catch my breath.
What if he doesn’t show up? Or, what if he does but it isn’t the same between us? Oh, my god, what am I doing?
I was having a mini meltdown out the front of Sydney International Airport, that’s what I was doing. As I do when faced with situations just like this one, I took a deep breath, adjusted my big-girl knickers, and got the hell on with it. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, slung my carry-on over my shoulder and, chin lifted, walked into the terminal.
As soon as I was inside, my phone bleeped. I hoped it wasn’t Nick laying it on again; I wasn’t in the mood for brotherly teasing. I took my phone out of my carry-on.
About to take off. Can’t wait to see you!!! Jxxx
So, he really was going to show up. I was both relieved and terrified, which I can assure you, is not a fun mix. I tucked the phone away, deciding to reply after I’d checked in and was through security and immigration. Hopefully, by then, I’d no longer be a giant ball of anxiety.
I looked up at the screen to see where to check in, which turned out to be the counters marked “A”. Of course, I was way down the other end near “K”. Maybe a brisk walk from one end of the airport to the other was exactly what I needed to shake off my nerves.
What I didn’t need, however, was having to navigate through a giant tour group of retirees, all sporting the same red and white polo shirt. They didn’t seem to care that I said, “Excuse me!” three hundred times. They were sticking together come what may! I needed Cat. She’d just bully through, elbows out.
I finally made it to the “A” counters, discovering that there was only one person ahead of me in line. My plan to arrive at the airport three-and-a-half hours before my flight—just in case—had paid off! It was only when I took my place behind him, that I saw the sign on the counter saying check-in wouldn’t open for an hour-and-a-half.
Hmm.
I’d have to reply to the text. Otherwise, he might take off before I had the chance, and maybe he’d spend the whole flight wondering if I was going to show up, which would suck. I took my phone out.
Me too! Fly safe. See you there. Sxxx
There. Now I definitely couldn’t back out. I was going.
I’d take a ten-hour flight, then a taxi from the airport, and I’d meet him at the hotel. Of course, I only realised after our flights were booked that I hadn’t timed that very well. He was arriving before me and we’d be reunited before I had a chance to take a shower—after a long-haul flight! What had I been thinking?!
Although I’d paid for my own flight, he had insisted on taking care of the accommodation—apparently, he got good deals through a loyalty program. I told him that was fine if we shared the car rental and everything else—going Dutch, holiday style. He only agreed when I told him I wouldn’t come otherwise.
My phone bleeped in my hand, pulling me away from my thoughts. It was a smiley face blowing a kiss—no words, just the emoji. Josh was such a Millennial. Yes, I know I’m technically one too, but I’m right on the cusp and most of the time, I feel more like a Gen-Xer.
I smiled down at the little kissy face on my phone. Despite my qualms, I really was looking forward to seeing him. We’d texted, emailed, and FaceTimed a lot in the months leading up to our trip to Maui, but I’d missed being with him.
I was also looking forward to the trip because the past few months had been ridiculously busy—in a good way, but I was exhausted and needed a breather. You see, when I arrived home from London, I’d leapt wholeheartedly into that bigger life I’d promised myself.
I had finally said yes to the leadership position my principal had been steering me towards and I was officially in charge of a whole year group. It came with a raise—which I immediately deposited into my travel fund—and a team of six teachers.
The woman I replaced was so relieved to hand over her acting role, I almost took it as a sign to run away. But it turned out I had a knack for handling, and hopefully inspiring, fourteen-year-olds. I loved the role and this coming year—fingers crossed—the kids would be even more manageable because they’d be fifteen-year-olds!
For my birthday in October, in the middle of a stunning Sydney spring, I’d organised a huge day out at Centennial Park with all my girlfriends and their families. I’d also invited a few of my younger, single friends from school, telling them each to bring a friend, so they’d be more likely to come.
For food we’d had a massive potluck, and I ordered a side of lamb on a spit. Thank god for Nick who commandeered the carving. “No worries, Sez. Just give me a slab of meat and a huge knife and I’m a happy man,” he’d said. Nick’s kind of weird, or maybe all men like
carving cooked carcases.
Lins helped me organise games for the kids, and we’d all brought our own coolers filled with drinks. And every single person I invited came. Even my girlfriend, Jonelle, who had a shift at the hospital later that day, came for lunch before she left for work.
People who rarely saw each other reconnected, and people who didn’t know each other, met. It was one of the best days I’ve ever had in Sydney—and a reboot for all my married-friend friendships. Soon afterwards, the invites started pouring in.
I was invited to weeknight dinners, with kid chaos and bedtime stories and a sneaky glass of wine after the kids had gone to sleep. I was “Aunty Sarah” again, which I’d forgotten how much I loved. My younger friends invited me out to dinners in the city and to pubs on Sunday afternoons, even to clubs from time to time. I didn’t always accept, but when I did, I had a blast.
But the most exhilarating thing of all—and the most exhausting—was that I had two boyfriends.
Well, sort of.
Geography being the great leveller between them, I hadn’t seen Josh or James in person, but I’d carried on with them both. And by “carried on”, I mean I was in contact with each of them several times a week.
I also had plans to see them both again. Obviously, I was meeting up with Josh for New Year’s in Hawaii, like we’d talked about when we were in Greece. And James had recently called with exciting news. He was coming to Sydney in January for a project with the Museum of Contemporary Art.
I didn’t like being duplicitous—actually, that’s putting it mildly. I hated that part. But I didn’t know what else to do. I’d left London knowing I had feelings for James, and those had intensified over the past few months.
But Josh and I had something special too—even more so after months of lengthy emails and long chats.
Over the past few months, I’d engaged in some intricate emotional gymnastics to give myself as much as possible to each relationship. The situation was emotionally gruelling, but I wasn’t prepared to decide between them before I knew who I wanted to be with. The decision loomed ominously, but I had to see each of them again before I chose.
