A slow smile spread across his face. ‘I would, yeah.’
‘Let’s do it, then.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely.’ I shrugged as if this was the easiest decision ever. ‘Once we’ve finished our degrees, we’ll get the worst cheap flights ever …’
‘… eat amazing airline food…’ he added.
I pointed at him. ‘… And you’ll get caught at customs…’
‘I’d love to come with you,’ he said.
With quick breaths and the slow lean of hesitation, Craig leaned in and kissed me. It was gentle and sleepy, his fingers curling through my hair. His lips were warm and red wine wet but, for a moment, all my what ifs, buts, and worries slipped away into the ocean before us. My heart didn’t skip or murmur its disagreement. Instead, it kept a steady, happy rhythm, and urged me to pull him closer.
Chapter 6
January 2014
I took the stairs at St James’ station two at a time, up into the open air, and past the throngs of school holiday tourists vying for a perfect photo near the Archibald fountain. I shook my wrist to check my watch again. The pedometer part of my New Year, New Emmy project had about another week of half-life left.
The summer air was thick and smelled of sunscreen and sausage sizzles. Almost all the shade around the park had been swallowed up by families and children playing with their Christmas-gifted water pistols. Across Park Street and near the Pool of Reflection was Craig, waiting with a light blanket and wicker basket.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I puffed. ‘I was late out of work.’
He peered up with a gentle smile, eyes shielded from the dappled sun stabbing through the trees. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not, is it? I’ve kept you waiting again.’ I dropped to my knees and crossed my ankles beneath me. ‘This is gorgeous, thank you.’
Craig stilled me with a finger as I leant across and kissed him. ‘You haven’t seen the food on offer yet.’
It was a hearty spread of crackers, fresh shop-bought dips, and some smelly cheese which broke every plastic knife we tried cutting it with. In the end, nibbling at the block was the only way.
‘Alright, so, I have a question for you.’ Craig settled himself opposite me and poured soft drink into plastic wine glasses. This was the state of our student lunches – cheap and cheerful, but still very lovely and fun experiences.
‘Sounds serious.’
Craig narrowed his eyes. ‘A little?’
‘Shoot.’
‘London. How serious are you about going?’ he asked.
‘I’d like to go,’ I said slowly. ‘I love listening to Heather talk about it. How about you?’
Honestly, it had been all I’d thought about for weeks. Heather and Josh had settled in with ease. Facebook accounts full of smiling faces and location shots were testament to that. Weekends at country clubs in Bath, towering white cliffs of Dover, or the Titanic trail of Southampton were coupled with freshly painted bedrooms and new furniture, exotic takeaway dinners, and the excited exploration that comes with discovering your new city through fresh eyes.
‘Had you asked me on New Year’s Day, I would’ve said it wasn’t a great idea. Maybe just a knee-jerk reaction to your friends leaving.’
‘But?’ I asked, curious as to how he’d changed his mind in the weeks since.
‘Well, this week at work hasn’t been so great. I’m not really cut out for the family firm.’ He looked about nervously. ‘At the end of the year, with school over, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’
‘So, you want to go then?’
‘I think we should start planning, yeah.’
Planning felt like a ten-thousand-piece Ravensburger jigsaw puzzle and looking for the edge pieces one by one. Most people were of the opinion I should just ‘get a job and get over there’ which, I suppose, was correct. Financially though, it meant having a safety net before stepping on that plane.
Money, that magical thing that makes the world go around, became easier to come by when I switched to distance education. By the time lecture theatres opened their doors for the school year, I was already curled up on the couch reading final year subjects and bashing away at the keyboard in the hope an essay might pop out somewhere near the end.
As much as he hated it, Craig took extra shifts at the family business. He made coffee, swept floors, and shredded old files just to make himself useful. And, when he was finally allowed to take on clients, he worked night and day to prove that he was not only worthy of their accounts, but that he was capable. It astounded me that he got any of his university work done at all, but he did.
In June, while I was busy picking up volunteer work with the ambulance again and getting back into the groove of things, Craig moved us into a spare bedroom at a friend’s house. The paint was a little peely, and I spent a weekend watching my fingers wrinkle up under sugar soap and water, but it gave us the opportunity to be proper adults. No longer were we under our parents’ roofs, but in our own space, being adults, doing very adult things in the privacy of our own place.
‘I suppose at least it’ll give us an idea of London.’ Craig stood by the door, hands on hips, and surveyed our new room, which smelled like a not so delicious blend of chemical cleaner and lavender carpet powder.
‘Are you still keen?’ I patted the space on the bed beside me.
‘We only have this place for twelve months, so, I do hope so!’
The idea of returning to the UK made me jittery with excitement, it lit a fire inside me all over again – just when I thought those feelings may have disappeared under the rubble of adult life. The opportunities for advancement were endless. I mean, they were at home, too, but something about London felt a little more … special.
Heather and I stayed in contact with a constant game of tag across time zones and inbox messages. We sent each other what we’d called care packages. Where she wanted Tim Tams, Vegemite, and local chocolate, all I wanted were tea bags and the ugliest souvenirs she could find. I was beyond thrilled at my Will and Kate wedding ashtray. It didn’t matter that I didn’t smoke or that the printed image was misaligned, it did a wonderful enough job on the top shelf of my bedroom. It was a regular talking point.
As the year wore on, Heather was happy to remind me that she’d been in London almost twelve months, and that I must be due to join her soon enough. Right on their twelve-month anniversary, she rang. I moved away from the ruckus that was family dinner, and sat in a spare room.
‘You’ll get the biggest bedroom,’ she opened with.
‘And?’ I asked.
‘And,’ she drawled, ‘it’s very lovely. I’ll paint and buy you some new linen and get everything ready for when you arrive. That way, you won’t have to worry about a thing.’
I laughed. ‘Why? What’s the catch?’
‘The room’s downstairs. We sleep upstairs, which makes us closer to the toilet.’
‘Lazy,’ I teased. ‘So lazy.’
‘So,’ she said. I could imagine her twirling a phone cord around her finger. ‘When are you coming?’
* * *
Job applications began a few months before we planned to leave. It became a constant waiting game, hoping for the familial ding of an email notification. It was the old Did I, or Didn’t I Get the Job? game. There might be a polite rejection coupled with best wishes or, maybe, an appointment request. Come hither and talk to us, always near enough to the midnight hour, always over delayed phone lines or pixelated Skype conferences. I jumped on every opportunity that sprang up, kind of like whack-a-mole.
Craig’s employment process was a little easier. He’d managed the first job he applied for, helping a start-up company, and his visa sponsorship was sorted in under a fortnight. Luckily for us, his start date would be determined by mine. He simply began taking on work remotely we got there. Hooray for late nights in front of the television and crawling into bed nearer to sunrise than usual.
But it didn’t matter. We wer
e thriving, effervescent with excitement and just counting down until the moment it was my turn.
When my call finally came, early one Friday morning, I was in the middle of balancing a piping hot coffee cup, while swiping into the building at work, and trying to answer my phone, all without spilling a precious caffeinated drop.
‘Emmy, it’s Brian Ward.’
‘Hello, Brian Ward.’ I ground the toe of my shoe into the ground, pulverising a dry leaf. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m great. I mean, it’s late here, but I figured I’d get you at a good time.’
‘You have, yeah. I’m just heading in for the day.’ I stopped. ‘What is it for you? Midnight?’
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I’m just catching up on some paperwork. Have you got a moment to chat?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Absolutely.’
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he said. ‘I’m just wondering how you’re placed for flights? When’s the earliest you can start?’
‘Are you saying I got the job?’ I squeaked. When the lid popped off my coffee, splashing hot liquid over my hands and threatening my canvas shoes, I finally loosened my grip. Anything but the shoes, they were my favourites.
‘It’s only a six-month contract at this stage, but I’m saying that you should book a flight.’ Hearing the smile in his voice was the most amazing feeling. ‘You’re going to be a great fit for the team.’
‘Oh boy, oh boy, I’ve just … oh, I spilled my coffee. Again.’
‘Yep, definitely a good fit.’ He laughed. ‘Ideally, I’d like you to start as soon as possible. Pam’s a little snowed under right now. I’m going to email you with some details, just let me know when you can get here.’
Chapter 7
June 2014
As the plane bumped and skidded to a stop along the runway at Heathrow, a niggling doubt came knocking, asking if we’d made the right decision. A brief panic set in, and all the things that could go wrong flipped through my head like one of Dad’s old holiday slideshows.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Craig yawned and stretched out sleepily. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘People change jobs all the time.’
‘But we changed countries, too.’
‘That’s because we are the best.’ He winked at me. ‘You’ll be fine once you get a bit of sleep.’
After taking enough sleeping pills that I swore I could smell colours, and still not managing a useful rest, I chose to put my worries down to a lack of sleep. I was exhausted, aching from being cramped, and very much looking forward to a regular bed and a hot shower.
Customs made me nervous. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t smuggling small animals or drugs into the country, I still felt like I’d done something wrong. The snaking queues and conversation that never rose above a murmur didn’t help.
‘Is everything okay?’ I peered over the counter while Craig’s visa paperwork was pored over.
‘I wouldn’t be here without my first work visa. Enjoy your stay,’ the customs agent said with a smile.
Before anyone could change their minds and call us back, we scuttled through arrivals and towards the train terminal. That old familiar smell of brake dust and cramped spaces welcomed me like an old friend with an arm around the shoulder. The moment I boarded the train, luggage pushed against the carriage wall, I let out a heavy sigh.
‘This is amazing.’ Clutching at a stanchion grip, Craig ran a finger along the bottom of the tube map. ‘So, we’re getting off where?’
‘Paddington. Then we get the Bakerloo to Queen’s Park.’ I yawned and cuddled into him. I loved how solid he felt, my head resting in the nook of his neck. ‘You smell awful.’
‘You don’t smell so great yourself.’ He smoothed a hand over my hair and kissed the top of my head.
Swapping from the train to the tube at Paddington, I made it a priority to pick myself up a blue-coated bear, all the while trying to avoid getting weepy at the sales counter. Somewhere between the passport stamp and trying to push three suitcases through a bustling train station, I realised that I hadn’t simply caught the train to the next city. I’d flown to the other side of the world. Sure, I’d done it before, but this time felt different, like I’d hardly been away at all.
Heather was waiting on the front doorstep with streamers, helium balloons, and a Welcome Home sign. She bounced excitedly on the spot, apologising over again for not being at the airport on account of an open inspection. With her long hair pulled into a loose bun, she looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen her. There was a renewed happiness to her that she hadn’t had in Sydney.
‘You look so good.’ I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’
‘And you, my love, look like hell.’ She held me at arms’ length.
I nodded, breaking into laughter. ‘I really do.’
‘When are you starting work again?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.
‘Tomorrow.’
She cringed. ‘Come on upstairs, get some rest.’
Josh and Craig were already climbing the stairs to our apartment on the second and third floor of a terraced house just off Harrow Road. Our scratched-up suitcases banged against the polished wood banister with each misplaced step. Inwardly, I cringed. Please don’t let me be here five minutes and be breaking things already.
‘Here we are…’ Heather pushed the front door open with an excited flourish and dragged me inside.
The apartment was bright and airy, full of white paint and gloss-white kitchen fittings. A grey couch and aqua cushions added blobs of homely colour, and red placemats clung to a lightly stained wooden dining table. Light breezy curtains hung in rooms with dark drapes, and the single bathroom in the upper storey was shared by all. For all the photos I’d seen, it hadn’t prepared me for how I’d feel.
This was, despite the exhaustion, sheer exhilaration. I flopped down on the couch, a foot stool soon adorned with a tray full of homemade biscuits. A pot of tea appeared shortly after, as an excited Heather told me about her latest baking adventures and fresh interest in all things tea. We caught up on the last week spent running around and preparing to leave, all the scandals and drunk uncle stories from our farewell party, and the boring details of our flight. While I moaned about the smelly guy next to Craig and laughed about the toddler who came to say hello and high-five every forty minutes, Josh busied himself hanging comic prints on the wall.
After the hammering had ceased, the biscuits were eaten, and my mind finally began to slow, we relaxed with showers and began putting personal touches on our bedroom. Lace curtains, bookended by heavy drapes, blew in the breeze. Just as she’d promised, Heather had organised a new duvet, spare blankets and pillows, and a few stackable blocks I’d already earmarked as potential bookshelves.
Our bed was a cloud soft and, as I lay back for a moment, the pillows hugged in all the right places. I curled onto my side and closed my eyes.
Chapter 8
I was awake.
I pushed the covers aside and wandered around our new bedroom. My suitcase still bulged by the window, and my passport had been placed on the bedside table next to me. Fresh clothes for work had been arranged over the back of a chair, shoes on the floor. Craig slept quietly, dark tufts of hair poking out above the duvet he’d cocooned himself in.
The world outside was still asleep, blanketed in the glow of orange street lights. Cars were parked any which way they landed, and the occasional wheelie bin had taken a drunken stumble across the footpath.
The world around me had changed so much in the last forty-eight hours and, while I could see, feel, hear, smell, and taste, my brain was still buzzing at what was happening. I wanted to get out and explore our new city. I didn’t care that it was too early, or that I had promised anyone I’d start work, I just wanted out.
Except life and her responsibilities didn’t work like that. I showered, arranged toiletries on our allocated bathroom shelf, and pushed a few books into my shelves. In the
kitchen, I poured a coffee and enjoyed a few moments of peace.
‘Craig.’ I rubbed his shoulder gently. He barely stirred. ‘I’m going to work.’
‘Already? We just went to bed.’
‘It’s just gone seven-thirty.’
‘Explains why my bladder feels like a water balloon.’ He rolled onto his back and blinked up at me a few times. ‘You look so pretty.’
‘Thank you. Are we still treating our landlords to dinner out tonight?’
He nodded, yawned, rubbed at his eyes.
I kissed him, and his awful morning breath. ‘Okay. I’m going to work now. I’ll message when I’m on my way home.’
‘Good luck.’ He yawned. ‘I love you.’
‘Love you, too.’
As the sun tried desperately to peek from behind thick clouds, I pulled on a light coat and started my trip to work. Today had a nervous energy about it that swung from buildings like Spiderman and made you believe something incredible was about to happen. Or maybe that was the jetlag talking.
My walk to work was longer than it needed to be, not because I got lost, but because I was purposely slow. I was too busy drinking everything in as I went, making mental notes of what I saw. Rows of almost identical redbrick terraced houses, their tiny yards that were all so similar, but so distinct, each of them a personal expression of their owners. Last time I was in London, I’d barely scratched the surface, stuck to tourist attractions and sightseeing buses, so it felt a little unfair that I’d agreed to throw myself straight into work again. But there I was, standing outside Moyes Medical, a coffee in one hand, and a nervous heart full of hope.
Faded blue concrete walls met a gated carpark with zero signs of a garden. Well, there was one, but it was apparent it hadn’t been tended to in months. A letterbox slot sat in a front door of toughened glass, which was adorned with a reminder that drugs were not kept on the premises. Despite the fact the place looked empty, I tugged on the door. Locked. I knocked, this time rattling the door for full effect.
Still, there was no one here.
An Impossible Thing Called Love Page 6
