The Postcard

by Zoë Folbigg

  It’s not even 9 a.m., but already there are brown circles on the cream laminate worktop. Teaspoons wobble in little brown pools. A sign reading PLEASE WASH UP YOUR DIRTY CUPS sits behind a sink housing three dirty cups. As Tom surveys the coffee machine, trying to decipher how it works, he curses himself for not stopping at Caffe Nero to pick up an Americano on his way in.

  He looks at his watch again, having not properly registered the time a second ago, realising he doesn’t have time to go back out, or to find someone who will get him a coffee, and hopes his 9 a.m. meeting with the Head of Planning will be catered.

  Did I ask Nicky to book breakfast?

  Did I ask Nicky to book a room?

  ‘Shit,’ Tom says out loud, as he searches the coffee machine for clues.

  ‘Need a hand?’ says a soft low voice.

  Tom looks up to see Rosa Samarasekera peering around the corner, her cheek leaning on a hand that’s propped against the kitchen’s only wall. Her eyes are ridiculously large, her mustard polo neck making her chiselled face and long angles look like a carved bust. Tom almost doesn’t recognise her without her white coat on.

  ‘Dr Rosa!’ Tom gives up on the machine and leans back against the sink, crossing his arms but keeping one eye on his watch. ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve realised I’m not that desperate for watery coffee, I’ll hold out. How’s it all going?’ He looks up, his blue eyes twinkling under the strip lighting.

  ‘Great, thank you. I’ve just been meeting with Props to run through everything for Headlice. Comedy giant comb? Check.’

  Tom strokes his bald head.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, not much help with that one. But I’ve watched the rushes on Poo and you’re amazing. You’re doing a great job.’

  Rosa smiles. ‘Really? You think?’

  ‘Yeah, for sure; you’re a natural. I’m so pleased we’re going for the second series.’

  ‘Oh me too.’

  Rosa lingers on the crow’s feet and smile lines around Tom’s eyes, and he is too polite and feels too self-conscious to look at his watch again, to check how little time he has before his meeting.

  ‘Actually, Tom, I was wondering if I could have a chat at some point, when it’s convenient?’

  Tom searches Rosa’s face. ‘Of course, is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes great, it’s just…’ Rosa’s lashes sweep downwards. ‘This is all so new to me – and so different to Guy’s. I know my way around A&E, but all this.’ She looks up. ‘It’s wonderful, but it’s crazy. I would just appreciate your wisdom and knowledge – a few pointers really…’

  Rosa’s eyes, dark and glimmering, look hopeful and Tom thinks of Nena sitting on the sofa back home.

  ‘We could go for a proper coffee?’ she smiles, her white teeth brightening up the dull kitchen area.

  Tom scratches his head. ‘I think that’s a great idea. I’m busy today, but I’ll have Nicky contact you. We’ll find a time this week.’

  ‘Oh that’s wonderful. Thanks so much.’ Rosa’s cheeks blush pink.

  ‘But really, Rosa, you’re doing an awesome job. You’re the best.’

  My Travels with Train Man

  Namaste, India. You have been truly wonderful. From opulent palaces to cows crossing the road; from the colourful ceremonies and funerals at the ghats to dolphins diving into the murky waters at Fort Cochin. You were brutal and beautiful and everything in between – and more than I ever could have anticipated. And despite what everyone had warned us (‘Great food, hideous Delhi belly…’), neither Train Man nor I got sick once. Well, nothing that wasn’t self-inflicted by too much Kingfisher, Cobra and chana…

  So here we are in beautiful Thailand, and getting here felt like going back to the future. We boarded a plane in the beige dust and 1970s décor of the Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi (complete with actual piles of paper at the check-in desk and one of those Rolodex flight departures boards that flickers in old movies) and disembarked to change planes in low-lit and futuristic Singapore, which was so clean, so slick and so minimalist, it felt as though we could have been on the International Space Station in the year 3000. Another swift flight brought us to Bangkok, and, wow, what a city.

  BKK as it seems to be called on billboards and in bars is majestic yet fun; gilded yet clammy; energising yet tiring – and it has shopping opportunities aplenty. It’s been hard to resist looking in the multiple malls many of my friends raved about, but my capsule wardrobe is fit to bursting, and backpackers don’t do McCartney or Miyake anyway. Not unless they’re fakes. So, we sidestepped the shopping for Wat Pho, one of the most serene of the many temples around the Grand Palace, whose golden spikes prod the balmy skies above Bangkok like spears, whose reflections glimmer in the Chao Phraya river, the city’s artery, when the moon is up. Wat Pho is sometimes called the Temple of the Reclining Buddha for its 46m golden statue, which fills a grand room. It’s a peaceful world, away from the flying phlegm of India… until us tourists ruin it by trying to get a shot that does the Reclining Buddha justice (trust me, it’s impossible).

  Bangkok has felt so refreshing. We even went to the cinema. Bollywood gods Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan still have my heart, but we were craving a good high-octane Hollywood movie that wasn’t four hours long, so we plumped for The Force Awakens at the mall. It felt like Date Night – not just because of the double armchair, the big tub of popcorn and the cosy blanket. It was so special, as it’s something Train Man and I have barely had the chance to do even before we started this trip.

  Now we’re at the beach and I feel like we’ve finally found our stride. I’ve got so good at this backpacking malarkey, I’ve forgotten the hormonal panic that hit me on a night bus to Bundi. I’ve stopped thinking about how much I wanted a baby – although Thai babies must be the cutest in the world. And it’s so idyllic, I’m tempted to suggest we stay here.

  Our days are lazy and leisurely, spent lying on pristine sand and eating Magnums – and Train Man is looking even hotter than Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach – his skin is as deep brown and as bronze as his eyes, and I’m just so… happy. The only trouble in paradise? Choosing whether to go Almond or Double Chocolate Caramel – and whose turn it is to go to the beach bar to buy them. We’re off to a Full Moon party this week. Is twenty-nine too old for fluoro make-up, glow sticks and buckets of SangSom? I’m not sure I have the energy, but I’ll report back…

  17

  March 2016, Krabi, Thailand

  Maya reclines on her back, propped up on her elbows, as she looks out to sea. She has seen some stunning beaches in her almost-thirty years, from Sennen Cove in Cornwall to Bocas Del Toro in Central America, but this one takes the prize. The water flips from crystal clear over pale cream sand the colour of ground almonds to a stripe of mint green that hugs the Andaman Coast. Craggy karsts jut out of the water covered in lush green foliage. A fishing boat laps gently against the shore. Sounds of splashing and chatter provide a tender soundtrack as James drifts in and out of sleep. The only thing missing is the Almond Magnum that Maya and James have become somewhat partial to from the drinks hut at the back of the beach.

  I’ll go get one in a minute, Maya thinks, as she looks at a young girl, diligently doing cartwheels along the shore, trying to straighten her legs to applause from her proud parents.

  Shit. The call.

  Maya looks at James’ analogue watch as he stirs from his slumber, but she can’t see what time it is for the reflection of the sun on its face.

  ‘Baby,’ Maya tries to whisper. ‘What time is it?’ She puts her hand on his wrist and gently angles the face away, but still the sun is too bright.

  Relinquishing their phones took some getting used to. At first it felt like they’d forgotten something, like they shut the front door and left their keys inside. But the momentary panic soon passed; they found other ways to fill those moments when looking at their phone screens would be the customary thing to do.

  Three months in and the lack of phone is liberating. Al
though Maya always wonders what the bloody time is. As a result, she’s become adept at scouting out clocks in shops, cafes or the corner of the television when she’s found a local-time news channel. She’s accustomed to glancing at James’ wrist, or craning her neck to look at the phone in the hands of the person in front of her in a queue. Most of the time it doesn’t matter; James is the timekeeper when there are trains, planes and buses to catch. It does matter now though, when he’s asleep and she has an appointment with her editor in London.

  James opens one eye and tries to focus. He looks to the sky, pretending to be able to tell the time from it.

  ‘Hmmm, about three? Four?’ He stirs, rolls over and sits up, scratching the sweat on his growing stubble. ‘I think I need some more sun cream on my back, will you sort me out?’ he mumbles.

  ‘No, but what is the actual time? I have a Skype call with Amy Appleyard at three thirty, our time.’

  James stretches, yawns and looks at the brown and orange watch on his left arm. It’s old and barely splash-proof – its hands don’t even glow in the dark – but he likes it. ‘Three twenty, you’re fine.’

  James smiles and Maya melts. His olive skin has gone a gorgeous shade of golden and his smell – he smells as sweet as frangipani – is sublime. Or is that the factor-fifteen oil he’s been slathering all over himself which needs reapplying?

  Maya stretches and moves across to James’ sunbed, drizzling oil on his shoulders and back, before rubbing it in brusquely and wiping her hands on her tummy. She stands and realigns herself, tying her sarong around her white bikini like a bath sheet. She needs to get out of the sun anyway. Her brown hair is saltwater curly and turning golden along the baby fronds at her forehead and the waves at her tips; new freckles are bursting through her skin like popping corn.

  ‘Done. Protected. And you smell edible, I could eat you up.’ Maya smiles. ‘But I have to go. Amy wanted to chat about “something”, which sounds scary. Hopefully it’s about using your travel pics…’

  Maya ties her hair in a messy bun on top of her head and grabs her sunglasses and purse.

  ‘Want me to check your email too?’

  ‘Nah. It’ll only be something I either won’t want to take on, or I’ll want to take on and can’t.’

  ‘Ignore it as long as you can, I reckon,’ says Maya, with a disconcerting feeling. She wishes she didn’t have to have this conversation with Amy.

  James looks skyward and puckers up, so Maya can lean down and plant a kiss on him.

  ‘Love you, honey.’

  ‘Love you too. Be right back.’ Maya walks off with a wiggle before stopping to turn around. ‘Almond?’

  James smiles. ‘You read my mind.’

  *

  In the small beach hut snack shop, Maya is relieved to see the one computer is vacant.

  Phew.

  She gestures to it and the man behind the counter nods, so she sits down. Machinery whirls, a fan blows, and Maya adjusts her face in the frame of the screen.

  She starts the call. To her surprise, Amy answers straight away; her feathered blonde hair and square face fill the screen. She is sitting at her desk at the newspaper giant’s HQ in East London, issues of Esprit lining the shelves behind her. Issues Maya has only seen online so far but would love to get her hands on. There’s the TV presenter celebrating her fiftieth birthday with balloons and a frou-frou skirt. The pop star opening up over her split with her rugby player boyfriend. The reality show judge getting an edgy makeover. All of the stars face forwards on the cover, all look over Amy Appleyard’s shoulder, all peer at Maya as if she’s in a bizarre interview.

  Amy stares into the lens. ‘Maya? Oh, you’re there. Hi, how are you?’

  Maya feels uneasy about this meeting. She’s never had a meeting in a bikini before, so she lowers her head, trying to cut her white bandeau bikini top out of the picture, but now it looks like she’s naked, so she adjusts her sarong just to prove she isn’t, tying it in a bow at the back of her neck.

  It’s not like she doesn’t know I’m at the beach.

  ‘Good thanks,’ Maya says, knowing Amy won’t want actual specifics. ‘You?’

  ‘Great. So the column’s been going well in that we’re happy with the mechanics of it, but we need a change in tack.’

  Maya nods politely at the camera, trying to measure her face so she doesn’t look as anxious as she feels.

  ‘It’s all a bit… nice. A bit travelogue. A bit… smug, dare I say? You’re getting on too well.’

  Amy definitely said ‘nice’ as if she meant ‘dreary’.

  Maya tries not to look hurt. ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘It’s just Esprit readers really aren’t that interested in temples per se. They want to know what chic outfit you were wearing when you went into the temple; how Instagrammable it all looked; whether your new Asian diet is making you feel so smoking hot, you’re slinking around that temple like a supermodel on a shoot; whether you and Train Man had a blazing row just before you went into the temple, and the sexual tension was so much, all you really wanted to do was tear each other’s clothes off. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Maya, feeling like a disappointment.

  Amy leans back and taps her Montblanc pen against her cheek. Maya can now see she’s wearing a white shirt with a black pussy-bow tie.

  ‘How are those baby cravings working out for you? Still desperate to make a mini Train Man? He’s not ready, no?’

  ‘Erm, it’s not a problem any more,’ says Maya cheerily, suppressing the urge boring from her belly button to the back of her spine, making her slump into the plastic seat, sweaty under the parts of her thighs the sarong doesn’t cover.

  ‘Oh…’ says Amy, not hiding her disappointment.

  Maya’s heart sinks.

  ‘Is there any way we can spice things up a bit? Make it more Esprit?’ Amy’s eyes widen as she has an idea. ‘Or could you talk about how much weight you’re losing, maybe we go down the body route, make it a health and well-being column if the relationship is too nicey-nicey?’

  She definitely meant dreary then.

  Maya feels the comfort of coconut curries and Almond Magnums around those sweaty thighs and holds onto that thought.

  ‘Hmm, well I reckon Train Man and I might be the only people to have put on weight in India. All that ghee and gulab jamun – and we didn’t even get the…’ Maya stops herself.

  Amy narrows her eyes and scrutinises Maya. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Train Man even has a hint of a love handle, and he’s always been lean. Never had to think about what he eats.’

  Amy widens her eyes again. ‘That’s it, yes.’ She makes a fist and does a little punch in the air to herself. Then turns to the left, where Maya knows Amy’s PA, Danni, sits at a desk beyond her open door. ‘Danni, can you ask Mirry what the name of that spa was again?’ she shouts, before turning back to the camera. ‘Miranda, our features ed, went on a press trip recently, to one of those intense Thai spas.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘Poo Camp, she called it.’

  Maya’s freckles flush red. ‘Poo Camp?’

  ‘Yeah, she hasn’t written it up yet. And doesn’t have time to for that matter. So perhaps we can use it for your column instead. It’s this pretty full-on spa on some idyllic Thai island or something. Clay shakes, 4 a.m. yoga. Fasting. Self-administered colonics. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Self-administered whats?’

  ‘I didn’t think it would be right for you, but actually, if you’re carrying a bit of weight and unhappy…’

  ‘I’m not unhappy.’

  ‘Well, I think this could really work, if you’re game. It could be brilliant. You and Train Man, in it together, facing a challenge, trying to slim down and reset your chakras and stuff.’

  ‘Sounds… lovely?’

  Amy calls out again to someone off screen, someone beyond Danni’s desk. ‘Where? Koh what?’ She turns back to face Maya. ‘One of the islands. I’ll get Dan
ni to mail them and set it up. Can you get there this week?’

  Amy’s assistant appears in the edge of the shot. ‘Hey, Maya,’ she waves.

  Maya waves back. ‘Hi.’

  Danni walks off.

  Maya is thrown. She doesn’t like the sound of this, but she doesn’t want to lose her column either. She knows she’s only getting a fraction of what the celebrity chef gets for his weekly column on the double-page spread after hers, but the pay from her weekly dispatches is a nice bit of pocket money for the trip. And they only wangled the Keralan houseboat for free because she agreed to write about it in Esprit. They never could have afforded it otherwise. Plus, there’s the hope that Amy might want to use some of James’ photos in the travel section…

  ‘Well, we were going to head north, to visit an elephant sanctuary.’

  Amy leans forward again and looks into the lens with the ‘Really?’ gaze of a woman who doesn’t have a bleeding heart. She needs to perk up this column, on the newspaper tycoon’s orders, and it’s too early to can it after just ten weeks. ‘Think about it, Maya,’ she says bullishly. ‘These things cost thousands. People flock from all over the world to change their bodies and their lives, and all in paradise. You and… er, Train Man, are getting the opportunity to do it for free. As long as you namecheck the spa.’

  ‘I guess. I mean, brilliant.’

  ‘Great.’ Amy clicks her Montblanc pen and throws it down on her desk, satisfied that she’s come up with a solution. ‘If you can do a pre-spa column, setting it all up nicely, then a couple from Poo Camp, if you can stretch it out, and then one after, to say how all that hunger almost broke you, but at least you’re skinny kind of thing… Could be jolly.’

  ‘Or it could actually break us,’ laughs Maya nervously.

  ‘Here’s hoping!’ Amy says with a laugh.

  She’s joking, right?