Lecretia's Choice

by Matt Vickers

  Possibly she had cause to regret her enthusiasm. Unlike so many of my friends, I had not lived or travelled much overseas at all.

  I began to talk to Lecretia about my growing urge to travel. Did she want to come with me? I couldn’t bear the idea of breaking up with her, of her finding someone else and starting a life with them.

  She said that, although she would miss me, she would understand if I had to go, but she couldn’t come with me. She was committed to her job at Chen Palmer & Partners, which was taking off, and being a bit older than me she felt that it was time to be focusing on her career. Later I would find out that she really didn’t want me to go—but she didn’t want to hold me back either. She didn’t want to be the sort of person to hold someone back from their ambitions.

  I suppose in a way I was also testing my feelings. Part of me distrusted myself and the future that was becoming clearer and clearer: the life-on-rails that began with birth and inexorably led to marriage, children and death. My thinking was likely influenced by the premillennial angst that spilled over into the early 2000s, the angst that found its origins in Nirvana’s Nevermind and gave rise to Fight Club and The Beach and No Logo and Radiohead’s OK Computer and was captured archly in the title of the Strokes’ debut album, Is This It.

  I booked a flight for a three-month round trip to the United Kingdom via Thailand, with the idea I would spend a month backpacking around Thailand, and then get to the UK and decide what to do. Maybe I would stay, get a visa, get a job. I didn’t know. I was twenty-seven. I wanted to feel free: to feel like I was making a choice about my future.

  Despite not wanting me to go, Lecretia supported me. She helped me pick out a backpack, and she bought a small New Zealand flag patch and sewed it on for me. She bought me a Lonely Planet guide, and offered to look after my belongings. She kissed me goodbye at the airport, and embraced me, making me promise to write to her and call her.

  I arrived in Bangkok and made my way to Khao San Road, ‘the centre of the backpacking universe’, and began to fall into a rhythm of bus trips and beaches and beer and books and conversations with strangers. I travelled to Ko Tao in the Gulf of Thailand and north to Chiang Mai and Pai near the Myanmar border. I learned to dive. I learned to massage. I had Lost in Translation-style evenings where I careened headlong through the city, drunk in a taxi with drunk locals I’d met at a noodle house, going from one bar to another, while the lights of the city reflected off every shining surface, before the thud of nightclub music gave way to the thud of a midday headache.

  I got to the UK and, after a few days, went to Ireland. I explored Dublin and joined the centennial Bloomsday celebrations. I travelled to the south of France to stay with an ex-flatmate and her family. I ate in spectacular restaurants and explored castles and caves, and kayaked down the Dordogne.

  All this time I corresponded with Lecretia, and recounted my adventures to her. She patiently read my emails and responded with concern, and excitement, and wonder. We talked about how much we missed each other.

  When I got to France, she emailed me to say that she’d bought a house. She was very excited. She asked me to move in with her when I came home.

  I really love it, Matt. It’s not big, and it’s not flash, and it is in the suburbs, but it is cute and there is very little that needs doing to it. The grounds are really tidy and it already has a garage. It would be even better with French doors and a deck off the lounge. It would not be too expensive to get a builder to do that sometime. Other than that, we really just need to change the curtains.

  I was growing more and more certain that I would return home to her, and that I would choose her as she’d chosen me. But I resisted saying when. I called her from France, excited about the new house, but not promising to be home at the end of July. There were places I still wanted to see.

  She wrote me an email the next day, expressing frustration.

  I’m sorry if you thought that I gave you a hard time on the phone. I don’t think you understand quite how much the indeterminacy of your trip goes against my grain. I know exactly what I have on every day for the next month. I love that. I love looking at my diary every day and planning my week. I am really struggling with the whole uncertainty of when/if you are coming home. I will deal with it, though. I’m not going to try and factor you into my moving equation now. I’m moving on 24 July. Mum and Dad have kindly said that they will come down and help me.

  I replied:

  I know it’s hard for you to deal with me being away for an indeterminate amount of time. I could give you answers but you don’t seem to like it when I change my mind a week later, which does happen. I am vacillatory by nature, but you must know this already. Nevertheless, there are some facts which I am now unwavering on. These are:

  • I love you.

  • I am coming home.

  • I am moving in with you.

  The more I travel, the more I want to come home. You worry that I’ll find a place that I want to live more than home. That’s silly, because all the places that I travel won’t have you in them, and to me you’re the greatest wonder of the world. I love you, Lecretia. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you.

  After Europe, I returned to Asia, for the last leg of my trip. I travelled to Siem Reap in Cambodia and watched the sun set on Angkor Wat from Phnom Bakheng. I took a riverboat through floodplains to Battambang and a motorbike to Pailin on the Thai border where the last vestiges of the Khmer Rouge persisted. I ate croissants and drank beer with prostitutes in Phnom Penh before crossing the border to Vietnam.

  In Ho Chi Minh City I played pool against locals in bars while the sound system blared Hendrix and ‘Paint It Black’. I bussed north through Nha Trang and Hoi An and Hue, exploring temples and tailors and little restaurants with the freshest spring rolls I’d ever tasted, and I rode taxis in Hanoi watching families piled high on their scooters—five to a seat, plus a couple of chickens. I kayaked through the limestone islands of Ha Long Bay, through caves and floating villages and beneath limestone cliffs where monkeys screeched from the clifftops.

  But now I wanted to get home. I had made my choice. I had a photo of Lecretia on my digital camera that I kept looking at. I emailed her.

  I’m starting to miss you like crazy. I think of you all the time: dressed in your beautiful clothes, with your gorgeous smile, or naked in candlelight, or in the morning. How it feels to kiss you. That photo I have I keep returning to, and I want to crawl beneath the little screen and be there with you. I imagine what it will be like when I arrive home, and I wonder whether you will be at the airport waiting for me, and what you will be wearing, and whether I’ll cry, or you’ll cry. Will I rest my hand on your thigh as you’re driving? Will you make me drive instead? Will we go home at once? Will we make love immediately, or will I massage you first? Will I undress you slowly, or hurriedly? If I undress you too fast, will you flash with anger and declare in your Lecretia’s-angry voice for me to ‘Slow down!’? Will you kiss me at two in the morning, unable to sleep? Will your eyes spring open at 5 am, like they often do, and will you lie awake and listen to me breathing until I finally wake up at 9 am? Will we stay in bed until noon, talking and holding each other and eating chocolates and breakfast and making love?

  I miss you so much. I can’t wait to see you when I get off that plane.

  I will be home soon. I love you, you adorable, exceptional, unique and spectacular woman.

  The day finally came when I took my flight from Hanoi back to Wellington via Bangkok. I’d worn the same clothes for three days straight, so I smelled terrible and was unshaven. I pitied those people who had to sit next to me on the plane.

  After sixteen hours of travel I disembarked and walked into the arrivals hall.

  Lecretia was there waiting for me, her beautiful smile, tears in her eyes, her chestnut-brown hair loose against her shoulders and back. I broke into a trot and closed the distance between us, and took her into my arms, feeling the warmth and give of her body, bur
ying my face in her hair, and then kissing her on her sweet, familiar lips. Seeing her after three months sent a bolt of happiness through me.

  She pulled her head away from me, while holding my embrace.

  ‘Pooh! You smell terrible!’

  The home Lecretia had chosen was just as she’d described. It was small and elegant. It was perfect. With a mix of nervousness and pride she showed me around: the kitchen, the lounge, the bathroom, the bedroom.

  I peeled off my clothes and climbed in the shower, and then Lecretia and I made love for the first time in our new abode. I was so happy, and so was she.

  Before my trip around Asia, there was an unanswered question: would this be permanent? Now all the doubt was gone. It would.

  Chapter 4

  WE BECAME DE FACTO partners, living together, going to work together, spending weekends together. We’d go to garden stores on the weekend and pick out plants and take them home and do our best to keep them alive despite our poor gardening skills. We’d have dinner parties. We’d dress together, have nights out, sleep in together.

  It wasn’t all rosy. Lecretia confided in friends that living with me was hard—she felt I wasn’t pulling my weight. I tried to keep on top of the dishes, the lawns, the rubbish, the domestic routines that come with home ownership. We tussled over who should do what, and when, and what expectations we had of one another.

  I took a couple of months to find work, not sure what I wanted to do next. I eventually took a job at a PR company, for no other reason than that it sounded interesting, and started there as an account manager.

  Lecretia cooked a lot, even when I wasn’t working. She was a talented chef. I had never met someone with so many cookbooks. She had Culinaria Italy and Larousse Gastronomique and a pasta-maker and a lemon zester and one of those blending wand things. Our cupboards quickly became stocked with spices and preserves and sauces and chocolate and blanched almonds and dried fruits and three different kinds of olive oil, and our fridge with chutneys and capers and cornichons and four different kinds of cheese. How Lecretia found time to do her job and still come home and cook for us always amazed me.

  I cooked too, but I stuck to tried and tested dishes. Lecretia patiently (and sometimes less patiently) helped me improve my technique in the kitchen. She showed me the best way to chop tomatoes and onions, impressed upon me the importance of rinsing rice before boiling it in water and letting it simmer on a low heat. My cooking slowly improved.

  We made adjustments to the house, adding the deck that Lecretia had envisaged along with French doors. When the sun was out in Wellington, which wasn’t as often as we would have liked, Lecretia would spend her afternoons lying out on the deck in a bikini with a book in hand, a bowl of cherries in easy reach. On a still evening we’d sit out in the dusk together and share a glass of wine. We took a holiday in Laos and figured out that we could happily travel together. We began making inquiries about a kitten from breeders of Abyssinian cats. We worked late and came home and laughed together. Making Lecretia laugh was as intoxicating to me as any drug. It was strangely validating: this beautiful woman found me amusing and enjoyed my company. I still couldn’t quite believe it.

  My decision to propose in July 2005 was an impulsive one. I noticed that the second anniversary of our first date was coming up, and in the absence of any other extraordinary ideas, I thought that popping the question was the best way to make her night memorable. It was an obvious next step, really. Lecretia and I had now been living together for twelve months, and we were in bliss.

  The day before our anniversary, Lecretia was working late at Chen Palmer & Partners, preparing for a trip to Auckland the next day. I called her at work after midnight and told her to come home. She told me she just needed another hour. She got home at 3 am, had a couple of hours’ sleep, and got up at 5 am to get her taxi to the airport.

  I’d booked dinner for us that evening at the White House, a swanky restaurant in Oriental Bay on the eastern edge of the CBD. We’d agreed that Lecretia would come straight from the airport after Auckland and we’d go to dinner to celebrate our anniversary.

  I didn’t buy a ring—I knew Lecretia would want to choose her own—so there wasn’t a hot circle of metal burning in my pocket, just a single question burning in my heart.

  I arrived at the White House and was shown to our table. It was covered in a beautiful white cloth, and a single rose rested in a vase in the centre. From my seat, I looked out on a view of the harbour as the sun reddened low in the sky.

  ‘My girlfriend’s on her way—she’s coming from the airport.’

  Almost immediately I received a text message. ‘Flight delayed—will be there as soon as I can.’

  It’s a one-hour flight from Auckland and a ten-minute cab ride from the airport, so things weren’t looking good. I ordered a beer and looked out at the slate-blue harbour. The tables around me were full, and I could feel the eyes of the other diners on me and their quiet sympathy. Perhaps I should have got up and gone for a walk. Instead, I sat there and thought about Lecretia.

  Somehow I’d found myself with someone who loved me, who was willing to make sacrifices to be with me and who I adored utterly. I felt gloriously out of my depth. I had spent a lot of my youth seeking validation—that I was smart, that I was sexy, that I was loved—and here was a girl who could give me all of that with one glance. I was so happy.

  And she was so late. It was 9.30 pm. People were finishing their meals and leaving the restaurant. I must have looked ridiculous at that table, with my beer and my rose and my stupid smile.

  ‘Sir, I’m afraid the kitchen is closing,’ the waitress said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is she far away?’

  ‘I think she’s still on her flight.’

  ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to serve you tonight.’

  ‘I understand. Can I take this?’ I asked, pointing at the rose.

  ‘Sure,’ she smiled.

  I descended the stairs and began walking into town. My phone rang.

  ‘Hey, Lecretia.’

  ‘I’ve just landed. I’m so sorry. Are you still at the White House?’

  ‘They’re closing. I’m heading into town.’

  ‘Do you still want to go out?’

  ‘Of course. Let’s meet at Chow,’ I said, choosing an up-market Asian restaurant with one of the town’s more exclusive bars attached.

  ‘Okay—I’m getting in a cab. Can’t wait to see you!’

  Clutching the rose, and spurred on by the cold winter air, I started running. I ran along the footpath that traced around the outline of the harbour, past the million-dollar houses that terraced their way back up the hill, and into the amber haze of the streetlights of Courtenay Place, where we had first met. I ran around the corner into Tory Street, and was outside Chow when Lecretia pulled up two minutes later in her cab. She stepped out, looking tired but beautiful. She was crying.

  I hugged her and held her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There was fog that delayed the plane for two hours.’

  ‘It’s okay. Let’s go upstairs.’

  We approached the maître d’ and asked for a table. He took us to the back of the restaurant, a small two-seater table, and we looked at our menus.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked. ‘You must be exhausted. Did the meeting go well?’

  ‘I think so.’

  My heart was beating fast. I was determined to ask. I held on for the right moment. The waiter took our orders and shortly the food arrived: dumplings and satay and salad and fish cakes to share.

  I picked up a peanut and blue cheese wonton in my chopsticks and bit into it. I swallowed.

  ‘Lecretia, I want to say something.’

  She looked at me, a little apprehensively. She held my gaze. She looked beautiful.

  ‘It’s our anniversary tonight. It’s been two years. We’ve moved in with each other, and I’m really happy. I love living with you and sharing a bed with you and ma
king love to you. I love it that sometimes you tell me off and that even when I’m an idiot you forgive me and love me anyway. I love how you laugh at my jokes. I love your spectacular boobs. I love your eyes and your smile and the way you make me want to be a better person.’

  She continued to look at me, more intently now. She was holding her breath.

  ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought and I want to ask you something.’ I paused. ‘Will you marry me?’

  I will never forget the smile that broke out, and the utter happiness in her eyes. As for me, I felt dizzy. I felt the entire course of my life shifting. I was excited. I was scared. But I was happy too.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  And with that our lives became entwined forever. She leaned across the table and kissed me. The blue cheese wonton dropped from my chopsticks. I returned her kiss, a lover’s kiss, oblivious to everyone else in the restaurant.

  We laughed and joked over the rest of dinner. I told her about how I’d been sitting at the White House, thinking of her, and how I’d run to Chow. We talked about shopping for a ring. She told me about her day in Auckland. We discussed the pending arrival of our Abyssinian kitten—not quite a baby, but a commitment nonetheless. We paid, and caught a cab home. I took my fiancée’s hand and led her to our bedroom. We undressed and kissed and made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms. We were in love, and now we were going to be together for eternity.

  Chapter 5

  IN A NAIVE way, I hadn’t anticipated how quickly things would develop after I popped the question.

  Lecretia announced her engagement to her colleagues the next Monday and insisted I tell my workmates too. Congratulations started rolling in and so did the questions—when would we be married? Where? Big or small wedding? In New Zealand or overseas? What did the ring look like?