It wasn’t as if, once I told Leo about his dad, I could finish it by saying, “You can go and see him if you want.”
I hadn’t been sure what to do, so I did what I did every time I didn’t know what to do for the best, I put the note back where I found it, and blocked it out by making us all something to eat.
I stand in the doorway of Leo’s room, wondering if there are any other notes he has written.
His plane landed hours ago.
OK, it wasn’t quite hours ago, but it felt like it. Every minute that he was queuing up to get through immigration, to get his passport stamped, waiting for his bags (how many can he have when he’s a boy who’s always traveled and lived light?) to appear on the carousel and wrestle them off, felt like an hour to me.
Put in context, the fact that I hadn’t seen him in eight months, three weeks and four days should have stayed my impatience. But this was Mal. Mal. My most favorite person in the whole world. The person I had known longest in the whole world. I was barely restraining myself from climbing over the barrier and running through the double doors of the Arrivals lounge, leapfrogging over a couple of (armed) security guards, whilst shouting his name. I had visions that he’d missed his plane. He’d called me two days ago to make sure I could still come and meet him at the airport. It was all meant to be a big surprise for our family; they weren’t expecting him back for another five months at least, so I was to meet him, then we’d show up at his mother’s. Bless Mal, though, he wasn’t exactly the most organized of men when there were women involved. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d gone out for a few beers the night before his plane left, got talking to someone pretty and Antipodean and decided that his future did indeed lie in Australia, and that he might just stay. Then in a week or so, he’d be back on the phone, telling me that he’d changed his mind and was coming home after all.
That was the thing about my pal Mal, he fell in love at the same rate he fell in lust, then he spent an inordinate amount of time—usually longer than it took for him to fall for said woman—trying to make it work, before giving it up as a bad lot and leaving.
The last time I saw him, it had been at this very airport, but I hadn’t been able to see him properly because I was crying so much. I don’t think his mother had cried that much, and she, Victoria, Cordy, Mum and Dad had all discreetly blended into the background whilst we said our goodbyes. He’d put down his small rucksack and gathered me up in his arms. “Please stop crying,” he whispered into my ear.
I nodded, tears still streaming down my face despite my valiant effort to hold them in, which involved sniffing back a large globule of snot before it left my nose. “You’re going to make me cry,” he said.
I hadn’t approved of this plan to go off and explore the world. Who did he think he was, Christopher Columbus? Captain Cook? Captain Kirk? What did he need to see out there that he couldn’t find right here in London? What was so great about “out there”? Beautiful beaches, glorious sunshine, an outdoor lifestyle, stunning scenery and the chance to reinvent yourself—yes, Australia had all that going for it, but still.
The double doors opened and I felt the level of expectation and excitement leap up around me. All of us were in the same position: desperate to see that face, to see that person again. As though choreographed, we, the group of strangers at the barriers, strained forward as the edge of a trolley, laden with suitcases, pushed through the doors. My eyes flew up to see the pusher. He was tall, white, but in his fifties with silver, thinning hair. All around me, people sagged in disappointment.
The worst part of him going away was that we had originally planned to do it together. I’d never wanted to travel, but Mal had convinced me it would be just the thing I needed to get some life experience before I started my psychology doctorate.
“You have to take care of Mum,” he had said, stroking away my tears.
That was why I couldn’t go. I had the money saved up, but we couldn’t both go and leave his mother behind. We wouldn’t have felt right. It was his dream to see the world, he was the one who had lived with his mother all the way through university to take care of her, he was the one who never had the chance to have an adventure, to do what I did when I went to Oxford. I would have been the sidekick, along for the ride but not appreciating it as much as someone who had never known freedom, independence, what it means to be young. I’d known that was his worry as we made plans, so I’d said to him I wanted to start my course that year and, since I was studying in London, I would keep an eye on Aunt Mer. My parents would do most of the looking after, they always had, but I would let him know regularly what was happening.
“You promise?” he had asked me.
I’d swallowed the big lump of emotion clogging up my throat. “Promise.”
“Thank you,” he’d breathed, cupping my face in his hand. He’d pressed his lips against my wet cheek and hugged me close. He smelled of what I thought love felt like. True love. He smelled of nothing and everything. Inhaling him made me smile inside. He reminded me of every good thing that had ever happened to me. When he’d finally pulled away, his dark, rust-brown eyes were glistening. I took a mental picture of him. Tall, the marginally bulkier side of lanky, with long, streamlined muscles. He’d cut his honey-blond curls short, so he looked older around the face. His large, veiny hands with long, thick fingers. His oval face with his slightly long nose. His large, awestruck eyes. He hadn’t shaved, despite his mum telling him to do so, so he had stubble that sat around his chin, reaching up to his sideburns.
Touching him reminded me of feeling safe, of knowing that no matter what, there was someone out there who relied on me. Always. I’d pressed my head against his chest, listening to his heart. I knew that rhythm, that beat, better than any other heart. I’d heard it more times than I’d heard my own. It’d keep me going for the fifteen months he was going to be away: twelve in Australia until his visa ran out, then three months to make his way home.
“I’ve got to go,” he’d said. His voice. I took in his voice. I’d almost forgotten to take an imprint of that. I clung tighter to him.
“F-ing ’ell, Nove, what you trying to do, break a rib?” he’d gasped.
“Yeah, if it’ll stop you going,” I’d said.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d replied. “You won’t even have the chance to miss me.” He sounded so casual about it, I almost believed he meant it, until he stepped back and I saw fresh tears glistening in his eyes.
He’d raised a hand, waved at our family, turned to me. I saw his face tremble, and then I saw him struggle to control himself; his thumb and forefinger went to the inner corners of his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose as he lowered his head. “I’ll see you,” he’d said, picking up his rucksack. “I’ll see you really soon.” He started to walk away and I quailed inside. That was it. He was walking out of my life and all he’d said was “I’ll see you.”
Two steps away, he turned, his face lit up as he grinned at me. I grinned, too, before he was back in front of me, grabbing me into a bear hug, lifting me off my feet and then putting me down again. Then he kissed me on the mouth. For the first time ever. He kissed me on the mouth. His soft, sensual lips covering mine, moving over them, his tongue pushing gently into my mouth. It seemed to last forever. This feeling of flying, this feeling of floating on a different plane with the person I loved more than anything. We were friends, best friends, and everyone was always asking if there was anything more between us, but there wasn’t. After all that stuff from four years ago, I had all but consigned my feelings to nonsense, to me being silly. But he still kissed me on the mouth in the middle of a crowded London airport, in front of our family. He broke away. Too soon, I thought. How many years had I wanted that to happen? Always knowing after the weekend he had told me he could never love me that it never would. “Now, try explaining to them lot,” he had nodded toward our family, “that we’re just friends and you weren’t sobbing your heart out because the love of your lif
e was walking away.”
“You—” I’d begun, realizing what he’d done, why he’d done it. Now they were all going to think … “You—”
“Bye, Nova,” he’d said with a wide cheeky grin (one that I snapped up and stowed away carefully in my heart with all the other images of him I had), “good luck with that,” and walked away.
More and more people were pouring into the Arrivals area. The noise level in the airport was at a deafening high: people squealing and crying as they saw each other; talking loudly and excitedly as they tried to catch up on everything that had happened during their separation. Making up for lost time in the seconds they’d been reunited. I watched couples leaping into each other’s arms, clinging to each other, kissing and crying and kissing, repeating how they’d missed each other. I saw relatives who lived thousands of miles apart, hugging and promising they wouldn’t leave it so long next time. I noticed friends, dancing around, holding on to each other, so excited to be together they could hardly stand still.
And then I saw him. Sauntering out of the double doors, a huge, black, many-pocketed rucksack on his back. His hair long and wild, his face still smattered with stubble. He seemed bigger than the last time I saw him. Despite his tan, he was gray with jetlag, dark circles ringed his eyes. His traveling clothes—long surfer shorts and a pink surfer T-shirt under a white overshirt—were all creased.
Mal. Mal.
He saw me and started walking quickly toward the Arrivals barriers; I pushed my way toward the end, shooing people aside as though they were flies. He shed his rucksack, dropped his bag and bent with his arms open as I leapt onto him. In the Olympics of leaping, I would have scored a perfect ten. He caught me and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck. Even though I wasn’t waiflike, he was strong enough to hold me. Solid enough to keep on holding me as my senses reacquainted themselves with him. He smelled of sunshine and adventures; he felt solid and strong; with my ear pressed against his neck, his heart sounded exactly the same.
“You smell so good,” he whispered. His voice hadn’t developed an Australian inflection, it was the same one that I had replayed over and over whilst he’d been gone. “You look so good. You feel so good.” His lips pressed against the space between my neck and cheek, lingering there. “I’m so glad I’m back.”
I couldn’t speak. I was overwhelmed by having him home. Safe. Looking ridiculous, but safe. So many things had happened since he’d been gone, stuff I couldn’t tell him about on the phone. Stuff that could keep for now, stuff that I’d often struggled to handle all on my own, but would be all right now he was back.
“You look ridiculous,” I said to him as he settled me down on the ground.
He glanced down at himself, then returned his gaze to me. He didn’t seem to have noticed until I pointed it out. “I came straight from the beach—we had a party,” he explained. “My flight was so early there was no point going to sleep.”
“You’re going to freeze out there.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I’d better change.”
I looked around for signs to the men’s room. It was located to the left, just beyond the car hire desks. I turned around to tell him and saw that he’d opened his rucksack right there. He started rummaging inside, retrieved a pair of jeans and the thick blue sweater his mother had made for him when he was sixteen. Oblivious to the openmouthed stares of people around him, Mal stepped into his jeans, buttoned them on. Then he struggled into his sweater, which had been way too big for him when he’d first got it but was now just a tad too small and was molded to him like a second skin. It was the only thing Aunt Mer had ever finished and he was obviously loath to be parted from it. He kicked off his flip-flops—thongs, he’d told me they were called in Australia—and pulled out a pair of boots from each of the large pockets on the sides of his rucksack. Rolled up in the boots were thick socks. He tugged on his socks and boots, then stood up, holding his arms out in a “ta-da!” gesture. “Better?” he asked.
I laughed. “Yeah, better.”
“Good,” he said through his smile. He took a step toward me, staring down at me. I felt my heart flip, my stomach dance. He’s back, he’s really back.
He leaned down, kissed me briefly on the mouth. “You taste amazing, like home,” he said. “You don’t know how glad I am to be back.”
I couldn’t help but touch my lips. All the nights I’d spent breaking my heart over him came flooding back. All those years when I had been so convinced that I was in love with him, that he was my soul mate, he was my future and I didn’t want anyone else, gushed through my mind. I could never understand why he didn’t want me. Why he could be so open about loving me as a friend but didn’t find me attractive. Never wanted to kiss me. Except that one time at the airport to get me into strife, and now, this brief homecoming kiss. I’d always longed for him to look at me like he was doing now. Except this was clearly a look that was all about him being home. Nothing to do with wanting me in that way. Thankfully, I’d grown out of wanting that. Mostly.
His grin was wide and bright because of his tan. “Did you spend all your time on the beach?” I asked him, noticing the string of shell fragments he wore around his neck. I bet if someone held him upside down, sand would pour out of him.
He shook his head, his grin getting wider. “Not all my time. Beach, bars, snowboarding, hiking. Seeking enlightenment.”
“Oh, so you don’t think all that is nonsense anymore?”
“Did I ever say it was nonsense? I must have been winding you up. I developed a particular interest in crystals.”
“Crystals, huh? Really?” I replied. I was waiting for the punch line. He was always doing this. Pretending to me that he was interested in the “out-there” stuff I was passionate about and then would have some way to make a joke of it. This time, with the crystals, I was sure the words “hard” and “stiff” were about to come out of his mouth.
“I found out what they are used for. I found out that diamonds are a stone of purity. They bond relationships and are seen as a sign of,” he closed one eye, looking upwards as though trying hard to remember, “commitment and fidelity. That’s why they’re used so often in engagement rings. And then there’s rose quartz, the stone of love and romance.”
I raised my eyebrows; he’d clearly used those lines to get women into bed. They were pretty inspired chat-up lines—he’d be hinting at love and a long-term relationship—things you’d probably never get, but they seemed to reveal a deep, thoughtful side to him; showed that he felt things intensely. He did, but you only found that out once you’d known him years.
“Aren’t you impressed with what I learned?” he asked.
“Very,” I admitted.
“Sooooo, I was thinking,” he began, just as Keith arrived and said “Found you!” as he came to a standstill beside us. “Not doing too well on the location front,” he said. “First I couldn’t find a parking spot that wasn’t all the way back on the motorway, and then I couldn’t find you. You wouldn’t think I used to do orienteering in the Army, would you?”
Mal stopped talking as shock passed across his face. I hadn’t told him I was back with Keith. That after a year apart, we’d bumped into each other in a supermarket and had gone for a coffee, which turned into a drink, which turned into dinner, which turned into dating again because we’d only split up because I’d decided he was too old for me. I hadn’t told Mal because I always suspected he didn’t think Keith was right for me.
“All right, mate,” Keith said, suddenly remembering why we were at the airport in the first place. He took Mal’s hand, shook it. “Good time away?”
Mal nodded, conjured up a smile for his face as he said, “Yeah.” I’d hoped that Keith giving us a lift back from the airport would endear him to Mal.
“Nothing’s changed, I still can’t drive—despite what I said about maybe taking lessons—so Keith offered to come pick you up with me.”
“Thanks,” Mal said in a monotone. “Dis
gruntled” could have been his middle name at that moment. He was probably narked with me for telling my boyfriend he was back when his own mother didn’t know.
“OK, shall we go?” I said brightly, trying to rescue the good mood we’d had. “I’ve got lots of treats planned for you. All your favorite foods and a few tinnies. We can get a cab round to your mum’s later, if you like?”
Mal hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder, even though he was still wearing his new middle name like a thick heavy cloak. I picked up his smaller bag and linked my arm through his. Keith wouldn’t mind, he understood about me and Mal; Mal, on the other hand, did mind. He stiffened at my touch. This is going to be fun, I thought as we followed Keith toward the car park.
While Keith went to do battle with the queues for the paying machines, Mal and I waited by his car.
Mal hadn’t spoken since the two words he’d said to Keith. Strong and silent type he may be, but this was bordering on the ridiculous. I didn’t want to get cross with him, but if he kept it up, I’d give him a telling off when we got to my place.
“Look, I’m sorry if it’s annoyed you that—” I began.
“Is he what you really want, Nova?” Mal cut in.
Ah, so this was about whether Keith was right for me. He was older, but he was incredible to me. He told me all the time how much he adored me. We laughed a lot, we liked the same things. He listened to me—not when I talked about psychics and crystals and the like—but about everything else. And he was gorgeous. He had the presence of a statesman, the looks of a film star and the biggest heart. Yes, he was what I wanted. He made me smile. When I was alone, I could think of Keith and smile. And that’s why I knew I’d (mostly) grown out of my obsession with Mal. There was someone else on earth who could make me smile like Mal used to.
Goodnight, Beautiful: A Novel Page 9