Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘But we’ve got family in Poland. They’d take care of you.’

  ‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

  After Cass had gone to bed, I went to my laptop and sifted through some of the travel pages she’d bookmarked. My room was dark and silent. The only sign of life was the glow of the laptop screen and the tap of my fingers on the keys. Pictures of spotless beaches flickered before my eyes. I imagined how the fine sand would feel against my skin. She had flagged pages and pages of suggestions. Next came tiny mountain villages full of houses with thatched roofs. Then the grandeur of Egypt’s Valley of the Kings, its yellow plains pocked with the entrance of tombs. I put my face close to the computer screen, trying to see what lay beyond the tombs’ shadowy entrances. I looked around at my childhood bedroom. I was twenty-seven and it was one of only two homes I’d ever known. The dolls I’d nursed as a child still sat on top of my bookshelf.

  A bell heralding a new email rang out, making me jump. When I looked at it my breath caught in my throat. It was from chriscampbell@gmail.com. I quickly clicked on it. The connection stalled.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ I whispered.

  The email opened up on the screen:

  Hey Vy,

  Great to see you the other night, albeit briefly! Where did you run off to?

  Shame we couldn’t catch up. I’m back in Hong Kong now. Working short term contracts while I try to find a real job. I do some hospitality shifts to make a little extra travel money – the Shangri-La and a few others places. Wherever they’ll have me. The night life is amazing here. You should visit some time. You’d love Asia. Come to Asia!

  Catcha.

  CC

  My hands were shaking. Chris Campbell had written to me. He had wanted to spend more time with me. I read it twice. I thought about what he’d said to me and the opportunities I’d missed. I thought about Michael and his need to control everything, his jealousy and bloody-mindedness. I replayed in my head the way Chris had perfectly articulated the way I felt about him. He was the one that got away. But it wasn’t too late. I read the email again. Come to Asia.

  Cass’s voice echoed in my head. Figure out who you are. I licked my lips.

  Then I booked a plane ticket to Hong Kong.

  One way.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Is this the stupidest thing I’ve ever done? Am I going to wake up in Hong Kong alone and $900 poorer and realise I’m the stupidest person that ever lived?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Cass pulled her hair up into a topknot. ‘You’re going to have an adventure.’

  I wiped my brow. Melbourne airport was so bloody hot. The terminal wobbled behind a wall of rising heat. Bulging suitcases were lugged out of car boots. Tearful goodbyes were exchanged. Tight packed cars and cabs danced an awkward routine of rolling, breaking and honking. There was flesh on show everywhere and all of it was flushed and shiny.

  ‘It will be exotic and romantic over there. You’ll fall in love, get married and have dozens of babies. Just like you wanted.’

  I was having doubts. I had never been overseas before and in ten hours I would be stepping off a plane (only the second I had ever been on) into a world of God knows what. Worse, the women-only hotel Cass had found for me in Kowloon was on a road called Man Fuk and I fearful of the outcome of requesting it from a taxi driver.

  I put my hand into my pocket and felt the folded edges of Chris’s email that I had printed.

  Cass was the only one I’d told about the email. To my parents I said I needed to expand my horizons. To my friends I said I needed an adventure. And to Michael, over and over again, I said I needed to think.

  He’d called a few times since our fight, to ask how I was, and we’d chatted like distant relatives. Our conversations were cordial and vague. When I’d told him I was going on a trip he’d made a noise like a kicked puppy, and I’d had to remind myself of the motorcycle and what it had meant.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ said Cass, ‘there’ll be times when you’ll feel lonely. There will probably be times when you’ll feel scared. But that’s what travelling is all about. The good will far outweigh the bad. You’ll come back with a whole new perspective. And if things get really tough we’re only a phone call away.’

  She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Here,’ she said, holding out a small wrapped package.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a present. Also known as a gift, presents are given from one person to another to mark significant events. You’re supposed to open it.’

  I punched her arm and ripped off the paper to find a small bottle of Dettol hand sanitiser. I laughed.

  At Christmas, Cass had teased me when my haul of gifts had resembled a supermarket cleaning aisle. There was a set of Enjo environmentally friendly cleaning cloths from my grandparents, an electric window cleaner from my aunt Helen, and a new head for my wonder mop from Zach.

  Mum and Dad had splashed out and spent a packet on a vacuum cleaner that I’d had my eye on all year. I ripped off the wrapping and yelled, ‘How did you know?’ with glee.

  Cass, whose gift from our parents had been a new set of hiking boots and a thermal sleeping bag, had rolled her eyes.

  ‘What are you, a forty-six-year-old house frau?’

  ‘What?’ I said, defensively clutching the vacuum hose to my chest. ‘It’s a Clifton 600. It has five times the suction of an ordinary vacuum cleaner and two sets of attachments. It means I’ll get my vacuuming done in less than half the time, leaving more time for other things.’

  ‘Such as dusting?’ she said caustically.

  Now she gave me a sly look and told me she had wanted to get me a broom but wasn’t sure it would fit in my suitcase.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and added the bottle to the two others in my daypack.

  Cass threw her arms around me and squeezed. I swallowed and tried not to let the tears escape. My throat ached from the effort. The night before I had cried for almost an hour, holding one of Mum’s giant European pillows to my face to stifle the sound.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to come to the departure lounge?’ Mum asked.

  I shot Cass a look. We’d discussed this the night before. I made her promise to get Mum and the car out of there as soon as possible so I couldn’t chicken out.

  ‘This isn’t her first day of school,’ Cass said breezily. ‘She’ll be fine.’ She put her hands firmly on my shoulders. ‘You’re going to have an amazing time.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m prepared.’

  Mum and Zach gave me a hug.

  ‘Don’t forget to send postcards,’ said Zach. I nodded quickly and hoped my family wouldn’t see the glisten of tears that were again gathering in my eyes.

  Cass hopped into the backseat of the station wagon. I instantly wanted to call her back.

  ‘You go,’ I’d tell her, shoving my tickets and passport into her hands. ‘I can’t do this.’ But I didn’t. Instead I waved and smiled, my legs frozen stiff with fear. They drove off honking and waving. I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

  ‘Bloody Michael,’ I muttered. I heaved my back onto my shoulder and headed towards the terminal.

  I looked like a paranoid boy scout. There was a name tag on every piece of clothing I had with me. My zips were fastened with locks, the keys to which were on a chain around my neck. And Dad had sent me a money pouch that would be strapped to my waist for seven more minutes until Mum’s car was out of sight at which point it would be re-gifted to the rubbish bin.

  I’d checked twice to make sure there was nothing in my bag that would attract the attention of sniffer dogs. On my only previous flight – to the CSIRO in Canberra – I got lost at the airport when I arrived back in Melbourne. I ended up in a restricted area, and had to be escorted to the taxi rank by two customs officers. They confiscated my apple and gave me a stern lecture about fruit flies and interstate quarantine. I was scared I was going to unintentionally break a law and find myself in Kerobokan prison wit
h drug smugglers and a housewife from Toowoomba who also didn’t realise disinfectant wipes were illegal in Asia.

  My intrepid traveller look was completed by a proud red suitcase I had purchased on sale. It had a retractable handle, an expandable middle, and wheels that were the evil twins of supermarket trolley wheels. They went in all different directions at once and flew spiralling out of control at the slightest loss of ground integrity.

  The check-out desk was to my left but when I tried to turn the suitcase wheels were reluctant. I took the plastic grip in both hands and tugged. The case resisted for a minute then it twisted and threw itself to the floor the way a small child does at the supermarket when it’s told it can’t have a Mars bar.

  ‘Relax,’ I told myself as I straightened it. ‘You’ve barely been travelling for two minutes.’

  I joined the back of the check-in line and opened up my Global Maverick Guide to Hong Kong. It was from 1994 and had been inherited from Dad. It was missing its back cover and had a soup stain on one of the maps which made it look like most of the CBD was underwater. I was feeling a flutter of curiosity and excitement, when suddenly someone knocked into me with a giant backpack.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said grinning eagerly. ‘Hey, same book.’ He produced his own copy of the guidebook, only his was the 2014 edition. ‘You know it’s best to get the current editions,’ he told me. ‘Prices change and hotels close all the time.’

  He was tall but baby-faced, with a mop of shaggy brown hair that grew out of from his head like dandelion spores. He manoeuvred a pair of binoculars around his neck and offered me his hand.

  ‘I’m Jim,’ he said. ‘Hey, we should see if we can get seats together. It’s a long flight, it’d be good to have company.’

  ‘Umm …’ I tried to think of an excuse.

  He was already launching into his theories on travel. ‘Studies have shown people who are well travelled are far more tolerant and overall have higher incomes.’

  ‘Really,’ I said.

  He prattled on about maybe doing some unpaid work. ‘I think it would look great on my resume,’ he said. ‘And the beer is supposed to be really cheap.’

  I shut my ears and wondered what Chris was doing; if he was sitting in a bar in Hong Kong somewhere right now, drinking a San Miguel or Tai Po beer. I already knew all about the local brands because of Michael’s devotion to Asian ales. Then I couldn’t help but wonder what Michael was doing.

  Shaggy-haired Jim’s monologue had stopped. ‘Is it a secret? Do you work for ASIO or something?’

  ‘Sorry what?’

  ‘I said, why are you going to Hong Kong?’

  ‘Oh.’ Since the first of January I had been subjecting everyone I came across to my relationship autopsy. Co-workers, relatives, and people sitting next to me on trams were given all the details whether they wanted them or not.

  ‘Michael had looked great on paper,’ I’d tell them.

  ‘I’m just going for a holiday,’ I said.

  Jim nodded, encouraging me to elaborate.

  ‘More of an adventure, really. Like you. I’ve never left Australia before … You see, I just got out of a long-term relationship.’

  Suddenly I was wading into it. How I had always wanted to get married. How hard I’d saved and how I’d always thought Michael and I would start a family.

  The long queue of people in front of us were checked-in and sent to security as I told Jim about the motorcycle, the éclair I couldn’t buy, and the incessant diet of lentils and rice.

  ‘I just started to think, is this all there is? You know?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jim said and looked at his watch.

  Next I was pulling Chris’s email from my pocket and showing it to him. ‘We were together for six perfect weeks. It was our last summer of high school.’

  I told him about the party and Candice Chutney and The Deadbeats and how Chris and I would have fallen in love, if only we’d had the chance.

  ‘He called me “the one that got away”. I’m going to meet him now. And then everything will be back on track –’

  ‘Oh look,’ Jim cut me off. ‘It’s my turn. Good luck with, um, everything. Nice talking to you.’ He heaved his giant backpack off the floor and hurried towards the check-in desk.

  ‘But –’ Bugger, I thought. He was the first friend I’d made on my ‘Forget Michael’ tour of Asia and I’d blown it. ‘Shall we get seats together?’ I shouted after him.

  ‘Um, gee, I just remembered I’ve got a lot of reading to get through,’ Jim said without stopping. Then he turned and urgently thrust his passport at the airline staffer.

  One hour, and one borderline sexual encounter with an airport security guard later, I had settled into my seat. On my lap I had a stack of magazines and a few books. I picked up the January Cosmopolitan and flicked to a feature titled: “How Do You Know If He’s The One?” In a side-bar, Cosmo had provided a five-question quiz to help the reader determine if her man was a ‘Hunk of Spunk’ or ‘Hunk of Junk’. I rolled my eyes. Honestly. Who comes up with these lines?

  Nevertheless I turned my attention to the quiz.

  ‘Question one: When you met, the first thing you noticed about him was:

  A. His totally hot bod.

  B. His totally bitchin’ car.

  C. The fact that you both seemed to agree on everything.’

  I bit my pen. I’d known Chris since primary school. He didn’t have a car then and I don’t remember noticing his body. I confidently circled C, knowing Cosmopolitan was sure to give its blessing to our union.

  ‘Question two: How long had you known him before you began to suspect he was The One?’

  It was hard to be sure of the exact moment. I had a catalogue of early Chris memories filed away in the back of my brain. Each a little piece of evidence he truly cared for me too.

  I remembered things changing after a trip to the dentist. I had to have a tooth pulled and was nervously trying to distract myself by reading the embarrassing Dolly Doctor stories, thinking I may have been about to have a molar ripped out by the root but at least I wasn’t secretly in love with my maths teacher. The door buzzer announced a new arrival. I looked up to see Chris walk through the door in his school uniform. I quickly closed the magazine and tried to shove it into a pile of three-year-old Woman’s Days.

  ‘Hey, Violet,’ said Chris. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s silly, I was just …’ I bumbled as he pulled the magazine from the pile.

  ‘“How to Blow his Mind Without Taking your Clothes Off,”’ he read from the front cover while I tried to camouflage myself against the stucco walls, which would have been easier if they were fire engine red.

  He flicked through the pages. ‘Now let’s see here.’ He took a seat. ‘Try to take an interest in things guys like, such as sport and cars,’ he read, before turning the page to a bikini fashion spread.

  ‘Interesting?’ I asked after a minute.

  ‘Very,’ he smiled. ‘Apparently orange is the new pink.’

  ‘Don’t listen to them,’ I said. ‘You’d look great in a magenta singlet.’

  Then came the most wonderful sound I had ever heard in my young life – Chris Campbell laughed at something I said. He actually laughed.

  ‘You’re funny,’ he chuckled.

  I beamed with pleasure. The nurse called my name.

  ‘Don’t let them take your incisors.’ He winked.

  That night I rushed home to practise winking in the mirror. I pouted and flicked my eyelid, trying to look confident and sexy. Over dinner I tried out my new skill on Zach.

  ‘Can you pass the tomato sauce?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going to ruin my lovely casserole with store-bought sauce,’ Mum said, outraged. But I obliged.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries, Zachman,’ I said and gave him my best wink.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Zach asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your
eye.’

  ‘Violet, what’s wrong?’ Mum’s latent hypochondriac stirred.

  ‘There’s something wrong with your eye,’ he said.

  ‘No, there’s not.’ At that moment I involuntarily gave another wink.

  ‘I saw it too,’ shouted Cass. ‘It’s like a twitch.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ I coloured.

  The next thing I knew I was being bent backwards over the kitchen sink while Mum poured water all over my face with the aid of an eye glass.

  That was ten years ago. I nervously unfolded the print-out of the email Chris had sent me and re-read it.

  ‘He invited you,’ I told myself. ‘He wants you to come.’

  Ten hours after take-off I was starting to resemble Mr Potato Head’s decomposing sister. My face was puffy and my skin was shiny. The seatbelt light came on with a ‘bong’ and the pilot announced we were approaching Hong Kong. Tall, shiny buildings crowded every inch of land; signs of global companies dominated the skyline. It looked as though the island was hosting an international skyscraper conference and every building in the world had flown in for a weekend of seminars, getting drunk on the company dollar, and hitting on the local blocks of flats.

  As we began our descent the buildings seemed to rise around us. I gripped my arm-rest. We were coming down steep and fast. I felt certain we were going to crash. I waited for the flashing sirens, the drop of oxygen masks. But they never came. Soon we were being reminded to keep our mobile phones off until safely inside the terminal.

  The airport was bustling. After having my passport stamped I allowed myself to be carried by the tide of people to the baggage claim area and then to the exit where it spat me out onto the street. I paused to breathe in the heat. My first taste of foreign air reminded me of the steamy backrooms of the Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in Footscray. It was earthy, spicy and tropical, with an underlying scent of petrol exhaust. Men were shouting ‘Taxi, you, taxi.’ I waved at one then hopped into his car.

  I was delighted when the driver announced he knew my hotel, and answered his questions about who I was and where I was from and learned he had a nephew in Sydney.

  ‘I’ve never been to Sydney,’ I said.