Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘What about you?’ Harry reached out and touched my hand. ‘Are you okay?’

  My jaw clenched; a warning sign I was about to cry. ‘I feel so helpless.’

  ‘Vy, you saved him. That’s what the doctors said. That accident opened his femoral artery. He could have lost his leg. He could have lost his life, if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘I’m still worried he’ll get an infection.’

  Harry laughed softly. ‘You’re quite remarkable.’

  ‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘No, this is all my fault.’

  ‘How is it your fault?’

  ‘I’ve been acting so crazily, running around the world, chasing a boy. Trying to control things I can’t control.’ I rubbed my eyes.

  ‘Everybody goes a bit mad when they’re dealing with a break-up.’

  I peeked at him from behind my hand. ‘Really?’

  ‘’Course. How do you think I got this tattoo?’

  ‘I just wish I didn’t feel so helpless.’

  ‘You, Violet Mason, are not helpless.’

  A sob escaped my lips. ‘What am I going to do now?’

  Harry smiled. ‘Whatever your heart desires.’

  A week later Harry had returned to Sydney and Michael to Melbourne. I visited Chris hospital on my way to my own flight. His hospital room was full of balloons and flowers, including two bouquets that lay either side of him on his bed.

  ‘Roses and tulips. I couldn’t decide,’ he said, holding them out.

  I laughed. ‘Aren’t I supposed to bring you flowers?’

  ‘After saving my life? I don’t think so. When I told the nurses you were coming they insisted on helping me get them from the gift shop.’

  ‘Are they both for me?’

  ‘At first I thought, roses are so cliché. Vy needs something different. But then, roses are for love. I was just about to buy them when I thought, Vy’s the type of girl who makes up her own mind. Better give her a choice.’

  ‘Chris that’s really kind.’

  It was everything I had ever wanted to hear. It felt wonderful. But not for the same reasons it would have a month ago. He was right. I had become someone who chooses her own path.

  Behind me my backpack stood waiting at the door, with all of my possessions inside. Silvie had already laid claim to my purple desk lamp and I’d given Kym the luxurious bed linen.

  ‘If you’re ever in Melbourne, give me a call,’ I’d said to both of them, over a teary good bye the night before.

  ‘You’re still going then?’ Chris said, looking at my pack.

  I nodded. ‘But I have time for an old friend.’ I sat on the bed beside him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘They said I should be out of here in a week. There’ll be a lot of rehab … Are you sure you want to go back to boring old Melbourne?’

  I nodded. ‘Not so boring though. There are new things there waiting for me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, I’m thinking … I’m thinking maybe med school.’

  Chris’s eyebrows flew up. ‘That would be perfect for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Since coming on this trip I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life. I’m hoping I can put my fascination with infections and diseases to use.’

  ‘Vy, that’s great,’ Chris said. ‘It’s really, really great, but … well, everything you have in Hong Kong, you’re just going to … leave?’

  I sighed. ‘I have to stop relying on other people to make me happy. I have to make my own happiness.’

  He nodded. ‘I have to tell you something.’ He stared at his hands, suddenly shy. ‘I think we could have been really great together.’

  I gazed down at him at him. He was the same boy I’d adored most my life; that blond hair that looked like the sun coming up over the horizon. But I didn’t want an idol anymore.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, touching his arm. ‘But I need to figure out what I want.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded slowly. ‘I guess I do too.’

  ‘Are you going to go back to accounting?’

  ‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘Once the leg’s better I’m going to start back at the Shangri-La. Maybe I’ll enrol in hospitality management or something. Reckon I’d be good at that.’

  ‘I do too,’ I smiled.

  I kissed him on the cheek, and he put his arms around my neck.

  ‘Good-bye, Chris Campbell,’ I said.

  ‘Bye, Violet Mason.’

  I waved as I lifted my pack and walked out of his room. Downstairs there was a taxi waiting to take me to the airport. It was time to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I had told Cass not to come to collect me, I was going to get the Skybus home. I wanted to do this one little thing by myself. It would be a symbolic first step in a new life of independence. But she was waiting at the arrival gate with a smile, holding a piece of cardboard with my name on it. I broke into a sprint and threw my arms around her.

  ‘I missed you,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you could have answered my emails once in a while.’

  ‘No way! You needed to get out there and learn to fly on your own. I can’t wait to hear all about it properly. I want details!’ She linked her arm with mine and led me out to the bus stop.

  ‘Where’s the car?’

  ‘There’s no car.’

  ‘What kind of a chauffeur are you?’

  ‘We’re getting the Skybus like you wanted.’ She handed me a bus ticket. ‘You’re right, we have to be comfortable being independent. But being independent doesn’t mean being alone. I will always be there to support you.’

  I hugged her again. It felt strange to be back in Melbourne. The past months seemed to fade away.

  ‘So, tell me about Adnan the poet.’

  Cass giggled then furrowed her brow. ‘Poor Adnan,’ she said. ‘I’m worried he’s not very good at poetry.’

  ‘You can’t rely on men to make you happy, Cass,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to make your own way.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ She shrieked and gave me a shove.

  I was accepted into the School of Medicine at Monash University. I sat at my desk nearly every night for four years and made sure I knew everything there was to know about the human body, and its hundreds upon hundreds of vulnerabilities.

  It was challenging. Though I had to admit, I felt like my germ obsession gave me a bit of a head start.

  Besides, I had Cass to keep me focused, and I made lots of friends along the way. I kept in touch with Chris. He became a hotel manager and married a woman who was a cellist in the Beijing Philharmonic Orchestra. Lorrie and Jez moved to Birmingham, where Jez’s family owned a printing business. Noah topped his class and elected to specialise in psychiatry, so he wouldn’t have to work with blood and gore. Giorgio and Belinda weren’t that great at emailing regularly, but they always posted photos of their two little boys on Facebook.

  Sarah and I stayed in regular contact too. She settled in Jakarta, but flew in and out of Australia regularly for work. The night after my graduation she was there with about thirty of my friends, old and new, who threw a party to farewell me.

  ‘I want you back at least once a month when it gets close to the wedding,’ Cass said.

  ‘Of course I’ll be back. I wouldn’t trust you to organise something as complicated as a reception for 200 people on your own.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Adnan’s far more interested in wedding planning than you or me,’ she said. ‘I think we might just get in the way of his grand vision.’ I laughed. Cass hugged me. ‘We’re really going to miss you.’

  ‘It’s just a year,’ I told her. ‘I couldn’t say no to this opportunity. They’ve got the best infectious diseases department in the country.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘Call me when you get to Sydney.’

  When I stepped off the plane at the Sydney terminal I was overcome with a sense of déjà vu. The last time I’d left Melbourn
e on a one-way ticket, I had been hoping someone would rescue me from the mess I had made of my life. This time the circumstances were entirely different, but I felt the same apprehension. Curled in my hand was another email print-out.

  I’ll meet you at the airport. Can’t wait to show you around. Harry x

  How long had it been since I’d seen him? About four months? A little bit more. Seventeen weeks and two days. He had been in Melbourne for a meeting and we’d had lunch in a restaurant where the menus were bound in leather and plates didn’t match.

  ‘This is the sign of a truly upmarket place,’ Harry had said holding up a blue dinner plate. ‘No bulk order crockery here. This plate, the owner found in a bazaar in Marrakesh.’

  ‘And this one was a gift from the Queen of Denmark,’ I said, pointing at mine.

  ‘It’s all part of the story of our meal,’ he said theatrically. I threw my head back and laughed.

  Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, it wasn’t that funny.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I was beaming with pleasure. ‘I have some news.’

  ‘Not … you got in?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So you’re coming?’ Harry got to his feet. ‘You’re going to be a Sydney-sider?’

  ‘That’s Doctor Sydney-sider to you.’

  ‘Violet.’ He leapt from his chair and lifted me from mine, hugging me. ‘Congratulations. Who knew being a mad germophobe would prove so useful?’

  With our bodies pressed together, and my face close to his, I sensed something between us had changed. Perhaps it had been changing all along, through the years of emails, the lively reunion lunches and the phone calls that had become monthly rituals.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said, lowering me back down to earth.

  His kiss, when he bestowed it, wasn’t high on the apple of my cheek, as usual, but lower, closer to my mouth, so that I could feel the very edge of his lips brush mine. A flush of heat washed through me.

  Seventeen weeks and two days. My nerves had increased exponentially since then. I reached the baggage carousel. I had only one suitcase to collect – the rest had been trucked ahead to my new flat. As I waited I combed my fingers through my hair, making sure it was smooth. I looked around the terminal, searching among the faces.

  As I collected my bag and walked towards the exit, my stomach twisted into a knot. With my free hand I adjusted the collar of my shirt, and straightened my skirt.

  ‘Violet.’ Harry’s voice made me jump. I turned to see him standing behind me, his hands in his pockets, with a grin on his face. He was wearing jeans and a faded grey T-shirt, not the starchy shirts and pinstripe suits I’d grown used to.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another hour, knowing your sense of direction.’ He walked towards me.

  He looked exactly as he had when I’d first met him in India, when we’d flown through the streets on Goa on a motorbike. When we’d shared bags of gulab jamun, and a single bunk on a sleeper train.

  ‘Planes are faster than broomsticks.’ I grinned. ‘That’s probably why you’re timing’s out.’ Harry chuckled. I left my case fall to the floor as he encircled me in his arms.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Are you ready for your next big adventure?’ he asked.

  I looked up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’

  ‘Well.’ He picked up my case. ‘Let’s go then, shall we?’

  He took my hand, and I entwined my fingers with his, and together we walked through the glass doors and into the sunshine.

  About the Author

  Genevieve Gannon is a Melbourne-based journalist and author. She wrote stories for music and fashion street press magazines while at university before moving to Canberra to do a journalism cadetship. In 2011 she joined the national news wire, Australian Associated Press, where she covered crime, politics and entertainment. Her work has appeared in most major Australian newspapers including The Age, The Australian and The Daily Telegraph.

  She currently lives in Melbourne where she is a head court reporter. At night time she writes romantic comedies. Chasing Chris Campbell is her second novel.

  Copyright

  Cover design by Michelle Payne, HarperCollins Design Studio

  Image by shutterstock.com

  Impulse

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2015

  This edition published in 2015

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Genevieve Gannon 2015

  The right of Genevieve Gannon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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