Love...Under Different Skies

by Nick Spalding

  What buildings it does have, though, are impressive. The collection of soaring monstrosities looms over the golden sandy beaches, casting their long shadows over the water at dusk. From the heights they reach, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were running out of space around here.

  I once visited Miami for a few days back in my youth while on holiday, so I can appreciate the rampant plagiarism going on here. It’s like somebody picked up everything from Fort Lauderdale to the Everglades, put it on a hot wash until it shrunk four sizes, and plonked it down on the east coast of Australia.

  I love it, though, partly because I haven’t seen a cloud in the sky for a week, and partly because this is where I work. I love living in the quieter, smaller town of Coolangatta farther south, but give me somewhere bustling and lively to go to every day to earn my daily crust. Surfer’s has more energy than a litter of puppies drunk on Red Bull. Hordes of tourists mingle with the local surfers and party people among the forest of glass and metal. The sun beats down relentlessly on thousands of people who know they are lucky enough to be in paradise and are damn well going to enjoy it every second they can.

  Worongabba Chocolate is situated in the shopping mall underneath one of the skyscrapers right next to the beach. It’s a prime bit of real estate with very high foot traffic all day long. I saw how much the rent was for the floor space the first week I was here and nearly had a heart attack.

  Today promises to be a particularly important day in Laura Newman’s new antipodean life. Alan Brookes, owner of Worongabba Chocolate and my boss, is visiting for the first time since he sent me down here to run the place and is expecting a report on what I’ve accomplished so far. Therefore, I drop Poppy off a good hour earlier than usual at Surf Tots Day Care and am upstairs in my office by eight, finishing off the Excel spreadsheet I’ve been compiling for the past week.

  It’s a masterpiece of financial brilliance, even if I do say so myself. Not only have I collated an accurate overview of turnover from the past six months, I have also identified a $40,000 tax overspend that can be claimed back. I have no doubt Brookes will promote me instantly once he realises I’ve saved him that much money in barely six weeks of work. It may have taken all of my free time over the past seven days to complete, but the results will be totally worth it. Yes, I was one of those insufferable kids at school who always handed their work in early and made you look bad—how did you guess?

  Alan is due in at ten thirty, and I have everything ready for him a good half an hour beforehand. The spreadsheet is projected on my white office wall in all its PowerPointy glory, a stack of neatly folded financial reports sits on my desk awaiting his eager gaze should he wish to view them, and I even have a selection of new chocolate flavours I intend to bring into our collections sitting on a plate next to the reports, awaiting his equally eager taste buds.

  Everything is set. Everything is ready. This will be my finest hour.

  My finest hour will have to wait it seems, as ten thirty comes and goes with no sign of Brookes. By 10:50 a.m. I’m boosting the air-con in my office to make sure the chocolates don’t melt. By eleven I’m pacing on the shop floor, worrying shop staff and customers alike.

  By eleven fifteen I’m back in the office checking my diary to see if I’ve got the day right.

  By 11:40 a.m. I’m back downstairs telling the shop floor manager Jake that he needs to rearrange the mint fondues in the front window so they don’t spell MINTY! I appreciate his efforts at creativity, but I don’t think it’s really giving the right impression of the store, seeing as we’re supposed to be upmarket.

  Being upmarket is obviously not something Alan Brookes is all that concerned about, either, as he eventually rolls in at 11:50 a.m., wearing an ancient bushman’s hat, a pair of board shorts, a bright orange vest, and a pair of leather flip-flops that look like they’re about to fall apart. He’s accompanied by a stern-looking Asian woman in a power suit and the number two man in the business, Brett Michaels, who is as shabbily dressed as his boss, given that he’s wearing a Captain America T-shirt over a pair of board shorts that look like they’ve been savaged by a shark.

  “You alright, Laura?” Brookes says to me as he walks up.

  “Yes Mr. Brookes,” I reply in accepted subordinate fashion.

  “Ah, drop the formal crap there, Laura. Call me Brooky. Every other bastard does!”

  “Okay…Brooky.”

  “Sorry I’m late. Stopped to chat to a mate of mine down at the surf club. Great bloke he is. Got his left arm bit off by a saltwater crocodile up in Mackay last year. I wanted to see if it had grown back!” Brookes collapses into gales of laughter, as does Brett. The Asian woman doesn’t so much as crack a smile. I have no idea what Brookes is going on about, so I elect to maintain a neutral expression.

  “Right!” he says, having got over his laughing fit. “Let’s get a look at what you’ve been up to, Laura. I brought Sangwen along to look at this spreadsheet you emailed me about.”

  Sangwen gives me a short but courteous nod. “Pleased to meet you,” she says in a soft Aussie accent tinged with a subtle Thai flavour.

  “And you.” I turn back to Brookes. “Shall we go up?”

  I lead the trio up the stairs and through to the expansive office at the rear of the shop.

  “Hey, chocs!” Alan Brookes exclaims happily and proceeds to polish off two of my carefully selected tasters before he’s so much as sat down. I’d planned on a good fifteen-minute buildup to those. Never mind, I’ll just have to give him the speech without them.

  I stand behind my desk and clear my throat. “Thank you for coming today. I’m going to take you through my findings so far in a presentation that should last no more than half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” Brookes protests. “I don’t bloody think so, Laura!”

  “Er…but I thought you wanted a report on how I’m doing?”

  “I do. So, how are you doing?”

  “What? You mean the shop?”

  “Yeah! Things going alright, are they?”

  “Yes.”

  “No big problems on the horizon?”

  “No.”

  “We’re in profit?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your lot have settled in okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great stuff!” He turns to address Sangwen. “Give Laura your email address and she can send you the spreadsheet to have a look over.” He then looks back at me. “Right, you got anything else?”

  “Er. The chocolates on the desk…”

  “New flavours?”

  “Yes.”

  “You like ’em?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! Chuck ’em in, then. I trust your judgment.”

  “Er…thank you.”

  “No worries.” He leans forward. “Now, then, how about we all go for a swim before lunch?”

  Brett nods his head enthusiastically. Even Sangwen cracks a smile.

  I do neither. This meeting has slipped out of my grasp faster than a greasy halibut. I was prepared for some awkward questions and a concerted grilling of my facts and figures. I was not prepared for an invite to go paddle around in the surf.

  I don’t want to go for a swim. I want to dazzle my new employer with my prowess. Besides, I don’t have my swimming costume. I say as much to Alan and company.

  “Oh yeah, good point,” Brookes says. “Should’ve told you ahead of time really. Bit of a silly suggestion all round, I guess! Going for a swim before lunch. I should get my head tested!”

  Thank God for that.

  “We’ll go after lunch!”

  What?

  “Yeah, we’ll have a bite to eat next door at Hong’s, then you can go grab yourself a swimming costume with some petty cash. Sangwen can go with you to help you choose if you like.”

  The Thai woman can’t
help but look me up and down in a disconcerting way that makes me feel extremely self-conscious.

  This is horrible. This is absolutely awful. I’m being ordered by my employer to take the afternoon off and go have some fun.

  “Do you think it’s…it’s appropriate, Mr. Brookes?”

  “Brooky!”

  “Sorry…do you think it’s appropriate, Brooky? I really should be working.”

  “It’s my flaming company Laura, and if I say we’re gonna cool off in this heat, then that’s what we’re doing!”

  Oh God.

  This is the worst boss I’ve ever had.

  We pop over to the Chinese restaurant next door for lunch and end up sitting outside in the sun, alfresco. In the hideous knowledge that I’m shortly going to be in a bathing suit in the company of my employer, I elect to eat a small salad and drink a bottle of sparkling water.

  I try to join in on the conversation my colleagues are having, but my mind keeps going back to the potential embarrassment factory that the next couple of hours of my life are likely to be.

  “Right then,” Brookes says, downing the last of his beer in one swift gulp. “That’s us fed and watered. Let’s go see what the waves are like.” He looks at me. “You surf, Laura?”

  Oh no. It just gets worse.

  I know how this conversation will go. I’m going to tell him I don’t know how to surf, and then he’s going to suggest he give me some lessons. An excruciating hour of me repeatedly falling off a floating plank of wood will then ensue. At some point, the swimming costume that I have yet to buy will probably fall off. Some things are just written in the stars.

  I have to head off any suggestion of me surfing to avoid all of this.

  “No, sorry. I have an inner ear problem that stops me from doing it. Shame really, but the doctor warned me not to.”

  Well done girl.

  An excuse of fiendish brilliance.

  “Ah pity,” Brookes says. “Sangwen doesn’t surf either, so you two can just have a swim about. The surf looks a bit low anyway so Brett and I probably won’t do much ourselves.”

  Phew.

  Brookes takes a look at his watch. “You go find a costume, we’ll go get our boards and see you back here at the shop in twenty minutes.”

  Twenty minutes?

  Does this man have no comprehension of how long it takes a woman to clothes shop, especially when it’s an item that revealing? It takes me an hour just to pick out the right chunky-knit sweater in December, for crying out loud. Purchasing a swimming costume is enough to take up an entire morning—and that’s mostly just dealing with the self-loathing.

  If Jamie had suggested such a short timescale, I would have probably punched him. As it is, this is the man who writes my pay cheques. “Okay,” I say in a strangled voice.

  “Great.” Brookes gets to his feet. “See you in a bit then,” he tells me before marching off with Brett and Sangwen dutifully in tow.

  If you like, feel free to hum the Mission Impossible theme to yourself as you read the next few paragraphs.

  I look at my watch, take a deep breath, and I’m up out of my chair like a shot.

  My first port of call is Billabong, three units along. I scuttle through the crowd of tourists, arriving at the surf shop only slightly out of breath. Inside, I start riffling through the bikinis and swimsuits. All of them are very pretty and would no doubt flatter any very thin, bouncing nineteen-year-old girl who happens to be passing.

  I am neither nineteen nor very thin these days, and the last time I bounced anywhere I was still in pigtails. Therefore I can’t buy any of these tiny pieces of material. The idea of squeezing my carcass into something constructed out of half a small napkin and two strips of elastic is enough to make me light-headed and nauseated. I scuttle back out of Billabong and scan the rest of the shops in the mall.

  As there isn’t a store nearby called the Post-Birth Cellulite Swimsuit Company, I decide to leave the immediate area and head to Caville Avenue. That takes me a good five minutes, so I now have about seven to find a swimsuit and five to hurry back to the shop and my expectant boss. I duck into a place called Le Sande, then duck straight back out again when the price tag on the first swimsuit I see gives me a nosebleed.

  What I need right now is a Kmart. I come to the end of the block and reach a crossroads. Roads lined with shops disappear off in three directions, offering me far too much choice in the three remaining minutes I have allotted to this desperate mission. Panic sets in.

  Which way do I go?

  My brain may be frozen, but my feet know what’s best for them and take a left. This is a bad choice. There’s not one clothes shop down this road that I can see.

  I’m just about to throw myself under the next party bus that goes by when I spot an extremely tacky-looking souvenir store. It’s called Surfer’s Paradis Attractive Gifts. Normally, the lack of the e at the end of paradise and the fact that the shop smells vaguely of cannabis would be enough to put me off, but I now have two minutes left and can see a rack of one-piece swimsuits just inside the main door. They come in a variety of bright colours and are made of the kind of material you don’t want to touch for too long for fear of getting an electric shock.

  But they do seem to be cut quite modestly and there are plenty in my size. I won’t have time to try one on, so I need to go with something that looks like it will cover as much of my body as possible. I spy a likely prospect in a halfway decent powdery blue colour and pull it from the rack. There’s a rather tacky illustration across the front unfortunately. It features a cartoon surfboard with a slogan above it in big stupid letters that reads “Surf Lovin’.” This is bad, but the costume will have to do as my time is officially up.

  I throw twenty dollars at the guy behind the counter and sprint back towards the Worongabba Chocolate Company as fast as my legs will carry me.

  “You found one then?” Brookes says as I arrive at the shop’s entrance.

  “Yes,” I reply still a bit out of breath.

  “Good. There’re changing rooms down on the esplanade, and I’ve got you a towel already.” He hands me a fluffy roll of material that probably cost ten times as much as the stupid costume I’ve just bought.

  So off we go to the beach—two enthusiastic Australian men, one stoic Thai woman, and one terrified British idiot.

  In the changing rooms I’m relieved when the costume goes on okay and fits relatively well. It’s a bit tight around the boobs and a touch loose at the bum, but it could be far, far worse.

  The “Surf Lovin’” epithet and badly rendered surfboard are frankly ludicrous, but I’ll just have to put up with it. Other than that, though, I think I’ve done rather well, considering. My legs look healthy and tanned, and even my arms and face have a warm, summery glow about them that contrasts quite nicely with the powder blue of the swimming costume. I won’t be giving any of the bikini-wearing Australian sex goddesses a run for their money, but I can at least hold my head up high.

  I apply a liberal amount of sun cream from the bottle Sangwen has given me. She obviously has to do this kind of thing with Alan Brookes quite a lot and always comes prepared.

  Stepping out into the Gold Coast sun I see Brett and Alan Brookes standing with their surfboards at the steps leading to the beach.

  “Ready?” a soft voice says from my side. I turn to see Sangwen in a beautiful black two-piece swimsuit and instantly start chewing my own liver.

  “I think so,” I reply.

  She offers me a warm smile. “I know this seems a bit strange, but Mr. Brookes means well. He only does this kind of thing with people he likes. You’re doing a very good job for the company, you know.”

  “Am I?” I say disbelievingly, given how all my hard work had been dismissed earlier.

  “Oh yes. Alan trusts you, that’s why we’re doing this and not poring over figure
s in the shop. If you’re out for a swim it means he’s more than happy with the work you’re doing.”

  “But he didn’t look at anything.”

  “Don’t let the relaxed attitude fool you, he knows exactly what’s going on with every aspect of Worongabba at all times.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take so well to a new employee, actually. He talks about you a lot.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I’d say you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Thanks very much. That’s a real relief.”

  She smiles again. “Let’s go join them, shall we?”

  “Okay,” I agree and walk off in front of her.

  She catches up with me. “Was that the only swimsuit you could find?” she says.

  “Yes, in the time I had.”

  “Pity about the slogan.”

  I look down at the “Surf Lovin’.” “I know, but I had no choice.”

  We reach Brett and Alan, who both look like excited little boys.

  “Okay, then! Let’s go see what the water’s like!” Alan exclaims happily and takes off towards the rolling waves.

  “We’ll have a bit of swim for a few minutes and then sit on the beach,” Sangwen says as she watches Brett follow our boss down to the sea.

  “Sounds good,” I reply, with a sigh of relief. The Thai woman has set my mind at rest somewhat. I’d rather not be spending my afternoon frolicking in the surf with people I hardly know, but at least she’s reassured me that I’m doing a good job right now.

  I spend ten minutes in the water before getting out and sitting on the hot sand.

  Sangwen and I spend the next hour chatting idly about living in Australia, working for Alan, and the pitfalls of buying swimming costumes. We’re just discussing the horrors of cellulite when Brett and Alan return, having given up on the surfing thanks to the inferior waves on offer this afternoon.

  “That’ll about do it for today, I think,” Alan says, spearing his board into the ground. I have to say that for a man in his fifties he has a startlingly good physique. If that’s what taking the afternoon off to go surfing can do for you, I can begin to see the merits of doing so on a regular basis.