Love...Under Different Skies

by Nick Spalding

  I’ve done this on many, many occasions and it’s never proved a problem before. Once we’re back at the apartment, I always put the key back on the key ring with the one for the car and all is well. This particular Friday, however, I neglect to put the front-door key back in its rightful place alongside the Magna’s, an oversight that will cause many problems in the very near future.

  After the chili dogs, we discover that we are running low on milk for our customary early evening cuppa.

  “I’ll just pop down to the shop on the corner,” I say and grab my keys, forgetting that the one to the apartment is still loosely tied into my shorts, which are now crumpled up in a heap in the bathroom.

  “Okay, the Popster and I will come as well. I want some new hair bobbles and madam here wants the latest Wiggles magazine.”

  Sidebar: If you’re unfamiliar with the Wiggles, they are an extremely popular group of Australian children’s entertainers consisting of four middle-aged men wearing brightly coloured costumes that wouldn’t look out of place on the Starship Enterprise. They are at the head of a global industry with a turnover of hundreds of millions of dollars every year and are in NO WAY really fucking creepy to look at.

  So all three of us are now leaving the apartment. An apartment that has a very secure lock. The kind that when you slam the door it locks into place and won’t open again unless you have the key. Which of course I don’t. Sadly, I don’t realise this until it’s too late—by a few agonising microseconds.

  I’m on the stairs that head down to the courtyard when the vision of my crumpled board shorts flashes across the front of my brain, desperate to get my attention before disaster strikes. I whip my head around to see Laura pulling the door closed.

  “No, wait! I—”

  But it’s no good. The door slams with undeniable finality.

  “I haven’t got the key!” I cry and lunge at the door.

  “What? Why not?”

  “It’s still tied in my shorts,” I tell her as I pointlessly bang on the door.

  “Why? You normally put it back on the key ring. Why didn’t you do it today?”

  “Because I forgot, that’s why.”

  “Oh you idiot, Jamie!”

  “Sorry, I’m sorry!”

  “What the hell are we going to do? It’s six thirty on Friday evening. No one’s in the office on-site.”

  She’s right. This is the absolute worst time this could have happened.

  “Maybe Mindy’s at home,” I say hopefully. “She might have keys to let us in. Stay here and I’ll go ask.”

  I leave my wife and daughter at the door and run down the stairs, across the courtyard, and into the block on the far side of the swimming pool. Mindy is up in apartment 401 so I climb the stairs and bang on her door heavily, praying that she’ll answer.

  The door swings open and I’m greeted by the rather lovely sight of Mindy in Lycra shorts and bra top holding a water bottle. Just behind her I can see a treadmill running in the corner and I can hear rock music playing from a stereo. She’s got a sweat on and her hair is a right mess, but Mindy has the advantage of being young and Australian, so she still manages to look extremely attractive despite the sweat stains.

  “Hello,” she says, a hectic blush across her face caused by the exercise.

  “Hello Mindy, sorry to interrupt your workout, but I’ve got a big problem.”

  I proceed to explain the situation, hoping that Mindy can point me in the direction of a spare key.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says, “but that apartment is privately owned, so I don’t have a key for it in my office here. They’ll have one at the main offices, but no one will be there this time of night.”

  My heart sinks. “Oh.”

  “I’m really sorry!”

  “It’s not your fault. We’ll just have to think of something else. Maybe get a locksmith out if all else fails.”

  “Yeah, we had to do that for Mrs. Spelnik in number two thirteen. Cost a lot, though.”

  “How much?”

  “It was in the evening too, so it was about three hundred dollars.”

  “Really? It’ll be cheaper to stay in a hotel for the night.”

  “Yeah, probably.” Mindy takes a long swig from her water bottle. This is entirely an unsuitable time for me to look at her breasts as she does this, but I do it anyway. “I really hope you can get it sorted out,” she continues. “You could have stayed here, but I have my friend Dan coming over later.” She holds out a hand. “It’s nothing serious, we’re just close friends. But I know he wants to take it to the next level. I’m not sure it’ll be a good idea, though.” Mindy cocks her head to one side. “Do you think I should just stay friends with him?”

  “I don’t know Mindy,” I say in disbelief. Here I am in dire straits and she’s asking me about her relationship. “I have to go now.”

  “Oh, okay. No worries.” She actually looks vaguely disappointed.

  I’m sorry I can’t sort out your sex life for you, Mindy, but I have other priorities right now.

  I trudge back down the stairs, across the courtyard, and back to our place.

  “Nope, she’s no help,” I tell Laura when I get back. “Though we’re not getting a bloody locksmith out, they cost an arm and a leg.”

  My wife is now crouched at the door handle, one of Poppy’s hairpins inserted into the lock, another pressed firmly between her lips.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “’Rying to ’ick the ’ock,” she says.

  “Mummy’s being a spy!” Poppy adds.

  “For God’s sakes Laura, this isn’t Mission Impossible.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she snaps. “Tom Cruise wouldn’t get locked out of his bloody flat.”

  She stands up again and picks up Poppy, whose mouth is starting to droop at either end in a sure sign that she’s getting upset.

  “Don’t worry, Pops. Daddy will sort this out.”

  Laura raises one eyebrow but remains silent.

  Luckily, I have my mobile phone on me. I’d at least remembered to stick that and my wallet in my shorts’ pockets. I find our letting agent’s number and call. My heart sinks when I get a message indicating that the office is now closed until nine o’clock tomorrow.

  So Mindy is no help, and the rest of the letting agency has buggered off for the day. The only other person with a spare key is the landlady, but she lives in Brisbane and is unlikely to be impressed with the notion of driving two hours down here to let us back into the apartment.

  We are—as the Aborigines would say—up shit billabong without a narawang. Disconsolately, we shuffle down the stairs and sit on a couple of the sun loungers that are set up around the communal swimming pool.

  “We’ll have to check into a hotel, then. I’ve got my wallet.”

  “My pay’s just gone into the account for the month, so it should be okay. It’s going to cost a good hundred dollars plus though,” Laura says, the accusatory tone in her voice very evident.

  “Alright, alright. Give me a break, will you?” I can feel myself getting angry out of sheer embarrassment. Not only have I got us locked out of our apartment, but it has to be Laura who bails us out because she’s the one with the job. Bringing this sore subject up again won’t help matters now though, so I look away from her and into the floodlit swimming pool, trying to calm myself down a bit.

  “You folks alright?” a voice pipes up from the other side of the fence that runs around the edge of the pool area.

  I look up to see Sandra, the housekeeper. “Hi Sandra. We’ve locked ourselves out.”

  “What’s this we business?” Laura points out, which while factually correct is not particularly helpful at this trying time.

  Sandra looks aghast. “Oh no, what are you going to do?”

  “Check into a hotel, I g
uess. The one across the park is nearest. Then we’ll go get a spare from the agents tomorrow morning when they’re back.”

  Sandra makes a face. “You don’t want to stay at that place, especially not on a Friday night. It gets really rowdy and your little one won’t like it.”

  “Hi folks,” another voice says, and Bob, Sandra’s groundskeeper husband, appears from behind a thick palm tree. “How you going?” Bob is a big, bald, leathery Australian man.

  “They’ve locked themselves out Bob,” Sandra tells him.

  “Oh really? That’s a bugger,” Bob says.

  “It is,” I agree.

  A four-storey bugger with attractive sea views, in fact.

  “They’re going to spend the night at the Ocean Bay, Bob.”

  Bob sucks his teeth. “You don’t wanna be doing that. Not a salubrious environment once the old beer gets flowing, if you take my meaning.”

  “I don’t think we have much choice,” Laura says, rocking a rapidly tiring Poppy in her arms.

  “You could always come and stay with us,” Sandra offers, smiling broadly.

  “Yeah! We’ve got room,” Bob adds.

  Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. This could be problematic. This is undoubtedly a very generous offer on Bob and Sandra’s part, but it puts Laura and me in something of an awkward position.

  We’re both big on privacy, and spending a night with these kind folks would probably end up being uncomfortable in the extreme. Given the jobs they do here at the apartment block, I imagine their house is pretty small for starters. And it hasn’t been that long since our fateful night under Grant and Ellie’s roof. If we have a repeat performance of that, there’s every chance I’ll find myself on the other end of divorce proceedings in the not-too-distant future. I’d much rather find a hotel to spend the night in, even if it does cost us money.

  But we’ve already discussed and more or less eliminated the idea of staying at the Ocean Bay, and no other options are presenting themselves. There’s not even an opportunity for Laura and me to discuss what we should do out of their earshot. They’ve got us pinned down and there’s nowhere to run.

  I throw a quick glance at Laura, whose expression plainly shows that she’s thinking exactly the same thing I am. Time to throw up some classic British politeness. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly impose on you like that,” I tell them.

  “Nah!” Bob waves his hand. “No worries mate, we’re happy to help out.”

  “But we’ll end up ruining your evening. We’d feel awful,” Laura interjects.

  “We’ve got nothing planned, love,” Sandra tells her. “In fact, we’d be quite glad of the company.”

  Fuck me, these bastards are persistent.

  I decide to play the Poppy card. “We’d need somewhere with room enough for Poppy, though. It’ll be too much trouble for you.”

  “She’ll be right, mate,” Bob argues. “Plenty of room at our place, trust me.”

  Oh God, he’s being so nice, but I bet there isn’t.

  My brain tries to conjure up another excuse for us not staying with Bob and Sandra, but the only thing that presents itself is Laura’s bowel problems, and I’d rather spend a night sleeping in a pit of radioactive snakes than use that one again. I chuck Laura a pleading glance to see if she can come in and save the day, but I get an equally pleading glance straight back at me.

  Oh no. I’m going to have to accept the offer. We’ll just have to hope the night goes quickly and eight o’clock in the morning comes around as fast as possible.

  “Okay, well, thank you very much. We’d love to come spend the night with you.” I try to sound enthusiastic, but my tone rather suggests that this idea is actually right up there with having all of your teeth pulled. Sandra and Bob don’t appear to notice, though.

  “Great! I’ll go home now and get the place tidy for you,” Sandra says.

  Oh fantastic. Now we’re making the poor bitch do more housework, after she’s just spent the entire day doing it here at the apartment.

  “And if you folks don’t mind, I just have a couple of things to finish over in the gardens at the back. When they’re done I’ll jump in your car with you and direct you home.”

  “Okay, thank you,” I say with an apologetic tone.

  This is just awful.

  Both Sandra and Bob wish us a brief farewell and go to attend to their respective chores.

  “That was very nice of them,” Laura says once they’re out of earshot.

  “Mmmm.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Oh, it was very nice of them, but I still think I would have preferred a hotel.”

  “Well, why didn’t you come up with a reason not to go?”

  “I couldn’t think of one.”

  I know where my wife is going with this, and I wait for the inevitable.

  “I could have just told them you have trouble taking a poo anywhere within earshot of another human being,” she says snidely. “That might have done it.”

  Ah, I see. We’re going to occupy ourselves with some banter while we wait. Well, why the hell not?

  “True,” I agree. “Or you could just turn up in your beach whore outfit, that would probably give them second thoughts about inviting us in.”

  “Funny,” Laura says with eyes narrowed. “I know—you could suggest cooking them fajitas,” she says. “Once they see you crouched over their bin, that’ll get us chucked out before you know it.”

  I open my mouth to tell her she should bring around a copy of the Polish penis-slapping movie for them to watch, but stop myself. “Look, let’s not go down this route. I’ve got no problem with a bit of banter, but it’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.” I take her hand. “I’m sorry I got us locked out, but at least we’ve got somewhere to stay for the night.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” She looks down at Poppy. “I want to get this one inside and into bed as soon as we can.”

  It takes Bob only about ten minutes to square away whatever task he was finishing off, and in no time at all we’re in the Magna and he’s directing us to his home.

  “Sandra will have the place looking lovely, don’t you fret,” he says in jovial fashion from the passenger seat.

  “Sounds great,” I tell him, unable to completely wipe the disconcerted look off my face. I can just imagine Sandra right now, putting the finishing touches to their home, a half-smile of expectation on her face.

  Oh God.

  “Take a left here, mate,” Bob says, and I oblige.

  “Keep going until the road splits. We’re just on the left after it.”

  We’re certainly up in the hills by this point. I’ve had to rev the Magna hard to get us up at least one of the inclines. Bob and Sandra are in no danger of flooding any time in the near future, that’s for certain.

  I see what looks like another road just after the split in the one we’re on and presume Bob’s house must be after that.

  Bob says differently. “Left now mate. Otherwise we’ll be headed up into the boonies.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn into what I thought was another road, but turns out to be a driveway. Then something very strange happens. I drive the Magna into a vast courtyard. On my right is an enormous triple garage, and on the left is a three-storey house the size of my primary school.

  Poor old Bob. He must be going senile. He’s taken us completely the wrong way and now we’re going to have the embarrassment of calling Sandra to help her befuddled husband get home.

  “Right then. Welcome to our house! Out you get.” Oh dear, Bob actually thinks he lives here. Look at him, poor old fool. He’s actually walking up to the front door. This is going to be excruciating. The owners will come to the door and we’ll have to lead poor senile Bob away before he shits himself and tells them he’s a train driver.


  Oh no, now he’s getting a set of keys out. This just gets worse and worse. Look at him trying to get in the door. He’s actually trying to turn the key. He’s actually opening the door. He’s actua—

  Hang on a fucking minute.

  Bob is standing in the doorway to what is patently his home, looking at us and wondering why we’re not getting out of the car. “You guys coming or what?”

  Now, I’ve never claimed to be an expert at reading people, but I don’t think I’ve ever got it as wrong as this before.

  In my defence, what was I supposed to expect? Bob and Sandra seem like working-class types. You wouldn’t normally think that someone in housekeeping and someone who is employed as a gardener would be able to own a house this large and expensive.

  “You have a very nice house,” Laura says in wonder as she carries Poppy across the threshold.

  Beyond is an open-plan living area you could comfortably play a game of tennis in. They must have killed an entire rainforest to provide the material for the polished hardwood floor I’m now standing on.

  An expansive lounge sits to our right, an equally impressive kitchen is off to the left, and there’s a dining table in the centre that King Arthur would get hard just looking at. And then there’s the view.

  The entire right-hand side of the house is paned with glass. Beyond this is a huge deck area, replete with a barbecue the size of a country house oven and more patio furniture than you’d see on a brisk walk around home base.

  Beyond that is the Gold Coast. All of it. A 180-degree nighttime panorama takes in everything from Surfer’s Paradise way up north to Tweed Heads just south of us. A star field of such magnitude hangs overhead it makes my jaw drop in awe.

  “Bloody hell,” I say breathlessly.

  “Good, ain’t it?” Bob replies with characteristic Australian understatement.

  “Yes,” I gulp.

  “That’s why we had the place built up here. We like a nice view.”

  “You giving them the grand tour?” Sandra says, walking out onto the decking.

  “You have a very nice house,” Laura repeats. My wife seems to have got stuck in some kind of default loop.