Love...Under Different Skies

by Nick Spalding

  There’s something buried deep within every man that just cannot accept it when a woman is perceived to be more successful than he is, even when it’s his own bloody wife. Rather than dealing with the sense of inequality in an adult fashion, the little boy inside Jamie has come out to play more and more frequently in the past few months.

  “Jamie? Are you actually throwing a tantrum in the frozen food aisle?” I ask my husband in a calm voice. It’s tinged with a degree of disbelief, as I can’t believe I’m witnessing this display—standing as we are in the middle of the local Woolworths supermarket on a warm Sunday afternoon in October. I only told him I didn’t want to eat burgers again before asking him to put the packet back in the freezer.

  “But I want burgers,” he scowls at me.

  “We have them every week. I’m bored to tears with burgers.” I’m also developing a tension headache. We’ve been in here for a good hour and a half and the strip lights overhead are brighter than the ones they have on the runway at Heathrow. “Just put them back and get something else.”

  “But I want burgers!” he repeats emphatically.

  “Put them back!” the headache snaps.

  “Fine!” Jamie snatches the frozen bag of meat from the shopping cart, throws open the freezer door with such vehemence that the handle nearly smashes into the next door along, chucks the burger bag so hard it bursts, and then slams the door shut again, making the whole cabinet rattle. This is when the disbelief kicks in.

  “Don’t you think you’re being just a bit childish?” I say to him as he stands there seething. “Even Poppy here doesn’t act that way when I tell her she can’t have more sweets.”

  “Well, you do sound like my fu—fudging mother, Laura,” he replies with a sneer. “Perhaps if you didn’t control the purse strings quite as much I wouldn’t feel like I was your second child.”

  “And perhaps if you—”

  I stop myself. What I’m about to say won’t help the situation one bit. Besides, I know Pops is starting to get a bit upset from her seat in the shopping cart. She’s heard her mummy and daddy snapping at each other too much recently, which pierces my heart. I know Jamie hates it too.

  “Perhaps if I what?” he says, leaning forward.

  “Nothing, Jamie.” My eyes flick down to our daughter. Jamie gets my point.

  “Alright, we’ll have something else instead.” He leans down to Poppy’s height. “Why don’t we let Pops decide? What do you want, sweetheart?” His tone of voice is light, but I can tell that the anger is very much still there and bubbling just beneath the surface.

  “Can we have turkey dinosaurs?”

  She says it in such a sweet, little lost voice that I hate myself and my husband for the way we’re acting around her these days. Jamie and I both despise turkey dinosaurs, but our combined unspoken guilt means we come home with three bags of the bloody things today.

  The argument we end up having once Poppy is in bed is the same one we’ve been having for weeks. We’re both so bored by it now that we can only muster about ten minutes of vitriol before giving up on the whole thing.

  The sex we have on the couch an hour later is perfunctory and unromantic. I’m not sure whether this is better or worse than if we had continued the argument.

  I’m well used to Jamie’s occasional regressions into his teenage years, but I was taken completely by surprise yesterday when my boss, Alan Brookes, developed the same worrying behaviour.

  Yesterday started with sleeping in until eight. This is a particularly pleasant way to start a workweek and came about because I wasn’t due to be in the office until late that evening. Alan had emailed me over the weekend to say he wanted a meeting with me at seven in the evening, which made me nervous. When that kind of request comes out of the blue from your boss, it usually means you’ve done something wrong and they mean to chastise you for it. Anyway, the prospect of a meeting with the boss didn’t exactly fill me with much joy, even if it did mean I could get up at a reasonable hour for once.

  By the time five rolled around, I’d worked myself into a deeply foul mood, partly thanks to the inclement rain that had turned the usually beautiful Gold Coast grey and unpleasant, and partly due to the selection of annoying distributors I’d been on the phone with today trying to sort out new transport links to the north of the state. You’d think one person would be enough when attempting to arrange stock delivery dates, but it transpires that you have to speak to at least five before you actually get somewhere.

  By seven, the store was empty and closed, so I had the slightly disconcerting sensation of being completely on my own in a place where I’m usually surrounded by people. People are in and out of my first-floor office all the time during the day, and the permanent low murmur of passing foot traffic is a constant during operating hours. Once that all disappears, it’s quiet enough to hear the surf crashing from across the street.

  I’m in the middle of an email to my counterpart down in Sydney when I’m frightened out of my skin by Alan appearing at my office door with his usual bombast.

  “Evening, Laura!”

  “Aaiiee!”

  “Strewth Laura, you’re a bit jumpy this evening, aren’t you?” Alan comes and sits in the chair across the desk from me and flashes a grin full of expensive white veneers.

  “It’s just a little strange being here all on my own.”

  “Yep, it’s like that round here. When it gets dark the place empties out faster than a tin of beer with a bullet hole in the bottom.” He leans round to look at my computer screen. “What are you working on?”

  “Just emailing Julia down in Sydney.”

  “Pfft. That woman’s got a stick up her arse. Gets on well with the wife though, I’ll give her that. I just wish I could hold a conversation with her when she doesn’t look like she’s sucking a lemon.” Alan leans even further over the desk. “Not like you, Laura. You’re an absolute diamond. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you running the show around here.”

  “Thank you, Alan.”

  “My pleasure!”

  I send the email off to Julia—who I’ve never met but now have an impression of someone who permanently suffers from pursed lips and a pained expression—and close down my email. “So what exactly did you want to talk to me about this evening?”

  Alan waves a hand. “Oh good grief, not here! Let’s go somewhere a bit more comfortable. You hungry?”

  “Um…yes, I guess so.”

  Alan stands up. “Great! Let’s get out of here, then. There’s a nice Italian place about a five-minute walk away.”

  “Do you mean Ambrogio?”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  Ambrogio is the type of restaurant us mere mortals walk past as quickly as possible so we don’t inadvertently see any prices on the menu and instantly suffer a shock-induced heart attack. Even a glass of water would likely bankrupt me. I can’t think of anywhere worse to hold a meeting.

  “You like Italian, Laura? My treat!”

  Oh well, if he’s paying…

  “Yes. Love it! Shall we go?”

  Now, at this point, the Klaxons should have started going off in my head. It is not typical for your boss to invite you to dinner at a costly restaurant if he just wants to talk shop. In my defence, I haven’t eaten anything since the chocolate bun I had at about three, so I’m ravenous. The prospect of a bowl of delicately seasoned pasta is enough to make me ignore any warning signs that might be parading in front of my mind’s eye. Besides, we are both married to other people, which precludes any funny business, doesn’t it? I know, I know. I have no idea how I’ve lived into my thirties displaying that kind of naivety, either.

  I’m the first to enter the restaurant so am treated to the full force of the maitre d’s stare of disapproval.

  I’m in my work suit, which by now is rumpled and creased thanks to the
fact that I’ve been dressed in it for ten hours. I look like someone who’s just done a full working day, which is to say, pretty damn rough around the edges. The officious little sod can’t completely hide a sneer that curls one lip up like it’s tied to a piece of string being pulled by a small child from above.

  It seems that the good-natured Australian way of not worrying about class and social standing based on appearance doesn’t extend as far as the threshold of Ambrogio. The maitre d’ is no doubt about to call security until Alan steps through the door behind me, which turns his look of derision into abject smarm. My extremely rich boss is obviously a regular here.

  “Mr. Brookes, so nice to see you,” the maitre d’ says in an accent thick with Sicilian charm.

  “G’day Baldo,” Alan replies. The guy has a full head of hair, so I can only assume that Baldo is actually his name, or that Alan is shortening it Australian-style from something more poetic like Baldallini.

  I’m guessing the latter from the rather pained expression that fleetingly crosses the maitre d’s face.

  “A table for two?” he suggests.

  “Yep, thanks Baldo,” Alan agrees and pats him on the back.

  Thinking about the way in which I was greeted with a sneer, I smile at the little Italian man. “Yes, thank you so much Baldo. This really is a lovely restaurant Baldo.” I take no small degree of pleasure from the way he flinches imperceptibly each time I say the name.

  Baldo leads us over to a table near the back of the restaurant. There are only three other patrons this evening, so it’s lovely and quiet. There’s nothing worse than trying to enjoy your food than when there’s a constant clamour of voices all around putting you off your linguini and conversation in equal measure.

  Baldo has the good grace to hold out the chair for me. “Thank you Baldo,” I tell him, savouring the pained expression on his face one more time.

  He gives us both a leather-bound menu, tells us our waiter will be over shortly, and retreats to the safety of the front entrance.

  I watch him go and then take my first proper look around the restaurant. It’s quite exquisite. There are no red-and-white-checked tablecloths and bad paintings of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in sight. This is a classy establishment, decked out in a tasteful mixture of dark blue and cream. The only hints that the theme here is Italian come from the national flags embossed on the front of the menu and the bistro music being quietly piped into the room. It takes me a minute to recognise that I can hear Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore.”

  As soon as I do, I am instantly transported back five years to my old flat and the birthday surprise Jamie laid on for me that day. The memory is so instantly powerful that I have to blink back unexpected tears. I’m not sure whether they’re ones of happiness at the memory or sadness that it seems so long ago.

  “You okay, Laura?” Alan asks.

  “What? Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired.” I pick up the water jug and pour myself a glass. “So Alan, what business would you like to discuss with me?”

  “Let’s order first, shall we? I’m starved.”

  I nod my head, pick up the menu and open it. I groan inwardly as I do. It’s all in Italian. I should have expected as much. Any restaurant with a pretentious maitre d’ like Baldo is bound to have an incomprehensible menu. The assumption must be that poor people are less likely to speak a foreign language, and by having the menu in Italian it will likely frighten them away and send them scuttling to the nearest Kentucky Fried Chicken. Hmmm. I could murder a bargain bucket right about now.

  Alan obviously catches my look of panicked incomprehension. “Why don’t you let me order? I come here a lot so I know what’s good.”

  “Okay,” I say with relief and put the menu down. I’d rather have a bit more control over what I eat, but leaving Alan to decide is still infinitely preferable to stumbling my way through an order of moscardini lessati alla Genovese while the waiter rolls his eyes and resists the urge to correct my horrendous pronunciation.

  Over comes said waiter and Alan looks up at him with a smile. He then starts to speak in fluent Italian.

  Well of course he does, why wouldn’t he? It often seems to me that you need to have either enough time to give over to learning a foreign language or enough money to throw at it. I wait patiently in a complete lack of linguistic understanding as the two men babble back and forth about the order.

  This whole thing feels extremely awkward, and I really wish I was back home right now with my husband and daughter. They’re probably settling down to a nice dinner of burger and chips while I’m sitting here about to eat God knows what on a bed of green pasta.

  Eventually the waiter disappears and Alan turns his attention back to me. “I ordered us some white wine to go with the meal. One glass is okay when you’re driving, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I don’t normally drink anything when driving but have to admit that one glass of the glorious white stuff will probably calm my nerves a bit. I am feeling decidedly jumpy right now for reasons I’m not able to fathom, thanks to a combination of hunger and fatigue.

  The waiter returns and pours me a glass of the sweetest wine I’ve ever tasted in my life.

  “Good isn’t it?” Alan says when he notices how wide-eyed I’ve gone.

  “Yes, very,” I reply, taking another sip. There’s every chance a bottle of the stuff costs as much as it would take to feed a small African village for a year.

  Alan puts his elbows on the table and laces his fingers. “So how are things going with you, then, Laura?”

  “Fine thanks.”

  “Everything okay at home, is it?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I was chatting to Jake the other day and he mentioned you might be having a few problems.”

  Blast. I knew I shouldn’t have confided in my shop manager. Jake is a nice guy, but he can’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. During several idle conversations at work over the past few months, he’s ruined three movies for me by giving away the endings, told me all about Kathy the shop assistant’s predilection for sex with strangers, and disturbed me greatly when describing his mother’s bowel problems.

  I’d made the mistake of off-loading my troubles at home onto him, and my tales of marital distress have obviously gotten back to Alan Brookes. I should learn to keep my mouth shut, but when I’m having a problem with something I like to talk about it, and Jake’s the only person around most of the time at work who I can do that with.

  If I were back in the UK, Mel and Tim would have been getting an earful about my relationship with Jamie, but as they’re ten thousand miles away Jake has become an unwitting substitute—and not a very good one apparently, thanks to his loose lips.

  “Um, well, my husband’s had some problems finding a job,” I tell Alan, fiddling with the stem of my wineglass.

  “Gotcha. A writer isn’t he?”

  “Yes. We thought he’d find more freelance work, but there’s not been much about for him.”

  “Yeah, sounds about right. A lot of you Poms come over thinking work is easy to get, but if there’re any Australians who need the job, they’ll always get picked over a foreigner. Not many jobs going round the Gold Coast area in general, to be honest.”

  “That’s right. It’s really not Jamie’s fault, but it’s still hard for him…”

  “With you bringing home the bacon and him out of work? Yeah, I can understand that. A fella likes to be the one in charge, doesn’t he? Still it must be hard on you as well, Laura.” Alan provides me with the softest, most sympathetic smile I’ve ever seen him produce.

  “It is, Alan, it really is.” I bang my hand on the table in frustration. “I just wish he’d stop being such a child about it all. It’s not my fault if he can’t find work, is it? But all I get is him moaning at me nearly every day. It’s really starting to—”
Aghast, I realise what I’m saying. Here I am at a business meeting, whining about Jamie and my personal life. It’s completely inappropriate. “Sorry, Alan, you don’t need to hear all of this.”

  “No worries, Laura.” He extends a hand and covers mine for a moment. “My employees’ happiness is very important to me, and I always like to know if they’ve got a problem.”

  The warmth of his hand is initially comforting, but when he doesn’t remove it again straightaway, I begin to feel awkward. I have to withdraw my hand from under his instead, going for my wineglass a little quicker than is strictly necessary.

  Alan sits back again and sloshes wine around in his glass before necking the rest of it like he’s swigging from a beer bottle. “Yep, relationships are a bugger sometimes. The wife and I have our moments, I can tell you.”

  Please don’t, Alan. This conversation has skirted into some very personal territory and I’m starting to get weirded out by the whole thing.

  “Not about me earning more than she does, of course.”

  Oh bugger it.

  “As far as Valerie’s concerned, my bank balance is my most attractive feature.” Alan pours himself more wine. “I sometimes think she’d prefer it if I were just a walking ATM that produced money out of my arse whenever she needed it!”

  Oh boy.

  Now we’re swimming in some rough waters. I try to think of something positive to say. “I’m sure it’s not just about your money, Alan. She’s your wife, I’m sure she loves you.”

  Alan snorts derisively. “Yeah, loves our landscape gardener Charlie as well, if my next-door neighbour is to be believed.”

  Oh fucking hell.

  “We’re barely speaking these days,” he continues. “She lives down there in Sydney, lording it over the social scene and spending all my money, while I stay up here in our holiday apartment in Burleigh Heads wishing divorce wasn’t so expensive. I don’t know how things got this bad between us, but I can hazard a few guesses.”