Good grief.
I think he’s about to give me a blow-by-blow account of his marriage breakup. And there was me worried about mentioning the grief I’m having with Jamie.
My life is saved by the waiter coming back with our food. He plonks a bowl of ring-shaped tortellini pasta down in front of me, which is topped off with what looks like mushrooms, red pepper, and some other unidentifiable vegetables in a rich red sauce. It smells divine.
Alan has ordered spaghetti with a similar-coloured sauce on top. “Hope you enjoy yours, Laura. It’s got a bit of a kick to it, so I hope you don’t mind your food a bit spicy.”
This could be tricky. I’m not a fan of spicy food. My digestive system just doesn’t get on well with it.
I’d better be polite and give it a go, though. The meal probably cost a week’s salary. “I’m sure it’s lovely,” I tell him with a doubtful smile and gather up a forkful. Praying to whatever benign deities may be watching, I put the food in my mouth and chew…
Sighs of relief all round. It’s a little spicy, but also very tasty. I can easily cope with this, providing I eat it nice and slow, chasing it with water when the taste of the chili gets a little too much. Alan tucks into his food as well, with none of the care I’m putting into the process.
“This is great,” he says after his first few mouthfuls. “I can’t remember the last time I had such a nice time with a woman in here.”
Oh strewth, he’s about to bring his wife up again.
I can see him working up to say something else about her. From the way his eyes have gone all doe-like I can only assume it’s going to be emotional for him—and cringe-inducing for me. I fork some pasta into my mouth and baton down the mental hatches.
“You really are a beautiful woman, Laura.”
What?
“What?” I say round my mouthful of tortellini.
“Yeah, absolutely stunning, I’d say.”
I start to chew very quickly and look down at my plate. Suddenly its contents have become extremely interesting and worthy of constant study.
“You’re a free spirit as well. There aren’t many women who would be brave enough to wear a swimming costume like the one you had on when we went down to the beach.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. I can’t believe he remembers that.
“That day really showed me what an incredible person you are,” Alan continues. “You remind me of Val when we first met.”
My, this tortellini really is wonderful.
“She was a free spirit back then, full of life. Not anymore, though. Now she’s just old and bitter.”
I wonder how they get the meat stuffed into it like that?
“You remind me so much of her when we were young.”
It must be quite a tricky process.
“But you’re even better than her, Laura! You mix that free spirit with a strong head for business.”
You wouldn’t want to put too much in because it’ll burst the pasta, but then if you don’t put enough in, you won’t be able to taste the meat properly.
“I wanted to tell you all this, Laura. That’s why I invited you to dinner tonight.”
Oh look! A lovely big bit of pepper on this piece of tortellini. Let’s see what it tastes like, shall we?
“The truth is, Laura…”
Crunch. Crunch.
“You see, the truth is…”
Crunch. Cru—hang on, this isn’t pepper.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
It’s a bit of fucking chili!
As the intense heat hits the roof of my mouth, I instinctively spit what remains of the chili and pasta out, spraying the man who’s just declared his undying love for me in half-digested food.
Coughing like a lunatic, I throw water down my gullet in an attempt to quench the fire.
Gasping, I see Alan clean off his grimacing face with a napkin. “Christ. That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.”
“Sor—sorry!” I say and take another gulp of water.
Sadly, I also manage to gulp a load of air at the same time, causing me to then produce a chili-flavoured burp of Homer Simpson–like proportions. Well, if you want to put a man off you romantically, spitting food at him and then belching in his face is as good a way of doing it as any, I suppose.
Alan waves a hand in front of his face. “Strewth. Better out than in!”
Pushing the plate away from me, I take a deep breath, another gulp of water, and attempt to sit up as straight as I can. “I think it might be best,” I say, mustering what remains of my dignity, “if I went home now, Alan.”
“Oh, okay,” he replies sullenly.
“I apologise for gobbing my food onto you.”
“No worries. I shouldn’t have ordered something so spicy.”
“Quite possibly.”
The doe-eyed look returns. “You will think about what I said, though, won’t you? About my feelings for you?” His heartfelt, romantic tone is ruined somewhat by the blob of masticated pasta still stuck to his forehead.
“This is all…all very strange.” I actually manage to produce a scowl. “I thought this was going to be a business meeting.”
“I know. I should have been honest with you months ago. I really do love you, Laura.” His voice has gone up a couple of octaves.
“No you bloody don’t!”
“Yes I do.”
“You only think that because I remind you of your wife when she was younger. You just told me that.”
Alan stamps one foot under the table. “That’s not it. I love you!”
Oh for crying out loud, now I’m dealing with a love-struck teenager rather than a multimillionaire businessman. My tone of voice changes into what can only be described as parent mode.
“Now you look here, Alan Brookes,” I say, waggling a finger. “You brought me here under false pretences. You can’t just spring this kind of thing on a girl. You’re my boss.”
“Sorry, Laura.”
“What?”
“I said I’m sorry, Laura. I just couldn’t think of any other way to come out with it.”
“You shouldn’t have come out with it at all. We’re both happ—we’re both married!”
“But I can’t help the way I feel.”
I look at his puppy dog eyes and frustration boils over. This is completely unfair.
If this was a man who didn’t write my monthly cheques, I’d be able to deal with the situation easily. I’d simply make it bloody clear that I wasn’t interested in him in that way and show him my heels.
But Alan Brookes is my boss, and apparently a sixteen-year-old boy again. Teenage boys don’t take well to rejection. If I storm out of here, I could be cooking my own goose. Alan can fire me at a whim if he so chooses. Therefore, despite the fact that I’d like to just tell this lovesick idiot that I have no interest in him, I’ll have to soften my approach a bit—unless I want to join Jamie huddled over the job ads every day.
“Look, Alan,” I say in a softer tone. “I’m very, very flattered by all of this. You’re a wonderful, handsome man.”
That’s good, girl. Massage his ego a bit.
“But I have a husband and a daughter to think about.”
He hangs his head. “I know. This is totally wrong of me.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I see a spark of hope in his eyes.
Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. I may have gone a bit over the top here in my desire to keep him sweet. “I mean, it was a lovely gesture,” I say trying to backtrack.
It’s no good though, the damage is done. That light in his eyes isn’t going out now. I figure I’d better get out of this before I bury myself in an even deeper hole.
“I’m going to leave now, Alan. This is all very confusing and I need some time o
n my own. Will I see you at the meeting with the distributors on Friday?” I add.
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Good.” I stand up. “Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” I point at his forehead. “You may want to check your face in the mirror. Good night.”
With that, I walk off towards the exit, passing Baldo without so much as a glance.
By the time I get back to the car, I’m fully in shock. My boss has just told me he’s in love with me. I responded by pebble-dashing his face with red-hot pasta, and I chastised him like he was a naughty schoolboy caught setting fire to worms in the backyard with a magnifying glass. Then I changed tack completely in an effort at self-preservation and managed to lead him on. Talk about your mixed signals.
Where does this leave me now, Mum? I have to keep working with this man, but how am I supposed to after what transpired this evening?
I know. I’ll do what any self-respecting woman would do in similar circumstances: completely ignore the issue and hope it goes away. Yeah, that’s constructive, isn’t it? The next time I see Alan, I will be all business and pretend like today never happened. With any luck, he will do the same thing. As long as we’re never in the same room together alone, everything should be fine.
Everything should be absolutely fine.
Love and miss you, Mum—as always.
Your apparently free-spirited daughter, Laura
xx
JAMIE’S BLOG
Sunday 12 November
If I were a religious man—which I’m not, otherwise this blog wouldn’t be quite so full of swearing—the phrase “the Lord giveth, and the Lord bloody well taketh away again” would be one very close to my heart at the moment.
Last month my luck finally changed for the better. I found some work! Well-paid work at that. Nothing permanent, but it was still a fortnight of copywriting that paid me as much money as I would expect to earn from two month’s hard work back home. And I got to do it from the comfort of our apartment. The best commute to work in the world is the one you take from your bedroom to your living room, wearing nothing but your pyjamas and a dressing gown.
The job was with a boat company up in Brisbane, run by the brother of the guy who owns the badly spelled Aquous hotel. He was apparently so pleased with the copy I’d written for him that he told his sibling all about it—who then offered me a gig extolling the virtues of his new speedboat range for the 2013 catalogue. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, eh?
“Baby, I’ve got an idea,” I say in a sleepy voice to Laura as we lie in each other’s arms on a balmy Gold Coast evening after my first day of work in what felt like forever.
We’d just had sex for the first time in a month. It really is amazing what a boost in your self-esteem can do for your libido.
“An idea?” she replies, idly running a finger across my chest.
“Yep. Your birthday’s coming up.”
“Yes, don’t remind me.”
“I want to do something nice for it.”
“Like what?”
“Well, this job is going to pay me quite a bit of money, so I can afford to treat you to something nice—if you can get the time off work, that is.”
“To do what?”
“I want to pay for the three of us to have a long weekend up in Cairns. We can do all the touristy stuff like go to the Great Barrier Reef and see Cape Tribulation. It’ll be my birthday present to you, if you can get the time off. I know it’s really short notice.”
“That sounds lovely, Jamie. I’ll book a few days off when I get in tomorrow.”
“Your boss won’t mind?”
Laura’s eyes narrow. “No. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”
“Fantastic. You get that sorted and I’ll arrange the flights and accommodation.”
“You sure you want to do this? It’ll be quite expensive.”
“Absolutely. Things have been pretty crappy between us, and I want to make it up to you. I really want to do this, Laura.”
“You’re quite the romantic when you want to be, Newman,” Laura says and kisses me. Things stir down below. Laura’s eyes widen. “And as horny as a sixteen-year-old as well, it seems.”
Yes indeed. Earning some cold hard cash really does return your mojo to full working order.
And so it was that family Newman boarded a plane from the Gold Coast to Cairns last Thursday, intent on a few days of sun, fun, and relaxation. Which we got. For the first thirty-six hours, anyway.
Cairns, like a microwaved cucumber, is green and hot. Up in the tropics, the city itself stews uncomfortably in thirty-degree heat most of the year, while stretching beyond it north up the coast are a series of gorgeous beaches that towns have grown around in the past few decades, mainly for the tourists that come here from all over the world.
Taking a holiday here is rather like visiting some of the incredible beach locations across Southeast Asia, without having to worry about learning a foreign language or getting a shot in your arm to protect you from a variety of waterborne diseases. The Cairns area is famous for its wildlife too, including wild saltwater crocodiles that occasionally pop up along the rivers and creeks, scaring the bejesus out of the locals and taking a bite out of the odd passing dog.
Then there’s the small matter of the Great Barrier Reef, which is trying its level best to remain beautiful despite the best efforts of mankind to kill it off as soon as possible thanks to our relaxed attitude to climate change.
We landed at the Cairns airport at lunchtime on Thursday, drove the hire car to our boutique hotel in a lovely beach resort called Palm Cove, and proceeded to do nothing for the rest of the day, apart from sit on the beach and eat Thai food.
Friday was Great Barrier Reef Day, and what a fantastic experience it was. I didn’t even mind getting up at six in the morning to catch the enormous catamaran that sailed from Cairns Harbour for some six or seven miles off the coast. We snorkelled on the reef. We sunbathed on a nearby island. We paddled in water so blue it looked like it had been touched up in Photoshop. Laura saw her turtles (at last), Poppy tickled a clown fish, and I didn’t make a fool of myself once, not even when transitioning from the catamaran to a small rubber dinghy and back again no less than three times. It was the best day we’ve spent in Australia so far, and I paid for every penny of it.
Lovely.
Then came yesterday. Thanks to which, I have decided to contact the tourist board and suggest a new strapline for the area: CAIRNS—it’s bold, beautiful, and absolutely bastard terrifying!
This was Laura’s birthday, so I had planned a whole day of fun exploits. First, Laura would go for some treatments at a local spa in Palm Cove while I entertained Poppy elsewhere (i.e., watching Finding Nemo—again). Then, after lunch we’d take a ride on the Skyrail, an enormous cable car that takes you up the mountains and into the ancient rainforest beyond. For dinner, I’d arranged a rather special meal for all of us via our hotel, which consisted of sampling some tasty Australian cuisine at a table set up on the beach. Then to conclude the birthday, we’d take a slow, relaxing walk along the beach as the sun went down, offering ample opportunity for the kind of holiday snaps that make your friends insanely jealous of you.
Sounds great, right? I thought so, too. Then came the breakfast spider…
I’m up and out of bed good and early, intending to serve Laura breakfast in bed. I only manage some toast and marmalade, but it’s the thought that counts, right? After I deliver the breakfast into my wife’s grateful mitts and wish her a very, very happy birthday with some kisses and the biggest hug I can manage, I make myself a cup of tea and saunter out onto our first-floor balcony to soak up some early morning sun. This has become something of a ritual for me down on the Gold Coast, and it’s nice to continue it up here where, if anything, the weather is even better.
Our large hol
iday apartment is at the end of the building next to a collection of trees, some of which have branches that droop close to my head on my left as I stand at the railing, surveying all before me with a feeling of intense smugness.
The view is wonderful. I take a sip of tea and look out onto sparkling clear-blue waters, happy locals taking their morning jog along the beach, swaying palms, singing kookaburras, and…
A FUCKING HUGE SPIDER RIGHT NEXT TO MY HEAD!
The tea goes into the air as I skip out of range of the crouching monstrosity. I’m not usually scared of spiders, but this bugger would terrify Jesus himself if he decided to begin the Second Coming on my hotel balcony.
It’s a good seven or eight inches across and would quite easily cover my palm if I were dumb enough to pick it up. It’s quite a colourful little bastard, with spindly brown-and-black legs, a bright yellow-and-black abdomen, and a shiny patina across its whole body that almost glints in the sun.
The spider has spun its web between two of the aforementioned hanging branches that have grown out over our veranda. Quite why it’s done this is beyond me, unless it knows something about the local fly population that I don’t. Maybe the last tenants of this particular apartment were a disgusting bunch, and the insects congregated over huge piles of rubbish, leading to my big, black friend here setting up shop in the flight path. Whatever its reasons, the spider is way too close for comfort.
Laura appears from behind me. “What time is it, honey? I don’t want to be late for my—Oh fucking hell, what the fuckity fuck is that?”
“That would be a spider, my darling wife. One of the ones they warned us about before we came here.”
“It’s bigger than my head!”
“Quite possibly.”
“Urrggh. I don’t like it! Do something, Jamie!”
“What? Put a lead on it and take it for a walk?”
“Get rid of it!”
“I would, but I don’t have a bazooka on me right now.”
“Stop messing about! It’s my birthday and I don’t want it ruined by that horrible, ugly thing.”
Love...Under Different Skies Page 20