Love...Under Different Skies

by Nick Spalding

  This statement is rewarded with a look of bafflement. I’m probably the first person in a decade to say they don’t care what Alan Brookes thinks.

  “That guilt is what started us speaking again. It made us realise how much damage we were doing to Poppy and to each other with all the secrets and lies. And you know what, Alan?”

  “What?”

  “That’s when Laura and I remembered why we love each other, why we got married, and why we had Poppy in the first place.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we like to talk, Alan. We love to communicate. Not just with one another, either. You should see how many diaries she goes through in a year, and how much bandwidth my blog uses.”

  “A lot?”

  “A fucking shitload, Alan. Enough to fill the pages of a book.” I wave my hand. “But I’m getting off my point, which is that once we did start communicating with each other again, we realised that the situation wasn’t as bad as we thought it was. In calm, rational voices, we managed to get everything out in the open at last. All the frustrations, worries, neuroses, and bitterness that have built up since we stepped off that plane in Brisbane nearly a year ago. And you know what, Alan? Laying it all out like that just made the whole thing sound so stupid. A catalogue of mistakes, bad timing, and the worst coincidences that had all made one hell of a mountain out of what should have resolutely stayed a fucking molehill!”

  It comes to my attention that I’m shouting and clenching my fists. Alan Brookes is looking like he’s going to call security any minute. I make a conscious effort to relax my posture and step back. I need to get this lot off my chest and don’t want to scare this man into getting me thrown out of the building before I’m done.

  “The one thing Laura and I can do is look at ourselves objectively,” I continue in a calmer tone, “if we’re given the time and encouragement to do it. Once we did, it became far easier to forgive, if not actually to forget. The upshot of it all is that Laura and I have gone a long way to patching things up. Oh, it’ll take more than one evening to completely mend what we very nearly broke into a million pieces, but I’m confident that it’ll work itself out, and so is Laura.”

  I square myself up to Alan Brookes. This is where things could get ugly. He looks fairly timid right now thanks to the way I’ve steamrollered over him thus far, but I’m about to descend into veiled threats—which may provoke a very different reaction.

  “But for it to all work out, Alan, we don’t need any outside interference. Get my meaning?”

  One of his eyes twitches. I can tell he’s sizing up the situation. “I think so,” he says in a flat voice.

  “Good. Because I know you’re richer, taller, more successful, and probably a lot harder than me Alan, but you know what I’ve got that you don’t?”

  “What?”

  “A wife and daughter to protect who I love with all my heart.” Eyes narrow, teeth grit, fists clench. “And I’ll bury anyone who tries to take them from me.”

  Alan Brookes does the best thing he can do in the circumstance for us both. He steps back. “Message received. I’ll leave Laura alone from now on.”

  I can tell he’s not happy about it, but the man’s no idiot. He’s wise enough and old enough to know I mean what I say. You don’t provoke a man blinded by love. You never know what kind of crazy things he’ll do.

  “Great!” I’m all smiles again. “Then I’ll do the same thing right now and leave you in peace, Mr. Brookes. There’s just one more thing…” I fish a piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “A phone number. Her name’s Mindy. She likes older men. You two should get on like a house on fire.”

  And with that, I take my leave of Alan Brookes, desperately hoping I never have to see him again in my life.

  LAURA’S DIARY

  Friday, November 24 Continued…

  “Expecting somebody else, you slut?” I say and deliver what can only be described as the mother of all bitch slaps.

  “Oooww!” Mindy screeches and holds a hand up to her red, stinging face.

  The slap must have been painful, because it sure as hell hurt my bloody hand.

  Not enough to prevent me from raising the pointy finger of doom, though. “If you come near my husband again,” I say with more venom than every snake in the outback, “if you so much as look at him, I will come back here and kick your pert little Australian arse so hard you won’t be able to waltz Matilda for a fucking decade. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mindy nods her head once, tears brimming from her gloriously blue eyes.

  “Good!” I go to leave, but turn back for a moment. “That’s a very nice bra. Where did you buy it?”

  “Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Really? In store?”

  “No, online.”

  “Well, it looks very good on you. I may have to buy one myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Pleasure.”

  The pointy finger is back. “Remember what I said Mindy. Leave Jamie alone, or this is one Pom you’ll bloody regret crossing.”

  Having finished my impression of a Mafia enforcer, I stalk away from Mindy’s doorway nursing my poor hand. It may need hospital attention, and I may find myself up on an assault charge very soon, but this is the best I’ve felt in days.

  I know we’re supposed to sort our differences out as mature adults without resorting to physical violence, but when someone’s tried to steal your husband away from you, there really is no substitute for a good, hard right-hander.

  Sorry, Mum. I know you abhorred this kind of attitude, but it seemed an appropriate response once I looked in Mindy’s eyes. All the anger I’d had bubbling away in me since I saw the photos she’d taken just burst to the surface all at once and I had no real choice in the matter.

  I’m not really surprised, though. Once Jamie had told me everything about her campaign to get into his board shorts, I knew my confrontation with her wasn’t going to be much fun.

  Still, it was nice to be mad at somebody else, rather than at Jamie and myself.

  What a couple of fools we’ve been, Mum. I’m sure you’ve been tutting and shaking your head this entire time about how stupidly we’ve behaved.

  Why did it have to get to the stage of potential divorce proceedings before we realised that keeping secrets is a recipe for disaster? When did we forget to trust one another? A marriage can survive anything, as long as it’s built on a foundation of truth. The second you start keeping things from one another, the foundation starts to weaken—and before you know it the bathroom has slid off the side of the house and you’re standing naked in next door’s garden with only a loofah to cover your embarrassment.

  Hmmm. I may have lost the thread of that analogy there a bit. Blame the stress I’ve been under. Thank God Jamie and I started acting like adults at last, and got it all out in the open last night otherwise he’d currently be stuttering his way through some awkward sex with a twenty-year-old, and I’d be about to throw my lot in with a man who thinks it’s appropriate to wear a tatty vest and shorts when he’s in his fifties.

  By the time I walk across the complex and back to our apartment, the pain in my hand is almost gone, negating the need for any ice that may be lingering in the freezer.

  A note on the dining table tells me that Jamie and Poppy are down on the beach, so I pop on my sun hat and walk across the road to join them, wondering how much a bra from Victoria’s Secret costs these days.

  I find my husband and daughter looking for fish in the rock pools. Poppy is up to her knees in seawater, poking a rather defenceless crab who just happened to be passing at the wrong time. Jamie sees me coming and looks up, a hesitant smile on his face.

  “How did it go?” he asks tentatively.

  “Not well. For her anyway.” I put my hands o
n my hips. “Mindy won’t be giving us any more trouble.” I feel only a little bit like a superhero, honest.

  Jamie smiles. “That’s great, honey.”

  “And how did it go with Alan?” I ask, as tentative as Jamie was.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he knows the score now.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Work might be a bit awkward on Monday, though.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  “You think he’ll do anything nasty?”

  “What? Like fire me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Possibly.” I look out to sea, contemplating my potential unemployed status. “You know what? I don’t care either way.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope. I don’t think the Worongabba Chocolate Company and me were meant for a long-term relationship. If Alan doesn’t fire me, I’m going to quit. I’ll miss the big fat pay cheque and fantastic working conditions, but I won’t miss the long hours and constant unwanted attention from a man old enough to be my father.”

  Jamie laughs. “You know what I miss?”

  “What?”

  “Marmite.”

  I let out an involuntary moan. “Oh God yes…that Vegemite stuff just isn’t the same, is it?”

  “And I miss Asda.”

  “Really? Are you feeling sick?”

  “No. I miss it—the prices, the selection. I even miss that surly shopgirl with the lazy eye who stands at the entrance pretending to care how your day is going.”

  “I miss having seasons. What I wouldn’t give right now to be bundled up in a thick coat, walking through an autumnal forest.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’d be good. Then we’d get home, stick on the central heating, order a chicken tikka, and watch Top Gear.”

  “Downton Abbey.”

  “Top Gear.”

  “Downton Abbey.”

  “Top Gear then Downton Abbey?”

  “Agreed.”

  We both look out over the sun-kissed water, lost in homesick contemplation. What with everything that’s been going on, we haven’t had the time or the inclination to think much about our homeland, but now the thought of it hits with full force. So much so that I feel my bottom lip start to wobble.

  “Jamie?”

  “Yes Laura?”

  “Can we go home, please?”

  Jamie puts his arms around me. It’s the best feeling in the world.

  “Of course we can, baby, of course we can.”

  I put my head against his chest and look over to where my daughter is still engaged in her newfound hobby of crab tormenting. “We’re going to be alright, aren’t we Jamie?” I ask my husband.

  He doesn’t respond for a moment. But then I feel his arms tighten round me.

  “Yeah, I think so, Laura.” He sighs and looks around us in a contemplative fashion for a moment, before a grimace appears on his face. “You know what? I’m really fucking sick of the beach.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I reply and giggle.

  “Time to go home,” he says softly.

  “Time to go home,” I repeat.

  Jamie thrusts his chin out, puts one arm up, and starts to sing. “And did those feet, in ancient times…”

  “Jamie!”

  “Walk upon England’s mountains greeeeeen…”

  “Jamie, stop singing.”

  “And was the holy thing of God…”

  “Jamie, stop singing or I will divorce you.”

  “On England’s dum de dum, can’t remember the words…”

  “People are starting to stare at us.”

  “BRING ME A BOW MADE OF GOLD!”

  “Oh, good God. Poppy, come here! We’re leaving before this idiot gets us arrested.”

  “BRING ME A LOAD OF ARROWS I CAN FIRE!”

  “Daddy stop!”

  “DUM DE DUM, DE DUM DE DUM!”

  “Run Poppy, run!”

  “TIL WE HAVE BUILT…JERUSALEM…ON ENGLAND’S GREEN AND PLEASANT LAAAAANNNND!”

  JAMIE AND LAURA’S FACEBOOK MESSAGE

  Sunday 10 December

  Hi everyone. Laura and I wanted to send you a quick message to let you know that we’re coming home!

  Quick message? This is us we’re talking about. Everyone knows we both suffer from chronic word diarrhoea, so let’s not pretend otherwise.

  A fair point well made, wife of mine.

  Thank you.

  No problem. We wanted to drop you all a message to say that you’ll be seeing us very soon. We plan on flying out of here at the beginning of January, more or less exactly a year after we arrived.

  That’s right. I received a very healthy severance package from my job, for reasons which I won’t go into now, but they’ll curl your toes, I promise you.

  Don’t be a tease.

  Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t seen any of our friends for months and am looking forward to a good gossip once we get back.

  Oh wonderful…

  Don’t fret. You won’t come out of it looking too bad.

  Anyway, we have a bit of spare money, so we’re going to spend Christmas and New Year’s down in Sydney before flying home and starting the job of putting our lives back together in the UK.

  Yes. I am hoping and praying it’s easier to find a job there than it has been here.

  I’m sure it will be. Maybe the paper will take you back.

  Um…doubtful.

  Well, I’m sure as hell not going back to Morton & Slacks. My ex-boss has been very nice—

  Hmpf.

  Leave it…

  As I was saying, my ex-boss has been very nice and has given me some names of people in the chocolate industry back home, and I’m hoping to speak with them in the New Year. My experience at Worongabba should help me get a foot back in the door, if nothing else.

  And I’m going to do some writing!

  No, don’t make that face. I don’t mean Max Danger and the Boobatrons. I have an idea for a romantic comedy that I’m going to have a crack at. Even Laura thinks it’s a good idea.

  I do. I’m shocked.

  Be nice.

  It’s hard to believe that eleven months have flown by so quickly, but our extended Australian adventure is now coming to an end, without one spider, crocodile, or snake bite, it has to be said.

  Only just on that second one.

  We’ve also avoided being stung to death by box jellyfish, have not been eaten by a dingo in the outback, and we steered clear of a slow, agonising death due to heat exhaustion.

  In fact, the only pain we’ve gone through has been the emotional kind. This country may be replete with all manner of horrible creepy crawlies that can bite your face off, but the damage they can do doesn’t compare to what us human beings can inflict on each other if we’re being stupid enough. I’d take a nip from Croccy anytime over having to go through the past few weeks of my life again. A small nip, mind you. The kind that wouldn’t do any real damage and would make a great anecdote at parties.

  Alright, Jamie, you don’t need to tell everyone about our recent bust up. Those who want to know more will ask when we get home, and the rest probably have their own problems to worry about and aren’t interested.

  Yes dear.

  I knew you’d see it my way.

  Other than some fairly fraught marital issues we’ve now managed to resolve, this has been a good experience and one we shall never forget—thanks to some breathtaking scenery, the extremely friendly people here, and the constant glorious heat. My little digital camera is chockablock with pictures of all manner of gorgeous locations that we will bore you with once we’re home, until you wish for a swift and painless death.

  We’re also coming home with a four-year-old daughter who has devel
oped a noticeable Australian twang that I hope she gets rid of before she starts school next year. I don’t think she’d appreciate the nickname Kangaroo Poppy all that much.

  No, probably not.

  Poppy’s accent isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Laura and I are coming home with a much better understanding of how our relationship works.

  Very true. Our marriage has been well and truly tested in recent times, but sometimes you need to find out what your weaknesses are before you can fully appreciate your strengths.

  Oh great. I’m supposed to be the bloody writer here, and you’re coming out with all the best lines.

  It looks like you’ve rubbed off on me, Newman.

  As long as I can rub up and down on you later.

  Stop it. This is supposed to be a nice letter to our friends back home, not an excuse for you to be filthy.

  Please. They love it.

  Anyway…

  To conclude this message, which has now far exceeded the length we intended it to—

  See what I mean?

  We’d just like to say that we are really looking forward to seeing all of you, and we can’t wait to get back home to England—where we’ll no doubt immediately come down with head colds, start complaining about the price of petrol, and head into the nearest branch of Thomas Cook to look at holidays.

  That’s right.

  What we won’t do is leave our camera phones lying around where other people can get hold of them.

  Or use cling film inappropriately.

  Or discuss other people’s bowel movements in public.

  Or buy swimming costumes that give our bosses entirely the wrong impression.

  Or keep secrets from one another for no good reason.

  Agreed?

  Agreed.

  See you all soon.

  And no worries!

  Jamie, Laura, and Poppy Newman

  xx