I’m not the only New Zealander to choose to live in exile from my home. It is a cultural expectation that every young adult embarks on their overseas experience to visit the home country and get some “culture.” In New Zealand no building is older than 150 years and while Maori have a rich and ancient system of beliefs and traditions, European New Zealanders have little. For some it is enough to be a big fish in a small pond, as I was with my career in magazines. But others crave a sense of living in a larger arena. We are a very small country of only four million people and cannot offer the education in the arts or the salaries of Europe. Consequently many young Kiwis fall in love with Europe and once they have their skills shift north where they earn more money for what they do well. We are known to be hard workers, inherited from our working class ancestors and are always welcomed with open arms into jobs. Which is why Marco ended up in Italy. I ended up there simply because I wanted to disappear.
When we boarded the plane for the long and complicated journey back home, Marco and I were lost in our own thoughts. He hadn’t been home for five years and knew he was arriving to a family who would smother him the moment he hit town. Italian mothers never let go of their children and Marco’s estrangement from his had nearly killed her, apparently. I was going to have to face my own parents, who would not be so demonstrative. They would be quiet, polite and watchful. Time spent with my parents was well ordered, routine and dull. They were both lovely people but struggled to relate to the naked ambition which had sprung out of their only child. And I would finally have to face up to their grief, as silent as it was, and add it to mine. I would also have to walk down the streets of Auckland, eat in restaurants, shop in supermarkets and realise that the last time I did all these things I had my daughter with me.
“I have an idea,” said Marco as we touched down in Hong Kong for our four-hour stopover before transferring to the 12-hour flight back to Auckland. “Let’s stay together the whole time. I will be with you when you visit your parents in Dunedin and you will be with me when I visit mine in Christchurch. That way we will have each other to hold onto and your presence will give my mother something else to worry about and my presence will maybe help reassure your parents that you are being looked after.”
“Oh I just thought that would be what we would be doing,” I said. “I could never get through this without you.”
He reached across and held my hand.
“It’ll be okay,” he squeezed my hand tightly. “Now what on earth are we going to do for four hours, fancy a drink?”
As it turned out our trip home to New Zealand was cathartic for both of us, in many ways. We were met at the airport by two camera crews and a number of press photographers.
“Who are they here for?” Marco asked as he looked over his shoulder to see who the mob was racing to meet.
“My old life,” I murmured, conscious that I looked like shit after 28 hours of flying.
“Jane, welcome home. Any news of Charlotte?” yelled one TV presenter I vaguely recognised from a story we once did on his new kitchen.
“Jane, how are you feeling?” said another, whose pictures of her rooting her boss spent many years in the top drawer of my office desk.
“There she is, follow me guys, Jane, this way!” yelled Lawrence.
“Fuck!” said Marco.
“Just say nothing and stick by me,” I whispered to him as we were jostled out of the arrivals hall by Lawrence, who made a great show of hugging me passionately and shepherded me out on to the pavement.
“Give her some room, guys, come on!” he instructed.
And there she was. The old Jane miraculously rose out of my chest and regained her rightful position as Queen of the Magazines, Bitch from Hell.
I paused and let them assemble around me, raising my hand for silence.
“It’s great to be home. No further comment,” I smiled graciously. “Please let’s leave it at that,” I continued with authority. “I’ll get back to you.”
And with that I strode off with Marco in tow and summoned a taxi while Lawrence hovered over us.
“Jane, I’ve got a car ready. Follow me,” he said.
“Who’s the guy? Is he your new man?” yelled the boss rooter.
“Fuck off and leave us the fuck alone,” I heard myself shout.
That confused them for a minute, just enough time to check that Marco, who was by now hiding behind his sunglasses and doing an impressive job of pushing aside reporters, was okay.
“Come on,” I encouraged as we leapt into a taxi.
“Jane!” yelled Lawrence as we sped off. “Come back!”
I looked out the back of the taxi and allowed myself a moment’s satisfaction at the pathetic sight of my former husband missing out on his exclusive.
“Jesus Jane, I’ve never seen that side of you. Where did she come from?” said Marco, still shocked.
“I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I should have expected all this, but I guess I just forgot about my former life. This is exactly the reason I didn’t want to come home,” I mumbled miserably.
“No, this is exactly the reason you should have come home. You need to bring that Jane out for an airing and see what it is about her you want to keep and what you want to put away again,” he said soothingly.
“And just quietly, she’s quite fucking hot!” he laughed.
“Oh shut up. I had no idea you got turned on by powerful women,” I laughed.
“Neither did I.”
“Wait till I get my hands on that Lawrence,” I said changing the subject. “He obviously hasn’t changed a bit.”
“No not at all. What did you see in him again?”
“Don’t ask.”
We stayed that night at the Sheraton Hotel on Symonds St and cautiously watched the news that night.
“Former magazine doyenne Jane Lyndhurst returned to New Zealand today, 12 months after the disappearance of her daughter Charlotte Cunningham in Europe,” said the newsreader who was once accused of giving an All Black a blowjob in the back of his car.
“Marco, there she is. Oh, Jesus, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen,” I cried looking up at the blonde hair, the beautiful blue eyes and the warm smile of my lost daughter peering at me from the television.
“Shhhh, it’s okay” Marco said holding me close as he reached over and turned off the television. “No more TV. Let’s just protect ourselves from all this and do what we can then get the hell out of here,” he said, realising at last how damaging my old life was.
Then he got up and went over to his suitcase.
“I hope you don’t mind but I bought a few things with us to help,” he said and pulled out the picture of Charlotte we kept in the little window at the apartment and a red votive candle from the Trovaso church. He rested the picture on the bureau and carefully lit the candle.
“I hope it doesn’t set off the smoke alarms.”
“What a beautiful thing to do. I should have thought of it myself, that feels so much better.”
We had booked flights to Dunedin to see my parents the next day. I was glad to be bypassing Auckland with its media and memories. My old boss Tim met us for dinner at the hotel and once again asked me to come back to work.
“Sales are even worse than when I last talked to you,” he moaned. “You know how much we need you, what will it take? Head office are so keen to get you back I have their chequebook at my disposal,” he said hopefully.
I looked at Marco, and we both smiled.
“Tim, I’ve just spent two months travelling around Europe with a man who had all the money in the world. It means nothing to me I’m afraid. Being happy and calm are my priorities now, and judging by that scene at the airport today, that isn’t going to happen here. I just want to see my parents, deal with some stuff I’ve been putting off and go back home to Venice. I’m sorry,” I said. “But it’s so good seeing you Tim, I couldn’t have come back without catching up. Now, tell me all the gossip
.”
And he was off. One thing I loved about Tim was he could tell a good story and Marco and I were in hysterics as he filled me in on all the gossip about the stars, many of whom I created.
One newsreader had been caught out by his wife with a harem of prostitutes in a hotel room, one celebrity couple had actually swapped partners with another celebrity couple and had a joint second wedding and the town was currently in the grip of a scandal about a happily married female radio announcer who had been snapped having sex with her female producer and her girlfriend.
“Well I see nothing changes,” I laughed. “And how often is Lawrence popping up in the mags?” I asked cautiously.
“Oh he’s as eager as ever,” said Tim. “He’ll turn up to the opening of an envelope but to be honest his star is diminishing.”
By the time dinner finished we had been well entertained.
“I had no idea of the world you inhabited before you turned up in Venice,” Marco said on our way up to our room in the lift. “You were quite a different person, weren’t you?”
“That is an understatement. Why do you think I love being in Venice so much? It’s been a chance to discover a different side of me which doesn’t start with bitch and end with bitch.”
That night Marco and I slept together in the same bed for the first time, only because somehow in our booking we had failed to mention we needed twin beds. Or perhaps neither of us wanted to.
But there was an understanding nothing would happen. For a start I still wasn’t sure if I was finished with Agapeto and we were hopelessly jet lagged. I woke in the morning early at 5am with Marco cuddling into me from behind. I lay there for a moment enjoying the warmth and intimacy and smelling him. That smell was unexpectedly delicious. And I couldn’t be sure but there was definitely something of his urgently pressing into my back.
“Mmm … good morning,” he mumbled from behind me.
“Hi,” I said, not wanting to turn around and face him quite yet.
“Oh … sorry for … being so close. Must have just needed a cuddle in the middle of the night,” he said hastily moving away.
“It’s fine, I was just lying here enjoying it,” I grinned.
“Oh … well that’s nice,” he said, a little red in the face. “You were farting a lot,” he chuckled changing the subject.
“I was not, I never fart,” I blushed.
“Oh yes you do, you fart all the time at home, I hear it while you are asleep,” he continued humiliating me.
“Oh and you never fart I suppose.”
“Oh yes, here’s one now.”
And with that he buried my head under the sheets and wouldn’t let me up for air until I gagged and begged at the same time.
“You’re disgusting,” I moaned.
“No you’re disgusting,” he laughed.
“God, I’m getting up.”
“What time is it?”
“Five in the morning. Our flight doesn’t leave for Dunedin until 11,” I said, moving over and sitting up. I looked at Charlotte’s picture and candle which had stayed alight all night.
“Hey, Marco, there is one thing I would love to do before we leave.”
“What’s that.”
“I want to drive past my house. I need to see the garden and look at her bedroom window. Would that be alright?”
“Let’s do it. And let’s do it now before Lawrence turns up with his camera crew.”
And so there we were, in a taxi at six am cruising past number 12 Dryden St, Grey Lynn. The house was just as I remembered it and the garden well looked after.
“That’s a nice old villa you have there,” said Marco, already planning its restoration.
“That was her bedroom there,” I said pointing at the left bay window. “And that’s her rose bush there where we planted her placenta after she was born.”
The taxi driver looked at me in his rear vision mirror.
“How do you feel?” asked Marco.
“Okay, actually. Okay.”
“Do you want to get out and take a closer look?”
“No, that would be just weird wandering around the street at this time of the morning,” I said. “Would you do something for me though, Marco. Could you race out and pick one of those roses for me.”
“A pleasure, signora,” he replied quickly opening the car door, scurrying across the road and picking the most perfect pink rose, still covered in dew which he presented to me back in the taxi.
“Thank you,” I said burying my nose in its perfume. It was an old rose I had selected especially for Charlotte. I wanted it to have a scent for her to enjoy when she was older, and maybe have them at her wedding. Little did I know I would be the only one enjoying it.
“We can dry the petals if you like and take them home with us,” Marco suggested.
“Lovely,” I said, bending over my rose and finally allowing the tears to flow.
19
By the time we hit a cold, grey Dunedin, a grainy picture of me huddled in the back of the taxi while my “mystery” man “steals” a rose for me was all over the papers. We couldn’t help notice it blaring out on the front page at the newsstands.
Mum and Dad picked us up from the airport looking ancient. In the two years since I’d seen them they seemed to have both shrunk and wizened into a couple of little old people.
There were no tears at the airport, just a quick hug and a handshake for Marco who they hadn’t seen since he was 16, then it was into the car for the drive out to the farm. Marco looked at me in the back seat carefully as we all discussed the weather and the roast Mum had in the oven for dinner.
It wasn’t until we were all sitting around the coal fire in the living room that it felt right to start talking seriously.
“So how have you both been, about Charlotte?” I kicked off for starters.
“Oh well I had my little turn, as you know,” said Dad. “And your Mum gets a bit sad now and then, don’t you, dear?” he said looking at my mother who had barely spoken since we arrived.
“Mmm … yes but to be expected I suppose,” she whispered.
“Well, Mum, of course. She was your only grand-daughter I would think it would be tough on you both,” I said.
“Oh but not as bad as it must have been for you, dear,” she replied quickly shifting the attention away from herself.
“We were so worried about you being all the way over there in that place on your own but in the end we just had to trust that you knew what you were doing,” said Dad.
“She’s been doing really well in Venice,” volunteered Marco. “She’s teaching English to children and doing some study. Quite a different life to the one she had here,” he finished.
“Oh well that’s good I suppose,” said Mum. “Now anyone for a cup of tea?” she said, getting up and shuffling back to the kitchen.
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Dad following her.
“Well that went well,” I said to Marco. “Worth the 28-hour trip home to share the grief.”
“Don’t be too hard on them Jane. They are dealing with it in their own way. They’re from another generation where you didn’t show emotion. They’ve always been very British your parents, very stiff upper lip,” he said, then laughed. “Remember that time your Dad caught me climbing out of your bedroom window at two am and all he said was ‘young man I don’t expect to see you doing that again’ and never said another word.”
“Didn’t even mention it to me,” I smiled. “Seriously though there isn’t even a picture of her in the house. You’d think they would at least have one somewhere. It’s like she never existed,” I said.
“Yes, that is a bit odd,” he agreed. “My what a lovely maidenhair fern that is,” he exclaimed quickly changing the subject as my mother ambled her way back in with the tea.
“Oh, thank you,” she answered, looking livelier than she had all day. “I’ve had that since Jane was a little girl, marvellous how long they can survive, especially down here in such a c
old climate.”
I looked at Marco and raised my eyebrows. It seems my mother’s life was so small that the only thing that rocked her world was an old fern.
After tea and Shrewsbury biscuits (my childhood favourite) Dad asked if I’d like to help him collect the eggs in from the hens. He gave me a look which I knew meant he wanted a “chat” so I put on Mum’s gumboots and her Swanndri and followed him out into the yard leaving Marco happily talking pot plants with my now very animated mother.
“Where’s Boy?” I asked as we walked to the hen house. Boy was Dad’s huntaway dog who never left his side, and I had only just realised he had not been there barking his head off when we pulled up.
“Oh, we had to let him go,” said Dad. “He developed very bad hips and, well, it was just the humane thing to do to shoot him. He was very old.”
“I’m sorry, I know how much you loved him,” I said
“Thanks,” he mumbled. Was that a tear in his eye? Fantastic, he can cry about a bloody dog but not his grand-daughter.
“Jane, I need to talk to you about something and I didn’t want your Mum to hear, which is why I’ve asked you out here, even though I’ve already collected the eggs this morning,” he said leaning against the fence, his eyes following the ridge of the hillside in the distance.
“What, is something wrong with Mum?” I said suddenly worried.
“No, she’s fine. We’re both fine, physically,” he said pausing. “Jane your mother had a bit of a bad time after Charlotte disappeared. She became very depressed and well, she had a breakdown of sorts. We didn’t tell you because we didn’t want to add to your burden.”
“Oh Dad, how terrible for you. You should have told me, I would have come home much sooner.”
“No, no that’s exactly what we didn’t want you to do. She’s okay now, but she’s on quite heavy medication which is why she might seem a little vague to you. But she has days when she’s almost back to her old self again, as long as we just don’t talk about Charlotte.”
The Road from Midnight Page 15