An Impossible Thing Called Love

by Belinda Missen

  * * *

  Christmas morning began with sweltering temperatures, wrapping paper strewn across the house, and the smell of lunch wafting through from the backyard where it was already set to cook. Even though I’d told everyone not to get me anything, they’d chipped in and, after arranging it with Heather, had got me a lovely little gift card for my favourite clothing shop in London. I was beyond thrilled, though I made them promise they all had to come and have lunch with me next year.

  Family arrived, seemingly one or two at a time, and then all at once, extra tables and chairs spread out across a backyard that would normally feel quite large. It was nice to be back in the throng, among aunties and uncles, long unseen cousins, and the platters of seafood and nibbles, party hats and Christmas crackers. I was a thing of curiosity, questioned for miles about life in another country, but there was one question I deflected each time it was raised: ‘So, who’s the lucky fella?’

  Good question. Or, maybe that should have been: Where’s the lucky fella?

  I tried to call again just after lunch, assuming it was enough of an allowance for the time difference, for William to crawl bleary-eyed out of his toasty warm bed and get started for the day. If he was already in Paris, which was his Christmas, maybe I’d been using the wrong phone number. No, I told myself, roaming would see him right. I dropped my phone in the pocket of my shorts and tried to forget about it.

  And, then, right as I was in the backyard on bottle duties with my nephew and shooing away flies, the chatter seemed to drown out to a whisper. I thought maybe I had a rogue vomit somewhere down my back, because it had happened, but when Frankie wrestled Aaron away and spun me around like we were prepping for Pin the Tail on the Donkey, it wasn’t vomit at all.

  ‘Hello, Bored.’ He smiled. ‘I’m William.’

  ‘No!’ I laughed.

  I’d never before felt such a mix of wonder, relief, and excitement all at once. Though, I wasn’t sure how he felt as he stood there looking like he’d worn his own clothes through the washing machine and, possibly, hadn’t slept in days.

  ‘Please tell me you travel business class, because that flight was balls,’ he joked, to the amusement of his audience.

  My knee buckled as I stepped down from the back porch and onto the grassed area. If I made the short walk across to him without face-planting, I’d be quite happy with being thrown up on again at some stage later today. It seemed like a fair trade.

  ‘It’s good to see you.’ I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tighter than I ever had. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ He drew back to look at me. ‘Wasn’t quite sure what I’d do if you said bugger off.’

  ‘I’m quite okay with this.’

  ‘Good, because I think I just lost a day, didn’t I?’

  ‘Sort of, but you have travelled forward in time,’ I said.

  ‘Makes sense. I am a doctor.’

  I skipped introductions and instead opted to drag William inside and lock him into my bedroom. Except, we didn’t do a lot other than look at each other for the first few minutes. He dropped his coat and backpack on the bed, finished tearing his tie off and found the air-conditioner vent to stand under.

  ‘It’s like breathing in lukewarm water here. It’s awful.’

  ‘I’m really glad you’re here,’ I said. ‘Because I have a lot of things I need to say to you.’

  ‘Can I go first?’ He pinched at his chest and fanned his shirt. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ I leant against my old desk that had been transplanted to my new room, complete with world map and teenage graffiti. ‘I think it’s actually me who owes you an apology. I’ve held you to this sometimes ridiculously high standard when, as it turned out, I was doing all the things I accused you of, to other people. So, not only am I a hypocrite, I’m a stupid one at that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had coffee with Craig the other day.’ I scratched at my forehead. ‘And he said something that just made everything click.’

  William looked at me warily, the mention of the ex-boyfriend. ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was asking how I was, how things were with you.’

  ‘Really? He asked about me?’

  ‘He did,’ I chuckled. ‘And all he said was, “I wish you’d told me about who he was sooner, so I didn’t have to find out about him the way I did.” All I could think of was that moment at work when I found out about you being married, and said something very similar to you.’

  ‘I never did any of that out of a place of … malice.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Maybe some of the stuff at the start, I was genuinely being hurtful. I don’t have an excuse for that. I just shouldn’t have done it. But the whole Angela thing, and then the letters. It was over before you arrived, so no excuse to not tell you. I can’t whip out some bullshit about trying to protect you, because that’s all contradictory. I think I know why, and it was as simple as I just loved spending time with you, and I wanted to keep us in that little bubble.’

  ‘It was a nice place to be.’

  He smiled. ‘It really was, wasn’t it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And the letters? Well, you were right – they’re a thing of celebration, so I should have just said something. I think I was hoping to just pack everything away until after the divorce and then show you, thinking everything would be totally fine when it wasn’t.’

  ‘Well, I was the fool who said she wanted to wait for all that to be done, too, so maybe that’s another one on me, too.’

  ‘What I want to say, I suppose, is that I have seen people take their first breaths and I’ve seen them take their last. And the only, only thing that these two moments have in common is love. No matter who they were, they were surrounded by love. For me, that means you. You are my love. You, our letters, and everything they stood for – even when we thought they were just silly ramblings, which many of them probably were, but they always said more than that. You are who I want to surround myself with – as impossible a thing as we are. Statistically speaking, we should not be. I mean, how many times do you go around getting punched in the face? But here we are, which is why I need to hold onto you all that much tighter.’

  ‘Oh, God, that is so getting you laid,’ I said through laughter. And maybe a few tears.

  His beautiful face wrinkled up into a tired but satisfied smile. ‘Not if I don’t pass out first, I am absolutely shattered from that flight.’

  ‘Seriously, though.’ I stepped forward and threading my fingers through his hair. ‘I did my share of stupid things, too.’

  ‘I realised very early on how ridiculously much I loved you and was petrified that you’d hit your six months and disappear again. So, I scrambled like an egg.’

  ‘I love you too much to do that,’ I said quietly. All I could think about was how he smelt like home. ‘Start over?’

  He leant in and kissed me. Soft and slow, I was suddenly wide awake in the face of a food coma, and feeling everything – the flutter of deep breaths against lips, the brush of his unshaven jaw, and the roar of hearts that beat to our own song. This is how Edinburgh was supposed to end last time, a long slow kiss under the fireworks before walking off into the dead of night. The moment it felt like he was moving away, I slipped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

  ‘I really missed this part,’ he mumbled.

  I laughed against his mouth. ‘Just this part?’

  ‘Oh, there are other parts, just being socially appropriate.’ He wobbled his head about playfully. ‘You know.’

  ‘You? Socially appropriate? I won’t hear of it.’

  ‘Hey, Em.’

  I held the back of his neck and scratched my fingers through his hair. ‘What?’

  ‘One last thing.’

  I regarded him with uncertainty. ‘Yes?’

  William leant back and rustled through
the front pocket of his backpack, a tattered envelope plucked out of obscurity. He pulled out a piece of paper and turned it to face me. ‘Your Death List has one thing left on it.’

  ‘Hogmanay,’ I mumbled. ‘Really?’

  ‘We have tickets,’ he said. ‘If you’re keen, that is?’

  Chapter 34

  From our hidden vantage point at the top of the hill, we had the perfect view of Edinburgh. We’d started the night much the same way we had a few years before, with dancing, dinner, and a few drinks in the same tiny pub we first visited together. This time, we made sure we were out in the street and on our way well before the clock struck midnight.

  William’s trip to Sydney was a whirlwind to say the least. He fit in fantastically with family, who were both curious and excited about their new family. When I hadn’t heard his laugh filter through the yard, I went looking for him, only to find him fast asleep on top of my bed.

  Accounting for flights William had booked into Edinburgh, we had exactly four and a half days to cram in all of the things he wanted to see. It was impossible to get to everything, but Bondi Beach was easy enough, as was the boozy lunch and stroll around Darling Harbour. We took a ferry to Manly, which proved to be a thing of wonderment for William, even though it was just a normal part of life me. He likened my lack of enthusiasm for this to his own lack of enthusiasm for the Tube. Still, we were cramming things in right up until we boarded our flight home.

  We slid from one celebration to another after landing in Edinburgh as smidge after midday on December 30th. From the airport to the hotel, and directly onto the torchlight, where I absolutely did not tempt fate by getting involved in any of the arguments we saw break out.

  Not minding the lack of sleep, we were still jazzed after days of touring, talking, and enjoying the company of each other’s bodies. We crashed heavily our first night, sleeping until after midday, and enjoying a slow stroll through the city that culminated in us now, up on the hill with a tray of coffees and a bag of hot jam donuts beside us.

  ‘So, Emmy, got any resolutions?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I popped a yeasty morsel in my mouth. ‘I was thinking nursing school.’

  ‘Sexy.’ He looked at me approvingly. ‘As in nursing your own child, or getting a nurse’s outfit, because both are completely cool with me.’

  I laughed. ‘Nurse’s outfit. You can close the baby door for a little while.’

  ‘But, but, but…’ He leant into my line of site, hair sprawled across my lap. ‘You just look so good with a baby in your arms.’

  ‘I’m not saying I don’t want one. I’m just saying maybe let’s just enjoy this for a little while, have fun.’ I pushed William off of me. ‘What about you? What are your plans?’

  ‘I have a few thoughts on that.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Well,’ he began. ‘I wouldn’t mind my own practice. I’ve thought about moving out of London, getting a place in some tiny town somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to leave London. I’m comfortable in your place, my place, wherever I split my time.’

  ‘Does that mean you want to move in?’

  I chuckled. ‘You are straight on in there, aren’t you? Setting up house, making babies.’

  ‘Both of those are fun options.’ He pointed at me. ‘Especially the making part.’

  ‘Oh, good Lord.’

  ‘Alright, how about this.’ He held his hands up when I went to say something. ‘Let’s just make like Paris and see what happens? Nothing concrete, minds open to what the world gives us.’

  ‘I like that plan.’

  William leant in and kissed me, just as the first firework exploded in the sky above us and, if that wasn’t the most perfect way to end a night, then I had no idea what was. When it came down to it, in this moment, I would have relived the last six months of my life all over again, just to experience something this pure.

  Acknowledgements

  As it turns out, book two is actually harder than book one. Even if book two is actually book seven, but was originally book one about four years ago. I know, hectic, right?

  The first version of this book was self-published in 2015, and it’s been quite the adventure ever since. Getting the original version out of my head and trying to reimagine William and Emmy’s story was difficult and took a little longer than anticipated. It was all very Doctor Strange navigating the mirror dimension. But, here we are. We’re done. I think. It’s time for the credits to roll.

  Since I feel like I missed thanking a whole heap of people after A Recipe for Disaster, you’re stuck listening to me prattle on today.

  Kathy Palmer – the first stranger to tell me you loved my work, in a very long message, very early one morning. I still have that message printed out and tacked up on my notice board. Thank you so much for your endless support, and I hope you love this version as much as you loved the original.

  Kat Betts – for answering all my stupid grammar questions and keeping me occupied in the midnight hours.

  Hannah Smith – thank you for offering this over-excited idiot a contract. I’m not going to question why, I’m just going to roll with it.

  Charlotte Mursell & the HQ Digital team – thank you for the patience, the covers, the support, and for letting me email in a panic at 2am. This past year has been spectacular to say the very least. I’m sure this is only the beginning. Looking forward to seeing you all soon.

  Rebecca Raisin – you, my friend, are a rare find. Wading into the world of publishing is confusing enough for a newbie. Your advice and counsel have been priceless. I’m so glad I have you to bounce from. London awaits us.

  Hannah Membrey – from that strangely fantastic weekend at UNSW, to today. Thank you so much for the laughs, the re-reads, the bouncing of ideas, and the edits. You were there in that pokey Sydney hotel last August when A Recipe for Disaster was born. And you’ve been there to make sure this book especially is way better than the original ever could have been. Words cannot express my gratitude. I only hope that we’re pulling 3am finishes to finish your own book soon.

  Cheryl Farinola – my sister from another mister. Though, you never know what our genealogy studies will turn up. I love you. You’ve got this.

  Shane McInerney – you are the best person I’ve ever met.

  Last but not least, to anyone who bought, reviewed, Tweeted, or contacted me about A Recipe for Disaster, thank you so much for trusting me with those funny little things we call words. I’m just glad my humour translated, and that you enjoyed the read. Random Tweets first thing in the morning make it all worthwhile.

  See you next time,

  B. xo

  The next book from Belinda Missen, Lessons in Love, is coming in May 2019!

  Turn the page for an exclusive extract from A Recipe for Disaster, another enchanting story from Belinda Missen…

  Chapter 1

  Wedding cakes have always fascinated me. When I was a young girl, they’d be the centrepiece of any drawing I fashioned up in school. Big ones, small ones, plain white ones with that awful marzipan icing, or the ornate beauty of a royal fairy tale. I marvelled at television programmes that featured cakes; each one of them a work of art. Someone had spent hours toiling away in a kitchen, hair in a net, poring over finer details of lace, ganache, height, and taste.

  Now that job was mine.

  As a baker, it was almost a shame to see your work sliced and served in greasy paper bags at the end of a long night. I’d woken after countless events to find a squashed slice of chocolate mud in the bottom of my handbag. I hated to think of wedding cakes ending their life like that, but I also loved seeing them enjoyed.

  The history of the wedding cake was simple, stretching back to the time of Arthur and Camelot. Wealth, prosperity, fertility, and good luck were all said to come from consuming said baked delight. For me? It was all about the art. Was the icing set? Did I get that flower just right? What about the topper? Is the cake even cooked? Never mind the brides t
hey were designed for.

  Today, my bride was Edith. Keeper of chickens and knitter of ugly sweaters, she lived exactly four houses away from me in our not always quiet country town of Inverleigh, ninety minutes south-west of Melbourne. It was home to exactly one pub, one general store – which served as bank, post office, chippy, and advice line – a restaurant that closed twelve months earlier, and a football team. In two hours’ time, Edith was marrying Barry – a not-so-handsome football player with a thrice-broken nose and a penchant for homebrew strong enough to blind even the most seasoned of drinkers.

  ‘Are you listening?’ Edith’s screech verged on delirium.

  ‘I am absolutely listening,’ I said, hearing her bridesmaids cluck away in the background. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready?’

  ‘I am ready – I’ve been ready for hours.’ She yawned. ‘Is the cake still all right?’

  The night before had been a last-minute panic over the cake being “too naked”, and whether I couldn’t “just add some more flowers”. I’d been at the florist at first crack of the door lock to get extra coverage, before dashing home to fill the gaps and please the bride. A quick dozen photo messages confirmed everything was in order, even if that cake now looked like it had sprouted a pubic region somewhere towards its front.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ I smiled.

  Sitting on the turntable in front of me were three layers of white chocolate and citrus mud deliciousness. A semi-nude cake, it was iced in soft lemon-gelati-flavoured meringue buttercream, and adorned with a selection of native flowers. Pink waratahs sat with golden wattle, grey-green eucalypt leaves and their gumnuts. I stood back and admired it again to the soundtrack of a grumbling tummy. Perfect.

  ‘Do you think it’s bad luck?’ Edith interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘What’s bad luck?’ I asked.

  In my bathroom, the shower stopped running.