Three weeks later
Chris reaches across for my hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing it lightly, as the stunning vista opens up in front of us. I smile across in his direction leaning my head back against the car headrest, my eyes shaded by Ray-Bans and half closed against the strong Kiwi sun. He turns fleetingly to look over at me, one eye (literally) still on the road ahead as he returns my smile. The old Hebrew saying, ‘my cup runneth over’ is the closest I can come to describing how I feel in this moment, I am so full of love and so so very happy.
“What an absolutely glorious day… and yet another breath-taking view,” I say across in his direction, inhaling sharply as we turn yet another corner and yet another spectacular view literally takes my breath away. Across the bay, multiple headlands jut out from the landscape like knobbly fingers reaching down to dip their nails into the turquoise waters below, all framed by a backdrop of perfect symmetrical peaks and valleys that curve around and hug the glinting waters of the inlet, as if protecting the sacred water.
“Wow!” I say quietly, feeling a solemn reverence for the magnificence of the stunning vista laid out in front of us. “Can we stop the car please? Take a closer look.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Chris says pulling the black Merc over onto the verge, the tyres crunching on the loose gravel at the side of the tarmac.
Behind us the uniform patchwork of the vibrant greens and bright yellows of the Canterbury plains, their rich fertile soil long carved up for arable land by the early European settlers, has been replaced by the undulating peaks smattered with the darker browns, deeper greens and scorched yellows of the rough scrub, grass and woodland of the Banks Peninsula. Chris walks round to my side of the vehicle, holding my door open for me as I step out.
We’ve parked up just outside Charteris Bay. Our vantage point, looking northwards across Whakarupo, past Quail Island and over to the dramatic Port Hills on the opposite side of the inlet, the Christchurch gondola just visible in the distance behind Lyttelton harbour. We drink in the view together as I lean into Chris, my head on his shoulder, his arm behind me, wrapped around my waist. He kisses the top of my head and everything feels so right.
“I’ve been very lucky to have travelled to some amazing places all around the world, Chris,” I say, “but already in the short time I’ve been here, your homeland has captured my heart.” I gesture towards the magnificent view before placing my hand on my chest. Chris remains quiet, allowing me to soak up the jaw-dropping scene and sensing I have more to say. “It’s not just the beauty of the place,” I continue, “which although I’ve seen plenty of pictures from you and Mellie and Mich, which you’d think would have prepared me for seeing your country with my own eyes, but no photograph could have ever prepared me for how this beautiful country has made me feel in here.” I say, tapping the hand that is over my heart. “It’s like the land gives off a physical vibration that resonates with me. I feel its energy. I’ve never felt a connection or a pulse like it. The North East of England is the only other place in the world where I get this same feeling and I’ve always assumed that’s just because it’s where I grew up.”
We stand in silence for a long while, totally comfortable in the peace and tranquility of the view and in each other’s company. We’re en route to Akaroa, choosing to follow the northern coastal route rather than the more direct and faster Highway 75 to the south. Instead we’re travelling around the north side of the peninsula through Governors Bay, to Charteris Bay where we stand now, then onto Diamond Harbour, Port Levy and Pigeon Bay, eventually arriving in the small original French settlement of Akaroa in an hour or so. When we set off from Christchurch earlier, the journey should have only taken around two hours, but now it looks like it may take double that, based on the frequent ‘view stops’ I keep requesting!
The Banks Peninsula to the south east of Christchurch was formed by two large, now dormant, volcanos which have shaped the peninsula’s topography, their craters forming the harbours of Lyttelton on the north of the peninsula and Akaroa on the south. Like much of this fascinating country, I’m fast learning from the guide book that accompanies me everywhere, the area is blessed with dual labels. An original Māori name, shrouded in mythology and meaning and a more recent European name, so designated when the country was settled. The whole peninsula is named after Joseph Banks, the botanist who sailed with Captain James Cook on the Endeavour, whereas the headland of Lyttelton harbour which stretches out in front of us now is known by the Māori as Ōhinetahi, after the only daughter of Manuhiri who although he fathered many sons, had only one daughter. Literally translated, Ōhinetahi means ‘The Place of One Daughter’ and I wonder if that is why I feel my spirit in tune with very this spot. I know what it feels like to be an only daughter. The responsibility and expectation that such a role carries. Perhaps the original Ōhinetahi who gave her name to this beautiful place, also wanted to live up to her father’s expectations. The fear of losing Chris, just like I lost my own father, ever present causing me to want to avoid a repeat of the vivid moments of desperate loneliness that have peppered my life; when I’d changed schools for example, or when I lost contact with my own father, crying to myself in the privacy of my bedroom, the nagging emptiness caused by the void constantly in my heart exaggerated and magnified whenever Chris and I are forced to part. I wonder if it is the energy of this mythical Māori daughter that speaks to me now?
The last two weeks before I finally boarded the plane in London to begin the long journey to travel here I’d been hopping about like an excitable child counting down the days leading up to Christmas. My long-suffering work colleagues having first become accustomed to my intolerable grumpiness, now had to tolerate my now uncontrollable giddiness as my countdown to D-Day ensued. Poor Melanie had to deal with the brunt of my pendulum mood swings. Joyous elation after every phone call with her brother or on receipt of a precious blue airmail letter with my name on it, before my mood would swing back the other way and the deep dark cloud of depression would engulf me once again. The distance between Chris and I seemingly impossible to bridge. She tried her best to coax me out of my depression; inviting me to join her at The Marriott, to soak an hour or two away in the jacuzzi, or out to the Route 66 nightclub in town for a few drinks after work. Even our once fun-filled weekends up to town to see Tim or Michelle, whose pregnant belly seems to be growing by the day, seemed also to have lost their edge, based on my lacklustre enthusiasm for life generally.
When the darkness would descend I struggled to engage with life, instead spending hours (sometimes days) sulking in my own company, crying buckets of tears as the loneliness washed over me. If only I could reach out and touch him, I’d think to myself in those long dark lonely moments. If only for a fleeting second. Feel his body close to mine, hear the sound of his voice whispering in my ear, smell his distinct musky scent. What I would have done to be able to have him near me in those dark moments. My only comfort his t-shirt wrapped around my pillow (his distinct smell fading with every passing day) or the cards and letters I’d received since he left which I would spend hours poring over, attempting to suck every last ounce of him from his poorly scrawled words.
During the long months apart, our only consolation was our brief and strictly timed weekly phone calls. It’s not easy to talk on the telephone over a crackly line with an annoying time-delay, making it difficult for conversation to flow. Still our weekly calls have become our lifeline and we’ve taken it in turn each week to call each other. Even though we’re not able to share much real news on each other’s day to day life in those calls, just hearing his voice and him telling me how much he loves me, makes our ridiculously expensive phone bills all worthwhile.
I believe now that absence really does make the heart grow fonder. The two months we’ve been apart seem to have erased any memories of past disagreements, or at least papered over any cracks that may have appeared in our relationship prior to this separation. Our arguments in Hong Kong and Chris’s volatile moods long forgotten. It’s as if the distance and recent time apart has given us both a new perspective, one where we both appreciate each other more.
I believe in his soul he’s a good man and one that I know loves me deeply.
Part of my need to come here, was my desire to understand this beautiful country and how Chris fits into it. How can I expect to know him fully unless I can understand what has shaped him and made him the person he is? In the short time I’ve been here in Christchurch it’s already blatantly clear to me - he belongs here. Everything about him, from his mannerisms, to his casual dress, to his relaxed slightly blasé attitude towards authority, to his entrepreneurial spirit, to his strength and physical masculinity, all makes sense now.
Like all Kiwis who are descended from British settlers, he was born into a young population, only a few generations on from the original pioneers. Him, like all their descendants carrying the can-do genes, that make them collectively determined to make of their lives what they will, just as their forefathers did before them. They do so without the weight or expectations of centuries old traditions or history that can stifle so much aspiration back home. Although on the surface the UK is a land of equal opportunity, the English culture is still marred by the legacy of our deeply ingrained class system. The unwritten rule of you stay within and marry in the class you were born into still evident in so many parts of our society. Back home you will be judged (even if unconsciously) based on your accent, where you grew up, where and who you went to school with and what your father does for a living - Jeremy, being the perfect example of someone who ticked all those right class boxes. Whereas this beautiful land is a land filled with virgin opportunity and boundary-free dreams.
Only now do I appreciate how hard it must have been for Chris living back in the UK, where life is so much faster, more pressured and peppered with so many unwritten rules. Rules that he was largely unaware of and largely excluded from. He was born for the lifestyle this country offers. He needs to live outdoors, to be in the sun, to make up his own rules, to have few cares in the world and to build a life based on his own hard work and efforts, and one that is not thwarted by the unwritten rules of a culture with more rigidity than he’s used to.
I’ve seen a different side to Chris since I’ve arrived. More relaxed, and his childlike sense of fun and mischief has gone through the roof!
We both know that my visit to New Zealand, although fantastic, is only a temporary solution to our longer-term problems, but we intend to make the most of it. I’m determined to soak up as much of Chris as I can in these few weeks, like over-indulging on rich calorific food until you feel your stomach wants to burst, knowing that a famine is just around the corner. However, I wasn’t expecting how easily I too have fit into his homeland.
“Come on,” Chris says after we’ve imprinted the view to memory, “let’s see what’s around the next corner and the corner after that and the one after that,” he jokes as we both climb back into the car and continue our journey onto Akaroa.
It takes about another hour to reach the colonial outpost of Akaroa. Originally settled by the French, the small town retains much of its pretty colonial architecture. Wooden panelled Victorian villas with wraparound verandas lining the main street look as if they haven’t changed since the mid-1800s when the area was first settled. It’s a quaint seaside town, nestled on the side of Akaroa Harbour on the opposite side of the Bank Peninsula to Lyttelton Harbour. The town is thin and long, spreading along the side of the water, all of the houses, cafes and few small hotels facing outwards towards the inlet, making the most of the views from the shoreline.
We park up at the top of Beach Road before taking a slow amble round past the turquoise waters of French Bay and down towards Glen Bay. It’s a scorching hot day. Around 37 degrees, the hottest it’s been since I’ve arrived, the heat making anything more than a slow amble impossible.
We stop off at L’Hotel, taking a seat at the end of the bar inside, eager to have a break from the hot sun, turning our barstools round so we can see the view beyond the open verandah while we sit side by side eating lunch. I’ve noticed that many Kiwi bars or cafes offer complimentary jugs of iced water to their customers which is usually laid out on a tray at the end of the bar, and L’Hotel is no different. An inviting glass jug filled with iced water and slices of fresh lemon and orange sits next to me, together with stacked glasses, ready for anyone to help themselves. It’s a nice way to entice people inside, I suppose.
Having poured both myself and Chris a glass of the cool fresh water, feeling mischievous, I dip my finger into my glass and flick a light spray of water across towards Chris, who is finishing off a bowl of mussels, and dipping his bread into the bottom of his bowl to soak up the last of the juices.
“Hey,” he says, taken by surprise, “what ya doing, ya olde goose? Two can play at that game you know,“ he says picking up his glass and returning my initial spray with one from his own glass. We’re the only ones inside the bar, all the other patrons having chosen to eat outside in the sunshine, and there is no one behind the bar, which is just as well, as our game of spraying each other with finger flicks of water continues. The pair of us squealing loudly when either one of us scores a bullseye. Our game begins to escalate as we start to chase each other around the floor, glasses of water in hand, as we continue to dip our fingers in and spray each other.
I try and chase Chris across the wooden floor, but he gets away from me before I have a chance to reach him, my intention now to chuck my entire glass of water over him. But before I know what has happened, he’s flipped round and caught me around my waist, holding me from behind with his left arm as he puts his glass down on the bar.
“Oh no you don’t, you little minx,” he says mischievously, first tickling me so that I lose all my strength and power to be able to fight back. Then before I have a chance to break free he picks up the full glass of iced water off the bar next to him and tips the entire jug over the top of my head. The freezing cold water making me gasp as it hits my skin, before sploshing onto the bar floor in a big wet puddle. The pair of us fall into each other’s arms in fits of giggles.
“Oh my God, Chris! You’re mad. You’re going to get us thrown out.”
“Aw, what’s your worry. It’s only water. It’ll dry.”
“Do you mean me or the floor?” I say holding out my drenched t-shirt in front of me, in a feeble to attempt to stop it sticking to my body and making me look like a contestant in a wet t-shirt competition.
“Both,” he says laughing, throwing down some cash onto the waiting receipt tray on the top of the bar.
“Well if you’re sure you’ve drenched me enough, I think we’d better scarper,” I add, grabbing his hand as we run laughing, out of the bar together, before the waiter returns and hands each of us a mop to clean up.
Thirty minutes later we’re out on the water having jumped onboard an organised boat tour for day trippers around the bay. It would seem impossible for the glorious scenery to become anymore spectacular yet seeing it from the water gives a new perspective. The bay is hugged by undulating protective peaks. The ripples of the surface water glistens in the bright sunshine. When we reach the middle of the inlet the skipper kills the engine, allowing us to float and bob in the peace and tranquility, the only sound the soft rhythmic lapping of the waves against the hull of the boat.
Suddenly Chris shouts, “Over there,” pointing to the starboard side of the boat, where a pod of dolphins, leaping and dancing above the waves, comes into view. Within seconds they are next to us, circling the boat, becoming acquainted with us, their dorsal fins breaking above the waterline before disappearing underneath again. Some are furiously paddling their tail flukes to raise themselves seemingly vertical out of the water, mouths wide open as they click and squeak for food. I’ve only ever seen dolphins before in captivity in places like Sea World, so to see them for the first time in the wild is wonderful.
As tempting as it is to throw in any offerings we may have scraping around the bottom of our bags, our commentator reminds us that no matter how cute or encouraging they are we’re not to feed them. These are wild dolphins that must not become reliant on humans for their food.
Native to New Zealand, Hector’s dolphins are one of the smallest and rarest of all marine dolphins. Their bodies much shorter than the more common bottle-nose dolphin, the type most people think of, when you think of a dolphin. I can also see from the ones bobbing along beside us that they have distinct black and white facial markings, which adds to their cheekiness, and I think fits beautifully with the black and white colours of the national identity.
“It’s almost a year ago since you first told me about these beauties,” I say to Chris, “do you remember? It was in the back garden when we had that barbecue, not long after you first arrived in the UK. It’s seems mad to be here now. Within touching distance of these rare creatures. They’re so gorgeous.”
“Of course I remember,” he says, hugging me tightly from behind, planting a kiss on my right shoulder as we stand looking out over the side of the boat watching the dolphins who continue to sing and dance for us. “I spent the afternoon slaving over the hot coals, whilst slyly ogling you the whole time.”
“Is that what that was?” I say laughing, “and there was me, thinking you were just making polite conversation.”
“I absolutely would have made a play for you that day - if you hadn’t been involved with that dickhead at the time.”
“Don’t be nasty, Chris,” my tone sharpening slightly to make it clear I don’t want him to be disrespectful to Jeremy. “Jeremy was a lovely guy, and I still feel guilty about how I ended things with him.”
“I know. But you did the right thing. You weren’t in love with him, and I wanted you so badly. Nothing was going to stop me getting what I wanted. What’s happened to the Jeremy? Have you heard anything since?”
“Tim tells me he’s got a new girlfriend and seems quite settled. I think they’ve moved out of London, though. Tim says he doesn’t see him that much anymore.” I feel Chris visibly tense behind me when I mention Tim’s name.
I look out across the bright blue water, feeling Chris hugging me even tighter as he stands behind me, the dolphins still playing their happy games in the water beside us. The skipper restarts the engine, causing me to grip the siderail tightly as the boat begins to pull away and I momentarily lose my balance. The dolphins play a different game now, as they chase the bow wave at the front of the boat, putting on an impressive display leaping out of the water before diving back down again, some twirling in the air before landing back into the water, flat on their backs and causing large splash waves to shoot up through the air.
“Well it doesn’t matter now. Now I have you all to myself and you belong to me. I don’t intend to share you with anybody ever again, not ever. You’re mine, all mine!”
I think about what Chris has just said. The gravitas of his comment sitting uneasily with me. Once again, he has shown that his ugly jealous streak is always bubbling just below the surface. Or am I just being too sensitive? Isn’t it every woman’s dream to belong to someone? To be somebody’s other half. To want to give themselves willingly to a strong powerful man who will make them feel safe and wanted? So why does it feel that when Chris says something like this, it has the opposite effect on me? Rather than make me feel closer to him, it makes me want to break free. To push him away and run. I should be flattered, but instead I’m wary. Wary of losing my sense of who I am, especially when I feel like, since meeting Chris, I’m beginning to discover who that person really is.
Back on shore, we take another leisurely stroll along Beach Road, the heat bouncing off the tarmac and doubling the intensity of the sun hitting our faces. We attempt to stay cool with another stop for refreshments, before finally making our way back to the car. Driving north out of Akaroa, intending this time to take the faster Highway 75 back to Christchurch past Lake Elsmere, without warning, Chris suddenly bears left off the main road.
“I have an idea,” he says parking up on Children’s Bay Road. Before I even have an opportunity to quiz him, he jumps out of the car and runs down the beach shedding his clothes as he goes. “Come on, let’s go for a dip,” he shouts back towards me as I climb out of the car shaking my head in bemused amusement.
“But I don’t have my togs with me!” I say using the Kiwi word for swimming costume. I’m finding myself using more and more of the local Kiwi references on a day to day basis now.
“Who said anything about togs, Vicky?” Chris laughs, as he strips off his boxer shorts and throws them to the ground as he continues full pelt (and now completely stark-bollock naked) down the beach and into the water, his clothes discarded in a dishevelled trail behind him.
“You’re mad,” I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Come on in, Vicky. The water’s lovely,” he says, splashing around like a child, his modesty covered as he’s comfortably submerged from the waist down.
“But what if someone sees us?”
“Who’s gonna see us? There’s no one around. And even if they do, what are they gonna say? Come on. Stop overthinking everything, ya olde goose, get naked and get your sexy arse in the water now!” he orders, beckoning me forward with his finger a child-like grin plastered all over his face.
“Oh well. In for a penny…” I reply as I too begin to run down the deserted beach, peeling off my t-shirt, bra, shorts and knickers as I go, before running into the water to hide my nakedness. Jumping through the shallows and leaping on Chris causing us both to fall backwards in the water, our laughter echoing off the steep hills that protect this fantastic hidden beauty spot.
***
The following day, we all hang out together at Lynne’s house. Chris and I, together with Lynne, Dean, Lisa and the kids - Dean and his family having travelled down from Auckland for the weekend to visit their grandmother and I also believe, so that they can check me out.
Lynne’s house is a modest, four-bed detached, set back from River Road in Richmond, a pleasant leafy suburb about ten minutes’ drive, or a half hour walk, from Christchurch city centre. Typical of the style of most of the homes in the suburbs, Lynne’s house is a single storey, Californian style timber frame modern bungalow with a large open plan living space that flows seamlessly from the kitchen/diner through to the lounge. A separate corridor leads off to the bedrooms and bathrooms, some of which open out directly onto the deck outside. The private garden is a little sun trap and there is a welcome pool to cool off in at the bottom of the garden, surrounded by a high security fence as is the legal requirement over here. When the large bi-folding doors that lead out of the kitchen/diner are opened fully, the flow from the inside to the outside appears seamless. It’s my perfect kind of house, a true example of how the right architecture and layout can support the kind of easy outdoor lifestyle that most of us back in the UK aspire to.
Chris’s bedroom, rather than being one of the main larger bedrooms, which are saved for guests and visiting family members, is a smaller but more than comfortable room at the back of the house. Although snug, he’d thoughtfully prepared his room for my arrival by making space in the wardrobe for my clothes and clearing an area next to the sink in his bathroom for all my toiletries. I think back to when I first moved in with Steve all those years ago, when I was greeted by a dirty house, an unmade bed and skid marks in the toilet. How nice, I’d thought to myself when I’d first seen how Chris had thoughtfully prepared for my arrival, after our joyous reunion at the airport.
Even in the short time I’ve been in New Zealand, I’ve been completely charmed by Christchurch. It’s a beautiful city and reminds me of Cambridge or Oxford back in the UK. Partly, I think, because of the River Avon that meanders leisurely from the city centre through Richmond, flowing onwards past New Brighton before reaching Pegasus Bay and the South Pacific beyond. Not a large river, such as the Thames in London or the Tyne in my home city of Newcastle, rather the Avon is a smaller more refined river shaded by weeping willows and framed by soft grassy banks. It’s as if she calls out to you saying, “Hey, take a load off. Come and sit a while,” and I’ve already found myself drawn to her banks on more than one occasion, to read a book or simply watch the world go by, waving to the friendly folk who punt lazily along her calm waters, passing under the intricate white painted cast iron foils of the Hamish Hay Bridge in Victoria Park.
Christchurch, located in what was originally a sparsely populated windswept area, boomed after the arrival of ‘The Four Ships’ that landed in Lyttelton in 1850, bringing with them around 800 Anglican settlers. The elegant neo-gothic architecture, which is everywhere, oozes with the self-confidence of these nineteenth-century pioneers, while the symmetry of the city’s grid-iron street plan hints at the order and structure the original leaders clearly hoped to instil in the population of this young city. Many of the public buildings, including the impressive gothic cathedral, are made from local stone rather than more traditional tōtara and mataī timber, as the original Scottish stonemasons were more comfortable working with stone than wood. It’s not hard to imagine a time when the 200-feet spire of the imposing cathedral would have been the tallest structure on the entire South Island. Rather than feel like I’m on the opposite side of the world, this city is so quintessentially English I feel like I could be in the Cotswolds.
Over the past week or so, Chris and I have slipped into an easy routine. He will rise early and spend the morning taking care of his business, following up any sales leads that may have come in for any of the cars, meanwhile I use the morning to sunbathe on the deck or go and workout, swimming 50 or so lengths in the pool at Queen Elizabeth II Park (a leftover legacy from the 1974 Commonwealth games) or I’ll wander into the city centre and browse around the shops and local attractions before sitting on the banks of the Avon in Victoria Park to read. In the afternoons we’ll hang out together on the beach at Sumner or head off on a day trip. It’s a charmed easy life, one I could quite easily become used to it.
Once again, it’s a glorious bright sunny day as Lisa and I are indoors preparing the salads and jacket potatoes that are to accompany our family barbecue, Chris and Dean having taken charge of the meat and the outside grill. Just as in the UK when I hung out with Lynne, Michelle and Melanie, hanging out now with Chris’s New Zealand based rellies feels equally as comfortable. They are a naturally warm and hospitable family and it feels nice to finally get to know Dean and his family, as he is the last remaining sibling of Chris’s I’d yet to meet.
Peals of laughter can be heard from outside where Lynne is playing with her grandchildren as Lisa and I stand side by side preparing the food in the kitchen. Lisa is tiny in stature, but I sense strong and powerful in character. When stood next to Dean, who is even bigger and broader than his brother, she looks small enough for him to pick up and fit straight in his pocket. Long dark glossy hair, a pretty heart-shaped face punctuated by dark intriguing eyes that draw you in and a slender well-toned runner’s body, she is a warm and captivating woman. Although very softly spoken (I can’t ever imagine her raising her voice in anger) everything she says is considered and kind. I feel she is an old soul who has walked this earth before and therefore possesses a wisdom that transcends her age.
Standing side by side chopping salad ingredients we chat easily as we get to know one another. She shares tales of Dean and Chris before I knew him, causing us to giggle and snigger as she reveals hidden secrets and another perspective on Chris’s history. It’s clear she has a strong affection for Chris and it matters to her how happy he is.
“So how did you two get together?” she asks.
“Long story,” I reply, not giving much away. “Obviously I first met Chris almost a year ago now when he first came over to the UK for the summer and crashed on the sofa at the house Mel and I share. It was complicated for a while as I was dating someone else, but we finally got together at Michelle’s 30th birthday party. She helped set us up.”
“Reeeeally?” she says, amusement in her voice on learning this new information. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. She set up the sleeping arrangements so that Chris and I ended up in the living room together. I was on the floor, him on the sofa. It was the complete opposite of what you could call a romantic seduction. Let’s just say an airbed was involved!” I laugh at the memory. “What about you and Dean? How long have you guys been together?”
“Eight years now, although we had a bit of a rocky start at the beginning. Like you, I was also dating someone else. But I suspect just like Chris, once Dean decides he wants something, which in our case was me, he wasn’t going to stop until he had what he wanted.”
“Yes, yes. It was just like that with Chris. I didn’t realise until after we’d got together, and he told me how determined he’d been to woo me. He’d basically decided the first time he’d laid eyes on me that, as he puts it, ‘I wanted you from the very first moment I saw you, Vicky’,” I say dramatically, emphasising the words Chris first shared with me that first night.
“They’re both very determined men, Vicky. I became pregnant not long after we got together, so that was that really. So there was no going back even if I’d wanted to.”
What an interesting thing to say, I think to myself. Almost as if by becoming pregnant Lisa believed she no longer had any choice in whether to stay with Dean or not. “Did you both know instantly that it was the right thing… to have the baby, I mean?”
It takes Lisa a long time to answer. The sound of our chopping a welcome distraction from my loaded question which hangs in the air between us. I sense I’ve hit a nerve. I only hope I haven’t offended her.
Eventually she replies. “Well obviously, I wouldn’t have it any other way now. I’m very grateful for my two beautiful children, and not keeping it wasn’t really an option for Dean. So even though I was completely terrified he convinced me that it would be OK and that we’d make it work, but I do wonder occasionally what else I could have done with my life if I hadn’t had my children when I did. If we’d perhaps postponed it for a few more years at least.”
“Well, as you say, you wouldn’t have your gorgeous children now - and they are gorgeous by the way,” I reply, the sound of their laughter drifting in through the patio doors as their dad and uncle twirl them around in the air above their heads in some sort of play fight.
“I’m very happy Chris has met you, Vicky,” she says, putting down her knife and reaching over to place her hand on top of mine giving it a slight squeeze as she turns to look at me. “He deserves to find someone that makes him happy, and he’s the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him. He’s not had an easy time of it, what with his eye and everything.”
“I’m pleased you think so, Lisa. I’ve had the most amazing time over the past year with him. Chris landed unexpectedly in my life like the whirlwind that he is, and hey, I wouldn’t be here with you all now if we hadn’t of met,” I say lightly, despite the uneasy mix of emotions her words cause me to feel. I know I’ve never fallen this deeply for anyone ever before and when Chris and I are apart it causes me physical pain, so why still do I have a nagging doubt whenever someone points at how suited we are, or how much in love we look?
I know we haven’t had the smoothest of rides but there’s no doubt Chris makes me feel more like a woman than any other person ever has in my life. He was awoken something in me that I’d only observed in others before - like the time I’d been so moved by Sylvie Guillem’s performance of the Boléro at Hampton Court. I’m having a far better time than I could have imagined whilst I’m here visiting Christchurch, and I’m beginning to imagine what life could be like living here permanently. Everything on the surface appears so perfect, so why the continuous internal questioning? What is it my gut senses, that I’m not acknowledging consciously?
“Absolutely,” she says, “you do realise we have a shared comradeship, Vicky. We’re both in love with two brothers, the only male siblings in this family group and I know how complicated and infuriating they can both be. So if you ever want to talk or offload, I’m probably the only person who can appreciate your point of view, so you’ll always have my ear. If you ever need it that is.”
“That’s exceptionally kind of you, Lisa,” I reply sincerely, “and regardless, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and Dean a lot more. It’s unlikely we’ll get up to the North Island in the short time I have left, but another trip maybe.” She smiles warmly at me, as we connect in a shared understanding and appreciation.
“Oi, oi, what are you two lovely ladies yakking about?” Chris asks, as he and his brother make their way into the kitchen, both of them sliding up behind their respective women. Dean wrapping his arms around Lisa’s waist and Chris doing the same to me.
Lisa gently slaps Dean’s hand as he reaches round her and pinches some of the food off one of the platters we’ve prepared. “Oi, paws off. You can wait until it’s served, just like everyone else.”
“Aw, but you know I deserve special treatment,” he says cheekily reminding me of Chris. The pair are like two peas in a pod, strikingly similar in both character and manner.
Ignoring her and taking another handful, stuffing it into his mouth he muffles, “The meat’s ready. What needs taking outside?”
“Nothing if you keep pinching it before it’s served,” Lisa replies. “Here, take these,” she says, handing him two of the large platters that contain two different salads. “And Chris, you can grab the plates and cutlery. Vicky and I will bring the jacket potatoes out in a minute.”
Once the men have left she turns to me again, saying, “Remember what I said Vicky… anytime. You’ll always have my ear, or my support, if you ever need it.”
“Thank you, Lisa. It means so much,” I reply, hugging her warmly, before we go and join the rest of the family outside in the warm sunshine