“Pass me the roller,” Michelle asks turning towards me, leaning back to stretch, her hands pressed into the base of her spine as she curves backwards, her modest bump protruding out in front of her.
“Here you go,” I say, passing her the reloaded paint roller, so she doesn’t have to bend down to reach the tray of paint which is parked on top of the dust-sheet covered carpet. We’re decorating the second bedroom of her flat in Russell Square, to get it ready for the baby coming, which although still a good four months away, she wants to get done before she gets too big and heavy. Having decided not to find out the sex of their unborn child, Michelle and David have opted for a non-gender specific light mint green paint to freshen up the room.
“This colour is going to look lovely, Michelle, once it’s dried,” I say standing back to admire our handiwork. “I’ll give your back a rub later if you like,” I add looking over in her direction. Her discomfort and backache obvious as her pregnancy progresses.
“Oh, that would be lovely, Vic-to-ria. Thank you,” Michelle is the only member of Chris’s family that calls me by my full name, often exaggerating the annunciation. I’ve noticed she does this to Chris as well. She’ll call him Chris when she talks about him but will call him Chris-to-pher to his face. I love that she does this to me as well. It makes me feel accepted. Part of her tribe.
Six weeks have passed since I arrived back from New Zealand and in that time, as I’d hoped I’ve secured a new job up in London which I start a week on Monday. Melanie has already moved out of the house we shared in Wootton Bassett having accepted a transfer to another location. As I suspected she was ready to make her next move and glad of our joint decision to let the lease go on the house we were sharing in Wiltshire.
“It’s been emotional,” she’d said after we finished cleaning the house from top to bottom a couple of weekends ago, hugging me warmly before packing up her rented car to move her gear to the new house she’ll be sharing with a new housemate.
“I know. What was it you’d said to me on that very first night after I’d left Steve and we went clubbing… ‘let the games begin’?” I’d said, mirroring the overly dramatic hand gestures she used at the time. “Well I think it’s fair to say, Melanie, games have definitely been had!”
“Indeed,” she replied. “A new chapter for both of us. Hey, what you crying for, Chook? We’ll be seeing each other again very soon. I’ll catch up with you when Chris gets back, or we’re bound to bump into each other at Michelle’s in the very near future.”
Looking into Mellie’s glassy eyes I could tell that she was also holding back the tears that threatened to spill over. “I know. Ignore me. I’m being silly,” I’d said. “It’s just that this feels like the end of an era, Mel. So much has happened since we met and became friends,” I said, closing her car door, leaning in through the driver’s window to give her a final hug.
“It was meant to be. Take care, Vicky. Love you,” she said, finishing our conversation, her right hand waving out of the car window as she drove away.
A sense of sadness had washed over me as I’d walked back inside the little house that was once so full of life, now noticeably devoid of any noise or company. The space seeming huge with only me in it. Walking solemnly back into the kitchen I’d flicked the switch on the kettle, wrapping my own arms around myself as I’d waited for it to boil. Once again, I was alone. All alone, but then again, growing up as an only child it was a familiar feeling, if an unwelcome one.
I’m due to move up to London permanently next weekend, bunking in with Michelle, and starting my new job on Monday morning in the City, which is why I’m here this weekend helping Michelle to decorate, so that her second bedroom is ready for my temporary occupation before being converted into the nursery once I move out. David is away this weekend at a conference, so I was more than happy to step in and help out. Anything to get me away from the another long lonely weekend back in Wootton Bassett on my own.
Chris still has no idea when he will be able to return. Him and I seemingly stuck in a permanent limbo. According to his last letter he’s sold all of the cars but one - the black Merc. But as is often the case in business, it’s always the last deal which holds all of the profit, so until that final car is sold he’s unable to come back home. It’s terminally depressing but both of us are powerless to do anything about it, so we’ve adopted a war-like spirit and are gritting our teething, carrying on as best we can, living separate lives with the hope we can be reunited before we drift too far apart.
My new job is a more senior role with the same company. Another small step up the career ladder. Only this time the client, instead of an international electricity company, is a large American investment bank. Headquartered in New York, but with branches in every major financial city around the world, I’m expecting the travel needs will be simpler than what I’d had to manage previously. Rather than involve moving engineers and senior managers from one obscure place in the world to another, this is more likely to involve flying their executives from Frankfurt to Hong Kong or from London to New York. However, I also anticipate that these guys will have large egos that will need massaging. They’re rich, well-educated, privileged and - I’m also anticipating - arrogant. Along with sorting their first-class travel and five-star hotels, I’ve heard it’s not unusual to be asked to organise flowers for their wives, whilst simultaneously sending chocolates to their girlfriends! However, I’m up for the challenge and for the first time in my career, I have a small team to supervise.
“Tea?” I ask Michelle. “I think we’ve earned a cuppa. Come on. Let’s take a break for half an hour and have a quick sit down with a cuppa and a biscuit. Or would you prefer a warm milky Milo?” I’d purposefully packed a couple of tubs of the dried powder for Michelle when I came back, knowing it’s a favourite of hers that she can’t get over here in the UK, and also appreciating she has to be careful with the amount of caffeine she’s drinking while she’s pregnant.
“Actually, what I really fancy is a glass of chardonnay but until this little one arrives,” she says rubbing her tummy, “a warm Milo will have to do.”
Michelle’s third floor flat, like so many in central London, is a simple layout. A straightforward rectangular floorplan is divided on one side into an open plan living room and kitchen, partitioned by a sliding screen door and the other side of the flat is divided into two bedrooms and a bathroom. Usually, for central London, it does have the bonus of a small balcony that leads out from a door at the side of the living room and runs in front of the bedrooms. The outlook faces East and overlooks the postage-stamp size patch of grass that is Brunswick Square Gardens. By London standards even a view of a small green space is a luxury but if I’m honest, after the magnificence of New Zealand’s South Island it’s not even a close consolation and I have no idea how Chris is going to cope living in this massive and overcrowded city when he does eventually make it back here. I worry he will feel like a caged animal and the tiger spirit within him, the dangerous energy in him that is constantly bubbling below the surface, will erupt and need to either lash out or run away.
I pull two cups out of the cupboard, just as the kettle boils, the room suddenly fills with competing sounds. The audible click of the ‘on’ button clicking back into place on the kettle, the sound of the water bubbling violently and the high pitch of the telephone which has just begun to ring.
“You go,” I say across to Michelle, “I’ll make the drinks.”
I hear her exchange a couple of pleasantries before she returns into the kitchen, a wide smile plastered all over her face.
“It’s for you,” she announces. “I’ll finish up here. Go,” she commands.
I walk through to the hallway and pick up the handset.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver having no idea who could be at the other end. It could be my mum calling for a quick natter, Melanie or even Tim, who, knowing I’m in town may want to organise brunch tomorrow.
“Hey, ya olde goose. How ya doing?” My heart flips over instantly at the sound of Chris’s voice, my hand instinctively flying up to cover my mouth in shock.
“Oh my God, Chris. How are you? It’s so good to hear from you. Thanks for your last letter which arrived just yesterday,” my words as usual when we speak, coming thick and fast.
“I’m good, Vicky. Look I’m keeping this quick as I’m in the car and on my mobile, so this will be costing a fortune and I’ve already left you a message on the answerphone at home, called your mum, then called Mellie and finally here trying to track you down,” he sounds excited. I hear him take an audible deep breath in before blurting out, “I’m coming home.”
“Oh, Chris!” My tears well up immediately at the release of knowing our separation is to be over.
“I’m on my way up to Auckland right now. I have a buyer for the Merc.”
I automatically do the quick calculations in my head and whilst it’s 8pm, Saturday night here, it’s 9am on Sunday morning for Chris,
“And once I’ve completed the deal tomorrow, I’m going to stay with Dean, Lisa and the kids for a few days, then I’ve got my ticket to London booked. I leave at the end of the week and I’ll be back in London just before lunchtime on Monday.
“Oh, God. I start my new job that day, Chris, so there’s no way I can take the day off to come and meet you at Heathrow, but you must come and find me at lunchtime at least. I’ll fax the address of my new office to Dean’s.”
“Shame. I had visions of taking you straight to bed and shagging the arse off you as soon as I land, but I absolutely will come and raid your new office at lunchtime,” he says mischief radiating from his voice. “I have your necklace with me. In fact, it’s right in front of me. I have it hooked around the rear-view mirror of the car right now and I can’t wait to put it back around your neck. Not long now, sweetheart. Just hold on for one more week, Vicky and I’ll see you very soon.”
“I will. I love you, Chris.”
“I love you too, Goose. I’m going to go now. Apart from the fact I’m driving, and I should be concentrating on the road, this is costing a king’s ransom, but I had to call you. I couldn’t wait a moment longer to tell you. This week will fly by, sweetheart, I promise. And I’ll be there before you know it. See ya.”
“Bye, Chris. See you soon,” I say finally before the line goes dead.
I rush back into the kitchen and fall into Michelle’s arms, sobbing. Tears of relief flooding down my cheeks and landing in damp pools on her shoulder.
As Chris predicated the following week flew by. By the time I’d finished packing up my stuff, completing the official handover of our old house in Wootton Basset, accepting a couple of invitations to go out for goodbye drinks with both clients and colleagues from the team in Swindon, it was Friday night and I found myself driving east up the M4 corridor once again to head into London. Michelle is away this weekend, visiting friends out of town, which actually worked out perfectly. Other than I had to single-handedly lug all my suitcases and heavy boxes up three flights of stairs, I’m looking forward to a chilled Saturday slobbing out in front of the TV, wearing only sweat-pants and munching on the biggest bag of crisps, that I plan to have in one hand whilst in the other, a bottle of New Zealand’s finest Sauvignon Blanc.
By Sunday night, despite the fact I should be absolutely knackered having lugged suitcases and boxes from one house to another, as well as cleaned the flat, changed the bedlinen, filled the fridge with home-cooked Thai curries, spaghetti bolognese and steak pies, all in preparation for Chris’s arrival tomorrow, I find I can’t sleep. My head on my pillow, Chris’s t-shirt wrapped around it, as is now my usual custom, the butterflies in my stomach refuse to settle, making sleep impossible. I can’t decipher my mental state. I know I’m beyond excited, like a child on Christmas Eve. But my excitement is also tinged with a mix of more confusing emotions.
It’s a massive step in our relationship Chris and I are both taking. I’m asking him to give up a lot to officially move in together and move our lives to London. A city that, truthfully, suits neither of us, but is a necessary evil if we’re to be together longer term. All of this makes our relationship a lot more ‘official’. Permanent. Financially co-dependant. Real. And I know I should be ecstatic, but I can’t deny my excitement is always tinged by the slight shadow that always seems to follow me around in the background.
Our relationship thus far has only ever had two speeds. Full on at a million miles an hour, or dead slow and ten thousand miles apart - literally. And this has been mirrored in the intensity of our emotions when we’re together or apart. When we’re together we only ever seem to consume each other. Needily. Hungrily. Or we turn away from each other, in our attempts to survive like we’ve learnt how to when the world separates us. We always seem to be co-dependent or independent, never inter-dependent. The turmoil inside my gut is mirrored by the never-ending hum of the traffic and sirens outside. The underlying current and constant vibration in this 24-hour city. Is this the reason I can’t sleep? Perhaps?
Or is it possible I’m in love with a fantasy? An illusion of what I want the perfect man and the perfect relationship to be? But Chris isn’t packaged how I would have expected. That surely was Jeremy, but when I had the opportunity to have what others would deem ‘the perfect package’, I didn’t want it.
Chris is as far away from that, at the other end of the spectrum as it’s possible to be. If my life could be one long permanent holiday I couldn’t think of a better partner than Chris. Fun, exciting, his passion for travel and willingness to try new things, his childlike mischievousness all suit a life lived just outside of the lines of authority. However, attempt to impose rigidity, structure or responsibility on him and he’ll stubbornly push back. But it’s true, absence really does make the heart grow fonder because I know when Chris and I are apart, my mind only ever focuses on all of the happy memories and good times we’ve shared together. I only ever remember all of his great qualities and how much, when he shows me affection, I melt into him. But it’s very easy to forget his darker moods, or controlling and jealous behaviour, or his lack of respect for the rules, for authority and, at times, me.
My heart is completely dependent on him. It’s him and him alone that makes me feel loved. He only has to withdraw his affection momentarily, either intentionally or not, and I know my needy response is unhealthy, but I feel powerless to stop myself. Without him I’m all alone. Now he has unleashed the fire and dark deep pool of water in my soul, I no longer control it. It’s is in his hands to do with as he pleases.
Or is it also possible that I’ve never had a love of which I’ve ever felt truly worthy - therefore I’m terrified that Chris and I could actually be the real deal? I know he’s loves me, and I need him, but is my dependency on him clouding my judgement? I’ve been used and abused so many times by those that have gone before, should I be protecting myself from that possibility again? It’s almost like I’m expecting him (or I) to fuck up. To destroy what we have. At least then I’ll get what I deserve, even if it isn’t what I really want.
***
After what feels like only a few hours of fitful sleep, I hear the familiar beep beep beep of my alarm signifying it’s time to get up. Stepping into the shower I turn the tap on fully, allowing the warm water to run down over my face and shoulders, dragging my body back into consciousness. In the stillness of the moment my mind wanders back to this time almost exactly a year ago, when Chris was due to land in the UK for the very first time. I remember how jittery Melanie was, hopping about like a cat on a hot tin roof. Smiling inwardly, I recall her putting the bread in the fridge and the milk into the breadbin. I feel those same jitters now. I can’t wait to see Chris, but the nerves in my gut refuse to dissipate.
Before I leave the flat, I grab a strong cup of tea. The warm sweet liquid hits my stomach but does nothing to settle it. After a suitably uncomfortable journey on the tube, my nose pressed into another commuter’s armpit, I arrive at Moorgate Station which is only a five-minute walk to my new workplace and into my day of firsts. The first day in my new job and the first day in Chris and I’s next chapter.
The office building is on Coleman Street, behind Moorgate, exactly halfway between Bank and London Wall. It’s a tall white imposing building that befits the City architecture. Dual revolving doors sit under a large glass canopy, perhaps designed to intimidate you, perhaps not, but everything about this environment reeks of power and money.
Just as in New Zealand when I felt so small and insignificant standing in the landscape, the magnificence and beauty of the country reminding me of how small I was in comparison, today I have that same feeling. However instead of the natural landscape dwarfing me, it’s the height, scale and compactness of the skyscrapers in the Square Mile.
The City is alive with people, smell and sounds. Behind me the black cabs rush past up and down Moorgate as they attempt to cut up the red double-decker buses crammed full of morning commuters transiting into the City from the busy train stations at London Bridge, Waterloo and Liverpool Street. The sound of pneumatic drills pounding into the earth emanating from all the construction sites dotted in and around the Square Mile, their locations easily spotted by the tall cranes that look down from the sky above, as London lays down her wealth in ever impressive skyscrapers; their persistent drilling fighting against the blare of traffic horns and sirens that add to the cacophony of sound.
The City air smells of exhaust fumes, last night’s takeaways and unwashed bodies that despite clean shirts, have sweated uncomfortably on packed tubes. It’s an onslaught for the senses and it could not be further away from the peace and tranquility I experienced only seven weeks ago whilst on the opposite side of the world.
I enter the building and clear security, pressing the button for the elevator, preparing to go down two floors to my new workspace. Being an employee of one of the mere support organisations offering their services to this large corporate giant, our office, although fairly spacious and more than adequate for our needs, is underground, and therefore devoid of any sunlight.
My new boss, Jonathan, is young (not much older than I) and arrogantly handsome with high chiselled cheekbones. His jet black hair slicked back with gel, he wears a cheap pin-stripe suit and as I will soon learn, although he’s loved by the client, he’s hated by his team. Unlike when I first arrived into our office in Swindon two years ago the electricity client was a new account for our company and therefore we were a newly compiled team, this City account has been with our company for years and I can tell instantly that the team of 15 are a tightly knit bunch who have all worked together for a while. I’m not sure how excited they are to welcome a new person to their ranks.
I suddenly have a rush of the same old familiar feelings of loneliness and of being an outsider, that I’ve felt so many times in my life before. The long lonely evenings alone in my bedroom with no siblings to play with, when I moved schools as a child and everyone already had their established friendship groups, when I ended up leaving everything I knew behind to move in with Steve the slob and no friends or family around me to fall back on. In each case, even if I had had people around me physically, I was always alone, often backed into a corner, isolated from any support network and in each case, I had to find the strength inside myself to fight on. I know I can do it, but I also know it can be exhausting.
Here we go again, I think to myself, as I take a deep breath in, plaster a smile on my face, faking confidence as I walk forward, my hand outstretched offering my first handshake with my new manager.
The next two hours pass in a whirlwind of induction and introductions. New people, new systems, new processes and lots of lots of new names to remember. You’d think taking a transfer within the same company, the operations would be the same, but this office appears to run very differently from what I’ve been used to. My head is spinning trying to retain all of the new information, when the front desk call down to our office, saying there is someone waiting for me in reception.
“Jonathan,” I ask tentatively, “I know it’s my first day and it’s important that I make a good first impression, but do you mind if I nip upstairs for ten minutes?”
He glances up from his desk which is located at the side of the office where he can preside over everyone, I sense, to crack the whip and ensure no one is slacking. Looking over at me as if to question where this awkward sound has just emanated from, a confused and less than impressed frown crinkles his features.
“It’s just that my boyfriend who I haven’t seen for seven weeks is in reception. He’s just flown in from New Zealand,” I continue, “I promise I’ll make the time up.”
I had hoped my explanation would appeal to his humanity, and he would say something like, “Seven weeks?! I’m surprised you even came in today. Most people would have pulled a sickie. Go. Take an early lunch. Be back in an hour.” But instead he says begrudgingly,
“Go if you must. But I’ll have to dock your pay if you’re not back in ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling the disapproving stares from my new colleagues stab my back as I run out of the room. Clearly, Jonathan runs a very tight ship, and no one has ever asked for a favour from his regime and yet I’m being granted special dispensation and within only a few hours of starting. Just another hurdle to overcome, I think to myself, I’ll worry about them later.
Chris is facing away from me as I appear at the top of the stairs, having given up waiting for the elevator two floors below. Wearing his usual uniform of cargo shorts and a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt, his pack loosely thrown over one shoulder, he turns around at the sound of my footsteps that clickety-clack on the marble floor, as I walk briskly towards him.
“Oh, Vicky,” he says lovingly, rushing towards me, arms outstretched, preparing to embrace me, a bunch of long-stem burnt orange Calla Lilies in his right hand.
“Not here,” I whisper, grabbing his hand and leading him quickly out through one of the revolving doors and onto the street. I’ve already blotted my copybook on day one, I don’t want to be reprimanded for sucking face in the lobby of our very prestigious client’s London HQ.
Without speaking, I lead him around the corner into Great Swan Alley, a small cut-through that joins Coleman Street to Moorgate. Out of sight of the lobby I turn to face him, throwing my arms around his neck and reaching up to kiss him passionately. His familiar taste on my tongue, his familiar musky masculine scent drifting up my nostrils as we inhale each other deeper, our passion rising up instantly as we reunite, completely unaware of the strangers that glance awkwardly in our direction as they walk hastily past.
“Oh, Chris. It’s so good to see you,” I say a few moments later, reluctantly pulling back from his lips and looking into his smiling face. “I’ve had such a crappy morning, you have no idea. Seeing you here now is like walking through the desert and finding an oasis.” I have an overwhelming urge to grab Chris’s hand and run away. But where would we go, what would we do?
“Are you a sight for sore eyes?” he says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear in his familiar way. “God, I thought this day would never come.”
“Me too,” I say, leaning the side of my face against his strong hard chest. His physical presence instantly making me want to soften into him.
“These are for you,” he says passing me the now slightly squashed bouquet of lilies.
“They’re lovely. Thank you, Chris. That’s very thoughtful of you.” I take the flowers from him, before asking, “But would you mind taking them back with you to Michelle’s flat and sticking them in some water there? I don’t think my new boss is the kind of guy that would appreciate me walking back into the office and asking where I might find a vase and some water. He seems like a right task-master.”
“No worries,” he says easily.
“Look, Chris, I have to go. If I’m any longer they’re going to dock my pay,” I say peeling his arms away from my waist where they’ve been resting for the past few minutes. “I’ll see you tonight. The fridge is full of food. Go chill out and I’ll be in around six. Then we can catch up properly.” I reach up and give him a light peck on the lips before turning away from him to head back into the building.
“Wait,” he says suddenly stopping me in my tracks just as I reach the opposite pavement. I turn around and watch him swing his heavy rucksack off his shoulder and onto the ground where it lands with a soft thud. “I need to give you this back.” He opens his pack and reaches in pulling his washbag from inside. Unzipping it, he lifts out my necklace. “I told you I would keep it safe. Come here,” he instructs. I walk back towards him on command.
“Turn around,” which I do without question so that I’m facing away from him, my back pressed lightly against his taught torso. He reaches his hands over the top of my head, bringing my grandfather’s precious necklace down in front of my face before clasping it together at the nape of my neck.
My necklace now safely back in its rightful place he tenderly leans forward and kisses the curve of my neck, his hands reach around my body grasping my waist, pulling me into him, closing the gap between us. I can feel his hard-on pressing into my butt cheek while his gentle nibbling on my neck becomes more insistent. I feel myself turn on instantly, the spark that lights instantly between my legs spirals upwards and joins with the burning fire in the pit of my stomach. Off balance, my weight falls backwards so that he has to support me, allowing his hands to reach needily up the front of my body, searching fingers craving my nipples which tighten instantly in anticipation of his attention. I reach my hand around behind me and through the outline of his cotton cargo shorts, press my open palm against his erect shaft causing him to inhale sharply filling his lungs with air. I want so badly to close my hand around his hardness, but I know I can’t.
“Chris, we’re in broad daylight! You have to stop,” I protest breathlessly. “I have to go.”
“God, I don’t want to let you go,” he whispers into my neck his wandering hands stilling momentarily. “I could take you right here, right now, Vicky, and I wouldn’t care who’s watching.”
“I know you would,” I turn back around to face him, my arms instinctively reaching up to their comfortable place behind his neck, “of that I have no doubt. But I don’t want to get fired on my very first day. Now, you must go. Chill out, shower, eat, snooze and… be naked when I get home!” I say brazenly, realising how much I need him and his ardour. After another short embrace, we reluctantly tear ourselves away from each other and I return to the corporate dungeon as Chris leaves to take the tube to his sister’s apartment.
Later that evening as I arrive back at Michelle’s flat and walk into the second bedroom, Chris is waiting, having obviously heard my footsteps outside and my key turning in the lock. He’s posing on top of the bed, completely stark-bollock naked, one arm outstretched, the other on his hip like a Greek God, one of the lilies clamped in-between his teeth. I drop my bag at the bedroom door and leap up onto the bed, jumping up onto him, causing the pair of us to fall backwards onto the soft mattress in a fit of giggles.
Let the games begin, Melanie’s original prediction ringing again inside my head once again.