“What’s that smell? Something’s burning!” I shout through to Vicky, who’s in the kitchen of our first floor Stoke Newington flat. I toss my keys into the bowl on the side table where they land with an audible crash.
“I’m cooking us a lasagne for tea,” she shouts back, “but I’ve only just switched the oven on. There’s nothing in it yet.”
“SHIT! Vicky!” I yell loudly bolting into the kitchen and frantically opening the oven door, quickly lifting out the smoking brown paper package from inside, where it’s threatening to erupt into flames at any moment.
“FUCK! Vicky… that was close. There’s 20 grand in here,” I say laughing, lifting out the bundles of cash from inside the paper bag.
“Jesus Christ, Chris, who the hell puts cash in the oven? I could have set fire to the whole place.”
She’s cross, whereas I just think the whole episode is hilariously funny. My shoulders shudder as I attempt to hold in another giggle and keep a straight face. Vicky looks at me sternly and continues her rant.
“You’ve got money hidden all over this flat, Chris. It makes me nervous. We’re a burglary waiting to happen. You need to get a safe to keep it in or at least get a safe deposit box at the bank. I found another wodge inside your pillowcase the other day - I could have so easily shoved it in the washing machine by accident!”
“I’m sorry,” I say wrapping my arms around her waist as I cuddle her from behind, her hands continuing to chop the vegetables for the lasagne, “but you have to admit - it is pretty funny. You have just nearly set fire to 20 grand!”
“Well you wouldn’t be laughing if I had sent all your profit up in flames. You’d be furious!” she says, her frustration still clouding her features. She turns towards me brandishing the large kitchen knife in a mock threat, her lips pursed together, her eyebrows raised, amusement finally creeping across her face as her mouth breaks into a tentative smile.
It’s a couple of months now since I landed back in the UK and Vicky and I have set up home together. No family, no distractions, just the two of us. We’ve rented a small one-bedroom apartment in a new block, situated at the top end of Stoke Newington High Street, a borough to the north east of central London. The flat is a simple layout. A small hallway leads through to a large double bedroom with a round bay window that overlooks the A10, a main trunk route in and out of this part of the capital. Directly opposite us though, is the majestic four pillared entrance to Abney Park Cemetery, one of the few Victorian garden cemeteries in the whole of London, so apart from the double decker buses where people on the top deck can see directly into our flat, technically we’re not overlooked. To the right of the hallway is a small functional bathroom and a door to the left leads through to an open-plan kitchen/living room.
The flat was described as ‘part-furnished’ when we rented it but the quality of the furnishings was so poor, Vicky and I have spent our spare time, begging, stealing and borrowing castoff pieces of furniture from my UK based family or acquiring bits and pieces from local second-hand thrift stores. The allegedly ‘new’ mattress that was wrapped in cellophane waiting for us on the floor of the bedroom when we arrived, was of such poor quality our elbows and knees would bang off the floor when we turned over in the night. Vicky can be a right grouch if she doesn’t get her sleep, especially because she works such long hours, leaving the house often before I wake, to catch her train into Liverpool Street and returning exhausted each evening. So although we couldn’t justify spending hundreds of pounds on a totally new bed, we’ve just purchased a fairly decent quality mattress which, without a base, is laid out on the floor of our bedroom. With no wardrobes or storage to speak of, Vicky has managed to get hold of some dress rails which line the corner of the bedroom, her clothes shrouded under a white sheet to keep them clean. The dust and horrific pollution that drifts in from the busy road outside, a constant battle whenever we open the windows. As my wardrobe consists of only shorts, t-shirts, trainers and a couple of pairs of jeans for when it’s a bit colder, my clothes are neatly folded in piles on my side of the room.
Our living arrangements may be simple, basic and not very homely but they are functional, fairly centrally located and we’re together.
“How was work?” I ask, turning her around and kissing her lightly whilst simultaneously disarming her, placing the knife back on the chopping board behind her.
“Crap. Next question?”
Vicky is having a really tough time lately. Her boss sounds like a right dickhead. He expects his team to give 110 percent yet he seems to wander in and out of their office whenever he chooses. Taking long lunches to meet with ‘clients’ or coming in late after morning trips to his gym, yet he cracks the whip if anyone in his team is a millisecond late. Also, after the challenge of the work in Swindon, where the travel needs of the client were complex and engaging, now she only ever talks about sorting out lots of what she refers to as ‘point to point’ flights, which I’ve learnt means going from London to wherever and straight back again. It also seems the clients are rude and speak down to her and the team generally. They always want everything last minute, meaning she’s often working late to hit deadlines. As she’s said to me on more than one occasion, “planes don’t wait”. There’s one guy in particular, called Chuck Snoddgas, whose PA is so appalling, the team have nicknamed him ‘Fuck-off Snoddgas’.
But the hardest element I know she’s struggling with, is the adjustment to actually living in London. Her commute although simple and fairly short by London standards, is still a drag. She’s often awake and commuting while it’s still dark, arriving home some eleven hours later absolutely wiped out.
Unexpectedly I, on the other hand, am having a ball. I always thought I would hate living in such a big city, not least because the pollutants in the air irritate my glass eye, but I seem to have coped with the transition much easier than Vicky. I’ve made some new friends who are also independent dealers on the car trading circuit. One of them, Mohammad, or Mo for short, lives up the road in Enfield, and most days we hang out together and go on the hunt for the best deals around. Scouring the auctions, the Autotraders and the back doors of the city dealerships. For me, no two days are the same and unlike Vicky, whose work regime is regimented and formal, I’m able to set my own schedule, organising my travelling for the least busy times and spending most of my days outside, even if it is in a city environment as opposed to the beautiful hills of Canterbury or the beaches of Sumner. But I have freedom. Most days I eat my lunch whilst I’m out and about, or if I’m in the flat I’ll take an afternoon stroll through the green space of the cemetery across the road in Abney Park.
In contrast, because Vicky’s office is underground, unless she makes a concerted effort to come above ground at lunchtime, which largely depends on how pressured her deadlines are, often means it’s dark again before she begins her journey home. There have been some weeks when she hasn’t seen sunlight for five days and I notice her complexion has lost some of its natural glow and she’s looking paler and paler by the day. Maybe we’ll take off this weekend. Head north and visit Mike and Fiona. Perhaps spend a day breathing in the fresh air in The Lake District. Give her a chance to recharge her batteries and refill her fuel tanks.
My work however, is also paying dividends. During my last trip to NZ, I was able to establish firmer relationships with a few specialist car dealers, one in Auckland and one in Christchurch, who’ve put me on a retainer as their ’sourcer’, meaning most of the cars I purchase now, are pre-ordered. So as well as my retainer I can also guarantee my margin and visibility on cashflow. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having a stable income since first arriving here. Any other additional bargains I come across, I simply flip here in the UK market, pocketing all the profit myself. Since my return I’ve also managed to negotiate more favourable shipping rates with the freight forwarding company in Tilbury, and their sales guys have taken me out for drinks on a couple of occasions as they now consider me a serious client.
“I know it’s shit, sweetheart, hang in there,” I say encouragingly. “You know I have a nice surprise organised for your birthday this weekend. Something to look forward to.”
“I know. It’s just been another long day, again. The hours just seem to drag on. It was never like this at Swindon. I worked equally as hard, put in as many hours. I just don’t know what it is. I seem permanently tired at the moment.”
She looks absolutely wrung out, her eyes sunk deep into her face, ringed by dark circles. “Why don’t you go and run a nice hot bath and have a long soak. I’ll finish up the prep here and bring you a glass of wine.”
“Thanks, Chris. I appreciate that,” she replies before slipping out of the room. The sound of the water running into the bath tub following only moments later.
I’m worried about Vicky and once again I seem powerless to be able to give her what I would want for her. As much as I want to tell her to jack her job in, I have an image in my head of her walking into the office one day and telling Jonathan to stick his job up his arse, we need the money. We’re taking the long-term view and her wage pays the rent. Although I contribute to the bills, any profit I make I plough back into more and more deals, putting money aside for our future planned trip to the US to drive Route 66 and for our lives in the chapter after that. So although our situation is only temporary, as in it’s only for the next year or 18 months, it’s far from ideal for Vicky.
I open the fridge door and pull out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, pouring the cool pale liquid into two wine glasses. Taking a sip first from my own glass, I carry the other through to Vicky in the bathroom, who I discover is already naked and about to step into the warm inviting bubbles.
I’m instantly aroused at the sight of her beautiful pale skin and soft round curves. Putting the glass down, I reach for her, my hands cradling her face as I draw her towards me. Our lips connect in the lightest of kisses. Every kiss to me, always feels like our first. Fresh, sweet and tender and I feel the familiar throbbing inside my jeans, confirming my uncontrollable attraction. Instinctively my kiss deepens, my tongue now reaching hungrily inside her mouth, my hands running over her nakedness, my own need to consume her taking over my consciousness and all my self-control. I reach my hand down to between her legs, my fingers seemingly possessed, wandering of their own accord to the magic spot, wanting to arouse her own passion in response to my touch.
“Don’t, Chris,” she says sharply, pulling away from me. “I’m too tired. Please just let me have my bath.”
“But I can’t stop, Vicky. I have to have you,” I say honestly, my hands searching now for her full breasts, cupping them, my thumbs circling her nipples, which harden involuntarily to my stimulation.
“Stop it, Chris, please,” she pleads, knocking my hands away.
“Ok. Be like that then,” I hear myself snapping back at her, my hands raised in an exaggerated submission. I know I sound childish, but I just can’t help myself where Vicky’s concerned. She doesn’t seem to understand that my desire, no, my need for her is not within my control and when she pushes me away like this, it takes all of my self-control not to force myself on her. The only choice I have is to remove myself physically from her presence until my desire dissipates. Sometimes when she has her period, it has been known for me to take off for a couple of days at a time. Go and visit some of my rellies and or just take some time out on my own to cool off. Her body is like a drug to me and there are times I have to go cold turkey.
“Chris, please don’t be grumpy,” I hear her plead just as I slam the bathroom door – hard - followed by the sound of glass breaking, the force of the vibration that reverberated through the room when I slammed the door, causing the wine glass to slide off the top of the toilet, where it had been resting, and smash onto the hard tiles of the bathroom floor.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I hear her say, her words muffled behind the now closed bathroom door as I return to the kitchen and resume the chopping of the vegetables, taking out my anger and frustration on the poor onions, leaving her to clean up the mess in the bathroom.
The next few days pass without incident and neither of us mention the wine glass episode. Vicky continues to leave for work before I wake and return home each evening drained and exhausted. However, on Saturday morning, the day of her 24th birthday, I rise first and leave her asleep, hoping that she will enjoy a long lie-in. But only 30 minutes later she appears in the living room, where I’m quietly watching the qualifications to this weekend’s Grand Prix on the TV.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she offers as an explanation, scratching her head as she speaks, still half asleep. “The vibration of the buses woke me up. It comes through the bloody floor.”
“Come ‘ere, goose,” I say, opening my arms invitingly. “Happy Birthday,” I whisper into her ear as she snuggles in next to me.
“Thanks Chris,” she stretches and yawns. “I’m just so very tired. Even though I slept through last night. You’d think I’d wake up today with a bit more energy, but I still feel like I could sleep for a week.”
“I think you need some fresh air. After you’ve opened your pressies, let’s go for a walk through the cemetery to Church Street for some breakfast. We’ve got time to kill this morning before I take you out this afternoon for your surprise.”
“I wish you’d tell me what it is.”
“Well then it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it? We need to leave by 1pm.”
“OK. Cool. You go and put the kettle on and I’ll jump in the shower, see if that will wake me up,” she says getting up to leave the room.
Thirty minutes later she returns, wearing fresh jeans and a crisp light blue t-shirt, her face all clean and shiny and her hair, towel-dried but still damp, falls loosely over her shoulders. I hand her a fresh cup of tea and she smiles gratefully.
“Thanks, Chris,” she says taking the cup from me.
“You’re welcome. Now come here and open your presents,” I say leading her towards the sofa where I’ve laid out the small pile of gifts I have waiting for her.
“Sorry, they’re not very well wrapped,” I explain. “What can I say? I’m a bloke,” I add, shrugging my shoulders.
“I don’t care, Chris,” she leans across and plants a kiss on my cheek, “it’s the thought that counts,” she adds as she begins ripping into the first gift.
I’ve bought her a couple of small gifts, including a bottle of her favourite Coco Chanel perfume but her main gift is my surprise that will come later. She’s almost finished unwrapping her presents when the telephone rings out in the hallway. I pick it up and say “Hello”. Not surprisingly it’s Vicky’s mum.
“Oh, hi Chris. Is Victoria there?” she asks.
“Yes. I’ll just get her for you. How’s everything up north?” I ask politely into the handset.
“Absolutely fine. We’re all good. When are you next planning to come and visit? It’s seems like ages since I’ve seen you both together. Not since you came back from New Zealand, Chris.”
“I know. It’s been a while. I promise Vicky and I will get our diaries out and get a weekend booked in to come north and see you.” I mouth across to Vicky, “It’s your mum,” and she nods her acknowledgement back to me. “I’ll jump in the shower,” I add before passing the phone to her.
“Hi, Mum,” Vicky says into the handset, “thanks for the pressies.” I hear the conversation fizz back and forth between mum and daughter as I leave the room, shedding my clothes, leaving a trail on the floor, as I stride towards the bathroom and turn on the shower.
At 1pm, after we’ve enjoyed a lazy breakfast in a cafe on Church Street, we jump into one of my stock BMWs and drive south towards the centre of town. Even after we park up and walk towards the river, Vicky still has no clue where we’re going or what I have planned. We walk hand in hand along the embankment, arriving at Embankment Pier where I step onto one of the boarding bridges of a posh river boat. Holding out my hand I invite her to join me on the boarding plank.
“Surprise! Well, surprise, part one,” I say. “I just thought, we’ve lived in the city for a couple of months now and we’ve not had a chance to do anything touristy together. So how would you like to join me for a nice three-course fancy lunch on the river?”
“Well that sounds that a grand idea,” she says pretending to be all regal, sweeping past me with all the elegance of a very fine lady.
We spend the next few hours on the river, lunching on smoked salmon, chateaubriand and lemon posset while gazing at the sights of the city that meander lazily past us. We sail as far east the Docklands and the magnificence of the new skyscraper at Canary Wharf, One Canada Square, its blinking eye on the top reminding everyone that it is the tallest building in the UK. Returning upstream sailing between the twin towers of Tower Bridge, past the historic Tower of London on the north bank, past the NatWest Tower and the famous domed roof of St Paul’s Cathedral and up past the majesty of The Houses of Parliament, listening to the chimes of Big Ben as we pass. Vicky and I never stop talking the whole time we’re in each other’s company and we hold hands across the table like lovesick puppy dogs.
“Do you see that couple over there?” Vicky says across to me, subtly indicating the middle-aged couple on the opposite side of the barge. “They haven’t spoken two words to each other since they arrived. God, I hope when we’re old and grey, we never run out of conversation.”
“I promise we won’t,” I say picking up the bottle of wine to top up her glass. “We’re going to carry on making memories until we’re old and grey.”
“No more for me, babes,” she says, quickly blocking her glass with the flat of her hand, “I’m struggling to get this one down. My tummy feels funny today. I almost feel seasick, which is ridiculous. We’re only on a river boat.”
“So, for surprise part two,” I say looking out at the amazing view that surrounds us. “Now seems like the perfect moment,” I add, returning my gaze to Vicky’s deep green eyes. I reach into my pocket as Vicky takes a sharp intake of breath. Her hands flying suddenly up towards her mouth as if in shock. I realise instantly that what I’m about to offer her is going to be a massive let-down, as what I have planned is not what she is expecting. Instead of a small black box, I pull out an unromantic envelope from my pocket and slide it across the table.
“What’s this?” she asks, a confused expression on her face.
“Open it and see,” I encourage.
She rips into the envelope and pulls out two tickets to this evening’s performance of ‘Riverdance’, the Irish musical which has taken the world by storm and has returned for a short four- week run at the Apollo Theatre in Hammersmith.
“Oh, wow, Chris,” she says magnanimously as I realise, based on my build-up moments earlier, this is not what she was expecting.
“I’ve always wanted to see this. I’m really impressed. Well done you,” she adds leaning across to kiss me on the lips. “Thank you. This is going to be amazing. I’m so excited.”
I know she’s being generous. I know she thought I was about to pull out an engagement ring. I suspect she will enjoy tonight’s performance, but I also realise I’ve just missed the perfect opportune moment to propose.
What a bloody idiot, I think to myself. Oh well, I’m gonna have to go all out when I do eventually do it.