“Turkey?” Dad asks across the table to Vicky, holding aloft a large slice of the juicy white meat, suspended between his carving knife and fork. A sound like smooth chocolate resonates from the CD that plays softly in the background. George Michael inviting us to remember Last Christmas. The image of the snowy video that accompanies the single, flashes through my brain. The irony of the image against today’s heat not lost on me, as today is turning out to be one of the hottest days of the year so far.
“Yes please, that would be lovely, John,” Vicky replies.
“Help yourself to vegetables,” Susan, Dad’s wife, instructs us all, gesturing with an upturned hand at the enormous spread laid out on her dining room table. The piles of piping hot food threatening to spill over the top of her fine china tureens.
“You really didn’t need to go to all of this effort,” Vicky says, delicately spooning vegetables onto her plate.
Dad guffaws in reply, “But of course we did. I might not sound like one now because I’ve lived here longer than I ever did in England, but I am a Pom remember just like you. I know how important it is to have turkey at Christmas. You being here just gave me the excuse I needed to cook one. Much more civilised than having a barbecue like we did last year.”
“We know that this is your first Christmas away from your own family, Vicky, so we just wanted to make you feel as welcome as possible,” Susan adds, laying her hand on top of Vicky’s and squeezing it affectionately.
“That’s very kind of you both and I appreciate it very much.” Her manners, as always, impeccable,
With Mum in the UK this Christmas visiting Mellie, Michelle and the new baby, rather than staying at home on our own, Vicky and I jumped at the chance when Dad and Susan invited us round for a traditional Christmas roast. Anything to avoid being stuck at home in each other’s company all day long.
I know it’s still early days, but it’s not been an easy transition relocating halfway across the world and since we arrived a few weeks ago now, nothing I seem to be able to say or do appears to be able to lift Vicky out of her permanent gloom. And if I’m honest, it’s wearing me down.
I, like Vicky, had hoped that by making a fresh start in Christchurch we could put some distance between the traumatic events of the past six months, rebuild our relationship and return to the happy place we both were when she last came to New Zealand almost a year ago now. But clearly that has not happened. It’s seems all our baggage still hangs heavy round our necks and instead of bringing us closer together, the ever-present wedge between us seems to be growing wider and wider.
I’m reeling under the pressure of rekindling my business and the need to earn income to support us both. The next shipment is due to land in three weeks and I have a lot of work to do in preparation. Meanwhile, with no job or network of friends, and with mum in the UK, Vicky has been forced to spend a lot of time on her own. For anyone else, a break from routine and responsibility can be a refreshing and reinvigorating change, but to someone like Vicky who likes to be self-sufficient and who has worked every single day of her adult life to give her the independence she craves, it requires her to relinquish control of her career and financial security. Even though this situation is temporary in the bigger scheme of things, I know it is a life that does not suit her. Coming from a small family unit, growing up with a tight knit network of friends around her, lounging around all day with no one to talk to and with no purpose or focus is making her very clingy.
I’m used to being able to come and go as I please, accountable to no one, so her persistent pestering every single minute of every day on where I am, where I’m going, who I’m seeing and when I’ll be back is becoming highly irritating. I’m trying to encourage her to fill her days with her own activities, but with no transport, she’s reliant on me for lifts or has to walk long distances or use our limited public transport network.
It takes so much energy to try and keep her happy that even in these past few weeks, I’ve noticed I’m not rushing to come home to her. Instead, I’ve been finding excuses to drop off the radar, even if only for a few hours. To disappear round to a mate’s house, drinking beers in the early evening sun, smoking the odd joint and generally passing the time of day. Anything to delay coming home and be met with yet another tirade of questions, or unstable emotions.
I can feel the increasing salivation in my mouth at the smell of the roast dinner piled high on my plate. The aroma tickles the inside of my nose and my stomach growls in protest.
“Well I don’t know about you guys but I could eat an elephant, so if you don’t mind I’m going to jump right in,” I say, spooning an additional portion of roast potatoes onto my plate before smothering the mountain of food in a healthy portion of dark, thick turkey gravy, made only moments before by Susan, from the juices at the bottom of the roasting tin.
“Please do,” Susan waves her hand in permission. “Nobody leaves until there is nothing left on this table.”
“Oi,” Dad says, holding out his cracker for me to pull, “you can’t start your Christmas dinner without a paper crown on your head.”
I dutifully tug the end of Dad’s cracker, which snaps in two with a loud bang, the contents spilling onto the floor, before offering my own cracker across the table for Vicky to pull.
“Would you like to pull my cracker?” I ask, a cheeky twinkle in my eye at the obvious innuendo. She doesn’t react. After another loud bang, splitting the paper and cardboard in two I dutifully place the paper hat on my head as Dad tops up everyone’s wine glass.
“Here, I think you should wear this red paper crown, Vicky. It matches your lovely dress,” Dad says to her, swapping her green paper hat for his red one.
I may be dressed in my usual uniform of cotton cargo shorts and casual shirt, but Vicky, as ever, looks gorgeous today. A light soft red crepe sundress with small spaghetti straps that falls softly over her slim figure. She’s lost a lot of weight in the last six months, but rather than make her look gaunt or ill, it actually suits her, accentuating the angle of her jaw and the definition in her cheekbones. Her increased elegance only makes my compulsive desire for her ever stronger, even if she does everything to avoid any physical contact these days.
“What lies at the bottom of the ocean and shivers?” I read aloud the joke from inside my cracker.
“I don’t know, what lies at the bottom of the ocean and shivers?” everyone choruses together.
“A nervous wreck.”
“Oh my God, that’s terrible,” Susan covers her full mouth, stifling a laugh.
“Ok, how about this one?” Dad joins in. “Why did the skeleton go to the party alone?
“I don’t know. Why did the skeleton go to the party alone?”
“Because he had no body to go with.”
I smile across the table at Vicky and she smiles back meekly catching my eye contact for the briefest of moments. It’s such a rare occasion these days, her natural mood having seemingly reset to a level of sombre that is way below the happy bubbly energy of the girl I first met. I know the light inside her has been diminished but I keep hoping, not completely extinguished.
“Please, dig in,” Dad instructs, the sound of our cutlery scraping lightly against our plates as we all eagerly tuck into our dinners.
Dad and Susan’s house is a plush four-bed, to the south of Christchurch, built into the hillside and elevated high above the city on Mount Pleasant. Their large L-shaped kitchen/dining/living room is flooded with light from the full wall to wall bi-folding doors, currently pushed wide open. Below in the distance the skyline of Christchurch’s central business district is laid out in miniature on the flat fertile land of the Canterbury Plains. The voile curtains that frame the space, waft gently in the light balmy summer breeze and the garden outside is alive with smell, colour and sound. The audible hum of bees and insects buzzing as they busily hop from flower to flower of the shocking pink mānuka (or tea-tree) shrubs. The familiar thin, high-pitched chit of a red-necked stint can be heard, where it has flown up from the high-tide waterline of the wide blue estuary below. It rests momentarily on the balustrade of the large wide deck which is arranged with both formal and informal seating.
Earlier, when we’d arrived, Vicky had innocently asked, “Is that south facing?” pointing out of the window at the impressive view.
“No, that’s north,” Dad had replied, “but I do know exactly why you’ve said that. You’re used to living in properties where a south-facing garden is an advantage, but you have to remember that our sun lies to the north.”
“Of course, silly me.”
“You’re not silly at all, Vicky. Susan and I looked for ages for a spot to build on. So when this plot became available, we jumped on it. We knew it would be hard to find anywhere else with such an amazing view.”
“It’s very cathartic,” Vicky had said, lost in the vastness of the vista. “I can imagine how soothing it is to come home after a hard day’s work, sit out on that deck, glass of wine in hand, and let the beauty of the view drain away your woes.”
“It is. And you’re very welcome to come and enjoy the view, glass of wine in hand anytime,” Dad had said, sliding a protective arm around Vicky’s shoulders as they’d stood side by side.
Everyone in my family loves this woman, she’s so amenable and polite and easy to get on with. But I want my passionate, hot lover back. The women I fell in love with. The adventurous, fearless Vicky, who could take on the world, who would rise to any challenge and who inspired me to be a better man, not the insipid, paired down version of the woman I love. Only I don’t know how to get her back or how to relight her passion.
The conversation over dinner flows easily and remains light. Having only met Vicky very briefly during her last visit, Dad and Susan want to get to know her better. Dad particularly is enjoying the opportunity to discuss ‘the old country’ with a fellow Pom, reminiscing about places they’ve both visited and how much things have changed since Dad left almost 30 years ago. As a Baby Boomer, he grew up in the height of the swinging sixties, to the soundtrack of The Beatles, The Troggs and The Beach Boys. They talk animatedly about the progression of art, culture and politics back in the UK and how that contrasts to life here in New Zealand.
A few hours later, our stomachs uncomfortably distended from the mountain of food we’ve all consumed, we move out onto the deck, sitting under the shade of the climbing roses.
“There is a new show that’s come out that you absolutely must see,” Dad says to Vicky. “Susan got me the VHS for my birthday. It’s called Riverdance and I know it sounds like it’ll be old-fashioned because it’s all Irish dancing - but it’s Irish dancing that’s been modernised. We were absolutely mesmerised, weren’t we, Susan?” Susan nods her head in agreement. “If it ever comes to this hemisphere we’ll definitely go and see it live - even if we have to travel to Sydney.”
“Actually, Chris and I have seen it. He surprised me with tickets for my birthday last summer in London. And you’re right, John, it was absolutely amazing. The whole audience were on their feet at the end.”
She turns and smiles at me, squeezing my knee as we sit side by side on the outdoor sofa. My chest floods with warmth at her public show of affection and the endorsement that I do occasionally do the right thing.
“It was a very thoughtful gift,” she adds smiling at me. “Yes, you absolutely must go, the both of you. You’ll definitely love it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The music is completely hypnotic. You can’t help but be drawn in. Even if you don’t particularly like that style of music. It’s so emotive. I play the soundtrack almost constantly in my car,” she pauses before correcting herself, “…or should I say I did, when I was back home.”
The reference to her ‘home’ not being here in New Zealand hangs like a visible black cloud in the air between us all. My home doesn’t feel like home to her and vice versa. One of us is always ‘just visiting’ the other. Will that ever change? I ask myself, not knowing the answer.
Dad feels the awkwardness too, and in an attempt to smooth over the faux pas, he says diplomatically, “I know exactly what you mean, Vicky. I should know. You never really ever leave your home behind, no matter how far you travel. The UK will always be my home, even if I live here now.”
A few hours later we air kiss Dad and Susan on each cheek, thanking them for their hospitality as we gather our things and prepare to leave. We have no firm plans for the rest of the day, except perhaps to snuggle up on the sofa together, open a bottle of wine and watch whatever blockbuster film will be premiered on tonight’s Christmas Day TV schedule. We’ve not made love since we arrived in Christchurch, in fact we’ve hardly touched each other physically, except for the occasional platonic brush of hands, or light kisses in public. Vicky is often asleep before I arrive home from whichever mate’s house I’ve been at and she rises early to shower and change before I start my day, so I feel like a coiled spring that’s ready to explode. Hopefully tonight, if I’m lucky, Vicky may also give me what I so desperately need. Validation that she still loves me.
Vicky waves warmly to Dad and Susan, who are standing on their doorstep to see us off.
“Chris, can we go to the beach before we head back? I could do with some air and the chance to walk off some of this dinner,” she rubs her non-existent belly.
“Good idea. It’s a gorgeous afternoon, why waste it indoors?”
On reaching the end of Dad’s road, instead of turning left to follow the coastline back north west and inland to Richmond, I indicate right. “Let’s head out to Sumner.”
The sea sparkles brightly on our left, the sun bouncing off the ripples on the water, and the sound of small waves turning and rolling up the beach drifts through the open windows as we drive round the headland at Clifton, pulling into the car park at Cave Rock a few minutes later.
“You OK?” I ask across to Vicky who’s staring out at the wide stretch of pure yellow sand that leads down to the sea beyond.
“I’m fine, Chris.”
“You just seemed a bit quiet at lunch.”
“I’m fine, honestly. I’m still adjusting that’s all. You’re going to have to give me time. Come on, let’s get some air.”
I walk round to the passenger side of the car and hold the door open for her.
“Very chivalrous Mr Chris-to-pher,” she says reaching for my hand as she steps out of the car.
“Leave your shoes here. You won’t need them, and they’ll just get filled with sand.”
“Good idea.” She kicks off her ballet bumps and leaves them in the footwell of the car.
Considering it’s a public holiday, the beach is almost deserted. Other than a dad and his young son playing catch and a couple of dog owners exercising their animals who lollop after a thrown stick or bouncing ball, we have the place to ourselves. The fresh salt air hits the inside of our nostrils, and underfoot our toes sink into the soft fine white sand above the high tide line as we walk towards the ocean. Behind us the terraced hills of the mount and to the right, the cliffs of Sumner, form a protective backdrop to the perfect curve of the bay. Residential houses are carved into the hillsides like white pearls in a sea of green shrubs. The glinting sun reflecting back from the multitude of oversized picture frame windows, strategically positioned to maximise each home owner’s view. The soft sand becomes firmer, the hard ridges left by the leaving tide pushing upwards into the arches of our feet as we near the waterline. Vicky’s red dress is fanned sideways by the sea breeze, causing it to cling to one side of her body, outlining the shape of her legs and her gorgeously round bottom, and I feel the familiar twitch in my shorts as all my senses wake up.
At the water’s edge Vicky looks outwards towards the horizon. Her toes just touching the sea that ebbs and flows around her feet. Arms folded in front, I come to stand behind her. Tentatively, for fear of being rebuked, I slide my hands around her waist and rest my chin on her shoulder. I desperately want her to feel my protection and I desperately need to feel her touch.
Time stands still while we soak up the stillness of moment. I lean forward and inhale her scent, tenderly kissing the nape of her neck, savouring the sweet salty taste of her skin on my tongue. A taste that at one time, used to be as familiar to me as my favourite rich full-bodied merlot from Hawkes Bay. Instinctively, Vicky leans back and for the first time in a very long time, softens into me. She raises an arm above her head and reaches behind to touch the side of my face as we continue to gaze out over the ever-moving water. It’s the most intimate gesture she’s made in months. Feeling the connection I lean down and kiss her bare shoulder again and again, planting a small trail of gentle kisses that lead upwards towards the nape of her neck, as my hands gently stroke her waist back and forth. The throbbing inside my shorts confirming my uncontrollable attraction.
Gently I turn her around so we’re nose to nose and I hold her beautiful face in my hands.
“Hi,” I say, looking deep into the dark green pools in the centre of her face.
“Hi,” she says in return locking eye contact with mine.
It’s ridiculous, Vicky is my longest relationship (and I hers) she is my greatest love, yet standing together on the sand, the water circling our feet, the breeze blowing around us, I feel as if I hardly know her at all. Looking into her soul, I know there is so much more I do not yet know about this woman. So many more deep secrets she hasn’t shared. Parts of her that are still locked away, I suspect because they’re too painful to acknowledge or allow to surface.
She tilts her chin upwards, her eyes pleading with mine, inviting me to kiss her. Our lips touch, sending an instant bolt of lightning down my stomach and into my groin. A small involuntary groan escapes from me where it has been buried deep inside and I take the opportunity to kiss her more intensely. The roughness of my two-day stubble brushes against the smooth skin of her cheek. Our lips are both soft and damp as they meet. Our tongues twisting ardently as I demand to be connected to her. To consume her passionately.
I feel the comforting weight of her arms that are now wrapped around my neck, the touch of her hands cupping the back of my head, the sharpness of her fingernails sensuously stroking my hair and my scalp. My head tingles against her touch and all my senses are heightened. Around us, I’m acutely aware of the lyrical sound of the waves rolling gently behind her, the heat of the late afternoon sun that beats down on my left shoulder, the cool water and wet sand that soaks my feet. The taste of her on my tongue and the sweet smell of her aroma increases my desire with every in-breath, so too does the movement of Vicky’s hair, blowing like a lion’s mane in the breeze.
I slide my hands down the neat curve of her back and firmly grasp her bum, before pulling her into me, closing the space between us. Her body now pressing up against mine, I know she can feel my hardness pushed up against her inner thigh. My longing to be inside her is primal. I deepen my kiss further, sliding one of my hands up underneath her skirt from behind, my fingers pushing aside the silky slip that covers the warm wetness of her own desire. However, rather than welcome my touch she suddenly knocks my hand away sharply. Abruptly stepping back and breaking our connection.
“Stop it, Chris. Why do you always have to spoil it?”
“I’m not spoiling it. I’m only wanting to make it better.”
“And how is groping me, and in public, making anything any better?”
“You worry too much, Vicky,” I joke, reaching up to touch her face with the back of my hand. “No one can see us.” The large rocks that split the bay in two are obscuring us from anyone else still on the beach to the north.
“But that’s not the point.” She knocks my hand away a second time. “I’m not just an object for you to abuse whenever you want, Chris. Just to switch on at whim and fuck whenever you feel like it.” She’s shouting now, her anger spilling over. Any connection between us from moments earlier, now lost.
My desire is replaced by a maddening frustration at the injustice of her words. I want to shake some sense into her. To make her understand. I know that if we could only make love, like we used to, to rekindle that passion, we’d be able to get past all of this. But how can we, if she won’t allow me to touch her?
For fear I may do or say something I deeply regret, my own anger bubbling up inside me like a dangerous volcanic eruption, I turn my back and walk a few steps back up the beach.
Behind me I hear Vicky scream sarcastically, “That’s right, Chris. Fuck off. Walk away, just like you always do.” Her words stabbing me in the back as if she had just thrown real spears that have impaled me between my shoulder blades. “Leave me stranded here with no way to get home. Without even any fucking shoes on… why on earth would I expect anything less from you, Chris? Just abandon me. Just like you always do!”
I turn back around and see she’s turned again to face the ocean, arms crossed in front of her looking out towards the horizon. Her dress still clinging to her figure and her hair still blowing in the breeze. I stride towards her, unable to contain my anger anymore. In one swift moment I lean down and grab her around the waist as she screams,
“Get off me, Chris. Leave me alone. Just fuck right off.” I feel the strike of her fists that beat furiously on my back as she tries unsuccessfully to break free from my grip. Yet I refuse to let her go, instead lifting her up onto my shoulder in an undignified fireman’s lift.
With her fists still pounding on my back, she screams like a banshee as I walk back up the beach and deposit her roughly in the passenger seat of the car.
“Sit there and shut the fuck up.” I point angrily in her face, before slamming the car door extra hard.
We drive back home in silence. The anger palpable in the air between us. I pull onto Mum’s drive and without looking Vicky in the face, retrieve the house key from my pocket, throwing it into her lap.
“Let yourself in. I’m going out.”
I know she is probably dying to ask me, ‘where to, who with and what time will you be back,’ but her pride won’t let her, and I don’t volunteer the information.
She steps out of the car, clearly holding back her tears. Without a backward glance and with her head held high, she opens the front door and steps inside. I slam the car into gear, reversing hard off the gravel drive. Slamming the gears again and spinning the wheels as I pull away. A spray of pebbles visible in the rear-view mirror, where part of me hopes to glimpse Vicky standing at the kitchen window. But it remains empty.