England
12 months earlier
Up with the larks on Monday morning, partly because I haven’t had a chance to do a dry run and time the 20 or so mile commute from Steve’s in Chippenham up to Swindon and I don’t want to be late on my first day, and partly because it takes at least 30 minutes to run what lukewarm water there is available from the clapped out old boiler, into the old metal bath, in Steve’s archaic bathroom which, judging by the disgusting avocado coloured bath suite, looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s, I finally arrive at my new office.
It wasn’t difficult to arrange a transfer at work as my company were expanding in Swindon, just up the road from here and they were looking for candidates with my qualifications to join their team. So, although technically this is a sideways move in my career, it is for a new office ‘implant’, where a small team from our company are to be based inside our client’s UK headquarters. Working within a smaller team, I’m expecting to have more autonomy, more responsibility, a greater opportunity to shine and if all goes well, I intend to use this move as a springboard upwards in my future career.
The building is an enormous glass and steel structure on the outskirts of Swindon, on one of the newer business parks, only two minutes from Junction 16 of the M4 motorway. I’m very pleased to discover it only takes me 30 minutes to drive there. The perfect commuting time. Any longer is a real drag. I sign in at reception before being collected by my company’s Area Manager, the guy responsible for recruiting me to this new office.
“Good morning, Victoria. It’s nice to see you again,” he says shaking my hand warmly.
“Likewise,” I reply politely, taking his hand as it’s offered.
“Everything work out OK with your move down south over the weekend?”
“Absolutely. Still a few boxes to sort. You know how it is, but essentially all settled in.” I leave out the fact that Steve, I’ve realised, is a complete and utter slob. How could I have not realised before now? How fogged up were my rose-tinted glasses? I was clearly blind or choosing to see only what I’d wanted to see in those early hedonistic days of our relationship. I also refrain from telling him about the blazing row we had yesterday where Steve told me to basically “bugger off back north” or that only after I apologised for being so unreasonable and demanding - even though I felt I was not being unreasonable or demanding to expect to live in basic standards of cleanliness, did we finally reach an uncomfortable truce. Eventually falling asleep facing away from each other again, in another heavy silence.
“Great, well let’s get you settled in and I’m sure you’ll want to meet your other colleagues,” he says before escorting me through the large open-plan glass pyramid of the building’s atrium and round the corridor to where our own open-plan office is being prepared. The IT guys only just visible from underneath our sparkly new desks as they crawl around the floor connecting up our new telephone system and massive computer monitors. Judging by the size of the screens, which look like huge televisions, it’s nice to see we are to be given the latest most up to date equipment. These screens, I can see, are in colour unlike the old black and green DOS screens in my previous office back in Newcastle.
My supervisor is called Mark a local guy, middle-aged and with a couple of grown-up kids. He is to split his time between this implant office and a further couple of offices in other clients’ headquarters dotted in and around Swindon and my other colleague is a girl more or less my own age.
“Melanie Williams,” the girl says as way of introduction, extending her hand.
“Victoria Turnbull,” I reply, shaking her hand firmly.
I can tell immediately that we’re going to get along. She’s one of the bubbliest and friendliest people I’ve ever met. She reminds me of some of my Geordie friends back home, as us ‘Geordies’ as people from in and around Newcastle are known, are also renowned for our open and friendly persona.
I incorrectly assume her antipodean accent is from Australia, but she politely corrects me.
“No, actually. I’m from Christchurch in New Zealand.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” worried that I’ve offended her. Similar to mistaking Canadians for Americans I know how sensitive Kiwis can be if you mistake them for Aussies.
“Don’t be. It’s a common mistake,” she says warmly, a wide smile on her face.
“I’ve never been to New Zealand, but I hear it’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is. Both the people and the place. You should go one day.”
“Well now I’ve met you, perhaps one day I will,” I reply lightly, not appreciating the future prediction or the gravitas of my response.
Melanie and I are to be the engine room of the office, actually doing the day to day work required to service our client’s complex and busy travel needs. The value of the account isn’t big enough to justify Mark’s presence full-time, which means on a day to day basis Melanie and I will be left largely to our own devices. I love the fact that for the first time in my career I won’t be micro-managed. Between Melanie and I, we are to have full responsibility for the security of the office, the safe, the foreign currency and travellers’ cheques we hold on site as well as all the blank airline tickets we will use to print out airplane tickets for our clients. They maybe blank when we put them into our specialist printer, but with one stroke of the keyboard you can easily print out a first-class return air ticket to anywhere in the world, so they need to be kept safe. It feels good to be given this amount of responsibility and trust.
Our client is a global energy company with offices and investments all around the world and therefore many of their board members and senior managers spend a large proportion of their time globetrotting. It’s our job to ensure they arrive in the right country, with the right visa, the right currency in their pocket and in time for their meetings that are packed into their ridiculously tight work schedules.
Our office is to be open for business from 8.30am until 5.30pm five days a week, so Melanie and I agree our work pattern of split shifts starting at 8.15am and 9am respectively, swapping on alternate weeks, with an agreement that we can be flexible if either one of us has something pressing that conflicts with our scheduled shift that particular day.
Much of the rest of our first day is spent setting up the office, testing the IT systems and pro-actively introducing ourselves to as many of the personal assistants in the building as we can get round. Although their bosses are the people who do the majority of the travelling, the army of personal assistants are essentially our front-line customers and the people we must impress the most. Experience tells me if you can build your relationship with the PAs, your life becomes a million times easier. Most people are very pleasant and appreciate the cupcakes that Melanie and I dish out as we walk past people’s desks explaining who we are and what we’re there to help with, but I’m not surprised to hear a couple of murmurs of discontent from some. Our company has recently taken over this client from one of our industry competitors, so I suppose it’s only natural that a few of the PAs or business travellers would have preferred things to have stayed the same, which only makes me even more determined to deliver a brilliant service and win everyone over. Needing to be liked, is a feeling I strive for constantly, I don’t know why but I do.
Despite meeting so many new people in one day, I feel re-energised by the end of it. Meeting Melanie, some of our new clients and seeing the new office set-up has reconfirmed that taking the risk to uproot my life and try something new, at least in my professional life, was the right move, even if I still need to figure out the best way forward in my relationship with Steve.
Over the next few months my life settles into a dichotomy of two polar opposites. Unremarkable domesticity living with Steve and fun challenging work with Melanie. Each morning my energy levels lift as I drive up the M4 and I anticipate the yet unknown complex travel itineraries that will be waiting on my desk, together with the friendly and humorous banter that snaps between Melanie and I throughout the day. Our friendship has already developed to a place where we feel comfortable taking the mickey out of each other. Neither of us takes offence as we lightly rib each other as we plough through our work.
As my working day ends my energy flattens once again as I drive in the opposite direction where all I have to look forward to is a night in front of the telly watching the soaps, making Steve and I something to eat, followed by the odd episode of perfunctory sex. Each morning after my alarm goes off, I drag myself downstairs to the freezing cold lean-to bathroom beyond the kitchen and turn on the hot tap before climbing back into bed for another 30 minutes while the bath fills with lukewarm water. Weekends are only marginally better but at least I get out of the house, sometimes. I miss Melanie’s company, but Steve and I fill our spare time walking in the countryside or visiting local landmarks. We’ve joined The Natural Trust so spend lots of Saturdays visiting impressive and preserved National Trust properties and although pleasant, it’s hardly rock ’n’ roll. When we’re not out walking I seem to spend my time cleaning, doing the washing, ironing Steve’s shirts for the following week, or doing the weekly food shop. Occasionally, we’ll spend a weekend catching up with friends or visiting family. A lot of my friends are turning 21 this year, so we have a couple of weekends pencilled in for parties and get-togethers which helps to break up the monotony.
Each Monday I return to the office and listen to the crazy stories that Melanie has to share about her weekend antics. She packs as much into her time off as is humanly possible. To her, weekends are precious and should be filled with adventure, new experiences and shared with important people. So she spends every spare minute either nipping away for city breaks with her older sister Michelle who’s currently living up in London or travelling round the country catching up with friends or distant relatives. Every Monday she’s always just about recovered from yet another hangover, so although she may be physically tired she’s always so full of life, full of stories and full of good craic.
I always dread it when she turns to me and asks me what I’ve been up to over the previous weekend.
“Oh, not much. You know. Just the usual. Cleaning. Shopping. Ironing. What about you?”
“Victoria, you’re old before your time. You should be out having fun, getting pissed, running naked across someone’s lawn and not caring where you’re going to crash that evening. Not worrying about whether or not you’ve got milk in the fridge for breakfast the next morning, or whether Steve has enough clean shirts for the week.”
I know she’s right. Melanie is only 18 months older than I, but sometimes it feels like I’m 30 years older than her.
“I’d make Steve sort his own bloody shirts out,” she murmurs under her breath.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Oh nothing. I just think you should live a little, Vicky, but hey, it’s not my place to say how you should be living your life.”
I envy her. “I know what you mean, Melanie. But Steve is a nice guy really and I don’t mind looking after him, honestly.” Yeah right, who the hell am I kidding?
At home, I’m cold 90 percent of the time and not just emotionally. Unbelievably, in this day and age, Steve’s rented terrace has no central heating and other than the plug-in electric radiators which cost a fortune to run, the only other form of heating is the real fire in the living room, which takes at least three hours from being lit before it throws out any real heat. On many a night I’m just getting warm by the time we need to go to bed. On really cold evenings when the temperature continues to drop as autumn draws in, I’ve taken to making up a bed on the rug in front of the fire and falling asleep as the last embers give up their final throws of heat and light.
“This is ridiculous,” I shout at Steve one evening, when the outside temperature is so cold that ice has formed on the inside of the bedroom window. “This is the 20th century, Steve, we don’t need to be living like this. Sort it out!”
I’m frustrated that it takes an ultimatum from me before he has the motivation to step up and take action to improve our living standards. Two months later we’ve moved from the crappy run-down terrace to a three-bed modern semi on a 1970’s estate on the outskirts of the town. Despite our more homely living arrangements, our relationship trundles along much the same as before. I realise I have to face the fact that I’m simply not in love with Steve and I’ve become a middle-aged housewife long before my time. I may have been attracted to him once (on some level at least) but any attraction has disappeared under the weight of domesticity. Fortunately, he rarely makes a pass at me these days, so I don’t have to suffer his lumbering body attempting to mount me too frequently. Most days he just annoys me and I either find myself sniping at him or attempting to stay out of his way as much as possible.
As Christmas draws closer he begins to talk about the future. Despite his immaturity Steve is almost 30 and he’s obviously beginning to think longer term, his desire to have children and the possibility of a life together permanently, which suddenly jolts me into needing to take action. The original picture I’d imagined on my journey down south nine months ago of us standing at the altar surrounded by our families as we take our vows, now has the potential to become a hideous reality and although I feel metaphorically and financially trapped, at least without a ring on my finger or a babe in my arms I’m still comparatively free if I can just find a way to leave, which I know now I need to do before Christmas. The thought of pretending to play happy families with his relatives over the festive season or take the risk that he may propose publicly is sufficient for me to discuss my problems with Melanie.
“I just don’t know what to know, Mel.” I finally share my inner thoughts with her one lunchtime while we’re munching on our sandwiches.
“What do you mean, you don’t know what to do? Just leave him, Vicky. Leave and go find somewhere else to live.” She makes it sound so simple. Perhaps it is.
“But I can’t afford to live on my own. Where would I go, what would I do? I’m stuck and don’t know how to leave?”
“Don’t know how to, or don’t want to?” she asks, raising her eyebrows quizzically. “In life, Vicky, you need to make the decision first, then the hows will work themselves out.”
I think about what she’s just said. “Oh, I definitely want to leave him. I suppose I’ve just been waiting for the how to appear before actually doing something about it. OK, decision made. I’m definitely going to leave him within the next month. There, I’ve made the decision and said it out loud.”
She smiles encouragingly at me.
“...even if I have ab-sol-utely no idea how the heck I will do it, or where I will live next!” I laugh nervously as the magnitude of my impossible situation stares right back at me.
“Great, so here’s an idea. Why don’t we get a place together?” she suggests out of the blue, taking me completely by surprise and offering me the how I’d been waiting for. “My landlord is making noises that he might put his house on the market very soon, so I reckon I’ll need to look for somewhere else to live in the next couple of months anyway. If I know we’re going to live together, I’ll give him notice and we can start looking for somewhere suitable to rent for the two of us. See, I told you it’s simple. You should never worry about making a decision based on what needs to happen next, Vicky. Always make the decision first, and I guarantee the hows will appear.” She sounds so matter of fact and profoundly wise. I suppose having left her homeland a couple of years ago, travelled halfway around the world and having had to sort out many places to live and work since, sorting somewhere new to live with me seems far less daunting to her than me.
“Really, Melanie? Are you sure?” My insides take a secret leap of joy.
“Absolutely. Why not? It’ll be fun.” She sounds so relaxed as she takes another bite of her sandwich, smiling warmly over to me.
“Ok, let’s do it. I’ll plan to leave Steve in a month’s time, which will give you time to give notice and time for us to have sorted out somewhere new to rent. I can stick it out for a few more weeks. Hell, I’ve stuck it out for this long.”
The next morning however, despite our intentions to secretly secure somewhere to live before I end it with Steve, so that I’m not left homeless, I finally lose my cool. I had come down into the kitchen, to find the benches strewn with his dirty dishes from the night before, an overflowing ashtray in the lounge (my pet hate as it makes the whole house stink) and the final straw - he’d eaten the last two slices of bread from the breadbin and failed to replenish it with a new loaf out of the freezer to thaw overnight, meaning I have nothing to eat for breakfast.
“Steeeeeeeve, you fucking twat!” I scream up the stairs. “There’s no fucking bread in the breadbin and the place is a pigsty - again.”
“What going on?” He appears at the top of the stairs, still half asleep, dressed only in his boxer shorts, his semi-horn clearly visible through the gaping hole at the front. He’s scratching his head vacantly with one hand and his balls with the other. Although I’m all fired up for a fight, instead I just shake my head in disgust, and turn on my heel to head out of the door.
“Never fucking mind. I’ll get something at work.” I slam the front door extra hard, hoping to release some of the pent-up anger that is coursing through my veins.
Once at work, Melanie and I hatch a plan to get me out today. I simply can’t stay a minute longer. I’m to call in sick to our Regional Office. Mark’s not in today so no one need know that I actually came into work this morning perfectly fit and well. They will think I’ve made the call from my sick bed. Then I’m to head back home once Steve has left for work and pack up all of my gear into my little Renault 5 and drive back up to Swindon. Mel has already called her landlord, Timothy, who confirms he is happy for me to bunk in with her for a couple of weeks while we find somewhere new to rent. He’s a divorcee and used to live in the house but has recently moved up to London himself and plans to put the house on the market once Melanie and his other remaining lodger have moved out. I’ve met him on a couple of occasions when I’ve been round to Mel’s for supper and he’s seems like a decent bloke and I’m very grateful.
Once I’ve moved all of my stuff up to Tim’s, I return to the house and sit quietly in the lounge listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. The minutes pass agonisingly slowly as I wait for Steve to come in from work, so I can officially end our relationship. Finally, I hear his car pull up on the drive and I start to shake, my nerves overwhelming me. I’m not afraid of him or think that he would do anything stupid to hurt me, but Steve is my longest and most serious relationship to date and I’m not looking forward to what I have to say or how he will react.
He realises something is up the minute he walks in the door and notices the house is half empty. Being a woman, I’m the one who’s provided the few soft furnishings or items that have attempted to make our lives more comfortable and our house more homely. He may never have noticed the pictures on the walls previously, but now he’s noticing the bare patches, even though I suspect he couldn’t tell me what had hung there before if I was to ask. I give him a few seconds to take in what he’s seeing as he continues to scan round the room.
Finally, he asks, “Victoria, what’s going on?”
“Steve, I’m leaving you.” I stand up, attempting to sound ten times more confident than I feel. I wish my legs would stop shaking.
“I’ve left a cheque for my half of the rent and utilities for the next four weeks.” I point to a pile of paperwork on the dining room table. “After that it’s up to you what you choose to do.” I’m fortunate that it’s his name on the rental agreement and the utilities, and we’ve never got around to setting up a joint bank account, so legally I can walk away without any liability. Giving him four weeks of contribution towards the bills and rent, is merely a gesture and feels like the right thing to do.
He looks dumbfounded. Shocked. Speechless. As if all of this has come completely out of the blue, which I suspect for him it has. Despite our more frequent arguments of late I’ve never threatened to leave him before now. I almost feel angry that he’s so immune to my needs and feelings, that he’s had so little awareness of my unhappiness for basically the entirety of our relationship that I’m buggered if he’s going to make out that he’s the victim in all of this. That he’s the completely innocent party.
“Steve, I’m sorry. But I have no desire to be old before my time. You don’t want a girlfriend, you want a housekeeper and I’ve had enough of cleaning up after you. I want to be with a man who makes me feel like a woman, not their mother.”
“What are you talking about? Are you not happy? I thought we loved each other? This can’t be just because I ate the last slices of bread last night, is it?”
I look into his eyes and all I see is a frightened little boy looking back at me. I have no desire to kick him when he’s down and I haven’t even got the energy to explain how far off the mark he is.
“Steve. You’re blind,” I say, closing my eyes in frustration. My mouth devoid of any saliva. All I want to do now is get out of there as fast as possible, so I temper what I really want to say and instead finish the conversation. “I’m sorry but there really is no point discussing this anymore. Goodbye, Steve, and please say goodbye to your family on my behalf. They’ve all been very kind and decent to me.” I decide I’ll write his mother a nice letter and send it in a Christmas card in a few weeks’ time, even though she’ll probably throw it straight into the bin. “I’ve left my key on the side in the kitchen,” I add, standing up and making my way towards the front door for a final time. I refrain from adding, “next to your pile of dirty dishes and the sticky patch of orange juice you spilt this morning and failed to wipe up - you disgusting slob.”
“Goodbye Steve,” I say firmly, indicating that these are my final words before I close the front door behind me. Once outside, I lean back against the door and gaze skywards. It’s an ominous sky tonight. A large bright full moon peeks out from behind the thin threads of clouds that cross the early evening sky. I feel as if the sky has meaning. The dark clouds in the foreground hiding the pure white light of the moon behind. It’s as if the heavens are sending me a message: hang in there, Victoria because behind the clouds, brightness is coming.
“I sincerely hope so,” I say to myself under my breath. Second only to leaving my family to move in with Steve originally, this is the most momentous action I’ve ever taken. I hope I’ve made the right decision. Are my expectations for what I want out of my life too high? Steve may not be exciting or dynamic, but he has a stable job, I doubt he would have ever cheated on me, and despite his messiness I’m sure he will make a good partner for someone. Just not for me, I decide firmly.
I wonder what life holds for me now. I feel as if I’m on a preordained journey, as if this step was a necessary part of some bigger picture. As if a greater force is leading me somewhere to a future I’ve yet to experience. I know I’m young and inexperienced, but I also know I’m ambitious, and I know I want more. More out of a relationship, more out of my life generally. I feel like I’m on the search for something. For the piece of me that is missing. If only I know what it was, then perhaps I would know where to go hunting for it.
“OK, universe,” I say out loud in the car as I drive the 30 minutes back up the M4, “I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m headed, so if you have a plan for me - it would be really helpful if you could give me a hint sometime soon.” It would be nice to know that I’m at least headed in the right direction and I haven’t just taken yet another wrong turn.”
It does feel as if something is coming though, as if by leaving Steve something has just shifted in the world around me. I decide it’s pointless trying to overanalyse things that I have no control over and instead make a decision that I will fully embrace my new life living with Melanie and I’ll be open and unafraid to whatever comes along. Strangely I feel calm and content for the first time in a very long time.
Later that evening, Melanie and I head out for a celebratory Indian meal followed by a frenetic night of dancing in the local nightclub, Route 66, in the centre of town. I completely let loose, dancing with free abandon. I feel as if a switch has been flicked back on deep inside me. It’s as if my life had been put on pause for the past 15 months before starting once again. My body feels as if it just been thawed out after being cryogenically frozen. It’s an amazing feeling and Melanie and I laugh our heads off as we throw back the vodka during happy hour, enjoying the glances we are getting from members of the opposite sex.
“I’ve had more fun tonight, Mel, than I’ve had in a very long time. Thank you,” I say as we both drunkenly fall into the back of a taxi at 2am to head back to Tim’s.
“You call this fun, Vicky? We haven’t even got started. Trust me, this will become just one fun night in a very long list of many - let the games be-giiin.” She shouts dramatically, sitting bolt upright on the back seat of the taxi, gesticulating as if refereeing a gladiatorial tournament.
Despite the draining events from earlier in the day, the lateness of the hour and the prospect of work early tomorrow morning, I feel more alive than I’ve done in ages.
“Indeed, Mel,” I reply with gusto mirroring her body language, “let the games be-giiin.”