I wake early, around 5am. My body clock still screwed from jet lag. I quietly pad around the house, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake the girls who are still fast asleep upstairs. I pull my map of the UK from my rucksack, studying all the places I’ve highlighted as I start to make a plan for how best to use my time, what I want to do and who I need to see in the time I have available.
First job; acquire some wheels, which shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s clear that although it is possible to criss-cross the country by rail, just like in NZ, unless you want to spend loads of time waiting for buses, paying for taxis or relying on lifts to get from the city centres out to the homes, places and people I want to see, I’m going to need my own transport.
I’ll suss out the second-hand car market first thing today. There must be an Autotrader magazine or equivalent over here in the UK, just like we have in NZ. The UK pound has dropped against the NZ dollar again since I left, meaning I’ll get even more bang for my buck. So rather than hiring a car for a couple of weeks until I go to Europe, it might work out better to buy some wheels and then flog them in a couple of months’ time when I finally fly back home.
I notice Vicky drives a small run-around. A French crappy thing, that although she seems quite proud of it, it looks like a complete pile of junk to me. Mellie’s unable to afford a car so has bought herself a small moped, which is enough to get her to and from work, up and down to the Gray’s (about 45 minutes to an hour south of here) and to the train station in Swindon if she needs to go anywhere further afield. However, riding unsteadily behind her yesterday, with my heavy pack on my back, is not something I’d like to repeat in a hurry. Apart from the fact it’s also another heap of junk, it has absolutely no power and only goes about 20mph, nor is it designed to safely carry two people. If I can’t find any decent wheels to purchase locally today, then I will resort to my Plan B and simply hire a car to get me around in the next few days at least.
I know the girls are planning a bun-fight of some sort on Saturday, so I think I’ll head off later and whizz down to see my grandparents in Gillingham, which I reckon is about 90 minutes or so drive from here. I’ll spend a couple of nights there with them before coming back here in time for the weekend.
It’s still early but I pull my clothes on quickly and decide to go out for a walk and explore the town. Maybe I’ll come across a dairy where I can buy an Autotrader. I fold up the map returning it to my pack before removing the temporary bedding off the sofa and folding it away, leaving it neatly behind the couch so it’s hidden from view. Finally, I write a note for Mellie and pin it on the fridge door in case she wakes up and doesn’t know where I’ve gone.
Gone walkabout.
Back before you leave for work.
Chris x
I put the front door on the latch, so I can let myself back in, as I don’t yet have a front door key, and I head out into the cool freshness of the dewy morning. I love this time of day, when the whole world is still enjoying its slumber and only the early morning traders are beginning their rounds. The milkman picking up the empties off people’s doorsteps, replacing them with fresh pints of milk in time for brekkie. Or the paper boys doing the early morning shift, pushing the morning news through people’s letterboxes. I admire the young ‘uns who take on a paper round, it requires discipline, it can be hard yakka, especially in horrible weather, but that’s what builds character. However, as I begin my morning expedition, despite the odd person milling around, most of the world sleeps on and I feel like the whole day belongs to me.
“Morning, mate.” I greet a paperboy on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac. “Which is the best way to walk to town from here?”
“Left out the end of the road, up to the top of the hill and keep following the road as it bears left and eventually you’ll come to the top of the high street.”
“Thanks, mate.” I wave a goodbye and follow his instructions. Mellie and Vicky’s rented house is a small two-bed semi on a modern estate on the outskirts of the town. Well, I say, ‘town’, people in the UK refer to this as a village but by NZ standards, in the South Island at least, this place would constitute a ‘large town’. We have some places back home that have literally a post office, a petrol station and three houses and that warrants a named dot on the official map of New Zealand!
As I follow the road round to the left I pass the actual name of the village on a ‘Welcome to’ sign. ‘Wootton Bassett’. Really, surely that can’t be real? It doesn’t sound real. Rather it sounds like a made-up magical place name from a children’s TV programme. Either that or someone once won the ‘think of a quirkiest name for an English village’ competition. I chuckle to myself as I continue to follow the road towards the village centre.
The further I walk the older the buildings become. Clearly the village has been added to over the decades and by the time I reach the top of the high street the architecture doesn’t look real anymore. Surely, I must have accidentally walked onto a film set. I’ve never been anywhere like this before. I know, obviously, that parts of England are old, very old, and I’ve seen pictures from rellies or on TV. I appreciate I’ve only been in the country for one day, and that arriving into an international airport, driving up a motorway and arriving at a modern office block, I would not have expected to have gained a real sense of the place yet, but standing here, having just reached the top of the high street, I am captivated. It’s as if I’ve been instantly transported back in time three or four hundred years. Higgledy piggledy brick buildings, sit amongst white washed homes. Small windows filled with tiny criss-crossed panes of glass hide snugly under brightly tiled roofs. Nothing lines up, nothing is straight, and everything looks as if it might just tumble down at any moment. I half expect people in period dress to appear from the houses, and mount their horses, before trotting off to start their business of the day.
Further down the high street in the centre of the road is a building, the kind of which, I’ve never seen anything like before. Standing proudly on its own in the middle of the road and raised a full storey height from the ground on 15 stone pillars and with an open ground floor, whitewashed walls on the second storey sit under an old grey tiled roof. What is most interesting is the geometric patterns of the dark, presumably English oak timber beams embedded deep but still visible within its walls, which look both essential to its construction as well as pleasing to the eye. Clearly old, I wonder how old this building actually is and what purpose it’s served in the past. Perhaps a gaol, or a town hall. It certainly looks official and as if it has been around for centuries, possibly even as far back as Shakespeare. The fact that I can be this close to something this old is mind-blowing to me.
Obviously in NZ we have a strong Māori culture that pre-dates any European influences, but this is the first time I’ve seen anything Olde English and first-hand. I can now appreciate Mum’s fascination with ancestry and English Royalty when it’s so easy to be this close to history. When you can simply walk the streets and be amongst it.
I meander down the high street, taking my time to peek into quirky shop windows, even though the shops are still shut, and not due to open for another couple of hours yet. I look through the window of the obvious local gift shop, the hairdresser’s, the butcher’s, the bottle shop and of course the classic British fish and chip shop, or as we would pronounce back home “fush ‘n’ chps”. “Fush ‘n’ chps” being the classic phrase most people say to take the piss out of Kiwis, when attempting to copy our accent.
I spot a man coming out of a shop just up ahead. Realising that this must be a dairy, or what the English call a ‘newsagent’, the only shop open at this early hour, I head there. Grabbing a fresh orange juice from the fridge, an apple from a basket on the counter, a copy of the Autotrader and The Financial Times, so I can keep an eye on the exchange rates, I hand the shopkeeper a crisp £50-pound note.
He raises his eyes and asks, “You haven’t got anything smaller, mate, have you?”
“No, sorry,” I reply.
“Now where’s that accent from, you’re clearly not from round here?”
“New Zealand, mate. Just arrived yesterday. Catching up with family and planning on doing some travelling over the summer.”
“Excellent. Well, welcome to Wiltshire. I hope you enjoy your time here.”
“So far, so good. By the way … what’s that interesting building over there? The one raised up on pillars. It looks real old,” I ask, hoping he can shed some light on my hungry curiosity.
“I assume you mean The Old Town Hall. Yeah, it was built way back in the late 1600s. It has a small museum inside where you can learn more about it and the history of the town. It also used to be a gaol for drunks at one point. It’s a pretty well-known landmark in these parts. Although to be fair, there is lots of history in this part of the world, it’s not hard to immerse yourself in it - if that’s your thing. Best day to come back and have a look inside is Wednesdays when the market is on. The museum is only open a couple of days a week. It’s staffed by volunteers you see.”
“That’s great, thanks for that. Sorry I’ve eaten up all of your change.”
“Not to worry,” he replies, handing me a mountain of change, a mix of notes and coins, together with my purchases in a plastic bag, which seems strange. We have paper ones back home.
“See ya later,” I say, as I leave the shop and retrace my steps back to Mellie’s. I walk in the door just as the girls are stirring and we all gather in the kitchen.
“Morning,” Mellie says. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah. Like a log. Although I think I could have slept on a washing line after the 24 hours of travelling beforehand. I was absolutely goosed.”
“What do you fancy for breakfast? We’ve got cereal, fruit, toast or I could make you a quick bacon sandwich,” Mellie asks.
“Ooo... bacon sarnie please.” Despite the apple I ate on the walk back I’ve been awake for a couple of hours now and I’ve just realised how hungry I am.
“Ok, take a seat then. One bacon sandwich coming up.” She plonks a cup of tea on the kitchen table on the opposite side to where Vicky is already sitting quietly munching on her breakfast of fruit and yogurt. She smiles as I sit down opposite her.
Still in their PJs and dressing gowns, I realise how nice this feels. Since Mellie left for the UK and it’s just been me and Mum at home, I can’t remember the last time I just hung out and had a casual breakfast with people my own age. Being the last one of my siblings at home it’s been an adjustment going from living in the noise and chaos of a family of six, to just me and Mum.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you last night?” Vicky asks. “I came down in the night for a glass of water. I tried to tip-toe quietly past so as not to wake you.”
“No, not at all. Like I said, I was out for the count.” I resist the urge to add, “but next time don’t feel you need to be so quiet. I wouldn’t mind at all if you woke me up”- Mellie’s warning still ringing in my ears.
The conversation turns to the weekend and the logistics of what needs to be sorted, organised, collected, prepped and cooked in time for the barbecue on Saturday. I share my plans to acquire some wheels before heading down to Grandpa and Grandma’s, coming back on Friday night so I can help set up and ready things for Saturday. Mellie gives me the spare key she’s had cut for me, then the girls head upstairs to their respective rooms to get ready for work. Meanwhile I gather my things and prepare to head out. Vicky is on the slightly later shift today, so she’s offered to drop me off in the centre of Swindon before she heads to the office, so I can start my search for wheels.
Driving me into town it’s the first time we’ve been alone together since I arrived. The fact that she’s driving and needs to keep her eyes on the road ahead gives me an excuse to study her profile which I find absolutely mesmerising. A kind, oval face, pale complexion, unusual green eyes, full, plump and very kissable lips, all framed by shoulder-length long, blonde, straight hair. She talks to me about her relationship with her own maternal grandparents. Apparently, she only ever had a relationship with the grandparents on her mother’s side, she’s not explained why but she talks very animatedly about her grandfather who sadly died just last year, but whom it sounds like she absolutely idolised. So now there’s just one grandparent left who she refers to as ‘her granny’. This granny sounds like an amazing woman and I find myself hoping I have the opportunity to meet this matriarch of her family someday. We reach the agreed drop-off point in town, park up and Vicky turns towards me.
“Have a great few days at your grandparents, I’m sure they’ll be as excited to see you as you are them. It is really great you’re here, Chris,” she says sincerely, turning to face me having now parked up her car. “I know how much it means to Mellie and the rest of your family for you to have taken the time to come over and visit.”
She leans across and gives me a brief hug, the smell of her perfume involuntarily invading my nostrils, causing me to inhale her scent deeply. The smell is that of a classic fragrance, not one I’m familiar with but as I’m learning very quickly, everything about Vicky is classic and refined, so I expect her perfume will be too. I make a mental note to find out which one it is, as I’d like to think I will have the opportunity to buy it for her someday.
“See you Friday … don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says as I step out of the car.
“Well that rules out nothing then,” I reply, giving her a quick wink, noticing the twinkle in her own eye as she momentarily locks eye contact with me.
I end up hiring a VW Golf for the week as I realise all the decent bargains from the weekly Autotrader have long gone and I refuse to pay the additional margin that would be applied by the second-hand dealers in town. I must remember to buy the next edition of Autotrader first thing on Thursday morning.
***
After a lovely couple of days with my grandparents - whom I haven’t seen for over five years since they last visited New Zealand – during which they’ve done their very best to fatten me up with wedges of cake, buttered scones, and lots more English home cooking, all served up with lashings of love and buckets of tea, I arrive back in Wootton Bassett at 8pm on Friday night.
The sound of music escaping from the open windows greets my return as I pull onto the drive and cut the car engine. As well as Vicky’s French heap of junk, the driveway also now houses a parked white Lotus Elan and I raise my eyebrows as I ponder who the owner of it might be.
Using my key, I sing-song, “Hi honey I’m home” as I walk through the living room, tossing my keys into the bowl on the side as I head into the kitchen where I find Mellie singing away, completely out of tune, rubber gloves on, cloth and detergent spray in hand, vigorously cleaning the kitchen. She hasn’t noticed my arrival, so rather than disturb her groove, I sneak up behind her and join in the chorus of George Michael’s ‘Faith’ at the absolute top of my voice. She jumps out of her skin, turning round and giving me a playful thump on the side on my arm.
“Bloody hell, Chris. You gave me the shock of my life,” dropping the cloth and spray onto the drainer and giving me a hug. “How are grandpa and grandma?”
“Sweet as - still in in great shape, considering their ages. Grandpa is as sharp as a bell and grandma just wanted to fatten me up. I think we had a slice of cake for afters with every meal. Anyway. How’s the rest of your week been?”
“Busy. And we only have to get through this list,” she pulls out a folded A4 piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. Holding the corner, she shakes it so that it unfolds in full “...before 2pm tomorrow afternoon … then I can stop to have a much-needed drink.” I can see the paper contains a very long list of tasks and only a handful appear to have been crossed off or have names next to them.
“Actually, it’s good you’re back,” she scans the list, clearly looking for things to delegate to me. “Before you get settled, would you mind popping to the train station to collect Michelle? She’s due in from Paddington at 8.30pm. That would be a great help, thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Where’s Vicky?” I ask, nonchalantly, despite the fact that she’s been invading my psyche over the past few days. An image of her permanently etched in my mind since we very first met.
“Upstairs cleaning the bathroom. We flipped a coin over who does the bathroom or the kitchen - she lost,” Mellie chuckles.
As if on cue, Vicky walks through the kitchen door behind me, wearing only casual tracksuit bottoms and a crisp white t-shirt, hair tied up in a loose ponytail, yet still managing to look stylish. She smiles widely as she clocks my return and I feel a warmth radiate from her and physically penetrate into me, like rays of sunshine landing on your face on a crisp winter’s day.
“Hey, Chris,” she says, casually giving me a friendly hug and sending an instant electric bolt of lust shooting through my body. “Did you have a nice time at your grandparents? It must have been lovely seeing them after such a long time?”
“Yes, it was lovely ... but I’m also glad to be back here. I’m looking forward to a fun-filled weekend with my girls,” I say throwing my arms around both of them giving them a mutual hug. Mellie on my left and Vicky on my right.
My unconscious comment and actions didn’t feel boorish a second earlier, but I realise as soon as the words have escaped my mouth, the intimation of having used the pronoun ‘my’ to describe the both of them. Mellie may be my sister, but I definitely don’t ‘own’ Vicky, who is diplomatically disentangling herself from me. A slight hint of a raised eyebrow on her beautiful face as she brushes past me, out the back door and into the garden.
“Yes - I expect it will be good fun,” she adds as a throwaway comment, looking back over her shoulder - the distance between us having been firmly established.
I watch her leave and embrace a blonde-haired bloke, who’s dressed in preppy jeans, a dark blue wool jumper over a pink coloured cotton shirt. He has his sleeves rolled up and is wearing a frilly pink kitchen pinny, tied around the back of his neck and behind his waist. Mellie has obviously delegated the task of scrubbing the barbecue clean to him. Attempting to avoid making it obvious as I stare out of the kitchen window, I watch the two of them as they exchange in easy conversation. Vicky is laughing at something he’s just said, lightly placing one hand on his chest, the other covering her mouth, her head thrown back in laughter. I feel a rush of envy flood my body as I watch her making conversation with this guy. The throbbing inside my shorts confirming how much I really want to make her mine.
“I assume that’s the wanker with the car?” I say to Mellie who has returned to cleaning the hob behind me.
“That’s Jeremy,” neither confirming or denying my assumption as to his character, “Vicky’s boyfriend. Go and introduce yourself … BUT, Chris,” she says turning round and grabbing my forearm with her still rubber-gloved hand, “... play nice. He’s very good for Vicky and just what she needs right now. Someone to be nice to her.”
“And why would I be anything but…” I respond, grabbing a bottle of Coke from the fridge, and taking a swig before heading outside, leaving Mellie wondering whether I meant why would I not be nice to Vicky if I was her boyfriend or whether I meant I’ll simply be nice to Jeremy as I go and introduce myself.
“Hi. You must be Jeremy.” I extend my hand towards him. “I’m Chris, Melanie’s brother.”
“Oh, hi” he says in return, “very nice to meet you. I had heard you were coming over to the UK for the summer. I hope our famous British weather doesn’t disappoint and you get the chance to see everything you want to without getting wet,” he says as he shakes my hand.
I almost recoil instinctively as he takes my hand and returns my firm grip with the limpest, wettest, sloppiest dishcloth-like effort of a handshake. It takes a conscious effort to stop myself from wiping my hand down the side of my shorts as if trying to wipe wet, cold slime off my palm.
What a total dick, I think to myself, and I bet he also has a really small dick. I add in my mind, as I resist an uncontrollable urge to land a completely unprovoked punch square onto the end of his nose. I’ve never felt anything as powerful or unexpected as this before, but there is just something about him that makes me want to push him over, like we are kids back in a kindergarten playground, and he’s monopolising the toy that I want to play with.
A square face, with very close-set eyes, blonde, slightly curly but receding hair, so that he almost has a breakaway triangular island at the front of his hairline and an exceptionally posh English accent, I decide with absolutely certainty that he looks and sounds like a first-class dick. Mustering all of my self-control I manage to remain polite, however.
“So far, all I’ve had is sunshine, no sign at all of the famous English rain that everyone keeps warning me about. I expect it will piss down at some point, though. Hopefully not tomorrow. That might put a real dampener on things,” I say out loud, when what I’m actually thinking is, you’re the one who will put a real dampener on things tomorrow. For me at least.
Vicky is standing to the right side of ‘this’ Jeremy while we greet each other with this nonsensical banter, observing the obvious physical posturing going on between us.
“Well if you’ll excuse me, I’d better head off and go and collect my sister from the train. See you all later. Jeremy. Vicky,” I say to each of them in turn before heading back through the house, collecting my keys from the bowl and stepping out the front door, slamming it loudly as I leave.
Who is this guy and what on earth does Vicky see in him? It looks like he might have some money, or at least come from money but a small sports car, a smart pair of jeans and a plummy British accent doesn’t necessarily mean that. Looks can be deceiving and I’d like to think that Vicky has more depth than to be with someone just for their bank balance. But regardless, he looks like a complete jerk. A total wet blanket. Like he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag if he had to. Surely, she’d want to be with someone stronger, someone who can protect her, someone more masculine than him. But hey, who am I to judge. I might find Vicky attractive, but I know nothing about her, or her likes or dislikes. At least not yet.
The thought of them in bed together makes me want to vomit. I can imagine him all knees and elbows and full of overly apologetic ‘Britishness’, accidentally whacking her across the face with a stray elbow as he attempts to climb on top of her, profusely apologising again before completing the act. Despite how relaxed she looked with him just now, I just can’t imagine her being attracted to him, at least not in that way.
I park up at the train station and wind down the car window, allowing the freshness of the early summer evening air to try and cleanse my thoughts. The frustration and confusion I feel are making me nauseous, so I take a sip of cold refreshing Coke from the bottle I still have with me in an attempt to settle both my mind and the churning deep within my gut.
Stop it! Stop it, Chris! I think to myself. This is unhealthy, and you will drive yourself mad. I’ve hardly spoken two words to this girl in the short time I’ve been here. She’s not available, she has a boyfriend and she’s not shown any interest in me, so why am I so interested her? Clearly, I fancy her, but if all I wanted was a quick physical fix, it would not be that hard to get a quick root if I wanted one. I’m sure there must be some nightclubs in town where I could pull quite easily if I wanted to, so why am I so transfixed on this one girl? What on earth is so special about her and why do I feel like she has put a spell on me? Like she’s a magnet pulling me into her and I can’t help myself but be drawn towards her. It’s as if unconsciously she’s begging for me to rescue her.
“Hello, stranger. You were miles away there. Any chance of a cuddle for your old sis?” Michelle, having located where I was parked, has opened the driver’s door of the car to lean in, breaking me away from my thoughts.
I jump up to embrace her. Although we’ve spoken on the telephone since I arrived in the UK, this is the first time we’ve seen each other.
“Hey you. It’s really good to see you,” I say, meaning every word. Michelle is my oldest sister and the oldest of us all. Growing up she naturally assumed the third parenting role in the family and was very much involved in raising me. The eight-year age gap which gave her an air of seniority and authority when I was small, continues to shrink with each passing year as we grow older. Now she’s just a really good friend, older and wiser, with more life experience, and I love her dearly.
“Right, I believe there is a party going on. One that requires my attendance, young man. Take me there, driver.” She chuckles, leaning over from the passenger seat to pat my knee. At her instruction I turn the car around and head back out to Wootton Bassett.
The rest of the weekend passes in a whirl, partly due to the amount of alcohol consumed and partly due to the number of new people I meet. It’s great to have both my sisters in the same room together, something that has not happened for a very long time. We spend hours catching up, taking the piss out of each other as siblings do, sharing lots of in-jokes and basically having fun. Mellie assumes the role of Sergeant Major on Friday evening, mobilising her small army unit (including Vicky and the dickhead) to rattle through her ginormous task list, before ordering a communal curry for us all to share as our reward.
When Saturday arrives, Mellie puts me in charge of the barbecue, to give me a purpose and to keep me busy as people begin to arrive and the party gets underway. I notice that Mellie and Vicky make great hosts, both of them being naturally sociable and outgoing people. They expertly mingle with their guests, ensuring no one’s glass is ever empty and no one is left alone. They connect people together who do not know each other and ensure they spend just the right amount of time in conversation with each group. On more than one occasion, Vicky comes over to check that I’m OK, or that I have everything I need.
“I love the smell of meat on the barbecue, don’t you, Chris?” she inhales the smell of the sizzling beef patties as she stands next to me while I continue to flip burgers on the hot coals. Having her stand so close, yet not being able to touch her soft smooth skin is pure torture, my senses all heightened by her close proximity. I have to consciously stop myself from dropping all my cooking utensils, grabbing her around the waist, dipping her dramatically backwards and kissing her passionately. I scan her face looking for any sign she also feels this forbidden connection. As our eyes lock, I notice them twinkle and she shifts her weight from foot to foot and I observe a quickening of her breath, if only marginally. Could she possibly feel the same attraction?
She appears in no rush to return to the throng of guests milling around the back garden, or indeed her boyfriend, so instead we chat easily about our respective lives. She asks me about my life back home, my friends, my work and I find her absolutely charming. She talks to me about her hometown in the north of England, which sounds very different from the south of England. I can absolutely relate to what she’s saying. We both hail from island nations and I know how different the North and South Islands are back in New Zealand, except it sounds like it’s the opposite way round here in the UK.
The south of England, spreading out from London, appears to be where the majority of the population live, and where the wealth of the country appears to be, whereas the north sounds tougher, more rugged, less populated. ‘Gritty’ was the word she used to describe her hometown, but it sounds like it’s easier to find work in the south of the UK. In NZ it’s the opposite way round. We have a population of around 3.5million and around 1million of us Kiwis live in and around Auckland, so coming from the quieter Southern Island, I can totally relate to what she’s saying as she describes her transition from growing up in the north, before moving to the south.
She also paints a beautiful picture of the scenery and landscape in the north of England, which because of the lower population has large parts that are less developed and left untouched, just like the South Island of NZ. She talks to me about the beaches of Northumberland, in particular, a place called Bamburgh where she spent many childhood summer holidays with her family and their close friends. I tell her about Sumner Beach just outside Christchurch where I still go regularly to surf and bodyboard. She describes the dramatic mountains of an area a couple of hours west of where she’s from called The Lake District, I describe the Southern Alps that run the length of the South Island and a place I love called Hanmer, to the north of Christchurch where I love to go and chill out for a long weekend in the natural hot springs there, and even in winter when it’s surrounded by snow-capped mountains. She tells me about the large population of grey seals that inhabit a small crop of islands off the Northumberland coast, called The Farne Islands and I tell her about the native Hector Dolphins that swim in Akaroa Harbour on the Banks Peninsula, east of Christchurch. Like me, she also has a passion for travel, seeing new places and experiencing different cultures and although she’s never made it as far as New Zealand or Australia even, I find myself inviting her.
“You must come and visit. It’s absolutely stunning. I’d love the opportunity to show you around.”
Rather than rebuke my very forward invitation, she replies coyly, “I think I’d like that, Chris” and with that one comment my heart makes a little flip inside my chest. I decide then and there that I will make it my mission to show her my homeland.
“And likewise, Chris, even if I don’t get the opportunity to show you some of the places I’ve mentioned here in the UK, I’ll make you an itinerary of places to see if you make it that far north. Castles, beaches and pubs that are off the beaten track and away from the obvious tourist trail once you get into the north of the country. Most people miss out northern England when doing a tour of the UK. They jump from Stratford-upon-Avon, having ticked the ‘Shakespeare box’ and head straight up and over the Scottish border and onto Edinburgh, yet there is so much beauty and history in between. There is a place on the Northumberland coast where you can stand on the beach on a clear day and see five castles up and down the coast - where else in the world can you do that?”
She talks so passionately of the area I’m already thinking that I need to highlight some of the names and places on my map of the UK.
“That would be sweet,” I say, although I find myself hoping that she really does get the opportunity to show me in person. I feel it would not be the same visiting the area without her as my guide.
The only dampener in our easy flow of conversation, is that Jeremy insists on keeping Vicky under his watchful eye. Whenever we find ourselves deep in conversation, he appears and breaks the spell. What is it about this guy? Why can’t he just bugger off and leave us to our friendly banter? Without realising it, he must be sensing my inner thoughts and how attracted I am to his girlfriend. I can’t help it. I just am. Even when we’re not talking, it must be fairly obvious that my eyes are constantly following her wherever she goes. Everyone else fades into the background, blurred and muffled, while Vicky shines out at me from the crowd, like a lighthouse in a storm. I notice Michelle clocking me as I’m watching Vicky circulate amongst the crowd. She raises an eyebrow in my direction as I smile back at her, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly.
As the afternoon progresses, I’m introduced to a new cocktail, Pimms, which I’m told is a British thing. It’s served from a big glass jug with what looks like half the contents of a fruit bowl tipped into it! Who has mint, cucumber and strawberries in a drink? Apparently the British! Despite this, it’s very palatable and extremely refreshing in the hot sunshine as I continue flipping burgers over the hot coals of the barbie.
Mellie introduces me to one of Jeremy’s mates, a guy named Tim, who she used to share a house with, before her and Vicky rented this place. Tim, it turns out, is divorced and found himself rattling around a large executive 5-bed house in the centre of Swindon, so he rented a couple of bedrooms to a number of professionals, Mellie being one of them. Apparently, he works for a large international bank and has since moved up to London and now works in Canary Wharf. It’s through him that Vicky met Jeremy. Tim is another well-spoken Pom, but more down to earth than Jeremy. I find him good craic and we spend most of the afternoon and evening in conversation, discussing travel, fast cars and foreign exchange.
By late evening most of the guests have left and the remaining few move inside as the temperature begins to drop. Our bellies full of food and our heads full of drink, as the last guests leave we begin to disperse to our respective sleeping areas.
Mellie and Michelle are sharing a bed in Mellie’s room. I’m back on the sofa and I try not to think about Jeremy and Vicky sharing the other bedroom upstairs. I find myself needing to crack open another beer and switch the TV back on. Anything to distract myself from the muffled sounds of Jeremy and Vicky making love in the room directly above me. I attempt to block out the images that are forming in my mind of the two of them together. The only saving grace is that the rhythmic sound of the bed moving above my head lasts no more than five or six minutes before the house falls silent once again.
I open my pack and yet again pull out my maps of the UK and Europe. I grab my highlighter and mark up some of the areas in the north of England that Vicky mentioned to me earlier, putting a big circle round the name of her hometown wondering what it looks like, what her family are like and what her life was like before she met my sister.
After a few moments deep in thought, I give myself a metaphorical slap across the face. In order to maintain my sanity, I’m going to have to leave as quickly as possible next week because I realise now if I can’t have her, I simply can’t be around her, otherwise I will drive myself crazy. So I turn my attention instead to my map of Europe, and particularly Greece, as I focus back on my original plan to catch up with as many rellies as possible here in the UK and to see as much of Europe as I can fit into the summer. After deciding on my itinerary for next week, I switch the TV off and bed down for the night.
Over breakfast the next morning I share my plans to head off the following week and catch a flight to Athens at the earliest opportunity.
“I’ll have a look at some cheap flight options for you, as soon as I get back into the office tomorrow,” Mellie offers.
“You need to be back in London in time for my 30th birthday bash three weekends from now, Christopher.” Michelle always uses my name in full, it’s a big sister thing. “I’m having a party at mine and you’d better flipping be there, bro. Mum’s coming too, and I know she’ll want to catch up with you as well. You’ll not have seen her for a couple of months by then.”
“Of course. How could I possibly miss it … and miss the opportunity to constantly remind my big sister how old she is?” I reply, affectionately kissing her on the side of her face, as she reaches up to ruffle my hair.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replies sarcastically.
“Don’t worry I’ll be there,” I reassure her.
I glance across at Vicky, trying to read her mind and work out what she’s thinking. Is she even bothered that I’m taking off for a couple of weeks. Will she think of me while I’m gone, will she miss me, even the tiniest bit, and will she be pleased to see me again at Michelle’s in a few weeks from now? But despite our direct eye contact she gives nothing away. She just smiles her usual warm smile and says,
“Oh, to be able to give up work and just jump on a plane and go have some fun.”
So why don’t you just jack in work and take off with me? is what I really want to say, but instead I say out loud, “I’ll try hard not to have too much fun and make you all jealous,” when what I really mean is, I’ll try to not have too much fun without you Vicky and make you jealous.
Jeremy offers to drive Michelle back up to London as he plans to head off after lunch, but first we all roll our sleeves up, muck in and tidy up the remnants of yesterday’s party. Once Jeremy and Michelle leave the three of us who are left, Mellie, Vicky and I, we all settle in for a quiet night, snuggling down to watch a movie. Mellie and I on the sofa together and Vicky in the armchair adjacent.
Mellie gets up and heads to the loo at the same time Vicky jumps up to flick the kettle on to make everyone a fresh round of tea. I could almost kiss my sister who, without thinking, naturally goes to sit in the armchair when she comes back downstairs, meaning Vicky has to sit next to me when she returns with the refilled mugs of tea. It seems the most natural thing in the world to be sat next to her and she’s obviously feeling comfortable as well, as she kicks off her shoes and curls her knees up underneath herself, half leaning into me, munching on a biscuit whilst we all drink tea. She smells exquisite. A heady mix of sexy perfume and sweet cinnamon apple pie. I really want to place my free arm lightly over the top of the sofa and around the back of her shoulders, to pull her in even closer but I refrain. I know I can’t. Everything about this woman captivates me. The way she looks, the way she sounds, the way she smells and the energy she gives off. She’s like a drug and I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I realise if I can’t have my fix I’m going to have to go cold turkey, and quickly.