Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect (25 page)

Why is it that time on an aircraft grinds to a halt?

Even though I’m not particularly tired, I decide to take advantage of the empty seats and I get my travel pillow, cover myself with my coat (the air-conditioning is positively icy) and lie down.  Sleep comes and goes – any little turbulence wakes me with a jump.  I’m saving my sleeping pill for the Dubai to Adelaide bit.  It will be through my night and I’ll really want to sleep by then.

After a while, I sit up again feeling dishevelled.  I decide to watch another film and by the time I’ve watched that, we’re beginning our descent.  David always liked to look out of the windows and try to point out things to me as we got lower, but I was never keen.  The reality of what we’re doing, hurtling towards a densely populated metropolis, looking for a straight strip of land to put our wheels on, is something I don’t want to dwell on.  So, I read my Kindle intently, pretending to myself that I’m sitting in my living room.  Honestly, anyone watching me would think I’m the coolest traveller – no nerves on display at all – but when the wheels touch down, I secretly thank God for another miraculous escape from death.

We have seven hours to waste in Dubai, before we continue our journey.  It seems a shame to be somewhere so new and exciting and only see the airport duty free area, but that’s how it works.  I
still
resist the pull of the face cream.  I wander aimlessly, drink coffee, read, eat sweets, feel sick with tiredness, feel bored, frustrated and exist.  I go to the gate too early, simply for a change of scene.

Back on a smaller plane – the 380’s too big for the airport in Adelaide – still comfortable, but this time, I’ve got a couple sitting next to me.  Let’s hope they don’t have my desire to go the loo every five minutes.

This part of the journey is a lot longer – five hours in and I feel as if I may grow senile and die on this plane.  I’ve had a meal, a drink, a trip to the loo, a film and a sleeping pill and I’m wide awake.  The couple next to me are snoring contentedly and everyone around me is in a comatose state – mouths open, heads at funny angles, headphones akimbo.  I put my pillow round my neck, push my chair back into the so-called reclining position, cover myself with my coat and close my eyes.  The hum is annoying.  My neck isn’t comfortable.  I have an itch, which I can’t scratch.  My back aches.  My legs have got jumpy leg syndrome.  My skin’s dry.  I need a drink.  I can’t keep still.

Without noticing, I fall asleep.  I wake up with a cricked neck, dry mouth and feeling like I’ve been asleep for hours.  I look at my watch and my heart sinks – it says I’ve still got nearly five hours to go.  How can that be?  I could have sworn I’d slept for ages.

I go to the loo and splash my face with water and moisturise it with the hand cream provided.  Perhaps that face cream was a good idea, after all?  I could do with some serious help.  I brush my hair and do my teeth with the little brush and tube of toothpaste we were given at the beginning of the journey.  I emerge feeling a little more human and stand outside the door of the toilet, stretching my legs and flexing my ankles.  The cabin is in near total darkness and I envy people I see, when I walk back down the aisle, who all are asleep.  What’s wrong with me that I can’t?

I watch an American comedy that seems particularly unfunny with its forced jokes and canned laughter.  I’ve decided I have no idea what the time actually is, either in England or Australia; all I know is that I’m watching something in semi-darkness, surrounded by sleeping people, thousands of feet in the air. 

I must have drifted off, as I’m suddenly aware of light, movement and the smell of airline food.  It’s a bit like being in hospital, being woken up at some godawful time with a tray of congealed food for your breakfast.  Still, the coffee revives me and I realise I’m hungry. 

After another trip to the loo to cleanse and moisturise, it doesn’t seem long till we are descending – we’ve reached Australia; I can’t believe it.  We have flown into the day and now it’s night time in Adelaide.  The pilot has kindly informed us it’s going to be 20.05 when we land.  I’ve lost the concept of time completely now; my body and mind are in a state of utter confusion. 

I glimpse snatches of lights and buildings across my companions
–
we appear to be low over the suburbs of Adelaide.  I look ahead, not wanting to see how close we are.  The bump comes soon after and we screech down the runway, finally coming to stop. 

I’m here.

*

“Anna, Anna,” I hear, as I emerge, like a drunk, from customs.  My head is fuzzy, my legs weak, but I’m so relieved to be able to walk on the ground.  I look around the mass of people and see Jane, waving and beaming.  Marcus is by her side.  As I walk towards them, I find tears are on my cheeks – I’ve missed by sister, but I’ve only just acknowledged it.  My life with David was enough for me, I didn’t need anyone else.  Now, without him, I understand how important my sister is.

We throw our arms around each other and hug and hug.  It’s been years since we actually touched each other and it feels like we never want to let each other go.

“Wow, you look amazing,” I say.  I’ve already taken in her short, cropped hair, her long slim arms and her skinny, boy-like figure.  Her clothes are loose on her, fashionable and informal – she’s wearing cropped trousers with a floral top with a low, scooped neck, showing off her bony chest and lack of bosom.  She’s wearing the obligatory thongs, her toe nails, bubblegum pink.  She looks fresh and younger than her years.  I feel a wreck beside her.

“So do you,” she says.  “You must be exhausted after the flight.”

“Marcus, lovely to see you,” I say, as he too hugs me.  I’m almost swallowed up in his huge, bear-like grip.  He’s tall, 6’3” and as I had thought, is a lot larger all round than when I saw him last.

“Let me take your case, Anna,” he says, wheeling it along and putting my small case on top of the large one.  He strides ahead and Jane and I walk, arm in arm behind him.

“It’s only twenty minutes to the house … so tell me about the flight,” Jane says, “was it okay?”

“Well, it’s okay, now it’s over,” I say, “but at the time, it was tedious … beyond tedious!  I couldn’t really sleep on either flight and we had hours to hang about in Dubai.  I feel as I’ve been in a parallel universe.”

“That’s why we haven’t been back to the UK.  I don’t think I could take it.  Marcus does a lot of flying anyway, for his job …”

“So, here’s the car,” he says.  “Hop in and we’ll get you home and you can have a nice shower, meal and bed.  You’ll feel fine in the morning.”

“I hope so,” I say.

We chat on the journey, but my mind is foggy and I feel I’m going through the motions.  I gaze out of the window, amazed that I’m somewhere so exotic as … Australia. 

Soon, we pull into a drive and we head into the house.  It’s huge, with white walls, white painted wooden floors and colourful artwork on the walls, but I’m so tired, I can’t take it all in. There are large picture windows and they tell me there are spectacular views over the ocean, but all I can see are some flickering lights.  I’m disorientated and when they show me through to my bedroom, I stare longingly at the bed, wanting to flop down on it, there and then. 

I feel considerably better after a shower in my own en-suite bathroom – again all white, with a large drenching shower head that pummels my tired brain with refreshing hot water.

Jane has poured me a large glass of white wine and she produces calamari and salad which we eat, sitting at a stylish long wooden table.  The alcohol goes straight to my head and I can hear my voice as something detached from me.  They tell me about their jobs, show me around the rest of the house, but I feel like a zombie.

“It’s no good, Jane, I’m going to have to get some sleep before I keel over.  Do you mind if I go to bed now?  Sorry … but …”

“No, don’t be silly.  Go!  We can chat properly in the morning.”

“I thought jet-lag was a myth, but it isn’t,” I laugh.  “I’ve never felt quite like this before …”

“Go … go on.  We won’t wake you in the morning.  Sleep as long as you want.”

I drag my feet to the bedroom.  I can’t face unpacking – David would have had everything hanging up by now and in drawers, but for once, I can do what I
want to do, which is, go to sleep without any further interruptions. 

I land on the bed.  As Mum used to say … a short portion of death, hits me like a hammer and I pass out.

Chapter Twenty-One

I wake at midday the next day, still feeling groggy, so I have another shower and wander out to see where Jane and Marcus are.

“So … you’ve finally woken up!” says Marcus.  “Feeling better?”

“I think so,” I say, unconvincingly.  The light’s so bright, I’m squinting.  I walk to the windows to see the view.  I’m unprepared for the scene that greets me.  Their house is overlooking the most amazing beach I’ve ever seen – it stretches for miles both left and right, with white sand and azure sea.  Between the house and the beach is just a small road; there are a few cars driving slowly along it.  Then there is a pedestrian way, with people power-walking, running and generally being energetic.  I can see steps down onto the beach – there are a few people on the sand, but no one in the sea. 

“Oh my God, this is amazing,” I say, gazing at what looks like paradise.  “No wonder you decided to stay.  Why would you ever want to move from here?”

“I know … we’re so lucky, aren’t we?” says Jane, coming to stand next to me.  “The city’s to our right.  You can walk for miles, either way.  I thought if you feel up to it, we’d go for a walk into Brighton, which is left, after lunch.  It’s full of cool coffee shops – we could wander down there and sit and watch the world go buy.”

“That sounds just what I need.  Some exercise and a strong coffee.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here,” says Marcus, “I’ve got masses of work I need to do, before tomorrow.”

“No, that’s fine, of course,” I say.

“It’ll give you two girls time to catch up properly,” he says and wanders off into his office.

“Poor Marcus, he’s so stressed at the moment.  He’s got this huge project at work …”

“Please … you two must just carry on as normal.  I’m just grateful to be here.  Are you going to be able to take any time off?”

“Well, I’ve persuaded Marcus to take, not next week, but the next, off.  We thought we could all go off down the Murray River for a few days.  I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already booked it.  Here, this is the brochure,” says Jane, handing me a colourful booklet with this mammoth houseboat on the front.

“This looks amazing, Jane.  How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing … it’s our treat.  We’ve got a friend who owns a shack on the river and he says we can tie up one night at his place.”

“It all sounds great.  What else have you got planned?”

“We’ll go out for day trips and I thought when we’re working, you could either hang out here or take yourself off into the city.  When’s Adam coming?  Do you know yet?”

“Yea – in about three weeks.  He’s coming on his own for five days.  Is that okay with you?”

“Fine.  I can’t wait to see him.  I was working it out the other day, the last time I saw him, he was four!”

“I’m so excited to see him.  Actually, Jane, I must just text him and Holly and tell them I’ve arrived safely.  I did promise …”

“Yea, fine, you do that and I’ll get a bit of lunch ready.”

I go into my bedroom to find my phone and turning it on, I find that I have two new messages.  One from Ben and one from David.

Ben:
I hope by the time you get this you’re at your sisters and have recovered from the journey.  Daisy leaves for Manchester soon – dreading it.  Just got a huge new job, so busy.  Seems odd here without you.  Love Ben xx

I feel a longing for Ben when I read his words … I can’t believe I’ve got someone who cares for me, like he seems to. 

I’m so intrigued about why David has texted me that I don’t reply immediately to Ben.  I open David’s:

I thought I ought to let you know that Suzie is expecting our child – Holly and Adam don’t know yet and I wanted you to know first.  She’s due in October and we’re very happy, as you can imagine.  I hope your trip to Australia gives you all you hoped. David.

My heart lurches.  I read it several times, not quite believing it.  Does he really
think that I can ‘imagine’ their happiness?  Has he forgotten how we so wanted a third child and I was told I couldn’t have any more?  Is he just cruel or thoughtless; so wound up with his own present happiness that he’s forgotten the past completely?

*

Do you remember, David, the day I went for some tests, to see why we weren’t having any luck conceiving, after Adam?  You were with me and were waiting outside when I came out of the consultation room.  You stood up – you knew, instinctively, that it wasn’t good news, and you wrapped me in your arms.

You took me home, telling me how much you loved me and assuring me that our life was complete and that we were fine how we were.  I cried myself to sleep that night.

Maybe we weren’t at all fine, David?