Читать книгу An Impossible Thing Called Love - Belinda Missen - Страница 14

June 2014

As the plane bumped and skidded to a stop along the runway at Heathrow, a niggling doubt came knocking, asking if we’d made the right decision. A brief panic set in, and all the things that could go wrong flipped through my head like one of Dad’s old holiday slideshows.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Craig yawned and stretched out sleepily. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘People change jobs all the time.’

‘But we changed countries, too.’

‘That’s because we are the best.’ He winked at me. ‘You’ll be fine once you get a bit of sleep.’

After taking enough sleeping pills that I swore I could smell colours, and still not managing a useful rest, I chose to put my worries down to a lack of sleep. I was exhausted, aching from being cramped, and very much looking forward to a regular bed and a hot shower.

Customs made me nervous. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t smuggling small animals or drugs into the country, I still felt like I’d done something wrong. The snaking queues and conversation that never rose above a murmur didn’t help.

‘Is everything okay?’ I peered over the counter while Craig’s visa paperwork was pored over.

‘I wouldn’t be here without my first work visa. Enjoy your stay,’ the customs agent said with a smile.

Before anyone could change their minds and call us back, we scuttled through arrivals and towards the train terminal. That old familiar smell of brake dust and cramped spaces welcomed me like an old friend with an arm around the shoulder. The moment I boarded the train, luggage pushed against the carriage wall, I let out a heavy sigh.

‘This is amazing.’ Clutching at a stanchion grip, Craig ran a finger along the bottom of the tube map. ‘So, we’re getting off where?’

‘Paddington. Then we get the Bakerloo to Queen’s Park.’ I yawned and cuddled into him. I loved how solid he felt, my head resting in the nook of his neck. ‘You smell awful.’

‘You don’t smell so great yourself.’ He smoothed a hand over my hair and kissed the top of my head.

Swapping from the train to the tube at Paddington, I made it a priority to pick myself up a blue-coated bear, all the while trying to avoid getting weepy at the sales counter. Somewhere between the passport stamp and trying to push three suitcases through a bustling train station, I realised that I hadn’t simply caught the train to the next city. I’d flown to the other side of the world. Sure, I’d done it before, but this time felt different, like I’d hardly been away at all.

Heather was waiting on the front doorstep with streamers, helium balloons, and a Welcome Home sign. She bounced excitedly on the spot, apologising over again for not being at the airport on account of an open inspection. With her long hair pulled into a loose bun, she looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen her. There was a renewed happiness to her that she hadn’t had in Sydney.

‘You look so good.’ I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’

‘And you, my love, look like hell.’ She held me at arms’ length.

I nodded, breaking into laughter. ‘I really do.’

‘When are you starting work again?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.

‘Tomorrow.’

She cringed. ‘Come on upstairs, get some rest.’

Josh and Craig were already climbing the stairs to our apartment on the second and third floor of a terraced house just off Harrow Road. Our scratched-up suitcases banged against the polished wood banister with each misplaced step. Inwardly, I cringed. Please don’t let me be here five minutes and be breaking things already.

‘Here we are…’ Heather pushed the front door open with an excited flourish and dragged me inside.

The apartment was bright and airy, full of white paint and gloss-white kitchen fittings. A grey couch and aqua cushions added blobs of homely colour, and red placemats clung to a lightly stained wooden dining table. Light breezy curtains hung in rooms with dark drapes, and the single bathroom in the upper storey was shared by all. For all the photos I’d seen, it hadn’t prepared me for how I’d feel.

This was, despite the exhaustion, sheer exhilaration. I flopped down on the couch, a foot stool soon adorned with a tray full of homemade biscuits. A pot of tea appeared shortly after, as an excited Heather told me about her latest baking adventures and fresh interest in all things tea. We caught up on the last week spent running around and preparing to leave, all the scandals and drunk uncle stories from our farewell party, and the boring details of our flight. While I moaned about the smelly guy next to Craig and laughed about the toddler who came to say hello and high-five every forty minutes, Josh busied himself hanging comic prints on the wall.

After the hammering had ceased, the biscuits were eaten, and my mind finally began to slow, we relaxed with showers and began putting personal touches on our bedroom. Lace curtains, bookended by heavy drapes, blew in the breeze. Just as she’d promised, Heather had organised a new duvet, spare blankets and pillows, and a few stackable blocks I’d already earmarked as potential bookshelves.

Our bed was a cloud soft and, as I lay back for a moment, the pillows hugged in all the right places. I curled onto my side and closed my eyes.