Читать книгу Ordinary Joe - Jon Teckman - Страница 8

‘Are you sure you’ve packed everything?’ my wife Natasha called up the stairs. ‘Passport? Dollars? Socks?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I called back, reaching into my underwear drawer to pull out a couple more pairs of socks and throwing them into my suitcase, then checking inside my jacket to confirm that my passport was, indeed, in my pocket. I travelled to the US – either to Los Angeles or, as in this case, New York – seven or eight times a year, but each time we would still go through this pantomime as if, for Natasha, two small children weren’t enough and she was intent on treating me like a third.

I zipped and locked my suitcase, then wrapped a personalised red, white and blue luggage strap around it, ostensibly for extra security but also to help me identify it when it belly-flopped onto the baggage carousel at JFK. I stuffed a few final papers and the latest Stephen King novel into my briefcase and switched off the light as I headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Natasha was waiting for me at the bottom, ready to give me some further instructions, while also keeping an eye on Helen and Matthew as they wrestled on the ground nearby.

‘You’re sure you have your passport, love,’ she asked, ‘and your tickets. Remember what happened last time.’

‘It wasn’t last time, Nat, it was three years ago. And since then I’ve made loads of trips abroad and never forgotten anything.’

‘What about a travel plug? We must have dozens of the bloody things upstairs because you have to buy a new one every time you get to Heathrow.’

Damn! She had me there – and she knew it. Without saying another word, she slipped back up the stairs, returning a few moments later with a plug to meet the needs of the New York electrical system.

‘Thank you, love,’ I said, then, ‘my taxi’s here. Better get going.’ The children interrupted their version of The Hunger Games just long enough for me to give them each a hug and plant a kiss on their perfect wrinkle-free, unblemished foreheads.

I kissed Natasha on the lips, more dutiful than romantic now after so many departures. The runway scene from Casablanca this was not.

‘Have fun,’ she said as I turned to make my lonely way out of the house.

‘What? With Bennett there? I can’t imagine it being a barrel of laughs, can you?’

‘Fair point,’ said Natasha. ‘Well, try not to let him annoy you too much. It’s only a few days.’

The door clicked behind me and I took a couple of steps down the path before I was stopped by a thought – an important thought – that ambled up from my fingers through my nervous system to my brain. I fumbled for my keys and turned again to face the house. Before I could insert the key in the door, though, it opened and there stood Natasha, a grin splitting her face from ear to ear.

‘Travel safely, you schmuck!’ she said, as she handed me my briefcase and closed the door.