An Impossible Thing Called Love. Belinda Missen
under the rubble of adult life. The opportunities for advancement were endless. I mean, they were at home, too, but something about London felt a little more … special.
Heather and I stayed in contact with a constant game of tag across time zones and inbox messages. We sent each other what we’d called care packages. Where she wanted Tim Tams, Vegemite, and local chocolate, all I wanted were tea bags and the ugliest souvenirs she could find. I was beyond thrilled at my Will and Kate wedding ashtray. It didn’t matter that I didn’t smoke or that the printed image was misaligned, it did a wonderful enough job on the top shelf of my bedroom. It was a regular talking point.
As the year wore on, Heather was happy to remind me that she’d been in London almost twelve months, and that I must be due to join her soon enough. Right on their twelve-month anniversary, she rang. I moved away from the ruckus that was family dinner, and sat in a spare room.
‘You’ll get the biggest bedroom,’ she opened with.
‘And?’ I asked.
‘And,’ she drawled, ‘it’s very lovely. I’ll paint and buy you some new linen and get everything ready for when you arrive. That way, you won’t have to worry about a thing.’
I laughed. ‘Why? What’s the catch?’
‘The room’s downstairs. We sleep upstairs, which makes us closer to the toilet.’
‘Lazy,’ I teased. ‘So lazy.’
‘So,’ she said. I could imagine her twirling a phone cord around her finger. ‘When are you coming?’
* * *
Job applications began a few months before we planned to leave. It became a constant waiting game, hoping for the familial ding of an email notification. It was the old Did I, or Didn’t I Get the Job? game. There might be a polite rejection coupled with best wishes or, maybe, an appointment request. Come hither and talk to us, always near enough to the midnight hour, always over delayed phone lines or pixelated Skype conferences. I jumped on every opportunity that sprang up, kind of like whack-a-mole.
Craig’s employment process was a little easier. He’d managed the first job he applied for, helping a start-up company, and his visa sponsorship was sorted in under a fortnight. Luckily for us, his start date would be determined by mine. He simply began taking on work remotely we got there. Hooray for late nights in front of the television and crawling into bed nearer to sunrise than usual.
But it didn’t matter. We were thriving, effervescent with excitement and just counting down until the moment it was my turn.
When my call finally came, early one Friday morning, I was in the middle of balancing a piping hot coffee cup, while swiping into the building at work, and trying to answer my phone, all without spilling a precious caffeinated drop.
‘Emmy, it’s Brian Ward.’
‘Hello, Brian Ward.’ I ground the toe of my shoe into the ground, pulverising a dry leaf. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m great. I mean, it’s late here, but I figured I’d get you at a good time.’
‘You have, yeah. I’m just heading in for the day.’ I stopped. ‘What is it for you? Midnight?’
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I’m just catching up on some paperwork. Have you got a moment to chat?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Absolutely.’
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he said. ‘I’m just wondering how you’re placed for flights? When’s the earliest you can start?’
‘Are you saying I got the job?’ I squeaked. When the lid popped off my coffee, splashing hot liquid over my hands and threatening my canvas shoes, I finally loosened my grip. Anything but the shoes, they were my favourites.
‘It’s only a six-month contract at this stage, but I’m saying that you should book a flight.’ Hearing the smile in his voice was the most amazing feeling. ‘You’re going to be a great fit for the team.’
‘Oh boy, oh boy, I’ve just … oh, I spilled my coffee. Again.’
‘Yep, definitely a good fit.’ He laughed. ‘Ideally, I’d like you to start as soon as possible. Pam’s a little snowed under right now. I’m going to email you with some details, just let me know when you can get here.’
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.