Forever Is Over (103 page)

That is not what happened!

I finished with Brad. That bit was easy. Admittedly though, when
we parted in Wellington, it felt a little strange. Relationships are crazy
things really. At one point, you like someone enough to spend all your
time with them, let them see you naked, allow them to touch you in places out of bounds to all others and then, further down the line, if
that person is not
‘
The One
’
, you decide you do not want to spend any
time with them at all any more and hope you do not run into them again for the rest of your life! That is how it felt in Wellington, like I
was consigning Brad to merely a memory.

Once Brad moved on in our
“
Ute
”
,
I spent an enjoyable few days
in windy Wellington, a beautiful city that I would love to return to,
with its amazing coastal views, unique charm and fantastic, scenic
cable cars. From there, I headed up by coach to Rotorua in the Bay
of Plenty, internationally famous for its geothermal activity, with its
steaming mud pools and geysers. I worked in a hostel in Rotorua, for
three weeks, for a bit of pocket money and adjusted to the town
’
s eggy
aroma that gave off the impression that the local teenagers never tired
of the stink bomb gag!

After three weeks, I left Rotorua in a rental car with three Scottish
girls from Bishopbriggs, who had been in Australia but then spent a
month in New Zealand, touring around both islands and were on their
way up to Auckland to return the car and then head home. I paid my
share of the petrol, enjoyed their company and my abiding memory of
them is that they introduced me to a Wi
rral band called Pele, as they
constantly played their two albums,
“
Fireworks
”
and
“
Sport Of Kings
”
over and over again. I remember
them winding the windows down,
opening the sun roof and screaming out the words to a song called
‘
Megalomania
’
at the top of their lungs! As the song was not one I knew
at the time, it was like observing a deranged ritual!
Things like that you just don
’
t do when you are travelling alone!

In Auckland, I just chilled, enjoying the last few weeks of a time in
my life I knew I would always look back upon fondly,
‘
The Travelling
Years
’
! I read constantly, I remember reading books by John Irving,
Amos Oz, Milan Kundera, Josef Skvorecky (who
’
s books I particularly
enjoyed) and every afternoon I would go to the cinema. The best film
I saw was
“
Once Were Warriors
”
, which began an obsession with New
Zealand film that I retain to this day. My favourite film of all time
is
‘
Whale Rider
’
which even when I say the name of it, makes me
cry!
‘
Once Were Warriors
’
comes in a close second. Those weeks were
delightful and life is wonderful when you have time on your hands
but ultimately, the most cherished moments are moments shared with
a loved one and at that time, my love
life was merely my past and my
future, but not my present.

Sorry, I did not explain why I was chilling out in Auckland rather
than desperately jumping on to a flight to London, basically, I had no
choice! On my first day in Auckland, a che
ery, elderly male travel agent
with a neat, grey beard told me he could not get me on to a direct flight
to London for six weeks. Sensing my disappointment, he told me that
he could, however, get me on a flight after three weeks to Tahiti, then
a subsequent flight to Los Angeles and then finally a third flight to
London. His logic was that I could stop for ten days in Tahiti and ten
in L.A and still be home as quickly as I would be by taking a direct
flight, but the stopovers were an opportunity not to be missed. He was
right! It worked out about $250 dearer and I arrived back in the UK
almost penniless but I knew, in all likelihood, the closest I would ever
get to Tahiti in the rest of my days would be playing a David Essex CD!
Sometimes there is more to life than money.

Leaving New Zealand and flying to Tahiti was bizarre as I travelled
twenty two hours backwards in time. I felt like a small time Michael 
J.Fox. I left Auckland at ten o
’
clock at night and due to travelling
through the international time zone, I arrived in Papeete in Tahiti at five
in the morning on the same day! I thought how exciting it would be to
do that on New Year
’
s Eve, 1999! Welcome in the new millennium at a
massive party in Auckland or even Sydney and then hop on a plane to
Tahiti and re-live the day again! Two Millennium parties for the price of
one, or probably for the price of ten but it would have been worth it!

If I
’
m honest, when I arrived in Tahiti, and again when I arrived in
L.A, I half expected to be delayed because some new adventure took
me away from my intended path. Surpris
ingly, I did not end up living
in Bora Bora for two years with a Tahitian, bronzed Adonis or twelve
months in Venice Beach with a surfer dude! No complications crossed
my path though, as I did not welcome their presence, my life had already
been complicated enough, my focus was purely on Richie. I spent ten
days on the Tahitian island of Moorea, sleeping in a two man tent alone,
on a beachside campsite. Once I reached Los Angeles, I found myself a
cheap motel by
‘
LAX
’
and spent the ten days doing the touristy bit, I did
the
‘
Walk of Fame
’
visit on Hollywood Boulevard, took a stroll along
Sunset Strip on Sunset Boulevard, went to see the Hollywood sign in
the Hollywood Hills and went to Mulholland Drive and took the best
photo of my trip, a panoramic shot of Los Angeles, taken with a cheap
camera I picked up in a supermarket for ten dollars! Three weeks after
leaving Auckland, I arrived, as intended, at Heathrow airport.

For a long, long time I had dreaded reaching
‘
Passport Control
’
at Heathrow. Mentally, when I pictured my arrival back in the UK, I
always imagined a strong hand on my shoulder and an armed policeman
with a German Shepherd leading me to a holding cell, before facing a
belated trial for murder. Reality was more straightforward. A young,
stern lady with a pale complexion and her hair tied back in a bun, like
someone from a John William Waterhouse painting, beckoned me
forward. I handed her my passport, she studied my photograph and
then began my interrogation.

“
You
’
ve been away a long time,
”
she said in a monotone voice as she
flicked through my passport pages
with the various visa stamps.

             
“
Yes,
”
I replied timidly,
“
almost six years
”
.

“
Did you miss the rain too much?
”

“
The people,
”
I answered,
“
I missed the people too much.
”
Then, handing my passport back she said,

“
Nice people or not, give it a week and you
’
ll be wishing you were
away again!
”

‘
Welcome to London!
’
, I thought as I put my passport back in
my handbag. I was free to go. There was no real interrogation, I was
welcomed back to my home country like any other seasoned traveller.
Welcome back but you should have stayed away! I had spent far too
much time fretting about my return, Anna had been right, no-one was
interested in me. The other thing that Anna had mentioned though,
was that Jemma had a certain notoriety in Ormskirk following Mum
’
s
death. As I stood at the luggage collection, I began to ponder what a
return to Ormskirk could mean. If I headed there and took root, would
I always be the victim of whispered accusations?

I am not a brave person. My default mode is cowardice. Being back
in England, although I could feel its emotional pull for some time, was
already scaring me. For six weeks, all I had wanted was to be back in
England and to begin my search for Richie, but now I was back I was
not just apprehensive, I was petrified. Questions kept filling my head.
What if Richie did not want to see me? What if he had a girlfriend or a
wife or even children? Was it right that my intended search was focused
on Richie rather than Jemma? After all, Richie had been no more than a
teenage sweetheart, Jemma had virtually raised me single-handedly and
had suffered more at my selfish hands than anyone. I made a decision.
A cowardly decision. I did not want to subject myself to any abuse in Ormskirk. I also began to worry how Richie would react. Maybe the
wisest thing to do was to test the waters first. I decided the safest option
would be to stay in London for a while, take stock, not rush into any
rash decisions I may regret for the rest of my life.

Despite my uncertainties, in my
positive moments, I was still
convinced my future was with Richie Billingham. I decided the
best way of re-establishing contact would be to send Richie a letter.
I procrastinated. By the time I posted the letter, I had been back in
London for five weeks. I had even managed to find myself a job, in
Dillons bookstore in Gower Street, right in the heart of Bloomsbury.
As a result of having a job, I was able to sign a tenancy agreement
on
a flat, albeit a modest flat, it was cramped, had one bedroom and was
above a bookmakers, but it became home and it was convenient as it
was only one hundred metres from Ealing Broadway tube station. Every
morning, I would jump on the tube to Holborn on the Central line and
then take the Piccadilly line, one stop north to Russell Square. I loved
living in London, everything seemed
to be done at Roadrunner pace,
it reminded me so much of Hong Kong. Everyone seemed to live in
their own private bubble, rudeness was the norm, particularly on the
tube, when everyone seemed to go about their robotic personal routines
like worker ants, but at least everyone that came into Dillons tended
to remove their mask of isolation and wanted to befriend me. I adored
working there, but understood it was just a stop gap until I returned to
Richie.

I had no idea where Richie was liv
ing, so once I had finished my
letter, I posted it to his parents house. My theory was that they were
unlikely to have moved and I was certain Dot would pass a letter addressed to Richie straight on to him. In fact, I could picture her
peering over his shoulder as he read it! The letter I sent was a relatively
short, simple letter. The main reason for this was because I had spent
weeks trying to write it and on that final night, I had thrown at least
a dozen previous attempts in the bin and was down to my last piece
of writing paper! I was determined to complete the task that night
though and post it the following day, so despite it being two in the
morning, I made a final attempt. Previous aborted letters had been
lengthy, explaining in the finest details where I had been, who I had
been with and why I had come back, but on that final note, minimalism
was the key. The letter read as follows,