Love...Under Different Skies (22 page)

The crocodile is not moving.
Not yet
, anyway. It’s probably in shock. I’m sure it’s quite rare for the crocodile to have its evening meal delivered up to it in such an easy fashion, and it’s probably still processing the happy and unexpected development in its life.

I go rigid with fear. The important thing right now, the
vital
thing right now, is not to make any sudden movements or loud noises.

“
IT
’
S A CROCCY
!” Poppy screams behind me.

The croccy’s head moves. So do my bowels.

“Jamie, get out of there!” Laura screeches.

What an excellent idea. I’ll be sure to give it some careful consideration.

I will my legs into some backwards movement, but my motor functions seem to have taken the night off. Croccy slides a couple of inches down the bank nearer to the water. You can tell he’s weighing up his options.

A sudden, horrible thought occurs:
I’ve just eaten a crocodile steak.
In my belly are the half-digested remnants of one of this bugger’s relatives. It’s probably its mother.

When the crocodile shifts its bulk ever closer to the water, I affect the most hangdog expression I can. “Sorry Croccy. I’m really, really sorry I ate your mum.”

The apology falls on deaf ears and the snout goes in the water. This seems like the time to panic.

“Aaaaargggh!”

With an instinct borne of a million years of evolution, I do the only thing I can right now that could possibly save my skin. I chuck my coconut at the crocodile with all my might. The sodden husk bounces off his nose.

Congratulations idiot. Now you’ve annoyed him.

Croccy provides me with a look that suggests the imminent loss of my legs. This makes my recalcitrant lower limbs finally wake up to the seriousness of the predicament I find myself in, and they start to power me back to the creek’s edge. In a maelstrom of kicking limbs, screaming lungs, and splashing water, I clamber up the bank with Laura dragging me along by the back of my T-shirt.

Croccy can’t be bothered to give chase, it seems. It just sits there on the sand watching us flail around like idiots. If crocodiles could laugh, this one would be doubled over, holding its belly.

It takes family Newman roughly three microseconds to get back to the hotel. Such is our turn of speed on the return journey that we bring a cloud of sand into reception with us as we rush towards the safety of our room. I manage to take my first proper breath since falling into the creek as I turn the security locks on the front door and lean my head against it with relief.

“Yes, I think that’s the last walk along the beach we’re likely to take while we’re here, don’t you, Laura?”

No answer.

“Laura?”

Still no answer.

I turn to see why she’s gone so quiet and am presented with an arrangement of flowers so large it should probably have a cable car suspended above it. A mixture of multicoloured roses and crisp white lilies, it just about covers the entire dining table.

“Oh, Jamie,” Laura says with tears in her eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

“Um…yeah. Beautiful.”

“You shouldn’t have. You’ve done enough today.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“These flowers aren’t from me, Laura.”

I walk over to the table and search for a card. I find it nestled in the middle of a bunch of pale blue roses at the centre of the display. I pluck it out and read, “Happy birthday, Laura. With all the love in my heart, Alan.”

I look up at my wife with confusion and dismay etched across my face. Laura has turned very pale.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” I say in a voice that comes from about a million miles away.

LAURA’S DIARY

Tuesday, November 14

Dear Mum,

I have no idea how to start this entry. It’s the most difficult one I think I’ve ever had to write, and part of me just wants to shut this diary and throw it in the nearest rubbish bin. If it weren’t for the fact I’m writing to you, I’d probably do that very thing right this moment.

I’ve never felt quite so awful in my bloody life, and I know I’m partially to blame for it. The look on Jamie’s face when he read that stupid card from Alan was just so, so horrible. My husband had spent the entire weekend making my birthday as fantastic as he could, and what reward does he get for his troubles? He finds out that not only is another man in love with me, but that I’ve kept this fact from him for weeks.

What started as a lovely birthday ended up being one of the worst nights I can remember having for a long time.

Jamie just about managed to keep a lid on his emotions long enough for us to put Poppy to bed, but as soon as he closed the door on our sleeping child I was subjected to the full force of his unhappiness. It was horrible. I’ve never seen him look so hurt, worried, and confused in all the years we’ve known each other.

I tried my best to explain what had happened—or rather
not
happened—between Alan and me, starting with the meal at Ambrogio, but this only seemed to make things worse.

“This has been going on since
October
?” my husband says incredulously.

“Yes but there’s
nothing going on
, Jamie. I told you that.”

“No? Then why keep all this a secret? Why not tell me that your boss is in love with you and is sending you gifts like this fucking botanical garden over here?”

I should have said something to him before this, but I just wanted to put the awkward dinner with Alan Brookes behind me and move on. Not that my boss seemed able to do so. I stupidly hoped that Alan would forget his pronouncement of undying love over pasta, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Not a week has gone by since that he hasn’t brought it up again in one way or another. If he isn’t popping into my office for no apparent reason other than to see me, he’s having gifts delivered by hand right to my desk. Jewellery, perfume, items of clothing—you name it, I’ve been sent it. About the only thing he hasn’t tried is chocolate, for what should be obvious reasons.

I’ve been getting more and more worried that at some point Alan might send a present to my home address, but thankfully so far that hasn’t happened. He’s displayed that much self-control at least, confining his public displays of affection to the work environment, and I’ve let him get away with it because he’s my employer.

I
should
have shut him down weeks ago. I
should
have been stronger and told him to stop. But I love my job, and I didn’t want to do anything to piss him off. That isn’t so wrong is it?

Frankly the whole situation has become highly stressful, so I was delighted when Jamie suggested the trip to Cairns. I thought I’d be out from under Alan’s nose for a few days and therefore wouldn’t have to worry about his unwanted attentions.

How wrong I was. How was I supposed to know he’d go out of his way to track down which hotel we were staying at and get that ridiculous display of flowers sent to my door?

And why
didn’t
I tell Jamie about all of this sooner, Mum? Why have I kept it to myself all this time? Is it because I know I screwed up and didn’t handle things well at Ambrogio, leading Alan on in an effort to keep my job? Or is it because secretly I’m
enjoying
the attention?

Alan Brookes is a powerful, attractive older man, after all. Maybe a part of me is actually
revelling
in his constant declarations of love. Given the strain on my relationship with Jamie recently, my ego has probably craved the boost Alan’s relentless campaign has provided. Maybe I’ve kept things as sweet as possible with Alan for more reasons than just to stay his employee.

I can’t tell Jamie any of this. It would break his heart. It’s certainly in danger of breaking mine.

In the end, I just fudged a response and told Jamie I kept it all to myself as I was embarrassed about the whole thing. I’m not sure he believed me, but it more or less puts an end to the argument, for the short term anyway.

To be honest,
I’d
have trouble believing me. I know there’s nothing going on between me and Alan, but from Jamie’s point of view it’s plain I’ve been keeping secrets from him for weeks now. And no matter how hard I protest my innocence, it’s totally understandable that he wouldn’t trust me completely.

When we turn in for the night, Jamie immediately rolls onto his side and does not even attempt to give me a good-night kiss. I woke up that morning full of happiness. I went to bed that night with tears drying on my cheeks.

Needless to say, things are very strained the following day. While we don’t flat-out argue again, Jamie and I are snappy and waspish with one another.

There are no walks along the beach today. I spend the morning cleaning clothes while Jamie busies himself on the laptop. As mutual-avoidance tactics go, these are the best we can come up with. Poor old Poppy is plonked in front of the cartoons, wondering what the hell she’s done to deserve such a crappy morning when it’s bright and sunny outside.

“Want to go bowling,” she tells us after a lunch of cheese on toast and extended silence.

“Not today, Pops,” I tell her. I just can’t muster up any kind of enthusiasm for anything. Frankly, I’ll be glad when we get up tomorrow morning to catch the plane back home to the Gold Coast.

“But ’m bored!” she snaps.

“You can watch your cartoons this afternoon honey,” Jamie adds from over the laptop.

Poppy’s eyes narrow in anger. It’s an expression I’m very familiar with given that it’s also one of mine. “I’ve watched them all Daddy,” she says in a flat, short voice. “Want to go bowling.”

Both Jamie and I instantly get the message. If today is already bad thanks to last night’s revelations, it will be made a thousand times worse if we don’t do something to entertain Poppy. The girl has a set of lungs on her rivalled only by her stamina. If we let her build up a head of steam, she’ll likely scream the whole hotel to the ground.

“I don’t think there’s a bowling alley in Cairns honey,” I say as a last-ditch attempt to avoid an afternoon of screaming children and neon.

“Actually, I think there’s one next door to the cinema in the city,” Jamie says.

This is deliberate. He knows I hate tenpin bowling with a passion. I sigh and try my hardest to stop my eyes from narrowing.

“Alright, let’s go bowling then.”

Poppy claps her hands together, and even Jamie produces the first smile I’ve seen on his face since before yesterday’s encounter with the crocodile.

Before my cheese on toast has fully settled in my stomach, we’re in the car and driving the twenty minutes down to Cairns City towards the bowling alley and one hell of a tension headache.

In Britain, bowling alleys are usually full during the day when it’s raining outside and people want to entertain themselves under cover in a building that has heating. In Australia, people go bowling for precisely the opposite reason. It is blisteringly hot today and the air-conditioning provides a much-needed escape from the high temperature.

Looking up into the clear-blue sky just before entering Cairns Bowl, I can’t help but think that thirty-four-degree heat is still vastly preferable to the constant sound of bowling pins crashing into one another. This kind of weather would have murdered me when I first stepped off the plane in Brisbane nearly a year ago, but now it just feels extremely good on my tanned skin. What I wouldn’t give to spend the next hour or so lying out in it rather than breaking a nail on a bowling ball…

When you’d rather risk skin cancer than take part in a sporting activity, you know you’re on to a loser.

Inside it’s as bad as I feared.

It appears every family in the Cairns area has decided to bowl this afternoon.

Then I realise this may be a very good thing. If all the lanes are full, we’ll have to leave and maybe I
can
spend the rest of the day cooking myself by the public swimming lagoon while Jamie takes Poppy shopping.

“You got any lanes free?” Jamie asks the tall, young lad behind the service counter.

“Just one, mate, down at the end there. Number twenty-four.”

Shit.

“Great. Two adults, one child, then please.” Jamie says and looks around at me.

“What?”

My husband cocks his head and gives me the old stink eye.

Realisation dawns. “Oh, you need me to pay.”

The funds from Jamie’s recent work dried up with last night’s beach meal, so I’ve returned to my role as the local ATM.

I try to avoid the look on my husband’s face as I pay. I know exactly what he’s thinking right now:
I spend all my money on this cow’s birthday yesterday, only to find out she might be having an affair with her boss. I hope she gets cellulite in both thighs.

Actually, I doubt he’s thinking that last part. Men have no idea what the potential horrors of cellulite can bring.

Still, I can’t help but feel guilty. Jamie arranged this trip and spent all that money as a way of rekindling our love, and I wreck it all with one giant bunch of flowers.

I try to contain my revulsion as I’m handed a pair of bowling shoes that are probably jam-packed with bacteria from the sweaty feet of those who have worn them previously. This must be the only pastime in the world where you pay for the privilege of walking round in the skin flakes and impregnated foot odour of a hundred other people.

It would help if they were even the least bit fashionable, but the only statement you’re making in these flat, badly stitched monstrosities is that you’ve probably just escaped from the special needs bus and need someone to help you get your finger out of your nose. Neither Jamie nor Poppy seem worried about their new footwear in the slightest, but this is to be expected as one is a man, one is a small child, and both are idiots.

We march past a collection of noisy families down to our lane at the end of the alley. This puts us directly underneath the speaker that’s fixed to the side of the wall above our heads, so not only will I be deafened by the sound of balls meeting pins, I will also have my eardrums excoriated by the pounding of overenthusiastic pop music. Currently Pink is belting out her hit “Perfect” at a volume usually reserved for air-raid sirens. That song seems to follow me around in life like a bad smell.

Jamie sits at the computer and punches our names in. I’m amazed to see L
AURA
pop up underneath his own name. I was rather expecting to see C
HEATING
W
HORE
instead.

“Put me last, Daddy!” Poppy cries.

This is not an uncommon request from my daughter when taking part in a group activity of this sort. Some might say it shows a remarkable amount of politeness and patience in one so young, but I have a feeling it’s just because she wants to size up the competition before taking her turn.

Jamie is first to bowl and does a respectable job, knocking all ten pins down in two goes to earn himself a spare. I’m still trying to choose a ball that’s not heavy enough to wrench my arm out of its socket when he sits back down.

“Come on Laura, hurry up,” he snaps.

I count to ten under my breath and grab hold of a bright pink ball that’s the lightest I can find at eight pounds. As I walk over to the lane to have my go, I discover that I’ve already broken a nail. At this point I should just fling the ball down the shiny strip of wood and not give a shit where it ends up. I don’t like bowling and am in a foul mood thanks to Alan Brookes and Jamie Newman, so this course of action would be perfectly understandable. However, there’s something about being at loggerheads with someone that brings out the worst of my competitive spirit. I’ve apologised to Jamie and told him there’s nothing going on with my boss over and over, yet still he snaps at me and maintains his surly attitude. It would no doubt give him great pleasure to add to my misery by beating me at bowling. Therefore, this must not happen.

I take careful aim at the pins, compose myself, and bowl the most carefully placed shot I can manage. The ball immediately veers off to the left and drops into the gutter. I hear Jamie snigger behind me.
Fuck it.

The next bowl is a bit better and I hit three pins. This is likely to be a long afternoon.

“Never mind,” Jamie says as I return. “Maybe your boss can buy you some bowling lessons.”

I’m tempted to smash my bright pink eight-pound ball into his face but resist the urge as somebody has to bring Poppy up until she’s eighteen. Speaking of whom, my daughter wheels over the children’s bowling aid from where it sits just off to the side and lines the metal frame up with meticulous precision.

“You want us to put the gutter bumpers up honey?” Jamie asks.

Poppy turns with a look of deep insult on her face. “No thank you Daddy,” she says with her hands on her hips, before turning back to the job at hand.

She picks up her purple bowling ball, pushes it down the ramp with all her might and hits a strike on her first go. Poppy’s reaction is absolutely priceless. She gives a delighted whoop and starts to wiggle her bum around in a victory dance. Both Jamie and I burst out laughing.

“Next time she does that, make sure you’ve got your camera phone out,” I tell Jamie. The camera on my Nokia gave up the ghost ages ago, so we both now rely on Jamie’s iPhone for moments such as these.

“Yeah okay,” he replies and fishes the phone from his pocket, placing it on the side ready for his daughter’s next performance.

I’m pleased to say I do not snigger when Jamie scores a paltry five on his next go. Nor do I become smug after I hit a spare. Poppy is inconsolable at only knocking down eight pins on her next go.

“Have to line it up better,” she tells me as she sits down with her arms folded and a pout on her face.