Belinda Missen - An Impossible Thing Called Love

‘Had you asked me on New Year’s Day, I would’ve said it wasn’t a great idea. Maybe just a knee-jerk reaction to your friends leaving.’

‘But?’ I asked, curious as to how he’d changed his mind in the weeks since.

‘Well, this week at work hasn’t been so great. I’m not really cut out for the family firm.’ He looked about nervously. ‘At the end of the year, with school over, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’

‘So, you want to go then?’

‘I think we should start planning, yeah.’

Planning felt like a ten-thousand-piece Ravensburger jigsaw puzzle and looking for the edge pieces one by one. Most people were of the opinion I should just ‘get a job and get over there’ which, I suppose, was correct. Financially though, it meant having a safety net before stepping on that plane.

Money, that magical thing that makes the world go around, became easier to come by when I switched to distance education. By the time lecture theatres opened their doors for the school year, I was already curled up on the couch reading final year subjects and bashing away at the keyboard in the hope an essay might pop out somewhere near the end.

As much as he hated it, Craig took extra shifts at the family business. He made coffee, swept floors, and shredded old files just to make himself useful. And, when he was finally allowed to take on clients, he worked night and day to prove that he was not only worthy of their accounts, but that he was capable. It astounded me that he got any of his university work done at all, but he did.

In June, while I was busy picking up volunteer work with the ambulance again and getting back into the groove of things, Craig moved us into a spare bedroom at a friend’s house. The paint was a little peely, and I spent a weekend watching my fingers wrinkle up under sugar soap and water, but it gave us the opportunity to be proper adults. No longer were we under our parents’ roofs, but in our own space, being adults, doing very adult things in the privacy of our own place.

‘I suppose at least it’ll give us an idea of London.’ Craig stood by the door, hands on hips, and surveyed our new room, which smelled like a not so delicious blend of chemical cleaner and lavender carpet powder.

‘Are you still keen?’ I patted the space on the bed beside me.

‘We only have this place for twelve months, so, I do hope so!’

The idea of returning to the UK made me jittery with excitement, it lit a fire inside me all over again – just when I thought those feelings may have disappeared 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.