Love...Under Different Skies Page 3

  A brief call later I have a job interview arranged to be conducted with Alan Brookes, the owner of the Worongabba Chocolate Company, over Skype the following Thursday.

  That’s today. In about an hour…

  I’m so nervous I’m afraid I’m going to throw up all over the keyboard, which I suppose would be a near repeat of my last important job interview with a chocolate company. I’m very sure I’m not pregnant this time, though. You have to have sex to get pregnant, and Jamie isn’t getting anywhere near my lady garden for a good few weeks yet, thanks to getting himself fired.

  This whole situation is very bizarre. I applied for that job via an industry website on a whim four months ago. I never thought anything would come of it. Here I am, though, about to be interviewed for a job on the other side of the planet. It’s exciting, terrifying, and destabilising all in equal measure.

  For the first time in weeks, though, I feel something other than miserable and tired. That’s got to count for something, right?

  I did a bit of Internet research about Worongabba Chocolate. It’s a smallish company that runs out of only a few locations in Queensland and New South Wales, but anything’s got to be better than Morton & Slacks, and its clientele of homeless drunks and shoplifting pensioners. Besides…it’s Australia! A place where I could actually hold on to a suntan for more than a week.

  Wish me luck Mum…and pray I don’t make a fool of myself.

  Love you and miss you as always.

  Your very skittish daughter, Laura

  xx

  JAMIE’S BLOG

  Monday 2 January

  For the first time in two months I find myself wishing Laura hadn’t landed the job with the Woolengobb…Warrengubb…Wobblebottom Chocolate Company.

  There were many moments of high stress after she put the phone down on Brett Michaels, the deputy CEO of the company, and started jumping around the living room shouting, “I got the job!” at the top of her voice.

  Telling my family and our collective friends that we were leaving the country—perhaps permanently—was definitely an experience I don’t want to repeat anytime soon.

  Neither was organising an inexpensive place to store our worldly possessions for the short term and their transport to the New World as soon as we were set up in Australia.

  Sorting out all the necessary paperwork for visas was a ball ache of the highest order. Australia appears to be the kind of country that lets foreigners in for longer than two weeks only if they can prove an ability to fill in complicated forms in triplicate and exercise the patience of a saint when on the phone to the Immigration Department.

  But in all of that I never once regretted Laura’s decision to take the job. Neither of us has been to Australia before, so we’re entering a new and strange existence that for all we know will chew us up and spit us out. What was the alternative, though? Another few months of Laura working at Morton & Slacks? Slowly going insane as I sit in my dressing gown scouring the job ads, while Jeremy Kyle berates Tracey from Ealing for eating her baby?

  The decision to uproot our family and move ten thousand miles away was a bit of a no-brainer. Besides, it was worth it just to see a happy, excited smile on Laura’s face. I’d frankly have moved to the moon if it meant getting her out of the depressed state she’d been in—a good part of which was caused by my idiocy back in October.

  So no regrets and no worries (I’m trying to get used to the lingo already). Right up until today…

  And why the change of heart? Why would I now be having second thoughts about this entire venture, despite all the effort and work that’s gone into it? Because I’m in the smallest, most uncomfortable seat it’s ever been my misfortune to be sat in. Part of the reason for that level of discomfort is because the seat is forty thousand feet in the air.

  I am on a plane, a long metal tube of evil design wherein I am being punished for all my past sins by having to sit in the same place for hours on end, while people around me fart and belch into the air-conditioning system, which happily recycles their emissions right into my pale, dry face.

  An hour ago the demonic minions that live in the belly of the metal monster force-fed me a meal they claimed was chicken hot pot. I know the truth, though. They can’t fool me. After one mouthful I understood that what they were actually feeding me was the distilled agony of a million tortured souls trapped for all eternity in a congealed pile of white goo that wobbles when you bounce a spoon off it.

  Further punishment is handed down by the tiny screen in front of my face that pumps out images and sounds designed to turn my already scrambled brains into runny cheese. The only things I have not seen on the “extensive in-flight entertainment” menu are six episodes of The Only Way Is Essex, a documentary about Kim Kardashian, and all four Twilight movies.

  I can’t bring myself to rewatch any films that I actually enjoyed. Not when they’ve been “edited for airline use” and shrunk to accommodate the confines of the postage stamp–sized 4:3-ratio TV screen. I need to watch The Avengers in glorious wide-screen, damn it! I have a go at watching Twilight, but Kristen Stewart has the same soporific effect on me as a plate of sleeping pills, and I keep thinking some alien life-form is about to burst from that enormous slab of flesh R-Pattz calls a forehead, so I switch it off after ten minutes.

  But, gentle reader, all these horrors take a backseat to the true cause of my pain. The real reason I wish Brett fucking Michaels had never called Laura in October…

  Her name is Manjula. Manjula is all of six months old but is a personification of the devil so perfect in its malice that God himself would quail from her tiny, evil presence.

  When I checked in online yesterday (or about ten thousand years ago, as it feels now), I was delighted to discover that I could choose bulkhead seats for all three of us. This would provide Laura and me with a bit more legroom, while allowing Poppy a bit more space as well.

  Quite why three-year-old children need so much space is beyond me, but they do and it’s just best to accommodate them wherever you can to cut down on the tantrums. Picture then, if you will, Laura sat on the aisle in the left-hand seat, Poppy next her, and then me in the third seat, which leaves the right-hand aisle seat free. Into which a small, pleasant-looking woman of Indian extraction deposits herself while the plane still sat at the terminal.

  She has a baby with her, which causes an involuntary groan to escape my lips, for despite the fact I am a proud father myself, I maintain the intense dislike of children I’ve always had. It’s one thing to love and care for your own baby, but I’ll be buggered if I’m going to love everybody else’s as well. They are loud, smelly, bizarre little creatures that I always choose to steer well clear of, if given the option to do so.

  Sadly this option is decidedly not available on a plane journey, when somebody parks one of the little bastards right next to you. Still, I’m well used to babies by now, having helped bring Poppy into this world so am at least prepared for anything it can—

  Bloody hell! She’s thrown the kid into my lap. I now have a baby’s head in my crotch. It stares up at me with a glazed expression and a lopsided smile. I look to my right in horror. The woman has flopped her child over the armrest right into my personal space and is now changing the little kid’s diaper. We haven’t even taken off yet. Can’t she have waited and done this in the restroom once the plane was airborne?

  The woman smiles at me like nothing is out of the ordinary. I, being British and therefore incapable of voicing a complaint in such a confined space, merely smile back and wait while the diaper change is carried out. Once it is, the woman gestures at me to hold the baby while she gets rid of the used diaper. To the accompanying giggles of my wife and child I do so, with mild disbelief.

  “Daddy’s got a new brown baby!” Pops laughs from beside me.

  “Poppy! Be polite,” Laura chides from beside her.

 
My daughter has made an accurate assessment of the situation, though. I do now appear to be the proud owner of a new brown baby—which smiles at me and rolls its eyes.

  Back comes mother and grabs the kid from my arms, swinging the poor bastard around like it’s a life-size action figure. It doesn’t seem to mind one bit, though, and settles down to sleep the second the woman buckles herself back into her seat. I turn away from both, hoping and praying that will be the end of my problems with this strange twosome. Yeah, like that was going to happen, eh?

  Three hours go by. The kid is now sleeping peacefully in the bassinet attached to the wall. It’s a big one, stretching across in front of my seat as well as my Indian friend’s. I myself have settled down for a nap. Laura is watching Twilight and Poppy is fast asleep next to me, dreaming of kangaroos and koala bears I have no doubt. I start to drift off, the whine of the plane engines lulling me into a doze.

  A sudden, brief, and sharp pain on my forehead snaps me awake instantly. I look down to see a small, square cardboard picture book in my lap. Looking up, the baby is now sitting upright in the bassinet, looking at me with a wide grin on its face.

  “Manjula!” the mother cries and picks up the book from my lap, giving me a slight but discomforting whack in the testicles with one knuckle as she does so. She looks at me and bobs her head. “So sorry,” she says.

  “Not a problem,” I reply, and finger the small indentation left in my forehead by the corner of the book.

  I shut my eyes again and try to sleep some more. Once again, blissful unconsciousness begins to take me in its warm embrace, and I feel myself—

  Ow! Fuck! This time the picture book hits me square on the nose. Manjula laughs in delight.

  “Manjula!” the mother chides again.

  Through watering eyes I see her pick up the picture book (which features a badly drawn monkey on the cover) off the floor and put it back in the bassinet. She then shifts Manjula to the other end of the cot in an attempt to keep me out of ballistic range.

  This works for about ten minutes.

  The third time the stupid book hits me it’s on the crown of the head—sharp corner first again. Christ knows how this kid can be accurate and strong enough to throw the bloody thing so high. If nothing else, the Indian shot put team will have no trouble scoring the gold at the Olympics in twenty years. This time I hand the book back to the mother, a dark look on my face. “Sorry, sorry,” she says with a smile that indicates her deep regret may not be as sincere as I’d like.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t give her the book again?” I ask. She shakes her head with incomprehension. I drop into typical English behaviour and speak slowly and loudly to her. “Don’t give her the book again!” I enunciate clearly into her confused face.

  She seems to get the message and puts the monkey book by her side. Manjula isn’t fucking happy about this turn of events and starts to wail. Mother then starts to tickle her, which stops the crying, thankfully.

  There’s no way I’m going to sleep now. I daren’t drop my guard in case Manjula decides to launch an all-out aerial assault on me. I do, however, shut my eyes again in the universal signal for I’m now ignoring you and your child for the rest of the flight, madam.

  With the picture book removed, there are no more incidents for the next few hours. In that time I end up watching the Kim Kardashian documentary, for the simple reason that she has nice tits, while munching my way through the evil chicken hot-pot concoction with grim determination.

  The final battle with Manjula commences two hours out from Singapore, our stop-off on the way to Australia. A majority of the people on the flight are now either fast asleep or watching to see if R-Pattz is about to give birth to a forehead alien. Laura is catching flies, Poppy is dribbling over the armrest, and even Manjula’s mum is sound asleep and snoring gently.

  I am not sleeping. I am watching Manjula like a fucking hawk. The reason? The little cow has stepped up her game. I’d eventually succumbed and decided to watch The Avengers again on the tiny TV screen. It was just at the good bit—the Hulk starts smashing everything in sight—when my viewing pleasure was ruined by the monkey picture book thrown at my face with the power, style, and deadly accuracy of a ninja. I narrowly avoided losing my right eye.

  I pick the book out of my lap and waggle it at Manjula. “If you think you’re getting this back now,” I hiss at her, “you’ve got another think coming!” I stuff the book down by my side and flick Manjula a V sign.

  I’m a man in his mid-thirties making obscene gestures at a small baby. This is not my proudest moment. Manjula accepts the insult with good grace and looks down into the bassinet. I take this as a sign of defeat and return to watch Robert Downey Jr. flying around Manhattan with a hoard of screaming aliens chasing him.

  The next thing I know a plastic baby bottle is bouncing off my forehead. To add insult to injury, the rubber teat on the end falls off as it lands in my lap, splashing the remnants of milk all over me. Manjula laughs with delight.

  “You little son of a bitch!” I gasp in suppressed fury.

  Manjula’s mother stirs next to me but does not awaken. In the dim light of the plane cabin I can see my enemy rock back on her pudgy little legs in devilish glee. A baby barely out of the womb is making me her bitch.

  I am rendered utterly impotent. There is simply no way I can respond to this in any conceivable way that won’t make me look like a complete maniac. I’ve been targeted by a demon who knows I can do nothing to stop her from tormenting me. As if to exemplify this point, a rattle hits me on the right ear before clattering onto the floor. Even with the noise it makes nobody wakes up to come to my aid. I am trapped and at Manjula’s mercy.

  Thankfully she’s running out of her deadly arsenal and is reduced to chucking a sad-looking stuffed elephant my way. This bounces harmlessly off my cheek.

  “Ha!” I exclaim in furious delight. “That one didn’t hurt one little b—’”

  Another cardboard picture book, this time featuring a hippo on the cover, hits me square on the chin. She was hiding it! The vicious little cow was deliberately lulling me into a false sense of security before unleashing her final victorious salvo. I am incensed.

  Without thinking about what I am doing, I lean forward and very smartly flick Manjula on the end of the nose. She immediately starts to cry.

  Ha! Ha! Not so clever now are you, you bloody monster!

  I shake my fist at her. Yes, I actually shake my fist in triumph at a baby not yet a year out of her mother’s womb, having just physically assaulted her. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. Not by a long shot.

  That’s what you get for fucking with Jamie Newman! I scream in the vaults of my mind while continuing to waggle a vengeful knuckle sandwich.

  Manjula’s mother snaps awake to see her adorable baby girl screaming her head off while the mental white man in the seat next to her threatens her child with his balled-up fist.

  “Manjula!” she cries, waking Poppy, Laura, and the surrounding passengers.

  I stop the fist waving and immediately concentrate my complete and undivided attention on the end credits of The Avengers.

  “Oh Manjula!”

  Who’d have thought Robert Downey Jr. needed three hairdressers?

  “Ēkachōṭāsārōnābandakarō!”

  My my, they do use a lot of people for the special effects in these movies don’t they?

  “Kyābātahai?”

  Filmed on location in New Mexico, Pittsburgh, and Stuttgart. How very interesting.

  “Apanēnākaujjvalalālakyōṁhai?”

  “What’s going on Jamie?” Laura asks in a hazy voice.

  “Daddy hit the baby!” Poppy cries and collapses into hilarity.

  Manjula’s mother nails me to my chair with a look of deep suspicion. It seems the woman knows more English than she’s let on.

  �
�What? No, no!” I lie, feigning complete innocence. “Pay no attention to my daughter. She’s a moron.”

  “Jamie!”

  Pops doesn’t seem too bothered by the insult. She’s still laughing like a loon and bouncing one hand off her nose. Manjula is quieting down now, so the Indian woman puts her back in the bassinet and returns to her half doze. I can’t help noticing her left eye remains slightly open.

  For my part, I offer Manjula a final smug grin of victory and then try to give Twilight 2: The Search for Kristen Stewart’s Personality a go. I last twelve minutes before turning it off and doing something more constructive by picking my nose.

  Yes indeed. There’s nothing like several hours of airline travel to reduce you to the level of casual child molestation, I always say. As I sit here writing this, we’re on the second leg of the journey from Singapore to Brisbane. Manjula and her mother did not get back on the flight I’m pleased to say.

  I am now next to an elderly Chinese gentleman who could be anything from sixty-five to 450. I think he’s getting a bit annoyed with my constant tip tap on the laptop keyboard, so I’m going to shut it down and try to entertain myself with something on the TV. The Kardashian documentary has been replaced by one about Paris Hilton, Twilight has given way to all three Transformers movies, and I’ve already seen every episode of Fawlty Towers about seven times.

  I’m starting to wish Manjula had taken my eyes out with her ninja book throwing.

  LAURA’S DIARY

  Monday, January 9

  G’day Mum!

  Sorry, I won’t write that again, I promise.

  We’ve been here a week now, and I’ve never been so hot in my bloody life. Australia, it seems, is a mere ten-minute walk from the surface of the sun. My eyelids are sweating. I have never experienced sweaty eyelids in my life. It is a new and strange phenomenon I’m not entirely sure I approve of.