Page 1 of Wish You Were Here
Prologue
Ben
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that when flying, you cannot talk to the person next to you on the plane until about ten minutes before landing. I have spent the past eight hours sitting next to a lady: American, middle-aged, brunette, glasses, hasn’t once gone to the toilet, is a considerate flyer, doesn’t drink alcohol and only ate the salad from her in-flight meal. I know more details about the woman next to me than I know about most people at my work and we haven’t even spoken. As we come into land at Sydney Airport, the blinding morning sun glaring through the small, round plane window, the remnants of flying from Singapore strewn across the plane, I look across at her and she looks back at me. We smile. We can talk now because we’re about to land. The conversation can only last ten minutes or hopefully less, and we both know exactly what we’ll talk about. This is polite travel chit-chat.
‘What are you doing in Sydney?’ I ask.
‘Business. You?’
What am I doing in Sydney? Business? Pleasure?
‘Actually, I’m not really sure,’ I say, and her face that had expected something far more mundane because let’s face it, there are only a few acceptable answers to that question, loses its structure and I get a glimpse of the sort of expression sheprobably keeps for people far more acquainted with her than me. She lets her guard down because why would anyone travel across the world on the plane with no idea why? It’s insane to comprehend that anyone would make this trip for no apparent reason, and yet here I am – I’m an enigma! I have not only stepped outside of my own comfort zone but also societies.
‘Oh,’ she says after a moment.
‘I know.’
‘Then, I suppose, good luck?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, and then she gets back to organising her things for landing, the flight crew do their last walk-through, checking if our seats are in the upright position, everyone gets ready to land and I sit back in my seat and look out of the window.
Sydney looks stunning below me. I can see small coves with beaches and then the iconic Harbour Bridge in the distance, and it feels incredible that a day ago I was in leaden-grey, wintery London, pondering the delicate intricacies of my life and now I am in Australia, and maybe about to change everything. What am I doing in Sydney? There is only one word to answer this particular question, and it’s the oldest, most cliché complication that has troubled man since the beginning of time: Love, of course.
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
1
Clapham, London
Ben
There are a variety of ways of walking into my flat after a day at the office. The most common is that I walk in, dump my bag on the floor, grab a beer from the fridge, then fall onto the sofa next to Flatmate Simon, glad to be done at work for another day, and settle in for a night of watching rubbish television together, a few beers and either, if I can’t be bothered to heat something up in the microwave, a takeaway, or, if I can be bothered, a frozen ready meal. Another way is I walk in, dump my bag on the floor, go straight into my bedroom, put on my running clothes, lace up my trainers, poke my head around the living room door to tell Flatmate Simon that I am finally going to go for that run, but then realise he’s watching a new episode ofEscape to the Country, and I ask a simple question like, ‘Are they in Dorset?’ Then before I know it, I am sitting on the sofa, watchingEscape to the Countryand waiting for the mystery house. Another, and a far less common way to walk into my flat after a day at the office, is to walk in, dump my bag on the floor, wander into the living room to find a group of my closest friends and my sister standing there with a large sign that says: INTERVENTON!
‘What’s this?’ I ask curiously. ‘What’s an interventon?’
‘Flatmate Simon messed up the sign,’ says Poppy, a frustration caught in her voice. Poppy is my sister. Thirty-two, works for Lambeth City Council, something in planning, light blonde hair like Mum, big green eyes like Dad, in blue jeans, a beige shirt and a pair of white Veja trainers. ‘It’s meant to say intervention, obviously.’
‘Right, so what’s the intervention for?’ I enquire.
Will steps forward. Will Robinson is my best friend from university. Tall, short brown hair, enjoys travel, exercise and outdoor things. He went to university to study law, but after a year dropped out to start his own fitness and outdoor adventure business. He lives in a flat in Battersea, but spends much of his time running fitness classes across London, camping in some remote, far-flung part of the UK, or travelling the world in search of adventure. He’s a bit like Bear Grylls, but without the silly first name.
‘Ben,’ says Will. ‘I’m sorry, mate, but this is for your own good. We all love you.’
‘We do,’ gushes Abigail enthusiastically. Abigail Gorman, dark hair, caramel skin from a Turkish mother, and we slept together once before realising it was a mistake and we were better off as friends. She works in the media and is single. She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t work out – chiefly because he slept with someone else. ‘But it has to stop, Ben. It’s gone too far.’
‘Sorry, guys, but I still don’t know what this intervention is for.’
My friends and sister all look towards Flatmate Simon.
‘It’s Saffy, mate. Sorry, but you have to break up with her. She’s horrible, none of us like her, and it’s clear she makes you miserable.’
Flatmate Simon, thirty, filmmaker, and despite living together for the past eight years in our Clapham flat, I still don’t fully understand how he makes so much money. He has his own production company, and they create brand videos. He’s currently working on a series of YouTube videos about the London food and drink scene, and yet he always seems to be at home, usually watching television with a cup of tea in his hand.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, before I add. ‘So this isn’t about my massive gambling habit then?’
No-one laughs at my joke, which I have to admit, isn’t one of my best. Saffy Pembroke, my habitually on and off again girlfriend. I understand their point of view, and I know that none of them has ever really warmed to her. She is, without doubt, difficult, opinionated and possibly racist if you take onboard her views on immigration, but she can also be lovely (to me, sometimes), is generous with money (with me, occasionally), and we have the healthiest sex life I have ever had. Saffy is like the late-night kebab you eat after a night at the pub. You know you shouldn’t do it, you’ll definitely regret it in the morning, but there’s just something quite enticing about it – especially after a few drinks. Poppy steps towards me.
‘Ben, little brother, this isn’t a joke. We’re genuinely concerned about your mental health.’
