Page 79 of Wish You Were Here
‘He’s on a plane heading to Sydney,’ says Flatmate Simon, and without even thinking about it, I fall backwards onto the sofa, my mind completely and utterly blown.
I am in shock, and I have no idea what to say, so Flatmate Simon does what any sensible person would do in this situation, he tells me he’s going to put the kettle on and make us both a cup of tea. He leaves the room, and I just sit here. Ben is flying to Sydney! Is he on his way to tell me what I came here to tell him? If this is true, which it clearly seems to be, then we are both fucking idiots. After a few minutes, Flatmate Simon walks back in with two cups of tea, passes one to me and then sits down on the sofa.
‘So, Ben is heading to Sydney to do what?’
‘Probably the same thing you came here for, I imagine,’ says Flatmate Simon, and I can’t stop myself from laughing.
‘So, what do we do now?’ I ask when I have stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.
‘I have to round up the troops and we need to go to the pub.’
‘Sounds like a solid plan.’
‘Give me ten minutes. Do you need a shower or something? Food?’
‘I’m all right, mate. The tea is perfect.’
‘Right, great, fantastic. You can put your stuff in Ben’s room.’
‘Okay. Oh, what happened with his girlfriend, Jemma?’ I ask as the thought suddenly enters my head. The last time I spoke with Ben, he and Jemma were very much still an item.
‘He broke up with her,’ says Flatmate Simon. ‘Then decided to fly across the world to find you. This is just utterly bonkers. You’re here. He’s heading there.’
‘It’s like—’
‘A romantic comedy?’ says Flatmate Simon, before he leaves the room, taking his phone out to, I assume, round up the troops.
I can’t believe I’m not going to see Ben after all, and instead I have to wait for him to get to Sydney so we can FaceTime again. I should probably warn Mum and Brian that a strange Englishman is likely to turn up at their house. This is crazy. How have we both made the decision to tell each other exactly how we feel and we’re still on opposite sides of the world? I sit back on the sofa, sipping on my tea and I can’t believe I am in Ben’s living room in London. Even stranger is that he will soon be sitting in mine in Sydney.
33
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.
When I walk out of the airport it hits me. Heat! It’s so warm and it feels like years since I have felt this sort of sunshine. When I left London, it was in the middle of some sort of polar vortex that had come from Russia – definitely not with love – and the temperature had plummeted, but here, in the middle of summer, it is glorious. The sky is cerulean with not the faintest hint of a cloud, and once again, it is fucking hot! Unfortunately, I am over-dressed. I am in jeans, a t-shirt, a jumper and I’m wearing trainers. All the clothes I tossed on without a thought when I left my flat. My phone is turned off because I don’t wantto read all the messages from people back at home, hear their thoughts or worry about anything else other than Saskia. I know her address, it’s burned into my brain, and so I am going to get into a taxi and head straight there. I am excited to finally meet her in person, although also nervous because I have spent the past twenty-four hours flying here, and I have rehearsed my ‘end of the film’ speech over and over again. This has to be something special.
I have never been to Australia before but driving through the suburbs of Sydney and then into Glebe, it’s obvious that I am not in London anymore. I suppose I always thought that Australia would just be a sunnier version of Britain, but it isn’t at all. The architecture is so different than anything back home, the pubs and shops are so unlike the ones in London, and it feels like I am somewhere so alien – which is obvious because I am on the other side of the world. There are also considerably more palm trees in Sydney than there are in Clapham.
It’s only a short drive from the airport to Glebe and we are soon pulling up outside Saskia’s house, which is a cute Victorian terrace just off Glebe Point Road. I get out, pulling my carry-on suitcase with me, and after paying the driver, I stand outside. This is it. I am finally going to meet Saskia Conway.
