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 she probably 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 want to 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.
The front door opens and standing there is Saskia’s mum, Susan, and her boyfriend, Brian.
It’s weird because it feels like I already know them, but we have never actually met.
Saskia has spoken so much about them, told me so many stories that it feels impossible that they aren’t already a fundamental part of my life.
I want to say hello, give them a hug, as though we’re just long-lost friends who haven’t seen each other for a while.
In reality, I’m not even sure they know who I am.
However, before I even speak, it becomes clear that they know exactly who I am.
‘Ben, is it?’ says Brian. ‘I’m Brian, come on in, mate.’
‘I’m Susan, Saskia’s mum.’
‘Hi, hello. Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you’d know me, and I’ve been on a plane for the past twenty-four hours. I’m not even sure what day it is, to be honest.’
‘Let’s get you in and get you a drink, eh,’ says Susan.
‘You’ll probably want a cup of tea, right?’ says Brian. ‘I know the English love their tea!’
‘Umm, yes, that would be lovely, actually.’
‘I love the way you speak, so formal,’ says Susan as we walk inside the house.
‘Let me take that bag from you, Ben,’ says Brian, taking my bag before I even reply. ‘I’ll just pop that over there. Right, let’s go through into the kitchen, shall we.’
‘The kitchen!’ says Susan, and I don’t know them well, but it feels like they’re acting quite strangely and also, as though they knew I was coming. They weren’t shocked at all that I appeared at their door, but how could they have known? Saskia doesn’t even know I’m here.
We walk through the house and into a large, open-plan kitchen diner, and it feels so warm and homely, a bit like my own parents’ kitchen, which is the hub of the home. I am about to ask them where Saskia is, but before I can, Brian turns to me and says.
‘So, here’s the thing, mate—’
‘Saskia’s in London!’ squeals Susan suddenly.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘She flew to London to tell you she loves you!’ says Susan, and I am flabbergasted.
Saskia is in London. That just doesn’t seem possible.
How can she be there, and I be here at the same time?
I need to turn my phone on and check my messages ASAP.
I sit down – before I fall down – Brian puts the kettle on, and Susan explains exactly what has happened.
Apparently, Saskia and Brad broke up, the gig for Fudge Cake wasn’t really a gig for Fudge Cake at all because that bastard Joe Thompson just wanted to root Saskia, Lou Sanders carked it and left Saskia twenty thousand dollars, and with that money, Saskia decided to fly across the world to meet me.
‘Right now, Ben, it’s about seven o’clock in the evening in London,’ says Brian. ‘Maybe you can FaceTime Saskia and see what’s what, eh, mate?’
‘I think that would be good.’
‘Why don’t you do it in her bedroom?’ says Susan, who gets up and shows me to Saskia’s room, and then Brian brings in my tea and they leave me alone to FaceTime with Saskia. What a strange turn of events.
As soon as I turn my phone on, I am hit with a barrage of messages and voicemails. I quickly flick through the messages and they’re mostly from Simon. This is a brief selection:
Mate! Saskia is here! In London! WTAF!
As soon as you arrive, message me. What the fuck is going on with you two?!
She’s super nice, mate. And hot! Even better in the flesh. Don’t tell Abs I said that.
Not sure when you’re landing but text me ASAP. Everyone knows. Poppy, Hugh, Abs and Will all came over and we went to the pub. Everyone loves her. Maybe more than you!
Weird thing, she keeps calling her backpack Barbara. Red flag?
I am sitting on Saskia’s bed, in her bedroom in Sydney, and this is perhaps the strangest day of my life.
I expected to be meeting Saskia and proclaiming my love for her, instead she is in London and we’re about to FaceTime again – only this time we have swapped locations!
Her bedroom is so familiar to me, and yet the one thing I never got from FaceTime was the smell.
It has a lovely floral scent, which is, I imagine, from her perfume or maybe a candle or something.
It’s quite a small room and decorated in a very feminine way with pops of colour, flowers, and the bed is cosy with extra pillows and a lovely light blanket over the top of the sheets.
She also has an old record player in the corner with a stack of records, and there are two guitars in cases against one wall.
She also has a small dresser, which is full of make-up, small jars of creams, lotions and a framed photo of Saskia and her father.
In the photo, Saskia looks about thirteen or fourteen, and she’s sitting with her dad on a beach, and they’re both smiling and looking so happy.
It’s funny, meeting Susan, I saw bits of her in Saskia, they have a similar nose and the same hair colour, but seeing her father, she’s a spitting image of him.
They’re so alike and I can see from this photograph just how close they were.
I take my phone, press FaceTime and then go to Saskia. This is it.
‘Hello, Sas?’ I say when the screen changes, and suddenly she is there, sitting on my bed. This is so utterly surreal.