Hair soaked, mascara-stained, broken umbrella clutched in my hand – this was Sydney. Sydney. It wasn’t supposed to rain. Where was my golden tan? Where was my I’m-not-a-tourist-I-actually-live-here glow? Where was my boundless energy and newfound talent for volleyball? I’d been holding it together, pinning on a smile, but it was time to call a spade a flipping spade. So far, Sydney was crap.
Since the second I had hopped off the plane it had been non-stop rain, relentless rudeness and now this. Kicked out of my ‘you can stay for three months until you get settled’ accommodation onto the rainy streets of Coogee with nothing but my two-tonne rucksack, a broken umbrella and a deep suspicion that I was still saying Coogee wrong. Coo-geeeee? Cudgey? Cude-I care any less?
Trudging round Woolworths (a bog-standard supermarket in Sydney, not a pick-and-mix or tiny Coke can in sight), I left puddles behind me as I went. I didn’t even need anything. I was just trying to get dry. In fact, I did need something. I needed a lot of things. I needed sunshine, a job, rent money and somewhere to stay until I could get the above figured out. I turned down the next aisle. No, no rent-free accommodation down this one. Did I really leave my steady life in England for this? This was meant to be my do-over. My chance to rewrite a happily ever after that had somehow gone so wrong – one that everyone else seemed to be getting right. Even my forever-young best friend had drifted into adulthood, buying a two-bedroom house with her partner. Zoe would have a fit if she knew my ‘sure thing’ accommodation was about as sure as everything else in my life right now. I turned down the next aisle. Wine. Well, it couldn’t hurt, right? I grabbed the first bottle of red I saw, then realised it was twenty-six dollars and went to put it back quicker than you could say—
‘Jess?’
I froze, hand refusing to release the red. It couldn’t be. No one knew me here. That was the point in coming, after all. A fresh start, a fresh chance to salvage my twenties before they slid into a decade demanding more milestones than I’d manage to reach.
‘Jess? Is that you?’
It just couldn’t be. There was no way. But then, Zoe had made me delete him, unfollow him, block him, erase him years ago, severing the ties of our ‘connection’ even though by then we hadn’t spoken in weeks. I had put up a fight at first, hooked to my digital self-harm, reminding every inch of me what we used to be. Then I had surrendered, bruised by her final blow: no amount of watching his stories is going to change yours…
‘Jess?’ the all-too familiar voice rang out again. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. But in my down and out state, I could have sworn the voice sounded suspiciously like my…
Ever so slowly I unclutched the bottle. Even more slowly I turned. And finally came face to face with someone I had spent the last three years trying to forget. Sam. My ex-boyfriend.
‘Jess? What the…’ The words spilled from his stubble-framed mouth, rough hands reaching to rub his disbelieving eyes. I stared on, frozen to the spot. I had been ready to give someone – anyone – a mouthful but had all of a sudden lost the ability to speak. Against a backdrop of white wine, Sam’s tanned figure looked like a mirage.
‘What are you…’ His second sentence trailed off like his first. I shook my head, still and silent, my heart making enough noise for both of us. His wide eyes met mine as he began to shake his head too, no doubt hoping he’d wake up soon. If there were other people around, I didn’t notice them. Sam demanded my full attention. I watched his face spread into a smile as he looked me up and down – and not in a good way, not like the first time all those years ago. Heart beating, hands sweating, I said nothing. I held my breath. Maybe if I held it for long enough I’d die right here, right now. Why was he here? In Sydney? On the other side of the world? And why was I here – mascara-stained with the remains of a crappy umbrella that looked like a flipping stick?
‘Jess, you’re here.’ He reached a hand further towards me, as if wanting to touch me to see that I was real. I flinched, torn between wanting to run and hide or shelter in the warmth of his arms. It was Sam. Sam.
‘I am,’ I confirmed, not knowing whether I was convincing him or me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d dreamt of such a run-in, but never once here, never once like this. Of all the places I’d imagined him being, all the rooms I’d scanned hoping, dreading, that he’d be in them, all the times I almost risked finding him again, friending him again, I could never have imagined this, here, now. My eyes darted to his basket – avocados, chia seeds, blueberries: the ingredients of a grown-up – to the shelves, stacked with unfamiliar brands, trying to make sense of our surroundings. Sam cleared his throat and asked the one question I’d been trying not to ask myself ever since I’d arrived in Australia: ‘Why?’
For a fresh start, for a chance to…
For me? his eyes seemed to ask. No, Sam, not for you. It’s not all about you.
He hadn’t changed a bit, not really. Older, more refined, getting better with age. And lighter somehow – whilst I felt the weight of my rucksack rest heavy on my back.
‘For work?’ he asked with momentary confusion as he looked from my rucksack to my sopping hair and down to my lips, lingering on the latter just a little too long.
No, I thought as my eyes started to well with tears. Stop it, eyes, stop it. I had to keep it together. I could just tell him the truth. That I’d come to Sydney to escape the nothingness and noise of London only to find Australia was the same. Just this time with tans and accents.
His free hand reached towards me for a second time, still wanting to hold me together after all these years. He looked so composed, sorted. For once, it would be nice for him to see me the same. In just a moment we’d both move on again and Sam would never need to know I needed a job, rent money…
‘You look like you need a drink,’ he said before I could say anything. Did I? Did I really? What gave him that bloody impression? The fact I had just been clutching a bottle of red for dear life? Or that I had near enough cried when I saw the price? Perhaps it was the way my pasty white legs were caving under the strain of a backpack bigger than both of us put together. I looked like I needed a drink? This one was a genius.
‘Hmmm,’ I said as my mind berated me for even considering it. This was my blank slate, my do-over. But at the risk of coming across like a crazy ex-girlfriend totally ‘not cool’ with bumping into her drop-dead ex for the first time in forever in the last place either one of us would expect…
I forced a smile and said, ‘That would be nice.’ For a moment Sam looked stunned; was he just asking to be polite? Like that’s just what grown-up ex-boyfriends should do. If only I knew how grown-up ex-girlfriends should act in return. I studied his face as he smiled again. I guess he was just thrown by this whole scenario, though judging from his smile, it didn’t seem like a totally unwelcome surprise.
‘Have you got time?’ Sam asked generously. We both knew I had nowhere to go. ‘There’s a nice place a few doors down—’ Sam started to say before stopping himself. I was in no state for nice. ‘Or…’ His sentence trailed off, as if trying to put the brakes on for a moment, gauging how I might respond. He looked around the supermarket again as I tried to convince myself he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with me. Or what, Sam? Just say it, say it. ‘Or… we could head to mine?’ He let the words hang between us, a twinkle in his eye. He shrugged, as if trying to pass the invitation off as no big deal. Like this whole random run-in wasn’t a bloody great, monumentally big deal. ‘It’s just round the corner.’ He shrugged again and without waiting for my response, reached a hand out towards my face as I gasped, heart racing faster – before his arm seamlessly passed me and reached for the bottle I had just put down. ‘Your favourite, right?’ He grinned again.
I shrugged, not giving him the pleasure. I would never give him the pleasure again. Stop it, brain, stop it, stop it, stop it.
Smiling and shaking his head in disbelief once more, he turned towards the checkout. My mind objected whilst my legs followed. Of course, they did. I’d followed him all the way to Australia – unbeknownst to me, but still. He looked over his shoulder to check I was still there. I desperately wished I wasn’t – not looking or feeling like this.
‘Yeah, so we’ll head back to mine,’ Sam repeated as if trying to convince himself it was a good idea. ‘Then you can get dry. I assume you have a change of clothes in there?’ He raised a mocking eyebrow at my supersized rucksack, trying to make light of the situation.
‘Nope. Just the body of the last guy who mocked my backpack.’ I smiled sweetly, trying to quip back the control I could feel quickly tumbling away. Sam laughed out loud and with one hand pulled the rucksack off my back and slung it over a single shoulder, disposing of my umbrella-stick at the same time.
‘Sound good?’ he asked again, my mouth still closed, my mind working on overdrive to make sense of the scenes playing before me. ‘It’s about a ten-minute walk away?’
‘Oh, I…’ I began, remembering for a moment that this wasn’t a dream. It was too weird. Why was he here? And why did he want me to come back to his? Back to Sam’s usually ended one way. And, as much as that familiar thought still sent shivers down my rain-soaked legs, did I really want to fall back into bed with the one man I knew for a fact could break my heart? Well, yes. I did. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I had come to Sydney for a new life, not my old one. But here it was, staring me in the face, randomly finding me one unbought bottle away from a breakdown. It was impossible, yet undeniable. Yes, I had promised Zoe this trip was about me moving forwards, moving on, just like when she’d helped me block him post break-up. But she’d also made her promises in return. I promise you, Jess; her words circled around my mind as I studied Sam’s expression mere inches before me. If you and Sam are meant to be together, you’ll find a way back to each other – and it won’t be through ruddy fucking Facebook. Well, she was right about that. And here he was. Surely, that had to mean something?
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I couldn’t help but ask. This is your chance, Sam. Your opportunity to steer us both back in the right direction, because I sure as hell don’t know which way that is. ‘We could raincheck…’ I tried to give him, give us, an out, not meaning to make him laugh in the process. He always did find me funny. ‘If you already have plans, we could just…’
‘Jess. It’s you.’ Sam smiled, saying the words I had so longed to hear. ‘Here, now,’ he continued, laughing at the hilarity of it all. ‘I’d cancel my plans if I had any.’
‘In that case…’ I smiled, ready to surrender, but he had already started to lead the way. I followed, my heart thudding and mind tumbling with memories I had tried my best to lock away.
Three thuds shocked me from sleep; three more saw me struggle to my feet. I skirted around the pint of water I had placed strategically by my bed, stumbling into the pile of papers yet to find their place in my room. Shit. My head throbbed like the bassline in the club we had been in only hours ago as I staggered to the light switch on the other side of the room – and here I was thinking our student fees would stretch to a bedside lamp. The mirror threatened me with my reflection: last night’s make-up scrawled across my off-white face. Thud, thud, thud. There was no time to rectify it now. At least I had come home earlier than the rest of them, muttering every excuse other than the truth: I can’t wait to get to the studio again. I swung open the door to see clenched knuckles raised, preparing for the next knock.
My eyes narrowed as the harsh fluorescent light from the corridor flooded into my room, the fist lowering as the face behind it emerged: stubbled and strong, the angles of his jawline mirrored in the contours of his wedged shoulders, pulling his top taut. Blinking slowly, I searched his green eyes for answers, but they were too busy scanning my oversized T-shirt, emblazoned with whatever beer they were pushing to freshers, as I pulled it further over my bare legs.
‘Tell me you’re Jess.’ His forehead crinkled, his expression caught between cross and concerned.
‘I’m Jess.’ I nodded. I’d crack quickly under torture – especially if the perpetrator looked like him. I spared one hand from my hemline to salvage my hair.
‘Thank fuck,’ he sighed, somewhere between exuberance and exacerbation. Even his appearance seemed in conflict – his floppy fringe frivolous, rich-boy boat shoes tied tight. He turned to leave, my body knowing to follow. Seconds later he pointed to a pile of sequins, hair and impossibly long legs, concertinaed into a ball against the wall.
‘I think she belongs to you.’
I looked at the figure. I couldn’t see her face but it was impossible not to recognise that dress. It was the one she had tried to get me to wear as she’d invited herself to get ready in my room – the one she’d taken her scissors to just to shorten the hemline. I’d told her it made me look like a prostitute. She’d told me I looked like a call girl. Two very different things, apparently. I looked from him to her as I forced my shirt further down my legs. Right now, I look like a prostitute. The tramp, the princess and the boat-boy. It wasn’t quite the tangle I had expected for my first night at uni.
‘You are Jess, right?’ he pressed on, his broad stature making him look older than the drink-stains on his T-shirt betrayed him to be.
‘I am.’ I nodded again. ‘And you are?’
‘Good.’ He dismissed my question, looking back to our bundle. ‘She stumbled into my room’ – he pointed a few doors down – ‘looking for you. Claims she’s drunk.’ He raised his eyebrows at her slumped figure. I couldn’t help but laugh. I think she might be on to something.
‘She said that you’ll look after her… that you’re her best friend.’
I looked down at her, pretty and passed-out. We’d known each other for a minute. But she was cool and intelligent and messy and feisty. I could think of worse friends to have.
‘Do you even know her? Or is she just some crazy girl off her tits?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled again. ‘And yes.’ Then, rolling my eyes, ‘Her name is Zoe.’
He laughed, softening a little now his mission was complete. Well, almost. ‘Need help getting her inside?’ He grinned, arms folded as he watched me try to navigate her limbs whilst trying not to expose either of us in the process. Reaching his arms underneath her legs, he lifted, as she folded against him. I held my breath as he entered my room – messy and unfinished but awash with colour, my paintings and sketches stuck to the bare white walls. Charcoal ladies danced across parchment in lines and motion, early sketches of rolling sand dunes and swirling waves sending us somewhere sunny.
‘Woah.’ His eyes scanned the walls, fixing on the yellows and blues of a landscape not yet formed, as I kicked a rogue pair of knickers under the bed. ‘You picked these?’ He looked to me, seemingly unaware of the woman still in his arms.
‘I made them,’ I said, as his smile sent his dimples deeper. Bending slowly, he placed Zoe across the blankets I had gathered on the floor as she murmured, ‘I want to go back to the party.’ Shit. She knocked over the pint glass, sending water over the stack of papers I had left loose. He moved to save them, gathering the sheets on bended knees as I soothed Zoe back into her drunken doze. ‘You are the party, Zoe.’ The man laughed, more awake and yet less on edge, apparently no longer so anxious to get back to bed. He wiped down the last of the papers with his shirt, handing them back to me.
‘What’s that?’ He nodded to a black and white flyer, its bold, boxy designs demanding attention from the top of the pile.
‘Oh.’ I looked at him, a little sheepish. ‘It’s an application form.’ I shrugged.
‘For?’ He smiled, encouraging me on, all of a sudden.
‘An art competition – Art Today’s Voices of Tomorrow,’ I explained, the paper in my hands now hidden from view, as his eyes found their way back to my face.
‘Never heard of it.’ The guy shrugged. I didn’t expect him to. I guess it was pretty niche if you weren’t into that kind of thing. ‘But for what it’s worth’ – he fixed his eyes back on mine – ‘I think you should apply.’
‘Thanks.’ I smiled, looking down at the paper. ‘But I don’t take advice from strangers.’ I looked at him again, a playful grin matching the look in his eyes.
‘I’m Sam,’ he said, pushing himself to standing, offering me a hand to pull me up. Sam. ‘Hope to see you around, Jess.’ He looked again from my paintings to me, turning to leave.
‘I think he likes you,’ Zoe whispered, forcing her heavy eyes ajar. I looked up to see the door close, but could have sworn I heard him laughing from the other side.
Sam and my backpack walked half a step in front of me, as I felt my brain fall further and further behind. At the next bend he turned, smiled and asked, ‘You okay?’ No, I wasn’t okay – shocked, scared, excited, but miles away from the humdrum of okay. What the hell was happening?
I silenced the thought, pressing onwards through the now relenting rain, cursing even the weather for calming at Sam’s cue. He made everything better.
Together we followed the pavement tracing a deserted Coogee Beach, winding up the ever-ascending roads until my heartbeat was racing once again. I’d been up and down this hill far more times than I’d liked over the past few weeks, walking the way from the six-person house share that turned out to have only one bedroom and two beds – “at least they are doubles” – to whatever nondescript bar or coffee shop I could hand my CV into. My bedmate’s wandering hands this morning were the final straw. At least at the Coogee Backpacker I’d have my own bunk – for a night or two at least. I knew Sydney was expensive but that much to be nestled into a room with drunken travellers all about a decade younger than me? All about the same age I was around the time I met Sam. I tried my best to ignore the threat of dorm rooms: Sam was here, we were here, heading back to his. Sam didn’t say much as we went, and I was glad – partly because my brain was struggling to master coherent thoughts, never mind sentences. Mostly because this bloody mountain was killing me and all my effort was going into pretending I wasn’t already out of breath. Finally, almost at the top of the hill, he turned left onto Oberon Street. I’d passed the big cream house he gestured to a number of times that week, dreaming of earning enough to afford my own room, never mind my own place. Never for one millisecond did I imagine Sam would be inside.
‘Here it is.’ He smiled, walking down a handful of stone steps and along the path to a big blue door. I tried desperately to calm my heartrate as I watched him walk away. He hadn’t changed a bit: strong shoulders, slim legs and an effortless T-shirt-meets-jeans style that I knew for a fact took less than three minutes to curate.
‘Three-four-one O-ber-on,’ I read the brass door numbers aloud, trying to say anything other than the thousand thoughts flooding my mind. ‘Hey, that kind of rhymes.’
Sam looked at me with his best puppy-trying-to-do-algebra expression – a face I’d seen countless times before, as I made an equally familiar mental note to: shut up. ‘Erm… yeah, sure, if you like.’ Puzzlement was soon replaced by joyful disbelief as he took me in again. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually here.’ His laugh was full and unreserved, and I cursed every hair on my arms for standing on end. ‘What are the odds?’ He looked from me to the ocean stretching out behind us. All my energy was going into not asking that question, my mind refusing to entertain the thoughts filling my heart: It’s Sam. He’s here. It’s finally happening. Again.
Turning the key in the door, Sam beckoned me into a large stone-floored entrance hall. He ditched my rucksack unceremoniously and led me into an open plan kitchen-living room, all clean, white and bright – nothing like the university halls we had pretty much co-existed in during our time in Nottingham. He gestured towards a spot on a beautiful grey L-shaped sofa and I sat down, still shell-shocked, still skin-soaked, my reservations reminiscent of the first time Sam had taken me back to his. My mind wandered to scenes of two lust-drunk teenagers. I forced myself to focus on the ornately hung abstract artwork that added colour to the walls. Sam had never had an eye for design but it looked like late-onset taste had finally kicked in. He was clearly doing well for himself. I groaned inwardly at my unflattering comparison. Before I had worked out how to not drench the couch, Sam was handing me a large glass of Malbec and suddenly I didn’t care. I let the corner seat engulf me whilst I took my first tentative sips of wine.
‘So, J,’ he began, taking a seat next to me. ‘And I say this with love.’ His eyes twinkled, his brown skin wrinkling at the cheeks, my mind clinging to the word. How could he be so calm, act so normal after all this time? ‘What the hell, may I ask,’ he said, ‘are you doing here?’
I could have asked him the same thing.
‘It’s a long story.’ I slumped further into the sofa, taking a massive gulp of wine. An unflattering one, one that would tell us what we both already knew: you won. I looked around the room, from the pristine kitchenette to the perfectly curated cushions placed on the other chairs around the living space. It was a big place for one person. Did he live here alone? If yes, he was doing better than I thought he was, which kind of made me feel worse. If no, well – who the hell was he living with? My pulse picked up pace at the thought.
‘Okay.’ Sam shrugged nonchalantly, mimicking my actions to a T. For a moment, forgetting so much time had passed, I leaned over to thump his arm, careful not to spill any wine. He feigned shock, but after all this time we were still predictable. The place where our skin had touched still tingled; I wondered if he could feel it too.
‘No, Sam,’ I said, as he smiled at the familiarity of my scold. ‘Your line is “well, we’ve got nothing but time.”’ I rolled my eyes mockingly.
‘Oh man.’ He threw a playful hand to his forehead. ‘I never did remember my lines.’ He smiled again, winking in a way only few people could pull off. ‘Okay, J, take two.’ He puffed up his chest and cleared his throat. ‘Well’ – dramatic pause – ‘we’ve got’ – eyes widening – ‘nothing’ – emphasis added – ‘but time.’ He grinned, revealing a set of bright white teeth, his canines still a little too pointy. ‘Better?’ he asked eagerly, his demeanour now not dissimilar from a puppy having cracked algebra.
‘Much.’ I nodded, taking another gulp of wine. Sam was here, on the other side of the world. The thought rolled round and round my mind. I studied the apartment, gorgeous and grown-up. I looked at Sam, exactly the same. What was he doing here? Maybe if I could just sound it out, find out how long he’d been here, how long he planned to stay, I could play my cards accordingly. Not that I had much in my hand to play. I scanned the room for evidence of housemates but could already tell from the way Sam’s arm reached its way along the back of the sofa, that we were alone. ‘I’ll tell you everything,’ I deflected with the best of intentions. ‘But you have to tell me what the hell you’re doing here first.’ I laughed, taking another sip of wine, willing it to settle my heartrate.
‘You always did get your own way.’ Sam laughed warmly, flirtatiously. That wasn’t true. If it was, we never would have gone our separate ways in the first place. ‘Shoot.’ He grinned.
‘Why are you in Sydney?’ I asked, starting simple but knowing that with us, nothing ever was.
‘I got offered a job here,’ Sam began, not one for using more words than necessary. ‘Soon after we…’ He looked serious for a moment, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. ‘It was good money…’ Clearly. ‘…and I was only going to stay for a year, but then I met some amazing people…’ He broke off for a moment, casting an eye to a wood-framed photo of two torso-baring surfers, each with one arm slung around each other, the other cradling their boards. I should have bloody known he’d find his way back to a beach. This was a step up from his hometown of Brighton, I guess – though Sam would never admit it. I studied the photo more closely, as subtly as I could, Sam’s sentences fading into the background. One face was his, beaming from ear to ear. The other was darker, both his skin and his hair, which flopped wet and wild onto his well-proportioned face. ‘…one thing led to another and I’m still here,’ he finished, drawing my attention back to him. I could see that, but I needed to hear him say it to remind me it was real. ‘For now, at least,’ he added, a little noncommittal, as if leaving the conversation open for wherever it might go next. ‘Can I get you any more wine?’ He looked down at my empty glass, playing the perfect host. Except, it didn’t feel like he was playing, any more. It felt like he’d arrived. Meanwhile I’d felt anything but since I’d stepped foot on Sydney soil. His hand grazed mine as he passed my glass back to me.
‘Your turn.’ Sam reclined further, laying his wine-free hand along the back of the sofa again, his toned arm another testament to his surfing addiction. I took another sip. ‘So, you’re here for work too?’ he prompted, choosing to put the improbability of our situation to one side. My eyes traced his lips as he framed the question, studying each word for ways to evade the truth. I could just tell him. Tell him how my job at an all too niche magazine in London had finally ‘reached a natural end’ (aka, I’d been made redundant without the hefty pay-out – thank you, digital revolution). How my houseshare had also ‘reached a natural end’ (one boy, one girl, one bottle of tequila and the rest is history). How Zoe had suggested we move to Sydney together, before deciding to buy a two-bedroom house in Colchester instead. How on one last night out with the Art Today girls I was introduced to a friend of a friend who knew a friend who had a friend with a spare room in Sydney. A spare room that I could stay in ‘for three months until you get settled’. A spare room that turned out to be a spare corner of a bed. And then, when I had come to Sydney, it had all gone tits up and I had ended up in Woolies without a pick-and-mix, an effing clue or…
My eyes darted from Sam, tanned and toned, to his apartment, an actual home. Then to my rucksack on the floor full of my clothes, messy and worn. Sam had been training to be a doctor when we were together, and I had loved and hated it in equal measure. On the one hand, there was the ‘my boyfriend is a doctor’ prestige; on the other hand there were changing rotas, nightshifts and the fact that your worst day as a humble fine art student could never ever trump the shift in A&E dealing with a four-car crash on the motorway. Clearly, Sam had never painted in oils. He would have qualified by now, qualified into adulthood. It sometimes felt like everyone was growing up and I was just getting old. Just. . .
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