Page 66 of The Last Train Home
I grab one for myself. It’s my reward for doing fifty laps of the pool this morning.
‘How was your day?’ he asks. The air-con blows remnants of his aftershave and sweat towards me. I find it strangely intoxicating. He goes out to work intensely clean, but by the end of the day the ride on the MRT underground, rammed with other people, tips him towards needing another shower. I still don’t take the underground. Instead I’ve mastered the bus situation.
‘My day was good,’ I reply.
‘What did you get up to?’
‘Fifty laps of the pool, a bit of reading and then, after lunch, I finished that feature I was working on and sent it to my editor, before Gary and I Skyped each other for a catch-up. He was in his office with his headset on, pretending it was a work-related call. I’m not sure he got away with it.’
‘How is he?’ Sean asks.
‘Good. Got a new girlfriend.’
‘A new one? Newer than the one who came to our leaving do?’
‘Newer than that,’ I say, chuckling at Sean’s surprise.
‘I’m glad you had a good day,’ he says. He’s been really sound about the fact that he works unbelievably hard and, in comparison, I’ve got it so easy. I couldn’t find a job, despite my best efforts, so in the end we agreed I’d freelance for my old magazine along with a handful of others, as and when I found the opportunities. Gary let slip in an email that my old magazine needed an Asia correspondent and I leapt on it, contacting my former editor to throw my hat into the ring. I played it cool but, in truth, I was desperate.
I had a month with their outgoing correspondent while he finished up, and now I’m a few months into doing the job solo and have easily found my feet. Most days I interview people on the phone, dig around for news stories and come up with features ideas. Today was, admittedly, a bit of a lazy day, work-wise, but the hangover didn’t help. The work isn’t very challenging, but it keeps me busy and, importantly, means I’m earning something. It in no way compares to what Sean earns, but he’s adamant it doesn’t matter. He made no secret that this relocation was all about him earning as much money as possible, and not really about me having to do the same. It makes sense. As a journalist, I’m never going to beable to buy the kind of house Sean wants us to own when we eventually move back home. If only I worked in banking. But that kind of job isn’t a reality for someone who uses her fingers to count.
‘I could really use a holiday,’ he says. Now is not the time for me to point out that every day here feels like a holiday to me.
‘Where do you want to go?’ I ask. I start to sit down next to him, but he pulls me onto his lap. There’s that musky scent of aftershave again. I inhale greedily.
‘Where doyouwant to go?’ he asks and then continues, ‘we can travel literally anywhere. The USA. Dubai. Australia. Ten days? A fortnight? What do you fancy? First-class flights. Spa treatments every day. Champagne on ice. God, I can almost taste it,’ he says. ‘Where does Ritz-Carlton have properties? Let’s five-star the shit out of this.’
I laugh at his enthusiasm and can’t help dipping my head to kiss him. I’m rewarded with a beer-laced kiss that does certain things to me. I was worried, after my chat with Natasha – it feels so long ago now – that Sean and I might have lost that spark. I know now that we haven’t. I’ve made sure of it. I’ve never invested so much of my earnings in so much lacy underwear. Another thing I’m grateful to Marks & Spencer for. I miss home so much that sometimes I just wander into good old M&S and pretend I’m in the one in Enfield, reminded of home. Which is odd because I never even used to shop in M&S when I lived in England.
We pull apart, both of us looking flushed. There’s nothing stopping us from ravishing each other, right here, right now, other than the fact that I’ll have to close the blinds. We’re quite close to other modern high-rises. Yet Sean has only onething on his mind and it isn’t sex. He sips his beer again and says, ‘Vietnam?’
‘Can we go home?’ I ask.
‘Home?’ He looks utterly confused by this.
I nod. ‘Have you forgotten where home is?’
‘It’s here,’ he says. ‘With you. Home’s wherever you are.’
‘Sean,’ I draw out his name happily, ‘that’s so sweet.’
He smiles, like a child rewarded.
‘Don’t you want to go back to London at all?’
He shakes his head. ‘We’ve only just left.’
‘Seven months ago. Nearly eight.’
‘That’s not that long, Abbie.’
‘I know. But it feels like it is.’
He sits up a bit straighter and I shuffle off his lap, taking a seat next to him on the sofa, my legs draped over his thighs at a bit of an odd angle.
‘We’ll go home. Of course we will,’ he placates.
I brighten. ‘Now? Soon?’
