Summer Daydreams (32 page)
If Nell could see him now, she’d be devastated. What on earth was he thinking of? What a stupid fucker he was. How could he let a few drinks, an ill-judged kiss, put his family, his future, at risk?
‘You’re a great girl, Jen,’ he said, extracting himself from her embrace.
But not as great as the one he had waiting for him at home.
I went to bed at eleven o’clock, but Olly still wasn’t home. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said that I lay awake all night, fretting. In reality, it seems I didn’t. I must have dropped off at some time, though I’m sure I saw three tick by. I woke up at seven o’clock, Petal beside me and no Olly. I leave my daughter sleeping – miracle – and head into the living room.
He is, however, on the sofa fast asleep.
My heart goes out to him. He’s all scrunched up underneath a blanket. His hair is like Jedward’s on a bad day. Arm thrown above his head, he’s snoring like a hibernating hedgehog. Dude, lying happily by his feet, opens his eyes and sets up a tentative wag of his tail. Tenderly, I stroke the stubble of Olly’s chin, but it fails to rouse him. You won’t believe how much I missed him last night.
I pad to the kitchen and make tea. Dude follows me, so I give him his breakfast. When the tea’s ready, I sit on the edge of the sofa and watch Olly sleeping some more.
‘Hey,’ he says as, eventually, I gently shake him awake. I proffer a steaming mug.
‘Hey, yourself. Late night?’
Looking shame-faced, he nods. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ Then, at the risk of starting an argument, ‘Where did you get to?’
‘Pub,’ he says as he takes the tea and nurses it to him. ‘The Dodgy Arms.’
‘Ooo.’ One of the divier dives in Hitchin.
‘It was a bad move.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was.’
Olly grins, despite the drink-induced pallor of his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m such an arse.’
I smile back. ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘You are.’
‘Forgive me?’
I nudge him up and curl in next to him on the sofa. ‘Don’t do that again, Olly.’
‘No.’ I can’t read the expression when he says, ‘I did a lot of thinking last night, in the wee small hours. I want to be more supportive. I want to be involved in your business—’
‘It’s not
my
business. It’s
ours
,’ I interject.
‘I know. I know that. I’m proud of you and what you’re trying to do. It just frightens me, Nell. The money involved, the pressure. It scares me.’ He shakes his head. ‘But what scares me more is the thought that I might lose you.’
‘That’s never going to happen,’ I promise. ‘But if we’re going to survive this, and I know it’s stressful’ – I give a small internal shudder as I think of the loan I’ve just taken on –
‘then we need to talk. It’s no good running away from problems. Or going to get pissed.’
Petal comes in rubbing her eyes. ‘What’s pissed?’
‘It means getting drunk,’ I say. ‘And it’s not a very nice, grown-up word. So I don’t want to hear it from you.’
‘Then you shouldn’t say it, Mummy,’ she advises.
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Come and give me a cuddle,’ Olly says, and my daughter clambers across the dog, then my lap, and lands on top of Olly who gives out an ‘ouff.’
Hah. Learn this, husband: no time for a hangover when you’ve got a four-year-old.
‘Daddy had a little bit too much beer,’ Olly admits to our daughter. ‘Be gentle.’
So she bounces up and down on his stomach. Nice one, Petal.
‘I’ll go and start breakfast,’ I say, and leave Petal to torture him.
Then, from the kitchen, ‘Was The Dodgy busy last night? We haven’t been there in years.’
‘Rammed,’ he replies. ‘As always.’
‘Jenny often drinks in there.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. God knows why.’ A bit of toast is probably all that Olly can manage this morning. I crack open the Coco Pops for Petal. ‘There are better places to go – unless you’re drowning your sorrows.’
‘Touché,’ Olly acknowledges.
‘Did you bump into anyone we know last night at The Dodgy?’
‘No,’ Olly says. ‘No one at all.’
Heathrow Airport. Ten-thirty on Thursday night. Petal is crying. I’m on the verge of tears too.
‘Don’t go, Mummy,’ she wails. Heartstrings. Twang!
‘See you next week,’ Olly says. He strokes my cheek. ‘Come back safely.’
This is hell. Sheer hell.
Taking Petal in my arms, I hold her tightly. As it’s late, she’s already dressed in her snuggly pyjamas so that she’ll sleep in the car on the way back. I was going to travel down to the airport by train, but Olly insisted that he drive me and borrowed a clapped out Corsa from his mate, Tom, so that he could do so.
I wanted to leave Petal with Constance, but Olly insisted that she come with us. Now I’m still thinking it was a bad idea as I can hardly bear to be parted from her. With very little persuasion, I would turn round, go home, and not get on this flight at all. Why on earth am I going to China? I don’t even like rice. Or noodles.
The thought of going somewhere as far away and as foreign as China, completely alone, is making me feel sick to my stomach. It also seems as if I’m going for six months rather than a week.
Since Olly’s bender, he’s been very solicitous and much more supportive. Now I wonder why I’m going away at all.
‘I can’t do this,’ I say.
‘You can.’ He kisses me. ‘I’ll look after everything at home. Don’t worry about anything. You just do what you’ve got to do.’ As Olly’s still not working, we haven’t had to draft in Jenny or Constance to help out and he’ll be around full-time to look after the Petalmeister. Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess, although I hope that he gets a job as soon as I come back as money is getting very thin on the ground and my credit card is maxed.
My bag is already checked in and it’s time for me to go through to the departure lounge so I’m not rushing to find my gate. I’m convinced that I’ll get on the wrong plane and end up in Timbuktu or somewhere.
‘I love you, sweet pea.’ I hug Petal again and then hand her back to Olly. ‘I love you too,’ I tell my husband.
‘Love you. Ring me as soon as you get there,’ he says.
‘I will.’
We hug as a family and I tear myself away from them and head to passport control. They stand and wave to me for as long as they possibly can before I disappear out of view.
It’s a long twelve-hour flight to the People’s Republic of China. I’m squashed into the back of the plane and my in-flight entertainment doesn’t work. No movies for me, which, of course, gives me plenty of time to stress. I’m missing Petal and Olly like mad already and I feel alone and vulnerable.
Eventually, when I’ve gone through all the rigmarole involved in air travel these days, I emerge into Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport. It’s late and I’ve never seen any-where so crowded in my entire life and, despite not being a statuesque woman, I feel as if I’m head and shoulders taller than anyone else. I am also, it seems, the only blonde.
Just as I’m starting to panic – a lone stranger in a strange land – a man rushes forward. He has my name on a sign but, clearly, has had no trouble spotting me. This, I’m assuming, is the representative from the Golden Bamboo Accessories Company who they’ve very kindly sent to collect me.
Mr Wu, whose English and manners are impeccable, escorts me to his car and then whisks me towards my hotel.
Guangzhou is a huge city, lit with an excess of neon. It sparkles in the darkness. We wind our way on the busy roads through a rash of skyscrapers that Manhattan would be proud of. I’ve booked the Vacation Inn, which is a modern, anonymous box that overlooks the Pearl River. Mr Wu leaves me there. Tomorrow afternoon, he tells me, he’ll collect me and take me out to see the first factory I’ve arranged to visit.
My room is beige and I could be anywhere in the world. I’m jet-lagged, feel dirty and my body has no idea whether I’m tired or hungry or what. I’ve accomplished my first long-haul flight alone and the relief is palpable. I’m here. I’ve made it.
As I’m not sure what else to do now, I sit down on the bed and cry.
As soon as I’ve stopped snivelling, I ring Olly to let him know that I got here safely. He’s pleased to hear from me, but he sounds so far away that it makes me feel even lonelier.
It’s approaching dawn here, but it’s bedtime back at home.
‘You’ll be OK,’ he tells me as I sniffle a bit more down the line. ‘Don’t worry.’
But I do worry. A few short months ago I was still serving fish and chips. Now I’ve somehow become an international business woman on the verge of negotiating a contract more enormous than I ever could have imaged. Frankly, I’m terrified. And with very good reason.
When Olly hangs up, I shower and crawl into bed where sleep consumes me.
It’s lunchtime when I wake and I ring room service and order from the menu, which seems to involve more burgers than noodles. Nowhere in the world is immune from the American influence, it appears.
Mr Wu rings me to tell me that he’s on his way and I rush to get ready for my first meeting. But as I brush my teeth, a wave of nausea washes over me and I’m sick in the loo. Maybe my stomach hasn’t recovered from the flight and a hamburger wasn’t the best idea.
By the time I get downstairs, Mr Wu is already waiting for me in the lobby. We jump into his car and he drives me away from the plush downtown area and takes me out to the industrial area of the city where all the factories are situated. There are plenty of them. I’m staggered by the number as we pass by. Vast, hangar-sized buildings that go on for miles and miles. Mr Wu tells me that in China they have entire cities dedicated to the manufacture of zips or buttons or cushions. No wonder everything these days seems to be made in China. In among the factories are fields and fields of rice, buffalo up to their haunches in water, ancient workers in bamboo coolie hats driving carts down the highway. It’s a stark contrast of the endearingly old and the horribly new.
Although I speak no Cantonese and the factory sales manager speaks very little English, Mr Wu does an excellent job of translating for us. I look at the factory, marvelling at the sheer scale and efficiency of the operation. I smile at the workers, but they put their heads down and don’t look at me. I take some jasmine tea, which is drunk from tiny cups, turn down the kind offer of dinner due to my delicate stomach, and get a pleasingly reasonable price for my order. Mr Wu takes me back to the hotel and I thank him profusely and say goodbye. Tomorrow, another representative will collect me and take me to another factory and I’ll repeat the process all over again. Whenever I used to hear about people travelling for their work, I was always really jealous, thinking how glamorous it must be to have a life like that. The reality of it is that I’d much rather be at home with my husband and my baby.
The next day, I’m still feeling sickly even though I pass on the burger and eat nothing at all for dinner. I throw up again. Perhaps it’s the change of water or maybe I’m dehydrated. Perhaps I’m just not cut out to be an international jet-setter. What I’d like to do is crawl back into bed and sleep, but the show must go on.