Just As You Are Read online

  Just As You Are

  KATE MATHIESON

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Kate Mathieson 2020

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Kate Mathieson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008328450

  Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008328443

  Version: 2020-02-13

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  To every girl in the world – be fabulous.

  Do the things. All the things.

  And always wear cute knickers – just in case.

  Chapter 1

  On the first morning of February, I woke up drooling on a stranger’s arm.

  ‘Oh God, sorry.’ I said, horrified, trying to wipe off the small patch of my saliva from the strangers’ navy-blue jumper. Shit, it looked like cashmere. Hoping I’d got it all, I looked up at the man whose arm miraculously tasted like mint toothpaste and wood shavings.

  His steely blue eyes were staring at me, a hint of shock glimmering across their surface. His skin was smooth and tanned. His hair was short, slightly wavy and styled to the right, a light blonde like white chocolate. He was well built, like a fit, broad Swede who biked everywhere and sailed yachts. He was wearing brown boat shoes, beige linen pants, and a thin, navy-blue wool jumper which I had just salivated on. Everything about him screamed ‘expensive’. Including the large titanium watch on his tanned, left wrist. He would have been about thirty-five, maybe a little older.

  I wiped my mouth quickly, eliminating any traces of sleep saliva from my face. What was Thor doing in economy? And how had I not noticed him when I’d sat? But then I remembered, I’d taken a valium because I’m not a great flyer and I’d fallen asleep as soon as I sat in the middle seat. And here he was now that I’d woken up, perched on the aisle like a glowing angel.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’d been praying the universe would find me someone. MY PERSON. And here was this Scandinavian Norse God, deposited next to me on a jumbo jet. Of all the seats, in all the planes. Here we were.

  We both looked down to where I’d been lying on his arm just moments before. Small little saliva marks had dried on his sleeve, like salt did on your clothes after being at the beach. He took a tissue, pulled a face and tried to wipe away my mouth imprint.

  ‘I should at least have waited until you bought me a drink first,’ I joked awkwardly, readjusting so I was back in my seat.

  He looked at me strangely. ‘The drinks are free.’ His voice was low, gravelly, and had a slight Northern European lilt.

  ‘Shall we have one then?’ I said hopefully. I would never usually be so presumptuous, to ask a gorgeous man, to have a drink with me after I’d drooled on his arm, but it seems the valium had reduced my filter to zero.

  ‘It’s 4 a.m.’ He said curtly, reacting exactly how I would too, had some stranger left their tongue lolling about on me.

  ‘Well yes in Australia, it’s 4 a.m., but somewhere else in the world it’s happy hour.’

  He paused for a second, before finally saying ‘I suppose.’

  Oh God, isn’t this how lifelong romances begin? Yes, we met on a plane. Your mum drooled on me, but she was adorable. I couldn’t help but love her. Yes, your dad was a tricky one at first, but after being single for so long, I thought why not, and suggested a drink – how could he resist?

  With a flutter of excitement, I flicked my light on and hoped the attendant would arrive quickly, before he changed his mind.

  A slightly irate, and brusque flight attendant arrived at my seat, with a curt, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bloody Mary please.’ I said and looked over at Norse God, hoping she’d think we were together, a couple, a thing.

  ‘Water and a whisky.’ He smiled and it was glorious. Glorious teeth. Beautiful lips. It seemed to melt her too because she almost skipped away saying she’d be ‘Back in a jiffy.’

  ‘So, what do you do?’ Norse God asked.

  ‘Well I … um … I’m travelling.’

  ‘I gathered that, considering you’re on a plane.’ He stared at me, up and down. I was hoping my long, dark blonde hair wasn’t the humid mess it had been in Thailand, even in the airport – humidity did bad things to my hair. I instantly regretted the, lets wear something comfy on the flight idea and hoped he didn’t mind my oversized black jumper, white singlet top and black stretchy leggings.

  ‘I meant, what do you do for, uh … income?’

  Perhaps he was struggling with the thin cabin air, or he’d taken a valium too, because I thought, did he just ask what I did for money?

  ‘Gentleman first.’ I smiled at him, thinking I couldn’t tell him I’d most recently been working at Los Tacos in London, where the Mexican/Spanish fusion of fast food meant the kitchen deep fried everything before it went out; enchiladas, burritos, tacos, you name it – they were cooked, or worse microwaved, and then dipped in a vat of bubbling oil until they were crunchy. It was like serving a heart attack on a plate, but people gathered, usually very drunk people, for a plate of golden crispiness, stuffed with low-grade minced beef.

  I shuddered remembering all the double shifts I’d had to do, just to be able to cover my rent and save for my next shoestring trip to Europe. I’d eaten pot noodles for breakfast, and free heart-attack tacos for lunch and dinner. Oh, the glorious life of a backpacker. Before that, I’d been a little more successful, working for a few years as a glorified filing and coffee girl, aka PR Assistant, but when the company hit a downturn, I was made redundant. And I needed another job pronto. But no one was willing to hire someone whose visa was almost up – hence why I ended up at deep fried Los Tacos hell.

  ‘
I’m a buyer for clothing companies. Spend a lot of time in Asia, India, but now on the way back to meet some friends for a holiday in Fiji, before I’m off to New York.’

  Yep. I definitely couldn’t tell him about what I’d really been doing for work.

  I jumped in before he could ask about me again. ‘Family? You have kids?’

  A wife? I asked silently.

  ‘No kids. Single.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Oh?’ My stomach flipped. Maybe this was happening. ‘Me too.’

  ‘So, you didn’t say what you did? Or where you’re off to?’ He said.

  ‘I’m heading back home to Sydney, via Fiji, after travelling for quite a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘Wow. Where did you go?’

  When I first left Australia, all those years ago, I went all ‘Girl Meets World’, being single and independent, trekking around Argentina, Chile, Peru and Bolivia. In Panama, I got a job at a bar, and there was an Irishman I liked – but I think I liked his accent more than I actually liked him, and despite some flirting, nothing ever happened. I did a whirlwind tour of the USA, shoestring style, before being persuaded by friends to join them at their swanky new villa in Bali.

  Bali was hot and humid, full of post-career, corporate hipsters obsessed with yoga classes and shots of turmeric juice. At my yoga class, or the local market where I sold jewellery and bags, everyone smelt like sweat and none of this laid a good ground for romance. The closest thing to a crush was a drunken kiss with an English backpacker, who thought my name was Alyssa for the first hour. He was quite good-looking and funny, until he decided to have five vodka shots in a row, and passed out on the sand.

  The only other thing of note happened during a full-body massage from Wayan, a local healing man. My towel slipped off accidentally as I was turning on the table, exposing one pale boob to the elements. He rushed out of the room, blocking his eyes, saying, ‘Sorry, Miss Emma, sorry,’ as if he’d tugged the towel himself and now had to deal with the nightmare consequences of this action. This was not the idea I had in my head when I read in Cosmopolitan magazine – that no matter how you look when you’re naked, men aren’t going to complain. Nope, they’re just going to rush from the room screaming.

  After two years in Ubud, I flew to the UK, where I travelled around Wales and Scotland, and learnt I had a love for whisky and was especially fond of haggis.

  I was adamant that I didn’t want to live in London. London was just a larger, busier, more historical version of Sydney. And I needed something entirely different. Although my friends urged me not to, I moved to a small riverside town by the border of Wales, where everyone lived in quaint little cottages, and it rained a lot. I rented a granny flat from a lovely family who had a veggie patch in the backyard – my dream – but the winter seemed to go on forever and froze all the seeds, so nothing ever grew. I spent days drinking tea, and painting the misty, rainy moors – and I wasn’t bad. In fact, I thought my paintings turned out really well, and even considered selling them at the local markets, but in the end, I totally chickened out.

  That life was glorious. No men though, unless you count balding fifty-something businessmen at the counter in Boots, who raised their eyebrows at me as if they were looking for a bit on the side. Erm, no, thanks. (Embarrassingly I later realised this eyebrow raising was probably due to the fact that I’d been queuing from the wrong side of the counter, accidentally jumping in front of people. Apparently, the English hate queue jumpers but are far too polite to actually say something.)

  After a few months by the river, my bank balance had dwindled – living in the UK is a lot more expensive than Bali. And even though I tried my best, I couldn’t get a job. Turned out the town only wanted engineers and concreters, and I can’t even pour a drink without spilling it, let alone a concrete slab.

  Down to my last few hundred dollars, I took the train to the city. London. Where everything was grey. In a small windowless office, I was interviewed by a senior manager for a public relations role. I’d worked in marketing in Australia as an assistant before I’d left, so I’d seen a lot of PR and events, but not actually done much more than send emails and organise people’s calendars and travel.

  When they offered me the job on the spot, I said, ‘Absolutely!’

  I moved to London and into a house of ten people. Ten. And it still cost more than half of my salary for a teeny room, with a single bed and a tiny window. There was even a queue to get into our damp small shower every morning (thankfully, I had learnt queue etiquette by then, because that kind of behaviour in a house of ten people would probably get you stabbed at night).

  I smiled at Thor. ‘I started off in South America, travelled for a while through the US, and Bali, then flew to England and, of course, around Europe. I loved it – the food, the people, the mountains, especially the smell of pine forest in the middle of Winter in Austria, the Alps are so beautiful.’

  ‘That’s a lot of travelling.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘Isn’t it horrible being cramped back here in economy? It was a last-minute flight for me, and business class was full. You too? And how did you save up enough to stay in hotels for seven years? You must have some job.’ He leaned in excitedly, as if I was about to tell him I was heir to a throne.

  Yep, Thor seems to be all about the dollars, I thought. Well, this love affair will be short lived then. I looked at him and said in a small voice. ‘I didn’t live in hotels. I lived in a house in London with ten other people. I worked at a Mexican fast food restaurant, and I spent most of my travels staying in hostels, because I was backpacking.’

  He laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke, throwing his head back and slapping his knee. When he saw I wasn’t joining him, he stopped abruptly. His lips turned down slightly in disgust.

  ‘Backpacking.’ He said, like someone would say ‘Urine Drinker’. ‘Aren’t you too old for that?’

  He sat back, grabbed the inflight magazine, opened it and pretended he was deeply absorbed in an article entitled ‘Top Beauty Spas in Copenhagen’. No wonder he’s single, I thought. He was most definitely not my person.

  When the flight attendant arrived with our drinks, she must have sensed the tension. Couple’s fight. Instead of being the soft understanding type, she was the other. The Swooper. Diving onto my once-potential-boyfriend like an eagle spotting fresh prey. She plonked down my Bloody Mary without a look, and then handed Norse God his whisky, so her hands met his.

  ‘Sir let me help you with anything else you need. More pillows? Blankets?’

  I drank my Bloody Mary quickly and loudly, so the sound of straw slurping interrupted any potential romantic spark. In my mind I was saving her, because if backpacking didn’t please him, I’m sure flight attendant-ing wouldn’t either. But she didn’t pick up on that because she looked at me painfully. He stared through both of us, as if we didn’t exist. He downed his drink, passed her the glass, curled up away from me and towards the aisle, and went to sleep.

  For the last two hours of the flight I watched Bridget Jones’s Baby again, so I could remember that maybe it did work out for thirty and forty-something singletons, and when I cried and got puffy, I told The Swooper I had allergies, and asked if she couldn’t bring me an aspirin and another Bloody Mary.

  ***

  I finished eating my delicious minty watermelon and took a last sip of milky coffee. The sound of the sea in the distance, crashing waves, and then the roll of the tide on the sand, was like a lullaby. I felt the sun beat down upon my skin, the rays making my muscles melt, thinking, I’ll just close my eyes for a bit.

  When I woke up the sun was almost behind the hill. I’d spent the entire afternoon sleeping? Oh, well, that was the beauty with holidays, it really didn’t matter. Suddenly, I realised I’d spent the whole day on the balcony day bed, in the sun. Oh, God – my skin! I rushed to the mirror, expecting to see lobster red, but thankfully I’d put on a thick layer of sunscreen before drifti
ng off, and instead I’d gone a slight brown with only a hint of small red around the chest. At least I no longer looked like a goth.

  The Fijian air was warm and humid, even at night, and I sweated just pulling on a maxi dress and throwing my long, wavy, dark blonde hair, which was now huge and frizzy – as big as a planet and twice the size of my head – into a loose, messy bun.

  The pathway below my room gave way to a lush fern garden, beneath a strand of palm trees. A short sand walk took me to a soft white sand beach. The sea was calm and frothy, small waves washed up on the shore, but otherwise it remained flat and glassy. I kicked off my shoes and walked into the water, feeling the waves wash with warmth over my bare feet. I looked up at the sky and put my arms up and shouted, ‘YEAA!’ This was the sense of freedom I loved, the newness, the variety, places that were beautiful and where I could marvel at the world. There was so much sky out here. So many places to breathe.

  Further out, someone was fishing off a dock. I thought about raising my hand in greeting but then thought better of it. What local wants a strange sky-yelling tourist waving at them as if they were long-lost BFFs?

  Thinking of BFFs, I was stunned to realise I’d left the UK without even telling Maggie or Tansy, my best friends in Sydney, that I was coming home. They had no idea that right now I was standing under a full moon in Fiji. This wouldn’t have happened before when we were single and free, nope, the whole gang would have been together, probably downing Pina Coladas or doing shots of something terribly girly, like Malibu.

  But now there were kids, lots of kids, and my friends were mothers – busy, tired, distracted. Before I’d left, they’d all been married and had baby bumps, and little ones running around. The truth was, we’d all lived in the same city, but emotionally it was as if the Grand Canyon had opened up between us and our lives had all fallen away from each other.

  Would it always feel this distant? I felt a bit like crying, and you can’t cry on a holiday. It’s simply not allowed. In true London fashion I knew what I needed to buck up – a stiff drink.

  The sun had set and the night sky was scattered with stars. I headed to the open-air beach bar for the complimentary welcome drinks. A swarm of people – mostly couples, some with kids – were standing about chatting and meeting each other. The women had on long dresses and strappy gold sandals, the men had beige shorts and polo T-shirts, with jumpers slung around their shoulders. I started to laugh because they all looked a bit like each other, and then I felt sad again, because if my friends were away with their families they’d look like this too, which made me miss them even more.