Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (7 page)

The sound of one of the cubicle doors being unlocked makes me jump. From it emerges a small oriental woman, who I remember as the wife of the Japanese fellow who's just bailed out Watermill Publishing. She is wearing a smart black power suit, and looks deadly serious about the entire universe. She regards me quizzically for a second.

'Mrs Newman. I am pleased to meet you,' she says in perfect English.

'Very pleased to meet you too, Mrs... ' I'm going to have to take a punt at it. I just hope I get it right. '…Mrs Sakamura?'

I don't think I pronounce it correctly, but she doesn't take me task on it. 'How are you feeling?' she asks.

I wave a hand. 'Oh, you know...' I reply, as if every woman on the planet knows what it's like to stain your face yellow with bad fake tan and pretend you're
Nosferatu
just to cover up your embarrassment.

'I am sorry I missed your speech,' she apologises.

'No problem. No problem at all!'

The Japanese lady then looks up at the bright lighting above, then back down at me. 'Your condition has improved, it seems. We were concerned when Mr Newman had the lights in the main room lowered.'

Now, there are two ways I can go with this. I can
either continue to bullshit, and
dig myself an even deeper hole, or I can stop messing about and be honest. This little woman looks as sharp as a tack, so I choose not to drag the charade out. 'I haven't got anything wrong with me,' I admit. 'I just made a mess of using some very expensive fake tan, and it stained my face this colour.'

She folds her arms. 'Ah, I see.'

I offer her a lopsided smile. 'I've gone through the entire day with this horrible yellow face.' I sigh again. 'I look like Miss Pacman.' I look back up at Mrs Sakamura. 'I guess you'd know about that though,' I add, with a rueful chuckle.

Right, before we go any further Mum, let's get one thing really clear:

I was
not
making a reference to the colour of her face.

I was making reference to the fact that Miss Pacman was a video game invented in
Japan
.

It may sound like I am suggesting that this woman knows what it is like to go through life with a horrible yellow face, but what I am actually
saying
is that her being Japanese means she would of course be familiar
with
Miss Pacman.

I am
not
a hideous racist who should be locked up at the nearest opportunity!

Good
. Now that we've got that sorted out between us, let's see if Mrs Sakamura realises the same thing, shall we?

'What did you say?' she utters in shocked disbelief.

'What?'

'About my face?'

'What?'

'You think I have a horrible yellow face?!'

'
What
?'

I replay the last ten seconds in my head and immediately realise the extent of my faux pas. I throw both hands up and start waving them frantically back and forth, shaking my head as I do so. 'No! No! I didn't mean... I wasn't saying... '

Oh God! What the hell do I say!?

'I don't think you have a horrible yellow face!' I say, and try to smile apologetically. The terror won't let me though, and I just look like I'm having some kind of seizure. 'I think your face is a lovely shade of yellow!'

Mrs
Sakamura's
face darkens even more.

'No! No! I didn't mean that either!'

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

'It's just that Miss Pacman is Japanese, isn't she? And you... you are also Japanese. And, and all I meant was, was that you would know
about
Miss Pacman
because
you are Japanese.'

'I'm Korean.'

Oh fuck me. My life is over.

My eyes go wide. My mouth contorts into a tight circle of horror. My buttocks clench and my toes curl. 'I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I just thought you were Japanese because your husband - '

'Has a yellow face as well?' she retorts, one foot tapping angrily on the toilet floor.

'No! Because you're married, and, and... '

'Because only Japanese yellow faces can marry other Japanese yellow faces?'

I slam both hands against my sides. 'That's not what I said!' While I am still mortified by my unintentional double dose of accidental racism, I am also getting a little bit annoyed that this woman is putting words in my mouth. 'Look. I am sorry if I offended you Mrs Sakamura, but I assure you I didn't mean to. Neither did I mean to stain my face yellow. I would like to say that it's been an extraordinarily strange and taxing day for me, but if you've read any of my books, you know I'd be lying.'

The little woman glowers at me for a moment, and then her eyes narrow. 'Did you really buy a swimsuit with Beach Whore written on it?'

'Yes,' I reply with a roll of the eyes. Here we go.

'And that fajita thing... '

'All true, I'm afraid.' I'm on familiar ground here. If I had a penny for every time I've had this conversation, I'd have enough money to buy an even more expensive brand of fake tan.

'The job interview?'

'Yep. Sick everywhere, I was.'

Mrs
Sakamura's
expression has gone from one of righteous indignation, to a look of curious pity. I'll leave you to decide which is worse. 'I think I should return to my husband,' she says carefully.

'Yes, you probably should.'

'Will you be alright?'

'Yes, I'm sure I will.'

'Perhaps we'll talk again later.'

'I should think so, yes.'

Mrs Sakamura walks back towards the door to the toilet. As she opens it, she nearly runs right into Jamie, who has apparently been lurking in the corridor beyond. The lights outside have been lowered again.

'Oh! Hello! Sorry!' he exclaims, holding the door open to let her by. As she passes, the little woman gives Jamie a quick look of mild distaste.

He watches her go and looks back at me. 'Let me guess. The fajitas?'

'Yep.' I rub my eyes and shake my head.

'Er, I've got the lights back down.'

'So I see.'

'Are you coming back out then?'

I suck air in through my teeth, pull a couple of small creases out of the front of my dress, and slowly walk over to my husband. 'Jamie. I think I already have material for the next book.'

'How so?'

'I just racially abused a small Korean woman twice in the space of a minute.'

'Is she Korean? I thought she was Jap - '

'Leave it!' I put a hand up to his face. 'Just leave it.' Giving his cheek a gentle pat, I leave the ladies toilet and venture back into the gloom.

In actual fact, the rest of the party goes quite well Mum, all things considered.

I do have to speak to the
Sakamuras
again at Peter
Hincham's
insistence, but it goes reasonably well. I catch Mrs Sakamura staring at me the way a botanist would stare at a particularly large and aggressive looking fungus, but it really doesn't bother me that much. At least she isn't calling the police and having me arrested for a hate crime.

By 10pm I'm more than ready to leave, so am very grateful when Peter wraps the book launch up with a short speech, before sending everyone on their way. It was the happiest I'd seen anyone look that evening - including myself.

'You know what I think, Jamie?' I say to my husband in the car on the way back to The Dorchester.

'What's that, sweetheart?'

'I think there's a part of me that knows these silly events are coming up, and subconsciously tries to sabotage it to stop me from going.'

'Why's that?'

'Because I just don't fit in, and my brain knows it, even if I don't.'

'Oh great,' he replies witheringly. 'If you don't think
you
fit in, then I haven't got a hope in hell.'

I look out at the passing London nightlife and reach a profound and rock solid conclusion. 'I need a bloody holiday.'

Jamie smiles. 'I couldn't agree more.'

'But first... Kyle?'

The driver looks into the rear view mirror. 'Yes, Mrs Newman?'

'Take us to the nearest 24 hour chemist please.'

'Why are we going there?' Jamie asks quizzically.

'Two things Jamie.
Cleanser and concealer.' I look back out of the car window again. 'And if neither of them work, I can always wear the plastic bag they come in over my head.'

It took three days for the yellow to fade completely Mum.

My face is as raw as an uncooked turkey, but at least I won't have to cower in the corner every time I see someone from Asia coming towards me. Whether they are Japanese
or
Korean.

Love you and miss you,

Your pink daughter Laura.

XX

Jamie’s Blog

Friday 26 March

I'm on holiday in one of the most beautiful places on the planet, and I should be more relaxed than a pot smoking sloth.

Thousands of pounds have been spent to fly me, my wife and my daughter to the Maldives. I should be enjoying every single second of it. The island is gorgeous, the service is tremendous, the facilities are top notch, and the alcohol is free.

So why am I sat eating breakfast on our final day here, with a nervous twitch in one eye, rapidly rising blood pressure, and a tension headache forming behind both temples?

I'll tell you bloody why:

I want that fucking pedalo.

Yes, you heard me right. I am a twitching ball of nervous tension because of a giant plastic boat with pedals. The kind you get on boating lakes across the United Kingdom, beloved of ice cream wielding children and cackling grannies alike.

The whole idea for a holiday started to ferment in both our minds the night of that horrible book launch fiasco at Watermill Publishing. In fact, the very next day I was on the iPad looking at likely destinations via the magical gateway to all things holiday related - Expedia.

Given that I'm still not used to having a fair amount of disposable income, I start small.

'How about
Magaluf
?' I shout through to Laura, who is busying herself in the bathroom with some hardcore facial scrubbing.

She pokes her lather covered face around the door frame. Through the suds I can see a look of disapproval on her face. '
Magaluf
, Jamie? A place crammed to the rafters with Brits on the piss and Club 18 to 30 reps? Where the gross national product is venereal disease? No thank you. Keep looking.'

And keep looking I did, for an entire week. Sadly, every suggestion I made fell on deaf ears. Funnily enough, Laura's protestations were stronger the closer the destination was to the UK. If it was a short haul flight and relatively inexpensive, she didn't want to contemplate it. It was only when I started to suggest locations more than a five hour flight away that she started to get excited, particularly if those destinations were in the tropics. But still we could not come to an agreement.

'Africa?'

'Hmmm. Bit too unsettled these days, don't you think?'

'Caribbean?'

'Too touristy.'

'Florida?'

'
Way
too touristy.'

'India?'

'What, with your sensitive bowels and my complete lack of spice tolerance?'

'Antarctica?'

'Stop being silly, Jamie.'

Laura may have thought I was being silly, but I really was starting to run out of options. I decided to stop suggesting destinations in the hope that she'd come up with one. She did a few days later, when I returned home from the pub late one evening to find a stack of holiday brochures on the coffee table, all advertising the Maldives.

'You've got to be kidding me,' I say to her in an incredulous voice, as she comes back into the lounge from the kitchen.

'I was just doing a little light reading,' she replies innocently.

'A little light reading?
There are seven... no,
eight
brochures there Laura. Nothing involving a stack of books a foot tall can be described as a
little light reading
.'

'It looks lovely,' she says with a sniff as she sits back down on the couch.

'Oh, I'm sure it does, given that you have to sell at least two body parts to afford to go there.'

Laura rolls her eyes. 'Oh,
unbunch
them Newman. It's not like we're strapped for cash these days, is it? If we can't enjoy the fruits of our writing
labours
, then what's the point?'

'I agree, but we're not E.L James, sweetheart. Just because we got a mention in the Sunday Times, it doesn't mean we can afford to go
swanning
off to the most expensive place on the planet.'

Laura huffs and folds her arms. 'I wish you'd just think about it.'

'I have. Enough to know it's too pricey. Find somewhere a bit more reasonable baby,
please
.'

I'm surprised by the level of my own resolve, but thankfully Laura doesn't push the issue any more that evening.

She does however do something
colossally
underhand and sneaky - she gets our daughter involved.

A couple of days later it's my turn to tuck Poppy in for the night. She climbs into bed and gives me a sleepy look. 'I want a bed time story, Dad,' she says, and rubs her eyes in a manner that is so adorable it should come with a health warning.

'Really? You haven't wanted a bed time story in a long time, sweetheart,' I say a bit perplexed. Poppy is at the age now when she can quite happily read herself to sleep if she wants to.

'I want one tonight though, Dad.'

Well, I'm hardly one to refuse my charming little daughter anything, so I reach towards her bookcase and my fingers hover over the selection of children's books therein. 'What do you fancy then?'

'Not one of those, Dad. I've got a book under my bed.'

'Okay,' I reply and reach under the divan base. My fingers close around a slim A4 sized volume, and I pluck it from its hiding place, ready to send my little girl off into her slumbers with a spell binding rendition of whatever children's classic she has chosen.

'Oh good grief,' I utter as I look at the waving palm trees and white sandy beaches emblazoned on the
Kuoni
cover. 'You want me to read to you from a holiday brochure?' I say in a deadpan voice.

'Yes,' Poppy replies, having the good grace to lower herself down further under the covers.

'And this is something that you've arrived at on your own is it? With no help from your mother?'

'Yes.' Now all that is visible are her tiny fingers, innocent blue eyes and mop of blonde hair.

'Now, now Poppy.
You know lying is bad.'

Her head instantly shoots back out of the covers. 'But it looks really pretty Dad!'

'Does it really?'

'And...
and
...
it
has... ' My daughter's face scrunches up, as if trying to remember something she's been coached to say. '...an all including packet, with a wide range of wines and a la
kazam
food.'

'Do you possibly mean an all inclusive package, with a wide range of wines and à la carte food?'

Poppy blinks a couple of times. 'Yes?' she says uncertainly.

I sigh. 'Would you like to go here, Poppy?' I ask in a sinking voice.

Poppy sits bolt upright. 'Yes Dad! It's got big fish, and really blue sky, and canoes we can go on, and Mum says I can build as many sand castles as I want - '

My daughter comes up short, realising that she's let the cat out of the bag.

'Mum says, eh?'

She shakes her head back and forth. 'No. No. No.' She then takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before fixing her gaze back on me. The smile that then beams across her face is pure Dad kryptonite. 'There are sharks as well, Dad! And clown fish just like
Nemo
too!'

'Laura!' I shout downstairs. 'This is a decidedly unfair tactic, you know!'

'What ever do you mean, Jamie?' my wife replies, from where she's been standing in the hallway outside the bedroom this entire time.

'Honestly woman, employing your poor sweet innocent daughter as emotional blackmail is just beyond the pale.'

Laura holds out her hand and points. 'But look at her excited little face, Jamie. How can you possibly refuse such a thing?'

I turn back to Poppy, who is deliberately affecting a look of such barely contained glee that I'm surprised the top of her head isn't steaming.

Giving my wife one last look of disgust, I flip the brochure open.
'Alright, alright.
Which hotel would you like to hear about, Poppy?
The one with an infinity pool that will bankrupt me in weeks?
Or the one with the spa
jacuzzi
that will bankrupt me in days?'

In the end, we choose (or rather,
Laura
chooses) a hotel that comes with both infinity pool
and
jacuzzi
, ensuring that I will be sucking off my bank manager for years to come, to prevent us being turfed out of our house.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I am not a man used to such extravagance. Spending the kind of money on a holiday that I'd usually lay out on a new car does not come easy.

'You can relax a bit, you know,' Laura tells me on the drive to the
Kuoni
shop in town. 'We can afford this. We really can.'

The look of mild anguish I give her says differently.

'I know things have been tight in recent years,' she continues, 'but they're not anymore. You just need to accept that, sweetheart.'

Which is my real problem here. I've had so many years of struggle with finances that I just don't know how to cope with the idea of
not
having to struggle anymore. It's a completely alien concept to me. I say as much to Laura.

'I know, baby,' she replies, patting my hand where it rests on the gear stick. 'It's okay though.'

'I hope so.'

'It really is. Besides... ' Laura tilts the rear view mirror so I can see Poppy in the back. The look of exuberant delight on her face is now so extreme that I swear I can see the steam coming out of both ears. '...look how excited your daughter is.'

'Excited... or about to have an accident, I can't quite tell which.'

'
Eww
! Dad!' Poppy says, nose crinkling.

An hour later - and several thousand pounds lighter - I emerge from
Kuoni
in a daze. We are now booked into the nearly unpronounceable
Milwadi
Wimbufushi
Resort on the even more unpronounceable
Miladunmaduru
Patkani
Atoll. It appears that the more money you spend on a holiday in the Maldives, the less likely you are to be able to say where it is you are going.

Still, it does look bloody glorious. All waving palm trees, azure seas, and well stocked mini bars. As I've just booked an all inclusive holiday our mini bar will be free for the whole week, so if my wallet is having a hard time with this purchase, then my liver will soon be joining it, and feeling even worse.

'Thank you baby,' Laura says as we get back into the car. She leans over and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. I smile and look in the rear view mirror at Poppy again.

'You can stop the teapot impression now Pops. The holiday is booked.'

My daughter relaxes and blows air out of her cheeks with palpable relief. 'Can we get McDonalds now, Mum?' she asks Laura, revealing the method of bribery with which my wife managed to convince her to take part in the Machiavellian Maldivian scheme.