Two Sides to Every Story Pt. 02

'Fuck me,' I yelled, 'we're going to get run over!'

Honey bounced to her feet and then laughed. 'It's missing us by half a mile. Big, isn't it?'

'Ginormous,' I agreed, my heart still pounding. 'What is it, anyway?'

'I think it's a destroyer. They don't usually sail in these waters. They must have been out testing something they've just repaired.'

I stared at the massive shape, gradually convincing myself Honey was right; the warship would pass us comfortably to port. 'I can see sailors on the deck,' I said. 'From this distance they look like Airfix figures.'

Honey gave me a funny look. 'Is Airfix a Brit word?'

'I'm not sure.' I shrugged. 'They probably don't make them any more. My uncle buys old sets off the Internet and paints uniforms on them. He has whole armies in his loft. Napoleonic; World War Two British and German; American Civil War . . .'

'I get the idea. Come on, let's be polite. Let's give these real-life sailors a wave.'

'Do you think they can see we're naked?'

'I hope they can. But even if they can't, the guys on the bridge will have spied us long ago. They'll have telescopes and God knows what else.'

Grinning, I embraced Honey and made a show of pulling her down for more sex. Laughing, as up for it as I was, she didn't resist. In a perfect world the ship would have sounded its siren in a show of appreciation.

Sadly, it did not.

*****

'Do you like New York,' asked Honey.

The deck was hotter than ever. We were on towels that afternoon. Just as unusually, Honey had been mothering me again.

'It's a wonderful city,' I said sincerely, 'one of the very best.'

'Would you like to live there?'

'What do you mean?' I looked her in the eye. 'As a kept woman? Are you proposing an apartment on Park Lane, endless supplies of French champagne and even more Belgian chocolate?'

'My, you don't keep cheaply, do you?' She laughed. 'Yes, maybe I am proposing something along those lines. Or maybe you'd prefer to move in with me. Are you interested?'

'I am but I can't,' I said with a crooked little smile. 'I'm addicted to travelling. I'd live the life of Riley a while, then break both our hearts.'

'I thought you'd say that.' Honey's eyes were misty but she was still smiling at me. 'Failing Park Lane, what about next summer? Will you spend another month sailing with me?'

'I'd love to, but I'll be busy earning for Voyage Six. Summer 2018 could be a goer though, if that's good by you.'

It was and we agreed a date there and then. I even dug out my long-unused mobile and diarized it. Not that I bothered logging the place and time: noon at Joe's Bar goes without saying. I won't be forgetting that anytime this century.

And I'll be there two days early. I can assure you of that.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My next destination was New Zealand, where I spent three weeks backpacking and had no sex at all . . . until my final night. Then, feeling guilty at being stuck on a hundred and eleven countries, I took a flight to Tasmania.

Yes, I know Tassie isn't a country and no, I didn't up my country count. I went because I'd never been there and wanted to complete my collection of Australian state capitals.

After a fortnight in historic Hobart (saving other new places like Fiji and Samoa for later), I flew on to Sydney, which I already knew well. The plan was to have two or three days in the city then take an internal flight to see Uluru. And then . . . Alice Springs, perhaps. Possibly followed by Darwin.

In case you're wondering, I'd had Honey on my mind ever since we parted. And, because I didn't tell you about our parting, please don't write me off as a callous bitch. I didn't tell you because it hurts me to remember, not because I wanted to sweep her under the carpet.

I find it difficult to explain my feelings for Honey, and I find it hard to make comparisons. I do love her, but not in the (almost) obsessive way I love Dave. The temptation to go with her to New York had been immense, and I sincerely didn't give a fig for the age difference. No, I'd spoken the truth when I said I'd someday break our hearts. Let's face it; I'd been unable to permanently stay with Dave on three separate occasions. And, for me at least, the allure of champers and choccies isn't everlasting.

Let's get back to the story before I become all weepy again.

I'm a seasoned traveller so my backpack always meets the airline regulations to qualify as "hand luggage". Okay, it meets them by ounces and millimetres, but that's plenty, isn't it? As a result, although I'm rarely first off the plane, I'm usually first out of the airport. Kingsford Smith was no exception. En route for the nearest taxi, I spotted a row of cash dispensers and made a quick detour to top up my wallet. Call me compulsive if you like, but sometimes it's days between ATMs when you're travelling.

Seize the moment . . . that's my mantra in life (as you may well have guessed).

I bagged a dispenser and, popping in my card, requested five hundred dollars. Instead of crispy new notes I got an impersonal message. Thinking I'd somehow made a mistake, I blinked at the display screen.

SORRY WE CANNOT PROCEED WITH THIS TRANSACTION. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LENDER FOR FURTHER INFORMATION.

Convinced I'd mistyped my PIN, aware of a queue forming behind me, I pushed my card back into the slot and tried again. Same message.

It can't be the PIN, I told myself as I retrieved my card. It must be the machine. That's it; it's on the blink.

My taxi took me close-ish to the city centre. I soon found a street with banks in it and picked a cash machine at random. And only then did it occur to me that something was wrong.

Not quite the same message, but very similar. And still no crispy new notes.

Dazed, I leant against a wall and tried to figure things out. Eighteen months of solid earning had stuffed my account. Even the purchase of my open-ended airline ticket hadn't made very much of a dent. I'd had twenty thousand to draw on when I set off and hadn't been spending heavily at all. In fact I'd hardly spent anything in my month with Honey. There should still be over fifteen grand available. No way should I have been refused five hundred bucks.

I approached my third ATM with trepidation. Using the utmost care, I entered my PIN and, after taking a deep breath, selected Balance Enquiry. The number came up almost instantly. I blinked again and then stared at it in disbelief. I wasn't sure if it was in pounds, dollars or shekels, but the currency hardly mattered. Zero is zero in any language, right?

I practically sleepwalked the streets a while, eventually finding a public park large enough to lose myself in. Dumping my backpack on a bench I sat and dug out my mobile. By sheer good luck I'd charged it in Hobart. But would it work? I grimaced. I paid my monthly bills in full by direct debit; if I recalled correctly, payments happened on the fifteenth. The last should have happened a week ago. If it had failed . . .

'Dummy,' I said aloud, frightening off a strange-looking bird that had been eying me speculatively. I couldn't have failed to pay because I hadn't used my phone since I left Manchester. Seeing as I only got charged for calls and texts, my latest bills would have been the same round shape as my balance.

That means I've three weeks grace, I thought. So long as the bank sorts me out by then, all will be well . . . and nobody any the wiser.

I looked up the number on the back of my Switch card. Entering the international UK dialling code and, ditching the leading 0, I tapped in the number . . . and immediately got through to a busy call centre in India. That's progress for you. Me in sunny New South Wales, ringing midnight England, ending up speaking to someone in breakfast-time Bombay.

Except I wasn't fortunate enough to immediately speak to a real person. First I had to endure a robotic voice asking endless security questions. Then, although I'd rung the number given for fraud, I had to select from a list of umpteen options including "account balance" and "credit limit increase".

And then I was put on hold for ten minutes until an operator was available.

English was obviously my operator's second language. Oddly enough, her name was "Janis". I've been lucky in having three Indian-born lovers. Their names were as wonderful and beautiful as the girls themselves . . . but nothing like "Janis". I genuinely believe I'm not prejudiced in any way, but this Anglicization of names irks me. If you're really called Drisana or Kamala, why piss about pretending to be "Janis"?

I won't bore you with our stumbling, word-for-word exchanges. I told her I thought somebody had robbed my bank account and she asked me another string of security questions. Then she put me on hold again before admitting she at last had my account up in front of her. And yes, there had been an on-line transaction on the twelfth, taking out everything to the penny.

She'd triggered a fraud investigation, she assured me. That effectively froze my account forever but not to worry; a replacement had been instantly created. I'd get the details, replacement card and so on within twenty-four hours . . . by recorded delivery.

At my address in Main Road, East Morton.

When, trying to sound reasonable, I pointed out that I was in Australia she said she had protocols to follow. When I also pointed out that . . . probably due to the bank's negligence . . . I was without money, food or shelter, she said she could arrange an instant, interest-free loan. She could not, however, tell me how I was going to get hold of it out of my replacement account. Then she had a better idea.

'You have a linked credit card. Use that pending the outcome of the fraud enquiry.'

I checked my wallet and found the card I'd hardly ever used. It was still in date, but wouldn't get me very far.

'It only has a fifteen hundred limit,' I said.

Janis asked me for the last four digits. 'There,' she said. 'You now have a limit of five thousand and I have suspended all interest, pending the outcome.'

I thanked her and asked how long these investigations lasted. She said usually a week or two but sometimes longer. I could, she suggested, ring for an update in ten days' time.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The strange-looking bird was back and eyeing me again. I felt in my pocket and found a packet of airline peanuts. They went down well with my feathered friend; I even tried a few myself.

Then I took stock. My credit card had nothing on it, so there was five thousand to start with. I also had two hundred and eighty Aussie dollars, fifty NZ dollars and a twenty pound note. Sufficient to last me another three or four months, I reckoned. In that perfect world (the one that continued to elude me) the bank would soon refund my money, I could pay off my card and carry on as though nothing had happened.

But what if they decided the theft was all my fault? What if they froze my credit card as well? And come to that, how was I going to get my mitts on my new Switch card? Dave was unlikely to be in to accept a recorded delivery in my name. And even if she was, she might well refuse it. Could I honestly expect her to sign for it then send in by post to me here, at some care-of-address I didn't even have yet?

The urge to give up and go home was massive. Decided to hedge my bets, I took another taxi to the airport and hunted down the relevant ticket desk.

Now then, what I call my "open-ended ticket" has good points and bad points. When I bought it I had to specify certain trips (that is to say, Manchester to Boston; Chicago to Honolulu and so on). While the date of the first flight was set in stone, the others could be taken anytime within twelve months. Except I couldn't just turn up on the day and say "fly me to Auckland". Factors such as seat availability came into play. And I was only allowed fly somewhere between stowaway and third class.

When travelling I hate timetables and obligations. Because needs must, I tend to play the system. Take Honolulu, for example. I had only expected to stay there two or three weeks so, on arrival, I went to the desk and provisionally booked my onward flight (short notice is iffy, but booking two to three weeks in advance usually comes up trumps). The onus was then on me to confirm seven days before departure. When I didn't, the airline sold my seat on to someone else.

I got lucky in Honolulu (in more ways than just one, if I include Honey). When I checked out the available Auckland flights the second time, I picked up a cancellation and only had to wait eight hours. Sydney wasn't so kind to me.

'We're talking three weeks,' said the perky sheila behind the desk.

That should have been ample for me but it wasn't. Suddenly the shock of being robbed . . . of my bank account being violated . . . came home to me. Fuck travelling and fuck hedging bets, right then all I wanted was ten pints of Landlord and bucketsful of good, old fashioned English rain.

The sheila must have read my mind. 'You could upgrade,' she said. 'That will considerably speed the job up.'

I passed her my credit card and she busily typed away, quoting me a price that went in one ear and out the other.

'Go for it,' I said.

She typed some more then handed me a card-reader. 'Please check the amount and authorize it,' she said.

And I nearly died. I couldn't remember that particular cunting, motherfucking PIN number!

*****

In the end I booked the date in three weeks, on the proviso I could switch if a cancellation came along in the meantime. Then, gloomily, I wondered what to do next. In the absence of Landlord I could drown myself in Tooheys, I supposed. Assuming I could find bars that did contactless sales.

Reluctant to part with much physical cash, I took a cab to a nearby suburban town that had lots of pubs, cafés and restaurants. Better still, unlike some of the rural bars I'd frequented in other parts of Australia, contactless was welcomed everywhere I went . . . and it was PIN-free on sales under a hundred dollars.

It ain't so cheap in cities like Sydney these days but, hopping from bar to bar, I never even came close to the transaction limit. I also never came close to getting drunk. It was one of those nights when alcohol had little effect on me. Or perhaps it was the steak and eggs I had for dinner.

(Yes, I know it's the traditional Aussie breakfast, but don't blame me; an Irish-themed pub had it on their all-day menu and I fancied it, so it happened. End of.)

Backpack in place, I hoofed it back to the airport. My friendly sheila was no longer on duty but an equally friendly guy told me sorry, no cancellations as yet. I went out to the smoking area (not that I ever indulge) and got out my phone.

Right, I thought, everyone back home will be up and about. Let's share the misery.

My first call was to an employment agency. I'd been on their books, once-upon-a-time and, Phase Four being history, felt the need of their input. Not wasting many words, I told them I'd be back in West Yorkshire in about three weeks and was looking for a position with an immediate start. They checked and updated some of my details and said no worries, they'd get a few interviews lined up in anticipation.

My next call was to Dad. Keeping it short and sweet, I told him I was the latest unwitting victim of cybercrime.

'Bastards,' he said, using the closest I'd ever heard to a swearword from him. Then, brisk and business-like: 'If you give me your bank details I'll transfer in ten thousand this morning.'

Gulping down the lump in my throat, blinking back tears of gratitude, I explained my problem with the replacement account. 'This trip is ill-fated,' I said. 'I'm calling it off.'

'Let me know as soon as you get your new details,' he replied, 'you'll need something behind you while the fraud people drag their feet. Flipping banks! One second late or tuppence over a limit and they're on you like a ton of bricks. Ask them to actually do something and you can time them on the calendar.'

The last call was the one I dreaded. Still fortified by all that steak and Tooheys, I dialled and got Dave at her desk at the Widget Company. Not giving her time to be frosty, I outlined the situation and asked her two questions.

'Can you please look out for mail from the bank? And have you still got my work clothes in your spare wardrobe?'

'Yes and yes,' she said. 'Where are you going to stay?'

'I haven't thought about that yet.'

'Okay then, you're staying at mine . . . in the spare room, mind; no funny business. When do you land?'

I hadn't expected the burst of generosity. The best I'd hoped for was her not having sent my skirts to Oxfam and promising to look out for my card. I told her I was praying for a cancellation and she told me I had to let her know as soon as I knew when my plane would be in.

'I'll be waiting at the airport,' she said. 'Sleep tight.'

'I will,' I assured her. Then, ringing off: 'But fuck knows where.'