The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Read online

  Indeed, my single status to date has simply been down to a matter of personal choice.

  Marriage is, after all, a serious business. That isn’t to say I’m not optimistic or unromantic about the concept of love and lasting marriage because, by positive example, my parents enjoyed just that. My sister is also happily married. She once told me that the secret was compromise. And, when she asked me if I ever thought I’d marry, my reply at the time had been unnecessarily cursory and flippant.

  I’d quoted from Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.

  Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

  I have never yet beheld that special face

  Which I could fancy more than any other!

  I hadn’t realised then, of course, that by fate and circumstance rather than anyone’s well-meaning interventions, I would eventually meet Jon Howard. I can’t help but smile when I think about the day he walked into my life. He’d made an appointment to talk to me about managing his investments and he breezed into my office that day like a breath of fresh air, with an outstretched hand. I’d greeted him with my usual candour.

  What happened next was quite a shock. Literally.

  I’d taken his hand in mine for the customary formal shaking and we’d both been immediately zapped with a powerful and incredibly painful static shock that caused us both to yelp and jump back in alarm. Stinging with embarrassment, I’d immediately proffered my sincerest apologies. But he’d thought it incredibly funny and had roared with laughter.

  I was so taken by his infectious laughter and the twinkle in his eyes that I’d laughed too.

  Then I’d offered him a choice of tea or coffee and ushered him towards the less formal comfortable sofa, where I preferred to chat with my investing clients, and I’d listened very carefully to Jon’s banking requirements. He’d explained how he’d recently retired and returned to the UK after living and working in Asia for many years and how he now needed the services of a local private bank. He’d passed me a battered-looking brown leather-bound folder, monogramed with his initials. I’d opened it to find statements from his bank in Singapore, along with the bonds and certificates pertaining to his extensive stock portfolio.

  I recall popping on my reading glasses and taking a moment to study the papers, on which I’d found all the documents littered with yellow Post-it notes, all containing what I surmised were scribbled personal reminders and scrawled stock prices.

  Some of these Post-it notes became unstuck and scattered onto the floor.

  I quickly tried to put them all back again, while Jon smiled at me reassuringly.

  ‘Oh, just ignore my notes …’ he told me with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘They’re purely for my own benefit. I’m notoriously forgetful. A lifelong trait. Not in any way an age thing!’

  Despite his apparent absent mindedness, I was impressed with Jon Howard.

  I peered at him over the top of his folder while he pointed out his capital investments.

  He was far more interesting than other men I’d met to date or any of my usual stereotypically wealthy clients. I’m not talking about his smartly tailored attire or his expensive-smelling cologne, but his expert knowledge of wealth management and the impression he gave me of being a totally self-assured man, without being pushy or discourteous.

  He seemed to be sophisticated but not at all arrogant. A gentleman.

  Confident without that awful air of superiority that usually came with it.

  Physically, Jon Howard was surprisingly fit and had a lean physique that defied his age.

  He had me wondering if, like in Oscar Wilde’s novel Dorian Gray, he had a painting in his attic that grew old and more wrinkled while his mortal body remained youthfully slim and taut.

  Clients usually came to me for bespoke financial guidance, but Jon was already well-informed. He had done all his research. He knew exactly what type of bank account he needed and which funds he wanted to invest his money in and for how long. This made my job on that day a task of administration, assurance, and facilitation, rather than expert investment advice.

  So, with our business swiftly concluded and put tactfully aside, for the rest of our allotted appointment time together, we talked about classical music, wine, and beautiful places instead. When I discovered that Jon was incredibly well-travelled, he had impressed me even more. All people who travel fascinate me. Probably because, despite suffering from an inherent wanderlust myself, the only faraway places I’d ever actually visited, have been via a book, a movie, or a TV programme. You could say that my bucket list was actually a to-do list.

  And, there’s just something terribly attractive about the well-travelled, isn’t there?

  It’s that faraway look in their eyes and the dreamy expression on their faces. The twitch of a smile playing on their lips while they’re being reminded about or reflecting on an exotic and distant experience. With that same look, my father used to talk to me about his experiences of travelling in Asia. He would often relate fantastical tales to me about the time when we’d lived in Hong Kong. We’d lived there until I was five years old and my own misty monotone memories of that time have, throughout my childhood and certainly through my impressionable youth, been fortified and coloured and supplemented by my father’s stories.

  Consequentially, I’m a real sucker for a well-travelled man with a twinkle in his eye.

  The fact that Jon was ten years older than me didn’t seem to matter.

  I’d known straight away, from our first moment of eye contact, that I was attracted to him.

  And strangely, after an hour in his company, I realised I felt completely at ease.

  I was enchanted by his conversation and the confident way he maintained eye contact.

  I found Jon had an incredibly dry sense of humour and a quickfire wit.

  Had we ever met before? No. Never. I’m sure of it. But we’d had an immediate connection.

  When he laughed heartily at our mutual banter, I found myself melting inside.

  I was aware of my heart thumping in my chest at a ridiculous rate and a feeling of butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. This was absurd. Irrational. I’m hardly a swooning teenager.

  When I asked him a few personal questions, he’d seemed happy to indulge my curiosity.

  ‘I’ve just bought a house in Cheshire. Just outside Lymm, actually,’ he told me casually.

  ‘Oh, how lovely. That’s a very nice part of the countryside. Do you have family nearby?’

  His accent certainly wasn’t northern. It was more Queen’s English than local dialect.

  ‘Yes. I do. I still have an aunt and uncle and cousins living in Manchester.’

  I asked him from what kind of work he’d recently retired.

  He told me how for many years he’d been an investment banker.

  ‘In places like Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, and Singapore.’

  The names of these fabulous-sounding, exotic places tripped off his tongue.

  Discovering that our career backgrounds were similar had satisfied my inquisitiveness concerning his expert knowledge of investments and wealth management funds. And, dare I say it, sparked my interest and curiosity in him even further.

  ‘How very exciting!’ I breathed. His life sounded fascinating.

  Unlike mine, I hasten to add. I’d worked in the same bank in Manchester throughout my entirely boring and monotonous career to date. I was suddenly feeling anxious about the impression I was giving him. I started to worry about my obvious lack of worldliness.

  Self-consciously, I began to think that my navy skirt suit and my high-neck white blouse might look far too staid and plain to him. I dearly wished that I’d at least bothered to wear a bit of lipstick and a bright silk scarf this morning and perhaps done something different with my hair instead of just tying it back into a dreary-looking chignon.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to travel,’ I told him candidly while staring into his grey-green eyes.

  I glanced wistfully at the
antique globe on the corner of my desk, betraying my errant fantasies of spontaneous world travel. In moments of boredom, particularly on a Monday morning, I’d spin that globe and close my eyes and then stop it turning with my finger. Then, I’d open my eyes to see and imagine where I could end up if I just decided to jump on a plane and go there impulsively, with only a few belongings thrown into a backpack. I sighed and shrugged. ‘But, I’m afraid, all our banking seminars are held at our head office up in Glasgow, rather than anywhere exotic.’

  ‘Well, working abroad is not quite as exciting as you might imagine.’ He offered, perhaps somewhat kindly. ‘After all, an office is an office, wherever it might be in the world!’

  ‘My biggest dream is one day to go to Hong Kong.’ I felt myself blushing and my whole body flushing hot and cold as I spoke because this felt like telling one of my most innermost secrets. ‘You see, I was actually born there. My father was General Manager at the container port for ten years until 1975,’ I confessed.

  ‘An important job. It was and still is the largest container port in the world.’

  ‘Of course, I have only vague memories, but I do remember the house we lived in was painted pale pink. It was the exact same shade as all the roses in my mother’s garden. It’s strange how memories work, isn’t it? I can’t see a pink rose without thinking of my mother and that wonderfully fragrant and sunny garden in Hong Kong. The house was on Stubbs Road in a place called Happy Valley. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?’

  Jon looked delighted with my personal connection and my recollections.

  ‘Happy Valley’s still there and it’s still an exclusive residential area. The valley is also rather famous for its old racecourse, considered one of the few remaining Hong Kong institutions.’

  I sighed. ‘For me, the main attraction would be the thrill of seeing the Hong Kong cityscape with my own eyes. Of course, I’ve seen it on TV and in photos, but I’ve always wanted to go there and actually see it for myself.’

  Jon studied me carefully for a moment before he spoke, and I felt my mouth go dry.

  ‘Yes, the cityscape is spectacular. Some say it’s best seen from Kowloon Island. But I say the best view is from The Peak where you can look down on the city and across Victoria Harbour in all its glitz and glory. Maya, you simply must go and see it for yourself one day.’

  ‘Yes. One day, I’m sure I will. Please, tell me more about your experience of Hong Kong.’

  He leaned in closer now that we clearly had a common interest.

  ‘Well, it’s where I first started out in the banking business in the 1980s.’ He chuckled over his memories. ‘We hustled like cowboys rather than bankers back in those days, but it has to be said, we had a great time and made an awful lot of money doing so!’

  I found listening to Jon quite mesmerising. ‘Ah, the 80s. Such a volatile decade.’

  ‘Indeed. If working in Asia, and Hong Kong in particular, taught me one thing then it was to be ambitious. To work hard and play even harder. So, tell me, Maya … aside from Hong Kong, where else in the world is on your travel bucket list?’

  ‘Oh, it’s more like a wish list,’ I said shyly, as my heart hammered against my ribs.

  I found talking with Jon was having a strange effect on me. I’m not normally one to open up and tell someone I hardly know all my deepest desires. Especially not during business hours.

  Yet here I was … opening my heart to a stranger.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to explore India.’ I confessed to him. ‘To go and see the Taj Mahal, the Fort at Agra, the Mysore Palace. And I’d add all those places you’ve just mentioned like Singapore, Thailand, and Malaysia. I’d love to travel the whole world.’

  I didn’t want to admit to him that over the past few years, especially since my parents had died, I’ve been having serious regrets about not being more impulsive about travelling when I was younger. Lately, I’d been looking back and wishing I’d taken the time out to go backpacking before the weight of these corporate chains had anchored me here.

  Immediately after finishing university and gaining my degree in economics, I’d been offered a rung on the corporate ladder at one of the most respected private banks in the country. I’d thought I was the lucky one amongst all my graduating peers, who had struggled to find vocations and so had instead taken vacations. So many of my friends had gone off travelling after graduation, whereas I’d never even been out of the UK.

  So, I squirmed in my seat in anticipation of Jon asking me where in the world I’d travelled.

  Despite my nightly obsession with watching the National Geographic Channel on TV and my subscription to Wanderlust magazine and The Times travel supplements, I knew that once I admitted to him that I’d never been farther than Scotland I’d appear an unworldly armchair traveller whose experiences were all imagined and shelved until an unspecified time in the future.

  ‘Have you ever been backpacking?’ I asked him, hoping that didn’t sound too outlandish to a man who was wearing an antique Rolex and an expensive suit.

  Jon’s eyes had sparkled with amusement and enthusiasm. ‘Oh, yes, although, it was a long time ago. Back then, I followed in the footsteps of The Beatles, who had famously gone to Rishikesh in Northern India to be enlightened. I was a big fan of the Fab Four and I wanted to learn about eastern culture. So, in 1979 I grabbed my guitar and a backpack and I headed out there to live in an ashram.’

  ‘That sounds amazing and very New-Age!’ I enthused.

  ‘Ah, yes, those were the days. Living the life of a hippie and learning meditation and yoga!’

  I laughed with him, but I could easily imagine him as a handsome twenty-something long-haired hippie with beads around his neck, strumming a guitar, and singing ‘Hare Krishna’.

  ‘I ended up staying in the ashram for three months. The people I met there and my experiences in India, without doubt, have had a great and lasting influence on my life.’

  But then I saw Jon frown and collect his thoughts. He rubbed his forehead and, in his moment of reflection, I found myself leaning towards him and holding my breath in anticipation of hearing more of what he might have experienced in the Far East.

  He shifted his seat to cross one leg casually over the other and then leaned his elbow on the arm of the sofa before reengaging me in eye contact and deciding to tell me something quite personal. ‘To be honest, I also went there looking for something …’ he confessed.

  ‘What was it?’ I breathed, hoping he didn’t mind me pressing him.

  ‘Answers,’ he said bluntly. ‘I knew The Beatles had gone to India to heal after the sudden death of their manager. At that time, I was also looking for a way to heal. I felt I needed to make sense of the world after a good friend of mine died. I was upset and confused. I had questions about life and death. I was angry. Feeling terribly lost. I wanted answers from the universe. And, for some reason, I thought I would find those answers in India.’

  ‘And did you?’ I asked him, captivated by his honesty.

  ‘Well, it’s true to say I found something!’ He began to laugh, as if trying to make light of what had suddenly become a rather deep and heavy conversation between us. ‘And, to be honest, it was also pretty cool to laze around all day and night in a yoga shala, surrounded by candles and clouds of patchouli, listening to the wise words of a real Indian guru.’

  I tried to imagine what it might feel like to sit in a real ashram with a real guru.

  I imagined it to be an entirely peaceful and life-affirming experience.

  ‘The town of Rishikesh is in the foothills of the Himalayas, on the banks of the holy Ganges river. It’s a very special place to practice yoga and meditation. You see, Maya, India isn’t really a country you go to see … India is a country you go to feel.’

  I later found myself repeating those words to myself like some kind of mystical mantra.

  India isn’t really a country you go to see … India is a country you go to feel.

  ‘Maya, my advice to
you is that if you want to travel, do it. Life’s short. Live your dreams!’

  I listened to him, my attention rapt, and nodded in agreement.

  I didn’t like to admit that despite several weeks of annual-leave entitlement, taking more than one week off work at a time would be considered a lack of commitment by my superiors.

  Yet, somehow, any excuse not to live one’s dream seemed to sound like a feeble excuse.

  I’d recently been accounting my own years. How fast they’d gone.

  Soon I’d be old. How long did I have before it was too late?

  How old is old? I supposed the answer lay with strength and abilities rather than actual years.

  I didn’t feel I could explain to Jon – a customer – how over the past couple of years everyone here in this bank, myself included, had been increasingly concerned about the rumours of staff cutbacks and branch closures. And, unlike him, despite having my own investment portfolio, I was still many years from being able to afford to retire on a full pension.

  I’d been both fascinated and enchanted by Jon’s stories and his life, but despite us both working in the same industry, his life and his experiences were nothing like mine. He had described to me how he’d moved up the corporate ladder quickly, while working in exciting countries and exotic cities and having adventures and escapades.

  Whereas, my career path had been insipidly incremental over a long period of time. I’d started as a customer services manager and steadily worked my way up to a managerial position.

  After discovering that Jon was widowed (I’d tried not to overtly express my delight at this news and to instead feign an expression of sadness and sympathy) I made sure to keep both my hands busy, shifting papers and tapping my pen, in the hope he might see I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I do know now, of course, six months later – and from his incessant teasing about our meeting on that day – how in the very moment I’d zapped him with a bolt of static electricity, he’d noticed I wasn’t wearing a ring.