One Wedding, Two News Items And A Departure

17

One Wedding, Two News Items And A Departure

    The wedding was scheduled for mid-week. Three days before the due date Scotch Jimmy rang to say that Candida was all right: she’d evidently had a row with the Swede and rushed off up north somewhere—something to do with elephant safaris. Anyway, she was okay; the bloody place was still at sixes and sevens but the Embassy had managed to get her on a plane. There was no sign of the poor Swede or of anybody else from their expensive beachside hotel. He’d met her at Heathrow and taken her straight home. How did she seem? Er, well, shell-shocked, actually. Kept saying it couldn’t have happened. Monica? Well, no: actually she’d taken off for the Bahamas. Peter hung up numbly, said numbly to the anxious faces surrounding him: “She’s okay,” and passed out.

    Lack of food and sleep on top of stress was the diagnosis from both Marie-Louise and Mrs Ledbetter. He was put to bed immediately and Marie-Louise marched into the kitchen to make a sustaining beef broth for him, what time Liliane Ledbetter ordered her daughter to prepare chicken soup.

    Petey’s reaction was a fearful: “Is Peter gonna die?” –He had decided to call him Peter until they were in their house. No-one had quite grasped the precise reasoning behind this decision, but no-one had queried it.

    “No, of course not. He’s just exhausted and he hasn’t been eating enough,” replied Lalla firmly. “He was all worked up thinking Candida was dead, and he kind of used up all his, um,”—help, not inner resources, um—“um, strength, kind of, Petey. Um, older people sometimes do. He just needs a good sleep and lots of nice food and drink. Why don’t you make him a nice smoothie, since Angie gave us that lovely food-processor thingy for Christmas?”

    “Blender,” he corrected firmly. “But he’s asleep.”

    “A bit later, then. But you could always put it in the fridge.”

    “I’ll do that,” he decided. “He is quite old, I suppose,” he conceded.

    Lalla bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Not as old as Grandpa, though.”

    “No, not nearly.”

    This seemed to satisfy him and he went over to the kitchenette to sort out some suitable fruit for the smoothie.

    Lalla sagged.

    The following day Marie-Louise discovered her sitting on an obscure little beach with tears running down her cheeks. She sat down beside her, put an arm round her and said firmly: “My dear, you must not worry yourself. Peter has always been a bundle of nerves: that big-businessman nonsense is not the real person. He was sick all night before a silly cricket mash when he was seventeen. It was not even a significant event, it was some people his grandfather had invited for the summer holiday against the village team. Of course the ’orrid old man told him to peull himself together and be a man. –I really think that his beullying sent my poor darling Richard to his grave,” she added with a sigh.

    Lalla wiped the tears away, sniffing. “I see. Um, he did start muttering in his sleep one time in Canberra… But I suppose I didn’t really see that in him…”

    “No,” she said heavily. “He hides it.”

    “Mm. Marie-Louise, he’s saying that he ought to fly back to England!” she burst out.

    “Yes, well, that is guilt,” his mother stated firmly. “I tell him, one cannot foresee the future, and when Monica demanded custody he made what seemed the right decision at the time. When does ’e intention this silly flight?”

    Lalla snuffled horribly. “Two days after the wedding, I think.”

    Marie-Louise produced a pristine handkerchief from the pocket of her eminently suitable lightweight cotton slacks. “Mouche-toi, mon chou.”

    Groggily Lalla blew her nose. “I dunno what to do… I’ll never be able to get a visa for Britain in time.”

    “I think one arranges that: Peter is not nobody, ma petite, and one phone call to the High Commission in Wellington will be enough. I speak to John Faraday, okay? But do you wish to go, Lalla?”

    Lalla blew her nose again. “No, and I haven’t got any warm clothes. But I don’t wanna let him go by himself. It’ll mean Petey’ll be very late starting school, but too bad. I know he’d be perfectly okay here, everybody’d be happy to keep an eye on him, but I think it’d be setting a really bad precedent; what do you think, Marie-Louise?”

    “I entirely agree with you, my dear. Peter will ’ave to learn that one cannot just set aside a wife and child until they are wanted.”

    Lalla nodded. “Mm. And—well, it sounds mean to say so, but Candida is grown up now, and Petey’s just a little boy.”

    “Exactly, my dear! –You know, I offered to take ’er when it was clear that Monica wasn’t interested in the girl, but of course she turned the offer down. After that she wouldn’t even let her come to me for her school ’olidays.”

    “She sounds very spiteful.”

    “Indeed. That is Monica all over. –She was very pretty as a young woman, and she threw ’erself at him. I think he was flattered: there were half a dozen other suitors, very well-born, you know? But they were not as rish,” she ended with a very Gallic shrug.

    “I see.”

    “Yes. Now, Liliane is waiting for you to try your dress, my dear, so come along. Don’t worry about anything, okay? Doubtless it will be impossible to buy warm clothing in New Zealand at this time of year, but I know the wife of the French Ambassador to Australia: we arrange all.”

    Gratefully Lalla let herself be led off.

    Peter Sale was married in a Hawaiian shirt of surpassing gorgeousness—a rich purple background supporting pink, apricot and pale yellow hibiscuses entwined with green leaves. He hadn’t been able to refuse it: it was a present from Mrs Tangianau, and she’d made it herself. It was decked by two huge creamy ’ei (Cook Islands Maori for leis) of fragrant tiare maori, the Cook Islands national flower. On his head was an ’ei katu (head garland), also of tiare maori.

    Lalla was the most beautiful bride in the world. The threatened white lace dress was moulded to her curves as predicted, but with Lalla’s curves the effect was stunning. It was full-length, high-necked and long-sleeved—rather Edwardian, really—but as a matter of fact Peter found he was quite glad that her boobs weren’t exposed to the gaze of the curious, not say lascivious, as in the modern Western bridal styles. Her head was also crowned with an ’ei katu of the wonderfully fragrant, delicate white flowers.

    The sight, in fact, was so lovely that Archie Foxe-Forsythe had to be handed Marie-Louise’s handkerchief. Behind them, Lesley McIntyre sighed deeply and also dabbed at her eyes—Lalla had insisted that Josh both come to the wedding and bring his wife, and as Lesley was, according to herself, overdue for a holiday, she’d accepted the invitation eagerly. She and Lalla seemed to really like each other, which when you considered that no-one in their senses could dislike Lalla, and that Josh wasn’t the sort to marry someone who wasn’t entirely likeable, wasn’t really surprising.

    The bridesmaids were also flower-bedecked, their costumes ranging from Taggy’s wonderful bright jade sarong to Bernice’s very odd pinkish-mauve garment from an Auckland boutique. Their head wreaths were much more variegated, every colour of the rainbow being in there. Most of the congregation was likewise, perhaps the only noticeable variant being that some wreaths were worn around the crowns of the straw hats.

    Davey Sale, positively luminous in an Hawaiian shirt which might have been categorised as white on yellow by those with a visual disability, pretty much summed it up, with his: “I say! That was the floweriest wedding ever!”

    The feast was frankly indescribable. Anyone who’d thought that Christmas dinner had been over the top was proven wrong. Every matron brought her special dish, in fact most of them brought several. The local variant of ceviche, ika mata, featured prominently, though it was to be feared that those Westerners brought up in the tradition of not eating seafood in the summer months (whether or not they had an R in them) eyed it askance. But there was so much of everything, and such a crowd, that nobody noticed who ate what. Beer and fruit juices all flowed copiously, and the champagne generously donated by Mr Ledbetter vanished like dew in the morning.

    The celebrations were still going on down by the shore at midnight, though the giant barbecue fires had long since died down.

    The newlyweds had retired to their nuptial couch—first having to remove half a ton of flowers from it.

    “Er—I didn’t think I’d overdone the champagne,” said the groom cautiously. “But my head seems to be sort of… not thumping, exactly. Thrumming.”

    “No, it isn’t,” replied the bride serenely. “That’s Jimmy drumming and Hoppy playing his ukelele.”

    Peter gulped. “Won’t those up-market hotel guests who greeted our invitations with blank incomprehension complain about the noise?”

    “Shouldn’t think so: Mr Ledbetter was pouring his version of mint julep down them last time I looked.”

    “I thought that was just a kind of punch?”

    “Two inches of bourbon, add sugar syrup and mint leaves, top with soda water.”

    “Two—you mean two fingers, don’t you?” he croaked.

    “I don’t know how much that is, but I do mean two inches,” she said, holding her forefinger and thumb two inches apart.

    He gulped.

    “So we might as well go to sleep,” finished Lalla sunnily, getting into bed and smiling at him.

    “Uh—I was planning forty-five minutes’ expert foreplay followed by the ultimate, unforgettable orgasm,” he croaked.

    “Don’t be silly, you’re exhausted. We don’t want you fainting again. Hop in and go to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day,” she said, yawning.

    He was not exhausted! What a bloody insult! All he’d done was shower, get dressed, stand up in front of the minister, say his vows and eat and drink! And have another shower. Exhausted, indeed! He’d show her! He was wearing a sarong, more properly pareu, of surpassing hideousness bought at the market in Avarua for a song. He’d adopted it as a sort of dressing-gown substitute after Lalla had admired him in it. He removed it and got into bed. Promptly Lalla switched the bedside light off. She yawned again. Peter was not gonna yawn, because he wasn’t exhausted! He yawned horribly. But everybody knew that yawns were catching. Did she really intend to just fall asleep? He reached for her hand.

    “Mmm. Go ’sleep,” she muttered.

    But he wasn’t sleepy!

    Two seconds later he opened his eyes again. The sun was streaming in and Lalla was standing over by the window, looking out into the gardens. What?

    She turned. She smiled. “Hullo,” she said. “It’s tomorrow.”

    Peter smiled feebly. Apparently it was.

    “Hullo, there,” said Archie mildly as his old school chum joined him under a shady tree with a wonderful view of the wide Pacific. “Thought you’d still be honeymooning.”

    “Huh!” replied Peter bitterly.

    “Er… something gone wrong?”

    “Wrong! If you call not having consummated it yet wrong, then yes!” he said bitterly.

    “Eh?”

    “Uh—not literally,” he admitted with a foolish grin. “Of course we’ve done it. But strictly speaking the marriage itself hasn’t been consummated, because yours truly passed out like a bloody log or something last night. Well, I seem to remember that Lalla informed me that I was exhausted, shortly before I passed out, so possibly I was.”

    “Um, morning sex between married couples has been known, old chum.”

    “Oh, really?” replied Peter in a high, mad voice. “That was my belief, too!”

    Archie gaped at him. He wouldn’t have said Lalla was the type to say no, in fact he’d have bet every penny he owned that she wasn’t that sort. “Not some weird Antipodean taboo?”

    “No. That might have seemed reasonable, in comparison. No, she’d had a pee but was still in this extremely yummy if over-elaborate peach nightgown that that blessed child Bernice apparently deemed appropriate as an engagement pres—”

    He broke off, as Archie was saying heartily: “Hear, hear!”

    “There’s no need to be crude,” he noted coldly.

    “And?”

    “And I was just about to do it, in fact I’d got her back into bed and was investigating that nightgown, when the door opened and an ubiquitous ten-year old marched in announcing: ‘I knew you’d be awake, it’s half past nine!’”

    Archie gave a howl of laughter.

    “Thanks,” said Peter bitterly.

    “What—cretin—let—him—escape?” he gasped.

    “His bloody grandfather, who do you THINK?”

    Archie shook all over. “Family—life, old boy!” he gasped.

    “Oh, yes, highly amusing,” said Peter bitterly.

    “So where is she?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

    “Dragged off to Ma Ledbetter’s lair to look at warm clothes that she thinks might be suitable—Lalla’s a good six inches taller than her, but nevertheless—what time Maman’s gone along to maintain a watching brief until she deems it time to phone Jeanne at the Embassy in Canberra to make sure she’s put her selection of warm clothes in the diplomatic bag to Wellington.”

    “Got it,” he acknowledged, grinning. He squinted at his watch. “Uh—there’d be a time difference, I suppose?”

    “Not to say a day’s difference: we’re on the other side of the International Date Line, in fact I think it’s only by the grace of God that anybody made it here for the wedding at all. Um, well, Canberra’s two hours behind New Zealand… Put it like this, Maman will be on top of it, but as she considers that all sensible persons will be on their feet all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at seven ack emma—”

    Archie collapsed in splutters again.

    “Yeah,” said Peter drily. “It wouldn’t matter—well, it would, bloody embarrassing—but not so much; but we’re gonna be living in Aus—”

    “Yes! Stop!” he howled.

    Peter sighed. “Oh, well. At least it isn’t that back-biting bitch Belinda Fitzherbert at the High Commish.”

    “Ugh. Are they still out there?”

    “No, thank God: moved on to Canada. Due for something else fairly soon, I think.”

    “Let’s hope they get somewhere really tasty like darkest Africa!”

    “And so say all of us,” Peter agreed.

    “Um, was sort of thinking of Australia myself…”

    Peter eyed him cautiously. “Don’t think the FCO’s gonna promote you from desk jockey, old man.”

    “Eh? Oh, Hell, no, not that! Thing is, I love it here, but what could I do?”

    “Actually I’ve been thinking about that, since I overheard that Yank dame telling you what a lovely Briddish accent you have and she did so admire Briddish manners.”

    “Hah, hah,” he said uneasily.

    “No, truly. I think you’d be an asset on the reception desk here, Archie.”

    His jaw sagged. “Thought only girls did that?” he croaked.

    “Er, well, not at the George V and such-like, I fancy.”

    He’d pronounced it French-fashion, “Georges Cinq”, so Archie was blank for a moment. “Eh? Oh! In Paris! No, well, not at the Ritz or the Savoy, either. But…”

    “Why not? You’d have to learn how to work the phones, but I don’t think it’s complicated. Only a handful of suites and if in doubt put it through to Mac, seems to be the procedure.”

    “Ye-es…”

    “They’ve had a lot of trouble finding girls who are up to Mrs L.’s standards. Taggy’s wonderful, of course, but the other two don’t manage so well.”

    “Dear little girls, though… Taggy is wonderful, isn’t she?” he said glumly.

    Peter looked at him in some surprise. “You could do the job, Archie.”

    “Not that…” he said, still glum.

    Light began to dawn. “I see: you’ve fallen for Taggy, have you?”

    “Yeah. Don’t suppose I’ve got a hope.”

    “Not unless you’re up for marriage, no,” replied Peter frankly, deciding there was no point in beating about the bush.

    “Of course I am, you bloody cretin! I wouldn’t dream of— She’s a decent girl! But why should she look twice at me?”

    Rather naturally Peter hadn’t been observing the two of them particularly closely over the past month. “I think she likes you, Archie.”

    “She likes everybody,” he said glumly. “Well, not that bloody Yank from Texas, cut him down to size. Likewise that damned Australian lout on the beach that time. –You weren’t there, old man, it was the day Ken and I took the kid and his grandfather over to the big island for a picnic. A couple of the girls were off duty, so they came, too. Went to a nice beach, Angie had put us up a lovely lunch and we bought these smoothie fruit things from a stall, dunno what they had in them but I’d’ve classed it as nectar of the gods, personally. And this blond Australian hunk—egged on by his revolting Australian mates, I might add—made a hefty pass.”

    “I hope you socked him one.”

    “Didn’t have to, old boy: she—well, I couldn’t have done it without falling over, making a complete tit of myself—but she kind of swung round on one leg, and—wasn’t a kick—kind of shoved him with the other foot, whammo, right in the goolies! Collapsed all of a heap, serve the bugger right. –She was barefoot,” he added by the by.

    “Jesus! I wish I’d seen it!”

    “Yeah, it was something. Dunno what he’d actually said to her, I was too far away to hear—the kid was trying to show me how to surf on that board of his with the odd name.”

    “Boogie board, mm.”

    “That’s it, yes. –He cheered.”

    Peter choked.

    “Yes. Well, it was damn’ good. But as I say, she likes everybody. Don’t honestly think yours truly stands a chance, Peter.”

    “Look, if you’re serious, old man, go for it. She’s a lovely girl, she’s bright—nothing like what we’d call an education, but there’s nothing wrong with her brains—and she’s got a very sweet personality. And I know for a fact she’s a very loyal friend. But just in case you had any mad notions about dragging her back to Britain, forget it. I really don’t think it’d work. Life here is so completely different. And the families are very close; I think she’d pine.”

    “Wouldn’t dream of it. Well, little jaunt back, show her off—take her to Ascot, eh?” he beamed. “That’d put a few noses out of joint!”

    Mm. It’d raise a few eyebrows, too. “Yes, well, that’d have to be all. Er—the family’d throw a fit, I think, old chap.”

    He shrugged. “Sure to. Damn racist lot. Well, old Uncle Willy’d take one look and fall all over himself to turn on the charm, but he’s the exception. Too bad. Don’t need any of them: what’ve they ever done for me?”

    “Mm… It might mean a total breach, you know.”

    “Look,” said Archie forcefully: “Taggy or them? Which would you choose? What if it was Lalla or your bloody family?”

    “Not counting Maman, you mean?”

    “No, Peter, I don’t!”

    “Oh.”

    Archie waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “And your bloody daughter,” he added.

    “It’d be—” Peter broke off, as the point Archie carefully wasn’t making dawned. “Make that it will be Lalla. I shouldn’t be surprised if Candida issues an ultimatum. And if it came to the crunch it’d be Lalla over Maman. But it’s impossible to envisage that, really,” he added with a little smile.

    “No,” Archie conceded. “Lucky chap. Well, glad to hear it. So, um, well, speak to Mrs L., should I?”

    “Uh—oh! About the job! Yes, the sooner the better, I’d say.”

    “Right-ho. Um, Lalla did tell me that Taggy hasn’t got a boyfriend, and she thinks she likes me.”

    “Good! Well, there’s nothing wrong with you. I think you’d really be in with a chance if she sees you’re serious about staying here.”

    “Right!” said Archie determinedly. He got up. “I’ll speak to Mrs L. now.” With that he marched off.

    “Good grief,” said Peter limply.

    Petey was out of their hair—though it hadn’t happened soon enough: by the time Mary Nelson had recaptured him with the grim promise that he wouldn’t bother them again, Ken would take him over to Rarotonga with Jean, Roger, Bernice and Davey for a day’s sightseeing, Lalla had already received the summons to look at clothes. That and packing had taken up most of the remainder of the morning. By lunchtime Peter and Lalla were finally able to snatch a few minutes blessedly alone, and at that point the implications of something Archie had said began to percolate through to his dazed consciousness.

    “Lalla,” he said slowly.

    “Mm?” she replied from the kitchenette. “Shall we have a coffee? I must say, I’m not hungry after all that food yesterday.”

    “Me too neither. Yes, coffee’d be nice.”

    “Real or decaff?”

    “Real, thanks: I could do with a caffeine belt. My mind’s gone soggy.”

    She turned round with the jar of coffee in her hand, looking worried. “Are you okay?”

    “Suffering from sexual deprivation, but otherwise fine.”

    “I expect you’re tired.”

    “I am not— Sorry, darling. I’m not tired. I was talking to Archie earlier this morning while Mrs Ledbetter was forcing fur coats on you, and what he told me took aback, rather. The brain’s been trying to get into gear again, and— I’ll wait for the coffee.”

    “Do that,” said Lalla mildly. “There’s some little crisp biscuits to eat up, shall we have some?”

    “Why not?”

    Lalla waited until he’d drunk half his well-sugared coffee and eaten three little biscuits. Then she said: “Has it got back into gear again?”

    “Mm?” Peter had been wondering (a) if he could persuade his cook and her husband who did chauffeur and butler cum valet for him to emigrate to Australia and (b) if Angie would then impart the secret of these delicious little biscuits, and deciding that the answer was probably “no” on both counts. “Oh! Well, slightly more compos mentis. I’ve just learned that not only does Archie fancy staying here permanently, he also fancies Taggy like nobody’s biz.”

    “I know,” she said serenely.

    Peter took a deep breath. “I thought you ruddy well did! Now, just answer me this: did you or did you not deliberately tell him that she hasn’t got a boyfriend and she does like him?”

    “Sort of. I mean, he asked me if she had a boyfriend, so I just told him the truth; I don’t think you’d call that deliberate.”

    “Thank you. And?”

    “Yes,” said Lalla succinctly.

    “Why didn’t you mention it?”

    “You had too much else on your mind. Well, I mentioned it to Marie-Louise, but she already knew, of course.”

    Peter just looked at her limply.

    “I think they should get on very well together. She’s a lot brighter than him, but of course he’s more sophisticated. But they both enjoy the simple things of life, don’t they?”

    “Er, well, food and drink, in his case,” he said limply.

    “And an easy-going lifestyle.”

    “Ye-es… Well, yes: Archie’s always been what you could characterize as easy-going, I suppose.”

    “Yes: he’s the sort of person that takes people as he finds them. Roger likes him very much: that’s a really good sign.”

    “Is it? Well, good. I’ve encouraged him to think about working here on the reception desk: if the reaction of the Yank dames they’ve got in at the moment is any indication, the guests’ll like him.”

    “That’s great, Peter! So you’re not cross?”

    “No, I’m not cross, darling, just a bit worried: his matrimonial track record’s not too marvellous, you know.”

    “Peter, it sounds to me as if he was merely the innocent victim of three greedy, predatory women.”

    Peter was quite shaken. “I— I hadn’t thought of it in quite that light…”

    “No; men always think of themselves as the initiators and the leaders, don’t they?” she said calmly. “But if you look at things objectively you can see it’s often the other way round entirely."

    “You’re right, by gosh and by golly!”

    She just gave him that serene smile of hers, nodded at him and took another little crisp biscuit.

    Jean kissed Lalla firmly. “Now, don’t worry about anything. We’ll keep an eye on Bernice, and if she does decide she’d like to stay on and work here, I’ll speak to Coralie.”

    “Don’t forget my Lego and my cricket bat,” said Petey anxiously.

    “They’re packed, you twit, you know that,” replied Roger calmly. “All your stuff’ll be safe in our garage until your dad sends for it, okay?”

    “Yeah.”

    “‘Yes, thank you, Roger’,” Marie-Louise corrected firmly.

    “Yes, thank you, Roger,” Petey agreed meekly.

    “You’re welcome,” Roger replied solemnly. “All set? Let Ken take your bag.”

    “No, I’m carrying it!” Petey hung on grimly to his small suitcase.

    “You’ll have to let them take it off you at the airport, they won’t let you carry it on the plane, you know,” noted Davey. He winked at Bernice and she clapped her hand to her mouth and gave a stifled giggle.

    Petey awarded Davey a look of loathing. “I know that!”

    “That’ll do,” said Peter mildly. “We all know Davey can’t help it, Petey. Just ignore him: the whole family does.”

    “Do they?” he demanded of Archie.

    “Far’s I know, yes. Gather the whole company pretty much ignored him when he worked for Quinn Sale, too. I say, I’ve been meaning to ask you: what was that funny-looking fruit you had the other day? Bumpy. Sort of greenish skin.”

    “It’s not sour.”

    “No?”

    “Nah. It’s just called a soursop, see?”

    “Oh, right! Must try it.”

    “It’s good. It’s not cold but it’s kind of like ice cream.”

    “I say! Jolly good show. Right, I’ll try it!”

    “You could send me a postcard.”

    “And let you know how I liked it? Wilco, old chum.”

    “Do ya know Peter’s address?”

    “Absolutely. Got it in me diary. And the phone number at the flat.”

    “Good,” he said, apparently satisfied, and boarding the launch. Mrs Tangianau, who was already aboard, immediately ordered him to sit on her lap, and to everyone’s astonishment the sophisticated Master Holcroft, aged ten, not a kid, unquote, did so.

    Those who had been dreading the moment at which it would dawn that he’d actually have to leave the island sagged, and his parents followed him limply onto the craft.

    And with fond farewells in several languages, and much waving, and bursts of tears from Taggy, Holly, Sarah and, to Peter’s surprise, Angie, they were off. The smaller plane to Auckland first, a brief stopover at the Auckland Airport Travelodge, where John Faraday, who’d gone on ahead, would meet them, if all went as planned, with the warm clothes for Lalla that had come over to Wellington in the French diplomatic bag, and then the big plane to London.

    They would also, incidentally, be met at Auckland by Tanya’s mum, who had—apparently—declared robustly that they weren’t to worry about clothes for the little boy, there was a box full of things that “the boys”—eventually understood to be her grandchildren and Tanya’s nephews—had grown out of. Very, very fortunately, once it had dawned that the Macdonald brothers were now all over six foot and that the eldest had been in the First Fifteen at Auckland Grammar, Petey had beamed and declared: “Ace! See, I’m kind of a Macdonald, too!”

    Some wives at this point might have made pointed remarks in re tents on the lawn and stretchers and sleeping bags in the sitting-room, and brought up the expression “rallying round”—but the new Lady Sale didn’t. So there you were!

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/overseas-or-plus-ca-change.html