Emma was left alone for six days in a strange city in a foreign country, away from her parents who were caring for her two children. It was understandable she was miserable about this but she was happy for her husband Paul who'd left excitedly that morning as a member of a five-person party on a charter fishing trip – a catch guaranteed, which Paul had said probably would be either a cold or perhaps an STD if a woman was onboard.
Meeting that last cynical comment with a brave grin, Emma kissed Paul goodbye and assured him she'd have a wonderful, busy time and would really enjoy not having him wanting her to move on to the next store, next counter or even the next street as he did when accompanying her shopping.
Paul had wanted to come to this country for the fishing, said to be fabulous, and to walk two of the world-rated tracks in the South Island of this place called New Zealand.
It had rained every day on those bush walks – amazing scenery yes – but scenery is not a priority when your legs are tired from sloshing through mud and you have a rain-wet ass for five to six hours a day. She didn't complain because whenever she had a mind to complain it was Paul's considered opinion she should keep her mouth shut.
Emma knew in some ways she'd be better off without Paul. She'd take control of her life and revel at laughing without being told she laughed too loudly, and wear dresses that allowed men and even interested women to see how she stacked up and to stay in the bath for two hours simply because the alternative to getting out was to stay in and at times that seemed the better choice.
Paul was a bully and she was a wimp. Emma was perfectly aware of that, but awareness does not change fact. Because of Paul she lived in a beautiful home in Chicago, they had two adorable children and Paul was always saying he loved her to bits and those bits he was talking about were on her chest and both sides of her lower middle.
There had to be more to life than generally having a lack-luster time living with Paul who was old before his time at thirty-two, Megan an impish six-year-old and she had Danny seven years ago when she was twenty and tearfully pregnant. She'd forever be grateful to Paul who did the decent thing and married her, partly because of his desire to see what his child would look like and partly because Emma's father loaded his shotgun in front of Paul but definitely did not point it at him or threaten him with it – though Paul always said those things were definitely implied. Oh, he confessed to her drunkenly one night five years ago that his insurance company bosses had let it be known to him that they preferred their senior executives to be married with children as that established those executives as solid, stable citizens.
Emma had thought about having an affair, but Paul never introduced her to any likely types and besides she was timid about indulging in such liaisons because in all the affairs she read about in books the guys administering to the women's loneliness always seemed determined to push their thing up the poor women's back passage. Is that what I really want, Emma would ask, almost gagging.
Prepared to suffer on-going days of boredom, Emma soaked for 135 minutes in the bath and emerged nude from the bathroom, her wrinkled skin from that long immersion in water making her look like at woman 129 years of age, rather than one not long into her twenty-ninth year. She then dressed in a half bra and a low neck sweater usually she wore over a silk shirt – thinking Paul would be less than impressed with this.
She wondered about going to a bar to see if there was a man she could be interested in; the thought of Paul sharing the one woman on the boat with five other men – well, he had implied that, hadn't he? – had not impressed her at all. But it was only 9:30 so the men in bars that early in the morning would unlikely be suitable for a clean-living female used to sex once a week and then only with her husband.
Walking to an intersection Emma saw a bus that carried a sign indicating it continuously circled the city centre. She stepped aboard and the driver said she couldn't do that – she'd have to board at the designated bus stop.
"You sound like my husband," Emma said airily, dropped a coin into the cash receptacle and sat down.
Before too long she became aware they were leaving the shopping district and worked out she'd prefer to be traveling in the other direction, so left the bus at the next designated bus stop, saying to the driver as she turned to go down the steps – "Be nice to your wife when you arrive home, do you hear?"
She thought the reply was 'Fuck off" but perhaps she was mistaken.
Right in front of Emma were the high walls of the rear of a supermarket. Though aware she'd not come to New Zealand to go to a supermarket there was not rule to say she shouldn't, so she walked around the corner and found an entrance.
She felt at home instantly, devouring all the 'special' signs and boggling at the prices that seemed unbelievable low to her.
The thought of amusing herself by trying to find a suitable male to invite back to her hotel room – well knowing that wouldn't happen as it would scare the crap out of her – Emma picked up a hand basket, rather than a trolley, because she had no intention of buying anything. But soon, forgetting she was thousands of miles from home – Emma had deposited into the small basket a box of rubber bands (42 percent off the normal retail price), can of fly spray (28 percent off), 4 inch paint brush (33 percent off), two lovely T-bone steaks (there were no cooking facilities in her hotel suite), a pack of AAA batteries (free from the passed use-by date bin) and eleven items from the skin and nail care aisle.
Satisfied with her haul, the trawling for which had completely removed boredom from her mind because she'd been operating in familiar territory, she went to the check-out where reality struck.
The chewing gum cashier, aged about 20, looked at the $100 bill offered by Emma and said: "Sorry love, we don't take that foreign stuff".
Emma: "Oh, what can I do?"
Cashier: "Put it all back or wait aside until my supervisor comes free.
Voice behind Emma: "Here's the money."
Emma: "Thank you but you certainly cannot do that. I don't know you."
Cashier: "If you two have finished may I have the money."
Voice: "Certainly – here it is."
Emma: "Stop, you can't do that."
Second voice: "Take the fucking offer, lady."
Third voice: "Go home Yank."
Fourth voice: "You're holding everyone up."
Supervisors: What's going on here?"
Emma walked out greatly embarrassed and by mistake rode the moving walkway to the top level of the basement car park instead of walking out the way she'd entered. In the car park she looked about vaguely attempting to figure out why she was in a car park.
"Lost your car, love," said the same male voice of the man who'd paid $34.27 for her purchases.
"No, my car is back in Chicago," Emma answered, bottom lip trembling.
"Oh dear," said the voice which then introduced its owner as Harry. "You better come along with me. We can't have Mrs America wandering about confused in this strange city of Auckland, and I'm telling you it can be strange."
"I'm not Mrs America – I'm Emma."
