by J. P. Pomare
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Stream: 019C
Viewers: 009
A man in his sixties is nude in the villa’s pool as seen on camera 3. The stone Balinese statue behind him spurts a stream of water into the pool and he swims to it and lets the flow splash over his head – 9 viewers. On camera 2 a grey-haired woman is mixing pineapple juice with vodka in tall glasses with ice. She does a small dance in the kitchen to whatever music is playing. Then she carries the drinks over, puts one near the pool’s edge and the other on the low table beside the banana lounge. She steps out of her sundress, wearing a bikini now – 11 viewers. Puts on a large straw hat and lies down on the banana lounge, taking up her drink. They pass most of the day like this, moving in and out of the pool, in and out of the house. Two masseuses arrive in the afternoon. In the sun, the couple get massages.
EIGHT
IT’S ONE OF those weeks of sulky New Zealand weather. Rain that comes down slowly, consistently for days. Halfway through my next shift Scotty says, ‘Heard from Rick.’
‘Rick Reynolds?’
‘Yeah. He didn’t say anything about the cops but he asked about you.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘Nothing really. Just wanted to know how long we’ve worked together.’ He laughs. ‘Haven’t seen him in twenty years and he just wanted to talk about some ambo he met for five minutes.’ A stitch digs in at my side. I don’t want to push him any further about it, but it doesn’t feel right. He might just be winding me up as payback for calling the police. The shift passes slowly, it’s a quiet night and when I get home I can barely sleep again. Every night I think about Daniel, I wonder when he will try to get in contact with me again. I relive that night we spent together, the guilt pressing down.
The next day after my run I get back to find Cain standing there waiting for me. He’s beaming. ‘We have a booking,’ he says.
‘A booking?’ I swipe my forearm across my brow. ‘A WeStay booking?’
It’s been weeks; I was beginning to wonder if it was going to happen. Cain had tweaked the photos, lowered the price and, voila, we have contact. ‘Come have a look.’
Cherry has requested to book Casa Tarawera – mid-century retreat. That’s what I see on the screen of Cain’s computer when I walk into his study. $432.60 for two nights. The first money we’ve made from the property. It feels odd. Strangers will sleep in our beds, they will sit on our couch looking out at our view of the lake.
‘That is so cool,’ I say, as he lowers himself into his desk chair. ‘Go on, check them out.’
He turns back to the screen and clicks the profile. A small maple leaf flag suggests they’re Canadian. Home town: Vancouver, BC. Cain scrolls through the reviews from other hosts: 5.0 stars average rating. Perfect. Six reviews.
Left our place spotless.
Easy to communicate with and very tidy.
Loved hosting Dan and Cherry, very friendly and flexible.
‘Look at the other places they’ve stayed.’
‘How?’ Cain asks.
‘Click the profiles of the people who have left reviews.’
He does, we see the listings and go through them one by one, checking out the places they’ve been. They’ve got good taste by the looks of it. Always big houses from different parts of the world: Portugal, Morocco, Japan. They seem to be working their way around the globe and Lake Tarawera is next on their list.
‘Anyone could follow them around,’ Cain says, ‘stay at the same places after them, relive their trip.’
‘Why would you bother?’ I say.
‘Well, there are some freaks out there.’
It’s four hundred and thirty-two dollars we wouldn’t otherwise have. Money for nothing really and easily covers the costs of setting the place up.
Cain opens Google and he punches their name in, strikes enter and results flood the page.
‘What are you doing?’
‘No one is going to be honest on their WeStay profile. Let’s see if we can find their Facebook page.’ He’s scrolling as he talks.
‘Really? This feels a little like stalking.’
‘It’s harmless, Lina,’ he says. ‘Plus what if they were neo-Nazis or child abusers, you would want to know, right?’
‘Probably not. And who would list that on their Facebook anyway?’
‘It’s not hard to tell something is off about someone just by looking at what they choose to share. Couple of guys from my unit constantly post borderline neo-Nazi propaganda.’
Their social media profiles are easy to find. Cain finds the man’s twitter and reads his tweets aloud. Twitter is where you learn the most about people. A couple of hundred characters of anger, or admiration. Dan thinks Trudeau is a puppet. He’s a big Maple Leafs fan but will not be renewing his membership if they don’t fire the head coach soon. Cherry retweeted a feel-good quote from Chrissy Teigen and tweets about going to the gym almost every day, with images of smoothies, gym shots of her mid squat with a bar across her shoulders. More healthy recipes and #fitspo. She posted an image of an old man I assume is her father, on the anniversary of his death. I find their LinkedIn accounts on my phone. Dan has a much more professional photo than his Twitter account. A shirt with an open collar, a smile that is slightly restrained.
‘He’s a geologist working in exploration for a mining company,’ I say.
‘No wonder he hates Trudeau,’ Cain says.
‘She’s an accountant and has worked at the same firm for nine years but is taking annual leave for an upcoming trip to New Zealand. They have a chocolate border collie at home and were so sad to leave him at the kennels while they were away on their last trip. Who calls a dog Donald?’
‘A Trump fan,’ he says.
‘Ugh.’ Four hundred and thirty dollars, I remind myself. ‘Might need to burn sage after they leave.’
Cain, who is, as far as I know, politically agnostic, stands now. ‘They’ll be fine.’
‘Maybe we don’t do this with each guest,’ I say with an uneasy squeezing feeling inside. ‘I don’t think it makes me feel any better.’
‘Really?’ He laughs. ‘You don’t find this interesting? Kind of fun? It’s harmless.’
I swallow. ‘Fun? Really?’ It doesn’t feel like we are looking into the internet at them but rather they’re looking out at us. I shudder.
‘You like it,’ he says. ‘I can tell.’
•
When the weekend comes around, he does it again. Only this time I catch him in the act, at his desk in the study. I head in to ask if he needs anything from the grocer and see he’s on their social media feeds. I lean against his desk.
‘At it again?’ I say.
‘Just checking up on them,’ he says. ‘They’re there now at our place.’
On Cherry’s Instagram there are photos from in our house. Grinning, sitting around our table, using our Yahtzee set, and drinking the wine we left out for them from our glasses.
‘I think you’re a voyeur,’ I tease.
‘Maybe I am,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to pretend I don’t find it interesting.’
‘Am I pretending that I don’t find it interesting?’
‘You seem to be.’
He opens up the electricity app. Bar graphs spread on the page showing time of usage for the day.
‘The information is out there, they are putting it out there. And it’s important for us to make sure they’re looking after the house. Like this,’ he says, looking at the power app closely. ‘They’ve been using power since yesterday afternoon, so we know they arrived and made it inside.’
‘The power peaked this morning for an hour at ten,’ I note, looking closely at the bars.
‘It must have been the oven, or the heater,’ he says. I can see why some people like to watch others, just for a short while; inhabit them in a way as if they’re watching their favourite TV show, or reading a familiar book. They can be that person for a while to escape themselves. But there is a line, and
when you cross that line you’re no longer doing due diligence but stalking.
‘Don’t overthink it,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘It’s natural to be curious.’
‘What if they have sex in our bed?’ I say, trying to make light of it all.
‘They probably have.’
I let out a huff of laughter. ‘That’s gross.’
‘I’m more worried about them breaking something or getting into the basement and going through our things,’ he says.
‘Surely we’ve got some protection against damage from WeStay.’
‘They’ve left a thousand dollar security deposit.’
‘Is that enough?’
‘What sort of damage could they do?’
My phone vibrates and I almost leap. I leave the room before opening the message. Something clots near my heart.
Hey Anna, Daniel here. I know it’s been a while but I was hoping to catch up again soon. I’ve still got your necklace with the ring on it from that night.
I look back; Cain’s eyes are fixed on the computer screen. I quickly punch out a message. It’s been a month. The ring won’t just materialise.
How did you get my number? I never gave it to you.
I see him typing, the three dots dancing on the screen.
I have my ways.
I feel like I can’t breathe. This is all backfiring. And yet it feels inevitable, a car crash in slow motion but only I realise the pain is coming; it’s a moment or an eternity away but it will arrive. I delete all the messages except that last one, so I have his number: I have my ways. Playful, I think. Or threatening? I turn my phone off, go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. That thought comes again: Change your number. I will, but first I’ll try to get my wedding band back. That ring cannot be replaced. A plan forms.
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NINE
A BREEZE SWEEPS in from the sea, between the islands and across the rippling plain of water. We’re accompanied by that odd percussion of aluminium tinging and boats knocking the harbour. The viaduct, one of Auckland’s social hubs, is a nice walk although it tends to be heaving with tourists. I’ve not been to a bar in so long, not since that night with Daniel. I think about him as we stroll along.
I have still got to organise the exchange: my necklace for a second meeting. He’s suggested a drink, but when boys like Daniel suggest a drink what they really mean is more than a drink. At the very least he wants a chance to charm me, get me in bed again. It was so easy for him last time; he probably thinks it would happen as easily as the first time.
Thankfully Cain’s had other things to occupy his attention and hasn’t mentioned the ring again. But he will. He’s been quiet, working hard, a little distant. He was first like this when the media began to follow the story of the botched raid. Skelton killed himself three months and seventeen days after the investigation began. Six days after a document was leaked and published by the Blood, Sweat and Beers political blog that implicated him and suggested an arrest was imminent. A still from the headcam footage showing the victims reached the media, and the story of a once celebrated, now disgraced soldier metastasized into cautionary tales of war, potential CTE, a man pushed to the edge. Family, friends, old schoolteachers all said the same thing. War changed him. I didn’t get this information from Cain but all the others who gave interviews. A letter released by Skelton’s mother to the media revealed his attitude towards the leadership in the military. They trained us to kill but they can’t untrain us. Did Cain hold the same views? Were they let down by those in charge?
After Afghanistan, Cain showed no desire to go back to warzones, until one day he told me how much he would make as a private contractor for oil companies. They needed security, and others from his unit had signed up, making astronomical sums of money. ‘I could set us up for life,’ he had said. ‘If it wasn’t for this buggered knee of mine.’
I hold Cain’s hand in the pocket of his puffer jacket as another gust sweeps in from the sea. The boats rock, their masts swinging like needles hacking at the twilight sky. His phone sounds. ‘Another one,’ he says, extracting it from his jeans pocket. ‘It’s for this weekend.’ Once he lowered the price on WeStay, the floodgate opened. I’m growing used to that familiar chime of his phone, heralding a new booking. Dan and Cherry Evans stayed last weekend. Now so many others have booked. The squares of the calendar are filling up. Each one represents more money, greater financial security. One step closer to the life we want.
‘I’m still a little nervous about the state they left the house in,’ I say. ‘What if they stole something?’
He takes his hand from his pocket and wraps it around my shoulders. ‘Everything will be fine. Trust me.’
Late afternoon crowds fill the bars, mostly tourists. Our dinner booking with Claire and Axel is for eight. We’re not far from the restaurant, Amano, in the trendy central hub of Britomart, but our reservation isn’t for another hour, so Cain wants to have a drink first.
‘What about here?’ I say, pointing to the terraces of a bar overlooking the busiest corner of the viaduct. It’s near the America’s Cup exhibit showing the black keel of the 1995 winning yacht. He looks up, sees all the knots of young people on the patio.
‘Busy for a Tuesday,’ he says. ‘There’s a quieter place around the corner.’
‘Sure.’
He takes us to a wine bar, a different crowd. Hipster types, a few suits having a knock-off. We find a quiet booth.
‘You want a wine?’ he says.
‘Maybe just a soda water.’
He goes to leave, pauses and slowly wheels back towards me. ‘You feeling alright?’
I find myself subconsciously rubbing my elbow. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m just not drinking much.’
He pokes out his bottom lip, regards me for a second longer. ‘Soda water,’ he says. When he returns with our drinks, he exhales as he sits and the old leather of the seat creaks.
‘I’ll need to head down and clean the house after the last guests since we still haven’t organised a cleaner.’
‘I can help,’ I say. ‘It’d have to be on one of my days off.’
‘No, it’s fine, I can go when you’re working.’
‘Why don’t we just go tomorrow, or after my shift on Thursday, in the afternoon? I could sleep on the way down.’ I don’t want him to resent me for not helping, despite it being his idea.
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got no work on Thursday. I can go early in the morning and get back before dark. I’m only thinking of you.’
‘Cain,’ I say, reaching for his hand over the table. It’s cool from where he was holding his beer. ‘Let me help.’
‘No,’ he says, with the weight of finality that seems to come much easier to men like my husband than women like me. ‘It’s my project and I don’t want you worrying about anything. It’s easier if I manage it.’
And with that the decision is made. I’m not going to argue when he’s right. The thought of any damage to that house fills my gut with dread, despite the deposit and insurance. I would stress the entire drive down there. He takes a big mouthful of his beer and says, ‘So where exactly is the last place you remember wearing your ring?’
I drink some of my soda water and an air bubble seems to be trapped in my chest. It hurts to swallow. ‘Oh I forgot to mention,’ I say. ‘It actually turned up.’
‘It did?’
Why did I lie? It came so naturally, so quickly that before I can stop myself more words come out. ‘It was in my locker, like I said. Right down the bottom. It’s a
ctually getting a little big for me, this whole not drinking thing has not only shed weight off my body but my fingers too apparently.’ I try to laugh, but the sound is unnatural. ‘I’ve got to pick it up soon, it’s being resized.’
He’s frowning. ‘How much does that cost?’
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes on the table between us and I see Axel’s name. I’m grateful for the distraction. I need to get my ring now. If I can’t get it back from Daniel I’ll have to get a replica made, find a way to siphon the money from our account, take a photo to a jeweller.
‘Kia ora,’ Cain says. ‘We’re just at – what’s this bar called, Lina?’
I crane my head to look through the window at the sign. ‘A Deeper Blue.’
‘A Deeper Blue, mate. Just off the viaduct … no worries, I’ll order for you both. Pint of lager and a lemon, lime and bitters.’
Axel arrives in a tidy faded black shirt and dark jeans. Claire comes in beside him, winged mascara and a warm smile.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ he says, shaking Cain’s hand. Planting a kiss on my cheek. Claire comes over next.
‘You look gorgeous as always. Love this top. Where’s it from?’
Discount bin at H&M. ‘Oh, I can’t remember where I picked this one up.’
They find their seats beside us and take up the drinks Cain had ordered for them. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be one of those nights where we forget about money and live like Axel and Claire, drinking cocktails and overeating, only to get a reality check when the bill comes. Cain laughs at something Axel has said, but I miss the joke, occupied instead by thoughts of the ring. I devise intricate plans to get it back but they all end the same way, with me having to see Daniel again. Could I really risk it a second time? Claire touches my wrist.
‘How is work?’
I press a smile to my lips. ‘It’s work,’ I say. ‘You?’
‘Busy, busy. Classes are filling up and Axel is planning on offering yoga and Pilates when he opens the new gym so we might even work together.’
‘Great idea.’
Axel speaks to me now. ‘So the WeStay idea, was I right or was I right?’
