Spinning Around

by Catherine Jinks

  It wasn’t until half past eight that they were finally asleep, and I had a chance to tackle the photo albums.

  The photo albums are pretty much my domain. Until Jonah was born, the family’s photographic record was totally under control; I’d labelled every shot and slipped it into a protective pocket. (All our latest photos are sitting about in Kodak envelopes, of course, but I can’t do everything.) My own life is chronicled in nine thick albums, dating from my fourth year at high school. Matt’s is less exhaustively covered. In fact he’s lost most of the photos that ever came his way before he met me, with the exception of those collected and preserved by one of his former girlfriends, Nadia. Nadia was a neurotic girl who took countless brooding, black-and-white photographs which she arranged with great style and sensibility in albums that she constructed herself out of handmade paper and old-fashioned corner mounts. She also used old concert and airline tickets, pressed flowers, postcards, feathers, colour polaroids and scribbled phone messages to construct these ‘memory books’, one of which she gave to Matt as a birthday present. I’m always gobsmacked when I look at it. For one thing, the girl must have had as much spare time as those Victorian women who used to embroider elaborate designs on their doilies, slippers and underwear. For another, you get the impression, as you leaf through the rough, maroon and charcoal-coloured pages, that Matt spent two years of his life contemplating the Oneness of Being in isolated mountain weekenders, or Pyrenean farmhouses, or disintegrating country sheds. Whenever I tease him about this, he replies, in plaintive tones, that he never even went as far as Bathurst, during those two years, and it isn’t his fault that Nadia had him picked as a closet folk poet, or something. ‘Half of those shots she took while I was asleep,’ he wails.

  But this was the album I wanted. This was the album that I emptied the linen closet for, discovering it at last under a pile of my grandmother’s crocheted table napkins. I hauled it out, opened it up, and flicked hurriedly through the out-of-focus (‘atmospheric’) landscape shots, the fragment of dried cabbagepalm leaf, the Manly ferry tickets, the portraits of Matt—all dark shadows and glinting eyes—the photographs of river pebbles, of an empty café chair, of a rake leaning against a weatherboard wall, until I came to a typical, rather dingy colour snap taken in somebody’s living room. Nadia had tried to tart it up with highlights drawn onto hairlines and T-shirts and sofa cushions with some kind of glitter-glue pen. She had even drawn a couple of sparkling purple ‘auras’ around herself and Matt, and had framed the shot with strips of Christmas tinsel. But for all her effort, the photograph was still a muddy happysnap, with acres of white wall and people’s eyes reflecting an eerie red light.

  Beside it was written, in purple glitter-glue: ‘Gary’s housewarming— Matt and Nadia, Gary Comino, Eva Wobilt, Megan Molesdale, Dillon Draper, Mark Verney’.

  The date, I worked out, must have been all of seventeen years ago.

  Seventeen years ago, Megan Molesdale was a skinny girl with dark, spiky hair cut short, big lips covered in plum-coloured lipstick, lots of teeth, and a taste for exotic earrings. Even then, she looked to be in her early twenties.

  There’s no way on earth that she could now pass for anything under forty.

  I went and poured myself a gin and tonic. It was obvious that I’d been barking up the wrong tree. Megan Molesdale was an old friend of Matt’s—one of the crew he mixed with when he was fresh out of Newcastle. Mark Verney was in Matt’s first band. Nadia had introduced them both to a host of artistic girls who liked Balinese puppets and French cinema and African music and Lebanese food. Megan, I was sure, had been one of those girls. If she was a potter now, she could have been an artistic girl back then. In fact, I was quite sure that I remembered Matt mentioning a potter among them. A girl who wanted to build a kiln in her backyard, and who applied to the Australia Council for a grant to study pottery-making in Java, or somewhere like that.

  She wasn’t, I felt sure, the Girl With Purple Hair. Though it seemed odd that Matt hadn’t mentioned her. Why not tell me that his old mate Megan had suddenly surfaced, after all these years? Unless Megan was living with the purple-haired girl? Unless that’s how Matt had met her?

  It was certainly possible.

  But there was another possibility. As I made a half-hearted meal of leftover lamb stew and buttered toast, I chewed over the alternatives, and suddenly remembered that other call. The answering-machine call. ‘Hello, you have reached Paul, Marcus and Joe, we can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you. In the meantime, party hard!’

  What on earth had led me to assume that there was an ‘e’ on the end of ‘Jo’?

  I put off the Dread Moment for as long as possible. I washed the dishes, sorted the laundry, put on my pyjamas and picked up a hamperful of toys before I finally summoned up the courage to hunt down that number again. I was almost hoping for another message from the answering machine. Instead, after two rings, someone picked up the phone. Someone male.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said. There was music playing in the background.

  ‘Ah—oh. Hello.’

  ‘Hang on. Will you turn that down, for fuck’s sake? Yeah?’

  ‘Is Joe there?’

  ‘Jo? Yeah, hang on. I’ll just get her.’

  Her! So it was a her! ‘Wait!’ I said. But he’d already put the receiver down. I didn’t know what to do—I was petrified. If I had been able to move, I probably would have hung up, instinctively. As it was, by the time I regained full use of my limbs, I was already debating the question in my head. Should I hang up or not? If she came to the phone, what would I say? Then I heard the sound of footsteps, far away in that unknown house.

  ‘Hello?’ It was the same voice. ‘Listen, she’s not here. I thought she was.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Can I take a message? Hang on, I’ll get a pen. Where’s the bloody pen, Marcus, I left it right here! ’

  ‘No—wait—it’s all right.’ My brain was beginning to work again. ‘Just—can you tell me her second name? I have to post something.’

  ‘Cleary.’

  ‘Cleary?’

  ‘Do you want the address too?’

  ‘Oh—well, perhaps I’d better check that I’ve got it right.’

  He gave me the address—a street in Surry Hills. He was quite polite, really, though he sounded as rough as guts. Certainly he wasn’t the person who had recorded the answering-machine message.

  I thanked him, and hung up. Jo Cleary of Surry Hills.

  A Surry Hills girl would have ready access to Oxford Street. A Surry Hills girl would have no reason not to dye her hair purple.

  I sat there for a while with my head in my hands. That fuckwit, I thought. That miserable fuckwit. Then it occurred to me that this still wasn’t proof; I still couldn’t be sure. Even if I sat outside that house in Surry Hills for a week, and established beyond question that it was occupied by a girl with purple hair, what would that really prove? What I needed was to know, for sure, before I could make a decision. You can’t make an informed decision about anything unless . . . well, unless you’re properly informed. Right? I mean, if you’re going to win any arguments, you have to see to it that your ammunition is all lined up in front of you first. You can’t afford to be winded by an unexpected blow. That’s what I’ve learnt at work, anyway— always be prepared.

  I rang Miriam again, but she wasn’t at home. There were about eight messages on her answering machine. I left another one (where could she have got to?) and considered the possibility of a private detective. It seems insane, but people must use them, mustn’t they? I know Miriam does. She hires them all the time, when the bank’s in trouble. At least she must know how much they cost.

  All I need is someone to follow Jo Cleary for a day or two, and see whether she meets up with Matt. It wouldn’t be too difficult, or expensive. I’d do it myself, if I had the time. If I didn’t have to worry about Emily and Jonah.

  Private d
etectives. They’re so sleazy. But what am I supposed to do? And if I hire a detective, and he comes back with good news, then there’s no harm done, is there? And if he comes back with bad news, then at least I’ll know where I stand. I’ll be able to say: this is the situation. This is exactly how I feel. (It’s the not knowing that makes me so confused.) This is my decision, and these are your options, Matt. It’s your call, now.

  On the other hand, what sort of a person hires a private detective? A pathetic human being, that’s who. A hopeless case. A person who needs therapy.

  Perhaps I do need therapy. I think I’m really going mad, here.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tuesday

  Matt came home late last night. It must have been about ten-thirty, and he woke me up. But I didn’t say anything.

  Why didn’t I say anything?

  I can’t believe that I’m behaving like this. Maybe it’s because I’ve got a cold. I went to bed with a headache last night and woke up with a mild sore throat. For someone with two kids, waking up with a dead horse’s head would be preferable to waking up with a cold, because at least horses’ heads aren’t contagious. Colds in this family last an average of six weeks as they spread from person to person. What’s more, if Matt and I get one at the same time, then we’re really stuffed. (Have you ever tried looking after two snotty, whiny kids while your own head is bursting and your chest is full of cement?) Nobody ever gets any sleep, thanks to the coughing, and when Jonah’s not coughing all night Emily’s puking all night, because a gutful of swallowed mucus always sets her off.

  I don’t even want to think about it. Why did this have to happen now? I can’t cope with this now. I’m tired enough as it is. I’m miserable enough as it is. I don’t need a sinus infection to make things worse.

  Anyway, that’s one reason why I didn’t say anything— because I wasn’t feeling strong enough for a confrontation. It was going to be hard enough, driving all the way to Penrith. Driving all the way to Penrith after a night spent trying to salvage a marriage would have been impossible. Besides, I still didn’t have any proof. In my woozy state, I clung to the decision that I’d made last night: proof first, ask questions later. I had to talk to Miriam before I talked to Matt.

  To tell you the truth, I didn’t feel like talking to him at all, this morning. I left a set of written instructions on the kitchen table before I went, reminding him to put out the garbage bin, pay the phone bill, buy some more milk, use the rest of the spaghetti in the fridge, ask the builders (if they came) to fix the drain cover that they broke, and turn on the washing machine. Since he was still in a zombie-like state at the time of my departure, I had every excuse to communicate in writing. But perhaps I shouldn’t have done it. Perhaps it looked a bit . . . well, you know. Like a memo to a junior employee, or something. Though in my defence let me say that I did add a row of little crosses under my name.

  Oh, dear. Another bad decision, no doubt.

  What with the peak-hour traffic and my slow reflexes, it took me nearly an hour to reach Penrith, even though I used the Motorway. Then I got lost, and had to consult my street directory. Finally, however, I found the Large Service Company that I was looking for, in a three-storeyed building on one of the main streets. I suppose I won’t be sailing too close to the wind if I reveal that it’s a specialist cleaning company? Probably not. Anyway, I won’t get too specific as regards the floor number, or the size of its staff. I’ll just say that the offices were a little shabby, fitted out with a grey, diamond-patterned carpet that must have been twenty years old, and a mismatched assortment of desks and chairs which had also seen better days.

  I have to add, by the way, that the whole place could have done with a good clean.

  I was greeted by the receptionist, who happened to be one of my witnesses. She looked about sixteen—a sandy blonde with strangely vivid lipstick, who didn’t so much as blink an eyelid when she heard my name. She put a call through to her supervisor and branch manager, the notorious Mr L., informing him that I had arrived. Then she went back to her typing.

  Mr L. came as quite a shock to me. From his letter, I had inferred that he would be a glowering, graceless person who would throw every possible obstacle in my way. It can often be surprising when you first lay eyes on a respondent in a sexual harassment case: many of them are grey-haired and dignified, or dry and bespectacled, or just plain harmless looking.

  Nevertheless, after talking to them for a while, you’ll often get a sense of something that’s slightly out of kilter. The grey-haired doctor’s eyes might be cold with rage and contempt. The bespectacled warehouse manager might talk with a barely concealed sneer. The harmless-looking sales representative might resort to an off-colour joke. Nothing concrete, you understand— nothing you could take to court. But you suddenly find that you can picture the respondent committing those acts of which he (or she) has been accused. What I mean is, you actually start to entertain the idea that a complaint might have some substance. Because it’s very difficult, sometimes, to visualise a balding, 53-year-old marketing manager in a grey suit and rimless spectacles squeezing a publicity officer’s tits and uttering ‘honk-honk’ noises. It requires a leap of imagination that some people can’t make.

  As I said, we have to be objective. And it’s hard not to question the veracity of a complainant who accuses her coworker of ejaculating into her coffee. An accusation like that tends to raise as many doubts about the complainant’s emotional stability as it does about the respondent’s. All the same, it’s a fact that we hardly ever get any complaints that are frivolous, vexatious or misconceived. The whole conciliation process is far too long and onerous for anyone to endure if they just want to make trouble. So by the time it gets to me, a complaint has to be treated seriously, even if it does involve a wind-up walking penis or a really pathetic memo about crotchless underwear.

  But I was talking about Mr L. To my surprise, Mr L. came out of his office with a welcoming smile on his face. He was a man of slim build and middle height, with mild grey eyes, lots of curly brown hair (slightly touched with grey), and a soft, pleasant voice. He wore a wedding ring on his left hand, which felt dry and warm when I shook it.

  ‘So you managed to find the place,’ he said, after we’d introduced ourselves. ‘Would you like a coffee, or something? Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I replied. It was awkward that I had to go through Mr L. to speak to my witnesses, who were all under his supervision. But he didn’t seem to find it in the least bit unnerving. On the contrary, he appeared to be quite relaxed. He asked me if I wanted to use his office or the ‘tearoom’ for my interviews; the rest of the premises were open-plan, he said, and not very private. I elected to use the tearoom. As well as a sink, a fridge and a microwave oven, this room contained a large conference table and ten chairs. There was also a hot-water urn, a matching jar of International Roast, and a collection of toxic-looking dishcloths. I have never seen a less welcoming tearoom.

  ‘Now—you said you wanted to talk to Aris?’ Mr L. remarked, searching the cupboards for a water jug.

  ‘Aris, Alissa and Christine.’

  ‘Right. Aris is out on a job, but I told him to report in here at ten.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  I was waiting for him to say something—something along the lines of ‘Hopefully we’ll be able to straighten this whole thing out’. But he didn’t say another word. Having found the jug and a couple of glasses, he arranged them on the table beside my briefcase. Then he gave me a crooked smile and left to find Alissa.

  Alissa was the receptionist. She had been named as the coworker who had allegedly overheard Mr L. asking Ms F. if her sex life had improved lately. Examining her lacquered fingernails, Alissa agreed that Mr L. had said something to that effect. She sounded bored.

  ‘Has he ever made any other references to her sex life in your hearing?’ I asked.

  ‘He might have. I don’t listen much, when he’s not talking to me.’

  I reques
ted that she describe the relationship between Mr L. and Ms F. My reward was an incredulous stare.

  ‘Well . . . he’s her boss,’ she said. ‘He tells her what to do.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  A blank look.

  ‘Was there any tension between them?’ I asked patiently. ‘Did she ever cry when he talked to her? Did you ever see him touch her, or make any kind of gestures?’

  Alissa’s expression didn’t change, but her voice held a note of exasperation as she explained that she didn’t sit anywhere near Ms F., so she didn’t know anything about it. Personally, she didn’t think there had been any sexual harassment. Why should there be? Mr L. was quite good-looking, for an older guy.

  ‘Then why do you think he asked her if her sex life had improved lately?’ I queried.

  ‘Because he was joking around, I dunno.’ Alissa sighed impatiently. ‘Guys always ask things like that. They’re always asking me things like that.’

  ‘Did your boss ever ask you that?’

  ‘No!’ Alissa snorted. ‘Of course not. God, he’s like forty or something. And married. I’m talking about young guys.’

  I gave up. Fortunately, Christine was more on my wavelength. In fact she had a great deal to say, and said it with force and clarity. It was Christine who had advised Ms F. to contact the Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board, after Ms F.’s complaints to company management had received minimal response. (Neither woman would have considered the possibility of approaching a union, even if they had belonged to one.) Christine was a dark and vital young woman of Vietnamese extraction, who was in charge of things like bookkeeping and petty cash. She told me that Mr L. had indeed referred to Ms F.’s telephone as her ‘dildo’.