Viola Myers had been taken on as a temporary assistant in Simon’s medical practice. She was strange, intense, lawless. She had plagued him with her staring. She was unnerving; she seemed to be in some kind of maneating overdrive that made her lamp him wherever he went. The practice manager Clarice said that Viola was absolutely hopeless. She was dreamy, impractical and ungovernable. One afternoon Clarice came back from her break and discovered Viola lounging with her feet on the desk reading a fat medical file. ‘As if it was a novel,’ Clarice said. When admonished, Viola had seemed amused. Clarice was already campaigning for her removal.
Aaron Harris had been borrowing a taxi from a friend and driving night shifts. He was invariably drunk when he picked people up. Simon and Karen, and Simon’s brother Ford, had worried about this. Simon said to Ford, ‘Why does he go on inflicting this on us?’
By chance, while driving the cab late one stormy night, Aaron had spotted young Viola toiling home from the pub. He had stopped and picked her up. During the journey they had got to talking. They’d soon established there was a connection between them — Simon — and on the strength of that, had gone back to Aaron’s squalid little flat for a drink. Some time after Viola had rung Simon in a panic from Aaron’s flat, saying that his father had gone berserk, and asking him to help her.
He had hesitated only a moment before ringing the police. Then he’d rushed over, extracted her and, after a stop at the police station, had taken her back to their house. The old man was banned from driving taxis after that. He had no income and had gone into a serious decline.
Simon had been glad to help Viola, since she’d genuinely seemed to need rescuing. But in some part of his mind he disliked her too. She had linked the worlds he’d tried to keep separate. Through her he had struck the blow against Aaron that he had wanted and not wanted to strike. Aaron took an overdose of pills not long after. A neighbour found him. He was clinically dead for a minute in the ambulance. He recovered, discharging himself from hospital and carrying on just as before. Simon thought it was rage that kept Aaron going. Rage and malice. You all want me dead, don’t you. That would suit you just fine. Well, I won’t go.
Simon suspected that Viola guessed his inner conflict, and that the awful subtleties were interesting to her. Until she went to another job he avoided her, closing down any attempt she made to talk, and allowing Clarice to deal with her. His feelings about her were tinged with a sense of blackness, guilt, unease.
Viola got a job working at the Auckland Museum. Simon had seen her a few times when he was walking to the hospital. She didn’t seem to pay him particular attention when they passed each other one evening. She greeted him neutrally; no sign of the mad grin that used to play over her face. That expression of hers, it used to make his hair stand on end. He supposed she’d grown up, calmed down. He assumed the incident with his father was forgotten.
And then one summer, when he and Karen were lounging on the deck of their beach house at Whangamata, Karen had suddenly shaken the newspaper, leaned forward and said in a high voice, ‘Simon, look at this.’
The paper had been running a story competition, and was publishing placegetters. There was a full-page story by Viola Myers from Auckland, third-prize winner. It was called, ‘The Moneys.’
Karen was making small, indignant sounds. She shook the paper under his nose. ‘Read it.’
Simon straightened up unwillingly. Karen thrust the paper onto his lap, went to the verandah rail and stood with her hands on her hips. She turned and pointed her finger.
‘I told you you couldn’t trust her,’ she said.
In the story, Viola had used detail from the incident all those years ago. She had Simon thinly disguised as ‘Mr Money’, a ‘top surgeon’. She had described the young woman based on herself as ‘a student’. She had spent a lot of time on the character of the father. Here was Aaron Harris, renamed old Mr Money, in all his drunk, foul-mouthed, raving glory. His ‘spittle-flecked face’, ‘blackened teeth’ and ‘yellow skin’.
But Simon saw, grimly reading while Karen paced about his deckchair, that Viola’s story had managed to transform the Aaron Harris character into a kind of victim. There were romanticised passages about old Money’s musical brilliance, some complete invention to the effect that the old man’s wife (Simon’s mother, how dare she) had been insensitive to her husband’s talents, that this might have contributed to his descent into alcoholism.
Worse, Viola’s story managed to insinuate that young Mr Money and his disgraceful father were just two sides of the same flawed hereditary coin. Where old Money was ‘drunk and damaged’, young Money was ‘cold and materialistic’. Young Money rebuffed the old man’s approaches and retreated into his life of wealth and privilege, content to let the ‘struggling old pianist’ rot.
It made Simon angry when he thought about it now, the nerve of it: for her to intrude into his private life when she had no idea about him, not a care about the pain she might cause.
Further on, and even more disturbingly, in a scene in which the student was brought back to young Money’s ‘palatial Epsom dwelling’, Viola had cast the young female character in a distinctly ambiguous light. Here, he had to acknowledge, she had been as hard on the student as she had on the Moneys. The student was seen by Mr and Mrs Money to grin, to stare around the room with undisguised interest, to appear not so much traumatised by her experience as diverted and amused and even, at one point, to be enjoying their discomfort. If this was how it really had been, if Viola had just been amusing herself at their expense then she was, as Karen was now saying, an evil little bitch.
Mrs Money was cattily described as a fat blonde with joggling cheeks and blue veins snaking up the backs of her legs. Mr Money’s face was ‘a florid mask of fury’. At the end Viola had Mr Money bundling the student into his large, powerful car, taking her home to her ‘simple rented flat’ and pushing her out into the rain, but not before the student had made some sinister observations about ‘what this might mean to your social position if any of this comes out’.
This was why, seeing her in the street for the first time since the story had been published, he had dropped his guard and given Viola a look of frank and undisguised loathing. A mistake. The look she had given him was a sudden refocusing, like a cat fixing its eye on a movement in the grass, the stilling before the abrupt flash of claws.
Getting ready for the evening, Viola had her mind on Simon Lampton. She was sure he must have read the story. There could be no other reason for that black look. The way he’d scowled, he’d looked nearly as angry as his father. The story must have created quite an effect. It was daring of her, wasn’t it. He must think she was coldly audacious. As a real writer should be. Would he admire her nerve? The way she’d made no bones about portraying the student’s attitude as questionable and the doctor and his wife as sheltered and privileged. It wasn’t that this represented the truth. But you had to write as if the real world didn’t matter.
She leaned close to the mirror. She needed reading glasses, but when she had them on she couldn’t get around them to apply make-up, although she did her best, poking the eye pencil behind the lenses. She tried asking her flatmate Kate if her eyes looked all right and Kate looked up briefly from the TV and said, ‘Yeah, fine.’ Not reassuring. There was no one else to ask.
Grant would be here in half an hour. She was hungry, but there was nothing in the kitchen except some tins of soup, and anyway they belonged to Kate.
She’d been going out with Grant for six months. He worked for a company that carried out polling and market research. He had joint custody of two kids, Sarah and Jacob. Since her parents’ divorce, eight-year-old Sarah had got into the habit of having accidents. The first time, she was found lying motionless at the bottom of a climbing frame. She said she couldn’t move, and an ambulance was called. After a long wait at casualty, Grant and his ex-wife were told that there was nothing wrong, and that they should take her home. After this had happened twice they began
to wonder, and on the third occasion they realised that Sarah was faking. There was a lull and then she did it again. The hospital referred her to a psychiatrist.
Viola sensed Grant watching her when she was with his kids. She knew she was good with them. They were easy to get along with. Sarah’s only kink was her fondness for drama and hospitals. Viola had a talent for making them laugh. She could diffuse difficult situations, like long, boring car rides, by making the kind of hammy jokes they loved. Grant was grateful. He said, ‘You’re brilliant with the kids.’
Viola said, slowly, as if she’d only just thought about it, ‘I’ve never been interested in kids. But now I’ve met yours …’
‘Well, maybe one day you’ll have one of your own,’ Grant said, and she looked at him neutrally, hiding the quick, secret thrill.
There was a small fact that she hid because it didn’t matter and did no harm: she didn’t feel much for Sarah and Jacob. What she wanted was one of her own. Her kindness to Sarah and Jacob was a signal to Grant as much as it was just that: kindness.
She knew Grant had had other girlfriends. She had secret fits of jealousy and searched his house like a cop when she got the chance, shaking her head and wondering aloud at herself. What am I doing?
She was waiting for him to ask her to move in. But he’d been hurt before. His wife had run off with another man. He was in no hurry. She knew she had to give him time. Without thinking about it, she had grown a kind of shell. Instinct told her to hide what she wanted. She feigned slow surprise at her success with the children. She pretended she’d never cared for babies. She mentioned how much she liked her independence.
Grant was easy-going, but under the surface he was sharp. She didn’t know how well he knew her. She couldn’t be sure.
He never opened a book himself, but he often mentioned her writing. At parties he would push her forward, ‘This is Viola. She’s a writer.’ Most people looked neutral, or faintly sceptical. Some asked her if she wrote children’s books or romances. Some drew her aside to talk about the novel they’d always wanted to write. She would be embarrassed, ‘I’m just starting out really.’ But she felt superior too. People who said they wanted to write a novel usually turned out to have only a vague idea about writing. Certain things gave them away. If you asked them what they were reading and they couldn’t come up with a single title. Or they mentioned a piece of pulp fiction with innocent reverence. After that, all she could do was nod and smile.
‘Your teeth look red,’ Grant said, as they stood outside the bar. He and some people from his company had been invited to a party, the end of year celebration for the staff of a Sunday newspaper magazine.
Viola laughed. ‘It’s beetroot. From the salad.’
He put his index finger gently on her teeth and rubbed.
‘Better?’ she said, her lips against his skin.
He stood back. ‘Perfect,’ he said. He was apologising, she thought, for being distracted during dinner.
Her head was already spinning with the wine they’d drunk. She threaded her way into the crowd, and accepted a glass of darkly sticky fizzy stuff from a man who shouted, ‘Champagne cocktail.’
The music was loud; her head throbbed and buzzed with each jangling chord.
She took a sip of the drink. It was strong stuff.
It was a fashionable crowd. She recognised a clothes designer, a gossip columnist, some journalists from TV and the papers. She joined Grant, trying to hear what was being said over the noise.
Her mind wandered. Last night she’d dreamed she was walking through a crowd of people under a canopy of huge trees; light angling down through the branches, bright beams of revolving dust. Simon Lampton was walking away, across an open plain. Dry tussock, waving grass. A voice said, ‘This is the suede landscape.’ She crossed into bright light, following; a gust of wind blew down and bent the tussock into a blonde path. She hurried after him, against the wind, Simon Lampton walking away.
Someone took the glass out of her hand and replaced it with a full one. Viola took a gulp and had the troubling sense that her head was floating up towards the ceiling.
Grant was explaining something to a woman. He gripped her arm and whispered in her ear, and she drew back, giving him a glare of affectionate reproach.
Viola plucked at his sleeve. ‘Grant?’
Just perceptibly, he pulled his arm away.
She went to the bar and waited, looking around for someone to talk to. She felt awkward, not knowing anyone. She asked for a drink of iced water.
It didn’t matter that he had pulled away from her. It didn’t mean anything. She told herself this. But she felt suffocated. Something gnawed inside her, a desperate impatience. If only she could break through whatever it was that was holding her back, things would change. She thought, I won’t be able to bear it if things don’t change.
She took the iced water and faced the room. Everyone was standing in tight groups, and it would be hard to break in. She knew that if she held her nerve the groups would break up and she’d get a chance to join in. But she was sick of the inner voice that made sensible decisions like this. There was too much putting up with things she didn’t enjoy in the hope that something better would come. If I keep going, if I don’t panic, if I just keep my head … She thought of Sarah’s ‘accidents’ — the girl spread-eagled under the climbing frame, the adult world in a flurry of emergency action above her.
Viola felt she had to do something. The only thing she could think of was to put her glass down and walk out into the street.
Outside, the air was blurred with fine, misty rain. She felt better in the fresh air. Her head cleared. She walked under the shop verandahs, heading for the main road.
She would have to walk home. It was too late for a bus. She didn’t want to catch a taxi. With her pay from the museum she could hardly afford rent and bills.
It was late and there weren’t many people about. Cars flashed by occasionally. The streetlights had haloes of whirling rain and the street was dotted with puddles that looked like bright holes in the asphalt. Viola regretted her shoes, which pinched her feet. Her hair had glued itself clammily to her face. She walked on.
A small, tan car drove past and pulled up just ahead of her with a brisk little squeal of tyres. The driver leaned across and was winding down the window. His face was turned sideways and beaming out at her: gingery hair, a bushy moustache, freckled features. An anxious, rabbity grin.
‘Want a ride? ‘he called in a reedy voice, bobbing about, craning his neck and hoisting his mouth into a desperate smirk. He was in his fifties, thin, with frail wrists sticking out of his sleeves. Viola hesitated. The wind blew a shower of drops down onto her shoulders. He looked harmless. Not a physical threat. Anything was better than trudging through the rain.
She climbed in.
He said, rubbing his dry old hands together, ‘Well, well. What are you doing out in the rain? Has your car broken down?’
There was a strong smell of menthol. He was wearing tweed. Was it tweed? It was checked and thick, with a hairy texture. He had on a jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Camel-coloured trousers.
He stroked his moustache, rigged up the desperate grin again and said with an air of swashbuckling nonchalance, ‘Well, well.’
Viola looked at him. What a weirdo. Look at him. Those sideburns. And what was it with the accent? Prince Charles. Sherlock Holmes.
‘I’m just trying to get home,’ she said.
‘Where’s that then?’ he asked gallantly.
‘Grafton.’
‘Ah,’ he said, working the long, old-fashioned gear stick as if he was stirring a large pot, managing to plunge it into first, then second. The old car groaned deep in its innards and began to chug mournfully up the hill.
‘Peter,’ he said, and added a surname, something double-barrelled.
He offered a gingery old paw sideways. She shook. ‘Viola,’ she said.
‘And do you have a line of work, Viola?’ T
here was something suggestive in his tone; he gave her a thrilled, pop-eyed grimace.
She shifted in her seat. The old car seat squeaked and groaned. ‘I work at the museum,’ she said, sounding affronted. They were shuddering and bumping down Symonds Street now; she stared out as they crossed the motorway bridge, above the river of lights streaming out to the south.
‘I’m a printer by trade,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘Do you like cricket, Viola?’
‘Watching it I suppose.’
‘Ah yes. I like to watch,’ he said, squaring his shoulders, staring tightly ahead. ‘I’m a cricket umpire.’
They drove across Grafton Bridge, the car picking up speed on the flat, snorting along like an old dog with its snout to the ground. The man, Peter, sat up straight and peered out, his nose almost pressed against the windscreen. The short, old-fashioned wipers jerked ineffectually across the glass.
‘You can drop me here,’ Viola said, pointing to the top of her street. They were on the edge of the Domain, the dark trees shifting and sighing in the wind. Across the road at the hospital, in the white light from a neon sign, a man in a robe was leaning on a drip stand and having his cigarette lit for him by another man, while a woman paced in front of them, smoking and gesticulating.
He pulled over. She thanked him and went to get out. The trees heaved suddenly in the wind. A large wet leaf landed on the windscreen.
‘I say,’ he said. She paused. He steadied himself with a series of manly coughs and harrumphs, before fixing her with a moist, ardent gaze. ‘I say, you do seem very nice. Do you, I mean, would you, be at all interested in an enema?’
Singularity Page 17
