No. She was playing games. He must not reply. She was drawing him into communicating; she would try to worm out information about Reid, about their family, or, heaven forbid, their father. He would not fall into a trap. Of course she would pretend to be interested in him; this was probably her modus operandi.
Ford exited the email, rolled his shoulders toughly, whistled between his teeth and went to work on a paper he was writing for a journal. The traffic roared under his window, the department secretary glided noiselessly past his door. It is important to note, however … Ford typed. He paused, sipped his coffee. In this case it is important to note that … He scratched his chin. It cannot be overlooked that …
With a tsk of irritation, he went back to the inbox. He frowned over Emily’s message until he found he’d lost the sense of it. He sat vacantly tapping his pen on his teeth. He clicked on Reply. He tried: Yes, you need to get back to work. Ford. Then deleted that and wrote: I am also ‘distracted’ — by a large workload. Ford. He deleted that and played around with: Get out of my inbox. Ford. Then, Are you a stalker? Ford. Followed by, Fuck off. Ford.
Jo Allen poked her head around the door. ‘We’re going for a coffee, Ford. Are you coming?’
With his finger on delete he said, ‘No, I’d better get on thanks. I’ll get something later.’
He hunched forward and banged out: Are you trying to FLIRT with me? What if I take you up on it? What if we get together and I GIVE YOU ONE until you can hardly
He stopped. He thought of Reid. This woman (and who was she really, where had she come from?) had been assigned to write about Reid’s trial for the titillation of a very hostile, very interested readership. Anything he did could become public very quickly. It could compromise his brother, damage his own standing at the university. What if she made some kind of allegation against him, Ford?
He deleted the last sentence and sat back. His shirt felt too tight; he was sweating. His colleagues trooped by his door, heading to the café.
Nice Jo Allen, a divorcee, had asked him to go to a film with her next week. Life goes on. There are even things to look forward to. No need to get involved in nonsense with strangers. Jo, who was brilliant, always stood very close and once, bold and tipsy after a departmental dinner, had toyed childishly with a button on his jacket. Looking down at the top of her head Ford had glimpsed the pink tips of her ears poking out of her shining blonde hair and a vision had floated in his mind, of his own beautiful May, savagely laughing. He’d flinched and stepped aside. This had only aroused Jo’s interest further; she thought he was ‘gentlemanly’ and ‘shy’. If she only knew how the inner Ford roamed the halls like a wounded savage clawing at the unfindable wound, how, since May had died, he had dreamed of violence, smashing a fist into a face, or his own face beaten by an invisible fist. How grotesquely his mind worked at departmental meetings too. In his tranced reveries Jo Allen fellated the departmental head, danced naked on the table, flopped down on the floor and gave herself a handjob. But he didn’t want her, didn’t fancy her, no, not at all.
He clicked on Reply. He wrote: I am rather distracted myself. But I have a lot of work to do. Good luck with your writing. I do appreciate your considerateness. Ford.
Driven by his steady finger, the cursor travelled to Send. He clicked.
Ford saw in his mind his message flying away, a scrap sucked into the ether. He rose, went to the window, and stood looking at the backs of his hands.
Emily dropped Caro at kindergarten. In the terraced, leafy playground, with its ropes and sand and bright cuboid toys, the little girl turned and gave Emily a considering look. ‘Can Beth pick me up today?’
‘What’s wrong with me picking you up?’
‘Beth said we can make a cake or a sword. Or a cake shaped like a sword.’
‘Well. We’ll see.’ It was hard to argue with that. Emily kissed her and walked away, and then came back and kissed her again. She went home through the reserve. It was a windy day, the sky crossed with flying tatters of cloud.
In her room, she turned on the computer and stared out over the tops of the trees. The machine roused itself with soft whirs and clicks, until the inane surge of electronic notes (what were they supposed to signify: stars, fountains, inspiration, hope?) announced that it was ready.
She opened the email. Had he? Yes. Ford’s name appeared in the inbox.
There was also a message from Angus, her editor, which she opened first: i hear you’ve been talking to reid’s brother - take him for a cup of tea. get him to open up - why not might as well see what you can get out of him
She opened Ford’s message: I am rather distracted myself. But I have a lot of work to do. Good luck with your writing. I do appreciate your considerateness. Ford
The night before, Emily had stayed awake, thinking about Ford. At midnight she had got up, turned on the computer and sat staring at the screen. She had written, rewritten, deleted. How to approach him? It wasn’t possible to tell the truth, that for reasons she couldn’t explain she had taken a liking to him. The circumstances couldn’t be less propitious. He wouldn’t believe she was sincere. He had much more pressing things on his mind. And he would feel vulnerable.
She’d gone out onto the balcony and looked at the sky all streaked with black cloud over the city. The idea had come to her: a ‘deadline’. To set the scene: herself labouring over her work, her late night distraction, the ‘impulse’ of sending him an email. She’d waited until it was good and late: 1 am, written a scrappy message and sent it. Then she’d gone to bed and lain awake again, until the light was glowing softly around the curtains and the first birds were stirring in the reserve.
Now she stared at his message. Had he fired it off straight away? Had he hesitated, worried? He appeared so worried, so tormented all the time. He also looked highly intelligent. Why would he risk having anything to do with her? Why would he necessarily want to? She had the sense that she was balancing on a thin wire, that if she made the slightest false move all would be lost.
She got up and paced. Now she was hopelessly distracted. I do appreciate your considerateness. What did that mean? Was he thanking her for saying sorry she’d bothered him? Or did he mean he would appreciate further considerateness, i.e. I would appreciate it if you would go away and not make any more out of this?
She felt exhausted; up all night scheming over the email and now no further. She hadn’t had time to shower or eat before getting Caro off to kindergarten; she felt grimy, shabby, hollow, and yet there was a kind of exaltation at the edge of her mood. This strange, difficult game: it was the opposite of boredom.
Another email flew in from Angus: ps kate says have the cup of tea in a crowded place - he might have the rape gene
Emily laughed. Two rosellas burst suddenly out of the trees in the reserve, their wings sarcastically clapping.
She sat down, went to Ford’s message, clicked on Reply and wrote out rapidly: Sorry — mind wandering in dead of night — these deadlines always a drag — have to work sometimes after putting my daughter to bed — joys of being a solo mother — but you’re right, no point in you and I talking re Reid — was nice to meet you briefly. Haven’t mentioned to anyone I’ve talked to you — best wishes, Emily Svensson.
She pressed Send.
Terrible. Weaving in that you’re a solo parent. That you’re alone. Cynically planting these hooks. But it’s not cynicism, she thought. I like him. Is that bad? She stopped to consider. How could she like him? How did it happen that all the men you met were unacceptable and then suddenly one was interesting? At least interesting enough to want to find out more. This didn’t happen to her often; in fact it hadn’t happened since Harry, and before him she’d been very picky.
She looked up Ford on the internet. There was a picture on a departmental website. He was not conventionally handsome. But the deep eyes and the contours of the face expressed power, a kind of voraciousness even, and yet good humour too.
She flicked back to the email. N
o reply. She sighed and felt stale, bored and flat. These bouts of passion, these feverish nights — why couldn’t she just settle down, let life come to her? All this over a man she didn’t know and had barely spoken to. Ridiculous. Lately she seemed always to be prowling around, wanting, with the sense that she was standing outside life. Always the feeling that something vibrant, exciting and colourful was just out of reach, and that she could not find it, no matter how she tried to drive her life, to bend it to her shape.
Emily was in the court café sending a text to her mother. She looked up and saw Ford circling warily, holding a tray. He hesitated, approached. His coffee cup slid across the tray, clattering in its saucer. He had chosen a large triangle of cake with a cherry on it. He coughed, grunted a hello and carefully set down the tray. Emily sat very still. The cake with its festive cherry struck a poignant note: Ford keeping his end up, consoling himself with a childish treat. He plunged a knife into it and it broke up messily.
He had the look of having spruced himself up; a clean shirt, his hair combed. He sat frowning at the cake, a few locks falling over his forehead. What was so affecting about a bowed head, hair falling on a forehead, a shaving cut on skin, clumsy hands? The way he seemed to possess physical power and yet to struggle through the physical world.
Her phone buzzed.
‘Did you get your thing finished?’ Ford asked cautiously.
‘Oh, yes. I banged it out in the end.’ Her face went hot.
‘I’ve been busy too, trying to finish a paper.’ He ripped open a sachet and sugar sprayed over the table. Emily watched, her eyes lowered. Those big hands.
She looked down at her phone. Beth’s reply appeared on the little screen: Ys c@n pike uppp Caro seeee yu& after%.
She laughed. ‘It’s from my mother. She’s still getting the hang of texting.’
Ford sipped his coffee and flinched. He squeezed his fingers over the bridge of his nose.
She said, ‘You know I’m going to interview Reid and his wife? They’ve agreed.’
Ford looked away.
‘What’s his wife like?’ she said.
‘Angela. They met when he was in the Far North. Then they got together later in Auckland. She’s got some kind of graphic design business. They’re a tight couple.’
Emily said, ‘You know what I admire? You sticking by your brother. Because I think I somehow abandoned mine.’
She started gathering up her things.
‘Your brother?’
‘He’s dead.’
Ford rose and stood slightly crooked, one shoulder hunched.
‘Dead,’ he repeated. He stared, his forehead creased, as though he were labouring through some intense calculation.
She said, ‘I’m going. There’s some kind of delay. I don’t need to be here.’
He stepped sideways, knocking against the chair. He seemed to be casting about for something to say.
Emily felt a wave of frustration and irritation so strong she stood on tiptoe. She frowned and snatched up her bag. ‘The context makes it impossible,’ she said.
He raised his hands, palm up, helpless. ‘Makes what impossible?’
‘For us to talk like this. As if we’re friends.’
‘Friends?’ he said, wondering.
She walked away, out through the glass doors and into the polished light of the afternoon. It was a day of wind and agitation, clouds racing across the sun, moments of glare followed by abrupt dimming of the light. In the park across the road the trees heaved in a sudden roar and rubbish blew up and whirled around and settled. She was crossing the courtyard away from him, her body tilting slightly against the rush of air. Ford followed. He called to her to wait. She stopped and scowled, passing a set of car keys from hand to hand. His shirt billowed out in the wind. She had put on a pair of sunglasses and he looked at twin reflections of himself, his hair on end, his face distorted. He took hold of her arm and leaned close to her.
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ he said.
Emily laughed.
He let go of her arm. ‘Seriously,’ he said.
She stepped away. ‘You mean you want to be friends?’
‘We could step outside the context, as it were.’
‘As it were,’ she repeated. Her eyes were bright. She looked amused, conspiratorial. ‘So, do you want to come to my place?’
The hair lifted on Ford’s scalp, his nerves flared. ‘Okay. Yes, sure.’
They walked in silence to her car. She drove him to Parnell and parked in a dead-end street outside a white stucco house with peeling paint. They crossed the yard: an untended garden, some old white iron furniture, a child’s tricycle. In the hall he looked at large black and white photos, film stills. There was an actress he recognised.
‘My father’s a film director,’ she said. She led him along the hall, pointing out scenes from films. He looked at studio scenes: cameras, cables, an actor being instructed by a wiry, intense man in a plaid shirt, the man holding a clipboard, and pointing away from the camera, the actor deferentially frowning.
There was a picture of a young man. There was something wrong with his smile. It was too wide, too much.
‘My brother,’ Emily said.
They passed a child’s bright bedroom, toys strewn on the floor.
He sat at the kitchen table. She went to the sink, putting the kettle on. She paused, laughed, put her hands up to her face.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
She rested her knuckles on the bench and looked out the kitchen window. Her shoulder blades stood out under her thin shirt. The shirt rode up; he could see the bumps of her spine. With her back to him she said in a remote voice, ‘It’s sort of astonishing.’
‘What?’
She turned, leaning against the cupboards, one arm folded against her stomach, her hand cradling her elbow. ‘To get what you want. I wanted you to come here. I tried to shape it, to make it happen. And here you are.’ She threw herself down in a chair and slouched across the table. ‘That email I sent you. I did it deliberately. I didn’t send it on impulse, I planned it, I was trying to get you to come here.’
‘Because of Reid.’
‘No. Nothing to do with Reid. Because of you. I don’t invite any old person here. I don’t invite any men. I live like a hermit. Caro’s — my daughter’s — father lives in Spain. He’s never coming back.’
She looked directly at him. Faint blue veins on her bare arms. Tangled dark hair, pale-blue eyes, strong jaw and wide mouth. Clean white teeth. Faint smudges of shadow under her eyes.
He absorbed the words: because of you.
Silence. Outside, the trees in the reserve tossed in the wind. A branch scratched on the window, the kettle boiled and clicked off. Ford stood up and went around the table, took her by the arms, pulled her up, and as he was kissing her had a sense of dry cool skin, dry skin smooth against dry skin, his nerves flared to such a pitch he was all nerve, like walking too near a cliff, feeling sliding dust near the edge under bare feet, exhilaration and fright and the blood racing under the skin, and she walked backwards down the hall and up the stairs, still kissing him, led him to a double bed under a sloping attic roof, the windows looking over the reserve and across to the city, and they fell down on top of it, the wooden bed head letting out a groan of protest as they landed; she was on top but then he turned and pinned her down, bore down on her and looked into her eyes, because he wanted it to matter, to move her, because he wanted it to seem like love.
Ford went into a deep sleep. He dreamed he was on an open plain somewhere dry, wild and barren, surrounded by hundreds of people. They were all moving slowly on their feet and chanting. It was early morning, bright, golden light. Slow chanting, bright light. He woke up and saw Emily sitting at a desk, her bare feet splayed on the wooden floor, the square of a computer screen glowing in front of her. Outside the sky had turned a dull, bruised colour. It was raining; he could hear the drops drumming on the iron roof.
He moved. She looked ove
r her shoulder and exited the screen.
‘Checking emails,’ she said, coming over, pulling a robe around herself and lying next to him. ‘My editor sends me all sorts of mad stuff. He’s a funny guy.’
Ford was remembering the atmosphere of his dream.
She said, ‘I’m getting my daughter minded for the night. Do you want to stay?’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘God.’ He sat up.
The city skyline was draped with heavy cloud and the dark smudge of a rainstorm was advancing up the suburb. There was a rush of wind and the fat drops splattered against the window.
‘Will you stay?’
He was silent, struggling with the feeling that May, the spirit of May who lived in his house, would roam through the rooms, wondering where he was.
‘Yes, sure,’ he said.
Later, when she was downstairs in the kitchen, he listened to the pots banging and smelled the warm smell of food; he looked out at the rain falling over the wooden houses, and thought again of his own house, Ticket prowling the perimeter looking for him and the dark rooms and the silence, and the absence. He got up, swiftly crossed the room and touched the keys of Emily’s computer. The screen flickered up, bright in the dark room. He clicked on the emails and scrolled down. There was his own. Then one from an Angus Ferguson: i hear you’ve been talking to reid’s brother - take him for a cup of tea - why not - might as well see what you can get out of him
Further up, he found a p.s. from the same name: ps kate says have the cup of tea in a crowded place - he might have the rape gene
He stared. He felt the blood swarming through his body, a surge of nerves. He exited the screen and began looking around for his clothes. He stopped, considering. He sat down on the edge of the bed with his shoulders bowed, his shirt crumpled in his hands. After a moment he dropped his clothes on the floor and stretched himself gingerly out on the bed. He lay staring at the ceiling until she came in with a tray of food.
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