Gracious Living

by Andrea Goldsmith

  And she did. The next morning she awoke, her head still clear, and spent the day at her desk. She was well satisfied when, at six o’clock, with Daniel’s book in hand, she walked the couple of blocks to where he and Lorenzo lived. The three of them discussed the book, trying to anticipate the critics’ objections.

  ‘They’ll hate it,’ Daniel said, ‘particularly the ones who spend their lives in search of sub-texts. You know the ones, the truly dedicated language bruisers.’

  The three of them laughed, but it was clear Daniel was very nervous.

  ‘Come on Daniel, there are just as many critics that loathe postmodernism, and they’ll welcome your book.’ Vivienne reached out and took his hand. ‘And fiction writers will be very happy with it, after all, a reflection on the fictional process has crept into many recent novels.’

  And while that was true, Daniel said, there was still much in fiction and the other arts, architecture most of all, that was a disgrace to critical reason. As for the wave of academics rushing through the humanities and social sciences touting the postmodern flag, ‘the textual magicians’ he called them, they would be scathing. ‘My only consolation is that no one will understand all the critical pieces that will undoubtedly be written about the book; that when the critics are through with their “polemicising” on the “contextuality” of my book, and my ignorance of the “detotalisation” and “fetishisation” of the “materiality of contemporary life” there will be few readers left.’

  Lorenzo and Vivienne were laughing and so, finally, was Daniel. An hour later he seemed a little better: at least he would go down fighting, he said.

  Vivienne went home early to do some reading before bed. While still at her desk, she heard the clatter of sticks on the cobbles beyond the fence. The gate opened and Ginnie entered. She looked up at Vivienne’s lighted window, lost her balance, steadied herself, and smiled a weak smile when Vivienne beckoned her to come in. Vivienne opened the door; poor Ginnie looked awful, pale and stained, eyes swollen and red.

  ‘I was hoping you’d still be up,’ Ginnie said in her slow slur. ‘I couldn’t go home – couldn’t bear Mum to see me like this.’ And she burst into tears.

  Vivienne helped her to the couch and Ginnie cried into her shoulder, cried and cried with great sprawling sobs. Vivienne stroked her hair and let her cry, held her close and wiped away the tears. And of course it was Scott, the relationship finished, and Ginnie feeling so awful, awful and cheap, small and useless. Stupid too, so very stupid, and only a few hours ago she had been convinced, finally, that he truly cared for her.

  What else should she think when he turned up so unexpectedly? Six o’clock that evening, Elizabeth was out visiting and suddenly the doorbell rang. Ginnie looked out her window and saw him, Scott on the doorstep, his bleached curls gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The bell sounded again. Down the stairs she went and to the door, and there was Scott with a single red rose in his hand. A peace-offering he said, for the other day, he’d had no idea the tutorial paper would take so long. A phone call? Ginnie asked, what about a phone call. He looked sheepish, handed her the rose and kissed her. He truly was sorry. And although she knew it was not satisfactory, she stifled her protests: he was here now, no point in spoiling their time together. She took his rose and his apology and led him inside.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked. He looked at her, not knowing what she meant. ‘The tutorial paper, how did it go?’

  ‘I didn’t have to do it, I managed to postpone it until next week.’

  She knew she should have said something, called his bluff. After all, she said to Vivienne, being in love need not hijack your self- respect, but she had been worried that if she made a scene he would leave, making her again the loser. ‘I did offer him some of the pasta salad I made a couple of days ago – in fact, it was the last time he stood me up – and he ate an enormous serving. At the time I was afraid it might have spoiled, now I hope the cream was sour and the salmonella lively.’ Her lips puckered in a bitter smile.

  After he had eaten they sat together on the couch in the living room and chatted about their classes, their lecturers, university life. He told her about his trip to Japan, how good it was to see his parents, how pleased they were he had passed his exams, (‘At which point I was given a kiss,’ Ginnie said to Vivienne, ‘in recognition of my contribution’), and how they hoped he would repeat his success at the university. His visit to Japan had helped clarify his goals and he had now decided on a career in the leisure and hospitality industries – ‘It’s the way to go, Ginnie, we’re at the beginning of a tourism boom in this country and I’d be mad not to exploit it,’ – and while his father had hoped that Scott would follow him into the diplomatic service, Scott wanted a more modern life, one that would draw on his outgoing personality and entrepreneurial spirit.

  It was then they started cuddling. Just like old times, Ginnie thought as he undid the clasp of her bra and ran his hand round to her breasts, the other hand moving from the nape of her neck to her buttocks in teasing circular steps, and she grasped his thigh between her legs and took up the rhythm of his wandering hands. With her lips she traced a line from ear lobe to collar bone in neat kisses just like the girl at the university café, and from collar bone through the blond hair over his chest in small bites, reaching his nipples, sucking on them, caressing his abdomen with the soft heaviness of her breasts. He fiddled with the waist band of his shorts, pushed them down over his erect penis, and when she took his penis in her hand, he sighed. He guided her head to her stroking hand, wanted to feel her mouth on his cock, like she usually did, but something happened, the fear slipped away, and rather than follow his direction she took the lead.

  She put his hands to her body, made them remove her clothes, guided them along the soft sides of her breasts, her hips, put them to her buttocks; she used his penis to caress her abdomen, to draw out the wetness from her vagina, stroke her clitoris, she moved her body over his, and although he tried to enter her, she stopped him, rubbing faster now, his penis wet, his thighs wet, slippery, rubbing faster and faster, her body grazing his, her nipples catching the hair of his chest, on and on in a dreamlike haptic world of her creation. Just a minute or two more, she said to herself, but Scott couldn’t wait any longer he turned her on her back, entered her, and within seconds he had come. Her own orgasm retreated and by the time he had recovered it was well and truly gone. But she was not disappointed, not unhappy. Not at all.

  They lay together, she in the crook of his shoulder, and as he stroked her back, she was ashamed of her former doubts. He loved her, she was sure of it. She asked him whether it had been all right, their lovemaking, and he nodded and kissed her ear. She breathed deeply, breathed in his smell and shut her eyes. She was nearly asleep when he said he was hungry. They had a quick shower and while she dried herself – a clumsy tussle with a towel that she insisted on doing alone – he went to the kitchen for more pasta salad. Alone in the bathroom she thought about their lovemaking, wondered at her initiative, how to explain it. Sex, that double-edged sword, had always been at odds with her body, or rather, at odds with her perception of her body. It would have been easier to avoid it, regard it in much the same way as she had gymnastics or tennis, but she could not, almost as if sex – or was it love? – was the making of a person, and, in her case, the making of a normal person. And so she had tackled it, creating a web of rituals that allowed her to experience it while passing through unharmed: she undressed while sitting down, she lay on the right never the left, passionate kisses could only be done supine or else her saliva might go everywhere, she kept her eyes always open, and she followed Scott, trying to remain as insignificant as possible. As for sexual pleasure, until that evening, it had been foreign to her. Now, she decided, it was perfectly feasible. It was also quite manageable, indeed, for a few moments it was as if she had forgotten her body; for a moment there she nearly forgot herself.

  She joined Scott in the kitchen. The pasta salad was finished an
d he was making coffee.

  ‘Now what?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t mind, what do you want to do?’

  He appeared to be thinking, turning possibilities over in his mind. ‘Such a convincing act,’ Ginnie said to Vivienne. ‘And yet it’s obvious he knew exactly what he wanted. And in the state I was in, I would have agreed to anything.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Ginnie nodded, unfortunately she had.

  ‘How about a drive?’ he had said. ‘You haven’t seen my new car.’

  Minutes later they were hurtling through the streets in a sporty Japanese model, a gift from his parents for passing his exams. He held her hand as he drove and every now and then he would turn to her and smile. At one set of lights he leaned towards her and kissed her cheek, at the next red light he nuzzled into her hair, and when he spoke the touch of his lips made her shiver.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ he said. ‘Why don’t we visit your father?’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I’d like to meet him.’ He saw her grimace. ‘Ginnie, you don’t realise how famous he is, my parents know about Adrian Dadswell and Eden Park in Japan.’

  Yes, she thought, and if she only knew him from a distance she, too, might want to see him. He still hadn’t taken her out for the dinner he had promised, indeed, the only times she’d seen her father in the past few months were on television. This was not, she told Scott, a good idea.

  ‘Don’t be such a killjoy, you can see him any time – ’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘That’s beside the point, you could if you wanted.’ He lowered his voice and kissed her cheek again. ‘Come on, Ginnie, it’d be fun. Your father’s a great man who’s doing more than anyone else to put Australia on the map. I’d love to meet him, and my parents would be so impressed if they knew I’d actually met Adrian Dadswell of Eden Park.’ This last was uttered in capital letters. The traffic lights turned amber. ‘And you know I have to keep the folks on side.’ He turned her face around and kissed her on the lips leaving a little wetness. A horn sounded from behind. ‘It’d mean so much, Ginnie. Please.’

  ‘You didn’t agree to it?’ Vivienne said.

  She shrugged, what else could she do?

  Fiona Whelan, project manager for Eden Park or Adrian’s personal assistant, Ginnie had never determined which, opened the door to Adrian’s mock Tudor mansion. Ginnie had met her only a few times before, and they had never exchanged more than a few pleasantries. Now she watched the surprise pass over Fiona’s fresh young face, to be quickly replaced by a welcoming smile and an exaggerated ‘What an unexpected pleasure!’ She ushered them into the white marble of the hall and asked them to wait while she went to get Adrian. And moments later there he was, huge and freshly washed, dressed in a white velour robe with AD inscribed on the pocket in purple and silver. Ginnie noticed he was losing his hair, she must remember to tell her mother.

  What a surprise, he said, putting his arm around Ginnie, a very pleasant surprise. And how was she? he asked. Managing the hot weather? Managing her studies? Managing the long day at the university? Managing to survive? she mimicked to herself and removed her body from his grasp. Adrian always treated her like an invalid and she hated it, the problem was he’d never bothered to get to know anything else about her.

  She introduced Scott and within minutes Adrian was talking to him as if he were his own son. The two of them stood at the bar, joking and laughing together, drinking Scotch. And soon they were talking about the hotel business. From the hotel business they moved to tourism, and from tourism to Eden Park. And now Fiona spoke up: this was her area. She joined the men at the bar, standing close to Adrian, touching his arm to make a point, reeling off figures faster than a calculator. ‘Isn’t she a whizz?’ Adrian said at one stage, patting her bottom, and she smiled at the compliment and quickened the flow. The talk of money excited Scott, and he encouraged Adrian and Fiona to continue, although, in truth, little encouragement was needed: Eden Park was the centre of their lives, their ultimate joy; Eden Park was, Adrian said, unique.

  ‘Unique and enormous. Well over three hundred million to build, completed on schedule, no union disputes, no disruptive government regulations, and a marketing plan that will see us making a profit within thirty months. The Japanese are the key,’ he said. ‘We’ve tried to cater to their tastes. We can’t give them tropical weather, but we can supply a choice of golf course, including an indoor range, water sports, gymnasiums, tennis of course. And we can give them service. The hotel service at Eden Park has been modelled on the Japanese system, even down to a massage in your suite before going to sleep. Not that we’ve restricted ourselves to the Japanese, we want the Americans and Australians too. So there’s trout fishing at our own trout farm, Australian wild life, hiking, horse racing, a crocodile reserve, and that’s just for starters.’

  He went on to describe the restaurants, the accommodation – permanent apartments as well as two five-star hotels – the shopping mall, and Scott oozed admiration, until finally Adrian suggested they all drive out there so Scott could see for himself how spectacular it was. Without even a glance at Ginnie, Scott accepted the invitation: as long as it wasn’t too much trouble for Adrian and Fiona.

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ Adrian said, and disappeared to dress.

  It was eight o’clock, still early in the evening Ginnie had hoped to spend alone with Scott, but Scott had better things to do. It would have been more sensible if she’d left him to it and gone home.

  ‘But you didn’t?’ asked Vivienne.

  Unfortunately, no. It was not enough that she could see what Scott was doing, not enough to recognise it had nothing to do with love. ‘There are things you’d prefer not to know,’ Ginnie said to Vivienne, ‘things you deliberately ignore while you endure.’

  So Ginnie endured. They went in the Rolls, Adrian driving, Fiona next to him, Ginnie and Scott in the back seat. Ginnie put her hand on Scott’s leg as if nothing had changed and stroked his thigh, but the hand was ignored and eventually fell to the seat when Scott leaned forward to converse with Adrian. Ginnie sat alone in the thick lush leather as the car sped down the highway, as it turned into the small rural town on the edge of the city, as it passed the picnic ground where a few days earlier Lydia had waited for time to pass, as it moved on to Eden Park.

  It was close to nine o’clock when they arrived and although the sun had set, the night sky was bright and visibility good. Adrian parked the car and the four of them walked towards the buildings. ‘Aren’t we fortunate,’ Scott said, ‘that there’s a full moon.’

  ‘Not quite full,’ Ginnie said and immediately regretted it.

  Scott glared at her and quickened his pace.

  Ginnie watched them, Scott, Adrian and Fiona, walking briskly ahead. She saw them stop and then separate, Scott heading towards one of the hotels, while Adrian and Fiona went to the site office, presumably to collect some keys. Scott went on alone and Ginnie followed, followed automatically, mind manacled to the present. Only endure she told herself, make it through the next couple of hours. Think later, not now. Concentrate on getting through.

  The ground was rough, clearly there was more paving to be done, and walking was hazardous. Let him go ahead, let him forget her, she didn’t need him. But he needed her, why else was she stumbling over mounds of sun-dried clay, legs and sticks flying in the rubble as she tried to walk more quickly. Bloody legs, she thought as she hobbled along, and bloody Scott. She stopped, stared at the sky, and wished she were anywhere but here.

  It was some time before Scott realised she was not following. He turned, beckoned for her to hurry, but she would not. She had been humiliated enough, she would not exacerbate it by having to walk a hundred metres or so, walk as she did, watched by the person whose love she wanted but did not have. So she stood her ground. He waited a moment longer still beckoning, and then after an exasperated shrug, turned and ran back to her.

  What do you think you�
�re doing?’

  And while it would have been easy to tell him what an impoverished lump of a person he was, easy to ask him to walk more slowly now that he had what he wanted, she could not: easy enough to speak but impossible to draw attention to her own pain.

  ‘Go on ahead, Scott,’ she said, ‘don’t let me interrupt your plans.’

  He caught the sarcasm in her voice, seized on it, accused her of groundless suspicion. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you Ginnie Dadswell, and it’s not just these,’ he said, pointing to her sticks. ‘What’s wrong with you is you don’t know how to have fun, don’t know how to let yourself go.’

  But she did and he knew it. He left her, and she walked off to smoother ground. Concentrate on the physical things, she told herself, block him out, must block him out until it was safe to think, until the hour in the back seat of the car was over, until he was gone. She wandered around for half an hour or so, every now and then catching a glimpse of the others, hearing their voices, their laughter. She saw them return to the site office, watched them through the window as they studied some plans, saw them lock up and made sure she arrived back at the car at the same time as they did.

  ‘Ginnie’s always been a loner,’ Adrian said, with a pat to his daughter’s head, ‘even as a child.’

  They drove back to town, the other three chatting all the way. It was only when they were within a couple of kilometres of Adrian’s house that Scott took any notice of Ginnie and put his arm around her.