I married him for his hair, her mother always said. I used to love to run my hands through it.
Molly gave up on trying to eat. ‘I’m only twenty-nine, for God’s sake. What about Joe? Are you going to give him the same advice?’
Her father settled into his chair with a grunt. ‘It’s different for men. You can’t pretend it’s not.’
‘What if I don’t want children?’ Molly’s voice rose. ‘Did you ever think of that?’ Taking her plate, she stamped inside — past Kiri, who was watching wee Tommy cruise around the furniture, past Ants, who was changing CDs on the stereo, and into the kitchen.
After flinging open the fridge door, Molly pulled out the bottle of wine she’d been saving for that evening.
Happy New Year’s Eve. My resolution: to drink a whole lot more than I did last year.
‘Starting early, are you?’
Molly gave her husband a steady look. ‘It’s after lunchtime, isn’t it?’ Three o’clock, it was three o’clock. And all. Was. Not. Well.
‘Sure,’ Richard said, filling the kettle in a pointed fashion from the tap.
Ignoring him, Molly opened a high cupboard and stared at the wine glasses, wondering if she could be bothered asking Richard to take one down for her.
‘I could do with one of those.’ Extending an arm, Joe plucked out a pair of wine glasses from the cupboard. ‘Make it big, will you?’ It was a long time since Molly had been taller than Joe, for that single year when they were twelve, before he had his growth spurt and overshot her.
‘Bet you say that to all the girls,’ Molly said. Richard strolled out of the kitchen, his chin lifting the way it always did when he thought her family was being too crass for his liking.
Joe picked up one of the wine glasses and raised it to his nose. ‘Hmm, smells grassy.’
‘Just like every other New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc,’ Molly said.
‘Snob.’ Joe followed her onto the back balcony.
‘Yeah, that’s me.’
Resting next to her, Joe raised his glass. ‘Salut. Don’t forget our New Year’s Eve swim, Lolly.’
‘Salut.’ Molly lifted her eyes to his. ‘I won’t forget.’
Molly stared at her watch, listening to her brothers and sister-in-law count down the last few seconds of 1999. She’d thought ushering in the new millennium might be a bit more dramatic than this. Instead, she was grumpy and not half as drunk as she wanted to be. Perhaps she should have joined Richard when he’d gone to bed an hour ago.
‘Happy New Year.’ Sully jumped out of his chair to survey the mostly sedate street. ‘Oh look, nothing exploded.’
‘So much for the Y2K bug,’ Chloe said, slapping her leg. ‘Damn these mosquitoes.’
Joe picked up the bottle-opener. ‘They are uncommonly ferocious. Maybe they’re the Y2K bugs.’
‘Huh?’ Chloe said, obviously confused.
‘Very funny, bro.’ Ants yawned and stood up. ‘You’ll have to excuse my rapid departure, but Tommy likes to wake up around half-past five.’
Sully lit a cigarette. ‘What about the midnight whisky?’
‘Appealing, but no. Wait until you have a kid waking you up several times a night, and you might understand.’
Molly stared into her empty wine glass, wondering when the knife in her gut would stop twisting at the mention of her nephew.
‘If you drink enough whisky you might get to sleep through it,’ Joe called after Ants.
Chloe lolled back in her chair. ‘Several times a night? Sounds horrendous.’
I’d take that kind of horrendous, Molly thought, holding her glass out to Sully, who had just removed the cap from the whisky bottle.
‘Hope you haven’t forgotten about our swim,’ Joe said, watching her swirl the amber liquid around the base of her glass.
‘Right after this.’ Molly tipped the glass up, savouring the burn in the back of her throat. ‘Anyone else want to come for a dip?’
Chloe shuddered. ‘Hell no, are you crazy? There could be sharks out there.’
‘I’m sure there are,’ Joe said, giving Molly a facetious smile. Molly, feeling more evil by the second, smiled back.
‘I ain’t afraid of no sharks,’ Molly said, and Sully started singing the theme to Ghostbusters, a movie they’d watched over and over as teenagers.
‘Oh God, I’m going to bed,’ Chloe said. ‘Don’t have too much of that, will you Sully?’
‘I won’t,’ Sully promised. ‘Jesus, Moll, that was quick.’
Molly gazed up at the blurry curves of the Milky Way.
‘I’m ready for that swim now,’ she said and tipped off her chair and down the front steps.
‘Don’t let her drown,’ she heard Sully say to Joe.
‘Don’t let her drown me, more like,’ Joe said, jogging to catch up to her. Molly’s feet slapped over the still-warm bitumen. A faint breeze stirred over the thin layer of sweat behind her knees, across her brow. In the distance, she heard glass shattering and a cheer.
‘Someone’s having a good party,’ Joe said.
‘Yeah,’ Molly said, and they didn’t say anything else, all the way to the beach. She dropped her dress and underwear into the sand and ran. Silky water slipped blackly over her skin. She flipped onto her back and exhaled.
‘So good,’ Joe yelled into the night. Molly let the water close over her. She wasn’t under long, ten seconds maybe, when she felt Joe propelling her back to the surface.
‘Jesus, if I’d known you were that drunk I wouldn’t have let you—’
Driving the palm of her hand into his chest, Molly yelled, ‘I’m not fucking drunk,’ then burst into tears, swallowed water, and coughed so hard she began to retch.
‘Hey, hey.’ Joe manhandled her into the shallows, stood her up. ‘Come on, you need to let this go.’
‘I’m not going to let this go.’ She charged out of the water and up the beach, scooping up her clothes.
‘Lolly—’
Molly whirled and threw her dress at him. ‘I’m ovulating today. Do you know how I know that? Because I wake up every sodding morning and take my sodding temperature, and I’m going to ovulate for the next twenty years, maybe more, and it won’t make a fucking difference.’
Joe stepped forward and took her in his arms. She waited for him to say, I know how you feel (but how could he?) or this is so unfair. But he didn’t say anything, just held her and held her and held her.
She listened to their breathing, to their heartbeat rushing through her ears, to the Earth shifting on its axis. Joe dropped his hands to her hips, whispered in her ear.
‘Remember when we—’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ But she did, she did.
And every time, she told herself it would be the last.
Chapter 21:
NOAH
After slamming the car boot shut, Noah’s father steps forward to clasp him on the shoulder.
‘Take care of your mother. And make sure you help out around the house, OK?’
‘Sure.’ Noah is already turning away, wishing his father would just say goodbye with no strings attached. Richard hugs Molly next, and she tells him to drive safely. Noah doesn’t know why she’s saying that. His father is one of the most law-abiding, safe people he knows.
Bor-ring.
By six pm, the whole family is driving in convoy to the fish’n’chip shop, seeking greasy stodge for their hangovers. Noah is more tired than hungover. He and Lola were up half the night, and after that he hadn’t slept so well. He’d kept replaying what they’d done over and over, his mouth on her mouth, her belly, the insides of her thighs. And now all he can think about is the condoms he’d bought when he went to Whangarei with Tom, and how he and Lola might be using them tonight.
Not that Noah had told Tom that. He’d told Tom they were for when he met up with Aimee in Wellington.
Aimee, crap. She must be telepathic, because at the exact moment Noah thinks of her, his phone starts vibrating in his pocket, the di
stinctive ring reverberating around his aching head. It’s Ed Sheeran singing ‘Thinking Out Loud’, a ring-tone Aimee had programmed in especially for her number before he’d moved to Melbourne. He’d prefer to ignore it, but he can’t really do that now everyone else has heard it.
‘Hey. Happy New Year.’ Noah turns his head towards the window, stupidly hoping Beckett, Tom and Joe won’t listen in.
‘Well, it’s practically over.’ Aimee sounds pissed.
‘What do you mean? There’s still three hundred and sixty-four days to go.’
‘I mean, today is nearly over. Did you get my texts last night? Did you notice the missed calls on your phone?’
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Noah says, ‘I lost my phone for a bit. Sorry.’ Three texts and two missed calls, of course he’d noticed them. He was just too distracted to respond to them at the time, and too gutless to follow up on them this morning.
After a short silence, Aimee says, ‘OK, so you lost your phone yesterday. What about the day before that? And the day before that?’
‘No …’ He knows where this is going, but he’s powerless to stop it.
‘Because one minute you’re texting me, like, ten times a day and suddenly you’re texting me once every two days if I’m lucky. And yesterday and today, nothing.’ Aimee’s voice is wobbling. Shit, shit, shit, I’m such a bastard. ‘I was so excited about seeing you, but it seems you don’t feel the same way.’
‘Aimee—’
‘If this is your way of breaking up with me, then you could at least say something rather than just giving me the silent treatment.’
‘I’m not—’ His face is burning, guilt searing his skin. He winds the window down. ‘Can I call you back?’
‘No, you can’t call me back. I just want you to answer one question for me — have you hooked up with someone else?’
Noah is about to force no from his mouth, but hesitates a touch too long.
‘So, you have then.’ Aimee’s syllables are razor-sharp.
Wincing, he says, ‘I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back, OK?’
‘Don’t bother.’ The phone goes dead.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he snarls, flinging his phone onto the floor of the car.
‘Ooh, are you fighting with your girlfriend?’ Beckett says, as if it isn’t half obvious.
‘Mind your own business for once, will you?’ Noah shoots him a furious glance; catches Joe’s eyes in the rear-vision mirror. His uncle doesn’t say anything, just looks back at the road.
Whistling tunelessly from the passenger seat, Tom turns up the volume on the stereo, Nickelback singing ‘What Are You Waiting For?’ Noah slumps into his seat and stares out of the window. Breaking up with Aimee was inevitable … wasn’t it?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he knows anything anymore.
Once they’ve got their order, they cross the road and sit on the grassy area above the beach. They eat the fish’n’chips straight from the wrapper, and for a few minutes Noah forgets about anything but satisfying his humungous appetite.
‘I’m sure I’ve eaten at least half a cup of sand over the last few days,’ Kiri says, throwing a stone at the seagulls strutting nearby. Two launch into the air, squawking, and circle back towards them.
‘Sand or not, they’re the best fish’n’chips in New Zealand,’ Nana says, wiping a streak of tomato sauce off her chin.
Austin frowns. ‘Really? Did they win an award or something?’
‘You’re meant to just agree,’ McKenzie says, holding up her phone to take a picture for Instagram or Snapchat or whatever. ‘Hey, Lola, can you shuffle closer to Noah?’
Lola sighs, but follows McKenzie’s orders, moving close enough that Noah can feel the warmth radiating off her honeyed skin. All he can think of is how he ran his tongue over her nipples last night, at least until he hears Beckett’s foghorn voice.
‘Noah’s girlfriend gave him such a roasting before,’ he says, for fuck’s sake. Suddenly there are about ten relatives looking at Noah, all except for Lola, who has inched away from him.
‘Aimee?’ Noah’s mother says, frowning at him.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ Noah says between gritted teeth. ‘Anymore.’ He stands up and walks to the edge of the grass, then leaps onto the sand below. Once he has reached the tideline, he searches for flat rocks to skim into the water. The first couple of rocks he throws don’t bounce at all, just end up sinking straight away. Figures.
‘You need to flick your wrist more.’ Joe is standing a few feet away, holding a can of Coke. ‘Don’t throw them like Frisbees.’
‘I know.’
His uncle regards him for a moment, then demonstrates, his rock skipping three times.
Bastard. Oh wait, that’s me. Noah tries again and manages two bounces.
‘So,’ Joe says, once Noah has sunk two more rocks and successfully skimmed another one, ‘was that the girlfriend you wanted to break up with?’
‘I dunno.’ Noah gives up on skimming and throws the next rock as far as he can instead, watches it winking in the sun before plummeting into the blue. That’s him, soaring one minute and drowning the next — what the hell does he think he’s doing?
‘This is the girlfriend who visited you in Melbourne a couple of times, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Noah wishes he could tell Joe the truth, wishes he could tell him about the whole messy business. Now he’s got no Aimee and, in a few days, probably no Lola either — because how can he and Lola carry on with the whole family breathing down their necks?
How can they not?
Joe inclines his head towards the cliffs at the end of the beach. ‘Let’s walk.’
It feels weird hiding all this from Joe when Noah normally tells him everything. But he has no idea where to start.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Hey, Joe?’
His uncle does his usual sideways eye-roll, as though he knows Noah is about to ask him something he may not want to answer. ‘Yeah?’
‘Do you think you’ll have kids one day?’ Noah doesn’t know why he’s asking that. He thinks he’ll be really jealous if Joe has a kid of his own.
Joe crosses his arms and strides so fast Noah has to jog a little to catch up.
‘Probably not,’ he says eventually. ‘But if I did, I’d want him to be like you.’ He nudges Noah with his elbow and gives him one of his smiles, except it’s not one of his usual smiles. His eyes aren’t wrinkling up at the corners as they usually do, and they’re shinier than Noah has ever seen them.
‘If I could change my dad, I’d want him to be you,’ Noah says and immediately wishes he could bite his tongue off. Why did he tell him that, even if it’s so true it gives him a physical pain in his gut every time he thinks about it?
Joe says, ‘I guess this is where I tell you that your father’s doing a good job.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Noah’s voice is trembling. Joe stares at him, his changeling eyes shimmering in the evening light.
‘Sure,’ he says, and Noah knows he’s lying.
Everyone is looking worse for wear that evening, watching crap TV and mucking around on tablets and phones. The cricket’s been cancelled because of rain in the Bay of Plenty. It’s not raining in the bay yet. The air is so thick and warm; Noah feels he’s moving in slow motion.
He and Tom end up out on the street, half-heartedly tossing a rugby ball to and fro. After yet another failed catch, Noah tumbles onto Nana’s lawn and watches the clouds merge into monster shapes.
‘Ah, that looks good.’ Tom stretches out beside him, and there they lie, a pair of beached starfish. ‘Storm coming.’
‘Not for a couple of days, I heard,’ Noah says.
‘Might be some good surf tomorrow.’ Tom yawns. ‘Joe said.’
‘He’s probably right.’ Noah is thinking about his conversation with Joe earlier, turning it over in his head. Something’s not adding up, but he can’t figure out what it is.
‘So, guess
you don’t need the prophylactics after all?’
‘Huh?’ Noah says, before realising Tom is talking about the condoms he bought in Whangarei. ‘Oh. I guess not.’
‘Did you really break up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘For good?’
‘Yeah.’ There’s no coming back from this afternoon.
Have you hooked up with someone else?
So, you have then.
Should he text Aimee the truth? Or is it better just to leave it? What will hurt her the least? Noah wishes he knew.
And now it’s nearly nine o’clock, and all he can think about is Lola — about her skin, her mouth, the sounds she made last night when he kissed her all over.
‘Shame,’ Tom says. Noah is glad Tom can’t see the images in his head, the ones where he’s kissing Lola’s inner thighs.
‘It was inevitable.’ Noah gets to his feet, even though his legs feel like concrete. ‘I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.’
As soon as he crawls into his sleeping bag, Noah wishes he’d done a better job of washing the sand off his feet. He unzips the bag, takes it outside to brush it off. Even so, when he climbs back in, he finds more fecking sand. Not much, but enough to annoy him. Jesus, he feels like the Princess and the Pea.
But where’s my princess?
She’ll be here … won’t she?
Despite everything, Noah is pretty sure Lola will turn up. Is that arrogant? Maybe. But when midnight comes and goes, he starts to worry. Has she decided to give him the flick after all?
But I broke up with Aimee.
No … she broke up with you.
Tired and horny as he is (a strange, dissatisfying combination), Noah ends up drifting into a half-sleep, disembodied voices creeping in and out of his head.
Are you the fire?
No, Lola, you are.
I guess this is where I tell you that your father’s doing a good job.
We don’t have to. If you don’t want to.
I do want to.
He doesn’t hear the zip for the tent fly; doesn’t hear Lola until she’s lying beside him.
‘Whoa, you’re sneaky,’ he murmurs, turning towards her. Lola is breathing fast, like she’s been jogging. Noah draws her closer to him. ‘Are you OK?’
Moonlight Sonata Page 17
