‘Why not a postcard for me?’ wailed Frankie.
Adam couldn’t answer that. Perhaps the postcard was intended for both of them — but that wasn’t much of an answer so he kept it to himself. Louise hadn’t mentioned it. Ness hadn’t mentioned it. So how long had this been festering?
‘It’s tough for your dad, too.’
He’d avoided even thinking this until now: you couldn’t allow yourself to worry about the ex-husband of your current wife. He’d sworn off looking back, long ago. But there he was, standing up for the bastard who’d abandoned his family. Strictly speaking, Adam was the bastard who’d robbed Frankie’s dad of his family — but there was no point in dwelling on that. Right now, he needed to remind Frankie that it was tough for her dad …
‘How could he leave us?’
That’s right, George, how could you? ‘He’d be so proud if he could see you.’
‘Why Ness and not me?’
He couldn’t answer that. He wanted to look away but he looked Frankie right in the eye and they both knew this wasn’t his fault. She licked a tear that was about to drop from her upper lip, sniffed rudely and loudly — that’s it Frankie, go Frankie — and then she grinned and restarted the car, perfectly, smoothly and they were off, heading up Seaview Road, the sea on one side languid and sparkling, and a colonnade of grey industry on the other.
They did roundabouts, parallel parking (in and out of the same spot four times) and reversed the entire length of a quiet street in Seaview at over thirty kilometres an hour. Adam kept a look-out for trucks and tourists; thankfully, there wasn’t a car in sight. Frankie only wobbled on to the wrong side of the road three times. She was radiant with achievement at the end of the morning. All thoughts of her no-hoper dad seemed to have disappeared when she discovered the thrill of acceleration and sudden braking (Adam wondered about whiplash).
She was like her mother, he thought. Or at least the version of her mother that had first appealed to him — with a joy in the physical and the practical. But more and more, Louise was absorbed in public relations and disinclined to spend time in the practical and physical world. It was as if she had used this aspect of herself to woo and win him and now, having secured a father for her kids, she was happy to return to her more intellectual self.
Now all they needed was a hill-start practice, which meant leaving Petone and heading up to the western hills. Belmont would do: steep, curving roads with poor visibility on the corners. Not to mention a precarious set of lights to negotiate on the motorway. Frankie was up to it and Adam knew he was privileged to be sharing in her daring. He had only one moment of doubt, when Frankie flew through an amber light on the way back, but he sensed her intention … defiance to a dad who wasn’t there, not the Dam who was.
‘Do you mind if we stop off at the factory? Mt Albert is working on a new product for me — I said I’d take a peek.’
‘Why would you name your child after a bus stop?’ asked Frankie.
‘It’s only a nickname.’
Then again, why name your child Adam after the biggest loser in history — the man who was led astray by a woman and failed mankind forever?
‘Actually,’ Adam went on, ‘I think Mt Albert Bus Stop is a great name. Imagine starting school and sitting on the mat. There’d be at least three Sarahs, four Sams and possibly three or more Toms … at least you’d be the only one.’
Frankie grinned. ‘True … I was the only Francesca in my first year at school but there are three or maybe four at college, and Ness — well, there were four Vanessas in her Year 11. Mind you, there’s no chance of meeting another Mudface, is there!’
Adam was driving now. Frankie had pulled up after the amber light and off the motorway to let him take over. She was happy to go to the factory. Vanessa would have groaned. Louise would have consented, but reluctantly. But Frankie enjoyed the factory and the guys loved her. She’d even tried welding under supervision from Mt Albert — and to Adam’s consternation, though watching her bathed in sparks, wearing goggles and grinning was enough to allay his fears of OSH, arson or an accident. The same joy he’d experienced watching the woman in the Leyland with her unbuckled family … both calculated and uncalculated risk; possibly life-endangering, but life-affirming at the same time.
He liked dropping in at the weekends. Martin was rarely there. They’d negotiated a five-day week to get Martin’s expertise on board (of course this sometimes meant late shifts as well to learn the ropes), but mostly Martin spent time devising spreadsheets and overheads for mid-morning meetings, while Adam roved the factory floor. The cold concrete was bad for his soon-to-be-varicose veins and his legs ached, but he still loved the feeling of strolling around his plant, admiring his staff (especially Mt Albert, who was an expert and a perfectionist). He admired the concentration on the lathe and enjoyed listening to the chivvying, the banter, the sometimes silence and the clear, emphatic echo of metal on metal. The factory couldn’t be heated, but the pitch and shape of the roof meant that the early morning and late afternoon sun caught and lit corners for a short time.
Frankie loved the Binks Bullows paint-spraying booth. Each time she visited, Ajax threatened to spray-paint her and in return, Frankie threatened to steal the gun and spray Ajax. Now Ajax always hovered between Frankie and the spray gun; it was a dance of sorts, Ajax leading and Frankie inventing a few new steps each time — just to keep him on his toes. Once she got too close, ended up with fine blue sprinkles in her hair that took forever to grow out.
Adam’s phone vibrated, indicating a text. Louise had finished work early and was suggesting Meet me 4 Lnch?
Frankie was meeting a friend at the library at noon, so instead of Starbucks or McDonald’s they could eat somewhere decent.
D8 pod he replied. That would give him brownie points: Louise loved pod. The servings were entrée sized and you were expected to eat at least two. They both enjoyed the variety (they’d eaten their way through almost all of pod’s menu), though most of all Adam liked the opportunity to please Louise. She was picky but her enthusiasm for food and new tastes never failed to impress him. This was how it had been in the beginning. Secret meetings at cafés and between courses, Louise examining his appetite and her own. Who she fancied (besides him), what she fancied (with him) and always, the idea that adventure with food was a precursor. She’d even faked an interest in ‘other women’ when they’d first met — so far, it seemed much more like ‘other men’.
He checked his watch. Ness was at the university library — could be there all day; Frankie would be home on the two-thirty bus. Pod it was, and who knew what might come of it. Both of them, he hoped.
They were on their fourth serving: Louise had an appetite today. She thought she had the Why Not Wellington? campaign under control. It had taken until the fourth dish for her to kick her shoes off and find his leg (above his sock and under his trouser). But he knew she was on a roll figuratively speaking and he would be too, if they skipped the second bottle of wine in favour of dessert. Louise didn’t have to worry about her weight and she loved to linger over dessert on these occasions, knowing he was watching his waistline and his watch. An hour and a half free before Frankie or Ness turned up at home … Adam decided to share the dessert — so they both knew he was serious.
‘Can Caitlin stay the night?’
Frankie was home. Louise was stifling a second climax (hers) when the front door opened. They were in the bedroom downstairs and not on the sheepskin rug as Louise had suggested. Adam was exhausted. He always looked forward to their ‘afternoon delight’, as Louise called it, but she was a greedy cow when it suited and he’d forgone his own needs so she could climax twice (something about an article in Cosmo — experimental), and of course he was a patient man, mostly.
Louise wafted upstairs on a cloud of goodwill and left Adam to fend for himself (furtively, under the blankets, ignoring all advice about blindness — and it always took twice as long as it ought when he was short-changed like this). Christ
almighty … and there you go … not really satisfying, but better than nothing.
Their sex life of late had become a series of miscalculations and disappointments. He didn’t desire anyone else (well, not often), but he sensed that Louise might, and might even be acting on it. Unfortunately, the thought of Louise being unfaithful was often enough to make her desirable. Work that one out, he told himself. What sort of sad bastard was he? Knowing she was entirely available, forever, monogamously his unto eternity, was not exactly a turn-on. Perhaps Louise understood this better than he did. And he did love her. He had to. His life had changed forever because of Louise, and the one thing he was sure of was that he loved her, or nothing was bearable.
Caitlin was everything that Frankie wasn’t. She was the sort of girl you didn’t want your daughter to be, and you were glad she belonged to some other poor sucker. She was gorgeous, coquettish and silly. She feigned a knowing that failed her. She lived and breathed boys in every sentence. Frankie easily got bored by her, but then forgot and would invite her back. Caitlin gave substance to the expression ‘dizzy blonde’ — except she wasn’t blonde, she was dark in an Elizabeth Taylor way (Winona Ryder, said Frankie) and her skin was the colour of a fresh magnolia bloom (before rain or human contact).
Frankie and Caitlin were in the kitchen drinking Coke and chatting to Louise. Sex for Louise was better than a face-lift. She wore no make-up, but advertised translucence. Adam, on the other hand, was irritable and trying not to show it. He eased past the girls in the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. If he couldn’t fuck himself into a good mood, he was going to drink himself into one. Louise frowned for half a second, but not about the beer. She hated him drinking straight from the bottle.
Let Caitlin go home and tell her mum and dad that Frankie’s stepfather was an overweight old soak who drank in the afternoons — what did he care? Caitlin’s dad was a half-baked car salesman and at least Adam owned a half-baked factory. He wished he had his ciggies on him so he could light up and really piss Louise off.
Louise reached over and smoothed his brow, closing off the forming frown as if she was sealing a self-adhesive envelope, and he melted. The touch of her hand was firm and affirming, a gesture not wasted on Frankie, who loved to observe affection between her mum and Dam. A cynic might think that Louise knew this, but Adam wasn’t a cynic, he was a family man, doing the best he could and an afternoon fuck, however unsatisfactory, was still not bad, not too bloody bad. Adam grinned, offered a swig of beer (joking, of course) to Frankie and Caitlin and rubbed the tip of Louise’s nose with the cold nose of the beer bottle. Caitlin could go home and tell her family about ‘The Brady Bunch’ — they were sitcom material in the making — and Caitlin’s mum would want to know.
One beer only whet his appetite. A second beer would hit the spot, launch him on to the couch and blend beautifully with the residue of the pinot gris they’d lunched on … but Louise intercepted just as he reached into the fridge.
‘You’ve forgotten — haven’t you?’
He had his head halfway in the fridge (the door by his ear, cool). The Monteith’s were stacked alternately bums in, bums out, so they didn’t roll around. His head held the door as his hand reached.
‘Forgotten?’ Adam stayed with the fridge, because he was sure whatever he had forgotten had nothing to do with his second beer.
‘Dinner tonight with Nakita, Hagen and —’ she lowered her voice as if she didn’t want Frankie and Caitlin to hear ‘— Phillip and Judy.’
Damn and blast. He had forgotten and he so didn’t fancy it. He was ready to chill out and drink himself slowly into the Saturday evening — maybe watch a video, read a book — but dinner with Nakita and Hagen and Phillip and Judy, with Nakita at the helm …
‘You don’t want to arrive sloshed, do you?’ Louise was right. He didn’t even want to arrive half-sloshed. Tonight he would need his wits about him if he didn’t want to get sucked into being another guinea pig in Nakita’s life-coaching career or, worse, enrolled in a Landmark course with Phillip and Judy. Nevertheless, another beer would wear off.
‘One more, my darling,’ in his very best jovial-dad voice (the darling for the sake of Caitlin, who wouldn’t know that Louise hated it) and the Brady Bunch was still intact.
‘Boozer!’ — but it was Frankie, not Louise: she loved her Dam because he rarely boozed (in front of her, at least) and when he did, she found it funny.
Caitlin was staying the night. She and Frankie had texted a DVD order to Ness, who was on her way home from the library. Pizza bases were defrosting on the bench and Louise was searching the pantry for tinned tomatoes. Caitlin was grating cheese and Frankie was chopping onions. Adam grabbed the paper and snuck downstairs to read in peace. He checked his watch and calculated half an hour before he needed to shower and dress for Nakita’s dinner party. Louise would dash for the shower at the last minute and emerge radiant as she always did. The less trouble she took with her appearance, the more attractive she seemed. He hated women with powdered noses and iridescent eyelids.
The business section of the newspaper was missing. As it was the only part he ever really read, he was annoyed. A quick flick through the motoring section proved soothing. First he reassured himself by checking out how much his car had devalued in the past year and then he looked at options for an upgrade (leasing was the answer according to Hagen, who was thinking about getting a new car). A morning out tyre-kicking with Hagen was added to the mental agenda and then he heard Louise calling out about a shirt for tonight. She was offering to iron one for him, but he had to choose.
The unironed shirts were stored out of sight in the walk-in wardrobe. He had to climb over the vacuum cleaner, a box of files from the factory and Louise’s briefcase to find them. As he stepped, the latter flew open and papers scattered. He rescued the first shirt he could lay his hands on and met Louise on the staircase halfway down. Her ironing was never taken for granted: she didn’t hand out any favours on the domestic front without expecting appreciation. (He liked it like this. It kept them both alert and always negotiating, instead of falling into set roles.) A kiss was all she wanted this time, and a kiss she got. Awkward — he was on the downside of the staircase and she was on the up, so he had to lean upwards and she leaned over. On top again; that was Louise.
She was in a great mood, he could tell (a touch of tongue … usually a hint of things to come). He returned to the wardrobe to find some trousers to wear. The contents of Louise’s briefcase were scattered across the floor. He knelt to retrieve them; a folder marked Why Not Wellington?, an article on sponsorship, an annual report and a stray spreadsheet that caught his eye. There were columns filled in and empty boxes: Nakita’s life-coaching questionnaire. He knew he shouldn’t, but he did … just a peek, and then he was intrigued.
I pay my bills on time (she’d ticked that) — well, that was right, she did.
I have investments — what sort of investments?
My income is consistent (that box was empty) — yup, on the knocker: the only consistent thing about Louise’s income was the inconsistency. Louise had a high profile and she could earn big bucks, but consistent … he could see why she hadn’t ticked that one.
He scanned down further. The ‘money’ box was boring; ‘relationships’ drew him in.
I get along well with my family (a big tick) — he was glad about that.
I tell people regularly that I love them (she hadn’t ticked that one).
I am told regularly that I am loved (no tick here either).
He felt uncomfortable prying. Just one more, a quick scan …
I spend time with my children (a big tick) — he’d dispute that. Actually I spend time with your children, he said to himself and then, like a thief caught red-handed midway through a suburban ransack, he threw the scattered papers and life-coaching survey back into Louise’s briefcase and lunged at a pair of linen slacks (his alibi), just as Louise appeared in the bedroom doorway.
‘You o
r me first?’
‘You first.’
They always went through this routine. She pretended to offer him the shower first and he declined. It was one of those chivalrous things he did and she liked and they played it out over and over … and now he could see a pattern emerging. Louise was first at everything and he facilitated it. There we are, madam, take a shower and I’ll wait. Go on: come, why don’t you; don’t worry about me, I’ll finish myself off later. Of course I’ll take Frankie to dive school — no, you stay late, finish your project. I’m so proud of you — and he was, he truly was.
He looked around the bathroom door. Louise was emerging from the shower groping for a towel. His first instinct was to reach for the towel and wrap her in it … but an empty box on a survey form flashed before him with the words I tell people regularly that I love them. One very fat blank box.
He waited until she had dried herself, and disrobed carefully beside her — not speaking, not touching. Louise was humming a jingle from her last successful PR campaign for a training company. She pinched his bum as he leaned over the shower to release the tap. A pinched bum was a whole lot more relevant than some dumb-arsed survey that Nakita had concocted. Louise was only doing the survey out of a curious sort of allegiance to Nakita.
Dinner tonight. Hagen was bound to push the boat out with the wine selection and although Nakita’s repertoire for dinner parties was repetitive, he hoped for the rolled stuffed loin of pork (prunes, apples) and the best bits — crackling and boiled potatoes. Always boiled potatoes. But it wasn’t the potatoes that had set him drooling, not really: a man could hang his flannel out to dry in the shower with a wife like Louise on the prowl.
Chapter Eight
Turbulence Page 7
