‘So, what did you find?’
‘Two job applications … and then, I know I shouldn’t have … but I did a “history” search on her computer’s web browser.’
This from a woman who could still recall an Imperial 66, and the days of carbon copies.
‘Dare I ask?’
‘You’d rather not know.’
‘You’re so right, but something tells me I will soon.’
‘Yup, probably. Employment law predominantly. Sexual harassment cases.’
‘I thought we had that sorted.’
Heather looked shocked.
‘Oh God, Heather, not me. Martin, of course — who else?’
‘His nibs … of course.’
And she looked thoroughly satisfied.
‘Sorted … you mean he discussed it with you?’
‘Well, not exactly discussed. Mentioned it, but said he had it under control. I have an awful feeling that the fire was his version of under control. Probably made things worse.’
‘Do you want my opinion?’
Did he?
‘I think it would be a good thing if Paris moved on. Would you like me to work on this for you?’
Heather suddenly didn’t need arms at all to be useful. Paris liked Heather. Maybe this was a good idea after all.
‘We’ve all missed Zeus.’
Heather beamed. Heather’s beam meant quite a bit of pink gum, irregular and discoloured teeth, and just a hint of scum-coated tongue. It was an age thing and probably her medication. On the whole, she was a reasonable-looking woman, with her chest the most handsome feature. Married for four months was the rumour — four months and no one knew what had happened to her husband, but she’d lived alone ever since.
He realised he’d missed Heather. She was there for him. Even though she didn’t really like Martin, she was happy to help smooth out Paris’s departure … perhaps even facilitate it. An old-fashioned loyalty that was hard to find nowadays. Outdated really, but comforting. He knew, too, that it had to do with his being male and the boss. PAs were a dying breed, especially those who remembered Pitman, carbon copies, devotion.
He was really good at this … sentiment and insight when they weren’t really required.
Ajax approached him.
‘I can’t match the colour for this new order.’
Ah, something practical he could deal with.
Adam worked late, helping out on the floor, enjoying the simplicity of manual labour, technical obstacles that didn’t require a spreadsheet to overcome and the joy when, together, he and Ajax outwitted Martin by combining blue, green and yellow powder to create a lime finish. Up close, he had to admit, you could see the colour combinations but, overall, even his nibs couldn’t have found fault.
Driving home he looked out at the harbour back to the valley. The sea was tinfoil, the sky an angry artist’s palette. One by one the stars emerged like tiny punctures. The moon appeared. A yellow brick road opened up across the harbour. And then the city was luminous licorice.
Lime paint had seeped under his thumbnails. He admired it. It felt good. And he thought of his dad, out in the woodshed and singing to the rough-sawn rafters in his best Howard Morrison voice, about the virtue of having dirt on your hands.
Chapter Twenty-one
Te Papa: Our Place they called it; Lego-land by the water was how Adam saw it. He didn’t so much dislike the architecture as find himself bemused by it. He fancied something similar to the Sydney Opera House, but that would be imitative. The Wellington waterfront was original, and so he always added a rider to his thoughts about Te Papa … originality, colour and, if you were up on the floor that housed the marae (again, he had opinions on coloured balsa wood), the view across to the Hutt Valley was storybookish.
Louise had coerced him into this. Networking. If you took ‘net’ by itself you could catch butterflies, fish or mosquitoes. So he presumed networking meant Louise catching all three (and as far as he could see tonight, they were all here).
The mosquitoes buzzed and flashed business cards, whipping them out of inside coat pockets with one hand while nursing wine in the other, so that the gesture was one of diving (mosquito-like) through a gap, retrieving the prize and moving on.
The butterflies, they were everywhere. Mostly in black. Not that butterflies were normally black. But the butterflies who attended the business functions that Louise attended always wore black trousers, black jackets, black frocks and more black frocks. Black — it was next season, last season, this season. Black, all on its own, was back.
The fish were more difficult. This was a coastal city, and Te Papa was at the edge of the sea, but the fish at business functions were harder to see. They might be mermaids, and then again they could be piranhas … teeth flashing, out of water, a short time without oxygen to make the best impression. The mermaids hid their fins (clue … a flash of iridescent eyelid … a knee that might really be a tail). Blue lips, always blue lips. The piranhas — complicated, needy, misunderstood — screamed polygamy, coveted monogamy. They were more interesting than mermaids, because they were harder to detect and bearers of death in one way or another, the little death or perhaps the death of a marriage.
People swam about at Te Papa. They opened their mouths, swallowed other fish, gnawed on larger prey, spat them out, swallowed some whole, and left others undigested.
Adam found himself a sanctuary outside Golden Days. It was his favourite exhibition. He only ever admitted this privately, which meant that only he knew. On wet Sundays (when Louise was working) he’d sat with Frankie and Vanessa — watching, watching. And sometimes he sat in the front row alone, surrounded by memorabilia, and revelled in nostalgia: what it was to be Kiwi.
Adam saw himself as a forward in the All Blacks, the guy forging metal into usefulness (visors were so attractive on older men) … he was the drummer in the brass band; the pole vaulter; a Wahine survivor, washed up bedraggled but alive on the Eastbourne coast … thrown on to the back of a truck; he was the man with the pole on Willis Street, shutting down the metal grille in front of the shop — ending his day, going home, with a glimpse of the rowing club through a lane he knew well … God he loved Wellington, wanted trams and trolley buses, rain and everything that was possible on a hilly, coastal, wooden, grey and turbulent landscape.
Over and over, the music and the images never failed to ignite a sense of overwhelming pride. He wanted to stand up and shout that he understood, that he rode the wave, that he drove the tractor, he pruned the vines, he saved the child under the burning tanker (that one, in particular): he wore the helmet, even the moustache; he sweated; he held the child in his arms and he received the accolades.
At the end, he was that man with his baby in the buggy.
A business card exchanged could be someone’s mortgage repayment for another month. A business card exchanged could be a promotion to the butterfly. A business card exchanged might be a romantic proposition … actually, it was always a romantic proposition. If you attended networking functions you were romantic about business, imagining that the next contact would be the right one, the turn-around, key to a Ferrari, the reason why (in Louise’s case) you had rented the top floor of one of the best buildings on the waterfront.
The toilets were close to Golden Days — women rushed in and out, emerging with powdered noses, relashed lashes, and variously coloured lips. Adam moved away towards the corrugated Golden Holden.
He’d never owned a Holden. He was a Leyland man; a Zephyr man, even a Ford Cortina man … which he knew did nothing to elevate his cachet with anyone except himself.
‘Adam’.
In front of him was Louise. She wasn’t in black, so she stood out. Useful blue, moderate hem length, a piranha-mosquito-butterfly — the very best of everything, with lashes long enough to lasso a manufacturer.
‘Louise.’
‘Adam, I want you to meet Frank; he’s the brains behind the campaign to bring Wellington on to the international stage.�
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Frank was the man with the pinkish-blue mouth whom Adam had noticed — and who had noticed Martin — at the manufacturers’ business meeting.
‘Frank.’
He shook Frank’s hand. He knew the rules. Put your hand directly out, hold it firmly and try to keep the equation even (in other words, don’t dominate the gesture, and don’t be a push-over). Ah, the subtleties of handshaking. So many rules about unspoken actions … Adam had a short story on handshakes — unwritten, of course. He didn’t have time; he had a factory to run.
Frank was talking to Adam and looking at Louise. Adam was used to men doing this, but tonight it really annoyed him. It felt like static on his car radio, after the car wash, when he’d forgotten to relaunch his aerial. The sort of annoyance that you endured for a while, hoping it would go away, but knowing what you had to do to get rid of it.
And he did.
‘Louise, I think it’s time we left. I promised Ness we’d pick her up from the varsity library at nine-thirty … and look, it’s nine-twenty already.’
The pinkish-blue mouth swallowed the last one-eighth from his glass of red (but not before holding it up to the light and swirling it theatrically) — gulp — gone — and so were they …
Louise was bristling at Adam’s heels, undecided whether motherhood required her to leave a business opportunity so early in the evening, but knowing that Adam had meant business, even if Ness was an excuse.
Then they had to find the car. Here was one of his private failures. Louise always took note: which level, which building, which car. Adam usually parked his car without noticing. They’d argued (often) about this, and tonight was no exception.
‘So, which floor?’
He wasn’t going to admit anything tonight.
Adam pushed the black button with the white ‘3’. The building was creepy, opposite the town hall, and he had arrived late, rushed across the road to the venue, hadn’t had time to think about which bloody floor.
They trawled the car park and, unexpectedly, Louise didn’t complain. She had this capacity for sensing when to push the boat out, and when to simply don a life jacket. Tonight she wore a life jacket. It was bright orange, it was strapped to capacity, and she was going to float, no matter which button he pushed.
They didn’t have cash at the exit. They didn’t take EFTPOS, only credit cards, and they almost argued over whose … but Louise’s life jacket inflated and she gallantly proffered hers.
On Kelburn Parade, after a less-than-safe entry into oncoming traffic (due to Adam’s overwhelming sense of Golden Days and wishing he’d owned a corrugated Holden), they hovered, double-parked in the dark, waiting for Ness. Why, thought Adam, were so many car parks on Kelburn Parade inhabited on an inauspicious Wednesday evening? The ‘why’ was young men and women like Ness, either infatuated with learning or simply meeting deadlines. He watched a posse of Asian students in dark, waterproof, fashionable clothing, unlocking (remotely) their flash, souped-up, boy-racer-style cars. An older woman clutching an armful of books struggled towards a dilapidated white Nissan just in front of Adam’s car and dropped her bundle of books on the bonnet while she hunted for her keys. Ouch. He felt the scratch. Two of the books slipped from the bonnet on to the road, and one lay open, vulnerable, pages flapping, while the woman located her keys and unlocked the car. At that moment Ness appeared; she stopped and rescued the open book and handed it to the woman. They exchanged smiles. The woman didn’t look quite so old now; her smile altered either her face or Adam’s perspective of it.
Ness turned and waved at someone across the road before getting into the car. Adam looked over to see a young man straddling a cycle, fastening a helmet. Then there was the conclusive clunk of a car door shutting, and he lost sight of the young man and turned and saw Ness.
‘Good night?’ she asked them overenthusiastically.
‘Yes, thank you.’ He answered for himself and Louise, as Louise was distracted by an incoming email on her phone and merely grunted.
‘What about you?’ Adam resisted mentioning the helmeted cyclist, hoping a more general query might elicit something.
‘Do you know that people hide library books at the university?’
Ness sounded aggrieved, and astonished. Adam wasn’t sure if this was an evasive tactic or not.
‘Hide books?’ Louise made it sound like a disease, but really she was more interested in reading her phone, oblivious to the subtext Adam and Ness were negotiating.
‘Yes, they do, they do.’
Oh, the indignation of youth.
‘Why would people hide books?’ Adam was curious: why was Ness upset?
‘Oh, but they do!’
Ness’s voice was filled with concern, judgement, a hint of terror.
‘Human nature,’ Louise intercepted, and terror was averted. She scrolled down to read a further message and then switched her phone off.
‘Have you lost a book?’ Adam tried concern.
‘Not so much lost as I can’t find it. It’s a special reserve, meaning there are only limited copies of the text and you’re only allowed to have it out for three days — there are thirty of us doing the same assignment. What happens is that people don’t get the book issued, they simply stash it away behind another book in the wrong section and only they know where it is.’
‘What is the point of that?’
‘It means they get an advantage over everyone else, and some of us …’ Ness sounded tearful.
‘I could buy you a copy?’ A knight on his white charger, ready to save the damsel in distress, in particular this beautiful Ness.
‘Don’t be daft, Adam, it’s not the sort of book you just buy somewhere, it will be a limited edition,’ Louise explained.
‘Phillip says …’
Oh, he didn’t really care what Phillip said, except when it was Ness who said what Phillip said.
‘What did Phillip say?’
He sounded authentically curious. Even to his own ears. Perhaps even to Louise and, more importantly (and for the sake of authenticity), to Ness.
‘Phillip reckons that you have to eschew fashion, ignore trend, and battle on for authenticity.’
Three cheers for Phillip. Authenticity! He couldn’t have put it better.
Judy sure had good taste. He gripped the steering wheel and looked across at Louise, who was (out of character) adjusting the mirror on the passenger side (the beige swing-action mirror) to check her mascara. Women who were relaxed about lipstick were often obsessed with eyelashes, he’d noticed.
At night the road became a computer game; lights flashed. He hadn’t told his optometrist, but the street lamps became laser lights (he ought to be wearing glasses). Adam gripped the steering wheel and focused on the road and traffic, listened to Louise and Ness.
‘Nakita’s happy to have you and Frankie come and stay with her while we’re away in Sydney.’
‘No, Mum, no way. I’m old enough to look after myself and Frankie.’
He’d keep out of this debate. Adam focused on driving his family safely, while a small and friendly battle ensued. This was a battle that Ness was always going to win: she was mature, sensible and worthy of the responsibility — and it didn’t take long for Louise to concede.
‘I can always call Nakita if I need her, and there’s Caitlin’s mum, she’s bound to invite Frankie over for a night. Don’t worry, Mum; we won’t be having wild parties while you’re away. My name’s not Kelly Brown! Remember, I’ve got my portfolio to finish — and I’ll take care of Frankie.’
Of course she would, thought Adam, but he wasn’t going to interfere and he didn’t have to.
‘It’s a big responsibility, Vanessa.’
‘I know that, Mum. Have I ever let you down?’
Chapter Twenty-two
The plane rumbled down the runway like a lazy bumblebee and soared northwards through a shifting cloud floss, banking, straightening. There was sunlight, shadow and then the reassuring ‘ding’ advising th
at seat belts were no longer needed. The plane had stopped climbing, and Adam’s tooth had started hurting. Damn. He’d missed his dentist appointment before they left. He sucked in cold air, swore under his breath (glancing at Louise, who was already absorbed in the in-flight magazine). It was early morning, but he was about to break the yardarm rule. If his tooth was going to grumble, he was going to need a glass of really good Australian red.
Thankfully, Judy and Phillip had caught a flight the day before, but somehow they were all booked on the same return flight. As Louise had pointed out to him, they wouldn’t necessarily be sitting near each other.
She looked gorgeous. He forgot his tooth for a moment and admired her. The excitement of travel always brought out the best in her. She was wearing jeans and a pale blue cross-over top that accentuated her breasts, their softness and their weight. He nudged the closer breast to him with the side of his arm, as if by accident, but they both knew it wasn’t. Only on aeroplanes. Something about the altitude subdued her. Any overt public caresses in any other situation usually brought immediate censure.
I’m not your plaything.
Stop being a boy!
Not in front of the girls.
Do you mind?
He always did mind, but he never let on. When they’d first met she hadn’t minded when and where he’d touched her. That had been part of the attraction. He’d been foolish with lust and she’d adored it. Or so he thought.
Louise joined him in a wine. That was a good sign. Drunken and lustful was what he hoped for. She’d taken her shoes off and was rubbing the back of her right leg with her left foot. He’d never done the mile-high thing and he knew it was a sad and sordid joke, but flying certainly made a man randy.
Then it started. Turbulence. The seat-belt sign reactivated. They cancelled the food and for the rest of the journey they bounced and shuddered across the Tasman. He wasn’t a nervous flyer and neither was Louise, but he could see the woman across the aisle turning pale and her hands gripping the seat every time the plane descended suddenly and shook. Eventually, he saw the hostess light go on above the woman’s seat — too late; she had vomited into the pocket of the seat in front of her. The smell lingered long after the clean-up operation. They flew into Kingsford Smith with the pungent odour of vomit and eau de cologne.
Turbulence Page 20
