Turbulence

by Maggie Rainey-Smith

  Getting off the plane, he wondered if any of his fellow passengers were heading to the reunion. Perhaps someone he’d forgotten about on the Overland Adventurers tour was now a neighbour in Wellington? Unlikely, but it entertained him while they waited in long queues for immigration.

  He spied a Phillip lookalike — business suit, cufflinks, longish groomed hair, an air of disdain intended to convey distinction. The woman who had been airsick was transformed, her complexion restored to skin colour, and she had changed her clothes. There was a middle-aged man with a stomach like a medicine ball, taut and bulging over a faded T-shirt. He could be a contender. Adam searched the man’s face for something familiar. The man caught him staring and glared back.

  Immigration queues were intimate experiences. You had time to observe people you had otherwise ignored for three or four hours, to notice their irritation, excitement, impatience, and in some cases intense apprehension — tell-tale underarm sweat stains on otherwise impeccable shirts, families feigning togetherness for an audience.

  ‘Daddy’s got your passport, darling.’ (To a toddler who had just learned to walk and didn’t know what a passport was — in a loud gooey-mummy voice.)

  ‘Destiny, darling, you’re on my passport; Genesis —’

  Genesis, for Christ’s sake.

  ‘— you’re on Daddy’s.’

  Oh yes, the rest of us really need to know this.

  Meanwhile Destiny and Genesis explored the gaps between queuing passengers’ legs as if they were sniffer dogs.

  Louise always chose this particular moment to reorganise the entire contents of her handbag.

  Adam needed to take a leak. This was usual. He often miscalculated, eschewing the frantic queues just before descent and then wishing he hadn’t. He jiggled from one foot to the other. Louise frowned and glared. She knew. He noticed the guy with the medicine-ball belly was doing a similar dance.

  Louise waited for their bags while Adam raced to a toilet. The urinal was full of fellow passengers, relieved and relieving. (He made a mental note to be a grown-up on the return flight and go to the toilet on the plane before landing.) He returned in time to enjoy another of his favourite flying pastimes, matching luggage with passengers. People with normally good manners pushed and shoved and nabbed luggage. A lolly-pink suitcase was going around for the second time. There were two contenders. An elderly blonde in track pants, who confounded him by choosing a backpack; or a teenage girl about Frankie’s age, absorbed in her iPod. But then a young boy — with a bolt through his chin, bracelets, tats and lipstick — nudged past Adam and leaned over to pick up the bag.

  Outside, waiting for a courtesy bus, Adam observed the airsick woman in a passionate (Oh my God, they’re tongue-kissing) embrace. Louise caught his eye, mimed tooth-brushing and they laughed out loud, together, the first time in a long while.

  They had shunned the suggested accommodation at a hotel near Darling Harbour, close to the reunion site. Instead they opted for a smaller serviced apartment in the heart of Sydney — it would give them some space from the reunion and meant they wouldn’t bump into Judy and Phillip too often. Louise intended doing business while she was here and was only joining Adam for the dinner and dance on the last evening. According to Judy, Phillip was pursuing business interests too, and that suited Adam.

  Their apartment was floor-to-ceiling chrome and white. Dazzling, clean and spartan. Louise loved it; Adam could take or leave it. The best part was the view. Out of the main window they could peer into an office and watch some unsuspecting man in a suit move to and fro: from the photocopier, back to his desk, at his computer, on the phone (yes, picking his nose). Adam decided the man was an insurance agent. Louise said no, he was an analyst. He moved a lot, back and forth, a study in corporate obsolescence. Not at any stage did the man in the suit look as if he cared enough about what was happening. It was a study in boredom, too, and they got bored.

  Louise ripped her clothes off and they did it, and if the bored man in the suit had bothered to look out his window, he could have watched them. That did add to the act, but it was not the driving factor. Travel, overseas, being cooped up in a plane with no escape — these things always worked wonders for them. Everyone needed variety. Adam understood cheating sex, and he understood monogamous sex. You just did what you could with what life offered at any particular time. If you tried too hard, you always got caught out. Hagen tried too hard — but Adam loved him for it. You had to admire people who really gave their best to an ideal, and perhaps even lived it. Meanwhile Adam was here with Louise, in Sydney, for a reunion with his first wife (strictly speaking his only wife). Life was complicated.

  Louise went shopping (which was unusual) and Adam opted for a stroll down to The Rocks. How he loved the harbour bridge, the opera house and, oddly enough, the chaos and ordinariness of Circular Quay: hustle, people, sunlight — an Australian blend that you couldn’t pin down. The Australians were such an ebullient crop. You couldn’t knock it. It was the New World in some ways, while New Zealand was utopia (try-hard) … he stopped, felt disloyal. He wondered sometimes about a bridge across the Tasman — the best of both worlds.

  He found The Rocks a mixture of tweeness and nostalgia. Most people simply indulged the cuteness of it, bought a souvenir, ate expensive food and felt they had somehow touched Australia. But if you examined the backdrop to The Rocks it was more than just a tourist trap. It was so much more — the docksiders, settlers, rats … commerce (a moving forward that he understood). Settlers had abandoned the constraints of English society or, worse, been abandoned by it. They had arrived with a vision of re-creation. Funny how the same word without the hyphen was about frivolity and with the hyphen it meant … everything, the essence of life itself. Without re-creation, people stayed like the man seen through their apartment window in George Street, moving from the photocopier to the telephone and back again.

  Adam loved the smell of Sydney. He loved the air — there wasn’t enough of it. It meant you breathed in a different way. New Zealand was sharper somehow, and more mellow in another way. Sydney was London, New York and possibly Auckland, all rolled into one. The South Pacific putting on a good show.

  Louise returned, laden with shopping bags (Myer, David Jones, QVB) and shoe boxes. He tried not to care, not to imagine the dollar fluctuations that could mean a haemorrhage on the credit card. They shared a joint account for travel. He agreed hypothetically, but always cringed when the hypothesis was tested. That small stretch of water they called the Tasman Sea could evoke myriad emotions, most of them financial.

  They dined out in Chinatown, enjoying the proximity and concentration, the variety, the intensity, the colour. Travel was an aphrodisiac. Adam was a king on George Street. Chrome and white, however stark, formed the stage for his best performance (of late, anyway). Louise was his enthusiastic audience — well, that was inaccurate: she was a performer too. They both knew. This was an investment in themselves. The backdrop, the gnawing edge to it all, was the reunion. And always, whether in sex, finance, love or tension, death loomed— the death of Michael and their part in it.

  They slept together and separately. Adam found the room too hot. Louise moved to a spare single bed. They crept back together to watch the morning arrive. Canoodled. Affection overrode sex. Australia awaited them. The reunion would begin shortly. Adam was consumed with the past and Louise was obsessed with the future. She dialled business contacts over breakfast, ignored his admiration in the bathroom. He tried to remain detached, but the past was edging, nudging, determined.

  Louise left him with a kiss on the forehead as he answered the phone. A kiss on the forehead was their equivalent of a handshake. It never failed to surprise him how lust and intimacy could so easily slip into this. Was it self-defence? The phone call was from Judy. Women had this other thing going on that he didn’t understand — more than likely Louise knew who was calling. The kiss on his forehead had been a sort of warning and absolution rolled into one.

 
; ‘Shall we meet for registration?’

  Harmless enough. Why not? Who else did he know who was going to be there? And why had he come? Judy, however hard he ignored it, was central to his coming here. They were both letting go. It was both sentimental and symbolic. Phillip and Louise were aiding and abetting them. There wasn’t such a lot at stake. But there was more, he felt, than he knew right now.

  Louise hesitated at the door. Blew him a kiss. The last he saw was a quizzical yet tender look on her face.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Judy was waiting at the entrance to a busy arcade. There were cafés left and right, people drinking coffee, smoking (ah), eating raisin toast, and no one gave him even the smallest sideways glance. Anonymity. He longed for it, and when it was bestowed, he questioned it.

  He ordered a long black, she wanted herbal tea. For God’s sake. That was no way to celebrate Sydney. What was a herbal tea? It was wimping out. The Judy he knew who travelled with him to Europe would never have settled for herbal bloody tea. She dangled the tea bag over the hot water as if contact with the tea leaves was somehow sinful. Grinned at him. He grinned back. Nothing. Except of course the deepest, most profound affection — for your ex-wife, the mother of your dead child, the woman you’d cheated on. Other than that he felt nothing. Louise had cast her spell last night. Women: he was glad they were this complicated and this accommodating; it was almost as if they were in collusion.

  His phone buzzed. It was a text from Frankie.

  PCM.

  He hesitated before ringing her, not wanting to interrupt his time with Judy, but aware that Frankie wouldn’t ask him to call unless it was important. And why him, not Louise?

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I’ve lost my off-peak-plan phone, so I’ll be texting your phone … it will be cheaper. Tell Mum.’

  He translated for Judy. It sounded so extravagant, Frankie owning two phones. They speculated about kids nowadays and outdated modes of communication: postcards, phone booths … He had to excuse himself once more, to text Louise and explain Frankie’s phone trouble. He wasn’t quick at texting, was inclined to write the full word. He used his thumb and predictive text, cursing when the wrong word evolved from his efforts. Judy jiggled her tea bag about in the hot water. He was tempted to repeat his tampon joke — the one that had her doubled over in Sainsbury’s when they were shopping for their Overland Adventure all those years ago. She’d insisted on tea bags with strings attached.

  What do you want, girl — a Tampax or a tea bag?

  A smiley face returned from Louise; it sat on the coffee table between him and Judy. He put the phone in his pocket and concentrated on his coffee.

  ‘I’ve seen Elena.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘She’s one of the organisers, did you realise?’

  He wasn’t going to admit he’d worked it out.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what she looks like?’

  ‘Mmm … tell me … she’s run to fat.’ And to counter his mean spirit, he patted his own paunch.

  ‘Sturdy would be a better word. Taller than I recall. Lecturing in Classics at the university. She was keen to know about you … surprised that we were apart. I introduced her to Phillip.’

  ‘Who else have you met up with?’

  ‘Actually, no one else. Phillip wanted an early night because of his presentation this morning.’

  You’d think he’d make more effort.

  ‘What time are enrolments?’

  ‘We’ve got another hour. I’m ordering a cooked breakfast — want to join me?’

  Fried eggs, raisin toast and a cappuccino. What the heck! Judy ordered scrambled eggs and a pot of hot water. There was something about her today. He couldn’t quite pin it down. He’d noticed it at Toast on The Terrace — as if she was waiting for the right moment for something. What else could there be? She was pale without being wan: pale and cosy … Hagen would have said hyggeligt.

  He noticed the finger she’d burnt that night at dinner had healed — fresh skin had grown back over the burn. But she would be wearing the same fingerprint. No matter how hard they tried to reinvent themselves, identity was not up for rearrangement.

  ‘Phillip’s been generous with his time, helping Ness.’

  There … it hadn’t hurt him. Praise for Phillip.

  Judy smothered her delight at this. Attempted, for both their sakes, to take the conversation seriously.

  ‘Ness is talented, according to Phillip.’

  ‘He’s not a bad bastard, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s a good bastard. Like you.’

  Judy took his head in her hands and kissed his forehead.

  Christ, twice in one day.

  He grabbed her hands and kissed her properly, his mouth closed, hers partly open in surprise. And then he felt awkward, embarrassed, and Judy pinched his cheek because she knew, and she didn’t want him embarrassed. He felt out of his depth. Something about Judy perplexed him. He wasn’t sure any more. Their friendship had new rules, but he hadn’t quite worked them out. He’d expected her to be apprehensive about the reunion, and instead he was. He ought to be, of course. He’d fucked Elena, and that was something Judy didn’t know about. Christ, he was a philanderer. It hadn’t even been an affair. Just lust, and not even his. Just once. Perhaps Elena had forgotten.

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Elena.’

  ‘Nup. Single, never married.’

  ‘Old maid.’

  ‘Not likely. Very together, great fun. I’m looking forward to meeting the others. Imagine Ash. Can you?

  He couldn’t.

  Again it struck him how odd it was to be here. It was as if he had been coerced — the whole idea was daft. He had a business to run, he and Judy were divorced. What on earth had possessed him to book this reunion?

  ‘Come on,’ Judy said, ‘this is my shout — let’s walk back together and we can surprise everyone when they find out we’re divorced.’

  She sounded happier than he’d heard in years. Making light of their divorce was definitely an interesting new turn. She was three steps ahead of him all the way at the moment (literally, too).

  They ended up on the monorail, mainly to fill in time. A bird’s-eye view of Sydney, but from the wrong end as far as Adam was concerned. He thought the monorail should run to The Rocks. Darling Harbour was imitative, try-hard. It could not compete with the grace of the opera house, the history of the harbour bridge. It lacked authenticity. It was a consumer’s playground masquerading as the rebirth of a convict settlement, a case of mistaken identity. And Adam knew about that. Having carefully nurtured a new identity after Michael’s death, he’d found the masquerade bit was easy.

  ‘Adam Hayward. You bastard!’

  He looked around. Judy had abandoned him. Three steps ahead had multiplied. She was working the room, catching up with people, independent of him. It was interesting to observe his feelings about this. They had been independent of each other now for many years. When they did meet, it was usually within a circle of people who knew their history (ah yes, up until recently, one version of their history). But here at the reunion, Judy was undeniably his ex-wife in a bigger context than he had ever envisaged. It was as if this was her coming out: here I am, Judy, without Adam (and without Phillip, he observed).

  So, who was Adam Hayward?

  He looked closely at the person who had spoken his name. A guy in his mid to late forties, clean-shaven, short-back-and-sides, flecked brown eyes and freckled hands, one of which was extended towards him.

  ‘Christ, it’s you, Ash.’

  Ash, who should be fat and bald by now, was slim and rugged. The only familiar feature was his smile, the way his lower lip moved upwards on one side and his head tipped back.

  ‘You bastard!’

  Ash’s grin grew wider.

  ‘Prick!’

  And they were back in the swing. Just like the old days. Cursing each other with great aff
ection, just the sort of conversation Adam enjoyed. Hagen didn’t know the rules, really. It was easy: the more you care, the harder you swear. No need for rhetoric. Some handshakes, backslaps and a beer or two. He’d forgotten how good it could be.

  Ash, thankfully, was alone. He’d left ‘the wife’ back in Mooloolaba with the ‘keeds’. Ash with kids was an imaginative leap for Adam. You kept friends like Ash enshrined in your memory as lads forever. Brown-eyes at the back of the bus, inco-bloody-herent most of the time and a fair-dinkum sort of guy.

  Ash now ran a screen-printing business, had contracts with all the big malls, yeah, yeah, yeah, exports to New Zealand and the US of A … his son managed the export side, his wife ran the office, and his two daughters sold in to the malls. Happy families. One of his daughters was a model for David Jones … Adam thought of Frankie, glad she wasn’t modelling: she was far too beautiful for that. His mind drifted. Ash was explaining his expansion plans for the next five years. Adam could see someone trying to catch his eye. A lifeline, but he didn’t want to be too obvious.

  At the point that Ash found his family photographs, Adam found Elena. He managed to extricate himself from Ash after viewing three family snaps (digitally enhanced and printed by Ash and — oh God — there was a family screen-printed T-shirt). He promised to take a closer look over lunch and headed towards Elena, who had beckoned him. He hadn’t been prepared for the rush of bitterness that Ash’s rosy family pictures had evoked. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a family, but he sure as hell didn’t carry around photographs. Actually, that was untrue. In his wallet, at the back, was the photograph of Michael aged three and a half — the photograph was twelve years old now, though Michael hadn’t aged at all. Adam rarely looked at it, but he knew it was there.