Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  'Sorry, what?'

  Jonny places his hand over mine. 'Enough about me. Let's do you. You write books for kids?'

  'Yes,' I say, but his eyes are moving over me like a navigator reading a map. They stall for a moment at my chest. I don't think he's listening to what I'm saying. His eyes are busy with me, he's noting the dip between my breasts and his hand is becoming moist on mine. I remember fantasising about this when I put on the black dress. His attention brings me back into the moment, to the table, to the possibility of a beautiful man's hands bringing me to life. It reminds me I am something to look at.

  'Would you like to have a drink upstairs?' he asks. 'You can tell me all about your books. I'll just put this on my tab, and then we can go up. We'll be much more comfortable up there. It's a beautiful suite, and the view over the harbour is fantastic.'

  My heart is racing. I wish I hadn't finished the wine. I want the blur back, the easy slide into another's will. Go on, look enthusiastic, at your age this may be your last chance, what with your wrinkled knees. I look into his face and it's like plastic. I can't see any light in there. I guess this is his standard line. But he's handsome and famous and it would be such a relief to slide into him and stop being me. Even if it's just for a while. And he's probably nervous about the first move, it must be awful for men always having to take the risk, put themselves forward. He's probably much nicer when he's relaxed. And he has a sensitive forehead. What else is there to do anyway?

  He smiles and traces his finger along the inside of my wrist. Gentle, as if he is exploring. It tickles and I smile back. His hand moves up my arm, reaching the inside of my elbow. His hand is smooth and warm. I think of desert creatures, a lizard baked in the sun, but there is no real warmth coming from him.

  Oh don't be so stupid, you're not in a position to choose, says the voice. Go on, smile seductively if you know how, and say yes. There'll be the crisp white pillows, mirrored wardrobes, baggage rack. The spotless anonymity of hotels. I imagine saying no, and the cold ice of his disapproval. The awkward goodbyes, the curt but necessary future communications about the book. I imagine going home to my empty house with the wine stains on the carpet and the fluff balls whirling over the cork floor and the dishes in the sink and the godawful quiet. And the next morning I will wake up just the same, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't been out with a famous handsome magician and been transformed. There will just be the greasy sink and traces of cockroach activity and the morning tea. If I say no I will be left with me. Just me. The dark empty house of me.

  He removes his hand to gesture to the waiter. His foot slides decisively back into his shoe. He assumes that I will come with him. I suppose that is what women have always done. He doesn't have to make an effort. He can talk about his career, his wife, his digestion, say whatever he feels, it doesn't matter, women will follow. Women like me. He smiles a short smile, perfunctory almost, like shaking hands on a deal. He gestures again, but the waiter doesn't see. He has his back to us.

  Jonny is annoyed. I can feel him almost stamp his foot. 'That guy knows exactly what he has to do after my meal,' he spits, pointing at the waiter. 'I need hot milk with honey. I always take it up to my room, it helps me sleep. If I don't sleep, I can't perform.'

  He taps his glass with his spoon like someone demanding quiet for the speech he is about to make to a noisy room. Eyes to me, I used to say in the classroom. Maybe this is what he's like when he doesn't get what he wants straight away. Maybe this is what Carole found bad enough to leave. He is the master, she is the slave. Or the assistant. Or else.

  'Hot milk soothes indigestion, you know,' he says more gently. 'I get a terrible pain in my chest without it, even if I haven't eaten tomato or any kind of spice. My mother used to be the same, poor woman. She suffered from headaches, too. Awful migraines that would lay her out flat for days. If I don't have hot milk and a dose of Mylanta, I'm up burping all night, in excruciating pain. Carole used to have to rub my back for an hour. It was one of the things she said she wouldn't miss when she left . She actually pointed that out, can you believe it? She was so selfish. That's the kind of woman she was. Absolutely no sympathy. No, Carole was away the day god was handing out compassion.'

  This kind of thing is probably happening everywhere, every day. It happened with me when I met Guido. But I didn't see it. I chose not to. Selective vision, like selective hearing. Now, as I gaze at Jonny I have a completely sober stone-cold clarity. It's uncomfortable, like standing on the edge of a cliff , or driving with the windows down on a winter night. I'm so edgily awake, and aware.

  Jonny is still tapping his glass. He's craning his neck around, trying to catch the waiter's eye, furious.

  'Godammit, the man is always simpering around when you don't want him, bowing and scraping, but soon as you do need him, he disappears.'

  'I thought you said he was wonderful, you'd like to take him back with you . . .'

  Jonny clicks his tongue in irritation and swivels on his chair, straining to catch the waiter's eye.

  'Danny!' he shouts, his hand in the air like a conductor.

  The waiter still hasn't heard. Danny. Is it? A thump of certainty lands like a punch in my stomach. The wide-set eyes, the uncanny feeling of familiarity. God almighty.

  'What did you call him?'

  'Danny. He told me his name on the first night. Repeated it countless times. "Just call for me when you need something. Just call for Danny." Gave himself such importance. Like I wouldn't be able to do without him. And now look at him. Making out he can't even see me!'

  'Danny what?'

  'What?'

  'His last name.'

  'I don't know. I'm not interested. I just want good service. Is that too much to ask in a five-star hotel at five hundred dollars a night?' His scowl suddenly turns into a smile, as if, looking at me, he's just remembered his proper lines. He smiles, but his eyes don't change. I think of Simon's eyes, curving into crescent moons when he laughs.

  Jonny Love doesn't care what Danny's last name is, what mine is for that matter, whether I have a daughter or a crocodile, whether I write crime, porn or kids' books. I watch him the way you'd watch a beautiful exotic cobra. He's cold-blooded, using the sun to get warm. We are all instruments for his satisfaction.

  I watch Danny, a cold sweat breaking out on my lip. He's long and thin, tense as a pulled wire. He'd only be a few years older than me but he seems ancient. The grey-silver hair, I suppose, and the bent back. And the old-fashioned speech. The mask of politeness. But he always had that. The slight hump he carries is probably due to the scoliosis Dad used to talk about. I remember him shaking his head, guessing Danny wouldn't continue with those exercises. Nobody there to encourage him, look out for him after he left us.

  Jonny clicks his fingers high in the air. His eyes are trained on Danny's poor back. I expect that spot on his hump to burst into flames. Getting no response, Jonny clicks again, loud as a shout. Danny whirls around. He waves at Jonny, holding up both hands for a moment as if in surrender. He nods frantically, bowing. Now he's turning back to the man at his table, he's bobbing and shifting from one foot to another, making soothing, sorry gestures at the customer. Now he's sidling away, hurrying towards us, threading his way through the tables, swift as a needle on a straight seam.

  'So sorry sir, such a busy night,' he pants, arriving at our table.

  I stare at him. His pained blue eyes hold me, frozen. I am small again, ten years old, unable to think what to say. Unable to think. I can hardly get the words out. 'Danny? Danny Shore?'

  'Yes? Sorry, does madam require dessert? Sir, I'm sorry—'

  'Danny, I'm Rachel, do you remember, Rachel Lambert?'

  Danny glances at me, then away. His eyes grow wider, his eyebrows practically hitting his hairline. He picks up a glass. He's frowning into the glass, as if it's a crystal ball. 'Yes, yes, of course, how could I forget?' He looks straight at me then. His mouth is hard. Then he softens, his cheeks loosening. 'And how is Mr Lamber
t?'

  'Very well, thanks.'

  'Is he still in the same house, at 42 Cuthbert Street? With the hydrangea picture and the pine table and the caramel-coloured sofa?'

  'Yes, that's right!'

  'And Mrs Lambert?'

  'She's okay too. Had a bit of a problem with her heart. But she's got a pacemaker now, it's given her a new lease of life.'

  'A pace maker?'

  'Yes, it regulates your heart, makes it beat . . . on time.'

  Danny stares at me. Or rather, just to the left of me. As he always did. Then he smiles. 'On time. Good, good, that's a good thing, isn't it. A good thing.'

  We beam at each other. I want to go on smiling. I'd like to reach out and touch his nervy fingers, tapping on his tray. I'd like to hold them and warm them and tell him how sorry I am. I remember how those fingers clutched the sofa, how his brother had wrenched them away. I want to tell him how much he has affected my life, and that I understand how much I have affected his. I want to say sorry into his wide blue eyes, a million times until I hyperventilate.

  Jonny is tapping his glass again. 'Well now, Danny, haven't you forgotten something? I'm in a hurry. I can feel my stomach protesting already.' He laughs in a hard short burst but it's an angry laugh and doesn't fool anyone.

  Danny looks stricken. 'Oh yes, of course, so sorry, I'll get your milk straight away. Straight away.'

  I clutch Danny's arm. 'Danny, I just wanted to say, just wanted to say . . .'

  Danny's wide eyes narrow. His knuckles whiten around his serviette.

  'I just wanted to say, Danny, that I'm sorry for the way things turned out. I've thought about you so much, so often. I was young, didn't understand.'

  Danny bobs his head. 'I have a good job now, a good job,' he says, gesturing around the room.

  'Yes, and it's so lovely to see you. Such a surprise. A waiter at the Park Hyatt ! It's beautiful, isn't it, this place? A work of art.'

  'Head waiter.'

  'That's great! Have you been here long? Do you enjoy it?'

  He bobs his head again. 'I run a tight ship, all right—'

  'How about that milk, Danny? Do you have time now?'

  'Oh yes, so sorry, Mr Love, right away.' As he turns on his heel, Danny looks straight at me. 'Say hello to Mr Lambert for me.' But he smiles, and his eyes smile too.

  'Well, Rachel, have you got all the information you need from me? You can do some more research, up in my room.' Jonny winks knowingly. 'We'll be much more comfortable there.'

  He takes my hand again. Gently he tugs the fingers, one by one.

  How can I say no when I've let him rub my naked foot with his sock? When I've asked him probing intimate questions about his life? When he's revealed his feelings about his marriage? Will he feel exposed, betrayed? Will it disturb his sleep, a fresh rejection, and thus damage his performance tomorrow night?

  Yes and yes and yes, says the voice.

  But I can't do it, I tell it. He's a lizard.

  'So let's go,' says Jonny. 'We can have the milk upstairs. Or anything else you'd like.'

  My hand is still in his. It feels like a dead thing, maybe a fish that's stopped flapping, or a bird with no heartbeat. It doesn't belong to me. I think, this is how I've lived my whole adult life. Listening to the wrong voice. Staying put, playing dead. Not knowing how to leave.

  With the other hand I pick up my notebook and pen and put them carefully into my bag at my feet. I slip my foot into my shoe. Then, slowly, apologetically, I take back my hand.

  'Thank you so much for dinner, Jonny. I think I have all the information I need. Good luck!'

  The chair grates loudly on the marble floor as I stand up, fling my bag over my shoulder and flee. You're a coward, says the voice, not even looking at him.

  As I make for the door I realise I'm busting for a pee. My pelvic floor muscles won't let me make it to the ferry. I find the toilets and sit down with relief. Safe. You saved yourself, I say out loud to the shining white tiles and close my eyes with pleasure as the hot gush flows free.

  I sit outside on the ferry. The air is icy. There is the moon, the dark border of land, white gulls chasing the breeze. I feel like a prison escapee. I look at everything around me. I'm the one who got away, the lucky fish that wasn't caught. I sit and hug myself and watch the moonlight tipping over the waves.

  My legs are tingling with cold as I disembark from the ferry and walk up the hill to my car. Several yachts are tied up at the wharf, the sound of women's laughter tinkling from the decks. I swing my bag as I walk.

  Driving home the streets are silent, frosted with cold. I switch on the radio and Van Morrison's 'Into the Mystic' comes on. It starts so small, building into a temple of sound, towering. I wind up the windows and turn it up full volume. I love Van Morrison. My eyes fill with tears. But letting go is not an unpleasant sensation. Just a longing, sweet. Maybe it's not so bad, I think as I turn into my street, this coming home alone.

  Only a metre from my driveway, parked on the grass, is a motorbike. It stands at a crazy angle, as if the rider had to abandon it in a hurry. Fear prickles my neck. The bike is black, good for camouflage. Just right for a burglar. I peer past the fence, into the house. A light is on in the front bedroom. I didn't leave a light on, I'm sure. Ever since Rita educated me about the amount of carbon emitted from one light bulb, care has turned into a habit. I'll ring the police, I think. I search in my bag for my phone, then remember – it was lying beside the computer next to my keys. I didn't think to take it. The phone and the computer will be among the first things a robber would take. The computer with my four magicians living inside it.

  Quietly I open the gate and creep down the side of the house. My feet inch past the garage wall. Something brushes against my face. I leap back. The staghorn, its sharp frond scraping my cheek. Beneath the first staghorn, buried in the long grass, there are two loose bricks. I pick up one and tiptoe along the path. The back door is open. A shudder shoots through me so violently that I nearly drop the brick.

  I creep nearer, till I'm standing in the doorway. I'm trembling all over. I need to wee again. My breath is making clouds.

  A shadow is coming up the hall . . . I raise the brick and shout, wild, ear-splitting, a noise to smash the terrifying silence.

  'Rachel?'

  The shape moves into the kitchen, into the light.

  'Shit! Guido! What are you doing here?'

  'I came to collect my shirts. Sei pazza? Put the brick down! I rang you first but you weren't home. Is not my fault I am so late. These film people rang me only tonight. They want an appointment for tomorrow morning. Film people, you know, they are artistic, creative. They do not keep business hours. Is not my fault.'

  'You gave me such a fright!'

  'I left the bike in the driveway. Didn't you see it?'

  'It was on the grass. I haven't seen your bike before, how do I know it's yours? At midnight? I thought – Christ, a bikie gang, a woman alone . . .'

  He shakes his head. 'You wan a bit of drama, well, that's okay. This shirt, is not okay though, see there is this stain on the collar. Could you . . .'

  The cork floor is sliding. I can see a definite tilt, like a plate held at an angle to be scraped clean of scraps. Scraps of days and years, leftovers wasted, tipping into the bin of my past. I'm waiting for it to stop, usually it does, you just have to wait, but it's not stopping. I look again at the light on the water, the gulls flying next to the ferry. I want to hear the song playing. I try to sing the words in my head but they won't obey. The brick has dropped on my foot. Pain flares up my leg and I can feel it snatch my breath, sting my mouth, which is opening like the lips of some strange sea animal that is too far away, that I can't reach.

  'Stop screaming! Sei pazza!'

  All the wasted years of serving, of cleaning and ironing and cooking and saying please and thank you and being nice and smoothing down, building up, of keeping it in, of being invisible, of being invisible, it's too much, too much. You can't eve
n have one minute, one hour of feeling whole before you're robbed of it, robbers. The screams rise terribly, filling the room, and I know I'm not in the car alone with the windows wound up but I can't stop and this other person is standing here, this person who I have wasted practically my whole life trying to please, who hasn't ever heard and is incapable of hearing me, who does not have a set of ears made for hearing other people, and I've been flinging myself against him, the Door of Death, he is the death of myself and I've been chained to him like Prometheus to his rock, asking him to please take my liver, my heart, my lungs and what a fool, I wasn't even tied by the gods, I did it all my stupid self, lashed myself to this fucking rock, this heart of stone, all by myself. That's right, you're all by yourself because you're an idiot, I've always told you, you've never known how to live and now you're old and spent and even your daughter had to get as far away as she could from you—

  'Oh, FUCK OFF fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off !'

  'I am going,' says Guido. 'I just wanted your advice on this collar—'

  'All my life, you've ruined my life what do you want from me you poisonous fucking voice of death let me out let me out I'll kill you!'

  'Rachel, stop it, you've torn your stocking. Look, you're bleeding. Control yourself! You 'ave gone mad.'

  'And you fucking drove me there, you lying shit – why did you stay all those years if you weren't ever in love with me?'

  'Love is just a concept. Is different in real life. I'm always telling you. Those years were mine, too, remember. I stayed with you, we raised our daughter. Life is what it is. And now we 'ave moved on. Look at you. I am sorry for you, Rachel, but I am going now. You know I cannot stand these displays of emotion. You must practise your meditation. Learn how to detach. It will go better, you will see.'

  He steps out the door, the two shirts over his shoulder. The waiter in the cafe where we first met, the tea towel over his shoulder. But Guido never wore a tea towel. He only ever changed Clara's nappy once. He never cooked, washed up, noticed me. Each of us in our solitary confinement, in our marriage.