Crossing Paths

by Dianne Blacklock

‘You lie about meeting him, you won’t answer my calls, you discourage me from coming over, and when I finally get sick of waiting for an invitation, I find him all settled in here like he owns the place.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘And what’s with you drinking red wine? You don’t even like red wine.’

  ‘Who said I don’t like red wine?’ said Jo.

  ‘I’ve never seen you drink it.’

  ‘So? There are a lot of things you haven’t seen me do, Lach.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She groaned. ‘Yeah, well I’ve rarely seen you act like such a dickhead as you did tonight,’ she said, picking up the glasses and walking to the kitchen.

  ‘Why, what did I do wrong?’ he asked, following her.

  ‘I should have just given you a tape measure from the start.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So you could measure dicks and be done with it.’

  ‘You think that’s what was going on?’ Lachlan said with a condescending shake of his head. ‘Frankly Jo, Bannister didn’t seem to know what he was talking about.’

  She turned around from the sink to glare at him. ‘He’s been stationed in Iraq on and off since the war began. He won a friggin’ Walkley for his coverage as an embed during the Battle of Fallujah.’

  Lachlan regarded her curiously. ‘How do you know all that?’

  Jo didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s hardly a state secret,’ she muttered, brushing past him to go back into the living room.

  He watched her, brooding, as she cleared more glasses from the coffee table. ‘You’ve slept with him, haven’t you?’

  Jo looked incredulously at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that.’

  ‘Well, have you?’

  ‘Have you slept with Sandra in the last few days?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Then don’t you be ridiculous,’ she sniped, bustling back into the kitchen. She started to rinse the glasses when she felt him come up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Okay, okay, that was out of line.’

  She shrugged his hands off of her.

  ‘Come on, Jo-bloh, don’t be like that,’ he said, nuzzling into her neck.

  This time she moved away out of his reach, turning to face him. ‘I think you should go, Lachlan.’

  ‘Now you’re overreacting. Just like I did, I’ll admit. And you want to know why?’

  She leaned back against the bench, waiting for his explanation.

  ‘We haven’t been together in weeks,’ he began, taking a step closer. ‘And it’s creating this tension between us, surely you can feel it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s not healthy, Jo, and there’s only one way to fix it.’ He leaned his hands on the bench either side of her, effectively hemming her in.

  She crossed her arms in front of her. ‘Well, you should have thought of that before you started making wild accusations. Because suddenly I find I’ve got an outrageous headache.’ And with that she pushed his arm out of the way and returned to the sink.

  He was silent for a moment, but she could feel him watching her. ‘You are fucking him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Get out, Lachlan.’

  Next day

  Jo was at her desk early this morning. She hadn’t slept well, yet again. And although she blamed the temperature, the full moon, random noises coming from other apartments . . . Lachlan was right. They hadn’t had sex in weeks and she was frustrated. Every time she closed her eyes she kept having lurid fantasies involving both him and Bannister, mostly at the same time. She told herself it was only because they had both been there together that night, and she was sexually frustrated, a potent combination. It was like Angie fantasising about Mr Darcy, and about as meaningful.

  Finally, as dawn was breaking in the sky, Jo made a decision. Actually, several decisions.

  First and foremost she had to remember to buy some batteries for her vibrator.

  Secondly, she had to put Lachlan straight. She was not going to allow him to dictate to her; she didn’t have to give him explanations about how she spent her time, or who with, or for godsakes, what she drank. He had no rights over her. That was the whole idea of going out with a married man. Jo had discovered a way to have a relationship without becoming just one half of a whole. Without losing herself. She was not going to let him shift the goalposts now.

  Which is exactly what he did last night, coming over when she’d expressly told him not to, and planting himself there like he had a stake in the place. If he was a dog he would have pissed on the coffee table.

  Well, he wasn’t going to get away with that again. She intended to be friends with Bannister, and Lachlan was just going to have to deal with it. Jo had never really fostered close friendships at work, or anywhere for that matter. Even as a girl she had hardly been inclined to have schoolfriends over to her house, given Charlene’s shenanigans. So the pattern had been set early on, entwined into her very DNA, much as a vine grows on a trellis or a fence; leave it there long enough without cutting it back and it actually becomes the thing holding the fence up. Angie had managed to graft herself on, and now this man, this Joe Bannister, was giving it a shot as well. Jo found herself intrigued, even a little touched by his persistence. Maybe the elevator episode had forged a bond, or maybe it was the foreign correspondent thing. He was fascinating last night, Jo would have liked to have heard more about his experiences, but she would have had to gag Lachlan first.

  Well, no matter, there would be plenty more opportunities. They were going to be working together, closely in fact. Having Bannister as a mentor sanctioned by Leo could only be a positive step in her career. Things were looking up. And she needed be prepared.

  So she got up at five and ironed all her shirts, trousers, skirts, T-shirts . . . her entire wardrobe, in fact. After she had finished ironing, Jo proceeded to bathe and shave and pluck various parts of her body, then she trimmed and painted her nails with a clear varnish, while a cool cucumber hydroxy-replenishing mask set on her face. Jo was not altogether sure these things worked, in fact she was highly doubtful that they did, but it was part of a gift pack Belle had given her on some occasion, and she was on a roll. She rinsed the mask off at the allotted time and moisturised as per instructions, then blow-dried her hair and spent ages arranging it into a flawlessly sleek French roll. She applied make-up with the precision of a microsurgeon, and sprayed perfume in the air before walking into the cloud so that she was ‘misted’ or whatever the expression was.

  Jo decided it was safest to eat before she got dressed, she wasn’t going to spoil all this hard work with a coffee spill down the front of her blouse. That’s when she discovered the pantry was bare, which should not have surprised her as she hadn’t done a proper shop since the move. She ate crackers with Vegemite while she wrote a comprehensive shopping list – strictly healthy stuff, no convenience foods, no junk. Of course, that meant she was going to have to cook, but that was okay, she’d do it on the weekends. She would make up big batches of nutritious dishes and freeze them in portions she could eat for dinner or take to work. She added plastic containers and freezer labels to her list. This was good, she was really getting herself organised now. And healthy. She needed to keep her energy levels up if she was going to be putting in the time at work.

  As she finally dressed in her best suit, one she usually reserved for interviews with important people, Jo felt a little like Cinderella getting ready for the ball. Everything was perfect. She was going to have a good day, she could feel it. She would start by popping her head into Bannister’s office with a friendly hello, thanks for last night, share a joke. That’s what friends did.

  ‘Well, look at you, Executive Barbie!’ Oliver declared as she approached the counter. ‘Who are you interviewing today? The PM?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Who then? Someone gorgeous you’re trying to impress?’

  ‘No one, as far as I know,’ she said. ‘Oh, s
kim milk, thanks Oliver,’ she added as he started making her coffee.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t take skim milk, and I’m not ruining one more coffee than I have to with that pale imitation. What’s going on, big date after work?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Okay, I give up. What’s special about today?’

  ‘You know what they say, Oliver. Today’s the first day of the rest of your life.’

  He looked at her seriously. ‘No, no one says that. At least not since the seventies.’

  ‘Well, that’s the way I feel,’ she declared. ‘I’m taking charge, running my own race, setting my own agenda, blowing my own trumpet –’

  ‘Making me nauseous,’ he interrupted, sliding her coffee towards her.

  ‘Oh, and um, I haven’t really eaten,’ she said, frowning up at the menu board. Her eyes grazed past quiches and bagels and muffins. ‘What’s something good for me . . .?’

  ‘All my food is good for you,’ he maintained airily.

  ‘Come on, you know what I mean, low-fat good for me?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘You’re the size of a small forest animal, Josephine, don’t go getting weird on me.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Banana bread, hold the butter, work for you?’

  ‘Thanks, Oliver.’

  It was after ten when Jo finally knocked on Bannister’s office door. He’d arrived at work about twenty minutes ago, Jo had been looking out for him, but just as she had begun to make her way over to his office, he strode out the door again, not seeing her, and headed towards reception and the lift bay, she assumed. He’d been back now for about ten minutes, with the door closed. Jo figured he was settled in for the morning.

  She heard a brusque ‘Yep’ from inside when she knocked. She opened the door as he glanced up from the computer screen. He did a double-take, only subtle, but she noticed. Then his eyes returned to the computer.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  He grunted a reply.

  Jo just stood there, feeling more than a little self-conscious, while Bannister continued to focus on the screen, clicking the mouse intermittently, as though she wasn’t even there. He was being quite rude actually.

  ‘Did you want something?’ he said eventually, without taking his eyes off the screen.

  ‘Well, um, yes,’ said Jo, taking a tentative step into the room. He still didn’t look at her. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for the wine, and well, you know, the gesture.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, glancing fleetingly in her direction. He certainly did not make eye contact. A moment later he started typing. Jo was perplexed, she felt like an idiot just standing there.

  ‘Was there something else?’ he asked offhand. His typing had paused, but his eyes were still glued to the screen in front of him.

  ‘Not really,’ Jo said in a small voice.

  ‘Well, I know you think I have – what did you call it? – “carte blanche”, but actually I do work and I need to get on with it. All right with you?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jo backed out of the office, closing the door quietly. She stood on the other side, breathing hard. What the hell was that? Bugger it, she was going to find out.

  She knocked on the door again but this time she walked straight in without waiting for an invitation.

  ‘No it’s not all right,’ she announced.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He actually lifted his eyes from the screen this time and fixed them on her.

  Jo closed the door. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. You’ve made repeated overtures of . . . friendship, and okay, I’ll admit, I wasn’t very amenable at first. I don’t do the friendship thing very well, lots of reasons we don’t need to go into now, but last night I think we finally cleared the air and as far as I was concerned we parted friends, so what’s with the attitude today?’

  He listened attentively as she spoke, and when she had finished he let out a deep sigh and pushed his chair back from the desk. He stood up and walked to the window, propping himself against the ledge. ‘The guy’s married,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lachlan, he’s married, with kids, isn’t that right?’

  Jo’s heart dropped into her stomach with a sickening thump.

  ‘Look at you, you could have anyone you wanted, and you’re with someone else’s husband? I just don’t get it.’

  She felt guilty. He was making her feel guilty. What gave him the right to pass judgement on her?

  ‘You know what I don’t get?’ she returned coolly. ‘When this became any of your business.’

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, and then he nodded slowly. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘It is none of my business. We don’t even know each other very well. So let’s keep it that way.’

  With that he walked back around his desk and sat down, returning his attention to the computer screen. Jo stood for a moment longer, clenching her freshly manicured nails into the palms of her hands. She wanted to leave him with a brilliantly incisive but devastating final blow that would knock him flying off his smug perch of self-righteousness, but she couldn’t think of anything, of course. She’d think of something in bed tonight, or in the shower tomorrow, but that didn’t do her much good right now.

  So instead she left the room in silence, her head held high, not even bothering to close the door in case she slammed it in rage. She didn’t want that to be her parting shot. But she was incensed. How dare he? Where the hell did he get off? Bloody arrogant, opinionated, judgemental . . . She should write a column about this. That’s how she would have the last word. She sat down at her desk and opened a document on her computer. She typed in Morality, and then sat and stared at it for a while, tapping lightly on the space bar as her mind whirred and the cogs creaked into motion. Finally the engine chugged to life and she began to type in earnest.

  Morality. It’s a peculiar beast. Some would say it’s extinct, or at least endangered. Others would say it’s flexible or elastic, slippery and elusive. Most would agree that morality is above all a personal matter, between you and your god, you and your conscience, even you and your accountant. Still others cry it’s been abandoned like a baby in a dumpster and it’s time we rescued it before all of humanity goes to hell in a handbasket.

  But who will reset the moral code for the 21st century? Once upon a time it was written in stone. So who is entitled to cast the first stone in this day and age?

  I was watching TV the other night, and the word f@#k was being sprinkled about fairly liberally. Not only that, the c-word followed soon after. Now, as you may have worked out, I’m not allowed to even print those words in full. Yet they can be broadcast uncensored across the airwaves, as long as it’s after 9.30 pm.

  In 1975 Graham Kennedy was banned from the air after making a crow call that may have sounded like the f-word. Was that a more moral time? A less progressive time? Is anyone really harmed by hearing the f-word or the c-word or any word, except maybe ‘Fire!’ and only then if you’re standing blindfolded in front of a squad armed with rifles.

  Should that be the rule of thumb then – first do no harm?

  ‘Jo?’

  She looked up. Lachlan was watching her across the half-wall partition that separated the desks of the lowly who didn’t merit a whole office to themselves. Or even a whole wall.

  ‘My office?’ he said, using his undercover voice. He didn’t wait for a response, but simply turned and walked away, assuming he would be obeyed. Jo returned to her column. Damn, she’d lost the flow. She scrolled up to read what she’d written. A few moments passed, and she could see Lachlan approaching again in her peripheral vision.

  ‘Jo,’ he said, crouching beside her desk now, his tone bordering on impatient. ‘Okay, I get it, you’re still upset. So let’s talk about it, in private.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of something here, Lachlan.’

  ‘Come on, Jo,’ he said in a raised whisper. ‘We’re going to have to talk about it at some point.’
r />   She considered him for a moment. More fool him. He did not want to mess with her today. ‘Okay,’ she said.

  He looked relieved. Jo wondered how long that was going to last as she followed him back to his office. He closed the door and walked around her slowly, coming to perch on the edge of his desk, facing her.

  ‘Jo, I’m sorry if some of the things I said last night upset you.’

  So all he could manage was a Clayton’s apology. While he had used the word ‘sorry’, he’d tempered it with that time-honoured qualifier, ‘if I upset you’. He was only sorry if the outcome of his apparently innocuous act had slighted her somehow. It had not been intended. And her reaction was possibly even unreasonable, but he was prepared to apologise even so. That was the kind of guy he was.

  ‘You know I love you, Jo-bloh.’

  Ooh, the L-word, he was really pulling out the big guns. It was not the first time Lachlan had professed love to her, but he tended to save it for special occasions when it would have the most impact. No use bandying it about, willy-nilly, diminishing its returns.

  As for Jo, she had no idea if she loved Lachlan, she had given up trying to work that one out. There seemed to be a lot of angst spent deciding if you really loved someone, but what difference did it make? People liked to think that love gave an authenticity, a gravity, to their relationships, to their actions. But a lot of harm had been done in the name of love. Whatever that feeling was – call it love, call it infatuation, call it hormones more likely – Jo had decided it was dangerous. It got in the way of thinking straight, or of being able to tell a lie from the truth; it distorted perspective and blocked ordinary commonsense. It interfered with the most basic instinct to protect yourself, or the people closest to you, who depended on you.

  ‘Jo?’ Lachlan prompted. ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’

  She took a breath. ‘It’s none of your business who I spend my time with –’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Who I’m friends with –’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who I sleep with.’