The Secret Lives of Men

by Georgia Blain

  ‘He had a lot,’ Jackie said. ‘More than anyone expected. He left you sixty.’

  Her intake of breath was sharp, a cold hollow whistle of air that slipped into her lungs and silenced her. Enough for a deposit, she thought. Enough to study. Enough to make a change.

  She heard Mike getting ready to leave, the coins in his pockets clunking as he pulled on his jeans. He’d wave to her soon, mouth that he would catch her tonight and nod towards the pub, which was only a block away, and then he would close the door behind him, his footsteps echoing on the cement stairs as he made his way down the fire escape, checking that there was no one there to see him.

  ‘Why’d he leave me so much?’ The sunlight was hurting her eyes, and Kat stood now, watching Mike cross the road, never once turning back to look at her as he let himself into the dim front bar with its smell of damp carpet, the huge verandah shading it from the clean dazzle of the river and sky and sun beyond.

  ‘I guess he was fond of you,’ Jackie said.

  Kat turned away. As she slid the glass doors to her flat closed, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Inside, the bed was unmade, and Mike’s coffee cup was where he had left it on the floor, waiting for her to pick it up. She sat down on the mattress and began to cry.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Jackie said, and Kat knew Jackie thought she was crying for Jai or, more precisely, for having not been there when he needed a friend. But Jackie was wrong. The tears were for herself, and the fact that she didn’t even know her north from her south, or a good thing from a bad thing.

  I don’t deserve it, she was about to say, but instead she asked Jackie what she had to do to collect the money.

  That afternoon, as she sat in the park outside the pub, a teenager with two kids crossed the square in front of her, one in a pram, the other trailing behind. Kat watched as the child dropped his packet of chips on the ground, his howl loud. The mother turned and snapped. ‘It’s your own fault,’ she told him. ‘You never watch what you’re doing.’ She slapped the kid on the arse and kept walking.

  Mindy, Mike’s labrador, slunk over from the hotel, eating the scraps before the seagulls discovered they were there, glancing up guiltily once she’d finished, and then having one last sniff of the pavement to check she hadn’t left anything behind.

  Sitting in the sun, Kat found herself remembering that first meeting with Jai. She wished she’d asked him to stop the ute as they drove to the vet. It had felt wrong, both of them trapped in the cabin, the dog sliding across the hot metal tray.

  She stood slowly, knowing now what she should have done. She should have held it, the bloody heaviness of its lifeless body cradled on her lap, rather than leaving it alone in the heat. But she hadn’t. And she pushed the heavy doors that divided the heat of the day from the dark bar, and went in to work.

  Mirrored

  For three weeks we had been travelling through Rajasthan, eight of us on a mini-bus, together to celebrate an anniversary. I had brought my daughter, Anna, and Jude and Aisla had their son, Miles. Sal, who had just left her girlfriend, had come on her own. She had known Frans and Simon the longest, having once shared a flat with them, years ago. Built on a rooftop perched over the glitter of Bondi, it was the place for parties: nights of drinking, dancing, and falling in and out of love, in a time before we had children and our lives had ossified into families and couples.

  It was almost winter, and in Rajasthan the nights were cool, the days warm and dry. This was to be the last stop — Jaipur to bring in the New Year — before travelling north to Delhi, where we would part ways, some of us returning home, some continuing to explore India.

  Anna and I were to be the first to leave, and I was ready to go. The relentless crush of life, the noise, clamour, smells and business of living, pressing right up on my skin, had worn me. On the good days, I found it exhilarating; but on the bad, I wanted only to be able to walk along a street, alone.

  The bus gave us some respite. We would each take our seats (I would often choose to be by myself), the world separated from us. I could see the dust and the dirt outside, the smear of plastic bags and bottles, the trucks careering down the narrow roads, the camels loaded so high with sticks they looked like giant emus, the motorbikes weaving in and out of the traffic, and the brilliance of the saris on women in stark contrast to the old men in white who sat, cross-legged in the dirt, playing cards. I could hear it all as well, the honking of horns, the roar of engines, a constant noise hovering above the smell — diesel, dust and dung, pungent in the heat. It was a cacophony for all senses.

  But this was not the only reason I was ready to head home. At night in the hotels, when Anna was asleep, I would creep out to the roof terrace or garden and turn on my phone. As the screen lit up, I hoped for a message. I had only sent one myself, a couple of brief lines that had taken me an hour to compose. It was two days before I received his reply — so good to hear from you — words that promised nothing, and yet I wanted to see them as offering so much more.

  His name was Lewis, I told Sal in the bus, careful to keep my voice low, although as Anna was four seats away and the rattle and roar of the engine loud, it was unlikely she would hear.

  I felt the heat in my skin as I finally uttered his name, and I bit on my top lip to suppress the embarrassed smile I knew was there.

  He was a builder, in charge of the renovations on the house next door.

  Sal waited for me to continue.

  I had known him years ago, although initially I had no recollection of the boy in the form above me at school. Lewis Longbottom, he said sheepishly, and I’d remembered. It was a name that led to grief when you were growing up — long arse, tall butt, stretch bum — they’d tried every combination and he’d just grinned, sticking his finger up at them all.

  I commented on how good his memory was.

  ‘Not really.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I had a crush on you.’

  ‘And I haven’t changed at all?’

  ‘Not a jot.’

  ‘It’s always the way.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘No indication of all that life lived showing on the exterior.’

  He was tall and lanky, and ready to laugh, his large crooked mouth curled up at the corners.

  He was a lazy builder, he said the first morning he came over for coffee. ‘I wouldn’t hire me,’ he warned. ‘If you need anything done, that is. It bores me. I like the planning and the end result, but all that stuff in the middle — that’s the tedious bit. Hate it.’

  ‘The same could be said for a lot of life,’ I said.

  ‘Lucky I’ve got my crew. They can do the work while I finally get to know you — after all these years.’ He winked, his brilliant blue eyes sweet as the spring, and as he bent forward, moving a little closer, his whole body swayed to the slow lilt of music, soft on the radio behind us.

  In the bus we lurched to a halt, the driver leaning on his horn. The corner we had to turn was too narrow. In front of us there were tuk-tuks, bikes and cars; beside us, children stared up at the row of white faces in the window above them.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to walk,’ Frans told us.

  He had taken the role of tour guide, with Simon as his assistant. On our first night, in the crowded Delhi hotel dining room, they had told Anna and Miles about when they met in India, two decades earlier. It was the train to Bihar that did Miles in. Eyes wide as he listened, the story became embedded, colouring our entire journey. It also frightened Anna, but at twelve, and three years older than Miles, she was more able to compartmentalise the experience as belonging to Simon and Frans, and not herself.

  Simon said that Bihar was the poorest state in India. ‘It’s beggars and bandits and thieves,’ he explained.

  ‘As we approached the border, the guard came to our carriage. He told us we had to get out, now.’ Simon pointed at Frans. ‘He argued, of course, but n
ot for long.’

  Frans rolled his eyes at the children. ‘Me? Would I argue?’ He was hamming it up for them, his Dutch accent heavy as he protested his innocence.

  When they nodded, he swiped at each of them with his napkin.

  Simon continued. ‘The guard took us to a metal carriage, with no windows or seats, and he told us we had to go in there.’

  ‘And I argued.’ Frans rolled his eyes again, grinning at his audience. ‘Of course.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. Not by then.’ Simon went on. ‘It was night time and freezing. You know how cold metal gets at night? It was like an ice box. The guard had told us we were not allowed to open the door for anyone, no matter how determined, fierce or pleading they were. We had to stay there, in that carriage, until he came and let us out. We huddled close to each other on the floor all night.’

  Frans took up the story. ‘And all night, there was banging on the door and on the walls of the carriage, and on the roof. Each time we stopped at a station, the pleading would begin. Let us in. Let us in.’

  ‘And did you?’ Miles asked.

  ‘No,’ Simon told him. ‘We kept everything locked.’

  ‘So, who was it?’ Anna wanted to know. ‘Who was knocking?’

  ‘There were bandits sometimes. Desperate people just wanting to get on the train at other times. It was the scariest night of our lives.’

  ‘And the best.’ Frans winked. ‘Meant he had to lie nice and close.’

  ‘We’re not catching a train, are we?’ Miles could not hide his anxiety.

  Simon told him no before Frans had a chance to tease him. ‘A bus,’ he said. And then, seeing he needed further reassurance: ‘And we’re not going anywhere near Bihar.’

  But despite their efforts to comfort him, from the third day Miles wanted to go home. He never said, but we all knew. He didn’t want to eat, or leave the hotel or the bus. Aisla was distressed; Jude, cranky. They argued frequently, their voices a murmur from the back seat, while Miles stayed up the front, sitting close to Frans, who tried to tease him out of his misery. And when he couldn’t sit with Frans, he sidled next to Anna, who kept her earphones in and a book open, ignoring his attempts at friendship.

  Now, as he waited by the side of the bus, he tried to stand close to his father, but Jude just moved away.

  Frans told us all it was impossible to drive right up to the hotel. ‘We have to get our suitcases,’ he said. He took out the whistle we’d given him as a joke and blew into it, the sound shrill. The schoolchildren who had gathered to watch the strange spectacle jumped, and when Frans clapped his hands in mock teacher mode, they giggled.

  Tuk-tuk drivers clustered around, wanting to take us or, failing that, our cases. Fifty rupees, forty — the bartering had begun.

  ‘Which hotel?’ one asked. When Sal answered, the driver wagged his finger.

  ‘Very, very bad,’ he said. ‘I know a good hotel. Just around the corner. I take you.’ He picked up one of the cases.

  Frans seized it from him.

  ‘We have a hotel,’ he told him. ‘And we’re walking.’

  ‘I don’t want to walk,’ Miles complained.

  Aisla put her arm around him and said it wasn’t far. Jude told him to snap out of it. Anna gave me a look. I knew Miles irritated her. ‘But try to be nice,’ I always urged.

  She stood there now — her sheet of pale gold hair in a single plait, her eyes deep grey in the light, her skin the smooth olive of her father’s — and I was struck, as I often was, by the startling emergence of her beauty. Coupled with her complete lack of awareness of who she was becoming, it was almost too much to bear.

  Behind her, one of the tuk-tuk drivers had his eyes fixed on her, and I wanted to tell him she was a child. Instead, I took her hand in mine, relieved she didn’t pull away, and unplugged one of her earphones as I kissed her on the cheek.

  The hotel was only two minutes away. Our suitcase wheels rattled across potholes and we were followed by children and dogs. One little girl kept tapping on Miles’s forearm, wanting to know his name.

  ‘Tell her,’ Jude instructed, until Aisla told him to give it a rest.

  I avoided Sal’s gaze.

  Anna wanted to know what it was going to be like.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Frans replied.

  ‘You haven’t stayed here before?’

  He hadn’t, but he assured her it was going to be special. ‘This is the place where we have our party,’ he said. ‘To celebrate the New Year and to celebrate our love.’ He glanced behind him at Simon, who winked at Anna, rolling his eyes as he always did whenever Frans became over-demonstrative.

  Behind the wooden gate, a peaceful garden was dotted with white tables. Peacocks picked their way across the grass, the great fans of their tails tucked tight, glittering jewels of colour flashing as they ruffled their feathers and then decided against the brilliance of full display. Behind a bank of trees, you could see the hotel, deep verandahs leading down to the lawn.

  All was quiet. No traffic. No people. Nothing.

  Sitting out in the late afternoon, drinking cool glasses of Limca and picking at the edge of a paratha, I told Sal the truth about Lewis. We were alone now: Simon and Frans were sorting out the following evening’s arrangements, Aisla had taken a tuk-tuk to a shop she wanted to visit, Jude had found a museum, and we had decided to let the children be, leaving them in their room with their Nintendos.

  ‘He’s married,’ I said, surprised at how ashamed I was at the admission.

  She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Happens to the best of us.’

  ‘What? Marriage? Or falling for a married man?’

  ‘Both if you’re unlucky.’

  He had told me after we first had sex. ‘I should have told you,’ he had said. ‘I just didn’t know how. And I was scared you’d tell me to rack off.’

  Which I wouldn’t have, but I didn’t let him know that. I would have said yes no matter what. I would have risked life and sanity and perhaps, even for an instant, my own child. It had been four years since I had split from Michael and just as long since I’d had sex. When the offerings are that infrequent, who has the strength to say no?

  But that wasn’t the only reason. When he kissed me, I wanted to breathe in the very air from his lungs. When he smiled, I wanted only to cover his mouth with my own. When he walked up the stairs to my house, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on my front door, I slid down to the floor, helpless and wanting to hold that, just a little longer, before I let him in, all of me alight in his presence.

  ‘An unhappy marriage, I presume?’ Sal said.

  The truth was, I didn’t know. I hadn’t asked him. I hadn’t wanted to give him the chance to lie to me.

  Next to me in bed, while his crew did all the work next door, he could slide from making promises to gentle disengagement within seconds. He couldn’t come next week. There was a new job on the other side of the city. ‘But soon,’ he assured me. ‘I’ll get them set up and then I’ll be back.’

  ‘When?’ I hardly dared ask.

  He sang songs to me, confessing he’d once wanted to be a rock star. ‘Bass player,’ he said. ‘I used to form bands with anyone who’d have me. But they’d never have me for long. Not when they found out how few tunes I knew.’

  ‘It’s not like I want a relationship,’ I told Sal, who was trying to catch the waiter’s eye. ‘I mean, we could go on like this.’

  ‘And you’d never want any more?’ Sal’s look was similar to the one I gave to Anna when I knew she was lying, floundering on the tip of an untruth. ‘You’re not the first.’ She was trying to be kind.

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘The first what?’

  ‘The first to speak such total crap.’ She signalled the waiter, letting him know we wanted the bill, and reached across to take my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so blunt. And I don’t judge you, or him, or anyone for that matter. But just don’t lie to yourself. See it for what it is and you’ll suffer a lot less.’

  I had almost not come to India, scared that if I left him, he would disappear, severing the few threads that held us together. The bombing in Mumbai would have made it easy. Watching news reports of the chaos and terror, I had seized upon the excuse, telling Frans and Simon I couldn’t take Anna there now. They had urged me to think about it and I had promised them I would. But it wasn’t the slow gathering of reason that made me change my mind.

  I saw him. It was early on a Saturday evening, the warmth of the day still lingering in the empty suburban street near the local pool. I had gone to do laps, not bothering to change afterwards, walking to my car in my swimmers, a towel wrapped around my waist, my skin dry and scaly from the chlorine. I only stepped back because I didn’t want him to see me like that. He was coming out of a house, standing at the front door as he said goodbye to someone. A friend, I presumed, knowing he did not live around here. And then he kissed her, whoever she was, gently, delicately, in the way he had first kissed me, a question that I was so quick to respond to.

  Unable to move, I stayed and watched, clutching my towel tight around myself because I thought that if I let go I might find myself gone, cold air where flesh had once been.

  Seconds later, he went back inside, the door closing shut behind them both.

  Had it been him? I tried to convince myself I had made a mistake, and I probably would have succeeded if I hadn’t seen his car, parked four doors up, an old red Volvo station wagon with a numberplate I was ashamed to admit I had memorised.

  I didn’t tell Sal any of this. If she thought I was a fool already, there would be no saving me from her scathing assessment should she hear that last bit, the addendum I had failed to reveal.

  It was not what I thought, he said, four days before our departure.