The café was crowded, and I had to squeeze past other tables to get to where he waited for me in the corner. As he tried to kiss me on the cheek, I pulled back, but he held my hand firmly, drawing me close.
‘How is it all going? The house-hunting? The job search?’ There was a wetness to his lips that I noticed as he slurped the soup from his spoon, leaving a fine coating of liquid over the metal.
I shouldn’t have come. This, too, was not going to be what I had tried to fool myself into thinking was possible. I had never liked him in the bar, and being alone with him in a café hadn’t changed that. But still I continued to try, hoping that, at some stage in our conversation, a magical transformation would occur, lifting the veil to reveal a man whom I could find attractive.
When I told him I had had no luck with either, he sat back in his chair and wiped at his mouth with a paper serviette.
‘Perhaps I could help with one,’ he said.
I didn’t see how.
‘I was the personal assistant to the editor-in-chief of The Australian. I could introduce you or, at the very least, give him your CV.’
Why, I thought, had he gone from a job like that to working in a bar? Even if he was telling me the truth, an introduction or a CV into the right person’s hands wouldn’t be enough. I had no experience. Not even volunteer or student work to suggest that I could possibly be a journalist. It was hopeless, I told him.
‘You can’t think like that. Let me help,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I replied, wanting only to end such a foolish conversation.
He ordered dessert. A cake to share, he suggested, and despite my saying I wasn’t hungry, he asked the waiter for two forks.
‘When I first came to Sydney, I knew no one,’ he said. ‘It can be a lonely place. I’d like to take you out. I know all the clubs. I can show you some fun.’
He named a few places I had heard of, and I told him I wasn’t into clubs.
‘I’m not a good dancer,’ I said.
‘What about the theatre?’
I didn’t like plays.
I was making it hard, he said, and I knew I was. Each time he tried to prise the door open a little I would pull it closed, unable to bear the thought of letting him in. Now, I wonder at my cruelty, but at the time I thought my behaviour was justified. He was too cocky, too smooth, and therefore not worthy of more gentle consideration.
At the end of our meal, he offered to pay, and I let him.
‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ he said.
We stood outside the café, people walking past us on the pavement, cars slowing down in search of a park, the faint sound of music coming from the record shop two doors down. Across the road from us, a couple argued, her in the car, him still on the road. She slammed the door on him, and he kicked at the bumper bar. Moments later, Robert asked me if I wanted to come home with him, the directness of his request throwing me off balance.
So, it has come to this, I thought, both surprised that he could think it was possible I would agree and yet also aware that this was, of course, the inevitable conclusion of our evening out. He wanted to have sex with me.
‘I’m not so sure,’ I tried to say, but my protest was feeble. If this was the place to which we had been headed, I might as well just give in and go there. Perhaps sex would finally bring the transformation I seemed to want to continue believing was possible, despite all evidence to the contrary.
He had parked his car, a dented old Toyota, in a side street. He cleared papers and cigarette packs and a jumper off the front seat before opening the passenger door for me, his body still stretched across the driver’s seat as I sat down, his hand touching my leg. And then he opened his window to the night air as we drove, in silence, towards the apartment blocks that line what has now become a tangle of roads.
A few weeks ago, as I sat on the plane next to the man who I thought was Robert, I wondered at how lonely I had once been. I found it hard to recall the feeling. Even in the last few months, as it became clear to me that Jason needed to go back to his wife and that I was going to have to let him go with grace, I never felt the complete cold emptiness I had experienced in those early days of living in Sydney.
Robert was still staring out of the curved window, arms crossed, and as I stole a glance at him I wanted to dispel the shame of remembering the girl I used to be. It was then that the plane shuddered, suddenly losing altitude. In the aisle, the flight attendant tried to steady the drinks trolley. Her face was turned away from me, but there was no visible change in her posture, no reason to feel panic, and I leant back in my seat. After a few seconds the plane dropped again, and the captain asked all passengers and crew to return to their seats as further turbulence was expected.
Robert was staring directly at me.
In the dim light of the cabin it was, at first, difficult to tell if there was panic in his eyes. But when the captain announced that the plane would need to return to Canberra, his anxiety was unmistakable.
‘I’m terrified of flying.’ He grimaced.
‘Ladies and gentlemen’ — the flight attendant’s voice was calm — ‘the captain informs me that there has been a minor technical fault, which unfortunately means we need to land at the closest airport. As we will be flying into some weather, we ask that you all remain seated until the plane has safely landed. We do apologise for any inconvenience.’
‘It will be alright,’ I told him.
But he wasn’t listening. His pupils were glassy and his voice tight. He said he’d had a bad feeling from the minute he got on the plane. ‘Did you hear that?’
I hadn’t.
‘The strain in the engine.’
I tried to ignore the panic that surged as we dropped altitude once more. Was this the end? It was impossible. In the back a woman screamed, followed by a man’s nervous laughter.
The captain spoke now. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I do want to assure you that there’s no reason for anxiety. As Damien mentioned to you earlier, we are simply experiencing some bad weather. Unfortunately, we’re having to fly directly into it in order to return to Canberra to rectify what is a very minor fault with the back-up navigation system. It has no impact on our safety but it is something we are obliged to fix under aircraft laws and regulations. If I could just urge you all to stay seated and calm, we should have you landed within the next twenty minutes.’
‘It’s worth trying to believe him.’ I kept my voice level, trying to convince both myself and Robert. ‘Doubting won’t help any of us.’ My hand gripped the armrest, and I could taste the acid fear at the back of my mouth.
Robert was white, and his pupils had flooded, black, into the dark of his eyes.
I asked him if he lived in Canberra or Sydney, and he told me neither.
‘Melbourne,’ he said, voice soft.
Behind us, I could hear other passengers talking. We were all trying to convince one another there was no need for alarm.
‘Were you working in Canberra?’
Robert nodded. He was a lobbyist, for the music industry. He was there often.
‘I usually drive,’ he confessed.
‘And Sydney?’ I asked.
It was where most of his clients were based. ‘And my son. He lives there with my first wife.’
The plane lurched again, and whatever calm had begun to still him dissipated. ‘Are we going to be alright?’ he asked, clutching the armrest between us.
‘Of course we are.’ I spoke quickly, not wanting to let my own fear in, but it was there, searing and raw as I laid my hand on top of his and held it tight.
Robert’s apartment was like a cheap hotel room. He opened the front door and stepped back to let me in.
‘Drink?’
I shook my head.
The plastic vertical blinds were drawn across th
e only window, but I could just make out a two-seater couch, a glass coffee table, and in the corner a large television. To our left was a galley kitchen, and on our right, a closed door that led, I presumed, to Robert’s bedroom.
‘I can’t do this,’ I suddenly said.
In the distance I could hear the faint rumble of traffic and, from somewhere along the corridor outside, the thud of a door as it closed.
‘Of course you can.’ Robert stepped close, the smell of his aftershave sweet, as he kissed me, his lips on mine.
Of course I could, I told myself.
As he began to undress me, thick fingers fumbling with my bra strap, I said I needed to go to the bathroom first.
Under the fluorescent light, I undressed myself, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I gathered my clothes in a pile and walked to where he waited in the bedroom. He pulled back the cover and I got into the bed with him, the sheets cold beneath me.
‘Wait,’ I said as he moved towards me.
I unbuckled my watch, leaving it not on top of my pile of clothes but on the bedside table next to me.
Later, when I realised I had left it behind, I wondered why I had taken it off in the first place. I had no intention of spending the night there, and could have just kept it on my wrist. Habit, I suppose.
‘You’re not leaving?’ Robert reached for me as I sat up only moments after we had sex. My legs were cold, and I almost relented.
‘Tell me more about yourself,’ he said.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ I replied.
‘Your family?’
‘They are very religious.’
‘And you’re the black sheep?’
It wasn’t that simple. I didn’t follow their faith, but I wasn’t an outcast.
I pulled my top on and tied my hair back as I told him I was going to head home.
‘At least let me drive you,’ he offered, but I declined.
‘You know,’ and he touched my arm, ‘if you relaxed with me you might get to like me.’
In the dark, it was hard to read his expression, but there was a plea in his eyes.
‘Can I call you?’
I explained I’d rather he didn’t.
‘I don’t understand.’
I was surprised, thinking he must have sensed I had no desire or attraction for him. I was with him because I needed to take myself right to the hard centre of the loneliness, and I had used him for that purpose only. Surely he could see that? And having seen it, why would he want to know me?
Outside in the cold, he waited with me for a taxi. As I shivered, he tried to rub my arms. Stop, I wanted to tell him. This is not how it is between us. There is no affection. But I let him try to keep me warm; I even let him kiss me goodbye as I got into the taxi, sinking back into the seat, and closing my eyes.
The next evening, when he rang to tell me he had my watch, I had already decided to let it go.
‘You can pick it up at the bar,’ he suggested. ‘Or I could meet you somewhere.’
I was standing in the hallway. Loene and Cate were both in the lounge room, drinking cheap champagne, and able to hear every word.
‘Can you post it to me?’ I asked him.
‘You don’t want to see me that much?’
I said I was sorry. ‘It’s just the way it is.’
He was silent for the first time.
I gave him my address.
Loene was laughing. She was drunk already. Cate was trying to decide which skirt suited her better. They turned the music up another notch, and I heard the pop of the cork as they opened the second bottle.
‘I’ll post it,’ he said.
I thanked him.
‘Well. I hope you have a nice life.’
Wincing slightly at the anger in his tone, I said I hoped he did, too, and I hung up, relieved to have come to an end in our dealings with each other.
Two days later, the watch turned up in the mail, wrapped in tissue, with no note or return address on the envelope.
When the captain told us we were ready to land, I finally let go of Robert’s hand. I hadn’t quite realised I was still holding it, until I felt the tension in his fingers ease a little, my own hand relaxing on his.
For the last fifteen minutes we had talked. Rather, I had asked him questions and he had answered. He had told me his son was ten years old. His marriage had come to an end because of differences that could not be repaired, and then, when he explained to me that he lived with someone now, in a marriage of sorts, ‘although we can’t get married’, I began to wonder whether he was gay.
When I told him my name, he showed no recognition. I kept talking. I said I was a journalist and I mentioned where I worked. I gave him no details of my personal life. I didn’t think he took in anything I said: his whole being was attuned to the immediate danger of our predicament. My own anxiety was only just under control.
In fact, I had suppressed my panic to such an extent that it wasn’t until much later, as I lay on top of the quilted bedspread in the hotel near the airport, that I began to properly breathe again, slowly, deeply. I closed the brocade curtains on the Canberra night, and I switched off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp on.
The room was old-fashioned, ordinary, decorated in a deep plum and cream. It was a twin share, and I had taken the bed closer to the door.
I had a bath and poured myself a straight scotch, wanting that burning warmth, before I picked up the telephone.
Jason was still at our house. I had guessed he might be, waiting for my return so that he could say goodbye.
I was alright, I assured him, because he had seen the news. From first reports, it appeared we had been in greater danger than the pilot or flight attendants had admitted, although it was still unclear as to what the problem had been.
I told him I had sat next to a man I thought I knew from years ago. ‘He was terrified, and so I just talked to him, the whole way back. I kept wanting to ask whether it was him, but I never did.’
On the other end of the phone, Jason was silent.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘there was a moment when I prayed. Just quietly, to myself. It was the prayer they used to say in our church when I was young. It was running through my head as I kept asking him inane questions about his life. I could still remember it, word for word.’
In the quiet of the hotel room, I began to cry.
‘I’m okay,’ I assured him. ‘It’s just a delayed reaction. I distracted myself, the whole time, talking to that man, but I guess I was scared as well.’
He tried to comfort me, cutting in over the rapid flow of my words as I kept insisting I was fine, never giving him the space to say what I knew he wanted to say. He would miss me. I would miss him also, but this would lessen. The facts were such that we had no choice.
His wife’s degeneration had been rapid. Soon she would be incapable of caring for herself, let alone the children. He was going back to her because he was a good man, and I was relinquishing, trying to cut loose all the threads that had linked and tied us for the past two years, because I, too, wanted to be decent. Older now, we had realised the importance of trying to behave like adults, even when we wanted nothing more than to cry out like a child.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Ian See and Aviva Tuffield at Scribe for their meticulous editing. It was a joy to be in such good hands.
With love, as always, to Andrew and Odessa, and in memory of Harry, the dog, who seemed to creep into my stories with as much stealth as he crept onto the couch.
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The Secret Lives of Men Page 18
