by Toni Jordan
I woke early, if I slept at all. I changed into my bathers inside the tent and crept down here as the dark was just lifting. There was no sound from our camp, and no sign of life other than Timothy’s feet sticking out from Daniel’s tent. There was no sound from the Germans’ camp as I passed either: most of them had slept in sleeping bags straight on the sand, others only on bedrolls and some against the trees where they were leaning last night. When I first waded into the sea the tree-tops seemed the same colour as the sky but now they are not. They are back-lit. The water seems over-salty; it holds me up. Here I can barely feel the throb of my stiff thighs or the crick in my neck from sleeping on the ground. The air and the water are both cold but I barely feel them. I tilt my face towards the sky. I am floating.
There is a movement on the path; someone is walking down here, bare-chested, carrying a towel. I do not have to look to know that it is Daniel. The water is covering me up to my chin. He strides in from the sand and is beside me in a few easy strokes.
‘If I knew scientists were this much fun I’d have started hanging around universities a lot sooner,’ he says. He sculls his hands backwards and forwards, pushing them against the water as if they were webbed.
‘How dare you not be hung over,’ I say. ‘It isn’t right.’
‘You don’t look too shabby yourself.’
‘One voice I can possibly manage. As soon as the birds start or the Germans wake up, I’m in trouble. I feel like there’s an angry dwarf sitting on my shoulders and squeezing my ears between his knees. Are the others coming down?’
‘Not yet. Joshua will be OK. Glenda and Timmy…well, I wouldn’t want to be in their heads this morning.’ He raises one eyebrow, thinks for a moment. ‘Or ever, really.’
I can feel the current his hands make. Small waves jostle my shoulders.
‘I’m not sure what you had planned to do today,’ he says. ‘How much work you intended?’
The water has formed small beads on his shoulders and some have nestled in the divot at the base of his throat. I think about what my father would do now. What rule could I rely upon if a person from one life intruded into another, destroying my dignity, transforming me from a seductive femme fatale to an angry flirt worth one and a third goats?
There’s always the option of murdering Timothy, and possibly Sam for telling him where I was, and burying them in the apple orchard. The thought gives me some comfort.
‘I had things planned,’ I say. His eyes are cool. His mouth is straight. I can read no expression here. I swallow and pray for inspiration. ‘But after our behaviour last night I’m beginning to think I’d be wasting my time.’
This is a final roll of the dice, to give him an opportunity to say No no, not at all. I’m even more interested in your kooky project now that I’ve met your deranged ex-boyfriend and my cheque book is right here down the front of my swimmers. Do you have a pen? And don’t worry about your fears: I’m not lying. I’m rolling in money and in any case, I really fancy you.
But as soon as I speak I know I have made a mistake. There is no going back from here.
He stretches out on his back for a moment, toes towards the sky, then twists upright again in one quick movement. ‘You’re right,’ he says finally. ‘You’d be wasting your time.’
For the rest of the morning I carry with me a feeling of calm unlike anything I remember. We have not convinced Daniel we are professional safe hands. This has not been a cheap expedition: there is the cost of everyone’s time, but that’s just a start. Hundreds of dollars of camping equipment, clothing, books and the rest.
No one will hold me personally accountable. We all agreed to take the risk. Yet I feel it. I should, in fact, feel worse. But now I no longer have to worry about what Daniel is lying about. Now it is out of my hands and I am free of the worry.
All morning Timothy buzzes around me like a fly. He makes tea and delivers my breakfast. He washes the dishes afterwards. He keeps saying, over and over, I hope I haven’t messed up your research and there’s no need to mention this to anybody else, is there? He gives me desperate looks, and tries to pull me aside for a private chat, but I want the next time we speak to be dignified, on my side at least. I know I cannot manage this yet. I also suspect he only wants to speak with me to circumvent what is coming to him. When we get back he’ll have to face not just me, but my father and Sam as well. Not that Sam is blameless, the moron.
Daniel and I pack our belongings. We will walk out first, as per the original plan. Beau and Anders are waiting on the beach in a reversal of Friday’s operation, and will come to the campsite when they see us leave. Timothy will stay and carry equipment too: his penance for stuffing up this sting. He is sheepish when I tell him there will be more for him to carry than his own suitcase. He volunteers to do whatever he can to help.
Daniel and I hoist our packs and are half-way down the beach before I hear a panting behind me. I turn: it is Timothy, running on bare feet over the sand. When he reaches us he leans over, hands on his knees, unable to speak. He must have chased us all the way from the camp. Daniel raises his eyebrows at me and keeps walking. He’ll wait for me a little further on, he says. I wait until Daniel is out of earshot, then I turn to Timothy.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Is there something you want?’
‘Yes. Yes there is. I know you have to do this,’ he says eventually, his face red and blotchy. ‘I know it’s your job, and all that. But I don’t think you should. I don’t think it’s fair.’
I make my hands into fists and restrain myself from raining them down on his empty skull like it was a bongo. What I have to put up with is unbelievable.
‘So, Timothy. You don’t like the way I make my living. Since when?’
‘Well. Since last night.’
I poke my finger at his chest and almost break the skin. ‘You, Timothy, are an utter, utter bastard. And you’ve got a lot of nerve. First you bust in here, uninvited, and mess everything up. And now you’re lecturing me on what I should and shouldn’t do. If Daniel wasn’t just down the beach watching us I’d dig a hole in the sand and put you in it, face first. Your fat head would feed the crabs for days.’
‘Listen Della. This hasn’t been much fun for me either, you know. I’ve never proposed before. To anyone. And I had to sleep in a tent. Or half in a tent. And my feet are very itchy because they were sticking out of the tent all night and they’re covered in mosquito bites. I’ve scratched them so hard I’m bleeding. And I’ve already said I’m sorry about coming here, to the park. I wasn’t thinking straight. I can’t undo it. But that doesn’t change the facts.’ He tucks his shirt into his shorts and straightens his collar, and nods his head up the beach at Daniel. ‘He’s a good guy, Della. He doesn’t deserve this.’
‘You know better than anybody that there are two kinds of people who always deserve it: the rich and the greedy.’
‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘I’ll tell you a secret: that’s the only thing I do believe. What’s this all about, Timothy? You’ve never minded my job before. In fact I seem to remember that you’ve even helped us once or twice. And been paid for it. And last night you didn’t seem to mind at all.’
‘It’s different. Knowing you were a grifter, that your whole family was. That’s one thing. But meeting someone who’s about to get ripped off. Drinking wine with them. Singing “Summer Nights”. That’s another matter entirely.’
‘Well, well Timothy. Maybe singing a duet with Daniel Metcalf has turned your pretty head. Maybe you’ve fallen in love with him. Perhaps I should leave you two alone for a bit of privacy.’
He snorts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Even if I wasn’t one hundred per cent hetero, he’s not my type.’
I am about to yell at him again when I see Daniel further down the beach. He has taken his pack off and is sitting in the sand, looking out upon the water. I come closer to Timothy and lower my voice to a growl. ‘You, Timothy, are a hypocrite. What about all the people you rip of
f ?’
‘That shows how little you know. I don’t rip anyone off. For a start, my customers receive excellent value for money. Excellent. Where else can you buy a mobile phone worth hundreds of dollars for ninety-nine ninety-five? Customer satisfaction is what separates me from my competitors.’
‘And what about the people you steal the phones from? They’re not quite so fortunate, are they?’
‘But Della, I don’t steal from people.’ He speaks slowly, and wags his annoying head in my face. ‘I steal from companies, and companies, by definition, are not people. Most of the time they don’t even notice that the stuff is missing. And if they weren’t so stupid, if they put in some decent systems, nothing would go missing at all.’
‘Oh, you are the master of self-justification. The master. Who do you think owns those companies? Fish? Those companies are owned by people, you gormless idiot. The stock that goes missing straight into your warehouse is owned by someone. And then you go ahead and blame them—the victim—for your own theft. You are incredible.’
‘Everything OK back there? Not having a lovers’ tiff, are you?’ Daniel calls out.
‘No, no,’ Timothy says. ‘We’re discussing business strategy, that’s all. Issues of, ah, stock sourcing and supplier management.’
‘Just one more minute.’ I wave at Daniel and attempt a smile. ‘And we’re ex-lovers. Don’t forget the ex part.’
‘It’s not right,’ Timothy says, his voice low again. ‘I’m just saying.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Well I’d certainly hate to disturb your delicate conscience Timothy. That would be the last thing I’d want to do. I’ll put your mind at rest. Thanks to your interference last night, Daniel Metcalf isn’t going to give us any money. Not one dollar. We did not behave in a professional enough manner to convince him to part with a piggybank of five cent pieces, much less a quarter of a mill. So you can sleep soundly tonight. No one is taking any money off anyone.’
Timothy frowns. ‘Della. I’ve seen him looking at you all morning. I’m very good at telling when you’ve got your customer hooked. It might not be right, but it’s a done deal. Relax. You’ll get your money.’
The walk out seems shorter even though my legs are tired. Return journeys always are. I am thirsty and hold my water bottle in my hand so I can sip as we walk. When we reach the waterfall that he was so enthusiastic about on Friday, Daniel steps over it and keeps going. He doesn’t speak much, except when necessary and even when we pass other walkers he delivers a grim nod rather than his usual chat.
I am thinking furiously. I go round and round the events of the last few days, and keep coming back to the same irrational point. Even if I have failed, I need to know what Daniel is hiding. I must know. Who is he, exactly? I have almost ruled out the idea that he isn’t wealthy. I’m sure he has always had money, and that he has it still. There is a confidence that comes from wealth, a bullet-proofing against minor fears and worries. He has it, a scatheless surface, undented.
I cannot stand it. I am the one who is supposed to be hiding something, not him. I cannot let him get away without discovering it. I need to shake him up, jolt him into revealing something. I could feign a fall, or pretend to twist my ankle. I could stumble against him, unbalance my water bottle so it drenches my T-shirt. Greta would approve, but I cannot imagine this would work. I am watching him walk in front of me and I just want him to stop. Timothy might think I’m still in with a chance, but at the moment I wouldn’t give two cents for his judgment. For once in my life I can think of nothing to say and nothing to do.
By lunchtime we are back in the car park. We take off our packs. I stretch my calves against the car, rub my tired shoulders. Just let this be over and done with, as quickly as possible. I keep my face turned away. Chances are I will never see him again.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Sorry to have wasted your weekend.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he says.
All at once I feel ashamed of myself. I must give it one more try. I know my father would never have quit, and certainly Ruby would have fought and fought not to let a mark escape. Whether Daniel is lying to me or not; whether he has money or not, my family’s opinion of me is at stake. Get a grip, Della. I straighten myself slightly and turn to face him.
‘Look, Daniel. I hope you didn’t think…last night…’
I can see the tendons in his neck, arched and stiff. ‘You hope I didn’t think what last night?’
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I hope you didn’t think there was…there is… anything…unprofessional…between us. We’d both had a bit too much wine. That’s all.’
Daniel leans back against the car and folds his arms. ‘Nothing unprofessional, did you say? Too much wine?’
I attempt a smile and swing my arms in a carefree fashion. ‘Exactly. Wine, stars, moonlight et cetera et cetera. I was in a relationship at the time. Apparently. In the dying seconds of a relationship, I’ll grant you, but I didn’t know that yet. At that precise moment I was explaining the gill business I was happily… well, perhaps not happily, but certainly…ah…committed. So there could have been nothing going on. And I’m here on a professional basis. Representing the university. Which is a venerable institution. Though I understand we won’t get the money.’ I feel my shoulders drop as I finish speaking. There. I’ve done it.
Daniel looks up, as if he has only just noticed I am here. He folds his arms. ‘Right. Professional basis.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, if we can put aside the issue of the money for a moment. What you’re really saying is,’ Daniel rubs one hand over his chin, bristles crackling, ‘you don’t fancy me.’
‘Well. Well.’ I smooth the front of my trousers, then hold my hands clenched in front as though I am praying. ‘Well, I’m sure this is no reflection on you. I’m sure there are many, many women who do, as you say, fancy you.’
‘But?’
‘But I don’t.’
‘Does this have anything to do with Timmy? Perhaps you’re not quite over him. Perhaps you need more time.’
‘That’s not it. Timothy and I…we didn’t have…it’s got nothing to do with time.’
‘Right. Just so we’re clear. No fancying. None whatsoever. Take it or leave it.’
‘Indeed. Leave it.’
‘Is this a general thing? Does this lack of fancying cover all younger sons of families who give away money for scientific research? Or does it just apply to me?’
I frown. ‘I didn’t realise this was such a difficult concept. I’ll try to make it very clear so you can understand. I don’t fancy one hundred per cent of sons of families who give away money for scientific research, with a sample size of one.’
‘So, if you were to look up “fancying” in the Ella Dictionary, the definition would be: verb meaning to desire to shag, not to be used in relation to Daniel Metcalf.’
‘Quite.’
‘So if I was to, say, stand quite close to you,’ Daniel is in front of me now, bare centimetres of air between us. ‘It wouldn’t disturb you in the slightest.’
I swallow, raise my chin. This is possibly the most stupid idea I have had in decades. Why did I begin this in an isolated car park, miles from anywhere, with no one else around? I should have picked a place that held a fair chance of interruption. So that when I put an end to this, it doesn’t look as though I wanted him to stop. Although of course I do. I mean, I will. I will want this to stop. I manage a small snort of derision.
‘Of course not. I work on a busy campus, students everywhere. In an office, with other people. I take trains. Elevators. Physical proximity with people I do not fancy does not affect me.’
‘I see.’ He raises one eyebrow. ‘And if I were to touch the side of your face, like this.’ He smooths the hair from my forehead, then runs the back of his hand down the side of my face, slowly, softly, then along the line of my jaw to hold my chin, his thumb nudging my lower lip down. He tilts his head forward, almost whispering. ‘
You’d feel nothing.’
For some reason, I have trouble coaxing air into my lungs. It’s the hike, up from the beach. All this physical exertion. ‘Like a brother,’ I say.
‘A brother. I see. And your wrists. They’re so delicate, aren’t they?’ His hands are on my shoulders now, inching their way down my arms, until they reach my wrists which he crosses one over the other. He pins them. ‘See? I can hold the two of them in one hand. This is probably something that a brother would do. It feels very pure, doesn’t it? Neighbourly, almost.’
I cannot move my hands, my wrists are manacled tight in his grasp. ‘Just because I don’t fancy you. Doesn’t mean. I will tolerate. Being manhandled.’
‘No, no, of course,’ he says. ‘But it wouldn’t make your heart pound, would it? It wouldn’t make your blood pressure go up.’
He steps backwards until he is leaning back against the car again and he pulls me with him, pulls me closer by my helpless wrists. I feel dazed and dumb and stupid and know that I must stop this and I would welcome even Timothy to appear but I cannot stop because I do not have the strength. I am touching him now. My thighs are pressed against his. The strength of him, the size. Would it be the worst thing in the world if I leaned against him? Surely just this touch of flesh through fabric would not be too far. His mouth is near my ear: I can feel his breath, his whispers against my face.
‘Because it would be terrible if you let yourself go, wouldn’t it? If you let yourself fall,’ he says. ‘Especially onto a big fat cheque book with legs.’
He releases my wrists then but they stay crossed where they are, and I am already leaning against him and I can’t seem to pull away. For a long moment he does not hold me. We are fully clothed in a public place. My car is right behind me, just metres away. I could reach it in seconds, unlock the doors, be behind the wheel, moving, before he could blink. There are people at the ranger station down the road, lots of them, milling around. Ranging. Or I could cry out. I could make some kind of sound, any sound. Even though I can’t see anyone the bush is thick just over the hill. If I cried out someone might come.
