Gang of Four

by Liz Byrski

  He held her gaze. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It was totally unacceptable and I shouldn’t have let Stacey get away with it. I’m really sorry. That’s why I called, to apologise.’

  She had expected the mind games, the ego and the manipulation that would somehow make it her fault, and his straightforward apology took her by surprise. She opened her mouth to protest and shut it again. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,’ she said eventually. ‘Actually, I was sulking!’

  The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched. ‘Not without good reason,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘I think I’m a bit oversensitive at present.’

  ‘Sally, don’t,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘This was not oversensitivity on your part, it was insensitivity on mine. That and Stacey being her normal bullish self. Do you have time for a coffee?’

  They walked together to the café. ‘Is Stacey picking you up?’ Sally asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, no, she started at the Chronicle today. God knows when she’ll be home. I took a cab.’

  She brought the coffee back to the table, and squeezed into the narrow space between the table and bench. ‘So how’re you getting back?’

  ‘Cab again, I guess – since I was fool enough to upset the chauffeur.’

  ‘Isn’t Stacey using the car?’

  ‘She used it over the weekend, but she’s buying some little car off a friend, and she used the train to get to work. You know what the commuter traffic is like on the Bay Bridge.’

  Sally nodded. ‘Well …’ she hesitated. ‘If you want, I could …’

  ‘Yes!’ Steve said. ‘Yes please, I want!’

  She laughed. ‘Okay, should I go home with you and get the car, then I can pick you up for the tute tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t just love you for you driving, you know,’ Steve said, and she blushed, looking away in embarrassment, gazing unseeingly towards a group of students unchaining their bikes from the coffee shop fence.

  ‘Oh yes?’ She smiled without meeting his eyes. ‘I bet that’s what you tell all your chauffeurs.’

  The tension from the lecture theatre was gone, replaced by a new awareness of the warmth of his arm almost touching hers, his good leg close to hers below the table. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But then I never had a chauffeur before, and I’ve never been interested in anyone else’s.’

  She sipped her coffee, unable to look at him, unsure how to react to the chemistry that had suddenly materialised between them.

  Steve’s hand moved to cover hers. ‘Sally,’ he said quietly, and she looked up. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Come home with me now?’

  ‘The strapping is a bit of a handicap,’ Steve said almost three hours later, pulling himself into a sitting position and leaning back against the bedhead.

  Sally trailed her fingers down the length of his good leg. ‘I didn’t notice it impeding your performance.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, ma’am, but you don’t have other performances to judge against.’

  She sat up too. ‘No, but I anticipate the forthcoming ones.’

  He leaned forward smiling, kissing her lightly on the lips, and then reached for a packet of cigarettes that were on the night table.

  ‘Cigarettes! You don’t smoke!’

  ‘My secret vice. One a day, or usually night, in bed.’

  ‘But you can’t smoke – this is California, nobody smokes. I mean, well, it’s like Western Australia, virtually smoke free.’

  ‘Virtually, not entirely!’

  ‘It’s a terrible habit.’

  ‘Aha – I detect the fanaticism of a reformed smoker.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘I shouldn’t even have one?’

  ‘Not one!’

  ‘You’d never make love to me again if I smoked a cigarette now?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘And if I threw them away you’d have wild, passionate sex with me every day of the week?’

  ‘Absolutely – weekends too!’

  He threw the packet across the room.

  ‘Well, almost every day …’

  ‘Aha! You made a promise.’ He drew her towards him, sliding down the bed on his back. ‘Be gentle with me. I was recently beaten up by some ferocious woman on a mountain trail.’

  ‘You probably deserved it,’ she murmured.

  Neither of them heard the sound of the front door, nor the bedroom door. It was instinct that made Sally stiffen and turn and when she did, there was Stacey standing in the doorway. Sally pulled up the rumpled duvet and Steve dragged himself back into a sitting position. ‘Stacey, c’mon now! You could’ve knocked. This is my bedroom, for God’s sake.’

  Stacey turned and flung herself out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The noise of the television blasted up from her room and another door slammed.

  Steve grimaced. ‘Sorry, Sally. Seems like some kids never grow up,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘You know you can’t leave now, don’t you? I mean, if you get up and leave now she’ll think she’s embarrassed you into going. You are forced to lie here with me for at least another hour, then it won’t look like we got up because of her.’

  ‘I think I can put up with you for another hour,’ she said, kissing his shoulder. ‘Was Stacey always like this?’

  ‘Christ, no. She used to be much worse!’

  The television must have been too loud even for Stacey, for now it was turned down to a low murmur of voices and music. They lay side by side, drowsy in the warmth of the bed. Sally’s body was heavy with pleasure and satisfaction. She pressed her face against Steve’s chest, loving the smell of him, the roughness of the gingery hair against her cheek. ‘I might need to stay longer than an hour,’ she whispered, her eyelids drooping with sudden exhaustion.

  He stroked her hair. ‘Hey,’ he murmured. ‘I was only talking minimums.’

  ‘Sounds like someone crying – is that Stacey?’

  ‘Doubt it. The iron woman doesn’t cry, she only bellows. Must be the TV.’

  ‘I never did this before.’

  ‘I see – you’re a virgin!’

  ‘Very funny! I mean, I never went to bed with a friend.’

  ‘You slept with your enemies?’

  ‘What I mean is that things always started with instant lust and burned out just as quickly.’

  ‘And this is different?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I thought we were friends, not …’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘I didn’t know the chemistry was there.’

  He laughed. ‘You mean all these weeks I was having erotic fantasies about you, you weren’t having them about me?’

  She shook her head. ‘I will now, though. I promise.’

  ‘Promises, promises. So are we still friends?’

  ‘Uh-huh!’

  ‘And lovers too? I just want to get this clear.’

  ‘And lovers too. Stop talking.’

  ‘And do what instead?’

  ‘Sleep would be nice.’

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed, sliding down beside her, his face so close she could breathe his breath. ‘Yes, that might be a good idea.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The bookshop was halfway along Albany’s main street between the clock tower and the waterfront. Robin noticed it as she came out of the church on the other side of the road. Church was unfamiliar territory, and as she sat in a rear pew enjoying the stillness, she wondered what had led her there. ‘You must have put a spell on me, Father Pat,’ she whispered into the silence. ‘Where do I go from here?’

  Disconnected thoughts seemed to circle and dive like seagulls, failing to produce any answers or even clearly to define the questions. Jim, her job, her home, her future, what was she to do? She had set out from the cottage at peace but the previous night’s encounter with Jim in the pub had damaged her equilibrium.

  She had left Pemberton straight after breakfast despite Josie’s urgings to stay on until Sunday. The last thing she wanted was to bum
p into Jim and Monica again. Exchanging phone numbers and email addresses, promising to stay in touch, she had hugged Josie and Dawn, who stood outside the door of the guesthouse ready to wave her away.

  Father Pat had gone to early mass but came hurrying back as she slammed down the lid of the boot. ‘I thought I might’ve missed you, Robin.’ He smiled. ‘I’m glad I made it in time.’ He took both her hands in his.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave without seeing you, Father, and thanking you for last night.’

  ‘My dear girl, you only ate half a dinner but it was a pleasure.’

  ‘Not the dinner – well, yes, that of course, which was lovely. I mean, when we got back here. Our conversation. It was very …’ She paused. ‘Challenging, I suppose. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad. We made the most of the remains of that lovely fire and had the place to ourselves. What better than a drop of malt whisky and some intelligent conversation? You don’t want a blessing, I’m sure, but it comes with the package, I’m afraid. God bless you, Robin.’

  ‘You’ll call in and see me if you’re anywhere near?’ she asked. ‘You know where I’m staying.’

  ‘I do indeed. I expect to be this way again in a couple of months. I shall come and interrupt your solitude.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. And you won’t …’

  ‘I won’t disclose your whereabouts to anyone at all.’

  Robin felt better once she was on the road, although she despised herself for running away from the chance of another encounter with Jim and Monica. Consoling herself with the thought that she had already stayed longer than planned in Pemberton, she had driven straight on to Albany.

  Too cold now to stay longer in the church, she went outside again, blinking in the sunlight. On the opposite side of the street she saw the Irish café whose bacon Father Pat had recommended, and threaded her way through the crawl of the traffic. It was then that she saw the bookshop: a long, narrow old building, its original façade still intact and tastefully painted in heritage green. The main window was devoted to Ian McEwan and right in the middle, with the brown binding and the etching of a balloon on the front cover, was Enduring Love, the only McEwan she hadn’t read. She went inside, picked up a copy of the book and took it to the counter where a woman sat studying book catalogues.

  ‘I’ll have this one, please,’ Robin said. ‘But I’ll have a look around first.’

  The woman tucked an escaping strand of grey hair into the loose knot at the back of her head and smiled. ‘Please, go ahead. That’s an excellent book. My husband reckons it’s McEwan’s best, but I prefer The Child in Time.’

  Robin, who had failed to convert any of her friends to McEwan’s books, was delighted to find a fellow fan. That’s my favourite too! That and Amsterdam.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I really think he’s my favourite author. I’m so disappointed when I get to the end of his books, I feel quite lost. Anita Brookner’s another one. There’s something about those English authors.’

  Robin nodded. ‘I’ve enjoyed a lot of her books but recently I got a bit sick of her suppressed, well-behaved females.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean, but I still love her – the ordinariness, the attention to detail. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you, you wanted to look around.’

  Robin liked the layout of the shop, the golden glow of the old pine shelves, the librarian’s steps, the small armchairs in bright colours placed at vantage points, and the cone-shaped shelf stand with a circular upholstered bench seat beneath it. Two-thirds of the shop was devoted to new books and classics, the remainder to a selection of old and rare books, chosen by someone who obviously knew the trade. Robin had a reasonable collection of old law books and on these shelves she found a couple of volumes she’d wanted for some time.

  ‘You obviously know your books,’ the woman said as Robin put them on the counter.

  ‘Not as well as whoever buys in your stock.’

  ‘That’s my husband,’ the woman said. ‘He’s been in the trade for years. Credit, cheque or savings?’

  ‘Credit, thanks. I love the way you’ve organised the shop. It’s very inviting.’

  ‘Thank you. We like it, we’ll be sorry to leave it. We’re moving in the New Year. Going to Tasmania.’

  Robin looked around the shop. ‘It’ll be a wrench for you to leave this. Who’s taking over?’

  The woman put the books into a paper carrier bag with the name ‘Booklovers’ printed on the front in dark green. ‘Don’t know yet. We’re still trying to make up our minds whether to advertise it now or leave it till after Christmas. November’s not a very good time to sell.’ She pushed the credit card slip across the counter and handed Robin a pen.

  Robin signed, her heart pumping furiously, as if she had just done an eight-kilometre run. ‘What’s the trade like?’

  ‘Very good, really, especially considering there’s three other bookshops in town. We do well out of it, there’s just the two of us. The tourist trade is very good in the summer.’ She handed Robin back her Visa card and the bag of books. ‘Enjoy those. You’re not local, are you?’

  Robin shook her head. ‘No – Perth. I’m just taking a break.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your time in Albany.’

  Robin stood on the pavement looking around in confusion, her excitement so great that she couldn’t remember where she’d parked the car. ‘Calm down, calm down,’ she told herself. ‘Get your act together and get back to the car.’ There it was, parked in one of the bays on the crest of the hill.

  She ran up the street and fell into the front seat, started the engine and slowly drove back down the hill past the shop, turned at the end and drove back up and down past it again. She was supposed to be finding somewhere to stay. She had to find a place quickly and then think what to do. She had to calm down before she did something very silly. After all, how could you be totally confused about the future one minute and then walk into a bookshop and want to buy it the next? It was mad!

  ‘Calm down,’ she told herself aloud. ‘Find a room and then you can concentrate.’ She rummaged among the maps on the passenger seat for the paper on which she had written the name of the place Dawn had recommended. Glancing down at the address, she turned left into Grey Street and began searching for the guesthouse.

  It was midday on Tuesday before Robin went back to the bookshop. She had forced herself to stay away for three days, to think the idea through, to make sure she hadn’t gone completely off her rocker. She wasn’t really sure that three days was long enough to test the latter, but at least she had forced a decent interlude upon herself. She was good at decisions. Her history was one of letting things lie, and then quite suddenly taking a surprising decision and acting on it. That, she thought wryly, was how it had been with Jim and the decision to get out of his life and into a new life of her own. A fast decision and a sound one; painful, scary, challenging but infinitely liberating and, she was convinced, the best course of action she could have taken in the circumstances.

  Her parents had always agonised over decisions, her father being the ultimate procrastinator, so much so that the night that he checked his football pools and announced that he’d won, no one in the family took much notice. They were all so sure that even if he had picked the right teams he would, as usual, have left it until the last minute to mail the coupon in case he wanted to change his mind, and then missed the last post. Robin thought her own firm and spontaneous decision-making had probably developed as a reaction against her parents, but whatever its origins it had served her well in the past. The decisions to study law, to come to Australia, to buy in to the practice, to buy her first house and then the present one, had all been taken quickly and based on gut feeling. Why should this one be any different?

  On the previous Sunday she walked for hours along Middleton Beach, watching her own footprints in the pale sand, considering her situation. If it hadn’t been for the chance encounter with Jim she might have felt mo
re cautious, but clearly Monica now knew about her and, despite that, Jim had stayed put. That shed new light on the past as well as the future. There had been so many times when his leaving would have been the sensible, honest and obvious thing to do. Now, by her own leaving she had forced the situation and it seemed that it was all over. ‘I think I’m exhausted by the paradox,’ she had told Father Pat as they sat by the dying fire back at Dawn and Josie’s guesthouse. ‘Always being told that I’m the most important person in his life, that I keep him sane, that it’s me he really loves, and yet always finding that I take second place, to Monica, his children, his work – everything. That probably sounds unreasonable but I just seem to have run out of steam.’

  ‘It sounds entirely reasonable to me,’ the priest had said, pouring her a second whisky.

  ‘I mean, if I really loved him, surely I ought to be prepared to take second place, to understand his commitments – after all, on one level I respect him for not being able to turn his back on his responsibilities. So there’s paradox there, too.’

  Father Pat stabbed at the fire with a long iron poker, and added a couple of logs. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney and the flames flickered to life. ‘Life and emotions are very different from the law, Robin.’ He smiled. ‘The law is wonderfully logical. We know – you and Jim know especially well – what the boundaries are. You take a situation, you look at the options and how you can work with them. It’s probably very clear what’s right and what’s wrong. Of course there are subtleties of analysis and interpretation, but basically it’s all pretty clear. Life and love, well, they’re just chaos. The rules are all over the place, subjective, always up for grabs. You can’t be sure what you’re dealing with.’ He sipped his drink and leaned back, crossing his legs. ‘The law is like the Catholic church, the rules are clear and that’s why we cling to them. It feels safe. The church, or in your case the law, provides a framework, but life doesn’t always fit into the framework and that’s what makes it so hard.’