by Hildy Fox
It was seven thirty. She supposed that by now he would be beginning to suspect that she wasn't coming. A surge of guilt hit her, but what could she do? Drive over there just to say she couldn't make it? It would take her fifteen or twenty minutes just to drive down along the river, cross Valley Bridge, cross Mountain Bridge, and drive back up the other side to his place. No, she would just have to wait for a more opportune time to explain herself. After her sterling performance on the bridge that morning, surely she could handle a white lie in this situation.
Then another, surprising emotion struck her. Could it be that she actually felt something for Marcus Dean? Despite his arrogant self-assuredness, despite his shiny black car and Italian wardrobe, despite his condescending manner. Was there something inside her now that wanted to drive her Jeep as fast as she possibly could to his house and totally absorb herself in him, to find out everything there was to know about him, to look into those hypnotic eyes and just float away like a character in an old black and white romance? She felt the back of her hand. It was as if she'd been injected with a slow-acting drug when he had inadvertently stroked her that morning. Or perhaps it wasn't inadvertent. The lingering look in his eyes had told a different story, as if there was a natural need for him to touch her, for her to touch him. Again her head was filled with images of the shifting muscles in his back as he stroked against the power of the river. Of his sculptured chest and abdomen shimmering with wetness as he stood by the bank. The drug ran deep within her, affecting her completely with its gentle invasion. She'd only met him that morning, for goodness' sake! Why was this happening to her? Why him? Why now?
She poured another glass of wine and retreated into the living room. She had to be strong. It had been a long time since a man had shared her life, and for good reason. Her career was finally beginning to take shape. She could feel that things were looking up for her. She really didn't need complications. Too much had happened too quickly for her to rely on these overwhelming feelings. It was best just to ignore them.
She propped by the fireplace, put some newspaper and firelighters inside, then placed a few chunks of wood on top and lit it. Before long, the room was bathed in the soothing warm light of the flames, and for a while she just sat and stared into them. Many years ago her family had sat around many a similar fire to do typical family things. Talk, play, laugh, just spend time together. How different things were now. Her parents were gone. Her sister was living in another state, married, with a baby. And here she was alone and reflective with only the flickering shadows on the walls to keep her company.
The wine was having quite an effect on her. Her thoughts seemed to be slipping into the maudlin, and she was feeling light-headed. She hadn't eaten much at all that day, so she supposed she should get something. She went back to the kitchen and pondered the contents of her fridge and cupboards, finally deciding on the reliable cheese and tomato toasted sandwich.
As Lahra assembled the ingredients on the bench, she glanced outside. The front light of Marcus’s house was switched off. So, he had given up after all. She imagined how he'd have been acting while waiting for her. Pacing the room looking at his watch. Impatiently checking the oven as his lasagne went from gold to brown to black. And no doubt condemning the female species for their unreliability and tardiness. Right now he was probably sitting down to a plate full of burnt lasagne watching sport on TV and had forgotten all about her. Men like him usually had several girlfriends on the go at any one time. He certainly wouldn't lose any sleep if one girl from the country slipped through his fingers.
She was about to slice into a triangle of camembert when there was an abrupt knock at the door.
For a few seconds her mind ticked over wondering who it could be, but as much as she tried to avoid it, the answer seemed inescapable. Wally was working at the cinema. She doubted very much that Kurt would drop in without calling. And nobody else in town knew she was here. She stood motionless in the kitchen, her nerves suddenly coming to life with a shot of adrenaline. The thought crossed her mind to just not answer it. But she knew that wasn't an option. Track pants, sweat top, socks and all, she was going to have to answer the door.
There was a second knock, slightly more urgent than the first, and it forced her forward. She ran her fingers through her hair, not even aware that she still held her cheese knife, and went to the door. Her lungs seemed to expand and block her throat as she reached for the handle, so she held her breath, and swung the door wide open.
Marcus Dean stood there with a covered baking tray in one hand and a wrapped salad bowl in the other. His eyes went to the knife in Lahra's hand. "Lahra, if you didn't want to have dinner with me all you had to do was say so."
THREE
"M-Marcus," Lahra said in half-feigned surprise. "I... um... hello."
"It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't say if we were eating at my place or yours. All I said was that I'd cook. I guess you assumed that I was coming over."
"Well, I... er..."
Lahra could see exactly what Marcus was up to. He knew very well that Lahra had stood him up, and now he'd come over in an act of big-headedness to play on her guilt and weasel his way in. Just who did he think he was with his 'I guess you assumed I was coming over'?
"Well it doesn't matter now, anyway," he continued, "because the meal is ready and we're both here in the same time and place. You even dressed casual, I see."
Lahra was painfully aware of her sloppy appearance. It was revenge, she supposed. Revenge for her giving him such a hard time at Valley Bridge that morning. Now he had the upper hand and he knew it. His smug smile said it all. Well if he thought he could just waltz over here and manipulate her like this, he had another thing coming.
"Um, come in. It's cold out." Lahra couldn't believe that she just said that. Marcus stepped into her home and she shut the door behind him.
As he surveyed the room Lahra desperately tried to smooth out her appearance behind his back. "Hmm, this is wonderful," Marcus chimed. "For such a large space it has such a warm, cosy feel to it. Excellent. I see you've started the fire for us."
Lahra took the tray and bowl from her unexpected guest and went into the kitchen. "Yes, it is cosy," she said distractedly. "My parents had excellent design sense."
"Bedrooms?"
Lahra stopped suddenly. "Sorry?"
"The bedrooms. Two, three?"
"Three bedrooms. And a study."
"So which direction does your bedroom face?" Marcus asked, approaching her.
"To the river."
"Well, terrific. Mine too. We'll be able to wave to each other of a morning." He looked around the kitchen. Lahra looked at him in his slim pants and linen shirt and felt even more conspicuous. "So, have you been preparing a little something extra for the meal?" he asked, looking at Lahra's tomato and cheese.
"I... um... no. Would you like a drink?" She threw the knife into the sink and went for the wine bottle.
"Well, it's not a red, but what the heck. Thanks." Lahra poured two fresh glasses. She needed hers. "Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Um, yes, I am," she said. Then, "You'll have to excuse me, Marcus. Something important came up this afternoon and I was running very late. I'll go and get changed quickly."
"You look fine. It's not like we're at the Ritz. Just pop the pasta in the oven for fifteen minutes and the salad in the fridge. By the time we set the table, we'll be able to sit down, have a nice relaxed meal as neighbours and get to know each other a little better." His tone was now quite pleasant. Almost calming. Lahra felt her panic drop back a notch, and she actually managed a smile.
"I'll fix the table," she said. "Make yourself at home."
Lahra began busying herself in the kitchen and Marcus went for a walk around the room. She glanced up at him from time to time, noting the smooth, slow way he moved. It was as if a panther had come into her home and it was her delicate duty to placate it lest it run amok. Lest it made her its prey for the evening.
"A fin
e house indeed," Marcus spoke as he walked. "My place isn't quite as large but it's similar in many ways. The Taylors let it go a bit, so it was a little run down when I moved in. Got it for a great price, though, fixed it up. Only wish I could spend more time out here. Still, it's nice to be here when I can make it. Such a nice change from the city. So how long have you been living here?"
"I rent a house in the city with my girlfriend Lisa, and I get out here for vacation once or twice a year. But I originally came here when I was six. Mum and Dad were both lecturers at the Sydney campus of Charlton University, when they decided they'd had enough of city life and applied for transfers to Riverbank."
"Which would explain a lot of these books," Marcus observed, craning his neck to take in the wall of cramped bookshelves. "From the looks of it your parents had something to do with... literature. Or maybe art."
Lahra was setting one end of the long, colonial dining table that dominated the area near the verandah door. "Very good. My father was English Literature, my mother Art History."
"Nice. They weren't the sort to pummel it into you, I trust."
"No, not at all. It was never like they were teaching us anything at all. We just had the greatest fun, and somehow my sister and I just learned along the way."
"That would be Rebecca, I guess."
Lahra was startled at this, and looked up at Marcus. But then she saw that he was holding Harriet the Hamster open in front of him. "That's right. Although Becky was never really the academic type. More into her dolls and things."
"So you are the academic type, then?"
"Some might say I'm not," Lahra laughed. "But I do lecture for a living, among other things."
"Hopefully you're not one of those deadly boring lecturers like those I had to put up with. You know the ones. They seem to have voices scientifically designed to put people to sleep, and combined with the drivel they go on about they don't give you a chance."
"Oh I know quite a few of those," Lahra admitted, "but no, I don't think I have quite that effect."
"No," Marcus remarked, swirling his wine and levelling his gaze on her. "I for one would be wide awake."
Lahra felt the blood rush up her neck into her cheeks. It was a mistake to let him in like this. She was so vulnerable, so ill-prepared. What was it about this man that made her think one thing but do another? It bothered her immensely, even more so when all she could do about it was stand there and blush. She topped up her wine glass with the last of the chardonnay and moved into the living area, sitting in one of the big, soft armchairs beside the fire.
"So what do you teach?" Marcus continued, taking up a position on the couch.
"History of Cinema and Film Appreciation at Charlton Sydney campus."
"Hence all of these terrific old movie posters."
Lahra looked around. Yes, the walls were rather full of old and interesting movie posters. Some Like It Hot, His Girl Friday and Breakfast at Tiffany's were a few she could see from here. "I've been collecting since I was little. Some of them are quite valuable."
"I read something not long ago about an original poster for the old Frankenstein. Sold at auction for three hundred thousand," Marcus offered, a little incredulous. "From an investment point of view they're obviously excellent."
"When I say valuable I mean personal value," Lahra clarified. "The money doesn't interest me. Movie posters are pieces of art history in their own right."
"But you could be sitting on tens of thousands of dollars!"
"It's just money," Lahra shrugged. "You can't hang money on the wall and appreciate a bygone era, or relive nice memories."
"No, but it helps you appreciate the era you're in and create a few nice memories for future reference."
Miles Davis stopped playing. There was silence for a while but for the crackling of the fire. The wine had done a good job of relaxing her. She couldn't be bothered arguing with Marcus about art versus commerce. Besides, she much preferred when he spoke in his low, calming voice and made her smile.
"And what about the 'among other things' part?" Marcus asked, staring deep into her eyes. "Lecturing isn't all you do, obviously."
"I do many, many things." In the back of her mind a voice told Lahra that she was beginning to flirt with Marcus, and that maybe she shouldn't. But a haze of confidence courtesy of the wine paid no attention, and she met his stare as she spoke. "I write film critiques for several papers. I consult with government funding bodies. I go to film festivals when I can—next year I hope to make it to Cannes and Berlin. And I've produced a few short films, which were great, so it would be nice to do a few bigger things, some features. Maybe even write something. I always used to say that I was going to win seven Oscars." She laughed at the thought. "Well, you have to have your dreams, I guess."
"No reason why you can't bring your dreams to life." Lahra watched as Marcus’s eyes clouded with memories, as they had done earlier that day. But this time the memories lingered, and the sadness had a real presence. "Sometimes things get in the way," he continued, "but you just have to make a promise to yourself that you won't compromise your dreams for anything."
There was a silence then, a comfortable, warm silence that brought the corners of the room closer around them. When Lahra looked at him lost in his memories for those few moments, it was as if she was looking at a whole different person. As if the man on the bridge was somebody else altogether. The person who sat here on her couch in the golden glow of the fire didn't need the showy car or the brash personality. There was something below the surface that suggested an understanding nature, compassion and tenderness. She didn't know exactly why she thought this to be so. All she could do was look into his eyes and feel it.
Lahra could feel herself approaching the stage where the line between what was thought and what was said became indistinct. Her cheeks felt like fleshy radiators, her body like a helium balloon. She sipped at her wine and laughed lightly. "I'm sorry for the bridge today. You must have been in a pretty big rush to be so rude!"
Marcus’s face suddenly lightened, catching the infection of Lahra's good nature. "Rude! Anyone would think it was a crime to ask somebody to unblock the road. I'm sure if it had been you racing to an important meeting it would have been a different story altogether!"
Lahra laughed loudly, rubbing her eyes beneath her glasses. "You should have seen the look on your face when I ran out of petrol. Priceless!" Marcus grinned at her, raising an eyebrow. "Actually I have a small confession."
Marcus leaned forward on the couch. "Oh?"
"I didn't really run out of petrol." Now both of Marcus’s eyebrows rose, but before he could say anything Lahra went on, trying to withhold her mirth. "It was cruel, I know. But you were being such a pig."
"A pig!"
"Well, you were. What kind of gentleman sits there honking his horn at a lady as if he owns the road? You looked so happy with yourself in your silly car-"
"A BMW M3 is not a silly car!"
"Oh, I should have known," Lahra almost giggled, "he'll jump to the defence of his automobile… just like a man."
"Well at least I didn't resort to deception to get my way." Marcus was having trouble holding in his laughter also.
"Well, Mr Dean strikes back. Looks like I struck a nerve with the BMW."
"Okay, I'll admit I acted like a pig if you admit to lying like a paid professional."
"One white lie loses me my amateur status? I don’t think so-"
"The only worse thing than a liar is someone who won't admit to doing it."
"I only lie to men being piggish. Especially if they drive silly BMWs."
Marcus threw his hands up in defeat. "Well I guess that's as close as I'm going to get to an admission of guilt. So if I was a pig, I'm sorry. I'll try to be a little more Cary Grant in future."
Lahra laughed spiritedly, and with it her inhibitions seem to leave her. She was enjoying this. Marcus wasn't the ogre she'd at first thought him to be at all. A shiver of excitement ran over her s
kin like soft feathers. It was good to be here in her home again. It was good to be here with him.
"You have a great laugh," Marcus announced, a serious note once again in his voice. Lahra felt his eyes on her, but she didn't look away. She looked back into them. The green was not visible in this light. Now they were a shifting gold, seeming to dance to the rhythm of the flames. As he drank, her eyes moved to his hand. It was the same smooth hand that had brushed hers that morning. The same hand that had lifted her from gushing water and pushed her to safety. The hand she now found herself imagining caressing her skin, with the same delicate touch that his wineglass now enjoyed.
The oven alarm rang obtrusively. Their eyes held for the duration of the bell. "How's your appetite?" Marcus asked at last.
Lahra's voice lowered as a million thoughts coursed through her head. "I'm absolutely famished."
*
Outside, the foothills that led up to the Thompson Ranges in the east and down to the Charlotte Valley in the west were still and cold. The Ulonga-Bola River cut its way down to meet the Doyle River watched only by stark gumtrees against a moonless sky.
Inside, laughter and conversation were as warming as the fire. Lahra pushed her plate away and leant back in her seat, stretching. "I think I'm going to explode!"
Marcus laughed, and poured them both another wine from the second bottle.
"I've eaten way too much. I've drunk far too much. You're obviously a very bad influence on me." Lahra closed her eyes, and the only thing she could see was Marcus’s smiling face. Her nerve endings seemed to be having a party all of their own, and she sat there like that for a little while and enjoyed the sensation.
"What are you thinking?" Marcus asked.
"Nothing. Just resting my eyes. That's what Mrs McDonald always told me to do."
"Mrs McDonald?"
