The Affair

by Bunty Avieson

  Leo wondered where the nurse was. Not the pretty, younger one. He didn’t like her tending him, touching him. Leo wanted the older woman. She didn’t say anything, just coolly attended to his dressings then moved on. She was impersonal and professional. Just how Leo liked it. He didn’t want to make small talk, chat about what a sodding beautiful day it was. It wasn’t. It never would be again and he had neither the energy nor the inclination to pretend it would be. The new skin on his groin and cheeks was itchy and hot under the bandages. His buttocks ached where the new skin had been removed, leaving raw edges of flesh.

  There were a few patients sitting on the verandah, some with visitors, but no-one approached Leo and the low murmurs of their conversations didn’t disturb him. He was surrounded by an invisible wall of pain. People could sense it even if they couldn’t see it and it made him uncomfortable to be around. His only regular visitors were his sailing mate Nick, every few weeks, and his accountant Felix.

  Initially Felix had taken some urgent documents to Leo in the hospital to be signed – papers from Lloyd’s agreeing to a settlement and the sale of some shares to cover the agreed payout, plus some new investments that Felix had been working on for his client. But when Felix had seen the state Leo was in, he found excuses to visit every couple of weeks. He said he had more papers to be signed or decisions to be rubber stamped. It increased his workload considerably. He had many clients and to devote this much time to one while still doing justice to the others was a strain. But Felix was worried about Leo.

  Leo’s body was healing but Felix wasn’t so sure about his mind. His eyes were lifeless. He had lost his spark, his humour, his interest in anything going on about him. Felix persevered, talking and keeping him up to date with what was happening in the world, while Leo looked at him blankly, signed what he was asked to, then looked off unseeing into the middle distance.

  Part of his mind was still frozen at that moment back on the boat when he had watched the kerosene run up his arm and felt the flames ignite on reaching the spilt fuel, then the sudden, searing heat across his groin. He heard himself calling out her name in one long, drawn out yelp of pain and shock. It was audible above the roar of adrenalin, pain and flames. She had heard him. He was sure of it. He had seen her half turn her head towards him, then she had turned away, quite deliberately. Tiger had stood at the top of the stairs barking at him as he writhed across the floor, calling after Nina. Leo’s last vision, as the pain overtook him, was of Nina scooping up Tiger, leaping off the deck and running down the pontoon.

  Leo remembered little of what happened next. Nick told him that because of the scorch marks on the bed he must have rolled around there for a while before bursting up the stairs, out of the cabin and flinging himself into the water.

  According to the man on the next boat, Leo had sunk to the bottom of the marina and would have stayed there if he, the fearless good samaritan that he was, hadn’t had the balls to throw himself straight in after him. He told the TV news and all the newspapers that he hauled an unconscious Leo back to the surface, singlehandedly got him onto the pontoon and performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation before calling an ambulance on his mobile phone. With each retelling of his story, Leo’s plight became more desperate and he became more heroic.

  Nick had a bit of trouble imagining this balding 60-year-old Pitt Street yachtie accomplishing even half of that, but no-one else came forward to say otherwise so he grudgingly accepted this version and passed it on to Leo.

  Leo didn’t care. In the early hours of the morning when he sat up in bed unable to sleep, listening to the quiet sounds of the hospital, feeling muffled and claustrophobic inside the bandages, he wished he had been left at the bottom of the marina.

  The past months had been hell.

  When he woke up in hospital, his face was a mass of weeping bandages, his nose broken and his thighs and groin covered in gauze. Over the next few weeks they took fresh new skin from his waist, buttocks and back, leaving them tender and raw. The hair follicles on his face had been destroyed so while his eyebrows would never grow back, looking on the bright side, he would never have to shave either. The sweat glands in his groin were beyond repair so he may suffer some discomfort in the heat, but once the skin grafts healed he would be able to walk again. He was told he would never father a child. He may not be the same smooth-faced good-looking young man that had broken hearts all over the eastern suburbs of Sydney, but plastic surgery would fix up the worst of it.

  It took weeks after he regained consciousness for him to fully absorb what had occurred. Because his memory of it was incomplete, it remained surreal, abstract, something that must have happened to someone else. But eventually he accepted what the doctors told him.

  He tried to reconcile the Nina who had given herself to him with the Nina who had left him to burn in hell. He had waited for her to come to him in hospital. He had letters from schoolchildren who read of his plight in the newspaper and created get-well cards in their art class. The Cruising Yacht Club sent flowers. But nothing from Nina. Not a card or a phone call. Finally he had given up.

  Study became his therapy. He chose research, spending many hours bent over a microscope and working out probabilities. It kept him away from people and that suited him just fine. He didn’t like people so much any more.

  But he never forgot Nina. He raged against her. He loved her. He hated her. He wanted to see her. He was a man in torment. It would take years for his body to heal and even longer for his heart. He was never again to be that carefree happy-go-lucky man who had danced in the rain with the stranger from the taxi. Eventually the sharp, brutal pain gave way to something more manageable, something he could live with. Whenever it rose in his mind, it was a dull ache, like the dying nerve in an old rotting tooth that only occasionally flares up. He had his work, his research and sailing to occupy his waking hours.

  Saturday, 25 May 1991

  Nina smoothed the deep red velvet dress over her hips. The bodice was low, revealing slender shoulders, while hugging her curves. If she stood side on to the mirror she fancied she could just see the faintest swelling at her waistline. It didn’t worry her. She kind of liked it. She was fourteen weeks and the doctor had said it was likely she would start to show around now.

  The dress was fabulous, worth every cent she had paid for it. At first she had despaired when James had told her that the evening would be formal. She had tried on everything in Miranda’s wardrobe but the other woman was a much larger shape and nothing fitted. Then Nina had remembered her sock drawer.

  She hated having that money there, secret from James. It felt disloyal. She didn’t need an out clause and more importantly, she didn’t want one. And so she had spent it. All of it. On a dress. Just one dress. It felt decadent but fitting. Tonight was an important night and she had to look the part – sophisticated, glamorous and classy. And in this dress she felt all of those things.

  Nina knew James liked it. All night he kept finding excuses to touch her – a hand on her lower back guiding her through the crowded ballroom to their table, a gentle pressure on her leg as he leaned across the table to speak to his mother. And for most of the evening Nina was aware of his arm, along the back of her chair, encircling her protectively. She felt sublimely happy.

  Patty was in fine form, excited to be out with her family, and her mood was infectious.

  ‘Whether we win anything or not, I am very happy to be here,’ she announced as soon as they were all seated. She beamed around the table at each member of her family and their special guests, Felix and his fiancée Miranda.

  Frederick raised his glass in agreement. ‘I think we all second that. Here’s to you, my dear. You gave us a nasty scare and we are all very glad to have you here.’

  Patty smiled graciously.

  The meal was interspersed with the announcement of awards. Trophies were handed out to the different wine companies and associated industries. The family cheered each winner, not expecting to win themselves.
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br />   ‘Give it a few years,’ Mark promised. ‘Then our reds will be up there winning everything, I promise you.’

  So it was with some surprise that the Wilde family did hear their name announced on the podium.

  ‘… and the award for Wine Campaign of the Year goes to Wilde Wines.’

  They all sat in shocked silence.

  Electronic screens above the stage showed the winning Wilde Wines campaign, a series of postcards addressed to Mr Wilde, Mrs Wilde and Ms Wilde. Each carried the message, ‘Wouldn’t you rather serve your guests wine from your own estate? You’re a Wilde. Be proud.’

  The TV comedienne who was host for the night explained the campaign.

  ‘These postcards were sent to the 14,000 people in Australia who happen to share that name. A simple idea. And an original one. Congratulations, Wilde Wines.’

  Everyone at the Wilde table clapped and looked to Frederick, expecting him to go up and accept the award. He stayed seated.

  ‘This is your award, James,’ he said. ‘Up you go.’

  James was too stunned to move anywhere.

  Frederick smiled gently. ‘Go on, boy. It was your good idea and hard work that made it happen. Next year it will be Mark for those mighty reds. But tonight it’s your campaign that is being recognised. Well done.’

  Nina grinned and pushed James to his feet. ‘Go on.’

  James stumbled to the podium. He walked up the steps and across the stage. The head of the Australian Wine Federation and the TV comedienne handed him the wine glass mounted on a block of wood and stepped back.

  James found himself alone at the podium looking out across an indistinct sea of faces. The lights above him were dazzling and hot. They made it hard for him to see beyond the front row of tables. He was shocked to be standing there. His father’s words, ‘well done’, echoed in his head, giving him confidence. James felt humble and proud all at once. Nina held her breath as James cleared his throat, waiting while the applause subsided and taking the moment to get his thoughts in order.

  ‘When I was a kid I was something of a brat,’ he began. ‘I used to complain to my father that our name was too common. Wilde.

  ‘I didn’t think it carried the panache of say a Rockefeller or a Baillieu. My father, a long suffering and patient man, used to listen and say nothing. I feel very humble when I say I have realised the strength in that name. Not just in marketing terms, which this award recognises, but in far more personal terms.

  ‘To be born into the Wilde family with Frederick Wilde as my father was the smartest thing I ever did. My second smartest move was to hire him as my boss.

  ‘I dedicate this award to my hero, my father.’

  It was the most personal and emotional speech of the night. As James walked off the stage, the audience cheered. Many of them were families, used to mixing blood and business. For some it meant bitter public feuds. They appreciated James’s humility. When he reached his own table Patty and Nina were both in tears. Even Amanda looked impressed.

  ‘Well done, James,’ she said.

  He was moved by her sincerity.

  Frederick looked embarrassed but proud. He ordered more champagne for everybody.

  The successful evening and James’s spontaneous speech marked the end of hostilities. Frederick never mentioned the name Lloyd’s to James again. James assumed he must have explained to Patty what had happened but neither parent spoke of it.

  Patty turned to Felix. ‘It is nice to have you here to share this moment of triumph. You have become a part of this family now. It’s a shame our new partner couldn’t join us. He is part of it now too.’

  Felix shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not his style. He has other interests. This may sound harsh, and please don’t take it the wrong way, but you are really nothing more than a page in his investment portfolio.’

  Patty was about to ask more but Frederick interjected. ‘And a good thing too,’ he said. ‘The less he has to do with the business the less he will be tempted to interfere.’

  Patty laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. What about we send him a photo of us all holding our winning plaque? Would he like that for his wall, do you think? Or to brighten up a page in his boring business portfolio? Perhaps a bottle of one of Mark’s mighty reds to celebrate?’

  Frederick snorted. ‘I would prefer it if this family stopped trying to befriend this man,’ he said. ‘We have entered into a business arrangement with him and before you go sending happy family snaps, Patty, I would like to point that out. It is not in our interests to encourage him to take anything other than a distant view of what we do. I’m sorry if that sounds ungrateful or even uncaring, but there it is. That is how I wish it to be. Do I make myself clear?’ Frederick used a tone that they all recognised. It meant he wanted no arguments.

  But Patty was having none of it, not tonight. She laughed merrily at her husband. ‘No-one would know what a lovely man you are from the way you go on at times,’ she said, her tone gently teasing. ‘Really Frederick, sometimes you are just too much …’ She leaned over and stroked her husband playfully on the cheek. ‘… but we all love you anyway.’

  Frederick’s frown melted from his face.

  When they got home James placed the mounted wine glass with the inscribed plaque on the mantelpiece beneath Nina’s painting.

  They stood together admiring it.

  ‘What a night,’ said James.

  ‘Your speech was great,’ agreed Nina. ‘I was so proud of you.’

  ‘I guess I’m forgiven.’

  ‘I guess so. Your father was so touched by what you said.’

  James pulled Nina to him. She helped him out of his suit jacket, then started to unbutton his shirt. When she got to his cuffs, she noticed for the first time that they were pinned together with safety pins.

  ‘Where are your gold cufflinks?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘It’s all right. I – I – got rid of them.’

  Nina looked confused. ‘You got rid of them?’

  She was about to ask why when she noticed the look on James’s face. He looked caught out and a bit naughty. He grinned. In a sudden flash Nina understood.

  She looked up at the enormous canvas that filled their lounge room wall, the painting that whispered to her of fresh, crisp afternoons, of winter air so cold her gums ached if she smiled outdoors. And the gentle-faced woman in the familiar floral frock with the tall silver-haired man by her side. The picture dominated the room and, it seemed to Nina, made the unmistakable statement that she, Nina Lambert Wilde, daughter of Jake and Dorothea, lived here.

  She looked at James.

  He shrugged and smiled. ‘A fair exchange, Nina, don’t you think?’

  CHAPTER 18

  Dr Jones’s rooms

  8 February 2001

  The echo of the doctor’ s words reverberated in Nina’s head. ‘Oh, by the way …’

  They had nearly made it through the door, out of his office and would have been on their way. They were so close. What was this man playing at? Wasn’t there something in the doctor’s oath about confidentiality, minding their own business? Surely it was nothing to do with him whether Luke was James’s son or not? His role was purely medical, to check for a specific genetic weakness. He had done that. There was no genetic problem. His part was finished. Thank you. Goodbye.

  But James, unsuspecting and ever polite, was turning back to face him.

  ‘Yes …?’

  There was nothing Nina could do. She felt the chill of the unnaturally cold room seep into her bones. She hunted frantically for something to say to divert James’s attention. For one brief moment she considered pretending to faint but that would leave James alone with this doctor. Just moments ago he had been her saviour, telling her in medical language that she didn’t understand that James was healthy. He would live. Now he represented an insidious threat to her family, her marriage, her entire future. She braced herself.

  ‘How is business?’
asked the doctor.

  It was such an unexpected question that Nina wondered if she had heard him correctly. How is business?

  James was equally surprised. ‘Fine.’

  He looked questioningly at the doctor.

  The doctor smiled, his heart thumping, his foot frantically tapping under the desk. He was so enjoying himself.

  ‘I have a bit of an interest in the wine industry myself,’ he said.

  James smiled politely. Another would-be wine expert.

  ‘I have some money invested in a vineyard. It’s an up-and-coming family winery and won this year’s award for best shiraz, best chardonnay and, for the third time in the past ten years, the wine campaign of the year. And it just won a big overseas award, for one of the reds. I forget which one …’

  James and Nina stood staring at him. Realisation was beginning to dawn. The doctor could see it on both their faces.

  ‘Perhaps you might know it?’

  James looked delighted. ‘Dr Jones? You’re that Dr Jones?’

  James remembered the day he, Mark and his father had signed the papers. Felix had said his client was an old mate from school, now a Sydney specialist, a Dr Jones. James hadn’t remembered him from school and that had been the last time his name had been discussed. Felix had said his client had no desire to become involved in the business, which had suited Frederick.

  Over the years he had become nothing more than the name at the bottom of the occasional document that had to be signed.

  The doctor nodded, watching him carefully. Yes, I’m that Dr Jones. So nice to make your acquaintance. But don’t you recognise me? I guess not. Why would you Mr Hot Shot, Mr Sporting Star, Mr Olympic Hero? Why would you remember me? It’s not like you noticed me when I was standing right in front of you. I didn’t register on your radar then, so why should you remember me?

  James was looking surprised and delighted. ‘Oh man, I want to shake your hand. You have no idea how you saved my life. You saved my whole family. If it wasn’t for you …’ James shuddered, remembering the whole awful summer of 1991 – the Lloyd’s debacle, his mother’s stroke. ‘It was the worst three months of my life. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’