The One That Got Away

by Jennifer Palgrave

  Alighting from a taxi onto the wharf, she saw Kirsten in the distance, immediately recognisable by her curly blonde hair. Crouching down, fiddling with her suitcase, she had not yet spotted Lauren, who came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. Kirsten startled, turned, looked up and nearly lost her balance as she stood. They both laughed, then embraced.

  ‘It’s great to see you. Good trip?’ Kirsten gave her an affectionate smile.

  ‘Splendid outlook all the way from London. I was a bit nervous about getting to here from the airport but it all went smoothly. How about you?’

  ‘I’m still jet lagged. Bali was a hoot. Got to Athens yesterday morning and fitted in some sightseeing. But the hotel was noisy and I couldn’t sleep with the time difference. Now with sea air, four hours on the ferry, I can snooze on your shoulder.’ She poked Lauren playfully. ‘And then of course there’s one way we can ensure a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘What on earth could you be talking about?’ Lauren pretended ignorance.

  ‘Snuggles,’ smirked Kirsten. They batted each other again and Lauren started to relax. Kirsten seemed in a good mood. It was going to be a good holiday.

  A boom from the ship’s funnel and they made their way towards the gangway. It was a sizeable ship and once inside Lauren was reminded of the Cook Strait ferry, except there were Greek families loaded with shopping and a table full of Orthodox priests nearby, with their long black garments and faces hidden behind beards.

  The sailing was smooth and the pair caught up on news. ‘The others went across yesterday. They’ll have got themselves established in the rental. They were going to hire a car, too,’ Kirsten said.

  The island came in sight, the intense blue of the harbour contrasting with the city’s white buildings sprawling up a hill, an ancient Greek temple on the headland, a glimpse of mountains behind glowing red in the setting sun.

  Kathy met them at the wharf. They piled into the small car, and she drove them carefully through the streets busy with pedestrians. The Airbnb on the outskirts of the city looked exactly as pictured. Kathy unloaded their bags onto the doorstep.

  ‘The others are at the beach for sunset and I said I’ll join them. I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted.’

  ‘This must be our room,’ said Kirsten. They’d looked through the house, comfortably large and modern, four bedrooms, three with rumpled bedding, clothes, books and suitcases spread out. Theirs was at the end of the hallway, a huge bed with a blue and white bedspread. The room was dim and Lauren opened the shutters, revealing a terrace outside and a glimpse of sand and sea beyond. It was suburban, but neighbours not too close. Kirsten came to stand beside her, and Lauren closed the shutters again. They kissed, tentatively at first, then more sensuously and a hunger grew in Lauren. It had been so long, and she’d had her doubts, but here they were and everything felt right.

  Kirsten pulled her towards the bed, they stripped the cover off and plunged in between the crisp white sheets. Lips, breasts, limbs, stroking, Lauren reached a pitch of arousal very quickly. When it was over, they laughed at their urgency. ‘I can see you’ve been on the straight and narrow, too,’ Lauren teased. Kirsten smiled, though Lauren sensed a cloud passing, a slight awkwardness. She wondered what that was about. But they held each other and Lauren drifted into a doze.

  She felt someone shake her. ‘We have to get up!’ Kirsten kissed her again all over. ‘Jump to, we’re expected for drinks. Let’s get dressed and wander down to the beach.’

  Later, Lauren recalled it as a magic holiday, a holiday out of time. Naxos was so much more than a tourist place of beaches and bars. Their group explored the whole island. The small farms looked as if the land had been worked in the same way for centuries. Villages had winding passages with turnings made for people and donkeys, just about impassable by car. Churches made from rough-hewn stonework fitted seamlessly into the landscape. And the early Greek ruins were so different and marvellous that they might have been constructed by a race of gods. Their ten days flew by and at the same time stretched out for years.

  Lauren enjoyed getting to know the group. There was one woman she found irritating, though. It was a shame that Kirsten was particularly friendly with her. Bee seemed to talk about nothing but clothes and décor and money. She was also obsessive about fitness, an annoying characteristic in Lauren’s view. On their last day in Naxos things came to a head.

  ‘Still no decision about our new government,’ Lauren had said over lunch. She’d continued to keep up with the news.

  ‘The Nats have been doing a good job,’ said Bee, reaching for the salad. ‘I for one won’t mind if they stay on.’ Lauren had been forthcoming about her hopes for Jacinda, and she felt as if Bee was baiting her. ‘I admire John Key,’ Bee carried on. ‘A pity he’s not standing again as prime minister. He was really supportive of netball, pretty exceptional for a guy.’ (Bee had been a star player in her youth, and she wasn’t shy of mentioning it.)

  Lauren couldn’t help herself. ‘I guess he liked pulling the players’ ponytails,’ she said, knowing Bee would remember the strife he’d got into over pulling a waitress’s ponytail.

  Bee flushed and tightened her lips.

  That evening, Lauren and Kirsten were strolling home through the winding lanes, both slightly tipsy after a particularly delicious dinner. Lauren was thinking about the meal, and at the same time licking the sticky sweetness of baklava off her lips. She reached for Kirsten’s hand and was surprised when Kirsten moved it away.

  Then Kirsten said, ‘I’m disappointed at how you were hassling Bee at lunchtime.’

  ‘I wasn’t hassling her,’ Lauren replied. ‘Was she offended? Surely she isn’t such a fan of John Key that she’d stick up for him over the ponytail thing?’

  ‘That’s not the point. It was your tone. You clearly wanted to take her down a notch. We’re on holiday and you should keep your politics out of it.’

  Lauren was taken aback. ‘My politics? What do you mean, my politics? I thought they were your politics too! You’ve certainly changed. I thought you enjoyed working to help communities, I thought you liked doing worthwhile ad campaigns. So now you’ve become a fan of the Nats, have you?’

  ‘You know that’s not true–but they haven’t done that badly.’

  Lauren had been campaigning on behalf of Labour too long to let that go by. ‘So you don’t mind that people can’t find houses? That they’re sleeping in cars? That lots of children turn up for school hungry?’ She stopped and added an insult. ‘What’s Auckland doing to you? Are you a Jafa? Just another fucking Aucklander!’

  ‘That was uncalled for!’ Kirsten was hurt. ‘But you don’t have to be so’–she hesitated and searched for a word–‘so doctrinaire! So sure you’re right. So patronising. Not everyone in the world has to agree with you.’

  ‘No,’ said Lauren, ‘but I thought you did.’ They’d been walking as they spoke, but now she stood still. Kirsten stopped too, and Lauren faced her. ‘Kirsten, I’ve loved our holiday here, but I don’t think our relationship is working well. You do seem to have changed.’

  Kirsten bristled. ‘Why shouldn’t I change? I’m not a stick in the mud and my career is taking off. I’m enjoying Auckland and the girls have been really warm and friendly.’ She waved an arm in the direction of the house as she spoke.

  Lauren went silent. Both tired and tipsy–probably not a good time to discuss relationships. Not that they ever had talked about how they were doing, they’d just floated along. She swallowed. ‘OK, let’s forget it, it’s time we went to bed. An early start in the morning.’

  They walked on home silently, and once there, Lauren immediately made ready for bed. Kirsten came to bed too and reached over to touch her, a placatory gesture. Lauren moved away. She couldn’t let go of her anger.

  In the morning, packing up, things were awkward between them. By now, Lauren felt in a more conciliatory mood. She said to Kirsten, ‘After the plane lands in Auckland, shall I put back my Auckland-W
ellington flight by a day? We could have another day together and perhaps we could have a bit of a chat about where we’re heading.’

  But Kirsten had promised to pop into work on the Wednesday afternoon and couldn’t or wouldn’t change her schedule. So after the usual gruelling flight (with a pause for a few hours at Singapore) Lauren flew back to Wellington on the Wednesday morning. Nothing was sorted. She didn’t know how she felt about it and she didn’t know what Kirsten was thinking. Time would tell.

  8

  ‘On such a full sea are we now afloat’

  The phone rang. Lauren was still asleep. She mumbled, ‘Lauren here,’ into the receiver and opened one eye. It was 10am.

  ‘Welcome back.’ Her friend Megan’s voice. ‘It’s a lovely day and we’re doing coffee, then spending the rest of the morning at the garden. Come along!’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Lauren. ‘Jet lag, don’t you hate it? Tell you what, I’ll give the coffee a miss and meet you there.’

  England had been turning towards autumn when she left. Now, late October, New Zealand was bursting with spring, people preparing their gardens for summer. Megan and Pam were already at the plot by the time she arrived.

  ‘Here’s a spade, we’ve got a bag of Rua for that patch–dig it and you’ll have new potatoes by Christmas.’

  Lauren took the spade and began to work along a row, loading up the soil to one side of the trench she was digging, and adding a generous amount of compost before she sowed the potatoes.

  It was Pam’s plot that they worked in. It was only three by four metres, but over the year, Pam produced enough vegetables for herself and several others. Her friends marvelled at her energy. She was small, wiry and tireless. The plot was often a riot of colour, marigolds round the edges to keep insects off the vegetables, borage with its tiny purple flowers, dock springing up just because it did, a lavender bush, rosemary, basil in season. The array of vegetables she grew was impressive: a row of dwarf beans, peas held up with bamboo stakes, a variety of lettuces, spinach, carrots and beet that needed thinning at just the right time, a skyscraper of an artichoke, a clump of rhubarb, a little patch of strawberries on the edge.

  And the potatoes. The sun warmed Lauren’s back, a blackbird hopped along pecking the ground at each turn of the spade. She breathed in the fresh air. The hours of confinement receded and the recycled air of the plane retreated from her system.

  They all worked busily, but found time to chat as well. ‘You’re not working today?’ said Lauren to Megan. ‘No, I’m starting late,’ said Megan cheerfully. ‘Last night was a big one, I was organising a reception after the concert. People who work in the arts have funny hours.’ Lauren looked at her friend affectionately. No one could grace the art scene better than Megan, with her impeccable dress sense. Even her gardening clothes were presentable.

  ‘So, Lauren,’ said Megan, pulling on a stubborn weed, ‘did you realise you’d be home on the day we find out what government we’re going to get?’

  ‘I did know, but it had slipped my mind,’ said Lauren. ‘I kept up with the news on my phone while I was away–even when I was on holiday on Naxos. It’s been a very long time to wait, hasn’t it! When I went, I thought it would all be settled by the time I came back. What do you two think?’

  ‘Goodness knows, Winston Peters is playing his cards close to his chest. Hard to believe he’ll go with Labour and the Greens–never forget that he was a member of the National Party once.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean a thing.’ Pam chimed in. ‘After all, Roger Douglas started off as a Labour MP and ended up founding the ACT party. How far right can you get?’

  It was as if a cloud swept across the sun. Lauren said, ‘And he behaved as if he were already in the ACT party while he was still in Labour. That government destroyed the New Zealand we knew–we had an egalitarian society and now we don’t. And it’s only people of our age who know that. And what’s more–’

  Megan interrupted, clutching a handful of weeds. ‘Steady on, Lauren, we all agree, but the campaign’s over now and we’re about to have a new government, of whatever stripe.’

  Lauren leant on her spade, looking sheepish. ‘Blame it on the jet lag if you like–but it’s been on my mind–I met a bloke I used to know while I was away. The bastard got rich on New Zealand’s assets, and he’s just one of several. Enough of that–is it about six thirty that Winston Peters will be doing the great reveal?’

  ‘It is,’ said Pam, ‘and a few of us thought we should watch together. Haven’t sorted out where yet.’

  ‘Can it be at my place?’ said Lauren. ‘I don’t know that I feel up to going out this evening.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Megan, ‘we’ll come early, about quarter to six. We’ll make it a pot luck–nibbles before the speech, dinner afterwards. Rowie will come and so will Sally and Rebecca. And Pam of course.’ She glanced at the small figure bent over a tray of seedlings. ‘Don’t you do anything, there’s sure to be enough food.’

  About six thirty, the six of them were gathered in Lauren’s apartment in front of the television. Lauren winked at Ro when she came in the door, whispering that there was much to tell and she’d speak to her later. She made drinks for everyone, wondering whether after the speech they’d be quaffing champagne or needing a stiff whisky. Reporters were rhubarbing as they waited for Winston Peters to emerge; Lauren muted the channel. Finally the camera showed him walking along to the Beehive theatrette and stepping up to the podium. Lauren waved the remote and brought up the sound.

  Ro was holding forth and didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Shh,’ said Megan and they settled. Winston began, thanking both parties for their maturity during the negotiations, saying his whole party made the decision, and mentioning that he’d been in coalition twice before. He talked about assumptions made by journalists during the campaign about what his party would do, and how people thought he might go with Labour and the Greens, but that was mere speculation and his party was never consulted.

  ‘Oh no,’ groaned Ro, ‘he’s going with National.’

  ‘Shh!’ said Pam. Winston was now saying that he thought New Zealanders wanted change.

  ‘It’ll be Labour,’ shouted Ro.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Lauren said, ‘Listen!’ Then Winston amazed them by arguing that many New Zealanders had come to view today’s capitalism not as their friend but their foe. And saying they were not all wrong.

  Pam gasped. ‘He’s saying capitalism isn’t working!’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sally. She and Rebecca were a couple both immersed in trade union activities.

  Winston continued briefly, then said quietly that his party chose a coalition government with Labour.

  Any questions from the reporters on the screen were drowned out by the babble of voices in Lauren’s living room. So exciting, fantastic, wow, good on Jacinda, amazing! The exclamations rubbed up against, overpowered, drowned one another out. They were hugging and jumping up and down, an absurd gaggle of older women.

  Pam said more soberly, ‘I hope they don’t muff this chance. We need to get that pie cut into even pieces.’

  ‘What?’ They all looked at her.

  ‘The pie chart, it’s astonishing! One percent of New Zealanders own a quarter of the wealth and the bottom forty percent own less than two percent.’

  ‘That’s why I got involved in politics this time,’ said Lauren.

  Sally interrupted, ‘That was pretty surprising, wasn’t it, when Winston said capitalism isn’t working.’

  Ro frowned. ‘It was great, but scary.’

  ‘How come scary?’ Sally looked doubtful.

  ‘Because all those people who benefit from the status quo will be massing again. The way they did when they thought Lange was going to upset the apple cart.’

  Ro couldn’t really put a dampener on the gathering. They talked over one another about what might be fixed, and how quickly, as they ate their meal. When they were leaving, Lauren said to Ro, ‘Can
I drop by tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ro. ‘I’ll be working at home. Come over mid-afternoon. It’ll be good to catch up.’

  When Lauren arrived, she had to call out twice before Ro emerged from her study. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was miles away–desperately trying to get the book off.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lauren. ‘I thought it was due while I was away?’

  ‘It was.’ Ro groaned. ‘But I didn’t meet the publisher’s deadline so I’m on borrowed time. I’ve just got to get it in before the end of the month. The Lange plot was a major distraction and I’ve just come back from the summer conference circuit in the States.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lauren, ‘I was cavorting in Greece while you were heads down with your scholarly friends.’

  Ro grinned. ‘Not all heads down. Why do you think conferences are still so popular in this digital age? The Berkshire one was really fun this year. We were at Hofstra on Long Island. The surroundings felt quite decadent, though not quite The Great Gatsby. I did put in time on the book when I could.’

  ‘I’ll bet! Well,’ –Lauren paused, ‘I’ve found out more about Brett Wilson. You thought he might fill us in on some of the wheelers and dealers at the time. It’s better–or worse–than that; I’m starting to think he could have been involved. It’s hard to believe, though.’

  Lauren told Ro about her meetings with Brett, and what Rachel and then Andrew had said about him. Ro listened intently. ‘I told you he was one of the biggies, didn’t I,’ she said. She smirked. ‘So now we know: he was personable but self-centred, had a nasty temper when crossed, really into making money, and good at hiding his tracks.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lauren. ‘But that could apply to a lot of the business people around at the time. Much as I hate the thought of socializing with him, I hope I’ll find out more by having agreed to meet his wife.’