The Art of Persuasion

by Midalia, Susan;

  She saw a whirl of words in dark blue ink: Characterisation of Novel Macrocyclic Polyether Pseudostationary Phases for use in Micellar Electrokinetic Chromatography and Development of a Chemiluminescence Presumptive Assay for Peroxide-based Explosives.

  ‘Is that for real?’ she said, looking up at his boyish face. ‘Or did you just make that up?’

  ‘It’s one kind of real. It’s scientifically demonstrable.’

  ‘Well, I’m definitely impressed.’

  And not just by the title. She could warm to a guy who said demonstrable, and who knew about different concepts of the real.

  ‘Let me see,’ she said, and peered more closely. ‘The only words I understand are in very different contexts. I mean, I like reading novels, especially ones with memorable characters. I loathe pseuds and I try hard not to be presumptive. No, presumptuous.’ She ran a finger underneath the words. ‘I should try to be less stationary, and I once used peroxide to lighten my hair. And I know that explosives are used in mining, action movies and terrorist attacks.’

  He scratched his head. ‘You’re very funny,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I know.’ She laughed. ‘People keep telling me that.’

  ‘We should go out sometime,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a movie? A meal?’

  She liked Lucas, and didn’t want to brush him off, but she needed to get home and wash some knickers.

  ‘OK. Sure.’

  ‘Great. Catch you later, then.’

  Because that was the way young men talked. We should go out sometime. Catch you later, then. Which was fine, if you liked young men.

  She thought she might mention it to Beth—no big deal, she’d say—a child’s birthday party, really no big deal at all. But Beth hadn’t been around much in the last few days, had left an unusually perfunctory note: Gone to Felicia’s. See ya soon. When she usually left a three-volume novel about when, where, with whom and why, and sometimes expressing a hope for a desirable outcome. Still, at least Beth’s writing was always legible; impressively neat, in fact. It deserved a golden sticker with the words Beautiful work! encircling a smiley face.

  Hazel sent her friend a text: Everything OK? There was an instant reply: I’m at Felicia’s. Don’t fuss, Hazel. Was she fussing? She thought she was just taking care. And Beth didn’t come home that night either, sent another message to say that she was fine. And still wasn’t there in the morning. She was, it seemed, always with Felicia.

  She could have used her right now, to comb some dye through her hair, make sure it spread evenly. Tropical Dream, it was called, offering a promise of pristine beaches and drinks with delicate paper umbrellas and yourself in the foreground, alluring in a see-through white dress. She tried on some of Beth’s eyeliner but decided it looked too dramatic. Red lipstick? Same thing. And she didn’t want to be dramatic, overwrought. She wanted to be herself, which meant quaveringly anxious and excited. And then her phone rang and she jumped and immediately thought of a cancelled party but it was only Todd. Only Todd? Since when had she started reducing him in this way? And since when had he sounded so dismal? Could she meet him for a coffee…need to talk…no, no, I’m fine…well, no, not really…and of course she’d meet him, of course, all the time thinking of a present for Jessie and getting to the party on time and wondering how long Todd would need because—She was brought up short again. Todd was one of her dearest friends and yet she couldn’t put Adam on hold.

  Ten thirty, in the mall. She knew there was a bookshop round the corner, so maybe Todd could give her some suggestions for a gift. She had nothing more than a dim childhood memory of Spot and Postman Pat. And what could she recall about kids’ birthday parties? Cake melting in the heat, some whooping and screaming, a few tears. But she’d read about the recent trend in extravagance: the hiring of clowns, magicians and bouncy castles. Roving superheroes and fairy floss machines.

  She was sure that Jessie’s father would keep it very simple.

  Then her thoughts returned to Todd. He’d said he was fine and then he wasn’t. Was he ill? Had he broken up with Dora? Or was it the baby? Hazel tried not to think of her mother.

  Careworn. That was the word, the moment she saw Todd in the distance. He hurried towards her and wrapped her up, held her so tightly that she gasped. He released her, they sat down, placed their orders.

  Hazel searched his face.

  ‘There’s something wrong with me, Haze,’ he said.

  She took his hand, held it gently.

  ‘I just can’t feel,’ he said. ‘I can’t feel for Dora or the baby. There must be something wrong with me.’ He lowered his head.

  ‘I don’t understand, Toddie.’

  ‘It’s just that, well, Dora’s so blissed out. Her family, all our friends, they’re all so rapt. But me? I feel nothing.’

  ‘So you’re not overjoyed?’ She looked at him closely. ‘It’s OK not to feel overjoyed.’

  ‘But I don’t even feel happy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I used to feel so close to her but everything’s changed. I can’t share what’s happening to her. Like, physically, I mean.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a perfectly normal reaction for a guy, isn’t it? To feel excluded. It’s bodily, isn’t it?’

  She hoped she was sounding convincing.

  ‘Last week, at the ultrasound…’ Todd’s voice went even quieter and she had to lean in closer. ‘I thought the picture would make it all feel real. I thought I’d be all excited, like Dora was. But it just looked like a wriggling mass of shadows and I felt nothing. Nothing. Hazel, I’m a freak, I’m an emotional bloody robot.’

  She curled her fingers around his. ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of,’ she said.

  ‘What if I turn out to be a rotten father? One of those fathers who resents his kids or is cold and harsh towards them?’ She felt his fingers tighten. ‘What if I’m a father who raises his fists?’

  ‘I can’t imagine that for a moment, Todd, any of it. And look, you made a commitment. To Dora and the baby. You could have walked away. So, you know, give yourself some credit.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you don’t know how you’ll feel when the baby is born.’ She was thinking of Adam, of course, but she kept her eyes on Todd. ‘If it’s any consolation, if it helps at all, I don’t feel like having a baby. I never have. I don’t know why, especially as I have great parents like you do. But I just don’t feel it and I’m not going to force it or feel guilty because society tells me there’s something wrong with me.’

  Their drinks arrived and they sat back to make room for the waiter. Hazel took a sip of coffee. Ah, good coffee. Strong.

  ‘Have you talked with Dora?’ she said. ‘Told her how you’re feeling?’

  He didn’t want to worry her, he said, or frighten her. Hazel watched him closely: his dark brown eyes, his full mouth. She used to fancy him, like she used to fancy Simon.

  ‘Maybe you could give her more credit,’ she said. ‘Trust her to understand.’

  Then somehow, out of nowhere, she began to see Dora: her baby bump, they called it, and her little-girl face, like a doll.

  ‘Do you touch her?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you lie next to her and stroke her belly and talk? About the baby. Maybe even talk to the baby.’

  He stared at her, confounded.

  ‘Maybe you could try it. See how you feel. How Dora feels.’

  ‘But you said you don’t feel maternal.’

  ‘Well, if I ever did get pregnant, I figure that’s what I’d want. That the man I loved, the father of my child, would touch what we’d made together.’ She laughed. ‘I must have read one of those women’s magazines at the dentist’s,’ she said. ‘You know, the stories you can read in five minutes that transform your life.’

  ‘You’re sounding very wise, Hazie.’

  Which made her laugh again.

  ‘And you look happy. What’s going on for you?’

  She tried not to blus
h. ‘I’m going to a child’s birthday party,’ she said. ‘Which reminds me, can you recommend a book? For a boy who’s turning five.’

  ‘Sure.’ He was calmer now, more settled. ‘What sort of kid is he? Does he have any interests?’

  ‘Well, he’s smart and curious. And he likes animals. Sort of.’ She remembered Jessie’s rapid-fire questions, his constant wanting to know. What does consensus mean? What’s a lotomy? ‘Maybe more for a six-year old,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you could try Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. It’s really popular, and pretty cool.’ Todd looked her straight in the eye. ‘So how do you know this kid?’

  ‘I know his father, actually.’

  ‘So what does that mean, Hazie?’

  ‘It’s the child who wants to see me.’

  ‘But I thought you didn’t like kids.’

  ‘Babies, Todd, not kids. And it’s not that I don’t like babies as such. It’s just—oh, never mind. I’m just hanging out for some cake.’

  She squeezed his hand, asked if he felt any better.

  ‘I always do with you,’ he said.

  Spinning in circles

  Just as the bus was pulling up at Matilda Bay, Hazel sent Beth another text. Are you sure you’re OK? Haven’t seen you for ages. Another quick reply: I’m having fun with Felicia. What was that supposed to mean? Fun: it came in many guises. But there was no time to untangle the message because she was here now, with a gift-wrapped book in her hand. But not the Alexander one, which she’d skim-read in the bookshop; the story of a mother who fixed her child’s problems, so it wouldn’t have been right for Jessie. And he was surely way too old for glossy picture books and pop out this and that and all kinds of surfaces for touching. The book as sensorial experience, at $49.95 RRP! Couldn’t a kid touch the bark of a tree instead? Stroke the soft fur of a kitten? They could even plunge their hands into a bowl of ice-cream. She’d also seen a book called My Hiroshima: for a child! She believed in the value of innocence, for some time, at least. In the end, confused and running late and already picturing Adam, she’d settled for the indisputably safe if quite possibly dull Stories for Six-year Olds. Lodged safely in her handbag now, along with a card with a picture of an elephant: For Jessie with love from Hazel.

  She hoped he wouldn’t mind the love.

  She waited for the lights to change, felt gentle sun on her bare arms and shoulders, her unmade-up face. She was even more nervous. Even more excited. To be so close. Before she’d even glimpsed him. She walked across the road, trying to keep steady, with no idea of how many people she would meet, how many kids—and should she have brought some food? Adam hadn’t said. And there it was, it had to be, a bunch of grown-ups milling about and scampering kids, blankets and eskies, and there was Jessie, dashing towards her, heading straight for her knees. She bent down quickly, felt a pair of skinny arms draped around her neck.

  ‘You’re here!’ he said, and placed his face against hers.

  She was overcome, feeling his affection, the softness of his skin. To feel so wanted, when she didn’t even know him. What had she done to deserve this, except chat about some animals, tell a few jokes? Then he moved away and his eyes were all agog.

  ‘Dad said you might be busy,’ he said.

  ‘I’m really happy you asked me. Thank you, Jessie. And a very happy birthday.’

  She handed him the gift.

  ‘You need to give it to Dad,’ he said. ‘I’m not gunna be five til the night-time. Dad said we could sing happy birthday and eat cake and play games and stuff but my real birthday is night-time when I got born and Dad was holding my mum’s hand.’

  He pointed to Hazel’s stomach.

  ‘Dad says that’s where I grew,’ he said.

  More or less, she thought. Well, less, really.

  Jessie took her hand and led her to the group of unknown people. Oh, but there was Candace, bending down to speak to another tiny person, and Adam behind her, in jeans and a loose pale blue shirt and was his hair a little longer? Could hair grow longer in a matter of ten days? She willed her heart to go slowly, smiled nervously at no one in particular and everyone in general, as Jessie ran off and now Adam had seen her and he was smiling too, walking towards her and leaning into her, kissing her on the cheek.

  She felt giddy and faint but managed to hand him the present…not necessary…but thank you…a book, of course…good choice…and was he nervous, like she was? He seemed a little on edge. Did she remember Candace…shaking hands again, saying hello…and in an instant, Hazel saw it. That Candace knew. She had seen it on her face. But now it was introductions time, to the parents of the frolicking children. Max and Elsa and Abdul and Nahal. Nahee? She’d never remember their names. Now Adam was lifting the lid of a box and walking over to offer her a cupcake, with bright green frosting and a fat pink marshmallow on top. Then he was gone again, offering cake and conversation, as Hazel chatted to Elsa, an athletic-looking blonde with a strong, deep voice. And where was Adam? Elsa was a speech therapist and Max was a plumber and yes, she’d met Adam through the Greens and yes, he was—and he was back again, carrying a plate of sausage rolls.

  ‘Would you like some help?’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, I’m good. And would you like a glass of wine? I have some very good red that goes well with kiddy food.’

  Jessie was right beside her now, and tugging at her dress. She looked down into his dark brown eyes.

  ‘How do you make a sausage roll?’ she said.

  ‘You push it down a hill,’ he said, solemnly. ‘My friend Alice told me.’

  ‘Is Alice here?’ Hazel looked around, having no idea what a riddling Alice might look like.

  ‘She’s with her dad,’ said Jessie. ‘Her mum and dad take her in turns and her dad lives a long way away.’

  Then he ran off again, having forgotten why he’d tugged at her dress, turning in circles now, and Adam was pouring ruby red wine into her glass, introducing his nephews, handsome faces, handshakes, Adam being the good host, organising something else, as one of the nephews—Mitch, was it?—asked what she did for a living. So what else could she say?

  ‘I’m a teacher.’

  The boy nodded. Because he was a boy, fifteen at most.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind teaching,’ he said. ‘Adam says it’s one of the most important jobs a person can do.’

  ‘Which is true.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘But exhausting, too, if you want to do it properly. Not that I want to discourage you,’ she rushed on.

  Mitch laughed. ‘Adam used to say that too.’

  Jessie was bowling up again, dragging Mitch away. Cousins. They were cousins. She was trying to fit names to faces, make connections, build a family, and it was all a little bewildering, with Jessie and his friends shouting now, and jostling, some of them rolling along the ground. What was the collective noun for a group of small people like this? A frenzy? And why did small people look different from adults? It was their heads, she realised: they were much too big for their tiny bodies because their brains were still growing, they still had a lot of thinking to do. Something like that. She didn’t know the first thing about anatomy or human biology; she would have made a terrible nurse. And she knew it had never been an option. She saw Jessie whirling round in circles again, a dizzying blur of bright red shorts and a dark blue shirt. Heard Adam call out that it was birthday-cake time, everyone gathering round now and singing very loudly. She saw Jessie’s puffed-out cheeks and three mighty attempts to blow out the candles, chocolate cake on paper plates and still she hadn’t spoken to Adam, not really, and not a word to Candace. The woman who’d caught her eye and told her, without telling her: I can tell that you fancy him. There’s no use trying to pretend.

  Jessie was tugging at her dress again and she looked down to see a worried little face.

  ‘Will you make a castle wiv me?’ he said.

  She bent down to listen. Find out.

  ‘What sort of castle, Jessie?’
>
  ‘Sand.’ His voice was very small.

  She looked across to the river, saw the sails of the leisurely yachts, the ripples of slate-grey water. ‘You’d need to go to the beach,’ she said. ‘It’s not the right kind of sand here.’

  ‘But can’t we try?’

  His face looked so worried, intent, as though—Hazel saw it now, in an instant—he was on the verge of tears. So she put down her glass of wine and took Jessie by the hand, walked with him in silence down to the grassy slope. Away from the bustle and the shouting, the two of them jumping down onto the sand, Jessie’s clammy hand still holding hers tightly.

  ‘You don’t look very well,’ she said. ‘Did you eat too much cake?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t like all the noise. All the singing and everyone yelling at me.’

  She saw his lower lip quivering.

  ‘It happens real quick,’ he said.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The noise. I want the noise to go away.’

  She looked at his pale face and felt a kind of panic herself. Was this normal for a child? To be so spooked by party noise? She found herself sitting on the sand and patting a space beside her but instead Jessie backed up into her and wriggled into her lap: just like that. She felt his warm, bony little body against hers as they looked out onto the water, and she wrapped him carefully in her arms. She didn’t want to overwhelm him.

  ‘Does it frighten you?’ she said. ‘The noise.’

  He nodded, slowly. ‘Sometimes. When it whooshes up to me.’

  She took in what he’d said. Because you always remembered the fear, didn’t you? The darkness; the monsters under the bed. That first day at school. Wasn’t every child afraid of a world they couldn’t control? And was that what it meant to be an adult? That you simply got better at pretending?

  ‘I used to get frightened, too, Jessie,’ she said. ‘Shall I tell you the story of my fifth birthday? My Most Horribly Frightening Day? It was the scariest day of my entire life.’

  She was embellishing, she knew, but what did it matter? When all that mattered was Jessie.