The Art of Persuasion

by Midalia, Susan;

  She kept walking towards the office—soon to be her office—to talk to the head of department. Len. She would call him Len and compliment his colourful ties. And then she saw something else as well: that sitting with the principal and considering her offer, she hadn’t once thought of Lucas. A guy to have around to admire her, to take her out to dinner and tell her she was ravishing and whatever might follow from that. He simply hadn’t featured in her boy-meets-girl soap opera, with those really annoying ad breaks for feminine hygiene products.

  What would Beth make of all this newness? Her return to the bad old days? She would laugh, of course, and put her arms around Hazel’s waist and tell her she had a long journey ahead of her, with no discount for the fare. And Hazel would say something lame in return, about her very modest journey being more important than the destination. She wouldn’t be Jack Kerouac, leaning forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies, but she would try to do a solid day’s work, do a bit of good in the classroom.

  She wasn’t sure about that part, anyway: beneath the skies. It needed some more adjectives: the next crazy venture beneath the something something skies. For the rhythm. To evoke that sense of longing.

  Maybe she could have been an editor. In another life.

  Martha drove her to the bar in her rusty, dented Toyota, but Hazel didn’t mind the rust or the dents because she was alive with a sense of good fortune. Once she would have told Adam about her brand new job. Once upon a time, before his indifference got in the way. But now it was comforting to be with a lively, unpretentious woman who might well become a friend, and who told her straight away that she didn’t want to talk about school on the weekends. Or the break-up from her long-time girlfriend at all. So they talked about how they’d both lived in Perth all their lives, except for the two years Martha-had spent in Sydney, feeling like she’d been locked inside a sauna. She loathed the heat and, like Hazel, disdained the hedonistic worship of the sun. They discovered they were both afraid of sharks.

  ‘It’s a very common phobia,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Which doesn’t mean it’s not important.’

  Martha could definitely become a friend.

  They talked about family as well. Martha’s parents had split up when she was a kid, which was why she took the breakup from her lover even harder. And she was a singleton too. Such an odd word, Hazel thought. And how was it possible she’d never heard of it before? When it named her: Hazel, who could have had a sister, maybe more, but who had the gift of other sisters in her life: Beth, Chloe, Rikki, and now Felicia. Her mother. The woman sitting beside her. A small army of women to help her through the battles, and to help when they needed it themselves.

  Martha gave her a sly kind of glance.

  ‘So, do you have the hots for Lucas?’ she said.

  Hazel stared through the window, saw the traffic racing past, rows of ugly bunting and vacant shops for lease, then turned back to look at Martha.

  ‘He seems like a really nice guy,’ she said. ‘He has good politics and a good sense of humour. And he reads good books. So he’s, well, he’s good, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s not what I asked you.’

  Hazel laughed. ‘Well, I didn’t have one of those rushes of emotion,’ she said. ‘One of those kiss-me-right-now-before-I-die kind of moments.’

  ‘That’s what it was like with Abby,’ said Martha, keeping her eyes on the road. ‘Every time I saw her.’ And then she shrugged. ‘So much for not talking about it.’

  ‘Talk as much as you like. I’ll listen.’

  The bar was packed with girls in denim and lace, and some good-looking guys in tight jeans and open-necked shirts. The music was pumping loudly and Martha was yelling in her ear, pulling her to an empty table. Hazel caught the glimpse of a guy’s sensual mouth; dark brown hair falling onto a forehead; the vulnerable nape of a neck. She felt aroused, in a general kind of way. It was good, the feeling. It meant that her body had righted itself again, just as her mind had cleared itself of craziness. And no one in the bar looked over forty. Martha was nudging her into a seat, one of those retro plastic jobs that after half an hour of sitting made your bum really sore. But people weren’t here to be comfortable. They unwound. They flirted. They took someone home and had sex. Would people look at the two of them, two women who’d walked into a bar, sitting close together, knees touching, and see them as a couple? But what did she care about who put what where, as long as the putting was consensual. If you were lucky, pleasurable. And if you were even luckier, when two bodies were entangled or caressing or fucking, you would find the one who was different. The one who would choose to stay.

  Then her favourite person in the world walked in: Beth. Because Hazel had asked her to fly from work, celebrate her brand new job. And there was Felicia striding in behind her: two more women walking into a bar, two women who’d bonded over dickhead fathers. She looked radiant, Beth, in a dark pink dress that Hazel hadn’t seen before, with her bouncy hair flying about, and Felicia of course looked stunning, turning many heads. Then hurried introductions and Martha staring too, at Felicia’s very short silver dress, shiny and bejewelled like a disco globe. Beth took Hazel’s hand and started shouting in her ear because they’d pumped up the volume even more and Hazel looked up for a moment and—it was Candace. Candace. Walking into the bar. It was better to pretend she hadn’t seen her. It was better to look at Beth instead, who was shouting about the thrill of Hazel’s job and how she knew Hazel would be terrific and it was about time she…and something else about some client who deserved a kick in the groin.

  ‘He asked me if I lived alone,’ she said, ‘and when I told him about us, Haze, how we’ve shared a flat for years, best friends from school and all that, he snorted, he actually snorted, and said it was so unhealthy. And then, get this’—Beth faked a yawn—‘he told me I needed a man to sort me out.’

  ‘So what did you tell him?’ asked Martha.

  ‘That men like him were the reason women chose to live with women. And do you know what he said next? He said, so, you’re one of those women who hates men, are you? So I told him I was a separatist feminist. That is, I believe in separating men’s genitalia from the rest of their stupid bodies.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that one, sweetheart.’

  They looked up: four women who’d walked into a bar, looking at another woman who’d walked into a bar. Candace. With her eyes like Jessie’s, her hair like Jessie’s. Was she on her own? Was she waiting for someone? Or, help, no, was she hoping to join them? Couldn’t Candace see her fear? Take a not-very-subtle hint? But it seemed the woman wasn’t going anywhere, standing like a sentry, arms folded across her chest. And so Hazel did the introductions…my friends…Beth, Felicia, Martha…wishing she could shelter behind them.

  ‘This is Candace,’ she said.

  For whom she had no more words.

  ‘Do you have a moment, Hazel?’

  ‘A moment?’

  ‘Yes.’ Staring with intense brown eyes.

  Hazel stood up, her friends all staring too, and she found herself trembling as she trailed behind, jostled her way into a quieter place.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Hazel?’

  ‘No, thank you. But please, go ahead.’

  And it struck her again: how your guts could be churning while you kept up the patter. Please go ahead. Be my guest. After you.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ said Candace.

  Which made Hazel feel even more jittery.

  They sat down and Candace placed her hands on the table. She had long, thin, ring-less fingers; decisive-looking hands.

  Hazel frowned. ‘Is something wrong with Jessie?’ she said.

  ‘No, no, he’s roaring on all four cylinders.’ Candace drummed her fingers on the table. ‘It’s Adam who’s wrong, he’s bloody miserable.’ She drummed some more. ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but when I saw you just now, you dear, sweet young thing, I thought hell yes, I’ll make it my business to tell you.’
<
br />   ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That Adam’s a good man. Too good for his own good most of the time.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Then let me keep it simple. Adam’s been smitten with you. From the moment he saw you on the train.’

  Hazel tried to take this in. ‘I see,’ she said, slowly.

  ‘No you don’t, not really. When I say smitten, I don’t mean to make light of his feelings. He tells me everything, you see, and he was—look, he couldn’t stop thinking about you and he wanted to tell you how he felt but then every time he saw you he’d feel it was wrong and so he’d back off again. Turn tail and run, the stupid man.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just listen, Hazel. That’s why he told you he wasn’t attracted. Why he pushed you away.’

  ‘Pushed me…away?’

  ‘He didn’t mean to be cruel. He’s the kindest man in the world, helped me through some very tough times. My two shits for husbands. Drink, fists, I can’t tell you. And then one of my sons who—But look, that’s not important. I want to find out about you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want to know how you feel about him.’

  Hazel took this question and held it up to some kind of light. What was she feeling now? To know that he’d been smitten. Had forced himself to push her away. She looked across at her friends, the new and the old. At Beth: the safety of a lifetime’s friendship.

  ‘I hardly know him, do I?’ she said.

  ‘So what have you discovered so far?’

  What she’d known from the beginning.

  ‘That he’s thoughtful. Kind. Acts on his principles. That he’s lovely with Jessie. I…I well, I guess I admired him.’

  ‘You’re speaking in the past tense, Hazel.’

  ‘Because it’s past.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Hazel was lost for words.

  ‘You see, the beginning and the end of it…’ Candace pulled a face. ‘Adam can’t give you children. He’s had a vasectomy. You know. The snip.’

  Snip. Such a breezy word, and yet Candace made it sound so ugly, so final. And something else was falling into place now, beginning to make a sad kind of sense.

  ‘Are you telling me that Adam…are you saying he gave me up because…’

  Candace nodded. ‘You see? Too good for his own good. A bloody saint, that man. Especially since Jessie’s not his child.’

  ‘Not…his child?’

  ‘Adam’s a saint and a fool. He would have given Thea anything she wanted, in the beginning, anyway. Anything. And she didn’t want a child. She was adamant. So not long after they were married, she made him have the snip. Twenty-three years old, he was. I ask you.’

  As though someone might have an answer.

  ‘The stupid things people do when they’re young and madly in love. Present company excepted.’

  Was she madly in love? In any kind of love at all?

  ‘So…who is Jessie’s father?’

  Candace shrugged. ‘Thea had an affair. But the father took off like a rocket as soon as he found out she was pregnant. Jessie appears to have been an accident, although with my sister, who knows? It could just as easily have been a plan. Changing her mind when she was heading for forty. I wouldn’t have put it past her.’

  ‘And she never told Adam? Whether she’d planned it or not?’

  Just saying his name now was difficult.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Candace. ‘But whatever she was thinking, or not thinking, Adam took the child as his own. That’s just who he is, Hazel. Big-hearted. Completely forgiving.’

  ‘But that must have been so hurtful. Knowing he couldn’t have a child of his own.’

  ‘Well, he never showed it. He never judged her, never complained.’

  He’d held Jessie in his arms and been enchanted. Besotted. Utterly transformed.

  ‘Adam’s biggest fear was that the real father’—Candace pursed her lips—‘well, the man who put his dick into my thoughtless sister. Adam was afraid he’d come back to claim his son. But it’s all sorted now, the legalities, and Adam will tell Jessie the truth when he thinks the time is right. Give him the chance to meet his biological father, if that’s what the boy ends up wanting.’

  Hazel looked into those dark brown eyes, which might have been like Thea’s eyes.

  ‘You didn’t much care for your sister, did you?’ she said.

  Candace shrugged. ‘She wasn’t a bad person. But she was—oh, we all have our faults, don’t we?’ Then she laughed. ‘It didn’t help that she married the man I was in love with, did it?’

  Hazel sat up. ‘And are you still? In love with him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Candace reached out her hand, and Hazel found herself taking it. ‘Not that I’ve ever told him. The closest I came was a joke, telling him he’d married the wrong sister. The dopey things you say when you’ve had too much to drink.’ She squeezed Hazel’s hand. ‘Adam loves me, of course, but not in a romantic way. Nothing sexual. So don’t worry, my dear. I don’t plan on trying to steal him from you.’

  ‘But he’s not mine to steal.’

  ‘He’s yours if you want him. He’s in love with you.’

  ‘Did he…I mean, did he actually use that word?’

  ‘And a whole lot of other ones as well. Bewitching. Beguiling. Warm-hearted. Funny. Smart. Sincere. Endearing. Disarming. He’s a regular bloody thesaurus, that man. And like a boy in love for the very first time.’

  Hazel couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, about a boy in love for the very first time. How could she have been so blind? To have misread him in this way? To have been so wrapped up in her own indignation that she hadn’t listened to his distress. His love. He was in love with her. He was in love with her and had driven her away.

  Candace released her hand. ‘So what will you do now?’ she said. ‘With my story. Adam’s story.’

  She was a magician, this woman, performing a series of tricks and voila! she’d presented a lavish bouquet from behind her generous back.

  ‘You’re not saying anything, Hazel.’

  ‘Because I’m still not sure what to think.’

  ‘Maybe you should try not thinking at all.’

  ‘But I have to reflect on what you’ve just told me. It’s—’

  ‘Are you worried about his age?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘Adam’s forty-five.’

  Which was more or less what she’d figured. She found herself smiling, like a secret.

  ‘I thought I could forget him,’ she said. ‘But, well—he torments me.’

  She hadn’t known this until she’d said it.

  ‘Very good,’ said Candace. ‘Excellent. Because it’s been the same for Adam.’ Her eyes looked suddenly stern, like a teacher’s. ‘Now I’d like to say he’ll be a walkover but I do have to warn you, Hazel. That man has as many principles as a porcupine has quills, so you’ll need to be pretty damned persuasive. And he needs to start thinking of himself for a change instead of trying to do the right thing by everyone else. What he thinks is right, anyway.’ She laughed. ‘He thinks too much as well.’

  Hazel laughed with her, even as she felt on the verge of tears. For she’d heard the kindness in Candace’s voice. This woman who’d chanced to walk into a bar, who might well be changing the course of another woman’s life.

  ‘You have a big heart, too,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. I just want Adam to be happy, and it’s a long time since he’s been happy. I have a feeling you might be the one.’

  ‘But you don’t even know me.’

  ‘Well, Adam’s told me so much about you, hasn’t he? I’ve had the full confession. And it’s Jessie, too. Adam knows you really like him.’ She frowned. ‘Not like the woman who tried to wheedle her way into his heart. Kids can see though the bullshit.’

  I love this woman, Hazel thought. She’s filling in the gaps and saying it straight and I want to cover her wrists w
ith platypus stamps.

  Instead she asked Candace if she was waiting for someone.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ She looked at her watch. ‘This one was meant to be here half an hour ago.’

  ‘The man with the ginormous beard?’

  ‘No, the new one’s clean-shaven. But he’s still late.’ She pointed in the direction of Hazel’s friends. ‘Who’s the young man who keeps looking this way? Is he anyone important?’

  Hazel didn’t need to look to understand. ‘He might have been,’ she said.

  And because this sounded so dismissive and verging on smug and she didn’t want to be smug, ever, because everyone mattered, everyone had worth, she said that Lucas was a really nice guy. Which didn’t sound much better.

  ‘But he’s not Adam,’ she said.

  Candace nodded. ‘I want you to listen to my very cunning plan,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and pick up Jessie and keep him overnight. Give yourself a couple of hours and then go round to Adam’s. But first you need to scurry home and change.’

  ‘Change?’

  ‘That dress you’re wearing. You look like a boring school teacher.’

  Persuasion

  She’d been waiting for an hour with nothing but her phone for company, sitting on Adam’s porch on his dilapidated sofa, craning her neck, willing him to arrive. She hadn’t seen his car in the driveway but she’d climbed those four steps, knocked on his front door, her breath suspended. No answer. She’d knocked again. No answer. Then she’d walked around to the back door—stomped, really—and banged on the flywire screen. No answer. A No Show. Leaving her sitting on his sofa, tapping her feet, inspecting her nails, and the more she looked at them the stranger they seemed, as though they didn’t quite belong to her. Where was the man? Why wasn’t he here, and it just wasn’t fair, not knowing where he was or how long he’d be gone and maybe he was off seeing someone else even though Candace said he loved her and was mopey and miserable or maybe he’d been smashed up on the freeway and she’d never get the chance to tell him how she felt and it would all be too late. All of it, everything. Too late.