Wife for Hire

by Dianne Blacklock

  The spa was fantastic, better than anything Sam had ever imagined. They started her off with a dry body brush that made her skin tingle. Then she had a lymphatic draining massage. Sam didn’t care what it was supposed to be draining, she’d never had a full body massage in her life and she absolutely revelled in it. Afterwards they covered her in a seaweed concoction and wrapped her in Glad Wrap in an effort to further detoxify her lymph glands. She’d had no idea her lymphatic system was in such a terrible state. After a hydrotherapy bath that was supposed to stimulate her now apparently exhausted lymph glands, they moved on to more aesthetic considerations. She had a facial, a manicure and a pedicure, they waxed every rogue hair on her body, and they even did her make-up. That was an experience. The woman caked on so much foundation that Sam’s features all but disappeared. And then she drew them all back on, only better. It was much more make-up than Sam was used to wearing, but the effect was striking. She almost believed she was, maybe, a little bit, sort of, attractive.

  ‘Samantha?’

  She spun around. She had been staring up the street but he had come from the other direction.

  ‘Mr Buchanan?’

  ‘Hal,’ he smiled, offering her his hand. Sam took it demurely, trying not to seem obvious while she checked him out. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or self-conscious again. He was fairly handsome she supposed, in a generic kind of way. Neat dark hair, tanned skin, a row of straight white teeth. She needed to get closer to determine the colour of his eyes, which she couldn’t because he was quite tall.

  ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ he said with a satisfied smile.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You, you’re a pleasant surprise. Better than I expected.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said haughtily.

  ‘Come on, you were thinking the same thing,’ he said, turning towards the entrance.

  ‘I was not.’

  ‘Oh really?’ He held the door open for Sam.

  She shook her head. ‘You’ve got tickets on yourself.’

  ‘Pardon?’ he frowned.

  ‘You’ve got tickets on yourself,’ she repeated.

  He looked blankly at her.

  ‘It’s an expression.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well,’ she was embarrassed now. It was okay to make an offhand crack, but she didn’t really want to labour the point that she thought he was full of himself. ‘Never mind.’

  He shrugged, indicating the stairs. ‘It’s up this way.’

  Sam was not used to her high heels and she felt a bit unsteady on the marble stairs, holding the long skirt of her dress up out of the way while trying to keep the pashmina in place.

  ‘So,’ he persisted, ‘you weren’t just a little relieved?’

  ‘You’re not that good-looking, you know.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay. But I could have been sixty with a paunch and a comb-over.’

  ‘Instead of forty with a smirk.’ The moment the words came out of Sam’s mouth, her shoe caught the hem of her skirt and she lurched forward. Hal reached out and grabbed her by the arm, stopping her from falling flat on her face.

  ‘Forty with a smirk, huh?’ he remarked, steadying her. ‘As opposed to thirty with an attitude?’

  ‘I’m not –’

  God, what was she doing? She was about to say she wasn’t thirty. Had she gone mad? If Hal Buchanan wanted to think she was six years younger than she really was, Sam wasn’t about to tell him otherwise.

  ‘Um, I’m not, I mean, I don’t have an attitude.’

  He smiled down at her, releasing her arm. ‘And I wasn’t smirking.’

  Sam felt a little shaken. She trod cautiously up the last few stairs, gripping the banister firmly. At the top, double doors opened to a large ballroom already filling with people. There was a noticeboard to one side welcoming guests to the IGB Cocktail Party.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better fill me in,’ said Sam. ‘You work for IGB, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her into the room.

  ‘The insurance company?’

  He nodded. ‘This is for the shareholders, so all the directors will be here . . . the people who hired me. That’s why I thought I’d better show this time.’

  ‘What is it that you actually do?’

  ‘I’m a data security specialist.’

  Sam looked blankly at him.

  ‘I investigate organisations to determine their security issues,’ he explained. ‘Then I work with programmers to design systems to address those issues.’

  ‘Oh.’ That didn’t mean a lot to Sam, and Hal realised.

  ‘You have to key in a password to get into your PC, right?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Well, that’s basically data security. It just gets a little more complicated when you have to secure a system with maybe thousands of users, all with different levels of access.’ He spoke in a monotone, as if the whole thing bored him a little. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Sam nodded and he signalled a passing waiter. They both took a glass of champagne from the tray the young man proffered. Hal held his up briefly.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said to Sam. ‘I appreciate it.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s my job.’

  He looked at her curiously for a moment before nodding. ‘Good, that’s good.’

  ‘Now, here comes the guy who actually hired me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I don’t think he believes I do anything. Data security is largely invisible – you only notice it when it’s not done properly.’

  ‘Like housework,’ Sam nodded.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Hal, good to see you here for a change,’ the man said as he approached.

  ‘Evening Phillip. Samantha Holmes, this is Phillip Campbell, IGB’s Director of IT.’

  He shook hands with Sam. ‘So you’re the culprit, Ms Holmes, the reason we haven’t seen Hal at any of our get-togethers?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t lay claim to that.’ Sam noticed a slight uneasiness in Hal’s expression. He was probably worried she was going to say why she was really here, but however she tried to explain it, it wouldn’t sound right. She tucked her hand into the crook of Hal’s arm, leaning coquettishly towards him.

  ‘I can’t get him away from work either, Mr Campbell,’ Sam declared. ‘I don’t know what sort of hours you expect him to put in, but he never takes a break. It must be some contract you’ve got him on.’

  ‘It’s some contract alright,’ Campbell nodded, cocking one eyebrow.

  ‘Of course the worst part is that I haven’t got a clue what it is that Hal actually does, I’m embarrassed to say. He tries to explain it to me, but . . .’ Sam shrugged helplessly. ‘You’ll be thinking I’m stupid, being the Director of IT. Actually,’ she mused, ‘you’re probably just the person I should talk to. Perhaps I could get you to explain how data security works, in language that I’d understand?’

  Sam smiled sweetly at him. He looked petrified. ‘Sure, maybe later,’ he blustered. ‘Oh, look, there’s someone I really need to speak to,’ he said, moving away. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You really are good at this Wife for Hire thing, aren’t you?’ Hal said later, after they had worked the room.

  ‘I’m very good at it,’ Sam said airily. It was nice to be appreciated again.

  ‘You know, there’s no need for us to hang around any longer. And I was wondering,’ he hesitated. ‘Well, I was wondering if you’d like to come back to my place for coffee . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sam said abruptly. She knew this was a bad idea. She had made it perfectly clear that she was not an escort, but he obviously hadn’t got the message.

  ‘Look, we can’t talk here . . .’ He glanced around, then took her by the elbow and led her out through the main doorway.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she frowned.

  ‘I didn’t want to discuss this with everyone around.’

  Sh
e looked suspiciously at him.

  ‘I thought you wanted me as a client?’ said Hal.

  ‘I do, but I think we may have different ideas about what that means.’

  ‘That’s why I’d like to talk about it. My apartment’s not far –’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Sam said, turning to start down the stairs. ‘I should have known . . .’

  Hal followed her. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  Sam stopped to look up at him. ‘I’m not going back to your place –’ Sam held up her fingers to mimic quotation marks, ‘– to discuss business.’

  He looked askance. ‘I’m not trying to get you into bed, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  She sighed. ‘No, you just want to talk.’ She turned and continued down the stairs.

  ‘Wait up, Samantha,’ he said, taking a couple of steps at a time to overtake her. He stopped in front of her, blocking her path. ‘I told you on the phone I wasn’t hitting on you.’

  ‘Yeah and I came down in the last shower!’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Didn’t he understand anything? ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Look, let’s get one thing straight,’ he said, not hiding his frustration. ‘Sleeping with you is the furthest thing from my mind!’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn whether you believe it or not. I don’t want to sleep with you.’

  Sam stared blankly at him. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘As unbelievable as it must seem to you, no, I don’t.’

  She swallowed.

  ‘What? I’m so unattractive?’

  Hal looked mystified. ‘Damned if I do . . .’

  Now she felt stupid. But did he have to be quite so adamant about it? It was not exactly flattering.

  ‘I just thought you were getting the wrong idea about exactly what Wife for Hire involves,’ Sam said, recovering. ‘Sex is not part of the deal,’ she added, lowering her voice.

  He leaned forward close to her face. Now she could tell his eyes were green. ‘Just like a real wife, then.’

  Sam walked at a brisk pace down Macquarie Street towards the Quay.

  Hal was trailing her slightly. ‘Hey, wait up, Samantha. Where are you going?’

  ‘There are plenty of places down at the Quay where we can get coffee and “talk”,’ she said crisply.

  ‘Are you pissed or something?’

  Sam stopped abruptly. ‘No! I didn’t even finish my second glass of champagne.’

  ‘What?’ he frowned. ‘I was asking if you’re pissed at me, you know, angry, annoyed?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She continued walking along, slower this time. ‘In Australia, if someone’s pissed they’re drunk. If you’re angry with someone, you’re pissed off.’

  ‘And here I was thinking I’d come to a country where I spoke the language.’

  Sam looked at him sideways. ‘That was your first mistake. We speak English here.’

  He shook his head. ‘So, are you “pissed off ” with me?’

  She sighed. She didn’t want to revisit the topic of how much he didn’t want to sleep with her. ‘Oh, it was just that crack about wives never wanting sex. The mantra of the married man. Have you ever been married, Hal?’

  ‘I used to be. What about you?’

  ‘Separated.’ She felt strange saying that. ‘I just think that maybe you guys need to hold a great big mirror up to yourselves, lying asleep in front of the TV every night with dribble coming out of the corner of your mouths, and then ask yourselves why you’re not getting any.’

  Hal looked taken aback momentarily. ‘So, I take it there’s no bitterness over your separation?’

  Sam glanced at him. ‘Nobody likes a smart ass.’

  They stopped at a place along the Opera Quays and sat at a table near the window. A waiter came to take their order.

  ‘Do you have chamomile tea?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Certainly ma’am.’

  Hal ordered a black coffee and the waiter left.

  ‘You don’t drink coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at this time of night,’ Sam explained. ‘I was having trouble sleeping so I switched to chamomile tea. Now I can’t seem to sleep unless I have a cup. I’ve wondered if it’s some kind of conspiracy.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Hal grinned. ‘The evil coffee barons are making it big taking over daisy fields across the world.’

  ‘This sense of humour of yours. You’ve been told it’s amusing?’ Sam said drolly.

  ‘I have them rolling in the aisles back home.’

  ‘Mm, that explains it.’

  Hal shook his head. ‘Oh, now you’re going to tell me Americans have no sense of humour?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go quite that far . . .’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Or else how would you explain Charlie Chaplin –’

  ‘He was English.’

  ‘. . . the Marx Brothers.’

  ‘They’re all dead.’

  ‘I could go on.’

  ‘I bet you could.’

  The waiter returned and set their cups down in front of them.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sam said, stirring her tea absently, ‘you wanted to talk to me about something?’

  ‘So, when she gets cornered she changes the subject?’

  ‘No, she just wants to get home some time before dawn, if possible.’

  Hal smiled, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. ‘Okay, here’s the thing. I don’t need you to book my car in for service, or make dental appointments for me, or pay my bills, but I could use some help . . .’ He seemed to be searching for words. ‘Acclimatising, I suppose you’d call it. I just don’t understand the way you guys talk, your expressions baffle me. I don’t know anything about your football or cricket, which is all anybody seems to care about. Even getting around is a nightmare because you all drive on the wrong side of the road.’

  ‘It’s actually the right side of the road.’

  ‘No, if you want to split hairs, it’s the left side of the road.’

  Sam considered him for a moment. ‘Okay, here’s the thing. We don’t say “here’s the thing”.’

  ‘Oh? What do you say?’

  ‘We say . . .’ She thought about it. ‘The thing is . . .’

  He frowned dubiously. ‘Well that’s real different.’

  ‘And we’d say “really”, not “real”.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I would have said, “That’s really different”. “Real different” is Yankee speak.’

  Hal sighed. ‘God, I’ll be afraid to open my mouth.’

  ‘Well, that’s not such a bad thing either. Australians tend to think Americans have a little too much to say.’

  He shook his head. ‘You know, you guys pride yourselves on being this amazingly tolerant, multicultural society. But you openly, almost proudly despise Americans. What’s the deal there?’

  ‘We don’t despise Americans,’ Sam insisted. ‘You’re just being sensitive. Australians like everyone.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Try being an American.’

  Sam looked directly at him. ‘It’s not that we don’t like you. God, haven’t you noticed all the American shows on TV here? The movies? The kids in baseball hats? It’s just . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Have you ever heard of the tall poppy syndrome?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, it’s a peculiarly Australian thing. I don’t know if it’s because we started as a penal colony or what, but we don’t take to people who stand above the crowd.’

  ‘Like a tall poppy in a field?’

  ‘That’s right. Think about it, Americans are the tallest poppies on the planet. It’s in our nature to cut you down.’

  Hal sat back in his chair. ‘So I shouldn’t take it personally?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think anyone means anything by it. We’re a nation of knockers. You need to develop a bit of a thick skin if you’re going to survive in Australia for any length of time. P
eople will like you if you can laugh at yourself.’

  ‘I’ll try to keep that in mind. Any other tips?’

  ‘I’ll let you know if I think of any.’ Sam sipped her tea. ‘Your name’s a bit of a problem.’ She shook her head, cringing.

  ‘What’s wrong with my name?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a proper name, is it? Americans don’t seem to have proper names. Or else they have surnames as first names, like Macauley or Parker or Forrest –’

  ‘A character in a movie,’ Hal interrupted. ‘Is that where you’re getting your information?’

  ‘Come on Hal, you know I’m right. At least Hal is not a verb like “Chuck” or “Flip”. You never got “Buck”, from Buchanan?’

  ‘No, I’ve never got “Buck”.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘So, is Hal short for something?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘It is, in fact. My mother was expecting me when she was writing her doctoral thesis on Henry IV. That’s Shakespeare, you know, perhaps you’ve heard of him? I believe he was British. Anyway, the young Prince Henry was better known as Hal in the play. So when I was born, my mother named me Henry, but I’ve always been called Hal.’

  Sam just stared at him. He passed her a paper napkin.

  ‘What’s that for?’ she croaked.

  ‘That’ll be for the egg you’ve got on your face, just there.’

  The next day

  ‘So what’s he like?’ Max asked Sam when she called by after work to return the pashmina. Max had suddenly decided she couldn’t live without it and must have it for a date that night, even though she had previously forgotten she owned it.

  Sam shrugged. ‘He’s a client.’

  Max stopped ironing and looked suspiciously at Sam. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s a client. What do you mean by “What’s he like?”’

  ‘Well, is he good-looking?’

  ‘I didn’t really notice.’

  ‘Ha!’ Max exclaimed. ‘That means he’s either drop-dead gorgeous or butt ugly.’

  ‘Oh does it?’ Sam lifted an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing. You’re going to burn your dress if you don’t move that iron.’