Chris takes a swig of champagne. A half-drawn Fletcher leers from the side of the newspaper.
‘We haven’t really … evolved, have we? Changed.’
‘Changed?’ Diane says with a huff. ‘I’d say there’s been more than enough change lately.’
‘I was referring to you and me.’
She puts aside the mending and assumes a look of patience. ‘Listen, Chris.’ She raises her index finger. ‘First, you find out Ben is your birth father. Second’ (next finger) ‘your best friend has a stroke. Third’ (ring finger) ‘you’re left to run the business on your own. That collection of events is called stress. What you need most is not change, but stability. Your equilibrium has been upset.’
Equilibrium? Is that like Valium? If so, I’ll have one of each.
Chris puts down his champagne and goes for whisky. ‘My equilibrium – or lack of it – doesn’t alter the fact that we’re not close.’ He takes a mouthful of whisky. ‘We don’t live together, we live beside each other. Like a couple of draughthorses.’
Diane’s jaw drops. ‘You feel tied to me?’
‘No. I want us to be closer – in here.’ He taps his chest. ‘And you’re right, I have changed. I’ve learned how damaging silence can be and I don’t want to go on pretending things are fine between you and me when they’re not. I know, I’ve always avoided making waves, but they come after you anyway, so now I want to face them before we get swamped.’
‘You’re not facing them, Christopher, you’re creating them. You’re …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, you know.’ She sips her champagne. ‘Suffering from male menopause or whatever it’s called. Erratic hormones.’
‘Erratic hormones? That’s all my feelings are? A pathology?’
She leans forward and pats his knee. ‘No, it’s just …’
He jerks away. ‘Jesus Christ! Stop with this pat … patting … patron … belittling me. I’m not a bloody dog!’
‘Oh. Yes, sorry. Look, there are frustrations in every marriage. Smooth patches and rough patches. We’ll survive it. We always do.’
‘What if I don’t want to survive it?’
‘That’s what a rough patch is – imagining you don’t.’
‘I’m telling you there’s a problem and you don’t want to know.’
‘Chris, you knew when we married I’m not the touchy-feely type. Nothing’s changed.’
‘That’s the point, Diane. Nothing’s changed. Twenty-five years down the track and you still don’t trust me with your feelings.’
‘I don’t trust anyone with them. It’s not personal; you know that.’
‘Of course it’s personal!’
She sighs. ‘You know I care about you. I don’t want anyone else. I try to be a good wife. I do my best. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, of course you’re a good wife. But you’re so efficient, so gathered-up and gathered-in I can’t get near you. Even in bed, it’s always so far and no further. I don’t want to make love to you; I want to make love with you.’
‘Oh.’ She picks up the mending. ‘Sex. That’s what this is about. I thought I satisfied you in that regard.’
‘You know it’s not about sex, it’s about feelings.’
‘You confuse feelings with emotional display. We’re close enough, and I, for one, am satisfied.’
Chris takes the jumper from her, trying not to snatch, although he feels like flinging it across the room. ‘I’m not. I know how you were brought up in that emotional wasteland, and I’m not trying to turn you into a lap dog. But I’m your husband, not your father. I’m not going to push you away if you let me get near you. I am touchy-feely and you’ve always known that. Can’t you let go, just a bit?’ He reaches for her hand. She tries to pull it away but he brings it to his lips, uncurls her fingers and takes them into his mouth. Her face becomes rigid with – what – repulsion? Fear? She looks past him and he’s certain she’s willing herself to endure because the moment will pass. He’ll regain his composure and they’ll both be glad he didn’t say or do anything that would make them feel more foolish than they do.
He lets go her hand.
She draws her fingers slowly down the side of her dress.
From the corner of his eye Chris sees the news logo flicker across the TV. He reaches for the remote and turns up the volume.
From the ensuite Chris can see a blurry Diane taking his shirt off the bed and hanging it in the wardrobe. She nudges something into position with her foot, glances around and disappears. He towels himself dry and goes into the bedroom where the shirt he just took out to wear is now back in the wardrobe, swaying and setting a whole line of faultlessly pressed shirts moving in unison. At the end of the rail, his suit droops like a bad memory. Inhabiting a suit well is one trait he has not inherited from his father. He removes the shirt again and shrugs it on.
Time for a change. Maybe a Hawaiian shirt with pineapples on it.
He goes to his den for the drawings he was working on last night. Fletcher is nestled in a gutter over the kitchen, whittling an arrow. Chris obliterates him with an eraser. At work, the small man has been popping up everywhere; in three of Noland’s apartments, peering over the window sills, giving exasperatingly sensible advice.
Flat roof? That’s inviting problems.
It’s what the client wants.
Talk him out of it.
On a penthouse balcony, spread-eagled in a deckchair behind sunglasses. This deck needs an awning.
The client doesn’t like awnings.
That’s dumb. Awnings are to windows what lashes are to eyes.
Chris wonders if he’s out of control.
Yep, I can see cracks.
Cracks don’t necessarily herald imminent disaster. A certain amount of cracking in some buildings is acceptable, as long as you know where they are and that they’re not getting worse.
Yet.
I haven’t done anything.
Yet.
Tabi, skinny ankles and smart old eyes, sashays towards him. She’s wearing a black sweater and a tight red skirt that perfectly cradles the pear of her bum, taut with youth and hormones. Chris can’t see the hormones but he can smell them. Musky, like warm hay.
She blinks slowly and puts her hand on her hip. ‘What are you thinking, Mr B?’
He pulls his chair close under his desk so she can’t see what he’s thinking and applies his eyes to the builder’s estimate for the Cost of Proposed Extensions to Existing Dwelling of Gavin and Pearl Whitbread of Indooroopilly, while the rest of his senses crawl over Tabi’s body.
‘What’s the latest on Judge?’ she says. Fatuous question. She knows how Judge is. They all do. Physically excellent but emotionally and verbally haywire.
He shrugs.
‘Poor old Mr B, you miss your friend.’
He does. He misses Judge being around and he misses Judge being the way he was.
The phone buzzes and Tabi leans over to answer it. Chris drags his eyes away from her to the view beyond the window where cars edge down Sherwood Road towards the traffic lights.
‘Baillieu & Bright Architects, this is Tabitha.’ She turns to Chris and nods. ‘Yes, he’s right here.’ She slides upright, smoothes down her skirt, blows a pink bubble and farewells him with her fingertips.
Chris watches her red-skirted rear disappear and picks up the phone. ‘Um – Chris Bright.’
‘Bertie Beaumont.’
His heart skips. ‘Beaumont? Is that your name these days? Is it your first husband’s name or second? Or is that a rude question?’
‘My second husband’s name was Hickinbottom.’
Chris laughs.
‘Good news,’ she says. ‘They found your pen. I have it with me.’
‘Really – after what – two months? I thought it had gone forever.’
When Bertie sent his gear from the apartment – including his sketches of Flet
cher and a note: Don’t forget your little friend – it was minus the pen Diane had given him for his thirtieth birthday. Bertie fronted the letting agents and asked them to look again but it couldn’t be found.
‘It was under a bed,’ she says. ‘Makes you wonder how often they get vacuumed.’
‘The beds?’
‘The floors, Christopher.’
‘Yeah. How are you, Bertie?’
‘Fine. How’s Judge?’
‘Oh. Volatile as a firecracker.’
‘Dad was like that after his stroke, but once the depression lifted he was fine. I imagine Judge will be too.’
‘Hope so.’
‘Are you all right? Oh – stupid question. I suppose you don’t know your rear end from your elbow.’
He laughs. ‘Something like that.’
‘Then I won’t keep you. I’ll post your pen. Take care of yourself.’
‘Thanks, Bertie. And … just, thanks.’
Tabi comes back, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Rachel Anderson. The plumber’s delivered one round hand basin and one oval hand basin. The toilet pedestal is Caroma and it’s supposed to be Villeroy & Boch. Funny that. High-quality table-ware and high-quality toilet-ware.’ She shrugs. ‘Both ends of the tube, I suppose.’
Chris smiles, then gazes vaguely into the distance. Odd how he and Bertie have resumed their easy friendship, even when …
Tabi snaps her fingers. ‘Come on, boss. Focus.’
Focus. Hold it together until it holds itself. Hold it for Judge and for the staff. They deserve it. Three, four times a day Tabi or Maureen will come in and throw him a lifeline; drop a sandwich on his desk or leave sticky notes on his computer with reminders of wages or progress payments. Most of his work is humdrum. Payroll tax, specifications, client meetings. Mrs Anderson’s toilet.
‘You’re a good girl, Tabi.’
‘I’m not a girl, Mr B.’ She taps a long nail on his desk. ‘I’m a woman.’
Judge stands in the doorway casting a Napoleonic glare over his kingdom.
Hamish, about to duck out for a meeting, stops. Mick, in the process of dressing Doris in a black tutu and fishnet stockings, pauses.
‘I’m back,’ says Judge. ‘For good.’ He wipes spit from the corner of his mouth. When nobody moves, he flicks his hand. ‘Go on, then. Hop to.’
‘Welcome back,’ says Maureen hesitantly.
As Chris heads for his office Judge intercepts him. ‘I might sound like a cretin, but don’t imagine I am.’
‘Then don’t say dumb things.’
‘Who the hell’s been at my desk?’
‘I have.’
‘Who else?’
Was he psychic?
‘Who else?’
‘Take it easy, Judge.’
‘Take it easy, take it easy. Everyone wants me to take it easy. I don’ wanna take it easy. I want to work.’
‘Good. Go for it.’
Judge picks up a piece of paper with Tabi’s handwriting on it. ‘Did you let that stringy tart loose in here?’
‘Tabi?’
‘How many stringy tarts have we got?’
‘Her name is Tabitha.’
‘Woooow, Tabitha. What’s eating you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.’
Judge has been forbidden to drive for three months, so at the end of a long day, cold for early May, Chris drives him home. Judge huddles against the passenger-side door, squeezing the life out of his rubber ball. He looks miserable. Efforts to express himself, and tantrums when he couldn’t, have left him exhausted. They’ve left everyone exhausted.
Chris stops outside his house. ‘Can I pick you up in the morning?’
‘No. Karen’ll bring me.’ Judge opens his door, hesitates and half turns. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, but is gone before Chris can reply.
Diane is established at the dining table with her computer and a pile of notes. She has new, dark-framed glasses which make her look owlish. When Chris goes to the fridge for a beer, she caps her pen and follows.
‘Ben phoned today, wanting to know how you are.’
‘All right, I suppose. Right now, stuffed.’
‘Then tell him. Go and see him. He needs reassuring.’
‘What about?’
‘He needs to know that nothing’s changed between you two.’
Chris draws on his beer and burps gently. ‘But it has.’
‘No, it hasn’t. You’ve always been his son; you simply didn’t know it. Nothing’s actually different.’
‘Actually, Diane, it is. It’s very different.’
She glares at him through her new glasses. ‘Listen, Chris. Judge had a stroke at forty-eight. Ben’s seventy-two. How would you feel if something like that – or worse – happened to him?’
Like shit.
‘Yes, all right. I’ll give him a call.’
‘Never mind call. Go and see him.’
‘I haven’t time right now. The office is a dog’s breakfast. Judge came back to work today. Nobody could understand a word he said, everyone’s jittery and every damn thing took twice as long as it should have.’
‘I suppose it’s to be expected and I’m sorry but I dare say it’ll sort itself out. Right now, Ben is more important. You seem to forget he’s lost a son and a wife. You’re all he has left.’
‘No, I’m not. He has friends. You, Phoebe, and—’
‘Christopher! That’s unworthy.’
‘Of who?’
‘Of whom.’
‘What?’
‘Of you,’ says Diane.
‘Did you just … correct me?’
‘I said it was unworthy of you.’ Diane turns away. ‘And it is.’
When Tabi’s eyes focused on his mouth he knew she’d stopped listening. He gazed at her hungrily, an adulterer already, guilty before he began.
She touched his hair gently. ‘I thought you were getting it cut.’
‘You told me not to.’ His eyes flicked nervously about the office.
‘Nobody here, Mr B, except you and me. All at lunch.’
He tried to smile.
‘You have a beautiful mouth, you know; lovely lips.’ She twirled a curl of his hair around her finger.
He cleared his throat. ‘I have a site inspection.’
‘So do I.’
‘You don’t do site inspections.’
‘Oh, yes, I do.’
The tide in the Brisbane River begins its journey towards the sea, unseen by the occupants of room 808.
Tabi strokes the golden hair on his chest. ‘Have you done this with anybody else?’
‘Tabi – I am married.’
‘I mean, since.’
Chris rubs his stubble. ‘No.’
‘Before you were married?’
‘I wasn’t a virgin.’
Beyond the windows, the sun breaks free from drifting clouds and smudges their bodies with late autumn light.
‘Anyone special?’
‘Tabi, this is now. Just us. And you’re special.’
‘Oh.’ She nuzzles his stomach. ‘You’re sweet, Mr B, but I’m hungry.’
‘Again?’
‘For food.’ She crosses one tanned skinny leg over his. Those thighs, firm and resilient, had pinned him to her body. Her skin was rougher than Diane’s but more willing. It shivered and swelled to his touch and her arms gripped him with unfeigned desire. Fumbling, jerking, tangling, laughing.
He looks at this sweet woman, then shuts his eyes. Forget look. Feel. She blows gently on his groin, making his skin flutter. He wants her again. He wants that sensation of fusion, when they defy the maths and became one plus one equals more than two, when flesh and hearts are wide open and for a precious few moments love flows between them. She lifts her face and he kisses her gently, smelling the fresh sweat of her neck and feeling grateful – so grateful – for this brief, blessed moment when he is not wondering what more he could do to make it work.
�
��You’ve restored pieces of myself I thought I’d lost,’ he says.
‘I must be smarter than I thought.’
‘You are.’ Chris gazes at the blur of her face and realises how silly he is to resist contact lenses when there is, after all, much in this life he wants to see.
‘But?’
‘But what?’
Tabi studies her nails, shiny and purple. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr B. We’re not Cathy and Heathcliff.’
‘For now, maybe.’
‘Yeah, for now. Mind you, neither are me and Jeremy. I don’t know why I put up with him,’ she says of her on-again, off-again boyfriend. ‘Except I’m so used to being with him, if I stopped I’d miss him. Even if I didn’t.’ She giggles. ‘You know what I mean.’
He props himself on an elbow. ‘Tabi, you don’t feel …?’
‘Nah.’ She pats his cheek. ‘I don’t. I make my own decisions.’
He sighs, suspecting there are times when the adult is not always the oldest. ‘Are we going to be okay working together?’
‘I am. Are you?’ She cradles his chin between her thumb and forefinger. ‘You’re voolnerable, Mr B.’
His heart contracts. She can read him; why not Diane?
He kisses Tabi’s cheek. ‘Thanks to you, not as vulnerable as I was.’
She swings her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Now I’m really hungry.’
Chilli prawns; crisp and garlicky, oiling fingers and lips. They sit at the bar downstairs with plates of seafood, feeding each other mouthfuls between sips of wine.
Tabi licks her fingers and stretches. ‘Gosh. After all that food, I think we need to go back upstairs and have a nice lay-down.’
As the world outside condenses to the world in their bed Chris becomes nobody, simply awareness, emptying out, filling up, breathing all the way from his toes to the ends of his hair like a Wandjina man. Inhaling memories, precious wraiths from his 23-year-old self. Another time, another place. Forget it. There is only now; this time, this place. Now is all that matters.
He presses a goodbye kiss on Tabi’s thin, sweet lips – so different from Diane’s firm mouth – and turns the Rover homewards. He’s later than usual; the traffic has thinned and the journey is quick.
He pulls into the driveway, stands for a moment smoothing his hair, and goes upstairs.
Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Page 14
