The Last Guests

by JP Pomare

  ‘Why would you bother?’ I say.

  ‘Well, there are some freaks out there.’

  It’s four hundred and thirty-two dollars we wouldn’t otherwise have. Money for nothing really and easily covers the costs of setting the place up.

  Cain opens Google and he punches their name in, strikes enter and results flood the page.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘No one is going to be honest on their WeStay profile. Let’s see if we can find their Facebook page.’ He’s scrolling as he talks.

  ‘Really? This feels a little like stalking.’

  ‘It’s harmless, Lina,’ he says. ‘Plus what if they were neo-Nazis or child abusers, you would want to know, right?’

  ‘Probably not. And who would list that on their Facebook anyway?’

  ‘It’s not hard to tell something is off about someone just by looking at what they choose to share. Couple of guys from my unit constantly post borderline neo-Nazi propaganda.’

  Their social media profiles are easy to find. Cain finds the man’s twitter and reads his tweets aloud. Twitter is where you learn the most about people. A couple of hundred characters of anger, or admiration. Dan thinks Trudeau is a puppet. He’s a big Maple Leafs fan but will not be renewing his membership if they don’t fire the head coach soon. Cherry retweeted a feel-good quote from Chrissy Teigen and tweets about going to the gym almost every day, with images of smoothies, gym shots of her mid squat with a bar across her shoulders. More healthy recipes and #fitspo. She posted an image of an old man I assume is her father, on the anniversary of his death. I find their LinkedIn accounts on my phone. Dan has a much more professional photo than his Twitter account. A shirt with an open collar, a smile that is slightly restrained.

  ‘He’s a geologist working in exploration for a mining company,’ I say.

  ‘No wonder he hates Trudeau,’ Cain says.

  ‘She’s an accountant and has worked at the same firm for nine years but is taking annual leave for an upcoming trip to New Zealand. They have a chocolate border collie at home and were so sad to leave him at the kennels while they were away on their last trip. Who calls a dog Donald?’

  ‘A Trump fan,’ he says.

  ‘Ugh.’ Four hundred and thirty dollars, I remind myself. ‘Might need to burn sage after they leave.’

  Cain, who is, as far as I know, politically agnostic, stands now. ‘They’ll be fine.’

  ‘Maybe we don’t do this with each guest,’ I say with an uneasy squeezing feeling inside. ‘I don’t think it makes me feel any better.’

  ‘Really?’ He laughs. ‘You don’t find this interesting? Kind of fun? It’s harmless.’

  I swallow. ‘Fun? Really?’ It doesn’t feel like we are looking into the internet at them but rather they’re looking out at us. I shudder.

  ‘You like it,’ he says. ‘I can tell.’

  •

  When the weekend comes around, he does it again. Only this time I catch him in the act, at his desk in the study. I head in to ask if he needs anything from the grocer and see he’s on their social media feeds. I lean against his desk.

  ‘At it again?’ I say.

  ‘Just checking up on them,’ he says. ‘They’re there now at our place.’

  On Cherry’s Instagram there are photos from in our house. Grinning, sitting around our table, using our Yahtzee set, and drinking the wine we left out for them from our glasses.

  ‘I think you’re a voyeur,’ I tease.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to pretend I don’t find it interesting.’

  ‘Am I pretending that I don’t find it interesting?’

  ‘You seem to be.’

  He opens up the electricity app. Bar graphs spread on the page showing time of usage for the day.

  ‘The information is out there, they are putting it out there. And it’s important for us to make sure they’re looking after the house. Like this,’ he says, looking at the power app closely. ‘They’ve been using power since yesterday afternoon, so we know they arrived and made it inside.’

  ‘The power peaked this morning for an hour at ten,’ I note, looking closely at the bars.

  ‘It must have been the oven, or the heater,’ he says. I can see why some people like to watch others, just for a short while; inhabit them in a way as if they’re watching their favourite TV show, or reading a familiar book. They can be that person for a while to escape themselves. But there is a line, and when you cross that line you’re no longer doing due diligence but stalking.

  ‘Don’t overthink it,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘It’s natural to be curious.’

  ‘What if they have sex in our bed?’ I say, trying to make light of it all.

  ‘They probably have.’

  I let out a huff of laughter. ‘That’s gross.’

  ‘I’m more worried about them breaking something or getting into the basement and going through our things,’ he says.

  ‘Surely we’ve got some protection against damage from WeStay.’

  ‘They’ve left a thousand dollar security deposit.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘What sort of damage could they do?’

  My phone vibrates and I almost leap. I leave the room before opening the message. Something clots near my heart.

  Hey Anna, Daniel here. I know it’s been a while but I was hoping to catch up again soon. I’ve still got your necklace with the ring on it from that night.

  I look back; Cain’s eyes are fixed on the computer screen. I quickly punch out a message. It’s been a month. The ring won’t just materialise.

  How did you get my number? I never gave it to you.

  I see him typing, the three dots dancing on the screen.

  I have my ways.

  I feel like I can’t breathe. This is all backfiring. And yet it feels inevitable, a car crash in slow motion but only I realise the pain is coming; it’s a moment or an eternity away but it will arrive. I delete all the messages except that last one, so I have his number: I have my ways. Playful, I think. Or threatening? I turn my phone off, go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. That thought comes again: Change your number. I will, but first I’ll try to get my wedding band back. That ring cannot be replaced. A plan forms.

  Peephole transmission

  In response to the incidents in Colorado and St Petersburg and the growing Interpol attention, VIP access will no longer include information about the location of streams or information about the guests. This is to protect both the identities of our planters, and the integrity and privacy of our service. Our planters will continue to enjoy full access accounts. If you cannot afford our service, you can always join us.

  Enjoy the show.

  NINE

  A BREEZE SWEEPS in from the sea, between the islands and across the rippling plain of water. We’re accompanied by that odd percussion of aluminium tinging and boats knocking the harbour. The viaduct, one of Auckland’s social hubs, is a nice walk although it tends to be heaving with tourists. I’ve not been to a bar in so long, not since that night with Daniel. I think about him as we stroll along.

  I have still got to organise the exchange: my necklace for a second meeting. He’s suggested a drink, but when boys like Daniel suggest a drink what they really mean is more than a drink. At the very least he wants a chance to charm me, get me in bed again. It was so easy for him last time; he probably thinks it would happen as easily as the first time.

  Thankfully Cain’s had other things to occupy his attention and hasn’t mentioned the ring again. But he will. He’s been quiet, working hard, a little distant. He was first like this when the media began to follow the story of the botched raid. Skelton killed himself three months and seventeen days after the investigation began. Six days after a document was leaked and published by the Blood, Sweat and Beers political blog that implicated him and suggested an arrest was imminent. A still from the headcam footage showing the victims reached the media, and the story of a o
nce celebrated, now disgraced soldier metastasized into cautionary tales of war, potential CTE, a man pushed to the edge. Family, friends, old schoolteachers all said the same thing. War changed him. I didn’t get this information from Cain but all the others who gave interviews. A letter released by Skelton’s mother to the media revealed his attitude towards the leadership in the military. They trained us to kill but they can’t untrain us. Did Cain hold the same views? Were they let down by those in charge?

  After Afghanistan, Cain showed no desire to go back to warzones, until one day he told me how much he would make as a private contractor for oil companies. They needed security, and others from his unit had signed up, making astronomical sums of money. ‘I could set us up for life,’ he had said. ‘If it wasn’t for this buggered knee of mine.’

  I hold Cain’s hand in the pocket of his puffer jacket as another gust sweeps in from the sea. The boats rock, their masts swinging like needles hacking at the twilight sky. His phone sounds. ‘Another one,’ he says, extracting it from his jeans pocket. ‘It’s for this weekend.’ Once he lowered the price on WeStay, the floodgate opened. I’m growing used to that familiar chime of his phone, heralding a new booking. Dan and Cherry Evans stayed last weekend. Now so many others have booked. The squares of the calendar are filling up. Each one represents more money, greater financial security. One step closer to the life we want.

  ‘I’m still a little nervous about the state they left the house in,’ I say. ‘What if they stole something?’

  He takes his hand from his pocket and wraps it around my shoulders. ‘Everything will be fine. Trust me.’

  Late afternoon crowds fill the bars, mostly tourists. Our dinner booking with Claire and Axel is for eight. We’re not far from the restaurant, Amano, in the trendy central hub of Britomart, but our reservation isn’t for another hour, so Cain wants to have a drink first.

  ‘What about here?’ I say, pointing to the terraces of a bar overlooking the busiest corner of the viaduct. It’s near the America’s Cup exhibit showing the black keel of the 1995 winning yacht. He looks up, sees all the knots of young people on the patio.

  ‘Busy for a Tuesday,’ he says. ‘There’s a quieter place around the corner.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He takes us to a wine bar, a different crowd. Hipster types, a few suits having a knock-off. We find a quiet booth.

  ‘You want a wine?’ he says.

  ‘Maybe just a soda water.’

  He goes to leave, pauses and slowly wheels back towards me. ‘You feeling alright?’

  I find myself subconsciously rubbing my elbow. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m just not drinking much.’

  He pokes out his bottom lip, regards me for a second longer. ‘Soda water,’ he says. When he returns with our drinks, he exhales as he sits and the old leather of the seat creaks.

  ‘I’ll need to head down and clean the house after the last guests since we still haven’t organised a cleaner.’

  ‘I can help,’ I say. ‘It’d have to be on one of my days off.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I can go when you’re working.’

  ‘Why don’t we just go tomorrow, or after my shift on Thursday, in the afternoon? I could sleep on the way down.’ I don’t want him to resent me for not helping, despite it being his idea.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got no work on Thursday. I can go early in the morning and get back before dark. I’m only thinking of you.’

  ‘Cain,’ I say, reaching for his hand over the table. It’s cool from where he was holding his beer. ‘Let me help.’

  ‘No,’ he says, with the weight of finality that seems to come much easier to men like my husband than women like me. ‘It’s my project and I don’t want you worrying about anything. It’s easier if I manage it.’

  And with that the decision is made. I’m not going to argue when he’s right. The thought of any damage to that house fills my gut with dread, despite the deposit and insurance. I would stress the entire drive down there. He takes a big mouthful of his beer and says, ‘So where exactly is the last place you remember wearing your ring?’

  I drink some of my soda water and an air bubble seems to be trapped in my chest. It hurts to swallow. ‘Oh I forgot to mention,’ I say. ‘It actually turned up.’

  ‘It did?’

  Why did I lie? It came so naturally, so quickly that before I can stop myself more words come out. ‘It was in my locker, like I said. Right down the bottom. It’s actually getting a little big for me, this whole not drinking thing has not only shed weight off my body but my fingers too apparently.’ I try to laugh, but the sound is unnatural. ‘I’ve got to pick it up soon, it’s being resized.’

  He’s frowning. ‘How much does that cost?’

  Before I can answer, his phone buzzes on the table between us and I see Axel’s name. I’m grateful for the distraction. I need to get my ring now. If I can’t get it back from Daniel I’ll have to get a replica made, find a way to siphon the money from our account, take a photo to a jeweller.

  ‘Kia ora,’ Cain says. ‘We’re just at – what’s this bar called, Lina?’

  I crane my head to look through the window at the sign. ‘A Deeper Blue.’

  ‘A Deeper Blue, mate. Just off the viaduct… no worries, I’ll order for you both. Pint of lager and a lemon, lime and bitters.’

  Axel arrives in a tidy faded black shirt and dark jeans. Claire comes in beside him, winged mascara and a warm smile.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ he says, shaking Cain’s hand. Planting a kiss on my cheek. Claire comes over next.

  ‘You look gorgeous as always. Love this top. Where’s it from?’

  Discount bin at H&M. ‘Oh, I can’t remember where I picked this one up.’

  They find their seats beside us and take up the drinks Cain had ordered for them. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be one of those nights where we forget about money and live like Axel and Claire, drinking cocktails and overeating, only to get a reality check when the bill comes. Cain laughs at something Axel has said, but I miss the joke, occupied instead by thoughts of the ring. I devise intricate plans to get it back but they all end the same way, with me having to see Daniel again. Could I really risk it a second time? Claire touches my wrist.

  ‘How is work?’

  I press a smile to my lips. ‘It’s work,’ I say. ‘You?’

  ‘Busy, busy. Classes are filling up and Axel is planning on offering yoga and Pilates when he opens the new gym so we might even work together.’

  ‘Great idea.’

  Axel speaks to me now. ‘So the WeStay idea, was I right or was I right?’

  I smile at him. ‘One booking down. I’ll admit, it’s okay. It’s actually paying for our dinner tonight.’

  ‘It’s money for nothing and your place looks beautiful. Cain showed me the listing.’

  ‘You’ll have to get down to see it in person sometime,’ Cain says. ‘I can’t believe you’ve not been before.’

  ‘Well, we’ll need to get all our travelling in this year.’

  A pause. I watch Axel’s eyes shift, meet his wife’s. He almost seems earnest with a smile beginning at the edges of his lips.

  ‘What?’ Cain says. ‘What is it?’

  I know. Before another word is spoken, I just know. We’ve talked about it ourselves, Cain and I. When will Axel and Claire start trying. I know before she says, ‘We’re having a baby.’ Before Cain gets up and hugs Axel hard, and kisses Claire. Before Cain says, ‘Better get you a top-shelf whisky.’ Before it all happens, I know. I feel sick watching it play out in slow motion before me, trying so hard to smile but feeling like tears could break through at any moment. Why aren’t I happy for them?

  The boys head to the bar for the whisky and Claire’s hand touches mine again. ‘Lina,’ she says. ‘Are you okay? I’m sorry I know it’s hard with…’ A pause. She almost looks guilty. Like Cain’s non-existent sperm count is somehow her fault. ‘You know, I’ve been so nervous about telling you.’
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  ‘Were you trying?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘It just happened I guess. We weren’t not trying.’ A guilty look. ‘I had a bottle of wine that night you guys came over, whoops. But I didn’t know then and the doctor said not to stress about it. We conceived a few weeks before that.’

  I swallow. Squeeze her hand back. ‘I’m happy for you,’ I say. My own desperation has mutated, now I feel a roaring jealousy, frustration and shame. I feel it all rushing about my body. Burning the skin at the back of my neck, my cheeks. Drilling down through my sternum. I’ve not been drinking in case I fell pregnant. I’ve been taking the vitamins for years, forcing Cain to stick to our schedule. We spent so much on IVF and alternative treatments. We’ve been desperate and now it has just happened for Claire and Axel.

  ‘I’m happy for you guys. Really I am.’ I’ve risked everything to try to make it happen for us. It might have worked, I think now. You’ll know very soon.

  The boys are coming back and I don’t even want to guess how much Cain just spent on the whiskies in their hands, served neat. Their glasses clash then they take a sip. Cain seems genuinely happy. I wish I had that. Loyalty to the happiness of those I care about. Another rule of his: squash envy, kill jealousy, celebrate your friends and family. It’s usually such an endearing trait but right now it only makes me sadder.

  ‘I can’t believe you guys are going to be parents,’ I say. ‘It’s such good news.’

  •

  After dinner, when we are home, I’m taken by a sudden fatigue – the compounding effect of shift work – and decide to get to bed. I head downstairs to wish Cain good night and find him in the study. He’s not heard me coming, I realise, with his big noise-cancelling headphones on, and he’s looking at the guests for this weekend. He’s looking at her. The thin sound of rock music escapes the headphones and grows louder as I gently pull one side away. He doesn’t jump, but I notice his shoulders rise, a prickle of irritation.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he says. It’s not a snap exactly, it’s three words said slowly and deliberately as if he’s holding back.