The Lost Swimmer (5 page)

‘Of course not,' said Stephen, shifting uncomfortably. I knew that he'd tried to meet with Patrick during the week to discuss Priscilla's complaint about me, but Patrick had been unavailable.

‘Pretty good bash you've got here,' said the Vice-Chancellor.

‘Would you like another?' Priscilla took Patrick's glass. ‘And Stephen, you don't even have a drink. I'll soon set that right.' She sashayed off to the bar. ‘And one for you too, Rebecca,' she called back.

Patrick leaned closer to us and James discreetly stepped back into the crowd. ‘I invited her to clear the air. I think the mediation should go on. Let nature run its course. Priscilla has her own methods of leadership, which I respect.' He tapped my arm. ‘Don't worry, the university values you, Rebecca, it'll be fine.'

‘Thanks, Patrick, that's reassuring to hear,' I replied. Stephen leaned in and mumbled something unintelligible to Patrick, who laughed.

Priscilla returned with the drinks and Patrick whisked her off to the dance floor. She'd brought me champagne and Stephen a martini, something he drank only rarely, on special occasions. How did she know? As Stephen was called across to a group of friends and I went to follow, James drew me aside.

‘Mum, I really do need to talk to you,' he implored.

‘Sorry, darling, what is it?'

‘I've had a humungous row with Klair. She was disgustingly rude about you and I told her to get stuffed.'

I tried to take in what he said but I was too preoccupied.

‘You're not listening!' James spotted Klair advancing and dashed away.

‘Happy now, darling?' Klair swayed drunkenly in absurdly high black and red stilettos covered in a design of cobwebs and bats. She was wearing a sleeveless version of her dark goth robes, displaying tattoos of more cobwebs with red-back spiders, and skulls. She settled against me. ‘What a shame you hated my decorating – I always thought we could have been friends.'

‘You never know, we still could be.' I smiled. ‘Want to dance?'

Klair paused, put one hand to her brow then tottered off. I downed my champagne.

‘Did you see who our tormentor's here with?' Robert Fleming planted two kisses on me, one on each cheek. ‘My God, parading her power! What chance do any of us have?' He lowered his voice. ‘Priscilla emailed me this morning, complaining about student numbers in American Revolution. She's micromanaging now. She's out of control.' Pam waddled over, pregnant belly huge in a tight-fitting purple dress, looking like she might topple face first. She jingled with chunky silver chains. ‘I wouldn't have come if I'd known that bitch Priscilla would be here!'

‘I didn't invite her, she gate-crashed,' I said, accepting another champagne from a passing waiter and drinking it rapidly.

‘And I can't even get plastered and pretend it's not happening,' groaned Pam.

Rachel came up, sparkling in a black dress and gold jewellery. ‘The nerve of the woman. What's she playing at?'

‘Dad seems pleased!' said Erin as she joined us, radiantly happy, dressed provocatively in a white cotton dress the size of a tea towel that showed off her youthful good looks. The muscles in my neck relaxed as I saw that she'd snapped out of her anger.

‘This is my daughter, Erin,' I said proudly to Pam and Robert, and they both shook her hand. Rachel kissed her warmly, having known her all her life.

‘Excuse us,' said Erin and led me gracefully to the dance floor, where she shimmied and dipped in perfect rhythm to the music. I fell into the beat as she clasped my hands and swirled us around. As we swept across the floor heads turned. Usually I hated being the centre of attention, but tonight it felt surprisingly good. I hoped Priscilla was watching with envy. Erin led confidently, twirling me like a whirling dervish. The lights whipped by.

Stephen flicked past in the corner of the room, then Klair, walking weirdly in her impossible stilettos. Where was my poor son? It took a few moments to realise I was losing balance. When the fall came, it was spectacular. First the legs, bending as they snapped earthwards; my arms splayed out and Erin's strong hands darted in to no avail. I heard a gasp from the crowd, even above the decibels of the music. Then I was trying to get back on my feet, aware of a sharp pain in my ankle but trying to ignore it. Melinda miraculously appeared, lithe in a sleeveless black top and black trousers, making simplicity stylish as only an ex-model could. She helped Erin take me across to the refuge of a chair.

I waved to the peering, gleaming sets of eyes. ‘I'm fine! I'm fine! Nothing broken except my pride! I've heard it comes before a fall!' The pain was so excruciating I was worried I'd chipped a bone. I now prayed that Priscilla hadn't been looking.

‘That was awesome, Mum! I'll get us some sustenance.' Erin patted me on the shoulder and happily trotted off.

Melinda was feeling my legs in a confident, no-nonsense medical manner. My head exploded as her soft, caring hands reached my right ankle. ‘Any of these friends of yours doctors?' she asked.

‘Only the academic variety, I'm afraid.'

‘Well, that's useless,' Melinda muttered, ‘as always.'

‘Can I help?' Erin had returned with a kind-faced youth about her age, who wore an expensive cotton shirt and tailored trousers that made the most of a body battling puppy fat.

‘Jeremy's a doctor, Mum,' she said proudly.

I was surprised – he barely looked old enough to be out of school.

‘A med student,' he smiled. ‘Third year. Where does it hurt?' He squatted at my feet and I pointed to my ankle.

Erin put her hands on Jeremy's shoulders in a familiar, intimate way and I realised that I'd been too preoccupied to ask if she was bringing anyone to the party. It struck me it was the first time she'd had a boyfriend without telling me.

Jeremy gently felt my ankle, which was swelling like a balloon. ‘Ice,' he muttered, and looked up. ‘Ice, compression, elevation,' he recited. ‘I think it's just a mild sprain.'

‘I might sit out the next dance.'

‘And the rest,' he replied. ‘I'll see if there's a first-aid kit here.'

‘Thanks, Jeremy. So, where did you two meet?'

‘Pub chess,' replied Erin, grinning. ‘Jeremy always wins. We'll get you that ice.' She led her beau off to the bar.

‘Doctor Jeremy's just a kid,' said Melinda, green eyes burning with worry. ‘Do you think we should see a grown-up?'

I squealed as Stephen ambushed from behind and lifted me airborne in a rugby tackle.

‘Careful! She's just had a nasty fall!' Melinda, always the protector.

‘I know! I just wanted to check you're okay.' He planted a sloppy kiss on my neck.

‘I'm fine,' I said, not wanting to worry him. ‘You're blind drunk, already!'

‘Why not? I'm never going to turn fifty again!' Stephen hailed a waiter and passed me a glass of wine. ‘To take the pain away.' He kissed me again and weaved his way onto the dance floor, waving as he was swept into the heady mass.

‘I could drive you up to Geelong to the hospital?' said Melinda.

‘Thanks, Mel, but it's okay.'

I sat down in agony. Melinda pulled up a chair to rest my leg on and then perched beside me. I knew she'd keep watch over me the entire night. Jeremy returned with supplies: he bandaged my ankle tightly and Melinda held the glass of ice to the swelling as Jeremy went off to dance with Erin.

‘I'm going to miss you, Mel.'

‘The time will fly.' She smiled. ‘Although it's crawling at the moment. I just can't wait to be on that plane.'

We watched the crowd in companionable silence as I tried to ignore the pain that was now shooting up my leg. As the music beat a tribal rhythm and silhouettes shimmied through the tangle of technicolour lights, it seemed both an eternity and yet not that long ago that I'd been at dancing classes as a teenager, where I'd spent a great deal of time avoiding boys with sweaty palms and heavy feet, many of whom were fishermen's kids like me.

The years dissolved and I wondered what all the soul searching and competitiveness had been for. To what advantage? And what end? It was how identities were forged, money made, conversation with strangers had. But was someone who had done nothing public or notable any poorer? To achieve happiness and generosity of spirit, these things mattered. To garner wealth and fame – or at least in academic circles, be known and respected – did it really amount to much, was it worth the countless hours poured into one's identity? With universities changing, becoming as much about business as the acquisition of knowledge, we were all under such pressure with time. Expected to teach and publish in ever-greater, ferocious quantities, pressed to breaking point. Why were we all going along with it? Was it only out of necessity?

And always on the horizon, the trappings of wealth hovered inescapably. I gazed at our friends dancing the hours away; jewellery flashed, dresses flitted, well-fitted suits and beautiful shirts plucked out for the occasion. For a brief moment, it all meant nothing. I listened to the chatter enveloping me; academics talking endlessly about each other, the eternal conversation that was a pleasure and curse of our profession. So often inward-looking and gossip-based, it somehow nurtured and fuelled our passion to gather knowledge and help make sense of an increasingly senseless world.

I spotted Priscilla through the crowd and suddenly I seized on the cocktail she'd given Stephen. Had Geoff the barman suggested it? Or had I witnessed a knowing confidence in Priscilla? Was she the reason Stephen had been staying out late? I remembered when we were friends what good company she could be, witty and generous. I thought that side of her had disappeared as she'd manoeuvred up the ranks. People change, but maybe not – strip back the layers like a dig, and the original can still be there. I felt nauseous at the thought of her flirting with Stephen.

I scoped every female in the room. If there was a woman, was she here? Did she really exist? My head whirred with possibilities. Maybe Geoff simply had a martini ready for Stephen. He knew his tastes, and Stephen
was
the guest of honour. Priscilla had been very quick in fetching the drinks – there hadn't really been enough time for one to be made from scratch.

Exhaustion was overtaking me and, as I grew numbed by wine, the evening started to implode. Like the dust in a comet's tail. Star dust. Galactic dust. Solar dust. I was drifting into oblivion when something caught my eye and my stomach dropped.

In the far corner of the room, Stephen and Priscilla stood talking. There was an intimacy as their bodies inclined towards each other, like they were drawn together in a magnetic field. As if sensing they were being watched, they suddenly stepped apart.

I blinked, hoping I'd just imagined it. They walked off in different directions and Stephen led Erin to the dance floor.

‘She's gone, Mum.' James's distraught voice hauled me back.

‘Who?'

‘Klair.'

I held out my arms and he crumpled into me. ‘I'm so sorry,' I whispered as I kissed his emu-feather hair and inhaled his raucous aftershave.

‘I hadn't realised how completely tasteless she was until today,' James said bleakly.

‘We were all stressed. Maybe she'll feel differently in the morning, sober?' I hoped that Klair wouldn't change her mind, and I knew James was destined for someone so much better.
Someone like me
, I thought, and caught the words just before they exited my wine-stained lips.

‘Luckily I'm not that keen on her,' said James.

‘I thought you were?'

‘Well, not really. Not now. You never liked her, did you? Why am I such a fool, Mum?'

‘She wasn't our favourite . . .'

‘Who was?'

‘The one you're going to meet next.'

James gave a mock punch to my jaw and I mock bit his fist. I really was drunk to be behaving like this in public. And when I looked up, there was Priscilla, with the Vice-Chancellor.

‘Just wanted to thank you for a lovely party, Rebecca,' said Patrick. I rose, trying not to show the searing pain I felt in my ankle.

‘Many thanks,' smiled Priscilla and winked. She sashayed off into the night with Patrick. As I watched her taut, athletic figure in the black dress I imagined her with Stephen and then forced myself to stop.

‘I
trust you won't find this too confronting, Rebecca.' Priscilla tapped me on the arm as she intercepted me in the doorway of Coastal's plush Counselling and Wellbeing Centre. My skin shrivelled. ‘Thanks again for the delightful party,' she said. ‘I hope you and Stephen weren't too worse for wear the next day?'

‘We all had a great time, thanks.' I sounded like I was the guest and she was the host. ‘How many sessions are you planning for us?'

‘That depends on how it goes. The other Heads and I have got rather into a pattern. People find it helpful. It can be open ended.'

‘Welcome, ladies,' said Vincent O'Shannessy, the mediator, a bone-thin, demure man in his early sixties with a thin slick of sandy hair combed over a pale scalp. One of the few psychologists who had survived a recent restructuring of the Centre, he led us into his office and gestured towards the armchairs arranged in a trio. Priscilla took the one with the view of the glittering coastline, O'Shannessy plonked in his commanding seat and I was left to limp around to the one facing the wall. I had tried to prepare for the session, forming my arguments, but Priscilla was far more experienced given she was in mediation with all her Heads, which made me nervous.

‘I'm going to leave it pretty much to you two,' announced O'Shannessy, ‘but I'll come in and pick up the slack and tackle if required.' He chuckled.

‘Thanks for coming, Rebecca,' said Priscilla. ‘I thought I might get the ball rolling by asking you to talk about why you've been so hostile towards me?' She eyed me with a steely gaze that was not in the least friendly, and her sudden mood change caught me off guard.