Trilemma (16 page)

“How is she? Is she still with—what was his name?”

Ben is eating his lamb chop with his fingers, tearing the flesh off the bone with his teeth. He puts down the bone and wipes his hands on one of my new napkins.

“Bruce. No, they split. Now she's with some guy called Joe. He has a houseful of children apparently, so she's stepmum and stepaunt and even stepgrandmother to the youngest.”

“That must make her very happy.”

Cheryl was one of the pretty girls who were effortlessly adroit at capturing a tall, handsome, well-paid man. Bruce gave her everything she asked for but the one thing she really wanted—a baby. He had refused to adopt. When Cheryl called Ben, distraught, he'd dropped everything to comfort her.

Including me. Which was okay. Ben knew he didn't have to look out for me. I didn't mind when he canceled the trip I'd paid for. I didn't need to be coddled like Cheryl. I could look after myself. I was used to it.

“What about your sisters? Since you're here for a while, I figured you'd try to track them down.”

“I found them. They live on a farm in Hawke's Bay.”

“Have you met?”

“I tried, but they weren't home.”

“You should try again.”

“When I get the time. How is Emmy?”

His eyes crinkle and his mouth stretches into a fond smile. “She's doing very well.”

“Still splitting her time between your house and her mother's?”

“Yes, although Fay is on sabbatical in South Africa next year, so Emmy will be living with me full time.”

Finally, Ben reaches out and touches my wrist. We haven't yet talked about what has happened between us. I think he wants to, but doesn't know how. He takes my hand in his and holds it and looks at me. His eyes are serious, sad, questioning.

“Lin,” he says. “Lin?”

But I shake my head and withdraw my hand. “I've got some
reading to do,” I say. “If you need any more blankets, they're in the cupboard.”

And I get up and leave him and close the door firmly behind me.

The contract seems even dryer than usual. I read the same numbered paragraph for a third time and press my fingers against the back of my neck, rubbing where it aches. There is a faint murmur of television noise coming through the wall. Half an hour passes before I reach the last page and know that the final version is complete and needs no change.

All is now quiet. I undress, pull on my nightdress, slip into bed, and lie with my eyes open, gazing at the dark ceiling.

I roll onto my stomach and bury my head in the pillow and close my eyes. I roll over onto my back again and open my eyes. I can't risk being distracted from my fabulous job, I know that, and yet—

Being at the top is worth all the sacrifices.

Isn't it?

When I leave the house, he is still asleep, and when I get home that evening, he has gone. I put the sofa back into position and replace the cushions. A faint scent of his aftershave lotion seems to linger, but perhaps it is only my imagination.

My apartment is a haven of tranquility—no people to please, no decisions to make. Empty of distractions.

Perhaps too empty of distractions.

I reheat the leftover buttery potatoes, open a bottle of wine, and sit by the window to eat my meal. As the sun sets, the rose-tinted clouds lie against the eastern hills like fire-lit nudes.

I pour another glass, light a cigarillo, go up to the terrace, and slip into the Jacuzzi. My body floats in the warm water.

What do I want?

I have these feelings; tingling, edgy little feelings, of something more out there. When I close my eyes, I can picture Ben's face, Ben's body. Not a shadow, but rather a bright presence; warm, solid, and near, as if I should open my eyes and turn my head and he would be there.

I sigh, stub out my cigarillo, and return indoors.

The next night when I get home, early, at eight o'clock, Nicholas is downstairs in the hallway, wrenching the front off the massive wooden dresser that is built into the back wall of the hallway. There is a vague smell of something rotten in the air.

He looks up as I pause in the doorway and stares at me with small cold eyes, but I decide to smile politely. Best if we both forget our little contretemps.

“You look busy.”

His eyes flicker. “Gotta get at the drains,” he says. “Looks like they run underneath this thing.”

“Uh-huh,” I answer and start up the stairs.

“You wouldn't believe the rubbish stuck behind these drawers,” he gestures at a pile of assorted papers and pens and bits of fluff. “There was a returned letter of yours somewhere.”

I step back into the hall and examine the pile.

“Here it is,” he says, and hands over a stained and torn envelope.

“Thank you.” I take the envelope upstairs.

Nicholas's eyes follow me up.

I can't read the stained front of the envelope, but on the back is the address for this house, and—it is not my writing. I tilt the light to examine the name. It is not an “L Mere” but an “R Mere.”

Richard Mere. My father.

I look on the front of an envelope again and I can just decipher the words: “Insufficient postage.”

Oh, Dad. So fricking typical of you. I get a sharp knife and slit open the envelope. Inside is a handwritten letter to an address in Macau.

My dearest Li,

Forgive me. You know it didn't mean anything.

I have to stay here, you must realize that. This is where my work is.

I miss you terribly, and so does little Linnet.

Please come home.

Richard.

P.S. I never said it, but I LOVE YOU

Oh God, he sent a letter and it never got to her. I rest my face in my hands. My skin feels hot and moist against my palms. And he betrayed my mother, too, with his screwing around.

When I look up again, the sky has grown dark. They are both dead. It is too late to fix their mistakes.

At my PC I bring up the directory listings and find the telephone numbers of Marchmount, C. and V., and Repati, A. and W.

Finally, I lift my phone and make the call.

A woman's voice, cultured, as if she has had elocution lessons, answers with a voice mail greeting. “Hello, this is the residence of Christopher, Vivienne, and Maximilian. Unfortunately, we can't take your call right now. But do please leave us a message after the tone.”

The beep sounds, but I press the off button without speaking.

The letter sits on the table like a prophet of doom. I take up my phone again and punch in the numbers.

This time a man's voice comes on. “Yeah, g'day, this is Ali and Wal Repati's house. Leave a message.”

“Hello? This is Lin Mere calling. I'm living in New Zealand now and I was hoping we could meet. My number is—” and I leave my phone number.

When I put down the phone, my hands are shaking. The die is cast.

When the telephone rings, I look at it, take a deep breath, and slowly reach out my hand to answer.

“Hello?”

“It's me.”

“Ben! How are you? How is your sister?”

He lets out a sigh. “She's okay, but she wants me to go.”

“It normally takes three days for guests and fish to stink. It's only been two.”

Ben laughs. “Well, I thumped her boyfriend, so she's panicking and wants me out of the house before he wakes up.”

“Good Lord, what for?”

“He beats her up. I wanted to make sure he knows how it
feels. Anyway, would you mind if I stay for a couple of days? My flight home isn't until Monday.”

I feel something warm spreading through my body. I sense something bright hovering at the edge of my mind.

“Sure,” I reply. “I'll leave the key under the pot.”

“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

I put down the phone, roll onto my side, and close my eyes.

Forgive me. You know it didn't mean anything.

When I get home the following evening, Ben is nowhere to be found, not even outside in the Jacuzzi. His pack is in the corner of the living room, and his toiletries are strewn across the bathroom vanity, but the man is not there.

“Hiya!” comes Sally's voice, followed by Sally herself. “Ben's dragging Polly's kennel round the back of the house,” she says. “I've been wanting it moved, and he was happy to oblige.”

“Ah,” I reply.

“Ah, indeed. What a lovely man, Lin. Can I have him?”

“Hands off. I haven't finished with him yet.”

Ben returns in a flurry of child chatter and dog bounce. I watch him come up the stairs toward me, smiling—
shit.
He's got a black eye.

“Send him down to me and I'll see what I can do about the swelling,” Sally says as she leaves.

“Are you okay?” I ask, examining his face. The eye is the most noticeable mark of his battle, but he also has a scrape on his forehead.

“I'm fine,” he says crossly. “That Joe bloke is a big bastard.”

“Sally says she might be able to do something about the swelling.”

He opens the freezer. “I'll use these.”

He throws himself down on the couch with a bag of frozen peas across his face.

The telephone rings and I reach across the table to retrieve the handset.

“Hello, this is Lin.”

“Lin? It's Alison Repati.”

At last!

I clear my throat. “You got my message.”

“Yes, dear, it was lovely to hear from you.”

Ben draws near, his eyes questioning. “My sister,” I whisper.

“I don't know if you knew I was in New Zealand.”

“Yes,” came the response. “We knew as soon as you got here, well almost. I was hoping you'd call. But I guess you're very busy.”

“I have been busy,” I say, wondering why neither of them called me. Perhaps they did and we kept missing each other? Whatever. We were talking now.

“Why don't you pop up to see us some time? If you're not too busy, that is. It doesn't matter if it's not convenient.”

“Tomorrow,” whispers Ben.

“I would love to. Uh, I have a friend visiting and we were thinking of driving up to Napier this weekend. Perhaps we could stop in?”

“Oh. Um. Would you, um,” she says, hesitantly. “Would you like to come for a meal? Or is this too short notice?”

“A meal would be nice.”

“Right. Have you got a pen? The easiest road to take is to come up Highway 2, and then—” and she gives me detailed instructions how to get to their farm.

“We'll see you around six,” I say.

“I look forward to it,” she says.

We are both silent for a moment.

“Okay, see you then.”

“See you.”

“Fuck,” I say when I hang up. And then again, “Fuck.”

“So they knew you were here all along?”

“Apparently so. She said she was hoping I'd call.”

I get up and start tidying the newspaper, placing the sheets together and folding them up. “Fuck.”

Ben stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Lin. They've invited you to visit. That's great.”

I feel too edgy to stand still under his hands, so I step sideways and pace across the room to the window.

“I wonder why they never tried to call me?”

“Ask them.”

“I don't want to.”

I pace to the door, and then I go upstairs and outside on the roof terrace. Again I look north.

Would they really accept me? Or would they turn away?

In front of the mirror, I survey my image, in a white linen dress shorter than I normally wear, and a closer fit around my body than I normally show. I have offset the plainness of the dress with the filigree bead necklace that Ben returned to me. And I leave off the spectacles, slipping my lenses onto my eyes instead.

When I emerge, Ben is sitting up and has returned his pea pack to the freezer.