Joseph spoke in a low voice. ‘Australia does a very good line in wildlife, doesn’t it? I think it’s the first country I’ve been to where you can visit the
national emblem in a zoo in the afternoon and then eat it for dinner that night.’
‘You ate kangaroo?’
‘Actually, no I didn’t. I drew the line at that. And crocodile. And emu. I’m keen to try a fairy penguin burger tonight, though.’
She tried to look appalled and then laughed. ‘And have you done a lot of this sort of tourist thing?’
‘No, this is the first, really. But it’s growing on me.’
‘It’d be a pleasant way to live, wouldn’t it? Being ferried around all day, told where you’re going, what you’re looking at. Like being a baby in a pram all over again.’
‘But you’d have to make sure there was something special, like these swimming penguins, at the end of each trip, wouldn’t you?’ he said in a thoughtful voice. ‘Perhaps Buckingham Palace should follow this example. It would certainly get British tourism up and running again.’
‘What, get your royal princes and princesses to swim home up the Thames each night?’
‘Exactly. Wouldn’t that do them good? They could pick out the rubbish along the way, really earn their keep.’
‘Just as well we don’t have an Irish royal family then. They wouldn’t last an hour in the Liffey, especially the stretch near my house. Too busy dodging all the shopping trolleys in there.’
‘The Liffey? I thought that was in Dublin.’
‘It is.’
‘But you live near Galway, don’t you?’
She gazed at him. This was it. This was the time to confess all. No, she didn’t live in Galway. She lived in Dublin. And her name was actually Eva, not Niamh. And just by the way, she wasn’t actually a sculptor, she was a very ordinary shop assistant.
But at that moment she realised she didn’t want to tell him the truth. She liked the way he called her Niamh. She liked how interested he was in her sculpture. How curious he was about where her ideas came from. How he really listened to her when she answered his questions. She was liking lots of other things about him too. His clever, kind face. His great smile. It seemed to start in his eyes before it reached his lips.
And she felt she had lots to talk to him about. As Niamh, that was. Ordinary old Eva would have found it much harder, she was sure of it. She would have felt awkward. Tongue-tied. But pretending to be Niamh made her feel different. It was like slipping on a confidence cloak, an invisible shield between her and the rest of the world. If she told him the truth now it would only change things, wouldn’t it? Spoil their trip? She didn’t want to do that.
He was still waiting on her answer. She made her decision. ‘Sorry, I meant to say when I used to live in Dublin. Years ago. I went to art school there.’
As the bus drove through Melbourne’s suburbs she started to relax. She really didn’t have to keep up the Niamh charade all the time, she realised with relief. There were plenty of safe subjects. They talked about their impressions of Australia. He talked about London. She talked about Ireland. She told him about her parents and much older sister. He told her he was an only child, that his parents had divorced years before. He talked about university, she talked about art school. They talked about the sort of music they listened to, books they’d read. He wanted to read a book of Australian short stories that she had and she offered to lend it to him. She wanted to read the Bill Bryson book he had, so he offered to lend her that. ‘You like reading, Niamh?’ ‘I love it,’ she said. Truthfully again. ‘I keep picking books up at markets and things, thinking, Oh, I must read that one, oh here’s a classic I haven’t read. I’m hoping for a long retirement, I think, a chance to catch up on them all. Or a broken leg, even. Something that keeps me bedbound for a few months. It’s my only hope of catching up on my reading.’ She was surprised at the sudden smile he gave her. The more they talked, the more he listened, the more confident she became. He asked her lots of questions, listening closely as she described her childhood and her adventures with her friend Lainey. She
told him that Lainey had emigrated to Australia, that she was staying with her now.
‘You’re not staying with Greg then?’
‘With Greg?’ she said, puzzled. ‘No. Why would I stay with him?’
‘Isn’t he your boyfriend?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said firmly.
She thought she felt a sudden, subtle change in the mood between them.
They reached Phillip Island just as the sun was setting. Their bus group joined many other groups of people strolling along the beachside boardwalk to a kind of open grandstand facing the ocean. As the sun disappeared into the horizon, sending bright pink and orange light into the sky, the seats filled completely. There were hundreds of people sitting there.
Eva shivered, the cardigan she was wearing not much protection against the sea breeze.
‘Are you cold?’ Joseph asked.
She turned toward him and shook her head. ‘No, it’s not too bad, really. I’ll be grand.’
He had taken off his coat before she had time to protest. ‘Please, wear this.’
‘But you …’
He gave her that slow smile again, the one that did odd things to her heartbeat. ‘I’m fine. Please, you wear it.’
He helped her put it on. It was still warm from his body. She could smell the subtle aftershave he wore. Then someone called out from behind them. ‘Look, here they come!’
Eva was glad of the distraction. Completely conscious of Joe sitting close beside her, of the feel of his coat around her, she gazed out to sea, trying to sight any penguins in the water. There were just a few at first, all under two feet high, surfing the waves into the beach and waddling up the sand, past the grandstand packed with people and up to their burrows in the sandhills behind.
As the minutes went by, there were dozens more, each one funnier than the last. There were small darting penguins, in a big rush to get back to their burrows. Slow-moving, plump ones, their tiny wings outstretched as though they were carrying invisible and very heavy suitcases. Several indecisive ones, coming halfway up the beach before changing their minds and starting to head back to sea. There was a very round, comical one that Joe pointed out to her. She indicated a tall, thin one. ‘Ally McBeak,’ she whispered. He gave a quick, low laugh, an amused look in his eyes.
Soon there seemed to be hundreds of penguins, the sea alive with them, the beach crowded with small waddling bodies. As another few dozen birds ambled by, so close they could have leaned over and touched them, Joseph leaned over and spoke in a quiet voice.
‘Do you suppose there’s a penguin tourist industry operating at the bottom of the sea as well?’
She was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, maybe word’s got around among the penguins. “Come on, let’s all go to this beach, just on the edge of this little island near Melbourne. It’s incredible. Night after night, there are hundreds of humans just sitting there, looking out to sea. It’s really worth a look.”’
Eva’s sudden burst of laughter brought a sharp glance from the guide.
Their bus was back at the hostel by ten o’clock. Stepping off it, they stood side by side. Eva felt a little awkward. She didn’t want the night to end yet. Summoning her courage, she was about to ask if he’d like to have a drink when he beat her to it.
They walked along the Esplanade, coming to a big white hotel, crowded with people. A blackboard out the front advertised several bands. A poster on the door read: ‘Cabaret tonight in The Gershwin Room.’ ‘Would you like to try that?’ he asked. ‘Not too noisy?’
‘Oh, I do like to come in out of the Celtic mists now and then.’
They walked into a back room, dodging the crowds, the carpet sticky under their feet. At the door a young woman was packing away a tray of money. She waved them in. ‘The band’s doing their final set, you’re just in time.’
The room was like an intimate club, darkly lit, a coloured mirror ball throwing drops of light onto the walls. On stage a five-piece band was doing cover versions of classic songs. The male singer, dressed in a beige lounge suit and rollneck jumper, was crooning into the microphone like a young Dean Martin. The small dancefloor was crowded.
They found a vacant table at the side of the room. ‘Can I get you a drink, Niamh? Wine? Beer?’
‘Red wine. But let me.’
He stood up. ‘No, I’ll get it.’
She watched him as he went over to the bar. He was tall enough that she could see him over the crowd, talking to the barmaid. He had such beautiful manners, she thought. Greg should take some lessons.
He came back with their two glasses of wine just as the band finished a funny, extravagant version of ‘What’s New Pussycat’. The band was very slick, three guitars, a keyboard, drums. The singer was only young but with a strong, pure voice, taking the microphone from the stand and moving out into the crowd, speaking in a patently fake American accent, playing up to the audience. He moved smoothly into Frank Sinatra mode with ‘Night And Day’ and ‘Fly Me To The Moon’.
Then he introduced the final number. ‘Last chance for the dancefloor, ladies and gentlemen. Last chance to dance.’ The band started the distinctive introduction to Burt Bacharach’s ‘Anyone Who Had
A Heart’. The singer went down on one knee, his voice low and sexy. Eva smiled. It could have been Luther Vandross himself singing. She felt a touch on her arm. She turned. It was Joe, looking very serious.
‘Our last chance to dance. Will you, Niamh?’ He held out his hand.
The colour rushed to her face. She hoped the low light hid it. ‘Dance?’
The singer used a break in the lyrics to repeat his words. ‘Your very last chance, ladies and gentlemen. The dancefloor awaits.’
Around them several other couples got up, smiling at the singer’s patter.
Joe was waiting, the amused look still in his eyes. ‘Our last chance, Niamh,’ he repeated.
She stood up then. The wine and the dim lights and the music seemed to be having a strange effect on her heartbeat. It was racing. She followed Joe to the dancefloor. They stood still for a moment, just inches from each other.
‘I did tell you I was the British ballroom-dancing champion as a child, didn’t I?’ he whispered.
‘I had wondered about that number pinned to your back.’
He gave her a sudden smile, then took her hand in his. She put her other hand on his shoulder. It felt firm, muscular. The music was slow and sensual. Slowly they began to move round the dancefloor. She was intensely conscious of the feel of his hand
on her waist. The realisation that he was so much taller than her, that his aftershave was having an odd chemical reaction with her blood. She saw the crease in his cheek again, this time from very close range. He had laughter lines around his eyes. And she noticed in the light that his hair was going just slightly grey.
She closed her eyes briefly. The dancefloor was very crowded now. She felt his hand around her waist, the slight pressure. His body, close to hers. It felt good. Better than good …
Then it was over. They sat down, the applause for the band sounding around them. But it took a while for her heart to stop beating so quickly.
The main lights came on too soon, too bright and revealing, the taped music jarring after the smooth sounds of the band, changing the mood. They joined the rest of the crowd filing out into the night air, squelching over the sticky carpet again. She didn’t want to go home yet. They started walking, heading toward the pier by unspoken agreement. She glanced at him. He didn’t seem to want to go home yet either.
They walked along the wooden boards, talking softly, passing other people, some fishing, others just standing there talking in low voices. They stopped before they got to the cafe at the end of the pier and leaned against the barrier. A wind had whipped up, the air suddenly chilled. She shivered.
‘Would you like my coat again?’ he asked, his voice low.
‘That’s not fair. Then you’ll get cold.’
His eyes were dark in the moonlight. ‘We could share it.’
As she came toward him, he opened his jacket and folded it close around her. She felt the warmth again, the feel of his chest close against her own. There was a long moment when they were still. She felt all her senses wake. She could hear the waves hitting the beach, feel the breeze against her face, smell the salt in the air. The touch of his hands on her back. He leaned toward her, his lips touched hers. It was the softest of kisses. A gentle exploration, tentative. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his body, the feel of his arms behind her, holding the coat against her. It felt safe and beautiful and sensual all at once.
After a long while she pulled away, overwhelmed with how she was feeling. His eyes were dark, his expression as serious as she knew hers was. The next kiss lasted even longer, soft and slow. Eva closed her eyes tight, feeling the caress of his fingers on her back. She moved closer against him.
‘Niamh,’ he breathed her name.
Her eyes snapped open. He’d called her Niamh. He was kissing Niamh, not Eva. Had she taken complete leave of her senses? What had got into her on this holiday? She had to slow all this down, she had
to tell him the truth. She stopped the kissing then and took a small step back. ‘Joe, I’m sorry …’
‘It’s all right, really. I understand.’
‘You understand?’
‘It’s all happening too quickly?’
She gazed up at him. Hating herself, hating her cowardliness, she nodded. ‘That’s it, I suppose.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘Will we go back?’
Slowly, arms around one another, they started to walk back along the jetty. Eva felt self-conscious again. It did seem to be happening too quickly, and she didn’t know quite what to do now.
Halfway along, it started to rain. By the time they reached the Esplanade it was pouring down. A taxi pulled up beside them, two people jumping out and running across the road to the hotel. The driver wound down the window and called out to them. ‘You waiting?’
Eva felt like she needed to press a pause button for a moment, take all of this in, before anything else happened. ‘Yes, please,’ she called to the driver.