The Last Guests

by J. P. Pomare

  ‘The guests must love this?’

  ‘This is the first booking we’ve taken since the renovation,’ Claire says. It’s clear from the way she oscillates her wineglass, almost spilling the chardonnay, that she’s at least halfway drunk. I had always assumed cool girls like Claire would drink negronis or craft beer, not the wine I associate with middle-aged housewives.

  ‘Have you guys had any bad reviews?’

  A long silence, she takes a sip and the air becomes thick and cool.

  ‘Not yet,’ she says. Then she turns away from the skyline, facing me. ‘How are you guys going?’

  ‘Us? We’re good,’ I say, guarded. There is something off in her tone. Did she notice I’ve been preoccupied tonight? She continues watching me until I feel the urge to speak again. ‘Cain’s good. He seems to enjoy working and it’s getting him out of the house. Business seems to be picking up for him.’

  Her eyes don’t leave mine as she takes another gulp of wine. ‘Can I talk to you about something that might seem a little …’ Her free hand dances in the air between us. ‘What’s the word … gauche?’ she says. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, a feeling of alarm resonating inside me. ‘It depends.’

  A moment passes, I see her uncertainty.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look, this is a little awkward but I know you guys are struggling. Axel won’t bring it up directly with Cain.’ A pause. ‘It’s just Axel’s gym is at capacity, and he’s giving up some of his own clients for Cain.’ I can see the colour in her cheeks. She’s holding her glass in two hands but takes one off to twist a finger at the corner of her eye. ‘Axel told me Cain has had a couple of arguments with people at the gym, he snapped at one of the regulars. I guess I’m wondering if everything is okay with him?’

  I think of the broken handle on the cutlery drawer at home, a stray spoon was lodged and it wouldn’t open, he’d ripped it off in frustration. The year he returned from Afghanistan he was going to physio three times a week, a therapist once and taking handfuls of painkillers and antidepressants. Are those old demons from the war back? Has he been going through hell again right under my nose?

  ‘He’s doing okay,’ I say. ‘He might have been a little bit off the last few weeks but he’s been training hard and getting in the right head space.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Well, Axel wants to open a second gym and after this renovation, money has become really tight for us. I’m sure it took a bit of pressure off when he stopped charging Cain for the use of the gym but now he wants to give Cain a loan, to help him get things moving.’

  I can feel blood rushing to my own cheeks now. Axel isn’t charging Cain anymore? How are we still going backwards when my income is enough to cover the bills? ‘But Cain’s business is doing okay,’ I say. ‘What do you mean get things moving?’

  She doesn’t say the word ‘Oh’, but her mouth forms the shape, those perfect eyebrows lift a fraction.

  ‘Claire,’ I say, my voice firm.

  ‘Shit, I’ve put my foot in it.’ She clamps a hand to her forehead, swings her head away then back to me. ‘Pretend I never said anything. Please?’ She tosses her free hand as if dismissing the entire conversation. ‘Let the boys figure it out, I don’t know why I brought it up.’

  ‘I mean, yeah, I knew the business was struggling,’ I say, ‘but he doesn’t need a loan.’ I feel sick thinking about it. We’ve wasted so much money the last couple of years. No secrets, he promised.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says.

  Oh my God, I think recognising the sadness in her eyes, she actually feels sorry for me.

  ‘I just wanted to make sure he was okay. You know what those boys are like. It’s not in their blood to ask for help.’

  I try to smile. ‘Sure.’ I check my phone. It’s almost time for me to go.

  The boys look up from an iPad as we enter the house and their conversation stops. ‘What’s up?’ Cain says, the booze melting the hard consonants.

  ‘Nothing, I was just admiring the view out there. Incredible, Axel. You guys have done such a good job with the renovation.’

  Claire strides into the room, places one hand on Axel’s shoulder and replaces his glass on the coaster with the other.

  ‘Sorry darling, we’re still talking about WeStay,’ he says. ‘I’ve almost convinced him.’

  I feel a pang of frustration slap the back of my neck. Is that the point of this dinner? To help us make money? Cain once told me Axel was like his older brother, he’d never let Cain get into trouble. But what if Axel sees things differently? What if Cain isn’t like a brother, but a liability?

  ‘It’s not him that needs convincing I’m sorry to say.’

  I can see Cain has already decided, and my objection is the only thing between him and a new way to make money. My husband has principles he lives by. This is one of them: always look after us first. We never should have ended up here, treading water financially, in a place we don’t love, doing work we resent. The plan was – no, the plan is to move to Tarawera, without the big city rent and expenses, to start a family, to live quiet and still as the lake. We’d be there now, if it wasn’t for me. If I’d not failed. If I’d not lost the baby. That’s how marriages begin to break, isn’t it? One tiny thing derails all the big plans and the rot creeps through a once blooming garden.

  A knot of guilt in my throat. I check my phone, swallow hard. Certain now that I’m doing the right thing.

  ‘I should probably get going,’ I say.

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  TWO

  FAVOURS AREN’T FREE, I think, as I drive back through the streets, reach the motorway and set out towards the city. Gifts and favours arrive yoked with obligation – the giver will one day be the receiver – but also the expectation of gratitude. Axel has been doing Cain a favour, which means he’s doing me a favour. And this idea that he might give Cain money, enough money for Claire to raise it with me, sounds like a big debt we would have to cover one way or another.

  It’s not that I don’t trust Axel, it’s just that he wheels and deals, and I don’t want Cain to end up in an awkward situation with his best friend. You know the guy that would always put you in a taxi if you were too drunk? That’s Cain. You know the guy that fed you too many shots? That’s Axel.

  Cain’s a gambler. It’s something he inherited from his father. Not that I knew the man. The only time I saw him, it was just his body. A sorry affair even for a funeral, with no family other than Cain and his father’s second ex-wife who had come to the funeral home on her lunch break, still in her bank teller’s uniform. She’d asked Cain, ‘How did you know Barry?’

  ‘I didn’t really,’ he had said, the conversation ending there.

  At least he inherited something of value from his mother. My favourite piece of jewellery, my wedding ring. Which reminds me – at a set of lights I twist the ring off and string it through my necklace.

  I pull off the motorway in the heart of the city. Stay the course, I tell myself. Could I have rescheduled, thought it over more? No, it has to be tonight, it has to be now. Cain will drink himself into a stupor before falling into the back seat of an Uber and somehow making his way up the stairs to bed. That’s something I grew out of, but he did not. The occasional binge. I check my phone to make sure I’m heading in the right direction. I pull into a side street nearby, park, then get out and open the boot, fetching my duffel bag. A truck is parked on the road ahead, the drive
r is leaning against the door looking down at his phone and smoking a cigarette. I climb back into the car. I change clothes quickly with the seat back, slipping out of my jeans and blouse, wrangling a dress over my body. I glance towards the end of the road where the trucker is still standing. He’s watching the car. The dress leaves a generous measure of leg exposed. I add heels, tossing my sneakers in the back, then a dark coat. The bar is walking distance from here.

  In the rear-view mirror, I apply a little more make-up and then I spray on some of my Le Labo perfume – an expensive wedding gift I’ve managed to stretch out for five years. I’ll have to wash it off later. I open my phone. I’d started downloading the app again as soon as I got in the car, and now I send a message.

  So sorry I’m running late, be there in five, don’t start without me!

  The trucker glances up as I cross the road, watching me in the jaundiced streetlight, before tilting his head back down to his phone.

  It’s dark and cool out. On the other side of the street is a dimly lit park. I swallow hard as a pulse of fear races over my skin. I think of those faces that pop up a couple of times a year on the news – girls, usually walking home alone. So many murders, so many rapes seem to happen in suburban parks on quiet dark streets with big trees that absorb screams. If something did happen, what would Cain think? Would he work out why I was here and not at work? I swallow hard and lengthen my stride. No stopping now.

  Years ago, when Cain was still in Afghanistan, I’d boasted to close girlfriends that we had better sex than I’d ever had. He was indelicate but considerate. I remember when we first met how much I wanted him from the moment I saw those thick lips, the moment he spoke. He was so unlike the boys I’d known.

  But things change, especially sex. It becomes regimented, dull. I can’t remember the last time it felt fulfilling or genuinely exciting. Who knows, maybe Cain feels the same.

  Turning my gaze from the park, I look towards the houses crowded in a row on the other side of the road, some with lights brightening curtains and blinds, some dark and still as the night.

  A distant grumble comes from beyond the houses; it could be the sky heralding a storm, or it could be a particularly loud truck on the motorway.

  My phone vibrates. I open the app and see his response: a photo of a pint of beer, half gone already and a caption: Couldn’t wait …

  I use the selfie camera on my phone to check my teeth for lipstick. I barely look like myself.

  At the end of the street, I can see a strip of shops, a couple of restaurants and the corner pub. Anglers Tavern.

  We’re meeting on a weeknight because I knew it would be quieter, but also because there is less chance of bumping into someone. I have reached a stage in my life where I don’t know anyone who would be at a bar on a Thursday night. I’ve taken other precautions: only use cash, turn off location services on my phone, which I do now. Most importantly: be late, be quick.

  The moment I’m inside, I spot him. Not because he looks like his photos but because he’s the only one sitting alone. An air of anticipation floats around him like a noxious gas. I make myself move in his direction, smile. Then he glances up from his phone, his hand rises; a small flick of the wrist.

  ‘Hello, Daniel.’

  ‘Hi,’ he says, standing from his seat. A hint of a smile on his lips. I see his pint is now empty. Dutch courage? Booze hound? Just like Cain, I suppose.

  I kiss his cheek, ignoring his outstretched hand. ‘Nice to finally meet,’ I say.

  A flutter in my stomach; a swarm of butterflies. He’s not ugly, but he doesn’t really look like his profile picture. Most people might be annoyed, but I’m relieved he’s not too attractive. He’s just what I’m after. He’s also wearing glasses, which give him a sort of tattooed Clark Kent vibe. I wonder for a moment if they’re an affectation or real.

  ‘You don’t look much like your profile pic,’ he says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. Is this a neg? Or honesty? To be fair, I have photoshopped it, so it doesn’t look exactly like me, plausible deniability etc. If you reverse image-search my profile photo, you won’t find any of my social media accounts.

  ‘I mean that in the best possible way,’ he adds.

  And you’re nowhere near as hot as your profile pic, I think but it’s too early in the piece to lance his ego, and despite the fact he’s not exactly like the image on the app, he’s still my type. The type I’m after anyway.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, no. It’s true. You’re stunning.’

  ‘Don’t flatter me. I wasn’t expecting glasses?’

  ‘I inherited my father’s bad eyes, unfortunately.’

  Noted. I move on and ask him about work, even though I already know the details.

  ‘I’ve got my own business,’ he says. ‘I’m like a handyman.’

  ‘So you clear drains for housewives, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, missing the joke but smiling properly for the first time. His smile is self-conscious and creeps up from the corners of his lips. He glances back towards the bar. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘The first round is on me,’ I say, pointing at his empty glass. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘You like to be in charge?’

  ‘I do,’ I say, forcing another smile. This is all moving so quickly it feels like a form of motion sickness. I know the feeling will be with me most of the night but hopefully it’s worth it in the end.

  ‘I’ll have another lager.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Sorry?’ He looks confused.

  ‘Are you going to say please?’

  He gives me a knowing look; a slight smile shifts his wet lips. ‘Please.’

  The barman is young and sharp cheeked, with the sort of bowl haircut for which kids were once bullied.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Can I get a lime and soda, and a pint of lager?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  I hand him a note, then lean over the bar. ‘Can you do me a favour? See that man I’m with?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, if he orders a vodka-soda for me, could you make sure that it’s just lime and soda. I’m not actually drinking tonight.’

  His pale face shapes into a question mark. ‘We’ve got mocktails.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I’m not drinking but – ’

  ‘You want him to think you are?’ He looks shocked, a hand comes to his chest.

  ‘No, it’s …’ I begin, but when he smiles I realise he’s mocking me. ‘I just don’t want to hurt his ego. You ever been on one of those dates that you know probably isn’t worth the hangover?’ That’s the truth. It’s not worth the hangover, but more importantly I can’t turn up at home stinking of booze.

  A knowing smile, he flashes a wink. ‘Say no more. Lime and sodas all night for you. Want me to charge him for the vodka?’

  I shrug one shoulder. ‘If that’s cool with you.’

  ‘I don’t mind either way.’

  I carry a glass in each hand back to our table. Daniel’s head is down, staring at his phone, I see only the diamond shape of his back, that neckless look of rugby players.

  ‘You never told me what you do, Anna?’

  ‘Me?’ I think for a moment, placing our drinks down and sitting on the bench seat beside him. I had an answer prepared but it’s escaped my mind. I improvise. ‘I’m actually a doctor.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, feeling a little flustered now.

  ‘At a hospital? Or a clinic?’

  ‘Middlemore,’ I lie. ‘I’m a doctor at Middlemore. But enough about work, what do you do for fun?’

  ‘I’m a country boy. I go fishing and hunting a bit. Other than that, I just train.’

  ‘Train?’

  ‘Gym and boxing,’ he says.

  I pout my bottom lip and give a nod. ‘You’re a fighter?’

  ‘Not quite, just do it to keep fit and healthy.’

  ‘Your
muscles are not just for the girls?’

  He’s mid-twenties, dark clipped hair and a hairline that perhaps goes a little too close to his heavy brow, which if I were being unkind, I would describe as caveman-esque. But beneath that brow and behind those glasses, he has the most arresting green eyes.

  ‘No, I’m a good boy. I’m not always out chasing girls.’

  Why do we call it butterflies, this feeling? Why not moths? Whatever it is, it’s not a pleasant feeling. Excitement, yes, but with equal parts anxiety. ‘Is that right? They chase you?’

  He glances down into his pint, at the tide marks of beer foam.

  I reach for his glasses. I feel like I’m an actor on stage playing the role of someone with the chutzpah to take off a man’s glasses just to try them on myself. When I do, the world blurs a little. But not too much.

  ‘You sure you need these? They’re not so strong.’

  ‘They make things clearer, like seeing the world in HD.’

  ‘And they add a hint of sophistication to you, right?’

  He just smiles.

  I breathe on them, clean them on the seam of my dress, right near the plunge of my cleavage. Then I place them back on his face, feel the warmth of his cheeks. The prickle of stubble. It’s going surprisingly well.

  ‘So is your name really Daniel?’

  ‘Is your name really Anna?’

  ‘No,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, believe it or not, I actually am Daniel.’

  Daniel Moore, I know.

  ‘I’m not Anna, I’m Annabel. You know what these apps are like though, everyone uses an alias. I guess that’s why I like Happn, because at least you know someone is where they say they are, even if they’re not really who they say they are.’

  ‘So why did you swipe right?’ he asks.

  ‘Honestly? You’re good looking, tall and athletic. And you didn’t say anything too boneheaded to mess it up.’ And it’s unlikely we would ever cross paths again. We’d already exchanged messages and I knew he was just here for a month doing a labouring gig. He was keen to get back home to the country. We’d sent each other photos too, talked about certain proclivities. Do I feel a little bad about doing this to him? No. Men use women all the time. Daniel is probably using me too. It’s all so easy in this day and age to get away with it.