The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

“Livi, you look beautiful!” her mother exclaimed when she appeared on screen.

  “Evelyn, shh,” her father said, grabbing the remote control.

  “Well, she does, don’t we all think so?” She looked around for support.

  He stabbed at the volume button. “Of course she does, but shhh!”

  “I was only saying, Ian.” But she concentrated on the screen.

  Livi was surprised how brief her appearance was, for something that took so much getting ready for. But even she, usually self-critical, had to concede that she looked quite nice and, okay, didn’t sound too bad either. Rob was a star of course, arm across the back of her chair as though they were at a drive-in, chatting to the interviewer like they were mates. Which they probably were by then, she realised. With Rob, it was a smooth and speedy journey from stranger to acquaintance to friend.

  “Come on, Livi,” he called from her mum’s floral settee as she and the red dress exited stage-left. “Your fans await.”

  Her mum ambushed her with a hug as she came back in, a bit pink. “Sweetheart! You were great. So professional, you looked fantastic. You did so well…” And more hugging.

  She managed a muffled reply. “Thanks…”

  Rob came to the rescue. “I need her in one piece, Evelyn. We don’t want her all crushed next time she faces the nation.” As her mum let go, he grabbed Livi’s hand.

  “Next time?” Although it hadn’t been as traumatic as she’d expected, Livi wasn’t planning on any more media appearances. “I’ve done my duty,” she protested.

  Rob sat her firmly atop the peonies and roses. “You were great,” he told her. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “He’s right,” said her dad. “I’m very proud of you. Let’s have a drink.”

  “Yes, I’ll put the kettle on.” Evelyn headed for the kitchen.

  “No.” Her dad slapped the broad arms of his La-Z-Boy. “This calls for a proper drink.” He hoisted himself up and went to get his latest bottle of whisky. “Rob?”

  “Well, it’d be rude not to.”

  Livi left them to their manly ritual and joined her mum in the kitchen. “I’ll have a cup of tea too, please,” she said, over the noise of the old kettle. “Looks like I’ll be driving tonight.”

  “Good idea,” she replied. “You know what those two are like once they get started.” She lifted the kettle, put in some more water, and resettled it on its perch. “Funny how stainless steel never looks really shiny again, once you start using it, no matter how much you clean it,” she commented, while they waited.

  “Like the toaster,” Livi said. “How do you get off those melted-on bits of bread bag?”

  “A scouring pad, and maybe some Ajax. Same for the shower glass. Anywhere really, as long as you’re not too rough.” Steam rose around her face as she filled the cups. “Keep it simple.”

  “Words to live by,” Livi laughed, and her mother made a wry face.

  “You have to take your wisdom where you can get it,” she shrugged. “It’s terrible, the trivia we’re forced to fill our heads with. Men aren’t thinking about that kind of thing.”

  “No, they’re out there talking about sport, I bet. I suppose that’s not much better, just man-trivia.”

  They smiled together, and Livi took the cup of tea her mum held out, handle first.

  “So, when are you next facing the nation?”

  “No, honestly Mum, that was a one-off. It was supposed to be a one-off.” She blew on her tea and looked out the kitchen window, down to the neighbour’s living room. The lights were off and the curtains were half-pulled against the warm spring evening, but she could see the colours from their television flicker and change, spilling out into the garden. Had they watched her tonight? She wondered how many people had. Her stomach twisted a little, and she held the hot tea close against her chest, the rising warmth dampening her chin.

  “Rob seems to be enjoying it,” her mum said. “It’s a good adventure for you to have together.”

  “I suppose so,” she replied, remembering what Gemma had said.

  “It’s not just wisdom, you should take your adventure where you can get it too. Life goes by very fast, once it picks up speed.”

  Had Gemma and Mum been talking? Livi wondered. And how many adventures had flown past, while her mum was busy raising a daughter, looking after a husband, building up their business, all necessary, sensible occupations. Did she see their blur, out of the corner of her eye, and pine for the unknown and the unexpected? Or was she focused, concentrating, filled up with the jobs at hand? The business was a success—her mum an accountant, her dad a solicitor. But running the office and doing admin, Livi had an inside view of her mother’s life, and it wasn’t exciting. She’d come all the way from England with her husband, an only child leaving her parents, taking her own only child, to do the most mundane and everyday things.

  It dawned on Livi, looking at her mother standing in the same kitchen she’d stood in for years, that she didn’t know much about her at all. Not the underneath things. A rush of guilt and love and an achy sort of poignancy surged in her chest, and she put down the tea and gave her a hug.

  “Oh, sweetheart, thank you,” she said, happily taken by surprise. Then, looking at Livi’s face, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, sniffing a little. “Mum, maybe you could help me find my next television dress?”

  Six

  The day the show began, Cam came back. Livi met him at the art gallery café, their place. It had started as a joke, years before, when she’d teased him about having no culture—so he challenged her to a trip around the art gallery, to see who could identify the most artists. He won, of course.

  Afterwards, he showed her his parents’ vast collection of art books. Amongst them was a heavy volume of art from the National Gallery in London. Inspired and intrigued, she borrowed it, and spent hours poring over the richly detailed landscapes, endless variations of Madonna and child, and angsty scenes of wrath and war.

  Then, on a quiet page near the end of the book, she found a saint she’d never heard of—Saint Cecilia, patron saint of music and the blind. Her watchful beauty and her alarmingly gruesome end (in the best saintly tradition) caught Livi’s imagination. She could only imagine the executioner’s dismay when three strikes were not enough to sever Cecilia’s youthful head. He gave up and ran away, and the determined Cecilia continued to preach for three days, until she finally succumbed. In the painting, she was wearing richly coloured robes, and flowers in her hair. (Livi doubted that she would have been so sumptuously dressed in real life, but it did make for a beautiful picture.) She was standing with her guardian angel, looking out at what her future held. It wasn’t a showy painting, but it had a quiet strength that spoke to her more than any of the overly dramatic works did. Later, when Cam’s parents took a trip to London, they brought her back a poster of it. She stuck it on her wall, and dreamed teenage dreams of going to the National Gallery herself, soaking up the art in a terribly sophisticated way, and hanging out in Trafalgar Square.

  Also in his parents’ library, Cam confessed at the time, was a book featuring significant paintings from Auckland’s art gallery, which he’d used to do a crash course the night before their challenge. She had to give him credit—she was impressed.

  She figured it was that same determination keeping him at university for so long. When he finished high school, he spent a couple of years travelling (years during which the street felt very empty to Livi, still stuck in class). But then he came back, and dived into his economics degree. He was the only person she knew who’d passed not only every paper and every exam, but handed in every assignment and aced every test.

  Her own university record—two years out of a three-year arts degree—was less than perfect. Her parents had needed help with the business, so she took a year out. Well, they’d only meant it to be a year. In the meantime, working for the family company meant her employers were relaxed about formal qualificat
ions. There were other benefits, too—obviously, she never had trouble getting time off for family commitments, and some of her friends were paying good money to learn the business management skills she was mastering on the job.

  It also gave her a chance to save for the round-the-world trip she’d dreamed about for years. University would always be there, and Venice was sinking, after all. Along with any number of Pacific islands, apparently. She’d just have a bit of a look around, before she went back to finish that degree. After several years working with her parents, she had enough money to get started, and only needed to save a bit more for extras. Trafalgar Square of course, and a mule ride into the Grand Canyon. Hot air ballooning in Cappadocia, and maybe stop in and see George Clooney (oh, George) at Lake Como. When Rob came along, the plan had gone on hold. But she figured they could do it all together, soon enough. Except George, maybe.

  She arrived at the gallery a few minutes late, and saw Cam sitting across the café in his usual jeans, white t-shirt and biker jacket. His dark hair was still in disarray from when he’d pulled off his helmet, and his fringe fell across his forehead as he squinted at the Sunday paper and stirred a coffee. As usual, he was not just on time, but early enough to already have a drink. She smiled at his familiar reliability and went to order her hot chocolate.

  “Mixing it up with celebrities now,” he said as she sat down, and turned the newspaper around to show her the full-page Dance ’til You Drop ad. Rob was right in the middle of the twenty contestants, underneath ‘Premieres tonight at 8!’, looking handsome, tanned, and shiny in a Spanish-style outfit. They’d somehow managed to slick his hair back for the photo. It was cheesy, but he got away with it—just. Next to him was the blonde, hair flying, spangles sparkling. Livi gritted her teeth.

  “I’d rather not look,” she said, turning the page to international news.

  He grinned at her, his greeny-hazel eyes flashing with mischief. “I thought you liked celebrity gossip.”

  “I’ve gone off it lately.”

  “Funny that.” He folded the sections of the paper together and cast them across to the next-door table. “I’ve been keeping up with my entertainment news though. Your man is a hit in the provinces.”

  “I’m going to ignore that,” she replied, putting one of her marshmallows on his saucer. He drank coffee, but always said it was unfair that only hot chocolate drinkers got marshmallows on the side. Of all the unfair things in life, Livi figured this was one she could fix for him. “How were the provinces? Did you have a good trip?”

  Every spring he took to the road with his friends, each on two wheels, with just a few essentials in a bag.

  “Great. I’m glad I got the Kawasaki instead of that Honda. It handled really well, especially on the back roads. We went up over the old bullock track through Mount Shearer station. It was hard getting permission to take the bikes through there, but it was worth it.” He grinned. “Blew out the winter cobwebs. Big sky and open space.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “You spend too much time at your desk.”

  “Academic life. I’ll end up with a chair-shaped arse in a brown corduroy suit.”

  She snorted with laughter, then clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed, as people looked around. “God, sorry.” She tried to steady her shaking shoulders.

  “Don’t frighten the horses.” He passed her a napkin, and she pressed it against her face until the giggles subsided.

  “Sorry,” she said again. “It’s just hard to imagine you on your motorbike with a chair-shaped arse.”

  “Best not,” he suggested, and she nodded. He actually could compete with anyone as far as backsides went…but she didn’t say so.

  He took a sip of his coffee. “So how does this dancing competition work?”

  “Well, it’s kind of like an endurance competition, with official timed rest breaks and everything. They’ve set up studios in Downtown Square, so anyone can go in and watch during the day, and they’re broadcasting every night with live dancing, and highlights from the day. Or lowlights, I guess.” She frowned. “The judges have their say, but people vote, like X Factor, to decide who stays.”

  “And how’s Rob’s dancing?”

  “Enthusiastic, but not all that great, last I saw. But they’ve been having lessons, so I don’t know really. Anyway, I don’t know how much notice people will take of the actual dancing, once they pick a favourite.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A popularity contest.”

  “It might come down to that.”

  “In that case he probably has a good chance. He’s got charisma.”

  She couldn’t tell from his tone if having charisma was a compliment. Although Cam had met Rob several times, they were too different, she knew, to ever be good friends. But they each made an effort, maybe for her sake.

  “Well, they have been talking him up.” She grimaced. “They’ve made him into their ladies man.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “Do they know he has a girlfriend?”

  She suddenly remembered what Cam didn’t know. Girlfriend. Not any more. She cleared her throat, turned her mug, aligned napkin and spoon exactly along the edge of the table. Never mind Bex and Gemma, she told herself, just go ahead.

  “Actually, he…” Her tongue felt wonky in her mouth. She swallowed, started again. “No, not a girlfriend. A fiancée.” A minute adjustment to the spoon.

  The silence felt just a little too long. She looked up in time to catch him rearranging his face into the right surprised-and-pleased shape.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “That’s a big step.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Everyone thinks it’s too fast, I think.”

  “Well, you have to do what makes you happy.” He looked right at her. “Make sure it makes you happy.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Okay.”

  “A big step,” he repeated, still considering her. She didn’t know where to look. She resisted the urge to cover her face with the napkin again.

  Then he slapped his palms on the table, making her jump. “Well!” he announced, standing up. “I’d better get home and unpack. And you must have things to do. Big night tonight.”

  She realised then that he’d arranged to see her even before going home. “Yes, I have to be in the front row, all dressed up.” She stood up too.

  “You’ll look great,” he said. “Good luck.”

  He came around the table, gave her a fraction of the usual hug, grabbed up his backpack and helmet, and was gone.

  She looked down at her half-full mug and his uneaten marshmallow, and wondered if their art gallery days were over. His empty chair, still pushed out at an angle, seemed to reproach her. Had she ambushed him with the news? She had to tell him some time. She went around the table and pushed the chair in, then sat back in her own, thinking.

  He was always there when she needed him—for help with maths homework, or lifting and carrying when she moved into her first flat, or just company on a difficult day. And that time he came to the rescue when she ran out of petrol, arriving on his motorbike like a modern-day knight on horseback.

  She was always a little bit proud to have him as a friend. At school, some of the boys teased him for being a math geek and a brainiac, but he was the first one to get a motorbike. Some of them laughed when he started karate, and called him Hong Kong Phooey. (He hadn’t minded when Livi asked him who Hong Kong Phooey was—after all, he was the coolest kung fu dog ever. Not to mention the only kung fu dog ever.) But that martial arts training meant that the teasing never went any further. And it made him strong as he grew, and gave him a poise and centre that set him apart.

  He may have lacked the endorsement of the cool boys, but his leather jacket, unruly fringe, and self-contained manner made him immensely attractive to the girls. There were plenty at school, and since, who made it clear they were interested, but although he’d had a few girlfriends, he never got very involved. She took back her marshmallow and chewed thoughtfu
lly. For her, boyfriends had come and gone, none of them really significant until Rob. But how would she have felt, she wondered now, if Cam had got serious about one of those willing girls?

  Beginnings and endings come in pairs, she thought. She liked beginnings better.

  Seven

  The premiere was as slick, loud and clichéd as anything out of Hollywood. Livi sat in the front row, between Rob’s friends Darren and Angus, who’d started it all by signing him up. The crowd loved it. Putty in the host’s hands, they cheered, ahhh-ed and gasped in all the right places. After a while, even she found herself getting swept up in the excitement.

  When the contestants came out on stage she hardly recognised Rob, glowing and slightly unreal in television makeup and tuxedo, his hair plastered back. He looked amazing. The girls in the audience thought so too, whooping, squealing, and wolf-whistling. Let it wash over you, she told herself. Remember who he’s going home with.

  “He actually does look pretty good in that monkey suit,” said Darren, recoiling as the camera panned past them again.

  “Yep, not bad,” conceded Angus, keeping his cool, with only a raised eyebrow for the audience at home.

  Livi tried not to think about how many people were watching as she smiled evenly in her silver dress, until the camera passed and she could breathe again. The dress was a triumph for her mum, a slinky survivor from the seventies found in the back of her wardrobe. At first she’d been nervous about the slinkiness, wondering if she should buy some Spanx. But her mum was having none of it.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said firmly. “You have nothing to worry about. I never had a figure like that, even when I was your age. It must have come from your dad’s side of the family.”

  “I don’t know,” Livi said, looking in the long mirror in Evelyn’s sewing room. “Maybe I’m a bit short for it. It’s just, you know, the hips and everything…”

  “No,” her mum replied. “It’s not. Look how flat your stomach is! Honestly, I would be delighted to look like you. Gok could have his way with me, I tell you. Now, just turn sideways while I pin it here…you’ll see.”