Just Come Over

by James, Rosalind

  “Yeh,” he said. “I could.”

  “You can share my rum,” she said, and he smiled a little more and said, “I’ll take that invitation.”

  “While the girls are gone,” Nils Larsen said, “you could tell me what you’re planning, Rhys, there at the Blues, and how you expect to go about winning tomorrow. You’ll have a battle on your hands, won’t you, against the Crusaders?”

  “We’re planning to play better than they do,” Rhys said. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Oh, come on. You can share more than that,” Nils said with a sort of pale Norwegian version of joviality, like pickled herring and crispbread that somebody had warmed in the microwave. “Kicking off the turnover, now—I’m guessing you’ve addressed that.”

  “Interesting point,” Rhys said. “I have a question of my own about concussion, since we’re all here, and you’re the expert. I’d like to know what you think of our protocols. I’m interested, for obvious reasons, but I don’t know the details. As I’m not a neurosurgeon.”

  “Come on, then, darling,” her mother said, and stood up again. Candy rose, too, and Zora’s mum said, “You don’t mind if Zora and I have a mother-daughter chat, do you?”

  Candy looked like a kitten who’d found the cream bowl empty, and Zora’s mum headed toward the toilets with every line of her determinedly slim back offering up an absolutely prison-matron-level promise of delights to come.

  Zora followed her. Nothing else to do.

  It didn’t take long. Her mum didn’t even go into the stalls. She reached for Zora’s necklace, turned it around, and said, “I’ve been itching to do that since you took off your cardigan. I know it may be in a magazine somewhere, but wearing it like that makes you look like you’re expecting cash on the bureau later.”

  Zora turned the necklace around to the back again, then took her lipstick out of her bag, leaned forward, and applied a little more pink to her mouth while her mother’s hand rose, then fell, like she couldn’t believe this atrocity could be happening. “Rhys asked me to wear it this way,” she told her mother, “and since he bought it . . .”

  Her mum did have her fingertips on her forehead. It was fascinating to be so right. She’d have to tell Hayden.

  “The dress is almost too much on its own,” her mother said. “A pale pink or cream would’ve been a better choice than black, with those spaghetti straps and that neckline. A little discretion, please, darling.”

  “Rhys bought that, too,” Zora said. “And my shoes. He liked the black ones best. So you see . . .”

  “You are sleeping with him,” her mother said.

  “I imagine it’s pretty obvious. And because it’s what you’re wondering—yeh, that’s because he’s exactly as good as he looks. His rugby nickname’s ‘Drago,’ did you know that? Means ‘Dragon.’ Like ‘Rhys’ does. Rhys ap Gruffydd, most powerful prince of Wales ever. That wasn’t always a chinless bloke in a suit. Once, it was a warrior.”

  She’d looked it up. She didn’t know how a man’s name could excite you, except that it did.

  Her mother had her mouth open to say something. Zora couldn’t wait to hear what. A toilet flushed behind them, and her mother’s mouth snapped shut. After a minute, a blonde came out of the stall, washed her hands, and cast a quick look at Zora, then another at the necklace, and Zora knew that sometime after tonight, she’d be news. She told her mother, not bothering to wait for the woman to leave, “I’m pretty far gone, Mum, and so is he, so you may want to think about what you say next.”

  Her mother said exactly nothing until the blonde had left, and then said, “You don’t let a man buy you clothes. It’s so inappropriate, I have no words. Nobody needs new clothes that badly.”

  Zora had turned her back against the benchtop. Now, her hands clutched the black-and-gold quartz for stability. “As it happens, I don’t need to resort to prostitution. Dylan had money hidden away. Quite a lot of it. I found it last week.”

  “What? You mean, he had an account you didn’t know about? That’s wonderful news.” Some of her mother’s tension relaxed. “So why are you letting Rhys buy your clothes?”

  “No,” Zora said. “I mean he had an account he hid from me. An account he used to spend money he didn’t have to tell me about.”

  “And your answer is to go out and find somebody with a secret child. One with even less polish than Dylan. One who wants you to wear his jewelry like you’re advertising. We won’t even discuss the fact that he’s Dylan’s brother, and everyone’s going to wonder when that started.”

  “Yes,” Zora said. “That’s my answer. Do you know why? Because I’m so mad for him, I can barely see straight. And maybe because . . . because being allowed to be everything I am again feels like coming out of a cocoon. It doesn’t matter what happened before, or why. I’ve been in there long enough, I’m out here now, and I want to fly. And because of something Rhys said to me. ‘Judge me for the man I am, not the man I used to be.’ I know the man he is. I want the man he is, because he’s pretty bloody wonderful.”

  Her mother’s nostrils were flaring in what Hayden called her “wild brumby” look. That look could stop you in your tracks. “When he subjects you to this kind of scrutiny. That’s your idea of ‘wonderful.’” Her voice hadn’t even risen. That was another scary thing about her. “When he’s willing to have sex with his brother’s wife, and flaunt it like this to her parents, not to mention exposing her to the world. What kind of loyalty is that? What kind of care does it show for you and your reputation, or for his own wife, for that matter? How about Isaiah? How’s he going to feel when the boys at school find out? Does Rhys care about that? Consider this. If you do get him, in the end, what exactly will you have?”

  For once, Zora wasn’t waiting for that hoof to strike. Her perfume was dark, rich, and sensual, and that was how she felt. Like a woman who knew what she wanted, and was taking it. “His brother’s widow. And Isaiah’s oblivious to what the other kids think, if they care at all, which they won’t—or they will, but not in the way you think. Do you know who Rhys is? He earned seventy-two test caps as a loose forward. I know you don’t know what that means, or the kind of discipline and commitment it takes, but I do, and so do heaps of other people. He’s the coach of the Blues. He won a Grand Final when he played rugby league, and a World Cup with the All Blacks. He’s a legend, I’m pretty sure he’s mine, and that gives me a thrill like you wouldn’t believe. And as for Isaiah? He cares about his family, his friends, and the ideas in his head, and he’s got all of those. I told you, you don’t need to worry about Isaiah.”

  “He’s odd, and you know it. He doesn’t need to feel odder.”

  Zora had a wild brumby of her own inside, maybe, because here it was in all its fury. “I know who he is. He’s Isaiah. He’s brilliant, he’s the hardest worker, and he’s so sweet to Casey, it melts your heart. He has all sorts of people in his life who love him as he is, and he loves us back. And that includes Rhys. I know who Rhys is, too, and he’s everything I want. I wish I could tell you all the ways that’s true. I also know who I am. I’m reckless. I could even be wild. That should be obvious by now. I know you care about respectability, and I know why. It’s because Nana wasn’t respectable. I loved her anyway, and I think I’ve got her in me. I think I always have had.”

  Her grandmother, whose hair had been too improbably dark, who’d smoked too much and laughed too loud and probably drunk too much, who’d hugged hard and shared secrets and had a special play room under the stairs. Who’d been a single mum with no husband and too many boyfriends in her past, at a time when that mattered. Who’d made her daughter cringe.

  “You could love her.” Her mother’s voice was tight, bouncing off the hard surfaces of benchtop and mirror. “You didn’t have to grow up with her. I protected you from that.”

  Zora had been feeling exactly as wild and reckless as she’d said. Mai Tai, Rhys, necklace, dress, and all. Now, her heart did some kind of twist instead. The pit
of emotion inside her that had been locked down for so long was opening up, and it was letting her see her mum’s rigidity for what it was. The fear of a girl who’d grown up feeling laughed at, feeling alone and trapped and embarrassed, and was so terrified to end up back there again that she’d do anything to maintain the façade, even pretend not to know what her husband was doing on those long golf dates and late nights at the hospital.

  Zora and Hayden had grown up with too many lies and too much unhappiness beneath the smooth surface, and she didn’t want that for Isaiah. She didn’t want it for her. And she’d been so afraid, when she’d realized the truth about Dylan, that she was falling into the exact same trap.

  Except that she wasn’t the one who was like her mother. Dylan was. Exactly as scared that somehow, everyone would know who he really was, because if they saw, he knew he wouldn’t measure up. That he couldn’t measure up, ever.

  The balance shifted like the ions in the air had changed their polarity, and she felt a rush of compassion for her mum so strong, it rocked her in her heels. She said, her voice not one bit steady, “I know you protected me, Mum. I know you think that unless I follow the rules, I’ll end up humiliated and ashamed. But don’t you see how humiliated and ashamed I’ve been already? I got married, I was a good wife and a good mother, and it happened anyway. I can’t go down that road anymore. It seems like the only safe option to you, but I can’t do it. I have to go . . . off the road instead. I have to drive down the beach, knowing I may get stuck out there, and the tide may come in and sweep me away. Maybe Hayden and I both have too much of Nana in us to be careful, or maybe you just can’t change who you are.”

  Her mother stood rigid, breathing shallowly, like if she moved, she’d crack into pieces. “I just want you to be happy,” she finally said. “With a career and a family you can be proud of, not another thing you have to hide. There’s a photo out there of Rhys having sex with somebody else’s wife in the toilets, and it’s going to come out over and over again for the rest of his life, because that’s exactly how people are.”

  In other words, Zora should have a career her mum could be proud of, not a struggling florist’s business, and she should have a husband who spent his weekends sailing and his weekdays in an office, not a Maori rugby player who’d never set foot inside a university and had been abandoned by his drug-addicted mother. Let alone that rugby player’s notorious hard-man brother.

  Zora still wanted to slap her, but another part of her wanted to hug her. Her mum, though, like Isaiah, didn’t hug easily, so instead, she searched for the right words, gave up, and said, “I know you love me. That’s why I’m going to explain it to you. I can only be happy with the wind in my hair. I can’t help it. It’s how I’m made. And as for Rhys and me? Maybe we’ll be the scandal of the decade. Maybe we’ll burn up and burn out, and we’ll both go down in flames. Another vice. Another regret. But I can’t think about that now. I’ve got no choice. He’s everything I want, I admire him more than any man I’ve ever known, I need him like a drug, and I . . . I love him. I do. I love him, and I’m not ashamed. I’ve wanted him for ten years, he’s wanted me just as long, and neither of us has ever done anything about it. We’ve done what’s right. We’ve waited. Rhys’s marriage is over, though, and Dylan is dead. We can’t wait any longer.”

  Her mum was stepping forward, then turning, a jerky movement, and checking her makeup in the mirror. Patting her hair. Breathing hard.

  You couldn’t change who you were. Your fears went too deep for that, and so did your desires. Zora picked up her purse, and she didn’t check her own hair, or the state of her cheeks. She probably looked wild. That was fine. That was brilliant, because that was how she felt. She told her mother, “‘The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.’ That’s in a poem. My heart doesn’t care what’s easy, and it doesn’t care what people will think. It wants what it wants, and that’s all.”

  Rhys wanted to turn around and watch Zora walk away. And once she did, he wanted her back. Instead, he took another sip of her Mai Tai. It was like her, spicy and sweet, with a kick you didn’t expect. After that, he got himself centered and waited for what would come next.

  He’d done a couple hundred press conferences in his career. No difference. You told the truth with composure and respect, you said as little as possible, and you kept the upper hand. Subtly, if possible. Genial was always good, too, if you could manage it.

  He gave their food orders to the server when he turned up, and asked, “Best New Zealand red you’ve got to pair with that?”

  “You’ll want an Australian shiraz instead,” Craig said, “to stand up to the marbling in a Scotch fillet. That would be your best choice, based on what I’ve found with my own cellar. I’m guessing you’re more of a beer man.”

  Rhys considered asking if Craig was actually planning a dick-measuring contest, but he didn’t, partly because he was required to be polite in public and partly because Craig was Zora’s dad. Instead, he said, turning his Maori accent up to 10, “I reckon there’ll be a New Zealand wine that’ll do the business.”

  “Supporting the homeland’s always good,” the server, a thirtyish bloke with spiky black hair, said. “And a pinot noir with some body will be beautiful with the lady’s eye fillet. I’d suggest the Te Kairanga John Martin Martinborough Pinot Noir 2015. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed with your own pairing, either. There’s enough fullness and richness there for it. And if the lady likes chocolate, the chocolate fondant with bourbon sauce would be a perfect match for that final glass.”

  “I think it’s safe to say,” Rhys said, “that the lady likes chocolate. Sounds good. Bring us a bottle of that.” He handed over the menus. “Thanks.”

  “Can I just say,” the waiter said, “that it’s an honor.”

  “Cheers, mate,” Rhys said.

  The fella took the others’ dessert orders, then headed off, and Rhys took another sip of Zora’s Mai Tai and bided his time.

  “We so rarely get that, in our line of work,” Nils said. “Pity.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” Rhys said. “It has its downside.”

  “Like clueless members of the public giving you helpful advice, possibly,” Nils said, with a glint of humor.

  Rhys had to smile. “It happens.”

  “I wish I thought I could have chocolate fondant,” Candy said with a sigh. “I’m afraid it’s a minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.”

  “And I appreciate your restraint,” her husband said, and Rhys thought about Zora saying, “I am drowning in food lust.” He also thought about her gorgeous arse in a black thong, the perfect roundness of her thighs and breasts, and what Nils was missing.

  Chocolate fondant, definitely. They could share it. Nothing like something rich enough to make Zora moan, two spoons, and watching the way her eyes glazed over when she was feeling too much pleasure. Once they got rid of the doctors.

  He said, “About those concussion protocols.” Safer subject.

  “What are you doing now?” Nils asked. “Three-week minimum suspension from contact?”

  “Yeh.”

  “The danger, as I’m sure you know,” Nils said, “is repeated events, particularly when the brain hasn’t recovered, and the answer is, we just don’t know enough yet. You’ve got what we call the neurometabolic cascade with each event, which is fairly short-lived, a few days, but there are other physiological effects as well. I can send you some links to studies I’ve found particularly credible, if you’re interested. The methodology can sometimes be suspect.”

  “I am interested,” Rhys said. “Cheers.” Points for not being condescending, he thought.

  “They’ll be fairly technical,” Craig said. “Your team doctor would probably be the best person to interpret them. Of course, he’s probably already read them.”

  “Could be good to have an idea what the experts are talking about,” Rhys said. “That way, when the discussion happens, I’ll have a base to start from. Assuming I
can read the tricky words.”

  “That’s true,” Candy said, perfectly unexpectedly. “I was a nurse before I married Nils. Doctors can get frustrated when patients try to educate themselves, but I’ve always thought it was a good idea. How can you make the right choices if you don’t understand your condition?”

  “Licensed by internet,” Craig said. “Spare me. Sorry, Candy, but you know I don’t agree.”

  “How many times would you say you’ve been concussed yourself?” Nils asked Rhys, ignoring Craig’s comment and the surprising flash from Candy’s round blue eyes. Dr. Nils might be looking at an explosion later on, at home. But then, explosions could be exciting.

  “I couldn’t even tell you,” Rhys said. “We weren’t as careful then.”

  “Do you feel you’ve experienced behavioral changes?” Nils asked. “Any lessening of impulse control? Or cognitive changes, over time?”

  “No,” Rhys said. “Pretty much the same fella I’ve always been. More impulse control these days, actually, I’d say.” His previous lack of impulse control wasn’t news, after all.

  “Risk isn’t certainty, of course,” Nils said. “It’s only risk.”

  “All the same,” Craig said, “I’d discourage my own kids from a career in professional rugby. Not worth the risk, I’d say, in all sorts of ways, not to mention the opportunity cost. What you give up doing instead when you make that choice, assuming you have a choice.” Assuming you aren’t a farm kid from the back of beyond, he didn’t say, or, worse, a poor Maori kid with no education, no brains, and no skills beyond running barefoot, catching a ball, and throwing people to the ground.

  You didn’t run into that attitude often, not in New Zealand. Just sometimes.

  Rhys said, “Could be fortunate, then, that so few people are forced to make the choice.”

  Nils’s pale-blue eyes lit up with interest, and possibly surprise, and Craig asked, “How’s that?”