Short and Sweet

by Kris Pearson

  So we held hands at the movies, and then went for a walk down to the quay, and this has been the nicest week I’ve had in years. The movie made us both a bit affectionate. You don’t need to know any more, Mum. You’d no doubt disapprove. I can see your mouth pursing up like a cat’s bum right now.

  I wouldn’t put it past you to suggest he’s a con-man. Well Mum, con-men don’t offer to take down old curtains, or paint walls, or sell furniture. Rex got almost eight hundred dollars for your oak buffet, and the money came straight to me. He has those nests of Queen Anne tables and all the single beds and your green velvet lounge suite for sale online right now, so I’ll be ready to move out soon. I’m going to shout him a nice birthday dinner with some of the money. I’ll put the rest towards a queen-size bed.

  *

  Wednesday week.

  Dinner was so romantic! He arrived with red roses for me, and I’ve been looking at them in the vase ever since, no doubt with a dopey grin.

  He’s shown me a couple of townhouses he thought I might be interested in. They’re rather small after this place. In fact with the garden borders all gone (the students came last Saturday) and the land levelled and put back in lawn, things are definitely more manageable outside.

  Rex and I painted the sitting room and the dining room to match the hall last week. What a change. It’s not worth doing anything with the bathroom or kitchen. He says whoever buys the house will want to update them to their own requirements anyway. It would be good if the wall between the kitchen and dining room was removed. I’d almost be happy to live here long-term then.

  *

  Sunday April 3rd.

  Well Mum, I have news. I’m staying at number seventy-three. Rex is selling up and moving in here. Putting his house money towards the new kitchen and bathroom. And a double garage. We’ve decided that forty-one is the ideal age for me to get married.

  The Ezi-Lawn has grown over beautifully. The roses are having a spectacular late flush over the side trellis. (Yes, I left them to hide the old shed.) That’ll be our background for the wedding photos. There’ll be us, Dan and Sylvie from next door, Rex’s sister and her husband from Nelson, some of my people from work, and a couple of Rex’s real estate friends. Around twenty in all. I’ve found a cream lace dress - just to the knee, and with a lower neck than you’d probably approve of. Rex will approve of it like mad!

  As soon as we’re married, and back from our honeymoon in Italy (!!!), we’re going to take out that wall between the kitchen and the dining room. I’m going to enjoy seeing Rex ripping into it bare-chested. He has shoulders big enough to swing a very mean sledge-hammer, and you should see his biceps when he’s doing heavy work like that. I could practically lick the dust off him.

  *

  Wednesday August 7th.

  It’s pouring. Straight-down winter rain. We’re warm and cosy in the queen-size bed, somewhat out of breath because that was pretty energetic. What? Don’t look so shocked. You and Dad must have done it heaps.

  We’re definitely trying for a family. Wouldn’t twins be good? A little boy for Rex to kick a ball around with on the big lawn. A little girl to give them both hell.

  You managed to conceive me at forty-three, so I’m hoping I can do it at forty-one. That would be amazing. I’m praying you passed on some good strong late-conception genes, Mum. Everything else about you was strong, heaven knows. I may not have appreciated you quite enough while I had you, but now you’ve been gone for a while the rose-tinted glasses have softened the view.

  Be happy for me, wherever you are. Be happy for me and Rex. We have each other and this second chance, and we’ll be giving it all we’ve got. Going with the flow, loving each other, hoping for miracles, and maybe making them happen, too.

  If I manage a daughter I’ll call her Daisy Louise after you.

  ***

  HEAVY DELAYS

  Well, I’ve finished the early shift and the rest of the day is mine. I’ve done seven ‘til three looking after the oldies. Some are real darlings and some are certainly not.

  By five past three, I’m out of the rest-home uniform—polyester pants and a bright blue polo shirt with a stupid embroidered red rose placed exactly so it looks like an exploding nipple. So not flattering on a busty girl like me.

  I’m into my slinky sleeveless silver-grey knit dress with the really low front. Gotta give my boobs a bit of air on a nice fine day like this. And I’m driving through the gates at heaps more than the regulation speed.

  Anyway, I’m Anthea. Thirty-one, single, looking forward to sitting in the sun with a cold vodka-tonic and the rest of the scorched almonds I managed to leave in the packet last night.

  Geez, will you look at that? All I need, I tell you! There’s only one way I can get home—the expressway alongside the harbour. No turn-offs, no alternatives. And they’ve lit up their new sign with ‘ACCIDENT—HEAVY DELAYS’. How heavy is heavy?

  I’m zipping along in my red MX-5. Twelve years old but she still has the looks. The top’s down and my Clairol Ice Blonde hair whips out behind me, and Beyonce sounds be-ouncy on the radio. Traffic’s still moving fine.

  But, uh-oh—around the next curve, there it is. Brake lights forever. Two lanes of them. Quickly into the outside one because that always moves fastest, I reckon. Fifty mph, twenty, zero...

  And I’m stuck.

  Beside a truck.

  Oh, fffffffffffforgoodnessake!

  Huge blast on the truck’s air-horn so I nearly leave the car vertically. And when I look up—

  “Nice afternoon for it,” he yells.

  ‘It’ in his case means staring down the front of my dress. He can probably even see my Elle McPherson bra from up there. He’s right beside me, one tanned arm draped out the open window, fingers slapping the door in time with Beyonce because we’re tuned to the same station. No tell-tale wedding ring glinting on his big hand. Not that you can ever trust that. And now I think of it, it’s the wrong hand anyway. Why am I even checking?

  I allow him a small nod and then I look away. The thud of his big diesel engine goes bom-bom-bom-bom. Feels like it’s vibrating right through me.

  “There are flashing lights way up by the gorge,” he calls down. “Good view from up here.”

  Flashing lights or my boobs?

  “So we’ll be ages?” I call back, taking the couple of seconds to check him out. Meaty arm, but you can see the tendons, so he’s strong rather than fat. An old grey T with the sleeves ripped short. A big grin below very dark glasses.

  Damn but I hate dark glasses—you can never tell what a guy’s thinking. Although from that grin I have a fair idea.

  “We’ll be here long enough to get to know each other, that’s for sure.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” I’m trying hard not to look at him.

  “Big boy, big toy,” he shouts over sudden motorway traffic from the other direction.

  I sniff. I’m going to presume he means the truck. Why would I presume anything else?

  Bom-bom-bom-bom his engine goes, shaking my whole car and sending little pleasure waves all over the place. Yeah—definitely the truck.

  I glance up. That confident grin’s even wider now. I see the truck door is sign-written for one of the local quarries. Is he carrying gravel or what? I peer back to the huge bin.

  He’s spotted where I’m looking.

  “Landscaping rocks,” he calls down. “And at four-thirty, once I’ve got my rocks off, I’ll be a free man.”

  It’s hard not to laugh at that. I guess he’s used it dozens of times on different women.

  The car ahead has crept forward. I breathe out with relief and do the same. Not far though, and then I hear his brakes come off with a hiss and the note of his engine changes, so he’s making progress in the other lane too. I should have noticed the traffic moving, but he’d snared my whole attention somehow.

  The brakes go on.

  “So here we are again,” he calls down. “I’m Matt.”

 
“Hi Matt,” I yell, looking straight ahead.

  “And you are?”

  I let him wait. And finally can’t resist another upward glance. Right at that instant, he pushes his sunnies up on top of his head, into his short dark hair.

  Now I can see his whole face, and his brown eyes are steady on mine. His broad grin has softened into a hopeful smile. Good teeth. Square jaw. Dammit!

  “Anthea,” I mutter.

  “Who?”

  I tip my face back further so the sound carries up. He must be a couple of yards above me. “Anthea,” I bellow.

  “An-thee-ahhhh...” He’s made the ‘ah’ into a really suggestive sigh. Despite the blinding hot sun, shivery tingles run down my spine.

  There’s a toot behind me. Ooops—traffic moving on again. I rev my engine, inch ahead. Five minutes ago, all I wanted was forward momentum. Now brown eyed muscle-bound Matt has me oblivious to the traffic. Oblivious to the mid-afternoon heat and the fumes. Oblivious to everything except him.

  I glance in my rear view mirror. He’s not far behind. Getting closer. Going right past! I hadn’t expected that. Why am I feeling just slightly disappointed?

  Oh well—so much for Matt...

  But no, I’m drawing level with him. Didn’t I say the outside lane always moves faster?

  “Welcome back, An-thee-ahhhh,” he drawls from the captain’s bridge high above me.

  How can he make it sound so sultry over the top of a million car motors and his own throbbing diesel?

  Both lanes slow to an absolute halt again. And in the sudden relative quiet he asks, “Come out for some fun with me tonight?”

  Did I really hear that? Surely no hot truckie just propositioned me on the expressway? Well, not propositioned exactly, but my imagination’s in overdrive. Must be too much sun beating down through the Ice Blonde and frying my brain.

  “We’d be good,” he murmurs. “I just know it. Unless of course you’d rather not be good?”

  I look up, partly incensed by his blatant suggestion, and certainly surprised by the husky intimacy of his voice. He’s leaning way down, holding something out towards me. Then he tosses it so it lands in my lap.

  Huh?

  “Put your number in for me.”

  His mobile! What if the traffic starts up? I stare at it in a panic, and hear him laughing.

  “Nothing moving yet, pretty girl. Program yourself in and I’ll call you later. Say what I’d really like to without yelling my head off.”

  We creep forward again, then my lane stops dead. Not too far ahead, someone’s stalled. I hear their motor grinding away in a futile attempt to restart. Matt glides on by with a grin and a wave.

  Do I give him my number? Oh yeah—it takes about half a second to decide that. He’s real flesh and blood, unlike my recent sad selection of on-line guys—the cyber-hopefuls with their fake photos.

  So while I’m totally going nowhere I start to tap the screen.

  I can always not answer. Or disconnect.

  If he even rings.

  But how long before I can give the phone back? They still haven’t got the car ahead going, and at this rate they’ll flood the engine and be stuck for ages. It’s a good thing Matt’s a big target. I can see the battered silver bin of his truck way above the rest of the traffic. It’s maybe a hundred yards off now.

  Suddenly his brake lights flare on. Then the hazard lights start blinking. His door flies wide and I watch as he vaults down onto the road. Angry blasts start up as he leaves the door open and lopes back in my direction. The horns grow more enraged. Matt ignores everything except me. And I sit there with a no-doubt-goofy grin as a big tanned guy in work-boots and shorts jogs along between the lanes of traffic toward my little red car.

  Long strong legs. Shoulders that could carry rocks better than any forklift. I’m trembling all through, even though his bom-bom-bom-bom engine is now way out of earshot.

  I reach out with his phone.

  “You did it?”

  I nod. Where have the words gone?

  He kisses his fingers and strokes them softly across my cheek.

  I jump at his unexpected caress. It shimmers there for the whole time it takes him to get back to his truck, climb up, and slam the door. And as he runs I’m thinking ‘Geez you’re a honey... and that took guts... and maybe?’

  His lights flash off. The truck lumbers on.

  Bang on four-thirty my phone rings.

  ***

  THE CHRISTMAS FAIRY

  The fairy doll winked at him from the window of the gift shop at Heathrow. Luke spotted it while he was aimlessly rambling, killing time before the long flight home to Auckland.

  Winked? Surely just a glimmer from the glitter in her hair? She was an exquisite thing—far more ornament than toy.

  It was too late to buy her for his twin daughters in Surrey now, but he could picture his niece’s face lighting up when she saw the fairy’s gauzy wings and golden slippers. He still had some Euros left, so he asked the assistant if she could gift-wrap it.

  ‘No problem, sir,’ so he tucked the beribboned box into his hand luggage as a present for nine-year-old Emma.

  The English winter was bleak. Luke felt more than ready for some southern sun on his shoulders, and the welcome sight of the fire-cracker Pohutukawa trees along the New Zealand coast.

  His brother Bob and sister-in-law Joanie would be at the beach house by now. Paradise beckoned.

  But after the Singapore stopover, the unthinkable happened. The big jet was refuelled, provisioned, and the passengers re-embarked. The crew settled them down for more mind-numbing hours. The plane trundled heavily away from the terminal buildings, took its allotted position on the end of the runway, sat there quivering while they powered it up to a scream—and then apparently lost all interest in flying.

  The captain’s breezy voice apologized for a small mechanical problem. He promised complimentary vouchers redeemable for drinks and snacks in one of the terminal’s cafes.

  Luke grimaced when they were reminded to ‘please retrieve all items from the overhead lockers.’ So it would be a whole new aircraft, and heaven knows how long that was going to take.

  Nearly everyone else streamed towards free-food heaven. Luke decided he’d wait the queue out; he sank onto an unoccupied section of shiny plastic seating, tucked his overnight bag between his boots, and closed his eyes. A short time later he heard voices, and felt the annoying intrusion of someone else sitting down further along ‘his’ empty row of seats. He flicked a glance sideways. A mother and a very small daughter—fate really had it in for him today.

  He closed his eyes again and sent his mind wandering towards the family beach house, thick slabs of Christmas ham and Joanie’s potato salad, the soft incessant roar of waves as they slid up the sand...

  Suddenly he heard someone exclaim “No, no, no, Hana!”

  The voice was agitated and accented.

  Luke snapped his eyes open to find the very small daughter kneeling at his feet and tugging his bootlaces undone. Mother dashed along the row of seats to restrain her.

  “Sorry. So sorry for my bad child,” she gasped, somehow managing a very eastern bow to Luke even as she grabbed the little girl by the arm and pulled her up.

  Luke felt that Mother was surely Japanese—some sort of comb arrangement held back her shining black hair, and the sleeves of her red jacket were loose and reminiscent of a kimono. Her eyes were as wide as it was possible for oriental eyes to be—anxious and apologetic and embarrassed.

  Daughter was the absolute opposite. Her chubby face beamed full of mischief. She was dressed like a tiny American rock-star in a riot of pink and mauve. Her T-shirt had ‘Honey’ spelled out in glitter. One leg of her little jeans said ‘Bling’ in rhinestones. Looking at her, Luke suddenly found it very hard to keep a straight face.

  He was even more disconcerted when the mother crouched to retie his bootlaces at the same instant he bent forward to attend to them himself. Their heads cracked tog
ether and he sent the poor woman sprawling back onto the hard floor.

  “Oh God!” he exclaimed, lurching up to rescue her, and feeling a fierce throbbing above his left eyebrow.

  “Is okay,” she managed as Luke scooped her up.

  He settled her onto the seat beside him and kept an arm around her in case she felt faint.

  “Thank you. Is okay,” she repeated, rubbing a hand over her forehead.

  “Hard heads,” Luke said, hugely embarrassed. “How’s your—um—where you landed?”

  “Bottom,” daughter supplied.

  “Did not fall far,” mother said with dignity.

  Luke’s mouth quirked but he somehow squashed the laugh that wanted to follow.

  Mother reached into her jacket pocket, drew out a small leather purse, and presented him with her card.

  Kyoko Ikeda Campbell, he read—and a complicated-looking address in Sakai. So his guess had been right about her being Japanese.

  He dug around for his wallet and extracted a Matthews Engineering card in return.

  Luke Matthews, CEO.

  “Campbell?” he asked, inspecting Kyoko’s delicate and very foreign face.

  “Husband. Hana’s father from New Zealand. Died in motor accident. We come to see his country before she starts school.”

  Luke swallowed at that, and nodded.

  Kyoko let out a sigh of exasperation.

  “And now maybe miss Auckland-Wellington connection,” she said. “Do you know?”

  He shook his head. “I’m stopping in Auckland.”

  “Bottom!” Hana repeated with enthusiasm.

  Kyoko clicked her tongue.

  Luke couldn’t stop his laugh this time.

  Without thinking too much about it, he lifted the little girl up to sit on his knee so she could be close to her mother. His twins now seemed distressingly far behind in England with his ex-wife. He’d be missing them fiercely for weeks to come—especially on Christmas Day.