Work in Progress

by Paul Thomas

  This is related in a traumatised monotone. The wretched silence that follows should be filled with sympathetic crooning but I’m crass enough to say what I’m thinking.

  ‘Well, I guess he’s got a point.’

  Sally howls and the line goes dead. I ring back but get the answerphone.

  When we finally reconnect a couple of hours later her misery has turned to cold anger, with guess who in the firing line.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Of what, Sally?’

  ‘Gavin’s hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. You must be feeling very pleased with yourself, Max. Your little scheme worked to perfection.’

  ‘Sally …’

  ‘Don’t try to lie your way out of it. I know you talked to Gavin. What did you say, as a matter of interest? “Think about what it would do to the kids?” As if you care. Or did you threaten to put in a bad word with your new best friend?’

  ‘Sally, I haven’t breathed a word to anyone and I haven’t seen or spoken to Gavin since the day we met.’

  ‘The giveaway was saying Gavin had a point. Once I realised where you stood, it all fell into place. Everything was fine until I told you — in fact, I was having to cool him down. But after that he was always in meetings or having to spend time with his daughter. And now he’s dumped me.’

  ‘Look, Sally, I understand this has come as a shock and you’re trying to make sense of it but …’

  ‘I’ve just seen him. I asked him point blank. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer but he didn’t have to — it was written all over his face. I trusted you, Max. I came to you because I needed someone to confide in and you betrayed me. Thanks a million, you fucking hypocrite.’

  Stanley’s in Hawke’s Bay inspecting wineries. I offer to ring back but he’s done for the day and heading out to Waimarama Beach for a dip.

  ‘Never swim alone, Stanley.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I like an audience.’

  ‘Do you remember the circumstances of our reunion?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘You were with your architect and I was with my friend Sally.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘We went one way, they went the other.’

  ‘Yeah, and as I recall you engaged in some speculation as to the precise nature of their relationship.’

  ‘Did I? You’re probably right. I have that tendency.’

  ‘Stanley, did you tell Gavin to pull the plug? The reason I ask is that I’ve just been hissed at by Sally who’s convinced that I persuaded or bullied Gavin into giving her the arse. Which I didn’t. A, it would never have occurred to me; B, if it had, I’m sure he would’ve told me to fuck off. But I can imagine that if you signalled your disapproval, he’d drop her like a hot potato. Which he did.’

  ‘It’s all coming back to me,’ he says. ‘I didn’t tell him to drop her and I certainly didn’t express disapproval. What I did do was ask him if she understood the rules of the game. If not, he had a responsibility to get her up to speed pretty damn quick.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Oh, I might’ve added something to the effect that if it ended in a cluster-fuck, I’d hold him responsible. I did her a favour, Max. She had a one-way ticket to a broken heart or a broken marriage. Or both.’

  ‘She thinks she’s got a broken heart.’

  ‘Thinks being the operative word. It’ll heal a hell of a lot quicker than if he flicked her in six months’ time. She’s had some fun, Max. Now she can get back to the yoga.’

  ‘That might be easier said than done. But then I suppose if you’d entertained the possibility of doing more harm than good, you wouldn’t have played God in the first place.’

  Stanley laughs. ‘Well, it’s like everything: practice makes perfect and there’s bound to be the odd fuck-up along the way.’

  ‘And tough shit for Sally if this happens to be one of them?’

  ‘But it’s not. You know that as well as I do. Right?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  The difference is that I would have been inhibited by the fear that things wouldn’t go according to plan and the patient might suffer a violent reaction to the surgery. That scenario wouldn’t have crossed Stanley’s mind. Like most successful people, he believes in the power of positive thinking; to contemplate, however fleetingly, the possibility of failure is to invite it. Besides, if Sally goes off the deep end, it won’t be his problem. Like Gavin, he’s got nothing to lose.

  ‘How about you, Max — have you ever had a broken heart?’

  I mention Samantha. He demands details and I end up telling him most of the story. He calls me a lucky bastard.

  sixteen

  I don’t get apologised to. Oh, people might say sorry about that, as you do when you turn up a quarter of an hour late or take a few days to get around to replying to an email, but it’s just an expression. The aim is to disarm, to acknowledge that the other party has been mildly inconvenienced and pre-empt any attempt to make a fuss about it.

  Some might say I don’t attract apologies for the simple reason that I’m more sinning than sinned against. I suppose I could argue that if love means never having to say sorry, I must be a much-loved fellow but I don’t buy either proposition.

  I don’t win raffles either. Given the good causes I’ve modestly supported, all the Girl Guide biscuits I’ve bought and chucked in the bin, you’d think my number would have come up at least once. It’s a sickening thought that one of these days Stanley will find himself in a dairy with a book of raffle tickets on the counter, will be persuaded to contribute a few bucks towards sending a local hero to the World Human Cannonball Championships and will win the Ford Fiesta he wouldn’t be seen dead in or the family holiday in Disneyland.

  But I don’t win raffles, I always get the booby prize in a lucky dip and I don’t get apologised to. Until today. This being the first day of the rest of my life, I’ve had two apologies and it’s not even lunchtime. At this stage I’m putting it down to coincidence rather than a seismic shift in the sinned against/sinning ratio but watch this space.

  First into the hair-shirt is Sally, who catches me as I’m heading out for breakfast. Stanley has been in touch to advise that she blamed the wrong guy and, boy, is she ever ashamed of herself.

  No big deal, I say; don’t give it another thought. So what does she do? She goes through the whole routine all over again. Why do people think repetition is the essence of sincerity? I ask how she’s bearing up. My attention wanders during her in-depth answer but she closes by saying she and Rick are really looking forward to my fiftieth birthday party, which I assume is code for a resumption of normal service. I tell her the party is nothing to do with me but she thinks I’m being facetious.

  An hour later I’m still at the café, debating the pros and cons of a third espresso, when the brother-in-law sits down at my table and bores his great blunt head into my personal space.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he says. His tone is cagily neutral. ‘You like your routine, don’t you, Max?’

  ‘Don’t most people?’

  ‘Most people don’t have a choice; you do. I mean, it’s not like you have to be at a given place at a given time.’

  I could deliver a spiel about self-discipline and the writer, the importance of establishing a routine and sticking to it. It seems to resonate with the reading public. People are always telling me, ‘I could never be a writer; I just don’t have the self-discipline.’ No one’s ever said, ‘I could never be a writer; I just don’t have the talent.’

  But I don’t. As they say in America, don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter.

  ‘Call it a security blanket.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ says Murray. He nods at my empty cup. ‘Having another?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He returns from the counter with a giant muffin and the revelation that we only live once.

  Murray’s not a dainty eater. The con
versation he presumably wants to have is put on hold while he savages the muffin. Our coffees arrive. I down mine and watch the lower half of his face churn like a concrete mixer.

  When it’s all over, when his tongue has dislodged the last pockets of resistance, he says, ‘Listen, Max, sorry for that carry-on the other night. I made a bit of a dick of myself.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I have.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly the perfect host, was I?’

  ‘The food and wine were fine. Two out of three ain’t bad.’

  ‘It fucked me off no end missing out on that deal but that’s no excuse for carrying on like a pork chop.’

  There’s that second helping of humble pie. Normally I’d be wondering what he’s up to but all these apologies are making me benevolent. I’ll assume he’s sincere until there’s reason to think otherwise.

  ‘Murray, I’ll accept your apology if that’s what it takes to wrap this thing up but I wasn’t hanging out for it.’

  He nods, smiling ruefully. ‘You’re a bit of a strange bugger, aren’t you, Max?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You want an example? Okay, what’s with calling me Murray? Not even my mother does that.’

  ‘Well, since you ask, I associate the double Z nickname and variations thereof with yob culture: westies, page-three girls, cretinous loudmouths on the radio, Australian soap operas, fat skinheads chanting racist slogans at football matches, tracksuits as a fashion statement, queer-bashing, ready-mixed bourbon and Coke, rugby league — specifically the Manly Sea Eagles … Need I go on?’

  ‘And you wonder why I think you’re a bit strange?’

  ‘It seems perfectly reasonable to me. Strangeness is in the eye of the beholder, Murray — like a lot of things.’

  He nods placidly. ‘Fair call. We’ve never really been on each other’s wavelength, have we? Is it too late, do you think?’

  ‘Well, they say you mellow with age.’

  ‘I don’t see much sign of you mellowing,’ he says, ‘but I suppose you’d say the same about me.’

  Another half-hour of this and we’ll be holding hands. Murray, though, glances at his watch. ‘Shit, I’d better get moving.’

  He gets halfway up, hovers for a few seconds like a defecator sensing there might be more where that come from, sits down again. His face shifts and twitches as if he’s unsure of the appropriate expression.

  ‘Flick was saying you see quite a bit of the guy in the new house — what’s his name again?’

  ‘Stanley Muir.’

  ‘Right. What’s he up to?’

  ‘Not much. He just seems to cruise around looking for things to spend his money on.’

  ‘Well, shit, lead me to him.’ He produces a business card with a magician’s flourish. ‘Next time you’re talking to him, tell him I’d love to have a chat about this property project I’m working on. It’s a fucking screamer. If he’s got some lazy dough he wants to put to work, I’m telling you he couldn’t do better.’ He reaches across to pat me on the shoulder. ‘Good on you, bro.’

  He’s up and moving before I can quibble or refuse. And people wonder why I’m cynical.

  On the way home I make a detour to get some fresh pasta and almost walk right past them. They’re having coffee at a sidewalk café, they being Stanley and Brigit.

  Stanley’s eyes gleam. Brigit’s not exactly put out but I’ve been greeted more warmly.

  ‘Since when do you two know each other?’ I ask, trying not to sound like a prosecuting counsel.

  ‘We met at a dinner party the other night,’ says Brigit. ‘Stanley was talking about bumping into you after … how many years?’

  ‘Twenty,’ I say. ‘That’s little old NZ for you — you can’t cross the road without risking being run over by a long-lost friend.’

  ‘Another reason why it’s good to be back,’ says Stanley. ‘Pull up a chair, Max. We’re not ashamed to be seen with you.’

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll leave you to it,’ I say. ‘I’ve spent all morning in a café.’

  ‘Don’t be anti-social,’ says Brigit, standing up. ‘You can sit here. Sophie’s class is going to the museum and I’m on transport detail.’ To Stanley: ‘Thanks for hearing me out, Stanley. Promise you’ll think about it?’

  ‘Cross my heart,’ he says, getting to his feet like the gentleman he isn’t. ‘See you soon, I hope.’

  Brigit’s parting smile has lost a little of its sparkle by the time it gets to me. We watch her walk away.

  ‘What a nice person,’ says Stanley sitting back down. ‘In the best sense of the word.’

  ‘Nice is underrated.’

  ‘I agree,’ he says. ‘There’s not enough of it about. We need more nice.’

  ‘And less cynicism?’

  ‘Exactly. More nice, less cynicism. That’s your job, Max, that’s what writers are for: to shine a light in this fog of cynicism and self-gratification.’

  ‘Speaking of which, what was that all about?’

  ‘Brigit? She’s involved with some child cancer charity. You didn’t know that, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  Stanley tut-tuts. ‘Perhaps you should engage in less speculation about your friends’ sexual inclinations and focus on what really makes them tick. There’s a vacancy on the committee and she seems to think I’m just the chap. So I said let’s get together over a coffee and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘Why would they want you?’

  He shrugs. ‘These outfits always need money.’

  ‘Are you going to do it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘So why the charade?’

  ‘Gosh, let me see,’ says Stanley. ‘Why the fuck would I want to spend an hour with an intelligent, attractive, charming woman …’

  ‘You forgot nice. I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t make Brigit a pawn in a private game.’

  ‘I didn’t agree anything of the sort. That was your reason for not introducing us and I went along with it.’ There’s a hint of challenge in his smile. ‘Now, as it’s turned out, we didn’t need a go-between. Fate has brought us together.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Come on, Max, lighten up — this moral guardian act doesn’t suit you. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re right: I don’t think Brigit has her price.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re not going to put it to the test?’

  ‘Let’s just say I don’t believe in fighting losing battles.’

  This is said with heavy finality, which I take as a signal that I shouldn’t press for an unequivocal undertaking. I wouldn’t claim to read Stanley like a book but I can’t help wondering whether he’ll be reluctant to stop now that I know he’s started. If I hadn’t stumbled upon them, their tête-à-tête would be like a tree that falls in the forest and he could give up on Brigit without me knowing he’d started.

  Perhaps he’ll be satisfied with having made the point that he can’t be thwarted: if he wants to see Brigit in close-up, he’ll find a way, with or without my help. I believe in coincidence but not this coincidence. I don’t believe they just happened to be invited to the same dinner party. I think Stanley made it happen.

  I hand over Murray’s business card. Stanley pockets it without a glance, saying he’ll give him a call. I don’t believe him but that doesn’t matter. I can look Murray in the eye and say I did my bit.

  With that out of the way, we move on to my other woman friend into whose life Stanley has insinuated himself.

  ‘I heard from Sally.’

  ‘I had to set her straight, Max. That couldn’t be allowed to stand.’

  ‘What did she say when you owned up?’

  ‘She thanked me for my caring and timely intervention.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I filled her in on Gavin. I might’ve gilded the lily but the overall thrust was fact-based. So all’s well that ends well, eh? Did she say how much she’s looking forward to your fiftieth?’
r />   ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She told me that too.’ The challenging smile reappears. ‘Women: wouldn’t life be a drag without them?’

  That’s enough socialising for one day. Now I want to shut myself away in my little flat and please myself. Some work: half a dozen pages of busy notes and perhaps even a few hundred hesitant words on the computer. Some reading: for several weeks the new Dellasandro has sat menacingly on my bedside table, like a suitcase bomb. Poised as I am, or hope I am, on the verge of a new book, should I tamper with it or would it be wiser to dispose of it? Dellasandro requires careful handling at the best of times and I’m not exactly on a winning streak. Then again, Dellasandro’s a giant. So he makes me look like a hack; he makes most writers look like hacks. Better to measure myself against certain successful and celebrated writers who, when you get past the pack-mentality reviews and mythologising profiles and bestsellerdom based on assiduous networking and a hefty marketing spend to the work itself, don’t make me look like a hack.

  Perhaps a sensible balance would be an awestruck hour with Dellasandro and an hour grimacing at the utilitarian prose of some mid-table operator who clearly believes fiction is no laughing matter. And I’ll endeavour to look on the bright side, reminding myself that literature isn’t a zero-sum game and other people’s success isn’t at my expense. Good luck to them because if they can do it, then it’s not out of the question for me. Not if I give it my best.

  I have a programme: a sandwich; a cyber-scan of the English broadsheets; a couple of hours work on Project Gatsby; an hour (devoid of lacerating comparisons with self) of Dellasandro; another hour’s work; a well-earned beer while deciding I can’t be bothered with the evening news; a second beer, also well-earned, while preparing dinner, spaghetti bolognese served with baguette, green salad and unassuming Argentinean malbec; an hour of mixed feelings with a critics’ darling who doesn’t make me feel like a hack; a pointless channel-surf; bed with an old favourite that takes me back to the time when I read for the pure, uncluttered, unselfconscious pleasure; lights out.

  I have a programme but other people won’t leave me to it.