The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  After he parks, Doug leaps out and opens my door. He offers me his hand as though I’m too delicate, or perhaps too clumsy, to get out of a car unaided. I decline it, say I’m fine, but really I’m loath to put my sodden paw into his steady, brown hand.

  We go inside the restaurant and take our seats. A waitress immediately hovers.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Doug asks.

  ‘Please.’

  He smiles. ‘I won’t. Driving.’

  Should I have refused the offer of wine, seeing as he isn’t drinking? Is it poor etiquette to knock back the grog when one’s date is sober? I decide the etiquette question is a risk worth taking when you need a drink like a legless man needs a prosthetic limb. Make that two. ‘Thank you,’ I say, trying not to grab as the waitress deposits a frosty glass of Pinot Gris on the immaculate white linen of the table.

  I read the menu and sip my wine, make like I’m fascinated with every little item listed for our consumption. It’s a great alternative to conversation. Salmon steaks au poivre. Mm, ‘I think I’d like the salmon steak please.’ Doug flags down the waitress. ‘Salmon for two, thanks.’

  The waitress gathers up our menus, and I watch my reading matter disappear with regret. Our attention is all each other’s. I take another sip of wine and feel the beginnings of a hint of warmth flow into my veins. It really is kind of Doug to take me out for such a yummy-looking lunch. I mustn’t spoil his day by acting like a twit. ‘Have you always been a keen swimmer?’ I ask, and settle my glass on the table.

  Doug leans back in his chair, looking utterly relaxed. It’s impossible to imagine this man ruffled. ‘Guess so,’ he says. ‘Since school at least. Swam for the State by the age of sixteen.’

  ‘Really? That’s impressive. Did you consider taking it further?’

  ‘Thought about it. But I had to prioritise. I was playing a lot of cricket by then too, plus doing pretty rigorous martial arts training. As well as finishing off school, of course.’

  ‘You’ve led a busy life.’

  ‘That’s how I like it.’

  ‘I enjoy a bit of relaxation myself.’

  ‘You’re disciplined with your swimming,’ he says, cradling a tumbler of iced water between his hands.

  ‘True,’ I admit. ‘Though I do have the girls to spur me on.’ I sip from my wine glass, tiny sips, wanting to gulp it down but reluctant to appear both a glutton and a drunk. Doug’s dark eyes are on me and I get the feeling I’m under scrutiny, that I’m being analysed like a specimen in a lab. With an effort, I pull myself and my paranoia into order. Of course he’s looking my way. It would be discourteous of him to stare out of the window or, worse, at the waitress.

  ‘Tell me about your son,’ I say. ‘How old is he now?’

  There’s a softening on Doug’s face. ‘Caleb’s ten and growing up fast. It’s a handful, being a single parent – as you’d know. But I do have a housekeeper who’s home every afternoon when Caleb gets in from school. That frees me up a lot.’

  ‘It would be hard to run a business without that sort of help. Thank you,’ I add, smiling at the waitress who sets a steaming hunk of salmon in front of me.

  ‘You make time for what you want to do,’ says Doug. ‘Never could abide people saying they don’t have time for this, or are too busy for that.’

  ‘Sounds very efficient.’ I take my first nibble of salmon. The au poivre is pretty liberal, but I like a bit of heat about my food. ‘This is delicious,’ I say. Then add, ‘I’m afraid I might be guilty of that – I’m not much of a time manager.’ I can almost hear Laura scolding me as I speak. He’s just told you what he can’t stand in a person and you go and tell him that’s you to a tee?

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ says Doug. ‘If you were that inefficient, you’d never get a book finished.’

  ‘Ah, but sometimes they take a while.’

  ‘I found one of your books in the library the other day,’ he says.

  I look up from my plate. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re the first author I’ve ever met.’

  ‘We’re a strange breed,’ I say. ‘Spend too much time alone.’

  ‘I enjoyed your book.’

  ‘You read it?’ Acute, mortifying, gut-wrenching fear. I have no idea whether Doug’s talking about one of my historical biographies, or whether he’s been flipping through the lurid pages of one of my historical romances: bodice-rippers, as they are known in the business. Readers of bodice-rippers demand a voyeuristic consummation of the passions aroused between the pages which involves, not only the ripping of the odd bodice or two, but a blow-by-blow account of the mechanics of who puts what where, when hero and heroine finally make it between the sheets. Not to mention dreaming up interesting and seldom-used metaphors for certain parts of the anatomy: petals, soldiers of love and honeyed sheaths, to name but a few. But, hey, if you succeed in satisfying the readers as well as your hero and heroine, why not? You’re sure to have a winner on your hands.

  Unless you end up coerced into a date with a man who reads your books and makes your skin crawl with selfconsciousness.

  Sitting in the Reef House with Doug Bernhoff this happy, sunny, sweaty day, I am, therefore, clinging to the slight hope that the book he lay his large brown intrusive hands upon is one of my earlier, more pristine efforts.

  ‘Which one?’ I ask, and take a slurp of wine.

  ‘Lord of the North,’ he says.

  Lord of the North. Worst of the lot, if my memory serves me. An overlarge, swarthy hero delving with unnatural frequency into the charms of a voluptuous maiden. ‘My stories are really for women,’ I say, desperately trying to recall the precise degree of explicitness in Lord of the North. ‘Not the sort of thing men normally read.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I was curious,’ he tells me.

  Should I have anticipated this? Prepared myself for it? Would any man, every man I ever go out with do the same thing, hoping to get an insight into my needs, my wants? God, I feel sick.

  ‘Where do you get your inspiration from?’ Doug asks.

  ‘My imagination,’ I say a bit tartly. This is the sort of question I’ve been asked many times. Clearly he’s wondering whether Charlie has done all those energetic things she writes about.

  ‘It must be a thrill when you finish a book.’

  ‘Absolutely. As it must be for you to finish a building.’ It’s a pathetic attempt to change the topic.

  ‘To leave something of yourself – a permanent mark.’

  ‘Exactly. But the marks you make are there on the horizon for all to see. Mine have to be hunted down in bookshops and libraries.’

  I don’t bother to hide the faint accusation in my tone but Doug doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I admire your creativity,’ he says.

  ‘And I yours. You must be an extremely creative person to have ventured into architecture.’

  ‘Well yes,’ he says, ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Tell me how you got started.’ It works. He’s off and running, and I relax back.

  He drops me home fifteen minutes before the school bus is due. Sitting in the car I thank him for lunch and reach for the door handle. He’s quicker than me, out of his door and round to my side.

  ‘I really enjoyed today, Charlie,’ he says, dark eyes caressing my face with a familiarity I’m not at all comfortable with. ‘We must do it again some time.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I reply. Not on your life. Forewarned is forearmed. I will have my excuses next time. He walks me to the door. I fumble with the key and the lock. He kisses my cheek, no attempt to aim for my mouth. I melt with relief when I shut the door behind me. Then stand slumped against the closed door, listening to his car drive away.

  A few minutes later, when I’m changing back into old, comfortable clothes, I hear the familiar bang of the door, the double thump of school bags hitting the floor. It’s the most wholesome sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘WELL?’ SAYS KAREN.

>   ‘Out with it,’ says Cate.

  ‘We’re not leaving this room till you tell us,’ says Wendy.

  I dump my swimming bag on the bench in the changing room, then turn to face them. ‘I wasn’t bored.’

  Laura strips off her shirt and slings it on a hook. ‘Promising.’

  ‘Boredom,’ I say, ‘was not the worst case scenario.’

  I have their attention now. I pause. Let them wait, the mischievous, matchmaking, manipulative lot of them. I undress till I’m standing in just my togs, then fiddle with my goggles, making unnecessary adjustments. I know I’m driving them insane.

  ‘He’s been reading my books,’ I finally reveal. There’s an awed hush. These faithful friends have read every word I’ve ever published. No need to explain to them what he’s been reading about. ‘Doug Bernhoff has not been wasting his time when he visits the library.’

  Wendy is the first to laugh, then the others explode. I don’t think it’s quite so funny, thank you very much.

  ‘All I can say is he must be keener than we realised – doing all that research,’ hiccups Laura, when she’s calmed down enough to speak.

  ‘Well he can go and hone his research skills elsewhere,’ I snap, and yank my pink hat over my ears.

  ‘Perhaps, secretly, he’s a bit shy,’ suggests Wendy. ‘Perhaps he thought it would give you something to talk about. Some common ground.’

  ‘Shy? Not likely! Puffed up, like Karen said the other day. He talked for ages about himself, once I got him off the topic of my books.’

  We make our way out to the pool, still giggling. Sean is tapping his watch and looking cross. ‘Sorry,’ we all chorus.

  ‘Youse’ll have to swim hard to make up the time,’ he says, and tells us he’s decided to let us join the swim squad in the fast lanes. I’m not sure how keen I am about this. I worry that I’ll get in the way of the better swimmers, and there’s always the possibility of having to share a lane with the Black Douglas.

  But I needn’t have worried; we are separated as to level of ability. Karen, Laura, Wendy and I share a lane. The big guns, including Cate, are in an adjacent lane. We do our warm-up, then Sean introduces us to a training game he likes to call catch-me-if-you-can. He places us in reverse order of speed. Thus it is me, followed by Laura, then Karen, then Wendy. The slowest swimmer sets off first, the others at five-second intervals. The idea is to try to grab the foot of the person in front of you.

  I experience absurd levels of panic as I set off. It is only Laura on my heels, the trusted, loyal, gentle hands of Laura reaching for my toes, but the idea that I’m going to get grabbed at any moment makes me feel like there’s a great white shark after me and I fly through the water, forgetting to breathe, reach the deep end of the pool, turn blindly, and head back to the shallows. I make it ungrabbed, with an extra ten litres of water in my stomach and see that I’ve actually extended the gap between Laura and myself. Sean puts a smile on my face when he tells me I clocked sixteen seconds for my first twenty-five metres.

  ‘You won’t be setting off first next time,’ he says.

  Next time? I don’t think I like playing catch-me-if-you-can.

  There are endless devices designed to torture us. Sean attaches buckets to long straps tied around our waists. The buckets drag behind us like parachutes. It’s murder to swim this way. He makes us do freestyle with closed fists, so we have no catch on the water. He teaches us to tumble turn.

  In the beginning, each turn takes about a minute and a half. We flail around under water, trying to manipulate ourselves over with windmilling arms, and come up facing the wrong way, goggles askew, sinuses fit to burst, too exhausted by our efforts to keep swimming. But slowly, slowly, we improve, and it is a liberating thing to flip neatly over, kick off and swim on. Sean is working us very hard, for we have a special goal in November this year. This year we are going to compete in the Mid-Coast Triathlon.

  A real triathlon. Olympic length. Fifteen hundred metre swim, forty kilometre cycle, ten kilometre run. Big distances. Big competitors. We need all the confidence and fitness we can muster. By the date of the triathlon, we will have completed a little over two years of swim training, one year of occasional bouts of cycling, and whatever running we can force ourselves into between now and November.

  ‘You’re pretty quick with that kickboard.’

  Doug, separated by a lane rope, kicks along beside me.

  It’s a week since The Date, and the first time I’ve run into him.

  ‘You must have strong legs.’

  I don’t much like discussing my legs with the Black Douglas, but I know I must learn to conquer the self-conscious twit in me and start behaving like an adult.

  ‘I guess so. ’Hardly startling grown-up repartee.

  ‘Race you to the end,’ he says.

  Panic. I don’t like competition.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘All right.’

  We’re only twenty metres from the deep end of the pool, and I start to kick hard, really hard, experiencing a sudden childish need to show off. I’m burning myself out to the extent that I’ll have to limp back, but I don’t care. My legs are my secret weapon: a threshing machine, surging on and forward. Something changes on his face, he’s having to try, to really try. It’s clear I’ve surprised him, and I’m giddy with triumph, thrashing harder. We touch the end simultaneously, or perhaps I’m a thousandth of a second in front. There’s a look of genuine astonishment on his face, swiftly masked.

  ‘Well done,’ he says and puts his kickboard up on the edge of the pool. ‘Of course men tend to rely more on their upper bodies to swim, having more powerful shoulders and arms. We use our strength to pull ourselves forward, rather than legs to push. You can swim further that way, it’s more efficient.’

  My breathing’s all over the place, there’s no way I’m going to be able to swim back. ‘I’ve never been an overly efficient type,’ I manage between noisy pants.

  He flashes the dazzling grin. Is he pleased to hear me say this? Happy to think he’s more efficient than me? Or am I’m being unfair – perhaps he finds my inefficiency endearingly feminine? I can’t be sure, but the grin is a broad one. Clearly something’s pleased him.

  ‘That was a good day, down at the Reef House,’ he says. ‘I enjoyed myself. Let’s do it again.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ I’m ready for him this time. ‘But it was a bit irresponsible of me to take time off last week. I’m on a killing deadline with my new book. Can it wait a while?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, but there is disappointment in his eyes and I feel a twinge of regret and concern that maybe I’m wrong. That maybe my deep reservations are born of being unused to spending time alone with a man. Might another rendezvous or two with Doug push me past those dreadful getting acquainted moments into a state of comfortable acceptance, even pleasure in his company? There is much to admire, after all. Apart from his impossibly attractive appearance, there’s the athleticism and dedication to training that had me feeling like an awestruck groupie from the start. But there’s also his willingness to take on the responsibility of single fatherhood which, being a single parent myself, counts for a huge amount in my eyes. How long before I might meet another in such a league? I open my mouth to soften my reply, but before I can speak Doug pushes off to swim to the shallow end.

  Karen pulls up in the lane next to me. ‘Why are you stopped? Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Great. Needed to rest my legs after teaching the Black Douglas a lesson. Taught him two actually. I just refused the offer of a second date.’

  ‘Well done you,’ she says. ‘That is, I’m glad you’re not letting yourself get pressed into things. But are you sure you should have refused it? I mean good-looking, friendly, single, successful blokes aren’t exactly thick on the ground, you know. Not at our age.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t burn your bridges,’ she says, and puts down her goggles to push off for the shallows.

&nbs
p; No doubt Karen’s advice is sound. Or would be were I intent on hunting down a mate and dragging him by the hair into my cave. It’s not like I’ve made a binding pact with myself to shut men out of my life forever. Not at all. That’s just what seems to be happening, and it’s an accidental status quo that sits very easily while the boys are still at school. The idea of introducing another human being into the comfortable little world I share with Mikey and Dan daunts me no end. The possibilities for conflict seem endless. But after the boys have grown up, why not push past those getting acquainted moments and find someone to share my life? Someone who prefers me to any other. I’ve loads of time to contemplate the possibility. Five years of it.

  I continue to float at the deep end of the pool, risking the wrath of Sean but enjoying the gentle warmth of the early morning sun on my face and the peace of mind in knowing I have a five-year buffer before I need to even consider the risky idea of letting a mate enter my life. And perhaps, if it is just a matter of the timing that makes me so determined to see the worst in Doug, I should be saying to him, Love the sound of that second lunch invitation, Doug, but could we just wait five years?

  Or, as Laura suspects, are their deeper, darker reasons for my obstinacy? Am I using the boys as an excuse to deny what has become a fear of men? For a moment I flirt with the immensely satisfying thought that Alec is guilty of more than the abandonment of his wife and children, that he is guilty of turning a passionate, loving woman into the Ice Queen, forever impervious to the temptations of the flesh. Blaming Alec for things is always an enjoyable pastime, but my saner self recognises the unhealthiness of this activity, and I pull myself up before I spiral too far down the path of self-indulgence.

  I’m still floating at the deep end of the pool when another swimmer approaches in the adjacent lane. For a minute I think it’s Doug, already completing a return trip, but when he stops and pulls his goggles off, I realise it’s Lee.

  ‘Having goggle trouble?’ I ask.