by Laura Elliot
Steve rings. Lauren moves from the mirror, turns her back on the young woman and assures her husband that she is missing him as much as he is missing her. She married him during a Caribbean cruise. Sand in her toes, a woman minister presiding. No one except the captain of the liner and his first mate to witness the occasion. Why, her sisters demanded. Why? Why? What they failed to understand was that there was freedom in defeat. Everything calm, passive, icy.
The prostitute has left when she turns around again. Her perfume remains in Lauren’s nostrils. She stands motionless in front of the mirror. Slowly she lifts her hands, splays her fingers before her reflection. Ten perfect acrylic nails and genuine jewels.
Red triangles of material flutter like butterflies from her shoulders as she walks from the restaurant towards the bar. Chairs are grouped intimately together in alcoves. Her heels click against the marble tiles. The composer rises to greet her.
In his bedroom, she kisses his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his demanding mouth. A vein throbs in his forehead. She lightly traces it with her lips and the delicate pulse shivers against her tongue. Her palm presses against his heartbeat and she lifts his hand, rests it above her breast so that he too can experience the same hurrying rhythm. He moves downwards, his breath playing over her belly, her thighs, and she trembles, moans softly when she feels the pressure of his tongue probe and glide along the arteries of pleasure. She is overwhelmed with the need to give and to receive, aroused to the brink of surrender, then slowly calming the moment until they are able to continue their slow exploration. His dark eyes burn, then grow opaque as he lays his lean hard body over her and she opens to receive him. Sweat gleams on his chest, a smear of honey on his dark skin. She echoes his cry, torn savagely from him, as they move together into a swooping, pulsating release.
Dawn is breaking when she gathers the strength to rise from his bed. They shower together, the musky odour of spent passion vanishing from their bodies. She yearns to smooth his wet, spiky hair, kiss the lacquered sheen of his shoulders, to ask what happened to his nose. She yearns, also, to whip the white towel from his hips and lie beside him again. Far better than to allow another need, a demanding, more intrusive need, to possess her. She wonders if the taste of him will ever leave her lips.
Chapter Twenty-six
Christchurch
They are flying in a timeless zone, movie channels switched off, seats tilted back. Julie sleeps and Lauren, on the opposite aisle, also appears to have dozed off. Rebecca is restless, unable to concentrate on her book. She has already watched one movie and has no interest in viewing another. She walks along the aisle towards the end of the plane. Lauren’s companion from Bangkok is on the same flight. A pinpoint of light shines on the book he is reading. He does not look up when she walks past.
In an open area by the kitchen, she bends forward and stretches, then raises her arms and arches into a back stretch. He is standing in front of her when she straightens. Startled, she moves aside to let him pass. He has the tired, ruffled look of a long-haul traveller, dark stubble on his chin, shadows under his brown eyes. Instead of walking past Rebecca, he smiles and stops, leans against the wall to steady himself.
‘You too are unable to sleep?’ He speaks English flawlessly but with a slight hesitancy that suggests it is not his first language.
‘Yes.’ She nods, wiggles her fingers. ‘I might as well try to avoid a thrombosis.’
‘Lauren told me you are travelling towards a family reunion.’
‘She’s obviously filled you in on our family history,’ Rebecca replies. ‘But I’m at a slight disadvantage. I know nothing about you. Not even your name.’
‘Niran Gordon.’ He has a firm handshake. The warmth of his flesh makes her think about the intimacy he shared with her sister. A telltale flush rises on her throat.
‘Are you holidaying in New Zealand?’ she asks.
‘No. I will stay there for the summer and work. As I do every year.’ If he senses her thoughts, he gives no indication as he describes his holiday home. It sounds remote and basic, and is located on a headland on the western side of the South Island.
‘Near the glaciers?’ Rebecca asks.
‘Closer to Haast,’ he replies. ‘It’s on the way to Jackson Bay.’
‘The West Coast is on our itinerary, but not Jackson Bay.’ Rebecca has studied maps of the South Island and knows the general area he is describing.
Suddenly his expression, open and friendly while they were talking, becomes inscrutable, emphasising the Asian cast of his features. The shift of his attention from Rebecca to someone over her shoulder is so obvious that she turns and sees, as she expects, Lauren approaching. The atmosphere changes, becomes charged with an indefinable emotion that instantly excludes her.
‘Excuse me. I’d better go back to my seat.’ She stops when she reaches her sister and whispers, ‘I worry about you.’
She had forgotten Lauren’s stare. Haughty and withdrawn, defying anyone to challenge her. ‘It’s my life, Rebecca,’ she whispers back. ‘Step off it.’
After the clamour of Bangkok, Christchurch, with its drifting green willows and wide ordered streets, is a tranquil oasis. Not an elephant in sight, declares Julie, as they journey towards the hotel. They will collect the motor home tomorrow morning when they have recovered from the flight.
Lauren does not join them for dinner. As soon as she has showered and dried her hair, she leaves the hotel. She advises her sisters to eat without her. She is meeting Niran Gordon for a farewell meal and will be late returning.
‘What’s she playing at?’ Julie asks when the door closes behind her.
‘It’s called a dangerous game,’ Rebecca replies.
‘No fool like an old fool,’ says Julie.
Steve Moran is no fool. He waited a long time for Lauren to reach for the trinkets he offered. Trinkets for the bird in the gilded cage: ladders, mirrors, spinning wheels, dainty delicacies.
Rebecca is still awake when Lauren quietly opens the door and moves through the room, a fleeting shape, barely visible, but she feigns sleep, unwilling to endure her sister’s spicy breath whispering secrets into her ear. Not that that is likely. She has never been Lauren’s confidante and whatever happened tonight will not be discussed in breathless, confessional asides.
Her thoughts turn to Bangkok. She is glad to be away from the City of Smiles, with its glittering history and the ugly underbelly she had glimpsed. She thinks about the elephant, its nobility thrashed beyond repair amidst stinking petrol fumes. Elephants belong in the wild. They belong in herds, mother trunks linking baby trunks, shaking the freedom of the earth with their thundering hoofs.
She is still shocked by her impulsive action. Unplanned deeds and misguided sympathy achieve nothing except confusion. ‘Well known Animal Activist Dies in Failed Elephant Rescue Bid’–despite her agitation, Rebecca smiles as she imagines the headlines had she been trampled to death by the elephant. But it was a crazy thing to do.
From the bed on the other side of the room, she hears a sigh, as heavy as a wave collapsing, and, later, Lauren’s breathing deepening. What is it like to break vows without compunction, Rebecca wonders as she stares into the darkness. Bodies tossed on a maelstrom of passion? She curls her fingers around the duvet and draws it tightly against her chin.
On more than one occasion, Julie has accused her of having a Miss Havisham complex. She believes Rebecca is halfway to becoming an eccentric spinster, and the episode with the elephant will have reinforced this conviction. Spinster is a scratchy word; eccentric somewhat softer. Put them together and Rebecca can see her future stretching before her. Already, she has acquired the trappings. A cottage in the country, a cat called Teabag, and a tendency to talk to herself when darkness settles. Sometimes, she plays the bongos to alleviate the silence of a Wicklow night but this hobby could become an obsession, and Teabag will be followed by other cats, countless cats crawling over her furniture and comforting her when she is menopausal or crazy,
whichever comes first. And, strictly speaking, she is not a spinster. She was married once and loved her husband with a passion that seemed invincible.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The white, streamlined vehicle glistens from a recent wash. All traces of its previous occupants have been bleached and polished from existence.
‘You must be joking!’ Lauren climbs aboard the home she will occupy for the next twenty days and collapses into the nearest seat. ‘This tank was designed with hobbits in mind.’
‘What did you expect?’ Rebecca slings her rucksack onto the table and laughs at her sister’s horrified expression. ‘A luxury liner?’
‘I didn’t expect a set from The Lord of the Rings.’
‘Stop being so dramatic,’ Julie chides her. ‘It’s more than adequate for our needs.’ She examines the presses with an experienced eye, snaps the doors open and closed. ‘It’s got a neat kitchen. We’ll stop at the first supermarket and buy our supplies. An army can’t be expected to march on an empty stomach.’
Lauren has no intention of marching anywhere. ‘Steve was right when he called this “a sardine can”. You told us there were six beds, Rebecca. I can’t see one, let alone six.’
‘They’re up on top. The table also converts into a bed at night. You take that bunk.’ Rebecca points upwards to a space above the driving cabin.
Cautiously, Lauren climbs a ladder to inspect her sleeping quarters. ‘Why didn’t you tell me I’d be sleeping on a luggage rack?’ She peers back down at Rebecca. ‘The time has come to bring Steve to the rescue.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Julie replies. ‘He’s sleeping in his king-size bed at this very moment. Different times, remember? Why do you think your phone is silent?’
‘We’ll sort the beds out later.’ Lauren is overdoing the wilting maiden act but Rebecca is also startled at the smallness of the camper. She waits until Lauren has hauled her three suitcases on board then, ignoring Lauren’s complaints that she has broken one of her fingernails, she climbs into the driver seat and turns on the ignition. ‘It’s time to hit the road.’
Accompanied by cheers of encouragement from Julie, she eases the camper from the forecourt. It is a Saturday morning and traffic is sparse. She drives with ease through the streets, noting road signs: Oxford Street, Hereford, Chester, Bath, Gloucester. Hard to believe they are on the other side of the world.
‘Don’t forget the Irish.’ Julie flicks the pages of Traversing New Zealand. ‘There’s Tuam Street and Armagh Street and Cashel—’
‘Can we skip the geography lecture?’ Lauren presses her fingers to her forehead. ‘We all know there isn’t anywhere in the world that hasn’t seen the crack of an Irish builder’s arse.’
‘Being married to one, you should know.’ Julie grins and snaps her guidebook closed. ‘And, as we’re on our holidays, I’d rather you didn’t mention your husband’s arse in my presence.’
She removes her mandolin from its case and begins to tune it.
‘Oh my God, not only have we turned into hobbits but now we’re expected to have a karaoke.’ Lauren closes her eyes and leans her head back against the headrest. ‘Did you pack any Panadol, Rebecca? I’ve a vicious headache.’
‘It’s probably caused by sleep deprivation.’ Rebecca jerks her thumb over her shoulder. ‘You’ll find them in my rucksack.’
‘Thanks.’ Lauren opens the rucksack and removes a small first-aid box. She swallows two tablets with bottled water and replaces the rucksack behind the seat.
‘You were very late coming back to the hotel again last night.’ Rebecca focuses on the traffic. She tries to remove the disapproval from her voice, but the words have their own force and she senses, rather than sees, Lauren’s shoulders stiffen, her gaze freeze.
‘Is that a statement or a question, Rebecca?’
‘It’s a fact.’
‘Now that we’ve established that fact, can we change the subject or do you want to continue discussing my business?’
‘That’s up to you, Lauren.’
‘Shut up, you two. I’m going to sing for peace.’ Julie begins to play. The tune is familiar. Something from Abba. She used to hate Abba, parody their songs in the glory days of Maximum Volume, so confident that the big record companies would discover their unique talent.
Lauren studies a road map. She calls out directions to Rebecca as they make their way towards their first sightseeing destination on the road to Havenswalk.
The Christchurch gondola cranks and clunks its way to the summit from where they will view the vast sprawl of the Canterbury Plain as it rolls across the miles of farmland and forests, stretching outwards towards the snowy shoulders of the Southern Alps. Julie moves around the gondola and positions herself for the best possible shots. Rebecca has lost count of the number of photos and texts she has sent to her family since she left home. Her phone seems like an extension of her personality. Whenever Rebecca visits, its bleeping is a constant summons for Julie to collect her sons from their numerous activities. Rebecca has advised her to burn, bury or drown it, but Julie is a slave to its dictates and unable to function without its tyranny.
When they reach the summit, they turn in different directions and agree to meet up in the Summit Café in an hour for coffee. Rebecca makes straight for the observation deck. She leans her elbows on the rail and stares at the dizzying vista below her and beyond towards the distant Kaikoura Peninsula where she will swim with the dolphins. This is the land where Cathy made her new life. Where she cast off her past like an old skin, then rang out of the blue looking for ‘closure’. Such a glib concept. Rebecca hates the word, its neat explicitness, its comforting cosiness, as if its very utterance grants some unique form of amnesia, an instant delivery from grief. She does not want to talk about Cathy until the journey is over. The others have agreed. Time enough for retrospection when they are all together.
Her thoughts are disturbed by a group of youths in rugby team tracksuits who enter the observation deck. Just as well Julie is not around. One glance at their gelled hair and downy chins would have her reaching for her handkerchief. The boys are accompanied by a heavily built, bearded man with cameras slung around his neck. They jostle each other, shout and lean precariously over the railing until the photographer, displaying the patience of a sheepdog, herds them into a tidy formation. He photographs them against the mountainous backdrop. When he is finished, they race each other towards the Summit Café. Rebecca relaxes into the silence they leave behind.
‘Please…just stay in that position.’ Before she can turn round, the photographer’s quiet voice holds her still. He raises his camera and clicks. ‘Do you mind?’ He steps to her right-hand side, then clicks again. ‘I never pass up the chance of an atmospheric shot.’ He smiles and stands beside her. ‘You with the mountains in the background. You look so content, so tranquil.’
‘I can assure you, I feel anything but tranquil.’
‘Never mind. Perception is everything. This will be a good one. Do you mind if I use it?’
‘For a newspaper?’
‘Or a magazine? I’m a freelance photographer. Willing to sell my soul to the highest bidder.’
‘Then I hope I’m of assistance in the sale.’
‘Tim Dawson’s the name.’ He has a vigorous handshake. ‘You here on holiday?’
‘I just arrived today. I’m Rebecca Lambert.’
‘Welcome to New Zealand, Rebecca Lambert. What do you think of the South Island so far? Or is it too soon to form an opinion?’
Mid-forties, Rebecca reckons, with a ruddy, out-of-doors complexion that suggests he spends as little time as possible behind a desk.
‘I’m sure I’m going to love it. My sister certainly does. She lives here.’
‘Travelling on your own?’
‘No. I’m with my two other sisters. We’ve hired a motor home.’
‘What route are you taking?’
He nods in approval when she describes their itinerary. ‘You’ll see s
ome magnificent scenery along the way.’
A second man with the blocky shoulders of a prop forward enters the viewing deck and beckons to him.
‘Duty calls. He’s the team manager.’ Tim rummages in his pocket and produces a notebook. ‘Do you have an email address? I can send you on the photo.’
She tells it to him. ‘I’ll be checking my mail along the route. Thanks, Tim.’
‘Nice talking to you, Rebecca.’
She strolls from the deck and heads towards the souvenir shop. Julie and Lauren have disappeared and are probably waiting for her in the café. A row of nature books on a shelf catches her attention. She selects one with a scaly frog-like creature on the cover and purchases it.
‘I thought you’d fallen off the viewing deck,’ says Lauren when Rebecca enters the café. ‘What kept you?’
‘The view. It’s magnificent. You two should check it out.’
‘Will do.’ Julie rises. ‘What would you like? Cappuccino, a muffin?’
‘Just a cappuccino, thanks. Stay where you are. I’ll get it.’
The team jostle each other at the counter. As Rebecca is returning to the table with a loaded tray, one boy, pursued by another, runs past and jogs her elbow. She struggles to regain her balance and gasps when hot coffee splashes over her fingers.