by Les Zig
‘That’s nice of you to say.’
‘It’s true. You live together—doesn’t that count for something?’
Beth rolls her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t believe the world war I fought to get that to happen.’
‘Maybe Roger is more focused on other things.’
‘Like?’ Beth looks at me sharply, like I’ve hit a sore spot.
‘His career.’
‘Oh. I guess.’
‘I’ve only met him a couple of times, and he came across as very career oriented. I’d be surprised if you didn’t realise that.’
‘I do. But, sometimes, I wonder …’
‘What?’
‘Maybe there’s somebody else. Somebody on the side. Or somebodies.’
I put my focaccia down. ‘Has he given you reason to believe that?’
‘He works late sometimes, but I know he’s working. He always has truckloads of paperwork, and colleagues are always coming by to go over stuff.’ Beth brushes at her eyes. There are no tears—it’s a pre-emptive brush to reinforce herself. ‘I hate being so suspicious and insecure. Does Jane ever make you feel like that?’
Everything almost spills out—and there’s no reason to hold it back. I could ask Beth’s opinion the way she asked mine. But I don’t. I don’t want to condemn Jane without evidence, I don’t want to blow anything out of proportion and—I find the truth is—I most definitely don’t want to articulate something I’m not ready to confront myself. Yet.
‘No. I mean, I’ll get jealous if we’re out and some guy gives her attention, but you reconnect. There’s that bond. It’s like … I don’t know. Submarine radar. You ping to get the signal back. God, that was stupid.’
Beth laughs, reaches across the table and touches my hand. ‘No, I understand, and it makes sense. That’s what I don’t have with Roger. That reconnect. It’s an uphill climb.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Beth. Wait, I do as far as there being nothing wrong with you. If Roger isn’t on your timetable, it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s him. Don’t doubt yourself.’
‘Then that makes me doubt him.’ Beth picks up her focaccia for the first time. ‘A partner shouldn’t make you feel like that, should they?’
As Beth stares at me with those huge brown eyes, the world opens up to me. She’s right. A partner shouldn’t make you feel like that.
‘You know what?’ she says. ‘I’m going to get it out in the open. There’s no point stewing, is there?’
She’s right.
I have to face Jane.
5
I have another spare period after lunch, so I correct more homework. It’s never-ending, but it’s better doing it here than dragging it home. Then I power through my last class—another English class.
When the bell rings, I’m out of the classroom before the kids are. I hurry to the parking lot before anybody can delay me. A sickly sweet smell greets me inside my car—the donut I bought at Sofia’s this morning. It’s melted in the heat; a ring of chocolate smears the paper bag. The bottle of water I also bought has become hot to touch.
As I drive, I rehearse how I’m going to approach Jane, casting appraising glances of my performance in the rear-view mirror. It’s too hard. Words are too hard. And yet, somehow, I teach English. All thoughts of what I might say scatter as I approach my house and see Vic—still in his coveralls—peering under the hood of his car. Music blares from the radio, an old hard rock band I can’t identify. A Cooper’s sits on the roof of the car alongside a couple of empties.
I pull into my driveway and reverse onto the nature strip. Vic doesn’t move. I take a deep breath, grab my water and donut, and get out of my car. From inside the garage, Wallace barks. The moment he hears my or Jane’s car, he runs from the backyard and into the garage to greet us. There’s something to be said about Wallace’s enthusiasm. I take a step towards the garage door, not bothering to look at Vic or exchange a greeting. Usually, he wouldn’t either. Usually.
‘Your dog was yapping all day,’ he says from under the hood.
‘You didn’t go to work today, Vic?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Vic draws up, like the full extent of his girth is meant to intimidate me—unfortunately, it does.
‘I’m just saying—’
‘What’re you just saying?’ Vic grabs his beer, takes a swig, and leans back against his car. It’s like he wants to give me ammunition to pick him apart—because he knows I won’t.
‘I was just curious because you said you heard Wallace all day.’
‘You were just curious?’
‘Yeah, just curious.’
‘What d’you keep saying just for?’
‘I … well …’
Vic takes another swig of his beer, although his eyes never leave me. Then he snorts, puts his beer back on the roof of his car, and sticks his head under the hood.
I walk around the garage and open the door. Wallace leaps at me over and over until I pick him up. He licks my chin and his tail thumps my arm. I nuzzle his head and wonder what to do next.
It’s 3.35. Jane won’t be home until about 6.00. Even if she were here now, I’m sure I wouldn’t confront her. Not after what happened with Vic; it’s deflated my nerve—although that’s an excuse. Like with so many things, I’m much braver in my imagination than I am in real life.
I get moving, knowing I have to keep myself busy.
I toss out the donut and put the bottle of water in the fridge. Next, I refill Wallace’s food and water bowls, brush Wallace, hand strip him of loose fur (a necessity), then brush him again. He fidgets, unhappy with his grooming, but I reward him with a biscuit when I’m done. Then I take him outside so I can mow the lawn. Vic glares at me throughout. Tough. Mowing the lawn is life. And he should be at work. So I take my time.
Wallace watches from the front doorstep. At one point, he gets up and crosses towards Vic’s house, sniffing at the boundary that separates the properties. Vic tenses, another dog protecting his territory. He’s preparing to fight. I whistle to Wallace, and he looks at me as if to say, What? I’m not doing anything wrong.
‘Wallace!’ I say.
He comes back, none too happy.
I finish mowing the front lawn, refill the mower from the petrol canister we keep in the garage, then do the backyard—a much harder job because it’s three times the area of the front lawn. By the time I’m finished, I’m soaked in sweat and my back and shoulders ache. But I keep going because the activity has driven everything from my mind. I empty the cuttings into the environmental bin and wash the mower, leaving it out in the sun to dry.
Usually, I might take a break now—even lie on the grass and rest in the sun. But, for now, I need to move.
I grab the sledgehammer from the garage and go out to the rear wall, feeling Herculean. Every house in the estate originally had a Coldstream wall like this, chunks of rock fitted together like children’s building blocks. It’s a nice wall, just not very suitable for the estate. Everybody got rid of theirs—Vic brought in a bulldozer—and then replaced it. Jane and I are the last holdovers.
I swing the sledgehammer at the wall. The impact jars up into my shoulders. I think I’ve been shaken from my skin. There would be so many better ways to do this. The three or four times I’ve tried this before, I’ve ended up with blistered palms, sore muscles, and the sense that the wall’s mocking me. Maybe that’s why I want to demolish it with my own hands—or at least with the sledgehammer in my hands.
I’m only at it for about twenty minutes before I’m puffing and unable to swing the sledgehammer anymore. The wall should yield, but it stands tall, while I’ve got nothing left.
I drop the sledgehammer and sit, that mix of freshly mown lawn and the mower’s petrol fumes still thick in the air. It’s a good smell, the smell of everything being right in a household—even when it’s not.
I lie back and look up at the sky. Wallace comes over, sniffs me, and licks at the sweat on my forehead. I laug
h and pat him. He lies beside me and rests his chin on his paws. He sighs. I scratch him behind the ears.
For a little while, we stay as we are, and everything’s peaceful.
Finally, I get up, put the sledgehammer and lawnmower away, and go inside.
I grab a beer from the fridge and sit in my study. Wallace jumps up on the couch, does his little circle, then lies down.
‘You need to learn to be quiet,’ I say.
Wallace blinks, like he’s trying to understand.
‘Quiet.’ I emphasise it long and slow.
Wallace decides it mustn’t be important and sighs.
I grab my sketchpad and put it on my lap, flicking again through the sketches. They are okay. Beth wouldn’t humour me. If they were crap, she would’ve found some encouraging way to let me down—the way we encourage the kids at school when their efforts are good but their work isn’t. I wish I could progress to something more advanced.
I drum my pencil on the blank page, beer in my right hand, and wait for inspiration to hit.
Nothing.
I try to imagine things I could draw as I take another swig of beer. Sometimes that gets the creative juices flowing. Not now. I finish the beer, busting for a whiz, but keep sitting there trying to come up with an idea.
The front door opens, closes. Jane’s keys jingle. Wallace springs from the couch, runs out. Then I hear Jane greeting him. Moments later, Wallace trots back into the study, spins in the doorway, and barks once, as if to tell Jane, He’s in here. Jane enters, and plants her hands on her hips.
‘You’re not ready?’ she says.
‘Ready?’ I blink.
‘Dinner. With Stephen and Renée. Remember? Or are you too busy working on the masterpiece?’ Jane indicates my blank page with a thrust of her chin.
‘I guess I forgot.’
‘Maybe it’s time to think of something else.’
‘Crochet?’
‘What’ve you been doing?’
‘I mowed the lawn and tried to knock down the wall.’
‘How’d that go?’
‘The lawn’s cut but the wall’s still there.’
Jane shakes her head once, comes over, and kisses the top of my head. ‘You smell,’ she says. ‘Go shower. I need to shower, too. Half an hour. Don’t be late.’
My eyes go to the spot inside the doorway. It’s bare.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Where’s your bag?’
‘Shit. I left it at work.’
‘Do you want to stop by and get it?’
‘It’s okay, it can stay there until tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. I’ve really got to shower. We’re going to be late.’ Jane kisses me again, then runs upstairs.
I think about Jane needing to shower. I know the comment is innocent—she wants to be fresh for dinner with friends. But I can’t help considering all the sordid possibilities.
I’m drying myself after my shower when the doorbell rings. I know Jane won’t get it. She’ll still be washing her hair. The doorbell rings again. I run naked across the landing into our bedroom. Jane’s laid clothes out for me on the bed. I grab my robe and wrestle it on as I hurtle downstairs. Wallace is already at the front door, yapping.
‘Shhh!’ I say, opening the door.
It’s Jane’s workmate—Kai or Kip or whatever it is. I’ve only met him a couple of times and he’s made little impression on me, but now I study him, measure him up as a threat—he’s a scarecrow that’s come to life and decided everything has to be black, from his oversized shirt, to the pants that hang from his non-existent hips. His hair stands up unnaturally, so either he uses a lot of gunk or stuck a fork in a socket. In his hands is Jane’s handbag.
‘I’m Kai,’ he says, mistaking my silence for lack of recognition. ‘Kai Bardy.’ He has a faint accent—Jane told me he was French or Belgian or something. Or maybe he’s just conceited.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I remember you. Just surprised to see you.’
‘Jane forgot her bag. Did I catch you at a bad time?’
Wallace keeps barking.
‘Wallace!’ I say.
‘Cute little dog,’ Kai says.
Wallace barks at him. I scoop Wallace up, pat his head. He wriggles in my hands but stops barking. I open the security door, take the handbag. ‘We’re getting ready to go out.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Kai says. He reaches out to rub Wallace’s head, but Wallace growls at him. Kai pulls his hand back.
‘I guess he doesn’t know you,’ I say.
‘Honey, who is it?’ Jane calls from the second floor. Her footsteps approach. Then she peers over the balustrade, a towel around her head, her robe tied tight, but her right leg poking too provocatively through its slit—although it’s no more provocative than some of her evening dresses. But this is a robe, so it seems wrong for that much leg to be exposed. Wallace’s tail shakes and he barks once at her, speculatively, as if to say, Check this out!
‘Hey, Jane,’ Kai says. ‘I was bringing your bag back.’
‘Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.’
‘I don’t live far.’
I try to gauge if there’s anything more to their communication than what I’m seeing or hearing—a subtext, an underlying tone. But I can’t tell. I never can.
‘I’m sorry—you caught us at a bad time,’ Jane says. ‘We were getting ready to go out.’
‘Casper was saying,’ Kai says. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thanks for the bag!’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See ya!’
‘Casper,’ Kai says to me.
‘Bye.’
I close the door on him. Jane disappears from the balustrade. Her footsteps thump back through our bedroom and into the bathroom.
I take her handbag into the study, put it on the floor, then almost walk away. Almost. I kneel and rifle through it. I find the condom immediately. Wallace sniffs at it. I study it. For a moment, I fear it’s a different one, but no, it has the same dogear.
I really need to clear this up.
I stuff the condom into the bag and go finish dressing.
6
Jane drives us to dinner. She’s in her little red dress cut straight across her chest. She must be wearing a push-up bra because her small boobs are thrust upright. Her legs stretch out from the short, frilly hem. She looks good—she always does to me. But I can’t be as flattering about her perfume, something like ripened strawberries. She’s used it for years—a dab on each side of her neck. She loves it. I’ve never told her how cloying I find it.
‘How was lunch?’ I ask.
Jane smirks, like that sums it all up with Sarah. Usually it does.
‘That good?’
‘Have I told you she’s got a new guy?’
‘Is he the one?’
We’re always joking about Sarah’s love life because she’s always discovering soulmates, and every time it’s ‘for real this time’. Everybody sees the disasters she’s walking into but her.
‘She thinks he is,’ Jane says.
‘Thinks. That’s new for Sarah.’
‘She wants us to meet him. Dinner, Friday.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. She wants us to be the judge.’
‘Great.’ That’s usually later in Sarah’s itinerary, and every time I cringe through the whole meal. Sarah always wants me to befriend her latest boyfriend, too, like if we became best friends then we could do stuff as couples all the time. ‘When?’
‘Six-thirty at The Palace for drinks. Then dinner at seven.’
The Palace is a bar and grill down the road from Jane’s work.
‘You going to come home or should I meet you there?’ I ask.
‘I’ll meet you there. We have a presentation at five. Hopefully, it won’t run overtime.’
‘It better not run overtime. You’re not leaving me alone
with Sarah and … what’s his name?’
‘Alex.’
I’ll forget it by Friday. ‘You’re not leaving me with them, so make sure you’re there on time. I can meet you at work and we can walk down.’
‘Sure.’
‘What time?’
‘Presentation will be about half an hour. So, about six?’
‘Okay.’ I fall quiet. Watch the road. ‘How was work?’
‘Usual.’
‘Usual?’
‘Henry thinks he scored a caterer today. Mancini’s. Do a lot of corporate gigs and celebrity weddings. Barry and Kai are meeting with them to help outline what they want. I’m guessing it’ll include a blog. Everybody wants to blog nowadays, like everybody has something so important to tell us. For caterers. Can you believe that? What’re they going to blog about?’
‘I’m sure there’s something interesting in catering-world. Recipes. Stuff like that.’
‘Or maybe they’ll pump themselves up by telling us which soapy star’s engagement they’re catering. How was your day?’
We used to share everything. But then everything became the same. Then we started sharing only the oddities. Now I don’t recall doing that much either.
‘I had lunch with Beth today.’
‘Yeah? Did you go to Sofia’s?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’d that go?’
‘Beth’s worried that Roger’s cheating on her.’
Unblinking, I study Jane. No reaction.
‘Why does she think that?’ Jane asks.
‘She’s trying to take the relationship to another level. Roger’s not budging.’
‘I really don’t like him.’
‘You’ve only met him once.’
Jane bounces one shoulder in a gesture equivalent to a shrug. ‘He’s really handsome—’
‘Really handsome?’
‘In a way. But then there’s something about him. Something, I don’t know, cavalier.’
‘He’s arrogant.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
Jane’s eyes fix on the road, but I can tell she’s building herself up to something.
‘Can I tell you something without you getting upset?’ she says.