a Breed of Women

by Fiona Kidman

  How pleased he would be with her, breaking out of the confines of her life, being prepared to take her fate so firmly in her hand. She would go and live on the edge of the Mediterranean somewhere, as she had always imagined she would do, and he would come and join her in Italy, or Greece, and they would have a month in the sun. She would write, and he would help her.

  The idea was becoming a reality. To her friends, she began to say, with mysterious little smiles, ‘I am thinking of going overseas for a few months, oh not right away, but within the next year or so.’ It seemed quite a reasonable proposition and no one seemed surprised. After all, most of them had been overseas long ago, or were still going every few months or so — there was nothing sensational about the idea of going abroad. They were surprised she hadn’t done it long ago, a person like her. It would be good for her, they said. She even told Max she was giving the matter some thought.

  ‘Your time’ll come,’ he said.

  The date for Michael’s return came and went. The weeks rolled by. Then slowly she began to understand that she was not going to hear from him again. Perhaps he had never returned to New Zealand, she had no way of knowing. She was assailed by anger. He had promised, he had said that he would let her know if things changed between them. But perhaps that was all he had tried to do at the end of the summer, that day in Auckland, and she simply hadn’t listened. Then why had he agreed to her promise? Had it simply been to get her out of his hair? Her dreams of flight began to fade, evaporating as easily as they had appeared. The treachery of her imagination dismayed her. And having created a reality out of those dreams, she was now landed with them. Friends would ask her about her plans, and she would say, yes, yes, of course they were going ahead. But her heart was no longer in them.

  When she calculated he would have been back a month, or maybe a little longer, her producer called the weekly programme conference to discuss ideas and plan content. There seemed to be a programme gap. These gaps usually gave Harriet her opportunities to promote her special interests, to throw in an item about the arts or books, rather than to accept assignments developed by the whole team. Did she have anything in mind? Terry asked her, pushing his little blue denim cap back on his head.

  She tried frantically to think of one of her bandwagons but there was an awful blank in front of her. What about that story she’d brought up months ago about the man who wanted to start up a New Zealand edition of that magazine? Was there still something to be had there? She explained that she thought the company might not have found the market particularly propitious, and, as no magazine had resulted, she assumed that they were not going ahead. One of her colleagues reminded her of the enormous splash that the company had started with in Auckland, nearly eighteen months ago. Surely there must be some sort of story there, even if it was to illustrate how financially hostile New Zealand was at present. Harriet said that she thought they had covered that fairly thoroughly and fairly regularly, and everyone must know they only had to go to the supermarket and, good God, groceries had cost her over sixty dollars that week. Did they want to do a week in the life of Harriet Wallace? That should cover the economic climate pretty thoroughly.

  But Terry the producer was not to be put off now he had the bit between his teeth. It was easy to change the subject but this was a different angle, the big guys with the money losing out, getting thrown to the wolves like everyone else. The perfect story of the baby being thrown out with the bath water. Harriet groaned suitably, and everyone else laughed. He was ordering her to do the story. She was to go and get on to it right away.

  Harriet sat down at her desk wondering what to do. She could always say that she had tried and that the victims were not interested in doing a story. But she knew better than that. On reflection, she’d only get sent off to find out why they were stalling in case there was a story in that alone. Besides, she had often thought of ringing him, but the whole cycle of ringing and mentally reversing the calls was too bad to contemplate again.

  He might be unpleasant to her. She thought that he could be unpleasant if he chose. He might simply tell her what she had been refusing to admit to herself for so long, that he didn’t intend to see her again.

  To have a watertight excuse to ring him was the answer. Then if he had been ill, or afraid that she had deserted him after all this time, she could reassure him. Yes, whatever his reaction, she was covered. And she would know.

  ‘It’s Harriet Wallace,’ she said. ‘Is Mr Young in?’ Such a silent request, so fraught with danger.

  She was sure the girl’s voice held the slightest trace of amusement, as she said, ‘Oh, Ms Wallace. The one in Wellington?’

  ‘That’s right. I want to discuss a television programme with Mr Young. It’s quite urgent.’

  ‘Really,’ drawled the girl. ‘Mr Young is in conference now. I don’t think I can disturb him.’

  So he was back. That answered that. ‘Very well, when will he be free?’ asked Harriet. After all, damn him, he’d been keen enough for the publicity, said her television mind taking over. He could jump to her tune. ‘Mr Young was rather keen on having an item done on television about his magazine and he’ll have to make up his mind whether he wants it or not.’

  The girl hesitated. ‘I could discuss it with him and call you back.’

  ‘Are you running his business now?’ said Harriet icily.

  ‘Of course not But Mr Young is under a lot of pressure at the moment, as I’m sure you’ll be aware.’

  Bitch.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what Mr Young’s business commitments are,’ said Harriet. ‘I simply want to know where he stands on this programme, and my producer wants an answer within an hour. I’ll expect a call from Mr Young within an hour.’ She left her number at work and hung up.

  An hour later the phone had not rung. ‘I am justifiably angry now,’ she decided. She put the number through again. ‘Is Mr Young still in conference?’ she snapped at the secretary.

  ‘I’m afraid he is.’

  ‘Then would you place a written note in front of him, advising that if I don’t hear from him within half an hour we shall run our own story surmising why his magazine has not appeared in a New Zealand format.’

  ‘Can you hold on a minute?’ said the girl.

  ‘Not unless he intends coming straight to the phone,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Just hold,’ she said. A series of clicks and buzzes ensued, and then his voice came through on the line. For a long time afterwards she would think that that was the really sad moment in their relationship, how she had waited for month after patient month for the sound of his voice, and when it had finally come, she had been so angry she could hardly speak civilly to him.

  ‘Michael, it’s Harriet here,’ she said.

  ‘So I gathered. For God’s sake, what are you playing at? I’d have rung you back later in the day when I wasn’t so tied up.’

  ‘Because I do have to provide an answer about this programme.’

  ‘What programme?’

  ‘The one you wanted me to do about the magazine. Didn’t the bloody bitch tell you?’

  ‘Harriet, please. I’ve got people in the room.’

  ‘I don’t give a stuff who’s in the room,’ she shouted. ‘If you really think I was just ringing to come crawling to offer you a bare bum again, you’re mistaken. I’ve had it laid on the line, since you put me up to the story in the first place, that we’ll do our own investigation on the magazine if you won’t play ball with us.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said wearily. ‘Harriet I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you tell that sodding little cow that she wasn’t to put me through if I rang again?’

  ‘Harriet,’ he said. ‘No, truly, it wasn’t like that. Please understand, I can’t talk to you now. But about the programme, I’ll be in Wellington at the beginning of next week. Can we have a drink and talk about it?’

  ‘What do I tell my producer then?’

  ‘Can you stall him? Please. I need t
he time. I’ll tell you about it all when I see you.’

  She felt the usual cave-in. ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll ring you when I hit town,’ he said. ‘Next Monday, okay?’

  Okay. He’d better watch it, he’ll end up sounding like a Kiwi.

  The week ahead stretched interminably. The winter that had passed seemed to have gone in a trice, compared with what she was now asked to endure.

  There were times when she drank too much. She had been aware for a long time now that she relied on alcohol when she was under stress, and aware that Max knew it too. He had never been given to excessive drinking, though for a time in Weyville when things had been bad between them he had come home a bit the worse for wear. Since their move to Wellington he drank little, more to keep her company over a couple of drinks in the evening than anything else. After he finished his drink with her, she would return to the kitchen and continue to drink while she prepared the evening meal. She was not an alcoholic, she would tell herself anxiously, and pored over quizzes that diagnosed in forty easy yes-no questions whether she was or not. She was good at these quizzes and where she thought a situation was half true of herself, she gave herself a half mark, so that with a little careful manipulating of the halves, her score always came out on the side of the angels. Well it was true, anyway. She could go without a drink for a week (Alcoholics Anonymous said if you couldn’t go a month you were a goner, but obviously they were committed to extreme points of view, and who could blame them?) It was just that once she started, there were times when a little trigger would be released inside her head, which made it pointless to stop.

  In the summer she had hardly drunk at all, but despite the web of fantasies she had spun around herself in the winter, she had had more to drink than she could remember. At parties she found herself rambling on boringly, or, worse, when Max came home from work, she would be there already sitting in the kitchen crying. Drink made her cry, but then so did a lot of things. Over the years she had tried to subdue that dreadful weeping, and she would think she had succeeded, and then it would all begin again. Booze was no help, she should have known that by now.

  She was afraid that she might drink the whole week uselessly away if she were not careful. A week-long binge was hardly her style. Too much drinking was still an accident for her, both in its perpetration and its aftermath, and one that she always regretted. There was hope for her, she supposed; she was no better and no worse than the majority of women she knew, in the kitchen-sink brigade. To be on the safe side she shied away from drink all week.

  She was too fat, her hair hadn’t been cut properly for months and she had allowed the winter to take its usual toll. Soon she would be getting a rocket from the studio to tidy herself up again. Now she had the perfect incentive to put herself to rights, though what one could do with four kilos of extra weight in a week she couldn’t imagine. She rifled through one of the numerous diet sheets that were tucked away in her cookery books, looking for the one that would be the most painless, hoping that she could find one that suggested she eat an enormous number of goodies and promised her an instant transformation in a week. In the end she settled for the only one that offered any hope, namely, eating nothing at all.

  By the weekend she was pale and irritable and possibly a kilo lighter in weight. The children wanted to involve her in numerous projects which she wished to resist. In the end she decided that it was better to give in; at least they passed the time, but finding poor company the children withdrew into themselves, complaining that she kept forgetting to answer them.

  On Monday morning Max didn’t have a shirt ironed, and they were out of milk for his cup of tea. In an unusual burst of anger he berated her and said he could understand her not getting round to things during the week, but she’d had the whole weekend, for Chrissake. It blew up into a major shouting match, and he stormed out of the house, running late. The children slunk off to school armed with money for their lunches.

  At ten o’clock Max rang to apologise while she was in the bath. She had thrown herself, dripping and naked, at the telephone expecting to hear Michael’s voice. Quietly and soberly she and Max expressed their regret to each other. She had been in the wrong, she was sorry, she seemed to be a bit under the weather at the moment. Max asked her if she shouldn’t take a break, she seemed to be going at things at such a pace these days. Harriet assured him that she wasn’t going to the studio that day, seeing that she was going out to work tonight. He sighed. That was what he meant, she never really had a rest. She should try and get a proper break and when did she have leave owing to her? She said she would look into it and not to worry about her. Had he remembered that they really couldn’t get out of going to the Coglans for dinner the following night? Leonie was in quite a state about it, and anyway, she did want Max to meet her because she was different from her other friends. Would he mind too much going out with her? They finished the conversation on a note of mutual goodwill.

  Lying in the bath again, she remembered the first time she had gone to Michael, and the way she had prepared herself for him. It would be like that again, she would be as ready for him, as lovely as she had been then. She wished she was still brown, he had liked that. Mentally she ticked off the days since her last period, and calculated that she still had three days to go before the next one was due. Sailing close to the wind. A few days more and the reunion might have been a bit of an anticlimax. Oh dear, how unsuitable the most useful words were at times.

  By noon she had not heard from him. It was more than she could bear, the waiting. She drank a glass of wine with her lunch; she had decided she should have something to eat Her stomach had rumbled all morning. So much for dieting — a rattly stomach in the bedroom was all one needed to deter the most ardent of lovers. Assuming that he was still an ardent lover. Thank God Leonie’s invitation had been for the following day. Leonie had gone to such pains to arrange this meeting — the poor girl was frightened out of her mind by that husband of hers. She hoped to God she wouldn’t have to be rude to him. He sounded like a prize prick, and it was a pity Leonie didn’t have the gumption to put him straight herself, but she supposed she had to make a start somewhere, and if Harriet could help her do it, she thought she would. She still owed Leonie that. It was hard to define exactly what she did owe her, for neither of them really seemed to know what they expected of each other. They veered backwards and forwards. Someday, she supposed, they would talk about it all. She poured another glass of wine and felt herself relaxing.

  By the time she had finished her drink, she felt angry again. How dare Michael leave her stranded like this? She hadn’t rung him to chase him. It was business, he had suggested the meeting, did he expect her to wait around all day for his call? Not that she would have been likely to do anything else. Of course he’d know that. It wasn’t good enough. The weather was sulky, but the planes would be getting in and out, no problem there.

  She dialled the number of the hotel where he usually stayed and asked the board to put her through without bothering to ask if he was there. He answered immediately.

  ‘So you are there?’

  ‘Of course I’m here. I said I’d be here.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you ring me? Or had you changed your mind?’

  He gave a rather dramatic sigh. ‘I was going to ring you, but I’ve been—’

  ‘Been busy,’ she said, over the top of his voice.

  ‘Exactly. And now I’ve got meetings this afternoon, and dinner with a crowd of people I have to talk to afterwards. I thought we could fit a drink in, if you’ve got the time. Say around six o’clock.’

  ‘Fit a drink in?’ She heard her voice falter.

  ‘Well of course, if it’s not convenient, I could discuss the matter now.’

  ‘The matter?’

  ‘You wanted to talk about the programme. I’m afraid it’s not on but that’s what I wanted to explain to you. Are you too busy to come in?’

  ‘No,’ she said faintly. ‘Bu
t I …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t like being fitted in between meetings, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not fitting you in between meetings. I want to see you or I wouldn’t have made time at all,’ he said. ‘Are you coming, or not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, knowing she sounded waspish. ‘I’ll come all right.’

  She contrived to leave as Max was coming home. She avoided the children all afternoon, as well as her housekeeper. She was tired, she told them, and needed a rest. The children were hardly surprised, after her antics of the morning. The problem was that by four o’clock, she had had to sleep off the amount she had drunk. When she got up, she fumbled with her makeup and dropped it, and she dressed later about five. She had meant to change her underwear, but obviously it hardly mattered.

  The fresh air revived her a little. By the time she walked into the hotel she felt that she was beginning to function again.

  She saw him in the bar among a group of men. The sight made her catch her breath. She had almost forgotten what he looked like, it was amazing how one carried an image in one’s mind, but when the reality was seen it was hard to merge one into the other and make a whole. The number of people surrounding him dismayed her. It seemed that he was taking no chances on being alone with her.

  She saw him first. He had always been easy to pick out in a crowd because of his height, but as she approached, he turned and saw her. He appeared pleased to see her, but he had the sort of manners that would make him appear pleased to see a rat on the dinner table, she thought sourly. He’d probably offer it a piece of cheese.

  ‘Have a drink,’ he was saying.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you, the usual,’ she said. Christ, she was starting to behave badly already. He flinched ever so slightly, and gave her order. The men who were with him were advertising men with whom he was winding up business agreements. A few of them were prepared to keep their advertising on, even though the company was pulling out of its New Zealand operations, but they were the ones who had international products to offer and might attract overseas business. She really couldn’t follow the complicated manoeuvres that were taking place among them. As a good researcher she should be, she supposed — after all, that’s what it was all about, in theory. But her head was aching, and she felt ill. He was going, she had always known he would go, but for him to leave like this was unbearable. The story must have a proper ending.