by Murray, Lee
‘Stop whimpering, Melanie,’ snaps Winston. ‘For the moment, Rico Black is your boyfriend. This is your career on the line here. Behave like a professional.’ He swings back into the chair and twirls the end of his pen against a pocked cheek. I can imagine what sort of professional he means. I throw a look of appeal to Derek. Come on Derek. How would you feel if it were Chelsea being strong-armed into a clandestine relationship? Come to think of it, how would Winston feel? What am I thinking? These two wouldn’t know a feeling if it were a piano and fell on them from a second storey balcony.
Derek ignores my imploring look. ‘By the way, the other Sully article about the visit to the police station? Anything we can use? Drug possession? Indecent photographs perhaps? Hell, even jaywalking would be good.’ He laughs at his own wittiness.
‘It wasn’t important.’
‘You’re obliged to tell us, Melanie. Sportzgirl is your employer. We’ve a right to know if you’ve been involved in any criminal activities.’ Winston’s nodding like a bobble-head dog, the sort you see on the parcel shelves of cars parked outside the lawn bowling. I know I won’t give Janeen away because I’ve already rehearsed a plausible reason. You see, Len and Margaret read the papers, and after seeing Sully’s muck they were convinced Janeen was the friend in question seen at the station with me (since Caro was with them overnight.) Faced with their questions, we did what any mature self-confident women would do - we fibbed. We told them I’d lost a company GPS watch while I was out running and the two of us had popped in to the police station to see if it had been turned in. Yes, it was an odd time, but we thought it would be quieter.
‘It was a lost property thing. Nothing exciting.’
‘Pity,’ says Winston, his yellow eyes narrowing into slits.
‘Pity,’ Derek parrots. ‘There’s only one event left in the series. It doesn’t leave us much time to capitalise on our strategy.’
‘I want raunchy and I want it fast, Melanie. I’m not a patient man,’ says Winston.
‘Sir, remember there’s a hiatus in the series while the contestants prepare for the marathon. The television people are planning a couple of filler shows, tear-jerker stuff about people living with obesity and diabetes, bedside vigils by wailing matrons, and widescreen shots of big-bellied blokes with oozing ulcerated toes. Shock tactics to force people to face the facts about obesity. It’s one of the hooks we used to secure government funding…’
Winston looks thunderous. Like he said, he’s not a patient man. Derek comes to the point. ‘It’ll give Melanie several weeks to thoroughly blacken her name. I’m sure she and Rico are already cooking up plans for their next sulphurous rendezvous.’ I frown and shake my head at Derek, although for some reason Colin’s visit flashes to mind. Derek ignores me again. ‘By the time the marathon show goes to air, I assure you sir, Melanie will have the Sportzgirl brand emblazoned across the front pages of all the national rags.’
I slump. Jack isn’t going to be happy.
54
My marathon schedule calls for a long slow run today. Up until now, I’ve been dogmatic about sticking to Olaf’s programme. I’ve enjoyed the satisfaction of ticking off each run so much I’ve taken to highlighting them in a different colour; green for long runs, red for tempo runs, yellow for hills. The page is beginning to look like a Vasarely modernist design. But today I’m mojo-less. I don’t feel like running. I didn’t get up and started early and now it’s after nine. On the radio, the morning news has passed twice. I’ve moped about over my breakfast and now I’m dilly-dallying over my third cup of coffee. If I don’t get cracking soon there won’t be enough day left for me to finish any kind of distance.
32km! I don’t even want to think about it. I take another sip of luke-warm coffee. Behind me, Jack is on the phone padding about in his socks and bike shorts. He’s going out for a cycle ride with Shane, postponed from yesterday, so at least I won’t be the only one sweating it out on the roads.
‘That was Shane. Emma was up all night again with tummy bug and Kell is so exhausted he doesn’t think he can get away. No ride again today.’
Only me sweating it out on the road. I’m starting to feel lonely already.
Actually, Jack needs this ride. Ever since I raised the Rico thing he’s been as grey and maudlin as Eeyore. The Sully article didn’t help matters. I’ve had to remind him several times it’s just pretend and that he’d agreed to it. It’s difficult for me, too. There’s no need for him to come over all moody and jealous. The school-report excuse had been gobbled up by our friends and family. They were suitably disgusted by the way Sully had taken one sentence and extrapolated it until Rico and I were practically married. The cheek of it, they’d said. For once, Cherry held her tongue. Cushla felt sure Rico reminded her of someone she knew, but she couldn’t think who. ‘He seems a charming young man,’ she’d said, but something in her tone implied Rico was more snake than charmer.
‘Is Em gonna be okay?’
‘Hopefully, nothing serious, but Shane and Kell are going to take her to the doctor this morning. Poor buggers. It’ll probably take them most of the day to get through to the doctor.’
I screw up my face in an expression of sympathy. I’m trying to decide what sounds less appealing, a three hour wait in a stuffy waiting room or a 32km run.
‘I better get myself organised too. I’m going to be most of the day getting through this run.’ I gather up my cup and carry it through to the kitchen. There are already half a dozen cups and a cereal bowl in the bottom of the sink. I give them a squirt of liquid soap and start the washing up. I know my motivation is missing in action if I prefer to waste time doing Jack’s washing up.
‘Mel?’ Jack leans on the door frame. ‘I could come with you.’
I soften. He’s trying to make amends for his cranky behaviour.
I smile. ‘You can’t, Jack. It’s a 32km run. You don’t go out and run 32km without training. You’ll kill yourself.’
‘I could ride it though.’
An hour later we’re in Rotorua. Since Jack’s bike was already strapped to the car, we abandoned the city in favour of the fresh air and forest trails. We stop in at the Redwoods Centre for a map to plan our route. The lady volunteer wears a waistcoat the colour of a corgi. Her silvery hair is brushed backwards in the fashion of the Queen. She recommends the Whakarewarewa Track, a 34 km tramping circuit comprising forestry roads, trails, panoramic views over Rotorua and long canopied stretches near the lakes. I groan quietly. Panoramic views are all very well, but before you reach panoramic you usually have to run up some bloody big slopes. Jack is asking the lady if he can ride alongside his girlfriend as she runs the trail. ‘She’s training for her first-ever marathon,’ he’s saying all twinkly-eyed and cheesy. ‘I want to give her all the support I can.’ He gives her his delightful-young-man smile developed to placate difficult parents, and which appears to work equally well on little old lady volunteers.
‘Ordinarily, I’d have to say no, we don’t encourage biking on the walking tracks, in case of collisions, you understand. But it’s quiet today, only two other trampers have registered for the extended track and they left several hours ago. You’ll promise to keep your speed down and look out for other users?’
‘You have my word,’ says Jack the boy scout.
‘Well, then.’ She blushes, handing him a bike map. Some parts of the course involve steps so Jack will have to take some detours. ‘Follow the black arrows. Enjoy your day.’
We depart, Jack shouldering the backpack stuffed with snacks and warm gear. The GPS is taped to his handlebars, but the reading won’t be accurate. Satellites can’t possibly see us down here under the trees. It doesn’t matter. Today’s run is all about finishing the distance. Slow and steady. Eating an elephant.
After a few kilometres on pine-softened track, our chosen trail climbs steeply toward the Tokorangi Pa site. Jack has to swing off. He’ll meet me at the top of the winding trail 520m further up for that panoramic view. I guess
if I’m going to do a hill, it might as well be early on. But I’ve run to the summit of Mount Maunganui heaps of times now and if I can do that big hill, why not this one? I pop my ear buds in and set myself into hill-climbing gear. Parts of the climb are practically vertical, but the O’Jays do their best to inspire me upwards. At the top, once the site of an ancient Maori pa, Jack meets me with a drink of water and a cereal bar.
‘Mean hill,’ he says.
‘Yes, but look at the view.’ Lake Rotorua’s perimeter is exactly 42.2km and in a few weeks I’ll be running around it. It seems impossible. We turn away, descending the rutted track until we reach the gravel road that will take us out to the Blue Lake. Jack rides beside me. I take the ear buds out and for a while I listen to the comforting sound of his tyres on the trail. He checks the map.
How do cyclists cycle with no hands? It’s beyond me.
‘Core strength, and good balance,’ explains Jack. It figures. I have lousy balance. Jack folds the map and tucks it inside his shirt and not for the first time I notice his forearms. All men have good forearms, even the ugly ones. Forearms are exempt from life’s vagaries. They don’t get fat or wrinkly, and in general they’re lean, muscled and strong. But Jack’s forearms are a cut above the rest. They’re especially dreamy. I like watching the way they flex as he grasps his handgrips.
I shake myself out of my daydream because Jack, bless him, is busy entertaining me with tales from his classroom. He’s telling me about the canny pair who placed highly in the regional science fair by filling an old bathtub with sand and Lego men and then swamping the entire landscape to create a tsunami model. Then he tells me about the boy who offered to stay behind and clean the paintbrushes, who asked if Jack thought his Dad had moved out because he’d left his bike out on the lawn overnight in the rain. And then I had to laugh on hearing how Jack volunteered to be the junior talent quest judge on a day when no less than four aspiring Beyoncés chose to perform exactly the same song. I imagine him enduring each warbling performance, feigning pleasure and then showering them with praise. He’s convinced kids can’t learn unless their self-esteem is intact. Jack believes in treading softly on people’s dreams.
‘How’re you doing, Mel?’
‘Okay,’ I say, and I am. Jack’s chit-chat is precisely what I need to take my mind off the tedium of running and the two hours of it still to come. We don’t talk about Rico, but we both know he’s hanging between us. After the book launch, Jack tried again to convince me not to continue with Black, but I can’t stop now. People say hello to me in the vegetable aisle at the supermarket. The man at the petrol station called me by name when he gave me my receipt. It’s the first time he’s done that, and I’ve been filling up there for years. I haven’t had any serious offers although after the Blue Lake run I was approached by a ladies’ incontinence pad manufacturer, but I said no. I’m sure something special is just around the corner.
We reach the Blue Lake and the famous toilet block. Jack laughs out loud when I duck in for a short visit ‘for old times’ sake.’ Soon afterwards we split up again: Jack takes the road on one side of the lake while I take the meandering path on the western edge. The trail is bordered with native ferns and the air smells green. I savour the quiet. It’s lovely here. At the top end of the lake Jack joins me and we pause for a sandwich.
When we start out again, I’m tired, but refreshed. Jack rides and I run as the Blue Lake merges with the Green Lake and as the hours pass the forest trails change from mossy ferns to blocks of fledgling pines that become taller and more dense as we take paths with names like Sandy Skid and Dump Road. From time to time we chat, but sometimes Jack and I travel along together in companionable quiet. If I run slowly enough and discount the scenery, I can pretend we’re out for an effortless walk to town for coffee. Except we’re not, and as we near the end of the trail, I’m forced to slow my pace to keep going. I’m still jogging, but at a walking pace.
I’m wogging! Wog, wog, wog! Oh cripes, I’m exhausted. Poor Jack must be out of his mind with the monotony of it all.
At 32km there’s a hill, its ponga log steps stretching upwards in coil. It’s a conspiracy, putting that hill here. I have to get over it to get back to the Visitors’ Centre and Jack’s car. By now, my can-do philosophy has deserted me. The only move I want to make is from wogging to walking. Anyway, my programme says I need to run 32km today. I’ve done that, so I can stop now. There’s absolutely no need for me go on. I slow down to a walk, but Jack isn’t having any of it.
‘Come on, Mel. I’ve got to carry my bike up,’ he says, tucking the map back in his shirt again. ‘So you can carry yourself. Come on now, up on your toes. Think of it as getting a jump on next week’s run.’ Unclipping his toe-clips with a twist of his hips, he swings off the bike and lifts it onto his shoulder. ‘After you.’
I sigh inwardly and shuffle off toward the steps.
‘That’s the stuff, Mel.’
The steps are a range of sizes and none of them perfect for my stride. They demand an awkward hop, hop, stride. Walking still appeals, but Jack is right behind me. I take a small measure of sadistic pleasure as I listen to his huffing. Misery loves company!
‘Nice butt, Mel!’ He’s way too cheery. I speed up.
‘Hey!’ Jack protests and I stifle a giggle. There’s just one small flight of wonky log steps to go. Finally, I’m up on the flat and on the home stretch. Yahoo! Back on his bike, Jack catches me easily as I run along the top of the hill looking out across the water treatment ponds, the valley, and the hills beyond. Then, at last, I’m running down the hill on Nursery Road. Smelling the finish, I stretch out and fly.
‘Meet you there!’ yells Jack. He tears off ahead, leaving me to pound out the last hundred metres on my own. When I reach the clearing in front of the Visitors’ Centre, I see why. He’s discarded his bike and has positioned himself on the side of the road in a crowd of one, leaping up and down and waving furiously. I laugh out loud and collapse onto the nearest picnic bench. But Jack is having none of that. He strides over, lifts me to my feet and pulls me into a sweaty hug.
‘Well done, honey! I’m proud of you. Great run!’ I beam. I can hardly believe it myself. I’ve run 34km! I’m elated, since I really really did not want to come out today. It’s the surprise gift of marathon training. Every week there’s a new distance challenge and although beforehand the distance can feel overwhelming, afterwards the sense of accomplishment is wonderful. Believe me, it feels fantastic.
I feel fantastic!
In some ways, today has been even better than ice cream. There, I said it. Better. Than. Ice cream. Having Jack here with me made all the difference.
Which makes me feel even guiltier about the fact that I’ve decided to take Rico and not Jack to my meeting with Colin.
55
I have goose bumps. I’m almost skipping to the table. This is the very first time I’ve ever had a meal in a restaurant with my dad. We’ve shared meals before, like the Kentucky Fried Chicken 2-piece pack we ate outside a bus station, but this is our first proper sit-down meal together. The whole occasion feels momentous. I’m sure Colin feels the same way. Why else would we be here in Chez Monique, the latest in French dining on Auckland’s waterfront?
When Monique opened its doors, one of the country’s most prominent food critics described the décor as a careful reproduction of the famous Marbeuf restaurant located off the Champs Elysées Boulevard. It does feel Parisian with its uneven polished wood floors, swirly gold edged mirrors and stiff waiters clad in crisp white aprons slung low over their hips. Upholstered in emerald green, the mahogany furniture is so new it hasn’t got any Galois scorch marks yet. Monique’s burst onto the social scene about a year ago when an Australian soap star and a Kiwi appliance heiress celebrated their nuptials here.
‘This is nice, isn’t it love?’ says my dad, patting my bottom and guiding me after the hostess.
‘Bon swar tooly monde. Ha ha, bit of French there.’ On top of his nas
al Aussie accent Colin’s French is so blatantly terrible it’s endearing. I almost expect him to say ‘Git Moaning’ in the policeman’s classic bonjour from the sitcom Allo, Allo.
Rico pulls out my chair. He’s dressed from head to toe in black, with just enough variation in texture to add interest. The effect is modern-day Zorro, sizzling and rather appealing. I feel a tiny pang of guilt for deceiving Jack tonight. He thinks I’m staying over in Auckland doing photographs for a supplementary Sportzgirl catalogue. I couldn’t risk being seen with Jack here at Monique’s, and especially not with Colin. According to Derek, Monique’s is the place to be seen. I spot Gabriella Guccione of Who Knew? and her scurrilous photographer seated toward the back of the room. Guccione throws a furtive glance in our direction. Candy doesn’t sit down. She pops off to the ladies.
‘Garçon, garçon!’ Colin calls, waving at the server.
I blush because I read you aren’t supposed to call a waiter ‘boy’. The French don’t use that term nowadays because it’s disrespectful: they say Monsieur. I’m sure Colin doesn’t realise. Fortunately, Gabriella Guccione hasn’t noticed. She has her head down tucking into her caprese salad.
‘Garçon!’ Colin clicks his fingers impatiently. ‘Some champagne over here. The good stuff. Mow-aye.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Colin starts the conversation with the traditional, ‘So what are your intentions toward my daughter?’ Lucky, I don’t have any champagne yet, because I would’ve spluttered it everywhere. Of course, he doesn’t realise Rico and I are as fake as a Gucci handbag in the Sydney markets, but his interest in my future is adorable. Inside, I feel a swell of girly sentimentalism. I dart a look at Rico to warn him not to let on, but he’s already diverting Colin away from the question.
‘Until recently I was a cameraman for NZTV, Colin, but like Mel here I’m ambitious. I’m planning a big future. I’m hoping to move out from behind the camera and onto the big screen. This show is a stepping stone for both of us.’