Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  A feeling of pride for her seven perfect categories comes over Karen: for cancer mutation, mitochondrial mutations, intracellular junk, extracellular junk, cell loss and atrophy, cell senescence, and extracellular crosslinks. It’s pure good luck that all seven are in the top percentile, and she’s passed that on to Mandela. Signs of ageing in the last six years have indeed been negligible. And for Jeremiah, a 5.9 (cancer, cell loss and atrophy require extra vigilance), ageing has been negligible too, apart from that hint of a bald spot. He had earned enough even outside the Wall for them to begin treatments at the age of 24. He was the knight in shining armour who offered her immunity from age-related diseases—as long as they stayed married and he was paying. Fortunately, things have changed. Any competent divorce lawyer will win ongoing NST as part of a settlement now, especially when a child is involved. That’s something to be grateful for.

  It’s not just the meds slowing things down; there’s an unusual sense of calm around this older couple. Neither of them wear temporary screens—straight-edge socialising. Trix is soaking up the environment. She’s satisfied. Karen follows her cue. There’s time and space; she doesn’t feel she has to launch into an excuse for the comfort suit. There will be no law buzzwords and posing, no volleys of bullshit masculine laughter, furious point-scoring and over-laughing. Unless Jeremiah does it. Over-laughing is something that Venture Group employees seem particularly prone to: the sudden grimacing display of hitherto unseen teeth accompanied by a violent expulsion of air, followed by fearful eye-rolling if nothing funny was intended by the superior and no one else laughed.

  Jeremiah is addressed by his first name, she notes, rather than Mr Broderick, while he respectfully and correctly addresses his superior as Mr Peters and uses Trix’s first name to make her younger. There is the sense of an opening of a comfortable ritual. Don’t miss anything obvious, Karen tells herself.

  Something is bothering Mr Peters. His face twitches.

  ‘Will you be taking a dip before lunch?’ he asks Jeremiah, while they’re all still standing.

  ‘Sure,’ says Jeremiah, turning to Karen for confirmation. ‘Great idea.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting it,’ says Mr Peters. ‘I just thought you would because you look ready to dive in. Go on, we’ll order for you.’

  ‘Karen?’

  It’s not a request for her to accompany him. He’s asking her if Mr Peters is telling him to go for a swim, or merely suggesting it. Jeremiah senses that he’s missing something, and he is: the older man is having a little dig at him for turning up to lunch shirtless. It’s a generational etiquette thing.

  ‘You have a quick dip,’ she tells her husband. ‘I’ll go after lunch.’ His absence will provide the perfect opportunity to speak to Trix before the male flood of legalese.

  He searches her face.

  ‘Any messages,’ she asks him, ‘before you go?’

  Cornered, he activates the waterproof screen on his forearm. ‘No. All good.’

  ‘You’d better pick something off the menu first,’ Mr Peters tells him.

  Jeremiah stands bare-chested with the menu while Karen takes a seat at the round table next to Trix. She’s about to exclaim that she’d own more TS Stanaway if she could afford it, when she remembers herself. She has learned that lack of money is not a good conversation starter with Venture Group people and probably won’t be for Trix Stanaway. Karen’s about to launch into her lie about the comfort suit being a mix-up when Trix asks her if she has any children. It’s not a question Karen expected. Not from the CEO of her own company. Karen tells her they have a four-year-old, Mandela. The older woman expresses great surprise and tells Karen she’s in amazing shape. Mr Peters arches an eyebrow in a humorous way. Karen laughs—something she has never managed properly, even once when at a casual law function.

  The waiter comes for their orders and Karen is surprised to find Jeremiah gone and that she’s completely forgotten what he selected from the menu before he ran off. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘can you guys remember what Jeremiah ordered?’ I probably shouldn’t have asked that, she thinks. One pill too many. However, Trix answers immediately, saying she thought it was a salad. Karen smiles indulgently. ‘That doesn’t sound like Jeremiah.’ Then she remembers him telling her that Mr Peters is pescetarian and the bossy direction he gave her in legalese that she express no surprise should he order a salad.

  She orders a half-kilo steak for him, ‘The T-Rex’, rare, and an egg salad for herself, which she has no intention of eating. While Mr Peters and Trix are making their orders she wonders how Mandela’s doing. He’d love the Beach. She pictures him laughing and splashing in the shallows. Jeremiah walks into her vision, returning already, vigorously towelling his hair as he strides up the beach, heading straight for their table. Best not to ask him to call Plearn for a while, she thinks. He will be furious with her—yelling and a three-day sulk furious at best—if the lunch is dominated by Mandela’s sore tummy, or even worse, if Mr Peters suggests they cancel. The call, she tells herself, will just have to wait for half an hour.

  Jeremiah’s arrival at the table is wetly energetic. He exudes a youthfulness that all the money in the world can’t buy. There is strength and drive in the man. His gallant kiss upon arrival carries a welcome hint of the sea. He is enough, she thinks, if I can get him off the Mount, and she reminds herself to retrieve her missing bikini top from Malcolm’s house and put it in one of Jeremiah’s drawers so he can find it and give her his old ‘Big Three’ speech again, about organisation, attention and focus—the triad, he says, that freed them from the badlands of outer Wellington.

  Wine arrives as Jeremiah sits down. He immediately proposes a toast to Mr Peter’s impending well-earned retirement. They clink glasses. Both Jeremiah and Mr Peters check their glasses against the light and sniff the bouquet. They seem uncertain about speech.

  Mr Peters delays drinking, holds his Sunny Bay 2025 Pinot Gris up to the light again. ‘Well, I’ve worked much longer than I would have liked.’

  Silence. He twirls the glass and holds it higher.

  A senior law manager would never say such a thing. For them, Venture Group is understood to be the centre of their lives. A lot of the lawyers’ point-scoring ‘off-duty’ consists of proving to each other whose love for the company is greater and manifests itself in multiple ways, subtle and overt. Sometimes saying less is more. Sometimes saying less is not enough. Intense physical activity during spare time is a kind of primer, it seems, a necessary condition for a fulfilling corporate relationship. The last time Karen sat with ‘the boys’ off-duty, the love-proof was stupid hard labour in the Christmas holidays: moving mountains of earth with an undersized wheelbarrow, stripping down weatherboards by hand, lifting carpet to sand floorboards and then replacing the carpet, reading piles of obscure superseded reports in their entirety (‘for historical context’). All in all, proving the void that must be pathetically papered over when they cannot love the company by physically inhabiting its spaces. Once, at a post-conference beer she attended shortly after their arrival on the Mount, because she happened to be passing by (consternation ensued; she was asked if she was in HR), Jeremiah weighed in with knowing house-prep knowledge, as if that form of self-flagellation—weatherboard-stripping with a scraper—was old news to him (point scored!). But his familiarity with rough-gauge sandpaper, a putty knife, scraper, scaffolding and primer came about because he’d had to paint the family house in Newlands years ago, out of financial necessity rather than existential anxiety brought on by a holiday. She remembers him hating the job (his mother was very critical, which didn’t help). It was an adept transformation of past deprivation into a current Venture Group love-proof. He was surprisingly fleet-footed and confident with his native Inner colleagues. She wonders if he would risk pretending his job is onerous to please Mr Peters. Shaky ground. A mask too far?

  Mr Peters sniffs the bouquet again. ‘But, you know, mouths to feed, bills to pay,’ he continues, with no apparent affection,
let alone love, for his employer. ‘I’ve had three families to support and a long retirement to prepare for.’

  Trix places a hand on his lower back.

  ‘So, yes. I’ve been a corporate nipple for the new generation of so-called journalists, those photogenic and illiterate gatherers of the press release.’

  Jeremiah gapes.

  It strikes Karen that Mr Peters isn’t a fan of Venture Group lawyers, either. He’s showboating, enjoying Jeremiah’s consternation.

  Mr Peters takes a sip of wine, holds it in his mouth momentarily and swallows. His eyebrows go up as he peers at the glass again. ‘Last week I transformed the concept of indentured labour into lifelong job security for a certain transnational in a failed state.’ He turns his gaze to Jeremiah and Karen. ‘I take comfort from the fact that no one with half a brain believes anything I do.’

  Karen taps her husband’s foot under the table—he needs to say something.

  Jeremiah blinks and produces a question: ‘Do you have any particular interests or hobbies you’d like to pursue in retirement, Mr Peters?’

  ‘Astronomy. I’m interested in astronomy.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Jeremiah, with an enthusiasm that surprises Karen, ‘me too.’

  ‘Which aspect?’ Mr Peters asks. ‘The bacteria on Titan?’

  Karen looks at her husband curiously.

  ‘That is amazing, but no, just the um… Solar System, mainly? I’m… ah… in the process of buying a telescope.’

  ‘What type?’

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘Depends what you want to do.’

  ‘Oh, uh, I’d like to pick up surface details on Venus and Mars? You know, just familiarise myself with the closer planets at this stage.’

  Mr Peters clears his throat and pulls on his nose. ‘In my day there were nine planets, you know. Everything’s changed, it seems, not just Earth.’

  Karen isn’t sure how many planets there are or were. If not nine, it must be eight or ten? An awkward silence is developing. She suspects Jeremiah doesn’t know either and is over-reaching already, as he tends to do with senior managers. His studiously blank face betrays his anxiety. She notes his fingers counting against his thigh under the table.

  He frowns. ‘What happened to the ninth?’

  ‘That’s the hundred-million dollar question, Jeremiah. If you get a big enough telescope you might find it.’

  Trix smiles and leans toward her as if to say Men, and Karen mirrors her and they touch each other’s forearm in a sympathetic gesture.

  She’s wondering if it might be time to broach the subject of her appalling comfort suit to Trix when the food arrives. Three salads: two tofu and one egg, and a great slab of rare steak sitting in a puddle of blood, just how Jeremiah actually likes it.

  His face pales. ‘I didn’t order this.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ says the waiter. ‘What did you order?’

  ‘Egg salad.’

  Karen is not enjoying his discomfort as she anticipated she would. She pokes at her salad, hoping the situation will go away without blame or recrimination.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I’ll take this away. I do apologise for the mix-up.’

  ‘Wait,’ says Mr Peters. ‘Karen ordered it for you.’

  ‘I forgot you’d given it up, darling. Sorry.’

  ‘Well…’ Jeremiah says to the steak. ‘My opposition to this is environmental more than ethical. So now that it’s here I don’t feel it’s right to waste it.’

  ‘You’re happy with the steak, sir?’

  Jeremiah’s eyes flash. ‘I’m a long way from happy with it, but I’ll accept it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Pepper?’

  ‘It’s there, sir.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Mr Peters nods slightly and the waiter pours him another wine.

  Karen nods and hers is topped up too, as Jeremiah grinds pepper and salts his meat.

  ‘This, please,’ says Mr Peters, pointing to the wine menu.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A sensible decision, Karen thinks, to smooth things over and get everything back on track.

  Jeremiah tries to talk shop a couple of times as they eat and drink, but Mr Peters deflects his questions to topics of general interest. She appreciates that. They talk about their experience with the demonstrators. Mr Peters expresses sympathy for them and approval of the prime minister’s suggestion that more domes be built immediately, in public–private partnership if necessary, even if it attracts a fine. Jeremiah mentions the very reasonable midnight rate in Silver, how it’s made the Beach popular with Outers for weddings. Mr Peters suggests that all existing domes nationwide be subsidised in order to allow entry for everyone at all times. Jeremiah agrees this would be great, but wonders at queues and crowdedness, especially with regard to tourists, he hurriedly adds, given their importance to the economy. Mr Peters briskly suggests a 90-minute limit on visits and says that tourists come to New Zealand for the relatively untouched nature and two or three remaining swimmable lakes rather than generic domes they can find in their own countries. Jeremiah asks him if he visits the Beach often. Mr Peters shakes his head emphatically. The only thing worth coming for, he says with increasing irritation, is the wine list. Wine, Karen remembers with relief, is something they can talk about because Jeremiah has studied it and is something of an authority. Yes, wine works. As the discussion between the men on the current bottle moves from a series of fine distinctions regarding North Island volcanic minerals to general agreement on the importance of terroir, she’s pleased to see Jeremiah defer to his superior nicely.

  ‘I’d like to apologise for this suit,’ she tells Trix. ‘It must be offending your professional eye.’

  Her eyes twinkle. ‘Oh? Are you not incontinent?’

  ‘No, not yet. I was…’ Jeremiah and Mr Peters are in full flight on some recent miracle vintage. ‘I was angry with Jeremiah, so I bought the most inappropriate thing I could find to annoy him. I think I succeeded.’

  Trix’s laughter enables Karen to express her admiration for TS Stanaway’s most recent collection, beginning with the way the dark red strip of the leather bags and eyewear ties in with the panels in the high-end dresses, to such a degree, Karen declares, that anyone who sees the bags coupled with non-branded clothes must surely feel a pang of loss. Trix says that she certainly does. Karen expresses her love, actual love, for the Gucci homage with a horsebit belt buckle, the signature silhouette dress, made from hemp and polyester and decadently lined with recycled silk. She thinks Trix has struck on a winner with the lining and hopes she continues with it, even though TS Stanaway is known for the unique sensibility of each new collection. Trix welcomes Karen’s comments and is even enthusiastic about her suggestions regarding the silk lining, explaining that she’s found a good, reliable secondhand sari supplier in Auckland, and then how she made the contact, and the importance of finding a reliable back-up, and that a contact in Malaysia looks promising on that front. This feels like intimate disclosure to Karen because consistent quality of fabric, particularly cotton, which has become very expensive because it’s so water-intensive to produce, is what differentiates the high-end brands from garage workshops. Trix describes the impact the colours and feel of Indian fabric are having on her. She holds and runs her hand over invisible silk as she speaks. Karen asks her if the blue used for the Gucci homage was inspired by the saturated blue on saris. It was. Karen says she’d love to see Trix’s take on colour in a hemp and polyester line. They agree that while the popular military silhouette for jackets is flattering and hard-wearing, its time may finally have come. Karen suggests a classic linen summer beach dress profile in saturated Indian colours. Great minds, Trix laughs. Karen enthuses about her previous collections and favourite items from them, and asks a multitude of questions about the fabrics she used and her processes. Trix is more than happy to answer her questions, in general terms, and all Karen’s bottled up enthusiasm comes o
ut in such a rush that they out-talk the men.

  As the plates are cleared and Mr Peters orders a final special bottle, which Jeremiah is clearly genuinely excited by, she senses victory in the air. Jeremiah will be happy and human at home tonight, and, more than that, she feels fulfilled in a way she hasn’t in a long time, ever since giving up her job outside the Wall. Trix is wonderful, lightning fast, generous and incredibly open to new ideas. Most famous designers, Karen has found, are disinclined to discuss design with models.

  ‘We could well drown after this bottle,’ Trix offers, to general amusement.

  ‘Oh, I never swim at these places,’ Mr Peters says after the laughter subsides.

  ‘He doesn’t,’ Trix confirms.

  ‘Where do you swim?’ Karen asks him.

  He frowns. ‘I used to swim in rivers and the sea. I find the artificial substitutes particularly depressing.’

  Jeremiah shakes his head vigorously. ‘I can understand that.’

  Karen almost laughs at the enthusiasm he’s gathered in the face of the inevitable elegy for paradise lost the elderly deliver after a few wines. She places her foot on his under the table. She feels she owes him one after throwing him to the lions with the steak.