‘News?’
‘The contract. You said, the contract for a better job.’
Jim scratches his head. Then it clicks.
‘Oh, that contract.’
‘Well?’
He shifts in his seat, scratches his temples. His stomach jiggles. ‘Man’s been dragging his feet. Promised me something weeks ago, then nothing.’
Laila lets out a breath. ‘Can’t you do something?’
‘Been trying. Can’t get him on the phone. I can leave a message but it’s not like I can get him to call me back.’ He looks in the direction of the caravan door and waves his hand in the air.
‘You can. The office takes messages.’
‘Oh, they do, do they? And how come you know so much?’
‘Of course I know. Everyone here knows.’
‘Whoopie-doo. Smartypants knows all.’
His trick might work yet. Detract from the main issue, that there is no contract and that the ‘better job’ is his concoction, that he’s banking on getting a new job on his own steam, in his own time.
‘So, will you call him and ask him to call back at the office?’ Laila says.
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Are you just saying that?’
‘I said I was going to call, didn’t I? Quit hounding me.’
‘I don’t believe you. You always say you will do something and then you don’t do it.’
‘Always. I always never do what I say I’ll do. This is simply magnificent.’
‘Remember that time—’
‘So it’s book-keeping time now, right? All the fifty zillion and one times I’ve been a bastard…’
‘But it’s true. I’m sick of having to remind you over and over again.’
‘Great.’ He flings his hand in the air. ‘Character assassination at its best. Sorry I’m not perfect, miss.’
‘Just promise me you will do it!’ she yells.
‘So, you want it in blood? Gash my wrist and have it in writing with my blood. Will that be good enough for you, huh, huh?’ He leans forward, thrusts his chest towards her, eyes enlarged, threatening.
Laila flinches, stares at him in disgust. Her jaw drops and hot angry tears gush out. She slams her cup on the table and rushes into the caravan.
‘Yeah, yeah, here we go again.’ Jim slumps back into his chair, squeezes the empty can in his hand and throws it against the caravan. The metal clinks, then it hits the ground.
As Jim angles his car into the gravel, he senses negative energy flowing out of his caravan. After killing the engine, he takes careful steps towards the door. The shuffle of his feet booms twice as loud in the night. Morning rather. He turns the face of his watch towards the streetlamp. Two-thirty, is it? He peers intently. Is it two-thirty or one-thirty? Digits blur into one another. Alcohol swims in his head.
Tiptoeing up the steps, he turns the key in the lock. As he pushes open the door, he feels a resistance, something is jammed up against the door. He forces the door open. A sliding sound. His eyes drop to the floor. To the blackish clump near his feet. It’s too dark to make out what it is.
He shuts the door, crouches and reaches for the object. In the darkness, he makes out the shape and form of his sleeping bag.
21
LAILA PICTURES PURPLE FLOWERS throughout her walk to the houseboat. The last one in the row, called Cocktails and Dreams. ‘You won’t miss it, anchored at the riverbank, near the jacaranda tree with purple flowers,’ Sean had said. Laila relives their conversation on the phone, blood starting to pulsate in her senses. All over again.
‘Lovely to hear from you,’ Sean had said.
Her hand was shaking so hard she had to push her knuckle against the wall of the phone booth to stop it from trembling, and struggle to keep her voice from quivering, her legs from turning to jelly.
But relief overcame her as the conversation unfolded more smoothly than she’d expected. She’d clicked the phone dead the first time, and sat on the floor of the booth for a good five minutes before plucking up the courage to dial his number again. This time Sean picked up the phone after eight rings, compared with four the first time. He was casual and chatty, going over what he’d been doing since the Christmas party, the additions to his portfolio at work, the pain of dealing with tradesmen for the new water feature in his backyard, all of which she heard but did not take in. Though she’d strained to listen, with the receiver pressed close to her ear, all she heard were the notes in his voice, the breaths, the inflections. He sounded different on the phone, gentler, his in-person confidence tempered by softness. How that conversation, running for seventeen minutes (she’d timed it), eventually came around to her meeting him at his houseboat, she cannot recall. She only remembers feeling as if she was on a slide, her body zipping down, the ground approaching at breakneck speed.
‘Look out for the big white sailcloth over the top deck,’ Sean had said.
Laila steps onto the Murray River Houseboats walkway. Gum trees on the left, river on the right. Not far away, the row of houseboats is visible. She quickens her pace, but then slows down.
Nearing the houseboats, she stops. Her heart pounds. She edges towards a huge gum tree, pulls out a mirror from her handbag. Quickly arranging her hair, she reapplies lipstick, smears it by putting her lips together. She avoids the reflection of her eyes. The glazed look, a mix of excitement and terror shooting from her pupils.
She could stop right now, make a turn and head back, think of some way to kill the next three hours before starting to prepare tea. Tea for Jim. Images of her husband whiz through her mind. Their latest argument. It wasn’t their worst, but the poison in his eyes, the words! It was as if she could hear the tear done to their marriage—a sharp scheek sound. She’d wanted to throw hurtful words back, the way she’d done before, one sentence escalating over the next, and the next. But tears were her only shield.
She arranges her clothes, the new top she bought at Target during their specials—twenty per cent off all women’s clothing, white linen, sleeveless, wide V-neck—and a pencil skirt with navy print on a cream background. She sweeps her hair to one side, runs her fingers through it to untangle the knots, and throws it back over her shoulder. Keeps walking. Houseboats glide past, some berths empty. The purple flowers appear, then the sharp lines of the white sailcloth. Her heart freezes.
Cocktails and Dreams appears in big navy letters along the side of a houseboat, painted in white. The front deck looks serene and breezy. Timber decking. Two comfortable-looking chairs face the railing. The main door is dark blue, gleaming where it catches the sun. Over the upper deck the white sailcloth forms a huge canopy.
Laila steps aboard, approaches the door and knocks. She hears footsteps.
‘Hi!’ Sean looks fresh, as if he’s just had a shower.
He is wearing a pale lime-green polo top, with Calvin Klein embroidered in tiny lettering on the upper left-hand side, and long beige shorts. Laila catches a whiff of cologne, a fresh tangy scent. His skin looks more tanned than she remembers. The blue of his eyes reminds her of waves lapping on the shore.
‘Come on in. Good to see you.’
He makes way for her, gives her a peck on the cheek. The sensation of his lips lingers. She enters, stands beyond the door, arms hanging awkwardly.
Suddenly, she’s in a spacious lounge room, fully carpeted, with big windows along each side and lovely views of the river. At right angles are two sofas upholstered in cream leather. She inhales the leather scent. She can’t help absorbing everything, the polished counter tops, cabinets in timber, stools at the bar, flat screen TV, stereo, tall rack packed with CDs. It’s as if she has been dropped into another world.
‘Care for a drink?’ Sean asks.
‘Wh…what?’
‘A drink?’
‘Okay.’
‘You have a choice of wine, beer, spirits or fruit juice. Or how about tea or coffee? And oh, stout too.’ He smiles. ‘I do believe I have stout.’
‘Uhh…an
ything.’
‘I haven’t got a drink called anything, but I’ll get you a wine—I’m having one.’
He goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of white wine. Laila watches him twist a gadget and two pieces of metal rise from the bottle like wings. He pours the wine into glasses and whips out a wine cooler, a tray, and a packet of nuts from the cupboard. Then he stands the bottle in the cooler, rips the wrapper open and pours the nuts into a bowl.
‘Let’s go to the upper deck. Lovely day, mustn’t waste it.’ Laila follows him along a narrow hallway. Bedrooms and bathrooms on each side, expensive-looking bedcovers. They climb the spiral staircase at the end of the hallway.
From the top deck there’s a panoramic view of the Murray. Sean leads the way to an outdoor table and two sun lounges in white and green stripes facing the railing, light playing on the metal. He sits down, pats the chair near him. Laila glides into it. Then she sits, mesmerised, the wind hissing in her ears.
Sean leans back with his glass. ‘Ahh…this is what life is all about.’
Laila takes a sip of the wine, feels it searing down her throat. She still has not got used to alcohol, to what it does to her head. ‘This is nice.’
‘Glad you like it. Knappstein TK Sauvignon Blanc, one of my favourites.’
The words roll off his tongue like a melody. She has no idea what they mean. She smiles.
‘That’s right, we were talking about South Australian wines last time,’ he says.
‘I haven’t tasted that many.’
‘You will in time, I’m sure.’
His eyes rest on her face for a moment longer than is necessary. A smile plays on his lips. Laila feels a rush of warmth. She turns away and looks up at the sailcloth, hears it flapping gently in the wind.
‘This houseboat is very beautiful.’
‘Glad you like it. Got it for a song, actually. Friend of mine was moving overseas and had to get rid of it real quick.’
‘You own it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow.’
Sean shifts in his seat, raising one foot to rest on his other knee. ‘So, what have you been up to since I last spoke to you?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Whereabouts do you live, anyway? I haven’t even had a chance to ask you.’
Laila feels the blood drain from her face.
‘Hey, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Sorry for being nosey.’
‘It’s not that.’ Laila bites her lips, knowing she looks nervous.
‘Okay, tell me about your typical day then.’
‘It’s boring.’
‘What makes you so sure it’s going to bore me? When you have to attend as many meetings and run as many sales seminars as I do, listening to the typical day of a gorgeous Malaysian girl can be a refreshing change.’
Her cheeks are now hot. She wishes she could do something—throw water on her face, anything—to relieve her blushing. She plays with her glass.
He watches her. ‘So, you going to enlighten me?’
What does he mean by ‘enlighten’? She takes a guess. ‘My day is very ordinary. After I wake up in the morning, I prepare lunch for my husband and make sure he eats his breakfast.’
‘Lucky man.’
‘It’s only sandwich.’
‘Nobody’s ever made me a sandwich, I can tell you that.’ He chuckles. ‘So, what happens after sandwich?’
‘I’ll think about what to cook for dinner and take out the meat from the freezer, to defrost. About once a week, I clean the place. After that I may do some sewing or craftwork. If I feel like it, I may walk into town.’
Sean listens intently.
‘Sometimes, I meet my friend, Marietta, by the river.’
‘Ah, a fellow Malaysian lass.’
‘No, she’s Filipino.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, as you can see, my life is very boring.’
‘All relative. It doesn’t sound boring to me.’
‘Believe me, it is boring.’
‘Free time is a gift. You can do as much or as little as you like. Your day can pan out in whatever way you wish. That to me is liberation.’
‘Liberation?’
‘Freedom.’
Laila shakes her head. ‘No, no freedom at all. Sometimes I feel as if I am in a prison.’
‘That’s no good. Why do you feel that?’
She lowers her face. ‘I cannot say now.’
‘That’s fine.’ His eyes bore into her face. ‘No worries at all.’
Laila looks at the river. An awkward silence follows.
Sean slaps his palms on his knees. ‘I was actually going to have lunch. Would you like to join me?’
She wasn’t expecting a meal. ‘Uh…okay.’
He stands up. ‘Some cold cuts, antipasto, a bit of cheese. No objections to that?’
Laila is certain it’ll be good, even though she has no idea what antipasto is. Any food he lays out couldn’t be short of perfect.
‘Want me to help?’ She sits up.
‘No, not at all. You sit pretty and enjoy the view.’
After Sean leaves, Laila drinks her wine and leans back. The plush surroundings envelop her. Her head feels light, and for the first time since she arrived, she’s able to relax. She takes in the span of the Murray, the opposite riverbank more lush than the one facing the caravan park. Clumps of vegetation outline the horizon. The river has a surreal quality, seen from this raised level, from the back of this beautiful houseboat she’s only ever viewed from the shore.
She’s glad of these few moments without Sean. The nearness of his body, his long lean legs, the contours of his chest, so pronounced today under the polo top, and his scent, more overpowering than she remembers from the Christmas party—it’s all too much for her. With him gone, she can quell the breathless sensation, calm the twisted feeling in her stomach. She holds her body still. Alcohol rushes through her bloodstream. She welcomes the feeling—she doesn’t need to worry about Jim, about where he is, what he would do if he knew where she was right now. But then, at the thought of her husband, panic suddenly seizes her.
She should leave. Race down the spiral staircase and duck out before Sean has a chance to catch her.
Sean reappears, carrying the tray. At the sight of him, Laila is immobilised, her hands tucked under her legs. His footsteps thunder in her ears.
‘Perfect day for an alfresco lunch.’ He looks up. ‘Ever seen skies as blue as this?’ He sets down the tray and transfers the dishes of food onto the table. He hands her a plate and fork. ‘Tuck in.’
With the wind teasing her hair, she eats the marinated octopus, artichokes, mushrooms, triangular pastries with curried vegetables, olives coated with herbs—foods she’s only ever seen in magazines. The foreign aromas thrill her, and his foreignness, his accent, his smell, his physique, take her breath away.
‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘how are Australian men different from Malaysian men?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh you know, personality, orientation, habits. Met an Asian woman once, she told me she’d never go out with Asian men.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Oh, the way they look, their lack of humour. Said they were geeky and chauvinistic, total pigs in fact, at least the ones she knew. Had a list a mile long.’
She thinks about her comment about pigs to Jim ages ago, but doesn’t repeat it. Instead she says, ‘I have not been with an Asian man, so I wouldn’t know.’
‘Is that right? Your husband…’
‘Yes, he was my first.’
‘Ahh, now I see.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Never mind. It’s not important.’ He slices some cheese, places it on a cracker and hands it to her. ‘Try some Tasmanian blue.’
The cheese tastes weird. The pungent edge stings and curdles on her tongue. She wants to spit it out but swallows it instead, washing it down with wine.
‘Takes a bi
t of getting used to, blue cheese. Sorry, should have warned you.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Come, let’s go over there. The view is even more spectacular.’
They get up and he steers her by the small of her back, his fingers brushing her clothing. The sweep of the river is breathtaking. They lean against the railing. In the distance, a flock of birds creates a wave of slow circular motion. Faint cries drift in with the wind.
‘This is the reason people own houseboats,’ Sean says, taking in a deep breath, resting his hands on the railing.
‘The river is really beautiful.’
‘Absolutely.’
His hand moves to her waist and lingers there. He angles his head and leans towards her. Laila stays still. The wind suddenly picks up. Her hair flies in all directions and strands fall over her eyes. Sean brushes it aside. His face is now inches from hers. Slowly, he edges closer and his lips come into contact with her mouth, with the fullness of her lower lip. Laila gasps but she doesn’t pull away. His lips are soft against hers, the pressure of his hand on her back increasing ever so slightly. She hears his breathing. His scent, more intoxicating up close, is making her dizzy. Just as his mouth starts to close about hers, she quickly draws away.
‘No, no, please.’ She puts her hand on his chest. ‘I have to go.’
She rushes down the spiral staircase, grabs her handbag and dashes out the door.
22
HER THREE DRAWERS ARE crammed with clothes. Visible from above are tops, skirts and jumpers. On first opening the drawers, he thinks it is a pointless exercise. He opens and closes the drawers one after another anyway, taking a squiz. It’s worth a shot. Laila has been acting weird the last few weeks.
Laila is over at the bathroom. Today being Saturday, which is the other day in the week she washes her hair, she’ll take about twenty minutes, from the time she steps out of the caravan until she returns, hair blow-dried and combed, fresh clothes on, sweet smell lingering around her.
Jim checks his watch. He has eighteen minutes left to fish around. His hands move fast. He tugs at the clothes, lifts each layer, feeling between the layers for anything foreign. He presses, probes, pokes at corners, feeling for any texture other than fabric. Nothing.
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