by Daphne Clair
Russel grinned at her. 'I've only watched one scene. Could I see a copy of the script, do you think?'
'Yes, of course.' She handed him her own copy, and they were soon huddled over it together, making notes on the pages and firing quick questions and answers at each other. Watching them, Catherine noticed his lightning comprehension, his absorption in Bridie’s queries, his close attention to her comments. He was giving her as much respect as if she was a professional like himself. She had been half fearful that he would patronise them all as amateurs, and also there had been a sneaking, uneasy feeling in the back of her mind that really he had made this an excuse to see her again.
Wryly, she admitted to herself that he scarcely seemed to have noticed her at all. Obviously he was serious in his desire to help.
After twenty minutes they ran through the scene again, and this time Russel stood beside Bridie, and every now and then they would hold up the action and confer together.
At one point Russel came on to the improvised stage, and began to alter the positions of the cast. He gently ushered two little girls playing junior fairies a few paces to the left, with his hands on their shoulders, and then took Catherine's arm and moved her forward a little, positioning her exactly where he thought she should stand, with two firm hands briefly on her waist. 'There!' he said to Bridie, still standing by Catherine, so that she felt his breath stir her hair. 'How's that?'
'Much better!' Bridie approved. 'Can you all remember those positions?'
'We can mark them until they do,' Russel suggested. 'Got some chalk?'
A few sticks were produced, and he made the marks himself after commanding them to keep still. Catherine glanced down at the slightly ruffled brown hair as he made a white cross at her feet, and as he straightened he caught her eye and smiled at her. He was quite close when he stood up, and the moment took on a peculiar intimacy.
Later, after the rest of the cast had left, he and Bridie were still discussing some points for improvement, while Catherine hovered nearby. Bridie turned to her and said, 'Oh, Catherine, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hold you up.'
Turning to Russel, she explained, 'I brought Catherine along in my car, we usually come together. I could talk to you all night, but ---'
Russel smiled. 'What about us all having some coffee some place? I haven't nearly finished talking to you, either.'
'Well, it's late,' Bridie said doubtfully. 'Tell you what, why don't you come and have coffee at my place? You, too, Catherine. You've brought a car?'
she asked Russel.
'Yes. I'll follow you. Unless Catherine could come with me and show me the way, perhaps?'
He smiled at Catherine, and Bridie said, 'Good idea. If Jason will be worried, you can phone him from my place, Catherine. Come on then, we'll lock up here and be on our way.'
In Russel's car, Catherine snapped on her safety belt and said, 'It looks as good as new, doesn't it? I'm glad the damage has been repaired so promptly.'
'It's fine. There were no problems.'
'The insurance company said it was quite straightforward. They weren't too pleased, though.'
He grinned. 'Too bad. That's what they're for.'
'Thank you for coming. It's meant a lot to Bridie—and all of us.'
'Don't thank me. I wanted to do it. She's quite a lady, isn't she?'
'She certainly is.' She told him about some of Bridie's other activities, and he whistled, impressed. 'No suburban neurosis there,' he commented.'No.
Bridie wouldn't have time for that sort of luxury.'
'What about you?' he asked, adding, as she turned her head to him, 'Not that I'm suggesting you're neurotic! But are you finding time on your hands, while your children me away?'
'I've cleaned the house from top to bottom and side to side,' she admitted
'And there isn't a weed left in the garden. I've even mended all the children's clothes.'
'And darned your husband's socks?'
She laughed. 'He wears nylon, thank goodness. Turn left here.'
He swung the wheel, and was silent for a few minutes. Catherine asked, 'Are you enjoying your holiday? Have you been away?'
'I hope to get away next week. This week I've been tying up loose ends, cleaning out my study at home.' He gave a mock groan. 'The stuff I've accumulated, you've no idea!'
'Are you a hoarder?'
'I must be. I found an old school tie among the junk—and it wasn't even my school!'
As she laughed, he asked her, 'Do you hoard, too? Do we turn left or right here?'
'Sorry. Right,' she said. 'I used to keep everything on the principle that it might come in useful someday, but Jason's nearly cured me. He hates clutter, and he's quite ruthless.'
'So does my mother. I think she was delighted when I fled the nest or is it flew? Anyway, she was glad to see me go.'
'I bet she wasn't!'
'How do you know I'm not impossible to live with?'
'You?' she said gaily. 'Never! You're far too nice.'
There was an odd little silence, and then Russel said quite soberly, 'Well, thank you.'
'Right again at the next corner,' she said hastily. She had embarrassed him, and herself. And that was silly. Why shouldn't a woman pay a man a perfectly sincere compliment now and then? She said, 'Please don't be embarrassed.'
'I'm not. I'm—delighted. You're a pretty nice person yourself, Mrs Clyde.'
'It's number twenty-seven,' she told him. 'Just here.'
They had lost Bridie's car some way back, but the porch light was on and she could see that the Austin was already drawn up in the carport. Russel stopped his car in front of the gate, and switched off the headlights.
Catherine wondered if he had called her Mrs Clyde to put some distance between them. Had he thought she was trying to flirt with him?
She opened the door abruptly and scrambled out of the car. By the time he had locked his and come round to join her she had already pushed the gate wide and was halfway to the front door of the house.
Bridie opened the door before they reached it, welcoming them in. She had the coffee already percolating, she said, and Paul wanted to meet Russel.
The two men talked while Bridie returned to the kitchen and Catherine phoned Jason. 'I'll be later than usual,' she told him. 'I'm staying for coffee at Bridie's.'
'Okay,' he said easily. 'Have you got your key? I'm going to bed, I'm whacked.'
He sounded tired. 'I've got a key,' she said. 'Don't worry about me.'
She hadn't told him Russel was here, too. As she went back to the kitchen and helped Bridie butter biscuits and fill the four cups, she pushed away a vague, stupid feeling of guilt. She was having coffee at Bridie's. Jason neither needed nor wanted a complete list of who else was here.
In the event, she talked mostly with Paul, while the other two took out the script again and continued their discussion on it. Now and then Bridie called for her opinion, and once Russel smiled across at her and asked her to take a look at one of the alterations they had proposed for her. It was nearly midnight when he closed the folder holding the script, and pushed it away with his empty cup, saying, 'I've kept you people up long enough. I'd better be going.'
'It was awfully good of you to take the trouble,' Bridie told him. 'I'll take you home now, Catherine.'
'You needn't turn out again,' said Russel. 'I'd be glad to drop Catherine off.'
'Oh, well ' Bridie looked grateful. 'You don't mind, Catherine?'
'Of course not. If it's on Russel's way?' She turned to him.
He didn't answer directly, but put a hand lightly on her waist and ushered her to the door, as they said goodnight all round.
In the car, she said, remembering his address, 'It isn't on your way, is it?
You shouldn't bother ---'
it's no trouble. Once I'm in the car, what difference does it make, live minutes here or there? It saved Bridie taking hers out again.'
'Yes, I suppose so. Thank you.'
'It's no hardshi
p. Don't thank me, Cathy.'
She turned her head quickly, and he glanced at the movement and said, 'Do you object?'
'To what?'
'My calling you Cathy.'
She shook her head. 'No. You called me Mrs Clyde before. I thought ---'
She stopped there, and he prompted her, his eyes frankly curious. 'What did you think?'
Catherine shook her head again, silently, and he repeated, 'What did you think? Tell me.'
He had slowed the car a little, and his voice was persuasive.
In a low voice, she said, 'That you did it as a reminder—to me.'
They were still travelling quite slowly, although his eyes were fixed on the road. For a few minutes he said nothing, then he spoke with deliberation.
'Perhaps I did it as a reminder to myself.'
She stopped herself from asking why he needed a reminder. It was a provocative question, and she wasn't ready for a shift in their relationship.
She said, 'Shall I direct you?'
'No, I know my way,' he assured her. 'I have your address, remember.'
She had his, too, but she didn't bring up that fact. 'You said you were going away next-week,' she reminded him. 'Where to?'
'Not very far,' he answered, accepting the change of subject without comment. 'I bought a piece of land up the west coast a while ago, and I'm building on it. I've actually got a reasonably habitable sort of place there, now, although I'm still working on the inside. I hope to spend the next couple of weeks putting in some of the linings and building a deck out from the living area.'
'A working holiday?'
'Yes, you bet. It's great out there, though, not far from town but wild and wonderful; I can walk along the beach for miles and not see a soul on a weekday. And when I get hot and sticky on the job, I strip off and have a swim in the surf.' it sounds good.'
'You like the sea?'
'Love it. I love the surf, and a wide beach with huge breakers beating in from the Tasman. Where is your bach?'
'Near Karekare. You know it?'
'Oh, yes. Fantastic.' Her voice was filled with envy.
'I'll tell you how to find it,' said Russel. if you have a spare day, come out and see me.'
The idea was instantly appealing. Catherine turned to smile at him, her breath drawn in delight. But then she hesitated. 'Oh, I don't think I should disturb your holiday,' she said. 'You don't mean it.'
'Of course I mean it. It isn't everyone I invite out there, you know. I'd like you to come, honestly.'
'Then—thank you. I won't promise, but—if there's a chance, I'd like to.'
Russel grinned at her. 'Good!' He accelerated a little, and began whistling one of the tunes from the pantomime. After a few minutes she began softly singing the words, and they finished, laughing, as he drew up outside the darkened house. He pulled on the handbrake but left the engine running.
'Your husband doesn't wait up?' he asked her.
'Not tonight, he said he was tired. Thanks for the lift.'
'Wait a minute. I'll draw you a diagram, so you can find me at the beach.
There's no phone, but I'll be at the bach, or swimming.'
He drew a map for her on a page of his notebook, and handed it over.
'Come,' he said. 'I really want you to see it.'
Catherine thanked him without promising anything, and went into the house, the folded paper held in her hand.
She thought that Jason had forgotten about taking her to lunch, but the week before Christmas, he said, 'What about our date? Is today all right?'
'Date?' She was barely awake, and he was sitting on the side of the bed, half turned to her, while he buttoned his shirt. They had made love the night before, and his mouth was softer, his eyes warmer than usual. He looked at her sleep-flushed face, let his eyes wander down to the low neck of her nightgown, and leaned over to drop an intimate kiss between her breasts. 'Lunch,' he reminded her. 'Will you meet me?'
'Oh. Yes, I thought you'd forgotten.'
'I hadn't forgotten. I just hadn't had a chance. Will you come to the office?
About twelve?'
He kissed her mouth briefly and stood up, smiling down at her. Catherine smiled back, and stretched a little, making to get up.
'Stay there,' he told her. 'You don't get much chance for a lie-in when the children are home.'
'But I feel so lazy!'
'Enjoy it. Anyway, I like that picture of you to think about during the day.
You look very sexy, with your hair spreading over the pillow, and the sheet down to your hips, and that silk thing scarcely covering your beautiful body.'
'Jason!' It wasn't really a protest, but even after eight years of marriage, he could still make her blush when he talked like that.
He laughed, and turned to the door, doing up his belt.
'Jason?' she said, rather wistfully.
'Yes?' His face had changed already. She could see that he was getting ready for the office. He seemed to assume an office face with his clothes, an unemotional, clever, rather stern face.
' Do you think about me during the day?'
His expression hardly altered. 'I find it very hard not to,' he answered, and then went on out to the kitchen.
Catherine heard him go, and stretched again, almost tempted to go back to sleep. She had to exert willpower to make herself get up and shower, then she contemplated her wardrobe, a warm happiness inside her at the thought of lunch in town with her husband. She wanted to look nice— not overdressed, but cool and elegant, a wife he could be proud of taking out.
By eleven o'clock she had washed and dried her hair, pinning it up in a sophisticated knot, combing out a few careful tendrils to soften the style.
She was wearing high-heeled sandals and a softly flared dress with a wide round neck and fitting bodice, made of thin synthetic, green with a subtle pattern of leaves in shades of brown; and a scattering of tiny white daisy flowers. She had spent half an hour making up, using cosmetics that added a fine bloom to her skin and a pink sheen to her lips without giving them an obviously made-up look. A smudging of green eyeshadow made her eyes look larger and darker. Her eyebrows were naturally darker than her hair, not needing any enhancement, but she had carefully painted mascara on to the tips of her long lashes. She looked good, and felt good, and was just picking up a small white handbag, looking about for her car keys, when the telephone rang.
Even as she lifted the receiver and recited the number, she had a feeling of foreboding. Jason's voice, crisp, businesslike, said, 'Catherine? Thank heaven you haven't left yet. Loo k darling, I'm terribly sorry, but something's come up. I can't make lunch after all.'
She went cold, suddenly, clutching at the receiver, her teeth gritted together.
'Catherine?' His voice sharpened. 'Can you hear me?'
'Yes,' she managed.
There was a silence. He was waiting for her to say something, that she didn't mind, that they could lunch another time. She didn't. She couldn't.
'I'm sorry,' he said again. 'I'll make it up to you, I promise. This is too bad, but it can't be helped.' Again there was a pause. Then, puzzled, he said,
'Catherine? Are you there?'
'Yes.'
'Are you all right? I know it's disappointing for you—'
'Don't keep apologising.' Her voice was cold, controlled. 'It was only a lunch, after all. Nothing important.'
'Good girl. I'll explain when I get home. I know you'll understand. Can we make tomorrow instead, perhaps?' Lowering his voice, he added, 'Or tonight
—I'll take you out to dinner. Dining and dancing, you'll like that. We can make a night of it. So wear something special. Okay?'
Catherine swallowed on a hard lump, and said, 'Okay.'
'Fine. See you later, darling. Goodbye.' His voice was hurried.
He didn't wait for her answering goodbye, which was just as well, because she could scarcely speak. She fumbled the receiver back on its cradle, almost dropping it, her hand shaking. Sha
king. Only now she recognised the emotion that had sent her suddenly rigid and ice-cold, and now had her trembling in its grip. Rage, pure, knife-sharp rage. She tried to quell it, clenching her fists at her sides, walking into the bedroom with calm, slow steps, towards the dressing table, its long mirror reflecting her full-length.
It didn't show, she realised dispassionately. No one would have known she was in a white temper such as she had never experienced in her life. She stopped, staring at herself. Portrait of a beautiful woman. She was, she realised, with a slight sense of surprise, quite beautiful. She had dressed and made up very carefully today, and perhaps anger added an extra sparkle to her eyes and a glow to her skin.
All dressed up and nowhere to go, she told herself cynically. Because
'something had come up,' and Jason had casually cancelled their arrangement, confident that she would not object, that she would be just as pleased to meet him tomorrow or any other day.
She went to the dressing table, looked brood- ingly down at the purse that still lay there, then swept it into a drawer, dusted a film of powder from the polished surface, and absently opened the lid of the little box in which she kept safety pins, nail scissors, and other odds and ends. There was a folded scrap of paper there, too. Catherine stared at it for a moment before she remembered what it was. The directions that Russel had given her to find his beach place. He would be there now. He had asked her to come.
She picked it up, fingered it, opened out the single fold. Then she slid the bag out of the drawer again, put the piece ol paper in i t , a n d opened another drawer, stopping to p u l l out a b r i g h t red satin bikini. Her movements s w i f t a n d sure now, she crossed to the big wardrobe, sl i d open the doors and hooked down a canvas beach bag hanging at one side, dropped the bikini into it and then fetched a large soft towel from the linen closet in the hall, stuffing that into the bag, too. Five minutes later she was in the car, heading north and west through the city.
She concentrated fiercely on her driving at first, being extra cautious as she negotiated the traffic lights and found her way out into the western suburbs and then finally to rolling countryside, where dairy cows and fat white sheep grazed contentedly on the hillsides. When the road wound up into the Waitakere range with its houses hidden in little pockets carved from the dense native bush, and soared along the tops of the hills with their panoramic views of the city, she found her mind returning persistently to Jason's telephone call, replaying his words like a record going over and over the same groove.