Under the Southern Cross

by Claire McNab

  "I'll give you a game."

  "Can you play well?"

  Nettled, I said sharply, "Yes, I can."

  My vehemence earned me a slight smile from the American, but no comment. As we walked towards the mini-buses I began to outline the resort's guest registration procedures, careful not to let my voice show the irritation this peremptory woman had caused in me.

  My shoulders were tight. Already I sensed that indifference was an option I no longer had.

  The brassy heat of the late afternoon had discouraged other players, so we had the courts to ourselves. Choosing one sheltered from the sunlight by a tall cluster of palms, we began to hit up.

  I felt apprehensive. She was an unknown quantity. Well-described by others, but still an enigma to me. I knew the general details, the steady advance of her business, her reputation for tough negotiation, but that was no more than rough guidance in working out how to manage her, given the nuances of interpersonal relationships.

  Lee's tight white shorts and brief top revealed a well-cared body, lightly tanned, full-breasted and athletic. She had obviously been taught classic tennis: she moved quickly to prepare for each shot and she hit each ball cleanly.

  I watched her narrowly. The casual arrogance of her "Can you play well?" had stung and I didn't want her to underestimate me. Soon I was caught up in the familiar rhythmic pleasure of tennis — the joy of changing direction smoothly, balancing, striking. At the other end Lee mirrored my efforts, fluidly stroking the ball.

  A hit-up with an unfamiliar opponent is for testing skills, probing for weaknesses, assessing strengths. I can usually force myself to be patient, but anxiety made me say, too soon, "Shall we start?"

  Lee smiled briefly. "I have a feeling I may have met my match."

  She played with the resolution I expected, taking every opportunity to press an advantage, disguising her own limitations and evaluating my game for shortcomings that could be exploited. This was no relaxed, social match — each of us intended to win.

  And, at least in tennis, I'm accustomed to winning. I play A-Grade and have a kicking serve, reliable ground-strokes and a bustling net-game. Perhaps more importantly, from the time I was a child playing competition tennis my parents had drilled into me Never give up, so I'll fight back, even when a match seems irretrievably lost.

  I analyzed Lee Paynter as each game went with service, realizing that technically at least, I was the superior player, although I had an opponent who showed a tenacity that meant no point could be guaranteed, no matter how bullet-like the delivery or careful the placement. Lee covered the court with deceptive ease, hit the ball hard and squarely, and refused to be intimidated by the speed and accuracy of my best shots.

  It took all my concentration to win the first set, breaking Lee's service to take it six-four. I made the mistake of relaxing a little, and when the second set began with a relentless attack from Lee, within a few minutes I found myself down two games. The battle exhilarated, stimulated me. Focused, I clawed my way back to even the score at two-all.

  I considered, Let her have this set? She might take it anyway, and my job's to make things easy for her — not irritate her by winning.

  Lee took advantage of my lapse in concentration to win the next two games. Down two-four, I grinned to myself: To hell with it! I'll beat her if I can.

  By now we were both breathless, wet with perspiration and taut with purpose. Pushing my game up a notch, I belted the ball with all my strength and skill. Lee responded with stubborn intent. She tried to reach everything — even shots that seemed clear winners — used cunning lobs to vary the pace, hammered at the slight weakness I've got on my forehand side, and generally tried to run me off my feet.

  At six-all, Lee gasped, "Play advantage? It's more tennis than a tie-break."

  Although I was beginning to wilt in the sticky heat, I agreed immediately. The thwack as racket hit ball, the pattern of anticipation, movement, preparation, stroke — hypnotized me. My opponent became a partner in a ritual that was more than just a tennis match... it was a contest where mind and body combined for defined rewards, where the ambiguities of social interaction were replaced by the certainties of rules and conventions. It was almost with disappointment that I hit the last winning shot down the sideline.

  Lee laughed as she ceremoniously shook my hand. "That was great. I can't remember when I enjoyed being beaten. I would like a chance to get even, though. How about early tomorrow morning before it gets too hot? Can we fit another match into the program?"

  "Do you want to skip the horse-riding? That's on your schedule before breakfast. And then there's a visit to the artists' colony."

  "I'll stick to the schedule. I always like to check out everything myself. I'll take a rain check on the tennis." She looked at me speculatively. "Do you ride as well as you play tennis?"

  "Not quite." I had responded rather more sharply than I'd intended because I felt that Lee Paynter, accustomed to valuing people purely on their use to her, was deciding whether, apart from my skills at tennis, I was worthy of further attention.

  "Buy you a drink?" said Lee, apparently oblivious to my challenging tone.

  Perversely, I didn't want my vexation dulled by her hospitality, and her friendly tone made me wary. I checked my watch, shook my head, said with requisite regret, "I hadn't realized how long our match took. Sorry, I've still got some things to do before tonight's presentation dinner... Would you like me to arrange for refreshments to be sent to your cabana, or would you prefer a drink by the poolside?"

  "I can look after myself, thanks. See you this evening."

  Effectively. dismissed, I watched her stride away, purposeful, and, to me, aggravatingly arrogant. To be fair, I had to admit that Lee Paynter had every reason to be self-assured — she had earned the prestige and influence she'd attained.

  I've always been adept at hiding my feelings, so I knew it was unlikely she had recognized the uncertainty I felt. I wanted her to see me as cool, controlled, confident, so she could not guess the importance of her satisfaction to my career.

  From the official table, I surveyed the room. A hum of anticipation was filling the dining hall as guests found their seats. Outside, the warm darkness of the tropical night had fallen with its usual abruptness. Inside, illuminated by almost hectic brightness, the seafood was elaborately displayed — a smorgasbord on tables decorated with exotic ferns and extravagant blossoms. Huge overflowing plates of oysters, prawns, lobsters, Morton Bay bugs, crayfish, gigantic crabs and goggle-eyed fish jostled for space with a selection of intriguing salads and fat loaves of bread.

  I had arrived early with Tony Englert, Sir Frederick's assistant, to ensure things would go smoothly. Our duties completed, Tony went off to snaffle a bottle of wine, our reward, he said, for conspicuous accomplishment. He came back with a fine chardonnay, filled both our glasses, and launched into a scurrilously amusing account about a bumbling government official's interference in private tourism. He finished his story with a shout of laughter, then squeezed my hand as he pantomimed a suggestive leer. "Alex, my darling, you look absolutely ravishing in blue."

  "And you," I rejoined, "look totally irresistible in off-white." I considered his pale suit. "Perhaps more off, than white."

  Tony is one of the few people with whom I can immediately relax. Although nice is a bland word, nice is what he is — nice to know and nice to be with. He's clever, but his manner is open and uncomplicated, and his generosity of spirit matches his expansive body.

  He leaned back in his chair, which creaked a protest. "So, how's La Paynter?"

  "We had a game of tennis this afternoon... and I'm afraid I beat her."

  "Oh, bad career move!"

  I laughed at his lugubrious expression. "You think I've blown it?"

  "Probably not. Lee likes it straight down the line. And if she admires you, you've got it made."

  "Do you know her well, Tony?"

  "No better than anyone else, but one thing I can say is I th
ink you're the right one to handle her." He grinned at my questioning expression. "Because, Alex darling, you'll be a challenge — and Lee Paynter loves a challenge."

  "Meaning?"

  But he refused to elaborate. Looking at his watch, he announced he had to wait for Sir Frederick at the entrance to the dining hall. I chatted idly with others at the official table, including Steve Monahan, who had obviously wasted no time in striking up a friendship with the beautiful Hilary Ferguson. He'd made an ostentatious show of gallantry when he'd escorted her to her chair, and was now assuring us of the positive impression he had made. I tuned out his familiar boasts, sipping my wine as I surveyed each table, automatically ticking off names as I recognized faces. The successful operators in international tourism belonged to a profitable world-wide club, and many of the guests knew each other through business contracts, so the hum of conversation was frequently punctuated by bursts of laughter and enthusiastic greetings.

  In situations like this, listening to the easy banter, to the skill of casual, light conversation, always made me conscious of my apartness, my detachment. And, as usual, I asked myself why. It wasn't that I failed to respond to people, to feel affection for them, to become involved in their lives — but rather that I had an innate caution that prevented me from allowing indulgence in too much emotion. I had to be in control.

  Control: it was a word I often used. I felt secure when I was in command — when I could be sure there'd be little chance of unwelcome surprises.

  I thought sardonically, Let's not be too critical here... I can be spontaneous too — just so long as I've planned for it.

  Sometimes I wondered if there might be a dimension missing in me, a level of deeper feeling that most other people seemed to experience. I'd never been quite sure what my friends meant when they said they were in love. The wrenching, passionate feelings they described seemed to me rather closer to discomfort than ecstasy.

  Still, I could reassure myself that I was capable of the emotion itself. I loved a few close friends, and I certainly loved my parents. Sure, they'd been strict and undemonstrative in my childhood, but I'd never doubted their love for me.

  In my early twenties I'd been upset when they'd decided to move out of Sydney to Canberra, where my mother's only sister lives with her family. Of course, the decision to move had been my mother's. She's soft-spoken, never loses her temper, nor, indeed, shows any strong feelings — but she always gets her own way. Now, I see my family infrequently. We have never made a fuss of birthdays or Christmas, but I always try to get down to Canberra for my parents' birthdays, which are both in June, and again in December for a family Christmas.

  December made me think of Carl's birthday, and then, unwillingly, of my marriage. Now, years after the divorce, I still couldn't imagine why I'd married Carl, why I'd believed that a few words in a church would magically transform me from a reserved young woman into a warm and loving wife.

  Memories I usually ignored came crowding in. I hadn't been a virgin, hadn't gone ignorant to my marriage bed. On the contrary, I'd set out to gain sexual experience deliberately, following the example of my peer group, but always, it seemed to me now, puzzled at their excited enthusiasm for an act I found not unpleasant, but essentially meaningless.

  I'd been very fond of Carl and enjoyed his company. We grew up together, had many interests in common and came from similar backgrounds, so the thought of being with him permanently hadn't seemed threatening or impossible. It had been pleasant to be comfortably part of the dating game, to have by my side a tall, presentable male. Still, I was cautious, and wanted to live with him before taking the final step, but my parents' strict standards eliminated this as an option. And Carl seemed so sure, so convinced that we belonged together.

  As part of the conventional majority, I could put to one side the disquieting attraction I felt towards my own sex... feelings I persuaded myself would fade in time — desires that were forbidden, unthinkable. With Carl it was girlfriend and boyfriend — a safe, ordinary relationship with the obligatory sex when opportunities could be found. And I could still escape Carl's sometimes suffocating closeness and go home to my own room, my own bed. Even then my dreams, my outrageous fantasies betrayed me — they were full of luscious women to whom I turned with guilty delight.

  Somehow I'd convinced myself that these yearnings would evaporate in the reality of constant heterosexuality.

  I'd thought myself well prepared, but the enforced intimacy of marriage was an assault upon my private self. It wasn't Carl's fault — he was kind, affectionate, and I in turn did my best to play the role expected of me. And on the surface I succeeded, because no one seemed to sense that anything was wrong. My parents were approving; Carl began to talk of starting a family.

  He said he loved me; he certainly desired me. Looking back over the years I find it strange that I can hardly picture his face, but can so clearly remember his exultation at his possession of me, his hands always greedy for my body.

  Vivid too, as though preserved on film, is that one decisive night. At first, it seemed like any other evening. Carl, exhausted with lovemaking, was asleep, one arm curled around me, that unconscious embrace the posture of a proprietor. I lay looking at the patterns thrown by streetlights onto the ceiling and said into the darkness, "That's it. No more."

  Why that particular night? Perhaps it had been Carl's considerate tyranny, as, anxious for my sexual response to match his, he had said almost plaintively, "Darling, it's no good for me unless you come too." Faking it was so much easier than straining for an orgasm that lovemaking almost never achieved, but this time I rebelled against the imperative to perform on schedule, trying to make a joke of my failure — "I must be tired and have a headache" — but Carl was assiduous in his pursuit of my pleasure. At last, driven to feign a climax, I fulfilled his requirements.

  Lying there, quiet beside his sleeping contentment, I felt a flood of relief at my decision, even though I knew it would mean facing my parents' incomprehension and Carl's bewilderment and anguish. I realized that it would be almost impossible to explain, so I was prepared, almost eager, to be blamed, because it would help to lessen the guilt.

  Indeed, Carl had been distraught, my parents astonished. "Divorce?" my mother had said as though the word itself had an unpleasant taste. "Surely not, Alex. A short separation perhaps, but not a final thing like that."

  But it had been the final thing like that. Carl had resisted to the final decree, then, baffled, he had at last left me alone.

  I withdrew from my memories as Sir Frederick arrived. He paused for a moment at the entrance to survey the dining room. Tall, impeccably dressed in a light summer suit, his tanned skin in contrast to his thick white hair, his imposingly aristocratic nose set off by the neat lines of his white mustache, he strode through the room, smiling and nodding as his glance fell upon a particularly important guest. I watched his progress with amused respect, knowing that it was carefully rehearsed. Late that afternoon we'd gone through the seating plan together, ensuring that the most influential tourist luminaries would receive special attention.

  The hum of conversation stopped and he began his short, humorous, yet trenchant welcoming speech, his British accent only slightly blunted by years in Australia. I admired his effortless skill in holding the attention of the hundred or so hardened professionals who made up his audience.

  I'd noticed Lee Paynter come in just after Sir Frederick and take her seat a little to the side of the main table. She wore a simple white linen dress, her only jewelry a fine mesh silver bracelet that shimmered as she raised her glass. She appeared to be listening attentively to Sir Frederick, her slate gray eyes fixed on him, her mouth curling into a smile at the appropriate times. Then suddenly she turned her head to look directly at me.

  I felt ridiculously exposed, as though caught doing something wrong. I acknowledged our eye contact with a polite smile, then glanced away, putting on a pretense of close attention to Sir Frederick's speech.

&nb
sp; There was no reason for the alarm that shrilled in me. Lee Paynter couldn't know that we were linked by our fundamental natures, or that I felt an insidious tug of attraction towards her. And she would never know. My career, my relationship with my parents — both had nearly been destroyed before, and there was no way I'd risk that happening again.

  Be rational, Alex. You're going to be associated with Lee Paynter for a couple of weeks. So what's she to you? Just someone to manage, whose satisfaction at the service provided will reflect well on you.

  It was a fair transaction — I would use Lee Paynter as Lee Paynter would use me — a useful person in the context of the situation.

  Sir Frederick concluded with a graceful turn of phrase, there was applause, and the focus of attention became the spectacular seafood display.

  Although fond of shellfish, I find the voracious hands-on approach off-putting. Plates piled to overflowing, the diners plunged wholeheartedly into cracking carapaces, gouging out white fish, sucking noisily at crustacean legs, gulping oysters — all of this accomplished with a full-mouthed enthusiasm more conventional meals never seemed to engender.

  As soon as it was politic to do so, I escaped to walk alone along the deserted beach. The moon had not yet risen and the stars shone brilliantly. As always, I located the constellation of the Southern Cross. Seen only in the southern hemisphere, its configuration part of the Australian flag, to me it is also a personal talisman, its beauty and constancy a reassurance in a capricious world.

  I stood with my hands behind my back and stared upward at the five stars and two bright pointers.

  I'm happier alone...

  I frowned, wondering why I'd needed to remind myself of this at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lee was dressed in a crisp white shirt, tailored jodhpurs and boots when I came to collect her in the cool of the early morning. Immediately I felt at a disadvantage. Having no formal riding gear, I was wearing ancient jeans. No doubt this bloody woman had the perfect outfit for every occasion.