by Hugh Mackay
‘Try telling that to Sartori. Anyway, Briggs will be there, and I really want him to meet you. Madrigo is very close to being a done deal and, well, I just think it would help if you could spend a bit of time with him. That’s all. It will be a very casual setting, obviously.’
‘Do you know how awful that sounds, Richard? Am I to be some kind of bait, dangled in front of the wretched Briggs? How is this going to affect the question of whether your plans for Madrigo make sense to him or not? He’s a businessman, Richard. A developer. It’ll all come down to the bottom line. You’ve said so yourself. Many times.’
‘I didn’t put it very well. I’m sorry, Frey. All I meant was that I would like Briggs to feel as if he knows another side of me. Warm him up a bit.’
‘Warm him up a bit? Did I hear you say warm him up a bit?’
‘All I meant –’
‘I know what you meant, Richard. I just enjoy watching you squirm. I’ll charm the pants off your Mr Briggs. He won’t know what hit him.’
And so here she was with Richard’s colleagues and the other spouses-or-partners, milling around like kids on a school excursion, jostling to get on board quickly enough to secure a prized upper-deck spot. Up until the last moment, Freya had been hoping that something would go wrong, that some disaster would intervene to prevent the whole thing going ahead. The weather would turn so foul they would have to call it off; Paolo Sartori would be rushed to hospital – nothing serious – and they would all go home out of respect for him; the boat would magically sink to the bottom, right there at the wharf, before anyone had boarded it; there would be a bomb scare. Anything.
Nothing.
They were all boarding like lambs. So Freya lined up, smiled wanly at Richard, and joined the general surge.
It began surprisingly well. Never one to stint, Paolo Sartori had selected a vessel so luxurious that the passengers were immediately seduced by it. Sartori himself came over the PA system, welcoming everyone on board like a tour guide, and announcing that the bar was now open and food would be served when they reached Camp Cove.
The drinks flowed freely. Lulled by the gentle movement of the boat and the hum of its twin diesels, the mood soon became mellow. Staying close to shore, they glided around Darling Point and Double Bay, then cruised on past Point Piper and into Rose Bay, many of the passengers casting a professional eye over the waterfront real estate they were passing, some of it the work of Urbanski. Finally, they rounded the point into Camp Cove, where a crew member in a nautical blazer, pale slacks and stylish leather gloves produced a length of rope so clean and white it looked like a design accessory and secured them to a buoy. Food began to appear. It was plentiful and delicious and, now that the boat had stopped, even Freya was beginning to enjoy herself. Seated outside in the fresh air, on the lower deck near the stern, she’d temporarily lost sight of Richard and had not yet been introduced to the infamous Briggs.
There came a sudden shout from above and, a split second later, Freya caught a peripheral glimpse of a fully clothed body falling from the upper deck on the other side of the boat. A loud splash was followed by the unmistakable sounds of waterlogged panic.
Rushing to the rail, Freya saw a figure thrashing helplessly in the water, gurgling, spluttering, and dipping below the surface, already being carried away from the boat by the strong current of an ebb tide. Without a pause, Freya tore off her jeans, kicked off her sandals, clambered over the rail and executed a perfect dive, coming up close to the increasingly desperate flounderer.
‘Just relax,’ Freya said, as she grasped the forlorn figure in her lifesaver’s grip. ‘It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. What’s your name?’
‘Philip,’ he coughed. ‘Philip Noakes.’ Then he moaned softly and brought up a copious combination of seawater and seafood. He had clearly dined well, if a little too hastily.
‘I’m Freya,’ she said, dragging him away from the contaminated area and, in the process, drifting still further from the boat. The tidal pull was stronger than she had expected in such a protected bay. ‘I’m Richard’s wife. You’ll be okay, Philip. Just try to stay calm. Focus on your breathing – count three in and three out. Have you had much to drink?’
‘Too much. Far too much,’ said Philip, bringing up a little more of the noxious marinade.
She turned him on his back and began working her way towards the boat, talking quietly to him the whole time, even remembering to congratulate him on his recent appointment as a partner in the firm.
‘A rope, please – now!’ she called, as she trod water with Philip still securely in her grasp and lying quite still, his humiliation having driven out all traces of panic. The watchers crowding the upper and lower railings were stunned into silence by Freya’s aplomb.
‘Jesus. Who is she?’ asked Briggs.
‘My wife,’ said Richard, his voice hoarse from a combination of pride and shock.
A rope was finally produced – why a lifebuoy had not been despatched in the first place was the focus of a subsequent inquiry into the incident – and thrown to Freya, who looped it expertly under Philip’s arms and knotted it across his chest. Then she guided him to the side of the boat where a few strong hands hauled him out of the water and onto the deck. He lay breathless and sodden, like a half-drowned puppy – or, as Richard thought less charitably, like a legless drunk caught in a downpour.
‘He’s lost one of his shoes!’ exclaimed Noakes’s wife, so overcome by embarrassment that she seized on the lost shoe as if it were the most significant thing to have emerged from all this.
‘He’s lost one of his shoes,’ someone relayed to Freya, who was still treading water beside the boat.
‘I’ll see if I can find it,’ she said, launching herself into a duck-dive and disappearing beneath the waves. There was still plenty of daylight, and the water was reasonably clear and quite shallow where the boat was moored. After three attempts, Freya surfaced with the missing shoe held aloft like a trophy. A few people clapped and cheered uncertainly, wondering if they should have done more to help.
Philip Noakes, meanwhile, was bundled into the cabin, where his wife removed his sodden clothing and wrapped him in towels. His teeth were chattering and he was still expelling little bubbles of water like a baby oozing milk after a feed.
Back on the rear deck, Richard had retrieved Freya’s clothes from where she had abandoned them, and was throwing her a rope. She looped and knotted it around herself, and allowed Richard, supported by the goggle-eyed Briggs, to haul her up to the deck. A crew member, resplendent in his blazer and still clutching a platter of biscuits and cheese, watched with keen interest. He would say later that he had kept a close eye on everything, but that the passengers, especially Mrs Brooks, seemed to have it all under control.
Once Freya was safely back on board, Richard, with Briggs hovering, rubbed her down with a towel and helped her back into her clothes.
‘We should obviously get Philip onto dry land and back home asap. I’d like to go with him,’ Freya said, ‘just to keep an eye on him. At least he didn’t hit his head on the way down.’
Richard, overwhelmed by Freya’s display of courage and skill, was ready to agree to anything. He went and had a word with Philip and his wife, who acknowledged that getting Philip off the boat and into a hot shower were their top priorities. They lived in nearby Dover Heights, they told him, only minutes away.
Richard called a cab on his mobile; a pair of dry, if ill-fitting, tracksuit pants were located for Philip; the captain eased his craft alongside the jetty, and they were in the cab and on their way home within fifteen minutes of Philip being fished out of the water. Paolo Sartori had stood at the gangway as they disembarked, bowing extravagantly, kissing Freya’s hand and expressing undying gratitude and admiration for what she had done. He restrained himself from scowling at Philip.
Though Richard made a half-hearted offer to accompany her, Freya insisted he stay and schmooze Briggs.
Once it had become clear th
at no serious damage had been done, except to Philip Noakes’s pride, the party mood on the boat took hold once more. It was enlivened by the unspoken thought shared by most of Philip’s colleagues that, if such a thing had had to happen to someone, they were quite pleased it had happened to him.
20
Coming Home –
10th Variation – ‘Busy, Busy’
The sight of his convivium gladdens Richard’s heart, as it always does when he comes home. Freya is sitting at the farmhouse table with her back to him. Her shoulders are shaking, though whether she is laughing, shivering, coughing or sobbing it is impossible to tell.
‘Home is the sailor, home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill,’ says Richard, hoping that, if Freya is upset, the familiarity of these lines might reassure her. Cheer her. Calm her.
Her shoulders continue to shake and she fails even to acknowledge that Richard is there or that he has spoken.
He moves to stand behind her, placing a hand on each shoulder and kissing the top of her head.
‘You okay, Frey?’
The shaking resolves itself into a shudder. She has still not looked at him. A half-empty bottle of white wine stands on the table, with just one glass (freshly refilled, Richard notes with a tinge of anxiety).
When she finally turns her gaze on him, he is shocked by the look on her face. If it were not his wife, if it were not Freya, he’d have said it was a look of hatred. But he can only interpret it as distress. When she speaks, her voice is trembling. ‘Have you any idea what time it is?’
Richard instinctively looks at his watch, though he knows it is roughly the same time he gets home most nights. Why would Freya be drawing his attention to such a normal event?
‘A bit after eight,’ he says cautiously, but with a touch of defiance he hadn’t intended to convey.
‘A bit after eight,’ Freya parrots. There is a mocking edge to her voice that Richard finds unnerving. Freya appears to be very angry.
‘Is something wrong, Frey? Is there something you’re not telling me? Have I forgotten something that’s on tonight? Are we supposed to be going out?’
‘Out? Us? Ha. Something on tonight? What would be on tonight, Richard? When is anything ever “on”? Yes, it’s a bit after eight o’clock, Richard. Quite a bit, in fact. It’s almost nine.’
‘And?’
‘You’ll be gone again by seven-thirty, I assume. Eleven hours at home, and most of them sleeping. Ten or eleven hours at home and thirteen or fourteen hours away from home. Day after day after day. Such a busy, busy little bee.’
‘Yes, it is a busy time.’
‘A busy time? What, the last five years?’
‘It’s not always so busy. But, yes, this is a busy patch.’
‘Maybe you’re slowing down, Richard. Maybe you’re getting old. Maybe you’re just less efficient than you used to be. Less competent. Gosh! Maybe it takes you longer to do everything these days. Or maybe you spend too long over lunch at Beppi’s, day after fucking day, with assorted cronies and conmen. God, what a world you live in, Richard. What a sleazy, grubby, grovelling fucking world. The client is king! The client is king! I’ve even heard you say it. You say it’s about design. It’s really about money.’
‘Frey, I think –’
‘Don’t you dare put your patronising fucking hand on my shoulder, Richard. I’m just the wife. Filling in the endless hours when you’re not here. Amusing myself with my little string quartet to keep me occupied during the long hours when the Great Architect is out changing the world.’
‘Frey! That is ridiculous and you know it. I don’t know anyone who’s busier than you are. The quartet is a full-time job. Clearly. And the endless hours you put into practising . . . well, I’m really impressed. Perhaps I don’t tell you that often enough. But it is a huge load. A huge load. I fully acknowledge that.’
‘What the hell are you trying to say, Richard. That I’m busy?’
‘Of course you’re busy. Look at you now. You have a score and an iPad and your mobile in front of you. You were working when I came in. You’re always working when I come in. In a minute, you’ll offer me some reheated food for dinner and then you’ll retreat to your studio and put in another hour or so of practice. I assume you do that at night because you’re too busy to do it during the day. How would I know what you do all day?’ Richard paused. ‘Daniel seems to be a fairly major presence in your days, if I may say so, including lunches and dinners.’
Freya glares at him, too furious for speech.
‘Look, Frey, I don’t begrudge you any time you need to spend at your work. Have I ever complained? Do I complain when you have an evening gig? I come when I can but, if I have something else on, I don’t complain when you get home at midnight or later. Or when you have to tour. We’ve both understood all this right from the beginning. Why is this suddenly an issue now?’
‘Richard, do you know how you greet people on the phone, or even socially? Have you heard yourself?’
‘I say hello, like everybody else.’
‘No you don’t. You say, “How are you – busy?”, as if busyness is a fucking virtue. That’s what you say. And I hear you on the fucking telephone endlessly telling people how busy you are.’
‘How busy we are, Frey. We are both busy. When people ask me how we are, that’s a natural thing to say. What else would I say? “Oh, we’re both at a bit of a loose end. Not much on.” Come on, Frey. What is all this?’
‘Do you think people really want to know how busy you are? Do you, Richard? Do you think they’re interested? Do you ever consider the possibility that they might actually be more interested in what you’ve been reading, or thinking about, or where you’ve been going and what you’ve been doing when you’re not working?’
‘Well, I –’
‘Do you know what it reminds me of, Richard? It reminds me of old people who only want to tell you how well or how badly they’ve slept, or whether they’ve opened their bowels in the last twenty-four hours. That’s what it’s like. Boring, boring, boring. Oh we’re so busy, everyone! Hey, want to hear how busy we are?’
‘Give it a rest, Frey. This is just becoming silly. You can’t deny that you are at least as busy as I am. You spend more time on your computer at night than I do. I basically come home and switch off.’
Freya springs from her chair and stands to face Richard, toe to toe.
‘Switch off? Switch off? You spend at least as long as I do on your computer at night. When was the last time you came to bed without checking your emails? You’re addicted to bloody email, Richard.’
Richard shrugs. ‘I’m not going to count up the hours. All I can say is that my impression is that you’re going non-stop. Maybe that’s how it is for musicians. I don’t know. My impression is that your days are very full.’
‘Oh, yes, I can fill in my days as well as anyone. I’m talking about our nights. What used to be our nights together. Movies. Concerts. Plays. Dinner with friends. Short breaks away. Remember all that? Now it’s the odd Saturday night if we’re lucky or an occasional Sunday lunch with someone, usually with a business agenda attached or implied. Fuck you, Richard. You have disappeared. I never see you. You are exactly like my father was. You are so busy, so preoccupied, your head is no longer accessible to me. I have no idea who you are or what the hell you’re thinking. Who are you, Richard? Richard Brooks the famous architect? Is that all there is? Where is Richard the man? Tell me that. Where has my husband disappeared to?’
Tears begin coursing down Freya’s cheeks but she brushes them away and sniffs loudly.
There is a long pause, both of them breathing hard. Freya slumps back into her chair, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands.
‘I’ll tell you one busy thing I did today. I spent an hour with Dr Costa at the fertility clinic.’
‘Frey –’
‘Don’t panic. It’s all doable. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Frey, be serious. Look at yoursel
f. Look at your life. Flat out with Continental Drift. Practising for hours on end. All the admin. All the marketing – I don’t know what your agent does, to be frank. Do you honestly imagine there’s room for a baby in your hectic schedule? Your schedule is hectic. At least, that’s how it looks to me.’
‘Oli manages perfectly well with two kids.’
‘With respect, Olivia doesn’t run the show. She does what you tell her.’
‘Anyway, my mother has already agreed to step in when needed. That’s what she did for Fern when her two were little. It would be even easier for her now Dad has gone.’
‘So you’d happily cut back on the music? You’d give yourself over to motherhood? And you’d be satisfied with an only child – something you always said you’d never want to inflict on any child of yours?’
Richard is quite relieved, in a way, that they are back on the solid ground of rational argument. He’d have preferred a different topic, but at least the rant about busyness has subsided.
Freya is staring at him again. Glaring at him.
‘Richard, listen to yourself. Do I imagine there’s room for a baby in my schedule? I’d have to give myself over to motherhood. I’d cut back on the music. What about you, Richard? Parenthood is not just about mothers. Fathers are right in there, right in the thick of it. At least they are if they know what’s good for them and for the child and for the marriage.’
‘But I thought –’
‘I know what you’re going to say, Richard, so think again. I’ve been doing a lot of rethinking myself, amid all this busyness that’s supposed to be crushing me. Whether I get pregnant naturally or we decide to do it via surrogacy, we’ll have to be partners in this. No coming home at eight-thirty at night.’
‘So is that what this –’
‘No it isn’t, as a matter of fact. I am sick to death of being married to a busy, busy, busy man. A man who seems to think it’s good to be out-of-control busy. Sick of it. Baby or no baby. I want our life back, Richard. I want my life with you back. I want to feel as if we love each other again.’