A Better Man

by Leah McLaren

  “You didn’t seem very interested in my ideas when we had lunch that time. You just looked at my boobs.”

  Nick drains his soda water. Takes it on the chin. “You’re right. I did look at your boobs. I’m sorry about that.”

  She laughs. “And I’m sorry I wore a see-through top and no bra. You see? You’re not the only dirtbag.”

  They are laughing like friends now, and Shelley orders another margarita. When the bartender looks at Nick, he shakes his head. She watches this and says, “Not drinking?”

  “Nah. Thought I’d give the old liver a holiday. Spent Christmas at the bottom of a vodka bottle, and then things kind of spiralled from there.”

  She chews her straw. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I didn’t have a drop for most of last year for kind of the same reason.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, that and the fact I was travelling through Africa and it can be hard to find booze in remote villages.”

  Nick can’t believe how easily it’s come up—the reason he invited her out in the first place.

  “That’s actually the reason I wanted to talk to you today,” he says.

  She blinks, surprised. “You wanted to talk to me because you quit drinking? Is this like one of those AA apologize-to-everyone-you-know dealios? Because it’s really not necessary.”

  “No, no.” Nick shakes his head as if to clear it of a bad smell. “I mean about Africa. I wanted to talk to you about that charity bike trip you volunteered for. The one from Cairo to Cape Town.”

  “Really?” Shelley adjusts her glasses. “Your company wants to sponsor it?”

  “Not exactly,” says Nick. “But something like that.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The day before court, Maya leaves work for an extended lunch hour and takes herself divorce dress shopping. She wanders into a tiny boutique in the underground mall beneath her office, a place she walks by every day but has never been in. The shopkeeper is a small woman with an enormous red beehive. She welcomes Maya calmly and without enthusiasm, as if she understands the gravity of the occasion. Maya goes directly to the change room and the woman brings her dress after dress, in sombre colours and conservative cuts, dresses in grey and blue and black. They all look very nice, or at least perfectly acceptable, but somehow she knows they aren’t quite right. She tries them on obediently, one after another, until her shoulders are itchy from wriggling in and out of new fabric. Finally, as she is standing in the change room in her underwear and tights feeling sweaty and defeated, the woman appears with something different: a black pencil dress with tiny red polka dots that is demure but figure-skimming, sober but cheerful.

  The shopkeeper does up her zipper silently and Maya stands for a long time, staring at herself in the three-way mirror. She isn’t preening but truly staring, her body eerily still, like one of those living statues in the touristy parts of every town. The salesperson, who had been almost entirely silent, now speaks in a thick Scottish accent. “Y’just know when ye find the right one, dontchye?” she says.

  Maya nods slowly, still looking at herself in the mirror. Her body is fuller, less bony than it was in the stay-at-home-mom days, when she was working out with Bradley and subsisting on kale and quinoa. These days her main exercise comes from dialling the Persian takeout place from the office at 9:00 p.m. as she works her way through the files that never stop collecting on her desk. Work has added a new convexity of cheek, a curve in her upper arms and weight to her breasts that she hasn’t seen since she was pregnant, and then only briefly. To her surprise, the new flesh comforts her. It means she is not going to be one of those whippety divorcees, with their hard, lean faces and lemon-sucking expressions—women who look as though they are holding on for dear life.

  The dress helps Maya to appear the way she wishes she actually felt—the way she both wants and needs to look in court tomorrow—and that is absolutely sure. Standing there in the three-way mirror, she has a sudden flashback to ten years ago and another three-way mirror, in another tiny boutique, with another dress altogether. She squeezes her eyes shut and sees herself then: in her early twenties; wasp-waisted from cigarettes, Diet Coke and membership in the law school running club; hair highlighted a little too harshly and nose sun-freckled; and the dress, a gloriously clichéd confection of butterscotch taffeta and Victorian lace that tapers at her middle then floats out around her like a cloud. What had she felt then, apart from slightly on edge and giddy with attention? She’d felt completely certain. So certain that she’d never even thought to stop and question how certain she felt.

  Maya comes to and nods to the shopkeeper, who is watching her from a distance, looking quietly alarmed. “It’s perfect,” she says. “I’ll take it.”

  Five minutes later she is back at her desk and Gray pokes his head in the office. It appears first, hovering sideways, then the rest of his body joins, only to stumble to the floor at the last second like an unrehearsed vaudeville act. “Howdy,” he says. “How’s the un-bride-to-be?”

  Maya finishes typing an email and presses Send. “I’m fine,” she says. “A bit wobbly, but can’t complain.”

  Adam smiles a wolfish smile. His polished left toe taps out a soft-shoe on the industrial carpet. “I’ve made a special reservation for dinner tonight. I hope you don’t mind. At that new Japanese steak place you’ve been wanting to try.”

  Maya opens her eyes wide in what she hopes is a pleased expression. “Oh, that’s really lovely, but I was kind of hoping to get home in time to put the kids to bed and then maybe catch up on some work.”

  Gray furrows his forehead like an elderly basset hound, gives a defeated nod and turns to go.

  Maya sighs, wondering how many things a working mother can feel guilty about at once? (Answer: unlimited.) “Okay, okay,” she calls after him. “What time’s the reservation?”

  Gray spins on his heel. “Eight. I’ll meet you in the lobby and we can take a cab together.”

  As soon as he’s gone, Maya dials Velma. She answers with a laugh. At first Maya’s confused (Does Velma think it’s funny that she’s bothering to call? Surely she hasn’t been that negligent lately?), then she realizes her nanny is laughing at the children.

  “Hahaha … Hello? Oh, hang on a sec—Isla don’t put Cheerios in your brother’s nose. It’s not nice! Hi? Maya?”

  “Hi. Is everything—”

  “No! Foster, WE DO NOT THROW SAND. Sorry, we’re just at the playground, and the twins were taking off their clothes because the weather’s so nice. It’s hard to stop them once they start, you know?”

  Maya does know. She looks out the window, sees the sun and imagines the first warmth of spring on her skin. She can almost smell the trees budding twelve storeys below. The playground. The screaming pit of glee. The date bars being doled out by carers. The cool mothers texting on their phones. The safety-net dads lurking beneath the jungle gym, arms outstretched to prevent an assortment of imagined potential injuries. It’s been ages since she’s been to the playground, but Velma takes the kids every day after preschool. She can hear them begging in the background.

  “Are you at the wading pool? Let them go in if they want, Velma. It doesn’t matter if they get their clothes wet.”

  Velma laughs again. “No, no, that’s the problem. They want to go in the pool naked, but there’s no water in it—too early in the season. Isla, dress back on, PLEASE!”

  A loud clatter as the phone drops and then the scuffle of feet on pavement. “Velma?” Maya asks after a bit.

  When Velma finally picks up the phone again, she’s out of breath. “Sorry about that. They are on the swings now, so is fine. Sorry, is there something important?”

  “Yes, just that I need to work late again. Are you okay to stay with the kids tonight?”

  “Of course,” Velma says, but Maya can hear the pause in her voice.

  “Velma, what is it? Do you have something else? If so, just tell me and I can make other arrangements.”

  “No, no, it
’s not that. It’s just that I was wondering how long you’re going to stay here, because for me, being in Mr. Gray’s house … I must be honest. It is not the same.”

  Velma has made no secret of missing the old house, and Maya can hardly blame her.

  “Not long, Velma. I told you we’re going to get our own place as soon as the financial settlement is done. And the lawyers meet tomorrow, so soon.”

  There is a muffled silence on the other end of the line. Then Maya hears Velma proffering juice boxes to the twins.

  “You know I’m here for you. As much as you need,” Velma says. “But are you sure?”

  “About what?” Maya suddenly feels sick. All of it—the guilt, the uncertainty, the stress—hits her like torrential gust out of nowhere. It blows her down.

  “You know, about Nick. Have you heard from him lately?” Velma says this gently but with real urgency in her voice. “I’m sorry to ask. It’s just that when I do the weekend drop-off, he seems different. He has a beard and it’s really cute. But it’s not just that. He seems better, you know? I mean, maybe you should at least talk to him.”

  Velma waits for a response and Maya can hear her waiting. Her eyes prickle and she throws back her head to prevent the tears from spilling over the rims. She adopts what she hopes is a breezy, business-like tone.

  “Nick always seems changed, Velma. That’s the whole point. He alters himself when he needs to. He’s a shape-shifter. He gets what he needs from people and then he discards them. Do you understand?”

  She can hear Velma release a defeated breath. “Yes,” she says finally.

  Maya knows she should stop there, but suddenly she needs to continue. “So whatever you think you see in him, the so-called new him, you need to step back and consider if what you’re seeing is real. Because I can tell you, it isn’t. He’s not the person he appears to be.”

  “But, Maya, before you walk away completely, think of the twins. They—”

  “Don’t!” It’s the first time Maya has ever raised her voice at Velma. “I’m sorry, but you have to understand this isn’t about our marriage. It’s about money. That’s all Nick really cares about, or at least it’s what he cares about most. Do you understand me?”

  “Are you sure?” Velma is quiet. “Really? Nick?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry—everything’s going to be fine. Adam is on it.”

  “Mr. Gray is your lawyer?” She can hear the wariness in Velma’s voice. “But isn’t that a conflicting interest?”

  “No, it’s not a conflict of interest. I’m being represented not by Adam himself, obviously, but his best associate. It’s going to be fine, Velma. We’ll all get exactly what’s fair.”

  Maya and Gray sit at the bar at the Japanese steak place, their faces just inches away from a man in a white paper hat who just chopped a pound of seared meat like it was made of soft butter. They share a beer from a giant silver can so cold the metal bites their fingertips as they tip it into glasses. Gray orders another can, and then a mountain of steak and tempura and other Japanese things involving seaweed, while Maya sits dazed by the flashing blades and sizzling static of the grill.

  It occurs to her that Gray has something to say, something big—why else would he have brought her to this strange place with all its noise and distraction? She feels a sharp twist in her stomach and pushes the thought away. “Thanks for ordering,” she says. “I’m not very hungry.”

  He smiles. Everything she says makes him smile. She has no idea why.

  “That’s okay, I’m starving. I’ll eat whatever you can’t.”

  He reaches into his briefcase and takes out a file labelled “Wakefield Divorce.”

  Maya grimaces. “Really? Are we going to go through this here? Over dinner?”

  Gray shrugs his broad shoulders. “The hearing’s at nine and I want you to be briefed. We might as well do it with a drink in our hands.”

  Maya gulps but Gray is too busy leafing through documents to notice.

  “Gulp,” she says, to draw attention to her gulp.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Gray says. “We’re going to get you exactly what you’re entitled to. The law is very clear.”

  “Fifty-fifty. That’s all I ever wanted. I told Allison that, so I’m sure it’s reflected in her statement of claim.”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Gray pops a soybean pod in his mouth. “You’re entitled to a lot more. When we consider … all the relevant details.”

  Maya leans back and sighs. “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that you gave up your career for several years to raise his children—”

  “A career that I have resumed—and by the way they’re my children too.”

  “Not to mention the mental and emotional humiliation involved in his deception—”

  “A deception I’d really rather not drag through the courts, because it doesn’t make any of us look good.”

  Gray closes the file. “And by ‘any of us,’ I assume you mean me?”

  Maya lets her head fall into her hands for a moment. “I just—the point is not to take him to the cleaners but to prevent him from leaving me and the kids high and dry. I just want what’s fair, okay? Half. No more, no less.”

  The meat arrives. A thousand paper-thin slices of Kobe beef. Maya looks at it and feels her stomach flip. She takes a draught of icy beer as Gray tucks in, smacking his lips like a cartoon villain. She watches him put away half the plate before the side dishes arrive, marvelling not for the first time at his ability to consume. Gray is like a furnace, a burner of energy and creator of heat. The thing that makes him a great lawyer is also his greatest burden: the constant and unquenchable thirst for more.

  Without asking if she wants one, he orders them another beer.

  Maya chews a prawn, thinking of bed and the sleepless night ahead of her. Gray wipes his mouth and throws his napkin down on the plate. Then he looks at her and begins what she immediately understands to be a speech he has worked on in private. Here it is, she thinks. Here it comes. Though she has no idea what “it” is, she knows something heavy is imminent.

  “You are a woman of principle, and I respect that,” he says, resting his hands on his upper chest. It’s an odd gesture, one that makes him look as though he is gearing up for a gorilla-like chest pounding. Instead, he keeps talking. “But the reason I want you to consider the nature of the settlement is because it will affect your future security. It’s really none of my business, of course, but I would like it to be. Officially speaking.”

  “Officially?” Maya is confused. “You know you can’t act for me, Adam. That would be a conflict—”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no. I mean officially in a personal capacity. Look.” He opens his briefcase again and pulls out another folder, which he hands directly to her. Inside is a glossy real estate brochure featuring pictures of a large yellow-brick house on an uptown street not far from where she used to live with Nick. There are photos of a sunny kitchen trimmed with marble and butcher’s block, and a large garden filled with flowers and trees and an old-fashioned swing set.

  “I don’t understand,” says Maya. “You’re looking at a house?”

  Gray takes the brochure from her and gazes at it, clearly entranced. “I bought a house,” he says. “I made the offer today. They accepted. The loft is going on the market tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s great,” she says. “I’m happy for you. It’s a beautiful house.”

  Gray takes her hand and unfolds it in her lap, then he presses the brochure into it, as though it’s a talisman. Maya can feel the glossy paper stick to the dampness of her palm.

  “I’m not quite sure you’re feeling me here, Maya. I bought the house for you. For us. For the twins. Now that the divorce is coming through, I want us to live there together. As a family.”

  She feels the back of her neck start to prickle, and instantly black bars emerge at the edges of her vision. She breathes in through her m
outh and out through her nose, the way Bradley taught her to do.

  “What’s happening?” asks Gray. “Are you okay?”

  She nods and speaks through the fleshy Darth Vader mask of her fingers. “Mmm, fine. Just getting some, uh, carbon monoxide to the brain. Or is it carbon dioxide? Whichever doesn’t make you pass out. I can never remember.”

  When the black bars recede, she takes another sip of beer and looks at the brochure on her lap. The house blinks back at her. Bright white-shuttered eyes. A happy, perfect place for happy, perfect people. She feels like throwing up.

  “This is lovely,” she says, the words coming slowly from her brain to her lips, as if through a broken transmitter. “Maybe the loveliest thing anyone’s ever done for me without asking. But you know I can’t possibly do this.”

  “Do what?” Gray does not look altogether alarmed. It’s clear he was expecting a bit of resistance. He might be impulsive, but he’s no idiot.

  “Be ‘a family.’ With you. In this house.”

  “But why not? Isn’t that sort of what we’re already doing?”

  Maya shakes her head. “No, it’s not. I’m an old friend you’ve kindly taken in while I sort my life out. And we’ve slept together a few times, which was maybe a mistake or maybe not. I’m still not sure—”

  “Eleven times, exactly—not that I’m counting. But I don’t think you can call eleven times a mistake.”

  “Eleven times we had sex, or eleven times I slept with you in your bed?”

  Gray looks caught out. “Okay, eleven times slept and eight times sex. You are a stickler for the truth, aren’t you?”

  Maya laughs, then fights the urge to touch his face. She doesn’t want to be patronizing. “Adam, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me and the twins. But you can’t just ambush me like this. I’m tired of being ambushed. I want to be the one who decides my life, don’t you see?”

  Gray is silent. He licks his fingers and rubs his eyelids. When he opens his eyes they are red and weary. “I wish I didn’t see,” he says, “but I do.”