Just Say [Hell] No

by Rosalind James

  “Try stopping her,” he said, continuing the assembly process with the kitten pressed against the side of his neck and wondering whether Ella would be interested in cooking dinner. Probably not. Takeaway it was, then. “She’s got a mind of her own. Which would bring us to why you’re here.”

  “Because I’m up the duff,” she said, “and my mum’s throwing a wobbly about it. So I decided to come stay with you.”

  Nyree had started work at Bevvy this morning at six. After that, there’d been the obstacle course her hormones had run with the Kitten Whisperer, not to mention Koti James. Though somehow, Koti had been a secondary consideration. Now, she was at a “consultation” that was testing her ingenuity, not to mention her resolve. You could say that it had been a long Thursday. She was wishing she’d made a few coffee drinks for herself during her shift.

  “I just don’t know,” Savannah Calloway said, fingering the swatches of silk with long, shiny black nails, each one carefully embellished with silver studs to look like leather bikie gear. The manicure was fascinating, in an objective way. Like Chinese foot-binding, announcing, “I cannot perform any tasks at all, and I don’t have to.”

  Savannah’s life, Nyree reminded herself, was why she’d gone to work at six this morning. Exactly why. The daughter of a UK manufacturer who had patented a series of rock-crushing machines forty years earlier and moved to New Zealand to enjoy the fruits of his labors, Savannah, now a banker’s wife, was a living testament to the dangers of inherited wealth and taking the easier path.

  The two of them were sitting beside a long, narrow slice of lap pool under the shade of an extravagant group of palms, looking out onto sailboats bobbing gently at their moorings on Herne Bay, and at the green hills of Auckland’s North Shore rising across the water. A tray on the glass-topped wicker table held a plate of grapes, three biscuits, and two lone slices of Tasty cheese. As Nyree watched, Savannah picked up one of the slices, tore it delicately into pieces between the motorcycle-boot talons, and fed the pieces to the collection of dogs who were sitting impatiently, uttering starved little yelps, beside her chaise. None of them needed the cheese, calorically, gastro-intestinally, or otherwise, but like Savannah, they were not to be denied.

  What the hell, Nyree decided, and snagged the last piece of cheese for herself, along with two biscuits. Be the artist, not the help. She slugged down the remainder of her glass of wine and said, “The ivory, not the white. I can’t paint Precious in the white. It would be painful. Entirely wrong for her coloring.” She stood up. “I have what I need, so I’ll be going.”

  “Oh,” Savannah’s mouth crumpled, and Nyree nearly sat down again at the loneliness she saw there. “I thought you could tell me about the veil.”

  Nyree’s stomach rumbled audibly, but she didn’t flinch. Pookie had done heaps worse than that during the past forty-five minutes. “Studded with brilliants,” she said with an authority she didn’t feel. This was entertaining Savannah, if nothing else. “Not too long. You don’t want to overwhelm her.” Since the bride was a Chihuahua.

  “Thank you,” Savannah said, standing up herself. “You have such an eye. The kids are so excited for it, and all their little friends will be coming. I thought—silver net gift bags with nail varnish for the girls, but I can’t think what for the boys. I want it to blend, but, well… boys.”

  “A challenge,” Nyree agreed.

  “And the portrait,” Savannah said. “I can’t wait to see Pookie. Can’t I have a teeny peek? Please?”

  “No,” Nyree said. “Not until it’s done. It’ll disrupt my flow. And I really do need to go. Seeing Pookie again has given me an idea, and I need to get back to my canvas before I lose it.” A total lie. Pookie was finished, for better or worse, and awaiting his varnishing. But she needed pizza, and she needed it now.

  You have two months. No worries for two months. She repeated the mantra as she pulled up forty minutes later and parked in front of her garage, where her tiny red table, purple chair, and rakish blue umbrella stood off to one side like a promise and a welcome. No lap pool, but it could be that lap pools were overrated. She climbed out of the car, balancing the pizza box in one hand and her camera bag in the other, and went inside.

  It wasn’t locked. She owned a Bluetooth speaker, some clothes that were mostly “adaptations”—a word that sounded much better than “Op Shop finds”—paints, brushes, and canvases to the extent that she could afford them at any given moment, and the camera that she kept stuffed under the spare towels. The street was quiet, and anyway, life was meant to be an adventure.

  She’d barely got inside when she heard the voice from behind her. “You have pizza. I’m eating it.”

  She left the door open, dumped the pizza on the poppy-painted coffee table, shoved aside her sketchbook and a couple pieces of charcoal, and told Victoria, “Pop it in the oven to warm, then. I could use the company myself. I’m warning you, though, I don’t have wine. I’m skint until payday.”

  “Ooh,” her landlady said. “Fortunately… Back in a flash.”

  Nyree was already naked, turning the tap in the tiny shower cubicle to get it hotter, when Victoria called out again. “Just me, love. Small or large?”

  “Large,” Nyree called back. “Absolutely large. Enormously large.”

  She emerged five minutes later feeling more alert, toweled off, pulled on a dressing gown, and said, “Don’t say it,” while she was still blotting her hair dry.

  “Here.” Victoria, her red hair nearly as wild as Nyree’s now that it was out from under her barrister’s wig, handed her an absolutely non-regulation-sized glass of Shiraz. She stepped back from the easel, sipped at her own glass, and said, “He’s quite funny. Is he meant to be, or is he meant to send me, looks-wise? Because he doesn’t. The background’s nice, though.”

  Nyree sighed. “Saying, ‘The background’s nice’ is like talking about the cinematography in a film. Death knell. If you’re looking at the cinematography, you’re not engrossed.”

  “Which would be why,” Victoria said, “they give Oscars for cinematography. Eh? Eh?”

  “Which would be why cinematographers give Oscars for cinematography. Never mind.” Nyree contemplated the portrait from partway down a glass of Shiraz, a much more comforting spot. “You’re right. He’s horrible. But I’m hoping that now he’s horrible in a lovable way. Comical.”

  “He looks it.” Victoria folded her nearly six feet onto the car seat. “Tell. Lovely dressing gown, by the way.”

  “Nine dollars,” Nyree informed her. “K Road. Silk, though. Also…” She turned around to display the back. “Dragon. Why would you give it away? People are mad.”

  “Because it belonged to a kid who outgrew it?” Victoria suggested. “Bonus of being short. It needs somebody better than me appreciating it, though. I think the running’s working for you.”

  “Not sure.” Nyree sank down beside her, stuck out one bare leg, and poked at her thigh. “Still a bit squashy.”

  “Yeh, but you have boobs. Boobs excuse all.”

  “If I lose too much weight,” Nyree said, “I won’t. A good thought. Helpful.”

  “True.” Victoria unfolded herself from the car seat and went over to the toaster oven into which she’d jammed the pizza. “Better have some pizza. Just in case.”

  When they were eating it, Victoria said, “Dog portrait. Let’s have it.”

  “Don’t you want to talk about your day, dear?” Nyree asked.

  Her friend grimaced. “Nah. I’m prosecuting an indecent assault on a minor. I want to hear about horrible dogs. Turns out I’ve wanted to hear about them all day. I just didn’t realize it. I thought you’d never get home to entertain me.”

  “I was with Pookie.”

  Victoria sighed with satisfaction. “Never fails. They couldn’t name them ‘Rex.’ Or ‘King.’ Something manly.”

  “Does he look like a Rex? Or a King? And here’s what I want to know.” Something was working. The pizza, the wine, or the
friend. Or all of them. “Why does a rich woman’s desire to have her darling immortalized on canvas rise inversely—conversely—”

  “Inversely,” Victoria said, “if it’s going in the opposite direction. Go on.”

  “Right. Why does it rise inversely with the size and, uh, rise in the same way—” She gestured, then gave it up. “Why is it that the littler and nastier the pet is, the more she wants him painted? Pookie has a horrible bark, and he’s gassy, though that’s not his fault. Savannah feeds him cheese. Do not feed a dog cheese.”

  “No worries.”

  “I’m only at Dog Number Four,” Nyree said, “and I’ve already had to teach myself some new phrases. ‘It’ll be a challenge to do justice to all that personality.’ That’s a good one. Also, ‘Hmm. It’s not just the looks, it’s the protectiveness. I’m really too booked, but that combination. I’d like to squeeze her in. Let me check my calendar, because she has something special.’ And then the owner says, while her Pomeranian is trying to bite my ankle, ‘It’s true. She is special. So protective of me. So if you can do it…’ And then there’s this wedding. Pookie’s mummy is having a dog wedding. I am not joking.”

  By the time she’d finished explaining, Victoria was holding her belly. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “Pookie and Precious. In her gown. And her veil. Under the arbor. Oh, I can’t. Take me as your date. Please. So you were there all this time?”

  “No. Taking photos at the shelter. With a couple Blues players.”

  Victoria sat up straighter and stopped laughing. “Really? Who?”

  “Koti James.”

  “Married,” Victoria said, “but bloody fit. Who else? And I know rugby players are just another day at the office to you, but leave me my illusions. So few men are taller than me. So who?”

  “Marko Sendoa,” Nyree said reluctantly. “Publicity shots for the shelter, that’s all. The boys were fine. Good. Well behaved. Like you say, another day at the office.” She waggled her toes across the poppy-painted table. “What do you think about cherry-red toenails? Good? Or too much?”

  Victoria levered herself off the couch. “Good, I guess, but what do I know? Ask a woman who doesn’t wear a robe and a wig to work.” It was light, but it wasn’t. “And whose partner likes nail varnish.”

  “Who cares what Seb thinks? You’re wearing it for you, not him.”

  “Yeh, nah,” Victoria put the plates into the tiny sink. “Anyway, got to go. Big day tomorrow. Jury summation, and I want this bastard put away.”

  Nyree sobered. “Sorry. I should have asked.”

  “Nah. I didn’t want to talk about it. Why d’you think I came over? I wanted to hear about Pookie, and about Marko Sendoa. Much nicer spot to put my thoughts for the evening.” Victoria ran water over the dishes. “I hear what you’re not saying, too. Don’t think I don’t. I’ll shout you a couple months’ rent, and you know it. Stop worrying. Trade me a painting for it.”

  The second glass of wine was so often a bad idea, and not just for your thighs. Nyree had to force the breeziness. “You’ve bought too many paintings. I’m good for two more months, if I’m careful. No worries. If I don’t have a show by then, or really get the dogs going, I’ll have to find a graphic design job again, but that’s not the end of the world.”

  Victoria leaned against Nyree’s meter-wide “kitchen” and studied her. “Except…”

  “Just…” Nyree swallowed. “I need to see people, that’s all. In order to do good work. Even if they’re funny, or messy, or sad underneath. It doesn’t matter. People, and real light, and shadow. Working at a computer takes my colors away. It’s… it’s scary. But that’s why,” she said, trying for cheerfulness, “I’m doing the dogs, right? If I get to paint Pookie and Precious on their wedding day, I can charge fifty percent more, because two. Plus—wedding guests. Dog fanciers. Rich people.”

  “Mad people,” Victoria said with a smile that Nyree wished didn’t look like it was meant to cheer her up. “I’m leaving the wine with you. Who knows? Maybe I’ll need it tomorrow, and your company, too. See ya.”

  She closed the door behind her, closing out the warm darkness, and Nyree sat back, listened to the scrape of a tree limb against the metal roof, contemplated her easel, and said aloud, “Why is it, Pookie, that I’d rather paint a horrible dog like you than make money in a flash office doing a job I’m good at? And why doesn’t Victoria give Seb the heave-ho?”

  Pookie’s pink tongue hung out of his mouth, he cocked his head at her, but he didn’t answer.

  Nyree didn’t ask him why, once she’d pulled off the black silk robe, climbed into bed, and pulled the blue velvet coverlet over herself, she didn’t see her bank balance, and she didn’t see a dog wedding. She saw Marko Sendoa. Arms folded, legs planted, nose broken, and his energy pulsing red.

  She didn’t have to ask. She already knew the answer. That nothing was ever over.

  She didn’t want to close her eyes, because it would be right there. She’d be seventeen again. Humiliated again.

  Face it. Face it, and move on. You’re not seventeen anymore. You didn’t do anything wrong except trust too much. Like nearly every other teenaged girl, until she learns the hard way.

  She’d been halfway through her final year of school on the night when the Highlanders had won the semifinal against the Chiefs. She’d been on the field afterwards along with her family, the victorious players, and their partners, and the cameras had flashed and the microphones had come out. Not for her. She hadn’t had a partner. She’d just thought she did.

  A long, puffy coat with a hood and tall boots kept her fairly anonymous, which was fine. The stadium was outdoors, her toes were freezing and her nose was running, and she was wondering how bloody long her mum would hang about before they could go home. What she wasn’t doing was looking at Josh Daniels. Not at his good-looking face. Not at his perfectly proportioned body.

  She hadn’t wanted to come, but if she stayed away, he won. That wasn’t happening, so she was standing here even if she froze. Showing him he didn’t matter.

  When she’d rung him after the match in Christchurch the week before and a woman had answered, she’d told herself she could’ve been anybody. That it was only eleven, and the boys were probably at a bar. Celebrating, that was all. When she’d rung again at midnight, though, nobody at all had answered. Or at one. Or the next morning. And when she’d texted, she’d got nothing back. Six times. For days on end.

  Ghosted.

  A wiser woman would have known what was happening days earlier, but she hadn’t been a wiser woman. Not then, because she’d done the whole bit. Curled in the corner weeping until her eyes had puffed up and her face had been blotchy. Cut the coasters from the bar where he’d taken her into tiny pieces and burned them in a bowl.

  Now, she was over it. She was here. Josh was ignoring her? She was ignoring him. Besides, he might be good-looking, but he hadn’t even played tonight, so what good was he? Not that he showed it. Instead, he was on the field with his teammates, laughing like he was somebody instead of a bloke wearing street clothes because he hadn’t been selected for the second most important match of the year and probably wouldn’t be selected for the final, either. Standing with a blonde.

  A blonde who was clearly his actual girlfriend, from the way they had their arms around each other, and the way she was chatting with the other WAGs.

  He wasn’t looking at Nyree. Anywhere but at her. The hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach, the burning shame that kept trying to reach her cheeks so it could fly its red flag—all of it made her want to stalk over there and slap his face. Hard. She wanted to tell his girlfriend, too.

  Except that she didn’t want her stepfather to know.

  She knew she’d been stupid. Stupid to have sneaked out to meet him around the corner from the house. Stupid not to have realized that sex in the team hotel and his car wasn’t glamorous and dangerous, it was proof that you were the girl on the side. Stupid not to know that men lied.


  They hadn’t known she was behind them. That was how invisible she’d been. Angus Hamilton, the halfback. And Marko.

  “Coach’s daughter,” Angus said to Marko. “Little Nyree. Would you bang?”

  “Mate,” Marko said. “No.” Like he was repulsed.

  She stood stock-still for fear they’d notice her. That they’d know she’d heard. Somehow, it would be so much worse if they knew that.

  “I hear you,” Angus said. “I’d bang, though. Great tits. Weird face, but that’s why they invented doggy style. Danno was in there, did you hear? A for enthusiasm, he says. Ugly girls work harder, eh. If he’s not back next season, it’ll be even sweeter for him. Consolation prize, eh. Can’t unpop that cherry.”

  They’d moved off, and Nyree had edged her way back behind the photographers as her feet had grown colder and the shame had burned hotter. She could still feel that creeping dread, the darkness that had dragged at her. In her jaw. In her chest. In the pit of her stomach.

  She could feel it, but it was time to let it go.

  Nothing was ever over? This was. It was ten years ago, which was too long to hold onto poison. It was over. Josh Daniels wasn’t playing rugby anymore. The fact that she’d once had sex with him and that he’d told all his teammates about it so they could discuss her ugly face, her disgusting body, and her clumsy performance? That would have long since ceased to be anybody’s titillating gossip nugget.

  As for her? She was nobody’s pawn and nobody’s fool. Not anymore. She was done.

  Ella was still leaning against the door of Marko’s laundry room. Still trying to look tough, too, but she was running her thumb across the tips of her short fingernails. Back and forth, back and forth.

  Calm, Marko told himself. Steady. He finished putting the lid on the cat box, shoved the bag of cat litter into one of the underutilized cabinets next to the washer, and said, “Right. Let’s go have that cup of tea and order a takeaway, and you can tell me about it.”