Playing Friends

by Marilyn Duckworth

  'No more than he is.' The ancient occupant of the ground-floor bedsit was disabled and irritable. He played opera far too loudly, leaving his door ajar, and rejected any kindly meant advance. We'd seen the visiting hospital nurse and the woman from Meals on Wheels leaving his apartment looking worn and despondent.

  'He won't go, will he? Marge says he keeps to himself,' I reminded her.

  'Well, there you are — it won't matter if I don't go either. I'm going to watch Mercy Peak with Sheree. But you go. You might get useful. Take a notebook with you.'

  Marge's living room was much as she described it. Toby jugs decorated a glossy mahogany sideboard and the Queen, pictured during her first visit to New Zealand, raised an imperial chin above cruelly compressed breasts so that her youthful, piercing tones were nearly visible shooting across the lacy tablecloth. Kevin, who was acting secretary of the body corporate, rested his laptop apologetically upon this surface and grimaced at me faintly, almost as if he sensed an ally. We were closer in age than Marge, who must have been nearing seventy and wore a tulip-shaped skirt with a high-necked blouse, while I was wearing my jeans. There were only a few residents present so there was no excuse for formality and it was perfectly appropriate that Marge had produced pikelets to go with the tea. She leaned down to offer India a portion of one of these, complete with jam, while Kevin read from a list on his laptop, explaining that his printer had let him down at the last minute or we would have had hard copies of the report. There was a moment when I felt irresistibly tempted to laugh, although there was really nothing funny about the increase in rates or the cost of painting the east side of the building. I controlled myself. What did I have to feel superior about?

  Our apartment was only one floor down so when it was time to leave I took the stairs. I was wondering how long Marge had occupied her odd rooms and promising myself our kitchen would never look as hectic as hers. Behind me I heard the door flop shut and was suddenly aware of Kevin, juggling laptop and briefcase, hanging back so as not to push past me rudely on the narrow steps.

  He breathed at my left ear. 'Come in for a drink?'

  'Shall I?'

  'Yes please.'

  Together we passed the door that led to my floor. Una and Sheree would be watching television. I felt a secret pleased smile playing with my lips. Just a drink, I told Una silently. And yet I did feel a whole lot better. I was still recognisably myself after all. It was something resembling the feeling that possessed you while you waited to uplift luggage from the claim area after a trip overseas. I was back on familiar territory and soon I would be unpacking familiar items that belonged to me alone and would make my life comfortable, if not exciting. Hang on, slow down, I told myself. I was fifty-nine years old and didn't need another sexual relationship, even supposing it were on offer.

  Kevin's apartment was smaller than Una's and mine but somehow more confident. How had he managed this without a woman's touch? Money, perhaps. The small leather sofa was crushed with age and the occasional table ringed with the ghosts of hot coffee cups. A large dark wooden desk with pigeon holes had a built-in leather flap that didn't quite conceal two bottles and a shelf of sparkling glasses. The far side of this desk carried an imposing printer — the one that presumably didn't work. Kevin lowered his laptop onto an old-fashioned blotter beside this printer and slotted his briefcase into the space between desk and sofa, before he reached for a bottle.

  'Sorry. This is all I've got. Gin or Scotch?'

  I wouldn't have been surprised to see him open another leather flap in the desk to reveal a fridge but for this he had to walk some distance and reach behind a tall tiled kitchen bar, returning with bottles of tonic and soda clamped between spread fingers. I'd dumped my bottom casually into a less than comfortable small blue armchair, leaving the sofa for him. Instead he chose to sit on the black office chair in front of the desk and swivelled it closer. 'Thanks.' I looked sideways, seeking the bathroom which I guessed would be directly below ours. This was the man I'd visualised sitting on the loo browsing a seedy magazine while water dripped on him from the ceiling above. I choked slightly on my gin and tonic and felt my face going pink.

  'Too strong?'

  'No, it's great.'

  'I usually need a drink after one of those meetings. I'm not sure why: nothing very drastic ever happens. Marge used to be in charge before I moved in, but she was keen for me to take over. Your turn next for the committee — how about it?'

  'I'd rather not. You haven't asked me here about that?'

  'Of course I haven't. I suppose I thought you might like to see this flat now that you've seen Marge's.'

  'Do you see much of your neighbour? I'm glad we didn't overflow into his bathroom.'

  'Crabby Colin? You were lucky actually — his bathroom backs onto mine. He'd have been worse than me.'

  'I thought you were quite reasonable, considering. It could have been a disaster. It's a nice apartment this one, nicer than ours. So how long have you been here?'

  'Not long. I transferred from Auckland when I found myself on my own a couple of years back. I'm still getting used to Wellington but the job's more interesting. I read somewhere that moving house is as stressful as a death but I don't believe it.'

  'Your wife died,' I said, less a question than a bleak sense of here we go again.

  'She didn't actually. She got homesick and decided she had to go back to London. Her father's there and our son as well. I visit her twice a year — it's not too difficult with the job I'm in. And that's it.'

  'Goodness. That's different. Long-distance marriage. But you're lucky if you can travel. So what is it you do?'

  'Customs. We came out here for the job because — well, it's my country and I love it and I can't stomach England. It just gets worse. And Blair gets a lot worse. Besides I enjoy my work. I feel I'm doing something worthwhile, specially since September 11. We're employing a lot of new trainees. I could never get anything like this in England. In England I'd be a pensioner next year and I'd much rather be a working man. She gets her pension this year too and she likes the idea of travelling free on the tube. You work, don't you?'

  'Just part time now. An audiology clinic. It's a rising market; but I'm not qualified — or not in audiology. I used to work for a law firm and then the Post Office when it existed — I'm afraid I'm a bit dull.'

  'Don't put yourself down. I used to do that until my wife taught me not to.' His face crumpled suddenly into a warm smile that startled me because it was so attractive and so unexpected. The angles of his chin and cheek altered subtly and laugh lines appeared, leading into a pale, hazel depth of eye contact.

  'Oh.' I stared, then recovered, putting out one hand to hold tightly to an arm of the blue chair. 'Did you? You must miss her awfully.'

  'I think I'm a bit of a workaholic. That probably helps. And the sex — well, it's not like when you're twenty something, is it?'

  'Isn't it? No, no, of course it isn't.'

  'So the pregnant young person — who does she belong to? Is she yours? A daughter?'

  I felt flattered for a moment until I realised that was probably his intention. But why shouldn't it be possible? Lots of women gave birth these days in their forties and some even, with help, in their fifties. I thought of my clever Sophie, tall, slim and beautiful, and despised myself for imagining even for one moment that I could also be mother to someone like Sheree. I shook my head rather violently. 'No, not me. She's Una's responsibility.' The same word Una used to describe the relationship; it saved explanation. 'My two are both living overseas. Stuart's in Australia and Sophie's in Berlin. Sometimes it feels as if half the people I know are somewhere else.' Now he's going to ask about my husband, I thought, and sighed because I used to get a kick out of telling people about myself, but suddenly it felt like a chore I'd rather get out of.

  'You're divorced, aren't you? Marge said. Or are you the widow?'

  'I'm both. Widowed, and then I married again.'

  'It didn't work out? That
sounds about normal to me. Fifty per cent of marriages fall apart — I read that somewhere. I guess I'm lucky.'

  'Not exactly lucky, living on two sides of the world!'

  'You hear quite often about couples who choose to live apart — marriage is something else now, isn't it? But you're right, it's too bloody far away.' He pulled a face that was at once pitiable and engaging.

  I drained the last of my gin. I didn't know whether to be pleased or sorry that his wife was overseas. I'd been shocked at the way my insides moved and fell into a puddle of tiny broken pieces when I saw that wry smile again. Damn. I stared into my empty glass but couldn't see any guidance there.

  'Have another?'

  I jerked and very nearly dropped the glass on the carpet. 'Whoops. No, I don't think I should really.'

  'Come on, why not? Do you have to be somewhere?' He was already tipping the Bombay Sapphire into my glass and I watched, mesmerised. The blue of the bottle was enchanting.

  So what did he want of me? He was happily married, and sex wasn't really a problem for him. What did that leave? Friendship? Neighbourliness? It was true I'd been vaguely interested when we learned there was a personable single man living below us, and yes I'd been pleased when he asked me to try out the champagne bar with him and disappointed that I had to turn him down. But personable bore no relation to the adjective I was seeking to describe him now. How had he done this? Something in the gin? But I knew it was no more than the way his face became animated when he was relaxed, almost as if he enjoyed my company, as if — yes — as if he found me attractive. Or perhaps amiable. Nothing dangerous about amiable.

  'Tell me more about your wife. Is that her photograph on the piano? Oh, do you play?' I heard myself starting to babble, making clumsy conversation. 'And what is this?' I had stood up and reached out to handle a curious sculpture so surprisingly heavy I nearly dropped it.

  Kevin shot out a hand and for a moment we were both holding the sculpture and our thumbs touched. 'It's some sort of bird. I'm not really sure.' He was looking apologetic now — and something else. His thumb moved against mine. There was no doubt about it: I hadn't imagined the innuendo which deepened in his expression until it became an invitation. This was awful. Amazing and awful. More than awful was knowing I would go along with him, at least as far as the bedroom — it was behind ribbed glass doors, like Una's — thinking already how tight my jeans were and wondering how on earth would I gracefully get myself out of them.

  It must have been at least an hour later when I lay on the bed with him gazing at a spider on the ceiling without blinking. 'Wow.'

  'Wow? Is that good?'

  'I came.'

  'That's what it's about. Don't you always?'

  'No, not always. Not for years — in fact I can't remember coming with Lester. Ever. That's my last husband.' It's funny how sex can loosen your tongue.

  'Good God. So why now?'

  'I don't know. Lester was a bit lazy — he'd do it with his hands behind his back if he could. But that's not it really. I suppose — it felt as if you meant it.'

  'Meant it?'

  I rolled on one elbow, keeping the sheet firmly under my chin. My breasts were fifty-nine years old. 'Yes.'

  He had a worried look on his face. 'You thought I might be going to fall in love with you — is that it?'

  I was embarrassed. 'No, no. Of course not. Or not — not love exactly.'

  'Well, I won't. Clarice, I'm sorry — I can't do this to you. It was a fuck. A gorgeous fuck. And it's a deadly secret if you ever meet my wife, which you will. She comes over when she can. And that means keeping your lips sealed. Okay? You mustn't tell — what's-her-name — Una. Promise me.'

  'But I can't! I can't not tell Una.'

  'Don't you ever have secrets from each other?'

  'No!' I lied. 'Well — sometimes maybe.' I'd never been tempted to lay bare my sexual feelings to Una — that was for husbands — and as for love, I couldn't believe I'd allowed the word into the conversation instead of banishing it immediately. I was angry that he'd manipulated this exposure from me, a more careless kind of undressing than peeling off my tight jeans. I looked for a diverting gambit but was distracted by a curtain of tears blinding me and coursing down my cheeks to fall on the back of my hand.

  'You're crying.' It was his turn to be embarrassed.

  I sobbed.

  He frowned. 'Why do you have to tell anyone? I don't get it.'

  'I'm not crying at that.'

  'Oh.' He bowed his head apologetically.

  'But I have to talk to someone about it, if I can't even talk to you.'

  'You can talk to me. Sometimes. We might even do it again. But discreetly. All right? Are you all right?' He brushed my hair back, looking for my face. 'You're a lovely lady, you know. Lovely.'

  When I let myself into the apartment it wasn't late — or not very late. Kevin and I had had a drink together: that was allowed. I hadn't told Una how he'd asked me to the champagne bar a few weeks ago because I had needed to protect her feelings, but she was okay now and besides, she had Garth, didn't she? Horrible Garth. No, that wasn't fair — the man wasn't horrible, he just wasn't very nice. It wasn't the bulging white forehead so much as the metallic ring of his voice. And whatever did they talk about? Animals? Kevin had been sceptical about Garth's job at the zoo, claiming they were looking for people with university qualifications these days or close enough and that he sounded too old anyway to have landed the job only a few years before as he claimed. I pointed out that this was probably why they sacked him but Kevin protested that there had to be a reason beyond the date on his birth certificate. Anyway what did it matter so long as Una was happy.

  She raised her face, tapping the television remote control so that the picture dissolved. 'You took a long time?'

  It was a question and I had to answer it. I'd spent some minutes attempting to erase all evidence of what had been going on in the bedroom directly below Una's, but I was all too aware that my lips were denuded of lipstick — I hadn't bothered to take my handbag just to go upstairs to Marge's place. I'd asked Kevin if his wife had left any lipstick behind but there was nothing useful of hers except a bottle of Clear Eyes, which I'd borrowed gratefully. Did Kevin make his wife cry too? Well, of course he did: he let her to go to England all on her own. I'd found an old packet of Throaties in the bathroom cupboard and licked one, smearing the sticky lozenge on my lips until there was some pinkness deposited there. When I'd looked in the mirror behind the door I thought I looked fairly normal. Una wouldn't notice.

  'What's wrong with your face? What have you been up to? You didn't!'

  'No, I didn't,' I lied, blushing. I walked away from her and pretended to be busy at the bench. 'We did have a drink. More than one in fact. I need to go to the loo.' When I came out of the bathroom, my face repaired, Una was still watching expectantly, waiting for details.

  'So what's the story with the windows?'

  'What?'

  'The scaffolding? Do we have to pay extra for the paint job?'

  'Oh — yes. Just a bit. It's all right, I can afford it if you can't.'

  'He tried it on, didn't he? Where did you have a drink? His place?'

  'Okay, I let him kiss me. That's all. He's married you know — his wife's in England. He loves her.'

  'Oh. He seems to have told you quite a lot about himself.'

  'Why shouldn't he? He's nice. He's a really nice man.'

  'Ooh.' Una pulled a face. 'I knew you fancied him.'

  Sheree hadn't been listening to any of this. Head encased in earphones as usual, she was moving her hips rhythmically in front of the windows at the far side of the living room where the light was switched off to save on power and the moon glinted between shafts of scaffolding. She waved at me and I smiled. I'd lied and it hardly hurt at all.

  When Una was suffering one of her moods it changed the colour of her face so that the pale skin looked bruised and her plucked, pencilled eyebrows settled into a taut, straighter lin
e. She leaned on propped elbows, pressing fingers into the sides of her brow as if trying to crush something inside her head.

  I asked her, 'Have you taken something?'

  'What for?'

  'You don't look very well.'

  'Thank you very much!' Una spat.

  'I'm just trying to help.'

  'You can't help. No one can help, because there's nothing bloody wrong. Did I say there was anything wrong?'

  'No.'

  'So piss off.'

  Una had returned after spending Saturday night with Garth so it seemed evident that her mood was related to this. I rummaged in my brain for a way of broaching the subject without making matters worse.

  'It isn't Garth,' Una denied before I could say anything. 'He's perfectly fine. We rolled around together on his rug, as we do. He's only got a single bed. It's nothing to do with Garth. It's me. I'm a fucking disaster.'

  'I can't see how.'

  'Well, you wouldn't. You're so bloody good at everything, how could you possibly know what it's like to be me!'

  I shivered because this gust blew threateningly close to my own thoughts. 'Well, that's nonsense. What am I so good at?'

  'You want a list? That's typical.'

  'I don't want a list. I just — oh, forget it.'

  It shouldn't matter whether I got on well with Una — we were only 'tenants in common'; it wasn't as if we were a couple. But I'd had such hopes for this new beginning in a city apartment. Friendship must surely be easier than marriage. But curiously it felt harder, more dangerous, perhaps because the rules were less obvious and I'd had less practice at living so closely with a woman friend. Of course Una was difficult. And we didn't really talk to each other as women are meant to do, sharing secrets and confessions, swapping feelings as easily as recipes and earrings. I'd blamed Una for this but maybe I was as much to blame.

  Propped on a kitchen stool pretending to read the weekend paper, I wished I could talk carelessly about my adventure with Kevin and somehow take the edge off it. It was chafing me uncomfortably. But if I'd been free to talk, it might well have made my relationship with Una worse. I couldn't forget that it was she who first attempted closeness with Kevin and how shaken she was when it failed. I looked at Una's bowed head and her tortured frown and felt lonely.