Trilemma

by Jennifer Mortimer

  And I get up and leave him and close the door firmly behind me.

  The contract seems even dryer than usual. I read the same numbered paragraph for a third time and press my fingers against the back of my neck, rubbing where it aches. There is a faint murmur of television noise coming through the wall. Half an hour passes before I reach the last page and know that the final version is complete and needs no change.

  All is now quiet. I undress, pull on my nightdress, slip into bed, and lie with my eyes open, gazing at the dark ceiling.

  I roll onto my stomach and bury my head in the pillow and close my eyes. I roll over onto my back again and open my eyes. I can’t risk being distracted from my fabulous job, I know that, and yet—

  Being at the top is worth all the sacrifices.

  Isn’t it?

  Chapter 23

  When I leave the house, he is still asleep, and when I get home that evening, he has gone. I put the sofa back into position and replace the cushions. A faint scent of his aftershave lotion seems to linger, but perhaps it is only my imagination.

  My apartment is a haven of tranquility—no people to please, no decisions to make. Empty of distractions.

  Perhaps too empty of distractions.

  I reheat the leftover buttery potatoes, open a bottle of wine, and sit by the window to eat my meal. As the sun sets, the rose-tinted clouds lie against the eastern hills like fire-lit nudes.

  I pour another glass, light a cigarillo, go up to the terrace, and slip into the Jacuzzi. My body floats in the warm water.

  What do I want?

  I have these feelings; tingling, edgy little feelings, of something more out there. When I close my eyes, I can picture Ben’s face, Ben’s body. Not a shadow, but rather a bright presence; warm, solid, and near, as if I should open my eyes and turn my head and he would be there.

  I sigh, stub out my cigarillo, and return indoors.

  The next night when I get home, early, at eight o’clock, Nicholas is downstairs in the hallway, wrenching the front off the massive wooden dresser that is built into the back wall of the hallway. There is a vague smell of something rotten in the air.

  He looks up as I pause in the doorway and stares at me with small cold eyes, but I decide to smile politely. Best if we both forget our little contretemps.

  “You look busy.”

  His eyes flicker. “Gotta get at the drains,” he says. “Looks like they run underneath this thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” I answer and start up the stairs.

  “You wouldn’t believe the rubbish stuck behind these drawers,” he gestures at a pile of assorted papers and pens and bits of fluff. “There was a returned letter of yours somewhere.”

  I step back into the hall and examine the pile.

  “Here it is,” he says, and hands over a stained and torn envelope.

  “Thank you.” I take the envelope upstairs.

  Nicholas’s eyes follow me up.

  I can’t read the stained front of the envelope, but on the back is the address for this house, and—it is not my writing. I tilt the light to examine the name. It is not an “L Mere” but an “R Mere.”

  Richard Mere. My father.

  I look on the front of an envelope again and I can just decipher the words: “Insufficient postage.”

  Oh, Dad. So fricking typical of you. I get a sharp knife and slit open the envelope. Inside is a handwritten letter to an address in Macau.

  My dearest Li,

  Forgive me. You know it didn’t mean anything.

  I have to stay here, you must realize that. This is where my work is.

  I miss you terribly, and so does little Linnet.

  Please come home.

  Richard.

  P.S. I never said it, but I LOVE YOU

  Oh God, he sent a letter and it never got to her. I rest my face in my hands. My skin feels hot and moist against my palms. And he betrayed my mother, too, with his screwing around.

  When I look up again, the sky has grown dark. They are both dead. It is too late to fix their mistakes.

  At my PC I bring up the directory listings and find the telephone numbers of Marchmount, C. and V., and Repati, A. and W.

  Finally, I lift my phone and make the call.

  A woman’s voice, cultured, as if she has had elocution lessons, answers with a voice mail greeting. “Hello, this is the residence of Christopher, Vivienne, and Maximilian. Unfortunately, we can’t take your call right now. But do please leave us a message after the tone.”

  The beep sounds, but I press the off button without speaking.

  The letter sits on the table like a prophet of doom. I take up my phone again and punch in the numbers.

  This time a man’s voice comes on. “Yeah, g’day, this is Ali and Wal Repati’s house. Leave a message.”

  “Hello? This is Lin Mere calling. I’m living in New Zealand now and I was hoping we could meet. My number is—” and I leave my phone number.

  When I put down the phone, my hands are shaking. The die is cast.

  When the telephone rings, I look at it, take a deep breath, and slowly reach out my hand to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Ben! How are you? How is your sister?”

  He lets out a sigh. “She’s okay, but she wants me to go.”

  “It normally takes three days for guests and fish to stink. It’s only been two.”

  Ben laughs. “Well, I thumped her boyfriend, so she’s panicking and wants me out of the house before he wakes up.”

  “Good Lord, what for?”

  “He beats her up. I wanted to make sure he knows how it feels. Anyway, would you mind if I stay for a couple of days? My flight home isn’t until Monday.”

  I feel something warm spreading through my body. I sense something bright hovering at the edge of my mind.

  “Sure,” I reply. “I’ll leave the key under the pot.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I put down the phone, roll onto my side, and close my eyes.

  Forgive me. You know it didn’t mean anything.

  Chapter 24

  When I get home the following evening, Ben is nowhere to be found, not even outside in the Jacuzzi. His pack is in the corner of the living room, and his toiletries are strewn across the bathroom vanity, but the man is not there.

  “Hiya!” comes Sally’s voice, followed by Sally herself. “Ben’s dragging Polly’s kennel round the back of the house,” she says. “I’ve been wanting it moved, and he was happy to oblige.”

  “Ah,” I reply.

  “Ah, indeed. What a lovely man, Lin. Can I have him?”

  “Hands off. I haven’t finished with him yet.”

  Ben returns in a flurry of child chatter and dog bounce. I watch him come up the stairs toward me, smiling—shit. He’s got a black eye.

  “Send him down to me and I’ll see what I can do about the swelling,” Sally says as she leaves.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, examining his face. The eye is the most noticeable mark of his battle, but he also has a scrape on his forehead.

  “I’m fine,” he says crossly. “That Joe bloke is a big bastard.”

  “Sally says she might be able to do something about the swelling.”

  He opens the freezer. “I’ll use these.”

  He throws himself down on the couch with a bag of frozen peas across his face.

  The telephone rings and I reach across the table to retrieve the handset.

  “Hello, this is Lin.”

  “Lin? It’s Alison Repati.”

  At last!

  I clear my throat. “You got my message.”

  “Yes, dear, it was lovely to hear from you.”

  Ben draws near, his eyes questioning. “My sister,” I whisper.

  “I don’t know if you knew I was in New Zealand.”

  “Yes,” came the response. “We knew as soon as you got here, well almost. I was hop
ing you’d call. But I guess you’re very busy.”

  “I have been busy,” I say, wondering why neither of them called me. Perhaps they did and we kept missing each other? Whatever. We were talking now.

  “Why don’t you pop up to see us some time? If you’re not too busy, that is. It doesn’t matter if it’s not convenient.”

  “Tomorrow,” whispers Ben.

  “I would love to. Uh, I have a friend visiting and we were thinking of driving up to Napier this weekend. Perhaps we could stop in?”

  “Oh. Um. Would you, um,” she says, hesitantly. “Would you like to come for a meal? Or is this too short notice?”

  “A meal would be nice.”

  “Right. Have you got a pen? The easiest road to take is to come up Highway 2, and then—” and she gives me detailed instructions how to get to their farm.

  “We’ll see you around six,” I say.

  “I look forward to it,” she says.

  We are both silent for a moment.

  “Okay, see you then.”

  “See you.”

  “Fuck,” I say when I hang up. And then again, “Fuck.”

  “So they knew you were here all along?”

  “Apparently so. She said she was hoping I’d call.”

  I get up and start tidying the newspaper, placing the sheets together and folding them up. “Fuck.”

  Ben stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Lin. They’ve invited you to visit. That’s great.”

  I feel too edgy to stand still under his hands, so I step sideways and pace across the room to the window.

  “I wonder why they never tried to call me?”

  “Ask them.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  I pace to the door, and then I go upstairs and outside on the roof terrace. Again I look north.

  Would they really accept me? Or would they turn away?

  In front of the mirror, I survey my image, in a white linen dress shorter than I normally wear, and a closer fit around my body than I normally show. I have offset the plainness of the dress with the filigree bead necklace that Ben returned to me. And I leave off the spectacles, slipping my lenses onto my eyes instead.

  When I emerge, Ben is sitting up and has returned his pea pack to the freezer.

  He runs his eyes over me. “Very nice,” he says approvingly, and for the first time in a long while I feel like an attractive woman rather than a public image.

  Ben has never wooed me with beautiful words so “very nice” is as good as it gets. Ben is not the romantic type. He was more likely to prepare a beautiful meal, or fix something broken, or make me a CD of music he likes. I remember him picking me a handful of wildflowers once. Those fast-wilting flowers were more special than a dozen of the florist’s best red roses.

  When I felt romantic, I would run my hand up his back, feeling the firmness and the warmth of his flesh, the intimacy of the touch you can only give a lover. When I wanted to show how I felt, I bought him things he couldn’t afford; clothes, expensive restaurant meals, good wine, airfares. When I spend money, I feel in control.

  I don’t know why I could never tell him that I loved him.

  “I could cook,” he says.

  “No,” I say. “Let’s go out to dinner.”

  I take him to Floraditas, my favorite restaurant on Cuba Street.

  “Expensive,” he says. His eyes flicker and the tiny crease in his forehead deepens.

  “I’m paying,” I say.

  “Hmmm,” he replies, noncommittal.

  Ben can be so irritating. I can far more easily afford to pay for the meal than he can, he knows that. Why doesn’t he just shut up and enjoy it?

  We eat fried stuffed zucchini flowers and risotto balls, and then I have the fish and Ben the steak. I order a second bottle of wine.

  Conversation is ragged. I ask questions, trying to keep the talking going, but Ben is quiet tonight. His brow keeps slipping back into that furrow. I don’t know if he’s worried about money or about his sister.

  “Is Cheryl going to leave this guy who is hitting her?”

  “She won’t leave the children.”

  I would have liked a child, but, well, you keep putting it off, thinking there’ll be time and then suddenly you’re looking down the barrel of middle age and it’s too late. I don’t have a mate, I certainly don’t have any spare energy, and I don’t have anyone to help me raise a child properly. Better to leave it to the experts.

  “Can’t she take the children with her? I thought there were safe homes for battered families.”

  “They’re not her kids. She won’t be allowed to keep them.”

  I snort. “God, she could still try, couldn’t she?”

  “Cheryl’s not like you.”

  I’m sick of hearing about how tough I am, compared to poor little Cheryl and dear little Emmy. Everyone could be tough if they tried.

  “How come you’re leaving Emmy for a whole week? That’s not like you.”

  “Her mother wanted extra time since she’s going to be in South Africa for the next six months.”

  “What’s she doing over there?”

  “A sabbatical or something. Anyway, it means I’ll have Emmy to myself.”

  Ben didn’t have quite the same problems as me regarding family and career. He had his beloved daughter with him at least half the time, almost joined at the hip, and his mother nearby, and cousins in Invercargill, old school friends all about. He had his clientele in Queenstown and the wealthy farm areas around the Lake District.

  He didn’t have to cross the world like I had to, looking for someone to love me.

  I stop talking and finish the creamy Parmesan polenta. Ben chomps on the last of his steak.

  “Dessert?” I ask.

  “Not for me.”

  “There’s still wine left.”

  “Not for me.”

  Outside the streets are busy with people coming and going and talking and laughing. Ben walks silently beside me to the taxi stand. He’s pleased because he can afford the fare. I watch him counting out the coins and wish he would just let me pay, but men have to do the macho breadwinner thing one way or another.

  When we get inside, I walk around the living room, rearranging the cushions, putting away the towel Ben has left sprawled over the floor, putting the dishes he has left out into the dishwasher.

  Ben is silent. He has already made up his bed on the sofa. His pack lies in front of the bedding like a barricade.

  I glance at him standing by the window, looking out over the city. The wine has me in its urgent grasp. I want to go and hold him, bring him to my bed, have my way with him. I step toward him.

  He ducks around me and sits on the sofa to pull off his shoes. “Good night, Lin.”

  I lie in my bed and wonder what the hell I should do. Well, there’s always tomorrow night, although I guess he may want separate rooms. Damn.

  And then I let myself finally think about meeting my sisters. Oh, God, it’s nearly happening. Tomorrow is going to be the big day.

  Chapter 25

  When I wake in the morning, the sun is shining in through the crack in the curtain, but all is silent. So I close my eyes again and snooze until I can hear him moving about in the kitchen.

  I pull on my robe and pad out into the living room where Ben has laid out the coffee and the newspaper. He is reading the World section. I take up the Business pages.

  When the knock sounds, I assume it must be Sally, come to check Ben out again. But it is not Sally.

  “These are for you,” says Nicholas, thrusting a bunch of tired mauve chrysanthemums in my face. “Women like flowers, eh?”

  I put one hand to the wrap over of my robe to make sure the material covers me, and I push the flowers away with the other.

  “No thanks, Nicholas.”

  His eyes slither over my shoulder. Ben is standing behind me. Nicholas stares at Ben’s black eye and then at the strong forearms that rest lightly by his side. Ther
e is a moment’s silence while some kind of thought process goes on behind his squinting eyes. Then he turns away without saying another word and goes back down the stairs.

  At the front door I see him stop, then step over to Sally’s door. I turn back into the penthouse and close my door.

  “Who was that?”

  “The property agent.”

  “Bearing flowers?”

  “He’s ever hopeful.”

  “I suppose you get a good few men chasing you, huh?”

  I pause with my back to him, and then I smile and turn.

  “A few.”

  An hour later I am downloading some of the week’s reports, but there is a problem with the Internet and I can’t get the last three.

  “I’ll take the bags,” says Ben. “Have you got the keys?”

  “The garage door remote is on the dresser. The car’s not locked. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Ben frowns when he sees my laptop bag. “Do you have to take your computer, Lin? Can’t you take the weekend off?”

  “I need to pull together a report for the Board.” Hobb has asked for a more formal suite of reports as per the Ozcom project office standard.

  “Can’t you write it up when we get back? You’re about to meet your family for the first time and you want to sit at your computer instead.”

  “I guess I can do it tomorrow night.”

  Sally emerges as we pass. Her sharp eyes scan our faces.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Ben gives her a wide grin. “We’re visiting Lin’s sisters in Hawke’s Bay.”

  Sally’s eyebrows rise. “Sisters?”

  “I’ll tell you about it another time,” I say.

  “You’d better,” she says and watches us go down the path.

  “She’s a character,” says Ben. “She asked me if I wanted to audition for something. I wasn’t sure what she meant.”

  “Huh.”

  “Did you tell her I played guitar?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “That’ll be it, then.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Today, the sun shines and New Zealand does indeed look very beautiful. I let Ben drive. Driving is a man thing—they like to do it and I don’t mind. It means I can see the countryside properly instead of focusing on the road.