are made for watching television while you consume the contents of
the refrigerator. Let's see.' He opened the door to the small fridge.
'Red wine, white wine, gin, vodka, scotch. Which one?'
'Red wine,' she heard herself say. I must be out of my mind, she
thought. Then she shrugged mentally, kicked off her shoes and sat
down on the edge of the bed.
'And what else?' he asked. 'We have smoked almonds, chocolate
candy bars, plastic cheese and Crackers.'
'Smoked almonds.'
'I like a girl who knows her mind. Catch.' He threw the little bag at
her and it fell in her lap.
'Great throw.'
'Bad catch.' He poured the wine in a wine glass, also provided. 'Why
don't you see what's on TV?'
She turned the dials. An angry Chinese man with lots of make-up, a
long braid and theatrical robes was yelling at some unfortunate
inferior. 'A Kung Fu movie in Chinese with dubbing in Malay.'
'Forget it. What else?'
She punched in the next button. 'A weeping woman in a sari—
Indian.' She pushed the next channel. Christmas music wafted into
the room. 'Bingo! Donny and Marie Osmond.'
fie groaned. 'I can't believe it.' He sat down next to her on the end of
the bed and handed her the glass of wine.
A commercial break interrupted the show. An English ad for
Kentucky Fried Chicken in Kuala Lumpur. A Malay ad for Colgate
with a beautiful young Malay couple with stars shooting off their
sparkling white teeth.
Wearing white sweaters with green Christmas trees on the front,
Donny and Marie were skating, or trying to, in a theatrical winter
wonderland on stage.
'They probably taped this show in the middle of August when it was
ninety-five degrees,' she said.
'What is this world coming to,' he said in a cracked grandpa voice.
'Would you rather watch Kung Fu?'
'There's a programme guide here somewhere. Let's see what else
there is.' The guide had fallen on the floor and he picked it up. 'What
day is it today? Oh, here. Well, look at this! Aren't we lucky! This
will be over in fifteen minutes and then . . .'
'Dallas,' she guessed.
He shook his head. 'That's tomorrow. Today we have James Bond.
You Only Live Twice. Have you seen it?'
'No.'
'Good. Neither have I. What kind of movies do you see at home?
Horror? Science Fiction? Mystery? Porn?' He sat down again next to
her and looked at her with interest as if he were expecting her to spill
the contents of her soul.
'I don't. I hardly ever go to the movies. I don't know why. When I do
I usually enjoy it.'
Marie was wearing a long white gown and glittering ice crystals in
her hair. There was a sleigh with bells and the brightly lit windows of
a cottage on a hill.
'Have you been homesick today?' he asked.
'Only a little.'
He put his arm around her shoulder and played with her hair. He
liked playing with her hair. Then he leaned a little closer and gently
touched her lips and she did not move away.
She should, she knew. Staying here with him was asking for trouble.
She should go back to her room and go to sleep. But somehow she
wasn't tired. And the prospect of that big empty bed was not inviting.
So stay with him, she told herself.
I can't, she thought, I can't.
The wine glass was still in her hand. In a minute she'd spill it on
herself or the bedspread. She drew away. 'My wine,' she whispered.
He took it from her and put it on the desk. He turned back to her and
his expression was dark and intense and the laughter had gone. She
felt her heart beat frantically in her chest.
'Justin, I had a wonderful day, but I really have to go now.' Her voice
sounded strange and it took all her strength not to look away.
'What are you afraid of, Linden?'
She shook her head. 'I'm not sure. I'm just not ready yet. I'm sorry,
really I am.' She bit her lip hard, then looked at him again. 'It's not
that I don't want to make love, Justin. I do want to. But . . . but I need
to know that I'm not doing it because I'm lonely and alone.'
He looked at her for a long silent moment. 'I can't answer that for
you.'
'I know.'
'But we are here, you and I, together. Does it matter so very much?'
She nodded. 'Yes.' She looked down on the floor, searching for her
shoes. She slipped them on and stood up. He stood up too, standing
in front of her, arms folded across his chest, eyes hard. She knew he
was angry.
'Linden, when are you going to get over this other man? When are
you going to let him stop affecting your life?' His voice was tight and
controlled, and suddenly, unreasonably, anger rushed to her head.
'I don't know! Maybe never! And look at yourself! How long has it
been since . . . since Kate walked out on you? Years! Did you get
over her in two months' time? Well, I'm sorry I ruined your plans for
tonight, but . . . but. . .' Her voice shook and she stopped.
He looked at her silently, his face pale. 'It's not just tonight, Linden.
For two months I've seen you almost every day. We talk. We have
coffee or dinner together. I look at you. I see your face, the way you
move, that gorgeous flaming hair of yours. I listen to you talk and
laugh and every day I'm more in love with you. When I'm with you I
feel . . . different, I feel good, as if life makes sense again. I want to
hold you and kiss you and make love to you.' He paused, closing his
eyes for a moment. 'And for two months,' he continued slowly, 'I've
tried my damnedest to be patient and give you time. I've tried to
understand your feelings, but now . . .' He shrugged. 'I don't know
what I feel anymore, except that I'm angry and impatient and
frustrated and I don't know what to do next. I kept hoping you'd
forget that other man . . .'
On TV Marie sang sweetly of snow and sleighbells and he turned and
viciously stabbed the button. Silence fell over the room. She stood
near the connecting door, still and silent, feeling as if something
terrible was happening and she was powerless to do anything about
it.
Justin rubbed his chin, a tired gesture. 'I think you'd better go now,'
he said.
She left without a word, and some time later she lay in bed, sick with
regret and too tense to sleep. From the next room came the muffled
sounds of the television. He'd turned it on again and was watching
the James Bond movie.
You Only Live Twice. Lucky James Bond. He could screw up one life
and try again. All she had was one life and she had to live it the right
way from the beginning.
Well, it didn't look like she was doing too well. Had she made the
wrong choices? Should she have stayed with Waite and help him sort
out his life? Stand by your man, was the old adage. At what price?
When was the price too high?
He had hit her in the face. He had belittled her and disrespected her.
Clearly for her the price was too high. Yet it was not easy to let go, to
&
nbsp; assign him a place in the past marked 'over'. It was not easy to start a
new chapter in her life with Justin. Not easy, yet all she had to do
was open the door and go in, put her arms around him and tell him
she was sorry. He loved her. He wanted her.
But Waite loved her too. She didn't doubt that, not even after what he
had done to her. He loved her and he wanted her too. And what was
more, he needed her.
I'm not going back to him!
She took a deep breath. 'I'm not going back to him,' she repeated out
loud. 'I've done all I can. It's over. Over, over, over.'
She pushed her face in the pillow and moaned.
They left the next morning, after a silent breakfast. A teksi took them
back to the pier at Telok Bahang. The sea and the sun and the wind in
her face were just as they had been two days earlier as they'd boated
across to Penang. Now, on the way back, it all seemed different. The
world was still the same, but it had lost its charm.
'Thank you for a wonderful time,' she said, after an equally silent
walk back to the house from the wharf. 'I'm sorry I made you angry
in the end.'
'Let's just forget it. I'm sorry I blew up like that. I should have
controlled myself better. Apart from that, I did have a very nice
Christmas.' He smiled crookedly and with a wave of his hand strode
off down the path to his house, his dufflebag slung over his shoulder.
She walked slowly up the steps and opened the door. The house
looked the same. The painting still stood on the easel in the middle of
the room. It was good, but she noticed it with a strange sort of
detachment. Why am I depressed? she asked herself.
I wish I knew what to do. Maybe I should go home and face up to the
world, rather than hide out on this tiny island painting pictures. It's
not realistic.
Why not? Justin had been here for three years and seemed to be
functioning perfectly well writing his spy novels. So why couldn't
she live here and paint?
Because Justin was here writing spy novels.
Oh, damn, she thought, why did he have to fall in love with me? She
dumped her bag in the bedroom and sighed. I'm going for a swim,
she thought grimly, as if it were some punishment that would
exorcise her mind's depressing wanderings.
Walking down the path she heard the faint click- clack of Justin's
typewriter floating out of his open window. It hadn't taken him long
to get back to work. His desk was in front of the window and if he
looked up he'd see her. Not that it mattered. She stubbed her toe on
an exposed tree root and cursed under her breath.
There were children on the beach flying hand-made paper kites—
brightly coloured birds high in the sky, one orange and blue, the other
purple and pink. Lying on her spread-out sarong she squinted up at
the sky. The colours were beautiful against the azure of the sky and
low at the horizon floated puffy clouds of brilliant white.
There was the familiar feeling of excitement in her stomach as
images formed in her mind, the thrill of it spreading through her until
she could no longer sit still and her fingers itched for a pencil, a
brush, anything. The picture was in her mind, big bright colourful
paper birds against the blue and white of sky and clouds. A canvas
full of orange and blue and purple and pink. And it wouldn't be
gaudy, because she'd make the colours work together.
She jumped up, grabbed her things and ran back to the house. She
pulled on a loose shift, found a sketch book and pencils and ran back
to the beach. The boys were still there. One of the kites was almost
down and she came as close as she could to examine it. The children
stared at her. She smiled.
'Your kites are beautiful,' she said in Malay. 'I would like to draw
them. Is that all right?'
They nodded wordlessly, then broke out in laughter. They brought
the kites down so she could look at them. They were fragile things
made of coloured tissue paper glued on to thin bamboo sticks.
Practically leaning over her shoulders, the boys watched with
fascination as she sketched the shape and contours of the paper birds
on to paper.
'Did you make them yourself?' she asked, and they nodded, then
began to explain how, giving her details of which she understood
little. It didn't matter. She enjoyed listening to their excited voices
and their laughter while she sketched, sitting cross-legged on her
sarong in the sand. The sun was hot on her head and arms and she
knew she should have moved over to the shade of the rain tree. Well,
no matter, it was almost done. This was a sketch only.
Back home she realised she had a terrific thirst and her head ached
from the heat. Sitting in the hot sun in late morning was a stupid
thing to do, but she had her sketch and she couldn't wait to put it on
canvas in oils.
Nazirah had made her fish ball soup for lunch, but she could only eat
a little, which was a problem because the poor girl imagined Linden
didn't like her cooking and she almost burst into tears.
Fortified with two glasses of water and two aspirin, Linden lay down
on the bed, the window shutters half closed against the glare of the
midday sun.
It was almost three when she woke up. Her headache was gone. She
felt great, wonderful. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of
orange juice and drank it. Then she gathered her easel and paints and
organised herself in the yard. The light would be good for a couple of
hours yet. The temple painting wasn't quite finished yet, but that
could wait.
For the next two hours there was nothing but the painting and when
finally she went inside, she felt drained, but elated. If only she had
better light inside! She could paint the night away.
She lit the kerosene lamp and, frowning, looked around the room. It
wasn't really good enough. A pressure lamp would give more light, a
lot more light. All right, she'd go out and buy a pressure lamp.
In the fading light she rushed into the village and found what she
wanted in one of the shops and brought it home. They were a
nuisance, pressure lamps. You poured in kerosene, then pumped
them up for several minutes, a boring little job, and then you lit the
thing. It gave off a bright white light and an irritating hissing sound.
Well, no matter the sound- There was light now to paint by, even
though it was terribly white and glaring. The hours went by
unnoticed, until suddenly she realised she was ravenous. It was
almost ten o'clock and she hadn't had a thing to eat since lunch. The
rest of the fish ball soup was still in the refrigerator and she heated it
up and ate it, sitting on her stool, looking at the painting.
She could feel the exhaustion settling on her like a blanket, and she
knew there was no way she could paint anymore, no matter how
much she wanted to. The hissing of the pressure lamp was getting on
her nerves and she turned it off. She cleaned the brushes and went to
bed after a hasty shower from the little metal tank.
Even the cold
water didn't revive her and she fell into an exhausted sleep.
For days she worked on the painting, sometimes for long hours. One
afternoon she made the trek to the waterfalls again and swam in the
cold stream and sat in the sun. It was good to get away and relax. Her
neck and right arm sometimes hurt from working so intensively and
the muscles of her back were tight.
It was New Year's Eve and she realised Justin hadn't come to see her
since they'd returned from Penang. It seemed strange. She'd seen him
go in and out of his house, but that was the extent of it. It was eight
o'clock now, and in the dark she quickly went along the path to his
house and knocked. The rattling of the typewriter stopped.
'Come in!'
She opened the door and entered, feeling suddenly hesitant. 'Hi,' she
said.
He was sitting at his desk, wearing shorts and no shoes. His shirt was
unbuttoned and hung loose over his shoulders. It was a hot and
muggy night.
'Hi.' He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back in his chair
with a sigh.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'You're working. I didn't mean to disturb you.'
'It's time to stop. I've been at it all day.' He pushed his chair back and
it scraped dully over the wooden floor. He got up and stretched, his
long lean body straight and taut. 'Would you like a drink?'
'Please. A gin and tonic.' She looked at his chest covered with dark
curly hair.
He went to the kitchen, barefooted, to get the drinks. When he came
back a few minutes later he sat down across from her, stretching his
legs. She watched him over the rim of her glass, seeing the
preoccupied look in his face and the tired lines next to his mouth.
'J haven't seen you for days,' she said.
'I've been working.'
She gathered her courage. 'Are you angry with me? Is something
wrong?'
He gave her an irritated glance. 'You know what's wrong. And no,
I'm not angry with you. For my sanity's sake it seems best to stay out
of your way.' He gulped down his drink and set the glass on the table.
There was a silence. Damn it, she thought, he's not going to make me
feel guilty too! She twisted the end of her braid around her finger. He
stood up and moved to the window, turning his back to her.
'What have you been doing these last few days?'
'I started another painting.'
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