Just Not Mine (Escape to New Zealand)

by Rosalind James

  Not to mention going from almost ten years of living on his own, ten years of doing what he’d liked—everything he’d liked—to living with a middle-aged woman and two kids who weren’t his.

  “But you didn’t grow up with them, I guess,” she said. “That’s a pretty big age difference.”

  “More than fourteen years between Amelia and me. Eighteen years for Charlie. And you’re right, I didn’t grow up with them, because I was in Wellington, and by that time … I wasn’t coming up here much.”

  “It wasn’t home, then?” she asked, and he could feel her caution. It wasn’t his favorite topic, but if she wanted to sit here with him and talk about it? He’d talk.

  “No,” he said. “Not that my stepmum didn’t try, but by the time you’re thirteen, fourteen, and there’s a new baby … It was a bit hard.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “And my dad,” he surprised himself by going on, “he was … he was trying harder too, by then. I can see that now. I suspect, looking back, that Juliette—my stepmum—talked to him about it. He wasn’t very—warm, when I was a kid, but he changed. He was different, with the others.”

  “That can happen, I think,” she said, “as men get older. Maybe get a little more secure in their work, stop pushing so hard, turn to their families a bit more, appreciate what they’ve got there.”

  “Yeh, I’m sure that had something to do with it. And he and my stepmum were better suited, not that I’d ever tell my mum that. My mum and dad—well, my mum’s a pretty forceful person, and not shy about giving her opinion. They—clashed, I suppose you’d say. I don’t remember too much, since they separated when I was five, but I remember that, and afterwards, too. One reason my mum moved to Wellington.”

  “And took you with her.”

  “Yeh. She did. Never much discussion around that, from what I know.”

  “Ah. Your dad and stepmum were different, though? It’s interesting,” she hurried to say when he looked at her. “You know. As an actor. Plus,” she admitted, “I just want to know. You’re so … you’re interesting,” she said again, and there was a faint flush on her cheeks now, surely. “But don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “If you want to listen,” he said, and he was smiling at her, because the flush was definitely there, and that had to be a good sign, “I’ll tell you. She—Juliette—was very … feminine, I suppose you’d say. I think she actually got her way more than my mum ever did, oddly enough, even though she didn’t push for it nearly as hard. I know my dad was a better husband, a better father with her than he ever was with my mum—at least to hear my mum tell it. She made him want to please her, I guess. I’d say she made him want to be a better man.”

  He stopped, ran a hand over his jaw, and laughed a little. “But what do I know about it, right?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I think you’re more perceptive than you give yourself credit for. I’ll bet you saw a lot. And felt a little left out, maybe?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “At times.” At every time.

  “And still, you came. For the kids. You gave up your freedom for them, and came.”

  Was there anything better, he wondered, than knowing that the woman you wanted admired you? For the first time in ages, he felt like he understood his dad, at least in this one small way. “Yeh,” he said. “Well, somewhat. Aunt Cora was here, remember.”

  “Still,” she insisted, “you did.”

  “Because I needed to. They needed me to. Everybody was pretty clear on that.”

  He’d assumed that once things were more settled, he’d get his own place again, get some of that freedom back. He could be around, could help out, without actually living in the house, surely. That would be enough, wouldn’t it? Surely it would.

  He wasn’t sure Josie would think so, though. So he didn’t say it.

  “Well,” she said, setting down her empty wine glass with a sigh, “I’d better get home. Five o’clock comes early, every time. Thanks for this, though. Dinner, and the wine, and … everything.”

  He got up himself, walked her to the door, and she smiled up at him and said it again. “Thanks.”

  He smiled back, felt the connection as surely as if it were a physical thing, because something had happened here tonight, and he thought she knew it too. He bent and put a light hand on her shoulder to give her a kiss on the cheek, her own hand came up to rest against his arm, and she was staying there for a fraction of a second too long. And then she pulled away, and it took everything in him to stop himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her the way he wanted to. The way he needed to.

  “Can I help you with anything else in your garden this weekend?” he asked.

  “Oh,” she said, busying herself with pulling her jersey on. “No, I’ll be in Aussie, actually. I’m off to Sydney on Friday to see my partner.”

  “Oh,” he said, and there was no mistaking what he was feeling now, because it was jealousy, pure and simple. “I hope he’s grateful for that.”

  She laughed a little. “I hope so too.”

  “If he isn’t,” he said, his hand going out despite himself to trace the curve of her jaw, “you could think again.”

  “I couldn’t, though.” She was stepping away, pulling on her shoes, putting distance between them, and the message was as clear as a bell. “I’m the faithful type. Of course it can get a little confusing sometimes, being so far apart all this time. You must know that, traveling the way you do. It can be hard to maintain a relationship, but that’s what you do, because he’s still my partner. And I’m the faithful type,” she repeated, the words coming out fast. Rushed, because she was flustered. “I don’t cheat. So, no. Thanks for dinner, though. See you soon.”

  And with that, she … well, she fled, because he’d pushed too hard. Damn. Damn.

  It isn’t cheating if you break up first. He wanted to run her down, get in front of her and say it, make her see it too. But he didn’t, because she didn’t want to hear it, wasn’t ready to hear it. Instead, he watched her across to her door and into her house, shut his own door, and went back to check on the kids.

  The faithful type. Too faithful, and much too good for that fella she’d been seeing for, what, three years? That’s what the magazines said, and it was looking to Hugh like three years too long. Why would any man wait that long to make it permanent, if he had somebody like her? Couldn’t he see what he was risking? If Hugh had had Josie, and there had been any way of getting back to her, he’d have been doing it, every single weekend if it had been possible, and Sydney to Auckland was pretty bloody possible. He wouldn’t have been leaving that to chance. He sure as hell wouldn’t have been letting some other bloke get a look in. And he couldn’t understand how any man would do anything else. Not if he had Josie.

  Enough of a Woman

  Another weekend, another sunny Australian day, and Josie was back where she was supposed to be, back with her partner, temptation firmly set aside.

  This time, she and Derek were doing it more at her pace. They’d got up late, by her standards, on Saturday morning, had gone to Bondi for a walk on the beach, a swim. Now they were having lunch at a café table set on the pavement, and she felt herself beginning to relax at last. Of course it was difficult to get the connection back after such an intense period in Derek’s life, so many changes. That didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

  “This was my favorite part of living in Aussie,” she said, stirring sweetener into her skinny flat white and starting in with enthusiasm on her Greek salad. “If it could all have been like this, I might still be here.”

  “It is all like this,” Derek insisted. “Once you leave Queensland and the bush, that is, get away from the heat and the humidity and the spiders as big as your hand, back to civilization. And we need to talk about that.”

  His expression was serious, and all her unease was back, because something was about to happen.

  “I’m not going back to New Zealand,” he told her, and, yes, they’
d gone straight into it. “There’s no use thinking I am. I’m staying here. And who knows? Maybe the UK, eventually. Maybe even Hollywood. Nothing but possibilities, because Bill’s got me up for a part in a new show, and he’s talking to the film people as well. It’s all opening up, and all I had to do was fly across the Ditch to find it. My future’s here, I’m sure of it. And what does that mean for us? Long-distance is too hard, and I don’t want to do it forever. I don’t want to do it much longer, in fact.”

  “But it’s long-distance from my family otherwise,” she said. “You know that, and you know how I feel about it. I don’t want to move, not just now. Not yet.”

  “Your partner matters more than your family,” he insisted. “Or he should. I should.”

  “So what are you telling me?” She set down the fork she realized she was still holding. The day was warm, but she was cold, had to stop herself from rubbing her hands over her arms, hugging herself. “That if I don’t want to move now, we’re done?”

  “Josie …” He sighed.

  “Oh,” she realized, and the chill was so strong now she was nearly shivering. “Oh. We’re done already, aren’t we? Is that what you’re saying? Is there somebody else? Is that what this is really about?”

  “Wait. Hang on. There’s nobody else,” he said. “Of course there isn’t. That’s not what I’m saying.”

  She scrutinized him, sitting there projecting nothing but handsome, noble sincerity, but then, he was an actor. “I think there is,” she decided. “And I think it’s Vanessa.”

  “Vanessa?” He laughed, sharp and surprised, and the nobility was gone. “Of course it’s not Vanessa. What have I been talking about since I’ve got here?”

  “Not her? But you’ve mentioned her so much.”

  “Because I can’t stand her, that’s why. What, I have a secret passion? Trust me. No.”

  Trust him? Not anymore, it wasn’t looking like. “So it’s … who?” she insisted.

  “It’s nobody,” he said, “not really. Well, maybe, maybe there could be, but that’s all, because you know I’ve wanted to make this work between us. It’s not about her, it’s about you. Or it’s about us, I guess. We’re going in different directions.”

  “How? We’re both actors. We’re both pursuing our career. So we’re doing it in different places. How is that different directions?”

  He made an impatient gesture. “If you can’t see … But it really doesn’t matter anyway, does it? Because the real point is, you don’t need me, and we both know it.”

  “Of course I need you,” she said, and then stopped herself, because what was she meant to do now, beg? And she was still cold, overcome by numbness that she knew would become pain soon enough, but there was anger in there too now.

  “Wait,” she realized. “Wait a minute. You call me to talk over your problems, to tell me about your hard, hard day? You want to lean on me like that, tell me I’m so loyal, so cheerful, hoo-bloody-ray for easy-peasy Josie, and now you don’t want me because I’m not needy enough for you?”

  “You can try to make me wrong,” he said doggedly, “but you know I’m right. We’re friends, and I hope we always will be, no matter what, because you’re a good friend. To everyone. But that’s just it. I’m not special, not central to your life. I’m not important enough to you. How much do you miss me, really? If we talk about me, that’s because you ask about me. And meanwhile, you’re just happy Josie, getting along. Everybody’s cheerful mum, except that you’re never going to be anybody’s mum, are you? That’s why you have to try so hard.”

  She flinched as if he’d slapped her. “You know I need you,” she whispered. “You know it. You of all people.” She blinked the tears back, because she wasn’t going to let him see her cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking a little ashamed. “I didn’t want to do this this way. I wanted us just to talk, and have it be all right.”

  “Have it be all right,” she repeated, and now the anger was right there, front and center. “That you’re breaking up with me. You wanted me to make that easy for you? Because I’m so bloody strong? Because I don’t need you even to think about me?”

  “All right,” he said. “All right. I know that once, for a little while, you did need me. You let me in, you let yourself be weak, needed me to be strong, and I was glad to do it. At the time. But that time passed, we got through it, and you’re fine now, aren’t you? I need somebody who makes me feel like it matters she’s not with me, don’t you see? Somebody who wouldn’t hesitate if I asked her to move so we could be together, someplace that would be better for her too, by the way. Because she’d want to be with me more than anything. Because she’d know there was no real future for two people determined to live in different countries.”

  “Somebody to cling to you and worship you?” she asked, her voice not in any danger of trembling anymore. “Somebody who thinks the sun and moon rise on you? That’s what you want?”

  “Bloody hell, Josie,” he said, reaching for her hand again. “I’m sorry, but I need somebody who thinks I’m wonderful.”

  She took her hand back. “I do. At least I used to. And maybe I need that too.”

  “I always have thought so, don’t you see that?” he insisted. “I’ve always admired you. That’s the problem. I don’t want somebody who thinks she’s stronger than me. And you do. Don’t try to deny it. You do.”

  “I should’ve stayed destroyed, then? I should be weeping on your shoulder still, two years later?”

  “Maybe you should,” he said. “Because it’s a big thing. It’s a big problem.”

  “Ah.” She was frozen. Ice. “You’ve changed your mind. Now it matters.”

  He gestured helplessly, a straightening of the expressive hands, a shrug of the broad shoulders. “People change. We were so in love at the time, weren’t we? And I wanted to be there for you.”

  “Wanted to see yourself as noble,” she said, her lip curling a little. “Holding me up. Playing the part of the supportive partner, loving me through it.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I did, and what’s wrong with that? And I truly didn’t think it mattered then. But I’m getting older, and I’m thinking it might be nice to be a dad someday, and I’m not willing to give up that possibility, not anymore.”

  “Nice to do it with somebody else, you mean,” she said. “With somebody who could do it right. Not with somebody who’d probably have to adopt to make it happen, if it happened at all.”

  “I want my own kids, it’s true,” he said. “Does that make me unusual? I don’t think it does. A man wants his own kids, not somebody else’s. He wants his own genes to carry on. That’s what being a dad is.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not. That’s what being a sperm donor is.” She could barely get the words out, could barely hold onto her anger so it would overcome the pain.

  She’d thought it hadn’t mattered. She’d actually thought so, foolish optimist that she was. That was what she’d clung to after the doctor had changed everything, had dashed all her plans and hopes and dreams, the assumptions she’d made ever since she could remember planning and hoping and dreaming. All of them gone as if the man had waved a wand as he uttered the words.

  Cervical carcinoma in situ. Cervical cancer. Hysterectomy.

  Derek had sat with her, held her hand, told her that he was there for her, that she was all he cared about. That she was alive, and she’d be healthy again, and they’d be happy. He’d come to visit her while she’d recovered from the surgery, had sat with her and made her laugh, made her feel like her life wasn’t really over, that there was still love and laughter to be had, that they still had a future and it was still bright. And that maybe, someday, somehow, she could even still be a mother.

  She had told almost nobody. Not the rest of the cast, because illness wasn’t something you broadcast, not in her profession, and actors were the worst gossips in the world. Not most of her whanau, nobody but her parents, her grandparents, her young
est brother, because she couldn’t stand the pity. For a young, beautiful Maori woman not to be able to have children—they’d call that a tragedy, and she didn’t need people to think she was tragic. Some of them, she knew, would even have nodded their heads in grim satisfaction at fate having caught up with the girl who’d been given too much. She’d felt so shaky, the jealous, cold pleasure would have sent her around the bend, and pity would have made her collapse entirely. And she couldn’t afford to collapse. Not then. Not ever.

  Maybe, if she’d collapsed after all, she’d still have Derek. Except that she didn’t want him, not if the price was weakness and dependency. Not if the price was leaving the country she loved, living a life she didn’t want.

  “All right,” she said, standing up, holding herself together. Just until she got to the airport. Just until she got away. “I get it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, getting up himself. “That it didn’t work out. I wanted it to, but you—”

  “Yeh,” she said. “I’m sorry too. And I’ll say the same thing you did. It’s not me, it’s you, because I’m worth some sacrifices too. I just have to find a man who’s willing to make them. Let’s hope not every man is as selfish as you. I don’t think he is. I think there are some good men out there, and I mean to find one.”

  “Selfish? Me? I’m not a good man, just because I want a woman who can have a baby? A normal woman who puts me first?” The dusky color was flooding Derek’s tanned cheeks, his sorrow clearly replaced by hot anger, and all his careful phrasing was gone. “Sorry to tell you, but I don’t think there are too many men out there looking for an infertile woman. One who’s so attached to her mummy and daddy, her precious whanau, her tiny, insignificant little country at the bottom end of the world that she can’t bear to leave any of them for more than a weekend. No matter how much that holds her back. No matter how much that holds him back. You’re not enough of a woman for me, that’s what it boils down to. Sorry and all that, but you’re not, and that’s not my bloody fault.”