Tropical Connections

by Vereker, Susie

  Martin looked alarmed. ‘You didn’t say anything about a sexual attack.’

  She laughed, thinking of Drew. ‘Just a joke. I’ll leave quietly and I won’t go to the Mirror. Perhaps just the Sun, if I run out of money one fine day.’

  Martin smiled grimly.

  *

  An anxious-looking Howard appeared at the house later that evening. As soon as they were alone, he crushed her in his arms, but Claire gently disentangled herself.

  ‘Let me get you another drink,’ she said. ‘Lucy said to help ourselves.’

  ‘I’ve already got one somewhere – just put it down for a moment. Oh, there it is.’ He turned to retrieve his whisky from the table. ‘So tell me what happened. You look marvellous considering all you’ve been through. Hadn’t the first idea where you were. Did everything I could through official channels. For all I knew, you had stayed out of touch deliberately, but I was worried sick all the same. How did you get back from the island, by the way?’

  Claire hesitated for a moment. ‘Oh, official channels . . . And now I’ve been thrown out of the country and I’m leaving tomorrow,’ she said in a rush.

  He stared at her in dismay. ‘Thrown out?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I’m leaving of my own accord. So we need to talk, as you say.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Thing is, Howard, I don’t know if you still want to marry me, but I don’t think I’d make a very good banker’s wife.’

  ‘Well,’ he said seriously, ‘you’re sometimes rather restless, well, dramatic at the moment, but once you’ve settled down and had children, you’ll probably be a perfectly normal, sensible mother.’

  ‘But if I remain the wild and reckless woman that I seemed to have turned into, and I don’t become, uh, normal, it might not be good for your career to . . .’

  He did not smile. ‘Where is all this talk leading to, Claire? You know I love you, but . . . do you, do you still care for me? What about this Australian that Deborah told me about?’

  So he knows, she thought guiltily. ‘Just what did Deb tell you?’

  He spoke slowly, dragging out each painful word. ‘Don’t suppose she meant to tell me anything, but I was talking to her and I was saying it was amazing that a sweet, innocent girl like you had got involved with murderers and kidnappers. Deborah said you were very sweet but maybe not all that innocent. I asked what she meant and, after a bit of humming and hawing, she told me about this other man, Drew.’

  ‘I see.’ She did see. Maybe Deb had done her a favour in a way. Claire knew she should have told him all months ago. She’d learnt over the years that some things are best left unsaid, some sins best unconfessed, but this time she was very much in the wrong.

  ‘You, you said nothing about him all the time we . . .’

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Howard, really I am. I’ve behaved appallingly.’

  ‘Well, do you want him or me?’ he asked miserably. He looked as if he knew the answer already.

  ‘Thing is, it’s not a question of who I want. I haven’t got him. He’s gone. It wasn’t a relationship in the normal sense of the word – just a man I bumped into now and then. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but . . .’

  ‘Pretty explosive bumps from what Deborah said.’

  Claire flushed and looked down. ‘He’s gone now,’ she repeated.

  ‘Then is there a chance for me? I could get a posting somewhere else, if I ask to be transferred.’

  She walked the length of the drawing room and then turned and faced him. ‘I don’t think I’d make you happy. Find someone more sensible. Someone like your friend Deb.’

  ‘She’s already married.’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s got such an awful husband. I hope she ditches him. Their marriage is on the rocks. Has been for ages.’

  He put his hand on her arm. ‘But our marriage would be different. I told you, I love you.’

  She felt even more of a shit. ‘No, you don’t. That’s what frightens me. You love some imaginary, sweet, ideal Claire that I couldn’t live up to. You are very attractive and nice, too nice for me really, and I am terribly fond of you, but . . .’

  ‘Fond! So, so are you, are you saying it’s over?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, truly.’ Her voice was heavy with guilt. ‘I feel awful about sort of leading you on all this time. I’m so sorry I jittered about for so long. It wasn’t fair. But you see, I really, really wanted it to work between you and me, but . . . but it just didn’t somehow, not for me. I don’t know why. You’re such a terrific man.’ She faltered into silence.

  Picking up his whisky glass again and draining it, he continued to speak calmly. ‘So you’re really leaving tomorrow?

  ‘Yes.’

  There didn’t seem to be much more to say, and they walked slowly towards the front door together. As she was shutting it behind him, he made one final effort. ‘What are you going to do now? Will you go back to Sotheby’s?’

  ‘I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do.’

  *

  When Claire arrived at the airport the next morning, she took her first-class London ticket to the British Airways desk. Fearing that she was making yet another of life’s mistakes, she made enquiries about exchanging it for a flight to Australia.

  Twenty-Seven

  Bereft and lonely without Claire, Howard went round to the Cases’ flat one evening. He rang the bell and waited, but it was some time before the door opened. Deborah stood there, red-eyed and dishevelled in a crumpled denim skirt and baggy T-shirt.

  He hesitated. ‘Hello, Deb. Is Johnny in? Just came round for a chat.’

  ‘No.’ Her face expressionless, she pushed her long hair away from her eyes. ‘Do you . . . ? Is he expected back soon?’

  ‘No, but come in, Howard.’ She waved her arm. ‘Sorry the place is a mess. Pima went to see her folks. We can’t seem to cope too well without her.’

  He looked around at the piles of toys and discarded shoes. Plastic bags full of shopping sat on the floor waiting to be unpacked. There was a stack of old newspapers in the corner, and, more significant, a carton full of empty bottles.

  He said, ‘Oh, bad luck. When is Pima coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Very unwise to let a good maid go on holiday.’ He smiled, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Deborah vaguely. ‘Have a drink, Howard. You look like you could use one.’

  ‘Thanks. Could I have a whisky?’

  ‘Help yourself. Get me one too, would you? It’s in there.’ She pointed in the direction of the kitchen and remained slumped on the sofa, unusually quiet.

  He was pouring a drink from the half-empty whisky bottle when a postcard of Sydney Harbour Bridge caught his eye. He picked it up and turned it over. With a start, he recognized Claire’s handwriting. She wrote:

  Decided to visit Australia. Luckily I got an instant electronic visa. Boiling hot here. Just like Maising. Miss you all. New phone no below. Love Claire.

  Sick with misery, he dropped the card back on to the shelf and, hardly knowing what he was doing, walked back into the sitting room.

  ‘You forgot the ice. And the water,’ said Deborah.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s wrong? You look kind of strange.’

  He paused and then said, ‘I saw the postcard from Claire. I suppose she’s gone to that Australian, Drew. I thought she went to England. But she’s gone to him.’

  ‘Yeah, took me by surprise too. Drew’s in Canberra, but I guess that’s quite near Sydney, isn’t it?’

  ‘Near enough. I didn’t know she was going to him,’ he repeated. ‘She said there was nothing serious between them. Or that’s what I thought she said.’ He felt empty, hopeless.

  ‘Poor Howard.’ She touched his hand.

  ‘Mind you, she said it was finished, her and me, I mean. But I suppose I hoped she
would write from England and say she’d changed her mind. But now . . .’

  Deborah went to the kitchen and came back with the whisky bottle, a bucket of ice and a jug of water. ‘Let’s both get drunk – we’re two of a kind.’

  Howard had been staring at the carpet. Now he looked at her, remembering her presence. ‘How do you mean? Two of a kind?’

  ‘Johnny just walked out on me.’

  ‘Oh God. Oh God, I’m sorry. But he’s always, always been a bit outrageous. He’ll come back. He usually does, doesn’t he? Nobody in his right mind would leave a woman like you.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want him back. I guess I just wanted to be the one to quit. I’ve been planning to leave him for months and now that I’m the one who’s been dumped, I’m sort of upset – it’s crazy.’ She laughed, slightly hysterically. Then she took two large gulps of whisky.

  ‘But what makes you think he won’t come back anyway?’

  ‘It’s different this time. I can tell. You know these things. Usually he keeps his life in two compartments. Me and the kids are in one compartment, and his bar girls, or whatever, are in the other. But this woman has taken him over. He hasn’t been home for weeks. Normally he always comes home, like he’s just been out for a game of squash or something.’

  Involuntarily Howard smiled at the idea of Johnny’s sex life being likened to a game of squash. Quite appropriate, he thought. Fortunately she didn’t notice his expression.

  She went on. ‘But this time he’s emotionally involved. Usually Johnny is not into emotions, but he says this woman’s different – dynamic, intelligent, irresistible, the great love of his life – I guess that’s what they all say, when they leave their wives. But she can have him. I won’t fight for him because, goddammit, I don’t want him. I’m just mad I didn’t leave first.’

  Howard picked up his own glass and added some ice. Deborah continued to talk about Johnny and her marriage. He began to talk about Claire. Sometimes they listened to each other. As they talked on and on, they both drank steadily.

  He said, ‘This bottle’s finished. We should go out and eat.’

  ‘I can’t. You go. I have to stay with the kids. They’re asleep.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go and get us some dinner and another bottle and then I’ll come back.’

  ‘Don’t bother. You go, eat something good, find a nice bar girl. A nice bar girl would cheer you up.’

  But Howard returned half an hour later with some white plastic boxes of lukewarm Chinese food. He found some plates, knives and forks, and arranged the unappetizing meal on the coffee table near her. She ate little, but she drank yet more whisky.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, beginning to slur her words, ‘it’s my own fault. If you make a mistake – and let’s face facts, my marriage was a mistake, oh boy, what a mishtake – then you should be prepared to admit it. I shouldn’t have married a shit. Didn’t recognize that when I met him. I was young and stupid, kind of rushed the whole deal.’

  ‘Maybe that was my problem. I rushed into things with Claire.’

  ‘But you didn’t make a mishtake about her – she’s a nice person, very nice. She just fell for someone else. You meet a nice person and they fall for someone else. Life’s a shit, but that’s life, Howard.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling sure that she had just said something truly profound. ‘Yes, that’s life.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ She kicked off her sandals and lay back on the sofa. At least two of the bottom buttons on her skirt had come undone, revealing a considerable amount of ample brown thigh. Howard stared at this artless but tempting display. A vision of Claire’s slim body came into his mind which he suppressed with difficulty. ‘Even though it’s better to cut your losses and quit, it doesn’t feel good to fail, you know,’ Deborah said blearily.

  ‘D’you mind me asking, why did Johnny really leave?’

  ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I said? He found someone he liked better. Men do it all the time.’

  ‘He’s a fool. If I had a wife like you I’d . . . I’d . . .’

  ‘You’d what?’

  ‘I’d be very sure to love and cherish you.’ It was true. He would. She was a lovely woman and so warm-hearted, a kind, generous woman, he said to himself. Johnny shouldn’t have treated her like that.

  She looked at him, her eyes half-closed. ‘That’s nice, Howard. You’re a good man. Even though you’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m not drunk, not yet, not completely. I may be soon. Or at least I’m no drunker than you are . . . That’s good. You smiled.’

  ‘Yeah, you cheered me up some. Did I cheer you up?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ He wanted to be near her to reassure her. And to reassure himself. He moved to the sofa and began to massage her ankles. Very nice ankles, all brown, like her long legs. There was a lot of Deborah, a whole lot of woman. ‘D’you know what would cheer me up even more?’ he blurted out, suddenly reckless.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to spend the night with you.’

  There was a long pause while she studied his face. ‘Like, in the same bed?’

  Howard nodded solemnly. ‘In the same bed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ he said.

  She smiled, focusing on his face again. ‘Acksherly – no, that didn’t sound right. I’ll try to say it again. Actually, I could be. Maybe even quite, very enthu . . . enthusiastic. But . . . that time at the beach, way back, do you remember?’

  He continued to massage her ankles with great concentration, then his hands strayed a little higher. ‘Course I do. How could I forget?’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t like it. Turned out to be a one-night stand.’

  He looked up, smiling. ‘I liked it, I liked it a lot, too much even, but you were married.’

  ‘Yes, I was married then. And even if I’m nearly not married now, I don’t want to get involved in casual sex. I mean sex without love, isn’t right.’ She put her hand on his. ‘I like you, but ’tsn’t right, casual sex.’

  Howard pulled her to him. ‘It wouldn’t be casual. We’re friends, you and me. We need each other.’ He stroked her hair. ‘It’d be friendship sex, that’s different, quite different.’

  ‘You reckon? Yeah, that’s nice.’

  As Deborah sank into his arms, his head reeled. It was comforting to hold her, to caress her, to keep her safe from her dark thoughts, and to be safe from his, safe from his thoughts of Claire. He closed his eyes and mind to let his body take over.

  *

  Deborah awoke at five thirty the next morning with a terrible thirst and a severe headache.

  ‘Oh God,’ she moaned to herself when she saw Howard lying beside her. ‘You blew it again, Deb.’ She shook him awake and told him to leave before the children got up.

  ‘What does it matter if they do see me?’

  ‘I can’t cope with complications, Howard.’

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know. Right now I have one hell of hangover. And I need to be alone to sort out my life.’

  He made to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away. ‘No, I’m no good to anyone. I feel as bad as I look.’

  ‘You look fine, a lot better than I do, I’m sure.’ Running his hands through his hair, he got out of bed and ambled off in the direction of the bathroom.

  Deborah closed her eyes again. A naked Howard was not a bad sight, if you liked a whole lot of man, but she just did not want to get involved.

  By the door he turned. ‘I’ll phone you when I get home. But can I please have a coffee first – to recover a bit?’

  ‘No, just leave quickly, Howard.’ Then she saw his face. ‘Oh God, I’m a bitch. Listen, I’ll call you when I get my act together. OK?’

  ‘All right . . . Deb, don’t forget I’m a friend.’

  *

  Her mother-in-law, however, was distinctly less friendly. Deborah held the receiver away from her ear as Muriel’s v
owels whined down the telephone line.

  ‘You’re a selfish girl, Debbie. Both of you, you and Johnny. Both very selfish. Trevor and I were looking forward to Christmas with little Sam and Jojo. Trevor has been all the way to Bangkok to buy a new tree. It was ever such a job to get it back on the plane. Oh dear, and now you’ve made me spill my tea all over the bedspread. It’s all very upsetting.’

  In spite of herself, Deborah grinned. She could picture Muriel breakfasting in her frilly pink bed on the other side of the city.

  ‘A genuine living Christmas tree?’ asked Deborah.

  ‘Of course not. Japanese and plastic. But it’s ever so realistic. And Trevor was going to dress up as Santa. He’s hired a costume from the drama group. And I’ve ordered the turkey from Singapore. Someone’s got to eat it. They’re not cheap, after all.’

  ‘Muriel, I guess I’m sorry about the break-up. But we’ll come to your Christmas lunch, me and the children. If you’d like to have us.’

  ‘But Johnny will be there.’

  ‘So what? He and I are grown-ups. We needn’t fight on Christmas Day. As long as he leaves his woman at home.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘The woman he’s moved in with, Muriel.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating, dear. It’s just a little tiff that you and he are having. You young people are just not prepared to try at marriage. It’s a matter of give and take. Even Trevor and I used to have our little problems now and then.’

  ‘Just tell your son I’m not coming to Christmas lunch if he brings his whore along.’

  *

  In the event it was much like any other of Muriel’s plastic tropical Christmases, except that this year the fake bonhomie was even worse than in the past. Trevor and Johnny drank a lot, Deborah and Muriel drank little and the children behaved quite well.

  Sam did not make any embarrassing remarks about his father as he was far too busy playing with all the heaps of flimsy Hong Kong toys with batteries and wires that would all be broken tomorrow. Jojo crawled about, exploring as far as she was allowed, trying to reach up to Muriel’s collection of dainty china figurines.