Bad Behaviour

by Liz Byrski

  ‘So, did she know you were Dan’s mother?’

  ‘Well, she did seem surprised when Dan introduced us, but she must have known.’

  ‘How would she know?’

  ‘He must have shown her a picture or something.’

  ‘Did you ask him, or her?’

  Zoë shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I won’t get involved in all this secrecy. It’s like the army, that’s bad enough, and now he starts being secretive about this too.’

  ‘But it’s very different, surely?’ Julia says. ‘He doesn’t have a choice about the army’s rules. And maybe he just kept this romance a secret until he was sure that it was going to work out. You know, Zoë, even if Justine did know it was you, it’s hardly a crime that she wanted to give you something. She was probably dying to introduce herself. It just seems like a nice gesture.’

  Zoë sits back in her chair and folds her arms, and Julia feels as though she is struggling with the plot of an Agatha Christie mystery, having missed several crucial chapters.

  ‘Sorry, I’m having difficulty understanding this,’ Julia tries again. ‘You don’t mind her being part Aboriginal, it’s just the secrecy that’s the problem; is that right?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of both and then there’s her age. She’s forty-three, almost forty-four; that’s only nine years younger than me. How can Dan . . .’

  Julia puts a hand on her arm. ‘Stop, Zoë, stop it, please. Don’t do this to yourself, don’t do it to them.’

  ‘I can’t stop it,’ Zoë says, burying her face in her hands. ‘That’s the trouble, I don’t know how to change how I feel. I don’t want to be like this, Julia, really I don’t. Her age – it’s too much. The secrecy – well, maybe you’re right. Being Aboriginal, it’s not that I actually mind that, I just think it makes it all harder . . . for Dan. He’s always had to cope with that and now – it’s like a double whammy to cope with. A lot of people in Australia are really hostile to Aboriginals.’ She looks as though she might cry, and rummages in her bag for tissues.

  Julia pulls a package from her own bag, rips off the top and hands it to her. ‘But Dan must know this, Zoë,’ she says. ‘And, as you know very well, there’s always been hostility to the idea of black men with white women, so he’d have that to cope with anyway. Look, I don’t know Dan or Justine, but it seems to me that, as well as the fact that they are obviously in love, they must find great strength and comfort in being with someone who has learned to live with that experience.’

  Zoë shrugs and presses the tissues against her eyes. ‘Maybe; probably, I suppose. But Justine, she’s . . . she is just not the person I wanted Dan to marry.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Zoë? Just that she wouldn’t have been your choice as a daughter-in-law? Because, if so, I’d have to say that I think at least half the mothers in the world are in the same situation. I’m not a mother, but I’m sure that if I were, I’d have fixed ideas about who I wanted for my kids, and it probably wouldn’t be the person they chose for themselves. But you can’t make those choices for them.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Zoë says, blowing her nose. She looks around her as though seeking a way out. ‘I know it’s difficult for you to understand – you’re not a mother, and you’re so much more confident than me anyway – but the fact is, Julia, I’m frightened of her.’

  ‘Frightened?’

  Zoë nods. ‘Yes. You see, I always thought Dan would end up with someone like his sisters or their friends; young, still sort of needing to be looked after a bit, learning about life. But Justine – well, it’s not just her age. She’s travelled, she runs her own business; you can tell just by looking at her that she’s mature and confident and independent. She’s so thoroughly grown up.’

  ‘So, are you saying you hoped Dan would marry someone who’s less than that; somebody who isn’t grown up?’

  ‘I told you it was difficult to understand.’

  ‘It’s bloody impossible at the moment.’

  ‘The thing is, Julia, I thought, that when Dan got married I’d be getting another daughter; someone like my own daughters, who would need me – or, at least, appreciate me – as a sort of mother too. I thought that would keep me safe.’ She flushes now, and takes a huge breath. ‘The family, you see; it’s all I’ve got. I don’t have a career, I don’t really have any close friends. The family is what I do – I am the heart of it, I keep it together. I thought that adding a daughter-in-law would reinforce that for me. But a woman like Justine, she doesn’t need me. They love her: Archie, the girls, not just Dan. They all think she’s beautiful and clever, and an amazing cook and . . . lovely, really. And she is. And I’m frightened she’ll . . .’ She stops, looking down at her hands twisting the tissues to shreds.

  ‘You’re frightened she’ll usurp your position in the family,’ Julia supplies.

  ‘Yes,’ Zoë says, able now to look her in the eye. ‘Justine, she’s . . . somehow more than me, stronger, more . . .’ She hesitates. ‘More together, more intelligent, all the things I’m not. My family, it’s all I’ve got. And now I’m losing it, because I’m going to have to share it with her.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  London – July 2000

  In a pub in Soho, Richard plants a light kiss on the lips of a beautiful young woman in a halterneck dress, and slides his hand down her bare back, speculating fleetingly on the wonder of breasts that need no visible means of support. He walks with her to the door, holds it open, and she smiles at him over her shoulder and steps into the street. At the bar, he orders two pints of bitter and a whisky chaser, and carries the drinks back to the table.

  ‘Keeping the blood/alcohol level topped up, I see,’ Charlie says, nodding to the whisky.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Richard says, pushing a beer across the table to him. ‘Everybody seems to be an expert on my level of consumption.’

  ‘And the expert consensus is that it’s too high. Cheers.’

  They’ve met several times for lunch since Richard moved back to London, where Charlie is now principal of an exclusive sixth form college in the city.

  ‘Cheers. So, what do you think of Amanda?’

  ‘Delightful. How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Five, six weeks.’

  ‘And she’s how old, exactly – twelve?’

  ‘Gimme a break, she’s twenty-six.’

  ‘And just remind me again how old we are.’

  ‘We are sixty this year. You first, as you may recall.’

  ‘And you don’t see a problem with that?’

  ‘Well . . . I can see that . . .’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me, Richard. She’s young enough to be your daughter, almost young enough to be your granddaughter. You’re turning into a cliché. Next thing, you’ll be getting your ear pierced and buying a Harley-Davidson. How would you feel if it were your daughter with a sixty year old?’

  Richard delays his reply by taking a long swig of beer. ‘She’s getting married, my daughter – Carly,’ he says, seizing the chance to change the subject. ‘Did I already tell you that?’

  ‘Twice,’ Charlie says. ‘I meant what I said about Amanda. She’s lovely, but what do you have in common?’

  ‘Well, media, of course. We’re in the same business.’

  Charlie looks skeptical. ‘She’s a junior feature writer on the beauty section of a women’s magazine; you’re an ageing and fairly distinguished overseas correspondent and documentary maker – forgive my cynicism. What do you talk about, you two?’

  Richard grins and tosses back his whisky. ‘Who needs conversation?’

  ‘Well, you do, actually, and your perennial problem seems to be that you persist in pursuing women with whom you can’t have the conversations you want. You’re still doing it.’

  ‘Amanda’s not stupid.’

  ‘I didn’t say she was but I doubt she’s ever going to debate US politics or Middle East tensions with
you. The only woman you’ve ever had a relationship with who would, or could, have those conversations was Lily.’

  Richard fidgets in his chair and then sits back, crossing his legs. ‘If we’re on the subject of ex-wives, I saw Zoë last week.’

  Charlie puts down his drink and leans forward. ‘Good heavens. How did that happen?’

  Richard explains Zoë’s renewed friendship with Julia, her visit and the circumstances of their meeting.

  ‘Interesting,’ Charlie says. ‘I always liked Zoë, she was far too nice for you. Tried to chat her up myself once but she was too besotted with you to notice I was doing it. How is she? What’s she like these days?’

  ‘Married, with the son, of course, who’s now thirty-one, and two daughters. In many ways, she’s just an older edition of who she was – very sweet; warm; a bit more confident; cautious, I think; and a bit sad.’

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ Charlie says. ‘Actually, I think that a bit of sadness is a rather fine quality; attractive.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard says thoughtfully. ‘It can be, I suppose. Zoë is still quite attractive, and, even though I don’t think she realises it, quite sexy.’

  ‘You, of course, find any woman sexy as long as she’s breathing,’ Charlie says, finishing his beer.

  ‘Not really. Margaret Thatcher never did it for me. Neither did Madeleine Albright.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll both be devastated to hear that,’ Charlie says. ‘Anyway, I must be off, meeting to go to.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Give Zoë my love if you see her again and, remember, beautiful girls with perky breasts and perfect skin are ten-a-penny. Wise, loving and attractively sad older women are not, and they make better companions; you’re shopping in the wrong mall.’ And, thumping Richard on the shoulder, he squeezes out between the tables and heads off into the street.

  Alone again, Richard contemplates his friend’s parting remark. Charlie may well be right, he thinks, but it’s easy for him. He’s been married for years to a lovely woman they both knew at university; it’s the sort of rich, lively and loving relationship that Richard would give his right arm for but how will he find it at this time of life? Not long ago, he tried internet dating with women of his own age, but most of them just seemed to be looking for someone who’d take care of them financially. Even on a first meeting, they asked him what he earned, if he owned his own home, if he was internet dating with a view to marriage. After meeting several pleasant, but uninspiring, women who seemed to see sex and cooking as a sort of barter for financial security, he gave up. That was when he had started thinking about the possibility of getting together with Lily again. Some of the best times of his life had been with her; even the rows were exciting, and the conversations were incomparable.

  Over a long career, he has learned that the media – and television, in particular – has for some women a glamour attached to it, and that having a face that is even remotely familiar from the television screen gives him choices other men would kill for. Sadly, he’s found that the people it attracts are often vacuous, juvenile wannabes. Amanda is certainly not one of those. She’s smart and good company. Besides, there are other perks: the ego boost of being seen with a beautiful, and much younger, woman, the mind-blowing sex and being flirted with by her friends. But Charlie is right; he does yearn for something deeper and more satisfying, and for the comfort of a different sort of companionship – something he’d considered a hopeless cause after the recent shock of finally losing Lily. Was Charlie encouraging him to pursue Zoë? Surely not . . . and does he want to, anyway? She is married, after all, seemingly happily married, with a life and family on the other side of the world. Where could it possibly go?

  He orders another double scotch and turns his chair to the alcove window so he can watch the passing parade outside. Girls in flimsy summer dresses, the sunlight shining through their skirts just like in Princess Diana’s first press photograph; backpackers, in tiny shorts and cropped tops that leave little to the imagination; and the occasional elegant young professional in linen and silk who would distract the attention of an entire boardroom. Women, women, women – what is he supposed to do? Spend the rest of his life alone, a boring old fart, forgetting to wash and shaking his fist at potential intruders?

  He’d thought that if he and Zoë met it would be brief and prickly, but it had been easy and fun. And it was spiced somehow with the curiosity born of an intimate shared past. It had seemed almost risqué, sitting with her in Tom and Julia’s garden, walking her home, driving her to London and back again, and spending the following day with her. How easily, Richard thought now, with two pints of bitter and a couple of double shots of whisky under his belt, how easily it could have developed into something more. How easily it still might.

  It is still pitch dark when Archie’s alarm goes off on Saturday morning. As he stretches his arm out to silence it, his heart sinks at the sound of rain and wind whipping through the trees. He buries his face in the pillow and groans; what madness made him agree to this? But he is a man who keeps his promises and, rather than risk falling asleep again, he puts on the light, gets up, steps straight into his swimming trunks and a T-shirt, and pulls on his tracksuit. In the ensuite, he sluices water over his face and brushes his teeth. It is ten past five and he can hear Gaby’s alarm clock. Rubbing his hands through his hair, he goes to her room, switches off the clock and puts on the light, adjusting the dimmer switch to a low level.

  ‘Come on, Gabs,’ he says. ‘Time to get moving.’

  An irritable grunt comes from the mound in the bed but there is no movement.

  ‘Come on, love,’ he says, gripping the curve of her shoulder through the duvet. ‘Don’t go back to sleep.’

  ‘Okay, Dad!’ Gaby says sticking a disgruntled, sleep-blurred face out from the covers. ‘Okay! I can hear.’

  ‘Well then, get up and get moving, or we’ll be late. I’m going to make some tea.’ And he heads off to the kitchen, stopping on the way to collect the newspaper from the front step, and reassuring himself that in a couple of hours this caper will be over. He can come home, have a nice hot shower and plan his day. He makes two mugs of tea and, peeling the cling film off the West Australian, starts to read the front page story, about a scandal involving finance brokers. Sipping his tea, he turns to the rest of the story on an inside page and then to a related double-page feature. By the time he’s finished it, he’s drunk his tea, and is horrified to see that it’s five-thirty and there is no sign of Gaby. He taps on her door.

  ‘Come on, Gabs, time we left.’

  There is no sound from the room. He tries again and, when there is no response, opens the door. Gaby has switched off the light and disappeared back under the duvet.

  ‘Gabs!’

  ‘Shut up, Dad,’ she mumbles. ‘I’m not going; it’s cold and wet out there.’

  Archie, in the doorway, tosses up whether to drag her out and face the resulting hassles or leave her behind. He decides that the latter is easier and, grabbing a towel from the linen cupboard, he steps out into torrential rain and runs to the car.

  In the windswept car park near the surf club, a couple of people shrouded in rain capes are running through the puddles to the hut where the Polar Bears meet. Gwen’s car, he notes, is parked as close as possible to the hut. Archie takes a deep breath to steel himself for the ordeal ahead, opens the car door and runs, head down, to the hut. It’s warm inside and the light is dazzlingly bright. At one end of the small space, a woman whose wet hair is dripping onto the shoulders of her tracksuit is making toast – a reward, presumably, for surviving the ordeal of the ocean; others stand nearby stamping their feet, their hands clasped around mugs of tea or coffee. At a glance, it appears to Archie that everyone in the hut is his age or considerably older, and he wonders what on earth it is that compels them to turn up here almost every morning of the year to hurl themselves into the water. In summer, yes – but in mid-winter?

  Just inside the door, Gwen is leaning against a cabinet and cha
tting animatedly with a couple of burly older men in swimming trunks who are yet to take to the water.

  ‘Ah! Here he is,’ Gwen says. ‘Hello, Archie, I was just starting to think you’d chickened out.’

  He rubs his hands together. ‘Not me! But Gaby has, I’m afraid. She’s still glued to the bed.’

  ‘That’s the young’uns for you,’ one man says. ‘Faint hearted. Not stoic like us. Nice to meet you, Archie. This is Derek, I’m Bruce. It’s pretty rough, so we thought we’d wait and go down with you, as it’s your first time. Shall we get going?’

  Archie takes off his tracksuit and, acknowledging to himself that nothing can save him now, follows Gwen and the two men in a cautious jog to the water’s edge, feeling unusually vulnerable. It is still pitch dark, and barely possible to see where the sea stops and the sky begins, but the distant lighting in the car park reaches far enough for him to see that the waves are enormous.

  As a young man, Archie was a keen surfer and for years, the beach was his second home, but other things have slowly taken over his life. Marriage, children and all the responsibilities they create, advancement in his engineering career and the different lifestyle that has brought, have all gradually squeezed out his first love. Walks on the beach, a bit of swimming in the summer, and the occasional fishing trip are all he manages to fit in around the competing claims of work and family. And on this cold, dark morning, with the wind and water roaring in his ears and icy spray hitting his body, his youthful comfort zone is a horrible challenge.