The Practice Baby

by LM Ardor

  The absence of Tom as a topic left a hole in their conversation. Since his death he’d been the major focus their time together. This was their first time away with each other too. Dee tried not to think about what she and Raj meant to each other. Her inclination was to avoid classification of relationships and let them develop without restraint or guidance. Sometimes she considered that cowardice and sometimes she saw it as wisdom.

  Their friendship was due to Tom. Another reminder of him; a good one and one that hadn’t faded into the past like her dimming memories of his presence. Raj was charming and, importantly, not sick or dependent but she knew nothing about the rest of his life. There was no evidence of partners, either male or female. He never mentioned the wife and daughters in India that Tom had told her about, although that could have been a cover story. Maybe this was the weekend to find out.

  ‘What can we talk about then? Nothing to do with work either,’ said Raj.

  ‘What about you tell me the story of your life?’ Dee was emboldened to ask. The bubbles had gone straight to her head—exactly the right place for them to be.

  Raj’s skin was too dark to blush. He ran a finger along the inside of the collar of his shirt as though it had suddenly become tight.

  ‘Okay, why not? There’s very little to tell. Poor little rich boy—not really though—more poor little middle-class boy in a family who used to be rich and still told themselves they were important. My father built bridges so he was away a lot. Mama had staff so she got dressed up every day and we went out. One of her favourite places to take me was the library. We looked at pictures of Rajasthani princes and she told me stories of her ancestors, princes and maharajahs.

  ‘Mama was glamorous but always feared people would think she was lower caste because her skin was dark. I think the stories were to make sure those accusations were squashed before they had a chance to be expressed. Both my sisters were lighter skinned and the big refrain of our childhood was how lucky it was that it was the boy who was dark.’

  ‘Oh Raj; that’s awful.’ Dee reached across the table to put her hand over his. She was shocked—what a terrible burden for a child. Dee knew about the prejudice in favour of lighter skin tones but hadn’t connected that with the shame a growing child would feel.

  Raj looked at her hand on his. She pulled it away. She’d violated a taboo.

  With patients she was always aware of the power of touch. It needed to be restricted when people had bared their intimate parts, bodily or emotional. It was too powerful to be used spontaneously.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said and looked down.

  ‘No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry to talk about ancient history. I wasn’t asking for pity but it’s nice when someone understands.’ Raj reached across to grip her hand with both of his—a sort of handshake passed between them.

  They’d each finished a second glass of sparkling before their entrees arrived. Raj chose another local wine to go with the rest of their meal. It seemed churlish to reject his generosity.

  The other tables and conversations disappeared into a space made of candlelight, crystal, sandstone and starched white linen. The light was soft and somehow without shadows. The room gave sounds a ring of crystal clarity. Both of them were smart and glamorous. The sadness she’d felt since the horrible find of Tom’s body was still there in the moisture she felt in her own eyes and the way the light reflected in Raj’s.

  Alcohol rendered their sadness heroic. Together they would solve this, get justice for Tom.

  ‘Is it painful to remember this stuff?’ Dee asked.

  ‘No, it’s nothing. I’ve had an easy life, I’m smart, my business is going well. I’m out to dinner with a beautiful woman. What more could anyone want?’

  Raj had referred to her as beautiful before. Occasionally, if the light was right, Dee saw a hint of beauty in her own face. Her red hair at least was striking. Her breasts and waist were okay for a middle-aged woman and her bottom and thighs, well there wasn’t anything she could do about those. The traditional Indian depiction of the female form matched her own, she thought.

  ‘Raj, I know you mean well but when you say things like being out with a beautiful woman, it makes me embarrassed.’

  Raj pursed his lips and put his head to one side. ‘Why would you be embarrassed?’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s forget it.’ Dee realised she sounded as though she was fishing for compliments. ‘Finish telling me your story.’

  ‘I’ll tell you the rest but I’m not going to stop telling you that you’re beautiful, because you are.’ He ignored Dee’s raised palms and went on. ‘I came to Australia to study because my sister couldn’t get into school in the US and my parents wanted us to be together. At the end of university I spent a few years establishing a business. By chance, basically because my father’s business was hacked, I started in internet security when there weren’t many people doing it. The system I created was bought out for six million dollars US. That was a fortune then. In India, I could live the rest of my life in luxury on six million.’

  ‘It’s not too bad in Australia either,’ Dee said.

  Raj was dismissive. ‘Internet start-ups sell for hundreds of millions now,’ he said, as though selling his company for six million represented a failure.

  Two waiters arrived to simultaneously place a plate in front of each of them—gnocchi with shrimp in brown butter for Raj and double-cooked quail with a lime, salt and pepper dipping sauce for Dee. The table was quiet for some minutes.

  ‘But you didn’t live in luxury on the money?’ Dee prompted once the plates were empty.

  ‘No, a life of idleness wasn’t in my parents’ plans. Grandchildren were important and as the only boy I was to carry on the family name. Money helped offset the skin colour handicap but it was still more difficult than we thought. The right girls seemed to get close to commitment then drop out at the last moment.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Why wouldn’t they want you?’ said Dee and immediately blushed with what she’d revealed of her own feelings.

  Raj rolled his eyes. ‘You must have guessed.’

  So he was gay. A little bit of her had hoped it was just a cultural difference so she didn’t have to believe it. Was his sexuality so shameful that it had to be hidden in Australia in the twenty-first century?

  It was a relief this had come up before they got back to the hotel tonight. With all the alcohol, there was a danger they could fall into bed together. A disastrous humiliation that would threaten their friendship.

  Every waiter and the manager of the restaurant appeared together at their table as if summoned by Raj’s scandalous revelation. It only signalled the main course: Murray cod roasted whole in orange butter and black olives, filleted silver-service style and accompanied by Paris mash and shaved fennel. A salad of green leaves was dressed with local olive oil and aged balsamic and their glasses topped up. Only a third of the second bottle of wine remained.

  They were alone again.

  The flurry gave Dee a chance to collect her wits. Raj hadn’t said anything definite. Did he expect them to talk about his sexuality without putting a name on it?

  ‘Is being gay that big an issue in India? There must be traditional ways it’s dealt with.’ She was over pussy-footing around, pretending things were okay if no one said the big bad G word.

  Neither of them had touched the food in front of them. Raj had his eyes on the fish and reached for his fork.

  ‘Tell me. Why can’t we talk about this?’

  He put down the fork.

  ‘It isn’t easy when everyone assumes you’re gay—just because I like to dress well?’ Raj smiled to make it a joke.

  His eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Dee’s moistened too.

  ‘Did the Mogul emperors have to dress down to prove their manhood? There’s a rajah trapped inside this humble body and he needs to dress appropriately.’

  She pursed her lips and pulled her eyebrows into a semblance of se
rious support for his statement. She nodded. Raj seemed appeased.

  ‘I’m getting confused. So you’re not gay?’

  ‘No,’ he paused. ‘Well, I’m not totally averse to men. They’re so easy for sex. But my real interest is in women. I love women. How could anyone not? I’m always surprised all women aren’t lesbians.’

  ‘Yes, well, a wife would certainly make my life easier.’ Dee stopped. If she allowed Raj to divert her now she’d never get the story. ‘Hang on, can we go back a bit? What happened with the potential brides?’

  ‘The families all assumed I was gay.’

  Dee squirmed—she had jumped to the same conclusion.

  ‘These days that’s a problem. Women expect a husband who can do his duty.’

  Whether sexual needs were met or not in a marriage affected people’s lives profoundly. Talking about those needs, though, felt old-fashioned, contaminated with practicalities. The realities of the meshing of bodies, all without the sexual feelings of the moment, were awkward, almost sordid. Images of medical instruments to insert into people, corsets with pink elastic, surgical trusses, lubricants and rubber sex toys came to Dee’s mind.

  She wanted a veil drawn across the details. She moved the onus of explanation onto Raj to talk about just what he was comfortable with.

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Then Marina came along. She was smart, and beautiful and determined to have me so we married when I was thirty-five and she was twenty-three. It didn’t turn out to be what either of us wanted. Things were difficult from the start. I thought it was just that she was shy, over-protected, you know, but I could see the disgust in her eyes if I touched her. When we’d been married five months, Priya, her best friend, moved in and Marina slept most nights in Priya’s bed. Once a month she’d come to bed with me for a few nights and a kind of sex would happen. It wasn’t comfortable. She’d just lie still and I felt horrible. She wanted it to happen though. She wanted children, and I did too.’

  ‘Sounds like as reasonable a basis for marriage as many.’

  ‘Yes, except that she chose me because she thought I was gay and that I’d be cover for her and Priya. Oh, and I’d supply them with children of course.’

  ‘Oh Raj, that’s terrible,’ Dee spluttered. The maître d’ who was hovering nearby took the opportunity to interrupt.

  ‘Excuse me. Sir, Madam. Is anything wrong?’ he said as he indicated their untouched plates with an open palm.

  Raj and Dee looked up at him as though he were from another planet. Raj collected himself first.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said as he picked up his fork again, ‘it smells delicious.’

  ‘Yes, just carried away with talking,’ Dee said as she lifted a forkful of fish to her mouth. ‘Mm, it’s very good.’

  The two of them kept their mouths full until he went away.

  ‘This is good, if a bit cold. Can we eat and get back to the tragedy later? I don’t know if I’m up to reminding myself of what a disaster I’ve made of my life,’ said Raj.

  Dee finished her fish in silence although the urge to comment on Raj’s revelation was torturing her. As soon as their plates were cleared she burst out.

  ‘But you mean she thought you were safe to marry because you were gay?’

  Raj raised an eyebrow and twitched his eyes towards the only other occupied table in the room over his shoulder.

  ‘Raj, they’re too busy playing with each other’s laps under the table. They’re not listening to us. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Nothing much. It went on like that till Marina had a baby girl. Marika, she’s eleven now. That made us talk about it. We had to be better parents, get on with each other once there was another being, an innocent baby, involved.’

  ‘You never told me you had a child.’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain without the whole story. Anyway, I’ve got two daughters. Abbi is nine. Priya is her mother—by artificial insemination. I felt like the stud bull—valued for about two minutes and then irrelevant forever.’

  Behind Raj the other customers were paying their bill. The waiter was lurking again, dessert menus in hand. Dee called him over and ordered the dessert platter to share and a Pedro Ximénez sherry each.

  ‘Bring the bill and two short blacks, all at the same time as the dessert too.’

  Someone had to take care or they’d still be here in the morning when it was time to see Mr Fielding. Raj looked wrung out. Dee could see that there was more he hadn’t got out yet.

  ‘So what’s the rest?’

  ‘Nothing, that’s it.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Dee said gently. ‘Remember my profession is helping people confess their deepest secrets.’

  ‘I haven’t seen them for a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Three years.’ Tears welled up in Raj’s eyes. ‘Priya is a bit neurotic. She worries Marina will leave her for me, which is ridiculous, but they both think it will be better for the girls if I’m not around to confuse them.’

  Dessert and coffee and sherry arrived with the bill. Dee handed her credit card to the waiter.

  ‘Add fifteen percent for a tip and I’ll sign as we leave.’ She dismissed the waiter with a curt thank you.

  ‘But this weekend was my treat,’ Raj tried to object.

  ‘You’re looking far too silly to be taken seriously—and you need to tell me why you think being with their father will confuse your children.’

  Dee put a mini brandy snap filled with chestnut crème into her mouth to give Raj time to ponder what she’d said. The clarity of being moderately affected by alcohol made it easy to be sure he would see reason. Soon enough he did.

  ‘I know that really but I don’t know how to go about seeing them without causing a fight with their mothers. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.’

  ‘Three years is a very long time for a nine-year-old, or an eleven-year-old. Something has to happen soon. You need a good lawyer and a good relationship counsellor with experience in custody issues.’

  Dee knew alcohol made her dogmatic. Sometimes that was a good thing. ‘Monday. We’ll make appointments to see the right people straight away. You must know lawyers here with connections in India. Now don’t waste this dessert.’

  Across the table Dee linked the fingers of her right hand into his. He looked up at her. Without further words an agreement was forged to move on, to fix the situation.

  43.

  A warm light penetrated Dee’s eyelids. Her limbs were stiff. It felt as though she hadn’t moved all night. She allowed her eyelids to open a millimetre. She was in a big white room under a white doona. Heavy curtains covered the windows except for one crack which admitted a beam from the morning sun straight onto her face. Movement was painful but she turned over out of the sun. Her lips were dry and her mouth parched to the point where her tongue was stuck to her lower lip. A sickening smell of dusty potpourri motivated her to get up and open the window. Standing up suddenly wasn’t a good idea. She crept back under the covers.

  Her phone was on the bedside table. It read 5.57 am. Her alarm was set for six. Last night came back in fragments. How many standard drinks had she had? A bottle of wine each plus the dessert wine—better not add it up; by any measure it was too much. The automatic accompaniment to a hangover was self-recrimination. What had she said, was she out of control, loud, silly, pushy? The next step was to scan for any embarrassing things she may have said or done. Then she could replay them in her head all day as the nausea and fogginess kept her brain from anything more useful.

  She sat up. The world was steady. The walk home and the three large glasses of water she’d drunk must have had some effect; either that or she was still drunk. As a precaution she took two paracetamol and drank a further two glasses of water.

  The shower was strong and hot. The stinging jets on her skin let her drift through the events of the night. She and Raj had enjoyed each other’s company. The attention she received as partner of the handsomest man in
the restaurant was flattering; reflected glory was almost as sweet as the real thing. And Raj had finally told her the story of his marriage; the tragedy of his forced alienation from his daughters. And they’d agreed to fix it. The walk home took more than an hour, through dark streets with moonlit gardens and not a soul or a car about. They were magic creatures, gods roaming another world, immune to the daylight cares of the everyday.

  Halfway back, Raj had asked, ‘Can we hold hands?’ Dee took his without saying anything and they walked the rest of the way like lovers. On the landing outside their rooms they kissed and pressed their bodies together.

  ‘Not now. We need to be up early,’ Dee said as she broke away—even when significantly affected by alcohol she was too cowardly to deal with any more intimacy. No, not cowardly: cautious, sensible. Raj had just confessed that he was heterosexual. She was attracted to him but not safe enough yet to take off her clothes, to reveal her 52-year-old physical self. She’d said no to something she’d fantasised about since she’d met Raj. The walk must have sobered her up.

  Oh, God, had she really said, ‘Not now’?

  Stop, stop, stop! It was a wonderful night. She refused to spoil it with recrimination. To banish the embarrassment, she turned her body to and fro in the shower, recalling the sensation of being pressed against Raj. That alone made the evening worthwhile.

  44.

  The editor, Mr Fielding, was in his sixties, wiry with lots of silver hair and bright blue eyes. In between the wrinkles on his face, an inquisitive ten-year-old peeked out. He took Raj and Dee across the newsroom into his glass-walled office. They sat several feet from him at his huge desk. He leaned back in a brown leather executive chair that made him appear several inches taller. A faint scent of cigars gave him away as a smoker.

  ‘Mmm, Adam Fairborn. Had a young lad here a few weeks ago wanting information about him. Anything going on?’

  ‘It might not come to anything—it’s better if we don’t say at the moment,’ said Dee.