Elsewhere in Success (12 page)

This is the kind of life she could have had if she'd made different choices, if she'd been a different sort of person. The men play darts. The women pass comment or sit
around discussing their kids' schooling, their new job, their philosophies on life and the inevitable demise of society. Other people. They drink beer or wine. One drinks only water.

Brian's wife Lorraine wants to talk about the people who lived in the house before Harry and Louisa moved in.

‘They were a young couple,' she says. ‘Too young really. Not great gardeners. So the place was starting to bring down the property values a bit. Still, I reckon they should have been out having a good time, travelling or something. It was inevitable that they'd split up in the end really, which they did, and then she took off. But I've seen him still hanging around occasionally. He's not a bad guy. He's quite sweet really, but I don't know that he's over it after all this time. He always has that look, you know, sort of hangdog. He's probably not quite the full quid, if you know what I mean, I mean smart enough, but a bit unbalanced. And some people really hang onto things way past their use-by date, don't they?'

‘What would you consider to be a reasonable use-by date then, Lorraine?' Louisa asks acidly.

Her tone cuts through the general chatter, and attracts a couple of sideways glances. Lorraine laughs.

‘Fair enough,' she says blushing. ‘I've never really paid much attention to some of those use-by dates anyway. Where do they get them from anyway? I mean, like they say, how long is a piece of string?'

‘Yeah, I've always wondered that,' Harry chips in from just behind them where he has arrived with a drink in hand for Louisa. He winks. ‘Just long enough to hang yourself apparently.'

Christmas is coming and with Harry's new job Louisa wonders if things will be different next year. They mark the passing of another year by taking out the old Christmas tree and the ancient angel whose thinning cottonwool hair is pleasing to them both, and Harry spends a day putting coloured lights around the outside of the house. When darkness falls he walks across to the park to see how they look from there. He will spend the next day adjusting them to maximise the festive effect for passers-by.

Each year he adds something new to the collection. This year he tells her that he is thinking of something big, like a sleigh for the roof. Louisa worries – she doesn't want him falling – but the idea is strangely appealing. She imagines herself, Harry and Buster flying through the night sky on Santa's sleigh. Tom could sit up front, just like he wanted to when he was a little boy.

That first Christmas after the great escape, as she calls it, they were at Simon and Rhianna's place, and Simon had decorated the entire house with lights for the children. Every year after that, Meri and Tom would beg for lights and Louisa would oblige. Somewhere along the line they grew out of it,
but by that time Louisa realised that the lights were for her as much as the children. The few years without them seemed strangely empty.

The Christmas after Tom died she asked Harry to put up lights again, and she still keeps the practice for Tom, she says, as a kind of vigil. She likes to think that he is watching and that the opportunity hasn't passed. He always wanted a sleigh on the roof but when she was on her own with the kids they never got one, because it always seemed too hard.

‘Get it,' she now tells Harry. ‘We can figure out how to put it up there later.'

‘It's not too much?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Not too kitsch?'

‘No. No, not at all.'

She finds it hard to tell these days. They have noticed their growing predilection for bric-a-brac with each year that passes. Perhaps it's something to do with moving to the outer suburbs. Some people have started putting gnomes in their gardens again. They say it's retro. She finds it strangely comforting. If she'd had grandchildren she would have amused them with her funny china ornaments. When they got older they could speak disparagingly but affectionately about their nanna and her stuff. She could have had bits and pieces from the two-dollar shop, tap-dancing dogs and spinning monkeys. She doesn't have grandchildren, but she has Harry, and he humours her. Together they have the dog, but Buster has little appreciation for the purely ornamental.

A few years ago, Louisa bought Harry a singing fish, when they were appearing everywhere, and she imagined Tom as a little boy, playing with it. Or Meredith. The thought hurts.

‘Deal with it,' she says.

‘What?' says Harry.

‘What do you think of this parrot?' she asks him, showing him a page in the catalogue she has been flicking through. ‘It
says here that it says ten different things – affirmations to start your day off right.'

‘No, Louisa.'

‘There's nothing wrong with it. It's popular culture.'

‘That
is
a bit much.'

‘It'll cheer you up.'

‘The fish is enough for me. We'll get him some new batteries for the barbecue.'

They are gearing up to have people over this year. The singing fish will feature as a talking point when things get too serious or quiet, or if someone starts talking politics or religion, because of the odd mix. The old man who walks his dog in the park. Carole and Gordon. His mother, and Louisa's. Her boss.

Later Louisa notices Harry lingering over the picture of the parrot. She keeps her Christmas list on the right-hand television surround-sound speaker under the saxophone-playing frog. She writes the parrot down on her list followed by a question mark in brackets which she uses when she doesn't feel confident enough to fully commit to a question mark.

At the end of the day Harry throws out the junk mail along with the page featuring the circled parrot, and she deadheads the roses. They sit, drink beer and watch Buddha and their newly acquired solar light as darkness falls, in an effort to catch the exact moment that it switches on.

They go inside prematurely and miss it.

Louisa has one more session booked with Lucy before Christmas. It's always a difficult time for her. She wants to talk about pleasant things, but Lucy has set the agenda.

Louisa notices something here: a subtle change in Lucy's expression. She has seen it before and wonders about it. There is something in Lucy's own history. She allows her gaze to drift to the happy family picture that Lucy keeps on her bookcase. A younger version of Lucy is surrounded by three children and no husband. Her gaze drifts to Lucy's fourth finger. She wears
an elaborately decorated wedding ring. Lucy notices Louisa's attention and clasps her hands together.

‘Take your time,' Lucy says.

‘Yes all right.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘You're interested in the very first time? It's hard, Lucy, because these things don't seem quite so defined. I mean, of course there was a first time that he hit me, but somehow there seemed to be a kind of logic to it. A progression.'

‘That's interesting. Can you explain that a bit more?'

‘I'm not sure. I was shocked, I suppose, and angry, but not surprised somehow. I mean somehow in my own mind I had separated the sexual – um – behaviour from just raw violence, I suppose, because I think that there were certain social attitudes at that time about not getting yourself into certain situations. Which I had. I was young of course, but still. And also the assumption, which I bought, I must have bought, about domestic violence: that it only happened to other people of a certain class, and then if the woman nagged or provoked the man in some way I suppose. But as it turned out, that wasn't actually true.'

‘No.'

‘At least I couldn't think of anything I'd done, although something had been brewing for a few days. So I wasn't really surprised as such, but I was shocked, if that makes sense. I was shocked not only that it happened, but at the way it seemed to be almost inevitable.'

Louisa feels compelled to protect her midriff, but this is as much to guard her from what Lucy must think, as it is from the memory of the winding punch that sent her to her knees before that first real onslaught.

Lucy sits. Louisa collects her thoughts.

‘And then there was the overpowering force of my own feelings. I hated him. Such an awful thing, and unusual for me. I don't tend to hate people. But I was angry: I'd never been so
angry. I started fantasising about getting revenge. I thought – I thought he has to go to sleep sometime, and then we'll see. Then we'll see.'

‘You thought of attacking him?'

‘I wanted to kill him. That's terrible, isn't it? Yes.'

‘Why didn't you?'

‘What?'

‘Why didn't you?'

‘Are you serious? You're not serious are you?'

‘Self-defence. He might have killed you.'

‘Well yes, there's that. I don't believe in hurting people.'

‘And yet...?' Lucy is persistent. She stares directly into Louisa's eyes.

‘Oh well, you know. You have these impulses, you think these extreme thoughts in the heat of the moment, and I think with all the adrenaline rushing through the body you don't realise how badly he has hurt you. After he calmed down, the next day he seemed so terribly sorry. And then someone had called the police and they came when Victor was at work and asked if I wanted to press charges, but I felt they were just going through the motions really, talking down to me, and giving me the hint that it might do more harm than good. What was the point? To be honest, I felt ashamed, as if I should never have got myself into that situation in the first place. I kept searching through my actions for a reason. Sometimes I could sound a bit blunt. Tactless. I thought that could be it. You trust people to let you express yourself without getting offended. I used to anyway, before that.'

‘You have a right to speak honestly. Yes.'

‘Yes. But people do tend to blame the woman.'

‘Not always.'

‘No? People judge you. You probably judge me, don't you, deep down?'

‘I don't at all.' But there is uncertainty in her voice. Lucy on the back foot.

Louisa is annoyed at her now. It's time to move on. It's not fair that Lucy should pry: there's a fine line, and some things are too private, even for therapy. Nevertheless she feels compelled to explain herself.

‘I did think of retaliating, of course. But part of me was thinking about my baby, and who would take care of her if something happened to me. That was before Tom was born, of course. So in the cold light of day it wouldn't do. Those thoughts are fuelled by emotion, and by the time I was actually capable of doing anything I didn't have the emotional power any more. Anyway, I'm not like that. I wouldn't ever hurt a fly really. But that was the scariest thing of all: being so angry.'

‘Why didn't you leave, Louisa?'

‘It's not that easy. People deserve a chance.'

‘Well, yes. So did you.'

‘Yes, but he wasn't as emotionally strong. I thought. Physically, yes. And I do believe in giving people a chance. I didn't know if it was just a one-off. I suppose I told myself it was a one-off. I suppose I'd already been backed into a corner and he was my whole world by then. I couldn't see the bigger picture any more. He and Meredith were my world. Also divorce wasn't a big thing then. I mean, not many people did it. No-fault had come in, but still. My family had always been quite conservative, I suppose.'

‘Were you frightened for Meredith's future?'

‘Well no, not really then, because I thought it wouldn't happen again. I thought he was genuinely sorry and that he'd exercise restraint next time he got frustrated about work or, or whatever.'

‘Can you talk a bit about Meredith?'

Louisa feels her face tightening. She glares. Lucy persists.

‘What about your daughter?'

‘I don't know. What would you have done, Lucy? He probably would have killed us if we'd left. I didn't want to die. Not then. I didn't want anything to happen to my baby. What
would you do if it was you?' Louisa hears the sarcasm in her own voice.

‘Honestly? I don't know what I would have done. I don't know. He put you in a terrible situation. Just awful. He took enough from you, Louisa. Don't let him take any more.'

Louisa crosses her arms. Lucy presses on.

‘I just feel that there's something stopping you from getting close to your daughter. That's all. I could speculate that you're punishing yourself, but I don't know. You probably do, at some level, which is why you're not reaching out more.'

‘I do. I don't think she's interested.'

‘I don't think that can be right.'

‘I'm not sure what you mean.'

‘It's just a feeling. I'm concerned. I feel we're not finishing on a very good note.'

‘That's okay. It's Christmas after all.'

‘Are you going to be all right?'

‘Sure.'

‘You're a good person, Louisa. I'm on call over the break. If you need to talk.'

‘Okay. Thanks.'

As Louisa leaves she wonders again whether this therapy is making things worse. She really feels terrible now. Why would she think Lucy has the answers any more than she does? She's just a woman. What makes her think that anyone has the answers? All she wants is to go home and have a good laugh with Harry.

At South Beach Cafe the furniture is cemented to the ground to make it impossible to steal. Carole, Louisa and Rhianna sit around the immovable table like the old friends that they were, and to the untrained eye might appear as solid and as difficult to shift.

Carole, who prefers everything out in the open, is determined to make the most of the meeting by ensuring that their common history isn't ignored, but Louisa and Rhianna resist. There is still something blocking progress. Louisa tries to ignore it, but feels it enclosing her, frustrating movement in all directions. Her habit is to pretend that it isn't there.

It is not good for her to live like this. She needs her friends. She tries to identify where the cooling of the friendship occurred. There was no single dramatic incident, but something has happened progressively.

When she was younger she was more forward-looking: after she left Victor, when he had found other distractions and faded from their lives, and also before him. In those days it seemed that there was still the possibility of better times ahead. She and her friends helped each other out and grew closer as a result, drawing up and replenishing each other's
strength. Later, when she needed it most, in the years after Tom as her daughter became progressively more remote, Louisa was too worn out and too overwhelmed to ask for help or offer it. For whatever reason, the dynamic had changed and they all drifted apart.

Then one day, she wondered, and perhaps the others did too, what they were doing. It happened for her one evening as the sun was sinking from a cloudless sky into the ocean. She, Harry and Buster were watching together, wishing for a skerrick of cloud to catch the afterglow. Her thoughts had been drifting but a coincidental combination of thoughts came together in synchronicity. She felt a sense of longing for things lost: the warmth of old friendships. She began to see more of Carole, and sought Rhianna out again. She and Harry minded Rhianna and Simon's old dog when they went away, and they looked after Buster from time to time.

But that sort of contact is a different, diminished sort of connection. It is too fleeting and distracted, too polite, too pleasant, dropping off and picking up the dogs, talk of practicalities, quantities of food and emergency phone numbers. They never really talked the way they used to.

But three women, old friends meeting for lunch, has potential. So today they meet hoping to create something new. Or she does. Everyone remembers the past differently. Carole is pleased that they are all together again. Rhianna is giving nothing away but seems open to whatever happens. For the first time in a long time they really see each other. In the harsh outdoor light with shadows cast from the cafe shelter and the blue reflections from the painted tables, Louisa notices how old the others have become, and how changed. She'd seem that way to them too, she guesses. The women smile and appear relaxed, but their eyes expose their history, the difficult and unnecessary detours their lives have taken. Rhianna has never had children. She would have made a good mother. Louisa thinks that perhaps Rhianna resents
her for having children and making such a mess of it. She looks closely for signs of this, but can't identify anything in her eyes, except kindness.

They talk and smile, and try too hard to recapture the relationship they once had. The years have banished it, and it won't come back. Instead of talking over the top of one another in their excitement to share, they smile pleasantly, protecting their gains and losses.

‘Louisa said you'd been to Scotland again,' Rhianna is saying to Carole.

‘I've been three times,' Carole says. ‘We're planning to go back in March for about six months. Gordon's sister is going to Spain and wants someone to stay in her house so we said we'd go. It's going to be fantastic. There's a small studio room in the backyard where she said I can do my sculpture, and Gordon has long service leave. I can take leave on half-pay and then leave without pay, so I'm going to do it. Bugger it! You're only young once!'

‘That's fantastic!' says Rhianna, as Louisa nods. ‘It's about time you did something for yourself.'

‘What are you going to do with your house?' asks Louisa.

‘I don't know. I was thinking I might rent it out, but I don't want to take a risk with it. You never know who you're going to get, do you? Would one of you like to stay in it? You could have a holiday of your own. We'll need someone to look after Percy. There's a good cat-boarding place up in the hills, but I think he'd be more settled in his own home.'

‘Have you still got him?' says Rhianna, amazed. ‘How old is he?'

‘Eighteen. He's got a couple more years in him.'

Last time she saw him, Louisa noticed that Percy had started dribbling, but he is very special because he belonged to Carole's daughter.

‘Moggies last longer than pedigrees I suppose,' Louisa says.

‘Yes. So what about it? House-sitting.' Carole sticks to
her agenda. She's angling to close the deal. It's made her the successful businesswoman that she is.

Louisa can't imagine anyone feeling particularly comfortable there. Carole is obsessed with having everything just so. What would happen if she were to break something? She might feel compelled to break something.

‘You know that Buddha water feature with the light that we saw at the winery that day?' says Carole. ‘I bought it. You could sit and meditate out the back. You could have Harry over, as if he was your lover. You know it's very private out there, except for the sound of the chooks next door, but you get used to them. I don't know if they are allowed to keep chooks in the metro area; do you? I wanted to complain, but Gordon wouldn't let me. He reckons it makes him feel like he is living in the country.'

‘I don't know,' says Louisa. ‘I'd have to think about it. It might be nice having my own space for a while, but I don't know about Harry. He might get used to living on his own. Or what if I did?'

‘What if you did?' says Carole.

‘You used to be more adventurous when we were younger,' Rhianna says.

‘Why don't you move in then?' says Louisa.

‘Because I don't want to,' says Rhianna, with a hint of her old liveliness. This gives Louisa some hope. Something of their old relationship might be salvaged.

‘It's an interesting idea,' says Louisa. ‘Can I think about it?'

‘Sure,' says Carole. ‘I want to sort something out soon, so can you get back to me by next week sometime?'

Louisa agrees to do this after she has talked it over with Harry. She wonders whether some distance might make the heart grow fonder or more remote. She wonders, for some reason that she doesn't analyse, about that man in the white van. Perhaps he is homeless. Perhaps he is driving around parking under people's trees so that he feels he has some roots.
No pun intended. She smiles to herself. Pun intended. Perhaps he would like to house-sit Carole and Gordon's house. Perhaps he is a nice young American man with good manners. Perhaps he is escaping some sort of situation.

After they hug and go their separate ways, Louisa drives slowly home with her window open, the radio turned off and her hair blowing into knots. When she arrives home, Harry is out. She makes herself a cup of tea and takes it outside to sit on the swing and think about what has transpired.

She wonders about the commitment of keeping up with old friends, that level of intimacy that women have. She provisionally decides that it isn't good to force anything. You can't go back, can you?

Then she thinks about Tom, and is suddenly angry at him for choosing the wrong path and for putting her and Meri and everyone through so much pain. ‘It's too bad,' she says to him. ‘I know you were young, but what on earth were you thinking? Why couldn't you just exercise a bit of self-control? What made you think you had no responsibility for the life you were given?'

The opportunity more or less falls into their laps. Gordon has had to fly back to Scotland because his mother is ill, so Harry has arranged to meet Carole at her place. When he gets there she takes a while to answer the bell.

‘Who is it?' she eventually asks through the closed door.

‘It's me, Harry,' he says, feeling foolish. Who did she think it was?

She opens the door. She is wearing a pair of dark blue pyjamas made out of some sort of silky material. Her hair, which she normally keeps tied up, is hanging loose. She looks younger, more approachable, less businesslike than normal.

‘Oh Harry,' she says, ‘just making sure. There's something wrong with the peephole. Come on through.'

She is wearing a familiar perfume. Harry has a
flashback – Yasamine dressed in a smooth black dress. She was wearing the locket he gave her for her birthday. He just fastened the clasp of the chain, and his fingers stopped to play with the fine silk of her skin. He wound his arms around her from behind and buried his face in her hair. He feels the sensation of it now on his cheeks. He shakes the thought away. He is here, now, in Carole's house, and not with his wife.

He is more nervous than he had expected. It's not the first time he's done something like this, but he hasn't been with anyone else since he moved in with Louisa, and her best friend is high stakes. The foreplay is over. This is the real deal.

He smiles, raises his eyebrows, and hands her the flowers he's bought from a roadside stall that is permanently set up around the corner from his house. The flower-seller is surly and never says more than two words, so there's no chance of it getting back to Louisa. If it did he'd say they were for his mother. The flowers are all pungent smells and bright colours, and the oversized bunch is wrapped in purple and red paper. One orange daisy thing is hanging its head as if its neck is broken.

Carole relieves him of the flowers and puts them on the hall stand beneath the pictures of her grandchildren.

‘How thoughtful.'

She kisses his cheek, lingering there and slowly working her way around to his ear. Her perfume is heavy but not suffocating. His ear is cold where she has licked it. When she turns to get him a drink, his hand automatically goes up to wipe his cheek.

‘Here's something I prepared earlier,' she says, handing him the drink.

‘Thanks.'

‘Don't mention it,' she says. She leads him into the sitting room and sits on the couch. ‘Come and sit down.' She pats the seat next to her.

Harry sits, takes the glass from her hand and puts it on the
table at his side, slopping a little over the rim and his hand as he does so. Carole takes his hand and licks the spilt drink from his fingers. It feels strange and Harry has the urge to laugh, but he controls himself.

‘Sweet,' she says. ‘Intoxicating.' She is leaning over him. He can see down her pyjama top. Her nipples are erect. He feels himself getting hard. It feels good to be hot, and he finds it reassuring that he is responding as easily as he is.

‘Keep it up,' he says, half to himself.

‘Couldn't have put it better myself,' says Carole. ‘I'd better wipe that up off the table before it marks,' she says, grabbing a handful of tissues.

‘Sorry,' he says.

‘Don't worry about it.' She mops it up, leaning over him. Her pyjamas are silk and slide around on her body without making sparks: none of that cheap polyester stuff that Louisa wears. ‘I don't want you to worry one bit,' she says.

‘I wasn't,' he says, taking her wrist. He kisses her, a long, deep, slow kiss. She has just cleaned her teeth and is wearing some sort of flavoured lipstick. ‘You taste nice,' he says.

‘So do you.' She pushes him down so that he is only half lying on the couch, with his legs angled down to the floor, and climbs on top of him. ‘I like it on top,' she says. ‘I like to feel strong and powerful. I like to take control. All you need to do is what I tell you to.'

‘Great,' he says. ‘I like a woman who knows her own mind.'

She unties her complicated pyjama top without Harry seeing how. She has the body of a younger woman, at variance with her face. Harry vaguely wonders if she's had some sort of cosmetic surgery. Gordon has plenty of money and is generous enough, he thinks, and Carole's got a good job too. Between the two of them they'd be doing all right.

Carole starts to undo his shirt, kissing his neck and his chest as she goes down on his body. ‘Mm, nice chest,' she says. ‘What else do we have down here? What's this here?'

‘I think that's pretty obvious,' he says. He cups his hands over her breasts, but the position is awkward and he lets go. She goes down on him now, licking and sucking.

He is uncomfortable, not enjoying it as much as he should. He clears his throat. ‘Do you have a bed?' he says after a moment. ‘It's just that my back is killing me.'

‘Oh come on,' says Carole. ‘Don't be an old man.' She keeps playing with him, kissing him, teasing him with her tongue.

‘Well as far as that goes you're hardly sixteen yourself, are you?' Harry snaps this more than he intends to. His back has started to hurt quite badly and the pain is shooting down his left leg.

She stops and sits up. He adjusts his position and the pain subsides a bit.

‘What?' she says.

‘You're not, are you?' he says, still irritably adjusting his position underneath her. ‘Anyway that's what beds are for. More room to manoeuvre.' He winks at her to relieve the tension.

Carole recoils slightly. She is reconsidering. ‘It's upstairs,' she says, but there is an edge to her voice now. Then she laughs. ‘Sometimes I forget,' she says as she climbs off him and stands up. ‘You're right. We're not as young as we used to be. Gordon prefers the bed too. Come on.'

‘You're only as young as the woman you feel,' says Harry automatically. He uses this line with Louisa all the time and she always smiles, but Carole doesn't get the joke. Too bad! He is annoyed that she has brought Gordon into the picture. There should be some sort of unspoken rule about that.