Opportunity (24 page)

The man held his hand up again. 'Our brief is to check on
the welfare of the children. Not the adults' quarrels.'

'But the background's important, surely. The reason for the
complaint.'

'We hear all sorts of things.'

'Well, do you listen to them?'

'We certainly do.' He gave me a long, pointed look.

Scott put his hand on my arm.

Mary Michaels said brightly to Scott, 'Sarah's school report
is certainly excellent.'

She had told me that once a notification was made, it could
never be erased. I thought about this. We were 'on file'. All our
middle-class conscientiousness — the ban on smacking, the
minute control of diet and environment, the finger painting
and nature walks and birthday parties, all our slavish, adoring
love of our little girls had ended up here, in interrogation,
humiliating inspection, a social worker saying 'violence' and
'police' and making notes on a file that would be kept
forever.

'The children are our whole life,' I said stupidly.

Mary Michaels nodded, smiled.

The man said heavily, 'When the grown-ups make
complaints about each other, it's the children in need who
suffer.'

There was another silence.

'He's the one who's made the complaint,' Scott pointed out.

The man looked aggrieved. 'When I have to sort out
between warring mums and dads, and find out who's telling
the truth, it takes me away from my real job. Caring for the
kids.'

Scott sat forward impatiently. '
We'd
rather not be here.
He's
got us here, by making a false complaint. Once you're satisfied
about the children, I want you to prosecute him.'

'We'll look into that,' the man said. 'Among other things.'

Mary Michaels said, soothing, 'We'll speak to our manager.
We can issue a warning to people who make false complaints.'

The man said, 'You'll appreciate, we can't assume someone's
a certain kind of person just because they've got a certain kind
of job.' He looked meaningly at Mary Michaels. He was
accusing her of sucking up to Scott. He wasn't going to be told
what to do. The woman was freer, more flexible. But she was
junior to him.

I said to her, 'You talked to Gerald. I bet you could tell
there's something wrong with him.'

'You should stay away from him,' she said. 'Don't be tempted
to get into an argument. It may be what he wants.'

'We have a job to do,' the man broke in.

He picked up Sarah's school report. He put on a pair of
glasses. Sophie stood up, bored. She leaned on me and
grumbled and I quietened her.

The man said, 'It's a good report.'

'And the social bits,' I said. 'Happy, friendly, co-operative.'

The man looked over his glasses at the kids. His tone
softened. 'We have a full schedule. A lot of people to see . . .'

'Is that it?' I'd expected more. Some interrogation of the
children.

'I think we're finished,' the man said.

We stood up. We shook hands all round.

'Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch,' they said,
as if we'd just tried to sell them something.

***

I rang Rachel. I told her everything. 'Can you believe it?' I
said.

'What a creep,' she said. She sounded subdued. I could
sense her shying away. She'd always been hypersensitive. She
didn't like ugliness, unpleasantness. It made me go on and on,
trying to win her over. In the end she said she had to go, she
had work to do. I was depressed afterwards. I thought about
the taint Gerald had put on us.

'Are you going to tell your parents?' I asked Scott.

He hesitated.

'Surely you're going to tell them?' I'd told mine. They were
sympathetic, horrified.

'Why aren't you going to?' I pressed him.

'It doesn't matter, does it?'

'You think they won't believe us?' I knew I should leave it but
I couldn't. I was angry. His parents suddenly seemed stupid to
me. Hostile simpletons. The sort of people who would go on
about 'values' while letting themselves off all kinds of crimes.

'I don't want to hear any crap about my family,' Scott said.
He walked away.

We went to a lawyer, who drew up defamation papers. As
soon as our documents were served on him, Gerald rang the
law firm to find out if they were genuine. He must have
thought we were playing a trick on him, the kind of trick he'd
played on us.

Two weeks later a letter came from the social workers. The
case had been investigated. No problems were found and no
action would be taken. The department wished us well. The
enquiry would be closed.

But the file remained. It could never be erased.

Scott came home. I showed him the letter.

He said, 'They won't prosecute Gerald. They say people
have to feel free to notify.'

'They think we're throwing our weight around. They're not
going to be dictated to.'

He said, 'We have to keep calm about it, remember.'

'That mad bastard,' I said.

'Don't talk like that. We have to be rational.'

'I am bloody rational.'

'And don't swear. That's what got us into trouble in the first
place.'

'
What
? You swear all the time.
He
got us into trouble.
Because he's mad.'

'We don't want anyone knowing about this. What'll he do
next — go to the media? Do you realise what he could do to
us? Don't provoke him.'

'Why would I provoke him?'

'Because you're fiery.'

'What's that supposed to mean? I have never provoked
him.'

'Shut up!'

He walked away, pressing his hands to his eyes.

***

I was in my room, working. Scott rang, excited.

'Gerald went to a lawyer. He's signed an apology, in
exchange for us not suing him. Saying he shouldn't have made
a notification.'

I leaned my forehead against the doorframe. 'Oh, that's
wonderful. Brilliant.'

'We can get it put on the file,' he said.

The file that lasts
forever
. I looked over at Gerald's house.
'One day he's going to pay.'

'We'll just keep away from him,' Scott said. 'We will
not
get
carried away.'

'Let's go out to dinner.'

'Good idea. Oh no, I can't. I've got the banquet.'

'Oh yes. Well. It's good news. I'll see you. In the morning, I
suppose.'

I picked up the girls and took them to swimming. We
bought pizza on the way home. I was so pleased about Gerald's
apology that I let them have all kinds of treats. We had a festive
little dinner.

'Where's Daddy?' they clamoured.

'At a do. A fancy banquet for work.'

I read to them and put them to bed. I opened the window
and looked out at the rainy dark. I went around the house
locking up. Through the trees I saw Gerald pass his kitchen
window. I went to bed. The rain was getting heavier; it
drummed on the roof, overflowing the guttering and spouting
into the garden.

I got up. It was 3 a.m. I walked through the rooms. The
house was dark and cool. I watched the silvery water coursing
down the glass in the sitting room, the liquid shadows
streaming down the walls. I looked out at the street. A taxi
was driving away.

Scott was standing in the rain, wearing his black and white
dinner suit. He tilted his face to the heavy downpour, swaying
a bit on his feet. He wiped the drops from his face, loosened
his black bow tie. He turned.

He took hold of Gerald's wooden letterbox, wrenching and
ripping it back and forth until its pole came out of the ground.
He put his whole body into it. He held it high and smashed it
on the road. He kept smashing it until it broke into pieces. He
threw the pieces over the hedge. He spat on the road.

He leaned one hand against the lamppost. Rain streamed
down through the light. He stood there, as if lost in thought.

I went back to bed. He came in quietly and sat down on the
side of the bed.

I rolled over. 'How was it?'

'Just the usual. Long speeches. Not too bad.'

'Anything interesting?'

'No.'

I ran my hand over his back. 'How did you get so wet?'

'I walked some of the way. I was thinking.'

'About Gerald?'

'No. Not about him.'

He took his clothes off and got into bed. He put his arms
around me. We lay in the dark, listening to the rain.

We were on to the second course when the light changed in
the room. Two long shafts of gold fell across the floor and
the room was lit up; the bleached faces along the table looked
exhausted already. Sandy's cheeks were dry, perspiration
beading her upper lip; Dave was red-eyed, his face creased in
a foolish smile. George had surrendered to a blank moment
and was gazing out at the milky skin of the sea, the container
ships out there with their toy colours, the gulls lined along the
rusty railing. There had been a sudden shower; now the sun
appeared like a white disc, slicing through the cloud. George
sighed and gathered himself, and turned to Miranda. I saw
him brace himself against her bright scrutiny, the amused
malice of her gaze. She was intelligent; cleverness expressed
itself in her tiny eyes, in her sensual, brutal mouth. Such fools
she made of us.

Before lunch George had given the usual reminders.
Miranda is an important client. She must be shown a good
time. Miranda can give us work — more work than you could
ever imagine. She is courted by many firms. The competition
is fierce. She must be wined and dined, until dawn if necessary.
Calls had been made to spouses. Belts loosened. The afternoon,
the evening, had been written off. Lunch with Miranda: you
never knew when you'd get home.

No one could match her stamina. She and her deputy, Mark
Venn, dined out on law firms, and always they drank the
lawyers under the table. They watched, with spiteful amusement,
as lawyers crashed and burned, trying to show them a
good time. Midnight would find Miranda Hill sipping a
cocktail, upright and smiling, amid the human wreckage of
the group who had treated her to lunch. Lunch would have
turned into dinner, dinner into cocktails, and finally the last
ones standing would escort Ms Hill to some exclusive bar,
where she and Venn would gossip languidly — usually on the
subject of bungling lawyers — before stepping over the bodies
of their hosts and strolling off to a cab. The next day, on
receiving the shame-faced, hungover phone call — its
gruesome jokes, its wincing joviality: 'So, feel like throwing a
bit of something our way?' — Ms Hill might release one small
snippet of work. Or not. It depended on whether you'd shown
her a good time. If not, the following evening, she might let
slip the odd detail of last night's 'debacle', her new companions
writhing with sycophantic mirth over their rivals' embarrassing
collapse.

That's business.

She was looking at me. George had seated me opposite her:
she was said to like young men. There was a crease between
her plump arm and her fleshy hand, as if a string had been
tied tight around her wrist. Her eyes were deep-set. Beneath
the mask of round cheeks, long lashes and the frame of glossy
brown curls, her real nature — hard, alert and vigilant — was
watching. I smiled vaguely and looked beyond her to the sea,
so calm that it gave off an oily glow. A seagull turned against
the bright sky, the reflection of the water rippled on the wall.
There was the creak of ropes, of boats shifting against the
wharf. Miranda broke the leg of her crayfish with a tiny crack
and sucked out the flesh. The music CD had stuck, a tune had
begun to repeat itself, now there was an unnatural hush as the
waiters rushed to change it. Sandy laughed out loud and
covered her mouth. Mark and Miranda exchanged a look over
her head. I had not drunk much wine but already it was too
much; I felt dazed in the heat and the bright light, at one
remove from the company. This would not do: I had to last
the distance. I looked around for the carafe of water, and
resolved to drink no more. Miranda reached across and filled
my wine glass.

'Cheers,' she said.

'Cheers,' I replied, and obediently drank, and looked at the
golden bars of light lying across the table near us. Miranda
and Mark had arrived an hour late. The afternoon shadows
were lengthening on the wharf. Already the lunch crowd was
emptying out.

George clapped his hands and began an anecdote. He
wasn't naturally jolly. I heard the strain in his voice. He was a
tall, thin, mournful man, diligent, polite, often ridiculed for
his awkwardness. Miranda watched him perform, unsmiling,
cracking the legs of her crayfish. The waiters put on a fresh
CD, and George was obliged to talk over music that was
hectic, too loud.

He finished his story. He gave a pained flourish with his
big hands. Miranda and Mark looked not at him, but at each
other. The waiter was sent for more wine.

I excused myself. In the gents I splashed water on my face.
My phone rang in my pocket. Its screen registered three
missed calls. I answered.

My secretary Cheryl said, 'Hi, Sean. How's it going?'

'Yeah, good,' I said, leaning there, against the wall.

'I've got a woman here wanting to see you. I told her you're
busy. She says she'll wait.'

'Who is she?'

'She's not a client. She's . . .' There was a pause.

'She's . . . ?'

'She says she's a
friend
.'

'Name?'

'Frances Leigh?'

'Don't know her.'

'Well, she's plonked herself in reception. She's . . .'

'She's
what
?'

There was something Cheryl wanted to say. 'She's . . .'

'Tell her to ring me tomorrow.'

'She won't go away. She's . . .'

'Put her on,' I said, irritated.

A voice came on the line, husky, calm. 'Hello? It's Frances.
I used to work at Penn's.'

'Oh. Hi.' (You? Why?)

'I need to see you now.'

I wondered whether it was a prank dreamed up by Miranda
Hill and Mark Venn, a trick they played on junior solicitors,
that they would hoot over at future dinners.

Confusion. I stammered. 'Now? Why?'

I pictured her. Frances. Dark hair, nice figure. Efficient
behind the bar, easy with the punters, wide smile, good teeth.
The barmaid at Penn's.

'We have something to discuss,' she said.

'Look, I'm at lunch with clients.'

'You remember that night?'

I closed my eyes. That night at Penn's. Six months, a year
ago? We'd been talking over the bar while she worked.
Midnight, I the only customer left and she invited me out the
back. There was a tiny flat upstairs, a studio. It was raining
hard. We sat on a balcony, the rain ran off the veranda roof in
streams, she said she didn't live here but stayed the night
sometimes, we drank vodka and there was a dartboard on the
back of the door. Late in the night I spilled a glass of vodka,
felt it running down my chest as cold as rain. We played darts;
we slept together on a futon on the floor. And I woke the next
morning at dawn and ran away home . . .

I hadn't seen her since. She didn't work at Penn's any more.
She rang once but I put her off. I had to keep it a secret from
my girlfriend at the time, Jane.

'Frances,' I said. 'I can't see you now, I'm working.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm at the Waterfront Café. Busy. I'll ring you tomorrow.'

'I'm coming down,' she said.

'No, no, I'm working!'

'Be outside in ten minutes or I'll come in.'

I went back to the table, sweating. I picked up a glass and
drank down some wine, felt my stomach cringe, the soft blow
to my brain. George was looking at me. He'd hoped I would
be good with Miranda.
Why did I tell Frances where I was
?
Stupidity. Would she make a scene? Was she the kind of
woman to make a scene? I would have to go outside in ten
minutes, to head her off. I would pretend I wanted to smoke.

Miranda put her head back and laughed. Even her teeth
looked plump, glistening there in the soft, cushiony mouth.
Her cheeks were flushed. Only her eyes were hard: tiny black
chips of rock.

I drained my glass. Miranda said, 'Do you like working
with George?' Mark Venn focused his attention on me.

'George? George is great.'

George looked down at the table, faintly smiling.

Miranda and Mark glanced at each other.

I said, 'George has worked all over the world. London, New
York. He's the man.' I looked out at the street.

Mark sat back, neutral. Miranda picked her teeth. The idea
was to get me drunk, to see whether I would come out with
some dreadful indiscretion that they could store away for
future reference.

I checked my watch; ten minutes had passed. I considered
sitting it out: surely Frances wouldn't dare walk in on a
business lunch. I would be safe here, biding my time, trying
not to drink too much. I wanted to help George, to protect
him.

Miranda was saying something about wine. I looked
beyond her and saw Frances's face in the reflection of the
window: she was pushing open the glass door. She came in,
shaking rain off herself, said something to a waiter and stood
behind the bar, searching, her expression fixed. Miranda saw
me looking. She turned. The waiter surged forward reflexively
and took her empty plate.

I said, 'Can you excuse me for a minute, Miranda.'

'Again?' She smiled, not nicely.

'I won't be a second.'

As I disengaged myself from the seat, accidentally tugging
the tablecloth, a knife clattered to the floor and I caught
George's look of dismay, the faintest hint of reproach. I turned
away.

Frances was holding an umbrella. Her hair was wet. She
was wearing tight black clothes with a denim jacket over the
top. Her expression was determined. I realised what my
secretary had not been able to bring herself to say.

I looked back at the table. Sandy was standing, red-faced,
acting out some story. There was a wave of loud guffawing.

I took Frances by the arm and hustled her to the stairs.

'We'll go up here,' I said.

She walked ahead of me. Numbly I watched her negotiate
the stairs; she took each step with an effortful swivel of the
hips, using the umbrella as a walking stick, stabbing it loudly
on the wooden steps. I pushed her ahead into the empty
upstairs bar. A kind of blurred panic had taken over; I wanted,
urgently, to get to the point of what it was she wanted so I
could hurry back downstairs, get away.

We sat down facing each other. I ordered a glass of wine.
She asked for an iced water.

'We've got clients downstairs. I'll have to be quick.'

She seemed, once seated, to sink into a torpor. She gazed,
blinking, at the harbour. Seagulls squawked along the balcony
rail.

'So, when's it due?' I blurted.

She smiled, patted the swollen bulge of her stomach.
'Tonight,' she said.

'
Tonight
?'

She laughed.

I was angry. 'Look, Frances. I can't stay. I'm working. What
do you want?'

'I need your help,' she said. I stared. The waiter put a glass
in front of me and I picked it up and drank deeply, steeling
myself against her, gathering my nerves.

'I'm having the baby tonight.'

'But how can you know that — don't you have to wait for it
to . . . come on?' I couldn't hide my irritation.

She laid a hand on my arm. She spoke slowly, like a nurse
soothing some frail hysteric. 'It's going to be induced. It's
overdue. The doctor is going to bring it on. I go into the
hospital tonight and he'll give me drugs to start the labour.
I've hired myself an obstetrician. I borrowed the money . . .'

I took a breath. Asking: it was like jumping off the high
diving board, the moment when you wished you hadn't made
the leap, the plunge, the awful shock of impact . . . 'What's it
got to do with me?'

'It's your baby,' she said.

I set down my glass with a crack. 'Oh no. No.'

She sat back, her hands resting on the tight bulge.

'From that
one night
?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, Christ. It's not possible. No.'

'I need your help,' she said again. 'A friend was going to
come to the labour with me. She can't come. She's stuck in
Wellington. And that leaves you.'

I closed my eyes. It was a dream. In a moment it would
unravel and splinter and I would wake and blink and the
dreadful weight would lift.

'It should be you at the birth,' she said. 'I mean, he is your
baby.' She smoothed her shirt with a competent, blunt little
hand.

'How do you know that? Why should I believe you?'

'Well, you can have a test done.'

I leaned my elbows on the table, hands on my temples. 'But
to spring it on me now. To not tell me, not warn me. Not
consult me. This is outrageous.' I rose.

'I'm sorry. I know I've gone about it all wrong. Please sit
down.' She was flushed, pleading, plucking my sleeve. There
were patches of sweat on her forehead. Her breathing was
harsh. 'I was going to do it all on my own. I did ring you after
that night but you weren't interested. I got the impression you
had someone else. And I didn't have the heart to get rid of it.'

I sat, laughed. 'Oh, this is unbelievable. We've got clients
sitting downstairs and here I am . . . this is too much.' I drained
my glass, wiped my hands nervously on my jacket. 'You can't
do this,' I said. 'You can't do this to a person. It's
not right
.'

She looked down. The parting in her hair was crooked. Her
neck and shoulders were thinner, more delicate than I
remembered, as if the outrageously jutting bulge in her midriff
had consumed all her energy.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I wanted to have someone with me.
I've got to be there at seven tonight. National Women's
Hospital. It is a weird thought, isn't it, you turn up and
they . . .'

I stood up. 'No,
I'm
sorry. I can't . . . do this. Do you want
me to get you a cab?'

She looked down. She sighed and shivered, pushing the
glass of iced water away. 'Yes.' She gathered up her umbrella
and her bag and stood looking desolately out at the sea.

I told the barman to order a taxi. I walked her downstairs.
At the door I took hold of her upper arm, pretending to steady
her; I was afraid she would run into the restaurant and
screamingly denounce me. She was silent. The rain had come
on again, falling thick through the laden afternoon air. She
stood under her umbrella smiling at the ground. I felt the
delicate chill of the rain on my scalp and remembered how I'd
spilled that glass of vodka, how it had streamed cold down my
chest inside my shirt, and she'd laughed and said, 'Smooth,'
and I'd said, 'Clumsy hands.' And she'd told me about a
philosophy paper she'd done where they'd discussed a kind of
madness called 'alien hand', where people think they can't
control their own hand. 'Their hand attacks them!' she said. 'It
lies in wait and then boom, it's around their neck!' We played
darts. Drunk, clowning around, I pretended to be attacked by
my own hand. Outside, the cyclone beat against the windows.
Rain streaming down the glass, rain on the harbour, on the
winter sea . . .