The Slap (48 page)

‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘They met in Prague where my father was a diplomat. It was, as you can imagine back then, a bureaucratic nightmare to get both governments’ consent to the union, but true love did win out. By which I mean that Dad secreted my mother illegally on a diplomatic flight to Paris for which the service kicked him out on his arse. From that day on he was free to succeed outrageously in business and conform to the demands of being Number One Chinese Son.’

‘That was before the Prague Spring?’ It was a deplorable gambit but she was suddenly overwhelmed by the fear—Why should she be fearful? she angrily demanded of herself—that he was much younger than her.

He chuckled. ‘Certainly, well before. I’m flattered. I’m forty-two.’ He looked pointedly at her. ‘And you?’

‘What?’ She was disconcerted. Did he expect her to blurt out her age at the table?

‘What’s your ethnic background?’ He deliberately extended the vowels in that phrase, teasing her.

‘My father was born in Lahore. His family fled to Bangalore after partition. My mother’s family was Anglo-Indian.’

‘You’re Hindu?’

‘Originally. I am an atheist.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘If you are allowed to say that these days?’

‘Shh,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t tell our American cousins.’

After that first dinner they sat together every day of the conference. It somehow became assumed that it would be the case—every morning she found herself waiting for him in the ostentatious cavern of the Hilton’s breakfast room. Of course, they were never alone. Yvonne was a curt, no-nonsense French veterinarian in her late forties and she and Aisha developed a quick, early rapport. Their table also included two Germans, Oskar and Sophie, both younger than Aisha, trained veterinarians who now worked for one of the large pharmaceutical companies. Art was courteous and charming to everyone but Aisha was aware that his eyes always strayed towards her. She herself deliberately avoided his gaze, but she could feel it. In part, she avoided it because she realised that the flirtation, though enjoyable, was also dangerously provocative and intense. His knowing smile, his dancing eyes, his gentle attentions, made her feel light-headed and girlish, an altogether astonishing sensation she had never expected to feel again. She could not stop thinking about him.

It was that first morning at breakfast that she had noticed his hands, long fingers and broad, soft palms. His wedding ring was a simple curved band of pure gold. It was almost exactly like hers.

 

Aisha bought the latest airmail editions of
Vanity Fair
and
Marie Claire
and a crime novel from an English writer she had enjoyed reading in the past, and walked back to the gate. The seats were still packed with the expectant passengers but their frustration and rage had turned into exhausted, resigned collapse. The young Thai woman behind the counter beamed at her, and gushed, ‘The plane departs in one hour and thirty minutes, thank you very much.’ Aisha stared, incredulous, at the girl. Why was the little fool smiling? She was tempted to make a scene but fought against the impulse. It would only alarm the girl, and—the thought made her smile—just confirm whatever prejudice she had towards Indians. Without acknowledging her, Aisha turned and walked away.

She had noticed a café with internet connection and headed straight for it. She ordered a white wine, extravagantly priced but she didn’t give a damn at that moment, took it to a carousel and logged onto her server. Hector had sent her a short email confirming his flight to Bali. Adam and Melissa had also sent her messages, simple, lively and full of news about school. She missed them. She had looked forward to the trip, to time away from the obligations of her work and marriage, and, yes, time off from the demands of her children. The conference had provided a perfect excuse and opportunity. She had been able to step away from the role of mother for a week and it had indeed been a pleasure, had made her feel young again. She thought of Art. It had made her feel desirable as well. But looking at the clumsy, clipped sentences from her children, Aisha felt an overwhelming desire to step back into her real world, to be back home. She wished she hadn’t agreed to the extra week in Bali; all she wanted was to be sitting down to dinner with her children and with Hector. She wanted to cook, to be in her own house, to sleep in her own bed. But she’d said yes to a week away with Hector—she knew it was a good idea. She and her husband had not had a holiday alone for years, not since Melissa was born.

She clicked open her husband’s email again. He had signed off with a kiss. Did he still love her? Did she love him? The holiday was indeed a good idea, was necessary, but she was now dreading the coming intimacy she would be sharing with Hector. It was so long since she and Hector had spent any decent time together, she was now childishly shy at the thought of being alone with him. She hoped that there were no expectations of thorough analytical talk about their lives and their relationship, their marriage and their family. She didn’t think she’d know what to say. They had been together so long that this life was the only one she knew.

The conference itself had met all her expectations, which was to say that it had proved to be only moderately interesting. There were only two sessions she attended in which she felt she had learned anything new at all. The first had been on the opening day and the second on the last day: in between, spokespeople for pharmaceutical companies had spruiked and sold their wares. She could not begrudge them their efforts for she was aware that they were paying for her fine hotel room, for her breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The lecturer who had impressed her on the first day was a Swiss researcher in immunology who had presented a well-articulated report on immunisation and domestic cats, arguing that there appeared to be a demonstrable link between feline renal failure and what the researcher referred to as ‘over-immunisation’. Aisha had listened intently to the woman’s talk and felt it confirmed observations she herself had come to after years of practice. The immunologist had proposed that instead of annual vaccinations for adult cats, a booster shot be administered every two or three years. The representatives from the pharmaceutical companies had obviously opposed much of the findings, arguing vehemently for further studies on the long-term range of the vaccinations. Like most of the vets there, Aisha knew that the companies must have already begun conducting such longitudinal studies. It was also clear that if the immunologist had been allowed to deliver her lecture above what must surely have been strenuous complaints from the pharmaceutical representatives on the conference board, then her findings were solid. Aisha scrawled a quick reminder on her conference notebook. She would talk to Brendan as soon as she got home about their introducing a new vaccination regime.

On the final day of the conference, in a session just before the plenary, a Thai veterinarian and academic had presented a straightforward clinical study on the bird-flu epidemic in his native country. The information was chilling, in particular the data on contagion and spread. Aisha, who was not a specialist in avian medicine, found the talk both frightening and stimulating. Because of the economics of food production and distribution, it was inevitable that such epidemics would reach even a relatively isolated continent like Australia. When the academic finished his talk, and humbly bowed to the audience, the applause was prolonged, genuine and effusive. Clapping firmly himself, Art had leaned across to her and whispered close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck, ‘We’re fucked.’ The obscenity had sounded delicious.

 

She had been in her hotel bathroom, getting ready for the final conference dinner, when her phone rang. It was Art.

‘Can I come to your room?’

She was flustered, she should say no, she should seem offended and tell him that it was inappropriate.

He laughed at her silence.

‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

She rushed back to the bathroom. The evening before she had sneaked out of a lecture early in order to catch the Skytrain to Gaysorn Plaza. Yvonne had assured her it was the best place in the city for lingerie. Straight after shopping she had gone to her appointment with the hotel hairdresser, and got a leg and bikini wax. All in preparation for Bali, she had told herself. Aisha slipped into her lingerie, then looked into the mirror, at her long brown limbs, their dark glow a startling contrast to the pure white of her new silk bra and pants. She pulled back her hair and arched her neck. Hector always teased her that her neck was that of a swan goddess. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, refusing to hide from herself. She was making herself beautiful for Art. But as aware as she was of the implications of her actions, she was not yet convinced that their flirting, their dance around each other, would be consummated. They were not adolescents, no matter how foolishly they were behaving. She was forty-one, for God’s sake, married, a parent, as was he. She let her hair drop down to her shoulders and began to apply mascara. God, it was so much fun to flirt.

His calling her room shocked her—the audacity of it. For the first time that week the possibility of her sleeping with another man seemed more real than at any time since her marriage. It was now a decision she would have to make.

She hadn’t touched the bar fridge in her room but after she had finished getting dressed, she fixed herself a gin and tonic.

The knock on the door made her jump. She checked herself in the mirror, twisting to catch her image from behind. She was wearing her favourite dress; it was short-sleeved and fell just above her knees, a faint lemon-coloured silk with a motif of blood-red rose petals. The lightness of the silk, both the fabric and the colour, suited her skin, and the floral pattern added a hint of feminine chasteness. She looked good. She straightened her back. There was a second knock.

Art was wearing a smoky grey, light cotton suit that fitted him perfectly. He was clean shaven, and she caught the hint of peppery spice in the fragrance. He stood back from the door, looking her up and down.

‘Lady, you look amazing.’

She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She stood aside and let him in.

‘I’m not being silly. It’s a fact. You’re the best-looking woman at the conference.’

She ignored the compliment, such as it was. ‘You want a drink?’

He eyed the gin and tonic on the coffee table. ‘You hitting the mini bar?’

For the first time she minded the accent. There was something too ordinary, too familiar in the North American drawl. This was not real, this was a fantasy. She wished his parents had never left Eastern Europe and that he could speak like a suave, handsome criminal in a James Bond film. He asked for a beer and she handed him one.

He looked around the room, eyeing the bed. Oh God, she thought, don’t let him sit on the bed. But instead he took the sofa.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers. To a very successful conference.’

She sat on the desk chair across from him. ‘Yes, it wasn’t bad, was it? It was so much better than I thought it would be.’

She twirled her glass in her hand. Christ, Aish, she thought, could you sound any more insipid?

He was smiling impudently at her.

‘I take it back, what I said about you being the most beautiful woman at the conference. I think you are the most beautiful woman in all Bangkok.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t think you’ve conducted a proper scientific survey.’ But she was blushing. The foolish, cliched compliment made her feel terrific. She glanced at her watch. ‘What time is dinner?’

Was he smirking at her? She deserved it. Dinner was at eight o’clock. They had been reminded of this every hour on the hour at the conference earlier that day.

‘Relax, we’ve got time. We’ll head off in twenty minutes.’ He finished his beer and looked expectantly at her. She went over to the fridge and poured herself another drink. He was smirking, she was sure of it. The arrogant bastard, he probably did this all the time. A girl in every conference port. With that thought she slammed the fridge door.

Art looked up, startled. ‘You okay?’

‘It’s been a long week. I’m just tired.’ She looked at him evenly and smiled cooly. ‘Maybe I’ll have an early night tonight.’

Art laughed and shook his head. He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket and threw a small packet on the table.

‘What are they?’

‘Diet pills. For when we go dancing.’

‘Are we going out dancing, are we?’

‘Sure we are. There’s no early night for you.’

She picked up the box from the table and read the side of it. The information was printed in Thai and badly worded English. She laughed and chucked the box back on the table. ‘I don’t think so. It’s been a long long time since I’ve touched speed and I have no interest in doing it again.’

Art’s face expressed mock outrage. ‘These are no gutter drugs, lady. These are legal and above board.’ Art narrowed his eyes. ‘So, you have dabbled with speed? I’m not surprised. I knew you were a woman with a past.’

‘Exactly. And that’s where taking drugs belongs. In the past.’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘I disagree. And you disappoint me. There’s nothing to worry about. As I said they’re perfectly legal. I picked them up from a pharmacist this afternoon.’ He winked at her. ‘Don’t you just love Thailand?’

‘I don’t know what I think of Thailand. I haven’t seen very much apart from hotels, conference centres, Khao San Road and shopping malls.’

‘Exactly. That’s why we must go dancing. We must.’ He looked at her eagerly.

‘We’ll see.’

 

They did go dancing. Of course they did. Aisha allowed herself two champagnes at dinner, just enough to feel light-headed but not to lose control. She and Art shared a mango brûlée and then he slipped her two pills under the table. She rubbed them along her fingertips, then, furtively, she slipped them into her mouth, took a quick sip of champagne, and looked nervously down the table.