The Slap (9 page)

Aisha was composed. ‘He hit a child. Are there no consequences for that?’

‘He was defending his own child.’

‘Rocco is twice Hugo’s size.’

‘Aisha, don’t get involved.’

‘I
am
involved. It happened at our house.’

Anouk rolled her eyes. ‘And what does Hector think?’

Aisha was silent. She ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass.

Anouk smiled. ‘He agrees with me, doesn’t he?’

Her friend slapped the air in a gesture of annoyance. Anouk’s anger dissipated. Aisha’s dad does that, she suddenly realised. Mr Pateer’s plump face was kind, genial, but it had always been inescapably Indian, unavoidably
foreign
, whereas Aish was her familiar best friend, undoubtedly Australian. She always thought of her as more the daughter of her English mother than of her Indian father.

But looking across at Aisha now, she could see some of the old man’s features in her friend’s tense, proud face. We are ageing, mate, we’re ageing. And with that, the anger and frustration she was feeling was replaced by tenderness. Aish would forever be picking up after Rosie; there was something in her character that led her to look after the weak and the helpless. It was what drew her to animals. Yet there was little that was sentimental about her friend. Aisha’s kindness was tempered by a steely, objective intelligence. That’s what made her such a good vet.

I love you, thought Anouk, and she was suddenly shamed by tears welling in her eyes. It was just a moment, just the blink of an eye, and the tears were gone.

Aisha’s hand rested back on her wine glass. ‘Hector is impossible at the moment. He’s quit smoking again.’

Anouk reached for a cigarette and lit it.

Aisha laughed. ‘You’re never going to quit, are you?’

‘No. I don’t want to.’

‘Neither does Hector. He’s doing it for me. But it makes him hate me.’

It was Anouk’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh please. Hector does not hate you.’

‘I think he hates me at the moment,’ she hesitated.

Anouk could see that Aisha was agitated, that it was getting to her. ‘They say a month. Give him a month of being an arsehole and then the cravings will go. Just ignore him for a month.’

‘It’s not the quitting smoking. It’s this business with Hugo. Fuck him!’ Aisha gulped down her drink and rose to order another. ‘It’s his mother. She has to interfere. She’s furious with me for supporting Rosie, and Hector won’t stand up to her. Of course.’ Her tone was sarcastic, bitter, and as Anouk waited for her to come back from the bar, she found her own anger returning. It’s not his fucking mother, it’s you, it’s you taking Rosie’s side without question, and then resenting the fact that we are not all bending over backwards to lend you support. Of course Hector is furious, of course his parents are not going to support you causing trouble in the family. You are the one who should be standing up to Rosie.

‘You are being unfair.’

Aisha’s eyes flashed as she sat back down.

‘Unfair to whom?’

‘Hector.’

They sat in silence. Anouk could see that her friend was thinking, weighing up arguments and positions in her mind. It was the way Aisha worked. She made lists, she was organised.

Anouk enjoyed her cigarette and waited.

Aisha sighed. ‘I’ll tell Rosie that I’ll support her emotionally but I can’t be a witness in any legal or official capacity. It places me in a compromised position with Hector and his family. She’ll just have to understand that.’

She won’t. She’ll pretend to.

‘She will.’

It was a good decision. They could relax back into gossip and laughter now, shop, maybe catch a movie. Anouk was slightly drunk now, and she felt happy for the first time that day.

 

The house was dark when she got home. She ordered Thai, poured a gin and she began to rewrite the script. She was quick, efficient, reducing the narrative to exposition and small, dramatic arcs that resolved snuggly within commercial breaks, peppering the mundane dialogue with easy, disposable slang. She felt like a fake and she did not care. Her treacherous, vengeful teenage girl retreated back to being a damaged imbecile and the teacher a supportive drone, mouthing all the acceptable platitudes of victim rights and girl power. The only character she felt any affection for was the rapist father.

She had printed the redraft and was proofing it when Rhys came home.

‘That was a late shoot.’

‘I went to the gym.’

He had taken a bite of leftover green curry chicken and she wiped away a grease mark where he had kissed her neck. He sat beside her on the couch and lifted her leg onto his lap. He began massaging her foot, kissing her ankle. She pretended to continue reading. His hand was creeping up her thigh, to her groin. The phone rang and her sister’s voice, pleading, breathless, was coming through the answering machine. He dropped her leg.

‘Leave it,’ she whispered, as though her sister could somehow hear her. ‘I’ll call her tomorrow.’

Her mobile rang next. They both laughed.

‘I’m dying to meet her. The born-again Jew as you call her.’ His fingers were stroking her now, the script discarded, her eyes closing in pleasure. He was a great lover, his fingers both determined and gentle, a combination she had rarely encountered in a man. She opened her eyes for a second to see him smiling at her. She was awed by his youth, it was almost overwhelming, the softness of his skin. She was both aroused and sad. He would never meet her sister. His beauty and his youth would only make her sister suspicious. Anouk could not bear having to justify herself. She arched her back and pushed her body forward, as Rhys’s fingers teased her clitoris, slipped inside her. His lips were on her neck, her cheek, her chin, her mouth. She unzipped his jeans and felt for his cock, pulling his free hand to her breast, moaning as he squeezed her nipples. Everywhere, all over her skin, every part of her was aroused. It was as if her body had been asleep for years and had suddenly awoken, refreshed but hungry. Fuck me, she whispered into Rhys’s ear. She shook, shuddered, as he pushed his cock inside her. She wanted to bite him, scratch him, devour him. Fuck me, she ordered him sharply now, and she wondered, Is this how a man understands sex? This ravenous animal desire? She came before he did and then came again. And as he began to spasm, as he withdrew, as his semen pumped warm against her thigh, she reached for his cock, feeling the blood still throbbing underneath the silken skin, and shuddered once again.

 

She walked straight out of the doctor’s office, not registering the noise and traffic on Clarendon Street, and claimed the first yellow cab she saw. The driver was smoking a cigarette and he quickly ground the remains into the asphalt before ducking into his seat.

‘You can smoke in the cab,’ she muttered absent-mindedly. ‘It’s alright by me. In fact, I may have one myself.’

‘Sorry, lady, I can get a fine.’

She didn’t even hear him. She looked out of the window. An old lady, the kind you rarely saw in public anymore, her hair dyed chemical blue, wheeling an out-sized shopping trolley, was standing blinking at the lights.

‘Where to?’ The man had been patiently waiting for her to speak.

She apologised and gave him her destination. Her fingers were tapping against the vinyl covering of the seat. She did want a smoke. Fucking stupid regulations, fucking nanny-state ideology, fucking puritanical death-fearing Protestantism. Fuck! Why was this country so over-regulated? At times like these she desperately missed the anarchy and disorganisation of the Balkans. She badly wanted a cigarette. It would be real defiance to have one now. She was aware that nothing seemed to be penetrating her consciousness. The buildings, the other cars and vehicles on the road, the driver, the sky, the city. It was as if she was under the effect of some drug but there was no reciprocal pleasure permitted to counter the loss of what she could only describe as her intelligence. She felt as if she was floating, incapable of decision.

‘Which way do you want to go?’

She glanced at the reflection of his eyes in the rear-view mirror. She was numb, she couldn’t think. Would there be too much traffic on Swan Street? Should they take the tunnel? Her mind cleared, irritability smacking away the fog, and she replied bitchily, ‘You’re the driver, shouldn’t you know the best route to take? Isn’t that why I’m paying you?’

His face tightened and he focused on the route ahead. He was a young man, probably younger than Rhys, his skin the rich honey shade of roasted chestnuts, and his eyes wide and striking, set deep in his sharp-edged face. She hated the wiry, immature beard that seemed stuck onto his chin. Why do you do that to yourself, she wanted to ask him, why do you make yourself deliberately ugly? Why does your God demand that of you? This was not like her at all. She was usually courteous to taxi drivers. They were invariably immigrant men, and she told herself that in treating them with respect and dignity she was separating herself from the immense sea of indifferently racist Australians out there, a world that existed—as far as she could tell because she never visited ‘out there’—somewhere beyond the yellow lines that marked the inner-city zone-one train and tram tracks on the Melbourne transport maps. But she felt neither courtesy nor respect at this moment. Fuck him, she thought sourly, ignorant fundamentalist Muslim pig. She received an illicit thrill from the jolt of hatred.

‘I’m sorry for snapping at you,’ she began sweetly, ‘but I’m a little shell-shocked. I’ve just found out I’m pregnant.’

The young man looked at her again in his mirror, smiling now. ‘Congratulations. You are very fortunate.’

‘You think so?’

She saw confusion spread across his face and he turned his eyes away from her again.

‘I don’t think I want it. I’m not married, you see, and the father is almost half my age. There’s so much I want to do. I don’t feel fortunate at all.’ Her eyes were focused on the rear-view mirror. She could see a corner of his face, but his eyes were averted.

Talk to me, you bastard.

They sat in silence as the cab weaved fitfully down the clogged South-Eastern freeway. Nearing the studio she realised that she was red-faced. She felt ashamed and then furious. Who the fuck was he to judge her?

She leaned forward as he stopped the car. ‘I know what you think of me.’

‘I not think anything at all.’

‘You’re a liar,’ she hissed. ‘I know exactly what you think of me.’ The vitriol shocked them both.

‘Your change,’ he said, as she went to leave the car.

‘Keep it,’ she mumbled.

He looked at her, still unsmiling. ‘Please do not presume to know what I think of you. We do not know each other.’

 

She did not say a word at the script meeting. She hardly listened. When it was finished she called Rhys and left a message on his phone that she was fine, the doctor said it was just a bit of gastro, and that she preferred to be alone the next couple of nights. She was relieved to not have to speak to him. The taxi driver who took her home was an elderly Greek man and she was sweet and courteous with him. She rang Aisha as soon as she walked into her apartment.

‘Are you free tomorrow?’

‘Thursday is a bad day. I’m working till eight.’

‘Friday?’

‘What’s this about?’

‘I need some advice.’

‘Rhys?’

‘Friday?’

Aisha laughed. The sound of her chuckle made Anouk feel sane again for the first time that day.

‘Let’s meet in the city. How about somewhere on the river. South-bank or Docklands?’

‘Friday night? Forget it. Too crowded.’

‘How about Doctor Martins? It’s got a courtyard.’

‘Great. But you sure the city’s alright? I can come up to your side.’

‘Hector can get off early on Fridays. He can pick up the kids.’

Anouk felt her belly. Was this going to be life for her from now on? Was she, for the first time in her adult life, to be beholden to another being’s whims, demands, needs?

‘And I’ll call Rosie.’

She could have said it then. She
should
have said it then. She didn’t want Rosie there. She understood why Aish did. Aish wanted them to be girlfriends again. Aish wanted the tension between them to go away. Aish wanted them to get drunk together, be friends together, talk shit together. Anouk could have said, No, I need to talk to you, just you. That’s what she should have said, but she didn’t.

‘Fine. Can you get off early?’

‘I’ll be out by three-thirty. Brendan won’t mind.’

‘Let’s make it for four-thirty. We can score a table before happy hour.’

‘Perfect.’

Anouk hung up the phone and looked at herself in the mirror. She raised her shirt and looked at her stomach. It was flat, she still had a young woman’s stomach. With Rosie there on Friday, she knew how the conversation would go. She’d tell her friends and they would be excited for her. Rosie would gush and Aish would probe her for her feelings. She’d explain her reservations and Rosie would tell her that there was nothing like the experience of having a child, that all women should go through childbirth. She’d listen and then put forward more objections. Aish would consider them all in turn and tell her that she shouldn’t make up her mind straight away. That they should talk about it together again later. Anouk would chain-smoke and Rosie would make a joke about her not being able to do that for much longer. Anouk would then say that word—she would not say termination, she would say abortion—and Rosie would look fearful and Aish would look inscrutable. Rosie would have tears in her eyes and Aish would order them all another drink. Rosie would plead with her and Aish would try to intervene. Rosie would go off to the toilet and Aish would ask, Are you sure? Rosie’s eyes would be red when she returned and she would not look at Anouk. Anouk would then take her hand and tell her that she did want to know what it would be like, that she did dream of having a child, she did, but she was scared and confused. Rosie would be placated and they’d start gossiping about other things and they would laugh and get drunk. Anouk would leave, promising her friends that she had not yet made up her mind.