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Did Samantha Wu sense she was being watched? She turned and looked directly at Rob Hamilton, ten metres across the crowded gallery. But she didn’t show the slightest twinge of recognition, and he hid immediately. Now Rob knew that she was the woman at the cocktail party, the one he’d thought might understand the fifth season, the one he'd tried to subvert against her husband, his CEO. No wonder he was been sent to Exmouth with Bruce Buller – cruel and unusual punishment indeed. Oh well, alcohol had taught him to bear worse shame. But culture had not been good for his soul. And, on top of this newest embarrassment, Rob must meet his brother this evening, and that was always an opportunity for depthless humiliation.
14
Chris Hamilton showed little surprise at his brother's choice of bar. "Still pining for a bit of student squalor, are you?" he said.
"Got to get it while you can. Even this place is about to be turned into a yuppie gin palace."
Chris looked around. "That'll take some doing."
When they ordered their drinks, the barmaid smiled at Chris in a way that no barmaid has ever smiled at Rob. Of course she would. Chris had taken all the useful genes: charm, the extra centimetres, the discipline, drive and ambition to acquire. What had he left worthwhile for his younger brother – the irony gene? Cheers. But Rob was no longer convinced Chris was a real person. He suspected his big brother might be the construct of a committee of advertising executives. On the cusp of 50, Chris was a big, handsome ideal of a man, the one you'd want to advertise your lowest cholesterol margarine.
"Annie is visiting a friend she flatted with in London," Chris told Rob. "She's become obsessed with those alumni websites, and when I told her I was popping over to Wellington, she went online, and said old Samantha Lewis is there now, so I'll tag along."
"So, why are you over here?" Rob asked.
"Can't say."
"Thanks for the confidence." Rob wondered if he could get away with another beer without further oblique reproach. Earlier, Chris had picked up the decorative bottle and observed he didn't know it was possible to make beer that strong.
"It's brewed by monks," Rob told him. "Très-pissed monks."
"Oh."
"So, how are the littlies?" Rob said. Chris was on his second wife and second round of kids. Rob seemed to remember the first wife started to look old and the first round of kids went bad, turned Green.
"We left them behind. Silke is fine with them for a few nights."
"Silke? Is that wise?" Rob managed to maintain a look of concern. "Silke’s your dog, isn’t she?"
"No." Chris sighed. "Silke is the demi pair. The dog is Boris, a saluki."
"Oh, right."
The conversation went in stops and starts. Irony was mistaken for ignorance, olive branches for cudgels. Anything Rob could say was immediately trumped by something massively bigger and better by Chris. It had always been this way.
"I'm going down to old Exmouth tomorrow," Rob said.
"Oh really? I'm off on a little trip myself, once I've wound things up here."
"Anywhere exciting?" Rob asked, despite himself.
"Prague. Budapest. Riga. A spot of bargain hunting," Chris tells him as casually as if he were planning a trawl around suburban garage sales.
"Riga? Where's that?" Rob asked.
"Latvia, I think. In fact, the Balts have become very entrepreneurial," Chris said.
"Yeah, not like those lazy bastard Lapps."
Chris must have sniffed sarcasm and wound the meeting up. "Anyway, it was great catching up with all your news. You should learn how to use a telephone. I've got to do dinner. Duty calls." Rob felt the slap of a big hand on his back.
"Wait a minute." Rob said. "Before you go, I wanted to ask you something." He cringed as Chris reached for his wallet. "Not that. Do you remember when we were kids, and Dad told us about the fifth season, you know, when all the magic is supposed to happen?"
Chris eyed him with suspicion. "No. I've told you before, that doesn't sound much like Dad at all."
"No, I suppose it doesn't. Maybe, I dreamt it."
At least Chris didn't ask what he was smoking when he brought up the fifth season this time.
"Cheers, then, bro." Rob waved a hand at his brother.
"Yes." Chris started to leave but turned. Standing, as Rob sits, he loomed over his little brother more than ever. "Look, Rob, Mum and Dad's accident was as big a blow for me as it was for you."
"Yeah, of course. Why would I think otherwise?" Rob signalled another beer to the barmaid. "Oh, but then again, you weren't driving, were you?"
"Jesus, man. No one blames you for that." Chris's hand rested on Rob's shoulder. If he squeezed he would probably snap something. "But you've got to pull yourself out of this bog of self pity."
"Sure." Rob took a long swig of beer. "Almost there."
"Look, why don't you come over to Melbourne and have a look at opportunities there? There's nothing for you here in the long-term. I'm serious. I could introduce you to some real players in the financial services market."
Rob raised his bottle. "To money!"
"Jesus, Rob, you've always been such a difficult little prick. You need to get yourself a life." Chris left and Rob should have followed.
"Hey." Long after Chris had gone, Rob called across to the barmaid. Like a tulip, her heavy head rested in the cup of her hands as she stared at the TV screen on the far wall. She slouched over to him without taking her eyes from the celebrity poker game.
"Where's all the stuff from the walls?" Rob said. He was thinking in particular of the stag's head that was slightly charred at the muzzle from the cigarette he'd inserted one night many years ago.
"They're renovating," she said.
"Putting in a roller disco, are they, eh?"
"No, I don't think so." The barmaid looked at Rob as though he were a gibbering idiot and walked away.
Despite the piercings, vampire-caught-in-the-rain make up, and serpentine tattoo that disappeared beyond her thong, the barmaid was without doubt the most elegant and beautiful woman Rob had ever seen. He tried not to stare at her as he unpeels the gold foil from the bottle.
Two obscure Belgian beers later, Rob glimpsed his reflection in a mirror as he stood to charm the barmaid. Tomorrow, when he relives his evening in cringes, he will imagine himself as a reptile stalking a defenceless mammal. He had noticed earlier that the barmaid was definitely a mammal. But now he was at that point along the continuum of drunkenness – somewhere between maudlin and vomit – when he thought it would be good to tell the barmaid about the fifth season. She would be transfixed by his lyricism. She would see through his slob's carapace to his inner beauty. And, then, could the revitalising love of a younger woman be far away? Yeah, right.
"Do you know what?"
The barmaid moved her head to show she was wearing earphones. Rob took that as, I didn't hear you. Anyone else would have understood she meant, I don't want to talk to you.
Lip writing, Rob said, "I said, do you know what?''
"What?" She stomped over, and snatched out her earplugs.
It seemed the fifth season would have to wait. "Do you know who I hate?"
"Who?" She didn’t have her hands on her hips, but she should have.
Rob took a deep breath. "First of all, I hate estate agents. Above all others. Gold medal, top of the list. Although to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I understand why I hate estate agents more than, I don't know, someone like John Key, but I do. I hate estate agents more than anyone."
"OK." He heard the fizz of drum 'n' bass escaping from her earplugs as she started to re-insert them.
"No, wait. I hate lots more people than estate agents, but I do hate them the most. And it's funny because it's not as if I was molested by one or something as a kid. As far as I know. Then again, maybe I was. I don't know. Anyway, I just hate them, that's all. It's like a kind of natural talent thing, an intuition."
"OK."
"No, no wait.
There's more. Obviously, I hate National, and everyone who's ever voted for them. ACT and United Future, of course.
"That's a lot of people to hate," the barmaid said.
"No, not really, I haven't even got going yet."
"Isn't there anyone you actually like?" Now her hands were on her hips. She didn't look as if she liked him much.
"Of course, I do." Rob sighed. "I think I would have liked Artemis Washburn."
"Who's she?"
"Never mind."
"I've got to go." The barmaid walked away.
"Property developers," Rob shouted after her. "How could I have forgotten them? Bastards, every one of them."
The barmaid came back and, with a sweet smile, asked him, "Have you finished?"
"No. I've got a stack more."
"I meant your drink." Rob peered down the mouth of the bottle, and then slugged the remnants. "All right, you've twisted my arm – one absolutely bloody last one for the road."
"Sorry. I can't serve you – you're drunk." The barmaid brandished a red card like an implacable Welsh referee.
"That is such bullshit."
Outside the pub a vicious southerly whipped icy rain into Rob's face. So, another opportunity to explain the fifth season had been royally stuffed up. But he laughed out loud as he walked away. As the barmaid had waved the red card in his face, a pool player had slowly placed his cue on the table and moved towards them. Rob held his palms up. "Whoa. I'm on my way. No need for trouble, bro." And he edged his way to the door, with his back to the bar. In the doorway, Rob turned to the barmaid and said, "Do you mind telling me your name, miss?"
"Piss off, you wanker."
"It suits you." And he’d slipped out.
15
Toni Haast's Sunday ended without incident. The boys didn't understand that tomorrow evening she wouldn't be there, and went to bed without protest. Johnny skipped the issue of whether his place was in the marital bed by passing out in front of Wayne's World II.
Toni lit scented candles – the two-dollar version of Body Shop with a whisper of kerosene – and turned off the bathroom light so she wouldn't see the patches of damp on the ceiling from the bath. She lingered long after the last of the hot water, going over just one more time her plan for tomorrow.
16
Andy and Samantha Wu lunched on prawns at a table overlooking the harbour. Afterwards, when they shopped for beautiful things, who had the greater pleasure – Samantha receiving the exquisite paua necklace or Andy buying it for her? At home, Samantha napped, while Andy starched his shirts. But, when she took a cup of green tea to his study late that evening, Samantha was alarmed to see Andy staring at the photo of the Salesperson of the Year. She pretended not to notice, and, as she stroked his shoulder, told him to come to bed. Soon.
"Sammy." From the scented and expectant bed, Samantha heard Andy's voice break as he battled to control his anger. He strode into their bedroom. "I want to get something absolutely straight in my mind about you and Owen Huntly." Andy was about to ruin his opportunity to consummate the Wu's perfect day.
MONDAY
17
Wet-foot from the shower, Toni Haast craned towards the radio for the weather forecast and thought, Yes! when she heard it would be fine. She wriggled into the skirt of her business suit, and felt the prickle of static and the fabric come tight on her hips with the pull of the zip. She checked from different angles in the wardrobe mirror that the ladder in her tights wasn't on show. She audited the contents of her travel bag once more and placed it with her shoes by the front door. Only now was it becoming light outside.
Toni planned to sweep the boys up and into the car at the last moment, still in their pyjamas, befuddled, a little shivery. Before that, she made coffee and took a mug to Johnny, sprawled on the settee as awkwardly as if he'd fallen there from the ceiling. He was crumpled in his Sunday clothes, partly covered by an old blanket. She crouched in the fettering skirt and swapped the mug for a thick paperback splayed open on the floor next to him. Warriors of Christ: The Final Stoush. The front cover showed Christ the Bodybuilder in a suede loincloth, bandana, and motorcycle boots. A writhing snake-dragon was embossed in silver. The Messiah, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Pastor Kelvin, was stamping on its throat, and, with his huge sword, was about to lop off its head. Toni closed the book and left it front cover down. She didn't want the boys seeing that sort of thing and having nightmares. She shook Johnny, surely but gently. "Fifteen minutes until we leave for the airport – hey, Johnny, fifteen minutes."
Leaving the twins with Johnny wasn't easy for Toni. He might see himself as a Warrior of Christ today but, left for a few nights without her firm guidance, and he could be back running with the biker gang, if only in their '98 Mazda 323. But her worry has stalled and been overtaken by relief at escape from their disintegrating home for a few days.
At the airport, Byron and Kyron clung to her as though it had finally dawned on them that she was leaving. This hurt but Toni remembered reading that at three and half children have short time horizons, an inability to gauge the future. She crouched to hug them, fighting back her own conventional tears, wary of extending the ladder in her tights. She noticed the steady, lurid flow from Kyron's nostril, but she'd had enough of dealing his effluvia for now – Johnny could sort that out.
Over the twins' shoulders, merged in her embrace, Toni saw it really was going to be a fine day, and her long awaited flight over the Cook Strait wouldn't be a disappointment. But Johnny didn't let her get away that easily. She rebuffed his offers to fetch a trolley and help her check in, partly to leave the boys before her dams broke, but mostly, because, among the businessmen dropped off in smooth manoeuvres by wives, high in 4 x 4s, more than ever she felt the grinding shame of material lack. The need for the things other people have, growled like an ulcer in her gut, and, Johnny was the badge of debit, a man with a market value of less than zero.
His delaying tactics now stymied, Johnny was on the verge of a meltdown, here in the drop-off zone, as a last ditch effort to hold up the inevitable. Toni could read the signs. His breathing had become shallow and audible. He stroked his head, running his hand from the promontory of his widow's peak to where his ponytail disguised the beginning of baldness, and said, "I was thinking." This was where, in the films he loves/she hates, Johnny would pull out a gun and set off the bloody hostage shoot out. But Toni steeled herself and cut him short. Beyond Johnny, through the automatic doors – opening and shutting, taunting – lay the possibilities of a new world. To get there, she needed to keep control.
"Johnny, you know you'll get a fine if you park here." And for good measure, tapping into his deep-vein fear of uniforms, she added, "You'd better shift yourself before a cop comes along." Toni stood, ruffled the boys' hair and, in one movement, picked up her bag, air kissed Johnny, and turned. The doors swished open and, stepping inside, as if she was confident, she left them behind.
Toni spotted Rob Hamilton in Whitcouls. He seemed to be rooted in front of the magazines as though choosing a newspaper might be the biggest decision he'd ever made. In fact, he looked ill. Perhaps he was scared of flying. She approached him. "How are you doing?" And, thinking it the right thing to do, held out her hand in greeting. It was like a light bulb had switched on in his head when he recognised her, but he seemed confused by her hand, offered and hanging in the air between them. Or, perhaps, he was close to Mr Buller: hadn't he said they were both Masons? Rob took Toni's hand in a limp grip and shook. She tried some conversation openers on the early hour, the fine weather, but he cut her short and said he needed to go to the Koru lounge for coffee. When she asked him whether that was open to everyone, he said he didn’t think so, and rushed off without her.
Despite all her planning, Toni felt like a lab mouse as she skittered back up the wrong corridor and down to the right boarding gate. She guessed everyone was looking and laughing at her as she carefully followed the white lines on the apron, while the other passengers walked straight t
o the plane. The wind doused her in kerosene fumes and threatened to splay open her skirt as she climbed the steps. The stewardess motioned for her to dip her head in the doorway, and she hunched all the way down the tube of the cabin. Rob was sunk low in his seat near the front, engrossed in the airline magazine, but her place was at the very back. This was not how she'd imagined things. Surely they should be sitting together discussing Artemis Washburn?
Toni paid full attention as the stewardess chanted the safety procedures. Then she realised she's the only one watching, and of course the only passenger rehearsing in her mind following the lights in the floor that would guide her to the emergency exit located in row 10, in the unlikely event of an emergency landing at sea. Worse than this, after they've taken off and flown over the city bowl, she was the only one with any interest in the view beneath them, and she had an aisle seat. The man next to her blocked her view with his spread Dom Post, dropping it only to smile as she contorted to see through the window and surreptitiously to check out her legs.
What was the point of being alone now? Toni imagined her family with her – yes, Johnny too – as she pointed out to them how the promontories and rocky islands of the Sounds were like dragons lounging in the water, how the boats and their wakes in the Tory Channel could be white tadpoles. And over there, in the far distance, could that be the tip of Taranaki poking through fields of clouds? Yes, Byron, the clouds do look like that stuff in the ceiling. In-sul-a-tion, she would have enunciated for him.
Soon the plane dropped and banked sharply, and, if only her view had not been of this morning's front page, Toni would have seen how the clouds cleared, fully revealing Tasman Bay in sunlight, as though a curtain had been whipped open.
Toni was seething by the time they landed and, reunited with Rob, slouched behind him to the car rental office. The car had been booked in his name, so, of course, this would be the next humiliation. But Rob surprised her. He arranged for the car to be in both their names and, as they walked towards the car lot, he held up the keys, and asked if she wanted to drive. She noted the chrome '2.0i' on the car's boot with approval. Yes, she would. Toni always wanted to drive.
18
Johnny wasn't the only dad who took his kids to the Early Advantage Education Centre Inc. He was, however, the only one who wore a wasted fleece, Kurt Cobain t-shirt, bobbly tracksuit pants, and jandals with socks. Against his wishes, Toni had insisted the boys move from kindy to the Early Advantage Education Centre Inc as soon as two spaces became available. Johnny had liked Kindy Korner. It was much cheaper, and the young solo mums, looking him up and down, made him feel good, like he might have some value for someone. But Toni said Byron needed the extra stimulation. The other dads here were businessmen or government workers in black, always rushing off to do something important, yet able to discuss with the teachers, so everyone could hear, how well their kids were progressing.
If it weren't for the pushy parents, Johnny would like to stay at the crèche all day. It was warm and bright, they played learning games, and did hand print paintings. The teachers always smiled and never flipped, even when the kids were little shits. But he thought he ought to make out he was in a hurry too. Some of the mothers looked nice. And Johnny thought he could probably stand going to coffee mornings, talking about children, Oprah things. But Johnny knew that was never going to be on offer. Today he stood back from the door to let a woman out, one of those Toni wants to be like, with all the things Toni wants. He'd looked at her expecting a smile, some sign she recognised him as a person too, but he saw no more than a flick of her hair as she turned her back on him. She'd probably use antiseptic hand wash if she realised he'd touched the doorhandle before her.
Back at home, Johnny looked around the house and decided to fix things up a bit while Toni was away. First, he would rehang the cupboard door that fell off last year. He went to the garden shed and parted lace thick cobwebs from the doorway. Inside, he sniffed the funny chemical smells he could remember from childhood – turpentine, linseed oil, paraffin and others he couldn’t place. He picked things up, shook and prodded them, prised open half-sealed tins to poke at their thick skins of paint, and held yellowed jam jars with their jellied solvents to the light. All this great stuff left by previous tenants, every one of them handy around the house, no doubt.
There was the old biscuit tin he was looking for. Screws, tacks, nails, drawing pins – Johnny felt little sharp pricks as he spread them around looking for just three screws the same. But there was never more than a pair. Oh for fucks sake! He threw the tin to the floor, and immediately regretted it. He could blame it on the cat if Toni ever cross-questioned him. But what if the boys came in here and stepped on a nail? As sudden as his anger, Johnny was filled with panic. Worse than the most nightmarish ACC advert, he was seized by a vision of Byron and Kyron, their feet spiky with nails like a tortured saint, offering each other swigs from the fifty different poisons on the shelves.
Johnny shoved the sagging door shut and wound a length of wire round and round the bolt to secure it. Sure, Toni would moan next time she needed the lawn mower, but nothing was more important than the safety of the boys.
Back indoors, Johnny turned on the radio and started to do the dishes. The morning crew were talking about farting – even the woman one. Toni would have told him to turn it off, and he did. But the silence reminded him how empty the house was. He left the dishes. He had all day to do them, in fact, he had four days until Toni got back.
Johnny was careful not to step on toys as he crossed the lounge. He'd never got rid of his guitar, and Toni had never asked him to pawn it, however tough things had been. He'd always kept his hair long and worn an earring. Maybe that hadn't helped secure employment. He could never find the right words to explain to Toni, but he had to keep on waiting for the call, and he knew, if he didn't look the part, the call would never come. He'd been gutted, of course, when Kurt Cobain had died, but still somehow he'd thought he might get the call – "Johnny Shannon? Dave Grohl from Nirvana here."
Johnny strummed the first chords of the song he wrote for Toni. He'd called it 'Toni's Song'. OK, the riff was taken from Pearl Jam and the lyrics borrowed mostly from Oasis, oh, and the chorus from U2, but the feeling had come from his own heart. And, once, although it seemed so long ago now, he was sure Toni had known that last bit too.
19
"I really do appreciate you letting me drive." Toni was back to her normal bright self but Rob's response was little more than a grunt.
"Yeah, as far back as I can remember, I've always wanted to drive." She would like to have sounded cool but she couldn't help beaming.
"Oh."
"Yeah. Some girls I knew were mad about horses, but, for me, it was always cars," she said.
"Oh."
Rob reclined his seat and rummaged in his brief case. He pulled out a CD. "You don't want to listen to the radio, do you?" Before she could answer, he added, "It's all crap adverts, so-called golden oldies, and talkback fascists."
This didn't appear to leave much room for discussion. Then he asked her if it was OK to play the CD, but the disc was already disappearing into the machine. Toni didn't think Rob's behaviour boded well for the trip. But she liked the sophisticated night music that followed: a big city woman's voice like dark chocolate melting, soaring over blips and whirs, scratches and stealings. It was a music that beckoned seductively from funky cafés, whose cappuccinos she doubted she could afford. Besides, on such a rare treat as venturing downtown, Johnny and the boys would drag her past for the glare and giveaway toys of Maccas.
On the open road Toni lost herself in driving and soon they were passing through neat and gentle farmland. It was only when she saw a bird fly up from the road ahead, and, supposing Rob might know its name, she turned to him and realised he was sound asleep. Toni thought, I haven't slept with a man apart from Johnny for six years. She doesn't mean it like that. She hasn't had another man sleeping so close to her for six years. It was strangely intimat
e, and her wariness about Rob slipped away as he became vulnerable.
Toni glanced across and saw how young and old at once, Rob looked. His hair was reddish blond and long on top, yet thin and brittle, and greying at the sides. His mouth scowled as he slept but around the eyes, his face looked as unaged and cherubic as her boys'. His brow furrowed in his sleep, and she felt the urge to smooth away the puckering. A day ago, the only interaction she'd had with this man had been the exchange of business-like smiles when she took a file to his office. And now?
Toni pressed herself forward over the steering wheel to watch the bird hanging above them like a well-controlled kite. She liked the misplaced parrot's head set between hawks' wings, but felt a little let down by Nature as, in the rear view mirror, she watched it swoop back down and bury its clown's head in the spilt guts and mangled fur of road kill.
Now certain her passenger was fully asleep, Toni challenged the car. The road wound through forest, alongside a fast moving river. She flowed with the rush and overtook dawdling tourist camper vans in 160kph bursts. The muted roar was luxurious as she mustered the torque to pass two train-long logging trucks in one manoeuvre.
A small hamlet appeared out of the forest, and Toni pumped the brakes hard to regain a reasonable speed. A little skid followed and an outward kick from the back wheels, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Rob jerked awake. Dozy from sleep, he stared around. Toni expected some reproach but, when it didn’t come, she realised he had no idea she'd just taken him on a one hundred-kilometre roller coaster ride.
"Exville," Rob said. "Let's stop here. Oh, it's a great place this, and I'm dying for a smoke."
Toni scanned the tiny settlement: a picnic table was too close to the road for children to play, a dairy, garage, and scary looking tavern. Some tourists were taking photos of a Masonic lodge, more shed than temple, that had listed off its piles.
"This," Rob said, "is the real New Zealand."
Toni looked around her again, and tried to smile in agreement.
20
Andy Wu was in a sour mood. Samantha had slept in the guest room last night. Although she had been back in their bed by the time he woke up, she didn't bother to see him off. Watching his wife curled silkily around his abandoned pillows did nothing for Andy's motivation for work.
His executive assistant arrived late. "Good morning, Cynthia," Andy was sitting on the corner of her desk reading the business pages. He snapped the newspaper down to show his watch. "A bit late, aren't we?" He hated it if Cynthia was in before him.
"Hello, Mr Wu, er Andy. The buses were–"
He cut her short. "Please get me a cup of coffee. A short black."
Cynthia hung up her coat and started to sort through the pile of mail. "Oh look, here's a fax for you from Ralph." She announced this news as brightly as she might a postcard from their favourite niece on her OE.
"Ralph who?" Andy was well aware who Ralph was, but certainly didn't like the tenderness in Cynthia's voice. She didn't answer but handed him a fax from Ralph Gisborne, as representative of the Dependable Action Group. Andy pondered what kind of dinosaurs sent faxes, then, wondered whether you can sack someone in this country for loyalty to the previous CEO. Anger surged into his head like a geyser. He screwed the fax into a ball and tossed it back to her.
"Cynthia, kindly inform Ralph Gisborne that the current CEO of the Dependable respectfully tells him to go fuck himself." And, feeling greatly relieved, he marched into his office.
After eleven minutes without his coffee, Andy went to look for it. But Cynthia wasn't at her desk. In her place was Miss Gore, the HRT leader.
"Do we have a meeting?" Andy asked, not attempting to hide his irritation.
"Don't mind me. I'm trying to picture the scene," she said, all Miss Marple-ish.
"The scene of what, exactly?"
"Andy, I regret to inform you," Miss Gore said with barely disguised joy, "Cynthia will be lodging a formal complaint against you for addressing her with foul and abusive language."
"What did I say?"
Miss Gore smiled. Her look was all-knowing, as though she'd been caught out that way before. "Cynthia wasn't sure of the right procedure, so I'm helping her to formulate her complaint."
Andy would have like to help Miss Gore picture things better but retreated to his office. He tried to slam the door, but the thick pile of the carpet wouldn't allow this. Maybe he should have asked Miss Gore why the hell she could get away with being called 'Miss' and not whatever her Christian name is, but he thought better of it.
Later Cynthia would tell Andy that she hadn’t been distressed in the slightest. The executive espresso machine had needed restocking, and she went to borrow beans from a colleague on another floor, where she bumped into Miss Gore, who, as always, was eager for gossip. Since Miss Gore also loved to chair formal hearings, the chance of an official complaint, with all its precedents and procedures, would be too good an opportunity not to talk up. So she had urged Cynthia to take the rest of the day off to overcome her distress.
Andy sat at his desk ironing the crumpled fax with the palm of his soon inky hand. Gisborne and his crew were demanding a special general meeting of the shareholders: another tiresome diversion for Friday's board meeting. It was nine thirty, he'd not yet spoken with Samantha, and he was not at all sure his day was going to get any better. But the NST was due to make a presentation on marketing strategy, and his anticipation of this coming enlightenment raised his spirits.
For as long as anyone can remember, the Dependable's marketing campaign had featured a comely young woman in widow's weeds gazing alluringly into the viewer's eyes, over the legend: The Dependable – there when you need us most. Dated, derivative, and uninspiring, as it is, Andy suspected the campaign's unlikely longevity lay with its appeal to the sexual fantasies of middle-aged insurance men, rather than speaking to the needs of heterogeneous consumers of financial products. Indeed, there was something vaguely music hall about it: the insurance agent seeing to the lovely widow's needs, drum roll. But worse, he shivered at the thought of Samantha being unfaithful to him, even after death.
In the ideas incubator, a smart young woman, whom Andy didn't actually recall being officially appointed to the NST, performed a slick presentation on competitors' marketing messages. Andy was particularly impressed at her use of words that were new to him – 'signifiers', 'referents', 'interpretants' and more – indicating an enviable level of professional specialisation.
"Let me synopsify it for you, Andy." It was a confident neologism, and Andy jotted it down. She concluded with a montage of images. "When I think of life insurance, first, I think of the Dependable. Then, I think of joy and life, new born babies of indeterminate ethnic provenance, happy weddings, impossibly good-looking retired couples in Aran jumpers walking a Labrador-retriever on a beach, a mother duck and her ducklings, lighthouses, first sons graduating, women generally achieving, spotless operating theatres, vintage sports cars, girls and boys playing soccer together, like they do in the States." A rich, baritone boomed from the laptop, "The Dependable – for those who love life."
Once the team members understood the consultant was not channelling the voice of the well-known actor they've just heard, they broke into applause. She clutched the table. This consultant with mannish hairstyle and a gunmetal grey suit turned and stared at Andy. He could swear he saw a tear corrugate the steel blue of her eyes.
Andy eventually plumped for a mix of ducks and babies as the new motifs for the Dependable. When he synopsified the new image to the NMT, they were struck dumb, with awe he presumed, until the Underwriter eventually asked what had happened to the bird with the come-hither eyes. Andy was reminded when he first referred to the New Management Team as the NMT, Samantha pointed out how it sounded like 'the empty'.
"You're spot on there," he'd said and laughed. But his laughter stopped when she added that the acronym for the New Strategy Team sounded like 'the nasty'.
Andy planned to synopsify his vision
for the Dependable to the board for approval on Friday. He regretted the barrier that would always lie between Samantha and him. If he were to ask Samantha to synopsify her day, gently but firmly, she would tell him to speak English. And then he remembered there was something much worse, and his spirits plunged.
21
Rob closed his eyes as if in ecstasy as he sipped his coffee and sucked his Dunhill superior mild to a glowing stump. Then he said, "Now, that was a bloody good cup of authentic Kiwi tea-house coffee," and, as he wandered off to find the toilet, called back, "Hey look, this is called 'Ao-Tea House' – that's clever." The coffee was cold and insipid, and the pun was crap, but Rob thought he should try to be better company. And Christ, he ought to give up smoking.
When he got back, she was perching, straight backed on the bench, roasting in her business suit. He sat opposite her. "This is nice – catching a bit of sunshine on a working day."
"Yes." Her laugh was strained, an interviewee's complaisance.
Rob had avoided her at the check-in partly because he couldn't remember whether she was Terri or Toni, and partly because he couldn't trust his suspect stomach with its fill of alcohol and aromatic falafel. Of course, it was brilliant news that he wouldn't be spending the next few days with Bruce Buller, but, when she'd tried to engage him in conversation, as all the while magmatic water surged up into his mouth, he'd had to escape to the toilet, and blurted out the first excuse that had come into his head.
Then he'd fallen asleep in the car, and the next he remembered was jerking awake in Exville to see a generous prospect of her leg, taut and revealed in braking, with a ladder in her tights. A ladder to where? He'd dared to wonder in hangover lechery. Now he felt bad. She was clearly a nice girl, and he would make it up to her.
They drove on, and Rob asked her about herself, her job, what she'd done before. Her proper name was Antonia, Antonia Haast, but everyone called her Toni. She was, he guessed, about thirty. She’d picked up her medical knowledge as a nurse, that's why she could move into insurance, and more money, after her twins were born. Shelley and Kelly, he thinks she said. No, whatever: one was named after a Romantic poet, and the other, a character in Star Trek. With names like that, it's no wonder she's concerned her twins might be developing at different rates. She hadn't mentioned her partner, which was always significant. In fact, Rob now recalled noticing her embroiled in a trailer trash drama in the drop off zone at the airport. Later, through the shared wall of their chalets, he would overhear the muffled discourse of domestic unravelling, unmistakable, not because of the odd discernible word, but the tones: soft, lulling, mummy tones, followed by the steeliness you need for dealing with an unreasonable adult. He would even hear his own name being dragged into it. Rob made a mental note to put Toni in touch with his friend Melissa at the Community Law Centre if her domestic problems came up in conversation.
Rob liked Toni, or, at least, he liked her type. He'd dealt with her before, of course, many times, but had never spoken to her as a person, only as a functionary. Although, he must confess, he'd had occasion to observe her rear with approval after a few lunchtime drinks. She was a bit earnest, but had a definite spark and a nice face, not exactly pretty but strong and sculpted. Her hair was cut with what he guesses was a fashionable asymmetry, but maybe she’d just done it herself: whatever, it suited her features. Toni was clearly trying to get across the tracks. She told him she was studying for some vocational qualifications, so he could probably give her some help on that score. She was fighting all of life's crap, and Rob respected her for that, perhaps, even envied her.