Page 88 of Kiwi Gold
Oh. I’d stepped on something on the way out here, hadn’t I? I’d almost tripped over it, in fact. I went over and picked it up.
Well, yeh. It was Monk. Who now hadtwoears chewed off.
Also, he was now an amputee.
I tried to think of what to say, and couldn’t come up with anything other than, “You bad dog!” I didn’t say that, because it would be fruitless at this point. Instead, I cleaned up the severed monkey leg, which was now more ragged and horrible than ever. In fact, the washing required me to breathe through my mouth in order not to be sick, but I did it, then took the mat to the tap outside and washed that off. Meanwhile, Long John took a wee in the shrubbery, then trotted back into the house, his tail waving, as if to say, “Thanks! I feel all better now!”
Yasmin wasnotgoing to be happy.
It was going to be one of those days, clearly. Big traumas were one thing, sweeping through your life like a wave toppling your sandcastle, forcing you to rethink and regroup and rebuild. Days like this? On days like this, the wave took out the drawbridge and the pretty rocks you’d put on for decoration, and you had to find new pieces and set them into place.
Another kind of challenge, that was all, and I knew how to rebuild my drawbridge.
Besides, my finances were looking up. I had two or three babies to photograph every day this week, and the couple who’d come in yesterday to view their results and place their order had ended up going for every pose I’d taken and practically every product I carried, from a huge canvas of their baby dressed in bunny ears, a fuzzy wrap, and a tail, to two boxes of greeting cards showing him in a series of pails and flowerpots and baskets, to seven tote bags “for friends” and two sets of three smaller framed photos “for the grannies.” Not to mention the T-shirts. I wasn’t sure their extended family would thank me, but my bank manager would.
Yes, I had an unavoidable two-week almost-break coming up, but these clients had come to me by referral, and word of mouth was the best marketing there was. I was getting buzz. I was on my way.
I held that thought resolutely in mind, hung the dripping mat on the line, unclipped the rest of yesterday’s washing, since I was out here anyway, and took it inside just in time to hear Yasmin start to wail. After that? I went in there, held her while she sobbed, and finally, when she was cried out, worked with her to find a solution. Which I didn’t have time for, but what could you do?
Next week, the girls would be back at school, with all the logistics that entailed. I tried not to be tired at the thought of it.
So that was no text from Lachlan, one sick dog, one mangled monkey, one heartbroken child, and one untimely menstrual visitation. Nowhere to go but up, right?
Lachlan did text me that afternoon. The text said,1 PM Sunday at your dad’s,and that was all. Not exactly a love note, you’ll agree.
38
THE WALLS BETWEEN
Lachlan
It was nearly nine on Wednesday evening when I climbed into my car in the airport carpark and headed for home. Drake had been on the same Emirates flight, even in the same Business cabin, and had snaked his way through Passport Control behind me, too. I could’ve confronted him right there, or possibly on the flight, but I hadn’t trusted myself to, and that was the truth. We’d got into a pissing matchbeforethose rumors, and I was so much angrier now that we could’ve both ended up in some Saudi jail. I needed calm to handle this. I needed a plan.
I’d have to confront him before Sunday, though, because I’d set up the barbecue at his house before everything had gone pear-shaped. If we didn’t address this, we could be having a stoush in his back garden, overturning the food table and violating every Kiwi hospitality precept for both host and guest.
Or not, because you couldn’t exactly throw a punch at a man nearly thirty years your senior. A man with a splint on his nose, not to mention the rest of the complicating factors here.
Of course, there was also the easy answer: I could simply stay away from his back garden, and from whatever arrangement he was trying to set up with my sisters, too. It wasn’t like I had anything to do with the whole sperm-donor situation, and they were grown women, right? They didn’t need me to smooth over the bumps and back them up anymore, even if it felt like I should be there to do it, to the point where I didn’t trust my body not to carry me to Drake’s house, whatever my brain advised.
Then there was Laila. Whom I’d tell … what?
And the question that nagged the loudest. If Drake had been willing to sabotage me like this, what else was he willing to do? He had a reputation, he had influence, and how did you guard yourself against a campaign of whispers? How did you fight back against the father of the woman you …
I was a problem-solver, but I had no idea how to solve this.
Twenty-five minutes’ drive home, the sun taking forever to set here at the bottom of the world. I was navigating the familiar curves without really seeing them, and thinking … well, not thinking at all, really.
I wasn’t a man who got tired. Not when I was tramping around with a pack and a plan in the back of beyond, taking samples in the Arctic cold or the tropical heat, not when I was working until after midnight looking at geologic maps, and definitely not while I flew halfway across the world in perfectly comfortable accommodation on possibly the most luxurious airline on earth. I was tired now, though, and worse than that—I was doubting.
Something else I didn’t do. You had to back yourself to do this job, and there were people relying on me for the wages that paid their bills. You were never going to get every contract, no matter how much you wanted it or how much you prepared. No matter that you were the right man for it, and they should have seen it. You shook off the sting, took your learnings, and got to work on the next proposal.
What if this happened again, though? What could I do?
I didn’t examine the doubt, I didn’t examine the fatigue, and I definitely didn’t examine the anger. I just drove. Off the motorway and up the hill, finding a carpark, pulling my bag from the boot, and walking uphill again to the flat.
The night was quiet except for my echoing footsteps on the pavement, because it was Wednesday, last weekend’s Uni-student piss-ups in the past and Friday’s not yet arrived, and I was glad. Laila’s Gothic windows were shining gold, and they drew me the way they always did. I hesitated, but went up the stairs to my flat instead, where I dropped my bag on the bed, unzipped it, put my hand on the clothes inside, heard soft footfalls beyond the wall, and …
And sank down onto the bed beside the bag, elbows on knees, my head in my hands, and thought,What do I do now?
