Page 9 of Kiwi Gold
“Yes,” Oriana said, and now, she couldn’t look at me. As if she expected me to shriek and point at her, the same way I’d always imagined people were pointing at Mama, in her long, dark trousers, long-sleeved tunics, and hijab. Auckland was diverse. Dunedin? Not so much.
“Ah,” I said. “The clothes are pretty different, I reckon.”
“Yes!” Oriana said, with a relieved smile. “You can’t imagine how startling it all seems at first, women walking around in trousers and all, and what you have on is, uh … I mean, you look almost like Mount Zion, or you do look like it, because it’s a nightdress, and the same kind, but, uh … You see,” she hurried on, “you keep expecting the Prophet to reach his hand out and shame you at Worship, or that you’ll go to Hell. At least I always do—did—but that’s just because I’m soft. Other people don’t as much, obviously.” She bit her lip and tried to laugh. “I know it’s all good, the trousers and … and revealing clothes and all. It’s just … still odd. To us.”
“For me,” I said, “it was hair. Wearing it like this.” And felt the weight of the thick, dark waves hanging down my back, wanton as you like.
“Yes!” Oriana said. “But you don’t really go to Hell for not covering your hair and wearing trousers, of course,” she added, though she didn’t sound convinced. She was, in fact, in a pair of drapey, very wide-legged trousers tonight, as if they were her best replacement for a skirt. Torn between worlds. I knew about that.
“I think,” I said, “that you mostly go to Hell for hurting people. The rest of it seems more like trying to control people, especially women. But that’s just me.”
I believed that. I did. But all the same, standing here at the ball, I realized that both girls had been right to look shocked at my attire, because I felt both flagrantly immodest and absolutely wrong. Also battered by music of the un-medieval sort, produced by a live band that had their amplifiers set to “stun,” and swimming in a sea of chattering, laughing, confident people I didn’t know.
But, mainly, seriously underdressed, like one of those dreams that have you walking through your school naked. The white nightdress had a shift-like quality that hadn’t seemed bad in the shop. It had been the only reasonably modest one I could find at the last minute—in summer, in Dunedin, onNew Year’s Eve—and it had long sleeves, a loose fit, and wasn’t one bit transparent.
All right, maybe it was atinybit transparent when lit from behind, as I’d discovered with horror when I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the inset mirrors in the opulent lobby, but I was wearing white bikinis and a bra underneath it. You could see the outline of my legs all the same, though, and I was glad my dadwasn’tbabysitting the girls. He’d have had something to say, and I didn’t need to hear it.
Brave thoughts. Hold the brave thoughts.
I didn’t have brave thoughts. I’d come to a party—a party in which everybody else was dressed in heavy gowns and beaded caps and velvet tunics—with my hair down and my limbs unexpectedly on display. I’d been introduced to people, a jumble of faces and names, almost all of them coupled. At the moment, an extremely pregnant Poppy/Juliet and her extremely handsome husband, Matiu/Romeo, were dancing, and I was in a nightdress and slippers and standing alone.
This was the new me, though, right? Not afraid anymore, and not shy. Not a good Muslim anymore, either, for so many rebellious years now, so there was nothing new here. The nightdress covered my arms and legs andbody.So when a waiter came by with a tray of champagne, I took another step down the road to damnation, grabbed a flute, and drank the stuff down.
If I thought Oriana wasn’t going to Hell, why would I be headed there? And who was here to judge me? They were all drinking champagne themselves.
Kegan was gone, I was on my own, and I was starting over.They say champagne gives you courage, and I needed courage.
I found the bloke with the tray, put the empty glass back, took a full one, and started drinking that, too. One clearly wasn’t enough.
No courage happening so far. Heaps of bubbles, but it wasn’t nearly as delicious as I’d hoped. If a wet thing could be dry, this was it. It wasn’t Coca-Cola, that was certain. The second glass was tasting better than the first, though, so maybe …
The touch of a hand on my shoulder made me jump, and jumping made the champagne splash straight onto the bodice of my nightdress. Which was now clinging to me. Andcold.
“I’ll have a guess, shall I?” the man fairly shouted over the music. “Juliet in the bedroom. Brave choice.” His hair was a bit tousled under his black mask, he had the mountain-man beard so many fellas were sporting these days, and he was on the bulky side, the black lines of his Hamlet costume not having quite enough slimming effect. That was about all I could tell.
It was oddly disconcerting not being able to see somebody’s eyes. My mind didn’t seem able to fill in the missing pieces and put his face together. At the moment, though, I was glad of it, because nobody would recognize me, either. But then, how would they possibly still care? I wasn’t Kegan Ashford’s wife anymore. I was a newborn photographer, and that was all. That wasall.
Oh. The bloke was still talking. “How do I know that, you ask? Because Shakespeare is my life. I work the Medieval Faire every year, and I make my own armaments, too. Collectors’ items, if you’ll believe it. You carry off Juliet well, though I don’t quite believe you’re thirteen. Luckily.” He laughed. “You could think the play’s a bit pervy, as Romeo’s clearly older, butautre temps, autre moeurs.Other times, other customs,” he added, as if I couldn’t possibly have known the quote, then went on, “But here you are in your nightdress, eh, abandoned by Romeo. If hewashere, he’s off to Mantua, I reckon.” He laughed again at his Shakespeare-literate joke and pressed another glass of champagne into my hand. “This may help ease the pain.” He was more or less bellowing, which wasn’t nearly as smooth as he appeared to think, especially given his poufy black tunic and black tights. Oddly skinny legs, too.
Don’t just stand here,I thought.Do something.Especially once he grabbed my hand and kissed it. It wasn’t as romantic as you might think, especially since the beard was one of those too-long ones and scratchy as wire, and he was staring at me.Specifically, at where I’d spilled the champagne, which had landed where drinks generally do when you spill them. Gravity, and all that. I didn’t have enough curves to need to wear overly structured bras, and, yes, there it was. The nipple of a woman who’d given birth to twins, on display.
I definitely felt naked now. If I’d wanted to step out of the box, I’d done it. And my hair was down! Why had Poppy thought this would be a good idea? Why did I never get the rules right?
“Not Juliet,” I said, willing myself not to cover up my breasts with a major effort and taking a would-be casual drink of champagne. “Ophelia. Excuse me. I need to find my friends.”
“Not yet. Dance with me first.” He swayed a bit, like he’d had a few too many. “Ophelia, eh. It’s working, because no question, you’re the sexiest woman here. It’s wrong not to appreciate the costumes, loving the age as I do, but this …” This time, he kissedhisfingers and threw his arm out, like some kind of Italian stereotype. It was revolting.“Bellissima. Let’s dance.”
Surely, that had been a startled look on Matiu’s face when we’d arrived at the theater and I’d finally taken off my pashmina. Which had been at the coat check, because the thing hadn’t exactly gone with the costume. I wished I had it back now, especially as Mr. Romance started to pull me along with him, and I stiffened.
Men did not touch me. Not without my permission, they didn’t. I’d been with Kegan since I was eighteen, and his friends had soon learned that I didn’t receive embraces from men. Handshakes I could do, because I wasn’t my mum. I was modern. I wasWestern. Being hugged by men outside my family, though, still felt like a bridge much too far. How did you convey that, though, when you’d taken off your wedding ring for the night, and you were in anightdress?
This wasn’t a new start. This was careening straight off the rails. The man was tugging at me now, his other arm was around me, I was starting to panic, and I was going to have to make a scene.
I didn’t do scenes. I didn’t knowhowto do scenes. I was so out of my depth.
* * *
Lachlan
