Page 50 of Kiwi Gold
“If you feel that way,” I said, “why are you single?”
He started to answer, then stopped, and finally said, “It’s complicated.”
“Probably not,” I said. “Usually, things aren’t that complicated.”
“Right, then.” He took a breath, then let it out. “Probably that that bloke I’m talking about doesn’t tend to be me. And that I don’t want kids. Which, once a woman gets a few years past thirty … she could feel like she’s wasting her time. Wasting her love.”
That feeling in my stomach? That was cold water. My hand stilled on my fork, and he said, “Yeh. That’s the usual reaction.” His eyes were steady on mine, though.
I wanted to say so many things.But you love your sisters. You went to meet them tonight, to help them. You helped my girls play cricket, and Yasmin asks every day if we can go visit you. And what would you call tonight? Entertainment? Really?But people knew how they felt, and they were entitled to those feelings, right?
“Oh,” I said. Stupidly. And ate another bite of beef, which tasted like chalk in my mouth now. “Thank you for your honesty. For explaining to me.”
“I can only explain how I feel,” he said, “not how any other man would feel. But I can tell you that you do make me feel some of those things. You’re beautiful, and you’re more than that. If you don’t want to have sex until you’re sure, or …”
“Well, yeh,” I said. “Until I’m married. See, you can’t evensayit.”
“It’s unusual,” he said. “You must admit.”
“Oh,” I said, “I admit.”
“Well, then, tell him that you want to take it slow—veryslow—and see how he reacts. You’ll find out pretty bloody quickly, is my guess. But you don’t have to kiss him. You don’t owe him a thing, whether you tell him or not. If he thinks he’s paid for you—he hasn’t. Prostitution’s legal. Next time, he can skip the drinks bill and go straight to the source.”
“Well … thanks. This reallyisdating school, then.” There was no reason to feel so bereft, so cold. If anything, this was exactly why I needed the practice. Here I was, my third time with this man—fourth, if you counted the wheelie bins—and I was already much too invested.
“Oi.” He reached a hand out, hesitated, then covered mine with it. “Honesty not so good after all? Sorry.”
“No,” I said, moving my hand away. Kindness wasn’t caring, not really. It wasn’t about you. It was just kindness.
“Right, then,” he said. “Don’t look at me as an example, because I’m a rubbish one. What about your parents? Sounds like that was a love story. I’ve heard they can happen. Haven’t exactly seen it, but I’ll believe it. How did your dad end up marrying a Kuwaiti?”
“Wait.” A light had gone on. “You don’t believe in love, because your parents weren’t in love?”
“Well, it’s a bit more than that,” he said. “My dad wasn’t anywhere. And my stepdad? The stronger my mum got, the more he drank. Told her once that she didn’t make him feel like a man, like she’d decided that part was hers. And she said, ‘Somebody has to be.’ Excuse, that was all. She could handle the responsibility, and he couldn’t. He tried, I guess. He still saw the girls, and he still saw me.” He paused, then said, “What your dad said was right. I studied exploration geology to work with him. He was the man I … the man I knew.” His gaze on me was steady now. “You asked what Peter’s side of the story was. That your dad wanted to take all the best jobs for himself, basically. That he was a bull, and a bully. It wasn’t until I started working with him that I realized that probably wasn’t all of it. That he was careless, or he was lazy. Or, who knows, maybe those were his demons. What I remember, early on, is your dad being the best man at my mum’s wedding, because the two of them went through University together, and then set up shop together, which you’ll know. Somewhere in there, it gets fuzzy. All I know is, Peter set up for himself, and he took the client with him. Failed partnerships all the way around, and resentment, too. Could be why I don’t stick, eh.”
“Other than with your sisters,” I said. “Other than with your mum.”
He smiled a little ruefully and said, “You saw my sisters. Any of them is capable of turning up on my doorstep at any time. And my mum? Strongest woman I know. Of course I admire her. Of course I try to help when I can.”
I shouldn’t let that influence me. I was still trying to sort it out when he said, “Tell me about another time with your mum, then. A happy time. There, that’s neutral.”
The beef was gone, and we had something else now. A veggie dish, served in a miniature tureen with handles. Beautiful as a painting, a golden layer of polenta piled with ribbons of baked summer squash and courgettes, scattered with blistered cherry tomatoes in every hue and topped by fresh basil and squash blossoms. I took a taste. Cream in there, and butter, too, making the top of the polenta crisp and the interior so creamy. Every dish in this dinner was tiny, but it was all working.
I said, “A happy time. Mm, this is good.”
“Yeh,” he said. “It is. And I missed out the cabernet I’d normally be drinking, because I thought this would suit you better. Pinot Gris. You may like it.” And then, of course, he handed it to me.
I took a sip. Of course I did. Fresh pear and poached apple, with an aftertaste of lemon chasing the flavors across my tongue. I lifted my eyes to Lachlan in astonishment, and he grinned and said, “Good, eh. Pretty bloody nice going down.” With that flash of canine teeth, and for just a moment, looking not nearly so much like a brother. And then he was taking the glass back and saying, “Tell me if you’d rather I didn’t offer it to you. You haven’t had much more than a glass in all, though. And tell me about that happy time, too.”
“You go first,” I said. “Happy time with your family.”
“Ah,” he said. “You want me to be gentlemanly. Here’s one, then. Not sure this reflects as well as it might on me, but maybe the time I built my sisters an obstacle course in the back garden and put them on a sort of physio regimen. Liana was being bullied by a boy at school for being little, for being timid, for being a ginger, whatever, so I made a plan to fix it. I thought I was a drill sergeant. Had a whistle and a schedule and a clipboard and all. They complained, and then they started getting stronger. It was exactly like a movie. Extremely satisfying.”
I was laughing, somehow. “I’m surprised you didn’t go teach the kid a lesson yourself. Seems more like you. More like my dad, too.”
“Nah,” he said. “Eight years older, eh. Can’t give a little kid a beatdown. Not a good look. I had to get creative instead. Got them fit, got them making a plan, looking out for each other, being a team, learning how to defend themselves. Also, kids have an easier time in school if they’re good at sport. I thought I was quite something for knowing that, when my mum seemed so oblivious. Of course, that was because she was working like mad, and I was fourteen, so definitely not as clever as I thought. Especially when Lexi decided to forget the ‘showing him up at sport’ idea and went straight to punching him. There may have been some punching lessons in my regimen, too. Good thing, or bad one. It’s relative.”
My body was so confused. I was laughing, but parts of me that had been asleep, if I were honest, since long before Kegan had died were awake again, and they were making themselves felt. I’d felt so bad earlier this week, but now? With the creaminess of the savory polenta and the squirt of juice when you bit down on those tomatoes, with the taste of fruit still lingering in my mouth, making me want more?
