Page 7 of Kiwi Gold
“Really?” Karen said. “About the sisters? Jax never told me that.”
“Didn’t know, that’s why,” Jax said.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “You’ve been friends how long? That’s quite the detail to totally miss. What do men talk about?”
“Not that, anyway,” Jax said.
“Ah,” she said, pouncing on it. “Women.”
“No,” Jax said. “You’ve read too many books. Can’t remember, really. Sport, probably. There was cricket on in the bar when I met him, I remember that.”
“India and New Zealand,” I said. “World Test Championship.”
“That was it,” he agreed. “When New Zealand had that 352-run stand in the sixth wicket, and India were bundled out with 197. That was the day.”
Karen sighed. “So are you babysitting, or coming with us?”
“He has other choices,” Jax said.
I considered them. As my latest relationship had foundered on the rocky shores of my job and its frequent absences, and possibly also a complete lack of desire for marriage and kids of my own, they involved, (A) a jolly evening with my four sisters, two partners, two kids, one pregnancy, and who knows what kind of drama, because Liana had been quiet at Christmas dinner and had turned up on my doorstep for a cup of tea and a bout of weeping the next day, and Lexi had had that look in her eye that told you she was thinking about either quitting her job again, recruiting a sperm donor, or chucking it all to move to Hollywood and become a professional stunt driver; or (B) an overcrowded bar, along with every other single bloke in Dunedin and half the Uni students, which was just pathetic for a man in his mid-thirties. Or, of course, (C), which was a quiet evening on my own. I’d discovered, though, on arriving back in Dunedin and moving properly into the slightly odd flat I’d purchased, that there seemed to be either children or monkeys living next door, given the constant sound of skittering little feet and the occasional yelp or shriek. Also, I’d heard a crying baby a few times since I’d come home. A cryingnewbaby. You couldn’t mistake that sound.
Doomed. I was doomed.
I said, “OK. If I can find something to wear that doesn’t involve tights and a codpiece, I’ll come. I can collect you at Jax’s parents’ place and take you to mine, and we can walk from there. Easier parking and more drinking for you that way, eh.”
“Awesome,” Karen said. “Also, I didn’t evenconsiderthe codpiece. Jax …”
“Don’t say it,” Jax said. “Do not say it. No.”
* * *
Laila
“This wouldn’t be a setup, would it?” I asked.
Poppy Te Mana, who’d been Poppy MacGregor when we’d been at Otago Girls together during my extremely awkward motherless teenage years, and had decided to be my friend anyway, waded to the top of her baby bump in her parents’ enormous swimming pool on the Otago Peninsula and pulled her three-year-old, Isobel, along in her inflatable ring and floaties. I kept an eye on my girls, who were practicing their kneeling version of diving off the side where the deep end started, then paddling to me. They’d graduated from floaties this summer, but I was still keeping a close lookout. Amira could overestimate her competence. Surprise.
“Mum!” Poppy’s oldest, Hamish, called from beneath the diving board. “Livvy says she’s going to do a flip. I told her not to, because she doesn’t know how, but she says she is anyway.”
“Icando a flip. I watched on TV and it’s very easy.” That was Poppy’s five-year-old, Olivia. Her hair was a vibrant strawberry red, and the rest of her burned just as bright. Every time we hung out with Poppy’s kids, Amira became more fascinated.
Imagine ifthosetwo had been twins. Nightmare.
“No flips in Nan’s pool,” Poppy said. “If you want to learn, you can ask at your next swim lesson. Where they won’t let you,” she told me in an undertone. “Because you’refive.”
“Grandad says I’m a fish,” Olivia said. “And fish can flip.Obviously.”
Amira had been listening intently to all this, and I could see her lips form around the word.“Obviously.”I’d heard that once already from Olivia today. She was trying it out, it seemed. We didn’t needtwolittle girls sighing, rolling their eyes, and saying,“Obviously,”so I gave her a Don’t-Even-Think-About-It look. Probably wouldn’t work, but I’d try.
“Rude,” Poppy said. “Let’s not say that word anymore. Show me your cannonball. I want to see how much splash you can make.”
Olivia did it, happily and splashily, then bobbed up and swam again like, yes, a fish, and Poppy asked me, “Are you relaxing yet?” just as Amira said, “I want to jump off of the board too, Mummy.”
I said, “All right,” and told Yasmin, “You can swim over with me to watch, or you can stay here with Auntie Poppy. Or you can jump, too,” I decided to add. Why should I assume Yasmin was scared?
“I’ll stay with Auntie Poppy,” she said. “Because I can help with Isobel.” Doomed to be responsible. I knew the feeling.
It was a while before we resumed the conversation. Mum-talks tended to be like that, though, full of What-did-I-just-say and Get-down-from-there interruptions, weaving themselves through the fabric of the conversation until you picked up the original strands again. When we were sitting at a table on the pool deck having snack time, though, Poppy said, “It’s not a setup. I wouldn’t know anybody to set you up with, since I only seem to know parents. Matiu probably would, though. Fancy a lovely doctor?”
