Page 8 of Kiwi Gold
I didn’t say anything, and she said, “Sorry. Too soon?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or just … I can’t. Something wrong with me, maybe. Or do you know what I mean?”
Poppy said, “Sorry. I met Matiu in the midst of having somebody else’s baby, so I’m not exactly on your wavelength. But then, my husband didn’t …”
I started to say, “Die,” then stopped myself. Did I want to have a whole discussion about daddies dying with this many kids listening? No, I did not.
It’s an odd thing anyway to be a widow in your mid-thirties, especially if everybody knows about it. Every other mum’s uncomfortable imagining it, as if it’s contagious, and men tend to treat you like either a Sad Madonna or somebody who’s gagging for sex. With me, honestly, it was almost always the Sad Madonna. I wasn’t the sexy type.
I said, “I could pretend we’re teenagers and moon over Jax again. That’s embarrassing to look back on, if you like. D’you remember how I used to invent reasons to be in your kitchen when he was home, trying my best to bake something delicious in a fetchingly feminine manner? My mum had convinced me that the New Zealand male was secretly looking for a modest, dignified woman who knew how to speak lovely French and run a household. She never quite believed that everyplace in the world isn’t exactly like Kuwait underneath, and of course, I believed her. Or how about when I’d walk by Jax on the beach in my extremely modest togs and imagine that he was thinking, “Who is that devilishly attractive girl? What? Never tell me that’s Laila. Why have I never truly noticed her dark beauty, soulful eyes, willow-like figure, and demure nature? In her rashie and swim shorts?’”
“I’ve tactfully forgotten,” Poppy said, but she was laughing again, not looking like I’d just got awkward. “And he’s married himself now, of course, so hard luck there. So it’s not for a setup. It’s for fun. Would your dad watch the girls, d’you think? Or if he’s going out, the girls could have a sleepover with my babysitters instead, as I fortunately have two. One for Olivia, and one for everybody else. What did you do last New Year’s Eve?”
Cried into my pillow,I thought,and wondered if my life was actually over, or if it just felt that way. I didn’t say that, though, or that my dad, the force of nature who was Torsten Drake, might have opinions on my social life, especially if it involved dating. Dating isn’t a thing in Islam, you see, and my dad was fairly devout. Also fairly opinionated. But then, I wasn’t dating, was I? No, because the very idea filled me with unreasoning panic.
I’d never really done dating. I didn’t knowhow.
“I didn’t go to a masked ball, it’s safe to say,” I said. “What would I go as? It’s tomorrow. Not much time for costuming.”
“Go as something simple, then,” Poppy said.
“Something Shakespearean and simple,” I said dubiously.
“Right,” Poppy said. “I’m doing my best to channel high school here. Unfortunately, I seem to mostly have watched the films instead of reading the plays like we were meant to. Not enough funny bits. There was somebody in a sort of nightdress in one, though. Well, Lady Macbeth, of course, but the bloody hands would get awkward. There’s Juliet after the wedding night, but that’s a bit obscure, maybe. Somebody else, I’m sure.”
“Ophelia,” I said. “When she goes mad. Not the most attractive image, possibly.” But I was laughing, which was better.
I could go to a party. Amaskedparty. A maskedcostumeparty with a few hundred other souls, with no focus on me and no need to flirt or act coy or brazen or whatever the latest idea was for appealing feminine behavior, pakeha variety. Something that had confused me as a teenager and was still confusing me twenty years later.
“White nightdress,” Poppy said. “The enormous poufy kind. Surprised I don’t have one to lend you, honestly. Sounds just up my street. Hair down your back, and you’ve got heaps of that. And there’s a …” She stopped, then snapped her fingers. “She has plants with her, right? ‘There’s rosemary. That’s for remembrance.’ There you are. One of the two lines I remember from the play. A quick trip round the fruit and veg, possible wreath in your hair—or water weed, though that could be too realistic—air of vagueness, and you’re sorted.”
“An enormous nightdress,” I said. “A fistful of herbs. And a mad look in my eye. Bound to be fetching.”
“Very fetching,” Poppy said. “And a mask. Don’t forget the mask. That’s your air of mystery. Bring the girls to the house at eight-thirty. Let’s do this.”
4
LIMBS ON DISPLAY
Laila
When I arrived at Poppy’s place the next evening, clutching my pashmina tightly to me, the person who opened the door to me was … Oriana. As in my assistant. With her sixteen-year-old sister, Priya, behind her. Oriana had produced Priya as my emergency babysitter for that last week before Christmas, and thank goodness for that.
I did that thing you always do when you meet somebody out of context and gaped at them uncomprehendingly, and my girls shrieked and threw their arms around both of them.
“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you two. I didn’t realize you knew, uh, Poppy.”
“Yes,” Oriana said, blushing a little, the way she generally did in uncomfortable situations, even when it was the other person who was making it uncomfortable. “Our oldest sister works with Matiu. We’re, uh, babysitting. For Poppy. And for you, of course.”
Priya, a short, dark girl with straight-across eyebrows, didn’t blush. Instead, she stared at me like a stunned mullet until she finally roused herself enough to say, “Come back to the kitchen with me, girls. We’ll do bubbles!”
They trooped off quite happily with her, especially as Olivia had just rushed in and thrownherarms around Amira and Yasmin and was dragging them off whilst talking excitedly about fizzy drinks and bubbles and snacks and “doing a celebration,” which had an ominous ring to it. Priya gave me another startled look over her shoulder on the way, though, and Oriana said, her color even higher, “Priya’s just out of Mount Zion,” whilst looking apprehensive.
“The cult?” I asked. Well,thatwas random.
Oriana got even redder. “Yes. That’s what people Outside call it, anyway.”
I studied her more closely. “Did you live there as well?” It would explain so much. The fully isolated community of so-called Christians was known for two things: full-on patriarchy, and a fertility fetish. Well, three things. Extremely rigid gender roles as well. Caps and aprons and long skirts and total obedience, all much closer to Sharia law than to any form of mainstream Christianity.
