The Night Book (16 page)

She drifted, waiting for Tam. Silence, only the slop slop of water against the side of the pool. When Tamara came back with two coffees and a little plastic bag of powder Roza screwed up her eyes and laughed. A bird flew swiftly overhead, its shadow flashing across the deck. She watched, held in the moment, as Tam upended the bag of powder, licking a bit off her long nail. Roza’s panic had gone, she was calm and still. A blow-up toy drifted across the pool. Clouds moved, the light dimmed and brightened, steam curled and slipped above the coffee cups. Tamara smiled.

‘Cheers, darling.’

‘Chin-chin.’

A man came to do the pool. He greeted the two glamorous housewives, drinking their third cup of morning coffee. When Roza got up to leave she was so stoned she walked into the glass ranchslider, thinking it was open. Tamara held her and they rocked with laughter. Roza went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her expression was jubilant, her head reeled. She came out and found Tam flirting with the pool man.

They walked out to her car. ‘Come back soon,’ Tam said. A wave of birds flapped out of the trees in the park and swirled in the air.

‘I’m just thinking,’ Tam said, her eyes on the birds, ‘it’s so crazy you being the wife of you know who and doing what we’ve been doing.’

Roza laughed, ‘Well, don’t tell. You’re the only person I trust.’

They’d always made a big thing of knowing each other’s secrets. Roza knew about Tam’s abortions, her drug habits, about the time she’d caught two STDs at once. Tam thought she knew everything about Roza but she didn’t; Roza just let her think she did. Tam didn’t know about Elke, because when Roza had met Myron Jannides, she’d left Tam behind.

‘You’ll have to come over for dinner,’ Roza said. But she knew she would never invite her. She might come back here, but she wouldn’t let Tam into her and David’s house.

‘That’d be great,’ Tam said, her eyes turning hard, as if she knew Roza wasn’t sincere.

Roza drove to work and told everyone she wasn’t sick after all. She sat at her desk. Her throat was dry and sore and she kept grinding her teeth as she powered through the things she had to do, clearing her inbox at high speed, sending waves of lucid emails, dealing with things she’d been putting off for days. She worked through lunch, with the sense that the air around her was thick and silvery, that she was swimming through it. All her movements were controlled by the liquidy pressure and she was graceful, powerful.

Later, Ellen went to a meeting and Roza took Ray Marden’s manuscript out of her bag. She’d secretly read through it to the end and noted her corrections on every page. Two days ago she’d decided to throw it away; now, in her new, heightened state, braced and heartened by Tamara’s magic potion, she realised what a waste that would be. She’d been ridiculously afraid. All that worrying was completely unnecessary. Okay, Marden was considered toxic, the
rapist cop who would taint anyone who went near him, but that was just people being … cowardly. She decided she could send him the corrected manuscript, and tell him she was doing it privately. She could ask him please to be discreet and he would understand her position. It would be a favour, a kindness, to a hated pariah. What was wrong with that? How constrained she’d felt by her position — nearly the wife of the prime minister. David was paranoid about his image and his reputation, but he didn’t need to worry. His popularity was high; he was going to win. Roza drew in a sharp breath.

‘You look pleased with yourself.’

Cheryl was standing in the doorway.

‘Well. It’s a mad old world,’ Roza said. ‘I’m nearly the wife of the PM.’

Cheryl paused. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Lucky old you,’ she said.

Roza said, talking fast, ‘There’s gotta be some perks that go with it. Some world trips.’ She smiled hugely.

‘No doubt.’ Cheryl laid a file on the desk without taking her eyes off Roza.

‘I’m not giving up working here, though. I love it.’

‘Keeping in touch with the common people.’

‘Oh yeah. All you commoners. You know I love you.’

There was a silence. Roza rubbed her eyes. ‘I was just thinking about Ray Marden. You know, his book.’

Cheryl studied her fingernails. ‘We saw him in St Lukes the other day. We got a good look at him. He is the most
evil
-looking guy. Just totally horrible. Like the incredible, you know.’

‘Hulk.’

‘Yeah. The Incredible Hulk … What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Roza said, shaking. ‘It’s just funny, that’s all.’ She waved her hand. ‘The Incredible Hulk.’

‘Well. I’m glad you’re in such a good mood.’

‘Yeah,’ Roza sighed. When she looked up Cheryl had gone. She blinked.

She closed her door, picked up the phone and rang Ray Marden.

He answered.

She rushed straight in. ‘Ray Marden? I work for AT Press. We turned down your book, as you know, but I wonder if I could have a word.’

‘Yeah …?’ He was puzzled, surly. Cautious.

‘I’ve been through your manuscript and I’ve edited it for you. I’ve done this on my own time. No one else was willing to do it. No one else … what I mean is …’

‘I’m sorry, what are you saying?’

Roza said slowly, ‘I’ve read your manuscript. I’ve given you some suggestions for editing. Do you want me to send it to you?’

‘But …’ He was confused.

‘I’ve just done it privately because I was sorry no one would help you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

He was quiet.

‘I could send it to you. Put. It. In. The. Post.’ Roza checked herself. Was she talking too loud? ‘It’s just some copy-editing, well a huge amount of editing actually. The thing is you’ll never get your book published the way it is, but no one’s going to help you with it. So I’ve been through it in my own time.’

Another silence. Really, how long was he going to take to get it through his thick skull?

She said, ‘I can just chuck it away if you like.’

‘No. You’ve got editing … You’ve done editing. Could I meet with you?’

Roza screwed up her face in a silent laugh. Steady on. Let’s not get carried away, mate. ‘No. I’ll post it to you.’

‘I would like to discuss it with you. Like you said, no one’s willing to help me.’

Roza hesitated. She hadn’t thought of meeting him, but why not? Why shouldn’t she meet an aspiring author and give him a few tips?

He said, ‘Can I ask what your name is?’

Roza said, ‘I don’t really want people at work to know I’m doing this. So can you not tell anyone here?’

‘Sure. Why would I talk to them, anyway?’

‘My name is … Sue.’

‘Okay. Sue. Thank you for looking at my work. Maybe we could have a coffee and a talk about it.’

‘Well, it might be possible. Where?’

He suggested a café. Roza said no, not a café.

Another silence.

Roza said, ‘What about the Domain, by the greenhouses? That place they call the kiosk. You can buy a coffee and sit at the picnic tables outside.’ The park, daytime, during the week — there wouldn’t be anyone around.

‘I could do that.’

He suggested a day and time. Roza said, ‘Fine. I’ll bring the manuscript and the notes. Just don’t mention it to anyone.’

She hung up and began fitfully straightening the papers on her desk. Why not, she thought. It’s time to face the world, to stop hiding away. Meeting Ray Marden. A little charity work. She gritted her teeth and fiddled compulsively, lining up the pens along her desk. Why not?

The air was still silvery but there were weaknesses in the force of it
now, gaps that she might fall through, and her jaw was beginning to ache. When she drove home there were four other cars in the yard, and David was sitting by the pool with Dianne and a group of party people, activists and strategists. Rushing straight upstairs to fix her face, she thought, If David and I ever divorced it would be me against him — and all of them. When had it begun, that he belonged more to others than he did to her? There were people who would look out for him, close around him if they thought she was a problem. She remembered the old times, when it was just the two of them. Now she was married to the party. She’d thought the way to keep him was to hold herself separate, so that she and he shared something no one else did. A mistake. She’d kept her distance from the party, and now she was on the outside.

She went down to the kitchen. David saw her and called. She went out, and he offered her a glass of sparkling water and pulled up a chair while they went on talking, David topping up the wine glasses all round.

Dianne’s cheeks and neck were flushed. She said to Roza, ‘Are you coming to the Wellington dinner tomorrow?’

Roza said, ‘No.’

Dianne did a little mime of surprise, looked directly at David and said sweetly, ‘David. Shame on you.’

There was a silence.

Roza put down her glass. She could feel people watching.

David said, ‘Roza’s not coming because she’s working. And obviously why would she want to anyway. It’s just a work thing.’

Dianne widened her eyes, innocent. Roza stared. There was another silence, during which Roza considered what she was going to say. The air around her was ragged with holes; the brightness had gone. David’s chief strategist, Ed Miles, suddenly put his hand on Dianne’s shoulder and said, ‘Time to go.’ He looked at David, who
nodded. Dianne got up, and David didn’t look at her, only nodded again at Ed. Roza watched Ed ushering Dianne away.

She looked around the group. They had relaxed: some were talking, some were gathering their things, ready to leave, and no one would meet her eye. She hugged her arms across her chest, chilled. David patted her shoulder and she started; she followed him and they saw everyone to the door.

In the sitting room, Roza turned on him, furious. ‘That little bitch.’

David said, ‘What is it? What is it now?’ He put his arms around her and held her.

‘That malicious little Dianne. The way she said “Shame on you”.’ Roza mimicked her sugary voice.

‘Forget about her, she’s nothing. Think of what we’re going to do. You and me, the big picture.’ He was holding her too tight. ‘We’re so close now. I’m going to pull it off, Roza. And you’re with me. Only you.’

‘Am I?’ She tried to free herself. ‘Get off me. Go and play with your fucking Dianne.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

The air broke apart. Roza fell through a black hole and reeled, spinning out of control. She said, ‘You’ve changed, you’ve become power-crazed. You’re not the same person any more. It’s all about the party. You don’t care about me. I’m leaving. I hate your politics. I can’t stand all these sly, calculating people in my house.’

He went still. ‘Roza.’

He grabbed her by the wrist. She tried to elbow past him but he pulled her down onto the sofa, holding her face against his and rocking back and forth. She felt wetness on her cheek and realised he was crying. She’d never seen him cry before.

He said, ‘I love you. Roza, Roza. I love you. Only you.’

She sat next to him, silent. Why had Dianne come over so catty, and why was he crying? She knew it was petty, thinking like this. Dianne was a nothing. Think of the big picture, David said, and he was right, but her mind raced; she was speeding and angry, unmoved by his crying. She saw it as evidence of guilt. He was cheating with Dianne; he’d stopped loving her. She was just here to look after his kids, supervise the domestic help. He was controlling her, making sure there were no blow-ups, nothing that would embarrass him at such a sensitive time. He wanted her to get pregnant because this was another way of controlling her; it would anchor her to him, she would be monitored by doctors, held captive by the pregnancy itself, kept in check, subdued, quelled. His colleagues were in on it — don’t upset Roza, let’s not have any domestic problems that will distract David, that will damage the campaign. Did they talk about her, spy on her? Did they follow her?

David raised his head and rubbed his eyes. She didn’t believe in the tears. But no sooner had she thought, He’s controlling me, he’s manipulating me, than the thought began to waver and fade, to lose its force and take on a surreal, chiming quality that turned it meaningless. There was a kind of horror to this, but it left her empty and calm. She began to think about having a baby. Perhaps being pregnant wouldn’t destroy her, by reviving memories of the first baby; maybe it would allow her to focus on something new. It might be a good thing to submit to it. She needed something from the outside to save her from herself. She put her arms around David. He said something but she didn’t hear it. They sat in silence as the room darkened, until they heard Jung Ha driving in the gate, bringing the kids from sports and music practice.

She said, ‘You never talk about Becky. Neither do the kids. Do you talk about her when you’re together?’

‘Sometimes. Maybe. I suppose.’

‘You never say anything about her. It’s as if she …’

‘She’s dead.’

‘It’s as if she never existed. You don’t refer to her.’

‘We’ve got our own life now. With the kids. You and me.’

‘But it’s so strange. You don’t …’

‘Roza. Shut up.’

She stopped.

‘You’re my whole world,’ he said.

She looked at him strangely, hearing her own words: ‘It’s as if she never existed’. She thought of Elke. Could she live as though Elke had never existed?

‘Well,’ she said, ‘shall I make some coffee, now we love each other and all?’

He laughed. They walked to the kitchen and she suppressed a laugh of her own. She was losing her mind. 

She gets off the bus in the cold wind, and a plane comes in low over the roof, dragging its shadow, the roar of the jets echoing off the parking building, the sky high and bright, the light hard, making her squint her eyes and draw air in sharply through her teeth. Some days everything hurts. Some days the light flays you. She used to take pills. For six months after Baby died, she would stay inside on bright days, lying on her bed in the silence, watching the stripes of light move across the floor. Bright days were too much: they jangled and mocked. She felt like a beetle crawling across the earth, scurrying, tense, waiting for the crack of some great hand that would come down and crush her again. Baby was never called anything but Baby; for the time they were apart she thought of her every moment, and in her mind she was just the numb, stunned, hurting word baby, taken away, lost, gone, and when she got her back she was the thing she clung to, baby. Baby was the only good thing she’d ever achieved, until she caused her death, let her down again, the first time because she was a low-life criminal slut busted for drugs, the second time because she went to sleep and waited until morning, instead of running out into the night with the kid in her arms, straight to hospital. They told her: it’s not your fault.
There’s nothing you did wrong, nothing you could have done. This illness, this meningitis moves so rapidly, it will kill while you’re half asleep and wondering what to do. It starts with a little rash, a few spots and then, wham. Kids in Remuera, well-off people’s children, die of this too, a nurse said. A doctor prescribed her pills after the funeral, but she soon gave them up. They were supposed to cheer her up, but they made her frantic.

Her father shed tears at Baby’s graveside, his elbow up to his forehead. His face was white; there were brown circles around his eyes. After the funeral he went to the beach and played golf. He’d painted all the balls fluorescent orange, so the kids could find them when he sent them running through the marram grass. Her mother was dead already; she never saw Baby. In the house by the beach aunts and cousins milled around. The funeral was over; they were all starting to drink. She watched her father teeing off against the blazing sky, watching his shot, swinging his club over his shoulder, rolling a beer can across his forehead, his hair standing up in greasy black and greying curls. They called him the only Greek in the Far North. He’d come from Australia; they all said he’d come on the run. He never went back, married into the Maoris. Mad bastard, fisherman, skilled horticulturalist. Widower, master of his beachside house, his seven children and his legendary dope crops. She had entered the family business at a young age. They said she was the sharp one of the whanau, a bad, clever, cheeky little slut, too much like her father. No one was surprised when she ended up in jail.

But no more of that shit. Not after she had killed Baby.

She crosses into the departure lounge and heads for the café, thinking about Simon Lampton. His expensive clothes and shoes, his soft hands, the way his expression veers between uncertainty and happiness, the sight of him balancing in her bedroom in his
jocks, trying to put his socks on, doing up his shirt, the long legs and the bright blue boxers showing under the shirt tails; she wanted to laugh, he looked so stupid, vulnerable, ungainly, defenceless. The tiny, middle-aged noises he made in bed, the way he looked at her afterwards, all soulful and hot and grateful and frightened, making her want to shriek with terrible laughter. His back as he turned to go, suddenly armoured by his suit, his expression hardened, his professional mask on, shutting her out, the impatient way he jingled his keys in his hand — it was only then that she felt a cold little stab of loss and fear, stopped laughing and followed him out to the car, watching as he drove down the road past the houses at the edge of field, leaving her standing in the bright silence, wondering if she’d ever see him again.

The café shuts overnight; hers is the first morning shift. She unlocks the grille and pulls it up over the café counter, turns on the switches in the kitchen, the white neon tubes buzzing as they light up.

She’s always the first of her shift to arrive. Some days she stands looking at the queuing travellers, wishing a plane would crash. She feels the thud of impact, sees the flames and black smoke boiling out from the fuselage, fire engines racing towards the wreck, black figures writhing, screaming, tearing at themselves. Flying shards of metal, soft bodies. She’s hungry for this image, feels something inside herself connecting with it, merging with the pain and screaming and flames.

She goes behind the counter and starts turning stuff on. The coffee machine lights up; the muzak starts. The girls hurry in, still doing their make-up and combing their hair, they fling their plastic bags of stuff on the chair in the office and go chatting and laughing and slamming their way around the kitchen. She runs through her chores, blocking her mind to the plinking misery of Richard Clayderman on the CD, enjoying the rhythm of work. On good days
it’s possible to be happy, even to have an ambition. To make up for what she’s done. To be happy.