Trilemma (14 page)

Sally stares at me, her eyes suddenly bright, then she blinks and her face relaxes into its habitual smile.

“Win some, lose some.”

She made the van wait half an hour in case John turned up, but he never showed.

The trip back is quiet. Sally sleeps beside me, her head lolling as the van twists back and forth down the mountain. The other passengers are also silent. Halfway down we have to stop to let one of the nurses get out to be sick.

Sally wakes up, looks around, and then closes her eyes again.

I remember the tender light in John's eyes. Oh, Sally. I don't think he would leave you when you grow old.

Every morning I wish I could walk down through the forest and through the pretty city streets, but every day is so full I take the fastest route, which means driving. When I step out of the car into the underground car park, I pull on my corporate persona before I catch the elevator up to my office. I hate being in that tiny confined space, but I do it anyway.

Every evening I wish I could walk home, but it is late by the time I leave and even in this safe little city I would not choose to walk alone through the dark parks at night.

When I open the door of my apartment, I kick off my heels, toss my jacket on the sofa, remove my spectacles, and fix myself a drink. My apartment is my refuge, where I can just be me and not the image I show to the world.

The end of the week arrives in a rush. I do not meet up again at the Matterhorn to play at doctors and nurses with Sally and her friends. Instead, I attend the ballet with Luke from LCNS and his cohorts. It is soothing to accept the attention of the smiling salesmen. My wish is their command. Luke bends his handsome head to listen to my every facile statement. Food and drink arrives without any effort on my part. I pick at the portion and sip on mineral water. Taxis appear to whisk me to the performance and will appear again at the end of the evening to whisk me home.

I don't take their polite ministrations seriously. It is the role they defer to, not the woman. When the ballet is over and we have met the ballerinas, forced to entertain us in return for sponsorship,
I turn eagerly for home, craving my own quiet space and my cool empty bed like a drug.

There is an item in the network build report that doesn't make any sense. I stand up and rub the back of my neck. I want to walk somewhere, but there's never enough time. All I can do is take the stairs to the basement where Tom has his lair.

Tom is eating his morning snack. His mouth is full of sausage roll and he has tomato sauce smeared on his lip.

“Tom, what is this ‘koha' entry for twenty thousand dollars?”

He swallows and picks up a serviette to wipe his mouth. Crumbs fall onto his desk and he carefully wipes them into his hand and throws them into his rubbish bin.

“Tom?”

“
Koha
is what we pay to the local
iwi
to bless our venture,” he says. “And to remove any bad things from the path of our network.”

“What do you mean, ‘bad things'?”

Tom looks away from my face. “
Taniwha
,” he replies.

“What?”

“
Taniwha
. Bad spirits.”

“You're joking.”

“This is the Maori way, Lin. We must pay
koha
and the elders will make sure that no
Taniwha
curse our network.”

“So
koha
is what, a bribe?”

Tom's jaw tightens. “You don't understand our ways here in New Zealand.
Koha
is a sign of respect, a donation for the elders to distribute to their people.”

I stare at him. He is right, I don't understand. But that doesn't mean I should reject what he is saying.

“It's your call, Tom. If this is customary, then I guess we pay.”

Tom nods and his face relaxes.

“You don't really believe in bad spirits, do you, Tom?”

Tom flushes red. “Of course I bloody don't. But don't expect me to admit that in public.”

“We'd better go through the rest of these figures,” I say.

Tom pulls over a chair for me and we spend the rest of the day examining what we can cull or reduce to keep within our budget.

At nine o'clock I say, “Let's get something to eat.”

It has started to drizzle. The streets of the business district are nearly empty at this hour; just the cleaners and a few other late workers like Tom and me walk the forlorn footpaths.

The drizzle turns into a downpour, the rain tossing water sideways at us like a hose. “The Arbitrageur is closest,” Tom says and I follow him into a modern bar.

Suddenly the urge to relax and have a glass of wine overwhelms me.

Tom glances at me in surprise when I take up the wine list. “Coming off the wagon?”

“Just a glass. But it has to be good.”

The barman climbs halfway up a ladder as if in a library. His hands reach out to find the bottle I have ordered. His head dips to check the label. I see him nod and climb back down. A moment later he stands at the table, whipping off the cork with a deft twist of his wrist. He smells the cork and places it on the table in front of us.

“Who will taste?” he asks and I hold out my glass. I swirl the small sample into a little whirlpool, the dark liquid releasing its secret aromas, and lift the glass to my lips.

I nod to the waiter and he fills our glasses.

“Salut!”

“Cheers,” says Tom and keeps his eyes on mine while he sips the wine.

“I hear you know Nicholas Johnson,” I say.

“Who?”

“Nick Johnson. He's a property agent. Used to be a developer, he tells me.”

Tom's face looks blank. “Never heard of him. I use Exodus to manage my rental property,” he says. “Matt Holmes in the Petone office.”

“I must have misunderstood what he said.”

“Someone you're seeing?”

“No way.”

Tom laughs. “Sorry.”

He leans in when I speak and watches my mouth while I suck the flesh from the dark olives and spit out the pits. The creamy softness of Kikorangi cheese oozes over my tongue while the blue edge hits the back of my throat. I swallow and turn my attention next to the flaccid stalks of oyster mushrooms that lie on a bed of creamed leeks.

Tom reaches out and touches my hand. “You look so tired.”

“I am tired,” I reply. “There is always something to worry about.”

He pours the last of the wine into my glass. By now the warm feeling has made its way throughout my body, and I almost order another before I remember who I am.

Tom looks into my eyes. “You don't have to bear the burden all by yourself.”

But I am not a Harlequin heroine. I have no urge to rest my head on his strong, manly shoulder. Instead, I sit back in my seat and put on my corporate smile, the one that never touches my eyes, and pick up the water glass.

“Where does your wife think you are tonight?”

“I told her I'd be late,” he replies.

“You're lucky. Having the wife and children, and the
whanau
.”

“Yes,” Tom replies. “I am.”

He looks at me again with his attractive smile. “What about
you, Lin? You've proven you're Wonder Woman when it comes to the career, but isn't it about time you had a family?”

I shrug. “I enjoy my job too much.”

“Do you?” Tom says.

“Of course.”

It is late by the time I get home, too late for a soak in the spa. All I seek is to get inside out of the rain, slip between my crisp sheets, close my eyes, and sleep.

There is something lying on the doorstep. A backpack. I wonder whose it is, and lean over to get to the door keypad. As the door opens, light falls on the discarded pack. It looks familiar.

I glance around, but there is no sign of the owner. As I step past, it falls onto the path and into the rain. I enter the house and close the door behind me.

Later, wide awake, I hear a couple of perfunctory woofs, as if Polly is letting whoever is moving outside know that the house is under guard and not to think they can get away with anything.

Then nothing more. I lie gazing into the darkness, listening to the rain hitting the tin roof. I roll over on my side with my knees tucked up against my chest and resolutely close my eyes. Still sleep fails to come. The pattering increases in tempo. It must be hosing down outside. I let out my breath and roll onto my back again.

It is no use. When I reach the bottom of the stairs. I turn on the outside light and open the door.

Light spills out over the porch, washing him with gold as he sits with his back against the dog box and his arms wrapped around his legs. As he looks up, a droplet of water slips down his cheek and splatters on his damp t-shirt.

“Fricking idiot!” I say. “You'd better come in out of the rain.”

“I'm not happy with the sensitivity analysis,” says Board Chairman Hobb, flicking through the spreadsheets. “I can't see how we're going to get enough revenue coming in to cover the higher costs.”

Dao has his arms folded. He glances at Hobb and then back at me. I can't read his face behind the reflective lenses. Pita Lane rubs his nose and turns some pages over. He doesn't meet my eyes.

“The financials are bloody poor!” says Hobb finally. “We're even more over budget than we were last month.”

Why is he acting surprised?
I had already warned him of the situation and told him the cupboard was bare.

Robert's face is serious and when his eyes meet mine, they slide away.
There must be something going on.

“We're where we were expecting to be, Stewart,” I say. “As I warned you, changing the build plans to focus on the commercial streets has slowed us down.”

“Weren't you supposed to catch up?”

“We couldn't get permission from the council to work outside of the times they allow for work in the commercial streets.” I say. “Once we get into the residential neighborhoods, the speed of the build will increase.”

“That's what? February? Too late,” says Stanton.

“We will have enough live, lit, fiber to launch the service.
That's
the critical outcome, isn't it?”

“But not hitting the build figure this month means we've broken the banking covenants. The bank doesn't have to keep funding the rollout. Which means we will have to fund the operation
ourselves until we negotiate a new position,” Hobb says.

“Deepak and I met with the bank on Monday. They're prepared to continue the line of credit, so long as we hit the launch date and incur no new costs above the figures we've given them.”

“But they're charging us a penalty as well as increasing the interest rate!” Hobb snaps.

“Gupta was supposed to negotiate that down,” says Mark Stanton.

“He hasn't had any success yet.”

“He's too goddamn diffident,” says Robert.

“That's just his style,” I say, but the audience is not listening.

Hobb looks across at Stanton. “Didn't Gupta sign off the budget? He should have known better.”

I pick my words carefully. “Building a new network and launching a telecommunication service is not an undertaking that happens very often. There are no blueprints, few guidelines, nothing on which to base a budget. So it's not surprising some aspects need to be adjusted.”

“My group is not keen to put up any more money,” Robert says and turns to Hobb. “What is Ozcom's position? You said Ozcom has other lines we might call on.”

Hobb's eyes flicker. “I can look into some options. Let's talk further tomorrow,” he says, and then faces me. His eyes are cool. “In the meantime, Lin, you need to tell us how you're going to get a better handle on the finances.”

I stare back. “Deepak is—”

“Gupta has to go.”

I look down briefly before raising my head again. “I don't think it would be fair to blame Deepak for Hera's situation.”