Trilemma (25 page)

Sally and Michael are packing their Prius when I get home. Polly is padding back and forth with her brow furrowed, hoping she gets to go too. Sally is not smiling her beautiful wide smile today.

“Don't try and carry all that, Michael!”

Too late. He has dropped the bag, and Sally's makeup splatters across the path. Her face contorts, and for one awful moment, I think she's going to cry—Sally the brave, the never serious, the always sanguine. But she pastes her face back together, and her lips stretch into the semblance of a smile.

“You're looking happy,” she says. “When does he get here?”

“I'm collecting him from the airport in an hour.”

“I'm so glad you caught us. I have a gift for you somewhere. Michael, where did we put—oh no, don't put it there!”

“It doesn't matter. Give it to me when you find it.”

But she raises a hand to her temple and rubs it, sighs, and leans down to the box at her feet. “Ah.” She straightens and hands me a round shape wrapped in fluorescent green. “Be careful, it's fragile.”

A lime-green glass perfume bottle flecked with tiny crimson and white swirls emerges from the wrapping.

“I know how much you like colored things.”

“It's beautiful. Thank you.”

I give Michael an envelope of money—a boring present, but
all I had time for, and hand his mother a bottle of '73 Madeira. “Your birth year,” I say.

“Yeah, right.”

“Are you okay, Sally?”

“I'm fine. Just been doing some thinking about the future, you know?” she replies. “Suddenly, someone makes you feel you're not invincible.”

“You are invincible.”

“Okay, I am invincible.” She smiles a real smile this time, and I reach out and hug her, my friend Sally.

“Have a good Christmas,” I say.

“And you.”

I drive the back way to the airport, along the ridge and down through the valley to the south coast. I love this drive. The wild seas crash against the rocks as I meander along the road, dodging mad cyclists who think the road belongs to them. When I turn the last corner, Lyall Bay stretches before me.

Today there are surfers riding the waves to the shore. Beyond them the airport straddles the peninsula, the runway bordered by roads and sea at either end. A Boeing is on final approach. I think of Ben on board and my heart leaps and I feel that warm feeling of anticipation. My man is arriving, and we will have two weeks together.

Traffic is jammed up on the road through the airport. I beat my fingers against the wheel and check my watch.
Move, you bastards, move!
I crawl up the ramp in first gear and flick my eyes across the concourse. At the far end is a familiar shape, dressed in shorts with his pack by his side. I veer over to where he stands and park the car crookedly. As I climb out, he catches me up in his arms and squeezes the breath out of me.

“You mustn't stop!” says the official in the bright-green jacket.

“Okay, we won't,” I reply, and hug Ben back. “Although it's busy and you probably need the parking space.”

The official scowls at me so I open the back door, and Ben throws in his pack and puts out his hand for the key.

“We'll be sleeping at Vivienne's tonight,” I tell him as he drives us through the heavy traffic out of Wellington and onto State Highway 2. “You'll get a chance to see inside her beautiful house.”

“I suppose they must be quite rich,” he replies thoughtfully.

“I'm not sure. Alison and Wal live quite modestly, but Vivienne and Christopher seem to have the best of everything. But perhaps that's from Christopher's side of the family.”

“Did you have any idea they owned the house in Wellington?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Funny none of them mentioned it when we stayed last month.”

“They didn't talk about Wellington at all, just Hawke's Bay. Thinking back, Alison only talked about Dad when we were alone and she showed me the studio.”

“How long are we going to stay with them?”

I run my finger up his tanned arm. “Four nights and then back to Wellington, by ourselves.”

Ben's mouth curls into a smile and he pats my thigh.

The roads are crowded with holiday traffic and it is a slow trip. The highway only has one lane in each direction and the passing lanes are few.

“These roads are terrible. You'd think they'd build a decent motorway for God's sake!”

“It's that socialist ethic of ours. We're embarrassed by good infrastructure; feel it smacks of capitalism or something. Then we blame drivers for the road toll when really it's the pathetic quality of the roads.”

“I suppose the train trip would be better.”

“They canned the line a couple of years ago. No investment in the tracks.”

“Huh. So what do they invest in?”

He points out a farm as we pass. “Dairy farms and dairy production. Agriculture, horticulture, forestry. Offshore oil.”

“Oil!”

“Yeah, New Zealand's fourth largest export is oil. Bet you didn't know that.”

“When Americans think of New Zealand, which isn't often, it's to wonder where it is.”

Ben snorts. “The Europeans know us better.”

“The only thing the French know about New Zealand is the All Blacks team.”

“And the Brits?”

“Land of milk and honey.”

“There you go.”

We reach the turnoff and drive carefully up the zigzag hill, although Ben cleaned the rubbish out of the car when we stopped for gas so we should be safe this time.

My heart lifts. Away from city life, away from the cares of corporate life, I feel I am coming home.

Vivienne opens the door slowly to let us in. Her eyes drop as we walk inside. “Do you mind?” she says.

Ben looks uncertainly at her and then glances down to see two sets of shoes placed carefully by the door. We kneel to remove our sandals and Vivienne smiles. I should have warned him about her floors. His feet are not very clean.

“I've put you in the west suite.”

She shows us into an elegant room with a double bed, a bathroom, and its own small sitting room. The walls are cream, the floor is made of wide, polished boards of some native red wood, and the quilt is embroidered silk in charcoal and lilac. Ben puts our suitcases beside the dainty walnut dressing table.

“I'll leave you to freshen up,” Vivienne says. “Supper will be served in the front room in, shall we say, half an hour?”

“Strewth,” says Ben when she closes the door behind her. “I'd better go wash my feet.” He vanishes into the bathroom. “I wonder if she's got a bid-thingie? Yes, she has. Good.”

He likes to wash his feet in the bidet. I can't seem to train him out of it.

In the front room, opera plays softly on a Bang & Olufsen music system. The high ceilings are painted a rich deep cream, and the walls are paneled in pale lime-washed wood. At one end, a massive fireplace contains a bowl of roses in every shade of white; at the other, French windows look out over the tennis court. A fine old piano in some exotic wood sits in one corner; in another, a collection of tall vase shapes; in the third, an antique dollhouse. On the walls hang original modern art works,
and the mantelpiece holds a collection of sculptures: some ceramic, some metal, some glass, one made of feathers. Tall flutes of pale glass, ringed in black, provide light. Three very large modern sofas, two in cinnamon-colored leather and one in cream, sit facing each other in the center of the room. A coffee table in ebony, edged with a lighter wood, holds a silver tray of glasses. Three wine bottles swathed in white linen napkins stand opened beside the tray. The room smells of leather.

“Strewth,” mutters Ben again.

Christopher lounges on the cream sofa with his back to the door and his dog at his feet. As we enter, he turns. As usual his blind eyes are hidden behind dark lenses.

“Hello,” he says. “Grab a seat.” He gestures in the direction of the other two sofas. “Would you mind helping yourself to the wine? She worries about me spilling it.”

We sink into the sofa opposite him, and Ben reaches over to pour Gewürztraminer into two crystal goblets.

Max carries in a platter of antipasti: little smoked mussels, sun-dried tomatoes, balls of smoked fish, cold meats, tiny stuffed bell peppers, marinated artichoke hearts, three varieties of olives, two different pâtés. Vivienne follows with a plate of French bread and four different crackers.

“Do help yourselves,” she says and sits next to her husband, patting his knee lightly. “What shall I get you, darling?” she asks.

Christopher's handsome jaw moves into a smile. He touches her silk skirt over her thigh. “Whatever you think I'll like.”

He turns his face in my direction. “I guess you Yanks eat turkey for Christmas?”

“I haven't had Christmas in America for years,” I reply. “But Mom always used to cook a turkey, yes.”

“Yours are those massive grain-fed things, aren't they?”

“They are quite large.”

“Everything's big in America, eh?”

“It's a big country,” I reply.

We silently fill our plates with food. I glance at Vivienne's immaculate face. I want to get my questions over with.

“I didn't realize that you and Alison still owned the house in Wellington.”

Vivienne's face stiffens. “Gran took over the mortgage when your father deserted us.”

There is a sudden chilly silence.

“What a beautiful room,” Ben says.

“Thank you,” Vivienne smiles at him.

“I like the red picture,” I say pointing out a large canvas depicting the wine country in shades of red, or at least I think that's what it is.

“Mm,” replies Vivienne.

“These mussels are delicious,” says Ben.

“Thank you.” She bestows another gracious smile on Ben.

“I didn't know New Zealand grew Gewurtz,” I try.

“There isn't much grown,” she replies. “Where's this one from, Max?”

Max flashes his brilliant smile. “A few valleys over,” he replies. “Instead of turning at the ridge, you keep going.”

“Max wants to be a winemaker,” she says.

Max's face flushes pink. “I'm happy being a farmer,” he says, and turns his attention to his plate.

“I would so love a vineyard,” she says and goes to stand by the bay window that looks across the fields. “Over there.”

Max glances down, saying nothing.

“Is the land suitable?” I ask. “You're quite high up.”

“We get frosts,” says Christopher. “And the soil in this part of the farm is too rich.”

“Oh, you are a spoilsport, Christopher!”

“And it would cost a fortune,” he adds.

“Which I'm afraid we don't have,” Vivienne turns to me. “I imagine you get paid very well as a chief executive?”

“I do okay.”

She holds the bottle out to Ben. “A top-up? Or would you
prefer the Syrah? It's to go with the cheese, but you could have a glass now, if you'd like.”

Max rises to clear the plates and takes them to the kitchen. He returns with an impressive plate of cheeses.

Vivienne points out the varieties. “Gorgonzola, Camembert—real Camembert, Manchego, Gouda, Wensleydale, and some local goat cheese. I couldn't find any decent imported stuff. And I couldn't find any American cheese.”

“Do Americans make cheese?” asks Christopher. “Or do they create it out of plastic or something?”

“Yes, but nothing you'd bother importing.”

“I suppose once they remove all the dairy as well as all the fat there's nothing left.” He laughs at his small joke and reaches out his empty glass for Vivienne to refill.

“Naughty,” she says, smiling, and taps his wrist.

Christopher wants to talk about nuclear power next.

“You Yanks are pretty pissed off about New Zealand's nuclear ban, aren't you?”

“Frankly, I don't think America gives a damn about New Zealand's nuclear ban.”

His hand pauses on its way to his mouth. The cheese drops off the cracker and lands on his belly. He doesn't notice and puts the cracker in his mouth, startled when it enters empty.

“We don't need nuclear power. We've got hydropower and geothermal power.”

Max gets up again and pours me some red wine.

“Do you play any sport, Max?” asks Ben.

Max flushes. “I used to play soccer, but I stopped when I left school.” He glances at Christopher.

“A sissy's game,” says Christopher. “Rugby is the real Kiwi sport.” He looks toward Ben and smiles. “I used to play rugby.”

“What position?” Ben asks.

“Wing, mainly, though I've played fullback as well.”

“Christopher was a star,” Vivienne says. “He was selected for the All Blacks.”

Ben looks up and his eyes narrow. “I think I remember seeing you play. Yeah, Chris Marchmount. I remember you. You were bloody good. That try from the five-meter line!”