We All Fall Down (28 page)

When the waiter went off to get their orders for coffee, Penny sat back in her chair and scrutinised him in silence. ‘Have you been OK with Fiona, or are you still beating yourself up?'

He grimaced. ‘I still think it was suicide. So, I'm not too happy that I didn't appreciate what was going on, that I didn't help her.'

‘You're still blaming yourself?'

He was aware of a desperate need to talk, of wanting – and he was ashamed to admit this – a shoulder to cry on. He gulped down the last of his wine. ‘I'm going to have another glass. And you?' She shook her head. He beckoned the waiter, who approached their table as if he was still on stage, and ordered a wine.

She said, ‘For what it's worth, I don't think it was suicide. It's not Fiona. She wouldn't take the easy way out.'

‘How I hate that expression. What's easy about suicide?'

She stared at him, surprised. ‘OK. But what I'm saying is, she wasn't like that.'

He looked out of the window. People were criss-crossing the plaza, many of them heading back to their offices after a hasty lunch. He felt tragic, and he thought what a shame it would be if she didn't notice this. He turned back to her, slowly, determined to broach the subject that was weighing on him. He didn't want to talk about Fiona any longer. What was the point? He took a mouthful of wine first. ‘More importantly, have you been OK about us?'

‘Us? Oh dear,' she said. The waiter brought their coffees, and she turned to him, ‘I'll change my mind. I think l need another glass of wine too.' When he went off, she said, ‘There's no avoiding this, I suppose. I should have realised.' She sat opposite him, almost slumping in her seat, shaking her head as if it was all too much for her – too much for Penny, how unlikely was that!

He pushed on. ‘I really like you, Penny.' And he meant that, even though he appreciated the hopelessness of the situation. Was he going to leave Kate and Tim for this woman, or did he simply wish to risk his marriage by having an affair with her? It was hard to get his thoughts, let alone his feelings, in order. The one thing he had no doubt about was that he desired her.

‘And I like you, too.' She smiled, a wistful smile, then took a sip from her new glass of wine. ‘I just get the feeling we're talking different kinds of
like
here. Now what would make me think that?'

He shrugged. ‘I have no idea.'

‘I don't suppose I have to remind you that you're a married man, Hugh?' He shook his head. ‘No, I didn't think so. But you may be surprised to hear that I'm not into married men. I usually try to steer well clear of them.'

He was tempted to tell her there was a possibility Kate knew about them, but he suspected she'd laugh at his stupidity and naïveté, and he wasn't willing to risk it. Quite unexpectedly, she reached across the table and took his hand. She could have been his big sister or his mother, transforming herself into a non-sexual being before his eyes. Her hands were not those of a lover. How did women manage that! He felt both anger and despair. ‘Hugh, don't be upset when I say this, don't react like every other man in the world, but what I value in you is what we had in London: a real, deep friendship. You're one of the few people I've ever met who I can genuinely talk to. I don't feel I have to put on an act. We think the same way, we laugh at the same things, we … I don't want to lose that, Hugh. It's too important to me. I can't think how we lost touch when you came to Australia. It was stupid that we allowed that to happen. And I don't want to lose you again. Our friendship is too important to me to spoil it with … with
this
. If we go there, I'd be frightened it would mean the end of our friendship, and I'm not willing to risk that.'

‘That's bullshit, Penny, and you know it.' But it was a feeble protest, and one that he didn't truly believe, anyway. She didn't honour it with a reply.

They finished lunch virtually in silence. Hugh felt as if he was in mourning, and not just for Fiona. A couple of times Penny made an effort to jolly him along, and insisted on discussing her first impressions of Australia, which were generally favourable. At the moment, however – and she acknowledged that her feelings could well change – she couldn't imagine settling in the country forever.

Outside the restaurant, she hugged him. He tried to break free, but she clung to him even harder. ‘I'm not going to let you go until you forgive me.' He laughed, although he didn't want to. She forced it out of him. ‘I forgive you,' he said. She took his head in her hands, pulling him down towards her, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You're a lovely man, and I'm a stupid woman.' Then she turned and walked away.

12

It always struck him that there was something very English about the place. Possibly it was the air of privilege, the inescapable feeling that one should feel honoured to be in those environs, that the general populace, the hoi polloi, was excluded. Most of the locals looked as if they were members of a prestigious country club. The hair-dos of the women were elaborate –
coiffured
was probably the correct term – and their pastel coloured dresses were tucked and pleated, and more appropriate to the Sixties than today. Jewellery was very much on display and, in Hugh's opinion, it was ostentatious. The men's trousers were creased, even when they wore jeans, their shirts short-sleeved and their jumpers always worn across their shoulders, the sleeves crossed over their chests. Their hair, like that of their women folk, was elaborate, thick and luxuriant, and exacerbated Hugh's feelings of baldness. Many successful advertising people lived in the town.

Kate always defended the place. ‘I like Palm Beach. I've spent my summer holidays here since I was an ankle-biter. I feel at home.' He didn't. He felt like an impoverished interloper. There was too much money around for his liking.

When he arrived mid-morning on the Saturday, and drove up the short dirt track hemmed in by tea trees and blackboys, he felt even more strongly that he didn't belong. She came to the door and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He could have been a not-too-important friend for all the warmth it conveyed. She then, perhaps to emphasise that his visit was of no importance to her and that she had no wish to be left alone with him for a second longer than necessary, turned her back on him and shouted ‘It's your father, Timmy' into the shadowed interior. His son's welcome was more heartfelt. He ran screaming down the corridor and launched himself into the air several feet away from his father. When he landed in his arms, Hugh pretended to fall backwards onto the carpet from the impact, and this elicited even louder cries of pleasure and delight. His son lay on Hugh's stomach, his arms locked around his father's neck, his head on one side, suddenly silent, his breathing heavy, his contentment absolute. He might have lain there like that all day, until it was time for bed, if he'd been allowed to.

‘Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?'

‘Thank you. I'll have a coffee,' he said, still on his back on the floor.

They were in the kitchen, Tim sitting on his father's lap, drawing in a picture book, Kate busying herself with saucepans and food as if intent on finding so many things to do she wouldn't feel obliged to sit down.

‘How's it going down here?'

‘It's fine.' He noticed she didn't say it with any conviction, and this pleased him.

‘It's better than staying with Mum and Dad, that's for sure. But they come down pretty often. Which reminds me …' She opened her hands as if to show she wasn't holding out any hope, ‘They're threatening to come down tomorrow.'

‘You're joking?' He frowned, annoyed. ‘Can't you stop them?'

‘I tried suggesting to them that it wasn't such a great idea, Hugh, but it's their home and there's only so much …'

‘But I thought they hardly came here now? That it was mainly for you and your brother and sister to use?'

‘They like to be here when any of us are here. That's how they are.' She sounded irritated.

‘Don't they appreciate we need time alone?'

‘Jesus, Hugh!' She closed her eyes tight, tensing her whole body, as if she couldn't take any more of his questions. ‘There is only so much I can do. You know what dad's like.'

Already it wasn't going well. Already he felt it was hopeless, his visit a waste of time. If her parents came down, he was going home. He'd make up some excuse. He couldn't bear being in the same house as them, not right now, especially when it was so small. Normally, he liked the beach house. He felt comfortable in its timbered smallness, its cosy, slightly ramshackle homeliness, and its eclectic mix of furniture (leftovers from every house Kate's parents had ever lived in, plus bits and pieces, like curtains, bedding, cushions and kitchen utensils, from the homes of their three children). It was summery, even in winter, and imbued with a feeling of teenage beachside escapades. It was very un-Doug and Wilma and, in that respect at least, was totally fake. Hugh suspected his father-in-law, who frequently pooh-poohed the vulgar prodigality of the multi-million dollar homes in the area, regarded the family beach house as more genuine than those of their neighbours, and believed that it also demonstrated that he did not need to prove his wealth to anyone.

‘Why don't I take Tim down to the beach before lunch?'

‘He'd enjoy that.'

On the beach, there were few people to be seen. Although a fine autumn day, there was a distinct chill in the air. They made their way slowly towards the rocks at the southern end of the beach. They held hands, except when Tim stopped, which he did every few minutes, to pick up a shell. Each of these he held up for his father to admire, a look of wonder on his face no matter how small, cracked or ordinary they were. Once he picked up some seaweed and tried to throw it at his father. Hugh picked it up and chased him, waving the seaweed in the air. Tim ran screaming round in circles until he fell over on the sand, laughing. Then he sat on Hugh's shoulders and they walked on, his son shouting nonsense into the wind, his face glowing.

The three of them sat down together for lunch, although Kate looked as if she was ready to spring to her feet at a moment's notice should anything make her uncomfortable. She asked how his work was going.

‘Not so good at the moment. I told you we lost Bauer?'

‘Will that be a problem for you?'

‘It could be if we don't pick up some new business soon. I'm certainly not as busy as I'd like to be. We pitched for BMW, but haven't heard back from them yet. We also did a credentials pitch to Dan Murphy's, but we weren't shortlisted.'

‘I'm sure it will pick up soon.' She didn't make it sound as if she cared one way or the other.

When she was washing up, and Tim was in the adjoining room playing with his toys, he said he'd bring in his things from the car. As he rose to his feet, she told him – or more accurately addressed the dishes immersed in the soapy water in front of her – that she had put him in the spare room.

‘What do you think Tim will make of this arrangement?'

‘He won't make anything of it. He's too young.'

‘What happens when he goes into your bedroom when he wakes up and finds you by yourself?'

‘He'll be fine. Anyway, I don't actually care what he thinks. I'm happier with this arrangement.'

‘I can't say that I am.'

He sat down at the kitchen table again. He stared at Kate's back. That's all he ever saw of his wife now, her back. That's how it struck him. Despite her show of strength and independence, he thought she looked frail, as if she might be close to weeping. He stood up. He went up behind her and put his arms around her. She was startled, but unable to avoid him. ‘Don't,' she protested, but he was desperate to hold her, to clutch something from their past, to try and recapture what they'd once had. He could only feel her stiffness in his arms, the tensing of her whole body against him, her
unyieldingness
. There was no frailty there! His fingers slipped, and he was forced to let go. She twisted her body round to face him, one hand still behind her clutching the edge of the sink, the other raised against his chest.

‘Kate, we have to talk. We have to try. That's why I'm here. We have to give it a go.'

She pushed him away, gently but insistently. He retreated to the table. He sank into his chair and waited. A minute later, she took a deep breath. ‘You don't need us, Hugh. I don't believe you need us.'

‘What's that supposed to mean? Of course I do. That's not true.' He didn't understand what she was talking about. It seemed he rarely did now.

She smiled, almost as if she'd expected him to say that. ‘Your work's more important to you than us. That's your life, your work.' She was leaning back against the sink now, her arms folded.

‘Everything I do, I do for you. For you and Tim. You know that.'

‘No, Hugh, that's not true. You do it for you. Everything you do, you do for you. That's what you don't seem to grasp. You're totally involved with your job – which is fine, if that's what you want. I can accept that. But it doesn't leave much room for us in your life.'

He tried to see it from her point of view, but struggled. ‘You're involved with your painting. I don't hold that against you. I try and encourage you.'

‘That's different. I don't allow my painting to take over my life.'

That's because you don't feel passionately about it
, he thought. He felt heavy, so heavy he doubted he could have stood up at that moment if someone had asked him to. He was like a person drowning in the sea, too weak to plead his case to a person watching his struggles from the shore.

‘You're happy by yourself. You don't need people, Hugh. Your work is enough.'

He wasn't sure how to argue against this. He knew his wife had got it all wrong, but didn't know what he could say to convince her otherwise. ‘I want us to get back together. I want to give it another go. I miss you.' He realised he was beginning to plead, but didn't care anymore.