Chapter Twelve
Henry
Despite my stomach feeling as if I’ve swallowed a box of butterflies, I keep myself busy for the next two days. I’ve neglected my garden over the past few weeks, and so I slap on my scruffiest shorts and tee, some sun lotion and an old hat that Shaz hated and tried to throw out, and spend a pleasant few hours digging, weeding, planting, and trimming.
My house near Sumner Beach has arguably one of the best views in Christchurch, out to sea across Pegasus Bay toward the Kaikoura Ranges. It cost me five million dollars, and even now, six months after I purchased it, it still takes my breath away when I walk into it. It’s constructed so it appears to levitate out into the ocean. It has four bedrooms, four bathrooms, three living rooms, a gym, a steam room, and a lap pool, as well as a beautiful garden that is my pride and joy. It’s far too big for me, but I love the space and the way that when you’re sitting on the deck, all you can hear is the cry of the gulls and the splash of the waves far below.
So far, none of my friends or family has been to the house. I’m sure they think it’s strange that I haven’t invited them, and I do plan to have a housewarming party one day, but at the moment I’m reveling in the peace of it all. When I was with Shaz, there were always people popping in—mainly her friends and family, and I hated that we were never alone. Now, I can live my life the way I want, and that happens to be by myself, in total silence.
Sometimes I play music, of course, or watch the TV. But more often than not, the evenings will find me sitting on the deck or in the living room, reading, enjoying the peace and quiet, which is such a relief after the busy-ness of the office.
As Head of HR, I have to deal with recruitment and professional development, and compliance with employment laws and legal issues. But often I’m involved with people’s lives—with conflicts, disputes, and disciplinary actions. Although I’m a computer engineer at heart, I’ve had plenty of training to deal with these matters, and I know I’m considered by everyone at Kia Kaha to be calm and capable when dealing with other people and their problems.
So why, right now, do I feel as if I’m struggling and out of control?
I suppose there’s one crucial difference. I’m not in love with every employee that comes into my office.
On Christmas Eve, I take the meal out of the fridge that my chef prepared for me this morning and put it in the oven to heat. While I’m waiting, I pour myself a glass of red wine and take it onto the deck, and sit there watching the sun sink slowly toward the hills to the west. Out to sea, a few people zoom about on jet skis, and several boats return with the day’s catch.
I’ve had invitations to go out this evening, but I declined them all, not in the mood for socializing. Tomorrow I’ll go to my mother’s, because it’s what you do on Christmas Day, but I’ve been feeling the need for solitude while I do my best to stop swimming against the current and let Fate take over.
It doesn’t come naturally. I’m the sort of guy who likes to be in control. At work, if an acquisition or merger was about to take place, I’d be doing my best to speak to everyone involved, to answer questions, to prompt them to take action, or to try and influence them one way or another so the outcome went the way I hoped.
With Juliette, I can’t do that. I’d like to. I want to message her every five minutes, tell her how I’ve been dreaming about her smooth light-brown skin, and how I picture kissing down over her breasts and belly until I sink my tongue deep into her warm, moist flesh and taste the sweet nectar of her arousal.
I want to march around to her apartment, take Cam by the scruff of the neck, throw him out onto the street, then lift Juliette into my arms and carry her back to the car so I can drive her over here and have her all to myself.
I fantasize about that for a few minutes.
Then I sigh. I’m playing the long game here. She knows she’s near the edge of the cliff, and she’s panicking about taking the step off, even though I’ve told her I’ll catch her. If I try to push her, I’m convinced she’ll backtrack and tell me she’s not going to leave. So I’ve just got to sit here and wait, and fight the stomach ulcer I think I might be developing.
The timer on my watch buzzes, so I go indoors, retrieve the meal from the oven, add the pots of yogurt and hummus that Anton prepared, and take it outside. It’s slow-cooked Lamb Shawarma, a Middle-Eastern dish, with lemon rice pilaf, and flatbreads because he knows I like them. I tuck into it while I look out at the summer sky and watch the gulls diving for fish.
I wonder what she’s up to now. I know she’s at her parents today. She’s close to her mum—has she told her about me? That would make it too real, though. I’m sure she hasn’t told anyone.
I’ve purposefully not messaged her, wanting to give her space. As a result, I haven’t heard from her for two days. Not even a text. I know I have to prepare myself for the possibility that she won’t leave Cam. She’s mentioned that they’ve argued about me, which means that he’s jealous, which also means he’s prepared to fight for her. They’ve obviously got their problems, but it’s much harder to leave a struggling relationship than it is to stay.
And, of course, there’s the issue that we’ve touched on only briefly, but that lurks beneath the surface like the submerged rocks out to sea. The fact that I can’t have children.
She asked if I’d consider IVF, and I told her yes. And I would, if it meant I could keep her. But if I’m honest with myself, the thought of it depresses me.
It’s not that I don’t want children. I’m not sure I can have my heart broken every month for another two years, that’s all.
Even though it was my fault, Shaz never blamed me. She never used it as ammunition, even when things were bad, and I was thankful for that. But the truth is that every month when her period started, the accusation would be in her eyes. I’d have failed her again. I wasn’t enough of a man to fulfill my only real purpose for being here in Nature’s eyes—to procreate and continue the line.
Yeah, I know it’s more complicated than that, but it’s Christmas Eve and I’m alone and feeling sorry for myself. It strikes me that it probably wasn’t the best idea to decline all the invitations, but it’s too late now. I’m stuck with my own company whether I like it or not.
I finish off the wine, and pour myself another glass.
I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve achieved in my life. I’ve worked my way up from almost nothing to become a successful, wealthy businessman. I’m well-respected in the community, and, I like to think, well-liked. Without bragging, I’m pretty sure I know half a dozen girls I could have asked out who would have been thrilled to date me. So why am I so fixated on the one woman who’s fighting me like a kingfish on a fishing line? They’re known to put up a fierce fight when they’re hooked, and they’re a sought-after trophy fish here in New Zealand.
Is that why I want her so badly? Because she’s putting up a fight, and she belongs to another man? Because she’s beautiful and exotic, and I’d be proud to parade her on my arm to all my friends, family, and business acquaintances?
But even though it would be easier to tell myself this was the case, because then I could tell myself to grow up and move on and find someone of my own, it’s not the truth. I’m in love with Juliette, the woman I’ve known for six years, because she’s kind, and spirited, and generous, and funny. She’s not perfect. She can be frank and honest, and some people find her blunt. But I like that I never have to excavate her sentences to reveal some hidden meaning. I had to do that with Shaz all the time, and it frustrated the hell out of me. But Juliette is an open book, and I love that about her.
I finish off the last mouthful of rice, put my feet up on the chair opposite, pick up my wine glass, and close my eyes.
We tell ourselves we’re civilized now, and a world removed from the cavemen and women who lived by their instincts so long ago. But we’re not that different, not really. I believe women are equal to men intellectually, and they’re probably superior to them in many other ways. But as a man, I feel a responsibility to provide for my partner. To look after and protect her. And to get her pregnant. It seems like such a small thing to ask, and it’s impossible not to feel like a failure when you can’t. It makes me feel less than a man. It’s humiliating and embarrassing to admit my failing to other people, which is mainly why I didn’t tell anyone for over a year after Shaz and I began to live apart.
I especially didn’t want to tell Juliette. She’s mentioned having kids before, and I was convinced it would be the end of anything ever happening between us.
A couple of nights ago, when we texted and she told me Cam was sleeping in the other room, and she asked me if I’d consider IVF, I replied Yes because I don’t want to lose her. But I also added, Would you? It took her a long time to come back with: I think so. I just need time to figure it all out.
No girl wants to know going into a relationship that it’s going to be a struggle to conceive. So I wouldn’t blame her if she told me she wasn’t interested.
Hell, if I was a bigger man I’d tell her to get on with her life and forget about me. I should find myself a girl who doesn’t want kids or who can’t have them herself, and that way I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
But I don’t want Juliette because I want her to have my babies. I want Juliette because I want Juliette. How do you tell yourself to stop wanting something?
On the table, my phone buzzes, and a green banner announces the arrival of a text. I glance at it, and my heart leaps to see her name. Next to it is the picture I took of her one day at the office, saying I needed it for my contact list. She was wearing a blue sari, the rich color complementing her skin and making her glow. I see it every time she texts me, and it always makes me smile.
I smile now as I open the text, although my stomach does a strange flip at the sudden thought that maybe she’s messaging me to tell me she’s decided it’s over between us.
Juliette: Hey, how are you doing?
Me: Hey you. I’m okay. You?
Juliette: I’ve gone for a walk to pick up a couple of bits for Mum from the supermarket.
Me: Are you alone?
Juliette: Yes. Cam’s playing pool with Dad and Antony.
She’s told me a little about her family. Her Indian father, Krish, is the youngest son of five boys, and, after graduating as a doctor in New Delhi, he traveled to New Zealand and met and fell in love with her Māori mother, Marama. I’ve met Marama a few times, and she’s a lovely woman, very clever, and a teacher of philosophy at the University of Canterbury. She told Krish she’d marry him, but that she didn’t want her children brought up with any particular religion or culture, because she wanted them to be free to make up their own minds. It means that she’s encouraged both of her children to be free thinkers, which is one thing I love about Juliette.
Antony is her brother. I know he was named after a character from a Shakespeare play, just like Juliette was. I also know he’s gay, and that at least one of Cam’s brothers has made a derogatory comment about that. I’m sure she’s not looking forward to Christmas Day because his brothers are going to be there.
Me: Are you okay?
Juliette: Not really. I miss you.
My heart leaps.
Me: I miss you too. More than I would have thought possible.
Juliette: Can I call you?
Me: Of course!
I wait a second, and then press the button to answer as it begins to ring and hold it to my ear.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey.” She sounds breathless, although whether that’s because she’s talking to me, or if it’s because she’s walking fast, I don’t know. I can hear traffic, which confirms she’s outside. “I’m sorry,” she continues, “I don’t have long. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“That’s okay. It’s great to talk to you.” I look out across the sea, watching the gulls wheeling in the marmalade-colored sky. “I haven’t messaged you because I didn’t want to make things difficult for you. But I have been thinking about you.”
“I know. I appreciate that. But I’ve thought about you non-stop.” She speaks quickly then, as if now she’s started, she can’t control the words. “I know I shouldn’t, but I have. I’m obsessed with you, Henry West. You’ve possessed my mind and my soul. I can feel your kisses all over my body like a brand. When I close my eyes, I can see you and hear you. I can smell your cologne. I can taste you. What have you done to me? Have you cast a spell? Why can’t I get you out of my head?”
Slowly, my lips curve up. “My work here is done.”
“Oh God, I hate you.”
I sigh, and eventually she sighs too.
“I don’t hate you,” she admits. “I should, but I don’t.”
“I’m glad.”
“Do you still want me?” she asks in a small voice.
“Every second of every minute of every day.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. I think she’s fighting against tears.
I feel a surge of protectiveness, and I’m jealous of Cam, because he gets to go home with her, and I don’t.
“Are you sleeping with him?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“No. He’s staying in the spare room.”
“Good.”
She gives a short laugh then. “I won’t, until I figure this all out.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I say, but my heart sinks a little, because her words imply she still hasn’t made up her mind.
“I wish it hadn’t all blown up over Christmas,” she says. “I know you’re right, and there’s never a good time, but it seems worse, somehow, at this time of year.”
“I imagine it’s very common. Families squished in together, forced to have fun. That’s never going to end well.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
“At home.”
“Are you going out tonight with the guys?”
“Nope. I didn’t fancy company. I need to get a dog.”
She laughs. “So you haven’t got a hot date, then?”
“Nah. The girl of my dreams is otherwise engaged.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I have a feeling she’s smiling.
“I should go,” she says. “I hope you have a nice day tomorrow with your family.”
“It’s going to be a nightmare, but thanks for the thought.”
“Will Rangi be there?”
“Yeah.”
“Has his girlfriend decided if she’s keeping the baby?”
“I have a feeling I’ll find out tomorrow, which could prove good entertainment.”
“Well, good luck.”
“You too.”
She hesitates. “See you soon.”
“Yeah, bye.” I end the call.
I put the phone on the table, go inside, and fetch a tumbler, some ice, and a bottle of Islay malt I was saving. Fuck special occasions, I need a good whisky.
After returning onto the deck, I pour myself a generous measure. Then I sit, slide down in my seat, and prop up my feet.
I sip the very expensive 1964 Bowmore, tasting mango, peach, pineapple, and grapefruit, the colors of which are reflected in the evening sky.
I’m still there when the rich colors have faded, and the stars are popping out on the black velvet, filling the sky with diamonds.