Chapter 13
CHAPTER
The function room, in a heritage-listed building with a sandstone and timber facade, is larger than I expected.
There was no dress code on the invitation, but I should have taken a hint from the ‘cocktail party’ reference.
The men are wearing jackets and most of the women’s dresses are long or very short.
After handing my coat to the cloakroom attendant, I ask for directions to the bathroom.
‘Turn right at the end of the corridor.’
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I untie my ponytail and thread my fingers through my hair.
It’s shiny and smooth, but I meant to get it cut before I left home.
I run my hands down my black skinny jeans and wipe the toes of my ankle boots with wet paper towel before considering my image again.
Neat and tidy. My blue silk shirt brings out the colour in my eyes.
Wait staff, dressed smartly like penguins, carry trays of empty glasses to the bar. There must be two hundred people here. Most chairs are taken but people walk up and down the aisles, singly and in pairs, hoping to get lucky. I text Robin: Give someone my seat. I’m fine on my feet.
Thorsen, the whiteness of his shirt stark against the darkness of his hair, stands next to the podium with his hands in his trouser pockets.
When the tech guy whistles into the microphone, most in the audience stop talking.
I put a glass of water on the tall table next to me as Thorsen takes his place in front of the microphone.
My heart hammers just thinking about addressing this many people.
His stance suggests that his doesn’t. I thought I’d be less obvious at the side of the room, but when he looks around, his gaze falls on me.
His hair is pushed back. The silver triangles on his tie catch the light and shimmer.
‘Good evening.’
Is Thorsen’s speech pattern as formal when he speaks in Norwegian?
Although he introduces himself as an aeronautical engineer, everyone leans in when he tells them he’s a pilot in the Norwegian Air Force and has primarily worked with NATO on multi-country United Nations peacekeeping missions.
When he says he has an equally important role now, a waiter stops to listen.
A man seated at the end of a row changes the angle of his chair to get a better view.
‘Antarctica, the coldest and fifth-largest continent in the world,’ Thorsen says, ‘is surrounded by the Southern Ocean. Ninety-eight per cent of Antarctica’s land mass is covered by ice many kilometres thick.
No one lives there permanently, though thousands stay and work on research bases every year.
Forty bases are suitable for year-round occupation; others are habitable in the summer months only … ’
A series of images—penguins, seals, sea lions and albatross—light up the screen behind him.
He comments on the particular environmental challenges faced by Antarctic fauna and the uncertainties of climate and melting ice before taking a sip of water.
This time last night, he was standing in a bathroom with me while I threw up.
He’d assured the doctor and Robin and Kingsley that he wouldn’t leave me.
He has a strong sense of duty. Does he always do the right thing?
‘Although many nations have made territorial claims in Antarctica, including the United States, Russia, Britain and Argentina, and less populous countries like Australia, New Zealand and Norway, the region is recognised internationally as a de facto condominium. This means that, in practice, it is governed and protected by parties to the Antarctic Treaty System. The Antarctic Treaty provides for freedom of scientific investigation and environmental protection, and prohibits commercial and military activity. Scientists conduct research in climatology, glaciology, biology and oceanography. Antarctica has been described as a scientific nirvana, attracting experts in astronomy, geology, meteorology and many other fields.’
Everyone is hanging on his words; no one talking or even whispering. The First Nations woman in front of me takes her partner’s hand.
‘A multi-disciplinary team is working with Antarctic Treaty nations to investigate the environmental implications of an increasing human population in Antarctica. As a pilot, I spent six months flying to and from the Norwegian base at Troll. In my current role, at stations with airfields, I travel to bases all over the continent.’ He smiles; a flash of white teeth. ‘I hitchhike.’
An elderly man wearing a beanie calls out: ‘Do you still fly in Antarctica?’
Thorsen’s smile is stiff. ‘Currently, no.’
I think the man wants to ask another question, but Thorsen pointedly looks away. He addresses the room again.
‘Personnel, equipment and supplies brought into Antarctica arrive by sea and air. Part of my brief is to assess the environmental costs and benefits of different modes of transport. My personal focus is aircraft. Others will look at ground transport, such as the vehicles that take scientists and equipment into and out of the stations. Some in my team will examine watercraft movements—particularly the tourist vessels carrying thousands of tourists to Antarctica out of Chile and Peru.’
There are two hundred people he could focus on, but I swear he’s looking at me.
‘Working in this region is a privilege that comes with burdens and responsibilities. Antarctica is a challenging environment, requiring collaboration and cooperation from scientists and support staff. The climate is changeable, there are practical difficulties, the people—and their agendas—are disparate …’
Mandy, the psychologist I saw when I was in detention—and afterwards—talked about my recovery process.
She reassured me that, having rationally processed the reality of Matt’s death and its aftermath (stealing for my mother so she wouldn’t abandon me too), I was ready to move on with my life.
She taught me about adjusting to life after trauma, and the importance of being guided by reflective responses, not oversensitive and fearful ones.
Most of the time, I do that. I have a good education and the ability to support myself and I have the love of my niece.
But I’m still afraid of flying. I still feel responsible for my mother’s happiness.
How does Thorsen see me?
I changed my mind about going to Antarctica.
Lack of commitment. I kept my fear of flying hidden.
Dishonesty. Sometimes when he wants to talk, I snap his head off.
Overreaction to conflict. Thorsen only sees my weaknesses.
Thinking about him shouldn’t put an ache in my chest or a lump in my throat, but it does.
After his speech, Thorsen answers a stream of questions; courteous and succinct.
But when the man with the beanie who’d asked whether he still flew raises his hand, Thorsen buttons his jacket and tells everyone he’ll be available for the next ninety minutes if they have further questions.
Even before he’s stepped off the stage, a crowd of people gather around him.
When I find Robin and Kingsley, they’re standing at a table near the bar.
‘What can I get you?’ Kingsley asks.
‘Nothing for me, thank you. Are you sure you should be drinking?’
‘I’m on soda water.’ He smiles. ‘You could have heard a pin drop when Seb was speaking.’
‘No wonder the silent auction is firing up.’ Robin points to queues forming on the far side of the room. ‘Do you think he’s put himself down as a prize?’
Kingsley laughs. ‘Good luck with convincing him to do that.’
The man with the beanie is making his way to the front of Thorsen’s queue.
‘I’ll get my coat. Then I’ll head back.’
‘Already?’ Kingsley says, taking my hands and holding them out. ‘You look gorgeous. Are you—’
‘Kingsley!’ Robin rolls her eyes. ‘Flick doesn’t need to be told she’s attractive any more than I do.’
‘You’re both gorgeous, I get it.’ Kingsley winks. ‘But I was about to ask Flick whether she was feeling all right.’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Given all you went through yesterday,’ Robin says firmly, ‘you’ll need an early night.’
The cloakroom attendant is on a ten-minute break, so I do laps of the foyer as I wait for one of the wait staff to find him.
‘Sorry to keep you,’ he says as he hands me my coat.
Standing at the top of the steps that lead to the walkway adjacent to the port, I fasten the buttons and yank down my sleeves so they cover my hands then bury them deep in my pockets.
It’s a ten-minute walk to the hotel if I take a shortcut through the park, but I wish my scarf was angora and I had gloves and had worn thicker socks and—
‘Felicity!’
Thorsen, broad shoulders, long legs and a particularly determined stride, is only ten metres away. Stepping off the path, I seek shelter in the canopy of an elm with a mottled brown trunk and new growth golden foliage. I school my face to neutral in the same way that he does.
His jacket is open. He loosens his tie as he stops in front of me. ‘Why did you leave?’
‘You promised to stay for ninety minutes.’
He looks behind him, then back at me. ‘I’ll return shortly.’
‘I wanted an early night.’
He frowns. ‘We have to talk.’
‘In your speech, you said it’s not right to go to Antarctica on impulse. Is that what you think I’m doing?’
‘Your initial reluctance—was that because of the flights?’
‘Yes, but now they’re done, and you’ve said you won’t veto my appointment.’
‘This morning …’ His jaw is tight. ‘It would have been wrong to sleep in your bed.’
My nails dig into my palms. ‘Can’t we forget the personal stuff?’
‘No.’
‘Then here’s one for you. You said you’d recovered, but you still can’t fly, can you? Why is that?’
A deeper frown. ‘I can’t fly in the way I flew before.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to answer that.’
‘I don’t want to talk about who sleeps in my bed.’
He extends a hand. ‘Give me yours.’
Heart hammering, my hands stay deep in my pockets. ‘Why?’