Chapter Five
Fraser
On Monday, I keep myself busy in the morning by attending a long meeting with the fundraising office, coming up with a list of companies and individuals we can contact to try to source new funding.
When I finally make my way back to my office, I pause in front of Louise’s desk and say, “Has Hallie been by?”
“No. Do you want to see her? I can call her up,” she suggests.
“No, no. I just w-wondered.” Jesus. I only have to think about Hallie now and The Stutter makes an appearance.
Louise’s eyes gleam. I’ve read that a manager is often closer to his personal assistant than to his wife, and while I think that’s exaggerating it, I know what they’re getting at. PAs organize both the business and personal lives of their bosses, and they often know quite intimate details about them. Louise knew about my affair with Ginger—she couldn’t not, as Ginger came to my office frequently. And while I never asked her to cover for me in so many words, Whina told me that when she questioned Louise at the hearing, she denied knowing anything about my relationship with Ginger, which was not the case.
I haven’t discussed my feelings for Hallie with her, but she observed the way I stuttered whenever Ginger was around in the early days, and she’s obviously connected the dots.
“Stop it,” I scowl.
“Yes, sir,” she replies, amused.
Mumbling to myself, I go into my office, flop into my chair, and turn to look out of the window. I honestly think I have the best view in the whole of Wellington. I can see right across the harbor to Petone to the north and Oriental Bay to the south, with the waters of the harbor in between dotted with boats and the Interislander ferry about to head across the Cook Strait to Picton in the South Island.
Today, though, it brings me no pleasure, because my brain is driving me nuts.
I rest my head on a hand and massage my aching temple. Seagulls are wheeling in the bright blue sky, but they fade away as I picture the first time I met Hallie, when Simon brought her into my office to introduce her. She was wearing a white shirt and dark-gray trousers, so she looked smart and professional. She’d clipped up her brown hair in a twist, leaving two thick curling strands to frame her face. Her makeup was simple and subtle. She immediately rang my bell. I loved her huge dark eyes that were so expressive. The way her mouth naturally curved upward with a shy smile.
My heart leapt as I rose to shake hands with her, but even as the thought entered my head that she was an employee, she mentioned how she’d visited the museum with her boyfriend a few weeks ago and was super excited to work here, and I knew then that she was out of bounds for many reasons. And that was okay. I was able to breathe easily, knowing nothing would ever happen. I’ve managed to work a whole year with her without getting into trouble, and I’ve enjoyed meeting her socially and being friends because I know it can’t lead to anything more.
And then, on Friday night, when I discovered she was single and we flirted for the first time, something happened. My subconscious could feel how one of the barriers had disintegrated, and it’s as if it’s allowing me glimpses into an alternate reality, one in which dating her is a possibility.
Of course we still work together, so the major barrier is still present, looming like the icy wall in Game of Thrones. But the problem is that my willpower isn’t great. I don’t buy chocolate or cookies or chips because I can’t have one—I’ll eat the whole packet. I have to force myself to go to the gym three times a week, because I’d much rather lie on the sofa and watch reruns of Mad Men or House .
I knew that having a fling with Ginger was wrong. She was married, and she had children, and I’m not proud of the fact that I caved because I was flattered by her advances. Even though I was relieved that she left, I hate that she ended up divorced and in a battle for custody of her kids. It’s not my fault—she knew perfectly well what she was getting into. She was the one who pushed for an affair, and who practically threw herself at me. But I’m kidding myself if I say it was impossible to say no. Of course it was. I could have told her firmly that although I liked her, it would be unprofessional for us to have a relationship, and walked away. But I’ve spent a good part of the past five years talking people into giving the museum money, and it was nice for once to have someone else being the one to talk me into something.
Coulda, shoulda, woulda. I’m such an idiot, because now I’ve ruined any chance I had of being with Hallie.
I think about the time I spent with her yesterday, having breakfast. The look in her eyes when I finally admitted that my stutter was due to the fact that I like her. Her expression had been one of utter incomprehension. I still don’t think she believes me. Her ex really did a number on her. Again, I feel a bubbling anger at what he said to her. In my somewhat limited experience, although some women are more enthusiastic than others, it’s rare for a woman to be bad in bed. I believe it is, however, very common for a man. I’m old fashioned enough to think it’s the guy’s responsibility to arouse a woman to the point that she’s ready for penetration, to make her come at least once, and to generally guide the action. If he’s been her only partner, I can only think that it’s his fault if her technique is lacking.
For a moment, I fantasize about being the one to introduce her to the delights of lovemaking. I’d undress her slowly, kissing each part of her as it was revealed. Maybe take a bath or shower with her, wash her hair, and let my soapy hands trail across her slippery skin. Take her into the bedroom still slightly damp, and arouse her with my mouth and hands until her breaths were coming in ragged gasps and she was begging me to take her. Then slide inside her and tease her to a climax, until she clamped around me and cried out my name.
And… now I have a hard on, and no way to get rid of it.
Huffing a grumpy sigh, I ignore it, open my laptop, and look at my emails. There’s one from Louise explaining that she’s reserved a charter flight for me and Hallie for Tuesday at two p.m. to Tauranga airport, and rooms in a five-star hotel on the waterfront for two nights, with a flight back on Thursday. It’s all on my private credit card and she’s sworn to secrecy. I don’t want anyone else to know I’m spoiling Hallie.
I need to tell her what time to get to the airport. I debate whether to just forward the email to her. I have to avoid her as much as I can.
And now I’m being ridiculous. She’s my friend. And my colleague. I can’t spend the rest of my working life hiding in my office.
Ignoring the angel on my shoulder who’s scolding me for being weak, I get up, walk out of the office, and tell Louise I’m going downstairs.
“You need anything?” I ask.
“Can you take the post to reception?” she asks, holding out a handful of letters.
“Will do.” After taking the letters, I head to the stairs and jog down them to the bottom floor.
It’s the end of the school holidays, so there are still quite a few families around, the kids trying on some of the uniforms and armor in the dressing up area, or playing with the interactive displays. Pleased to see them enjoying themselves, I smile as I cross to reception and wait for Cait to finish serving a customer who wants to buy a guidebook.
“Hey you,” she says, accepting the post from me. “Thanks. Are you heading over to the conservation room?”
“Uh… yeah.” I push away a flicker of unease that she’s giving me a suspicious look. I’m being paranoid. I visit the conservation room frequently.
“There’s another letter for Hallie,” she says, passing it to me. “It came this morning.”
I look at it. It has the same handwriting as before, elegant and distinctive. This time, her name is spelled right, without being crossed out.
“I’ll pass it on, thanks.” I leave her to serve the next customer and head across the tiled floor to the conservation room.
I open the door and go inside. Hallie is sitting at the central square table, dressed in her white lab coat. As I cross over to her, I can see she’s sketching a carved wooden waka huia , which is a Māori ornamental box used to store precious items. She’ll already have taken photographs of it, but archaeologists also sketch items because it helps them to focus on fine details that might be overlooked in photos, and she’s annotating and labelling them as she goes.
She looks up and sees me, sits back, and stretches.
“Feeling stiff?” I ask.
“I’ve been working on this for an hour,” she says. “I forget the time, and I’m getting old. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”
“Old,” I scoff, pulling up the stool next to her. “What are you, twenty-six?”
“No, I’m twenty-eight in February. Old lady.”
I snort. “Wait till you hit thirty. Everything goes to pot then.”
She giggles, and I smile. Her little laugh is light and sexy, and I adore it.
Suddenly, I don’t want to tell her about the letter that Cait gave me, but I can’t withhold it from her. “Cait said this came for you,” I tell her reluctantly, handing it to her.
She looks at it, and her smile fades. I wonder whether she’s going to go pale and feel faint again, but to my surprise, anger flares in her eyes, and she takes the letter in both hands, tears it down the middle, and throws it in the bin.
I lean on the table as she turns back. “You want to tell me what that was about?”
“Not really.” She glares at the bin. “It’s written by someone I don’t want to hear from.”
“Not an ex, though?” She told me it wasn’t from Ian, and she’s also revealed that he has been her only boyfriend.
She shakes her head. Then, still looking at the bin, she admits, “It’s from my father.”
That makes my eyebrows shoot up. I’ve heard her talk about her mum and her sister, and I know they moved to Wellington from the South Island when Hallie was eight. But she’s never mentioned her father.
“Are he and your mum still together?”
She shakes her head. “They divorced when I was young.”
“Is he still in the South Island?”
“No. He’s in Wellington. He wants to see me. But I don’t want to see him.”
“Can I ask why?”
Her spine is stiff. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
She obviously hasn’t been in contact with him for a while. I wonder why? What happened back when she was eight? It enters my head that maybe he abused one or both of the girls, either physically or sexually. Maybe that’s why her mum moved away and took the girls with her. That would explain why she’s so angry, and why she was so upset to hear from him out of the blue.
But I have no right to push her to tell me. I don’t want to upset her or for her to be angry with me, so I decide to let it drop.
“I came to tell you that Louise has booked a flight for two p.m. tomorrow,” I tell her.
“Tomorrow?” She looks surprised. “I thought the ball was on Wednesday.”
“It is, but the Bay of Plenty Archaeology Group has been asking me to do a talk for months, and Louise thought I could combine the trip with a short presentation. If it’s okay with you? I should have checked with you first.”
“No, that’s fine, I don’t have anything planned.”
“So we’ll be staying two nights in a hotel,” I inform her.
“Okay,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, holding a touch of mischief. “Separate rooms, I’m guessing.”
My lips curve up. “Yes…”
She chuckles and returns to her sketching.
I sigh silently. I’ve got two whole days alone with her. Man, I do like to torture myself.
She glances up at me. “You okay?” she asks with concern. “You seem a bit… flat. Did your meeting not go well this morning?”
“It was depressing,” I reply. “We’ve exhausted our list of grants, and now it’s all about going on our knees to individuals and hoping they’ll find it in their hearts to be a benefactor.”
“That’s what you’re good at,” she says wryly. “Talking people into stuff.”
“It’s not a great skill,” I mumble, scratching at a mark on the table. “Makes me sound sleazy.”
“It is a great skill, and you’re the reason the museum is flourishing,” she scolds. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve had a tough few weeks, but you need to pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and get back in the saddle.”
God, I love the way she scolds me.
I clear my throat. “Whina told me last week I need to stop tilting at windmills.”
“I think you’d make a great Don Quixote,” she says.
“He wasn’t known for his practical abilities,” I remind her, “and that’s what the museum needs right now.”
“Okay yes, that’s true, but this museum is your vision, Fraser. You’ve done amazing things by dreaming big and bringing your fantasies to life.” Her big brown eyes glow with admiration. She’s wearing a pink lip gloss today, and her lips shine. I bet they’d be slightly sticky if I kissed her.
If only I could bring my fantasies to life. I’d pin her up against the wall. Press my body up against her. Crush my lips to hers, and wipe that lip gloss right off.
She blinks a few times. She looks confused. Clearly, some of what I was imagining is showing in my eyes, but she can’t bring herself to believe it.
God, I want to kiss those doubts right out of her. I want to make love to her until she’s left in no doubt how gorgeous she is, and how much I want her.
“So,” I say, reluctant to leave but knowing I have to, “we’ll leave here t-tomorrow at one, okay?”
Her eyebrows lift slightly at the stutter, but she doesn’t comment on it. “Yes, no worries. I’ll bring my case with me.” She watches me get up. Her eyes are expressive, as if they’re made of glass and I can see straight past them into her thoughts. They’re filled with longing and a kind of sultry curiosity.
“You have to stop looking at me like that,” I tell her helplessly, “or we’re going to get in all kinds of trouble.”
Her eyes flare and her face flushes again, but she doesn’t look away. Her lips part a little, as if she’s thinking about me kissing her. Her bottom lip is slightly plumper than her top lip, and it looks soft as velvet.
“K-Kit Kats,” I mumble, resigned to the stutter. Ks are always the hardest letter.
“Sorry?”
“I can’t resist them either.” Huffing a sigh, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.
I make sure to stay away from the conservation office for the rest of the day.
*
On Tuesday, I also make sure I’m busy all morning. I send Louise down to make sure Hallie is ready for the flight, and she returns and says that Hallie has been out and bought her dress for the ball and is all ready to go. I curse silently as I return to my reports. I’d half hoped she’d announce she couldn’t go for some reason.
But no, she’s going, and we’re going to be stuck together for forty-eight hours.
We’ve never spent that much time together without someone else present before. Usually Elora and Zoe are also in the conservation room when I go down, and whenever Joel’s in town and we all meet socially it’s rare that we get a moment alone.
Maybe it’s the best way to get her out of my system, though. It’s easy to put someone on a pedestal when you’re fantasizing about them. To imagine the conversation flowing, and to pretend you have lots in common. It’s possible that when we spend some significant time together, we won’t be compatible at all.
I look out of the window at the seagulls. Let’s face it, I tell myself, it wouldn’t be a big surprise, would it? There’s a reason I’m thirty and still single. Women don’t tend to get me. I don’t have any trouble finding dates, when I do make myself available. But it’s rare that I click with a girl. When I was younger, my love life consisted of a succession of short, intense relationships. Sex was never a problem, but out of the bedroom, it just didn’t work. Girls never understood my passion for history and archaeology, and I struggled to understand their excitement about things that baffled me, like celebrities, clothes, or Taylor Swift—I’ve nothing against the singer, but if it’s not blues, I’m not interested.
Occasionally, I did find one who was interested in history, maybe who’d taken a paper or two at university, like Ginger. But even in Ginger’s case, her range of knowledge was narrow, restricted to New Zealand twentieth century history, and she had little interest in broadening it, whereas I enjoy reading and discussing everything from prehistoric cave paintings to the Chinese Terracotta Warriors to Machu Picchu. Ginger quickly grew bored whenever I tried to discuss anything like that with her. That was when I knew that what we had would never be long term.
Of course, Hallie is an archaeologist, so she has a much broader interest, and whenever we’ve discussed a topic as a group, she’s always contributed with enthusiasm. But that still doesn’t mean we’re compatible. She’s shy, and maybe when we’re together she’ll be too tongue-tied to contribute much. Plus I’ll be stuttering. It should make for scintillating conversation.
Either way, what does it matter, Fraser? You work together! So it’s not as if you’re trying her on for size, so to speak. Hallie Woodford is strictly out of bounds, and that’s final. You have to remain distant and professional at all times. Even when you go to the ball and she’s dressed to the nines, in a dress that hugs her curves, and wearing strappy sandals that make your knees go weak.
I lower my head to the desk and bang it a few times. There really is no hope for me.