Chapter Nine
Fraser
Hallie has people flocking around her, listening to her talk about conservation and archaeology with just as much—if not more—knowledge than I exhibited during my presentation. She’s the star of the show, and she has absolutely no idea.
Even though I’ve spent many evenings with her, I’m only just beginning to realize how quiet she is in company, and how she tends to let the rest of us take the lead in the conversation. I knew she was smart—she has a top-class degree, and she’s always spoken confidently about her subject—but I hadn’t understood quite how wide her knowledge was. Tonight, she discusses Henry VIII’s flagship, the Mary Rose; the preservation of the Lascaux cave paintings in France; and the conservation of Pompeii, as well as maintaining Waitangi’s historic buildings and carvings.
A couple of people from the local museum are present, and they have numerous questions for her regarding their conservation office, so I leave her holding court and wander over to the table to refresh my coffee cup and help myself to a biscuit.
“You’re a lucky man,” Wiremu says, appearing at my side and gesturing to Hallie. He speaks with a distinct Māori accent, his voice rising at the end of the sentence.
I dip my biscuit in my coffee, then curse as half of it breaks off and sinks to the bottom. I fish it out with a teaspoon. “We’re not… um… you know… she’s not my g-girlfriend…”
Wiremu smiles. “I meant having her working for you.”
“Ah.”
He chuckles. “Thank you for coming tonight. You’ve given us all a lot of food for thought. Our museum might never be quite up to National’s standards, but we’re keen to make it the best we can.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ve given us a lot of fundraising ideas.”
“Many of those were Hallie’s,” I admit, as I’d mentioned several of the crowdfunding plans Hallie and I had discussed.
“She’s a woman of many talents,” he observes.
“Mmm.” My gaze skims down her. She looks amazing in her cream suit, elegant and summery, with her hair pinned up, and just the thick curl hanging past her cheek. I’d like to open up the claw clip and watch her hair unfurl and tumble past her shoulders, then slide my hand into it and let the silky strands slip through my fingers.
“Ask her out, lad,” Wiremu states. “You’re obviously crazy about her, eh?”
“Ahhh… I can’t, unfortunately. We work together, and there are rules.”
He snorts. “You’re not going to let a few rules get in the way of winning yourself a girl like that?”
I scratch my cheek, watching her laugh at something one of the men is saying. I sigh and turn my attention back to Wiremu. “Anyway, I was wondering whether you’d be interested in exchanging exhibitions, like Our Threads of Time exhibition, which is about The Art and Story of Māori Textiles? We have an excellent range of cloaks, mats, and baskets, and we combine the display with a showcase of items from local Māori artists who are using traditional weaving techniques. We have someone teaching kids flax weaving, and that’s always popular.”
“I would like that very much,” he says, pleased.
We go on to talk about how we’d organize that, and it’s another fifteen minutes before the meeting starts to break up, and people begin to leave.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Wiremu says, shaking first my hand, then Hallie’s as she joins me. “I really appreciate it.”
“It’s been great to connect with other people who love the subject,” Hallie says.
“Keep in touch,” I tell him. “ Ka kite anō .” It means ‘see you again’.
“ Hei konā ,” he replies, which is a casual and warm ‘goodbye’.
Hallie and I head outside, into the warm summer evening.
We both blow out a long breath, then laugh as we walk along the path. I take out my phone and call for an Uber, and we wait on the edge of the pavement for it.
“Well done,” she says. “You were terrific.”
I look down at her. “And you were amazing.”
“Aw.” She nudges me. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
“I mean it. You’re incredibly knowledgeable. Talk about hide your light under a bushel.” I think about the phrase. “What is a bushel, anyway?”
She laughs. “You know you do that a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Go off on a tangent. Usually something etymological, wondering where a word comes from.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“It’s from the Bible. Bushel, I mean. It’s a unit of measurement, and it comes from the Old French boissiel and buissiel , which means ‘little box’, and from the Old French boise , which means ‘little butt’.”
“I like little butts, and I cannot lie?”
She giggles, and I smile.
“See?” I say. “So knowledgeable. I knew you were smart, but I didn’t realize how much.”
She looks up at me, and our gazes lock.
I open my mouth to say something, but at that moment the Uber draws up in front of us, and she moves to open the passenger door. Mumbling to myself, I walk around it and get in the other side, and soon we’re heading off into the light traffic, back to the hotel.
Hallie looks out of the window, lost in thought. I study her profile, looking at her long lashes and the curve of her lips, desire stirring inside me as I imagine kissing her. Jesus, I’m weak. I’m a weak, weak man. I can’t make a move on her. Do I want to lose my job? Frustrated, I turn away and look out of the window, too. Why did she have to work for me? Why couldn’t she have been one of Elora’s friends I met socially, someone not connected to my work? But then she wouldn’t be so passionate about the same things I am, which is what I love about her.
We don’t speak all the way back to the hotel.
When we arrive, we thank the driver, get out, and walk into the main building. I glance at my phone.
“It’s just gone nine,” Hallie says.
I slide my phone back into my suit pocket. “Are you tired? Want to call it a night?” I curse myself as soon as the words are out. I shouldn’t offer her the option of staying.
She hesitates and looks across the foyer. I wait, my pulse picking up, too much of a gentleman to retract the words. Like me, I think she’s fighting with herself. We both know we should say goodnight now and part ways. Any moment we spend together that isn’t strictly business is dangerous.
One of us needs to be professional and end this now. I’m the man; it should be me. I should say, ‘Well it’s been a great evening, thanks so much for coming with me, see you tomorrow.’ Now, Fraser. Say the words. Turn around and walk away.
Hallie’s gaze comes back to me, her chocolate-brown eyes huge and hopeful, and I’m lost.
“Shall we have a nightcap?” she suggests.
No. Nope. No, thank you. Not interested. Not thirsty. Not in the mood. I’m so tired! I need my beauty sleep. Goodnight!
God, I’m so weak. “Sure,” I say, and together we walk across the foyer into the bar.
The sun has set, and the view through the large windows is fantastic. The horizon still bears a reddish-purple tinge, but the almost-full moon hangs in the sky, casting a shimmering silver path on the Pacific Ocean.
The place is half-full, mainly with couples and one larger group of young people over to the side. A few business people sit alone, reading or watching the rugby playing on the large-screen TV.
We go up to the bar and study the choice of bottles on display.
“I fancy another cocktail,” she says mischievously.
“Yeah, okay, we’ll just have the one.” I collect a menu, and as the bartender comes up, we both choose one—an Espresso Martini for Hallie, and a Whiskey Sour for me.
We chat about the evening while the bartender makes them, keeping the conversation light, then collect our glasses and cross the room to a spare table tucked in the corner of the room. We sit opposite each other, placing our jackets over the backs of the chairs, then sip the cocktails.
It’s quiet over here, away from the noisier group on the other side of the room. Hallie keeps her gaze on her cocktail, while I swirl the whiskey, sugar, and lemon concoction over the ice.
We talk for a while about the presentation, about the view, both doing our best, I think, to avoid anything personal. But eventually, she lifts her gaze to mine, and we study each other for a long time.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I tell her, a tad desperately. “I should be saying g-goodnight and heading off to my hotel room.”
“I know. Me too.” She clears her throat. “So,” she says, “the ball tomorrow. I’m a bit nervous. I haven’t been to a black-tie event before.”
“Are you looking forward to wearing your dress?”
“I’m looking forward to you seeing it.” She smiles. “It’s very pretty.”
“I’m sure you’ll look amazing in it.”
Is that the kind of thing a manager would say to an employee? Would I say it to Louise, or Cait? I don’t think so. Fraser, rein it in. Act professional.
“Are you looking forward to seeing the letters?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation on business matters.
“Oh, I can’t wait. I mean, I’ve read about them in Rudolph Hemingway’s book on conservation of documents, but it’s not the same as getting your hands on them.”
“I haven’t read that,” I say with some surprise. “What did you think of them?”
“They’re beautiful. Richard’s are very lyrical, and full of long and drawn out declarations of love. Hers are less poetic, and she talks a lot about her family and her everyday life, but it’s clear she has feelings for him. They’re very romantic.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “It’s an alien concept for me.”
“Ian wasn’t romantic?”
“God, no. We would never have won an award for the most romantic couple, even in the beginning.” She sighs, as if resigned to the fact that the conversation was always going to turn to this. “Ian had four brothers, and his parents were very much into the whole ‘tough love’ thing. His parents—his father, especially—believed that showing affection was a sign of weakness, and brought the boys up to be the strong, silent type. And his mother was a cold woman, maybe because of the way his father was. Ian never talked about his emotions or his feelings. And if I tried to show him affection, he would just stiffen or walk away.”
I frown, still baffled that a modern woman would stay in a relationship where she didn’t feel valued.
“What?” she asks.
I don’t say anything for a moment, not wanting to sound judgmental, but she raises her eyebrows.
Are we really going to talk about this?
I gesture at her drink. “Want another?”
“I thought we were just going to have the one?”
“Yeah, well. I think this is a two-cocktail conversation.”
She giggles. “Okay.”
I go up to the bar and order the drinks and a bowl of potato wedges with sour cream and sweet chili sauce, because I’m feeling peckish.
While the bartender prepares the cocktails, I glance over at Hallie, who’s staring out of the window at the view, chin propped on a hand. She looks thoughtful, a little wistful. I think of the fact that she’s never had a man go down on her, and close my eyes, finding the thought almost painful.
“Here you go.”
I open my eyes to find our cocktails before me, and I thank the bartender, then take them back to our table. I place Hallie’s before her, then sit and lean on the table, studying her.
I’m going to ask, because I have a burning desire to know. “I still don’t understand why you stayed with him for so long. Was it really because you ‘thought it was what you did’?”
She sighs. “No… There were reasons he was like he was, and I kept hoping he’d change if I showed him love and affection.”
“What kind of reasons? Because I can’t imagine anything good enough to excuse the way he’s treated you.”
She leans on the table, studying her drink. “I didn’t tell you about his religion. His family belonged to a religious group called the Order of Sanctified Purpose—have you heard of it?”
“A cult?” I say flatly.
She gives me a wry look. “I wasn’t allowed to use that word.”
“Did they follow a leader?”
“Yes. His name was Jacob Adams.”
“Then it’s a cult.”
She scratches her nose. “I guess. They view pleasure as a test from God, a temptation to be resisted at all costs. They even consider laughter indulgent. And sex is a duty, never a joy.”
“That explains a lot,” I say mildly, although inside I’m filled with something akin to horror. I’m a believer in personal freedom, and that people should be able to do what they want with their lives. But how can you bring children up to believe that sex is something to be endured, not enjoyed?
Hallie sips her drink. “When you’re continually told that sex is disgusting and evil, eventually it’s going to pervade everything and tarnish all your relationships. His mum once walked in on one of his brothers… you know…” She gives me a shy look.
“Shaking hands with the milkman?” I suggest.
She giggles. “I’ve not heard it put like that! Apparently she beat him black and blue, called him filthy, forbade him to ever do it again…”
“How did that work out?”
“Yeah, I’m guessing it didn’t work, but it screwed all of the boys up. Ian’s oldest brother has been married three times and sleeps with everything that moves. His younger brother’s girlfriend once told me he was heavily into BDSM.” She pulls an eek face. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, but…”
“I understand. And you think it affected Ian, too?”
“Oh God, yes. He was so withdrawn, right from the beginning. He wouldn’t discuss sex, and would never admit to doing… the milkman thing. The thing was, I didn’t have anything to compare him to. I realized he had problems, of course, but I really thought it would change once we were together a while. He wasn’t all bad. He was generous and kind, mostly. He had a good sense of humor, and he worked hard, and he loved me, I think, in the beginning anyway.”
I feel a surge of jealousy, which surprises me, as it’s not an emotion I’m used to. I don’t like her defending him. But I have absolutely no right to feel this way about a work colleague.
Ah, Fraser. How long are you going to keep pretending that’s all you want to be?
“I’m guessing his parents would rather he have chosen a girlfriend from their group,” I say.
“Yeah, they didn’t like me at all. Their parents didn’t believe in sex before marriage, and they hated that all of their sons were living with girls, but I guess they had to accept it’s a modern world. They didn’t hesitate to make their distaste known, though.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Poor Hallie. No wonder she has an inferiority complex.
The bartender comes up and places the bowl of potato wedges on the table, along with a kind of stained-glass box containing a tealight, and he leans forward with an electric lighter to light it before withdrawing. The candle casts patterns of colored light on the table, as if someone has spilled a box of jewels across it—sapphires, emeralds, and rubies.
“Mmm,” Hallie says, helping herself to a potato wedge and dipping it into the sour cream. “I was getting hungry.”
I take a bite of a wedge, studying her as I enjoy the crunch of the crispy skin and the taste of the sweet chili.
“What?” she asks, amused.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You said he criticized you for being bad in bed.”
She looks down at her drink, her smile fading. “Yeah.”
“But you’ve also said he was withdrawn, and you implied he wasn’t very adventurous in bed. So how can he criticize you?”
“That’s one reason why I’m so mad,” she says.
My eyebrows rise. “You’re mad?”
“I’m furious with him.” She sounds surprised that I haven’t realized. Aaahhh… I’m beginning to understand her more now. For some reason she doesn’t think it’s acceptable to show her emotions. Is that purely to do with Ian?
“It wasn’t just that he wasn’t adventurous,” she says slowly. She picks up the beermat and turns it over in her fingers as she plans what to say. “He didn’t like me… um… making noise. And he really didn’t like me suggesting anything. He saw it as a threat, I think, or a criticism of his performance. He didn’t like me initiating sex, either. He found it intimidating, and he said it wasn’t ladylike.” I snort. “You don’t agree?” she asks.
“I most certainly do not. It shows a woman wants you if she initiates sex. What’s not to like about that?”
She gives a small smile, then scratches at a mark on the beermat. “I’ve never spoken to anyone about this.”
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But I thought it might help.”
“It does help. A lot.”
I open my mouth to encourage her to say more, then close it again as I get a flash of an image of Whina glaring at me. But the alcohol is beginning to thread through me, and I feel a swell of rebellion. Who I have a relationship with is nothing to do with anyone but me and the girl involved.
The noisy group has left, and it’s now much quieter. Soft jazz music is playing in the background. We’ve both finished our cocktails, and Hallie says, “Shall we have one more?”
I want her to continue talking, so I nod, go up and place the order, then come back to the table.
“What else, then?” I ask. “Come on, you might as well tell me all of it now you’ve started.”
She shrugs, speaking softly, obviously conscious of being overhead. “I’m curious about sex,” she admits. “It’s never been a big part of my life. Because it was so perfunctory with Ian, I never encouraged it, and I was happy to wait for him to suggest it, which was usually once a week, often on a Saturday night, after he’d had a few beers. Other than that, I’ve never thought about it much. The world’s obsession with sex has always bewildered me. Books and movies talk about a level of pleasure and enjoyment I’ve never experienced. I’ve assumed it’s a fabrication, an El Dorado that people are constantly searching for, but you can never reach.”
Her gaze rises to meet mine. She smiles. “You look completely confused.”
“I am. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to spend more time on making it better for you.”
“It was always the same: perfunctory and lackluster, even though—in the beginning anyway—I tried hard to make it better. That’s why it stung so much when he criticized me. It was so unfair.” She stops, swallows, and has a big mouthful of her cocktail.
“Fucking idiot,” I say, and she laughs.
“Yeah.” She trails the tip of a wedge through the sour cream, then says shyly, “So you don’t agree? You think it’s okay for a girl to suggest things in the bedroom?”
“Of course I do,” I say gently. “Look, Ian obviously had lots of issues. He’d boiled sex down to its absolute basics—Tab A into Slot B. It doesn’t sound as if he was even interested in other slots much.”
She giggles, then presses her fingers to her lips. “No.”
I nod. “I’m sure he’s not alone in thinking of it as a physical act, one step removed from shaking hands with the milkman. But it can be so much more than that.”
When she lifts her gaze to mine, her eyes are filled with curiosity and longing.
She opens her mouth to say something. Closes it again. Sucks her bottom lip, her eyes searching mine.
I’m three cocktails down, which was a dumb thing to do, because although I’m far from drunk, I’ve had just enough to unlock the barriers holding me back.
I’m done with being told what I can and can’t have.
“Go on,” I murmur. “Ask me.”
Her gaze slips to my mouth. “Would you show me?” she whispers.
“Yes.”
Her gaze comes back to mine, and I watch her inhale, her eyes flaring.
“Ready to go?” I ask.
She nods. We finish our drinks, rise from the table, and head back through the bar, then across the foyer and out to the path leading to our rooms.
“Yours or mine?” I ask as we arrive at the doors.
“Mine,” she says, opening the door, and we go inside, letting it close behind us.
The moon is now high in the sky, and stars are popping out on the black velvet. She takes off her sandals and jacket, then crosses to the sliding doors and opens them a little, letting in the night air.
I toe off my shoes and hang my jacket over the chair, and the two of us stand looking out at the view for a moment. The air is heavy with the exotic scent of the frangipani outside, and it feels thick with anticipation.
I turn and look down at her. Without her sandals, she’s quite a bit shorter than me. Her eyes are wide and filled with yearning.
She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. I take off my glasses and put them on the table, turn to face her, then take her face in my hands.
“Don’t be nervous,” I murmur.
“I can’t help it.” She swallows hard, and her eyes shine. “What if I really am bad in bed, Fraser? What if he was right? I don’t think I could bear it if I disappointed you.”
I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, enjoying her answering shiver. “You won’t disappoint me.”
Her brow creases. “You can’t know that.”
I study her mouth. “I already know you’re going to be magnificent. Hallie, just having you in my arms is amazing. Just having your m-mouth beneath mine… and the thought of sliding my hands and mouth across your skin…” I shiver. “I want you so b-badly. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since you told me your relationship had ended. True lovemaking isn’t about t-technique or performing or doing the right thing. It’s about sharing yourself with someone. I want to share myself with you. Do you want to share yourself with me?”
She nods enthusiastically.
I smile. “Then there’s nothing else to worry about. Just promise me one thing.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to me. Tell me when you like something, or if you want me to do something, or not to do it. That’s all I ask.”
She nods again, shyly. “All right.”
I brush my thumb across her bottom lip. Her big brown eyes stare up at me, filled with wonder and hope.
I take a step closer to her, so our bodies are flush. And then I lower my lips to hers.