Sam and Clementine had never needed to talk about sex, and that was such a relief after Daniella, his previous girlfriend, who he had very nearly married, and who had liked to discuss and dissect their sex life, and to follow each encounter with an immediate debrief: How can we work together to achieve better outcomes next time? (She was a business consultant. She didn't use those words but he could feel their intention.) Daniella had no qualms about beginning a conversation over the breakfast table with a comment like, 'When I was blowing you last night ...' which would make him choke on his cereal and blush like an altar boy. ('So cute!' Daniella would crow.)
He loved the fact that he and Clementine kept an element of mystery about their sex life. They treated it with a shy kind of reverence. Sex was like a beautiful secret between them.
But maybe Daniella had had the right idea all along. Maybe all that bloody reverence had been their downfall, because when their sex life slowly changed and began to seem perfunctory and rushed, they didn't have the words to talk about it. He couldn't work out if Clementine even liked sex anymore (and he didn't want to hear the answer if it was no). The idea of 'performance' had begun to announce itself in his head. Everything still operated as it should but for the first time ever he'd begun to wonder how he compared to those ex-boyfriends; if their musical ability had somehow translated into sexual ability.
He had known it was probably nothing. All parents of young kids went through this. It was so common it was a cliche. There would be a renaissance, he had told himself. When both girls started sleeping reliably through the night. When they weren't so tired and stressed. He had been looking forward to the renaissance.
And then that night of the barbeque it had seemed like Tiffany was offering them the key to the door they'd accidentally closed on themselves. She was the gorgeous ringmaster crying, 'Right this way for amazing sex again, folks!' It had suddenly seemed so easy again. He'd seen it on Clementine's face. She'd seen it on his.
And then the universe had seen fit to punish them for their selfishness in the cruellest way imaginable.
He saw it again: Oliver and Erika lifting up his baby girl. He saw it a dozen times a day. A hundred times. He would never, could never, get over it. He couldn't see a way out of this. There was no solution here. He had to change something. Fix something. Break something. He remembered how Clementine had flinched when he talked about separating. For a moment she'd looked like a frightened child. He felt bad, or he was aware that he should have felt bad, but really he felt numb and strangely detached, as if it was somebody else who was saying these cruel things to his wife.
'Daddy,' said Holly. 'You've eaten it all!'
Sam looked at the empty bucket of popcorn.
'Sorry,' he whispered. He couldn't even remember eating it.
'That's not fair!' Holly's enraged face was illuminated by the light from the screen.
'Shh,' he said helplessly. His throat felt scratchy. There were tiny flakes of corn kernel stuck between his teeth.
'But I hardly got any!' Her voice rose to an unacceptable level. Someone muttered disapprovingly in the row behind.
'If you can't be quiet we're going,' said Sam in a low, shaky voice.
'Greedy Daddy!' she shouted, and she snatched the container and threw it on the aisle floor next to her. It was calculated, wilful naughtiness. It couldn't be ignored.
Bloody hell. He picked up the soggy umbrella at his feet, lifted the dead weight of Ruby over one shoulder, stood, and grabbed Holly by the wrist. Something twinged painfully in his lower back.
Holly screamed blue murder as he dragged her out of her seat and into the aisle.
Consequences. He and Clementine made fun of that sort of parenting jargon but Holly and Ruby had to learn what it had taken Sam all these years to discover: Life was all about consequences.
chapter seventy-four
Oliver decided to go for a run in the rain.
He risked injury on the slippery footpaths, and also a relapse of his chest cold, but right now he really needed to clear his head because his wife was a common thief and as a result he would never be a father.
He was incorrectly assigning causality but he was very upset. Angry. Shocked.
He double-knotted his shoelaces, stood up, did a few stretches, opened the front door and nearly closed it again because it was raining so hard, but he couldn't bear to roam around his house while his thoughts scuttled like trapped mice.
Running would give him clarity. His nervous system would release a protein that stimulated regions of his brain related to decision-making.
He took a deep breath and headed out. Vid and Tiffany were obviously entertaining. There were cars lined up in their driveway and around the cul-de-sac. They were extremely sociable people.
As Oliver ran out of the cul-de-sac he considered his own, significantly smaller social circle. It might be helpful if he could talk this through with someone, but there was no one.
He did not have the sort of friend he could call up for a 'quiet beer'. He was not the sort of person who said 'quiet beer'. He didn't actually drink beer. He had the sort of friends who drank protein shakes at the local health-food cafe after a thirty-k morning bike ride, while they discussed training schedules for the upcoming half marathon. He liked his friends, but he had no interest in hearing their personal problems and he therefore couldn't share his own. He couldn't lean over his protein shake and say, 'My wife has been stealing memorabilia from her best friend since she was a kid. What do you reckon? Should I be worried?'
He would never betray Erika to another man like that anyway.
A confidential discussion with a woman might be better. Maybe if he had a sister, or a mother. Technically he did have a mother. Just not the right sort of mother. She would find Erika's stealing screamingly funny or tragically sad, depending on where the pendulum of her mood currently sat.
A car drove by and tooted at him in either a supportive or derisive way: hard to interpret.
If Erika had started hoarding, he could have handled that. He'd even mentally prepared himself for that remote possibility, in spite of her constant, obsessive decluttering. He'd prepared himself for depression (common while undergoing IVF), for breast cancer, for a brain tumour, for accidental death and even an office romance (he trusted her, but her managing partner was apparently a 'ladies' man'), but never for this. Never for petty thievery. They were straight-down-the-line people. Their financial affairs were in scrupulous order. He and Erika would welcome a tax audit. Bring it on, they'd say to the tax office. Bring it on.
His glasses needed windscreen wipers. He kept running while he took them off and tried to dry them with the edge of his T-shirt. Useless.
She had taken Clementine's stuff, like a Dickensian pickpocket. It was unfathomable. She said she was going to stop and that she would give back what she could over a period of time, but in Oliver's world, people never stopped. His parents had said they'd stop drinking. Erika's mother had said she'd stop hoarding. They truly believed it at the time. He got that. But they couldn't stop. It was like asking them to hold their breath. They could do it for only so long before they had to gasp for air.
Another car swept by, and a teenage boy stretched almost half his body out the window in order to yell, 'Loser!'
Really dangerous activity there, sport. You could get sideswiped by another car. Also bad-mannered.
He took the corner at Livingston. Twinge in that left knee again.
Right now Erika was over at Clementine's telling her that they wouldn't need her as an egg donor after all. They had discussed it and agreed it would be polite to tell her in person. She'd invested her time doing blood tests and filling in paperwork. They didn't like to waste someone's time.
It was Oliver's decision. There were Clementine's unkind comments that Erika had overheard. Repulsed by the idea. Bitch, he thought as his foot hit a puddle and water sprayed. Clementine wasn't a bitch. He was fond of Clementine, but the things she'd said had been so unkind a
nd unnecessary.
He thought of Erika's little face (she had a small darling face) and how she must have looked when she'd stood in the hallway overhearing those awful words. His fists clenched. He felt a sudden urge to hit Sam, because he obviously couldn't hit Clementine.
The moment passed, as primal urges did. He'd never hit anyone in his life.
Anyway, even if Clementine hadn't said what she'd said, obviously Erika's relationship with her was too ... strange? complex? dysfunctional? ... for this to go ahead.
'Absolutely not,' he'd said to Erika. 'She can't be our donor. It's not happening. It's over. It's finished.'
He couldn't tell if she was relieved or shattered.
He'd been so adamant, but now, as he ran, his clothes getting wetter and heavier (you would think there'd be a point of total saturation, at which they couldn't get any wetter, but apparently not), he was regretting his decision. Maybe he'd been too hasty.
It felt like another loss. Each time he thought he was doing well, avoiding the hope. Each time he told himself, I have no expectations, but with each new failure it hurt so much he understood the hope had been there after all, flitting seductively around his subconscious. It didn't get easier either. It got worse. A cumulative effect. Loss upon loss. Like the ligament strain in that left knee.
So, what now? Anonymous donor? They were so difficult to find, unless they went overseas. People were doing that. They could do that. He could do it. He could do whatever it took to have his own biological child. He just wasn't sure if Erika could. He had a terrible suspicion that if he said, 'Let's forget about the baby', the first expression he'd see on her face would be relief.
His heart rate was up very high. He could hear himself puffing. He couldn't normally hear himself puffing. That chest cold had affected his fitness. He concentrated on breathing in rhythm with his footfalls.
He saw a blue car coming his way from the opposite end of the street and realised it was Erika, on her way home from seeing Clementine.
He stopped, hands on his hips, catching his breath and watching her approach. He couldn't see her face yet, but he knew exactly how she'd be driving, hunched over the wheel like a little old lady, two deep lines between her eyebrows; she didn't like driving in the rain.
Her frown was the first thing he'd noticed about her when they worked together, long before they did the squash competition draw together. He didn't know why he found it so appealing; maybe because it indicated that she took life seriously, like him, that she cared and she concentrated, she didn't just float along the surface, having a great time. He'd never told her that. Women wanted to be noticed for their eyes, not their frowns.
She must not have lingered at Clementine's after she'd delivered her news.
The car pulled up on the side of the road. She wound down the window and bent over the passenger seat to look up at him anxiously.
'You shouldn't run in this weather!' she shouted. 'You could slip! You haven't even finished your antibiotics.'
He headed over to the car, opened the door and got in next to her. The car was warm. She had the heater cranked up.
Water slid off him, pooling all around him on the leather seat. He could feel it squelching. He was reminded of the night they pulled Ruby from the fountain; how they'd worked together, how they hadn't needed to talk, they'd just acted. They were a good team.
Erika sat, still hunched over the steering wheel, studying him silently, frowning ferociously.
He put his hand to the side of her face.
'Sorry,' he said, going to draw it away. 'I'm all wet.'
But she grabbed it back, and tilted her warm face into the palm of his cold hand.
chapter seventy-five
Vid's house was full of people and music and the smell of good food, which was what he liked, what he loved. What was the point in having a big house like this unless you filled it with people?
The occasion was no occasion. What did you need an occasion for? You didn't! It was spur of the moment. He'd made some phone calls and now the house was full. It was still raining, of course, but that didn't mean all the fun had to stop, they were warm and dry in here, the rain would not stop them from living their lives! They should do this more often! They should do it every weekend!
All four of his daughters were here tonight, and at this point they were all talking to him, a rare and wonderful event. Of course his older girls all wanted something from him but so be it. That was parenting.
Adrianna wanted him to agree to do a choreographed father and daughter dance at her wedding. It would be filmed and then she'd post it on YouTube. It was her dream to go viral. He would do this, of course, although he was pretending he hated the idea. (He already had a few moves in mind.)
Eva and Elena wanted money, he assumed, and of course they would get it. He'd transfer it into their accounts tonight, after they left. All that was in question was how much. He would see how their negotiating skills were developing. Eva would get hysterical within seconds. He'd been trying to explain to her that hysteria was not an effective negotiating tactic ever since she was two years old.
His baby, Dakota, didn't want anything. She was happy again, although he hadn't realised just how sad the poor little angel had got. Tiffany's idea of turning up at the cellist's house had been excellent, even though they had never even offered them a drink. It had been wonderful to see little Ruby so happy and healthy after the terribleness of that night. It had been a giant weight off his back. He had walked out of that tiny cramped house feeling straighter and lighter (also thirsty).
Clementine and Sam had been silent and strange but they had invited Dakota to Holly's birthday party! Hopefully they'd remember to feed their guests. He'd take some food along, just in case. He was hopeful they might all still be friends. Tiffany was not as hopeful as him. She said only Dakota was invited to the birthday party, not them. She said it was probably a 'drop-off party'. He didn't know what she was talking about. He would take meatballs, maybe. A case of champagne.
'You having fun?' said Tiffany, meeting him in the kitchen as they both collected more plates of food to pass around.
'No! Why do we do this? I just wanted a quiet night at home and look! The house is filled with all these people wanting to be fed! How did this happen?'
'I have no idea. It's a mystery.' Tiffany closed the fridge door with her hip and smiled up at him, both her hands filled with trays. 'Apparently the sun is coming out tomorrow. We should invite everyone to stay the night and have a barbeque lunch tomorrow. Continue the party all weekend!'
'Excellent idea,' said Vid. He knew she was joking but he was wondering if this was a possibility.
He kissed her and stuck in his tongue just to make her say, 'Vid!' except she gave back as good as she got. She liked to surprise him. 'Jesus, get a room,' said his cousin, walking into the kitchen and straight out again.
Tiffany raised an eyebrow and sashayed off with an exaggerated swing of the hips just for him.
There was something else making Vid happy. To do with Tiffany. What was it? Was his mind losing its edge? No! His mind was a steel trap. Of course. That little matter of the dickhead. It was all under control. Yesterday she'd come home from Dakota's new school and said that she'd run into the wife of that old client of hers and they weren't coming to Saint Anastasias after all.
This was good because he knew she'd slept with that dickhead.
He knew it because of her left nostril.
Vid played poker once a month with a group of friends. His friend Raymond had told him years ago how poker players tried to work out each other's 'tells': the little giveaways that showed when they were bluffing. Raymond said, 'You, my friend, have about a dozen tells. You blink, you wink, you twitch, you virtually have a seizure, you are the worst bluffer in the world.'
Vid did okay at poker though, because he might have been the worst bluffer in the world but he had the best luck. He drew great hands. He'd always been lucky. He had great luck in business, he h
ad many, many good friends, he'd married two gorgeous women, even if the first one had turned out to be a crazy-in-the-head bitch who'd tried to turn his daughters against him, but that was okay, because he'd got even luckier with his second wife. Walking Viagra and he loved her like crazy.
Tiffany was a great poker player. Not as lucky as him, but she could do a beautiful 'poker face'. It worked on him for years but then one day he broke her code.
Tiffany had a show. Her left nostril. Whenever she lied or bluffed, her left nostril quivered. Just once. A teeny-tiny movement. Like a butterfly wing.
Vid had confirmed it by studying his wife on those occasions when he knew for a fact she wasn't telling the truth. For example, when she answered Dakota's questions about Santa Claus, or when she told her sisters that she was flying economy, when really she'd booked business class tickets. Her sisters had some strange problem with flying business class, as if it were somehow sinful.
It was conclusive. The nostril never lied. He never told Tiffany, of course, because it was very handy, his secret superpower to see straight through her poker face. (Sadly, she did not at all like the red lingerie he'd bought her for Christmas.)
So when he asked his wife, 'Did you sleep with him?' all he had to do was watch her nostril and there was the answer.
She said no but the answer was yes. Yes, she'd slept with him.
It was fine! It was no problem!
It was maybe a slight problem. Say Vid had been at a school concert and he'd seen this dickhead looking at his wife in a disrespectful way, he might have been tempted to hit him. Assault and battery that would be.
Or say he and this dickhead had ended up cooking at a sausage sizzle together (there were always sausage sizzles, even when you paid a million bucks in school fees) and the dickhead made some remark about Tiffany. It might even be an innocent remark, but say Vid took it the wrong way, because of what he knew, and say he went home and the thought got trapped in Vid's head, like thoughts sometimes did, and say, in a moment of madness, he got on the phone to his friend Ivan and arranged to have the dickhead's knees broken.