Dating Games

16

Dating Games

    It took Donald Freeman almost to the end of the third week of the May holidays to work up the courage to go up to the Institute in order to ask Caro Webber out to dinner. At that he might not have managed it if it hadn’t been for a very romantic combination of circumstances, which his friend Larry, listening enviously to his somewhat disjointed account later, considered sourly that Don hadn’t deserved in the least.

    It was very late in the afternoon when Donald got to the Institute, because he’d spent most of the afternoon in his office, torturing himself with indecision. Then, as it was a dull, overcast day, he’d driven up to Puriri very slowly and carefully. When he got there it took all his courage not to go off to the building site and pretend he’d only come to inspect progress there.

    He went over to the Institute’s prefab and opened the front door cautiously. As Hamish was still at home, feeling very weak, and having delicious relays of trays brought to him in bed by Mirry, and as Marianne had gone off on the dot of five o’clock to a dinner date with Maurice Black (oysters and champagne, followed by sirloin steak, carrots in honey and baked potatoes, followed by Maurice’s special apricots, followed by a very long romp); and as Peter and Veronica hadn’t come in at all today, Peter also giving Pam Anderson the afternoon off, and Charlie Roddenberry hadn’t been heard from for a couple of days, there was no-one in sight. Val Shipley, the new cataloguer, had also left on the dot of five, not because she had a date but because Caro had noticed that she was looking exhausted and ordered her to go home and have an early night, and not to dare to come in a minute before ten tomorrow morning.

    Caro was working late, because Danny and Pam Anderson, who had conceived a mutual passion on sight, were going to have tea at McDonald’s in town, and then go home to Pam’s. Caro had been a bit stunned by this passion, because—perhaps not surprisingly, after the example of his grandmother—Danny didn’t normally like older women. Pam, however, having brought up four of her own, knew exactly how to treat boys. Caro had found she was actually a bit jealous of this new relationship, and had had to take herself severely to task.

    About ten minutes before Donald’s arrival, Caro had been stupid enough to go up the ladder to attack one of the last remaining towers of cartons in the office she was using as a storeroom. These were not the books from January, which she and Charlie Roddenberry had duly dealt with, but the last of a new, almost equally large shipment that had arrived at the end of March.

    When Donald came in the front door of the prefab, she was a nasty shade of green, clinging tightly to the top of the ladder, sweating all over and shaking like a leaf. As footsteps sounded in the passage, she swallowed hard and said: “OY!”

    The footsteps stopped.

    “I dunno who the Hell you are, out there,” said Caro loudly and rapidly: “but couldja come in here and give me a hand?”

    Whoever it was came in. Caro didn’t dare to look down: in fact she didn’t dare to open her eyes.

    There was a cough; then a light male voice that seemed sort of familiar said hesitantly: “Is anything the matter?”

    Caro attempted an off-hand reply but it came out in a wail: “I’m stuck!”

    Whoever it was, he was plainly a tit, because he then said doubtfully: “You don’t look stuck to me; just put your foot on the next rung down.”

    “I’m stuck!” choked Caro. “I’m scared!”

    There was a puzzled silence from below her.

    Caro’s ladder shook quite visibly. “Got—vertigo!” she choked.

    “Oh, God!” said Whoever-It-Was.

    “Help me! I’m gonna fall!” wailed Caro.

    “No, you’re not,” said the voice decisively. “Just hang on; I’m coming up behind you.”

    Caro gave a choking sob. The ladder shook again.

    Then it steadied as someone put his weight on it. It shook a little as he came cautiously up behind her. Caro choked again: “Gonna fall!”

    “No, you’re not going to fall,” said the voice firmly. A warm body came up right behind her—Donald was quite tall and Caro, of course, was short—and put its arms round her and held on to the ladder at either side of her.

    “You can’t possibly fall,” said the voice somewhere near her ear, “because I’m right behind you.”

    Caro quivered and was silent.

    Donald said firmly: “Now! Do exactly what I tell you, when I say ‘now’—okay?”

    “Mm!” she choked.

    “Right—you’re going to put one foot on the next rung down.”

    “Can’t!”

    “Yes, you bloody can!” said the voice energetically—Donald was rather frightened himself by now—not of the height, but at the thought that Caro might panic and tip them both over.

    “I’m gonna put my arm round your waist, see?” He did this. “And now you’re going to move your hand down.”

    “No!”

    Donald was much stronger than she was, having spent all his university holidays working as a builder’s labourer, getting on-site experience, and he grasped her hand and moved it forcibly down a rung. “Okay, when I say now, move your right foot down—NOW!”

    Caro was so startled by the unexpected authority in this last word that she did it.

    After that it was more or less plain sailing, though she started to tremble and cry after the second step down. He was still right behind her when she reached the ground. Still with her eyes shut, Caro turned, grabbed him frantically, and wept into his chest. Donald put his arms around her and held her far too tightly for a casual acquaintance who was merely calming down a person with vertigo.

    After quite some time Caro became aware that the slim male person who was letting her cry all over him smelled wonderful (Saint Laurent Pour Homme: he’d never bought it before and had been horrified at the price). Shortly after that she opened her eyes cautiously, and saw a very expensive pale yellow silk tie on a very pale grey shirt. Simultaneously she became aware that the slim male body had a terrific hard-on. She gulped, and looked up.

    “Oh! It’s you!”

    The colour flooded up Donald’s thin face: Caro saw the sherry-coloured eyes go wide and vague; then he kissed her on her open mouth.

    Caro’s fault, as she herself had admitted, had always been not that she didn’t like it, but that she liked it far too much. She was in a highly emotional state after her ordeal on the ladder; she’d had over a year’s abstinence, by far her longest stint since she was eighteen; and, as Donald’s friend Larry had instinctively spotted, she was, like Larry himself, a natural sensualist, and Donald smelled wonderful, had beautiful eyes, and had been pressing his slim but very male body into hers, one way or another, for quite some time now. Her arms went round him of their own accord and she pulled him fiercely to her, kissing him as Donald had never been kissed in his life.

    When they paused to draw breath and her dark brown eyes gazed into his light ones, Donald croaked: “I thought you didn’t like me.”

    Caro laughed shakily. “So did I!”

    They looked doubtfully at each other, panting a little.

    “What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked huskily, still with her arms around his torso.

    “I came to ask you out to dinner,” replied Donald, also husky.

    Caro went scarlet and said: “Didja really?”

    “Mm. I’ve wanted to for ages. I thought—I was afraid you thought I was a fool,” he said in such a low voice that she could hardly hear him.

    She shuddered against him in remembered horror. “No-one who could get me off that bloody ladder could possibly be a fool!”

    “You were really scared, weren’t you?” he said curiously.

    “Yes,” said Caro, staring fixedly at his expensive silk tie.

    “I’m scared of lots of things,” said Donald simply.

    Caro didn’t look up. She said huskily: “Are you?”

    “Yes. I’m scared of girls.”

    Caro looked up in surprize. Donald had gone very red. “But you’re so attractive!”

    Donald had of course ignored Larry when he tried to tell him the same thing. Now he said in a trembling voice: “Do you really think so?”

    “Hell, yeah! Can’t you tell?”

    He shook his head. “No. I—I haven’t had much experience, I suppose.”

    Caro swallowed hard. She pressed herself against him and looked into his eyes. As if mesmerized, Donald bent his head and kissed her again.

    “Will you?” he said huskily.

    Any time! thought Caro madly. “What?” she said feebly.

    “Come out to dinner”‘

    She gave a shaken laugh. “S’pose I’d better, eh?”

    Donald released her slowly and they stared at each other shyly. He swallowed noisily.

    Caro drew a deep breath. “We could go back to my place afterwards, if you like; my little boy’s spending the night with a friend.”

    “Yes,” croaked Donald.

    She was touched, if a little disappointed, that he didn’t try to kiss again her or anything while she gathered up her bag and coat and locked the doors.

    “Shall we take my car?” he said shyly.

    Caro hesitated. She looked at his very smart grey suit, with its squarish shoulders and softly draped jacket and trousers, and realized that he was wearing his best clothes. “I’d better go home and change; I can’t go out to dinner like this.” –She was in jeans and a sloppy knit top.

    “You look wonderful!” said Donald fervently.

    She gave a shaky laugh. “Look: you follow me; then we can leave my car at my place—okay?”

     Donald agreed; he would have agreed if she’d suggested he drive to the moon.

    At Caro’s Puriri flat, which was a lot nicer and bigger and cheaper than the one in the city’s inner suburbs she’d had last year, he sat primly upright on her sofa while she changed. Caro recognized with a certain regret that he wasn’t at all the sort of bloke to come barging in while she was in the shower, so she shut the door firmly rather than leaving it artfully ajar.

    When she came back he just gaped at her.

    “Does this look okay?” She swallowed.

    Donald went puce and scrambled to his feet. “Okay? You look wonderful!”

    Caro gave a tiny laugh; she knew perfectly well she didn’t look wonderful, her bust and hips were too heavy, and she was too short; but she thought she looked okay, and was glad that he obviously liked the effect. The very new outfit was a long-sleeved, wide-shouldered black dress, the square neck cut very low, the bodice very tight to show off her small waist, and the narrow skirt a wrap-around effect, looped up diagonally at the front in a series of graceful folds which cleverly de-emphasized the hips. When she walked, as Donald noticed immediately, the skirt gaped rather, just off centre, and you got a glimpse of smooth brown thigh. A heavy flat gold snake necklace glowed on her tanned chest and she wore gold sandals with lowish heels—she wasn’t very good at walking in high heels. The curly pale bronze hair was still not in anything that could be called a hairdo, just rioting naturally, and Donald thought it was wonderful, and wondered if he could manage to tell her so. Her earrings were little gold chains with small gold bobbles on the ends of them; they swung and dangled entrancingly when she moved. She never wore much make-up—Donald in his earlier phase had tried to persuade himself that this made her look careless and shabby—but she had bronzy-green eyeshadow on tonight and a lip-gloss on the wide, generous mouth, and her cheeks were highlighted by a glittering blusher and by her own glowing excitement.

    It was just as well that Donald’s mate Larry wasn’t privileged to see this vision: he’d done his own feelings considerable damage by nobly hanging back to let poor old Don make his move, and he’d probably have strangled Donald on the spot.

    “I’m sure I know that girl,” said Polly Carrano slowly.

    The Carranos, having come back from their trip to Japan which had combined business and pleasure, were having a quiet dinner at the Chez Basil, which was usually not very busy on a Thursday night. Jake wrenched his gaze away from the pleased contemplation of the very pretty new pearl necklace—perfectly matched good-sized pearls interspersed at intervals by large Baroque pearls—his choice, not Polly’s—and his wife’s very pretty, creamy throat that it was encircling and said: “Eh?”

    “Over there,” said Polly, nodding cautiously towards the attractive young couple at the other side of the room.

    Jake looked, said without interest: “Girl in black? Never seen her before.” He took a cautious spoonful of his starter and added through it: “He looks kinda familiar, though.”

    “I don’t think I know him.” Polly looked unenthusiastically at her own starter.

    Jake shot her a sharp look. “You feeling queasy again?”

     “No, I’m fine. The morning sickness seems to have gone, thank God.”

    He eyed the odd construction on her plate. “Don’tcha fancy that?”

    “It looks a bit different from what I thought it would.”

    “Don’t eat it. I’ll order you something else.”

    “No, don’t, Jake; Gary’s feelings’d be hurt.”

    Jake looked at her affectionately and forbore to point out that if her gay chef mate produced muck for his clients to eat, he deserved to have his feelings hurt. He took another mouthful of his own starter and said through it: “Thish ishn’t too bad.”

    “Good.” It called itself “Salmon Cocktail à l’Italienne” and consisted of slivers of smoked salmon and black olives in a cottage cheese and sour cream dressing with chives. Very possibly Gary had used a pot of commercial cottage cheese and chives, the supermarkets were full of them. Considerately Jake forbore to point this out.

    Polly normally just had half an avocado with lemon juice and black pepper at the Chez Basil; since Basil and Gary had of course known her for years they were used to this and not offended by it. However, today she’d given in to Basil’s pleadings to try something different, and was now, faced with Gary’s “Avocat Mexique,” wondering where the avocado was in all that. It was a sort of pinkish volcano shape sitting on a bed of shredded lettuce in a cocktail dish, and artistically surrounded by slivers of red capsicum (which in her present state gave Polly fiendish wind), a few corn chips, and a sprig of unidentifiable green substance which Polly was definitely not gonna eat in case it was only decoration, and poisonous.

    “Don’t eat that red pepper, Pol,” warned Jake as she picked up her spoon.

    She looked at him apologetically. “I won’t; I didn’t mean to be so mean to you the other day, Jake; only I get so ratty when I’ve got wind.”

    “Ratty as Hell!” agreed her husband cheerfully. He watched as Polly took a cautious spoonful of the pinkish volcano. “What’s it taste like?”

    “Nothing, much,” she said thoughtfully. “Kind of slimy.”

    “Not hot?”

    “No; I think it’s got tomato in it.”

    He grunted and ate some more salmon cocktail. “Where’sh uh avocado?” he said in a slurpy voice.

    “I think it must be in it,” returned Polly, poking dubiously at the bottom of the volcano. “You know—like a dip.”

    Jake looked at it doubtfully. “Is it squashy?”

    “Sort of.” She ate another spoonful. “Like blancmange.”

    “Jesus!” He reached over with his own cocktail spoon and took a bit. “Ugh! Why don’tcha just leave it?”

    “It’s not too bad,” replied his wife in a tepid voice, bravely eating some more.

    He chuckled, reached over a big brown hand, and removed the spoon from her grasp. “That’ll do; we’ll order you something filling for your main course.”

    “Yeah,” she agreed with undisguised gratitude.

    Jake went on eating his starter; Polly looked cautiously again at Caro and Donald. “I know I’ve seen her before,” she muttered.

    Jake scraped his dish busily, swallowed, and stared hard at Donald Freeman. “Wait a bit! I’ve got it! Old Jerry Cohen’s tame architect!” Met ’im at the Golf Club; old Jerry was going on about some damn building or other he’d designed for him.”

    Polly replied interestedly: “Is that right?”

    “Mm.” Jake looked round rather crossly for Basil or the waiter; he always refused to order the main course at the Chez Basil until he’d had his starter. Basil was fussing over some people who’d just come in and the waiter was staggering to a table for six at the far side of the room, laden with plates. Jake scowled, and looked back at Donald again. “Think ’e did the Institute building for ’im, too.”

    “Did he? He looks awfully young.”

    He grunted. “Old Jerry thinks the sun shines out of ’is arse.”

    “Ooh!” said Polly. “I know who she is, now, Jake; she’s Hamish’s librarian! He said she was marvellous; they’d never have got the library plans sorted out without her collaboration!”

    “That right?” He looked at the absorbed couple and added with a dirty chuckle: “Well, no prizes for guessing what the pair of them’ll be collaborating on tonight!”

    Over in an obscure corner of the restaurant, largely hidden by a huge potted palm that Basil had been very doubtful about but that Gary had been talked into hiring on trial by the pretty, slim, dark young man from the pot-plant hire firm, Charlie Roddenberry looked gloomily at Caro and that architect guy, and came to the same conclusion.

    He ate his pinkish avocado volcano without noticing its sliminess or tastelessness—his tastes had, after all, been formed by twenty years of Californian food—and lapsed into a mood of brooding introspection. Not that she was his type, only he’d kinda thought that they were getting on quite well...

    After Caro’s initial prickliness on the matter of dates, Charlie’s approach had been very delicate indeed; the more so because on thinking it over he’d decided that he didn’t want to get involved with anyone out here until he knew whether or not he wanted to stay, and that in any case after Christabel he didn’t want to get involved at all for a while: it would be stupid to get into a relationship on the rebound.

    Caro had appeared quite willing to accept a calm, neuter sort of friendship. And Danny, who was too young to share his mother’s prejudices against Americans, and who had known instinctively and without ever having to think about the matter that Charlie was not in the least like the horrible man in Australia who had hurt both him and Little Mum (Danny had turned eleven and put on a growing spurt, and got frightfully patronising on discovering that he was now as tall as his mother)—Danny had taken an unexpected liking to Charlie. Well, unexpected as far as Caro was concerned; Charlie, who was not really a complicated man, unaffectedly liked kids and would never have wondered whether Danny liked him. Besides, Charlie knew all about Disneyland, having taken his own kids there innumerable times, which was a definite point in his favour. Much more important, though, he knew all about CARS, and—on rather short acquaintance, though Caro and Danny, being Antipodeans and used to car-mad men who were inveterate do-it-yourselfers, hadn’t thought twice about this—taken Little Mum’s car engine to bits and got it running much better.

    Danny therefore accepted enthusiastically Charlie’s invitations to the beach, or a barbecue on his patio, or the zoo, or the movies followed by a bite at McDonald’s, which was strategically placed within spitting distance of what Charlie called “the movie houses”, Caro called “the picture theatres” and Danny, having no experience of the other kind, simply called “the pictures.” On the arrival of Charlie’s bright scarlet 1967 Mustang, that he’d sensibly had shipped out well in advance of his own departure from L.A., Danny’s acceptance of the invitations became more than enthusiastic: it became ecstatic.

    Caro regarded with a tolerant eye the subsequent exclusively male Saturday mornings spent by her only offspring round at Charlie’s flat tenderly polishing this startling product of Detroit’s art; to her this was perfectly normal behaviour and, even though she called herself “Ms” and had read all the feminist texts, she didn’t feel it incumbent upon her to get up in arms about it, or feel excluded, or anything of that sort. As Danny was quite capable of getting himself up and fed in the mornings she in fact found it the perfect occasion for a nice long lie-in.

    Caro herself accepted Charlie’s invitations at first with careful wariness—which Charlie duly noted and which reinforced his determination to play it real cool—and then, when she found he really wasn’t working himself up to making a grab at her, with cheerful friendliness. Being an unaffected middle-class American, he naturally very soon told Caro and Danny all about his kids, and his ex-wife and his old dog Bobo—though not about Christabel or any other of his relationships since his marriage broke up. Caro decided he was lonely, and missing his kids—which wasn’t far from the truth—and occasionally issued a casual invitation to come and take pot-luck with them, usually investing for the occasion in a large piece of meat which, having grown up in New Zealand, she instinctively felt was the right thing to feed a large male on.

    Charlie in fact had never asked her on a real date at all; they had had a few casual lunches together in The Primrose Café in Puriri or its rival, Georgie’s, or down on the beach if the weather was nice; but she had never been out in the evening alone with him. Over their lunches they usually talked shop: his or hers, for Caro, having herself done political science, knew a good deal about his subject and Charlie, being an educated American used to excellent service from libraries all his life, knew a fair amount about hers. Caro knew that Charlie liked a Big Mac and fries; she knew he drank Diet Coke but had a sneaky hankering for “shakes”; she knew he liked bears but that monkeys gave him the creeps and that he didn’t turn green like she did at the thought of going for a ride way up on the elephant at the zoo, or on the Big Dipper or the rollercoaster at the vastly expensive amusement park he’d insisted on taking her and Danny to. She knew he was a safe and competent driver, and that he could swim much, much better than she could—and dive off the high board at the pool where he’d taken her and Danny once; Caro had almost passed out at the sight of him up there about to chuck himself off, so the next time he invited them she’d cried off and let him and Danny go by themselves.

    In fact she knew quite a lot about Charlie’s tastes on this sort of level, but absolutely nothing about his tastes, ideas or feelings on a more adult level: he never mentioned his own political beliefs; they had never talked about books, art or music, or any films except those they went to with Danny. Charlie’s information about Mary Ann, Sal, Chuck and Susie (and Mary Ann’s further three kids by Sal) had been verbose, for he was a pretty typical American in that way, but purely factual. Caro had had to read between the lines to gather that he was still fond of Mary Ann though not, she decided rather doubtfully, still in love with her. Whether he was capable of any sort of deeply passionate feeling she didn’t know, though she rather doubted it. The spider phobia was in a different category, of course, and didn’t count. Even the information about Bobo had been carefully factual and Caro and Danny hadn’t the slightest idea that Charlie had cried his eyes out before taking him to the vet to be put down.

    After about three months’ calm acceptance of the neuter friendship that was all he seemed to want, Caro had started to wonder a bit about Charlie. She had tried a few tactful probes on the subject of his love life after Mary Ann, but he’d blocked these. She had asked him if he’d like to come to a party at a fellow librarian’s; Charlie had very nicely said he couldn’t manage that evening. She had hinted casually in his hearing that it’d be great to have someone to go to the Film Society with; Charlie had developed deafness. One evening when they were both working late she put on a lot of scent, perched her hip casually on the edge of his desk, and said that she was starving; what about popping into one of those nice little restaurants in Puriri? Charlie replied very nicely: “Gee, I’m Helluva sorry, Caro: I just must get this schedule done for Peter by tomorrow; say, I think Hamish is working late tonight—why don’t you ask him?”

    Caro went off to the Ladies’ and said crossly to her reflection: “Dunno why I bothered!” She decided after this episode that he must just be one of those men who were rather neuter, because she was pretty sure he wasn’t gay. Perhaps unfortunately, she didn’t examine just why she had bothered. The neuter friendship continued; only Caro sent Danny off without her rather more on those exciting visits to McDonald’s, the pictures, and all those other fascinating haunts designed to appeal to the undeveloped mind. In revenge, as it were, she took up her German again and, since Pam was only too willing to baby-sit, joined the Goethe Society and went to all its screenings of un-subtitled German classic films.

    Charlie, who had never met a woman of around his own age and whom he found attractive who shared any of his tastes, did not think to ask Caro whether she might be interested in coming round to hear any of his huge collection of classical music recordings—very strong on Beethoven and guitar. As he’d made himself a bank of built-in cupboards to house this collection in the flat he’d bought as the more economical option after looking into the costs of renting, Caro never dreamed of its existence. She knew he owned a guitar, because Danny had seen it; naturally she assumed he was one of those Americans who strum chords and groan country music or, worse, folk songs, so she carefully avoided asking him to play it. Caro herself had no record player and Charlie naturally assumed that she wasn’t interested in music, never dreaming that she’d sold her stereo along with most of her worldly possessions in order to escape home from Melbourne and, with Danny to feed and house, wasn’t nearly in a position to afford another at the atrocious New Zealand prices. They never bumped into each other at the symphony concerts in the city, because Caro couldn’t afford to go. New Zealand had no professional opera company; when an amateur company did The Magic Flute they both went, on different nights, and without mentioning it to anyone at the Institute.

    When Charlie wasn’t spending his weekends polishing his car or going out with Danny he sometimes drove in to the city to the Art Gallery or the Museum; these visits coincided with the times that Caro was doing the washing or cleaning the flat. Since Caro worked from eight-thirty to five she couldn’t get into the city during the week; Charlie, with a much freer schedule, quite often drove in and took in a lunchtime concert, or dropped in at the Art Gallery, or wandered around the smaller galleries.

    They never met in the bookshops in town for the same reason; in any case the bookshops were terrible, and Charlie tended to patronize the big public library in the city, or get the University Bookshop to order stuff for him—not wanting to put a further load on the overburdened Caro and Val. In the society in which Charlie had been brought up people who talked about books were regarded as odd, boring, and embarrassing; he no longer shared this view, but tactfully refrained from boring or embarrassing new acquaintances by indulging this strange taste. Caro had been brought up in the society that had spawned Heather Freeman, née Warburton, where magazines were called “books”; after Charlie had confessed cheerfully, at various times, that he’d never heard of Edith Wharton, never read The Mill on the Floss or (to Danny) Swallows and Amazons, and had said “Who?” when Marianne had mentioned Evelyn Waugh, Caro had decided not to embarrass him by bringing up the topic of literature again.

    Charlie hadn’t committed himself to New Zealand to the extent of bringing his extensive library with him; it remained in L.A., occupying most of an accommodating friend’s spare room and quite half his garage. The proportion of philosophy, real psychology (as opposed to the pop variety that Caro and, after her, Marianne, read) and Classical writers in translation that this collection contained would have staggered Caro, and she would have been quite incapable of reading a fair proportion of it. Most of Charlie’s novels had remained behind, including his complete Dickens in a beautiful old turn-of-the century half-bound edition. He had managed to bring a few of his old favourites with him: Thoreau, whom he found soothing, a very worn Shakespeare that he’d had since his freshman days, an even more worn Horace that had belonged to his father, a couple of volumes of Hardy and—which would very much have astonished Caro—the complete works of Jane Austen. Since these items reposed in a small bookcase in his bedroom Caro had no idea he possessed them. He also had a collection of Dr Seuss first editions which he’d been totally unable to leave behind. Danny, who of course officially regarded himself as far too old for Dr Seuss, quite often went into the bedroom on those Saturday mornings at Charlie’s and had a good read of them. Being a little ashamed of this childish passion he’d never mentioned the books to his mother. And as books to him were just a part of life he of course didn’t think it worthwhile to report the fact that Charlie had some.

    Caro’s own makeshift shelves had more or less given up the ghost and she hadn’t bothered to put them up in the new flat in Puriri. While she saved up for some decent bookcases (which at the local prices was going to be a long period) most of her books remained in butter cartons against her bedroom wall. Her favourites, like Charlie’s, were in a small bookcase by her bed; he’d never seen her room any more than she’d seen his. He had once, timidly, brought up the name of Thoreau, of whom most educated Americans have, of course, heard. Caro, who’d been in a bad mood that day, had said crossly: “Who? Oh—Paul Theroux, do ya mean, that guy who writes those travel books, or something?”—“No,” Charlie had replied glumly: “Thoreau.”—“Who?” said Caro crossly, not looking up from the five-millionth re-drawing of the layout of the new library’s workroom. Charlie replied: “Uh—forget it.”

    Charlie had been suffering a great wave of homesickness that day. He’d gone home to his apartment, defiantly made himself a huge banana shake in his blender, and buried himself in Beethoven with his headphones on for the rest of the evening. Caro, who knew perfectly well who Thoreau was, although she hadn’t read a word by him, had muttered, once Charlie was safely out of earshot: “Bloody Americans!” This was shortly after he’d turned down two of her invitations; but she didn’t stop to analyse the deeper cause of her crossness, for the immediate one, Donald Freeman’s fuck-wittedness in the matter of the layout of library workrooms, was plain to see.

    Where an educated British or New Zealand man would have assumed that Caro, as a librarian, must be a reader, Charlie, used to the American way, where librarians are just as much experts in their own systems as other professionals are in theirs, and are not expected to be lovers of literature much more than are architects or, indeed, lecturers in political science, made no such assumption.

    What he had imagined until catching sight of Caro with Donald Freeman tonight in the Chez Basil to be a slowly and quietly developing relationship between two adults had been founded on propinquity, their mutual status as parents, their mutual loneliness, and a mountain of misconceptions. The sexual attraction between them, which he’d sensed from the first but denied almost entirely from the first, he now bitterly decided had never existed at all.

    That guy, he noticed sourly, absently okaying Basil’s suggestion of the chef’s specialty of the day without listening to the involved description of what it was, was dressed to kill, like a—goddamn pop-star, or something! He himself was in his normal “winter” garb of good grey slacks and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches: at home it indicated his status as an academic; in New Zealand it made him look like someone who was about to go on stage in an amateur production of an English country-house comedy, but this had fortunately not dawned on him. His tie, unlike Donald’s, was not excruciatingly narrow, nor was it yellow silk, nor did it match a handkerchief which was allowed to puff itself in attractive folds from the breast-pocket of the jacket. It was the sort of tie he normally wore with his tweed jacket: not the knitted one he often wore on campus, but a fairly formal one in navy blue with a small pattern. His shirt was a very pale blue drip-dry one with a tiny navy stripe: if there had been anyone around to see him when he took his jacket off, which of course there wasn’t, they would have seen that it was contoured to his slim, strong form and that he looked most attractive in it. Caro Webber, on those visits to the beach with him and Danny, had been privileged to see the form, and had firmly ignored the slight breathlessness that had come over her on these occasions.

    Basil Keating, unlike Caro, had shot one glance at the unaccompanied Charlie and recognized immediately that he wasn’t, dear; which in his opinion was rather a waste of what he could see of the form.

    Charlie remained in a state of hurt confusion throughout the rest of his meal. He had a healthy appetite, for he did a lot of jogging and swimming and had joined the badminton club that Hamish and Bill Michaels of the Faculty of Engineering belonged to, and played at least twice a week. He therefore ate his main course; but couldn’t have told you afterwards what it was. Possibly this was just as well: the speciality, “Shish-Kebabs à la Basil”, consisted of a selection of the inside parts of animals, not generally eaten by Americans of his class: chicken livers, lambs’ sweetbreads and pieces of lambs’ kidney, interspersed with shallots, slices of red bell pepper and chunks of pear. They were slathered in a very odd sauce, which if he’d listened to Basil’s exclamatory description Charlie would have known was based on peanut butter, with soy sauce, sugar, lemon zest and just a smidgen of chilli and powdered cumin to give it a tang, dear. Being used to a side salad, he’d asked for one; Basil wasn’t quite sure of this particular perversion and assumed he meant it instead of the vegetables, a choice not unknown in New Zealand restaurants. This was fortunate rather than otherwise, because the vegetables, cauliflower with dill, and carottes à la crème, were perfectly acceptable in themselves, but horribly unsuited to the spécialité.

    Charlie finished the meal with an excellent crème caramel, which, being used to the instant stuff that comes out of packets or cartons, he thought tasted funny and left half eaten, to Basil’s distress. By this time he’d sourly decided that if that was the sort of guy Caro wanted, she was welcome to him—he’d also drunk a whole bottle of one of the most expensive wines on the list (recommended by Basil) and was now ingesting a powerful Irish coffee.

    He watched Caro’s laughing departure, arm-in-arm with a very flushed Donald, with bitter gloom. They didn’t notice him in his obscure corner behind his plant at all.

    Charlie drove himself the short distance to his neat little apartment very slowly and carefully: not being an adolescent or stupid, he was quite aware that he’d had too much to drink. It was still fairly early but he showered, took two buffered aspirin, and went to bed anyway. He didn’t sleep very well, but he determinedly put it down to the indigestible meal, and decided not to go back to that place again, and wondered where the Hell the Italian and Mexican restaurants were in this dump.

    Caro and Donald went back to Caro’s flat and did what Donald had always assumed came naturally but that Caro now, kindly but firmly—because he was younger than her, she now realized, and he’d told her all about his awful marriage—taught him didn’t.

    Donald had never before encountered a girl who not only wanted you to do the sorts of things that his mate Larry went on about, but also did wonderful, marvellous, exciting things to you. Too wonderful; he came about ten minutes after Caro had got his clothes off him and had started teaching him, and was terribly humiliated by his lack of control. Caro, however, understood all about young men who haven’t had it for ages, and cheered him up and then told him how to make her come. After that she made them both a cup of cocoa and produced some Digestive biscuits, which were Donald’s favourite, and they consumed these in bed (another thing that Heather had never allowed).

    After that, when Donald was obviously feeling all warm and happy and secure, Caro introduced him to the notions that you could do it more than once in one night, and that there was more to copulation than just the missionary position and, indeed, that you didn’t have to come straight away just because it was in there. He was obviously exhausted after this, so she considerately didn’t introduce him to the idea that you could wake up some time in the small hours and do it again, but merely turned over, grinning like the Cheshire cat, and went to sleep again. The next morning she made it very clear that being stiff in the morning was not some ghastly kink of his own and that he wasn’t sex-mad because of it—but that she wouldn’t in the least mind if he was.

    After an enormous and rather odd breakfast of muesli and orange juice, because they were good for you, followed by mountains of French toast done in olive oil, because they were both starving and Caro had a passion for olive oil, it was one of her very few extravagances, Donald drove off dazedly, very late for work and hopelessly in love with Caro.

    Caro, stretching happily, dumped the dishes in the sink and rang Marianne to say she had a bit of a migraine but she’d be in at lunchtime. Marianne expressed anxious sympathy, and Caro felt a hit mean and guilty. But she didn’t normally do this sort of thing—well, not skiving off work—and she’d done untold hours of unpaid overtime already for the Institute, so she shrugged and grinned a bit, and went back to bed with a second cup of coffee.

    She wasn’t in the least in love with Donald, a fact which she recognized quite clearly. But he was keen, she reckoned with a bit of practice he’d be a bloody good lover, and she’d had enough of the macho bully type to last her the rest of her life, ta very much. And God knew, there was nothing else on offer! –This last veiled a reference to Charlie which she didn’t allow to become even half-conscious. Besides, Donald was really very sweet; and although he was quite slight himself, his prick wasn’t, thank God, thought Caro, who had no illusions about her own tastes, and no shame, either.

    She’d just acquired a Paula Gosling that she’d never read before from the Puriri Public Library, which was full of all sorts of odd treats and surprizes. The good citizens of Puriri County, by and large, were not great readers; its librarians, on the other hand, were, and bought, apart from the obligatory classics and best-sellers, largely to satisfy their own tastes, which, as they were all female and had had very similar educations to Caro’s, were very like hers.

    Caro sat down with the Paula Gosling and began to read happily, humming a little tune which Donald Freeman, who was not musical, wouldn’t have recognized, but which Charlie Roddenberry most certainly would: “Voi che sapete…”

Next chapter:

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