Death on Demand (3 page)

People couldn't believe she went jogging without an iPod. What a waste, drifting through this precious, uninterrupted time with your head clogged up with music. This was when she did her best thinking.

Maybe she would have checked before crossing the road if she hadn't been preoccupied with the looming confrontation with her increasingly distracted personal assistant. Maybe she would have noticed the car if the driver had had his headlights on. But there was so little traffic at that hour of the morning in those leafy suburban streets.

By the time the engine noise did penetrate her cocoon of concentration it was too late. She was in the air for several seconds, her body a bag of shattered bones, her limbs as limp as a rag doll's, because death was instantaneous.

Jesus, who'd live in the suburbs? Stuck in traffic twice a day and sipping sparkling mineral water while the rest of the crew got shit-faced. As opposed to this: a ten-minute walk from SPQR to his front door, seven if he took the shortcut through the old bakery site. He could do it on autopilot, and often did.

At least Phil didn't do the stuck record thing tonight, thank fuck. He just didn't get it. You couldn't really blame him. People who grew up poor craved financial security – it was their Holy Grail. They lay awake at night fantasizing
about getting that big break and never having to worry about money again.

So when they were offered a truckload of coin for the company, Phil couldn't think past the thrill of seeing telephone numbers on his next bank statement and the fuck-you call to Mum and Dad. Hey, guess what? Your dropkick son who left school at fifteen and still smokes dope is a dead-set millionaire. Not a theoretical, if you sold everything you owned and lived in the in-laws' spare room-type millionaire, but a real fucking millionaire. Keep buying the Lotto tickets, man.

Phil wasn't thinking about what a pain in the arse it would be having to answer to other people after twenty years of being your own boss. Shit, it would be bad enough reporting to the guys in London, but at least they had an industry background and seemed to accept that making films and TV programmes wasn't always and only about the bottom line. That dipstick in Sydney, though… As far as he was concerned, if it didn't have celebrities with big tits, forget it.

Phil couldn't – or wouldn't – see how soul-destroying it would be jumping through hoops and kissing arse to get the green light for projects that right now they could decide on over a long lunch. And while the guys in London weren't dipsticks, they weren't Kiwis either. How fucking hard would it be to get London excited about uniquely New Zealand stories?

There'd be paperclip-counters always looking over your shoulder, insisting on proper budgets and timesheets and fully documented expense claims. There'd be some sanctimonious bloody company code of conduct that would knock the fringe benefits on the head. For Christ's sake, half the fun of being in the fucking film industry was the hot chick factor.

Take the new girl; he certainly intended to. Man, did she spark up in the bar just now when he was talking about hanging out at Cannes with George Clooney and Brad Pitt. It crossed his mind to ask her if she'd mind popping back to the office to help him get out a pitch document, but experience had taught him the value of patience. Give her a while to get her head around the idea of fucking the boss who was old enough to be her father. Besides, when the time came he wanted to put his best foot forward and he was a few glasses of red past that point.

Sure, it was different for Phil: like all the other old hippies, he probably wanted to send his kids to private schools. But he knew the score. Shit, whose bloody idea was it to have that legal agreement that both of them had to approve any change to the shareholding structure?

It was a shame Phil had his tits in a knot but he'd get over it. He always did. It wasn't as if it had been sweetness and light and never a cross word between them, especially the last couple of months. But at the end of the day, they complemented each other. As a partnership they had credibility and runs on the board; if they split up, they'd just join the queue of hustlers and wannabes and bullshit artists hawking their half-arsed ideas to anyone who'd sit still. So Phil would get over it. He had to. He had no fucking choice.

Once he'd got over it and they had a serious, edgy project on the go, he'd remind Phil that he'd saved them from a fate worse than death: working for the man, coming in every day to do shit they'd be embarrassed to put their names to, being bad-mouthed behind their backs as pretenders who'd talked the talk but sold out the first time a big cheque was waved under their noses. And Phil would thank him for it.

In a couple of weeks the new girl would be ripe for the plucking. No, he wouldn't use the old “Can you work late tonight?” gambit, tried and tested though it was. The casting
couch – as Phil called it – in his office had seen plenty of action over the years, but it was really designed for wham, bam, thank you ma'ams, not that they didn't have their place in the scheme of things. But if you were contemplating something more than a one-off Friday night quickie, repeat business as it were, home was the go: the outdoor fire, the spa under the stars, the super-king bed that seemed to bring out the beast even in the good girls. But even though he'd be pawing the ground, he'd have to remember not to come this way. Fuck, it was dark. No wonder that last chick freaked out and bailed on him.

He froze when the arm snaked around his neck and a male voice snarled in his ear: “Take out your wallet and drop it on the ground.” The choke hold tightened. “Do it, fucker.” As he pawed feebly at the hip pocket of his jeans, he was swung around. A gloved fist slammed into the middle of his face. He reeled backwards, blood filling his mouth. Through the firestorm of pain and terror he saw a hoodie, saw a knife blade flash, saw nothing else.

They were two of a kind, she thought: stubborn old bitches.

She looked down at the golden Labrador lying at her feet. Wag just pipped her age-wise, fifteen dog years being ninety-plus in human terms according to some chart her daughter had found on the Internet. They were really just hanging on because the alternative – slipping away into oblivion – was even less appealing.

They still had their marbles, thank God, but were a couple of physical wrecks. Now and again the woman who did her shopping and cleaning tried to interest Wag in a
walk around the block, but after fifty metres or so she'd just lie down on the footpath and refuse to budge. A far cry from the days when she followed you around like a shadow until you gave in and got the lead, then dragged you through Cornwall Park practically ripping your arm out of its socket.

As for her, the stairs were her Berlin Wall, a barrier to the outside world. Going down was manageable but, Lord above, getting back up. Her son's solution was for her to move into a ground-floor apartment or a “unit” – what an evocative term for home, sweet home – in a retirement village. Not on your Nellie, buster. She'd lived here since 1968 – they'd actually signed the contract the day the
Wahine
went down – and moving now would seem like a repudiation of the best years of her life and the memories that sustained her. She wasn't going anywhere; they'd have to carry her out in a wooden box.

Her solution was much more elegant: install a basic kitchen upstairs, convert one of the spare bedrooms into a living-cum-TV room,
et voilà
: the stairs were no longer a problem because there was no reason to go downstairs. Someone asked her if she ever got bored being restricted to one floor. What a daft question. Housebound was housebound: what difference did it make how many rooms your world had shrunk to? Besides, boredom was as much part of old age as loneliness and infirmity, although it didn't get as much recognition.

By and large she'd learned to live with loneliness. The only way she was going to see her husband was if he was waiting for her on the other side. Much as she'd like to believe that, and much as she'd like to think her decades of conscientious church attendance would be rewarded, she wasn't taking it for granted. If there was an afterlife, she hoped her mild scepticism wouldn't be held against her.

She always went along with her friends' suggestions that she must miss the entertaining, but that was for their benefit – they'd probably be offended if she disagreed. In fact, she didn't miss it at all. It was something she and her husband had done together. He loved planning a dinner party, putting together a menu, organizing the food and wine, and his enthusiasm rubbed off on her. And in those days she had a decent appetite and liked a glass of wine or three. Now she ate like a bird and a second glass of wine left her feeling as if she'd been sandbagged.

She missed her daughter and grandchildren – and son-in-law up to a point – but they lived in Brussels. Their visits every second Christmas were, by some distance, top of her ever-diminishing list of things to look forward to. Her son and daughter-in-law lived on the North Shore. Of course she enjoyed seeing them but, if she was absolutely honest, it wasn't the end of the world if he rang to say they were too busy to make it over that week. Maybe she was being unfair but, when they did come, she always got the feeling they'd spent the drive over working out why they couldn't stay for very long.

The truth was the relationship hadn't been quite the same since she'd politely but firmly rejected her son's suggestion that he should take over the running of her financial affairs. It was for his own good, not that he could see that. Despite ample opportunity he had failed to demonstrate that he'd inherited his father's astuteness in money matters. A couple of her husband's friends, who did share his astuteness in money matters, were happy to look after her affairs and had done a very good job of it. Unlike some other widows she knew, she'd come through the recent financial turmoil relatively unscathed. When the time came her son could do as he pleased with his share of the inheritance, and if he didn't, his wife certainly would. The look on their faces
that time she jokingly suggested she might leave a decent whack to the SPCA… Clearly there were some subjects one simply didn't joke about.

Goodness gracious, what was that racket? Wag really was on her last legs if she could sleep through that. It was one of those dreadful radio people being inane at the top of his lungs. Why were they so proud of being imbeciles? It sounded as though it was coming from downstairs, but her help had left hours ago and anyway wouldn't have dared to put talkback on at that volume. It had to be some kind of electrical fault or power surge. Oh well, nothing else for it but to venture downstairs for the first time in months.

Leaning on her walking stick, she made her way to the top of the stairs. What a God-awful din. She thought of trying to find the earplugs she'd used to block out her husband's snoring. He, bless him, had claimed it was all in her mind.

She lurched forward, losing her balance. The landing rushed up to meet her. Her last thought was to wonder if the loud click that seemed to come from inside her head was the sound of her neck breaking.

She had to clasp the cup in both hands to stop it spilling, and it clattered in the saucer when she put it down. The man at the next table was staring at her. She could feel his prying gaze roam over her like a torch beam. She could almost hear his eyebrows clench as he observed her burning cheeks and shaking hands and the mess she'd created – the puddle of milk, the dusting of sugar. She trapped her hands between her thighs, where they couldn't shake and couldn't be seen, and looked straight ahead. Everyone in
the café must be looking at her, thinking, what's going on there? What's up with the woman of leisure in the Trelise Cooper outfit and the Blahnik shoes?

It was a good question. What the hell was she doing there? Why was she, a sensible, enviable, middle-aged married woman who'd hardly done a reckless or wilfully foolish thing in her life, sitting there summoning up the nerve to go into the apartment building across the street and have sex with a man she barely knew? Why would anyone in her position and in their right mind even contemplate it?

Because while her husband doted on her (which, in his mind, was proof of love), he wasn't really interested in her as a person. He was solicitous, respectful, indulgent, but never sought her opinion on anything beyond trivial domestic or social matters, and struggled to conceal his indifference whenever she volunteered it. He was happier to go to work than get home, happier to hook up with his male friends than stay with her.

Because there was more to life than lunches with other ladies who lunched, and tennis, and yoga classes, and charity work (socializing by any other name), and overseas holidays, and supervising the gardener.

Because the children had left home.

Because she was ashamed of not having done more with her life, in the sense of using her ability and exposing herself to a wider range of experiences and challenges.

Because it was too long since she'd had an adventure.

Because she was bored.

Because she wanted to have a secret, something thrilling and forbidden she could relive second by second when she woke up at three in the morning.

Because when it was over she could walk away, knowing there would be no aftermath, no repercussions.

Because there was no risk.

She finished her coffee. Her hands had stopped shaking. She placed her palms on her cheeks. They were warm as opposed to hot, which meant pink as opposed to crimson. Pink she could live with.

She stood up and walked out of the café, not caring if people were staring at her, feeling the first, faint stirrings of arousal.