Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (21 page)

‘We haven't really … evolved, have we? Changed.'

‘Changed?' Diane says with a huff. ‘I'd say there's been more than enough change lately.'

‘I was referring to you and me.'

She puts aside the mending and assumes a look of patience. ‘Listen, Chris.' She raises her index finger. ‘First, you find out Ben is your birth father. Second' (next finger) ‘your best friend has a stroke. Third' (ring finger) ‘you're left to run the business on your own. That collection of events is called stress. What you need most is not change, but stability. Your equilibrium has been upset.'

Equilibrium? Is that like Valium? If so, I'll have one of each.

Chris puts down his champagne and goes for whisky. ‘My equilibrium – or lack of it – doesn't alter the fact that we're not close.' He takes a mouthful of whisky. ‘We don't live together, we live beside each other. Like a couple of draughthorses.'

Diane's jaw drops. ‘You feel
tied
to me?'

‘No. I want us to be closer – in here.' He taps his chest. ‘And you're right, I have changed. I've learned how damaging silence can be and I don't want to go on pretending things are fine between you and me when they're not. I know, I've always avoided making waves, but they come after you anyway, so now I want to face them before we get swamped.'

‘You're not facing them, Christopher, you're creating them. You're …'

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘
What?
'

‘Oh, you know.' She sips her champagne. ‘Suffering from male menopause or whatever it's called. Erratic hormones.'

‘Erratic
hormones
? That's all my feelings are? A
pathology
?'

She leans forward and pats his knee. ‘No, it's just …'

He jerks away. ‘Jesus Christ! Stop with this pat … patting … patron …
belittling
me. I'm not a bloody dog!'

‘Oh. Yes, sorry. Look, there are frustrations in every marriage. Smooth patches and rough patches. We'll survive it. We always do.'

‘What if I don't want to
survive
it?'

‘That's what a rough patch is – imagining you don't.'

‘I'm telling you there's a problem and you don't want to know.'

‘Chris, you knew when we married I'm not the touchy-feely type. Nothing's changed.'

‘That's the point, Diane. Nothing's changed. Twenty-five years down the track and you
still
don't trust me with your feelings.'

‘I don't trust anyone with them. It's not personal; you know that.'

‘Of course it's personal!'

She sighs. ‘You know I care about you. I don't want anyone else. I try to be a good wife. I do my best. Isn't that enough?'

‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, of course you're a good wife. But you're so efficient, so gathered-up and gathered-in I can't get near you. Even in bed, it's always so far and no further. I don't want to make love
to
you; I want to make love
with
you.'

‘Oh.' She picks up the mending. ‘Sex. That's what this is about. I thought I satisfied you in that regard.'

‘You know it's not about sex, it's about
feelings
.'

‘You confuse feelings with emotional display. We're close enough, and I, for one, am satisfied.'

Chris takes the jumper from her, trying not to snatch, although he feels like flinging it across the room. ‘I'm not. I know how you were brought up in that emotional wasteland, and I'm not trying to turn you into a lap dog. But I'm your husband, not your father. I'm not going to push you away if you let me get near you. I
am
touchy-feely and you've always known that. Can't you let go, just a bit?' He reaches for her hand. She tries to pull it away but he brings it to his lips, uncurls her fingers and takes them into his mouth. Her face becomes rigid with – what – repulsion? Fear? She looks past him and he's certain she's willing herself to endure because the moment will pass. He'll regain his composure and they'll both be glad he didn't say or do anything that would make them feel more foolish than they do.

He lets go her hand.

She draws her fingers slowly down the side of her dress.

From the corner of his eye Chris sees the news logo flicker across the TV. He reaches for the remote and turns up the volume.

From the ensuite Chris can see a blurry Diane taking his shirt off the bed and hanging it in the wardrobe. She nudges something into position with her foot, glances around and disappears. He towels himself dry and goes into the bedroom where the shirt he just took out to wear is now back in the wardrobe, swaying and setting a whole line of faultlessly pressed shirts moving in unison. At the end of the rail, his suit droops like a bad memory. Inhabiting a suit well is one trait he has not inherited from his father. He removes the shirt again and shrugs it on.

Time for a change. Maybe a Hawaiian shirt with pineapples on it.

He goes to his den for the drawings he was working on last night. Fletcher is nestled in a gutter over the kitchen, whittling an arrow. Chris obliterates him with an eraser. At work, the small man has been popping up everywhere; in three of Noland's apartments, peering over the window sills, giving exasperatingly sensible advice.

Flat roof? That's inviting problems.

It's what the client wants.

Talk him out of it.

On a penthouse balcony, spread-eagled in a deckchair behind sunglasses.
This deck needs an awning
.

The client doesn't like awnings.

That's dumb. Awnings are to windows what lashes are to eyes
.

Chris wonders if he's out of control.

Yep, I can see cracks.

Cracks don't necessarily herald imminent disaster. A certain amount of cracking in some buildings is acceptable, as long as you know where they are and that they're not getting worse.

Yet.

I haven't done anything.

Yet
.

Tabi, skinny ankles and smart old eyes, sashays towards him. She's wearing a black sweater and a tight red skirt that perfectly cradles the pear of her bum, taut with youth and hormones. Chris can't see the hormones but he can smell them. Musky, like warm hay.

She blinks slowly and puts her hand on her hip. ‘What are you thinking, Mr B?'

He pulls his chair close under his desk so she can't see what he's thinking and applies his eyes to the builder's estimate for the Cost of Proposed Extensions to Existing Dwelling of Gavin and Pearl Whitbread of Indooroopilly, while the rest of his senses crawl over Tabi's body.

‘What's the latest on Judge?' she says. Fatuous question. She knows how Judge is. They all do. Physically excellent but emotionally and verbally haywire.

He shrugs.

‘Poor old Mr B, you miss your friend.'

He does. He misses Judge being around and he misses Judge being the way he was.

The phone buzzes and Tabi leans over to answer it. Chris drags his eyes away from her to the view beyond the window where cars edge down Sherwood Road towards the traffic lights.

‘Baillieu & Bright Architects, this is Tabitha.' She turns to Chris and nods. ‘Yes, he's right here.' She slides upright, smoothes down her skirt, blows a pink bubble and farewells him with her fingertips.

Chris watches her red-skirted rear disappear and picks up the phone. ‘Um – Chris Bright.'

‘Bertie Beaumont.'

His heart skips. ‘Beaumont? Is that your name these days? Is it your first husband's name or second? Or is that a rude question?'

‘My second husband's name was Hickinbottom.'

Chris laughs.

‘Good news,' she says. ‘They found your pen. I have it with me.'

‘Really – after what – two months? I thought it had gone forever.'

When Bertie sent his gear from the apartment – including his sketches of Fletcher and a note:
Don't forget your little friend
– it was minus the pen Diane had given him for his thirtieth birthday. Bertie fronted the letting agents and asked them to look again but it couldn't be found.

‘It was under a bed,' she says. ‘Makes you wonder how often they get vacuumed.'

‘The beds?'

‘The floors, Christopher.'

‘Yeah. How are you, Bertie?'

‘Fine. How's Judge?'

‘Oh. Volatile as a firecracker.'

‘Dad was like that after his stroke, but once the depression lifted he was fine. I imagine Judge will be too.'

‘Hope so.'

‘Are you all right? Oh – stupid question. I suppose you don't know your rear end from your elbow.'

He laughs. ‘Something like that.'

‘Then I won't keep you. I'll post your pen. Take care of yourself.'

‘Thanks, Bertie. And … just, thanks.'

Tabi comes back, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Rachel Anderson. The plumber's delivered one round hand basin and one oval hand basin. The toilet pedestal is Caroma and it's supposed to be Villeroy & Boch. Funny that. High-quality table-ware and high-quality toilet-ware.' She shrugs. ‘Both ends of the tube, I suppose.'

Chris smiles, then gazes vaguely into the distance. Odd how he and Bertie have resumed their easy friendship, even when …

Tabi snaps her fingers. ‘Come on, boss. Focus.'

Focus. Hold it together until it holds itself. Hold it for Judge and for the staff. They deserve it. Three, four times a day Tabi or Maureen will come in and throw him a lifeline; drop a sandwich on his desk or leave sticky notes on his computer with reminders of wages or progress payments. Most of his work is humdrum. Payroll tax, specifications, client meetings. Mrs Anderson's toilet.

‘You're a good girl, Tabi.'

‘I'm not a girl, Mr B.' She taps a long nail on his desk. ‘I'm a woman.'

Judge stands in the doorway casting a Napoleonic glare over his kingdom.

Hamish, about to duck out for a meeting, stops. Mick, in the process of dressing Doris in a black tutu and fishnet stockings, pauses.

‘I'm back,' says Judge. ‘For good.' He wipes spit from the corner of his mouth. When nobody moves, he flicks his hand. ‘Go on, then. Hop to.'

‘Welcome back,' says Maureen hesitantly.

As Chris heads for his office Judge intercepts him. ‘I might sound like a cretin, but don't imagine I am.'

‘Then don't say dumb things.'

‘Who the hell's been at my desk?'

‘I have.'

‘Who else?'

Was he psychic?

‘Who
else
?'

‘Take it easy, Judge.'

‘Take it easy, take it easy. Everyone wants me to take it easy. I don' wanna take it easy. I want to work.'

‘Good. Go for it.'

Judge picks up a piece of paper with Tabi's handwriting on it. ‘Did you let that stringy tart loose in here?'

‘Tabi?'

‘How many stringy tarts have we got?'