The three of us spent the day typing at our laptops in the living room.
In the evening Charlie drove us to the restaurant in Fleurie, where we were welcomed by the apparently famous proprietor, a woman d’un certain âge who responded in English to Charlie’s French. We ordered one of the degustation menus and Charlie ate half of Angelina’s meal in addition to his own. His cardiologist would not have been happy. Certainly his wife was not, but she limited her protest to a few defenses of her plate.
I asked about the Victoria Parade bar. It was long gone, but Jim’s Greek Tavern was serving the same food with continued success. Charlie and Angelina ate there occasionally, and yes, she always thought of me when they did. I caught a glimpse of annoyance in Charlie’s expression at being informed that, on their nights out, I had been with them in spirit.
Charlie showed what seemed to be a genuine interest in my job. He had done some work for an Australian IT consultancy that was gobbling up smaller players, and I mentioned Claire’s software company. He had not heard of it—no surprise there—but neither had he heard of the buyer.
“A lot of that going on,” he said. “Small players innovate but don’t have the capital or the market reach to grow. So someone buys them, the product gets developed, and the founders get a check. Everybody’s happy.”
“Any advice for her?”
“Hire me. Seriously, you’d be amazed how much stress people go through doing something they’re not good at when a pro can sort it out in a day or two.”
I had been on the receiving end of that stress.
“Okay,” he said, “two things about negotiations. Research the other party. Find out what they want. And know your BATNA.” He didn’t wait for me to ask. “Best Alternative to a Negotiated Agreement. What you’ll end up with if the deal falls over—if the opportunity hadn’t come along in the first place. The rule is: don’t make a deal unless it’s going to give you a better future than you’ll have without it.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
Angelina pulled out her phone and made a fuss of doing something with it.
Charlie waved for the bill. “You’d think so. Ever bought a house at auction? People get me to bid for them, and they say, ‘Pay whatever you need to, we have our hearts set on this place.” And I say, ‘What if there’s another negotiator with the same instructions?’ And—”
Madame arrived with the bill, Charlie put a card on it without looking, and she stuck it in the machine. Angelina was already getting up and Charlie signaled her back into her chair. He wanted to finish the lesson, and not because he thought I was in the market for a new house.
“I say to them, imagine the house is not available. Or they lose the auction. I make them do it. What will they do with the money they set aside? And sometimes we have an hour or so of dreaming and planning, and they have a proper BATNA. Couple of times I’ve had buyers who decided the BATNA was so good that they told me to forget the auction.”
“So,” I asked, “which one do you work on, the deal you’re looking for or your BATNA?”
“You’ve got to keep your options open,” he said. “You do all you can to advance both.”
All of the above.
* * *
Angelina, designated driver, drove us home, and Charlie poured cognacs. I noodled around a bit on the piano, a little after-dinner music, and then Angelina and I went to bed together.
We kissed for a long time. When had I last kissed a woman properly? Even during my Friday-night visits, Claire and I had hardly kissed at all.
I found myself almost in a trance, lying next to Angelina, my senses concentrated and elevated. If Charlie had enlisted me as a sexual surrogate, in the wake of his heart problems, this could not have been what he had in mind.
Eventually Angelina fell back on the pillow. “I need a glass of water,” she said. Then, after an odd pause, “Do you want one?”
“Thanks.”
Angelina went off to fetch water, and it occurred to me that Charlie would have been the one to do the fetching if he had been in my place.
Back with two glasses, she sat against the bedhead, knees up. “It’s weird,” she said. “I told you yesterday about my job and you haven’t said anything.”
The honest answer would have been “That’s because I’ve been too focused on doing this—and that. Which, as you pointed out last night, is what I’m here for.”
I decided to take it up to her.
“I guess I haven’t worked out how equal opportunity commissioner squares with the red number you wore on Sunday night.”
“It wasn’t what you expected, was it? The job, not the outfit.”
“I think that’s an understatement.”
“All right, then. You know nothing about my capability to do the job, but you do know that something doesn’t sit right about me having it. Which is what my job is about. Getting rid of that attitude.”
“Point taken.”
“But you’re right. The powers that be had mixed feelings about appointing someone who people remembered as an actor, who might actually have worked in an environment where people were really discriminated against and exploited, over a public servant or legal academic. Until I pointed out the hypocrisy.”
“Fair enough.”
“Equal opportunity for women isn’t just equal opportunity for women who dress in an approved way or have particular political views. I can wear whatever I want. I don’t imagine wearing briefs and a T-shirt to bed disqualifies you from being a database architect.”
“All right,” I said, “but if I’m in a position of leadership, I’m supposed to embody the values that advance the cause rather than those of people we’re seeking to enroll or protect.”
I caught a flicker of surprise that the computer guy with the Manc accent had managed to say something articulate on her territory. Back in Australia, we had always matched it intellectually. Our paths had been different, but I did not feel I needed to concede ground now.
“How long did it take?” I asked. “To qualify?”
“As a lawyer? Eight years. Plus articles.”
“Bloody hell.”
“It was a five-year course, and I’d done the first year, but I did it part-time while I had the kids.”
The kids had been absent from our conversations. As a childless person, I was less primed to inquire, and Charlie and Angelina might be sensitive to that, but they had volunteered virtually nothing. I recalled Charlie’s condemnation of his ex-wife for bringing his daughter into their negotiations. Perhaps there was a tacit agreement to leave them out of the current games.
“It wasn’t as tough for me as it was for some,” she said. “I had Charlie and he’s always earned a good income. He was a big support. He was fantastic. After I qualified, I did a lot of pro bono stuff. Unpaid.”
I smiled. “I know what pro bono means.”
“Sorry. So I haven’t contributed much to the coffers.”
“The price of fame,” I said, thinking that she hadn’t personally paid too much of a price. Is the Château Margaux ’66 to Madame’s satisfaction?
She laughed. “I think everyone in Melbourne knows who I am.”
“What happened with Richard?”
“He dumped me.”
“He what? He dumped you?”
“That’s how my family reacted. In the end, I think they’d have coped with me walking out; they probably wanted me to. It’s a long story, but he couldn’t work for eighteen months. Mornington Police finished and my parents were propping us up financially.”
“Your parents were supporting him and he walked away?”
“Pride. Mum and Dad were so good about it, but he couldn’t deal with it. He was unbelievably angry. With me, them, the whole world. To tell the truth, I felt for him.”
I had always assumed that Angelina had come to her senses and walked. On the contrary, she had stuck by someone who had been disgraced, ungrateful, and angry.
“What happened to him?”
“Went to Dubai. Looks after one of the sheiks. That’s all I know.”
“It takes a lot for you to give up on a marriage, doesn’t it?” I said.
Instead of answering, she put one hand under each breast. “What do you think? Used tea bags? That’s what my sister calls hers.”
“I told you, you’re beautiful. How much affirmation do you need?”
“You should know. I’ve had kids. It takes a toll on your body. Does it feel different to you?”
“Only in a good way. Does it snow here?”
“Why? Not in June. We’ve had it in April.”
“Too cold for lemons, then.”
“Sorry?”
“Where’s the lemon tree?”
“Why?”
“There’s no lemon tree. Charlie set us up. He probably watched the whole thing from the garden.”
She seemed more amused than perturbed by the revelation. “He would.”
“What about you? Were you part of the plan?”
“No way! You didn’t really think that, did you? You were there.”
“But he knows about your fantasy? About being caught.”
“We’ve been married almost twenty years.”
“And is this the first time it’s happened in reality?”
She laughed. “Second.”
“Go on.”
“We were on holiday, and Charlie had tied me to the bed.”
“As you do. With what?”
“Proper stuff. Leather things around my wrists and ankles. And my throat. A choker with metal studs from the bondage shop in Brunswick Street.”
“Faceup or facedown?”
“It doesn’t … You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”
“It’s a provocative image.”
“Right. Well, I was faceup. Spread-eagled. We were making a lot of noise—I was making a lot of noise—and there’s a banging on the door and I’m saying to Charlie, ‘Cover me up,’ but I’m lying on top of the bedclothes, and he can’t get them from underneath me because of the ropes. So he’s fiddling around and next thing I hear the door latch click and there’s someone else in the room.”
“Was he hot?”
“How would I know? I couldn’t see a thing through the blindfold.”
“Of course, the blindfold.”
“And Charlie had this CD of Ravel’s Boléro on, so I couldn’t even hear them properly, but this guy’s threatening to call the police, and Charlie’s telling him that it’s all a game and he hasn’t kidnapped me or anything, and he’s pointing out stuff…”
Charlie coolly explaining bondage to the bellboy while Angelina lies naked on the bed.
“Was it as big a turn-on as you’d imagined?”
“What do you think? It was horrible.” She paused and smiled. “At the time.”
“Happy holiday memories?”
“Something like that. You know, I wonder if there was anybody at all. I mean, there was a voice, but Charlie … He could have recorded something. There was the music playing; it was all a bit confused.”
“He’d go to that amount of trouble?”
I knew the answer before I asked the question.
“So what’s going on with Charlie now?” I said.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, he spoils me. He gives me whatever I want. And I wanted you.”
“You discussed it?”
“I said I’d like you to come over, and he agreed.”
“It took you twenty years to ask?”
“I told you,” she said. “I turned forty-five.”
“Nothing else? Nothing happened to Charlie?”
Angelina sat upright. “Has Charlie said something to you?”
“He said he had a heart scare. I gather it was bad at the time, but…”
Angelina took a few moments to answer. “I guess we both saw it as a wake-up call. It was a factor.”
She sat back against the headboard, hands behind her head, face set. She had withheld something.
“Was there a problem? With sex? After the heart attack?”
“I said there was some stuff I can’t talk about. Okay?”
“Not really,” I said. But there was a bigger question. “Where is this all going?”
“I don’t know.”
Great. That made two of us, possibly three, in a runaway train, sipping cognac in the dining car.
I doubted that was the way Charlie saw it. Whatever his agenda, his equanimity was a constant, and almost reassuring for that. I pulled Angelina back to me, kissed her for a while, then held her until we both fell asleep.
I was woken by the door opening. There was light in the hallway, and I saw Charlie in his robe. He walked to the bed, scooped Angelina up, and walked out, leaving my door open behind him. She began to protest as Charlie noisily climbed the stairs. The bedside clock showed just after three A.M.
“Fuck you!” she called out, but I heard more surprise than anger.
Had I misread Angelina? Had she really just set out to make Charlie jealous, even with his permission? Prove how much you love me by letting me have another man, then prove it again by not being able to cope with it.
If that was the case, then I would have no further role to play. And I would have to rethink everything that I had felt about her and us in the last three days.
* * *
When I woke again in the morning, I could hear Charlie in the kitchen. I slipped on my jeans and T-shirt. Might as well get any unpleasantness out of the way.
He spoke over the sound of the espresso machine. “Sorry to disturb you last night.”
He handed me Angelina’s coffee. “Something you should know. This is her special cup. Note the thickness of the rim. Too thick is not good. Neither is too thin. And she hates the ones that slope outward toward the top. No lips, either.”
I wasn’t sure how far his tongue was into his cheek.
I gave him the cup back. “I think you qualified for the coffee run.”
Had I crossed the line? Maybe. Halfway to the stairs, Charlie turned around. “When I get back, we should talk.”