Wilkin has little space for baby thoughts. Work issues are saturating his thinking cells and sapping all available energy. The 23 members of the Smith, Upson and Stopforth head office are gathering in Timaru with the nine staff from Dunedin and seven from Timaru. The five from Nelson are flying down. It is a pep meeting to bolster confidence and reassure the stakeholders that SUS are strong enough to survive any recession. It was Wilkin’s idea to begin the new working year with the gathering, and the old man had given warm support.
As he drives the two-hour trip from Christchurch to Timaru he reviews his situation. SUS is struggling, but what company isn’t in the present climate? It is a temporary world glitch. It will come right. His position is under threat, but there is no serious contender to topple him. Short of a major catastrophe he is safe, and he has the ability to turn SUS around. He will win back every doubter that raised an eyebrow. Win them back or kick them out, Wilkin tells the grey sheep in the scorched fields.
Two or three of the younger intellectuals on the University Council are positioning him as a zealot of fundamentalism, a flat earth idiot — they will get their comeuppance! New Zealand might be the global capital of political correctness, but in the Canterbury heartland people still have values and morals. His position on Sarai and other abominations emerging in university life will be vindicated. The people will speak, in fact they will sing and it will be from his hymn book.
Wilkin loosens his shoulders and realises he is enjoying the drive. It is giving him space for personal thinking, something he hasn’t had in a long time.
Ticking through his predicaments only one disturbs. It is the itch, that damnable flicker in the back of his eyes, the silent wolf that howls when his nostrils flare in a sigh. Amber! Well, not Amber, she is just a whore. It is his lust for domination, rough sex, dirty sex, with dirty women.
He is a pious man. There is no complexity to this equation. He is moral and godly, he works hard and succeeds. He contributes to the community. This need, or maybe gift, to dominate whores sexually is a God-given right — his right, his reward, almost his responsibility to be that man. Women like Amber need men like him. It is the balance of the universe, he states, as another giant horticultural irrigation system goes pissing past.
He has modelled Amber to his liking. They have evolved their experience of B&D together. She is his Pygmalion. It is the most exciting and satisfying journey of his life. Now it is over. Ruined! Her type shouldn’t get pregnant. But, he recalls, with moral fairness, he had wondered if his own wife was infertile, and it may have been God’s will that he have a son by a surrogate. Not using a condom was intentional.
But his wife isn’t infertile and there is no place for an illegitimate half sibling. A woman of Amber’s profession should simply take care of such things. How did old man Stopforth get to hear of it? Photographic evidence is bizarre! Was Ralph having him followed? He wouldn’t put it past him. That good humour and expansive waistline hides the cunning of a satanic fox. But then again, Ralph had come to the party over Iain. Someone must have tipped him off. The mystery isn’t worth worrying about. It’s over. The whore has been paid off.
He has challenges, he has problems … but they are insignificant. His wife is carrying his child. In a few short weeks he will be a father. He will be a great father.
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Pauline transfers the bottle of champagne to her left hand and tries the door. It is locked. She knocks again and calls his name then looks at the window. There must be some mistake! The building Fish took ownership of yesterday has a new For sale sign in the window. Where is Fish? He isn’t answering his mobile. She hasn’t seen him in days.
She drives home with stomach churning. A call to the estate agent confirms Fish never showed to sign the final papers, and the deposit is lost.
“What a fool I’ve been, an absolute total nincompoop idiot,” she confides to Familiar. She strokes his fur and feels his hot weight on her lap. “No matter how fantastic and fabulous the physicality of sex, without trust the act is inadequate — but I did trust him, and I loved him. We had mutuality of understanding.” Familiar gives a growl. He doesn’t like her tone. “I don’t expect you to understand, it’s different with cats.” That’s all Fish is, a tomcat. This thought she keeps to herself.
There is a sense of overwhelming shame. Nausea threatens. The shame bites at her stomach, grief seeps from her heart. She recalls a documentary showing the spread of cancerous cells. The grief expanding from her heart reminds her of that terrible illustration. The grief expands through her whole body, it swallows the shame and it swallows the anger. All that remains is loss.
She has no way to check his bank account but in her heart she knows what he has done. Fish used her like he has always used women. He has done a runner and taken the money with him. She is degraded, debased, and unsure which hurts the most: the theft of money or the theft of relationship. True, she is comfortable and asset-rich with her home and property, but what she lent Fish was her savings, her security. She wants to cry. She pushes the oppressive weight of Familiar from her lap and goes upstairs. Only when she has shut her bedroom door and flung herself on the bed does she let the tears come. He felt nothing for her.
Pauline learnt many verses of scripture as a child. They still come to her when needed. Her mother’s voice unites with her own inner voice … Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
Pauline’s life is good and she has no need to lay up treasures upon earth. She gets up, splashes cold water over her face and takes a refreshing walk in her garden.
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