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There’s a fitness club in Bishop Street where I can shower and change before meeting Alister. Derek’s got a pass and I borrow it from his desk drawer, feeling like a thief. Where I’m sleeping tonight doesn’t bear thinking about. If Alister invites me back to his place after dinner, I’m in danger of accepting for all the wrong reasons.
My shopping trip this afternoon didn’t work out as expected. Ignoring my bank balance, I cruised the Ala Moana Centre, thinking I’d find something on sale – a dress, simple and cool. But floral fabrics aren’t my thing, and the monochromatic evening wear was way too sexy for the venue – and my budget. The whole excursion left me longing for my little black dress. Then I saw a cheongsam shirt in the window of a thrift shop. A bit Genevieve-esque, but the two-dollar price tag and the red-on-black pattern to team with my red pencil skirt clinched it.
Jostling at the mirror with the girls from the aerobics class is a very different preparation from the last time I tried to have dinner with Alister Sloane. Back then Derek and Nigel paced like fretting parents while I was terrified of being out of my depth with the rich guy. Tonight my anxiety is more grounded. Alister is way out of my league – especially now I’m a vagrant – but he doesn’t know it. It’s one thing to fear my own gaucheness, and quite another to fear his blind and burgeoning attention. Why did I agree to have dinner?
Someone bumps my elbow, smearing mascara across my freshly blushed cheek. It takes a while to repair the damage. Then I walk along the same route Derek and I took a few nights ago, feeling both excited and afraid.
Alister is already waiting. Couldn’t he play harder to get? He’s found a table against one wall, and when he sees me he stands up and pulls out a chair. Then he takes a bottle from a cooler and pours something cold and white into tumblers.
“I can see why you like this place,” he says. “Ambience in spades. And the menu’s authentic. What do you recommend?”
“That we sit here for ten minutes. Sip some wine.” Drink too much. “Once we order, it’ll be here so fast we’ll be in bed by eight o’clock.”
“Your place or mine?”
Oops. I can’t stop thinking about beds. And he’s got that look again. Ardour ‘in spades’. No wonder I’m slipping on my own Freudian banana skins.
“My place,” I say, letting him think I’m staying with the boys. “Derek and Nigel can always find a sofa for a stray.”
He grins. “Well-deflected. But you won’t deflect me forever, you know.”
“I’m going away,” I say.
“Again? But I’ve only just got you back.”
No, you haven’t.
“Unfinished business.” What do I mean by that?
He takes a sip of wine. “What’s so unfinished that you’ve got to go away again so soon?”
“Is this why you asked me out – to quiz me about my private life? Because that’s what it looks like.”
“Sorry. I –”
“– care too much.”
We sip in silence for a while.
“Is that so bad?” he asks. “Caring?”
“When it comes wrapped in too much attention, it is.”
“You’re comparing me with men who wanted you for the wrong reasons, Selkie. Control. Lust. Dressed up as love.”
“So stop looking like them then.”
He grins. “With that tongue of yours, how has any man ever got the better of you?”
Good question. I’m only tough around Alister. It feels like another message – a man who can’t intimidate me. But it’s Friday night and I refuse to decipher messages on the weekend.
“Back off a little,” I say. “Give me some space.”
“Only ‘a little’. That’s encouraging.”
He’s a hard man to dissuade, but he seems less intense and I relax.
Eugene comes out of the kitchen with bowls for another table. He gives me a cheery nod. Alister and I discuss the menu, scrawled on the wall with chalk. When I order at the counter for both of us, Suzi winks conspiratorially and I realise I’m comfortable being seen with Alister. It’s an old trick my teenage girlfriends used to use to test if they really liked a guy – parade him down the main street. Another message?
Back at the table, Alister braves another question. “Will you tell me where you’re going in such a hurry?”
“Paris.”
I’ve just decided that I took the wrong turn in last night’s dream.
“Not Sydney?”
“I may never go back to Sydney.”
“So you don’t call Sydney ‘home’?”
That word is following me around like a stalker.
I shake my head. “It’s where I grew up, where my father and stepmother and sister live, where I shared a house with my ex, but I know now that none of those places was ‘home’.”
He nods.
“I’m still figuring out what ‘home’ means,” I add.
“The unfinished business?”
“Yes.” It must be.
“And you’ll find the answer in Paris?”
He’s probing again, but the questions interest me. Three things are pointing me towards France. Nigel’s spoon and the lipstick. Then the sign to Paris in my dream. Alister always does this to me, puts me in touch with something strong and clear. There’s also a practical reason.
“A company in France has offered me a seminar tour,” I say. “And Paris is the one place on earth I’ve always wanted to visit but was never able to. Being Sleek is about to...fly.”
He grins. “A sojourn in the city of light will change your perspective on a lot of things.”
“My perspective on...chocolate?”
He ignores the cheap joke. “The French don’t just know how to live, Selkie. At their best, they know how to...be.”
It’s a word with a lot of meaning. Like ‘home’.
When I say nothing, Alister adds, “Someone else I care about has gone to Sydney. Mia.” His pet python.
I gasp. “Why?”
“It’s against the law to keep snakes here, so they don’t escape and kill the local fauna. When I brought her here, I didn’t know.”
“That’s terrible.” He adores Mia. “Couldn’t you get a special permit?”
“Because I’m rich? Not my style. I found someone in Sydney – an astronomy student with blue hair. When he saw Mia’s photo it was love at first sight. While you were disappearing, she was settling into her new home.”
The steaming bowls arrive, and I push thoughts of Mia in Sydney from my mind.
“Will you go to France alone?” he asks.
It feels like a loaded question.
“I haven’t firmed up the details yet.”
I ask if he’s planning any trips, and he tells me that he’s flying to the UK in a couple of weeks to check out the scene for his seminar empire.
“Care to join me afterwards?” He sees my eyes widen and adds, “My pied-à-terre in Knightsbridge has two bedrooms.”
“Did Genevieve ever travel with you?” I ask by way of deflection.
“She wouldn’t leave the twins, and there was some problem about getting them passports.”
Because Gaston isn’t officially dead?
“Are you missing them very much?” I ask. “Joel and Jake.”
“Better not go there, Selkie. I prefer not to weep in public.”
“That bad.”
He nods.
“Why did you let yourself get in so deep? Especially if you never loved Genevieve. Why not stay the carefree bachelor? All the tabloids think that’s what you are.”
“The millionaire playboy who changes his women more often than his socks. It’s hard to keep up with that reputation. Luckily a new ex-model as my date at every social function satisfies them and they haven’t dug any deeper.”
“Into what?”
“Now who’s doing the quizzing?”
“Sorry.”
But he begins a story I wasn’t expecting. About his wife and son.
“It was back in the eighties,” he says. “In San Francisco. Our parents were dead against the match. They thought we were just naive, that the feelings would pass. Hoped they’d pass.”
“Because you were too young?”
“Because Fleur was Chinese.”
We look around the Pearl, at the groups tucking into steaming bowls, sharing conversations in noisy tonal discords. Alister knows this milieu. No wonder he’s so comfortable here.
“We were desperate to be together so we ran away to Reno, tried to get hitched. But we were only sixteen, too young for a licence without permission from a guardian. By the time our parents caught up with us, Fleur was pregnant.”
“Suddenly you were one big happy family.”
He grins ruefully. “My parents were just as bad as hers. They didn’t want a mixed-race grandchild either. Before we eloped, Dad pulled me aside every day to insist I give her up. Fleur and I even agreed not to see each other for three months, to date other people and test his theory that we’d forget each other. But the day the three months were up, we fell into each other’s arms sobbing. The break backfired. It confirmed we were in love.”
“So you eloped, and with Fleur pregnant, their worst fears were coming true.”
“They made the best of it because of Fleur’s condition. Gave us permission to marry. Both sides wanted us to live with them, but that was never going to work. I got a job as a gopher with a seminar company and we rented a tiny apartment.”
“Poor but happy?”
His eyes are gleaming. “Delirious. We couldn’t believe we were together – and it was legal. Fleur was so full of life and fun. She found old furniture and painted it wild colours, pinned up sheets for curtains, made a home out of nothing.”
This story has all the hallmarks of a tragedy. He’s using the past tense. Fleur is dead. Did she die in childbirth? Along with the baby?
“After Deshi was born,” he continues, “Fleur went back to school part-time. If she’d stayed at home or got a job, she’d still be alive. And I’d still be Deshi’s father.”
I wait till he can go on.
“A guy with a gun. Angry about being suspended or something. He hit the campus as students were arriving. Shot seven people at random. Killed... Fleur.”
Neither of us speaks. It’s a long time ago but his emotions are raw. Grief does that to you. Gnaws away at your soul.
Eventually I whisper, “And your son?”
“He was only ten months old. Our mothers were sharing the babysitting while Fleur was at school. He was with Fleur’s mother that day. Another twist of fate. In all the chaos, her parents hung onto Deshi. I was a mess, grateful for their support, but they weren’t doing it for me. They were so devastated by Fleur’s murder, they found a way to blame me. My grief didn’t count. They waited about a month...then slipped out of the country back to China. With Deshi.” He presses his palms to his eyes, then looks back at me. “He’ll be almost thirty now.”
Didn’t he look for him? But how could he – a teenager with no resources? And there’s no way anyone could track down a baby in China if his grandparents didn’t want him to be found.
“He’ll speak Chinese,” Alister says, “and not even know I exist.”
“Until he wants his birth certificate. His ticket to work in the US.”
“They’ll have got around that somehow. Bribed an official. Changed his name. Passed him off as their own. It was easier then.”
We finish our noodles, even though they’re gluggy and cold. Alister’s loved before. His Chinese princess. Barely more than a child herself. Slender and beautiful, artistic and funny – her death cruel and senseless. The tragedy explains why he’s never married again. Until he met Genevieve, and the twins stole his heart. In his mind Deshi is forever an infant. If the boys were with her when they met, Genevieve must have seen it. Did she exploit it? But if she wanted a steady man, the arrangement suited them both. Until Selkie Moon dropped a grenade into the pond. My stepmother would nod knowingly. Stella’s always labelled me a troublemaker.
We leave the Pearl and walk in silence through Chinatown. Does he wonder if every passing Eurasian youth is Deshi? He’s had twenty-nine years to get used to his loss, but it’s clear there’s a hole in his heart that’s never healed. And now, because of me, he’s lost the twins too.
Beside me, Alister has returned to the present. “I was hoping you’d wear your black dress tonight.”
“I lost it. At Bantry’s Bluff.”
“Ah, the reason for the birthday suit. Get Davina to make you another one.”
“She never makes the same dress twice. Anyway, she says it’s out there somewhere. And I should send you to find it.”
“Me?”
“She named you specifically.”
“You think it’s washed up with the tide? Like its owner?”
“I don’t know. It could be anywhere or nowhere. You’d have to search for it.”
“If it’s been in the sea it’ll be ruined, won’t it?”
“I don’t care. I want it back, whatever state it’s in.”
My passion is palpable and he understands. “I’d be honoured to look for it.”
It’s what I was afraid of but I don’t feel alarmed. I’ve remembered that Davina made the dress for my first dinner with Alister. Maybe that means he’ll find it.
“Where will you look?” I don’t mention my own hunch. It feels important that he finds it himself.
“I’ve spent some time on that beach lately – I know where to look.” Pause. “Come with me.”
The thought of holding the dress makes me gasp. But do I want to go back to Bantry’s Bluff with Alister? I don’t really believe in the curse, but...
“I’m not sure I can go back right now. It’s too soon. It’s one of the reasons why you have to go.”
He nods. “Come with me as far as Davina’s. If I find the dress, you’ll get it sooner.”
***
As we wait for a cab we talk of other things. He doesn’t mention London again. The seed’s planted and it’s enough. I’m still wary of getting more involved but my business brain is working on his offer. If I go on to London after Paris, I could follow up other invitations to present Being Sleek and establish some contacts of my own. Earn some good money and a reputation, and stop sleeping on park benches. Alister’s experience could help me, if he stays professional and doesn’t try to take over. And behind the thought of sharing his flat is the old cocktail of excitement and fear.
Alister is surprised when I don’t get into the cab. It would be so easy to stay with him so we can make an early start. And with the night I’m about to face, I’d kill for a real bed, but I can’t risk it. The opportunity to take a tumble just for fun passed weeks ago and the tension between us makes everything more serious.
As I climb the stairs to my office my footsteps echo. It’s Friday night and there’s not another soul here. After my first big break with my Moonshine business I had money in the bank, but I used it to pay back a loan from my father. So honourable – and so hasty. He wasn’t in a hurry for it, but I was in a hurry to cut the family ties. Now I’m running on empty, living out of my suitcase and bunking down in my office. Thank God it’s only for two nights.
Derek keeps a blanket in his filing cabinet for those days when his aircon is working on arctic. It will do to sleep on. I eye the armchair where he slept off many a hangover before he met Nigel, but I think I’ll be more comfortable stretched out on my own floor. I take the cushion for a pillow.
The first noise has me on high alert before I’ve had time to fall asleep. A scraping sound. Followed by shuffling. There’s someone in the building. Did a fellow vagrant chock open the fire door so he could gain access after hours? What if he comes up to this floor? The neon sign from the lounge bar opposite the alley is flashing an ugly light through my window, and there’s only a thin curtain between me and the glass wall to the corridor. I’d feel safer in the dark. I stayed in my clothes in case I had to make a run for it, but now I’m sinking into the floor and holding my breath.
The shuffling fades and I breathe out. Can I hear snoring?
As I try to settle on the ever harder floor, unmistakeable shrieks and moans come from just below my window. I should have closed it but I wanted air. A working girl is giving her customer what he’s paid for. Loudly. From the metallic banging, almost in rhythm with the flashing sign, they’re doing it on the lid of the dumpster. It takes so long that one of them must be faking. When they’re done, I weep with relief, but the alley comes alive with more creatures of the night. Tom cats. Drug dealers. I hear the click of cigarette lighters and whispered voices. Two guys going at each other with fists. Or I’m dreaming the dreams of the rough sleeper.
When I finally doze off, a fissure of light cleaves a dark place. The glare prevents me from seeing what’s lurking in the shadows.
By the time sunlight wakes me my mind is made up. I’m going to do exactly what I told Alister. I’m going to trust my dream. Davina’s talk of mythical homes feels too much like living out the Selkie myth. Another straightjacket, like my marriage. What I’m looking for is what I’ve always been looking for – a stable base to live a creative life. Sleeping in my office is about as far from that goal as I can get.
Ever since my mermaid act, Séminaires Tours has been making me offers. Their clients are English businesspeople attracted across the Channel by the promise of a seminar wrapped in a French holiday. After stashing the blanket and cleaning my teeth in the washroom, I run a wet comb through my hair to regain a scintilla of dignity and email them. Then I exit the building in the clothes I slept in and take a shower at the fitness club.
When I return, everything falls into place as if it’s meant to be. Séminaires Tours emails back that they need a month to promote Being Sleek. They mention several dates for the tour and I agree to all of them.
In the blink of an eye, I’ve gone from being spooked by all the signs that I’m ‘passing through’ and living on the edge of homelessness to feeling energised. About Paris.
There’s only one problem. Surviving till I go.