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Saturday stretches before me. A whole day until dinner with Sloane. I mean Alister. Will I ever be able to separate the man I’ve met from the man in the dream?
I woke in a panic this morning because he’s way out of my league. If he thinks I’m intriguing because I walked out on his contract, then a whole evening in my company is destined to be a serious let-down.
As we stack the breakfast dishes, Derek introduces another problem. “What are you going to wear?”
“Jeans.”
He pulls a face. “This is a chance to dress up, Selkie. Nightingale only took you to cemeteries but this is a real date. You might be dining at Jimmy Ho’s.”
“Jeans are all I’ve got, DD. I won’t wear the power suit, and I green-bagged everything else when I left Andrew. And anyway, last I heard you didn’t approve of this date.”
“True. I’m confused. But then I remembered Davina. If you’ve got the right frock I’ll be happy.”
“Why?” I know he’s going to tell me.
“Protection. The perfect dress channels your inner power. And creates an invisible shield against psychic invasion.”
Where does he get this stuff? “Well, I haven’t heard from Davina. She was going to send through some designs but she hasn’t.”
“Have you checked your messages lately?”
He’s right. During the seminar I didn’t want any distractions. When I open my inbox, sure enough there’s an email from Davina.
Come to my stall, she says, on Saturday.
“Very cryptic,” I say. “And bossy. What’s happened to the designs?”
Derek insists on taking me, and when Davina sees us she embraces me like an old friend.
“You don’t have to take it,” she says.
“What?”
“The dress.”
She’s pulling a hanger off a rack. It’s covered by a large paper bag. Do I want to see it?
“I know,” she says, seeing my face. “I was supposed to send through some designs, but something came over me yesterday, you know. A kind of trance. And when I woke up I’d gone into a fine frenzy and the dress was finished. You’ll know if it’s meant for you.”
A dress-designer-cum-psychic. What did I expect? “Is that how you do all your frocks?”
“No, no. I design intuitively, you know, it’s how I create garments with meaning. If I have a client in mind I tap into their energetic frequency.” She sounds like Derek. “But it’s a calm process. Never like this.”
She’s pulling off the paper bag and Derek is cooing, “Try it on, try it on.”
When I see it, I go into a trance of my own.
The dress is narrow and strikingly simple. Charcoal-black with a sheen almost like leather. Skinny sleeves reach to the wrists like long gloves, but they’re only joined on at the armpit because the shoulders are bare. Two broad straps from a centre V join behind the neck with a button. As Davina passes it to me the fabric shimmers silver.
It’s stunning. And I’m feeling light-headed. I want to be inside it more than anything. Then something flips and I almost lose my nerve. It looks great on the hanger but what’s it going to look like on me?
Davina walks me to the change room at the back of the stall. The trance returns as I strip off and slither into the stretch fabric, then zip myself inside. The fit is perfect. Tight. It hugs my body like a second skin. And the hem sits halfway up my thighs. Still in a daze, I step into my strappy heels – Derek brought them with us – and pull back the curtain.
Davina smiles as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror, watching the way the fabric changes colour as I move, the way it breathes with me, the way it follows the curves of my body, responds to the flexing of every muscle.
“I won’t be able to eat if I wear this,” I gush at Derek.
They must be able to see the emotions flitting across my face. Joy. Bliss. Embarrassment. Fear. Have I got what it takes to wear it?
Davina comes up behind me and ties the cowry shell around my neck. Derek must have picked it up along with my shoes and he’s suddenly avoiding eye contact. The word ‘conspiracy’ pops into my mind.
But the shell is perfect – bold and dramatic. Even if it’s guilty of singing it’s a seriously stylish piece. And the spots are glowing again.
Davina ruffles my hair so the silver streaks spike up wildly and the outfit is suddenly complete.
And mine.
I exhale noisily and start to laugh. I’m in a state of rapture. “I’ll take it,” I say unnecessarily.
“Fine, fine, fine,” she says.
Of course, it’s paid for already. I steal a glance at Derek. He grins in a rapture of his own as I throw my arms around his neck.
It’s time to take the dress off but it’s going to be a struggle to give up the way it makes me feel. I’ve arrived in my own life. For the first time. A sensation I can’t explain, because if I haven’t been in my own life where have I been? In the privacy of the change room I undress with great reluctance. When I pull on my jeans it feels like I’ve lost something precious.
Davina puts the dress in the bag and I take hold of the rope handles. “Here’s to your grand adventure,” she says, as if proposing a toast.
Does she know who I’m dining with tonight? Derek must have told her.
Just as we’re moving off a question comes out of my mouth. “What time was it...when you made the dress?”
“Yesterday?” She doesn’t think the question’s strange. “In the morning, it was. It probably lasted a couple of hours, the trance. I lost track of time.”
“Can you remember what happened?”
“A lot of it’s gone, you know. I was just wondering why I hadn’t had any ideas for your dress, when the next thing I knew I was lost. It was so sudden it was almost like channelling.”
I look at Derek then back to Davina. “Did you experience any...visions? Like in a dream?”
She looks at me closely. “Sure. They were so strong I didn’t know I was sewing. I do remember one of them. The air was like the sea...and I was breathing in the most amazing colours...like tropical fish. It was grand,” she says, “and I didn’t want it to end. But of course it did.”
It’s the same. The same as my trance at the seminar. At the same time.
***
On the way home I say nothing about the twin trances. Derek already thinks the dress has psychic powers and if he got even a hint of this strange phenomenon it would only encourage him.
While we were out Nigel returned to the hard drive but found nothing.
“I have to give everything back,” I say. “Otherwise I’m a thief too.”
“Propose a swap,” Derek says. “All his stuff in exchange for any negatives of you. And your graveyard pics.”
“If he goes for it, we’ll come with you,” Nigel says.
As if he’s been listening a text arrives from Roger.
Police taking fingerprints. Gave them your number. Toodle-oo Miss Toony Lune.
Shit. If he’s involved the police it’s probably too late, but I send the text proposing the swap then turn off my phone.
The afternoon disappears in preparations for my big date and I try not to dwell on the threats hanging over me.
When I go to the mirror to do my makeup the strange sensation that I’m looking at someone else is back. For a split second the woman on the cliff is staring at me. I’m about to scream when my own face returns. The experience is so freaky I keep my makeup to a minimum.
I sit waiting in my little black dress, fighting the urge to perform some exotic gyrations. The shell is drumming again and only the memory of my feather-duster fandango is making me stay put. Something wild and irresistible is trying to take over my body. Is it her? Better to sit here like a waif abandoned at a railway station than succumb to that dangerous rapture.
Nigel coos over the dress, the way it fits me like a sheath, the way it shimmers when I move, and Derek is looking like an expectant father banished to the waiting room.
When Nigel goes to the loo for the fourth time Derek whispers, “Promise me you won’t sleep with him, Selkie. He’s going to take one look at you and want to eat you alive.”
“Your fault,” I whisper. “You bought the dress. And now you’re giving me ideas.”
His face falls and I feel mean for deceiving him. As if I’m ever going to tumble into bed with Alister Sloane.
Just before seven the doorbell rings.
I beat the boys to it and try to eliminate all expression from my face. Like excitement. Or panic. Will the police track me down at dinner?
Derek and Nigel are hovering right behind me. They just want to be included so I invite Sloane in. He’s looking pretty cool – and rich – in an open-neck white shirt and a coarse-weave grey jacket.
“Alister Sloane,” I say, “you remember my...parents. Derek and Nigel.”
He laughs. “A pleasure, gentlemen.”
They shake hands and any awkwardness is solved by Nigel. “Have her home by midnight, young man. We’ll be waiting up.”
It’s a relief to escape to the street where he helps me into his car, a BMW convertible. The seats are leather so I can’t help myself. I inhale. He smiles – his other women are unlikely to be so gauche.
We haven’t spoken since we left Derek and Nigel and as we drive down the mountain I try to think of something to say. The road snakes between hedges of bamboo and taro, reminding me of the cemetery, then the view opens up to the panorama of Honolulu below. Sloane seems content to drive in silence and look across at me every few seconds. My mind is running through all the things I won’t be talking about. It’s a long list.
I’ve got an invisible entity sitting on my shoulder. An undead woman is trying to murder me. My former boyfriend has an explicit photo of me that he’s probably circulating on the internet. I stole his laptop and the police are poised to arrest me. The shell I’m wearing...sings. Anything else? Oh, yes, I’m starving but I can’t eat because Davina had a seizure and made me this stupid dress.
At least the last thought makes me smile.
He catches my sudden grin and thinks it’s for him. “I’m glad you’ve stopped scowling at me. The evening’s looking up.”
“Do you deserve a scowl?”
“Let’s see. I twisted your arm about having dinner. And I’m not number one on your favourites list after that contract. Is there more?”
He’s thinking of the Guy issue. That makes two of us. Plus I’ve just remembered he said he’s seeing someone so why are we even doing this?
Instead I say, “If I didn’t want to be here I would have cancelled. And not another word about that contract.”
“Sorry. I breathe them all day. It will be refreshing to talk about everything else.”
“Good.” But that takes me right back to my list.
At the Lunalilo Freeway, instead of turning towards Waikiki where I thought we’d be going, we cross over towards Honolulu.
Where does a man like Sloane take a woman like me? Somewhere really posh to impress the pants off me? Literally? Or somewhere down-market, where I’m less likely to embarrass him by using the wrong fork? I think of the Pearl. It’s hard to use the wrong chopstick. But I haven’t been there for a while.
“Where are we going?”
“Can I surprise you?”
“Why not? I seem to be into surprises lately.”
“Me too.”
“Why are you into surprises?”
He thinks about it. “They...demolish old thinking. It’s easy to live in a culvert because you’re afraid. You talked about that in Being Sleek, about exploring beyond the known.” Did I? “If life’s too controlled there’s less life to control, don’t you think? So surprises crack things open and...create new rhythms in the universe.”
“That’s a big answer. I think surprises just stuff up my plans.”
He laughs. “Same thing. You know the joke: If you want to make God laugh tell him your plans.”
“So it’s God’s fault. That’s a relief. I’m off the hook.”
How did we get to be talking about God? It reminds me I know nothing about Alister Sloane. Just like I turned out to know nothing about Roger Nightingale.
“Surprises are usually more cosmic than we think,” he’s saying. “Like chaos theory. Just the flutter of a butterfly’s wings and the momentum can upset everything.”
“So when I walked out on your contract – oops, my fault this time – I created chaos?”
“Several tsunamis. They ricocheted to the edges of the known world.”
“I had no idea I was so powerful.” But Andrew accused me of making waves. Chaos theory. A good description of our marriage.
“You’re very powerful, Selkie. More powerful than you know. So surprise the universe...wisely.”
I’m just navigating the depths of this incongruity when he turns into the basement of a high-rise building. His building. When I googled him I saw it. Discordant glass panels fracturing the façade. He must know a charming little restaurant down this way. Perfect for his gauche little guest from Gondwanaland.
He parks in the space reserved in his name. But when we climb out he guides me to a private lift and presses the button.
“We’re having dinner at my place,” he says to my stunned expression.
“Why?” A silly question. I consider making a run for it, but I’m wearing the wrong shoes. I’ll have to knock him down and threaten him with my heels.
“I’m a good cook,” he’s saying. “And I like cooking for friends. More private than hovering waiters. And a better view.” Then he reads my face. “I have staff to help me, Selkie – Ramon and Rita have been with me for years – so we won’t be alone.”
We step into the lift and ascend in silence. My cheeks flame as I try to recover from being a bloody idiot. Here I am done up in the sexiest dress I’ve ever owned, freaking out that he might fancy me.
The lift opens into an entrance hall lined with paintings illuminated by spotlights. I recognise some of the artists, especially a lithograph by Salvador Dali. I stop for a closer look. At least it’s something to talk about.
A turquoise sky is fading to soft pink on the horizon. Three women on a beach are draped in evening gowns so slinky they might as well be naked. Instead of a head each one has a floral pomander on her shoulders, and two of them are holding musical instruments that drip from their fingers in true Dali style. A piano and a cello. Suddenly I’m immersed in it.
“What’s it called?”
“Three Surreal Women Holding in their Arms the Skin of an Orchestra.”
“A name as enigmatic as the painting,” I say. “Surreal women. And an orchestra that’s lost its substance. What’s happened here? And why a beach?”
“A typical Dali conundrum.”
“I like the colours. He’s dissolved a hint of the turquoise sky in the sand. But there’s heat in the pinks and browns of the rocks. And it’s eerie. Because the women have no faces. They’re half real and it looks like some kind of ritual. As if they’ve stolen the orchestra’s skin and they’re presenting it...as an offering.” I turn to Sloane. “There’s something fluid about it. Rhythms rippling through the universe...”
He laughs. “Glad you like it. I find it hypnotic – that’s part of its appeal. I can look at it for hours. Even though it’s probably a fake.”
“Really? I didn’t pick you as the type to collect fakes.” But so far I’ve got him wrong on every assumption.
“It’s a talking piece. And it might be authentic. But Dali signed a lot of blank pieces of paper before he died. Large numbers of lithographs were printed after his death so the auction houses won’t touch them. It’s impossible to authenticate this one.”
“Did the old man go gaga?”
“A bit of dementia, a lot of arrogance. At the end he was easy to manipulate, I believe.”
“Sounds like his minders were holding in their arms the skin of Salvador Dali.”
He grins. “I knew you’d give me a different perspective on a few things.”
How could he know that?
“So you like talking pieces,” I say.
“It’s part of why I like it. Reactions like yours.” His face breaks into its cheeky grin. “And I have the luxury of only spending time with paintings – and people – I like.”
“Which woman is your favourite?” I ask.
He looks back at the Dali. “That’s easy. The renegade. The one who’s forsaken her instrument so she can dance.”
The third woman’s arms are outstretched so she could be dancing. But where’s her instrument? There’s a large shell lying in the foreground showing the intricate folds of its chambers. When I blink, I see it’s really a tuba.
We move into an enormous living space overlooking the bay. I turn away from the expanse of cobalt water and take in the penthouse he calls home. At one end a huge arrangement of tangerine lounges surrounds a large square coffee table of finely woven rattan. Scatter cushions in ethnic fabrics and an enormous potted palm complete the effect of an Asian hotel of the colonial era, comfortable and slightly decadent. At the other end a long refectory table – probably a French antique – displays a pair of hand-carved candelabra that might be Portuguese.
In the middle of the room, in front of the view, an intimate table for two has been set with a white tablecloth and wine glasses in three sizes. A candle glows in a crystal bowl that refracts the light.
It feels like he’s shunned the decorators and collected pieces himself. Another insight into the man beside me. Just like the room I share with Wanda is an insight into me.
I turn my attention to the view. Full-length windows stretch across one wall, taking in the harbour and the city, now aglow in the remnants of sunset.
“I love this time of day,” I say. “The glow looks like satisfaction, another day almost complete.”
“That sounds like something you experience yourself. Satisfaction.”
“Not often. Too busy trying to create a successful business,” and fend off supernatural forces, “to stop and reflect.”
“But you must have been satisfied with the seminar yesterday. What did Derek call Being Sleek? Magic.”
“I’d call it...surprising,” Sloane grins, “since the content was largely...spontaneous. And yes, I was satisfied, but that seminar’s off our agenda.”
He takes my elbow and steers me towards the coffee table. “Let me offer you a drink. Champagne?”
My tummy is rumbling. And I need to mellow out. But Derek made me promise to stay off alcohol. “Have you got a tomato juice?”
He disappears through an archway and I turn towards the wall opposite the windows. It’s lined with a quirky collection of primitive-style paintings. Large and bold. So he’s a patron to some budding talents. From the kitchen I hear voices, then Sloane returns with two glasses on a tray and a bowl of nuts. He puts the tray on the coffee table and joins me in front of the paintings.
“I buy works by emerging artists,” he says. “It’s fun trying to pick who’ll be collectable.”
“And then you cash in?”
“That was the idea – investment art – until I discovered I couldn’t part with them.”
Is he another person who can’t let anything go? “Why?”
“Because they speak to me. I can’t really explain it. Paintings, textiles, photographs. Even jewellery.” He looks at my cowry shell. “That’s exceptional. I noticed it at the seminar.”
“It’s not for sale.” The words are out before I can edit them.
“I don’t want to buy it, Selkie. I’m admiring it. It’s clearly something you’ll never part with.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It looks almost alive, the way the spots...hum.”
“Can you hear something?” I need to know.
He thinks about it. “It’s visual. You can’t see it because you’re wearing it, but from here it’s dazzling.” His eyes meet mine. “Like the woman who’s wearing it.”
Time to change the subject.
Along the side wall an aquarium sits on a low bookcase. It’s empty of water and illuminated with soft lights. Draped over a large rock is an even larger snake.
“Dead or sleeping?” I ask.
“Sleeping. She had a meal today so I won’t disturb her. But you can look all you like. How do you feel about snakes?”
“I never judge them till I’m properly acquainted.”
“OK. Selkie Moon, let me present Mia the Python.”
Mia doesn’t respond. She’s coiled around the rock. The texture of her skin is exquisite in a delicate pattern of grey and cream. It makes me want to touch her. But her sleek torso is marred by a telltale bulge.
“What does she eat?”
He clears his throat. “You may not like the answer.”
“Try me.”
“Mice.”
I nod.
“Live mice.”
Suddenly I can see it. A tiny mouse dropped into the aquarium with nowhere to hide. About to be eaten alive... Just like Derek warned me.
“Do you...watch?” I ask.
“No. It’s the one thing I’ve never got used to. I tried thawing out frozen mice but she doesn’t recognise them as food, even if I warm them up and jiggle them on a stick. So I buy mice one at a time from several pet stores – in rotation.”
“So they don’t get...suspicious?”
His laugh breaks the tension. “Exactly. If I buy regularly from the same place they wonder what’s happening and stop supplying me. I don’t blame them.”
“Surely you don’t drive around Oahu in your BMW carrying a shoebox punched with air holes?”
“Why not? Anything for Mia. If I could catch lizards for her I would, but that would mean digging in public parks and I wouldn’t give the paparazzi the satisfaction.”
His enthusiasm is infectious and I relax again. We sip our tomato juice in silence.
“Why do you call yourself Alister?”
He hesitates. “It’s...my real name.”
“A long story.”
“Yes.” He misses a couple of beats. “But there’s a short version.” He gazes out the window as he remembers. “At school...I got teased. The other boys liked to call me...Alice.”
I didn’t pick Sloane as the type to be bullied, but there’s pain behind his voice and I sense it was worse than name-calling. Much worse.
“So my dad moved me to a new school and enrolled me as Lester. It stuck.”
A change of school and a change of name. Did it make him tougher? Looks like it.
“Only my best friends call me Alister.”
I don’t know what to say but he’s moved on.
“There’s a reason I brought you here tonight, Selkie.”
Have I been waiting for this? A proposition after all?
“I had a reservation at Donatello’s, but I cancelled it because I’ve got something to show you. Something I picked up this morning. At the Swap Meet.”
“The Aloha Stadium?”
“Yes. Sometimes I find an interesting piece, direct from the artist.”
I laugh. He’s found out about me and Wanda. “Let me guess, it’s a resin fish.” A fish that looks like me.
“I know the stall you mean. The artist’s a character, but her fish are more like craft than art. Not for my collection, but the tourists love them. No, this is something else. A photograph.”
My heart does a flip but I manage not to cry out. Sloane walks across the room to the wall beyond the refectory table. On shaky legs I follow him.
“The artist was a bit odd,” he’s saying. “A skinny guy with an accent and a passive-aggressive manner. He didn’t want to sell it to me. But I got it in the end.”
“W-what did he say?”
“He told me he took the picture at a hidden cemetery, just a shot of someone he didn’t know. But when I said I recognised you, he changed. Became truculent. Said the photo wasn’t for sale. Do you make a habit of running through cemeteries, Selkie?”
My legs are still holding me up. Just. I’m staring at a photograph. Of me. Running between the headstones.
“I told him I was having dinner with you tonight,” Sloane is saying. “And to name his price. But the photo seemed to mean something else to him and he became...unpleasant.”
I’m still staring at the picture, at the proof that Roger photographed me that day. Did he follow me after I ran away? Did he take a picture of the woman?
Sloane turns to get my reaction and sees how pale I am. “Are you all right? You’d better sit down.”
He takes my arm and reaches for a chair. And that’s when it happens.
Invisible forces grab me and hurl me across the room. Chairs are overturning, cushions are flying, and a wall is rushing towards me.
Thud.
It happens so fast. I’m flipped off my feet, taking flight. Then doubling over and sagging to the floor.
On the edges of my vision Sloane is trying to help me, but the force invades me again and I’m jerking away, this time in a rush of sparking ice. Something hot and jagged is tearing through my body, ripping me apart from the inside. My senses are on high alert. A smell invades my nostrils. Something burning. Acrid at first but then it changes. Almost sweet.
Then I’m losing it. And the room reverberates with a splitting noise.
My scream.