Malcolm didn’t believe in luck. He preferred to believe in Mathematics. With Mathematics it was a fairly simple matter to show that life’s cosmic coincidences, rather than being shaped by strange and mystical undercurrents, were in fact the simple and inevitable consequence of random pattern generation. In a world of over six billion people, the day when some of them weren’t winning lotteries, seeing visions, or having premonitions, that would be the day to look for a divine explanation.
So when Charlotte rang out of the blue and explained (rather awkwardly Malcolm thought, for such an attractive woman) she would like to contribute to his research, he did not thank the gods for their intervention. Rather he accepted it as just one of those things that had to happen somewhere, at some time, to somebody; and he did so with a satisfied shrug and the faint stirring of an erection.
Not believing in luck meant more than just meeting the unexpected with a knowing smile. It meant being prepared; because if luck wasn’t going to do it for you, you had to look after yourself. So Malcolm bathed twice, then showered for good measure. He shaved, although it was barely necessary, sprayed deodorant, put on his very best clothes, which he had spent fifteen minutes ironing, then gave a further half hour to the biggest decision of all: whether to conduct the interview in the bedroom or the lounge. (The bedroom, with its superior acoustics, eventually won through.)
Finally he nipped down to the supermarket and bought himself a 12-pack of spermicide reinforced condoms, two of which he put in his back pocket. Not that he was expecting sex immediately; he would be more than happy with a good interview and an initial canvassing of the subject. In fact, truth be known, any instant request for performance would quite unsettle him, for the sorry fact was that despite all his research to date he was no closer to knowing how to do it. That is to say, he couldn’t be certain (in the exact technical way he liked to be certain) which acts he would be expected to carry out, for how long or in which order. He had downloaded some porn in an attempt to clarify matters but it had been of no more use than footage of a Formula One car race would be of use to someone wishing to learn to drive.
Charlotte arrived early, dressed all in black. Boots, pants beneath some petticoat type thing, crop top, beret and a jacket it was far too warm for.
‘Ah, hi,’ Malcolm started, cursing the stammer he heard in his voice. ‘Um, there’s no one home. Mum’s on night shift, she’s a nurse, and my sister’s at university now.’
He had no idea why he said any of that, and now he was having to consciously drag his eyes up to her face as he spoke. God, this was awful.
‘Um, my bedroom’s this way.’
And now it was worse. For whatever reason, she smiled and said nothing, and even followed as he led her upstairs. He was determined to say nothing more. Then Charlotte matched Malcolm silent pause for silent pause while he showed her where to stand and pretended to busy himself checking the camera set-up. It was as if they were training together for a mime competition. Flooding his mind with technical details, Malcolm found it was just possible to relax.
‘Do you want me to speak directly to the camera?’ Charlotte eventually asked. ‘You know, as if I am addressing the audience, or were you thinking of something more oblique and voyeuristic?’
It was a good question, a clever question, and the possibilities of her intellect made Malcolm’s mouth go dry.
‘Um, straight at the camera please, so a passerby would be forced to stop and listen. Don’t so much talk to them as drag them in. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Oh yes,’ Charlotte replied, with a sudden intensity that only made Malcolm more nervous.
‘Well then, as you know,’ he stammered, breathing deeply in the hope of slowing himself down, but achieving only a new level of light-headedness. ‘I’m mostly interested in finding out about people’s first sexual experiences, so, ah, fire away.’
‘Right, well the thing is I haven’t actually had sex yet, but I know exactly how I want it to be. Would that be useful?’
‘Absolutely.’ And Malcolm nodded so vigorously it hurt.
‘Okay, it happens like this. It’s midsummer, late January, at the hut my family have in the Marlborough Sounds. I’m staying there, with my best friend Mandy, but she’s had to go back early so it’s just me, and the birds and the bush, the beautiful clear water and the setting sun.
‘The hut is at the head of its own private inlet and when I walk down to the water I notice a yacht has come in and moored twenty metres from shore. It’s perfectly still, so the water’s inky and the boat’s reflection reaches across the water.
‘It’s cooler now but I’ve been lying out all afternoon and my skin is still warm with the memory of sun. I’m wearing a bikini, black, new for Christmas, and I wade out into the water. There’s nothing more peaceful than an evening swim, hearing the water break at the surface, feeling it fold back around your body as you move.
‘At first I don’t even see him. The boat is just something to swim to. But then he’s there, right in front of me, sitting on the deck in the day’s last rays, reading a book, an unopened bottle of wine by his side. There’s music too, soft enough that I have to swim right up to the boat to work out what it is. He notices me, and says “hi” before I do. Then he smiles, and it’s the smile that does it.
‘I climb up on board without being asked and he offers me some wine. We sit there together and my skin is dry before the sun disappears. We don’t talk about any of the things strangers talk about, not what our names are or what we’re doing there. Instead he tells me about the book he’s reading and I tell him it was better as a movie.
‘Then somehow the air between us has been pushed aside. Our skin is touching and then he is kissing me. From there on it’s a blur, like being underwater without having to hold your breath. He knows exactly what I want, even before I do, so there’s no leading and no following, just like there’s no beginning and no end. And the most wonderful part of all is the feeling of absolute freedom, out on the deck, alone on the bay, in a moment when the whole world has chosen to look away.
‘Then it’s dark and we’re still naked, still connected, as we tell our stories. He’s not surprised when I tell him my age and I’m not surprised when he tells me the yacht belongs to his fiancée’s father, and that she will be arriving the next afternoon.
‘It is a small window that has opened and then closed, and I don’t even turn to say goodbye as I swim back through the darkness. I have the memory. Anything else would only weigh it down.’
Charlotte stopped talking but her stare didn’t let go of the camera. Her eyes shone bright with the pictures still rolling inside her head.
‘Cue final credits,’ Malcolm said.
‘Oh good, so you do understand. I knew you would.’
But the only thing Malcolm understood just then was the yawning gap between the man on the yacht and his own pitiful store of talents, nautical or otherwise. Her story had been both insistently arousing and profoundly deflating, and when Charlotte tried to make more conversation Malcolm lied to her, inventing an appointment he had to hurry to. This was one woman he had no right to approach. He was going to have to look elsewhere.