Fishing for Tigers (17 page)

‘Or an invitation for a home-cooked meal. Right. Well, you're the first one here, anyway. Actually . . .' He squinted at me. We were in the kitchen now, where the light was garishly bright. ‘If I didn't know you better I'd think you'd been out all night. You look shattered, Mish.'

‘I had trouble sleeping. Thought I'd scrubbed up okay, but apparently not.'

‘Oh, when I said
shattered
, I meant it in a good way. Like you look
shatteringly
gorgeous.'

‘I'm sure. Well, for the record, so do you.'

‘I was, in fact, up most of the night thanks to the inconsiderate, irresponsible, uncommunicative creature inhabiting the body of my child. Guess what time he got home?' ­Matthew held up four fingers. ‘Four in the bloody morning, phone turned off all night. He's an adult, he reminds me, but that's no excuse. If it was anyone else staying with me – any other
adult
– then I'd expect a courtesy text, don't wait up, see you in the morning, you know?'

‘Poor Papa. Where was he?'

‘That's the best bit – Ah! That sounds like the stomp of the beast now.'

Cal entered the kitchen, his long arms stretched over his head. His glance bounced off me as he passed. He opened the fridge and leant into it. ‘Fuckin' starving.'

‘You'll have to excuse him,' Matthew said. ‘A little known fact about teenaged boys is that they become more civilised as the day goes on. It's best to steer clear before noon if you can help it. Close the fridge door and come out to the deck, mate. Everything's out there already.' The doorbell chimed and Matthew headed for the stairs. ‘Go on out, Mischa. Help yourself.'

Cal's singlet and footy shorts were crumpled, his hair a fuzzy mess. He looked sickeningly adolescent, but I knew if I smelt him I would dissolve.

‘Outside,' I said, before he spoke or looked at me.

‘Dad thinks I was watching a DVD with some backpackers I met,' he said, when we were on the deck. ‘
Thor
. I said that one because I've already seen it but I'm pretty sure I've never told him that, so if he asks anything I can talk about it without any trouble and he won't, you know, suspect anything. But he suspects something anyway, because it was so late. I said I fell asleep, but I don't think he believes me. I think he suspects I was with someone. A girl, you know? But it's okay if he thinks that as long as he doesn't work out who—'

‘Cal, stop.' I watched the doorway. ‘You're all wound-up. Relax, okay?'

He grunted and collapsed onto the bench seat behind him. ‘Easy for you.'

‘No, it's really not.'

He looked at me for a second then frowned. ‘Give me your hands.'

‘Not now,' I said, but I held them out to him. Of course I did.

He pushed my sleeves up to my elbows. ‘Oh,' he said, touching the splatter of bruises on my forearms. He smiled. ‘Guess I got a bit carried away.'

He circled my left wrist with his fingers, pressed his thumb hard into the underside. I imagined telling him that these accidental markings of play and passion had not hurt and had not made me feel hurt until just now, when I'd seen the pride in his expression. I imagined the way his face would collapse, his grip would loosen, his eyes would cloud and he'd say,
Oh, oh Mish
and every woman he touched after this would feel the benefit of this lesson.

Benefit? Oh, maybe. Who am I to say?

Matthew's laughter sounded out from down the hallway and Cal sucked in his breath and dropped my wrists. I stepped back fast and turned my head toward the door and said, ‘What's so hilarious?' as Matthew and Henry came out and Henry began to explain and I didn't look at Cal even when his chair scraped across the tiles and his father told him to take it easy and a door slammed and then another.

On the table was a stainless-steel coffee pot and a traditional blue glazed tea set. A jug of fresh milk and one of cream – expensive, hard to find delicacies. A platter of sliced dragonfruit, melon, tangerine and apple. A covered warmer under which there would be pancakes. A decanter of syrup and basket of cut lemons. A tray of sweet buns and a selection of jams. The centrepiece was a bouquet elaborate enough to have taken half a day to assemble, although the flowers looked freshly picked.

All of this I noticed only after Cal had gone and Henry had said, ‘This looks fantastic. How did you get your girl to come in on a Sunday?'

‘I didn't,' Matthew said, pouring coffee. ‘I did it all myself.'

‘What? Why? I mean – bravo – but . . .' Henry looked genuinely confused.

‘I quite enjoy putting on a spread. I got out of the habit, I suppose, but with Cal here – when he's here – it's good for him to see his dad make the effort, I think.'

‘Let's hope he sticks around then.' Henry was smearing jam on a bun. ‘How long
is
he planning to stay?'

Matthew chewed slowly. I helped myself to a pancake, smothered it in syrup and cut it into pieces to stop myself watching him as I waited for the answer.

‘Who knows? It was only supposed to be a month or so, but he seems to be enjoying himself and I can't see any reason for him to rush back. If you can't spend a few months bumming around drinking too much cheap beer at eighteen, then when can you? Though I'm sure his mother would prefer him to do so anywhere but here.'

The doorbell rang and Matthew excused himself again. Henry chattered about the sweetness of the fruit and I ate without hunger. When Matthew returned he was trailing Kerry and Amanda, who were each carrying a bottle of champagne, and Cal who was dressed now in baggy jeans and a tight white t-shirt. His hair was wet, his feet bare.

‘Doesn't this look divine!' said Amanda. She turned to Cal and poked his shoulder. ‘I hope you realise this is all for your benefit. Matthew never does anything like this for us.'

Cal grunted and dropped into a seat across from me. ‘Better have left me some pancakes,' he said.

‘Ooh! Me too,' Kerry said, sliding in next to him. ‘I am famished. I've had a night you will not believe.'

‘Another backpacker?' Henry asked.

‘Much, much better.' Kerry stacked her plate as she spoke. ‘You know that thing I've been organising for months? The millennium-development-goals thing with all the NGOs and diplomats and blah, blah, blah?'

‘Oh, yes, the blah, blah, blah thing. How's that going?'

‘Actually, it's going marvellously. We've come up with this terrific program where corporate sponsors—'

‘Ugh, boring. Get to the good stuff.'

‘Right. So, the delegates arrived yesterday afternoon and we had a meet and greet, wine and finger-food shindig and I got talking to this South African fellow, thinking he was one of the admin, policy-type hangers-on, because –
my oath
– he was young and fit and bloody, bloody, bloody gorgeous and so he couldn't possibly be anyone important. So anyway, we went back to his hotel and shagged up a storm, then we're lying there
spent
and his phone rings and he starts speaking fast and I can just barely follow, but at some point it becomes clear that he's the freaking CFO of this enormous pharmaceutical corporation that I didn't even know had agreed to attend the conference, and in hindsight, I should've realised he was corporate because he was dressed way too nicely to work for a non-profit and he fucked way too well to be a diplomat.'

‘How do diplomats fuck?'

‘Cal.' Matthew swatted him on the head. ‘Thanks, Kerry. I was hoping you'd discuss your sexual exploits in front of my child.'

‘Oh, Matty, he's a great, big grown man.'

‘Yes, and besides, we shouldn't all be deprived of hearing Kerry's insights into diplomatic fucking just because you want to protect Cal's innocence, which by the way is probably long-since destroyed, if not back in the land of boozy bronzed goddesses then here in the land of two-­dollar blow-jobs.'

‘Charming, Henry, thanks so much. Cal, please don't listen to another word from these revolting and corrupt individuals. I can't for the life of me remember why I associate with them.'

‘Because you're more corrupt and revolting than the rest of us put together.'

‘That, dear Amanda, is impossible,' Matthew said. ‘Mischa, you're terribly quiet. Say something. Please, before Kerry starts up again.'

‘I was just thinking about those flowers. For as long as I've been in Hanoi I've been meaning to ask someone about where all these glorious, rice-cheap flowers come from every day. I mean, look at those colours. And I bet they didn't cost you more than a hundred thousand, right?'

Kerry guffawed as Matthew admitted to paying twice that.

‘Yes, yes, yes,' Henry said. ‘Later, I can tell you more than you'd ever want to know about Hanoi's floristry, but right now I want to know how diplomats fuck.'

‘Inoffensively.'

‘Ha. And your South African big-shot?'

‘Big
shot
is exactly right. I tell you he was­—'

‘Be right back,' I said. In the bathroom, I splashed my face with cold water. In the mirror, I saw a face I hadn't seen for years. My cheeks sagged under puffy eyes cupped in blue.
Insomnia
, I used to tell people after those nights when Glen kept me up with detailed, interminable explanations of how I'd disappointed and hurt him.

Standing in the relative dark of the doorway, I told my friends I was feeling sick. Matthew walked me to the street and put me on a
. At home I crawled into bed and immediately fell asleep.

I was woken by my phone. ‘Are you home? I'm around the corner.'

‘It's not a good time.'

‘Is there someone with you?'

‘No, but—'

‘I'll be there in a sec.'

I watched from my bedroom window as Cal sloshed through the stream of water running down my street towards the church's forecourt. It must have rained again while I slept. In this river-bordered city of lakes and haphazard drainage systems, the difference between wet roads and flooded homes is about fifteen minutes and it looked like this outburst had stopped just in time. In July, Hoàn
Lake had overflowed after only half a day of rain, and people spoke in slightly thrilled tones about how Hanoi was built below the wet-season river level, how if the dykes broke the city would be inundated and become an enormous, debris-filled swamp within days. But then the rain stopped and the streets dried and by December we had all forgotten our vows to move away before typhoon season, before now.