Opportunity (25 page)

'Wish me luck,' she said.

I slammed the taxi door.

She was a student. Arts, a BA. She was paying for her studies
working in bars. She lived in a flat somewhere; also she'd said
she came from Wellington . . .

I sat down facing Miranda. I was light-headed. My glass
was empty again. Sandy hiccupped, giggled. She was making
up for my failure with Miranda; she was being the life and
soul.

'No. No. You told it wrong,' she was insisting. She got up
— why did she find it necessary to stand, as if we were in a
classroom? — and began some idiotic joke. She twined her
fingers, acting something out. George was waving the menu
and calling, with grotesque jollity, for dessert wine. Formality
was breaking down; the rot was setting in. Miranda swapped
seats. Now Mark Venn was studying me with his calculating
eyes. Frances: had she called the baby a 'he'? Sudden misery.
I shifted in my seat; the image of Frances was like a fly that I
shook off, only to find it settling again, the exquisite pressure
of it tickling my flaring nerves. I was hot. I fidgeted, couldn't
keep still.

'How's it going?' The quiet Venn was tall, hard-faced,
athletic, his dark hair slicked back off his forehead. There was
something sly and knowing, almost intimate in the way he
was looking at me. He sipped his coffee with a little finger
coyly crooked. He was said to have an interest in — what was
it, interior decorating? Furniture? George had said to me,

'Talk about his interests.'

'Still into antiques?' I said.

He launched immediately: bargains, the way to spot a fake,
traps for the unwary. I bided my time; I was drinking now to
cure the thrills of adrenalin that were running through me; I
was trying to separate myself from my nerves. I was still afraid
that Frances would come back. Every few seconds I glanced
beyond Mark to the street door, expecting to see her drenched,
outraged, avenging figure. Was it guilt I felt? But how could
I be guilty, when I had done nothing,
nothing
wrong? I
experienced a moment when something definitely loosened
in me; I let go and drifted outwards — in other words, I was
drunk. Mark and I sighed and grimaced at each other, and he
said with sudden candour, flicking his eyes over at Miranda,
'She's only just got started, mate. She's on for a big night.'

On one side George, 'roaring with laughter', on the other
Sandy covering her mouth with a look of fright, like a child
about to be sick. Miranda lolled sleekly between them, cocktail
in hand. Dave's hair was sticking up, his tie was loose. Miranda
was taking an interest in him now. She picked a crumb off her
jacket and eyed him, her head on one side. Out in the harbour
a single ray of light lit up a patch of water. I could see birds
wheeling above it, and a small boat making its way towards
the wharf, trailing its foamy wake.

How could life begin so haphazardly; how could it depend
on something so fleeting as spilled vodka, random talk, darts,
the rain? 'It's too late to go now,' she'd said. 'If you go home
now you'll drown,' and I pulled her against my sodden chest,
and the wind crashed the open door against the veranda wall
and a sign was blowing down the empty street, tumbling over
and over. We slept with the door open. At dawn the rain was
still coming down, and when I walked home in the early
morning the street was strewn with wet leaves, sticks, paper,
broken umbrellas. Strange night: I slept much of the next day,
woke in the late afternoon and lay thinking about her. Strange,
intense girl, sitting on the edge of the futon, a dart in her hand,
drunk but lucid, telling me about 'alien hands' . . . 'Okay.
Concentrate! More vodka? It goes like this: If you have alien
hand syndrome, the part of the brain that gives the sensation
of control over the hand is damaged. You think the hand is
controlling itself. You never know when it'll go for you. Now.
It's known that the electrical charges that precede all limb
movements occur
before
you consciously decide to move your
limb. So your "decision" to move your hand, your "free will",
is actually an illusion. Your choice has already been made
before, by your brain. People with this syndrome have lost the
illusion of free will. So they're closer to the reality of how
much we're responsible for our actions than the rest of us!'

George was standing over me. 'We're off,' he said, resolute,
and named the pricey tapas bar Miranda had chosen. He
helped her with her coat. Sandy swayed against Mark's arm,
Dave sighed and stifled a burp.

Miranda stood under the roof talking on her phone.
Serenely she turned her barrel-shaped calf this way and that,
inspecting her witchy shoe. George danced out into the rain,
opened the cab door for her and waited while she got in. She
was still on the phone, not looking at him. He closed the door
with an anxious nod.

In the cab she snapped her phone shut and said, 'That was
Simon Grey from Billington Watts. He's in the bar at Mollie's.'

George winced. 'It's far more fun where we're going. Eh,
Dave? Sandy?'

'Simon Grey's so boring,' Sandy said in a high voice.

'Oh, I don't know,' Miranda said languidly. 'Remember that
night with Simon, Mark?'

'How could I forget?' Mark said.

'You know he had that . . . thing with the Law Society. What
a mess.' George glanced at me. Two humiliated red spots had
appeared on his cheeks. Normally he would never stoop to
this: slander, currying favour.

'Yes, but he gives wonderful parties,' Miranda said sweetly.

There was a silence. George screwed up a receipt and threw
it on the floor of the cab.

I turned on her. I'd had enough. 'Are you coming with us or
do you want another cab?'

George jerked his head up. 'Well, it's up to Miranda, of
course . . .'

Miranda gave me a long, amused look.

'Let's forget Simon Grey,' she said finally.

Mark laughed. His hard thigh pressed against mine.

We rode in silence through the rainy night. George threw
some money at the driver, leapt out and rushed around to
help Miranda out. She allowed herself to be led down into the
hot, crowded subterranean bar. She sat sipping an elaborate
drink, bending her head to George, who was talking non-stop
in her ear. Mark popped tapas into his mouth and listened to
Sandy, who seemed to want to climb into his lap. George
paused and gave me a bleak, relieved smile. Dave was talking
about cars; I pretended to listen. Someone handed me a glass
of wine. I drank it, caring not. I drank another. There was a
disturbance up at the bar, some pushing and shoving. A
bouncer arrived. On a TV above the bar, Scott Roysmith was
soundlessly reading the news. I had been drinking since one
o'clock.

I was on my feet. I put my hand on George's shoulder.

'I'll be back, mate,' I slurred.

'Where are you off to?' Miranda's shiny little black eyes
fastened on me. I leaned down.

'It's a secret,' I said in her ear.

She laughed. George smiled uncertainly, made apologetic
shrugs. I kept my eyes on Miranda as I backed away. She didn't
drop her gaze until I turned and pushed my way out into the
street.

I got to a cab. 'National Women's,' I said.

'Where?'

I said it again. He got the idea. Grumbling, he started off. I
got him to stop on the way. I came out with cans of beer in a
plastic shopping bag and a meat pie, which I ate, to his disgust,
in the back of the cab.

He let me off outside the main building. I strode into the
foyer. At the information booth I couldn't think of the right
word. 'Where women have babies,' I finally said. Directed to
Maternity I waited for the lift with an aged couple who shot
doubtful glances at me and moved closer together. I rode up
to Maternity and stood, getting my bearings, in the hall. A
woman in a pink tracksuit walked out of a room. She asked
me who I wanted.

'Frances,' I said. There was a long pause. Her eyes travelled
down to my plastic shopping bag.

'Frances . . . Leigh.' I came out with it, triumphant.

Casting backward glances, she led me along a corridor.
'Wait here,' she said. There was a brief conversation. She came
out. 'You can go in,' she said. She gave me a severe look and
retreated not very far along the hall.

Frances was sitting on the bed wearing a hospital gown.
She stood up awkwardly. The gown made the bulge in her
front look even bigger.

I stood there, holding the shopping bag. I gestured at her
stomach. 'You'll be glad to get it out,' I said.

She grinned. 'It's huge, isn't it?' Then she put her hand over
her mouth. 'You came.'

'Course.' I set the bag down with a crash. 'It was touch and
go, actually. What with the client lunch and all.' I had no idea
what I was going to say next.

She went on grinning. She smoothed the front of her
gown.

'Want to sit down?' she said.

'Yeah, actually. Thanks.' I fell onto the bed. She poured me
a paper cup of water out of a plastic jug.

The woman in the pink tracksuit marched in. 'Doctor's
here,' she said.

The doctor was tall, with thick black hair and a mild, shy
expression. He was dressed in jeans and a jersey that had three
woolly sheep embroidered on the chest.

I stood up, reeled, righted myself. I leaned against the high
bed. He held out his hand.

'Simon Lampton,' he said.

His handshake, like his outfit, was gentle, non-threatening.
Big softie, I thought. Woolly sheep. All rigged up not to scare
the ladies.

He spoke soothingly. 'How are you, Frances? Good. Now,
we're just going to insert the pessary, and that should get us
under way. Labour probably won't get started until later.
Tomorrow morning, even. So you can both try to get a good
night's sleep.' He glanced at me, as if to say, and
you
need it.

'Bottom half off,' rapped the midwife.

Embarrassed, Frances wriggled about under the gown. She
screwed her underpants into a ball. The midwife took them
and handed them to me.

'Thanks!' I said.

Doctor and midwife exchanged a look. 'Here we go,' he
said. He put on surgical gloves, took a small, bullet-shaped
object from a packet and reached between Frances's legs. She
shrank back. He murmured something, pursed his lips, looked
up at the ceiling. Then he nodded, snapped off the glove and
straightened up. 'All done.'

We looked at him blankly.

'I'll be back when you get started. In the meantime, get
some sleep.'

He left. The midwife stood over us. 'Right. You can both go
to bed. There's a mattress for you in the cupboard,' she said to
me.

I got it out, dropped it on the floor and fell on top of it.
Frances laughed. The midwife made a tsking sound. She said
to Frances, 'Any trouble, ring the buzzer.' She went out, giving
me a glare.

We lay down. The room was full of striped shadows. There
were conversations, footsteps in the corridor outside. I heard
her turning over, sighing. I drifted off, then woke. I wondered
how much time had gone by. Minutes? Hours? As quietly as I
could, I reached for my bag and eased out a can. The ring-pull
gave the tiniest scrape. There was a long hiss.

She sat up. 'Are you opening a beer?'

I kept quiet. She coughed.

'Feel anything yet?' I said.

She poked her head over the side of the bed. 'I can't feel
anything. It's not meant to start until morning. I can't sleep.'

'Me neither.'

'Shall we go out?'

'Out? Where?'

'Down the shop. Get some magazines.'

'Okay.' I was willing. I got up, sipping the beer. She was
pulling on a top and a pair of jeans.

'Come on.' She went to the door and looked out. I hid the
can under my jacket and we went to the lifts. 'Might bring it
on, going for a walk,' she said, frowning, sensible.

I half expected to be challenged in the foyer, but no one
seemed to notice me strolling out with one of the inmates.
There were other pregnant women about, a group of them
smoking outside, each in similar pose: one hand massaging
the small of the back, the other holding the fag.

'Smoking when they're pregnant! I don't know. What's the
world . . .'

Frances smiled and said, 'Shh.'

I hitched my shopping bag over my shoulder. There was a
fine, drifting mist of rain. We walked slowly, close together.
The night seemed to have gone on forever; it was an age since
I'd talked antiques with Mark Venn. And yet the weariness
and confusion I'd felt in the taxi had left me; I was braced by
the last beer — by braced I suppose I mean freshly drunk. I
held on to my bag of beers — I clutched it very tight. I dreaded
the morning so, that I felt a swooning sort of love for the
night: the rainy air, the spotlit gardens, the black shadows
across the pavements. Walking on the quiet street, in the
velvety dark, the wind sighing in the trees, it was possible to
forget so many things . . .

We got to the main road. There wasn't much traffic but
there was a roar that got louder and, as we waited at the
intersection, a procession came slowly into view: jeeps
emblazoned with warning signs, then an enormous truck lit
up with revolving orange lights and, improbably, mounted on
the back of the truck, a whole wooden bungalow. We watched
it sail past, towards the south. Then we crossed to the petrol
station.

Frances browsed along the shelves. She chose a couple of
magazines. I bought two pies and a packet of crisps. The man
behind the counter said, 'When's the baby due?'

'Tonight,' she said. She slapped a packet of mints on the
counter.

He nodded, neutral.

On the way out we confronted the full-length reflection of
ourselves — I in my wrinkled suit, loosened tie and crooked
collar; she with her strangely distorted form, her back
unnaturally swayed, walking her awkward waddle.