Taking the Plunge Page 2

  “What about you? Are you okay?” asked Evan.

  Kate stared, searching for that spark again, considering his question. She tightened and relaxed the muscles in her legs but couldn’t feel any pain — and no surprise there, as Evan made a fantastic cushion. Not that he needed to know that.

  “My knee, it’s a little sore. I must’ve knocked it on something hard when we landed.”

  The corners of his smile crept higher.

  “Are you all right, Evan?”

  Maria’s voice was sticky and sweet, like melted chocolate. Kate sighed, shifting her weight. Maria was perched on her toes across the slope, facing uphill, her expression sour, as if she’d just sucked on a lemon.

  “I think so,” said Kate, waving her away. “You head back down. We’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” said Maria, her frown growing.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” called Evan. To Kate, he said, “As much fun as this is, do you think you could roll off now?”

  “Oh, okay. Hold on, let me just…” She grunted, pushing herself up and back, lifting her board so her knees could slide on the snow.

  He rolled himself onto his knees, then stood, dusting snow off his pants and jacket. Extending a glove, he pulled Kate to her feet. She slipped forward and he leaned into her, placing his hands on her waist to stop them both from sliding. She gasped.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” she said, faking a grimace. “I might need some help getting down the mountain. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Course not. It’s my job.” He turned towards Maria, who was scowling up at them. “You go ahead, Maria. Kate’s hurt her knee. I’m gonna stay with her and help her down.”

  Kate gave Maria her sweetest smile and waved. Maria’s scowl turned into a pout. Turning, she gave a dramatic flick of her hair and sped off down the slope.

  “Wow,” said Kate, “look at her go. It’s like she’s chasing a burrito.” Evan dragged his eyes away from the disappearing Maria to look at Kate, who turned to him, still smiling, and added, “She must’ve had a good teacher.”

  “I try,” said Evan.

  I’m sure you do, she thought.

  TWO

  “Cute little buggers, the way they waddle like that,” said Evan, chewing on a mouthful of chicken, his eyes following the penguin across the screen, a black and white smudge on a background of pale blue ice. “This sauce is delicious, by the way. What is it?”

  “Honey soy.” Yumiko turned to him, revealing a gap-toothed grin, then shifted her hand beneath the blanket they shared, resting it on his leg. “So, have you given any more thought to what we were talking about the other night?”

  “And what was that again?” Evan took another mouthful, slurping up a stray noodle that extended from his mouth, sauce dribbling down his chin.

  “You know — about my visa?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

  A Japanese-Canadian, Yumiko had travelled to Queenstown the previous year on a temporary work visa and they’d hooked up after a night on the turps. She moved into Evan’s damp, dark basement flat a week later.

  “What do you mean, Oh, yeah?”

  “Come on, Yumi. It’s a little drastic, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think. You love me, don’t you?”

  Evan placed his bowl on his lap and turned, looking into her questioning eyes. “Course I love you. You know I do. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I just didn’t picture myself being married at the age of twenty-four.”

  A wrinkle formed across Yumiko’s brow and she lowered her bowl to the coffee table at their feet. “Why? Cos you want to sow your wild oats before you’re shackled with the ole ball and chain, is that it?”

  “No, of course not,” said Evan, shaking his head. “But this is marriage we’re talking about. You know, for better or worse, till death do us part? It’s a pretty major commitment. We only met last spring.”

  “So? How long does it take? We live together. We’ve got a joint bank account. What difference is being married gonna make?”

  “But that’s just what I mean. If it’s not gonna make any difference, why do it?”

  “Because I don’t want to leave,” she said, her voice tight, eyes watering. “I don’t want to go back to the city, back to the traffic and the noise and living in an apartment thirty stories above the street.”

  Evan waved a hand, palm upraised. “Look around. This place isn’t exactly spacious.”

  “Yeah, and look out the window! There’s mountains and lakes and stars out there. It’s incredible. Back in Toronto, all I’d see is glass and concrete and some wrinkly old couple fucking in the apartment opposite, too kinky to close their curtains.” She sniffled, sucking in a breath. “I love it here, Evan. This is the place I want to call home.”

  “I know, I know.” A stray tear had slipped down her cheek and he kissed it, then set his bowl down and wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, come on, there’s no need to worry. I’m sure your visa extension will come through.”

  She pushed herself away from him. “What if it doesn’t? There’s no guarantee. And even if it does, that’s only delaying the decision. We’ll be right back here in a year’s time.”

  “Yeah, but at least I’d have a year to think about it.”

  Yumiko stood, the blanket falling away. Although only five-foot-five, she seemed to loom above him, her face a compacted ball of fury. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she snarled. “How much time do you need? It’s a pretty simple decision. People all over the world make the same decision every day, and lots of them are younger than you.”

  “That’s not necessarily a good thing. How many of them end up needing divorce lawyers a few years down the track? Look at my parents — they got married, but I hadn’t even started school by the time it was all over.”

  “So it’s their fault, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your commitment phobia comes from your parents? They had a shitty relationship and you’re afraid you’ll end up like them?

  “I’m not afraid of commitment.”

  “Yes, you fucking are!” She placed her hands on her hips, scowling down at him. “Do you know how to make sure you don’t end up in a relationship like your parents?”

  Evan rubbed his eyes. “No,” he said, giving the slightest of head shakes.

  “You talk, Evan. You communicate. You embrace it and you work through it. You don’t run away from it.”

  “I’m not running away from it,” he said, sighing again. “Marriage is supposed to be forever, Yumi — it’s not a decision to make based on where you want to live.”

  “I’m not basing it on that! What it all comes down to, if you’re too thick to see it, is either you love me or you don’t. If you love me, then let’s get married. If you don’t, then tell me now so we can stop pretending to be whatever this is — ” she raised her hands and shook them violently “ — and I can get on with the rest of my life.”

  “Jesus, Yumiko, I told you already — I love you.”

  “Then prove it.” She picked up her bowl and stomped towards the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going to bed.”

  “But it’s only seven-thirty.”

  “Yeah, and I start work at six. You’re on dishes, by the way. I’m having a shower.”

  “Come on, Yumi, don’t be like this.” Evan walked over to the kitchen to join her, but she raised her hand to stop him.

  “Leave me alone. I’m tired and I want to go to sleep. You’ve clearly got some thinking to do, so I’m giving you space to do it.”

  She dropped her bowl into the sink with a clatter and pushed past him, disappearing into their bedroom. She reappeared a minute later with a pair of yellow flannelette pyjamas draped over one arm. Crossing the room without looking at him, she entered the bathroom, slamming the door
behind her and snicking the lock closed.

  Evan returned to the couch and slumped into it, rearranging the blanket over his lap. He retrieved his bowl of noodles and ate another mouthful, chewing slowly, casting his eyes around the room. The tiny space was divided into a kitchen and living area by a breakfast bar and a change in flooring, from ancient linoleum in the kitchen to threadbare carpet in the lounge. There was no dining table — they ate either at the breakfast bar or on the couch in front of the TV. There was a poky bedroom, just big enough to fit a double bed, and an even pokier bathroom that contained a sink, a shower cubicle, a toilet and a washing machine, but lacked the space to use any of these conveniences comfortably.

  It was a claustrophobic place in which to have an argument, and the cloud of their dispute seemed to linger, circulating the room, turbulent and suffocating. After finishing his dinner, he considered going for a walk to get some air and clear his head but it was freezing outside, so he settled for having a cone on the doorstep instead. He listened as the shower ran, steam wisping out from beneath the bathroom door. If he knew Yumiko, she’d stay in there till she’d used every drop of hot water in the cylinder.

  She didn’t like him smoking, which was unusual amongst the Canadians he knew, but it wasn’t like having one was going to make her any more pissed off than she already was. He got his pipe and the ziplock bag of marijuana he had stashed in the bedroom wardrobe, grabbed his jacket off the hook beside the door and stepped outside into the frozen winter air, shutting the door behind him so that what little heat was in the house didn’t escape. He filled the pipe and set his lighter to the bowl. Taking a long drag, he filled his lungs, holding it, then blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

  To his left, below the scattered treetops and roofs of houses clinging to the hill, lay the waters of Lake Wakatipu, sparkling in the light of a gibbous moon. That was the saving grace of where they lived — it was close to town, little more than a ten-minute walk, and even closer to the lake. Yumi was right, the view was incredible. He took another toke on his pipe, watching the embers glow red-hot and then fade to black in front of his nose. He tipped the ash on the ground and filled the bowl again, lit the second cone, sucking hard, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  The THC did its job. Feeling relaxed, his thoughts slow and fuzzy, he heard Yumiko exit the bathroom and wondered if she would come looking for him. Probably not. She had a heart of gold, but was stubborn and could hold a grudge for days if the mood struck her. He wondered what his problem was, why he found the idea of marrying her so difficult to come to terms with. It wasn’t as though he was waiting for someone better. Yumiko was the real deal, cute and sexy and curved in all the right places. She had a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue and the way she wielded it made him laugh, except when the target was him. She was generous, loving and kind, a good cook and a hard worker. He’d never felt as close to any of his numerous ex-girlfriends as he did to her. So what’s the problem?

  The problem was that he just couldn’t stomach the idea of being forced into playing his hand. Sure, he could marry her, but if he was going to do so he wanted to make that decision in his own time and at his leisure. He thought of his mates. Not a single one was married, though to be sure, some of them had been in relationships a long time. Dwayne even had two kids to his missus, but they’d never tied the knot. Twenty-four seemed so young — there was still so much he wanted to do before making that commitment.

  Like what?

  Travel, for one. Except that wasn’t an obstacle, not with Yumiko. She loved exploring too, and there wasn’t a single location on his list of Places to Visit Before I Die that she wouldn’t be keen to see herself.

  So what, then?

  He tried to think but it was too hard now — the dope had made him stupid. He went back inside. Their bedroom door was shut and he could hear Yumiko moving around beyond it. He thought about going to her, giving her a hug and apologising… For what? I was only being honest. It wouldn’t do — she was too angry and he didn’t have the answer she wanted. Not yet, anyway. Besides, he was stoned now and he doubted she was in the mood to appreciate that.

  He put his pipe and lighter in his jacket pocket, feeling the edge of something brush his fingers. Frowning, he removed a folded and crumpled slip of white paper. At first he thought it was a receipt but then realised the paper was heavier, more like card, and curious, he unfolded it. Written in elegant blue cursive were the words, Thanks for the lesson. Call me, Kate. Below that, a nine-digit cellphone number.

  He smiled, recalling their collision earlier that day. He’d suspected she was faking it but was impressed with the brazen way she’d gone about it and flattered either way. They’d laughed and chatted as they made their way slowly to the bottom of the run, the pain in her knee coming and going as it suited her. She was warm and funny and very easy on the eye, with flawless cheekbones framed by a flowing mane of long blonde hair, intense green eyes and a prominent bust beneath her tight pink ski-jacket. He’d been sorry to say goodbye when he’d had to leave her for his next lesson and hadn’t seen her again after that, but now her name brought her image flooding back. He shut his eyes, savouring it, imagining the smell of her perfume, light and cool and floral. Opening his eyes, he held the slip of paper up, repeating the number softly to himself, then cast his gaze back to the closed bedroom door.

  He bit his bottom lip, pushing it out beneath his teeth, then sighed. Crushing the paper in his fingers, he stood on the pedal of the kitchen bin and popped the lid open, dropping the note into its maw. Nice try, Kate — and I’m flattered, I truly am — but it can’t be. I’ve got enough to think about as it is.

  He poked at the remaining stir-fry in the pan on the stove-top with a fork, eating a few more mouthfuls, then tipped the leftovers into a plastic container and put it in the fridge. After arranging their dirty dishes on the counter, he tried the tap and discovered Yumiko hadn’t used up all the hot water after all. He put in the plug and a squirt of detergent, scrubbing a plate as the sink filled, steaming and frothing, the heat bleeding through his chilled hands.

  THREE

  Kate upended the wicker laundry basket, spilling clothes onto the laundry floor. She picked out the dark items, stuffing them into the open mouth of the washing machine, then set it to run.

  Stepping back into the kitchen, she saw Corbin’s bowl of rice bubbles was sitting mostly empty on the tray of his high-chair.

  “Wow, that was quick. You hungry, bub?”

  Corbin smiled up at her, a stray rice bubble stuck to his lip, then banged the edge of his bowl with his spoon. With his dark eyes and darker hair, he was the spitting image of his father. She hated being reminded of her ex-husband every time she looked at him, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  “You want some more?”

  Corbin nodded and she smiled at him. Collecting his bowl, she topped it up with his favourite cereal and returned it to his tray. Searching for her cup of tea, she cringed as the familiar splodge of cereal meeting floor reached her ears.

  “Oh, Corbin, look what you’ve done!” She snatched his bowl away before he could make any more mess, then grabbed a cloth and a dustpan from the cupboard beneath the sink. Dropping to her knees, she pushed the milky sludge across the gleaming tiles into the dustpan. Not for the first time, she wished she’d chosen a darker colour — white was so hard to keep clean.

  “More pease,” said Corbin, leaning over the side of his high-chair.

  “No way. I’m not getting you any more cereal if you’re just going to feed it to the floor. You can have an apple instead.”

  He shook his head. “No apple. Bubbles.”

  She ignored him.

  “I want bubbles!”

  She stood and tipped the slop into the Insinkerator, washed the cloth out, then returned to the floor to clear the last of the pale puddle. When that was done, she got an apple from the fridge and cut it up, then handed a slice to Corbin.

  “No
apple!” he shrieked, batting her hand away.

  “Don’t you hit me!”

  Corbin wailed, flailing his arms and legs.

  Feeling her blood rising, she took a deep breath and said, “How about some TV then?”

  Corbin stopped thrashing and gave her a questioning look. “TB?”

  “Sure. You can watch some cartoons while I take a shower.”

  To her relief, Corbin seemed satisfied with this suggestion, raising his arms so she could lift him out of his high-chair. After removing his sludge-speckled bib, she carried him to the lounge, where she deposited him on the couch and switched on the TV. She flicked through the channels until she found a familiar red monster.

  “Elmo okay?”

  Corbin nodded, settling back into a comfy position on the couch. Kate placed the plate of apple slices next to him. He took a bite of one, chewing slowly while Elmo shouted out from the screen.

  In the bathroom Kate let the jet of water run hot and steaming before she stepped beneath it. She closed her eyes, soaking up the heat, trying to relax. Corbin had been watching a lot more TV since Lawrence moved out. She felt guilty about it, using it as a baby-sitter, but she didn’t know what else to do. There were so many things she needed to get done and she couldn’t do them with Corbin climbing all over her. She hadn’t thought it would be so hard — she had a little more respect for single mothers out there struggling on the DPB (the legitimate ones whose relationships had dissolved, not the ones who couldn’t keep their legs closed and chose it as a career path), whereas before she’d dismissed them all as useless bludgers, leeching off the state.

  She thought back to yesterday, to Evan and his cute blonde curls, his beestung lips and firm, strong hands. She wondered if he’d found her note yet, and whether he’d call her even if he had. She should have told him about it yesterday — should have just come straight out with it — but something had held her back, perhaps the sense that she’d already been too blatant with her flirting, and then he’d gone to take his next lesson and it had been too late. She’d done another few runs down the main trail, loving it, beginning to link her turns together, smoothing out the transitions. After an hour or so she’d looked for Evan again on the learner’s slope but he wasn’t there, and she’d given up and returned home to prepare herself for the awkward pick-up with Lawrence. At least this time they hadn’t argued, Lawrence handing Corbin over in stony silence, leaving with a wave and a short good-bye to his son, ignoring Kate.