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Despite my stomach feeling as if I’ve swallowed a box of butterflies, I keep myself busy for the next two days. I’ve neglected my garden over the past few weeks, and so I slap on my scruffiest shorts and tee, some sun lotion and an old hat that Shaz hated and tried to throw out, and spend a pleasant few hours digging, weeding, planting, and trimming.
My house near Sumner Beach has arguably one of the best views in Christchurch, out to sea across Pegasus Bay toward the Kaikoura Ranges. It cost me five million dollars, and even now, six months after I purchased it, it still takes my breath away when I walk into it. It’s constructed so it appears to levitate out into the ocean. It has four bedrooms, four bathrooms, three living rooms, a gym, a steam room, and a lap pool, as well as a beautiful garden that is my pride and joy. It’s far too big for me, but I love the space and the way that when you’re sitting on the deck, all you can hear is the cry of the gulls and the splash of the waves far below.
So far, none of my friends or family has been to the house. I’m sure they think it’s strange that I haven’t invited them, and I do plan to have a housewarming party one day, but at the moment I’m reveling in the peace of it all. When I was with Shaz, there were always people popping in—mainly her friends and family, and I hated that we were never alone. Now, I can live my life the way I want, and that happens to be by myself, in total silence.
Sometimes I play music, of course, or watch the TV. But more often than not, the evenings will find me sitting on the deck or in the living room, reading, enjoying the peace and quiet, which is such a relief after the busy-ness of the office.
As Head of HR, I have to deal with recruitment and professional development, and compliance with employment laws and legal issues. But often I’m involved with people’s lives—with conflicts, disputes, and disciplinary actions. Although I’m a computer engineer at heart, I’ve had plenty of training to deal with these matters, and I know I’m considered by everyone at Kia Kaha to be calm and capable when dealing with other people and their problems.
So why, right now, do I feel as if I’m struggling and out of control?
I suppose there’s one crucial difference. I’m not in love with every employee that comes into my office.
On Christmas Eve, I take the meal out of the fridge that my chef prepared for me this morning and put it in the oven to heat. While I’m waiting, I pour myself a glass of red wine and take it onto the deck, and sit there watching the sun sink slowly toward the hills to the west. Out to sea, a few people zoom about on jet skis, and several boats return with the day’s catch.
I’ve had invitations to go out this evening, but I declined them all, not in the mood for socializing. Tomorrow I’ll go to my mother’s, because it’s what you do on Christmas Day, but I’ve been feeling the need for solitude while I do my best to stop swimming against the current and let Fate take over.
It doesn’t come naturally. I’m the sort of guy who likes to be in control. At work, if an acquisition or merger was about to take place, I’d be doing my best to speak to everyone involved, to answer questions, to prompt them to take action, or to try and influence them one way or another so the outcome went the way I hoped.
With Juliette, I can’t do that. I’d like to. I want to message her every five minutes, tell her how I’ve been dreaming about her smooth light-brown skin, and how I picture kissing down over her breasts and belly until I sink my tongue deep into her warm, moist flesh and taste the sweet nectar of her arousal.
I want to march around to her apartment, take Cam by the scruff of the neck, throw him out onto the street, then lift Juliette into my arms and carry her back to the car so I can drive her over here and have her all to myself.
I fantasize about that for a few minutes.
Then I sigh. I’m playing the long game here. She knows she’s near the edge of the cliff, and she’s panicking about taking the step off, even though I’ve told her I’ll catch her. If I try to push her, I’m convinced she’ll backtrack and tell me she’s not going to leave. So I’ve just got to sit here and wait, and fight the stomach ulcer I think I might be developing.
The timer on my watch buzzes, so I go indoors, retrieve the meal from the oven, add the pots of yogurt and hummus that Anton prepared, and take it outside. It’s slow-cooked Lamb Shawarma, a Middle-Eastern dish, with lemon rice pilaf, and flatbreads because he knows I like them. I tuck into it while I look out at the summer sky and watch the gulls diving for fish.
I wonder what she’s up to now. I know she’s at her parents today. She’s close to her mum—has she told her about me? That would make it too real, though. I’m sure she hasn’t told anyone.
I’ve purposefully not messaged her, wanting to give her space. As a result, I haven’t heard from her for two days. Not even a text. I know I have to prepare myself for the possibility that she won’t leave Cam. She’s mentioned that they’ve argued about me, which means that he’s jealous, which also means he’s prepared to fight for her. They’ve obviously got their problems, but it’s much harder to leave a struggling relationship than it is to stay.
And, of course, there’s the issue that we’ve touched on only briefly, but that lurks beneath the surface like the submerged rocks out to sea. The fact that I can’t have children.
She asked if I’d consider IVF, and I told her yes. And I would, if it meant I could keep her. But if I’m honest with myself, the thought of it depresses me.
It’s not that I don’t want children. I’m not sure I can have my heart broken every month for another two years, that’s all.
Even though it was my fault, Shaz never blamed me. She never used it as ammunition, even when things were bad, and I was thankful for that. But the truth is that every month when her period started, the accusation would be in her eyes. I’d have failed her again. I wasn’t enough of a man to fulfill my only real purpose for being here in Nature’s eyes—to procreate and continue the line.
Yeah, I know it’s more complicated than that, but it’s Christmas Eve and I’m alone and feeling sorry for myself. It strikes me that it probably wasn’t the best idea to decline all the invitations, but it’s too late now. I’m stuck with my own company whether I like it or not.
I finish off the wine, and pour myself another glass.
I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve achieved in my life. I’ve worked my way up from almost nothing to become a successful, wealthy businessman. I’m well-respected in the community, and, I like to think, well-liked. Without bragging, I’m pretty sure I know half a dozen girls I could have asked out who would have been thrilled to date me. So why am I so fixated on the one woman who’s fighting me like a kingfish on a fishing line? They’re known to put up a fierce fight when they’re hooked, and they’re a sought-after trophy fish here in New Zealand.
Is that why I want her so badly? Because she’s putting up a fight, and she belongs to another man? Because she’s beautiful and exotic, and I’d be proud to parade her on my arm to all my friends, family, and business acquaintances?
But even though it would be easier to tell myself this was the case, because then I could tell myself to grow up and move on and find someone of my own, it’s not the truth. I’m in love with Juliette, the woman I’ve known for six years, because she’s kind, and spirited, and generous, and funny. She’s not perfect. She can be frank and honest, and some people find her blunt. But I like that I never have to excavate her sentences to reveal some hidden meaning. I had to do that with Shaz all the time, and it frustrated the hell out of me. But Juliette is an open book, and I love that about her.
I finish off the last mouthful of rice, put my feet up on the chair opposite, pick up my wine glass, and close my eyes.
We tell ourselves we’re civilized now, and a world removed from the cavemen and women who lived by their instincts so long ago. But we’re not that different, not really. I believe women are equal to men intellectually, and they’re probably superior to them in many other ways. But as a man, I feel a responsibility to provide for my partner. To look after and protect her. And to get her pregnant. It seems like such a small thing to ask, and it’s impossible not to feel like a failure when you can’t. It makes me feel less than a man. It’s humiliating and embarrassing to admit my failing to other people, which is mainly why I didn’t tell anyone for over a year after Shaz and I began to live apart.
I especially didn’t want to tell Juliette. She’s mentioned having kids before, and I was convinced it would be the end of anything ever happening between us.
A couple of nights ago, when we texted and she told me Cam was sleeping in the other room, and she asked me if I’d consider IVF, I replied Yes because I don’t want to lose her. But I also added, Would you? It took her a long time to come back with: I think so. I just need time to figure it all out.
