She stood up and plucked at a few of the hanging wisps, making them wispier. ‘That’s good, because you’re in for some surprises, Cliff.’
‘I like surprises,’ I said.
7
We went to the Malaya restaurant in North Sydney. Claudia said the other similar establishment in Broadway was one of her favourite places when she was a student and she wanted to try the north-of-the-harbour version. I’d been there once or twice and liked it well enough although South-East Asian food isn’t the delight to me that it is to some people. We sat on the mezzanine floor where we could look down at other diners and out a big window towards buildings where the lights were just beginning to show up as darkness spread over the city. Claudia had put on a white silk jacket over her dress. Now she slipped it off and arranged it carefully on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t crease too much. It looked like the gesture of a person used to taking care of her clothes rather than one who had so much money it didn’t matter.
‘I want short soup, prawn sambal and boiled rice,’ she said.
‘I bow to your expertise. What d’you want to drink?’
She shrugged. I noticed how smooth and shapely her shoulders were, not bony, not fleshy, just right. It’s rare to see perfect shoulders. ‘Doesn’t matter. Any dry white wine with mineral water to dilute it.’
‘Okay. I can remember when we used to order a couple of bottles just to save the waiter the trouble of coming over again. Now we have to think, what is it? Two standard drinks per hour or whatever?’
‘You can drink as much as you like. A couple of spritzers’ll do me. I can drive the Camry. I’m not sure about that Falcon of yours. Was it a manual?’
‘Yeah. It was.’
I put the. 38, which I’d oiled and cleaned, in the pocket of my jacket. I took the jacket off and hung it on my chair like Claudia. The lightweight harness I slid round further under my armpit. At a glance it wouldn’t look much different to a pair of rather unusual braces. Claudia watched but said nothing.
The drink waiter came and I ordered a bottle of Chardonnay and the mineral water. Claudia ordered the food and she added mixed vegetables. The wine arrived. Claudia gazed around the room and down below. She took her first drink and it seemed to relax her. She smiled, or maybe just relaxed her mouth and the forward thrusting teeth did the rest.
‘What are you looking at?’ she said sharply.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I broke up with the woman I’d been with for a few years not so long back. I was probably staring at you. It’s so good to have such attractive company.’
‘Thanks. I’m glad to be here with you, too. You’re holding together pretty well. You’re what-late forties?’
I nodded. ‘Fairly late.’
Peter Corris
CH19 — The Washington Club
‘Good bones,’ she said. ‘And hair. They’ll see you through.’
The food came in bowls and dishes and an insulated bucket along with chopsticks at which I’ve never been a master. We worked our way through it, communicating well it seemed to me, but talking about nothing in particular. About halfway through Claudia reached across the table and touched my arm. I’d rolled up my sleeves-the sambal was having an effect on the sweat glands.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s Malcolm Turnbull.’
It was. He arrived with a woman and another man and they fell into intense conversation, only briefly interrupted by the ordering of food and drink.
‘A republican cell without a doubt,’ I said. ‘I kicked in some money to that cause. They’re probably eating it right now.’
Claudia laughed. ‘So you’re a republican. Well, well.’
I was onto my third glass of wine and emboldened. ‘I bet you are too. Admit it.’
‘Of course I am. I…’
It wasn’t the wine or the food or the atmosphere. Her every movement-the deft use of the chopsticks, the curve of her wide mouth, the lift of her heavy eyebrows-was having an effect on me. ‘Claudia, why…?’
In one smooth movement she put her chopsticks down and placed her right index finger over the slightly raised scar that runs from the left side of my chin up to my lower lip, the result of an uppercut delivered with a split glove by Clem Carter at the state junior amateur boxing titles. ‘No questions,’ she said. ‘Not now. Questions later. Drink some mineral water and eat some vegetables. The sambal’s a mite too hot for you.’
I gripped her hand and felt that it had a film of sweat on it like mine. I grinned at her.
‘We’re both sweating and the place is air-conditioned.’
‘It’s good for us. Clears the toxins from the system.’
‘Do you believe that?’
She laughed. More wisps of hair escaped. I wanted to tuck them back, and to touch that down running to her jawline.
We left at least one standard drink in the bottle, maybe two. We walked through the courtyard in front of the restaurant and sauntered up the main street towards the all-night parking station where I’d left the car. The cool air cleared my head and after a few metres I was alert and watchful. Claudia, walking very close, occasionally brushing me with her shoulder or hip, could feel it in me. ‘What’s the matter, Cliff?’
‘Just being careful. We’ve had a few incidents, remember?’
‘Mm. I was trying to forget all about it. All of it. But I suppose that’s impossible.’
Tentatively, I put my arm around her and squeezed gently and briefly. ‘Stay where you are as long as you can. I’ll do the worrying.’
She reached around and patted my chest. ‘Where’s the gun?’
It was back in the holster, near my left armpit. ‘Where it belongs.’
‘Have you used it much?’
‘No. As seldom as possible.’
‘That’s good. I hate guns.’
‘Me too.’
We reached the car park. It was one of the few places still around where you handed in your ticket and an attendant fetched your car. That’s why I’d used it. The Camry came up the ramp and I forked over some more money. The outing would be paid for by Cy Sackville who would in turn charge it up to Claudia. It presented me with a nice conundrum of etiquette that Emily Post probably couldn’t help with. I had more serious things to worry about, like where was this evening headed and how would my feelings for this woman affect the job I was supposed to be doing for her?
We didn’t talk much on the drive back to Kirribilli. Claudia asked if I minded her smoking in the car. She could have lit three at once as far as I was concerned and I almost told her so. She wound down the window and blew the smoke out discreetly. After stubbing the cigarette she opened the CD player and took out the disc.
‘Edith Piaf,’ she said. ‘Is this yours?’
‘It was in there when I picked up the car.’
She found the case in the glove box and laughed. ‘I remember this. It was a Nescafe give-away. You had to answer some dopey question. The first prize was a trip to Paris but they gave these away by the hundreds.’
‘Did you enter?’
‘No. I mentioned it to Julius. He said we could go to Paris anytime we wanted to. The next day he went out and bought a couple of Piaf CDs.’
She put the disc in the player and pressed the right buttons. The strong, vibrant voice filled the car as we turned into her street. I parked outside and she touched my arm.
‘Don’t turn off. I want to listen.’
Non, rien, rien
Non, Je ne regrette rien
‘You’ve got it all inside,’ I said.
‘Shush, this is better.’
Her head moved down onto my shoulder and we sat there on the looks-like-leather seats, listening to the music that evoked Paris in the rain and the incredible voice with all its hopeful spirit demolished by sadness and dashed hopes. By the end of the record her hand was lying between my legs, gripping my erection, and I’d cupped her right breast and was breathing in her perfume from her hair. It was probably French but could have been Serbo-Croatian for all I cared. There was a faint touch of mentholated tobacco in the mixture and there was nothing wrong with that either.