The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,141

sit with him.

‘See what I mean?’ Bazza says. ‘He’ll be out to dinner with that one tonight. You should forget about him and come south. Have you given any more thought to it?’

‘No. I haven’t had time to think.’

‘You don’t want to think,’ Bazza says.

He’s right. I’ve been avoiding it. Doing anything to distract myself from his offer. And Fredricksen’s. I’ve been walking with Jess. Talking on the phone with Jacinta. I even rang Gary last night.

‘Look,’ Bazza says. ‘Let me tell you about this gig. You won’t be able to say no, once I give you the details.’

He outlines the winter program. A tractor traverse out of Mawson to the Prince Charles Mountains. It’s an exceptional trip. I’d be mad to say no. While Bazza talks, Nick stands and leaves the room and I watch him go, only half listening to Bazza.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, when Bazza has finished. ‘When do you need to know?’

‘Four weeks.’ Bazza reaches out to shake my hand. ‘Do the right thing by yourself, will you? Don’t turn it down.’

Emma calls on Friday afternoon and leaves a message for me to meet her at Salamanca in one of the pubs. A group of them is going out for a drink. I don’t much feel like heading back into town when I’ve just arrived home. And I’m not sure I’m up to a night of Antarctic reminiscence. But an outing might be good for me. I’ve been spending too many hours alone. I shower, feed Jess and then drive into town.

Parking is difficult down by the wharves, but eventually I find a space behind Princes Wharf. The orange shadow of the Aurora looms behind the sheds, a string of lights along her flank, a spotlight flaring from the trawl deck. I pause to look at her, trying to project into my future. Can I see myself boarding that ship again? Can I imagine myself travelling south? I wait for some clanging bell of intuition, but there isn’t one.

I pocket my hands and make my way through traffic across the road to Knopwoods. The doors are open wide and there are people spilling out into the street. Cigarette smoke wafts among laughter and clinking glasses. I edge between groups and slip through the door.

The bar is frantically busy. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, pushing back and forth. Bodies clad in fleece mingle with loosened ties and suits. I smell aftershave, perfume, the stench of spilled beer. I squeeze through to the counter. After waiting several minutes, I buy a drink and move off into the crowd.

Then I see them, a tightknit circle of eight around a table at the back. A knot of laughter and waving hands, sloshing glasses, trivial banter. Just another group among the general drone. I see Emma there, sitting beside Nick. His arm is around her shoulders. Did Emma tell him I was coming? What am I doing here anyway?

I wind my way through the crowd and find a spot along the wall where I can see Emma’s profile through the shifting mass of faces and bodies. She won’t see me. Neither will Nick. She didn’t really expect me to come. It was just a gesture, to cheer me up. Who would want to come to a noisy bar when they have just experienced death? There’s no room for loss here.

Watching her, I drink my beer, feeling it warm my stomach. Her face is bright and smiling. She’s having fun. She’ll go south again and dodge normal life for yet another year. She’ll be immersed in the usual summer season—with all its excitement, isolation, gossip and scandal. If I choose not to go, she’ll forget me . . . if she hasn’t already. She’ll be preoccupied with Nick. He’ll play with her. Keep her attention.

I watch Nick between all the faces. I see him shift to gulp his drink, his arm still around Emma’s shoulders. If he looked straight up, he could look into my eyes. But I know he won’t see me. Because I’m the wrong sex. He has his arm around Emma, but he’s still taking the opportunity to survey other female talent in the room. I can see him doing it. His eyes are roving up and down, taking in legs, faces, breasts. Poor Emma. I feel sorry for her. She’s been so taken in. She might be convenient for now, but a man so busy windowshopping will always be tempted to try other wares. He’ll