About Turns by Maggie Rainey-Smith

Author:Maggie Rainey-Smith [Maggie Rainey-Smith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781775531470
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

That night she listened to Bruce as he sat tugging at his shirt collar, wrestling with his cuff links and explaining their financial situation to her. His neck was no longer defiant. It folded instead. Strands of hair fell into the cracks. His tan, once convincing, had been overshadowed by the inherited (Bruce said) rosy hue of vintage grapes. His brown eyes were cloudy now and, although she hated to admit it, even a teeny bit bloodshot. She was making comparisons. Thinking about Clive. Bruce was handsomer than Clive, but it wasn’t about handsome. As her mother used to say, mostly in regard to Lillian’s Elvis, handsome is as handsome does. She’d never really thought about it before, but does was such an active word, a word with definite possibilities.

What were they supposed to do? They knew they had to do something, but what? A gap in expectations. It was Nance who had taught her about expectations and secretly she’d scoffed. Bruce was all she expected, more than she expected. But now? Morgan was leaving home; Cameron was on the threshold of manhood. It was as if Bruce and her had been playing grown-ups (mothers and fathers) and got caught out, landed with the real job.

She scratched his back. A back-scratch minus expectations. A back-scratch that simply scratched an itch. No paybacks. No promises. He lay face down on the bed, his head cradled in the Limited Editions Euro Pillow. (Irene willed herself to stop worrying about sweat on the Italian fabric.) It wasn’t poetry but there was, for a short moment, harmony, friendship. She took him to bed and loved him, stirred by the thought of Clive in his apron, cracking eggs and melting Maasdam.

Afterwards, Bruce folded himself around Irene. The foetal love position. His chest on her back, his hands on her breasts, his warmth on her bum — their favourite. Erotic security. Irene dreamed she was at the Naenae swimming pool on a hot afternoon. Paula was with her. Paula was wearing a brand-new swimsuit. It was a pale blue covered in bright pink Christmas bonbons. The swimsuit had a skirt piece that flared out from the hips to cover her thighs and bottom in modesty. On the back was a shocking-pink bow. Paula stood on the top diving board poised to leap off, waiting for the Olympic starting gun, leaning over, the water crystal clear … way, way, down. Irene wanted to yell at her not to jump, but she opened her mouth and no words came out. Clive was on the sideline in his McGregor tartan, blowing into the pipe, squeezing the bag, his cheeks all red and puffed, wounded noises escaping. Just as the gun went off and Paula leaned forward, her hands above her head in a perfect prayer motion, the music started. It was wrong … wrong. He was playing ‘Colonel Bogey’. The wrong tune. Irene wanted to raise her hand to alert the judges. It was supposed to be ‘The Invercargill March’.

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