Diana! Episode 3

3 "Her little house was empty."

In the orange light of her doorway she separated her house key from all the pad-lock keys she used at the theatre. They felt cold and sharp, and Christine thought of Jonathan's opening lines to their new song:

I fit the key in the door

Of the little house that we share

She should get around to oiling the lock. The key stuck. She had to jam it it, twist it hard. Her door closed on the light behind her. Her little house was empty. She switched on the hall lamp as she walked through to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Why do I feel someone was here before?

Suspicion

Christine didn't mind Jonathan borrowing from her life: it was her life or his, so, obviously, he had made the best choice. She took a glass from the draining tray and turned on the tap. It was all over now anyway. She had played the part of jealous lover with her usual flair. The problem was that Carrie had played the unfaithful bit even better. It was strange how a fear of something could create that thing. Her fear of being left alone had sent Carrie ever further from her. Her anger over Carrie's imagined unfaithfulness meant that Carrie had begun to lie for no reason, and then for good reason. Suspicion. Now, if she could only make this song a success, it would all have been worth it. She looked into the misty liquid inside the glass: "Sure!"

Christine took one gulp and poured the rest down the drain. Carrie had been gone for three weeks, maybe four. She refused to count the days.

The window above the sink was black, and she sung softly to her own reflection: "I'm there when you come home at night, a little after dark, and as you reach out for that light: Suspicion...." She was not completely happy with the melody. And she crossed to the chair by the kitchen table, trying to think of a way to persuade Jonathan to change a line or two, to fit a rhythm she had in mind.

We got two small rooms and a share backyard

Hardly room to swing a cat

If there's no room for this

There's no room for that: Suspicion

The early verses were fine, but the last definitely required surgery. It was not until she found herself absent-mindedly flipping through her message book, with the song still in her head, that she again recalled Carrie, and her real-life suspicions. 'Work,' she thought, 'work.'

She reached for her address book, turning the pages, tallying the ownership of recording equipment against favours given or owed. Pia would be the best bet. She was another ex, but over the last couple of years their friendship had lost its ex-lover awkwardness. There was every chance she would still be awake, but Christine decided to leave it till morning.

From amongst the open envelopes and reminder notes, Christine took a letter post-marked 'Melbourne' from about a week ago: Margaret.  The paper was pink, its top edge torn where it had been ripped from the kind of ultra-cheap note-pad that Margaret always used. Christine ran her eyes over the scratchy hand-writing. Margaret's band was making a move north, so they would be in and out of Sydney for a couple of months at least. She smiled, leant back, recalling the caresses of a long ago drunken night: you could never tell. She might get lucky. And Christine's chair squeaked across the tiles as she headed for the calendar stuck to the far wall - to count the days.

Sunday 14 July

4 "Sincerely, 'Welcome'."

The mat says, sincerely, "Welcome"; but the heavy, green door is closed. The woman presses a red button, speaks a name, and the door opens for her. She walks across the wooden floor which has been polished until it is smooth and shiny and hard. Her steps echo in the space created by the wide flight of stairs and the high ceiling. Each sound is hard and polished, surrounded by silence. Mr Travers' chambers are on level three. His receptionist, forty, with a narrow mouth and hard, red nails, not too long, asks her if she has an appointment. When Diana replies that she does not need one, the woman does not betray her contempt. Mr Travers, she says, will attend to you soon. Wait.

Diana settles into one of five black leather chairs. There is a colour travel magazine on the coffee table, and a copy of the Financial Review, but she gives no thought to either. Although she can smell it brewing, she is not asked if she wants coffee. Inside her pocket, her fingers coil around a plastic lighter. She withdraws her hand and wipes the perspiration onto the leg of her jeans. Diana breathes in and out, a long deep breath. When the door opens, she fills her lungs again before she stands.

"My dear girl," he says, ushering her past. He leaves her standing while he makes for his desk. Mr Travers is a large, pale man with orange, receding hair cropped close to his skull. His eyes are a milky grey, and they quiver in their sockets: a condition know as Nystagmus that distorts his vision past the distance of two long paces. Their incessant vibration ceases only during moments of extreme drunkenness or stupor. He wears a double-breasted suit, pin-striped, with silver buttons. Coarse hair from under his shirt protrudes a little over his white collar. At his gesture, Diana sits opposite. He sits likewise, smiling with large, shiny lips. His eyes too, vibrating, smile. "My dear girl, how pleased, how very pleased I am to see you."

Mr Travers' desk is large and black: the desk-top is dark with the bright flecks, like stars, of mica and quartz. His hands hover above spotless blotting paper as he twists a thick fountain pen around and around in his clean fingers. Diana sees the frame of the window behind him, looking out across Bent Street; the window pane is invisibly clean. The room itself, a lawyer's office with book-shelves, a grey filing cabinet and a computer, has a smell which resembles a dentist's.

"I have an offer. I have found someone." And her voice is steady.

"Ah!" He leans back in his chair which swivels and contours without squeaking. "Straight to business."

"Business. I am not here for my health."

"My girl. Are you not?"

"Will you help me?"

"Of course." Laying down his fountain pen, the lawyer leans forward, pressing his hands on the desk. "If you are sure." Splayed out on the polished surface, his finger-tips create little haloes of vapour.

Diana reaches into her hip pocket. In taking each breath, the diaphragm, the wall of muscle beneath the lungs, pulls away into the stomach cavity and the air pressure within the lungs decreases. As the air pressure inside falls, there is space created for the outside air to escape, briefly, from the weight of the tonnes of atmosphere that press forever down upon the earth. Diana feels all this as she breathes in again and, with effort, exhales, withdrawing the lighter from her pocket as she does so.

"If you are sure, Miss White."

She is not sure. How can she be sure?

"If you prepare the papers," she says, "I will sign."

The lawyer Mr Travers watches as Diana places the lighter upright on the polished desk. "Yes," he says. He takes the lighter from the desk. For a moment the plastic lighter disappears inside his fleshy palm. "And is there a name?"

"Not yet."

"I can help, of course."

"No! No need. I know where to find him."

"Ah!" Mr Travers looks at Diana a moment, then his eyes slip from her, to the little lighter in his palm. "You know best, of course." He rolls the lighter between thumb and forefinger. A spark flies from the flint and the gas ignites, the yellow flame dancing in the moisture of his eyes. "I'll hear from you soon then."

"Soon."

The flame is extinguished, and Mr Travers slips the lighter into a drawer at his right. "Then, my dear, it will be my pleasure to prepare our contract." By the time Diana has fully risen from the chair, the man is already approaching from behind his desk. He takes her hand. "I am delighted that things have worked out for you." He wraps his arms around her waist and draws her to him. "You will be wanting a little something, I am sure. Just to tide you over?"

She looks up at him and prepares to smile, but she does not need to. He pulls her closer, and she leans into him without resistance. He kisses her with his big lips, and she groans faintly, with pain. She takes hold of his wrist, as if to steady herself, pressing her thumb against his blue, pulsing veins. His eyelids slide closed and open, and his glance for a moment is steady and hard. A small trickle of blood slides from between her lips as she eases away from him and he relaxes his grip. Diana wipes away the blood with her finger.

"Be careful," the man calls after her, "on your way home."

Inside his office, Mr Travers holds the lighter up to the sunlight, examining the shadow of the fluid-level within. He rolls back his sleeve. Entering the atmosphere's weaker pressure, the trapped liquid turns to gas, which a spark ignites. Mr Travers holds the yellow flame against the pink skin of his wrist. His nostrils flare as he draws the rich smell, in an easy stream, into his lungs.

The woman steps down onto the footpath. She turns, half on her toes, in the direction of Chifley Square, feeling better already.