“Never mind, what’s happening?”
“I need to come over.”
“Now?”
“Absolutely. I’m in my car, I can be there in ten minutes.”
Any sensible man lying in bed thinking about zebras would be cautious, particularly with a woman as ruthless as Emma; but even a scant understanding of mammalian biology will tell you that primal forces often swamp the higher reaches of reason.
All of us at some time in our lives become entwined with someone who makes the senses explode. The usual cartoon metaphors are erupting volcanoes or starbursts in firework shows. Emma is one of those people. It was only while I was cleaning my teeth and splashing on the Dolce & Gabbana that I toyed with the defensive idea of striped pyjamas.
I wasn’t passionately in love with her but the embers from our recent past were still aglow. I was suspicious, because I knew her phone call might not have anything to do with me, at least not personally. I’ve never met any woman so in tune with oestrus. When her hormones are on fire, Emma is a hard-core athlete. When they’re not, she’s a novitiate, but I was pretty sure that a woman in a wimple would not walk through my door.
True to prediction she swept into my flat with the force of a Harper’s Bazaar lingerie model, both modest and provocative – black patent-leather heels, long tanned legs, loose black shorts, a simple black top and a string of pearls. Her only other accessories were a bottle of champagne and a bunch of yellow roses.
“These,” she said thrusting the flowers in my arms, “are for the bedside table next to the scented candles. I assume you’ve still got plenty of those.”
When I woke just after sunrise, I was surprised to see her wander into the bedroom naked except for high heels. She had a cup of coffee in her hand and stopped to examine her body over her shoulder in my dressing mirror. I wondered if she was checking for imperfection or confirming her power.
Eventually she turned and saw me watching. “Oh hello, just a sec.”
Then, moving with considered grace, she strolled out of the room. When she returned, still naked, she handed me a fresh cup of coffee and perched on the end of the bed. “So,” she said sipping, “how are you?”
“Excellent.”
“Not tired?”
“A little, but I’ll manage.”
She took another sip, watching me over her cup. In the soft light streaming through my curtains her eyes were the colour of Courvoisier.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing, just lost in admiration.”
“Good, that’s the idea. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What do you want? From a woman, I mean.”
It was, for Emma, an unusual question. Our morning-after chats in the past had always been about her patients or about nothing at all, but never anything personal. More significantly she’d asked one of the biggest questions there is.
Evasion seemed sensible. “What do I want from a woman? Oh, I don’t know – a lot of things, probably the same as you.”
“I’m not a lesbian.”
“You know what I mean.”
“But I don’t, Tim, that’s just problem. I’ve never known really, not with you.”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“What if I did? What if I thought we might make it as a couple?”
I don’t care what gender you are or what sexual persuasion, when a beautiful creature sits naked on the end of your bed and asks such a thing after hours of profligate sex, it’s not easy to be objective. So, with the embers brightly glowing, caution slipped. “I’ve thought the same thing myself.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“So what, then, what would you need to be happy?”
I could have walked through the obvious: laughter, passion, compassion, intellectual stimulation, kindness, companionship, trust, inventiveness and so on; but I knew she was asking something else.
“You mean what would I want from you specifically?” I asked.
“Correct. What could I do for you that couldn’t be done by anybody else?”
It was typical of Emma: more riddle than question, this was an enigmatic test designed to reveal a vulnerability she might exploit. It was a familiar game I didn’t particularly like.
“How about you show me all the things I haven’t thought of yet?” I suggested.
“Good answer.”
She leant down and placed her coffee on the carpet and then crawled slowly towards me, the pointed toes of her high heels pushing up ripples in my new white top sheet.
15
I felt pretty good walking to work that morning. Emma was back in my world and there seemed to be a future. Even though I was well aware of her default ruthlessness, I was thinking the things we all think when there’s hope for love. Would we live together and, if so, where? Would we work together? Would she like my friends? What would I make of hers?
The stardust algorithm was surging and I know enough about biochemistry to realise that there was not a lot I could do to stop it. Plus the speculation was fun. It was a nice idea to think that both Joe and I might have found “The One”. There was an elegant equilibrium about it.
But always in veterinary medicine, patients will anchor even the most deluded lover to Mother Earth. Cleopatra is an Egyptian Mau, one of the most beautiful cats I’ve known. Pale grey, with leopard spots and light-green eyes, she’s intelligent and caring. And the same has to be said of her owner, Lily, who’s just twelve years old. My heart sank when I saw Cleopatra, Lily and her mother in the waiting room. Cleopatra had been suffering a number of symptoms: weight loss, dull coat, gastroenteritis, diarrhoea and recurring skin infections.
I ordered blood tests and the results were as I had feared. Cleopatra had contracted Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, the cat version of AIDS. There’s no cure for the condition. All anyone can do is set up a strict regime of vaccination, plus anti-bacterial and anti-fungal drugs, regular blood transfusions and a high calorie diet, but eventually an infection or cancer would set in and it would be over.
That morning before she left Emma had outlined a plan. “You’re a good-looking man, Tim,” she said. “I’m going to market a new practice in Kentucky; you’ve got just the presence I need.”
“What presence?”
“You’re tall, Anglo, handsome, articulate – perfect for the South.”
“Okay, stop it, you’re killing me.”
“I’m serious. I really don’t know why you’re wasting your time chasing pets around Elizabeth Bay. The real money is in thoroughbreds.”
“But I like pets.”
“Bullshit.”
“I do.”
“Come on – think about it. You and me, great sex, big money, work all over the world. What’s not to love?”
I laughed it off, but there’s something intoxicating about the idea of throwing away the past and launching a new life. Ambition is a beguiling mistress and it’s amazing how easy she is to justify.
Then I had Cleopatra and Lily in my surgery, and I was left with the melancholia that always hits when a child is about to lose their pet. There’s no shame in sparing an animal misery with the Big Sleep. People say