‘You’re staring at me like I just pulled up on a motorbike,’ he says with a cautious nod to the elephant in the room. He pushes himself off from the banister and takes another step up, arms outstretched, gripping the railing on both sides. Now it’s me who wants to take a step back from him.
I almost feel sorry for myself. So starved of romantic attention, I’m fantasising about having briefly entranced untouchable Hugh Lancaster: confirmed bachelor, workaholic. A man who is inexplicably single at forty-two because, according to my mum and her wildly outdated and frankly misogynistic theories, some invisible woman ‘broke him’。
He doesn’t look broken to me. He seems more assured and in control than ever.
I, on the other hand, am spiralling, fast, with the arrival of a fresh new theory on the blurry concept of having any kind of future relationship – with anyone. I thought I was scared of having to learn someone from scratch. Telling my whole story to a new person. It seems as exhausting as the idea of changing psychologists right now.
But when I look at Hugh, something else lands entirely.
It’s not intimacy that scares me. It’s loss.
The breeze picks up and I shiver, breaking the moment. His eyes flit over my bare shoulders and he bounds up the last step, touches my elbow and leads me back inside, through my bedroom.
There are none of Cam’s colourful labels here. No notes on the bedside table, not even being used as bookmarks. Just the perfectly blank slate of crisp white linen. Clean lines, no creases.
Hugh catches me contemplating the bed.
Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
DO NOT lose your heart again, Kate. It will kill you this time.
I hurry us along, straight past the bed, through the door onto the upstairs landing where I can breathe again. ‘I don’t understand Gantt charts,’ I blurt, turning to face Hugh. ‘Or any type of charts. Numbers in general, really. I’ve been cheating with the finance team all this time.’
He laughs, loudly.
‘It’s something about critical paths?’ I scramble.
What am I doing? Trying to get myself fired?
‘Do you really want to talk about Gantt charts? Not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re in subtropical paradise.’
Waves pound into the silence between us.
‘But you should know the financial reports are not why I keep you around,’ he adds.
‘Is this a performance discussion?’ I ask.
‘Do you want it to be?’
No.
We take a few steps down the indoor staircase, and he stops and turns to face me. ‘You know, that young guy in your job who had the schmoozing skills of a door-stop was a technical genius,’ he reminds me.
How is this helping?
‘He set up all the project tracking schedules and made the whole process flow seamlessly. We always knew exactly where we were. Reporting was a breeze—’
The less we say about how reporting goes now, the better. He subdues me further with every sentence.
‘Then you came along, and the focus was no longer on data. You set up meetings with researchers and scientists and writers and engineers and artists and musicians – experts all over campus. You found out what they really do. You asked what they need, and really thought about the impact of their work. And you did the same with the alumni and benefactors. By the time I was briefing the vice-chancellor, you’d given us such a thorough head start, the meetings were almost a done deal. And when we pulled off a substantial donation, you put your writer hat on and blitzed the comms. How you did all of this with your world falling apart, I will never know. So, Kate, understand that I didn’t lie awake at night worrying about whether or not you could handle a spreadsheet.’
I’d spent so much time feeling like such a mess, worrying I’d melt down during inopportune professional moments. It was exhausting keeping that stormy inner world from leaking out into the public constantly. But, somehow, I had done a good job?
A shadow passes across Hugh’s face. ‘I know how debilitating it is to carry big problems into work every day and still function.’
What problems?
‘Why don’t you ever trust me?’ I ask, and it’s like I’ve winded him.
The greying temples and extra lines on his face have snuck up on me. And I watch as pain flits across his features for the briefest second. Deep pain. He shuts it down, fast, but it’s there long enough for me to see him in a different light. A little bit broken, perhaps, like Mum said, when he’s meant to be whole. Always emotionally together. Hugh is the lighthouse. Never the storm.
‘I do trust you. And I will tell you. But let’s just close the loop on this conversation first,’ he says. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot this afternoon, and your work. And mine. And there’s something I need to get off my chest.’
The house itself seems to still in this moment, as if even the walls are listening.
‘I know you think you’re dropping the ball all the time, but you make up for it with your creativity. This film project is unlike anything we’ve ever done, at least since I’ve been involved. The universal disconnect and rivalry between faculties over funding has been a thorn in the tertiary sector’s side for decades. I know we’re not going to fix it with one project, but it’s the spirit of the strategic thinking that could open up some exciting new directions.’
‘This doesn’t sound like a problem,’ I say.
‘It’s the opposite. But you’ve got so much self-doubt. And it’s very badly placed. You know you’re crucial to me, Kate?’
I do not know that. Not in so many words.
‘But here’s the quandary.’ He pauses, like he’s deliberating whether or not to forge through the rest. ‘This job is holding you back.’
Something in his tone silences my inevitable protest. Or perhaps it’s that his statement echoes Mum’s.
‘I didn’t ever want you to feel like you owed me for the flexibility or feel in any way guilty for wanting something more than I can ever offer.’
He’s never made me feel that way. This feels like we’re breaking up. Again, making Mum’s point!
‘The thing is, Kate, you’re the only person in the organisation who I’m genuinely scared to lose. But you’re also the one I really should stop trying so hard to retain.’
26
I’ve spent the last two years trying to build a fortress for me and Charlie, clinging to the idea of certainty and safety and security. I guess that’s what people do when chaos wipes them off their feet and they lose control of everything. Suddenly it all feels precarious.
‘The future I imagined just combusted,’ I tell Hugh. ‘It was my own personal apocalypse. And then I was forced to stagger to my feet and pull Charlie out of the rubble and rebuild everything from scratch. I’ve had to cling hard to my own life. I’ve needed help to stay in a world that felt impossible to exist in without Cam.’
He knows this; he’s provided some of that help. He rests his hand on the banister and waits for more of the monologue that I sense is about to pour itself out of my runaway mouth.
I sit on a step, clearly settling in to deliver quite the lecture. Hugh lets go of the banister and props himself against the wood-panelled wall, putting more space between us. Giving me the floor.