Read an Excerpt

As Far as You Can Go

A Novel

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

The lift is lined with mirrors, with many Cassies. She can see a back view of herself, a queue of back views receding deep into the bleary yellow-tinged glass, each one with the same amateurish French pleat. She licks her fingers and tries to smooth the wisps back. She pulls out a lipstick and does her lips. She does want to be plausible.

Room 302 is round the corner from the lift. A cart full of folded sheets and towels, sachets of coffee and shampoo waits in the corridor and from the open door of the room next door comes the dreary whine of a vacuum cleaner banging against skirting boards. She knocks on the door, the weak sound of her knuckles disappearing into dark wood. Whoever was vacuuming bursts into 'I Will Survive', triumphantly out of tune.

She waits and knocks again, harder. The numbers 302 are made of some metal, maybe brass, the 2 skew-whiff. The door opens. The man is small with a grey, pointy beard. His wiry eyebrows are winged upwards, maybe that's what makes him seem surprised. He's wearing a black polo-necked sweater and his hair is a luxuriant, not far off bouffant, silver.

'Cassandra? Larry Drake. Delighted to meet you.' His hand as it takes hers is small and soft. He looks behind her.

'Graham wasn't well enough to travel, I'm afraid,' she says. 'Flu. He's really sorry.'

He pauses. 'A shame. No matter. Hold on.' He leans past her to hook a 'Do Not Disturb' notice on the door-handle. 'Come in, shall I order coffee?'

'No, but thanks.'

He gestures her into the room, a room dominated by a huge bed. Wouldn't the lobby have been better? she thinks. Seems very odd to be squeezing round a bed with a complete stranger.

'Please, do sit down.'

Two chairs have been arranged beside the window where the sunlight struggles in through a swathe of net. On the bed, amongst a scatter of papers, she can see her letter of application, written one morning when Graham was still asleep. She'd gone out, got the paper, read it, seen the ad, written the letter, gone out again and posted it. And all before he'd even opened his eyes.

'Can I offer you a drink?' Larry says.

'No thanks.' Or is it rude to refuse? 'Maybe some water,' she says, 'please.'

He takes a Perrier from the mini-bar and hands it to her with a glass.

'Do you not drink alcohol?'

'Not at eleven in the morning!'

He regards her for a moment. 'Mind if I do?'

She blushes. 'Course not!'

He tips a miniature Scotch into a glass and sits down. They are close, knees only inches apart. There should be a desk or something between them. She feels exposed. Her knees vulnerable in the sheer biscuit-coloured tights. Should have worn trousers. Should have been herself.

His nails are sharp and pearly and chink against his glass. He gazes at her for a moment, saying nothing. Cassie makes herself gaze back. His face is carefully shaved, a thin moustache like a strip of pipe cleaner, a little stripe of beard between his lower lip and the grey point on his chin. It must be more trouble than ordinary shaving. Almost like topiary. His eyebrows make him look devilish with the wiry licks at the ends. The skin beside the grey whiskers is tanned like fine leather, lightly creased.

'Well then,' he says at last, 'tell me why you'd like the job. You and Graham.'

Cassie clears her throat. 'Well, we feel – Graham and I – we both feel like we want to do something else.'

He leans back in his chair and crosses his ankles. 'Ah, I see. An adventure?'

'Yes. Sort of. Exactly.'

'Life a bit dull, eh?'

'No, no, we just thought we'd like a change. Patsy, my twin sister, she's had a baby and I want to do something. Before I do. Have a baby, I mean.'

Larry nods. 'Well then, tell me about yourself.'

Cassie takes a breath and goes though the list: school, degree, jobs. He listens politely. 'Thank you,' he says. 'Now tell me about you.'

'Me?'

'The relevant you.'

'Relevant!' Cassie tries to think of something witty, can't, the wait goes on too long. She blushes again, tries to laugh. 'Not much to say.' So lame. The right applicant will not be lame. She remembers her water and takes a prickly sip.

He makes a small impatient sound, looks at his watch. That's that then, she thinks.

'For example,' he says, 'what do you like to do?'

'Well, I love gardening. That's actually what caught my eye in your advert. I teach it.'

'Yes?'

'Organic gardening – adult education.'

'Ah.'

'And I thought it might make an interesting module – you know gardening in another climate. What's the climate like in Western Australia?'

'Hot. We're right on the tropic of Capricorn, fringes of the desert.'

'Desert,' she repeats with relish. 'I was reading something about that, about desert reclamation, the use of mulches –'

He laughs. 'Well you'd be very welcome to experiment. I'm sure the garden would flourish.'

'What do you grow?'

'Oh,' he waves his hand, 'tomatoes and so on. Now, what else do you have to recommend you?'

'Just the usual things,' she says, 'cooking I enjoy. Dressmaking and mending things. I really enjoy decorating, strange as that may seem.' She pauses, notices a pink smudge of lipstick on the rim of her glass. 'But gardening and cooking are what I like best. Ideally combining the two, growing things and then cooking them –'

'A useful person indeed,' he says. 'Now, tell me about Graham.'

She looks down at the bubbles streaming to the surface of her water. 'As I said in my letter, he's a painter.' He waits for more but her mind goes blank. 'He plays the harmonica a bit sometimes, but not in public,' she says.

'You probably have questions,' Larry says, withdrawing himself a little, taking another sip of Scotch. 'The advertisement was anything but explicit. Deliberately so, in order not to – cut off avenues prematurely. You see?'

She wonders how old he is. The white hair made him seem quite old at first but the way he moves is young – the way he speaks – you can't tell. There's something pleasantly reptilian about him, a grain of gold in his skin. If he took off his shirt you wouldn't be surprised to find a pattern there, like lizard skin. She blinks, startled by the thought.

'Well –?'

'What would we actually do?' she says. 'On a daily basis, I mean.'

'What would you expect to do?'

'I'm not sure – housekeeping and so on?'

'Yes. Certainly that. Mara, my wife, she is not – let us say not entirely "well". She needs help with –' the corner of his lip twitches, 'housekeeping, yes, but she also needs companionship. I'm away sometimes, and,' he stretches out his arms, 'as you see, the place we live – Woolagong Station – it's somewhat ... remote.'

'Station?'

'Was a sheep station, half a million acres, but it's no longer worked.'

'Half a million acres?'

'Farms – what you would call farms – are much bigger there. A different scale entirely.'

'How far is Woolagong from – say, Perth?' she asks.

'A long way. What drew me to your application, Cassandra –'

'Most people call me Cassie.'

'Cassie. Charming. Well, do call me Larry. What interested me – us – was that Graham paints. You see Mara – well, she has painted in the past, she was good. I think it would benefit her to have the company of another painter. Would Graham be prepared to encourage her, do you think?'

'Definitely.'

'And is he handy too? There might be some maintenance work involved.'

'Well, I'm "handier" than him actually. He's more the, you know, "artist".'

He raises his flying eyebrows. 'Do you happen to have a photograph of him?'

Cassie takes her purse out of her bag and hands him a photo. Graham on the beach, bare tanned torso, his long black hair tied back from his face, so that it could look short. It gives her a pang to see it, him suddenly there in the room, as she lines up her ultimatum. It might be the end of them. She swallows.

Larry glances at the photo, nods and hands it back without comment. 'Are there any medical conditions I should know about? Either of you on any prescription drugs?'

'No.'

'Any psychological problems?'

She frowns.

'You see, Woolagong is quite remote. The couple I appoint, they must be – how shall I say? Quite stable and robust.' Larry laces his fingers together, bends them back till the knuckles click. 'I'd be taking a risk, without meeting Graham. How would you describe him?'

She looks down at the photo. 'He's – it's difficult to describe someone, isn't it? He's artistic, he's not that domestic to be honest. He's good company, very you know, popular.' She presses her lips together, wondering what sort of popular he's being at this very moment. 'He's robust and –' she crosses her fingers in her lap, 'stable. We both are.'

Larry smiles. 'I must say you sound perfect.'

'Do we?' She feels a little spurt of pride and pleasure.

'If you were to be offered the positions I'd need full medical reports – blood groups and so on.'

'Of course.'

'And when would you be available to begin?'

'Whenever you like.'

'Good, good.' He smiles. 'If we said early October? That would be better for you – spring. You'd acclimatise better. So.' He puts his glass down. 'How does it sound? Housekeeping, gardening, companionship – some artistic input from Graham, who would, of course, be free to pursue his own interests in that direction. In fact, that in itself would be an encouragement for Mara. And the rest of the time your own. Perhaps, with your organic methods, you could reclaim the desert!' His face creases into a full-on smile.

Cassie smiles back. Is he offering them the job? 'I expect you've got others to see?'

'No other painter has applied,' he says. 'And you seem very,' he pauses, searching in a leisurely way for the right word, 'suitable. In every possible way. As for remuneration, I'd pay your expenses – quite considerable, incidentally – and your keep would be, of course, entirely gratis. And if you complete a year with us, that is a full twelve calendar months, you'll receive 25,000 Australian dollars.'

'Twenty-five thousand dollars!'

'Australian dollars.'

'That's still good, isn't it?'

'Yes. But I must stress that this is payable only as a whole sum at the end of the twelve months. If one or both of you decide to leave us before the year is up, well, there would be no pro-rata offer. It's all or nothing.'

'Fair enough.'

'Don't decide now. Think it over. Discuss it with Graham.'

'Is this – I mean, are you actually offering us the job?'

He smiles. 'I have prepared a small display, to give you an idea of what to expect. Or perhaps to tempt you.' He indicates a slide projector on the bedside table.

Opposite Cassie is a woman, fast asleep, her mouth gaping open to show a full house of dark grey fillings. Cassie looks away and tries to drink her cardboard cup of tea, but it's too scalding hot. She takes out her phone. There's a message from Patsy, of course, asking her how it went. She rings her back.

'So?' Patsy says.

'It all seems great.'

'So you'll go?'

'Don't know.' She looks down at the photo Larry gave her. Low tin-roofed buildings against blue sky, red dirt, hens, wind pump, gum tree, dog slinking away in the distance. The shadow of the photographer sharp in the dirt. Woolagong Station. 'It looks great, really great but –'

'Depends on Graham?'

'Mmmm. I don't know what he'll say. You just can't tell, with him.'

'A year. We've never been apart so long – or so far apart.'

'If only you could come.'

'Some hope.' Patsy laughs. Cassie can hear baby Katie grumbling in her arms.

'Hi Katie,' Cassie says. 'Oh, do you really think it'll work?'

'Worth a try,' Patsy says. 'Though I still don't get it. Graham ? When there's so many other – I much preferred Rod.'

'Don't Pats. Listen, I'll ring you when I get home.'

Cassie gazes at the photo. After the interview, Larry had drawn the curtains and shone a glorious light-show on them: red rocks and gleaming ice-white trees, vivid green, water so blue it had made her blink, all rumpled against the curtain folds, everything warped and oddly shadowed but still. Weird to be in a darkened room with an almost stranger watching images of a distant land. Maybe a bit foolish. He could have been anyone, done anything. But he was fine, practically, she smiles at the old-fashioned expression that comes to her, a gentleman. Still, it had felt oddly intimate, the dimness and the soft hum of the projector, dust specks dancing in the wedge of coloured light.

'You will be welcomed by flowers that time of year,' he'd said and showed her a meadow, you could only call it that: acres of blue, yellow, sparks of red amongst the green. He had told her how the dust comes to life in spring, how magical it is, what a relief to thirsty eyes, the colour and the rising sap. What a miracle in the – almost – desert.

She would love to see it for herself. But it might not happen. Tonight might be the end. She hugs herself miserably. It could all backfire on her. Graham might tell her to get stuffed. But she has to try it. She attempts to drink her tea but the train lurches and it spills, splashes on the photo. She picks it up and shakes the drips away. The woman wakes, closes her mouth, makes a fussy pecking sound.

'How long's the flight?' she'd asked, when the slide-show was finished, the curtains opened.

'About twenty hours.'

'God,' she'd said. 'So far.'

'About as far as you can go,' Larry had replied, 'before you come back up the other side.'

Graham yawns, watches Jas grind out the wet end of the spliff. She lies down again. Sunlight through the window scatters glitters on the ceiling, reflecting off the tiny mirrors on her bedspread. Like underwater, he thinks. She nuzzles her head under his chin, spiky hair tickling his nose so he has to smooth it down. He puts his arms round her. Tiny thing, like a fish in his arms, her little bones.

'Nice,' she murmurs into his chest. 'Welcome back.'

He sighs.

'What's up?'

'Nothing.'

She pulls back, squints at him. 'It's Cassie, isn't it? Isn't it?'

He looks at her, puzzled. Of course it's Cassie. What does she think? She glares at him and pulls abruptly away, curls her back against him, the vertebrae standing out like knuckles under her tawny skin. He runs his finger down them.

'Don't.'

He hauls himself up. Sits back against the wall where she's tacked a length of purple velvet. The whole room is mirrors and ethnic stuff, the smell of patchouli and Christ knows.

'Where is she?' Jas's voice is muffled.

'Dunno,' he says, 'London.'

'Why are you here?' Jas demands. She sits up suddenly and runs her fingers through her hair. Short, sticky, hennaed hair. Tiny tits. Just peaked nipples on her ribcage really. He thinks of Cassie's soft white breasts and shakes his head.

'Well, you'll have to go soon, I'm going out.' She looks at him a minute, as if waiting for him to ask her not to but he says nothing. She gets up. Pulls on a pair of tatty purple knickers, embroidered jeans, a long sweater.

He pulls himself together. The grass has slowed his mind. Shouldn't do it, gives him weird dreams, makes him do weird things. Cassie doesn't smoke and he doesn't much either when with her, she's good for him that way.

'Are you upset?' he says.

She hunches towards a mirror, putting stuff round her eyes.

'I would just like to know what the hell you're playing at. What was that all about?' She gestures at the bed.

He shakes his head and the room sways, a second behind. Sex, of course. What does she thinks it was about? She turns and puts her hands on her hips. One eye darkened, the other not. Her funny squinty brown eyes funnier than ever.

A laugh comes out.

'What are you laughing at?'

He shrugs. 'I dunno, Jas. Cup of tea?'

'Get it yourself. I'm going out.'

'Where?'

'None of your business.' She storms about, collecting things and stuffing them in a bag. He marvels at her energy, she's almost a blur of movement if you half shut your eyes and filter her through your lashes. She gives an exasperated sigh, stops, flumps down on the bed and takes his hand. He looks down at the small brown paw, nails bitten to the quick, silver rings on every finger and thumb. At least one of these he will have given her, way back when they were together. She looks into his eyes again, eyebrows oddly black with her hair so red.

'So, you still serious about her?' She does not look into his eyes.

'Did I ever say I wasn't?'

'So why are you here?'

He frowns. The question tires him.

'Why?' she insists.

'Because I am.'

She snorts, stands up again. 'Sorry, Graham. That's not good enough any more.'

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Excerpted from As Far as You Can Go by Lesley Glaister. Copyright © 2004 Lesley Glaister. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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