Life With Riley

Taking the hint, he opened the door, closing it behind him before he bent to say, “Thanks.”

Riley turned the key and did a fast turn out of the cul-de-sac. At the first traffic light she tilted the rearview mirror and peered into it. A faint smudge of green still marked her cheekbone. Scrubbing at it with the heel of her hand, she blew a fine strand of hair away from her mouth.

No wonder Benedict Falkner had found her amusing. Maybe she should have her hair cut short. But it would need to be properly styled and then regularly maintained to look halfway decent, and hairdressers were expensive. She wore it just past shoulder length so she could keep it trimmed herself and tie it back out of the way.

Back at the house Samuela, swathed in a brightly colored sarong that left her smooth brown shoulders and plump arms bare, had her hands buried in a large bowl, and had hardly raised her tightly ringleted black head to say hello to Riley before ordering Logie to bring those carrots over if he’d finished murdering them. There was a strong smell of curry in the air. Tonight’s dinner would be a triumph or a disaster. Sam’s cooking knew no half measures.

Retreating to her room, Riley retrieved from the floor the satin pajamas her parents had sent her at Christmas, pulled the imitation-patchwork duvet over the bed and closed the book she’d dropped on the rag mat last night, placing it on the painted box that served as a night table.

She’d rushed out early to get the morning paper and study the Situations Vacant before going to her polytech course.

Closing the gaping door of her second-hand rimu wardrobe, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and grimaced.

Impatiently she stripped off the grubby T-shirt and leggings and bundled them into an Ali Baba basket in the corner. At least in briefs and a bra she didn’t look half grown. Her figure might be small but it was quite curvy.

Still, she couldn’t go round wearing undies. She dragged a clean pair of shorts and another T-shirt from a drawer, put them on and went to the bathroom next to her room to wash her face.

The curry was one of Samuela’s disasters. She kept apologizing as the others, red-eyed and spluttering, bravely mixed it with rice and washed it down with cold water. All night there was a constant parade to the bathroom, and the old pipes gurgled and thundered after each visit, keeping Riley half-awake until dawn.

When her alarm went off she huddled under the duvet in denial for ten minutes, but finally crawled out of bed, had a cool shower in an effort to wake herself properly, then made herself toast and coffee.

Back in her bedroom, she pulled out the dark-green skirt she wore for job interviews, and a short-sleeved, pin-tucked cream blouse she’d bought for a song in Singapore, buttoning it as she slid bare feet into heeled shoes that gave her a little extra height but were still comfortable to wear.

After dragging a brush over her hair, she picked up a hair tie and raced out to her car, slipping the elastic temporarily over her wrist.

The traffic was heavy at this time of the morning, and while waiting in a line of cars to move through a set of lights, Riley pulled back her hair and twisted the elastic band about it.

She drew up outside Benedict Falkner’s house with ten minutes to spare and anxiously checked her appearance in the rearview mirror.

Her skin was even paler than normal, the freckles on her nose standing out against her skin. With her hair smoothed back her face seemed thin, the faint blue hollows under her eyes a legacy of her sleepless night.

On impulse she pulled the elastic tie off and tucked her hair back behind her ears.

She was surveying herself critically again when the passenger door opened and Benedict said, “Have I kept you waiting?”

Riley returned the mirror to its proper position. “I was early.”

He climbed in, put a newspaper on the dashboard and parked a briefcase in front of his feet, giving Riley an appraising glance as he fastened his seat belt. “Going somewhere special?” he asked, eyeing the neat skirt and blouse.

Riley put the car into gear. “Maybe a job interview.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Anything, really.” If she didn’t find a second job soon she’d have to give up her car. But without a car she couldn’t make it to the day care center in time after leaving her class, meaning she’d have no job at all and no money. “Something with flexible hours that pays well, if I had a choice.”

“You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? I suppose it doesn’t pay much.”

Riley turned to look at him for a moment. “Artist?”

“Yesterday you were covered in paint. I thought…”

She laughed. “The artist is three years old. He wasn’t too sure exactly what it was he was supposed to be painting—me, himself, or the paper I’d given him to do his picture on.”

She slowed at the intersection to look for oncoming traffic, swung out of the cul-de-sac and changed gear again. Benedict was gazing through the windscreen at the oncoming traffic but probably thinking of something else.

“Are you married?” he asked her as she accelerated.

Riley threw him a startled look before returning her eyes to the road. “No.” She’d asked him the same thing yesterday, she recalled.

A car shot out of a driveway ahead of them, and she flattened the brake. Benedict was jerked against his seat belt, the newspaper falling from the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Riley gasped as the engine stalled.

“Not your fault. Bloody idiot,” he added as the other car roared off ahead of them.

“Yes,” Riley agreed. “There are lots of them around.” Restarting the engine, she added, “And please don’t say anything about pots calling kettles black.”

“Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Benedict assured her blandly. He bent to pick up the newspaper, looking at the headlines. “So…what’s the three-year-old artist’s name?”

She thought he’d forgotten all about that remark. “Tamati. He’s quite a sweetie.” Her lips curved affectionately. “Bit of a mischief if you don’t keep him occupied, though.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his swift glance at her. “Tamati…Maori?”

“Mmm, his father’s Maori.” She slowed at a corner, peering carefully for other traffic before accelerating again.

“Uh-huh.” Benedict unfolded the paper so he could read the front page. Later he turned to other pages, careful to fold them out of her way. By the time they reached his office building he’d read the main news and was perusing the business section.

When he made to fold it and gather up the rest, she said, “Do you want the Situations Vacant pages?”

“No. Do you?”

“If you can spare them, thanks.”

“Have the lot, I’ve finished with it.” He placed it on the dashboard again.

“Thanks. I’ll be here at five-thirty,” she promised. “Okay?”

“Look, you don’t really need—”

“I feel bad about your car, and it’s the least I can do, especially since you’re willing to take your money in installments.”

“All right,” Benedict said at last, but his voice sounded clipped and distant. “If you insist.”

When she fetched him, he nodded to her as he got in, not commenting on the fact that she was back in jeans and a T-shirt. She had made sure her face was clean and retied her hair but, anxious not to be late again, hadn’t taken the time to change out of her work clothes. Benedict Falkner had already seen how she looked at the end of an afternoon helping to keep twenty children stimulated and happy. And anyway, she wasn’t trying to impress him, was she?

As she merged the Corona into a stream of traffic, he reached for his briefcase, then apparently changed his mind, sitting back and folding his arms.

“If you want to work,” she said, “it’s okay.”