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coffee table. Over dinner Jan breezed through the story of her life: family, farm, pets, friends, marriage and break-up. Bill nodded and smiled, saying little, feeling detached, as if not really there, but gazing from afar at two other people. "Well, that was great," he said, soon after dessert, pushing himself back from the table, "but I'd better be off. I'm sorry I've been such bad company." "You look very tired," answered Jan. "But it's been great to have you here." At the door she hugged him. Shocked by the tightness in his body, she squeezed him a little, then loosened her hold, and with a firm hand drew his head to rest on her shoulder. He tensed, but relaxed as she began to stroke the back of his neck. After a while, Jan raised his face to gaze directly into hers, and with a curiously mother-like gesture brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes. "Stay a little longer," she murmured. Bill detached himself, stepped back and glared at her. "I'm sorry. I can't. It's not you. It's me." He shook his head and hurried to the door. "Have a nice life!" Jan shouted after him, as he ran down the garden path. There was a bottle of red wine on the table, still almost full. Jan poured a glass and drank it, frowning, recalling the fear in his eyes as he'd faced her across the dinner table. "Story of my shitty life," she muttered. "Nice guy, full of bloody issues." Then the amusing thought that Bill had been looking at her through rose tinted glasses made Jan laugh through her tears. She put on some loud music, cleared the dinner table and washed and dried the dishes. Then she poured another wine and sat down to watch a DVD. Later in the evening, when the phone rang, 'Oh my God, let it be him,' she rushed to answer it. But it was Gazza. The next day, Bill's lawyer told him about the allegation Rose had made. He was quite sure that Rose was lying, but as he explained to Bill, sometimes an allegation by itself is enough. "If I were to tell you," he said, "that my receptionist stinks, you might not believe me, but you'd sure as hell have a good sniff when you walk past her. And if I said I know, for a fact, that the bloke at the shop where you buy your fish and chips doesn't wash his hands after he's been to the loo, you'd keep right away, wouldn't you?" Bill screwed up his face. "I've been expecting something like this." "So have I," frowned the lawyer. "Saying she'll only agree to your having supervised contact with the child, she had to attempt to justify that somehow. What we need to do now is...". Bill jumped to his feet, waving his arms. "Night after bloody night," he exploded, "I cared for Cherie, while Rose was out pissing up with her mates! Played with her, put her to bed, told her stories, cuddled her, and just loved her. Gave up any hope of a social life for me. Made the wee girl my entire focus. Now I can't be trusted to be alone with her! Shit! It's just not fair!" He stomped to the window and stared out for several minutes at the city three storeys below, his elbows on the windowsill, his knees bent, almost kneeling. A picture of despair, poor bugger, thought the lawyer, his grey eyes fixed on Bill's back. Bill returned to the chair in front of the desk and sat ashen-faced. "I can't win, can I?" "Mediation hasn't worked. Your next step would be a formal court process." Bill shook his head. "No. I've got no fight left in me." "You'll probably find if you agree to supervised contact, she'll drop the allegation." Bill opened his mouth, gave a little cry, and hung his head. "How are you feeling?" asked the lawyer after a while. "Bewildered. Defeated. Pissed off." The lawyer nodded and waited. "And do you know the worst thing?" whispered Bill. "I'd like you to tell me." Bill glanced up at the lawyer's face. "Just before dad died," he mumbled, "he talked to me about the war. Said he could handle it while it was happening. But when he got home, he was walking through town one day, a car back-fired and he dived into the gutter. After that, he said he was too scared to go out." He swallowed and moistened his lips. "Which is pretty much the way I feel now." "Met someone, have you?" said the old lawyer, shaking his head. "Too soon for that, young fella. Too hard on both of you." Bruce Costello about the author After 22 years of professional counselling and therapy practice in Dunedin, Bruce Costello and his wife, Karen retired to the idyllic village of Hampden in North Otago, where Bruce has taken up short story writing. Have your story published! Here's how to enter our Short Story Competition: Entries need to have a maximum of 1200 words and will be selected based on their interest and professional standard. Entries are to be emailed to: hermag@strettonpublishing.co.nz Subject line: Short Story Competition Terms and Conditions: Entries to have a maximum of 1200 words, submitted in double spacing, including a short biography of the writer. Entries close the 20th of each month. Each entry must be the author's original work and must not have been published before. The winner each month will be notified prior to publication, which will be at the editor's discretion. Her Magazine retains first publication rights for all winning entries for a period of six months. Entries from the previous month cannot be resubmitted for following months' competitions – i.e. entries can be submitted only once. Each entry must be original and must be submitted by the author. The judges' decision will be final and no correspondence will be entered into. Submission of each entry constitutes acceptance by the submitter of the competition's terms and conditions of entry. www.hermagazine.co.nz HER MAGAZINE | February/March 2012 | 125