Opportunity by Charlotte Grimshaw Page A

She was tall, curvy,
with straight sandy hair and an intense way of looking, her
head turned sideways, her blue eyes fixed. She looked me in
the eye for too long. I turned away. Each time I came out to
reception she would stare like this, and when I turned away I
saw her looking at me in the window's reflection. It was hard
to communicate with her. It was as if she wasn't listening; she
was thinking.
    'Got that?' I asked.
    She looked startled and blushed. Then she gave me a goofy,
crazy smile and backed away.
    I closed the door. What a weird woman, I thought. She
wasn't like this with everyone. She liked me. It was flattering,
but it worried me. She didn't seem to care about normal rules.
What would Clarice think? I hadn't done anything but I felt
furtive, guilty.
    After work I was going to drive to the gym. Viola was
standing by my car.
    'All right?' I said.
    'My car's broken down.'
    'Have you called someone?'
    'Not yet.' She gasped and laughed. There was something
about her craziness, her helpless, raw ineptitude. It gave me a
funny, dizzy feeling, as if everything I'd built around myself
had fallen away. A long look passed between us. I saw myself
pulling her into the stairwell, pushing her against the wall, my
mouth against hers. She saw my expression; she blinked. Then
she gave me an uncanny smile. I ran my hand through my
hair. I picked up my sports bag and turned away.
    She watched as I drove past, her expression fixed, dreamy,
wild. I drove to the gym. I worked it off. I burned the moment
away.
    Then I went home to Karen and watched her making
phonecalls. I thought how much I loved her. Karen is never
embarrassed or shy or awkward. She always knows what to
say. I never feel a fool when I'm with her, never feel ashamed.
She is tough and competent. She is of the world . Not like
lawless, staring Viola, asking too much, asking for trouble.
Now Karen was going through my accounts, with the hard,
humourless look she has when she's thinking about money.
    'Want to know how much you made this month?'
    I laughed. I think of Karen as golden . She leaned back
    on the couch and I lay on top of her, ran my hands through her yellow hair.
    ***
    It was late on a Sunday night. Karen and I were in the bedroom
upstairs. I was reading; she was watching TV with the sound
turned down. The phone rang. I answered it and heard her
voice, soft, urgent. 'Dr Lampton?'
    I registered her ridiculous formality. Everyone called me
Simon. Perhaps she thought it was some kind of disguise.
    'Viola,' I said, with a flash of guilt. Then I was really angry.
I went to hang up.
    'I'm with a man,' she said.
    'What?' I grappled with the phone.
    She whispered, 'He says he's your father.'
    My hands started to shake.
    'I was walking home from the pub. He stopped his taxi and
asked if I wanted a ride. We started talking. I told him what
my job was. He asked were you Dr Lampton . . . and he said
he was your father.'
    'Where are you?'
    'I'm in his flat. He invited me. He's drinking. He's
getting . . . angry.'
    'Angry?'
    'Is he violent?' she asked.
    I got up off the bed. Karen sat up and stared.
    'Oh, Christ. Just leave.'
    There was a pause. 'He won't let me,' she whispered.
    Again I went to hang up. But if he injured her . . . She was
asking for help. He was my father. She had me. I raged at her
silently. There was a bang, cursing, in the background. I
started. 'Viola? Are you there?'
    'He says he hates you, hates everything.'
    'Okay. Just wait. I'll help.'
    'All right,' she said, being brave. I saw myself punching her.
Then I pictured him punching her. I was on the verge of tears.
'Don't worry, darling,' I said.
    Karen caught my arm. 'What is going on? Who's "darling"?
Simon!' she shouted after me. I dressed, ran downstairs, got in
my car.
    On the way I rang the police. I must have made it sound
serious. When I turned into the street there were patrol cars,
and police on the wooden fire escape. They had Viola in the
yard, and further up the stairs my father was