The Mistake

by Katie McMahon

  ‘Well, they certainly weren’t swimming. She had no lifejacket. No wetsuit. She wasn’t being supervised.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Stuart! She wanted to have a paddle. He’d gone to the car park – like, thirty steps away – to get her a towel. I would have thought you’d be pleased she was enjoying herself.’

  Stuart’s eyes remained fixed on the wall, near where the skirting board would have been if the room had had one. He sat next to Bec, with his knees apart, his feet pointing straight ahead, his forearms on his thighs.

  ‘So there’s nothing you need to do, Officer? No immediate steps I can take to ensure my children’s safety?’ he said.

  ‘No crime has been committed today,’ the officer said, again. ‘You’ll obviously need to take your own legal advice about long-term custodial arrangements and so on.’

  Bec felt the way Stuart went even more still. She could still feel things like that. You couldn’t just cut yourself off from someone, whatever you decided. There were links, no matter what you believed, and your body reacted whether you wanted it to or not.

  ‘Thank you for your help today, Officer,’ Stuart said. He stood up and walked out. Essie looked after him, then at Bec. Then she went back to her screen.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kate

  It was wintery Sunday morning, and in the correct and traditional manner of newish couples, we were at home reading the papers. Adam had gone out to buy actual newsprint – ‘May as well do the thing properly’ – and now he was sitting on my couch, lower lip stretched, reading an article about American politics.

  I was making us both more coffee. The moment he heard me pouring beans into the machine, he looked up and said, ‘Want me to do that, babe?’

  ‘’S OK.’ I kept looking at him as he turned back to his paper. The weekend bristle, and the angle of his jaw, and the little frown of concentration, and the stretched, vulnerable neckline of his blue T-shirt.

  The words were proving impossible to say. I meant them. They just wouldn’t come out. I was like the opposite of those insincere people who constantly talk about how much they ‘love’ (or, more annoyingly, ‘are loving’) other people. (Oh! Her! I just love her! Oh! Him! I am just loving him!)

  I got on with the coffee.

  After a while, Adam picked up another bit of newspaper. He looked up again, ran a finger around the edge of his neckline, and said, ‘D’you think you’ll always want to live in an apartment?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ I put the milk jug on the bench, and explained why I bought my apartment, which was because I wanted to be somewhere where I could always see people, and life. ‘It was partly just so I stayed, you know, in it. In life. And’ – I picked up the milk and began pouring it – more carefully than usual – into our cups – ‘I know this sounds odd, but sometimes I would kind of, look out at everyone, and I’d think: lots of people have it worse and we all suffer, so I should toughen up.’

  He nodded, as if he understood, and as if that was entirely reasonable.

  He was so great.

  After we were settled with the coffees and our papers again, I said, ‘When I was younger, I always thought I’d like to live in a little old-fashioned cottage, but near the city. And the water.’

  ‘Like Albert Park or somewhere?’

  ‘Yes! Exactly.’ I mentioned a particular Albert Park street and a particular Albert Park café, and he looked at me so – I don’t know – condescendingly – that I said, ‘But public transport’s not very good to Albert Park,’ and went back to my article about cryptocurrency. Obviously, that only lasted for about five seconds.

  ‘Adam,’ I said, ‘if you don’t want to move in together, that’s fine, I’m not even the one who brought it up, you’ll notice, and you are actually here in my house, from which you’re free to go. I’m not cramping your space or invading your territory or hinting about wedding rings or doing whatever it is men apparently get so worried women are going to do. God! Is this because I’m nearly forty? Have you just read some terrifying article about female nesting instinct or something?’

  ‘Kate, I’m totally up for moving in together.’ His voice was a tiny bit different from usual when he added, ‘If you are.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ I looked down at cryptocurrency, fought a brief and unsuccessful battle against my no-doubt-beaming face, looked up again, and said, ‘Just not in Albert Park?’

  ‘Well.’ He shut his paper. ‘Albert Park’s astronomically expensive.’

  ‘I know that.’ I shut my own paper, and there was a slight edge to my voice, because I knew a lot about real estate, probably more than he did, and I did not appreciate his superior, I’m-so-working-class-and-down-to-earth tone. ‘But Adam, this apartment is worth a lot of money. You know, I have quite a lot of money.’ We hadn’t actually had this conversation. ‘Literally millions, four or five million dollars, invested. And I own a unit in Cheltenham, and a couple of other places.’ I bought in good areas ages ago, before the market went crazy. I am actually extremely good at money. ‘So. If we seriously were looking for a nice little house, together, well, that’d be lovely. And Albert Park wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Yeeaaahhh.’

  I knew men could be funny about income and bread-winning and all that, so I breathed in and out and resolved to be sensitive and patient. ‘Would you feel awkward about living in a house, if I’d paid for more than half of it?’

  ‘Yeah. Nah. I don’t know. I wouldn’t want – remember what you said, in the restaurant that time?’ He nudged my leg with his foot, and smiled. ‘Actually “said” is probably not right. “Hissed” would be more the word. About your money.’

  ‘I remember exactly what I hissed, and that was a totally different situation.’ More deep breathing. Clear, direct, honest, patient, forgiving, et cetera. ‘I realise now that you were not trying to defraud me, which was my concern, at the time.’

  ‘Babe, I just don’t want that possibility even being in your mind.’

  ‘Do you think I’d be here now if that possibility was “in my mind”?’ My voice was rising. ‘You’d lied to me, repeatedly, if you remember.’ Then I collected myself and said, ‘For which I have magnanimously forgiven you, due to the Sexy Head of a Drug-Lord-Fighting Task Force situation. But it was different then.’ (In addition to his badge, I had now seen his firearm safe. And his gun. And, once, when we’d been at Victoria Market, a pair of uniformed police officers had nodded at him, all respectful. They’d then nodded at me, even more respectfully. In fact, their gazes had been so glued to my face, it’d seemed as if someone inside their heads was bawling, ‘Eyes UP, lads!’)

  ‘It’s—’ he began.

  ‘Oh, just stop being so stupid.’ Actually, there’s no point being with someone you have to tiptoe around. ‘I don’t – God, we don’t have to live on a policeman’s salary, do we? I want to share with you.’

  He made an amused face, as if I was cute. He’s so great.

  ‘Well. It’s a big thing, Kate. Let’s both think it over.’

  ‘I know. All right. Yes, of course, that’s fine.’ Gentle, sensitive, understanding. I could run workshops. ‘Anyway, Albert Park was just an idea.’

  He nodded. After a moment he added, ‘It’s nice you want to, Kate. Move in together.’

  ‘’Course I do.’ Then I added, ‘Obviously. You were there last night, right?’

  He did an ironic, macho wink, and we both went back to our papers. He looked really pleased.

  But I knew I was meant to say the love stuff too.

  *

  The next day, PPP and I took a long and unauthorised lunch break to celebrate the end of the semester, and also the fact that I had officially decided to do a PhD.

  ‘It’ll be great,’ said PPP. ‘I’m excited about your thesis already.’

  We had two glasses of wine each and shared a piece of really yummy chocolate-and-coconut cake for dessert, and she said, ‘This is lovely. I’m so glad you’ve been getting me out
of my eyrie.’

  It wasn’t until I was on my way home – at 3.17 p.m. – that I saw I had missed a call from Stuart. He picked up straight away.

  ‘Kate, sorry to bother you, but I’m very concerned about the children. Especially since this episode with Essie.’

  ‘What episode?’

  ‘He left her alone at Clifton on Friday. She was about to head in. By herself.’ There was no need for him to tell me who ‘he’ was.

  ‘No way!’ The fire-eater probably thought Essie could commune with the waves, allowing her child-spirit to connect with nature’s rhythms or something.

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  ‘Have you talked to Bec?’ I asked, even though I knew the two of them were spitting emails at each other.

  ‘Not productively,’ he said.

  I thought for a minute. Adam and I were due to head down to Hobart that very weekend. We were going to Hobart’s Dark Festival, which was an extremely fashionable thing to do, and also fun if you enjoy listening to electronic music, guzzling warm mulled alcohol, freezing, and eating artisan food off organic biodegradable plates all at the same time. Adam was keen – he’d booked a different nice hotel for us – and I was quite looking forward to it. The only snag was that Bec wanted us to go out for dinner so we could meet the fire-eater ‘properly’.

  I didn’t say all that to Stuart though. I just said, ‘We’re heading down this weekend. I’ll, you know, suss things out with her, and keep you in the loop.’ Now I understand why people use such ridiculous turns of phrase. It’s to avoid saying things like: ‘I will spy on my little sister and her lover, and then secretly report to you, her ex-husband.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry to involve you.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I am involved. In fact, Stuart?’ I thought some more. ‘I might go down early. Uni’s on holiday and—’ I’d been about to say that Adam had a very busy week coming up at work but decided not to as a) had life of my own and b) must be ‘circumspect’ about his detective-ing. ‘So if Bec wants me to stay again, I’ll just fly down in a day or so.’

  He said something about appreciating that and family support and the kids loved me and he ‘very much valued’ me. Then he added, ‘Maybe we could catch up on the Sunday? With Adam, I mean. The three of us?’

  He wouldn’t be used to the weekends, I realised.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to Redman’s again.’

  *

  That evening, while Adam was off fighting baddies, I called Bec.

  ‘Oh, Kate, I’d love that,’ she said, and I could tell she really meant it. ‘Stay as long as you like. The kids’ll love it too.’

  So I spent a tedious eleven minutes changing my flight to Hobart. I texted Juliet to postpone lunch, and called Adam. I explained I was going to head to Tassie early, the next morning in fact, and he said he’d come around straight after work.

  I was in bed, half asleep when he arrived. He came over to me, and I reached up and put my arm around his neck, and he leaned down so I could let my head rest in that place under his jaw for a while. Then I snuggled down into bed again. I heard him go into the bathroom, the shower go on, and then off. Finally, he slid into bed, and took my hand in both of his. I explained about Bec and Stuart and we talked a bit about our days, and then he adjusted his body behind me, his chest against my back, his hand on my waist. We said goodnight.

  ‘God, Kate.’ His voice was soft in the darkness.

  ‘Sorry?’ I half thought he was talking in his sleep.

  ‘You.’ He was speaking very quietly, but his voice was fervent, and he put his arm tighter around me. ‘Just. You.’

  I felt so soft, and so lucky, and so safe, and so in love.

  And I still couldn’t say it.

  *

  I arrived in Hobart early Tuesday morning. It’d now been over a month since Stuart and Bec separated, and the situation seemed to have settled as follows: Mum and BFG called her ‘Dear Bec’, as if her leaving her lovely husband for an incompetent fire-eater was a sort of heartbreaking accident.

  They called Stuart ‘Poor Stuart’.

  Mum had christened Ryan ‘That Fire-eater Man’, even though she had never before in living memory identified anyone by their occupation. (‘She’s not a cleaner; she’s a person who cleans,’ and so on.)

  Also, we all called them the ‘Darling Children’. Like in Peter Pan.

  Poor Stuart, who was renting a tiny flat near the hospital, had the Darling Children after school once a week (on Wednesdays) and every second weekend. The plan was that this would continue while he reorganised his workload and they sold the house and he got a bigger place and blah-blah-medieval-calibre-bloodletting-blah.

  As far as I could see, Dear Bec spent most of her time ringing child psychologists with huge waiting lists and meeting revoltingly jaunty real estate agents and having ‘passionate’ sex with That Fire-eater Person and terse, fake-level-voice conversations with Poor Stuart. Also, of course, completing her usual programme of washing and cleaning and driving and cooking.

  I sat at her kitchen table and worked on my thesis, and, after school, played with the kids and helped with dinner and tidied up and sponged school uniforms and said as many supportive, stable-environment-providing things as possible.

  I told everyone ‘My Boyfriend Adam’ and I had worked through ‘Our Issues’. I used a solemn, fragile tone, so no one, not even Dear Bec, would dare ask any questions.

  I was still generally known as ‘Aunty Kate’.

  *

  The week was good. On Tuesday after school, Bec and I took the kids to a very noisy trampoline centre. We drank surprisingly delicious hot chocolates while the kids played. On Wednesday, I worked on my thesis and then did origami with Essie. The kids went to Stuart for the evening: he picked them up. When I heard the tight, adult voices from the hall I said, ‘Hey Essie, want to show me your cartwheels?’

  I couldn’t talk loudly enough, though. We heard Stuart say, ‘You’ll find it’s because I have your mortgage and my rent to pay,’ and Bec said, ‘Well, thank you so much for meeting your legal obligations, Stuart,’ and Mathilda’s face went like a spilt drink.

  I went out to the hall, and made a the-children-can-hear-you-you-idiots face. Then I handed Stuart two of the surprisingly heavy Smiggle backpacks. He smiled at me, all clunky and sincere. As if we were at the funeral of someone we loved.

  *

  Once the children were out the door, Bec prepared to ‘visit’ the fire-eater.

  ‘Probably best if we stay at his place tonight, I guess,’ she said, when she was ready to go. She was wearing a fitted cream jumper and black legging things. Her hair was artfully messed-up, and she’d obviously spent quite a bit of time on her natural-looking make-up.

  ‘Guess so,’ I replied, as if I’d barely thought about it. Lachlan had let slip that the fire-eater stayed at their house sometimes. I was shocked, to be honest. In fact, I was making judgements galore and not even feeling bad about doing so.

  ‘Will you be all right here by yourself? Sure you don’t want to go to Mum and Dad’s?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, firmly.

  Bec and the fire-eater arrived back very early the next morning. Most unfortunately, they came into the kitchen, where I was trying to drink coffee in peace.

  ‘Heya, Kate,’ he said, all humble and intimate, as if I was a princess he’d just rescued from a dragon.

  I have to say, he was as gorgeous as I remembered from the party. In fact, he looked like a younger, cooler, slightly more handsome version of Brad Pitt. (Apart from denial, my other personal superpower is immunity to good looks, though, so I still found him annoying.)

  ‘Good morning, Ryan,’ I replied, as if I was a whip-smart, cut-throat, prime-time television interviewer and he was a politician in the middle of a scandal.

  He said something husky and pretentious about ‘gathering’ some garden cuttings, and, mercifully, left.

  By the time that evening rolled around
, I was tired and happy and looking forward to seeing Adam the next night, and at the same time keen to spend my last evening at Bec’s house sitting around chatting. I was hoping she might tell me a bit more about the fire-eater, to be honest. I was a bit curious, obviously, and so far, she hadn’t really gone beyond ‘passionate’. And I was also wondering if I might tell her about what a big deal the thing with Adam was. Maybe even about all the dating that hadn’t really existed.

  ‘Want a wine?’ I said. The children were finally asleep and she’d just reappeared in her lounge room. I’d been reading a high-end fashion magazine and noticing that nowadays they use a sprinkling of models over forty.

  ‘Umm . . .’ She looked as if she was wondering what to say.

  ‘Or a tea? I’m having one.’

  ‘Kate, if you don’t mind, I’m thinking of just turning in early.’ (Turning in, I thought to myself. Are we on a prairie, here?)

  ‘No worries,’ I said. But my surprise must have shown on my face, because she said, ‘Sorry. I just seem to be really tired.’

  ‘Exhausted from your night of passion?’ I thought she’d probably blush and giggle and – if she was feeling particularly indelicate – use a word like ‘virile’, but she didn’t.

  She looked at me and said, ‘And would that really be so surprising?’ There was a decent level of bite in her voice, actually.

  ‘No! Of course not, Bec.’ I flipped a page as if I was really interested in the ridiculous platform shoes a certain very-annoying-on-many-levels designer still seemed to think we should all be wearing. ‘No worries at all. I’ll see you in the morning then.’ My voice sounded hurt, despite my best efforts, but I managed to look up and do a small smile.

  She walked towards the lounge-room door, and when she got there, she turned back to me and said, ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I just get a bit sick of always being the boring, smart sister.’ She shrugged, as if that was all very obvious, as if she really thought I had spent the last decade feeling sorry for her while I cavorted my merry, single-girl way around Melbourne. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘The un-sexy one.’