Sweet Damage

by Rebecca James

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know how to make a good apple pie, too. I’ll get some ginger, it’ll give it a lift. And you’ll need cream.’

  I’m walking down the hall towards the front door when she calls out, ‘Wait!’ She rushes towards me, a hundred-dollar note in her hand. ‘Here, take this. You can’t pay for all that stuff. And you should get us something to drink. Some beer or something. Some wine too, maybe. Whatever you like.’

  It’s a hot walk down to the shops in the sun, and my backpack is heavy and overloaded on the way back. I sweat like a pig and wish I’d brought a bottle of water with me. When I finally arrive back at the house and step inside, I’m glad of the gloom. It might be dark, but at least it’s cool.

  I load the fridge with beer and supplies, then wash my hands and get to work. I make pastry for the apple pie, add ginger to the apples and put it in the oven. I put together a salad. Anna offers to help and I get her to mix the marinade and spread it over the skin of the fish.

  When we’ve finished we both go to our rooms to get ready. I take a shower, put on a clean T-shirt, my best pair of shorts. I’m back in the kitchen checking on the pie when Anna comes in. She’s changed into a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans. There’s nothing particularly revealing about her clothes, but I notice her shape for the first time – a body that she’s kept completely hidden until now. I must be staring because she hesitates, then positions herself on the other side of the benchtop and clutches her hands together nervously. I feel like a jerk.

  ‘Beer,’ I say, and I busy myself getting glasses, opening a bottle, hoping that the heat in my face isn’t showing on my skin.

  We take our beers outside to the small courtyard off the kitchen. I watch Anna take a seat. She lifts her glass and swallows half her beer in one go.

  ‘Is this all right for you?’ I say, sitting opposite her. ‘Out here?’

  She hesitates, nods. ‘I’m usually okay if I’m close to the house. Sometimes I can’t . . .’ She breaks off, sighs. ‘I’m fine. I’d say so if I wasn’t.’

  She doesn’t look fine. She looks unhappy and on edge. I try to start a conversation, but my attempts fall flat and I resign myself to sitting in uncomfortable silence. Anna finishes her beer while mine’s still practically full. I go inside to get the bottle, glad of something to do.

  She drinks the next one quickly too, downing the entire glass in a few hasty gulps, as if it’s medicine, and I wonder if she’s using the alcohol to calm her nerves. She finishes her second drink before I’ve even finished my first.

  ‘I think I’ll have another.’ She stands up. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, draining mine. ‘Why not?’

  She brings another bottle out and tops up our glasses, then takes the bottle inside. She seems slightly more relaxed when she returns. She leans back in her chair instead of perching on the edge, and her normally restless hands move less frantically. She sips on her third drink slowly. I try again to think of something to say, wishing she wasn’t so impossible to talk to, but I’m saved by a flock of galahs that fly in and gather noisily in the trees above us. For a while we’re both absorbed, watching them. We don’t have to talk.

  Eventually, the doorbell rings and Anna jumps up. She puts her hand to her hair, pulls at her T-shirt, straightening and adjusting. ‘They’re here,’ she says unnecessarily.

  Just as they were the first time I met them, Marcus and Fiona are dressed in what I think of as office clothes. Marcus is wearing dark pants and a collared shirt; Fiona wears a skirt and jacket. Weirdly overdone, I think, for Sunday lunch at a friend’s. We get fresh drinks and go back out to the courtyard. Pretty soon it becomes obvious that all the beer Anna has been drinking has kicked in. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright and glassy and – most amazingly of all – she talks.

  She tells me all about Marcus and Fiona’s work. They are both lawyers. She describes how Fiona studied law first, getting top marks at university, eventually being headhunted by a prestigious city law firm. Fiona stays quiet, smiling stiffly at Anna’s praise. She tries to change the subject, but Anna ignores her, gushes on. She tells me how Marcus studied law too, how they eventually had enough combined experience to open a practice together.

  ‘Harrow and Harrow, it’s called,’ Anna beams. ‘And if you need any legal advice they’re definitely the people to see. They come highly recommended.’

  The change in Anna is so enormous I have to tell myself not to stare. For the second time that day I see a glimpse of the girl Blake described, the girl from the photo: someone pretty, warm, articulate.

  ‘And you already know Tim’s a chef,’ she says, turning towards Marcus and Fiona. ‘For which, I think, you two should be particularly grateful. He saved you from a lunch of tinned soup.’

  ‘A chef? That must be hard work,’ Fiona says, looking at me with curiosity.

  ‘Can be a bit grubby,’ I say. ‘But I’m only a lowly cook, not a chef.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Marcus says. I get the feeling he’s trying to be polite, for Anna’s sake probably, that he’s not really interested.

  ‘A few years studying at TAFE. But mainly the pay packet,’ I say. ‘There’s not really a lot to say about it. It’s chaotic and it’s dirty and it’s hot. I’m sure your jobs are a lot more interesting than mine.’

  ‘The law is interesting, yes,’ Fiona says. ‘Challenging at times. But never boring.’

  ‘Well, not often,’ Marcus adds.

  ‘So how is it being in business together? It’s an unusual situation, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I bet there aren’t many siblings who could tolerate working together every day.’

  ‘It is unusual,’ Marcus says. ‘But it works for us.’

  ‘Have you got a sister?’ Fiona asks. ‘Or a brother?’

  ‘No,’ I answer. ‘Only child.’

  She glances over at Marcus and widens her eyes, as if to say, ‘Well, what would he know?’

  I find her defensiveness a bit weird, but then all of them seem strange to me, and the three of them together like this have a pretty unique dynamic. They’re certainly not like most people I know or would choose to hang out with. My father would call them characters – but not necessarily in a pejorative way. It’s just the term he uses when people baffle him. I sip on my beer, smile. ‘And so how do you guys know Anna?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, we’ve known each other for ages,’ Anna says. ‘Marcus and Fiona did some legal work for my parents and then later for me after they died. We’ve been close friends for a while now, haven’t we?’ She puts her hand over Marcus’s and squeezes, turns to face Fiona.

  ‘We have,’ Marcus says.

  ‘We’ve been through a great deal together,’ Fiona says. She clears her throat, as if embarrassed even by this very small disclosure.

  ‘And of course we all lived together,’ Anna says. ‘Here in the house. Before.’

  ‘I didn’t know you lived here.’ I look at Fiona. I’m surprised and genuinely curious. ‘When was that?’

  ‘We just moved out a few weeks ago,’ Fiona says.

  ‘No kidding? Why? I mean, why’d you move?’

  In an instant, and I’m not entirely sure why, the mood changes from cheerful to sombre. There’s an extended and uncomfortable silence, weighed down with something dense and unhappy. Anna hunches in on herself, as if she’d like to disappear into the ground.

  ‘Oh. There were reasons,’ Fiona says. ‘Things happened. As they do.’

  Anna nods, stares down at her hands.

  ‘But let’s not get into all that,’ Fiona says, her voice suddenly gruff. ‘It’s a nice day. Why spoil it?’

  *

  When lunch is ready Anna insists that we take our plates to the dining room. The table is already set with fancy cutlery and glasses, tablecloth, napkins, flowers in the centre. Anna giggles as she suggests where we should sit, and I notice that her speech is slurred slightly, her words tripping over themselves.

  When the fo
od is on the table and we’ve all sat down she gets up again and rushes back to the kitchen. She returns with a bottle of wine.

  ‘I’m driving,’ Fiona says, putting her hand over her glass.

  ‘Oh, just one more drink,’ Anna says. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to sober up.’

  Fiona and Marcus glance at each other.

  ‘We can’t stay all afternoon,’ Marcus says. ‘Sorry, but we’ve got to get some work done.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday,’ Anna says. ‘You can’t work on Sunday.’

  ‘Unfortunate as it is, Anna,’ Fiona says, ‘we have obligations to our clients.’

  I almost laugh at her pompous tone, thinking she must be joking, but when I see Anna’s crestfallen face I keep quiet, pick up my knife and fork.

  The fish is good – tender and full of flavour – and I devour mine quickly. When I look up I notice that Anna has barely touched her food. She’s sitting upright, staring straight ahead. Tears run silently down her face.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Anna? What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, everything,’ she says, lifting her hands, letting them fall onto the table in a hopeless gesture. ‘Everything. It shouldn’t be like this.’

  Marcus sets his knife and fork down carefully. ‘Come on,’ he says to Anna. ‘Don’t cry.’

  ‘But I can’t stand it,’ she says, crying so hard now that her shoulders shake. ‘I miss Benjamin. I miss him so much I think I might die.’

  ‘I know,’ Marcus says. ‘I miss him too.’

  ‘I’m going to clean up,’ Fiona says, standing up. ‘And then, Marcus, I think we should go. I don’t think it’s helping, us being here right now.’ She starts clearing the table, scraping plates, collecting cutlery, making a lot of noise.

  I stand up and collect the empty glasses, then escape to the kitchen.

  Fiona appears a moment later and together we stack the dishwasher. I fill the sink with water and get started on the pans. Fiona finds a tea towel and dries up. We work silently, while I wonder what’s going on. Who is Benjamin, and why is Anna so sad? What happened between the three of them? I think the fact that I live with Anna justifies my curiosity, but the vibe coming from Fiona – her fixed shoulders and tight, pressed lips, her refusal to meet my eye – tells me that my questions wouldn’t be welcome.

  When the kitchen is clean we return to the dining room. Fiona insists that it’s time to leave, and the four of us head to the front door.

  Anna holds the door open and watches them go. Before they reach their car she runs outside and down the path.

  ‘Please, Marcus,’ she says, grabbing his hand, forcing him to stop. ‘Please stay.’ Her face collapses and she is sobbing again.

  ‘Anna,’ Fiona says, ‘calm down. We really do have work to do.’

  At this Anna only clutches Marcus even more desperately. He stands there, rigid and uncertain, his hands by his sides. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle, makes no effort to comfort her. Eventually, Anna collapses on the grass and becomes quiet.

  Fiona helps Anna get up, persuades her to return inside. ‘Come on,’ she says, as they walk past me. ‘Let’s take you up to your room. Get you into bed.’

  I go into the kitchen, put the kettle on and collect cups, milk, sugar. Marcus follows me in and I keep my back to him as I wait for the kettle to boil.

  Soon Fiona joins us.

  ‘Anna’s okay now. She’s asleep.’ Fiona ignores the mug of coffee I poured for her and picks up her car keys. ‘I’ll give you my number, Tim. In case you’re worried. If you think you need us.’

  ‘I might be going out a bit later,’ I say. I have no definite plans, but I don’t want to feel obliged to hang around the house. I shrug. ‘I mean, I can’t really . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ Fiona says. ‘You do whatever you need to do. She’ll be absolutely fine tonight. She’s taken some sleeping pills. She probably won’t wake up until morning. But if you could just keep an eye on her for the next few days? Make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘Speaking of unhappy, how do you think she is?’ Marcus says. ‘Generally? Have you noticed anything unusual? Anything you think we should know?’

  I hesitate for a minute, afraid of somehow violating Anna’s privacy, before deciding that my reticence is stupid. They’re old family friends and they obviously care about her. It would be irresponsible not to be straight.

  ‘I’ve heard her crying at night,’ I say.

  ‘Crying,’ Marcus says, nodding. ‘That’s no real surprise.’

  Fiona smiles, an attempt at being reassuring that only looks forced. ‘Everything’s okay. Really. I know after today you probably feel . . . well, you’re probably wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. But, honestly, I don’t think there’s all that much to worry about. Anna’s just a bit unhappy right now.’

  ‘Is there anything else you wanted to say?’ Marcus asks. ‘You look a bit uncertain, Tim. You can tell us if there’s anything worrying you. We’re here to help. We don’t—’

  ‘Anna’s very emotional right now,’ Fiona interjects, sighing. She sounds strangely unsympathetic, almost scornful. ‘And her behaviour can be a little erratic when she’s emotional.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Sure. The thing is, yeah, now that you mention it, there is this one other thing . . . It’s going to sound weird but I think she might have been in my room the other night. Just standing there. Watching me. I don’t know for sure. Anyway, she bolted when I called out. Disappeared. And later she had no idea . . . I mean, the truth is, it was dark as anything and I’d just woken up, so I could have been confused, could have imagined it, but I don’t think so. And it felt pretty creepy at the time. Her standing there like that. Freaked me out a bit, to be honest.’

  ‘Watching you?’ Fiona lifts her eyebrows, glances at Marcus. ‘Look. Tim. I’m sorry that you . . . Look, here’s my number. Call me if you’re worried. Or if you think we should come over. Anything.’

  ‘Yes. Anything,’ Marcus says, putting his hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. ‘In fact, why don’t you give him our email too, Fiona?’ He turns to me. ‘Sometimes we’re in meetings all day and can’t take calls. But one of us is always checking emails.’

  Part of me baulks at the suggestion. At the responsibility it implies. We hardly even know each other, I want to protest. But Fiona writes down an email address and I don’t object.

  As they’re leaving I stand in the kitchen and flick the tea towel irritably against the cabinet. I feel as if I’ve been handed a burden I don’t want, with nobody willing to give me a proper explanation. It’s like being asked to lug a suitcase up a hill without knowing what’s inside. I have no real idea what’s going on. When I hear the front door open I make a hasty decision and run out to the hall.

  ‘Wait!’ I call.

  They stop in the doorway.

  ‘I just wanted to ask,’ I say. ‘Who is Benjamin?’

  I’m shocked by the look of despair that comes over Marcus’s face.

  ‘Benjamin’s dead,’ he says.

  ‘Benjamin is none of your business,’ Fiona adds, her voice brittle. ‘None of your business at all.’ And then she turns away, pulling the door shut behind her.

  11

  HER FRIENDSHIP WITH MARCUS AND FIONA STARTED THE NIGHT SHE TOLD her mother she hated her.

  She’d known them for a while as acquaintances. They’d been to several of her parents’ parties over the years, and were mostly noticeable for always going home when everybody else started getting too drunk and wild.

  On this particular night Anna had been at a party, but had come home early because she had a headache. As soon as she opened the front door she could hear voices, laughter, the clink of glasses. She planned to slip upstairs, avoiding her parents and their irritating friends, but just as she began tiptoeing down the hallway, her mother’s closest friend, Deb, appeared. She had on a too-short, too-tight leopard-print dress and ridiculously high heels.

  ‘Anna!’ She smelt of
cigarettes and whisky and her embrace made Anna’s skin crawl. Deb was good at pretending to be nice, but in reality she was a snake. A cold-blooded reptile in leopard print. ‘Come on outside with us and have a drink!’

  ‘I might just go upstairs,’ Anna said.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that,’ Deb protested, taking Anna’s wrist. ‘Come and say hello. Be sociable. Your mother will be upset if you don’t at least make an appearance.’

  Anna hesitated, looked towards the staircase with longing.

  ‘Stephen’s out there,’ Deb said, her voice loaded with venom. Stephen was Anna’s father and Deb never made any attempt to hide her dislike of him. ‘Enjoying the ladies as usual. Humiliating your poor mother.’

  Anna often wondered if her father had rejected Deb’s advances at some stage. Deb’s over-the-top loyalty to Frances had never seemed entirely genuine. Deb simply wasn’t that nice. And her hatred seemed too personal, too intense.

  They found Frances in the kitchen pouring champagne. Anna could tell immediately by the colour of her mother’s cheeks, the glassy sheen to her eyes, that she’d already had more than a few.

  ‘You’re home early,’ she said, putting her hands on Anna’s shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks, the way they did in Europe.

  ‘I thought I might just go up to bed,’ Anna said.

  ‘Oh darling, please,’ Frances sighed. ‘You can’t always go to bed when we’ve got visitors. Honestly, Anna, you could make a bit of an effort sometimes. For your father’s sake if not for mine.’ She picked up a glass of champagne and pressed it into Anna’s hand.

  Anna took the champagne and went out into the courtyard, where her parents’ friends were standing around smoking and drinking and trying to look beautiful. Most of them bored her to death. She spotted Marcus and Fiona, the youngest, least pretentious people there, and went to join them.

  Fiona and Marcus made space for her, and said hello, but conversation didn’t flow easily and she was too tired to make any real effort. They stood around and smiled awkwardly at each other, said very little.