After the Ferry

by C. A. Larmer

  “Don’t forget, I need to approve everything first!”

  The art director scowled so deeply she half expected Beatrice to appear with her blasted wrinkle cream.

  How could Amelia do this to her? They were on to the final sections, the most crucial designs. And now Alex was to approve them? Over her dead body. She scooped up her desk phone and put a call through to Gerry.

  She got as far as Gerry’s assistant, a tiny woman with a towering reputation, almost as terrifying as her boss.

  “You should know by now you have to book in, Monty,” Lizzie Soda said. “Gerry’s an extremely busy man.”

  Monty glared at the phone, then took a deep breath. “Yes, sorry, Lizzie, but this is really important.”

  “It always is, dear. Is this about Amelia? Has she finally shown up?”

  “Yes, I mean, no, she’s not back, but it is about the magazine. You see, with Amelia absent, Alex seems to think she’s in charge, and quite frankly, I don’t think she’s up for it. She hasn’t got a good grasp of the visual, and we need—”

  “If you’re not happy with Alex’s work, you should take it up with Human Resources.”

  “Oh, it’s not—”

  “Gerry is far too busy for that sort of stuff.”

  “Yes, Lizzie, I understand that.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “But we’re trying to publish the very best issue we can possibly publish, and I know Gerry’s never too busy for that.”

  She had her there and Lizzie knew it. The other woman sighed. “I’ll call you if he gets a spare moment. In the meantime, let us know when Amelia returns. Gerry wants her up here pronto. I’ve managed to reschedule Revlon, but there’s a meet and greet on Thursday that she simply must attend.”

  “Of course, Lizzie. I’m expecting her first thing in the morning.”

  But was she? Was she really?

  TOM

  They were just finishing their greasy T-bones and chips at the local pub when Polly What’s-her-name came striding up, a boy with short hair at the back and sides, trailing behind.

  “I saw you guys over here,” she said, her voice high-pitched and chirpy. “How was your meal?”

  “Good, thanks.”

  She tilted her head. “How are things?” The emphasis spoke volumes. He shrugged a reply, glancing towards his son.

  Not in front of my boy, please.

  She nodded, appearing to understand, and yet she continued on. “So, no news at all?”

  The way she said it made him feel like sliding under the table. She must have sensed this because she quickly turned to Phil.

  “Toby and I are heading off to get some ice cream. Are you interested in coming along, Phil?” Then she glanced back at Tom. “That is if you don’t mind.”

  He wanted to tell her what she could do with that ice cream, he wanted to hold his son tight, but Phil’s smile had suddenly appeared and it was like the sun rising at last. He didn’t have the heart.

  “You want?” he said to his son, and his son smiled wider.

  Polly’s eyes glinted victoriously. “Tell you what, why don’t you come back to ours after that and we’ll get you to school tomorrow?”

  “But I haven’t got my school bag and stuff,” Phil said.

  She flapped bejewelled fingers in the air. “Oh easy peasy, we can sort you out with a bag and some lunch and even get you in a fresh uniform, would you like that?”

  Her eyes swept across the cruddy shirt Phil had been wearing for two days straight, and Tom felt a wave of shame. He hadn’t had a chance to do a load of washing yet. She could reserve her judgement for Amy, thanks very much.

  “Cool! Dad? Can I?”

  He shook it off. “Sure, mate. Yeah, have fun and I’ll get you after school tomorrow.”

  He watched as his son dashed off with Toby, and for a moment, just a moment, he felt a glimmer of appreciation for busybody Polly until he spotted the man hanging back, waiting his turn.

  Geoffrey Pinter.

  Tom’s stomach clenched. The nod Geoff was now gifting Polly said it all, and he supposed he should have been grateful they’d removed Phil for this, but it didn’t ease the feeling in his belly.

  He closed his eyes as Shepperdin’s Local Area Commander approached.

  “Tommo.”

  He opened his eyes. “Geoff.”

  “You all right?”

  “Sure. You?”

  He shrugged. “How about Amy?”

  He closed his eyes again. For God’s sake.

  “She all right?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “So where’s she at?”

  He slapped his eyes at the town’s chief of police. They had gone to school together. Best mates for six years until it all went south. He tried not to think about that.

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business, mate.”

  The balding superintendent pulled a seat out and sat down next to him, leaning in closer. “I’m told she’s been missing since Sunday. If you don’t know where she is, mate, you have to report—”

  “I know where she is.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “She’s on holidays. At her folks’ place. She goes there regularly; it’s no drama.” Except she wasn’t due there for another month, but Geoff didn’t need to know that.

  “Oh, great.” He glanced about. “It’s just that a few of the ladies are worried.”

  “Gossiping more like.”

  “Just get her to call one of her gossips, get them up to speed so they can leave me alone, okay?” He smiled. “You know what they’re like?”

  “Yep. Right.”

  The policeman sat there for a few more minutes, offering Tom a sympathetic smile, then slowly got up and made his way out. Tom considered his options, then headed for the bar.

  “The usual?” the publican asked, and Tom nodded.

  “Thanks, Lennie.”

  “Oi, Tommo, over here!” someone called out from the pool table up the back.

  He didn’t bother to look round, simply waited for his beer, then produced some cash.

  “Where’s adorable Amy tonight?” Lennie asked, handing over the schooner of lager. He had the rose-coloured-glasses view of his wife. Most of them did.

  “Just away for a few days. Having a break.”

  “Lucky bugger,” he said, plucking the notes from Tom’s fingers.

  He wondered if Lennie was referring to Amy or himself. He cleaned the froth off the top of the glass, then wiped the back of his hand across his lips and made his way to the poolroom. A thin man with a pregnant belly was leaning across the table, pool cue at the ready, about to strike the eight ball.

  “You’re killing yourself, Grant,” Tom said.

  “That’s the idea,” the other man replied, clicking the cue forward and slamming the eight ball into the corner pocket. “Bored with this shit. Let me grab a drink and we can pull up a pew.”

  He ordered his own schooner, then they made their way to the front bar where several tables were now occupied, a few older guys, a young couple, a family with three kids, all on their devices.

  They sat down and drank their beers, then Grant couldn’t help himself. “What the hell’s going on? Steph reckons Amy’s pissed off.”

  “Jesus Christ! What is it with this place? She’s just having a few days off, mate. Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”

  “Without you? Without Phil?”

  Tom shrugged. “Needed a break.” It had become a kind of mantra. What else could he say? She’s fallen out of love with me. She packed up and left.

  Grant scoffed. “The school run gettin’ too stressful these days is it?”

  Tom ignored that. It was okay for him to fire arrows, but Amy wasn’t target practise for Grant. This was his wife he was talking about.

  “She gonna come back?”

  The look in Grant’s eyes made Tom’s blood simmer again. He should have shot off after his steak.

  “Of course she’s coming back. Jes
us, man, what the hell?”

  Grant’s hands were in the air. “Okay, chill out. Just trying to help.”

  “This is helping?”

  Grant said nothing for a while. Stood up. “’Nother one?”

  Tom nodded. It was an apology of sorts, and it would do.

  When Grant returned with the beers, the conversation moved on. Footy, the price of petrol these days, the big-breasted blonde who had recently perched herself at the bar. Grant was the one interested in that. Tom just pretended to be. He’d only ever been interested in one woman, and look where that had got him, batting away gossip in the local pub.

  She had always been his downfall, Amy Malone; he knew that plain and simple. He’d stuck with her even after… Well, after all that ugly business. Even when others warned him off, couldn’t believe what he was doing. The sacrifice he was making. But he’d had a crush on her since day one, back when she was still Silly Millie and life was as fickle as her name. He’d been smitten since the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her, skipping down those Spanish Steps, weaving between other backpackers, her eyes locked on Angus.

  She was so radiant then, like she was lit up from within. Her hair was thick and glossy, her smile wide and wondrous, and the way she carried herself, a little hesitant, a little confident, a little too ready to take on the world, made his heart skip a beat. She might have picked Angus first, but his crush was patient. He knew then, even as he watched them flirt, that he could bide his time. He could wait it out.

  Besides, he knew from their university days that Angus was a bad egg.

  He knew he’d stuff it up.

  And even after all the nasty business that came later, Tom was still smitten. His crush had not evaporated because she’d made one lousy decision. Eventually her eyes had turned to him, as he knew they would. Eventually she had seen him as her saviour, and that had cemented everything.

  Or at least it had done, until last Sunday.

  He took a large gulp of his beer and scowled. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? Amy, as they called her now, had been crumbling away for years, their marriage on pretty shaky foundation to start with. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he’d always been the consolation prize. She’d never been happy, not really, never fully content. And it wasn’t just the lack of career—there were no glossy magazines in this hellhole, only a country rag and a community newsletter she got involved with occasionally. There was something deeper behind her sadness, and there was nothing he could do about it, although God knows he’d tried. Nothing he could do now either. He just had to wait this one out.

  It made his blood simmer again; it made him feel empty and worthless.

  He turned his eyes towards the bar.

  SARISI

  The nun’s habit was crimson red, made brighter against the whitewashed walls. Since when do nuns wear bright colours? Millie wondered as she watched the old lady shuffle towards her, a smile on her lips.

  “Morning. How are you feeling now?”

  “Like shit.”

  “Language, dear,” the older woman said, her voice stern, her eyes merry. “Just try to get some sleep.”

  Hadn’t she slept enough? She closed her eyes and tried to drift away, but there was a low growl coming from somewhere, and she peeled them open again. The nun was still standing beside her bed, but there was something strange about her headwear.

  Was it dripping?

  “Are you okay?” Millie asked her.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Your head… Did you…?” Then she saw it. Him. Just behind the nun. A man, hiding in the shadows. Lurking.

  She scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head.

  Go away, go away, go away.

  Then forced her eyelids back up again.

  The nun was still there, leaning down, just centimetres from her nose, but it wasn’t Agnetha’s face anymore, it was the face of the shadowy stranger, and he was grinning.

  Millie woke with a gasp.

  She was damp with sweat, her pulse racing, her breath heavy. She looked around frantically. Where was she? What was going on? Then she remembered. Exhaled. Waited for her heartbeat to return to normal.

  After a few more minutes, Millie untangled herself from the sheet and sat up, swinging her legs to the floor. Another calming breath before she stood up and reached for the mobile phone she’d placed on the bunk above her head, tapping the screen to check the time. It was almost 4:00 p.m., Greek time.

  How had that happened? The early ferry had knocked her about.

  Behind the clock she could see a screen bursting with text messages, lots of different numbers but mostly just one. She shuddered at the thought of calling him and dumped the phone before heading to the bathroom. There she washed her face with cold water, not meeting her eyes in the mirror, not willing to see the disappointment and disgust, then shuffled back and down the inner staircase, through the empty common room and out to the balcony beyond.

  The temperature was cooling down again, and she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering a little. She’d forgotten how chilly it could get here at this time of year. But, oh, how gloriously blue! The sky above was cerulean, the sea below azure.

  In her memory, in her dreams, Greece was always hot and always dripping red.

  She approached the low stone edge and leaned down to watch the blue turn white and frothy as it smashed against the rocks. The sound, the smell, the energy that was rising towards her sent her pummelling through time again, and she held herself tighter, a ferocious regret smashing across her like the waves against those rocks.

  Over the years, the regret had become manageable, something she could quash with a quick shake and a change of thought—with busyness and life—but not now. Not anymore. Lately regret had begun to overwhelm her, to distract her days and toss her through sleepless nights. It had become unmanageable, unfair to everyone around her, and she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  He might be furious that she hadn’t called, but she was doing him a favour. They were all better off without her.

  A long, low whistle caught Millie’s attention, and she swept her eyes back and forth across the rocks until she spotted the figure clambering along the south end, something in his hands. Was it a spear?

  She continued watching as the man—surely it was a man?—continued to whistle, the melody now jaunty until he reached what looked like a swimming hole, then bent down, stood up, and kept walking. He repeated this process several more times before reaching the edge of the point, then vanishing from sight, his whistle lingering a little longer while Millie stayed where she was, staring at the place he had been. She didn’t think she knew the man, and yet there was something about the silhouette…

  Her eyes narrowed as she returned inside. Her heart did a tiny somersault.

  ***

  Heart in her mouth, Effie’s eyes flickered constantly to the road and back. She had to be quick. There was no time to waste. She wiped the last of the lunch detritus from the plastic tablecloths, then checked her watch for the umpteenth time.

  Two hours until the next ferry. Two more hours and she was off the hook.

  EVE

  A fresh Sydney morning, an empty editor’s chair. Alex thought she would burst.

  This time she didn’t even bother sitting at her own desk, she simply scooped up her diary on the way past and headed straight for Amelia’s office. Shoving her boss’s things aside, she dumped her diary and sat down, adjusting the seating even though it was completely unnecessary. They were exactly the same height; it was about all they had in common.

  “I’m in charge,” she said quietly as she tapped at the computer, logging Amelia out and herself in. “I. Am. In. Charge,” she said again, timing the words with each tap, then she took a moment to soak up the view through Amelia’s office window—the dazzling white Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge beyond.

  Alex remembered the first time she had seen that view. It was the backdrop to her initial interview with the infamous
Amelia Malone. Alex was quaking in her knock-off Jimmy Choos, but it was a good quake, like the buzz you get from a roller coaster you’d waited hours to ride. It was a genuine thrill to meet her mentor. The view paled in comparison. It was nowhere near as dazzling as Amelia.

  Oh, she had heard all the horror stories of how hard Amelia worked her team, how demanding and unforgiving, but she didn’t care. She was ambitious, she wanted to be in Amelia’s shoes one day—hers were not fakes, hers were the real deal—and she would do whatever she needed to do to get there.

  So when she sat down for that first job interview, she made sure she said and did everything necessary to get that result. And so she sold herself, her family and her soul in the process.

  “There’s no running out to pick up sick kids in this office,” Amelia told her, leaning back in her plush leather chair, a silver pen at her lips.

  “Of course not,” Alex said, blocking the image of her daughter vomiting the week before.

  “Men don’t need to do that, so why should we?”

  Alex had nodded vehemently, not thinking to reply as she might now with the words “Because we want to?”

  “I expect you to work yourself to the bone for me,” Amelia continued. “I expect Eve to come first. Is that a problem for you, Alex? Will that be an issue?”

  “Not at all,” she had said, shaking her freshly styled locks. It had cost a small fortune to have the highlights added and the frizz ironed out, but it was an investment for the future and, let’s face it, a key to getting the job. She’d just seen The Devil Wears Prada; she knew what was what.

  “I couldn’t think of anything else I’d rather do,” she’d told Amelia that day, and she watched as the editor’s eyes flashed back at her. Alex had thought it was admiration they were flashing. Now she wondered if it was victory, the knowing glint of a conqueror.

  And it had been a glorious first year, very Hollywood movie-like: fashion shows, advertising lunches, flash bulbs on red carpets. She felt, for the first time, like she had escaped Castle Hill and her mother’s boring clerical job, her father’s constantly struggling small business. She now wore genuine designer fashion and drove a fashionably smart car. Even had her own car space with her name on it.