Not Bad People

by Brandy Scott

  No. This was different, Lou reassured herself. Completely different.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  Tansy, surprisingly, sat.

  ‘You’re going,’ said Lou.

  ‘Going where,’ said Tansy.

  ‘Sacred Heart,’ said Lou. ‘I’ve had it.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Tansy.

  ‘I can,’ said Lou. ‘Nothing’s going to change otherwise. We’re just going to keep yelling at each other and it’s only going to get worse. You need discipline, and I don’t seem to be able to give it to you.’

  A mobile phone began to ring. ‘Don’t you dare answer that,’ said Lou.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Tansy. ‘Mine doesn’t have any battery, remember?’

  Lou rummaged inside her handbag and shut off the call.

  ‘You can’t send me to boarding school,’ said Tansy. Her face was white — hangover or fear? — with two high pinpricks of sweaty pink flush. ‘We can’t afford it,’ she said belligerently, an almost perfect echo of Lou.

  Lou sighed. ‘We can,’ she said. ‘I’ve been saving hard, for university, but at this rate you won’t bloody make it to uni.’

  ‘You didn’t go to uni.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. My circumstances were slightly different, and you know it.’

  ‘Don’t blame me because you didn’t get to go to university.’

  For the love of God. ‘I’m not blaming you. For Christ’s sake, Tansy, I’m trying to do what’s best for you. I’m trying to make sure you don’t end up like me, stuck in this bloody town for the rest of your life because of a few stupid mistakes you made when you were too young to know any better.’

  ‘Are you calling me a mistake?’

  ‘No!’ said Lou. ‘And you know I’m not, so stop trying to put words in my mouth.’ Her mobile started up again. She turned it over: Aimee. Not now, Aimee. Lou switched off the phone. ‘I just want something different for you,’ she said, wriggling down off the sofa and shuffling awkwardly across the carpet on her knees till she was crouched beside her daughter. ‘More opportunities. Decent qualifications.’ Lou bent her head until they were making eye contact. ‘I don’t want you to end up like me,’ she said again. ‘Trust me, Tans, you want to do better than this. You can do better than this.’

  Tansy looked very pale, and very young. ‘It’s too late,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Lou gripped the small hands in front of her. Child’s hands still, the nails bitten down to the quick. ‘You’ve got so much potential and you’re only just going into your VCE. You can turn this around, I know you can. That’s why Sacred Heart is such a good idea. You’ll be away from any distractions, somewhere you can start fresh and get your head down.’

  Tansy was crying now. ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can. Of course you can.’

  ‘No I can’t.’ The voice was almost a whisper. ‘Mum, I’m so sorry, but I think I’m pregnant.’

  Melinda groped for her mobile in the dark. London was eleven hours behind, New York sixteen: she’d stopped turning it off to sleep months ago. Once they went public she’d delegate answering random middle-of-the-night questions about production lines and sales targets to one of her managers, but for now she was too afraid of anything going wrong. ‘You get one shot,’ her IPO advisor Clint had said. ‘Don’t fuck it up.’

  Except it wasn’t an international centre of finance calling, it was Aimee. And it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was 10 am. How had that happened? Her Type-A body clock rarely let her sleep past five. Melinda smiled to herself. Well. She’d had a good night. A very good night.

  ‘Helloooo,’ she whispered, wondering if Aimee could hear it in her voice.

  ‘It wasn’t paper.’

  ‘Eh?’ Melinda rolled over towards the edge of the bed.

  ‘It wasn’t paper. On fire. I mean, it was, but I think the explosion was a plane.’

  Melinda closed her eyes at the panic in Aimee’s voice, the words tripping over each other. It was a tone she hadn’t heard in years, but she still recognised it. And knew enough to dampen down its embers straightaway. ‘Aims,’ she said lightly, ‘what on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘The fire.’ Aimee sounded scared. ‘Last night. When we let off the — you know.’

  ‘The lanterns?’

  ‘Shhhh.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Melinda sat up. ‘What about — them?’

  ‘I think we might have caused an accident.’

  ‘Oh, Aims.’ Melinda pulled the doona up over her breasts. ‘Of course we didn’t.’

  ‘But we might have.’

  Melinda sighed. ‘And how do you figure that?’

  ‘Because.’ Aimee was whispering as well. ‘It was around the same time, and in the same area, sort of. And the newspaper says that the engine exploded.’

  Melinda edged regretfully out of her Westin Heavenly bed, purchased after a particularly memorable weekend at the hotel chain’s Melbourne property. The relationship had come to nothing, but the bed was still one of her best investments. She slipped on a Japanese robe and padded out onto the balcony. God, it was bright.

  ‘All right,’ she said, dragging a deckchair into the shade. ‘Tell me exactly what the paper says.’

  Aimee began, falteringly, to read. Melinda stopped her after the second paragraph.

  ‘Aimee, Aimee.’ Melinda glanced down her robe. There were bruises on her left breast, finger and mouth marks. She shivered, remembering. ‘They flew into a hill. End of story.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Well, there’s no way those lanterns could have travelled as far as the ranges, for starters. They’re just tissue and wire. They don’t have engines.’

  Aimee was silent.

  ‘And they’ve got very limited fuel. They just burn out.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘But nothing.’ Melinda got back to her feet. ‘Trust me on this one, okay? You’re hung over, and reading into things. This has got nothing to do with you. With us. It says they went into a hill. In the ranges. In the dark. There’s no mystery.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Melinda examined herself in the glass door. Some of last night’s mascara had transferred onto her upper lids; she carefully wiped it off. ‘I’d bet the company on it.’

  ‘O-kay.’

  ‘Believe me. Our little lanterns won’t have made it over the river.’ Melinda stretched. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ She paused, smiling. ‘I’ve got someone here.’

  ‘No way? Really? Who?’

  Melinda stepped back inside, enjoying the mystery. ‘Just someone,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you later.’ She hung up before Aimee could ask anything more.

  ‘Everything all right?’ He was awake now, propped up in bed, a rare male presence in her ultra-feminine bedroom. The chest hair and thick arms looked out of place amid her broderie anglaise pillow cases, the satin throw cushions that had been well and truly thrown. Melinda kicked one aside as she made her way across the room.

  ‘Absolutely.’ She climbed back in beside him, unsure of how close to get now they were both sober. He was older than she’d realised, and slightly chunkier, but still good looking. Salt-and-pepper hair, morning-after stubble. A couple of unfortunate tattoos, but it wasn’t like she was perfect. He stretched out an arm and she rolled into it, letting her breasts brush against his side.

  ‘Good,’ he said, staring down at her nipples. They hardened from the attention, and he grinned. ‘Really good.’ He pushed her robe back and stroked a rough hand across her breasts. Melinda made an appropriate noise as he bent his head down. God. How long had it been? A good nine months of pointless waxing and exfoliating, but it just showed, it payed to keep it up. Act as if, her books said. Melinda sucked her stomach in as his hand drifted lower.

  ‘Did you turn your phone off?’ he asked, one thumb moving in slow circles, not quite in the right place, but close enough.

  ‘Mmmm
,’ lied Melinda, tilting her hips. Yes. There.

  ‘Good,’ he said again, grinning at her. Clearly a man of few words. ‘Your friends call far too early.’

  ‘It’s not really that early,’ she murmured, enjoying the growing intensity as his fingers moved faster. Fantastic. She wouldn’t even have to fake this one.

  The fingers stilled. ‘What time is it?’

  Melinda pressed herself against the hand, willing it to continue. ‘Ten?’ she said. ‘Quarter past maybe.’

  ‘Fuck.’ The fingers withdrew. ‘Sorry, Mel. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Oh.’ And just when things were getting interesting. ‘Really?’

  She got a quick half-hug, then he was up and pulling on his jocks. ‘I promised I’d take the kids over to the lake,’ he said, searching under cushions. ‘At eleven. Bugger.’

  ‘Right.’ She tugged her robe back on, tied the sash tight to give herself a waist. He was wearing a shirt now, his underwear bulging beneath it, and just one sock. She pointed to the other under the chest of drawers, but didn’t get up.

  ‘But this was great,’ he said. ‘I’m really glad we did this.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He paused, mid-trouser. ‘I’ve got your number, right?’

  Melinda shrugged.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t be like that. I need to be on time for these things.’ He shoved a wallet in his pocket. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Take you out for dinner. In the city. Somewhere swanky.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Anywhere you want. You name it. My treat.’

  Melinda forced herself to look excited at the idea of a meal she could easily pay for herself, at a restaurant where the maître d’ would already know her name, and she’d have to ring first and tell him not to use it, not to make a fuss of her, so her companion didn’t feel less important. ‘Give me two minutes to pull some clothes on and I’ll drop you off,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ he said, lacing up a pair of slightly scuffed dress shoes. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘You sure?’ A quick nod. ‘Well then, I’ll walk you out. Give the neighbours a bit of a thrill.’

  ‘Ahhh, maybe not.’ He paused, his bulk blocking the doorway. ‘Probably not a good idea for me to be seen with someone else at this stage, while it’s all still going through the lawyers. It’ll just upset her.’

  ‘Right.’

  He bent down and kissed her, hard, gave her breast a quick squeeze. ‘But I’ll be back,’ he said, as he let himself out. ‘That’s a promise.’

  Melinda leaned against the hard wood of the door, the sexy feelings from just a few minutes earlier evaporating in the air-con. This was the problem with dating in your late thirties. They came with baggage. Cargo, sometimes. Ex-wives, kids, custody battles. Lawsuits. And you couldn’t rule them out on that basis, or else there would be literally no one, only weirdos who had never married. Like her. What she needed, she reminded herself as she scooped up the local paper, was to be open-minded. Melinda had spent four hundred dollars on a half-day course, Mr Right is Overrated, where a stiletto-shod twenty-something wearing too much bronzer had tried to convince six businesswomen twice her age that lowering their standards wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It increased the catchment area. Stop worrying about the little things, she’d advised, such as whether a man had hair, dress sense, a job. You need to think older, she’d insisted, waving a hand smug with diamonds. You’re all working. A retiree might be useful! And then, when the women had risen up in revolt, bronzer-girl had snarkily pointed out that they weren’t going to be dating people in their own age group anyway, because all the forty-year-old men were dating thirty-year-olds and the thirty-year-old men were dating twenty-year-olds, so they might as well get used to it.

  Melinda popped a capsule in the coffee machine. Dave had hair. And teeth. He was on the right side of fifty. The sex had been fun, not weird or gross in any way. She knocked back the espresso like a vodka shot. He’d paid for drinks, and the taxi home. He wanted to see her again. He’d said so, twice. The fact that he was considerate of his soon-to-be ex-wife and kids was a good thing, surely. Admirable even. You wouldn’t want to date a jerk. Melinda smiled. And he’d been good with his hands. Very good. The caffeine hit her stomach with a reawakening jitter, and she decided to head back to bed and finish herself off. This was a good start to the new year. Only eleven hours in, and she already had a lover. Melinda shoved the newspaper in the bin and went to find her vibrator.

  There was déjà vu, and then there was life openly mocking you as karma bit you on the arse. Lou didn’t believe in God, but she could imagine Him laughing as she paid for the pregnancy test, could imagine her parents beside Him, tutting smugly, full of I-told-you-so’s as she drove an almost catatonic Tansy back home. Could picture them all rolling hysterically around whatever heavenly judgement cloud they sat on as Lou led her daughter into the same avocado-and-peach bathroom she’d used for her own test seventeen years before. Your chickens will come home to roost one day, her mother loved to tell her. Mark my words. Lou turned away as Tansy pulled her underwear down, tried not to look shocked at the lack of pubic hair. There was a pathetic tinkle as Tansy forced herself to urinate.

  They sat, waiting, for the test to decide their fate, Lou on the floor, Tansy on the toilet, making the world’s worst small talk.

  ‘So how many periods have you missed?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Have you been sick?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Oh, Tans.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  There was no need for the test, obviously. But still they sat, hoping, just in case it proved them wrong.

  When it didn’t Tansy said nothing, just crumpled forward and buried her face in her hands, underwear still around her ankles. Lou leaned her head back against the cold bathroom tiles. Images of cobbled European streets and foreign balconies flitted through her mind. Paella. Sangria. The Eiffel Tower. Not for her, once again. She sighed and got to her feet. It was only a couple of metres from one end of the bathroom to the other, but it was far enough for Lou to kiss goodbye to one future and reluctantly acknowledge another. She knelt down and placed her hand on Tansy’s quivering back. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay.’

  If she shifted all the wineglasses to the unit on the far wall, she’d have more room in the pantry for her baking stuff. But then where would they keep the good china? Aimee stood in the middle of her kitchen, every surface covered by three generations of mismatched crockery, and tried to focus on the task at hand. Maybe at the bottom of the wall unit, to anchor the glassware, keep everything steady.

  ‘If we had a cellar door,’ Nick said, from somewhere behind her, ‘you wouldn’t have to keep all this crap in here.’ His answer to everything: create a dedicated space where customers could taste and buy wine at their leisure. Customers whose happiness and wellbeing Aimee would ultimately be responsible for.

  ‘If we had a cellar door,’ she countered, without turning around, ‘we’d just have more crap.’

  A banging door signalled his escape to the calmer surrounds of the vineyard. Aimee dragged a stepladder into the pantry and began to pull linen from the top shelves. White. Cream. Ecru. The napkins opened themselves out as they fell, parachuting slowly to the ground where they lay like shrouds over the stacks of cups and saucers.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing?’

  Aimee put one tentative foot on a middle shelf so she could reach the placemats at the back. ‘Can you hold the ladder, darling?’

  Shelley stepped carefully through the obstacle course of china, frowning.

  ‘Thanks, love.’ Aimee leaned forward and grabbed an armful of her mother-in-law’s embroidered runners and place settings. She’d kept it all in case it came back into fashion, but the trend for everything retro didn’t seem to include Monica’s God-awful cross stitch. ‘Watch out!’ she called, as she dumped the entire lot ove
r the side.

  ‘Mum, we sorted all this out last month,’ said Shelley.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why are you doing it again?’

  ‘Just keeping busy.’ Aimee pushed a pile of fabric off another shelf. A damask tablecloth caught a cluster of antique vases, one of which tipped over with an ominous crack.

  Shelley stared at her mother. ‘Are you all right?’

  Aimee didn’t answer, just wiped the shelf clean.

  ‘You know that was a Wembley swan you just broke, don’t you?’

  ‘I know.’

  Shelley frowned. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  No, she didn’t. She wanted to keep moving, to keep doing, not stop and sit and think. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Absolutely fine.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Shelley. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She paused at the door. ‘Can you give me a ride to Emma’s later?’

  No, thought Aimee, heart stilling. She couldn’t. Shouldn’t. She needed to stay right here, resist the urge to venture out and see things for herself. Just count forks and wipe out drawers, keep her brain busy. She’d been taking care of her head long enough to know the drill. ‘I can’t, love,’ she said, grateful for an excuse. ‘I left the car at Melinda’s.’

  ‘We could bike over and get it.’

  Her daughter’s face was hopeful, and Aimee felt selfish.