by Brandy Scott
‘I know.’ God, the hours she spent interpreting Melinda’s comments for those who required a little more humanity in their interactions. ‘I get it, I really do. But Melinda’s black and white, you know that. Something is either right or wrong, and if it’s wrong, how do we fix it? She doesn’t really deal in flexibility.’ Aimee sank into a deckchair. She didn’t feel drunk any more, but the champagne had definitely loosened her tongue. ‘I sometimes think it’s just as well she didn’t have her own,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she’d have been very . . . cuddly.’
Lou stubbed her cigarette half-heartedly on the railing and threw it over the side. Little sparks escaped it as it fell. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘She’s far too wrapped up in her own life for children. Too self-absorbed. All those courses. All that travel. You can’t do that if you’ve got kids.’
Aimee willed herself to stay in the chair, not to get up and check where the smouldering cigarette had landed. ‘But I don’t think she ever really wanted them either,’ she said, speaking more to distract herself than continue the conversation. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t exactly describe her as maternal.’
‘Well, she can stop telling me what to do with mine then.’
‘She can’t help it,’ said Aimee. ‘She likes to manage things.’ She forced herself to lean back into the generous cushions. The cigarette would go out, and there was only concrete beneath them anyway. ‘Maybe the world is just divided into two types of people: parents, and those who’ve never experienced the madness.’
‘Parents, and people who were never meant to be.’ Lou sounded bitter. ‘At least you understand. I mean, this could be you and Shelley.’
‘Well, let’s be honest, it would never be Shelley,’ said Aimee. ‘I don’t have to worry about anything with her, thank goodness.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘But I worry about Byron all the time,’ Aimee said quickly. ‘And then I worry that worrying makes me horrible and old-fashioned and prejudiced.’
‘It doesn’t,’ said Lou. ‘It makes you his mum.’
‘I’m scared I’m getting it wrong.’
‘You’re not,’ Lou said loyally.
Aimee sighed. ‘Nick always seems to say the right thing. But me? If I ask too many questions, I worry I’m prying. If I don’t ask, I worry I’m being neglectful. That he might think I’m not taking an interest because he’s gay, you know?’ Aimee bit her lip. This was the stuff that kept her awake at night. ‘I like to think I’d be freaked out by Byron growing up regardless, but what if this isn’t a normal mother-type freak-out? What if I’m not as open-minded as I think?’
‘I think you’re overthinking it.’
‘Well there’s a first.’
Lou laughed out loud.
‘Maybe there is no perfect balance,’ said Aimee. ‘Care too much, they end up in therapy. Don’t care enough, they end up in therapy.’
‘Or pregnant,’ said Lou.
Aimee shook her head. ‘Now that’s where Melinda is right,’ she said. ‘This is so not your fault. You’ve done everything you could for Tansy.’ And Aimee was going to give that girl a piece of her mind later, for running off on her mum’s birthday. Especially now. ‘Children are going to make their own mistakes regardless,’ she continued. ‘All we can do is pick up the pieces, and hope there aren’t too many of them.’ She reached over and took Lou’s hand. ‘But Tansy’s pregnancy doesn’t need to take over the rest of your life. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘She’s sixteen.’
‘So you help her out for a couple of years. But not forever. Not if you don’t want to.’
Lou closed her eyes. ‘I just felt like I was almost done with the hard stuff, you know?’
‘You are almost done,’ said Aimee. ‘This is a delay. Not a cancellation.’ She gave Lou’s hand a squeeze. ‘You’ll still use that passport, I promise.’
Lou shrugged.
‘Lou, listen to me. You don’t have to raise this child for Tansy. God, she won’t even want you to. At the beginning, yes, of course. She’ll need you. But eventually’ — Aimee pictured Tansy’s stubborn little chin, the same as Lou’s — ‘she’ll put you in a taxi to the airport herself.’
‘I guess.’ Lou wandered over to the edge of the balcony, pulling herself up onto the railing in a move that made Aimee’s stomach drop. ‘I didn’t wish to travel though,’ she admitted.
‘Sorry?’
‘Tonight. Blowing out the candles. Nick was right.’ Lou was fiddling with her lighter again. ‘I wished she wouldn’t have the baby.’
‘Ah,’ said Aimee. Crikey. ‘Then you really do need to have a chat with her, sooner rather than later, don’t you?’
Just as well she never had children. Not particularly maternal. Too self-absorbed. Melinda sat on the end of her bed and replayed the nastiest of the insults in her head. What else had Lou and Aimee said? Not exactly cuddly. Melinda wrapped her thin arms around herself, clutching her tiny biceps, the muscles she trained four times a week to define. Because yes, she did go to the gym, just as she went to conferences and personal-development courses and away on work trips, because you had to fill your life with something. It wasn’t selfish, it was practical. She could hardly sit at home twiddling her thumbs, waiting for the husband-and-baby fairy to turn up.
She could see the two of them silhouetted through her gauze drapes, heads close together, completely unaware of their voices floating through the open door to Melinda’s bedroom. Was that really what they thought of her? Was this how they talked about her when she wasn’t around? Melinda stared miserably at her highly impractical, non-child-friendly cream silk rug. It must be. They’d been so casual, so matter-of-fact. Oh yeah, Melinda, not mother material. Presumably they didn’t think she was wife or girlfriend material either. Melinda pressed her lips together. It was one thing for her to worry about her lack of meaningful relationships, but another thing entirely for everyone else to think she wasn’t capable of having them. And it must be everyone, she realised. Because people had stopped asking when she was going to settle down, had stopped teasing her about whether she could hear the clock ticking. Her father hassled her brother, Matthew, about grandchildren, but not Melinda. Worse, he never really had.
Melinda stumbled into her ensuite and ran herself a glass of water. A new packet of contraceptive pills sat next to her toothbrush; she’d been taking them for her skin since she was thirteen. Handy, she’d thought, not to have to worry about pimples and accidents, to know exactly when you were due. When she’d realised you could skip a cycle she’d decided to stay on the pill for the rest of her life. ‘Aren’t you worried,’ one of her university housemates had asked — a girl who went on to become a biochemist, no less — ‘that it will permanently mess with your hormones?’ Melinda had ignored her, in love with the convenience of periods-on-demand, but what if her housemate had been right? What if the reason she had no real maternal instinct was that she’d been medicating it away? Worse, what if other people could smell it? The pill mimicked the first month of pregnancy, didn’t it, which meant she might not be giving off some vital ovulation pheromones. Maybe all men got from her was Clarins and Chanel, and not the eau de fertile they were sniffing around for.
Melinda leaned her forehead against the icy cold of the bathroom mirror. She stared down her black silk vest at her small, stretch-mark-free breasts and tiny pink nipples. Like a teenager’s, Dave-the-married had marvelled. You’ve got the body of an eighteen-year-old. But he’d still returned to the generously curved mother of his three children. Melinda had googled her, found a Facebook page full of homemade birthday cakes and fancy-dress costumes. Like a candidate for mother of the bloody year.
‘This is not helping,’ she hissed at her reflection. ‘This is negative thinking.’ There was a dull ache behind her forehead; her hangover was kicking in. Melinda opened the medicine cabinet and fished out a box of Panadol, knocking her contraceptive pills into the sink. They stared mockingly up at her in the moonlight, rou
nd and cute and peach and pointless. ‘Fuck off,’ Melinda told them, picking up the little plastic strip and flicking it into the bin.
‘Melinda?’ A male shadow hovered in her bedroom doorway. ‘Are you in there?’
Nick. ‘Hang on,’ she called, tidying her hair with her fingers. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ She gave her teeth the world’s quickest brush, silently spitting, before stepping back into the bedroom.
He was inspecting the 55-inch TV she’d had installed above the dresser. Curved screen, surround sound. ‘This’ll keep you company at night,’ the delivery guy had joked. Melinda had given him a scathing online review.
‘I came back to drop off the cake,’ Nick said, tearing himself away from the TV. ‘Make sure everything was all right.’ He looked slightly ridiculous with a Tupperware container tucked under his arm like a football. ‘What are you doing hanging out here in the dark?’ he asked. ‘And where are the others?’
Melinda quietly pulled the balcony door closed. ‘Headache,’ she said. ‘Too much champagne.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Lou and Aimee are outside having a chat,’ she continued. ‘About Tansy. Mum stuff. You know.’
‘Ah.’ Nick shuffled uncomfortably as his gaze bounced around her bedroom, from her open underwear drawer to the unmade bed. ‘Bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with all that.’
For fuck’s sake, had the whole world written her off? She stared icily at Nick. ‘Actually, I’m still thinking I might.’
‘You?’ Nick gave a half-laugh. ‘You always said you didn’t want any.’
‘Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes, really,’ said Melinda. ‘I’ve realised I might have been wrong.’ She pictured Aimee giggling over her lack of maternal instinct and felt a sudden kick of nasty in her blood. ‘About a lot of things.’
Nick stared at her, inscrutable in the shadows. ‘Shame you didn’t figure that out earlier.’
Melinda could take that either of two ways; she chose the safer option. ‘I’m planning to adopt, actually,’ she said, the idea coming out of absolutely nowhere. ‘So age won’t matter.’
‘Right,’ said Nick, stony-faced. ‘Well, good for you.’
It could have been eighteen years ago; the conversation had the same cold deliberateness of their old arguments. Small, pointed sentences, dropped with the precision of heat-seeking missiles.
‘Thank you,’ Melinda said, turning her back on Nick and their shared past, and heading for the safety of the well-lit lounge. ‘I’m very excited about it.’
‘Excited about what?’ Aimee and Lou were cuddled up on the sofa like teenage BFFs, a tub of melting ice cream between them. ‘Oooh, is that the cake?’ continued Aimee. There was a smudge of double chocolate near her elbow on Melinda’s off-white upholstery. ‘Thank goodness. Daytime drinking always makes me hungry.’ She wriggled excitedly, further griming the ice cream into the couch. ‘Cut us a slice, will you, Nick? A big fat one, lots of icing.’
Nick opened a drawer in the middle of the kitchen island and pulled out a stack of plates. ‘Aren’t you going to tell them?’ he asked.
Outplayed. Melinda shot him a look. ‘I’m thinking about adopting,’ she said.
‘What, a baby?’ asked Aimee.
‘No, a fucking puppy,’ said Melinda. ‘Yes, a baby. Or a child. Whatever’s possible.’ Silence. ‘Well, you needn’t look so surprised.’
Lou didn’t look surprised. She looked horrified. ‘But you —’
‘Have been thinking about it for a while, actually,’ said Melinda. ‘Ever since I visited the orphanage in Vietnam.’ Another solo holiday. Two weeks on her own, taking cooking lessons and village tours, anything to keep herself occupied. ‘I just think it’s time.’
Aimee eyeballed her. ‘Right.’
‘Yes.’ Melinda marched into the kitchen. She grabbed a knife out of the block and began carving up the remains of the cake. ‘Like I said, it’s very exciting.’ She slapped two plates down on the coffee table in front of her friends. ‘What, you’re not happy for me?’
Lou scrabbled around on the floor in front of her. ‘I don’t think I can be happy about any baby news right now, to be honest,’ she said, shoving her feet into a pair of scuffed mules. She grabbed her handbag. ‘Sorry, but I really can’t take any more surprise announcements.’ She looked around, slightly wildly. ‘I have to go.’
Melinda knew she should probably feel bad, but she didn’t. There was too much hurt and anger in the way.
‘Lou, wait,’ called Aimee. ‘How are you going to get home?’
‘Walk,’ came the muffled voice from the hallway. The building shook as the front door slammed.
Aimee turned to Melinda. ‘Oh, well done.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t think that was a bit insensitive?’
That was rich. ‘I don’t, actually,’ said Melinda. ‘Tansy’s pregnancy doesn’t impact my plans.’
‘No, nothing ever impacts your plans.’
‘I’m going to wait in the car,’ said Nick, escaping.
Melinda, however, was ready for a fight. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Come on, say it to my face.
Aimee sighed. ‘Do you not think you could have waited to drop that particular bombshell?’ she said. ‘Given how upset Lou is about Tansy?’
Melinda shrugged.
‘I don’t even think you mean it,’ Aimee continued. ‘So why say it? And why tonight?’
‘Why wouldn’t I mean it?’
‘You’ve never mentioned children before.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in having them,’ said Melinda. ‘Or are you trying to suggest I’m not cut out for it? That I’m too — oh, what’s the word? Self-centred. Too self-absorbed. Not cuddly enough.’
Aimee flushed, her face and chest glowing.
‘That was the nastiest shit anyone has ever said about me,’ said Melinda.
‘I didn’t really mean it,’ Aimee said desperately. ‘I’m still a bit drunk.’
‘Oh, I think you did,’ said Melinda. ‘I think you’ve probably thought it for a long time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Aimee.
She hated confrontation, Melinda knew. Couldn’t stand arguments, especially if she was in the wrong. But Melinda didn’t want to let her off the hook by telling her it was all okay. Because Aimee got to go home and cry to her nice husband in her cosy farmhouse, with a whole family to hug her and beg her not to get upset. While Melinda would be here all alone in her self-made penthouse with just her high-definition TV for company.
‘I’m not really thinking straight at the moment,’ Aimee said. She was pulling at the little ringlets at the base of her hairline, a nervous tick Melinda knew well. ‘This accident, it’s left me feeling a bit unsettled. I can’t focus on anything else, not properly.’ She stared at Melinda, pleadingly. ‘You know how my head can get . . . distracted.’
Melinda did. But she was also a bit sick of how much time they all spent not upsetting Aimee because of her head. No one ever worried about not upsetting Melinda.
‘There’s going to be an inquiry,’ said Aimee, who certainly did seem distracted now the subject of the plane crash was in the room. ‘I read it in the paper. They’re going to look into what might have caused it, search for clues —’
‘Aimee, they have an inquiry when the bloody town loos get blocked.’ Melinda’s headache was back; she just wanted to be in bed now.
‘I know.’ Aimee was clearly debating whether to continue. ‘But —’
‘Aimee. Don’t go there.’
‘But they’re asking for witnesses.’ Aimee spoke quickly, as though it wouldn’t count that way. ‘For anyone who might have seen anything to report it. And we did, we saw a flash, and then what must have been the plane, in flames —’
‘Aimee!’ Melinda slapped her palms down on the kitchen counter. ‘That’s enough. You’re not a witness, you were halfpissed and on the other
side of town. You’re not going to report anything. To anyone.’
‘Even if —’
‘No one. And that includes me.’ There was a harshness in Melinda’s voice that surprised them both. ‘I mean it. I don’t want to hear another word from you about this bloody accident. The subject is closed.’
CHAPTER 10
The interview room was surprisingly chilly, given the warm night. Concrete walls and floor by the smell of it, and the way sound was bouncing around. Pete’s wheels squeaked with every turn. He had to stop himself from knocking the young policeman’s hands off the top of his chair, from trying to take over. ‘You all right, sir?’ the boy kept asking, as he manoeuvred Pete clumsily through the doorway. ‘You all right?’
‘It’s all good,’ Pete said through his teeth as the wheelchair bumped a piece of furniture, sending a firework of pain up his right side. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Because he couldn’t even steer himself around the hospital, let alone beyond. He fought down a nauseous panic that he might be this way forever, navigating the world through sound and smell and the occasional hazy shadows that were his vision now. His arm would get better, obviously. A couple of weeks, the doctors reckoned. But would he see again? The doctors had lots of theories, about psychological stress and sensory loss, but Pete was still sitting in the dark.
Pete distracted himself by trying to guess which room he was in. He’d spent a fair bit of time at the station over the years. Kids wagging, kids shoplifting, stuff getting stolen from the school. That unfortunate business with the Waltman boy. And then trouble with his own son, of course. Pete had clocked up more than a few hours in the station’s sterile waiting room, drinking lukewarm coffee from a styrofoam cup and wondering where he’d gone wrong.
‘Peter.’ The door to the room slid shut with an industrial rattle. ‘Good to see you again, mate. Although bloody sorry about the circumstances, obviously.’ A large hand squeezed his good shoulder. ‘How’s Lincoln doing?’