by Paige Toon
Chapter 15
The warm, late-summer air hits me as I step out of the cool, air-conditioned building. My heels clicking on the paving stones, I set off at a brisk pace towards Circular Quay. I’m hoping to catch the 6.10 JetCat to Manly if I get there on time and if it isn’t crammed to the brim. The streets are buzzing with people leaving work in time for the weekend. I walk past bars and pavement tables packed with people from local businesses. Mel has dragged me for the occasional after-work drink at some of these places hoping to pick up a suit, but the vibe doesn’t appeal to me – even with the presence of free olives.
The JetCat is pulling into the port as I arrive and I run to join the hordes. I think I might be lucky and get a seat as people clamber off, ready for Friday night on the town. Salty ocean air caresses my face as I step onto the boat and make my way to the benches at the front. I always sit above deck. I don’t care about my hair in the way that Molly does. She curses me for being one of the only people she knows who doesn’t suffer from damp-air frizz. I don’t quite know how that happened, but looking back, when I was younger, my longer locks never went particularly frizzy either.
As men in uniform pull up the platform and prepare for departure, I have a sudden urge to travel standing up, despite my luck at getting a seat. I see the eyes light up of a frazzled woman standing across from me and am pleased for her as she hurries to engage my bench space. I squeeze past crowds of people and make my way down the side to the back of the JetCat, where I manage to find a small space at the railings. I wriggle between a young guy and a Japanese tourist and look down as the water below churns up a great storm and we pull away from the harbour. Tiny ant-like figures are climbing the enormous dark structure of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I’ve been meaning to do that for years, but I’ve never made the most out of living here. Weekend tourists probably do more in Sydney than I’ve managed in years. I haven’t even been to the Sydney Opera House. I should try to take Kay, Olivia and Isabel when they arrive.
The evening wind has picked up and the sailboats are out in force. I watch as they twist and turn and manoeuvre past each other. A boat with a red and orange sail almost collides with a blue and yellow-striped sailboat. The sun is hitting the waves between them at the very point that they pass each other, and a sparkle of light pierces my eyes. I wish I had my camera.
Where did that thought come from? You don’t take pictures any more, remember?
Why not?
You just don’t!
But why?
Because I knew you’d be disappointed. I think that’s the reason I stopped – to punish you. How stupid is that? How would you ever know? I’ve cut off my nose to spite my face and now I’m living with this disfigured regret, so to speak.
I could have been a photographer, not a receptionist.
Don’t be stupid, Lily. No, you couldn’t have.
But Ben told me I could do anything.
Well, Ben was wrong.
My mum still has a box of my things from when we first moved here, before I got a job and a place of my own. My camera is buried deep inside. I should call her, see if she’s free tomorrow. Richard might even fancy a trip to Bondi.
That’s where my mum lives: Bondi Beach, in a small flat with a distant view of the ocean. She works in a restaurant as a waitress-cum-manager. The customers seem to like her because she usually gets tips even though that’s not the done thing Down Under.
The JetCat chugs into Manly and people start making their way to the front. I wonder if Richard fancies takeaway tonight? I could do with chilling out in front of the box. I still haven’t watched the last So You Think You Can Dance. I love that show. Richard loves it substantially less than me, but I might be able to persuade him to shoot some soldiers on one of his PlayStation games while I watch it.
I walk along the ocean front past the tall apartment blocks overlooking the water and turn left up a residential street. I start the trek up the steep hill, but finally have to admit defeat and pause on the footpath as I rummage around in my bag for my flip-flops. Yes, I still call them flip-flops, even though I’ve lived in Australia for ten years. I can’t accept that thongs aren’t something that get stuck up the crack in your bum. I hop on one foot and undo the strap on my high heels, slide my left foot into my flip-flop and repeat the procedure with my right, breathing a sigh of welcome relief afterwards. Then I set off again up the hill, swinging my shoes from their straps. Fifteen minutes later I turn into our road.
We live in a small, two-bedroom bungalow which Richard did up as one of his first projects with Nathan. Nathan had completed work on several similar rundown houses prior to that, but he and Lucy loved the last one so much that he never sold it on. They still live there now. The same thing happened with Richard and me. We’d only been together for a couple of months, so even though I adored the house and wanted to move into it with him, it was too soon to buy anything together.
With his parents’ help, Richard bought the place. He’s already paid his mum and dad back. They didn’t ask for or particularly need the money, but I’m glad he cleared his debts. I already feel beholden to Richard by living in his house; I didn’t want to feel beholden to them too. Not that anyone makes me feel like that. His parents are very welcoming. But I’ve grown up to be fairly independent and I like it that way. I insist on paying the going rate for rent, even though it’s well over half what Richard pays on the mortgage. He wishes I wouldn’t, but I won’t budge.
I push open the dusky green-painted wooden gate and flip-flop my way up the stone footpath, which is surrounded on both sides by leafy green ferns. Three wooden steps up and I’m at the matching green-painted front door. It’s still double-locked, which means Richard isn’t home yet. I push open the door and dump my heels in the tiny hall, then go into the kitchen. Being single-storey, our house has two bedrooms and a bathroom on the left, and an open-plan kitchen and living room on the right. The place was dark and gloomy when Richard and Nathan first started working on it, but they’ve opened it up and put skylights in so it feels light and airy despite its small size. There’s a garden out the back which has been decked and is enclosed within a high bamboo fence, and all the plants are leafy and tropical. It’s like a little oasis. I love it.
I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of rosé that has been sitting in there since the weekend, pour myself a glass then wander to one of the cosy sofas and slump down, grabbing the remote control for the telly from the coffee table. Richard comes in halfway through a contemporary dance routine. I press pause.
‘Hello.’ I look over my shoulder at him.
‘Hey.’ He bends down and gives me a peck on my lips.
‘How was your day?’
‘Good. I’m filthy though. Going to take a quick shower.’
‘What do you want for dinner tonight?’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was wondering about a pizza takeaway.’
‘You don’t want to go out?’
‘I’m knackered,’ I say.
‘Are you sure? I thought we should celebrate.’
‘Celebrate what?’
He looks momentarily crestfallen, but I recover quickly.
‘Oh! Of course we should! What a great idea.’
‘Cool.’ He smiles. ‘Let’s get dressed up and have a think about where to go.’
He leaves the room and my heart sinks. I barely even have the will to unpause So You Think You Can Dance, but I do it anyway. I really, really wanted a night in tonight. But I can’t pour water on his bonfire. I realise I’ve missed half of the judges’ verdicts, so I press the rewind button and try to concentrate.
Richard pops his head around the door a few minutes later, saying, ‘Aren’t you getting changed?’
‘Hmm?’ I turn to see he’s emerged from the shower. His tall, slim body stands naked before me as he towel dries his short brown hair.
‘You’re still watching telly. Aren’t you getting changed?’
‘Oh, ye
ah.’ I press pause again and reluctantly prise myself off the sofa. He stares down at me with dark eyes as I approach the doorway he’s blocking. I look up at him expectantly. Is he going to move?
Richard raises the hand that’s not holding the towel and gently strokes my cheek with his thumb. Then he bends down to kiss me. My lips part as our kiss deepens and I step towards him, feeling his growing hardness pressing into my stomach. He pulls away, desire in his eyes and suddenly we’re scrambling onto the sofa and he’s pushing up my skirt and I’m sliding out of my knickers and we’re locked in a heated embrace as I claw at his chest and he nibbles my neck.
And then I think of you. And I’m crushed with an overwhelming desire to sob, sob so hard that I could choke on my tears.
Richard bucks and grunts and collapses on me, taking my breath away as I’m crushed beneath his not inconsequential weight. It’s enough to distract me from my emotions. I wriggle underneath him.
‘Sorry,’ he says, propping himself up. I take a deep breath to fill up my lungs and he grins down at me. ‘Where do you want me to take you?’
I look up at him with pleading eyes. ‘You don’t fancy just staying here?’
‘Seriously?’ He regards me with interest. ‘Don’t you want to crack open a bottle of bubbly?’
‘We could get some from the offie,’ I suggest, my voice full of hope.
He bends down to kiss me tenderly. ‘And I guess I could see to you again later.’
I kiss him back and then laugh and prod his shoulders. ‘Get off me, I need to breathe.’
He chuckles and disengages himself.
Later we’re lying, legs entangled on the sofa watching TV, when he says something that makes my blood run cold.
‘When do you want to tell our parents?’
I hesitate, then force myself to speak. ‘When do you want to?’
‘I was wondering about going to see mine tomorrow?’
‘I wanted to see my mum tomorrow,’ I quickly say.
‘Oh, right.’ He sounds less than thrilled. ‘Didn’t you see her recently?’
‘I haven’t seen her for a month.’ I try not to sound cross.
‘Okay, so we can tell her tomorrow.’
‘Yes, we could do, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s just that I haven’t seen her since Jeremy did the dirty on her and I thought she might need some TLC.’
Actually, I did originally want Richard to come with me, but not if he plans to break the news. I’ll postpone that as long as is humanly possible.
‘Oh, right. Okay. I might see what Adam’s up to.’ Adam is one of Richard’s many mates.
‘Or you could go and see your parents.’
‘What, and tell them?’
‘Not tell them necessarily.’
‘Good, because I’d want you there for that.’
‘Sure, sure. No, I mean, maybe just go and see them, catch up – you know.’ And then there won’t be as much pressure for me to visit them anytime soon.
‘Or we could see them tomorrow night?’
‘Yes, I guess we could.’ Dammit!
‘Are you going to tell your mum tomorrow?’
‘I might see how it goes. I don’t want to rub our happiness in her face.’
He gives me a look, but I ignore it. I’m sure he can see right through me.
‘The other thing we need to do is find you an engagement ring,’ he says.
Oh, no.
‘Mmmhmm.’
‘What, don’t tell me you don’t want one of those either?’ Now he’s looking annoyed.
‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ I admit.
‘Lily!’ he snaps.
‘No, it’s only that I quite like the idea of one ring. A wedding band with diamonds. Engagement rings can be so . . . fussy.’
‘I thought you liked Lucy’s ring.’
‘I do like Lucy’s ring. A diamond solitaire really suits her. But I wouldn’t want one.’
He sighs. ‘Fair enough. I guess you’ve put some thought into it.’
‘Yes. I definitely have.’ I stifle a sigh of relief when he leaves it at that.
Chapter 16
‘Where’s Richard?’ Mum asks the next day. We’re sitting out on her space-challenged balcony drinking ice-cold water.
‘He’s catching up with a mate.’
‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘No, I know. He did want to come.’
‘Why didn’t he then?’
Whoops, walked right into that one. ‘I thought it’d be nice to spend some time, just the two of us. How are you, by the way?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says breezily, shaking back her shoulder-length, medium-blonde locks.
‘Still cut up about Jeremy?’
She scoffs. ‘Hell, no. His loss.’
‘That’s the spirit, Mum.’
She drags the plastic side-table over and props her feet up. Her legs are still slim and tanned and I notice she’s given herself a pedicure.
‘Any more men on the scene?’
‘Not really.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘You know what I’m like, Lils.’
‘Yes, Mum, I definitely do. Tell me about him.’
‘Nothing much has happened yet. I will when it does. Don’t want to jinx it.’
I stare off into the distance at the ocean. We can just about see it, squeezed between two tall apartment complexes.
‘Do you still have that box of my things from when we moved here?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
‘Yes, it’s in the cupboard in your room.’
Bless her, she still calls it my room even though I haven’t lived in it for four years.
The living room is intimate, but light, decorated in neutral cream tones. There are two bedrooms directly off it. I wander into the smaller of the two. It still looks like a spare bedroom; I never did make it my own. I slide open the mirrored door of the built-in wardrobes and peer up at the top shelf. Sure enough, there’s my box. I pull over a chair, climb onto it and drag the box down onto the bed. Making myself comfortable, I peel back the packing tape.
This box hasn’t been opened since we left Adelaide, and it’s the strangest thing how it smells like our home in Piccadilly. I close my eyes for a moment as memories flood back. I still remember packing it after Mum had told Michael they were over. It was a horrible time. He was distraught and Mum just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Josh came into my bedroom while I was putting my things away and I had to ask him to leave me alone because I was upset. He was twenty-one, almost twenty-two then, but he still lived with his dad. I remember feeling glad that Michael wouldn’t be alone when we walked out of the door. And I still recall the look on his face when I kissed him goodbye. He was heartbroken. Mum could barely even look at him, let alone give him a hug. Oh, it was ghastly. Ghastly. I don’t usually use that word, but it pretty much sums up the proceedings.
I pull out my school books and take a quick flick through, smirking at the teacher’s comments – a reaction I’ve had to master because it’s better than feeling disappointed in myself. I put down the books before regret hits and instantly spy a set of brown spidery legs poking out from under a folded-up poster. I leap off the bed, clutching my hand to my mouth. Were they moving? I don’t think so. I take a tentative step towards the box and peer in. Definitely dead. Phew. The spider must have sneaked in when I packed the box all those years ago.
I grab a tissue and grimace as I reach in and retrieve the deceased squatter. I drop it in the wastepaper basket with a shudder and return to the job at hand. I pull out the poster and unfold it to see it’s of Fence before they split up and their hot lead singer Johnny Jefferson went solo. There’s another of Blur, plus some CDs, books, old pieces of costume jewellery and . . . Oh my God. It’s his shirt. His shirt. The one I nicked and never gave back. I lift it up and breathe in deeply. Somewhere in its depths I can still smell him. Or
is it my imagination? I slept with it under my pillow for a year, always living in fear that my mum would find it. I gingerly put it to one side and then – there it is, my camera. And underneath it are stacks and stacks of photographs. I’m not sure I have the strength for this.
For a moment I close my eyes and feel the weight of the camera in my hands. It’s partly smooth and partly ridged, heavy between my fingers. And then I can see the shots that I took, one by one as though clicking through a projector in my head. New Year confetti sparkling in the hot Australian sun; a giant rocking horse; a kangaroo called Roy; Olivia the koala; the lily pond . . . But no Ben. I remember I took no shots of Ben.
But you took one of me, didn’t you? Do you ever look at it? Do you ever wonder what might have been?
‘You didn’t say what you wanted for lunch.’
I jump guiltily at the sound of my mum’s voice.
‘You scared me!’
‘Sorry. What are you doing, sitting there with your eyes closed?’ she asks.
‘Resting.’
‘Resting?’ she scoffs. ‘I thought you stayed in last night?’
‘I did. What is there? For lunch,’ I add, when she looks confused.
‘Oh. A sandwich? Some soup?’
‘A sandwich, please. I have soup every day at work. Do you want me to make it?’
‘No, no, I think I can just about manage it myself,’ she replies with amusement. ‘Cheese? Chicken?’
‘Cheese is good.’
‘I’ll get on with it.’
‘Thanks,’ I murmur, turning back to my camera. I gently place it down on the bed and reach into the box for the photographs. They’re better than I remembered them, which surprises me. There’s no holding back the regret now. Why did I stop taking pictures? Why?
I’m still sitting there, staring into space, when my mum returns.
‘Lunch is ready.’
‘Okay, cool.’ I look down at the opened box. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Leave it there. I’ll sort it later. Come and chat to me.’
I reluctantly get up and leave the room, knowing that I’ll return in a while to pack up my things. I don’t want my mum to touch anything, especially my photographs.