I checked my watch. Ten past seven.
‘Hello!’ I called, chucking my briefcase onto an unoccupied chair. Emily came tearing out of the kitchen to greet me. She wasn’t wearing her pyjamas, I noticed.
‘Hello, Mummy!’
‘Hello, darling.’
‘Jonah made a mess.’
‘Did he?’
‘He got the green cordial and it fell over and it made a mess.’
‘Oh dear.’ Sure enough, I found Matthew wiping fluorescent green liquid off the kitchen floor. Jonah had been strapped into his highchair; hence his all-too-obvious misery. Something was boiling on the stove.
‘Hello,’ I said, looking down at my husband.
‘Hi.’ He spoke through gritted teeth.
‘M-u-um!’ keened Jonah. ‘Mu-hu-humm-ee!’
‘Shut up, Jonah.’ Matt was in a dangerous mood. Sensing this, I refrained from pointing out that he was using the dishcloth to wipe the floor. But when I looked at the benchtop near the stove, and saw two plastic plates laid out there, each sporting a piece of rolled ham speared with a toothpick, I couldn’t contain myself.
‘Haven’t they had their dinner yet?’
‘No. They haven’t.’
I surveyed my children, noting their stained T-shirts. ‘Or their baths?’ I said.
‘No.’
For fuck’s sake.
‘Mu-u-mm-ee!
’ ‘Be quiet, Jonah!’ I could hardly think. ‘So is the food nearly ready, or what?’
‘Oh, fuck.’ He leapt to his feet, lunging for the stove, and turned off the gas.
‘Matt.’ How the hell many times did I have to tell him? ‘Not in front of the children.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll dish up. You get the mop and bucket.’ What had he been doing all afternoon, for God’s sake? They were supposed to be in bed by seven-thirty. As he stomped off to fetch the mop and bucket, I drained the vegetables. Frozen, of course. Peas, corn and—what? And toasted muffins, by the look of it. Emily was asking for a drink.
‘Wait a minute. Just wait.’
‘Mummee-ee . . .’
‘It’s okay, Jonah. Nobody’s mad.’ I wasn’t surprised to find Jonah in a state. He must have been starving. His highchair tray was still covered in muck from his last meal.
‘You had a call,’ said Matt, from the doorway. He was listing slightly, dragged to one side by the weight of a full bucket. ‘Some bloke. He wouldn’t leave his name.’
‘Mmm.’ No comment from me about that. ‘Matthew, could you please wipe down the highchair?’ (Since it wasn’t done hours ago.) ‘Are they supposed to be eating muffins, with this?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to the spaghetti?’
‘They ate it for lunch.’
‘Wasn’t there some rice in there? I think I’ll warm up some rice, instead. Matt!’ I couldn’t believe my eyes; he was wiping Jonah’s highchair tray with the same dishcloth. ‘Don’t use that, it’s been on the floor !’
Whump! He hurled the dishcloth in my general direction. He might have been aiming for the sink, but it nearly hit me in the face.
‘Tell you what,’ he barked. ‘Since I’m so useless, why don’t you do it yourself? Eh?’
And he walked out.
Can you believe that? He walked out. I’d just come home from work, and he promptly walked out of the house, leaving me to do everything that he should have done already.
Needless to say, you can’t vent your rage in these situations. Not when your kids are there. Staring at you. Nervously.
I took a deep breath.
‘Okay. Emily, why don’t you help Mummy, and get out your special knife and fork, and then you can tell me what you did today. Okay? I’m dying to hear all about it. Jonah, you’ll get your drink as soon as I clean all that yukky stuff away. No, you have to stay in your highchair. You can get out after you’ve finished your dinner. And if you’re a good boy, you can have a biscuit afterwards. A chocolate biscuit.’
‘And me!’ yelped Emily.
‘And you. Both of you.’
I was seething. God, I was enraged. But I plastered on my mummy smile and rushed around punching microwave buttons, wiping surfaces, pouring juice, cutting ham into car shapes (did he really think that Jonah was going to eat an ordinary piece of ham?), until the kids were each settled in front of a steaming plate, bibs around their necks and mugs positioned well away from the nearest table edge. Then, having reminded them both about the promised chocolate biscuit, I hastened into my bedroom, rummaging through my briefcase as I did so.
Luckily, I’d kept the number.
‘Jim McRae.’ Once again, he answered the phone himself.
‘Mr McRae?’ I had to clear my throat. ‘It’s Helen Muzzatti. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night . . .’
‘What’s up, Helen?’
‘I—look, I’m definitely going ahead with this. I’m sorry about what I said before, but I’ve made up my mind now.’ Glancing over my shoulder, I checked that the door was shut. Yes. I lowered my voice. ‘Definitely, this time. I won’t muck you about any more. I’m sorry.’
A pause at the other end of the line.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ he said at last.
‘It’s my husband. I’m not sure, but I think he might be . . . you know . . .’ Suddenly I heard the far-off jangling of keys in the front door. ‘Oh God. There he is. Can I talk to you tomorrow? I’m home all day tomorrow. Only it’ll have to be after twelve, because he doesn’t leave for work until—’
‘Tell you what,’ Jim interrupted, calmly. ‘Why don’t we meet somewhere? I can give you a run-down of the fee schedule, you can explain your problem, and if you want to go ahead— if you feel it’s the right thing to do—then we can work something out. Only, if you’re going to be changing your mind again, then it might be a good idea if you made some sort of payment up front—’
‘Yes, yes.’ I could hear heavy footsteps in the hall. ‘But I’ve got two kids, you see, two little kids. If I take them anywhere they’re bound to play up.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Dulwich Hill.’
Another pause. ‘Well, that’s okay,’ he finally observed. ‘I’ve got someone to see in Bondi, tomorrow, so I can drop in. What’s the address?’
With some misgivings, I gave it to him. Matt’s voice was rumbling away in the kitchen. ‘If you get here after two, will you please come around the back?’ I requested. ‘Because my little boy goes to sleep around two, and he’s in the front room, and if you ring the doorbell he’ll wake up, and it’ll be hard to get him down again.’
‘No problem.’
‘Okay, well—thanks. Thanks so much.’
‘No problem.’
I checked my watch as I replaced the receiver. Matt had been out for just over twenty minutes.
When I opened the bedroom door he was standing there, right in front of me, and I nearly died of shock.
‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ I saw that he was carrying a two-litre container of milk. ‘Did you go to the shop at the end of the road?’
‘Yeah.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’ll come clean, I forgot to buy the milk today, so I went and got it—’
‘What’s the expiry date?’ I interjected. The shop at the end of the road was notoriously untrustworthy. We both looked, and saw that the milk was supposed to be used by tomorrow.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ he exploded.
‘It’s no use going to that shop. I never go there—’
‘Well I’m going back there now.’
‘Matt, there’s no point. Matt!’ I followed him to the door. ‘It expires tomorrow, not today. You should have checked the date—’
‘Oh yeah, right. My fault again.’ He swung around to face me. ‘You stuff up yourself, occasionally, do you know that? Do you realise you left Jonah all by himself in the
highchair? That’s not recommended, in case you haven’t read the sticker on the back.’
I gasped. I snorted. I rolled my eyes.
‘Puh-lease,’ I said.
‘Who were you calling?’
‘What?’
‘Who were you calling? Just then?’
I blinked, and gaped at him.
‘Uh—well—Miriam.’
‘Miriam?’
‘Yes! Miriam!’ I was getting flustered. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
He turned on his heel. ‘I’ll get some more milk,’ he declared, and pulled open the front door.
‘Matt! That isn’t particularly helpful, at this stage! The kids have to be washed, they have to be put to bed, the dinner needs to be cooked—Matt! ’
‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’
He wasn’t, naturally. He was back in fifteen. By that time I’d got the kids into the bath; Matt took over the drying, dressing and bedtime procedures as I threw a meal together for us. (Pasta with tinned sauce and iceberg lettuce. Yummy.) Feeling justified in doing so, I started eating without him. I hadn’t even changed out of my suit and good blouse, but I didn’t care. All I did was kick my shoes off.
He finally joined me at eight-fifteen. Slouched into the kitchen, dropped into a chair. He looked exhausted.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
A noncommittal noise from me.
‘It was a tough day. You caught me at a bad time.’ He rubbed his hand across his face, as the silence lengthened. ‘But it’s no good criticising me all the time, you know?’ he went on at last. ‘I’m doing the best I can.’
Mmmm.
‘It’s not like you don’t forget things occasionally,’ he pointed out. ‘Like my birthday, for instance.’
‘I’m not even going to—’
‘Okay, okay. Okay.’ He back-pedalled, raising his hands. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it. I’m sorry.’
‘That was so unbelievably uncalled for.’
‘Sometimes I lose my temper.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I’m sorry, okay? I guess I’m just not perfect. Like some people.’
I didn’t answer that. If I had, I would have done something really feeble, like bursting into tears.
‘I did get a new bottle of milk, though,’ he said, indicating the bottle in question. ‘It expires next Sunday.’
‘Good.’
I stared down at my pasta, slumped over it, one hand supporting my head. Matt got up. He fetched his own plate, a fork, the parmesan cheese. He sat down again.
‘I was gunna suggest we have takeaway,’ he remarked. ‘Pizza, or something. You didn’t have to do this.’
I thought: I did though, didn’t I? The way I do just about everything around here.
But I didn’t say it.
‘The builders came,’ he offered.
‘Oh good.’
‘They said they’d be coming again tomorrow.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘Yeah.’
Another long silence. Matthew has a weird (but endearing) way of using his fork; he holds it like a screwdriver, and kind of mashes everything up with it. I was watching him do this when he suddenly said: ‘What’s the matter, Helen?’
I looked up. His expression was taut and wary.
I felt a tightening in my chest.
‘What’s the matter?’ I repeated.
‘Is something wrong?’ The tone was almost accusing— I didn’t like it at all. The blood rushed to my cheeks. I had to force the words out.
‘Well, you tell me, Matt. Is something wrong?’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re the one throwing things around and storming out of the house, not me!’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘What’s up with you? That’s what I want to know!’
Without even trying, I was suddenly teetering on the edge of a precipice. I was staring into a vacuum, holding my breath. Had I . . .? Would he . . .?
The question hadn’t quite been asked. Not quite.
I still didn’t have the guts.
‘Nothing,’ he replied tonelessly. ‘Nothing’s up with me.’ He was poking at his pasta, his eyes downcast. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. Tough day. You know what it’s like.’
None better.
So that was that. All that emoting, all that carry-on, and I still don’t know.
Is he a coward or is he an innocent man?
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday
My cold was ten times worse this morning. I practically forgot about it yesterday, because my sore throat disappeared some time during my interview with Christine, and nothing took its place until last night—when I came down with another ferocious headache. But that was after my argument with Matt. That was when the air was practically throbbing with tension, and the pressure of unshed tears was making my nose run. Naturally, I assumed that my headache was a consequence of the unfortunate atmosphere. So I took a Panadol Forte and passed out for the night, hoping that an eight-hour sleep might solve the problem.
Needless to say, I was disappointed. I woke up with clogged sinuses and a wet cough—the type described as ‘productive’ in medical literature provided by the local baby clinic. I couldn’t chew my toast without gasping for breath. I couldn’t measure out Jonah’s milk without stopping every thirty seconds to blow my nose or expel crap from my lungs. Matt took one look at me on his way to the toilet and said glumly: ‘That cold’s worse, isn’t it?’
I refrained from making a sarcastic comment about the bleeding obvious. Instead I just nodded.
‘Bloody hell,’ he groaned, and retreated into the bathroom. Nothing like a bit of sympathetic support from your hubby, I always say.
Fortunately, it was Wednesday morning. Matt goes to work at twelve on Wednesday mornings. So I asked him to please take the kids to the pool while I struggled with a bit of housework; it would be better, I said, if they were kept out of my way as much as possible. Then I waited, nursing a faint hope that he might actually offer to stay home and look after the kids, so that I could retire to bed with a hot-water bottle.
But he didn’t, of course. He never does. When you work for the ABC, you can’t risk giving anyone the excuse to sack you.
‘Just an hour in the pool,’ I growled, resigned to the inevitable. ‘You’ll be back in plenty of time.’
‘Where are the swimming costumes?’
‘In the top right-hand drawer of their dresser.’ Will you tell me why he can’t remember that? When I must have told him about a million times before? ‘Use the old towels on the bottom shelf, please, and don’t forget Emily’s goggles.’
He muttered something.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Hey, kids! Who wants to go for a swim?’
‘Me! Me!’
‘Oh, I don’t think you want to go, do you?’ he joked. ‘Not Emily Muzzatti. She doesn’t even like swimming.’
‘I do! I do!’
‘No, she’d rather stay here and help Mummy clean the toilet.’
‘No, no!’ Emily cried, and followed him around the house as he collected articles of swimwear, begging him to bring the blow-up dinosaur flotation ring.
‘Only if I’m allowed to use it,’ he replied, stuffing a drawstring beach bag with towels.
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy!’ Emily protested. ‘You wouldn’t fit!’
‘Yes I would.’
‘No you wouldn’t! You’re too big.’
‘I am not. Jonah’s bigger than me.’
‘No he isn’t!’
‘Yes he is, look.’ And Matthew swung Jonah up onto his shoulders. Jonah began to giggle and crow, and kick his pudgy feet. Matt ordered him to duck his head on the way out.
‘Say goodbye to Mummy, you two.’
‘Bye, Mummy!’
‘Bye, Mummy!’
‘Bye, guys! Have a good swim!’
They all looked so sweet, filing out th
e front door: Emily wearing her floaties, Jonah clutching Matt’s head like a baby koala, and Matt himself burdened with the purple plastic dinosaur, the Mickey Mouse beach bag, the dangling octopus goggles, the cluster of undersized, fluorescent shower shoes. Normally, I’d be glorying in the fact that they were mine, mine, mine. But not today. Today I watched them go with cold fear in my heart.
Then I flopped down on a kitchen chair and castigated myself. Here was I, worried about my husband’s fidelity, and all I seemed to be able to do was mope and moan and nag. Did I really believe that this was going to improve matters? If he was actually having an affair, it would only make things worse! Yet somehow I couldn’t help myself. My resentment—my anger— kept bubbling to the surface. Even though he was being Mister Perfect, taking the kids to the pool, remembering the shower shoes . . . my eyes filled with tears, when I considered those shower shoes. What right did I have to complain about Matt, when he had remembered the shower shoes?
It was my cold, I decided. My cold was making me miserable. Not to mention the filthy kitchen, which I would have to clean before everyone else came home. Yesterday’s green cordial spillage had not been properly expunged, and now the floor was sticky. There were streaks and splatters all over the cupboard doors. Dirty dishes and cutlery were piled high on the draining board; the stove was greasy; the table was covered with crumbs. Through the window over the sink I could see a grey sky, and a flutter of black tarpaulin. The drains still smelled.
I got up slowly, deeply depressed by the thought of having to clean a kitchen that I hated with all my heart and soul while still burdened by a lurking sense of dread. It’s a horrible kitchen, by the way. Dates from about 1973, to judge from its orange tiles and wood-grain laminex. Even the handles on the cupboard doors are putrid. Everything’s full of cracks and holes, so I can’t keep the ants out no matter what I do. (Which isn’t very much, with Jonah around. Baits are out of the question.) You can scrub the vinyl floor until you’re blue in the face, and it will still look just as dirty. There’s a huge scorch-mark on one of the benchtops. As for the oven, I don’t even want to go there. Literally. It hadn’t been cleaned for twenty-odd years when we moved in, and I’m still chipping black stuff off its sides, like a coal miner.
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