by Paige Toon
Sam unlocks the front door and stands back to let Molly and me pass. The house smells familiar–sort of woody and even a little damp, but not in an unpleasant way. The kitchen, which I soon see has been newly modernised, has been moved to the front of the house off the hall, and the brand-new light, airy living room is straight ahead, opening onto the garden. Sam leads the way through to the kitchen and then carries on down the corridor where the downstairs bedrooms always were, lugging my suitcase with him. ‘I’m just going to plonk this in your room, Lucy,’ he calls back to me cheerfully. ‘You’re in my old room!’
Sleeping in Sam’s room at last after all these years. How ironic.
‘So how’s the wedding planning going?’ I turn to Molly.
‘There’s just so much to do,’ she groans.
‘I’ll be able to help now I’m here.’
‘You’re going to regret saying that, you know,’ she warns, as Sam reappears.
‘No, I’m not. I can’t wait.’
‘Well, in that case, Lucy, would you mind grabbing those place cards there? The guests’ names need writing out. You still remember how to use a calligraphy pen, don’t you?’
I peer over at the pile of silver cards on the sideboard, then Molly laughs. ‘I’m joking, you idiot. Sam, put the kettle on, let’s have a brew.’
It’s great to be back. I thought it would feel strange being here inside their house without Sam’s parents around but it doesn’t. It feels like home. Sam and Molly’s home. I look at them laughing in the kitchen as they tussle with teabags and milk, both fighting to make me a cuppa. They look so perfect together. I picture Molly walking down the aisle to Sam, all suited up and waiting for her. It’s going to be emotional.
Chapter 2
The next couple of days pass by in a jet-lag-induced blur. I have a short nap on the day I arrive and as a result manage to stay up until nine o’clock that night before crashing out. But early the next morning a fruit bat outside my window wakes me by squeaking and noisily munching on figs. I bash on the glass, but he ignores me and carries on as he was, bony little hook-like hands jutting out of his spooky black bat wings.
A batty bat expert on a school excursion once told my classmates and me that bats are four times more intelligent than dogs–‘Their brains are more advanced!’ she’d cried. I beg to differ, judging by the way this one is failing to respond to my knocking. Then again, maybe he’s made an informed decision to pay no heed to the wild-eyed madwoman on the other side of the glass. ‘Just ignore her and she’ll go away,’ he’s probably thinking.
I consider calling James–it would be Sunday evening at home–but in the end I really can’t get my head around another conversation with him. I’m still feeling unsettled, and he just seems so very far away.
Eventually I accept that I won’t be going back to sleep and get up. I make myself a coffee and take it through to the new living room, which looks like it’s been recently refurbished in neutral shades of cream and grey. Very stylish. I sit there for an hour or so, reading Molly’s old copies of NW and looking out through the new French windows at the pink and grey galahs in the fig tree.
‘There you are.’ Molly eventually appears in the doorway. ‘Still jet-lagged?’
‘Yes. And the bloody bat outside the window didn’t help.’
‘Aah, you’ve met Bert.’
‘Bert?’
‘Bert the bat. Or it might be Bertina, we’re really not sure. Cute, isn’t he?’
‘Er, not at five o’clock in the morning.’
Molly just laughs. ‘Lucy, come here. I want to show you something before I go to work.’ She leads me up the stairs and into a large room.
Aside from running the B&B, Molly is also a clothes designer and she works part-time in a shop in Manly where her boss lets her sell some of her own designs.
Multicoloured patterned fabric spills and drapes over almost every surface, a large sewing machine takes up a good portion of the desk and ribbons and pins and scissors are scattered across the rest of the workspace.
‘This is my workshop,’ she exclaims proudly. ‘And this,’ she says, going to a large wooden wardrobe and pulling out a plastic-encased garment, ‘is for you.’
I take it from her, intrigued and also, if I’m being honest, a little apprehensive.
I feel embarrassed that I don’t own any of Molly’s designs. I could order items from her website, but our styles are so completely different. She’s more wacky and funky whereas my look is more high street. I hate to think of her being offended, but I just wouldn’t look right in her clothes. I hope she understands.
So, with a certain amount of trepidation, I lift up the plastic and see a long, silver satin gown.
‘This is stunning!’
‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’ Molly smiles.
I squeal with excitement and proceed to jump up and down on the spot for a few seconds while she laughs at me.
‘Is that a yes, then?’
‘Are you kidding? I would love to!’ I lean across and give her a hug before turning my attention back to the dress.
‘I hope it fits. I had to call James for your measurements.’
‘You called James?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Yes–he was so sweet and helpful.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, honestly. Lucy, I’m sure things will work out between you two,’ she reassures me.
‘I hope so,’ I reply quietly.
‘They will. You make such an ideal couple. That photo you emailed me of you two drinking through straws from the same cocktail–where were you again?’
‘Florida, a year ago.’
‘It was so cute.’
I smile at her gratefully. I don’t want my personal dramas to take anything away from Molly and Sam’s Big Day and the lead-up to it, so I hope she doesn’t mind when I ask, ‘Do you want to see the text?’ I’m suddenly desperate to hear her verdict on that too.
‘Sure.’ She takes the dress from me while I run downstairs to grab my phone. When I get back, I hold the phone in front of her and scroll down slowly, so she can read the message.
‘And he reckons his friends sent it?’
‘When they were in the pub and he went to the bar, yes.’
‘Nice friends,’ she says sarcastically.
‘Well, they’re not really his friends, more his colleagues. So I don’t have to see them that often.’
‘Just as well,’ Molly says. ‘Lucy, I think you should delete it.’
I look at her, unsure.
‘You must. It’s only going to make you feel like shit every time you look at it, and if he’s telling the truth, which I’m sure he is,’ she adds pointedly, ‘then why would you want to keep it?’
I don’t know why, but I don’t want to delete it yet.
She sees my hesitancy. ‘You are such a glutton for punishment. Just like when we were at school,’ she teases.
‘What do you mean?’ I laugh.
‘Oh, you know, always looking up the answers to questions, straight after maths tests, just to torture yourself when you knew you’d got some of them wrong…Reading the last page of novels because you can’t contain your curiosity, even though you know it’s going to spoil the rest of the book…Rummaging through sales racks for ages, just to see if you can find the skirt you’d splashed out on months before at a reduced price…’
Falling for my lovely, brown-eyed schoolmate, even though I knew he was hopelessly devoted to my best friend in the whole world…I don’t say that one out loud.
‘Alright, alright!’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Oh, what the hell.’ I press the delete button, confirm yes, and watch the message disappear. It’s an uplifting feeling. I should clear out my inbox more often.
‘Happy now?’ I ask her.
‘Yes, actually. I think that’s a good start. So,’ Molly holds up the dress, ‘do you want to try it on?’
‘Absolutely.’
We remove
the plastic completely and take the dress off its padded hanger. Molly’s seen me in my undies loads of times–although I’m sure my body has changed somewhat since we were both sixteen. With her help, I pull the dress over my head and she zips me up. For an awful moment I pray that James didn’t take my measurements from the jeans I bought last summer because, with Christmas, I’ve put on a couple of pounds since then. But if he did, Molly must have been kind: the dress fits with an inch or two to spare.
‘I can take that in,’ Molly says. She opens the cupboard door to display a full-length mirror.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I’m in awe.
‘What’s going on?’ Sam asks sleepily from the doorway. Then he spots me in my silvery array. ‘Hey, Lucy. Do you like it?’
‘I love it.’ I beam.
‘Thank Christ for that. Molly’s been fretting about it for weeks.’
Sam and Molly are both at work this week so I have to entertain myself during the day. Contrary to most visitors’ expectations, the sun doesn’t always shine in Australia. Sydney is actually prone to some serious rainfall, especially in March, which is fast approaching. But for now it appears I’m lucky, so I spend my first two days lazing around on one of the sunloungers in the back garden.
By Wednesday the skies have clouded over. Molly walked to work this morning, leaving me the car keys for her little red Peugeot and instructions on where to collect her from this afternoon. In Australia you insure cars not drivers so, brilliantly, anyone with a licence can drive, and as I was getting sick of reapplying Factor 30 suncream for the umpteenth time, I’m quite happy to take a trip down memory lane instead.
After an initial shaky start as I get used to the clutch, I cruise down the hill into Manly, passing Ivanhoe Park on my right, followed by the cricket ground. The ocean up ahead looks rough and choppy. Then I’m climbing again. Down below, the green stillness of the coves amazes me. It’s incredible how calm the water is here in complete contrast to the open ocean on the other side of Manly, and I watch as a lone man kayaks in amongst the moored white sailboats. I keep driving and soon I’m heading back into town, past the primary school where Sam, Molly and I first met all those many years ago. Little girls in their blue and white checked uniforms play out in the front with the boys in white shirts and blue shorts.
At Manly beach the water is even choppier than I first thought and I see the beach is closed to swimmers. The rules don’t apply to surfers, so I pull up in one of the parking bays overlooking the sea and pause for a minute, watching them.
A group of about fifteen guys sit bobbing on their boards, facing out into the vast ocean, looking like seals with their black wetsuits and dark wet hair. Suddenly one of them turns around and starts to paddle, then he’s up on the board, crouching as he slices up and down through the curl of the water. One by one other surfers join in, boards moving like jet skis in the surf before the waves engulf them. Then they paddle back out and resume their bobbing, waiting for the next set to come in.
Off in the distance a lone pelican flaps and flies into the wind parallel to the horizon. I watch it for a while and almost lose it as it glides close to the surf, its wings camouflaged against the dark water and frothy white foam.
Ominous clouds hover overhead and it starts to rain. The surfers don’t care–they’re wet anyway. I wonder how long they’ve been there. I turn on my windscreen wipers and pull out, then drive back along the shorefront, past the surf shop where dozens of surfboards and wetsuits for rent are lined up. At the end I turn right and drive up the street where we lived for the three years before we went back to England. Stopping for a moment, I look up at the ugly four-storey red-brick building with its grey stone balconies.
Mum and I moved around, renting apartments for anything from one to four years before the landlord wanted their place back, so I wouldn’t say anywhere ever felt truly like home. But I still feel a pang of homesickness when I look up to the second-floor flat and see the small balcony where we occasionally sat out for dinner. I picture Mum at home now in her picturesque English garden and smile. Who would’ve thought she’d go from working as a struggling secretary at an accountancy firm to owning and running a quaint little tea shop in Somerset? I’m genuinely happy for her. Terry was one of the senior managers at the firm and, even though he bored me silly when I first met him, he’s a kind man and he’s good for Mum. God knows how he put up with my tantrums when they made the decision to move back to England–because naturally I blamed him for taking me away from my friends. But now that house in Somerset feels more like home to me than any of these two-bedroom units ever did.
I suddenly wish James was here. I would have liked to show him where I used to live. I spoke to him last night to tell him about being Molly’s bridesmaid and the dress–just briefly because he was on his way out of the door for an early morning meeting, and I was feeling pretty exhausted anyway. But it was good to hear his voice, even if I still feel slightly anxious about what he could be getting up to back in London.
It’s stopped raining now and I look at my watch. I don’t have to pick up Molly for a few hours and I wouldn’t mind having a coffee and seeing where she works, so I drive back into town.
Molly works in a funky little design store, which sells everything from candles and crockery to jewellery, cushions and clothes. She’s serving a customer as I walk in but she looks delighted to see me, mouthing ‘Hey, you’ as she rings a purchase through the till. We sit chatting for the last couple of quiet hours of her day, planning the hen night on Saturday. As bridesmaid I know it’s really my duty to organise it, but Molly kind of sprung that one on me and she already knew what she wanted to do. We’re planning Circular Quay for drinks at a swanky bar overlooking the harbour, then dinner at an Italian restaurant nearby before going on to a club in King’s Cross. We even manage to book a bright pink limo to take us from the restaurant to the club. Neither of us can wait.
‘Do you fancy going for a quick drink on the jetty?’ Molly suggests eventually.
‘Sure.’
She calls out goodbye to her boss, Sandra, who’s busy out at the back stretching fabric over wooden frames to make pretty prints.
The clouds have started to clear and the wind has settled right down. Blue sky stretches out ahead. ‘You’re so lucky with the weather,’ Molly tells me.
Manly Wharf has had a revamp since I was last here, and the white art deco wood-panelled wharf front looks fresh and clean. The clock tower reveals it’s 6.15 p.m. We walk around to the Jetty Bar and take a seat at one of the wooden benches. Vast white umbrellas hover overhead to protect us from the now quite warm sunshine.
‘That guy is really cute,’ Molly says of the barman as she returns to the table with two glasses of fizzing, berry liqueur-laced champagne.
‘Molly,’ I laugh, ‘you’re almost a married woman.’
Sam and Molly are getting married in the Botanic Gardens, in full view of the Opera House, Harbour Bridge and the city’s crystalline skyline. Normally it would cost a fortune to have a marquee with such a spectacular view, but as Sam is an employee at the gardens he’s getting a great discount.
‘Are things all sorted with the venue?’
‘I think so. Marquee’s set to go up in, well, little over a week now.’
‘What have we still got left to do?’
‘Just get you some shoes. And Andie too. I don’t think Mum’s had any luck with hers yet. We can do that on Tuesday when I’m off work.’
Andie–Andrea–is Molly’s little sister. She’s eight and I haven’t even met her yet. She was born the year after I left Australia. The year Sam’s parents died.
‘It still freaks me out that you’ve got a sister.’
‘You’re telling me! It freaks me out too. Especially when she’s being a brat and Mum lets her get away with it. She’s spoilt rotten.’
Andie and I are Molly’s only bridesmaids. I still can’t get over the fact that she asked me.
‘Hey, I’ve been wondering,�
� I say. ‘Are you changing your name to Wilson?’
‘Yes,’ Molly replies, ‘I’ve decided I will. Well, it would mean a lot to Sam and I do really want to be part of his family, especially seeing as there’s not much of it left anymore,’ she adds sadly. ‘But I will miss being Molly Thomas. Would you change your name to Smithson if you married James?’
‘Um, I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘It would be weird not being Lucy McCarthy anymore. But my mum changed her name to Brown when she married Terry so that link to her has already gone.’
Half an hour later, we drive up the hill to home and find an old battered green station wagon parked outside with a surfboard strapped to the top. ‘Nathan’s here!’ Molly exclaims.
The last time I saw Nathan, he was a skinny fourteen-year-old who would lock himself up in his bedroom and play his guitar. Back then he would do anything to get away from his older brother and his annoying female friends, but I’m guessing from Molly’s enthusiasm that’s no longer the case.
Molly opens the door and leads the way into the kitchen where, there at the table with Sam, is someone who most definitely does not look like his skinny little twerp of a brother.
A jolt goes through me as a tall, dark, messy-haired surfer in faded jeans and a T-shirt stands up and smiles at me. He’s even taller than Sam. ‘Lucy, hi. Wow–it’s been a while?’
‘About nine years,’ I reply, and I’m thinking what a difference almost a decade makes.
‘I can’t believe how much you’ve changed,’ he says, as he stands there and surveys me.
I suddenly feel shy. ‘You too.’ I calculate his age quickly in my head. He’s two years younger than Sam, Molly and me, which makes him twenty-three.
‘Lucy, what are you drinking?’ Sam asks, and I’m glad of the interruption. ‘We’ve got rosé, white or beer. Oh, and red too.’
Molly and I opt for the rosé and we go out onto the back porch.
Nathan’s presence right behind me is distracting.
We pull up black-painted wrought-iron chairs and sit around the matching table, Nathan to my left and Sam to my right with Molly seated opposite. Stone steps lead down to the neatly mown lawn, which slopes away from the house. The faithful sunloungers that I’ve spent the last couple of days getting to know intimately pepper the garden.