Inheriting Jack

by Kris Webb

  ‘Good point.’ Patrick sat down beside me. ‘So, tell me about your day, dear.’

  I looked sideways at him, my lack of amusement at his comment very clear.

  ‘All right, all right, it was a joke. Sorry. Sheesh.’

  I tried to think of something vaguely interesting to tell Patrick about my day. There was nothing, unless I mentioned the incident at the building site, which I was doing my best to forget. I’d been desperate for adult conversation all day and now couldn’t think of a thing to say. I was still struggling for a topic when the telephone rang.

  Patrick bounded up and ran into the living room. ‘Geoff!’

  It seemed to me he greeted his old university friend with more enthusiasm than normal.

  ‘Tonight? No . . . nothing. Yep, that sounds great, see you there in half an hour.’

  He stuck his head around the door. ‘I’m heading out. Drinks at The Victory. You’ll be okay, won’t you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied leadenly. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Jack was now tipping his twenty-dollar bathwater all over the floor. I tried without success to muster the energy to stop him. Instead I tipped the remainder of Patrick’s wine into my glass, poured in another dollop of bubble bath and leaned back against the wall.

  THIRTEEN

  The words ‘Conrad the Crane’ jumped out at me. The only problem was that they were at the bottom of a three-page letter of advice I’d just typed, not the book I’d read Jack five times that morning.

  Pushing back my chair, I rubbed my eyes, which were gritty from lack of sleep. It had been after 2 a.m. when I’d finished a quick review of a document I should have known inside out days ago, and Jack had woken fresh as a daisy at five-thirty.

  I’d had three meetings that day and had managed to do enough work to scrape through all of them without looking totally incompetent. But as well as having to go back and do properly what I should have done before the meetings, I now owed one letter of advice and two amended agreements to the relevant clients.

  Even assuming that the letter I’d just finished would make some sense once I’d taken out all references to storybook characters, I had days of work ahead of me. And tomorrow was a ‘not working from home day’ as I’d already begun to think of them.

  Maybe another coffee would help, I thought doubtfully, eyeing the two empty foam cups on my desk. Grabbing my handbag, I headed for the office door. My briefcase sat on top of the cupboard and I picked that up too, hoping people would assume I was on my way to a meeting.

  After leaving the building, I turned left, walked the length of the block and turned left again into a little side street that housed a dimly lit cafe–bar that would have looked more at home in Sicily than Brisbane. I threw my bags down and sank onto the padded bench. The waiter wandered over to me.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Yes please, Brad,’ I answered.

  He walked back to the kitchen and I pushed my hair out of my eyes and tried to think clearly.

  What was wrong with me? I’d worked when I was tired before. A number of the deals I’d been involved with had required late nights and, on a few occasions, all-night sessions, but I’d managed to hold it together. This felt different, though; it seemed forever since I’d had a decent night’s sleep and the worst thing was that I couldn’t ever imagine a time when I could catch up.

  Brad returned with a perfect-looking cup of coffee.

  ‘I added an extra shot,’ he murmured as he put it down in front of me.

  Great. Not only did I feel bad, I clearly looked like crap too.

  Working from home was a terrible myth. I’d vaguely imagined that sometime in the distant future when I had children, it would be the perfect compromise. My vision had been of me sitting in my pyjamas, coffee at my elbow, tapping away peacefully on the keyboard while my beautiful children played happily at my feet. The only similarity between this vision and yesterday’s chaos was that I was still in my pyjamas at lunchtime.

  How on earth did women get anything done? The answer was obvious. They looked after the children, put them to bed and then started their own work. Sleep was definitely the optional extra in the equation.

  Maybe I should think about leaving Jack with Carla every day, so I could keep working full-time? As appealing as that option sounded, I knew it wasn’t the right one. Jack’s life had just been turned upside down and my priority had to be to give him some sense of stability. He needed to know that I was going to be around a lot.

  Surely if I could just get back on top of my work it would be manageable. At the moment the backlog was so overwhelming that all I seemed to be doing was putting out fires.

  My state of mind hadn’t been improved by a phone call from Robert to say he had some problems with his business, which meant he’d have to delay his trip to Brisbane for a while. He seemed to have slipped back into the role of the occasional uncle he’d no doubt played in Jack’s life before Anita’s death. I hadn’t been expecting him to be around a lot, but having someone to share the responsibility with would have been great.

  The only good news that had come out of the call was that Robert told me that his lawyer had called Thomas Driscoll to let him know of Anita’s death. Apparently he’d been shocked, but quite clear about the fact that he held no responsibility for Jack. So it was just a matter of formalising things at this end. There would be a custodial hearing, but as no one would be contesting the issue, Jack should stay with me.

  I wondered briefly what kind of man would leave his son in the care of strangers – and what Anita could have seen in him in the first place. Shaking my head, I decided there wasn’t anything to be gained from that train of thought.

  The first thing I had to do, I decided, was to get some sleep. I wasn’t taking any work home with me tonight and was going to bed as soon as Jack did.

  I drained my coffee and stood up. Dropping some money on the table, I waved to Brad on the way out. As I stepped onto the street my phone rang in the depths of my handbag and, still walking, I pulled it out.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Julia, it’s Tony. How are you?’

  I stopped dead. I hadn’t heard from Tony since the breakfast episode and had given up any hope that he would call. Maggie had thought the whole story was hysterical when I’d recounted it to her and had put the odds of him ever calling again at about a hundred to one. But that hadn’t stopped me thinking about him.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ I lied.

  He must be trying to get hold of Patrick. The production meeting with Tony’s boss had been deferred until he returned from a business trip. But Tony and Patrick had been planning to get together to talk about the concept.

  ‘I was wondering. Do you have anything planned for tonight?’

  ‘Ah no,’ I answered, deciding that a 7 p.m. appointment with my bed probably didn’t count as a plan.

  ‘Would you like to go and see a movie?’

  I hesitated. Sleep was an absolute necessity and if I wasn’t going to sleep I should be doing some work.

  About to refuse, I shook myself. I had no social life, no boyfriend and very little prospect of obtaining either in the near future. Any work I could accomplish tonight would only be a drop in the ocean anyway. The fact that I was considering turning down a date with a decidedly attractive man, who knew I came as a package with a child who could demolish a coffee shop in ten minutes, showed how sleep deprived I was.

  ‘That sounds great. I’ll just have to check that Patrick’s home tonight to look after Jack, but I think he will be.’

  ‘Excellent. There’s a new independent film showing at the Palace that I’m keen to see. It’s won all kinds of awards.’

  My heart sank. I was hoping he’d suggest a mindless Hollywood blockbuster. My life was wall-to-wall gritty reality at the moment, I didn’t need to go and pay to see more on a big screen.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I managed with what I hoped passed for enthusiasm.

&n
bsp; We arranged to meet for the seven-thirty show and I called Patrick at work.

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ he agreed when I explained the situation. ‘I can manage as long as he’s asleep before you go. I feel so crook after last night, I only want to go to bed anyway.’

  Carla had fed and bathed Jack by the time I picked him up and I was standing outside the cinema ten minutes before the show was to start. I leaned against the wall, trying to look cool and relaxed. The minutes ticked past and the number of people heading into the cinema slowed to a trickle and then stopped. Twenty minutes later I started to wonder if I’d been stood up. Maybe this was payback for the wallet.

  Just as I was about to leave, Tony walked around the corner. He was talking intensely on his mobile and smiled apologetically, mouthing, ‘Sorry’ at me.

  I watched him as he spoke into the phone. His beige trousers and short-sleeved black shirt looked rumpled and the dark shadow on his chin suggested he’d had a long day. Not as long as mine, though, I was sure.

  Despite his weary appearance he still looked good. Finally he finished the call and turned to me. ‘I’m really sorry. I’m still trying to iron out some problems we’ve got with our news show.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes late, let’s just hope the show hasn’t started.’

  We went inside the building, bought tickets and pushed our way past a red velvet curtain into the cinema.

  The movie had already started and the weird camera angles, flashes of sepia and close-ups of mind-boggling drug use confirmed my opinion of art-house movies. After ten minutes I still had no idea what was going on and I certainly didn’t care. Independent cinema could be wonderful, but it could also be very bad, and as far as I was concerned, this definitely fell into the second category.

  Sometime later I came to suddenly, wondering how long I’d been asleep. Sneaking a look at my watch I saw it was only about ten minutes. Wiping the dribble from the corner of my mouth, I looked sideways at Tony. He was staring straight ahead, apparently absorbed by the action on the screen. He appeared not to have noticed that I’d had a quick nap mid film.

  I tried to concentrate, but had no grasp of whatever thin plot there was and spent the rest of the film trying not to fall asleep again. Finally the credits rolled and we filed out of the theatre.

  ‘What did you think?’ asked Tony.

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. If I confessed that my favourite type of movie was a romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan or Gwyneth Paltrow or, if possible, both, he’d see me for the cultural philistine I was. My idea of developing sophisticated movie tastes was deciding that I fancied Nicholas Cage rather than Matthew Broderick.

  ‘Ah, it was . . . great,’ I lied. ‘Very, umm, insightful.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘That’s interesting. I’ve read some good reviews but I thought it was awful. Those camera angles drove me mad.’

  Why did I never learn? Thirty-one years old and I was still giving people the answers I thought they wanted to hear.

  I had no choice now. If I admitted that I’d actually hated it, he’d never believe anything I said again. There was no choice for it but to go in boots and all. ‘No . . . I thought the camera angles reflected the darkness of the plot.’ One of the few things I had noticed about the movie was that most of the characters were dead by the end, so I figured it was probably safe to say the plot was dark.

  Tony looked at me as if he couldn’t work out whether or not I was serious. To my relief he changed the subject. ‘So . . . Fancy a coffee?’

  Despite my chronic need for sleep, I nodded. I had lost track of how much caffeine I’d had that day and figured a bit more couldn’t hurt. At least there was no chance of it keeping me awake.

  We sat down at a table in the cafe outside the theatre. As we waited for our coffees to arrive, I searched my foggy brain for something to say.

  ‘Patrick seems to have come around to the Kids in the Kitchen idea. I think he fancies himself as a celebrity.’

  Tony laughed. ‘I can’t quite promise him that, but I still think the show could work. All I can do is pitch it to John and see what happens. Listen, I’m sorry I had to rush off after breakfast the other day. How was the park?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Jack and I actually had a great time after you left.’

  I was lying through my teeth. Jack had dropped his ice-cream on the ground and then screamed blue murder when I didn’t let him pick it up. I was trying to introduce some standards of hygiene and figured I had to draw the line somewhere.

  No taxi would take us without a child’s seat and so I’d had to push a decidely unhappy Jack the whole way home.

  ‘That’s good.’ He seemed relieved and I was glad I hadn’t told him the truth. ‘How are things going with Jack?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ I answered carefully, resisting the impulse to lay my head on the table and sob out the story of the last two days. ‘It’s a big change,’ I said instead. ‘But everything’s going fine.’

  I paused, trying to think of a good way to change the subject again. It was starting to feel a bit like a game of table tennis, with neither of us wanting to say anything too personal.

  ‘You must be some kind of wonder woman then,’ Tony said. ‘My sister Cassie is at home full-time with her three and my brother-in-law is pretty helpful, but some days when I go around there she’s practically counting the minutes till she can have her first glass of wine.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  Yesterday I’d seen a lone beer at the back of the fridge when I’d been cooking Jack’s dinner. My hand had hovered over it until I decided that drinking a beer alone at five-thirty in the afternoon was a slippery slope that had a pantry full of empty limoncello bottles at the bottom. It made me feel slightly better to hear that someone else felt the same way.

  ‘Yeah, I have to admit that I’m not finding it easy trying to fit everything in at the moment,’ I admitted.

  ‘Is your boss cutting you a bit of slack?’

  ‘It doesn’t really work like that in a law firm,’ I answered. ‘If a client wants something done, then it gets done regardless of what else is going on in your life. The partner I’m working for missed his son’s fifth birthday party a few weeks ago.’

  Tony looked horrified. ‘God, what could be more important than your child’s party?’

  ‘A hostile takeover of one of his major clients,’ I replied. I’d never even thought about these things before Jack arrived.

  Tony looked unconvinced. ‘So you’re doing a full-time job at the same time as looking after an eighteen month old?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Tony looked at me closely. ‘How much sleep are you getting?’

  ‘Not much,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Cassie told me that she’d decided she’d just give up sleeping altogether after her third baby. She said she figured if she didn’t expect to get any sleep, then anything she did actually manage would feel like a bonus.

  ‘Right,’ he continued, draining the last of his espresso. ‘You need to get home to bed.’

  Bed was what I’d been dreaming of since early that morning, but suddenly I was reluctant to go. There was something very comforting about sitting in a crowded coffee shop and having a good-looking man feeling sorry for me.

  ‘Did you drive?’ Tony asked as we walked out.

  ‘Yeah, I’m parked over there.’ I gestured towards a nearby side street.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

  We walked the short distance in silence.

  ‘Do you need me to follow you home?’ Tony looked anxiously at my car.

  I shook my head. ‘As long as it starts I’ll be fine,’ I said boldly.

  To my relief, the engine started on the first go, and I wound down the window. ‘Can I give you a lift to your car?’

  ‘No thanks, it’s just around the corner.’

  ‘Okay, then . . .’ I suddenly felt silly. I hadn’t even said goodbye and here I was sitting in the car practically revving
the engine. He must think I was incredibly rude.

  Tony rested his left hand on the roof of the car. He slowly lowered his face through the open window and kissed me softly on the lips.

  My first thought was that I’d fallen asleep mid goodbye and was dreaming, but I’d never had a dream that felt that good.

  He straightened.

  ‘Off home with you. Let me know next time you want to see a dark and insightful movie.’

  With a grin he was gone.

  FOURTEEN

  Reluctantly turning down offers to join some colleagues for Friday-night drinks at the bar across the road from the office, I put on my jacket and headed for the bus stop.

  This weekend was the beginning of Operation Teach Jack To Eat Something Healthy and a trip to the supermarket was step one.

  It had been three weeks since Jack’s arrival and in that time he’d refused anything that wasn’t full of sugar, full of preservatives or laden with oil. Even Patrick had conceded that Jack was probably on his way to developing scurvy.

  While I was no child nutritionist, it seemed reasonable to think that putting some vegetables in the fridge would be a good start.

  I had decided that food shopping on Saturday morning was the only activity less appealing than food shopping on Friday night, so after picking Jack up from Carla’s we headed to the shops.

  Trying not to dwell on how much fun everyone else I knew was having, I endured a torrid shopping experience and was on my way home when my mobile rang. My adrenaline levels surged at the thought that it might be Gordon checking yet again that everything was under control.

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ I sighed with relief as I heard Patrick’s voice.

  ‘Um . . . the good news.’ I quickly glanced back at Jack who was blissfully emptying my wallet onto the car floor. I knew there was a ninety per cent probability that I would lose at least one credit card, but I was willing to take the risk.

  There was a pause. ‘Well actually, there is no good news.’

  ‘So, tell me the bad news.’