A Place of Her Own

by Deborah O'Brien

  There was an American term which summed up Richard’s behaviour – he’d been a schmuck. How could he just fall into bed with someone who turned up at his house that same afternoon? Not even a day or two of getting to know each other. Admittedly, Diana was his ex-wife, and they did actually know each other. But Diana hadn’t woken from a twenty-year coma or returned from two decades as a missionary in a foreign land. She’d run away years ago with the town’s solicitor and left Richard distraught. So much so that he’d turned to alcohol. How could he just take her back into his life? Unless he’d never stopped loving her. If that were the case, he had been dallying with Angie all along. Then she thought of another possibility. What if he’d recently suffered a blow to his self-esteem so strong that when his attractive ex-wife offered herself to him, he couldn’t possibly resist?

  As she was picking at the crumbs of her blueberry muffin, an ABC radio voice said: ‘Hi, Ange.’

  She looked up, expecting him to look repentant. Instead, his freshly shaven complexion bore a glow that only suggested one thing.

  ‘May I sit down?’

  ‘Of course. Actually I was on my way out to see you. About the emporium.’

  ‘I read about it. You must be devastated.’

  So he’d found time to read the paper. That was a positive sign. What’s more, he was out and about again, not lazing in bed with Diana.

  ‘Your cold seems better, Ange. Did the hot lemon and honey work?’

  ‘It worked a treat.’

  When the waitress came by, he ordered a latte.

  ‘We’re organising a protest group against the DA,’ Angie began tentatively. ‘We had a meeting last Saturday and formed a “Friends of the Emporium” committee.’

  ‘Good for you. Do you need any help?’

  ‘Actually there is something you could do.’ She took a sip of her tea for courage. ‘We’re sympathetic to Andrew’s business requirements and we understand that he needs more space. So we’ve been exploring alternative sites. Confidentially, of course. Andrew appears to be amenable to purchasing a suitable building, should it become available.’

  ‘And you were thinking I might sell him one?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Which building did you have in mind?’

  ‘The old mill.’

  She didn’t like the expression forming on his face. It was one of those oxymoronic smiles – a grim one.

  ‘I have other plans for the mill.’

  ‘But it’s just sitting there. And you’re always complaining about paying rates. It must be costing you a fortune. Imagine what you could do with the cash.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘An overseas trip. A new ute. You could buy some shares, or what are those other things called? Government bonds. You should diversify your portfolio, Richard. It’s not wise to own too much property.’

  He started to laugh. ‘So you’re my financial manager now, Ange. In that case, you’ll be pleased to know I have diversified. You’ll recall that I sold the Manse, of course. But I’m not selling the mill.’ He leant forward and for a second she thought he was going to take her hand. Instead, he fiddled with a teaspoon. ‘Look, I’m sympathetic to your cause. But, as I told you, I have something else in mind for that building.’

  ‘But this is the last remaining piece of Charles and Amy’s love story. Their house is gone, knocked down years ago, and soon their emporium will be desecrated. And you have a personal stake in protecting their heritage because the two of them are buried in your graveyard.’

  He pondered for a moment and then looked directly at her. ‘It’s not as if they’ll be forgotten. There’s the display dedicated to the two of them in the museum. And the emporium will still be there, just altered a bit.’

  ‘Altered a bit? The DA is a travesty. The emporium is the epitome of gold rush-era Millbrooke. And we know from Charles’s letter that he met Amy there. I like to imagine she went in to buy something and experienced a coup de foudre.’

  ‘Do you believe in love at first sight, Ange?’

  ‘It’s overrated,’ she replied brusquely. ‘Now, could you at least consider the possibility of selling, or even leasing it to Andrew on a long-term basis?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t dally too long because the council meeting is next Tuesday.’ She had finished her tea and muffin and there was no reason to linger. ‘I’d better go. I have to finish a story about Charles and Amy for the Gazette.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a writer.’

  ‘I’m not. Jonathan is going to tweak it for me.’

  ‘I hope your article has an impact. Sometimes it’s good to personalise things. Speaking of which, do you think we can still be friends? You’re probably right about it being the best course for us.’

  ‘I suppose it is. Certainly in the light of recent developments.’ If he detected any sarcasm in her tone, his face didn’t show it. She paused before the next question, wondering if it might be prodding too hard. Then she decided he was in such a good mood, it couldn’t hurt. ‘You must have been surprised to see Diana on Saturday.’ Angie was fishing and didn’t expect to hear:

  ‘Yes, and she was equally surprised that I still lived in the house.’

  ‘It must have been quite a shock for her.’ She tried to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Yes, she thought I’d moved away years ago. She said it was like a dream.’

  ‘For you too, I imagine.’

  As their eyes met, she wondered if he had doubts about taking Diana back.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off. And I’m really glad that we’re still mates.’

  ‘Me too.’ And she meant it. At least friendship was better than nothing at all.

  Next moment he was standing up and placing his chair under the table. Angie noted the pristine blue shirt and cream trousers. Where had they come from?

  ‘See ya round, Richard.’

  ‘Bye, Ange.’

  She ordered another pot of tea while she digested what she had just learnt. If Angie, a person of little guile, could wheedle so much information out of Richard Scott, imagine what Diana of the enhanced face and sexual wiles could do. What a devious piece of work she was, pretending to be surprised to see him, when she knew very well that he still owned the house.

  It might be time to do some checking on Mrs Diana Goodmann.

  7 THE BATTLE

  The next morning Angie was so busy putting the finishing touches to her article for the Gazette, she didn’t make it to the emporium café until ten. Just enough time for a cuppa and a muffin before painting class. She had just placed her order when Richard arrived. No doubt Diana had detained him for a little morning delight.

  From the viewpoint of Ben the waiter, things between Angie and Richard must have seemed much as they always had been. But as far as Angie was concerned, everything had changed. Richard had acquired a lover-in-situ. And despite them agreeing to be friends, there was a new subtext, a brittle undertone, an added wariness.

  ‘Did you see the email alert from council?’ Richard asked as he sat down beside Angie.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to check my emails yet, Richard. What do you think I do in the mornings? Swan around in a silk kimono with time on my hands?’

  Ignoring her rhetorical question, he asked: ‘Did you drink the tap water this morning?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Is there something wrong with it?’

  ‘A problem with the water filtration plant. They’ve found E. coli in the dam.’

  ‘Well, at least I use a water filter. I went out and bought one after you told me they put fluoride in the water. Anyway, do you think filtered water will be okay to drink?’

  ‘You should boil it on the stove as well. Not just in
the kettle. They’re saying for at least five minutes.’

  ‘I have a B&B to run, Richard. I can’t spend all day boiling water.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll bring you some water containers from Millerbrooke. I can drop them in every couple of days until they give the all-clear.’

  She was about to say she could manage quite well without his help, when she decided it was better to accede to his offer.

  ‘Thanks, Richard. That’s very kind of you. Have you given any more thought to the mill?’

  ‘Yes. I’m working on a solution. And I liked your story, Ange.’

  ‘Thanks. I wrote it from the heart.’

  ‘I could tell. You haven’t been out to the graveyard for a while.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve been putting flowers on the grave for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I heard the ads on the radio about the emporium. They’re good.’

  ‘I asked Nola to record them. She has a pleasant voice. It’s her acting background.’

  ‘Your committee is certainly putting the pressure on council.’

  ‘Alice learnt a lot from the Songbird protests. MAM mounted a campaign that defeated a multinational corporation and proved a small community can make a difference when they mobilise ­efficiently.’

  ‘Sounds like a war. Who’s the general?’

  ‘Not me. Probably Bert.’

  ‘You mean Bert Williams? Did you know he lost his wife a couple of years ago?’

  ‘Yes, Moira’s mentioned it.’

  ‘Everyone thought Bert would follow soon after,’ Richard continued, ‘but he rallied and took over the presidency of the historical society. And now look at him.’

  ‘I’m surprised some local lady hasn’t snatched him up.’

  ‘There’ve been a few hopefuls, but he doesn’t seem interested.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew him so well.’

  ‘I bump into him sometimes at Lisa’s pub. He’s a nice bloke.’

  ‘Speaking of Lisa, she told me she hasn’t seen much of you lately.’

  ‘Diana isn’t keen on me going there.’

  ‘But all your friends are there. Anyway, why couldn’t she go with you?’

  Instead of answering, he said, ‘Well, it was good to see you, Ange. I’ll drop off the water later on. If you’re not home, I’ll leave it at the back door.’

  Angie would definitely be home.

  Diana dozed for a while, before waking and reaching across to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty. Where was Richard? No doubt he’d gone off to town to buy those disgusting Danishes. Didn’t he realise puff pastry was full of fat – the last thing he should be eating at his age? Lying on the side table was his mobile phone. He’d left it behind. She picked it up and began to listen to his voicemail messages. There was one from someone called Troy wanting to arrange a time to shear the alpacas. Another from that frump, Moira Johnson: ‘Haven’t heard from you for a few days, Richard. Hope all is well.’ There was a sarcastic tone in her voice. She obviously knew they were back together.

  And there was a voicemail from a nameless woman: ‘Richard, it’s me. Please call me when you have a chance.’

  Received on Saturday evening from a mobile. Although the voice didn’t seem young, it wasn’t old either. Diana listened to the message again. A person who said ‘it’s me’ and didn’t feel the need to supply a name must be a close friend. She tried to remember whether she’d heard the voice before, but the message was short and people sounded different on the phone.

  When she tried to replay it for a third time, the message was gone. Shit. She must have pressed the wrong button and deleted it by mistake. So she checked his text messages hoping there might be a clue there, but the page was blank. Either he’d deleted everything or he didn’t know how to text. She couldn’t find a list of contacts either. Not a single name or number stored anywhere. When it came to smartphones, he was a dinosaur.

  Well, the message from his mysterious woman was gone altogether, though no doubt she would call him back. From now on, Diana would check his phone on a regular basis. It wouldn’t be difficult. He always left it lying around.

  It was Thursday and Moira was on her way to Angie’s place. On Monday afternoon, she had appeared to rally, and certainly at yesterday’s painting class she’d put on a brave face, but Moira knew there could easily be a relapse. In matters of the heart, a recovery was rarely smooth. As she bustled along Miller Street, Moira pondered Richard’s recent behaviour. She was at a loss to understand it. The woman had deserted him. Then she’d paraded around Millbrooke, showing off her pregnant belly as if to say, ‘Richard Scott couldn’t get me pregnant, but now I’m expecting a baby, courtesy of Geoff Goodmann.’

  Come to think of it, Moira had never been able to grasp what Richard saw in Diana, a self-centred woman, who had never appreciated his efforts in creating a dream house for her. Instead, she’d seen it as a betrayal, lambasting him for making her a ‘renovation widow’. Yet when she walked out and moved in with the solicitor, Richard was as devastated as if she’d died. That was when he started drinking and only woke up to himself when George suffered a fatal heart attack. By that time, Diana and her solicitor were living in Flynns Bay with their little daughter.

  Moira shook her head in disgust. As a woman, she could see exactly what Diana was like, but men seemed to be completely fooled by her. Even George had fallen for the vulnerable act, telling Moira he felt sorry for Diana and that Richard should have taken better care of her. What was wrong with men that they were taken in so easily by seemingly helpless women? For Richard, the fascination with Diana appeared to be a spell he couldn’t break, even after she abandoned him. Perhaps even now.

  When Moira knocked on Angie’s door, it was opened by a perfectly groomed woman.

  ‘Hi, Moira. Come in.’

  ‘You seem a lot better.’

  ‘I am. Thanks for looking after me on Monday. I should have said something yesterday but I was just focusing on getting through the class. Last night I gave myself a firm lecture. After all, I’m a middle-aged woman with two healthy sons, a group of great friends, a career as an artist and a burgeoning business. I told myself to stop wallowing in what is technically a minor romantic disappointment. I thought about what happened to Amy. She lost the two most important people in her life – her husband and son – and kept on going. This is trivial stuff in comparison.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly perky today.’

  ‘I saw Richard this morning and he’s going to drop off some water later.’

  ‘That’s nice of him. Don’t get your hopes up though.’

  ‘I’m not. But I have some interesting news for you about Mrs Goodmann. We know she lied to me or at least didn’t tell the full truth. Well, I found out she lied to Richard too. Told him she thought he’d moved away years ago, when she knew about him living at Millerbrooke. She’s completely snowed him.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. Especially you, Angie. Just let sleeping dogs lie.’ Then Moira realised the implications and added, ‘So to speak.’

  ‘You’re probably right. He’s made his bed and now he can lie in it.’

  ‘Enough with the puns,’ said Moira. ‘Let’s talk about the campaign. Do you remember how MAM printed T-shirts for their protests against Songbird? Well, you could do the same, using your pen-and-ink sketch of the emporium, the one you did for our exhibition at Easter.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I wonder how much it would cost to have T-shirts printed. Maybe some matching tea towels too. I’ll text Alice and find out which company she used.’

  ‘You and your texts.’

  ‘You sound like Bert. By the way, he’s coming over in a while to discuss our stall at Sunday’s market. You might as well stay for some coffee and cake.’

 
While Angie browsed the website of the Granthurst company recom­mended by Alice, Bert expounded about the internet’s impact on contemporary society. He decided that it would be the downfall of humanity, owing to its ability to waste the time of young people who sat hunched over their computers when they should be outside, breathing the fresh air. All the same, he was pleased Angie was able to place their T-shirt order electronically and that they would be ready for collection on Saturday, just in time for the markets the next day.

  Angie couldn’t help smiling at Bert’s disdain for the internet. What would he make of the online dating site frequented by so many of Millbrooke’s single female population – even elderly, elegant Moira? To Angie’s knowledge, Moira had only dallied in a virtual sense. No actual meetings in the flesh. For her part, Moira had never volunteered any details.

  Early on Sunday morning the nucleus of Friends of the Empo­rium, now known familiarly as FOTE, assembled at the showground to set up their stand. Alice provided a portable gazebo which had been used during the MAM protests. Angie had painted a sign on heavy cardboard that they placed at the front of the stand, while Bert contributed a couple of trestle tables. All of them wore their new white T-shirts bearing Angie’s drawing and a slogan which read: ‘I’m a Friend of the Emporium’. When Jennie and Narelle turned up to help, they were offered T-shirts too.

  Beside their stand was a marquee advertising the local MP, Sam Porter. He was missing, of course. Politicians only came to Millbrooke in the lead-up to an election or whenever the grand opening of a public works project provided a photo op. In Sam Porter’s place was a sandwich board bearing his airbrushed photograph. Jim Holbrook, the local solicitor and president of the Millbrooke branch of the party, was manning the stand.

  ‘Not an ideal location for us, being next to Sam Porter,’ said Alice. ‘People always give the politicians a wide berth.’