A Place of Her Own

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘At least we’re selling something,’ said Moira. ‘That will draw them in.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Bert. ‘If you’re simply promoting a cause or pro­viding information, most people will walk past without stopping. It used to happen to us whenever we had a stand for the historical society.’

  By ten o’clock, FOTE had sold out of their large-size T-shirts and Angie was forced to take orders. Bert spotted Bob Brannigan, the mayor, coming in their direction, but he didn’t stop – simply nodded and kept walking.

  ‘I suppose he has to maintain an air of neutrality,’ said Moira. ‘Can’t appear to be consorting with the preservationists.’

  ‘There’s Andrew Wright,’ said Angie. He was scowling at them from the rotunda.

  ‘Bet he was hoping to sneak the DA through council without us ever finding out,’ said Alice.

  ‘Poor bugger,’ laughed Bert. ‘He wouldn’t have expected a response like this.’

  By eleven, all the children’s T-shirts were gone, as well as most of the tea towels.

  ‘We’ve covered our costs,’ said Jennie, who was managing the money. ‘From now on, we’re into profit. I think we might even make enough to run an ad in next week’s Gazette.’

  After they congratulated themselves on their success, Bert went off to his car to retrieve the last of the tea towels. On his return they busied themselves unpacking and arranging their merchandise, and nobody noticed a tall man and a thin woman approaching from the direction of Sam Porter’s stand.

  ‘Hi, Moira, how’s it going?’ It was Richard Scott with Diana clinging to his arm.

  ‘Great,’ replied Moira. ‘The T-shirts are selling like hotcakes. Most of Millbrooke will be advertising our cause before long.’

  ‘I’d like to buy two,’ he said. ‘An extra-large and a small.’ Then he seemed to remember the woman draped on his arm. ‘Moira, you remember Diana, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. You haven’t changed at all. How are you, Diana?’

  ‘Never better, Moira. And you look well. I certainly hope I look as good as you when I reach your age.’

  ‘I haven’t had any work done, Diana, so no doubt you’ll look even better.’

  At the back of the stand, Jennie and Narelle had their mouths agape at the exchange. Not to mention the fact that Richard Scott had a woman with him. A very attractive one, albeit with a touch of the waxworks about her. Beside them, Angie was resisting a strong impulse to run away by taking a series of deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth. She had learnt the art of appearing composed after Phil died. Once the funeral was over, she had only cried in private. Whenever there were people around, she would take her mind to another place, well away from the distressing thoughts and feelings. If she concentrated hard enough, it was possible to adopt an unfazed persona in the manner of the Queen, even though her insides might be tangled in a Gordian knot.

  ‘Hi, Bert. Hi, Ange,’ said Richard.

  Despite her attempt at queenliness, Angie was fuming. The man who had kissed her passionately a couple of weeks ago was now acting as though he and Diana were an old married couple.

  Bert placed their T-shirts in a bag.

  ‘I might take one of those tea towels too,’ said Richard. ‘Angie, we must talk about that sketch of Millerbrooke that you did. It would make a great tea towel to sell at my open days.’

  I’m not selling you my sketch, thought Angie. Aloud she said, ‘Certainly.’

  Although Angie had avoided looking directly at Diana until now, she managed to steal a quick glance. Diana, in turn, was staring at lovely Renoiresque Jennie. Was she envious of Jennie’s generous figure? Angie couldn’t tell. With its baby-like skin and frozen muscles, Diana’s face was inscrutable. No wonder she could lie so effectively.

  Bert folded a tea towel and added it to the bag.

  ‘Good luck with your campaign, guys,’ said Richard.

  ‘Thanks, Richard. We appreciate your support,’ replied Bert.

  When Richard and Diana were gone, Jennie could barely restrain herself. ‘She looks like one of those women they put on magazine covers about plastic surgery disasters. Where did he find her?’

  ‘She’s his ex-wife,’ said Moira.

  ‘She’s had so much stuff injected into her face, she can’t even smile properly,’ said Jennie.

  ‘Like an ageing soap opera actress,’ added Narelle.

  While they were discussing Diana’s cosmetic enhancements, Angie slipped out the back of the stand. She realised her friends were only trying to show their support by badmouthing Diana, but their overwrought efforts hadn’t helped. Even though tears were threatening, she refused to cry. After all, she wasn’t a young girl in the first flush of love. Just a middle-aged woman prone to hot flushes. If this was love, she hated it. Unrequited love hurt like hell – whether you were fifteen or fifty-something.

  Why had she let herself fall for Richard, when she had been so circumspect in her dealings with Mr Songbird? Richard Scott was old and grey, while Jack Parker had been desired by her entire painting class, even the happily-married Ros. Why was it that Angie could manage to keep her heart quarantined with Jack, yet not with Richard?

  She felt an arm around her waist. It was Jennie.

  ‘Narelle and I are taking you for a coffee.’

  ‘But we’re needed on the stand.’

  ‘Bert and Moira can mind things here.’

  Before Angie could protest, they were propelling her out of the showground and along the road towards the shops.

  ‘Richard Scott deserves a kick up the backside,’ said Jennie.

  ‘He’s an idiot choosing her over you, Angie,’ said Narelle.

  Angie dabbed at her nose with a tissue. The words were well-intentioned and she appreciated the loyalty, but Richard Scott had made his choice. And it wasn’t Angie.

  ‘What a bunch of oddballs,’ said Diana when they were far enough away from the FOTE stand. ‘Don’t they have anything better to do with their time?’

  ‘It’s a good cause, Di. They love that old building. And they’ve done a lot of research into the Chinese merchant who opened the store, and his wife. She used to live in the Manse.’

  ‘No wonder that place is so creepy. Her ghost is probably still wandering the corridors.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Don’t ever say that to Angie. She’d stay up all night waiting for Amy.’

  ‘Moira hasn’t changed. Still a sourpuss after all these years. That Jennie woman is very pretty, don’t you think, Rich?’

  ‘I’ve never noticed.’

  It was the wrong answer. Diana gave him a probing look. Men always notice pretty women. If they lie about the fact, that means they’re hiding something.

  8 THE LOVE LETTER

  Although things had gone swimmingly for the first day or two, Diana was beginning to wonder if Richard was losing interest. Every morning he headed into town as though he couldn’t wait to be free of her. He said it was to pay the bills or collect his mail or buy vitamins for his llamas, but she knew better. He was up to something.

  Over the last two decades, Diana had developed a philosophy of life – take action against others before they have a chance to hurt you. She had learnt it was the only way to keep herself safe. The first step was to know everything she could about friends and enemies alike. So, as soon as Richard left for his morning trip to town, she went straight to the bedroom and opened the drawer of his bedside table. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but the contents were disappointing. Just old raffle tickets, loose coins, a crumpled handkerchief, a packet of aspirin, several name tags for conferences and two old watches, which didn’t seem to work. Then she wandered downstairs to his study. Its tall, square-paned windows overlooked the front verandah – a perfect location to listen for the noisy old ute coming up the gravel road.

&nbs
p; His study was like something out of a haunted house with its big bookcases and the funny little sea captain’s desk. There was another desk, large and heavy, which seemed to be the one he used day-to-day. Three drawers ran to the floor on either side of the massive top. She looked at those six drawers. Could there be twenty years’ worth of Richard Scott’s life stored inside?

  Systematically Diana began to search, beginning with the drawers closest to the window. On TV shows, people always pulled things out at random and then stuffed them back in any old order. In the real world, if you behaved so carelessly, the owner would know somebody had been rummaging through their things. So Diana removed each item individually and placed it on the floor in the exact place it had been inside the drawer. Pens, elastic bands, bulldog clips, adhesive tape and a little yellow pad of sticky notes. Then she returned them one by one to their home.

  The contents of the second drawer proved more interesting. It was full of recently paid bills. Among them were six council rate notices for the previous quarter. Millerbrooke was there, of course, but what really excited her were the five other invoices for numbers 16, 18, 21, 30 and 48 Miller Street. Main street locations. Richard had become quite the property owner. The bills gave no indication of which buildings they were. That would call for a walk along Miller Street to locate them.

  From the top drawer of his desk she took a pen and a sticky note and wrote down the five numbers, like lotto results. Then she deposited the note in her jeans pocket. When she tried the bottom drawer, it was locked. So were the remaining three. Would his property deeds be in there, together with his will? She would have to find the key and take a peek.

  As she was looking for a place where he might have hidden it, she noticed his computer, sitting neatly on a large leather blotter. She opened the lid and pressed the start button. Bugger, it required a password. She keyed in his old one from years ago – her middle name – Lynda. It was invalid. Next she tried Richard’s middle name, Albert. No luck. How many times could you do this before the computer seized up? She gave it one more try – his mother’s maiden name. Invalid. Quickly she held the power button until the computer shut down. Then she closed the lid, checking that the laptop was positioned exactly as she had found it. But she must have moved the leather blotter which lay underneath because something was sticking out. A piece of white paper. She slid it out from its hiding place.

  A photocopy – she could tell by the shaded line around the edge, indicating the original sheet was of a different width. The writing was the old-fashioned kind with looped downstrokes and curvy capital letters. She had always envied him his beautiful hand­writing. It looked like something from another era. Then again, he’d been educated at a time when penmanship was still appreciated.

  She took the piece of paper to the window and began reading.

  Dearest One,

  Know that I love you more each day. Over the time we have been apart, I have been recalling that autumn morning when you first walked into the emporium, looking like an angel. We introduced ourselves and drank tea together. By the time you left, I was already falling in love with you. After that, I watched for you every day, and whenever we met, my heart would soar.

  I never expected to feel like this. Romantic love is not something I have allowed myself, until now. It is both a joy and a torture. A joy when I am with you and a torture when we are apart.

  I will always love you.

  Your Devoted Suitor

  It was a frigging love letter. Who was ‘Dearest One’? And why the hell was Richard calling himself ‘Your Devoted Suitor’? Was it some kind of game they played with each other? When did he write the letter? The photocopy was in perfect condition, which suggested it was recent. Why had he kept a copy? Well, that was easy enough to answer. Richard had always been a methodical person. Of course he would make duplicates of all his correspondence.

  She took a deep breath and read it again.

  I have been recalling that autumn morning when you first walked into the emporium, looking like an angel.

  So they’d met in that café, the shabby one those FOTE people were trying to save. And she had looked like a bloody angel. Who could she be?

  We introduced ourselves and drank tea together. By the time you left, I was already falling in love with you.

  He must have fallen for her on the spot. Typical.

  Romantic love is not something I have allowed myself, until now.

  What the hell did that mean? What was his marriage if it wasn’t romantic love?

  I will always love you.

  A declaration of undying love. Did he still love his Dearest One? Even now?

  Diana felt like destroying the letter, running it through his shredder and burying the pieces in the garden, but Richard would discover it was gone and know immediately who had removed it. And then an awful thought struck her. Was he visiting his Dearest One now? Was that where he went when he drove off to town each morning? To see her?

  A memory was rising in her brain, threatening to overwhelm her. An image of a child, only seven years old and the apple of her father’s eye – or so she thought. One afternoon when the little girl came home from school, her mother told her that the father she’d idolised had run off with another woman and wasn’t coming back. The child didn’t believe it, not even when her mummy showed her the empty side of the wardrobe where her daddy’s clothes used to hang. But the months slipped by and he didn’t return. Didn’t even phone or write a note. The girl’s birthday passed without a card and she began to wonder whether it was all her fault. If she’d been a prettier child, a better daughter, would things have been different? From then on, she spent a lot of time gazing in the mirror, trying to work out what was wrong with her and how she could fix it.

  Just then she heard his ute coming up the road. Damn. Her head was on fire. Sweat was seeping from her pores. She mopped her face with a tissue, careful not to ruin her lipstick. As a child she’d lost her father to a mystery woman. This time things were going to be different. She wasn’t going to let some anonymous woman steal the one person in the world who made her feel safe.

  With a trembling hand, she pushed the letter under the blotter and rushed out of the room, picking up the battered orange paperback he had suggested she read. It had a strange French name she couldn’t pronounce.

  By the time he came in the back door and down the hallway into the living room, she was curled up on the sofa reading.

  ‘Hi, darling. How was your visit to town?’ she asked, steadying her voice.

  ‘Good. I brought you some apple Danishes.’

  She concealed a shudder.

  Then he spotted the cover of the book. ‘Di, you’re reading Clochemerle!’ He sounded excited, like a child finding a lost toy. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s charming. I can’t put it down.’

  Apparently that was the right response because he kissed her on the lips and said: ‘I’m so glad you’ve become a reader. It’s something we can both share. A common interest.’

  She waited for him to say, ‘Other than sex’, but he’d always been a tactful man.

  After Wednesday’s painting class, Moira stayed behind to help Angie write the ad for Saturday’s Millbrooke Gazette. When they had approached Jonathan Taylor about a full page, he’d told them nobody had ever asked for one before. In the end, they negotiated a half-page instead. Jonathan intended to run a pro-­preservation editorial as a double whammy. There had been a number of letters to the editor as well. Only one in favour of the DA. It was from a mate of Andrew’s. Jonathan was publishing all of them on page three.

  It didn’t take long to compose the ad; they decided the fewer words the better. Let the pictures speak for themselves – then and now. The building looked the same. That was the point. A precious piece of history that had remained intact, a window into the past, a time capsule. Angie included a few l
ines about the first owners, whose love story had unfolded among the exotic wares of the emporium. There was nothing like a romance, even an old one, to pull at the heartstrings of the Gazette readers.

  Angie and Moira were both so pleased with their finished advertisement that they each ate two pieces of the date and walnut slice Angie had made that morning.

  Then Moira produced a magazine from her carry bag. ‘I almost forgot to show you this copy of Country Dreams. I found it this week when I was doing a spring clean. They did a feature on Millerbrooke about two years ago. I think that’s how Diana first learnt Richard was still living here.’

  Angie examined the glossy magazine. On the cover was the Millerbrooke entrance hall, taken from the staircase and looking towards the open front door with its lunette and sidelights. Beyond was the rose garden. The photograph was so real she felt she was there. The cover bore the words: ‘A glorious piece of history restored to its former grandeur’.

  Inside was an eight-page spread. The piece was mostly pictures with a story about the renovation. Richard was referred to only as ‘the architect owner’, but there were paragraphs about the search for old timbers to match the existing floorboards, the reinstating of the stencilled friezes, the quest for original paint colours, the repair of the dry rot-ridden window frames and the restoration of the garden using old photographs.

  ‘He did an amazing job, didn’t he?’ said Angie. ‘It must have been all-consuming.’

  ‘It was. That was why the marriage went bad. She couldn’t deal with it. Plus all the time he spent on his consulting work.’

  ‘It’s understandable in a way.’

  ‘Your Phillip had a busy career. And you didn’t run off with someone else.’

  ‘Phil was always at the hospital. Long shifts. But I had the boys and my art. I didn’t resent his work. It was part of who he was.’

  ‘Exactly. And loving his job didn’t impinge on his feelings for you or the boys. You weren’t jealous of his work, were you?’