With only the moonlight to guide her, she exited through the back door, returned to her car and drove home to Millerbrooke.
Richard made up the bed in the room across the hall from Angie’s. Although she offered to help, there wasn’t much she could do with only one arm in working order.
‘Maybe you should see whether Nola can take your bookings, at least for a week or two.’
‘Nobody’s coming until Friday.’ Then Angie started to laugh. Not a normal hearty laugh, but something which bordered on hysteria.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I was just thinking it was lucky that Mark took my photo last week. Otherwise, he’d have a lot of airbrushing to do.’
‘That’s not funny, Ange.’
‘Do you realise you’re the only person in the world who ever calls me that?’
‘Yes, you’ve told me.’
‘It was Phil’s name for me. When you first called me Ange, I felt as if you’d stolen it from him.’
‘I’ll call you Angie or even Angela, if you want me to.’
It was the name ‘Angela’ that did it, hitting her without warning, like Geoff Goodmann’s slap across the face. A flash-flood of emotions overwhelmed her, so intense she couldn’t breathe.
‘Ange, are you ill?’
She couldn’t speak.
‘I’ll call the doctor. You’ll be okay.’
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t a heart attack or a stroke. But she couldn’t form the words. As he went to pick up his mobile phone, she pulled on his arm.
‘Don’t.’ The word came from some primal place deep inside her.
‘If it’s a stroke, the sooner we get help the better. Let me phone triple-0.’
‘I’m. Not. Angela.’ She said the words one at a time as if she were learning to speak.
Richard put the phone down. ‘Oh God. He called you that, didn’t he?’
After their family-size pizza Mark dropped Jennie at her house. He wouldn’t come inside because the girls were in the car and tomorrow was a school day. She let herself in the front door, slipped off her high heels and turned on the TV. Although she flicked from channel to channel, there was nothing worth watching, so she decided to do some work. She might even be able to finish some paperwork. Her arm was itchy. Was it a mozzie bite? When she had a look, she discovered a pink pimple in the crease of her arm. Although Millbrooke wasn’t known for its mosquitoes, you could sometimes be bitten around twilight. She rubbed her arm, which only caused it to itch more.
After she did an hour’s work, she decided to make herself a coffee. As she padded across the living room towards the kitchen, she felt damp carpet under her feet. Why would the carpet be wet? When she turned on the kitchen light, she discovered the cause. The whole floor was covered in water. A cascade was spilling over the kitchen counter. She rushed to the tap, almost slipping on the way, and turned it off. How could she have been so stupid? Leaving the tap running and the plug in. She couldn’t even remember doing it. She’d had so much on her mind lately, she hadn’t been thinking straight.
Her arm was worse. She investigated and found two more mozzie bites. Just what she needed. As she went to the laundry to fetch a bucket and mop, she cursed out loud. When was this run of bad luck going to stop?
The numbness was dissipating. Angie felt the way you do after a migraine. Drained but better.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said to Richard. ‘You must be tired.’ It was the first time she’d spoken in almost half an hour.
‘I’m fine, Ange. But what about you? Are you okay?’
‘I think so.’
She could never be Angela again. The name had triggered a catatonic reaction. And even in her own house with Richard beside her, the horror kept resurfacing. A sentence was playing non-stop in her head, like one of those songs you hum all day, even though you hate the melody: ‘It’s never over.’
When she picked up her mobile out of habit and checked the messages, she was sorry she had. Another text from ‘Alan A.’ All it said this time was: Proverbs 10.19.
How dare the bastard quote the Bible. She showed Richard, who promptly looked up the verse.
In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips is wise.
20 FLASHBACKS
It was exactly two weeks since the violent evening Angie had come to label as ‘the incident’. She had changed her mobile number to stop the stream of text messages he had been sending under a pseudonym. The ophthalmologist in Granthurst had found no permanent damage. The black eye had faded until she looked as though she was suffering from too many late nights. The cut on her head had almost healed. She had consulted a neurologist in Sydney – an old friend of Phil’s – who viewed the scans and was hopeful the blood vessels in her brain had remained intact and unharmed. All the same, he warned her to watch for the onset of headaches. Her arm had turned out to be the major problem. The osteopath hinted about future arthritis in the joint and prophesied she might never be able to raise her arm above her shoulder. Whenever someone told Angie she would never be able to do something, she saw it as a challenge. She intended to consult a physiotherapist about exercises as soon as the arm was strong enough.
But even though she was healing physically, her dreams had become a collection of scenes from a horror movie. In the daytime, frightening film clips would pop into her head without warning, triggered by the oddest things and followed by an inundation of emotions. So far, apart from the name with which her parents had christened her, Angie had reacted to TV commercials for real estate in Flynns Bay, the sight of a silver BMW driving along Miller Street and the smell of cumin in the curry at the emporium café. Lifts terrified her. Fortunately there weren’t any in Millbrooke, other than the old contraption in Amy’s hotel, which was more of a historical artefact than a working lift. But whenever Richard drove her to the specialist in Granthurst, although there were two of them in the foyer, to Richard’s puzzlement, she insisted on taking the stairs.
Angie was a doctor’s wife and a psychologist’s mother – she knew this was something serious, yet she was reluctant to seek professional help. Although there was a therapist in Millbrooke, she wasn’t prepared to confide in someone she saw at the supermarket and socialised with on film nights.
On Friday morning, Blake rang her for his weekly chat.
‘How’s your solicitor friend, Mum?’ he asked, catching her off guard.
‘I only went out with him a couple of times. You were right about the substitution syndrome.’ She hoped he wouldn’t detect the waver in her voice.
‘Don’t feel embarrassed. It’s a common problem. Best to discover it early in the relationship.’
‘Indeed.’
‘It was bad luck about Richard. Tim and I really liked him.’
‘In that case, you’ll be happy to know that we’re good friends again.’
‘What happened to the wife?’
‘Ex-wife. She’s still around. But they don’t have much in common.’
‘I’m not surprised after all these years. But it’s only human to want to recreate the past in the hope it will be better the second time around. It rarely ever is, though. Speaking of which, I saw Sophie the other day.’
‘How is she?’
‘Finding the singles scene pretty daunting. She wants to come back.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘If I listened to my heart, I’d have her back tomorrow.’
‘But your head tells you to be cautious?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I think the best relationships are when your head and heart are in agreement.’
‘You’re probably right, Mum.’
‘Blake, may I ask some advice? It’s about a friend.’
‘Someone in Millbrooke?’
‘Y
es.’
‘One of your painting group?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Fair enough, but you know I shouldn’t really give advice, and certainly not over the phone.’
‘Except when you’re advising your mum about things like substitution and relocation.’
She heard him laugh. ‘You should tell your friend to see a professional.’
‘Yes, I know that. I just want to help her deal with a difficult situation.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, a couple of weeks ago she was involved in a date rape incident. Not technically a rape, because the man didn’t complete the act. But he beat her rather badly.’
‘That’s awful, Mum. Did she go to the police? Was he charged?’
‘No, she was embarrassed about it. She doesn’t want people knowing.’
‘I’d urge her to reconsider the decision. I understand why she’d be reluctant to come forward, but the man could well be a serial offender. She wouldn’t want the same thing happening to another woman, would she?’
‘No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. But I think she feels partly to blame.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Apparently she went to his apartment and they indulged in some preliminaries.’
‘Foreplay?’
‘Yes, you might call it that. It was consensual. But then she told him she was in love with somebody else and she couldn’t go through with it. And that’s when he got angry.’
‘A woman has the right to withdraw her consent.’
‘Even when she was a willing participant in the beginning?’
‘Of course.’
‘And it was okay for her to tell him to stop, even though they were on the point of . . .?’
‘Absolutely. And he should have listened.’
‘But surely she provoked him with the comment about the other man.’
‘There’s no justification for violence. It’s like someone saying a girl who wears a revealing dress deserves to be raped. That’s complete crap. You know that, Mum.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll reassure my friend she didn’t do anything to cause it.’
‘Is she okay otherwise?’
‘She’s been having nightmares.’
‘I’m not surprised after something like that. Her subconscious must be reeling. Has she told her family?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And does she sometimes refer to the incident as if it happened to someone else?’
‘Possibly,’ she replied tentatively.
‘That’s a typical reaction.’
‘Well, maybe it’s the best way to deal with things. Putting the bad memories behind her and moving on with her life.’
‘The old head-in-the-sand routine. It doesn’t work. The pain is always waiting under the surface, just like that shark in Jaws. Anything could trigger it. She needs to get help.’
‘I’ll encourage her to see someone.’
‘Good. She’s lucky to have a friend like you, Mum. Anyway, must go. I’m meeting Tim for breakfast.’
‘Sounds nice. Give him a hug from me.’
‘Mum, we’re blokes. We don’t hug – we shake hands.’
‘Well, tell him his mum loves him.’
‘I will. I love you, Mum.’
‘Ditto, darling.’
It was Angie’s first appearance at the emporium café since ‘the incident’ in Flynns Bay. She had cancelled her last two painting classes. As far as Millbrookers were concerned, she’d fallen off a ladder while helping her friend in Sydney with some DIY work. This morning she was thankful the café had already emptied of its breakfast crowd. She didn’t feel like discussing her injuries or listening to well-intentioned comments about the dangers of ladders.
There was other good news too. Although she had expected to see the emporium closed altogether while workers transformed it into a stucco wedding cake, the building remained untouched. All the same, she knew the ‘phony war’ couldn’t last.
Richard turned up, hugging Angie’s copy of Leaves of Grass. She’d been all too happy to lend it to him. She didn’t have much time for poetry, even Whitman.
‘I love these poems, Ange.’
‘I only ordered the book because I wanted a copy of the Now, Voyager poem. Then I discovered it was only two lines long.’
‘Why write stanzas of waffle when you can say it in a couplet?’
Just as Angie was trying to think of a clever retort, Jennie appeared at the door, wearing an odd-looking cowboy shirt – definitely not her style.
‘How are you, Angie?’ she asked as she took a seat at the table.
‘Almost as good as new. I’m looking forward to our class on Wednesday. I’ve missed our gossip sessions.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll be there.’
‘You’ve never missed a lesson, Jennie.’
‘I know, but my arms are driving me crazy.’ She pushed up one of her sleeves. The beautiful milky skin was barely visible. Instead, her arm was covered in crusty pink patches.
‘What is it?’ asked Angie.
‘At first I thought it was mozzie bites. Then the spots got larger. So I went to the doctor and he said it’s eczema. He advised me to relax and not worry about things. But how can I do that, Angie? Not with everything that’s happened.’ Jennie was fighting back tears.
‘Jen, he doesn’t know what you’ve been through. Of course you’re stressed – who wouldn’t be in the circumstances?’ Angie could have been describing herself. ‘Is there something you can use on your skin?’
‘He’s given me a cream. It’s helping a bit.’
‘Oh, Jen.’ Angie took her hand. There were red scabs between the fingers.
‘It’s not contagious. You can’t get it from me.’
‘I know that. My dad used to have it.’
‘Maybe you need a holiday, Jennie,’ suggested Richard.
‘I can’t see that happening. Not when I have so much work on my hands.’
‘Perhaps in a week or two. You could go to the coast. The salt water would do you good.’
Angie spotted Diana standing outside the window. Had she been there for a while, observing Angie and Richard? No, of course not. Angie was just being paranoid.
No sooner had Angie given Diana a polite wave than she was coming through the door and taking the empty seat beside them.
‘So this is where you go in the mornings, Rich,’ Diana said, stroking his hand. ‘Hi, Angie. Hello . . .’
‘I’m Jennie. We met at the markets. I was helping out on the FOTE stand.’
‘Yes, of course. How could I forget such a pretty girl? How are you, Jennie?’ Diana’s eyes dropped to Jennie’s arm with its shirt-sleeve pushed back. ‘Oh dear, what happened to your arm? You look like a leper.’
‘It’s eczema.’
‘It looks terrible, doesn’t it?’ said Diana, seeking confirmation from Angie and Richard.
‘It’s a nasty rash,’ said Angie. ‘But it’ll clear up.’
‘Rich tells me you’re running for parliament, Angie,’ said Diana.
‘Actually, it’s a council election. In three weeks’ time.’
‘He said you’ve got two chances of winning.’
‘Two chances?’ repeated Angie expectantly. Maybe she had misinterpreted Richard’s original comment about her not being likely to win.
‘Buckley’s and none,’ replied Diana.
Angie gave Richard a reproachful look. How dare he say that to Diana?
Richard’s face flushed. ‘What I actually said was, if a candidate isn’t affiliated with a political party, they have two chances of being elected – Buckley’s and none.’
‘Well, you might be surprised,’ responded Angie stiffly. ‘What you’re saying could w
ell be the case in a state or federal election, but local government is a different matter altogether. Independent candidates can often pick up the votes of those disillusioned with the pervasive power of mainstream political parties.’
‘We must be going,’ said Diana, bored with the conversation. ‘Rich is taking me to Granthurst. We’re going to the movies. Not one of those creaky old films they show here in Millbrooke. A new one in 3D.’
Angie caught Richard rolling his eyes, but it had happened so quickly nobody else saw it. Diana gave his hand a tug.
‘See you ladies later,’ said Richard as he rose from the table.
‘Bye,’ said Diana. ‘Hope your arm gets better, Jennie. You don’t want it spreading to your face.’
When Richard and Diana were safely out the door, Jennie said: ‘What about that Diana? She’s such a piece of work.’
‘Sometimes life makes people that way, Jen.’
‘Sometimes they’re born that way, Angie. And she’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, is she?’ Then Jennie imitated Diana’s breathless voice. ‘Oh, Rich, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Is Mr Buckley on the Millbrooke Council?’
Angie and Jennie burst into laughter so raucous that a group of tourists sitting nearby turned to look at them.
‘They’re probably thinking these Millbrooke people are crazy,’ whispered Jennie.
‘It could be true,’ said Angie.
‘Well, at least our faces can move when we laugh.’
‘And at least you can still laugh, Jen, after what you’ve been through lately.’
‘Nothing seems to be going right for me. I left the tap on in the kitchen and flooded the floor. Then I mislaid a diamond ring.’
‘A family heirloom?’
‘No, quite the opposite. It was my engagement ring – a sad souvenir of a disastrous marriage.’
‘It’ll turn up eventually, Jen.’
‘I’d really like to find it as soon as possible.’
‘Why?’
A Place of Her Own Page 23