The Day the Lies Began
Page 3
‘Righto. Well, Eadie’s hot dog is getting cold so make it snappy.’
‘What do you mean?’ Abbi laughed. ‘Let her eat; I’ll have mine when I get there.’
Will’s eyebrows pulled together. ‘What do you mean? I left her with you.’
Abbi’s voice changed. ‘No.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘She wanted to make sure you got her a strawberry milkshake and followed you to the stalls. I saw her skip over to you in the crowd.’
‘Well she didn’t catch me. Look, don’t panic. Just get back here. She’s probably found a school friend or something. I’ll start searching.’ He hung up and surveyed the cluster of locals talking in scrums.
The greyhound couple cottoned on to Will’s panicked conversation and started looking around, asking other locals if they’d seen a little girl. ‘What was she wearing?’ one frowning woman asked.
‘A white dress and pink light-up shoes,’ Will answered. The couple rushed to look around the crowds. Eadie was on familiar ground, surrounded by locals who knew her. He was sure she’d see a friendly face and be shepherded back to them, otherwise he’d alert security. As he scanned the crowd, asking parents if they’d seen a lost child, there was no sign of her. He guessed that Eadie would have tracked back to her mum when she didn’t find him, but it sounded like Abbi had left to help Blake by then so wouldn’t have been waiting for her. Will tried to stay calm as he considered where she’d most likely linger, and thought of her latest obsession – shells. His mind turned to the beach.
To the ocean.
He raced down to the water. Eadie was a reasonable swimmer for her age. But not strong enough to last long in a deep ocean, alone. One rogue wave could sweep her out if she walked too close to the shoreline. ‘E?’ he called, but couldn’t hear his own voice over the waves, the leering crowds, the screaming in his mind.
His arms hung rigidly by his side, hands locked in fists.
Abbi off helping Blake while our five-year-old could be drowning. He pushed the thought away. Being a responsible adult never came naturally to Abbi (and she’d often joked that growing up was the silliest thing she ever agreed to do) but motherhood did. Abbi had always put Eadie – or him, for that matter – before herself, feeding her till her nipples bled, sleeping by her bed when she was sick, compromising her career to be with her. She would never leave her alone. Perhaps this was just as much his fault as hers.
He continued darting in and out of stalls, back to the playground at which she’d lingered on the way, over to the car park. There was no Eadie.
They’d told her to go home if they were ever separated, but they had also never been so careless. He ran through the parking lot, down the footpath, parting the bystanders as he raced home, and arrived at their house.
‘Eades?’ She wasn’t in the yard. He tried the cubby. Empty but for some dried Play-Doh.
He sat on the back step, the lawn cascading towards the steep bank to the sea, and rubbed his forehead. She was five. It was verging on nightfall, the sea ink black as far as the horizon. He heard an eruption of sound from the point – crowds in awe of the spectacle. Lanterns now airborne, carried by the autumn breeze. He would have given anything for his daughter to be cuddled next to him, enjoying the splendour.
His phone rang; Abbi’s face lit the screen. ‘Have you found her?’ Will asked, urgency in his tone.
A pause. Will’s heart sank.
Abbi’s voice was shredded with fear. ‘You haven’t?’
Chapter 3
The first fifteen years of a turtle’s life are called the lost years; the years when the female hatchling is untraceable, before she returns to her birthplace to lay a clutch of eggs.
Abbi had once felt like a hatchling, at the mercy of the tides until Will became her home base. She loved the order he brought to her life: the money management, the phone reminders, the annoyingly precise way he’d measure quantities when they cooked, even the way he walked protectively between her and a busy road.
They weren’t alike, never had been. Their daughter adored speed, and when Abbi had joked about buying Eadie a red sports car for her eighteenth birthday, Will corrected her, promising a Volvo (in safety yellow). But their fundamental difference was also the reason they’d never bothered to change each other. They knew they both had a role: his to guide the ship, hers to make it worth sailing on.
She’d never expected this. Her template for family life was rather bent. As a child, Abbi had watched The Wonder Years with all its family dinners and sixties charm as if it were science fiction. In real life she’d seen that families were easily fractured – Blake’s mum was in jail when he joined their motley crew – so she secretly coveted those safe, predictable lives of people on TV, their yellow curtains and warm smiles. Now that she’d found her own wobbly version, she’d do anything to preserve it.
The first thing William Adams was to Abbi, was a customer. A large one. She’d sussed him out from the second he’d ambled into The Flatulent Bear, the bar she’d worked at while studying journalism (the second time). On first impression, he’d reminded her of a dog-eared postcard portrait of Jesus that one of the foster kids carried around in her wallet: saintly, noble, like no harm would come to anyone he touched.
‘You don’t waste any time,’ Jesus had said when Abbi arrived to take his order.
‘At your service.’ She dipped one foot in a modern-day curtsey.
His eyebrows hitched.
She was drawn to his hands: clear pink moons under crisp white nails. They didn’t match his stubbled face and floppy bed-hair fringe. He was a paradox.
‘You look like a man who knows what he wants.’ She’d figured flirting was part of the job, despite having little interest.
‘Do I?’ His voice was softer than she’d expected. He hadn’t smiled. She’d curtseyed, for Christ’s sake (literally), but he wasn’t buying it. She’d even exposed cleavage (it was unintentional – the dryer had shrunk everything in the previous week’s load – but the top bulge of her boobs was right in his line of sight). Still, his eyes never wavered from hers. Abbi figured he was either gay or going for the ‘enigmatic’ thing.
The ‘disciples’ sitting with him ordered burgers with no fanfare, before returning to their discussion about something technical – they said the word ‘prophylaxis’ a lot.
She returned her attention to him.
‘Actually, I’m tossing up between duck pancakes and lamb gyros.’ He’d snorted. She couldn’t picture Jesus snorting, and had to rethink the likeness. ‘Any tips?’
‘No, no.’ Abbi had waved her pen like a mini sword. ‘I can’t be a party to your decision.’
‘Sorry?’ he’d said, mild annoyance creeping in.
Abbi regretted taking this table. ‘You might have order-regret. Been caught before. Not pretty.’
He’d frowned. ‘Right.’
The side door to the pokie parlour opened and a waft of stale air and brashy beeps billowed into the bar. Still no order. She’d occupied herself by wiping down the table of the booth beside them. ‘Decided?’ she’d asked over her shoulder.
‘A little help from the waitress wouldn’t go astray.’
Abbi shrugged. ‘You could leave it to fate.’
His eyebrows raised like they were being wrenched by invisible pulleys from his fringe. ‘Fate?’
Abbi wished she’d just suggested the special. But she’d gone too far with this fate bizzo, she had to see it through. She put her pen behind her ear and tried to keep it casual. ‘So, you’ve never done that thing where, you know, you can’t decide and you say if the next person to walk in that door is male, you’ll have the duck; female and you’ll go the lamb?’
‘No.’ His upper lip bolstered like it was being inflated from within. ‘Never.’
Abbi refused to feel stupid. She tilted her head. She could rely on the head tilt. It was always her best move to appease. ‘So, you never just do things on a whim, like decide you’ll turn right five times in a row, close your eyes
when you pick out a shirt, order a meal based on the menu number?’
His lips had deflated, then thinned and Abbi immediately regretted her comment. She never used to be this bohemian. She did mindful, clever things once; senior debating, making career plans, editing the school paper. Since her mum had found the lump two years ago, the world had shrunk in focus, narrowing in on her mother’s treatment schedules, trial studies, survival. All the rest of life’s elements were just distraction. Concepts like order and control and fairness come to feel naive and foolish.
‘Not my style. If that were my MO I’d probably end up ordering lentils and finding myself in some seedy alley wearing a ski jacket.’ There was a quiver of a smile on his deadpan features.
‘Life could be worse,’ Abbi said, confident she could crack that smile wide open. ‘So, what’s your decision-making strategy then, er, Mr …’
‘Will. It’s Will.’ He had examined her like she was a curious species in a Madagascar documentary. ‘And I do what any rational person does: gather data, weigh the risks and benefits. A logical, evidence-based assessment.’
Abbi smiled. ‘How’s that working out for you?’
A short lady walked in the door. They’d both looked.
Will grinned. It changed his whole face. Made it interesting. Made Abbi want to look at it all day. ‘I’ll go the lamb.’
Abbi suppressed a smile as she left the table, pushed against the spring-loaded doors to the kitchen, knowing he was watching. Maybe Mr Analytical could do with a dose of crazy.
* * *
He’d never been with a girl like Abbi. Never heard such thick, cheerful hoarseness in a voice. It did things to him. The morning after he took Abbi home, he’d expected to wake up to an empty bed, a note at best. Like a dream, she’d had that transient quality about her. But as the sun rose, he’d found she was still there beside him, her hair ragged on his pillow, her legs lying in his sheets. All good signs, unless, of course, she was just too hungover to move.
When her shift had ended, he’d seen her shouting at some arty loser type with a half-shaven head and vacant eyes. Her ex, as it turned out. Will invited her to join him at his booth, to give her an out.
After a few tequila shots, her ridiculous outlook on life had grown on him. It became entertaining, and before long, adorably sexy. Abbi was his polar opposite; creative, impulsive, compassionate. He was pretty drunk. So was she. He wondered if she would regret what they did together now she wasn’t (but he certainly didn’t). What he regretted was his departure time.
Who could have imagined he’d be inexplicably drawn to a short, creamy-skinned waitress at The Flatulent Bear? A gravel-voiced, wild-haired woman with amber earrings that matched the flecks in her toffee-coloured eyes. He’d already sublet his unit – to forty-two-year-old Margo with no pets and impeccable grooming – and cleaned out his fridge. He would be on a plane to Haiti, the most impoverished country in the Western Hemisphere, in less than twelve hours. And by some cruel act of God, this intriguing, gorgeous creature had chosen to come home with him on his last day of normality.
Will wanted to impress her by making breakfast, so, low on supplies, he’d lumbered across the permanently curry-smelling hall to borrow eggs from Rahul at number six. He’d whisked yolks till they were thick, infused tarragon in vinegar and simmered it slowly until it reduced, all while she slept.
The bedroom door scraped along carpet and Abbi skulked into the lounge looking delectably scruffy. She was hopping – attempting to get her foot in her second shoe while trying to leave.
Will poked his head around the corner and she inhaled sharply. He’d foiled her escape strategy. ‘Hey, sleepyhead.’
‘Hi …’ She was sheepish, like a kid forced to say hello to a distant cousin at a funeral, and it made him feel just as insignificant.
‘It’s Will … your partner in alcohol poisoning.’
She blushed. ‘I know,’ she said as she shoved one hand into her jeans pocket.
He wondered if he’d imagined their connection last night. If the tequila goggles had completely skewed his judgement. ‘Hungry? I made hollandaise.’
She frowned, as if in shock. ‘Um, thanks, that’s so nice, but I should probably get going – lecture at nine.’
Will had expected an excuse, but a more credible one. She was a creative type. She could do better. ‘Thought you said no one can teach you to write so you rarely go to lectures …’ Not that he wanted her to wag. She was too clever to wait tables forever.
She slipped her other hand into her pocket and twisted her lip. It was agony to watch, after she’d been so honest, so open with him hours before. ‘So, that’s it then? See you later? Can’t even stick around for breakfast?’
She bit her lip.
It turned him on. ‘Give me three good reasons not to.’
She leaned away, scratched her neck. ‘I just have uni …’
His face changed. They both knew it was BS.
She folded her arms and looked towards the door. Towards two suitcases he’d packed the day before. ‘You’re leaving the country …’
‘So, what, that makes it ridiculous to even stay and eat with me?’
She glanced his way.
He knew he had an opening.
She smiled a little. A hint of the sweet, cheeky woman he’d met the night before rose to the surface. He thought she was warming to the idea, but then her face hardened again, like she’d been caught off guard and had to maintain her original position.
‘I’m sorry, I just – I don’t do this.’
‘What, have sex with strangers? And you think I do? Do I look like a player? I’m not exactly Brad Pitt.’ Will pulled at his threadbare t-shirt, warping the face of John Lennon as he pinched at a hint of his spare tyre to make the point. ‘And I’m guessing you noticed the mild case of back-fur.’
Abbi laughed and buried her face in her hand.
Part of him was glad she was unaccustomed to this modern, indelicate routine. That she didn’t take more than tips home from that bar every night. He stepped towards her and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. ‘Please stay. I’ve got twelve hours left in civilisation. I want to spend them with you.’
The connection. It was fleeting, but there. He hadn’t imagined that they had something here.
She looked away, the thread broken. ‘Look, this has been great but I’m just not the girl you think I am.’ She stepped over to the entry and picked up her jacket, thrown there in a mad rush to bed only a few hours earlier.
‘So, you’re not perfect. Guess what?’ He held out his palms and his belly rose a little, like it was trying to make his point. ‘Me neither.’
‘Not perfect?’ Abbi mumbled, as she turned back. ‘How about a total mess who’s incapable of relationships, broke, exhausted from caring for a terminally ill mother and about to fail her second attempt at finishing her degree?’
‘Actually,’ he said to her retreating back, ‘that’s exactly my type.’ He wedged himself between her chest and the door. ‘Admit it. I’m not yours, I get that, but you had fun last night. I did my Frank Sinatra impression. I don’t do that for just anyone.’
Her face tightened, like she needed to steel herself against the truth.
‘It’s just breakfast.’
‘What’s the point? I start to like you even more before you leave? You’re moving to a disaster zone – I’m already living in one.’
Why was he bothering with this stubborn woman he barely knew? ‘I reckon you’d be running, even if I wasn’t. You’re just scared.’
She turned to him, mouth agape. ‘Scared? Of what?’
‘Of letting someone in, of accepting help.’
She blew out a breath. ‘Help? What is it with you? Saving the world isn’t enough? Can’t live without picking up strays along the way? I don’t need saving.’
Will tried to hide his surprise at how quickly he’d messed this up. Seven hours. A record, even for him. But he hated the thought of her
stumbling through life, ping-ponging from one arsehole to the next. The guy he saw with her last night was bad news, and he had no confidence she wouldn’t go back to the prick. They always did. Was she really one of those girls who were so malleable, so easily convinced they didn’t deserve better? He hoped not.
‘You’re lost, Abbi – I bet you have no idea which way you’ll turn when you walk out that lift.’
‘Yeah? Maybe I’m okay with the way I am.’
‘Are you?’ Will felt his throat tighten.
She’d thought about staying. He could tell. He’d been considered a viable option, if only for a moment, like she was peeking over the wall she’d put up and didn’t mind what was on the other side. His eyes locked with hers, and he thought he had this, before her gaze dropped again, along with his hope.
‘I have to go.’
His eyes slammed closed. ‘Okay, you’re not into me. I get it, but promise me you’re not going to see that guy from the bar again.’
Abbi squinted, making her mascara-smeared eyes even sexier. ‘Promise you? What would you know about him?’
‘Only everything you told me last night. That he controls you, that he cheated.’
She’d overlooked her disclosures. What else had she forgotten? How he’d explored every part of her, held her close as she fell asleep. Everything they spoke of: her mother’s treatment, her love of words, her countless foster siblings and how they taught her that security allowed kids to be the best version of themselves, how she wouldn’t have kids if she couldn’t guarantee they’d have a stable life, the same warm bed to crawl into each night. ‘You know, Abbi, generally people get treated the way they allow themselves to be treated. Don’t accept disrespect.’
He’d meant it as a compliment. That she was better than her life, than the piece of shit circling her last night. But she bristled. Her shoulders squared, her eyes lost their warmth. He’d misjudged her.
‘You really believe that? You really think people can just choose not to accept things and keep walking?’
A hardness spread on her face, and he wondered if she was too far gone. ‘You always have a choice, no matter how bad things are. You’re making a choice right now.’