Fairway to Heaven

by Lily Malone

  I can’t help the flush that warms my skin. ‘Would you prefer icecream cones? I’ve got the option.’

  ‘Now there’s a choice.’

  It’s the middle of the bloody night, Jenn. Get the Panadol and put Seb back to bed.

  I clear my throat. ‘Would you mind waiting here with him so he doesn’t fall? I have some Panadol in the bag in my room. I’ll give him that, then his milk. It should do the trick.’

  ‘No problem.’ He puts his hand in place of mine around Seb’s waist.

  I step back to give him space. ‘No talking to him, either. I keep things boring at night.’

  ‘Shoulda thought of that before you told me about the icecream cones.’

  My giggle slips out before I can stop it. ‘I’m serious. No talking.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Crossing the room, I look over my shoulder. It’s an image I’ll never forget.

  Brayden picks up Seb’s little fist and waves it at me.

  ‘You guys are too cute for me to be grumpy.’ I wave. I keep waving until I duck through the door into my bedroom.

  Safe in the dark, my knees melt and I sit on the bed. Hot all over.

  Breathe, Jenn.

  I find the bottle of medicine in the nappy bag and shake it for a few seconds to let the liquid thicken, then put the bottle to my forehead and roll it, so the glass can cool my skin.

  Deep between my thighs there’s a tripping, tugging pulse — a sensation I haven’t felt in forever — and it’s welcome as an old friend.

  At last, I’ve got proof there’s life in my dodgy vagina yet.

  Hallelujah.

  But first, I’m a mum, and there’s a little boy who needs me.

  Chapter 9

  A bird wakes me.

  Country people sell city folk the line about how sweet it is to be woken by bird-song. Well, whatever is chirping outside my window this Saturday morning has the melody of a woodpecker with a hammer drill.

  Rolling to face the window, where the promise of a beautiful morning teases me behind the curtain, I bunch a wad of quilt between my knees and contemplate the big questions of life and the universe.

  Do I have time to make a cup of tea before Seb wakes?

  Is Brayden awake yet?

  Does that bird have any natural predator?

  Easing the covers off, I let my feet find the floor. Seb is sleeping peacefully in the portacot — how, I don’t know, with that jammering bloody bird.

  I pull on a pair of tracksuit pants, sports bra, and T-shirt. Last, I grab my watch. In the kitchen, I fill the kettle, waiting near it so I beat the whistle. Taking my tea into the lounge, I tuck my feet beneath me on the couch just as the first skateboard skims past.

  Seven o’clock.

  I wonder if Brayden fell asleep easy after we were up in the night, or did he lie awake? Was he thinking about his accident? About the elderly man in the Perth hospital? Was he thinking about me?

  What about Jack?

  Does he miss his son? Miss me?

  Brayden was so brilliant with Seb last night and at the beach. He’s a natural.

  Jack struggles with it. Not with the wrestling, or the games — he’s a big kid himself in so many ways. But he struggles with being a dad. He loses patience fast when Seb cries, or spits out his dinner, or drops his cereal on the floor — when he’s tired, or hungry, or for any of the zillion and one reasons kids cry.

  Jack never helped me settle Seb in the night. He said he couldn’t handle his crying. So it was always me walking the halls, patting Seb back to sleep.

  I take a sip of tea. I’ve over-sugared.

  Jack and I were good once.

  When we met, he would do anything for me. The first night I stayed at his place, he got up at four in the morning and walked to the local open-all-hours convenience store, because I said how much I could murder a can of Coke.

  He was the first man in the long line of losers I dated after Brayden left who made me think maybe this time, maybe he’s the one.

  Things changed after Emmy’s twenty-fifth birthday. I think Jack knew then — that I’d settled — and he never liked being second choice. But we were more or less happy. I thought we were happy enough. Then we had Seb. We had the house we’d renovated together. There were more and more reasons to stay and fewer to leave.

  Listen to yourself, Jenn.

  Me. Me. Me.

  The most important person here is Sebastian. He comes first.

  So it’s time to face facts.

  The Nedlands house is in Jack’s name, not mine, and most of Jack’s money is tied up in family trusts. His mother has an iron fist on the purse strings of those.

  I’ve got a toddler to raise and I only work one day a week. I could work more, but then I’d have to put Seb in childcare, and that kind of defeats the purpose.

  I wouldn’t get a rental on my income, not in Perth, and I can’t stay with Emmy forever.

  When I met Jack I had savings, but most of those have been poured into his house.

  I’m tapping the empty cup on the arm of the couch, thinking it over, when the sliding door to Brayden’s bedroom glides back.

  ‘Hey.’ He greets me with a smile so crooked and beautiful, it hurts. In a heartbeat, my day is both better, and worse, and all my decisions harder.

  ‘Hi yourself. Did you sleep well?’ I’m looking at him for signs. Something in his face that will tell me his world is as rocked by me, as mine is by him.

  ‘Like a log. How ’bout you? You were quiet. I didn’t know you were up.’ He’s wearing the tracksuit pants from last night, and yesterday’s Corona T-shirt. His hair is loose, long and rough from sleep. I want to twine my fingers through it until it sits straight. I want to press my face to his chest and see if it’s his skin I smell under the fabric, or yesterday’s beach salt.

  These are the reasons I shouldn’t stay under the same roof as Brayden Culhane.

  He consumes me. He always has.

  ‘Hello. Earth to Jenn.’

  I’ve taken too long to answer.

  ‘Sorry. I’m lousy in the mornings. The kettle should still be hot if you want coffee.’

  He asks if I want another cup, but I say no.

  I sit there, listening to the kitchen sounds: kettle bubbling, suction and close of the fridge door, stir of a spoon. The smell of coffee pervades the lounge before Brayden reappears, folding himself into the same chair he used last night.

  ‘So what’s on the agenda today? What time do you have to call that real estate bloke?’

  I check my watch. With everything else in my head this morning, I haven’t given the job a thought. My mobile phone is on the coffee table where I left it. When I pick it up, I see I’ve missed two texts.

  The first is from Carl Barron, the Dunsborough agent. It says he’s already heard from Nathan, and would it be convenient for me to meet him at the office in Dunsborough at ten-fifteen.

  The second is from Jack.

  Miss u both like u wouldn’t believe. I’m so sorry. Please come home. I will do whatever it takes to make this right. U 2 are my life.

  xx Jack

  I answer Carl Barron, but I’m saved from responding to Jack by a high-pitched warble from the back of the shack.

  ‘His Highness is awake,’ I say.

  Brayden tilts his head toward the kitchen. ‘Man, your ears are good. I thought it was a bird or something.’

  ‘Birds round here don’t sound anything like that.’

  ***

  We load into Brayden’s car just after ten o’clock. Brayden swapped Seb’s car seat from my car to his, and the three of us head for Dunsborough. I told him he didn’t have to come, but he said he’d enjoy the ride, and he volunteered to take Seb off my hands while I’m working.

  Brayden fiddles with the CD player, punches up a disc, and as the harmonica twang hangs in the air, I groan, ‘God, Brayden. Please. Not Bob Dylan. Can’t we have something lighter?’

  ‘Depth in music is good for yo
ur soul.’ He lowers the window, fingers loose on the wheel, elbow resting on the sill. Ten seconds later he tells me, ‘Actually, I agree with you, this one is a bit bleak.’

  ‘It’s called Desolation Row for a reason.’

  Ejecting the CD, Brayden tells me to choose whatever I’d like from the holder under my seat. I start flicking, but my mind really isn’t on music. I feel like there’s a lead weight hanging over me, about to iron me flat.

  ‘It’s too early for music.’ I stow the box of discs beneath the seat.

  Brayden quirks an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t comment, and in the end it doesn’t matter, Dunsborough isn’t far and we make the town in quick time. He drives into the shopping centre parking lot and stops in front of the bank of signs where Blain & Barrow Real Estate blazes yellow and black.

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ I say, fishing for my handbag.

  ‘Just text me when you’re finished, my mobile number’s on there.’ He gives me a piece of notepaper.

  Now that we’re here, I don’t want to let them go. ‘The nappy bag is in the back. There’s a snack in there too, and Sebby’s water bottle, and the wipes. That Baby Panadol is in the pocket, just in case you need it. He’s already had his poo for the morning so you shouldn’t have to worry about changing a nappy — ’

  ‘Don’t jinx me, just go. We’ll find a playground for an hour or so.’ He turns to Seb who is merrily kicking his Buzz Lightyear shoes into the back of my seat. ‘We’ll be fine, won’t we buddy?’

  ‘If you’re sure…I really appreciate this, Brayden.’

  He waves it away, like it’s nothing.

  But it is something. Jack would never have offered —

  Stop comparing. Stop it right now, Jennifer.

  I step out into the smell of Saturday coffee and pastries, warm bitumen and petrol fumes.

  Another car crawls behind us, waiting for us to move.

  The worst thing you can do when someone offers to babysit your kid is prolong the farewell, all it does is make your child realise he’s being left behind. I know that, but I blow Seb a kiss and wave goodbye anyway, breaking those rules. Then I shut the door.

  Brayden’s black car noses from the carpark and turns left, heading into Dunsborough town centre.

  I miss them already.

  Big double doors slide out and in, letting a tide of people flow through. I float after them.

  It’s air-conditioned inside. A bit too cold for me; bumps rise on my skin.

  I didn’t pack much by way of professional clothes in my rush at Jack’s and I’ve had to make do with black leggings and a black Bonds T-shirt under a paisley-patterned flowing dress of grey, blue and gold. Last summer’s wedges are the most business-like of my shoes.

  Blain & Barrow is in the far eastern wing of the complex, on the ground floor, easy to find. The receptionist dials Carl Barron’s line, speaks only long enough to tell him I’m here, then hangs up the phone and says he’ll be two minutes.

  He’s true to his word.

  Carl is a big man, a few belt holes shy of fat, and as he comes out of the corridor behind reception, he walks like a guy who played too much country football in his youth and is paying for it now. I’d guess him to be late -forties. When he shakes my hand his grip is firm, but his skin is soft.

  ‘We’ll go in my car,’ he says to me, then nods to the receptionist and tells her, ‘I’ll be on mobile if anyone calls.’

  As Carl and I walk to his car, people meet his eye and greet him by name — it’s so country town.

  He points his keys in the direction of a silver Toyota Prado and it flashes its taillights obligingly as it unlocks. Then he takes a few seconds to flick pastry flakes from the passenger seat before I climb in. The car smells of today’s mint-fresh chewing gum and cologne, over yesterday’s sausage roll and cologne.

  He asks me about my work so I fill him in — about my newspaper background and how I ended up writing real estate.

  Most cadet journalists want to write hard news when they start out — front page exclusives and special reports about crimes and Government cover-ups. Not me. The stories I liked writing were the ones about finding the worst house in the best street; top ten Perth suburbs for capital growth; beachside country hotspots; renovating to make a profit.

  ‘So the paper offered me the chance to edit the property pages. I thought all my Christmases had come at once.’

  ‘Yeah? Well good for you,’ Carl says, turning into a gravel driveway that cuts through thick trees on Commonage Road. ‘We could use someone with your skills at our local paper. There are more property stories here than you can poke a stick at.’

  The house comes into view, and as the trees cut away to my left, there’s a long, sloping valley of summer-browned grass. Far at the bottom is an azure-blue dam.

  ‘I don’t know which way to look,’ I say, reaching for my pocket recorder.

  Carl starts pointing out the olive grove and the lime trees in the orchard, and tells me how the water in the dam is the highest quality you could find, and my neck ping-pongs between the view, the trees, Carl, and the house.

  The roof is gun-metal blue above lime-white rendered walls. The entire front is wall to ceiling glass. A deck sits off it, timber supports hidden by summer shrubs and snaked through by climbing roses.

  ‘What a stunning place.’ I can’t keep the awe from my voice.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ Carl responds. ‘My wife wants me to sell our place and buy this one, but she’s always saying that.’

  ‘How much are they asking?’ I hold my breath.

  He stops the car near a sculpture of a large wrought-iron shark mounted on a single pole so that it seems like it is swimming. ‘It will come on the market around a mill. I’ve appraised it high nines.’

  High nines. The air puffs from my lungs. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you want to look around the outside first or meet the sellers and do a walk through?’ Carl tugs his briefcase from the backseat.

  ‘Whatever works for you. I’m fine either way.’

  ‘Cool.’

  He puffs out his chest like a peacock, getting into his sales persona. If I knew him better, I’d pump my fist and say something like go team. As it is, I just smile and get out of the car.

  ***

  Brayden is waiting when Carl and I get back. The Pajero’s roofracks glint in the sun. The window is open and his elbow rests half in, half out.

  Carl locks his car, before joining me on the grey concrete pavement. The property owners at Commonage Road gave me two plastic bags filled with produce — fresh fruit and vegies from their garden — and the bags are so laden, I can hardly stand straight.

  ‘I should have some words ready for you to look at later today, if not tomorrow,’ I tell him.

  ‘Great. Can’t wait to see what you come up with.’

  Carl gives me his business card. There’s an awkward moment where he realises I haven’t got a hand free to take it from him, so he slots it into my handbag and we agree to talk or email later. He doesn’t try to shake my hand goodbye.

  I stagger toward Brayden’s car.

  ‘Hey. How did it go?’ He leans across the passenger seat to open my door, and then swipes a white bakery bag and takeaway coffee from the floor to make room for my stuff.

  I slingshot the fruit and vegetables into the passenger footrest, and catapult my handbag to the top. Then I haul myself into the seat, trying not to squash a bunch of vine-ripened tomatoes.

  ‘That house was incredible.’

  Brayden holds the bakery bag out to me and when I peer inside, a delicious vanilla custard scent makes my stomach growl. ‘Thanks. I’m the one who should be buying you a treat for babysitting.’

  When I look in the back at him, Seb gazes at me with unsmiling eyes. He has a plastic T-Rex clutched in his hands in a way that makes me think I’ll have to pry it loose.

  ‘There’s a boy who’ll be asleep two minutes after you start the car. It looks like you wore him
out.’

  ‘Who wore who out? I’m knackered. That kid’s been up and down the slide two hundred times.’

  ‘He loves slides. And swings.’ I latch my seatbelt, then take a bite of the custard éclair. Sugar-dusted pastry melts on my tongue.

  Brayden twists the key and exits the car park. He waits for oncoming traffic and once it’s clear, picks up speed towards Caves Road. Air whistles warm and salty through the cab.

  ‘So tell me about this place you saw.’

  It’s all the invitation I need. ‘He’s an artist, the guy who owns the house. His wife is a chef. I met them, they’re lovely — she’s Scandinavian. The kitchen is like something out of a cooking show. The kitchen countertop is timber, and it’s got an island bench that’s got to be four metres long and they hang all their cooking utensils from hooks on the wall. I love that look. All the appliances are European, stainless steel, and big. Double oven. Five-burner cooktop. That sort of thing.’ I bite the éclair. ‘It efven hath a pool.’

  ‘Breathe, Jenn,’ Brayden says as soon as he can get a word in. ‘How much are they asking for it?’

  My buoyant mood deflates a little. ‘It will go on the market over a million.’

  He whistles. ‘Would want to be a lot of house.’

  ‘It’s on thirty-two acres, it’s just most of them you can’t use because there’s a restrictive covenant on the bush. The five acres with the house has olive trees and an orchard and the most fabulous kitchen garden. You should see all the different herbs they grow. They have one of those herb wheels, you know? Like a sun dial.’

  ‘Looks like you brought half the garden with you.’

  He’s right. I’ve got limes, zucchinis, eggplants, cherry tomatoes, huge handfuls of fresh basil, mint, parsley, plus red and green chillies, all from Ali and Rowan Stewart’s garden.

  ‘We won’t need to shop,’ I say.

  ‘I bought some stuff while I was waiting. Milk. Bread. Apples. Lunch meat. Beer. You know, some of the staples.’

  ‘Since when was beer a staple?’