Fairway to Heaven

by Lily Malone

  Brayden takes a long sip of his drink. Ice clinks in the glass. ‘The police media department could release details tomorrow, I guess. The charges could be in the paper on Monday, and my name.’

  I think about that for a moment. ‘Depends if it’s a slow news day or not. You might get lucky. Sounds awful, but maybe there’ll be an earthquake or typhoon or a coup somewhere for the journos to write about. You’ll end up with two paragraphs on page sixteen.’

  ‘Maybe. Let’s not wish a typhoon on the world though.’

  ‘No.’ I shuffle my feet, a bit ashamed that I’d rather see a natural disaster make headlines than Brayden. ‘Does that mean you’ll go back to Perth?’

  He bounces the tumbler gently. ‘Everything’s easier if I’m in Perth, so yeah, I should head up there tomorrow. I need to tell my folks about all this before they read it in the paper.’

  ‘And Emmy,’ I add.

  ‘Yeah. There are a couple of mates who should hear it from me first, too.’ He tilts the tumbler on its edge, watches the liquid swirl. ‘I need to find a lawyer. I have to talk with the mine. They might tell me not to bother coming back.’

  ‘They can’t do that.’ I’m appalled. ‘It’s innocent until proven guilty, remember?’

  ‘They can do what they want, Jenn. I leave, twenty blokes want to take my place.’

  I know he has to go, but it doesn’t stop disappointment hitting me like a blow. ‘Seb and I will miss you.’

  He stares hard at me in the dim light washing the porch. ‘It’s probably for the best, Jenn. Me going back to Perth.’

  Now there’s a statement that will have me tossing and turning all night. In the end I can’t help it, I have to ask. ‘What do you mean it’s for the best?’

  ‘You came here to get your head together. You don’t need all my crap confusing things. It’s best if I get out of your hair.’

  I want to tell him that it’s not his crap that confuses me. The accident I can handle, it’s something solid. What confuses me when it comes to Brayden, is everything between us that we’ve left unexplored. Unsaid.

  Like the kiss.

  Like Emmy’s twenty-fifth birthday.

  Like the way he breathes me out, and I breathe him in.

  But I don’t say any of that, and the moment passes. I pick up the easier path of conversation. ‘You know how much a good criminal lawyer costs don’t you? They don’t come cheap.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Might have to sell my house.’

  ‘I’m serious, Brayden.’

  ‘So am I, Jenn. I’m not going to quibble on the hourly rate for the guy I’m paying to keep my arse out of jail. That would seem self-defeating.’ He doesn’t hide his irritation. It’s there in the phrase, and the way his lips enunciate “self-defeating”. It’s there in the way he drains the last of his drink in a gulp and spins the glass on the table.

  ‘I’m only trying to be practical. I’m not telling you to quibble. I’m just asking if you know what lawyers are worth. Jack’s mother has lawyers on speed dial. They’re hundreds of dollars an hour. You’ll need to have some cash stashed, or float a loan, that’s all I meant.’

  ‘I can pay a lawyer. Unlike some people I could name, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon up my arse.’ His lip twists.

  I don’t need to be a genius to know he’s talking about Jack, or to figure I’ve pushed him hard enough. Attack at this point is not my best means of defence. I raise my hands, fingers spread, palms out. Don’t shoot the messenger. ‘I’m only trying to help, Brayden. Forget I said anything. It’s been a long few days.’

  He doesn’t want to be soothed, nor placated.

  ‘I haven’t spent eight years working FIFO in the middle of bloody nowhere to have stuff-all to show for it.’

  Heat flares behind my eyes, and my hands drop to the table with a whump. ‘Well I’m so glad it’s been worth it to you, financially.’ It spits from my lips before my brain can catch up, stop it.

  Brayden locks dark eyes to mine and his whole body goes dangerously still. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Do you ever think about the night you kissed me?’

  He sets his glass flat. ‘I thought we agreed not to mention it.’

  ‘No, Brayden. You decided. We never agreed on anything.’

  ‘You were drunk…’ The muscle flicks at the edge of his jaw. It’s the only thing about him that moves.

  ‘The hell I was,’ I snap. ‘I was sober as a judge by the time we got here. I remember everything. The T-shirt you wore, your smell, the taste of tequila and me in your mouth.’

  ‘Jesus, Jenn — ’

  The table edge cuts into my tummy as I lean forward. ‘You said it was a mistake. You said it would never happen again.’

  ‘I was about to start a new job, fly-in, fly-out, at some arse-end of a mining town two thousand miles from Perth. Six weeks on, two weeks off. Half the blokes I work with are divorced. The other half is damn well working on getting a divorce. I didn’t want that life for you.’

  ‘You didn’t want that life for me?’ The arrogance of it stuns me. ‘What about what I wanted?’

  ‘You were twenty years old. You had everything in front of you. Dammit, Jennifer. It was just a kiss.’

  The words hum between us like angry bees.

  Just a kiss.

  It changed my life.

  I collect our plates, scraping food from one to the other, stabbing knives and forks into the salad bowl, ordering myself not to cry.

  ‘Leave those, Jenn. I’ll do it.’ His voice is very gentle.

  ‘It’s already done.’

  Balancing the bottle of salad dressing on the plates, I pick up salt and pepper shakers with my free hand. I’m at the door when his voice stops me.

  ‘I’ve never been able to walk up those steps without seeing you there, Jenn. You looked so hot that night, but your lips were cool. I never could work that out.’

  His words heat my blood, like the tequila did years ago, but I’m tired now. Tired, and over it. Eight years. ‘You had all that time to work it out, Brayden. It’s not like I’m a Rubik’s cube.’

  ‘I thought you were happy — with Jack. I thought you had a good thing going. At least he was always there for you. I couldn’t give you that. Not while I worked in the mines.’

  ‘Did you ever think maybe I could have gone with you? That I would have liked a choice?’

  ‘Live in Newman?’ He makes a scoffing sound in his throat.

  ‘I would have been with you.’

  ‘For a while, Jenn. Not forever. Life up there would have dried you out, dried us out. I see it every day.’

  ‘I guess we’ll never know.’ I wedge the door with my hip. My fingers ache from gripping the plates.

  He calls after me, ‘Leave the dishes on the sink, Jenn. I’ll do them.’

  ‘Fine. You do them.’

  The door shuts him out with a hiss and a click.

  I dump the dishes near the sink, not caring when they pile precariously over the edge. Then, I head for the shower.

  Chapter 12

  God.

  I lay my forehead against the pink tiles and let water splatter my body. The water pressure in this old house is crappy, but the shower rose is miniature. Somehow, it evens out.

  Where do we go from here? What was I thinking? As if Brayden doesn’t have enough on his plate.

  There’s a dip in the shower temperature and I reduce the cold water flow. I’ve been in here too long and the hot water is running low.

  Turning off the taps, I slide the glass panels open. They catch and hitch, bump and grind, stubborn to the end, until I’ve got a gap through which I can step.

  Drying myself, I turban the towel around my wet hair.

  Two tiny red pimples, one on my right cheek, the other on my chin, glare at me in the mirror. Twenty-eight is too damn old for acne.

  It’s too old for being a diva, too.

  With a sigh, I unwrap the towel, letting my new hairdo swin
g wet against my neck. A comb helps straighten the tangle but it will still kink once it’s dry. Brilliant Emmy may be, but no hairdresser has ever been able to curb that kink.

  Emmy said the colour would pick up the honey flecks in my eyes, and it does. But I don’t feel at home with the girl in the mirror. I don’t know her.

  Jennifer Gates doesn’t rock boats. She goes with the flow. Now, in the space of a few days, I’ve uprooted my son and myself from our Perth life and I’ve stirred such a pot of old memories with Brayden, I don’t see how the contents can possibly ever be smooth.

  And do I want them to be smooth?

  I pull on a blue tank top, then a loose long-sleeved cheesecloth shirt over the top. There’s no point bothering with a bra. It’s late, and it’s not as if I’m going jogging.

  I add a skirt: floral, cotton, and long enough to cover my knees.

  Time to face the music.

  Wiping the fog from the glass, I gather my things.

  ***

  ‘I borrowed your laptop,’ Brayden announces as I exit the bathroom, cosmetics bag and clothes clutched in my arms. He’s in the lounge, sprawled on one of the chairs, my computer in his lap, fingers hovering over the keyboard. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Course I don’t mind,’ I say, testing the air for trouble.

  He doesn’t seem upset as he points to the screen and says, ‘These are perfect.’

  ‘What are perfect?’

  ‘The Cobra Golf Ladies’ Sapphire Complete Set.’

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  Half an hour I’ve been stressing in the shower about our argument, and he’s been researching ladies’ golf clubs. He’s already over it. Typical bloody bloke. A snort that’s half relief and half annoyance escapes my lips. ‘I don’t need a set of new clubs.’

  ‘Yes you do. You said Tiger Woods sold your clubs.’

  I guess it’s kind of nice that he’s been researching golf clubs for me. Nice, but misguided. ‘Thank you for googling golf clubs on my behalf, but I’m not playing any golf any time soon.’

  Mustering my dignity, I sweep through the lounge without glancing at the screen. In my bedroom, I dump my crumpled clothes. Seb is lying on his back in the portacot, arms folded behind his head like baby bat wings. For a few seconds I watch him, drinking him in. What is it about kids that makes them so compelling when they sleep? I could stare at him for hours.

  The box of chocolates is on top of the fridge, it’s the first thing I see when I slide the bedroom door closed. I take the box with me and head for the lounge.

  Brayden resumes as if I hadn’t left the room, ‘This website says these Sapphire clubs are specially designed for Cavelady needs.’ He pauses, and his eyes click with mine. ‘That’s you, Jenn.’

  ‘What’s a Cavelady?’ I ask, holding out the box.

  ‘A Cavelady is a lady golfer who spends all her time in the rough.’ He grins at me as his hand makes wrappers rustle. That grin says better than any words that the world is okay between us.

  Racking my brain for a witty retort I come up blank, so I sit with him on the couch, the chocolate box dividing our knees, and he twists the laptop toward me.

  The clubs rotating on the screen are blue, silver and shiny. They’re to die for. I want them. I want him.

  ‘Listen to this, Jenn,’ he says. ‘Cobra Sapphires feature Cobra’s best game-improving technologies.’

  ‘There isn’t enough technology on the planet to improve my golf.’ I dunk my fingers in the box and unwrap one of the ones with a nut inside.

  ‘That’s because you already play awesome. Think how much more awesome you’ll be with these.’

  My teeth cut through the hazelnut centre. I mumble something at him, because I refuse to talk with my mouth full, and I refuse to rush chocolate. Not for any fancy set of golf clubs. Not for any man.

  Finally, I swallow, and run my tongue over my teeth. ‘Even if I did want to get back out on the golf course, which I don’t, I can’t afford new clubs and it’s impossible to play with a toddler.’

  ‘There are some brilliant golf courses in this neck of the woods. You’re missing out.’

  ‘There are some great courses,’ I agree. Margaret River. Capel. I’ve played them with Jack. Back in the days of dirty weekends and lunches that lasted hours — before Sebby was born.

  Brayden quits the browser, folds the laptop closed.

  Yawning, I cover my mouth. ‘I’m sorry about what I said before. I didn’t mean to be a pain in the arse. You have enough to worry about without me adding to it.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot going on, Jenn. We both have. Don’t sweat it.’ He lifts a strand of my hair and shapes it around my ear. His breath fans the scent of chocolate against my cheek.

  Is he being friendly? I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel friendly, exactly. There’s a depth in his eyes, a question, and it starts my heart hammering.

  ‘Maybe when all this is done, Jenn, you and me…’ He drops his hand. ‘Ah, fuck it. That’s not fair, either.’

  ‘What’s not fair?’ I’m having trouble following him. Did he just say you and me?

  ‘It’s not fair of me to expect you to wait while this court case hangs over me. I could go to jail.’ He inhales with enough force to make his chest strain against his shirt. ‘And nothing’s changed, not really. I still work away. Six. Eight months of the year I’d be away.’

  ‘Away from what, exactly?’ I echo, fighting the fog in my brain.

  ‘Away, Jenn. From you.’ His finger is back, magnetically tracing the soft skin where my ear joins my jaw.

  Definitely doesn’t feel friendly.

  After a beat that lasts forever, he adds, ‘And then there’s Jack.’

  Before he’s finished, I’m shaking my head. ‘Jack and I are over.’

  ‘Maybe.’ His blue gaze holds mine. ‘Maybe not. He’s the father of your son. You’ve been together a long time. You need to work out what’s best and it will be easier if I’m not in the way.’

  I smother another yawn. ‘A shower usually perks me up. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.’

  ‘You’re out on your feet.’ Brayden tucks his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me against his ribs. Then he kisses the damp hair at my temple. ‘It’s been a big day, Jenn. Time for bed.’

  Even through the haze, I know there’s an irony in hearing those words from him, but right now I’m too exhausted to care.

  Chapter 13

  Sunday morning it’s Sebby who wakes me — not the birds — but already they’re making background music.

  I lift my son from his cot and let him snuggle into my chest. He’s beautiful when he lies like this, all cosy and smelling of sleep.

  ‘When did you get so big?’ I hug him tight against my breasts and almost as quickly, nudge him to the side with a gasp. My boobs are too tender.

  That’s when it falls into place.

  Pimples. Mood swings. Exhaustion. I bet I get my period today.

  On that glum note, the kettle whistles.

  ‘Go find Uncle Brayden.’ I put Seb’s feet on the floor and lean off the bed to pull the sliding door open.

  He toddles out.

  There’s a big, happy, ‘Hey, mate,’ and then a fit of giggles: Seb’s, not Brayden’s.

  Dressing in the same cotton skirt and shirt from last night, I head out to greet the day. Sunlight streams into the kitchen, making dust motes spin in the rays.

  ‘Coffee?’ Brayden asks.

  ‘Tea, please.’

  We take it to the lounge, like yesterday. The only difference is this morning we have Seb to distract us, and the intensity of the previous night is gone. Neither of us seems in a hurry to bring it back.

  Seb’s in a playful mood, charging Brayden like a bull so he’ll sweep him up into the air.

  Boy games. A father’s game.

  That’s what Jack will miss.

  ***

  After breakfast and a second coffee, Brayden pa
cks, and he’s ready to go soon after nine. Seb and I trail him to the car.

  ‘Looks like another magic day in paradise.’ His eyes smile.

  ‘There are worse places a girl could be.’

  He stuffs his overnight bag beside the car fridge and I’m reminded again of the end of weekends past. That sadness we could never hide, cleaning up, packing up, and pointing the cars toward the city for another week of university or work.

  I drift close to Brayden. I can’t help it. His big body is a magnet for me.

  ‘Stay here, Jenn,’ he says softly, almost humming it into my hair as he hugs me goodbye. ‘The beach house is a good place for you, good for Seb. You don’t have to go back yet. At least give yourself the week.’

  ‘I’ll see.’ I pick up Seb so he can’t get in the way of the car. ‘Brayden’s going now, Sebby. Say bye-bye.’

  He leans out of my arms and Brayden takes him from me, swinging him up on his massive shoulders, then over his head in a kind of little boy bench-press, before he returns him. ‘Seeya little fella. Look after your mum.’

  He gets in the car, buzzing the window down. The breeze plays with his hair and sunlight flashes off his watch.

  We step back to let him go. As he reverses toward the bitumen road, Brayden flashes the Pajero’s headlights and toots the horn.

  We wave till we can’t see him, and stand till we can’t hear the engine.

  ***

  The shack feels small with just Seb and me rattling around in it.

  I try not to mope. There are breakfast dishes to clean, our bedroom and the lounge to tidy. I throw a load of our clothes in the old washing machine with Brayden’s sheets, and it thumps and bumps so much I’m sure it’s about to take off.

  After I’ve hung the washing out, I take my laptop and a second cup of tea to the porch. As Seb plays with the bulldozer, pushing rocks around the garden, I start shaping the words to describe the Commonage Road property I saw yesterday.

  The story flows easily. The hardest part of my job is writing convincingly about a house I don’t like: houses that smell of cigarettes or wet dogs. When it’s a property I love the words sprout from my fingertips.