Fairway to Heaven

by Lily Malone

  We’ve been rocky for a while, but we weren’t always that way. When we met, I was so sure he was the one — the man who could take my mind off Brayden Culhane and things that couldn’t be.

  I knew Jack smoked too much weed. I knew he took too many designer drugs. He never tried to hide his wild streak — courtesy of growing up in the western suburbs, a single child with too many rich mates and too much easy money.

  I liked that we were so different. I liked that he could meet me every day for lunch and we could go out after my crazy newspaper deadlines and sleep in next day because he didn’t have to get up for work.

  I was the planner, the list-maker. Jack made me let my hair down.

  We met in Fremantle, one drunken Sunday session in a beer garden listening to a blues band play Boom Boom.

  He asked me if I’d ever heard of John Lee Hooker.

  He was gorgeous and tall, he bought me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc off the wine list instead of the crappy house wine I’d been drinking, and he had a voice that made me melt. So I lied and said, ‘sure I’ve heard of John Lee Hooker,’ and the afternoon went from there.

  Our first date was at Sea Breeze Golf Club. Jack wasn’t working there then, but he was a member at the club, and he knew the Pro.

  I remember Jack measuring me for golf clubs in the Pro Shop so he’d know which set best suited me. There I was, pretending I had no idea which end of the club was up just so I’d get to stand with my shoulder blades pressed into his chest and his arms shading mine; his chin tucked over my shoulder as he showed me how to grip a nine-iron. Our arms moved slowly back and forward while he demonstrated the perfect plane of a practice swing.

  There’s a poster of Ernie Els on the Pro Shop wall at Sea Breeze. He’s blasting off the tee with his trademark Callaway Driver. The Big Easy, the golfing world calls Ernie.

  That’s what I was to Jack. Easy.

  How easy was Marnie James, I wonder? Did he lean over her shoulder to show her how to swing? Did her perfume, or her warmth, entice him?

  Is it my fault he looked elsewhere? Was I so wrapped up in Sebastian that I forgot about Jack? Or am I naïve to expect any man to stay faithful if his girlfriend can’t have sex? I thought a killer blow-job made for a reasonable substitute, but perhaps lip service only goes so far.

  Then I’m too tired, and too sad, to think about it anymore.

  Chapter 15

  The sand is warm as Jack slams my shoulders into it and drops to his knees. Fumbling, he lifts my skirt, slides my knickers down my legs, then off, and makes me gasp as his fingers stretch me. It’s not a gasp of pain. It’s all pleasure.

  ‘Spread your legs, babe. I want to taste you.’

  I open myself for him but it’s not enough. He takes it further, picking up my thigh and laying it over his shoulder, spreading me wide.

  There’s a breeze and it’s cool on my skin; intense heat between my legs — his tongue teases and probes.

  God, I’m so ready. I want his cock inside me. ‘Please. Now, please.’

  He stands. The bunker overhang is a quilt of lush green above my head and oh, he bends his knees, lines me up, and slides in to the hilt. I bite his shoulder so I don’t scream.

  It’s instant, electric. I’m coming, I’m coming.

  I open my eyes and it’s Brayden above me, his lips at my breast; Brayden’s big body crushing mine into the sand. Underneath me, a white-pepper blanket of beach spreads mile after mile.

  It’s the shockwave of orgasm that wakes me — heart pounding, throat dry. When I run my hand over my breasts, my nipples pucker hard. Deep inside, my womb clenches.

  Jack. Bunker.

  Brayden. Beach.

  God. What a mess.

  Rising on my elbows, I peer into Seb’s cot. He’s asleep, though probably not for long with that crazy woodpecker bird around. With any luck I’ll have time for a cup of tea before he wakes and wants breakfast.

  I need a chance to settle my pulse. Stop it racing.

  ***

  After breakfast I load the pram with a bottle of water and fruit for Seb’s mid-morning snack. I head for the beach path as usual, only this time, I turn west at the cycle trail, heading away from the jetty.

  There’s a rustle in the thick bush of peppermint trees on the left of the path.

  Peering into the leaves, I try to spot the curve of a furry back. Seb loves animals. Maybe it’s a small kangaroo making the noise?

  Instead, my eyes slowly piece a different shape under the beard of leaves — the outline of a burly thigh, a slabbed shoulder — and in the time it takes my brain to connect the dots, the shape moves. Adrenalin jolts through me.

  There’s a man in there. In the shadows, I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or if it’s his back I’m staring at.

  You idiot, Jenn!

  Some poor bloke out for his morning walk must have found himself caught short and ducked into the bush to urinate. Now he has a woman and a small boy enjoying a free show.

  Blushing hard, I push the pram down the track, stepping it out.

  ***

  That afternoon, I take Seb into town. At a café in Fig Tree Lane, I order a babychino and one of those big fat butter cookies with the M&Ms on top for him, a latte for me. Then I pull my trusty notebook from its compartment in my computer bag, unhook my pen from the spine, and start a list. It’s way too long since I wrote a list. I’m having withdrawals.

  1. Write list.

  2. Check emails.

  3. Call Nathan Blain, re: Perth work

  4. Invoice Carl for Stewart prop

  5. Maintenance? Custody? Visitations/Jack/Amber. Do I need a lawyer?

  6. Talk to Carl/Dunsborough agency re ongoing work/other opps

  7. Visit properties w/Carl Tuesday/write up drafts

  8. Shopping. Sorbolene. Olive oil. Nappies. Wipes. Baby food.

  That’s it. Most of the page remains blank. Not much of a list.

  To start with, I cross off number 1. The secret of a good list is to include items you’ve already done. It makes a girl feel efficient.

  ‘Here you go.’ A smiling blonde waitress delivers our order, almost losing Seb’s M&M cookie as she slides his plate onto the tray of his high chair.

  She puts my latte in front of me. The barista’s left a lovely leaf pattern in the froth of milk, this wobbles too.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘They usually keep me in the kitchen.’

  ‘It’s no problem. Thanks.’

  Seb kicks his legs and digs a spoon into his babychino.

  I scoop the top off my lop-sided leaf and suck coffee-flavoured foam from the metal spoon.

  With Seb blissfully distracted, I boot up my computer and double-click into my Outlook program to check my email. The new ones take a while to load over the wi-fi so I sip at my coffee, enjoying the caffeine hit. I can’t drink instant coffee. Maybe when all this is done, I’ll buy a Nespresso for the beach shack as a way of saying thanks to the Culhanes for letting me stay.

  The first item in the inbox is from Carl Barron. He says the Stewarts loved the article and the only thing they want to change is some detail about the size of the water tanks. Tacked to the end is a note that says, ‘Thanks, Jennifer. You certainly make my life easier. See you Tuesday.’

  I wonder if Carl feels bad about giving me the toddler third-degree yesterday. It’s possible I over-reacted. My period can bring out the monster in me.

  Opening Microsoft Word to the Stewart document, I alter the information about the tanks, add a little more formatting to make it look pretty, and save it.

  Then, there’s an email from Nathan Blain’s personal assistant, rescheduling the Scarborough house Nathan wants me to write up. The sellers are still in holiday mode, she says, so Nathan wants to delay my viewing for another week.

  Now that I’ve agreed to stay in Busselton at least till Tuesday, that suits me fine. There’s nothing pressing me to head to the city. Except Jack.

  Raising my arms above my head, I stretc
h lazily, enjoying the release as my ribs crack.

  Back to the laptop, and I type up my invoice for Carl. I normally charge two hundred and fifty dollars per property, plus travel. If the house is asking over a million dollars, I charge three hundred.

  I fill out the figures in my invoice template and attach it with the Word file in an email for Carl. Then I scratch my pen through items 2 and 4 and stare at number 5 for a while. Lawyers.

  A shudder crawls up my spine.

  Jack and I found some kind of truce last night. I really don’t want to shatter that ceasefire by raising the subject of lawyers. It can wait.

  Picking up my latte in both hands, I sip the last of the brew.

  Maybe, if we’re smart, we can keep this out of the lawyers’ hands for good. If both parties agree about custody for Seb we don’t need to drag him or each other through the Family Court.

  We’re rational adults.

  We are.

  Aren’t we?

  The glass slips a bit as I place it on its saucer, rattling against the china.

  In my head, I can see it: Jack and I approaching the judge.

  Jack, ‘Well, Your Honour, it’s true I did have an affair, but my partner, the mother of my child — that woman right there — wouldn’t, or should I say, couldn’t have sex with me.’

  Judge, ‘Why couldn’t you have sex with Mr Bannerman, Ms Gates?’

  Nope. No way is my vagina and all its shortcomings featuring front and centre in a court of law.

  No freaking way.

  There’s a clatter of cutlery from the kitchen, like a cement truck just dumped a payload of plates. The patrons around me jump, and as one, heads flick toward the kitchen. Moments later the buzz of low conversation resumes.

  Scanning my list, I tell myself to stop thinking about the “what ifs”, and concentrate on the things I can control. Number 5 will have to wait. There’s no great rush for me to lawyer-up.

  I screw up my nose.

  Maybe I should say, there’s no rush while I’m staying rent-free on the Culhanes and money isn’t an issue. If I have to move back to Perth, all bets are off. I’ll need to press for some kind of settlement with Jack.

  Again I ponder: would there be enough business at Blain & Barrow in Dunsborough for me to make a decent wage and support Seb and myself? Is it a stupid idea?

  Real estate waxes and wanes, especially in tourist towns like this. Home owners always want to sell in spring. Winter is quiet. January? January is a write-off. I’d need to know I could make enough in the busy times to counterbalance the quiet.

  Then, there’s Seb. What do I do with him? I’ve got no support here and if I have to pay for child care, I’ll lose anything I might gain from working.

  ‘What do I do with you, mister?’ I say, aloud.

  Biscuit crumbs are smeared into the froth moustache on my son’s upper lip. Milk has run down his wrist, soaking his cuff. His fingers are a blend of stickiness and crumbs as he grins at me.

  ‘He looks like he’s enjoying that,’ the waitress says, picking up my empty latte glass.

  ‘He makes the most of it, that’s for sure.’ I pat my pockets then reach for the pram, hunting for a wipe, or a tissue. The napkins under Seb’s biscuit plate are already sodden.

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ The waitress returns in a flash with a fistful of napkins and a carafe of water.

  ‘Thank you.’ I take the wad of paper towels from her, wet the top few, and start cleaning Seb’s hands and face.

  ‘What do I do with you, Sebastian Bannerman-Gates?’

  The waitress smiles at me, as if she’s not quite sure whether she’s supposed to answer the question.

  ***

  After our afternoon tea, I buy a new tub of Sorbolene at the first pharmacy I find and then stop at the supermarket for the things on my list. Lamb Rogan Josh is on special and I load the jars under the pram, trying not to feel guilty about Seb dining a-la-jar again. That’s a fail.

  Then I go looking for olive oil. I don’t know why — neither does my GP — but when I have my period, my vagina is worse. First, the GP thought it might be tampons irritating me. So I switched to pads. She ran some tests at the time and a few days later said the results were positive for candida, so she treated me for that.

  When things didn’t improve, she thought it might be a low-grade urinary infection, so I’ve had antibiotics. The naturopath I saw after the second GP visit said the antibiotics probably brought the thrush back.

  So it goes on.

  I’m the centre of my own vicious cycle.

  What I do know is: when I have my period I can’t use the olive oil and I notice the difference. The oil makes the skin feel close to normal, slippery again, flexible.

  Unfortunately, Jack ran out of patience before I had the chance to test if my homemade remedy worked.

  The storage compartment under Seb’s pram bulges by the time I’m finished shopping. We go through the checkout with Seb carrying the big box of breakfast cereal proudly on his lap. The checkout-chick smiles as she scans our Cornflakes and gives the box back to him. It’s almost bigger than he is.

  I pack everything in the Corolla and drive to the beach house and I’ve only just unpacked the shopping when my phone rings. This time when I see the incoming caller details, I pick up in a rush.

  ‘Hi, Em.’

  ‘Sweetie. Bonjour.’

  ‘Bonjour!’ I reply, in my best worst French accent.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good. You know, same old. I busted some guy trying to take a piss in the bush this morning.’

  She laughs, and then the laugh dies. ‘Brayden came to see me today.’

  I’m serious in a heartbeat. She knows about the accident, I can tell from her tone. ‘I know, Em. He was here when I arrived Friday afternoon. He wouldn’t let me tell anyone he was hiding out.’

  ‘My brother is too stubborn for his own good.’ Emmy’s frustration whistles over the line. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell us when it first happened. It’s too much to go through on his own.’

  ‘I can believe it.’ Brayden never liked burdening other people with his problems.

  ‘We’re just glad you were with him when he found out the old man died. Mum and Dad don’t like the thought of him being on his own. We’re glad he’s talking to someone. It’s no good if he clams up and bottles everything inside.’

  ‘I think he’s dealing with it his own way, Em. Tell your folks to try not to worry.’

  I head for the lounge so I can open the door to the porch. Sea breeze filters in, wrapping around me like a cool sigh. Seb is sitting on the lounge-room floor, playing with the remote.

  ‘So how was it seeing him again? It’s been a while,’ Emmy says.

  Like the world dropped away and we were the last two left standing. ‘Fine, Em. He was brilliant with Seb — they got on great. We had a few drinks to absent friends, re-lived old memories.’

  ‘Made some new memories…’ Emmy adds. She’s not fooled by my nonchalance.

  I bite my lip, as she kids me gently. ‘You forget I’ve seen Brayden, sweetie. He’s different, more centred somehow — even with this accident hanging over his head. It’s because he’s spent time with you. You were always good for him like that.’

  ‘Don’t read too much into it. Our timing is lousy, as always. All this crap with Jack and now Brayden’s got a court case to get through.’ I don’t want to get Emmy’s hopes up. I don’t want to get my own hopes up. When it comes to Brayden and me, my hopes have been dashed too many times.

  ‘He’s loved you for years,’ she says, and the words glitter around me like stardust.

  ‘He’s the one who left, Em. I didn’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I know, and like I said he’s stubborn. By the time he worked out what he’d lost, you’d moved on. You were seeing other guys, and then there was Jack.’

  I wasn’t in a good place when Brayden left. I drank too much, slept with too many men too soon, and I alway
s woke up with hangovers and regrets. It was like I had to prove to myself that I was attractive and desirable. Other men wanted me, even if he didn’t.

  Jack got me out of that rut. I owe him that much.

  ‘I spoke with Jack last night.’

  ‘How did that go?’

  ‘He wants to know when I’m coming home. He says he misses me.’

  ‘You told him never, right?’

  I hesitate, and Emmy adds, ‘Jenn?’ Drawing it out ominously.

  I hurry to give her an answer. ‘I’m not going back. Jack and I are finished. But I’m trying to make it as painless as possible — for Sebby’s sake. I don’t want it to end up in court.’

  She sighs over the phone. ‘I wish I was there for you right now. I know you don’t like being alone.’

  ‘I’m okay, Em. I promise.’ I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘I’m not jumping at every shadow now.’

  ‘If you think you’ll still be there by the weekend maybe Brayden and I will come down. We can all go out and have a good time. Pope too.’ Her voice lifts as the excitement of the idea catches up with her.

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll stay that long?’

  ‘I think so. It’s not like there’s anywhere else I have to be. But I feel a bit guilty about living here rent-free.’

  Emmy scoffs at that. ‘They don’t mind. They’re just happy to see it being used. Pull out some weeds or something or wash the windows if you feel like you need to thank them. I’ll talk with Brayden about the weekend and let you know. Now in the meantime, can you do me a huge favour?’

  ‘Anything for you, Em. What’s up?’

  ‘Please give Brayden a call tonight. Make sure he’s okay?’

  ‘I don’t know if he wants me to call him, Em. He said he wants to give me space to get my head straight.’

  Emmy snorts. ‘The last thing you two need is space. You’ve had eight years of so much space you could have been in your own personal galaxy.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I try to remember Brayden’s exact words, but they’re all a bit of a blur apart from the ones that have branded themselves in my brain. The part where he said: maybe this time… you and me…