by J. C. Grey
A ping makes me jump and I nearly laugh at myself. And because it is already a bad day, I decide my estranged husband can barely make it any worse so I decide to check his messages.
This one isn’t from him; it’s from Claire. Sweetie, Marc called me. I think he was crying. He just wants to know you’re okay. So do I.
There is one from Brendan, too. Don’t be such a selfish bitch, Em. Call Marc now!
Good cop, bad cop.
Marc hasn’t texted in the last twenty-four hours, but some of his older messages remain unread. I hesitate, then jab my thumb to call them up. I may as well rip off the bandaid all in one go.
It’s the fucking worst, baby. But it will get better. Call me.
Em, tell me where you are. Anywhere. I’ll come and get you.
You don’t have to say anything. Just let me know you’re alive.
For God’s sake, Em! I’m going out of my mind. At least tell me you’re okay.
I’m calling the police.
Shit! The last thing I want is cops turning up on my doorstep. I call him.
September the year before last …
‘What about your family?’ Yvette McAllister’s purr bears the smallest trace of a French accent (it always conjures up an image of the guillotine) and all the venom of a taipan.
‘What about them?’ I shrug, feigning a lack of interest though every sense is on full alert. Marc is on the terrace, manning his parents’ barbecue, but I can hold my own, secure in the knowledge he chose me and not her.
‘It’s customary for the family of the groom to meet the bride’s people,’ she points out. ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know your mother.’
‘You wouldn’t get on,’ I say suddenly, tired of her games. She’s lost and it’s time she acknowledged that.
Yvette gives a forced laugh. ‘What a thing to say! Of course we’ll get along.’
She won’t have the chance to because I wouldn’t let my parents within cooee of Marc. If she knew them, she’d be grateful to me. In any case, as I’ve already said to Marc, they’re irrelevant.
She adjusts the slender gold bracelet on her arm. As usual, she is beautifully dressed in tailored pants and shirt, and her blonde hair is impeccably groomed. She has Marc’s ears, I notice – or rather, he has hers. I soften towards her for a fraction of a second. Maybe she senses it because she clears her throat delicately and moves in for the kill.
‘This is awkward, Emerald, but I have to ask if your parents will be paying for your wedding. The reason is, you see, that we have quite a large circle of friends and business contacts that we’ll wish to invite, and—’
‘Marc will be paying, and our wedding will be small and intimate.’ I meet her cold brown eyes with an equally cool look of my own that warns the wedding party could easily become one person smaller still if she pushes things.
She gasps and puts a hand to her mouth. The drama is all for effect and it works. Immediately, Marc’s father Gordon approaches, alert to his high-maintenance wife as only a man who has spent thirty-five years negotiating an eggshell-strewn path can be. Marc rolls his eyes at his brother Léo, hands over the tongs and follows his father across the lawn to where we stand.
‘Everything all right, darling?’ Gordon asks his wife in his hearty, hopeful way. ‘You two girls enjoying talking weddings?’
Marc says nothing but his eyes are darkly amused. I smile sweetly but my shoulders are tense and I have to force them to relax.
Yvette has her hand to her throat as though she can barely speak, but in the end she manages. ‘But it must be somewhere suitable, oui? Not … Las Vegas?’ The question is directed at Marc in a voice filled with the kind of scandalised horror that might be appropriate if I’d suggested conducting our nuptials in the nude on Lady Jane Beach.
Marc roars with laughter as Gordon stares at the ground and Yvette presses her lips together. I fight the urge to tell her that when she does that the subtle cosmetic work she’s had done becomes visible.
‘If Em wants me to wear a silver jumpsuit and serve deep-fried peanut butter sandwiches at the reception, I’ll do it,’ Marc says when he recovers.
Yvette is not amused. ‘It’s no laughing matter, Marc! I just want to ensure a level of dignity. I do not want this family to become an embarrassment, a laughing stock.’
Marc hugs her. ‘It’ll be small and casual—very Sydney, Mum,’ he says. ‘No fuss.’
The attention from her first and favourite son mollifies her, although her mouth makes a moue of distaste at his choice of adjectives. She tolerates Sydney only slightly better than she does me.
‘Marriage’—she pronounces it the French way, with the stress on the last syllable—‘is not casual. It is solemn and serious. It is for life, Marc.’
‘I hope so.’ The devilish glint in Marc’s eyes softens as they lock on mine, and my pulse kicks up. His lids half close as his eyes drop to my throat and I can see he has seen the tell-tale sign of arousal there.
The timing is terrible. The McAllisters’ spacious Vaucluse home and garden is packed with about thirty people—an intimate gathering of business and social contacts. We cannot slip away unnoticed, particularly as Yvette has promised an announcement with dessert. I am dreading it—the dessert, that is, not the announcement, which I know is Marc’s sister Sylvie’s pregnancy. Yvette uses food as ammunition and this time is no exception.
‘Do try some, dear,’ she says when the waiter comes out with a confection that rivals the Taj Mahal. Yes, I know this is supposed to be a low-key event, but Yvette’s tolerance for casual stops at her menfolk manning the barbecue. However, she has limited the wait staff to two.
‘Thanks, it looks delicious,’ I reply in reference to the pavlova.
‘I’m sure you will want to slim down before the wedding,’ she says lightly. ‘But you have plenty of time for that.’
I’m ready for it but before I can respond, Marc is beside me, his arm around my shoulder as though he is worried I might run.
‘Afraid not, Mum. We’re getting married next month.’
Uproar.
Present day, morning
The phone is answered before the first ring and I brace myself.
‘Em, thank God.’ His voice is low, intent.
‘No police. Promise.’
‘Anything. Right now, I’ll promise you anything. Hold on.’ I hear voices faintly in the background and Marc excusing himself. Then there is only the sound of his breathing and mine.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, the simple words belying the meaning invested in each syllable.
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
It may be the first honest thing I have said to him in weeks and we both know it.
‘Me too.’ His voice is raw and, as usual, I retreat, as poorly equipped to manage his feelings as I am my own.
‘I shouldn’t keep you,’ I say. ‘You’re obviously at work.’ I imagine all the suits around the boardroom table whispering about the CEO’s flaky wife.
‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except us, Em.’
‘Don’t! I can’t do this.’ My voice is sharp as I deflect his emotional intensity. ‘I can’t do this, Marc.’
‘I know, baby. I know.’ Down the phone, I can feel the almost superhuman effort it requires for him to back off. ‘I know you need time. No police, I promise.’
It is an impossible situation. He needs his wife to share his grief. I need solitude. If there is a way forward, it is shrouded in fog.
‘Don’t try to find me.’
‘Just promise you’ll call me or text me every few days. And if you need anything … anything.’ His voice is as fierce as it is low.
‘I need to be away.’
‘I know. Claire sends you her love, and Brendan.’
‘But not Yvette?’ Even feeling the way I do, I can’t resist prodding.
There is a rumble of reluctant laughter. ‘Not Yvette. But Dad, Sylvie and Léo …’
I know what h
e is trying to say. They can’t quite like me for me, but they will love me for Marc.
‘You should get back to your meeting.’
‘It can wait.’
‘Marc …’ I am seized by the desire to say that I don’t mean to hurt him, but the truth is that I always knew there would be a price to pay.
‘What?’ His voice is gentle, unthreatening, and I wish I could just let it all go, but I don’t even know how to start.
The closest I can get is to ask: ‘Have you seen Will and James?’ They are his closest friends. They played rugby together at uni and are still tight. He needs them right now.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’ The words are stiff. ‘Marc, I have to go.’
‘I know, love.’
As I end the call, I wonder how he can know when I don’t even know myself.
Five
Present day
Anzac Day has been and gone, yet the weather remains mild and soft. There was a service at the cenotaph. The entire town turned out at five in the misty morning to gather in the square, solemn children holding candles aloft. Even I went, although I stood a way off, observing rather than participating.
This time of year—the slow slide into winter—suits me. I occasionally venture into the forest, but mostly I roam the house and garden. Before I came here, I would have said that the routine, the confines, would have driven me mad, but surprisingly it is not so. Every day, there is something new to see, something different to discover.
Some days I am filled with purpose, whether it is to find where the rain has been getting in to stain the ceiling or to study the vintage wallpaper in the library. Others, I am content just to be, adrift and wandering. Often I feel as if I am in a half-dream state, a limbo-land. I have taken a step forward but the door behind me has now slammed and I can’t go back. Yet the way ahead is not clear.
Today, I am cross-legged in the chair on the verandah, my phone in hand, watching two birds play chase through the shrubs. They streak across the lawn, dodging all obstacles in their path, and before I realise, I am smiling and then laughing. They are too fast for a photo, even if I had thought to take a shot. By the time I do they are gone.
Once again, I flick through the photos I have taken. Something nags at me but whatever it is remains elusive, and with a sigh I put my phone aside. Inspired by the birds, perhaps, although at a slower speed, I weave my way across the lawn. My hand brushes the mint and freshness fills the air. Crouching down, I crush a stalk of lavender between two fingers and breathe the pungent scent.
Little is flowering now except for the doughty clivia, and even its fiery flowers are fewer than when I first arrived at Lammermoor House. But there is no end to the greenness, and after the autumn showers we’ve had, the garden appears lush and fertile. As I walk, I pinch off dead flowers and untangle the jasmine wending its way up a stripling. My first gardening bee, I think, looking at the greenery in my hand. I do not intend to take it any further; I like the garden as it is—a place wild and unkempt where only the fittest survive.
The sensation of being watched prickles my skin and I glance up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark blur move across a small top-floor window. My breath catches and the greenery spills from my hand. Counting the windows across, I frown as I realise the house has an attic level, beneath the eaves.
Is somebody—something!—up there? My heart is racing but just as I am pondering what it could have been, the birds return, ducking and darting. I catch their reflection in another window and release a breath. Mystery solved.
Since I have been here I have not seen too many animals. In fact, I struggle to think of one. The birds are welcome visitors. I may not be ready for human company but I am glad not to be entirely alone.
Ready or not for people, I must venture into Lammermoor today for supplies. Not looking forward to it, I trudge reluctantly to the shower and later dress carefully in a long-sleeved bronze tunic, jeans and brown boots. My long hair I pile on my head. A fringed scarf in dark green and bronze goes around my neck, dangling jade earrings in my lobes. Apart from lip gloss, my face is bare but for the mask I slip into place as I shut the front door behind me.
In Lammermoor, I notice that the deli window has been transformed. The chalkboard menu spruiks a recipe for fishcakes with a Thai dipping sauce, and a middle-aged woman is scribbling it on the back of a grocery receipt. The teenager standing next to her rolls his eyes, plucks out his phone and snaps a shot of the window blackboard. ‘Dude,’ he says, handing it to her with the sigh of someone used to dealing with a Luddite.
‘I’m your mother, Dylan,’ she says. ‘Not a dude.’
‘Whatever.’
I know their eyes follow me as I walk into the store, and a second later they are at the counter. As the woman asks for more information and buys the ingredients she needs, I consider the cheese counter, planning to make a gruyere and leek tart. With a large, if dated, kitchen and eons of time at my disposal, I have been experimenting with reasonable success. I find the careful measuring, weighing, chopping and mixing therapeutic. Providing I follow the recipe carefully, the results follow and it feels as though I have some control, as though there is something I can do that does not end in catastrophe.
When they have gone, the deli owner turns to me with a smile of recognition. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. I thought your holiday must have ended.’
I just smile and congratulate him on the window. He nods enthusiastically, and I notice the worry lines are fainter across his brow. He confides that trade has slowly been increasing and he is breaking even.
‘It’s not great but it’s a start. But every time I do a blackboard special, the supermarket drops its prices.’
Shaking my head, I list the gruyere and a few other things I need. ‘Don’t compete on price. You’ll never win.’ He looks suddenly defeated. ‘Your point of difference has to be your quality and service. Your … knowledge of the produce and the customer. Supermarkets are there to make money for shareholders. You are here because …?’
‘I dunno. My grandad opened the shop in 1958, and then Mum took over. Then me.’ He packages up my shopping and rings it up.
I hand him a twenty. ‘You are here because you come from a long line of deli owners with a passion for great produce and service.’
Enthusiasm is back on his face and he repeats the words as another woman pauses outside to read the recipe.
‘Keep one step ahead. Open late one night a week and do a cooking demonstration. Invite a celebrity chef to do a book signing. Talk to customers about how to use different ingredients.’
The bell over the door jingles. It’s time for me to go. ‘Wait …’ he starts to say, but his new customer is speaking to him and I slip away.
Apart from Marc, Harley the deli man—his name is on his uniform as though he might forget it—is the first human I’ve spoken to in nearly two weeks. It looks as if he may be the only one for the next two weeks as no one in the supermarket or florist shop speaks to me, until a voice calls to me as I am loading up the car.
‘Miss! Ms Reed!’
It is Val’s offsider, Sally. Panting, she hurries up to me, half-eaten sandwich in her hand. She must be on her lunch break.
‘Hi.’
‘Thanks for showing me the coffee machine.’
‘Sure.’ I look at her enquiringly. She has more on her mind than cappuccinos, I think. Her face glows with ruddy good health and curiosity.
‘I love your boots.’
‘Thanks.’ I start to turn away.
‘It’s just, I mentioned to my uncle about you living at Lammermoor House and he said you should leave right away.’
At her words, I stiffen, not sure if this is a threat of some sort.
‘He said it’s not safe. I wanted to come and tell you but he wouldn’t let me go on my own and he wouldn’t come with me.’
I laugh. ‘It’s pretty shabby, but it’s perfectly safe.’
‘No, I don’t
mean that … Uncle Bob says …’ Her voice trails off and she looks uncomfortable.
‘What?’ I prompt her, resisting the urge to sigh and keep walking.
An uneasy shrug is the only response. She looks down at her half-eaten sandwich.
‘I’ve been there a while now and lived to tell the tale.’
‘Anyway, the house is going to be sold. You’ll have to leave,’ she blurts. Her flush deepens with guilt. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you.’
Shocked to silence for a moment, I consider this. It should not surprise me. The house is a sandstone beauty that deserves something better than its current fate. Someone else has discovered its appeal and snapped it up.
The money in the account that Marc set up for me when we married, which I have forced myself to ignore until now, flashes across my mind. Would it be enough for a counteroffer if the ink is not yet dry on the sale? Almost certainly not. I almost ask Sally the sale price, but cut off the thought before it can take breath. The money is Marc’s. I have done nothing to earn or deserve it, and evidently even I have some scruples. One, anyway.
By now the mask is in place. ‘Well, I’d better start packing,’ I say lightly to Sally. My fingers tighten on my car keys. ‘Who’s buying it, by the way?’
‘Oh some superannuation fund in the city, I think. The bank was happy to let it go, Val said, even though they got a lot less than they wanted. Anyway, you should move out. I can show you some other places we’ve got that are available after the June long weekend.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I tell her. ‘It might be time for me to move on anyway.’
As I drive off, I give an absent wave out the window, wondering if I should expect another visit from Val in the next few days to give me notice. Then I remember the six-month lease that she had me sign and something in my stomach settles. I don’t know much about these things but I assume it gives me some protection. I resolve not to worry about it until the Viking turns up on my doorstep.
A few metres down the street, I notice an old-fashioned hardware store. On the spur of the moment, I pull the Audi over. Less than three minutes later, after a brief transaction with a silent, long-haired man who regards me with a blank expression from behind the counter, I am back in the car and continuing on towards Lammermoor House.