by J. C. Grey
I try to brush past him, trying to feign nonchalance when there is nothing casual about what burns between us.
‘Not so fast, gorgeous girl.’ His hand loops loosely around my wrist. ‘Your hair’s still soapy. Lean your head forward and I’ll rinse it.’
‘I can do it,’ I mutter, wondering why these moments of everyday intimacy are so difficult. I stick my head back under the spray before my eyes are closed, with the obvious result.
‘Ouch! Damn it.’ Eye stinging, I blink myopically at him and wave my hand around trying to splash water on my face.
‘Stand still.’ One of his hands holds my head steady while the other dabs at my eye with a face cloth. Within seconds, the soap is gone. He flings the cloth aside, and now both hands are cupping my face. His eyes are nearly black with want but all I can think of is that I look like a vampire with stringy hair.
Inwardly, I curse. I should have been home, showered and dressed in the strapless pale green dress I intend to wear before he returned from work, but I’d wanted to finish the skirting board at the beach shack. ‘We need to leave in five,’ I say. ‘You said we had a booking.’
‘Em,’ he says, almost growling my name. That intense sexuality of his is so focused, I feel almost faint.
‘Y … yes.’ I am stuttering, incoherent, aroused. How can he cut so easily through defences I’ve spent a lifetime erecting?
‘You’re shaking. Are you cold?’ He turns the tap to lift the temperature. Warmth is the last thing I need. I feel feverish already.
I make a last-ditch attempt to turn the mood from carnal to flirtatious. ‘So … where are we having dinner? Somewhere expensive?’ The gold-digger persona is wearing thin, and he does not take the bait.
‘Hetty’s.’
It’s our local bistro—small, dark and private. As well as a wedding anniversary celebration, it’s also a pre-birthday thing, just us, as Marc will be overseas for his actual birthday—his thirty-second. His mother is planning something for his return.
He moves closer until we are skin to skin. His breath smells of toothpaste. My insides turn to liquid.
Desperately, I close my eyes. ‘Do you know what you want for your birthday?’ I manage.
There is a pause. Eventually, I open my eyes to find his sexual urgency overlaid with something else.
‘Yes,’ he says at last.
‘What?’
He shakes his head, shifting back and giving both of us some space. ‘I didn’t plan to raise it this way. I thought we could talk about it over dinner.’
‘Talk about what?’ He is usually very direct in expressing his desires. I know he is probably more experienced sexually than I am, but there has been no sign of anything kinky so far. ‘Do you want a threesome?’ I blurt.
I am not sure where it comes from, only that it is out there and Marc has dropped his hands from me. He looks more startled than I have ever seen, and then he is staggering back against the shower tiles, hands on naked hips, howling with laughter.
Scowling at his mirth and feeling foolish, I stomp out of the shower, grabbing a towel on my way to the bathroom door. I have my hand on the door handle when he says words that stop me in my tracks.
‘Em, I want a baby.’
Nine
Present day, evening
Although I rush through the rest of my errands, it is late in the day by the time I return home. Scooping my bags from the front seat, I jog windblown up the steps through the door and am immediately enveloped by its dark familiarity.
Inside, I dump the bags on the hall floor. Right now, I would love a glass of red wine but I have remembered the blankets on the line. They must come in before they are damp again so I unlock the kitchen door, switch on the outdoor light and scoop them up. They smell of fresh air. As I turn to walk inside, I notice the woodpile by the shed. When I have dumped the blankets in the kitchen, I return for three chunks of wood, the driest I can find.
Anyone who has tried to light a fire for the first time will know that it is not as easy as you might think. After several false starts, the motoring pages of the newspaper I bought today have created enough of a blaze to catch the wood alight. I watch it carefully for a few minutes until I am sure it will not expire, and drape the blankets over a chair to warm, before I go to pour my wine and put my takeaway curry into the oven to heat up.
When I have everything I need, I take my boots off and curl in front of the fire half hypnotised by the flames, sipping my wine and enjoying the surprisingly good food. Even when the last of the light disappears, I do not turn on the lamp, not for a long time. I am comfortably drowsy, but not yet ready to leave this cosy room.
Eventually, I stir and reach for the lamp and Jane Eyre next to it, but the book is not where I thought it was. I must have put it away or taken it into the living room with the idea of reading it in bed.
Getting up, I go to the bookshelves and there it is, slotted in neatly where I got it from. I must have put it back. As I pull it out, I see that there is another book that has been pushed back out of sight. I reach in and pull out a dated edition of a military encyclopedia. From the scuff marks and dirty fingerprints, it has been read and re-read many times. In my hands, it opens to the fly leaf, which contains one of those old-fashioned book plates.
The writing is fussy and difficult to read, the ink faded, and I return to the chair and the lamp to study it but eventually I think I have worked it out.
For Louis on your 15th birthday.
Wondering what kind of teenager would be interested in a book like this, I shove it back into the bookshelf and find the turned corner in Jane Eyre. Within moments, the gothic mystery sweeps me up and away.
Sometime later, a sudden sound awakes me and I realise I have fallen asleep in front of the fire. It is almost out, but for a deep amber glow from its heart. My eyes fly around the room, seeking out potential threats. A sudden pop from the disintegrated logs makes me jump and I realise this is what has awoken me. I am starting to feel cold, so I gather up the remains of my meal and shuffle into the kitchen. When I return, I pull the bronze guard in front of the fire to prevent embers from spilling out onto the thick rug.
Taking Jane and the warm blankets with me, I cross the hall to the living room and the chaise, noticing as I go the bags dumped in the hallway. As I see them, anticipation curls inside me. Tomorrow, I will start to map out my plan.
January last year …
Much of my sense of satisfaction about the way the beach shack is shaping up has evaporated in the face of Marc’s pronouncement.
We sit in Hetty’s—me in my mint-green dress, he in indigo jeans and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off the forearms that make Brendan swoon. We are both trying to act normal and have everyone fooled except ourselves. The lights are low, and in the window I can make out our reflection. We look like the It Couple that one gossip rag has dubbed us. Surreptitious glances are flicked our way by other diners who probably wonder why they can’t have it all too while, at the same time, being glad they have no profile to live up to.
Marc shows no awareness. He has commanded attention and admiration from the moment he was born, and simply accepts it as the norm.
We have ordered our favourite dishes and Marc is trying to do his pork belly justice. I move my fork from side to side without making a noticeable difference to the delicate duck pancakes on my plate.
I simply cannot comprehend why he has said such a thing when we have been married just weeks and are still trying to make sense of it. Or at least, I am. Perhaps to him it is just the natural next step in his grand plan, or a strategy to win over his mother. Maybe there is pressure on McAllisters to produce heirs as soon as practicable, to continue the aristocratic bloodlines, so to speak.
‘Don’t overthink it,’ he advises, looking at me. ‘I’m just telling you what I want and asking you to consider it. It’s not a foregone conclusion.’
‘Oh, well that’s decent of you,’ I mutter.
�
��I’m going to be thirty-two, Em,’ he points out. ‘I want a family.’
But you have a family, I nearly protest. You have me! Am I not enough?
Clearly not.
‘And who is going to care for this progeny?’ I ask. ‘Will you be the one to deal with the drool and vomit and worse? Get up in the night to do whatever it is babies need done at antisocial hours? Give up your career?’ I keep my voice low and a smile on my face so anyone looking at us would think we are deep in intimate conversation, not having our first married row.
‘I expect we’ll both have to make changes,’ he says carefully, not rising to my bait, for we both know that my career is part-time at best. While refurbishing the beach shack has given me some purpose, and I have found it surprisingly absorbing and satisfying to give it new life, it has also allowed me to put off thinking about what I am going to do longer-term, that doesn’t involve fruit and vegetables.
Apart from a few ad-hoc modelling commitments, my diary for the next few months is scarily empty. Most of that is my fault; since Brendan’s show, I have had several offers of work but, because of Marc, I have been more choosy than perhaps I can afford. At the moment, our lifestyle is funded almost completely by Marc and, despite my gold-digger quips, I feel uneasy about the state of play. Marc has never given the slightest hint that he resents this, or that he expects to be the sole decision-maker because of it, but there is an inherent imbalance of power.
‘Tell me more about the shack,’ Marc says, dismounting just as I am getting on my high horse. It is typical of him, this ability to parlay a treaty before things can escalate to all-out warfare. We may have known each other only eight months or so but I have seen him in action enough times with business colleagues and his family to recognise why he is so successful at managing both.
‘I’m letting you change the subject only because you’re going away and it’s your birthday,’ I tell him, just to make him aware I’m wise to his tricks.
He grins and tops up our wine. ‘Are you sure you can’t show me a photo?’ I have forbidden him to go to the shack before it is finished—hopefully when he returns from overseas.
‘Very sure.’ I have deliberately not taken photos in case he is tempted to check my phone, even though to do so would probably be against some code of honour I don’t share. ‘You’ll have to wait.’ I cock my head to one side. ‘It will be a surprise … and give you an incentive to get back as soon as you can.’
He is only away for ten days in Europe and the States but the looming separation is unsettling both of us.
‘Em.’ He takes my hand. ‘I already have all the incentive I need.’
Present day, morning
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed does not begin to describe it. After a night undisturbed by phantom phone calls or wild winds—and tucked warmly under fresh blankets—I feel full of energy when I wake. It is not the restless, directionless energy of recent days. I have some anchor points now that my day can pivot around.
There are clean sheets to hang out, and more bedding to wash. The windows need cleaning, too, the winds having enveloped them in a thin grey shroud. I start with the kitchen and the impact is immediate. What I had thought a gloomy room is actually bright and airy, especially in the mid-morning sun. For good measure, I scrub all the benches and the sink, and wipe down the walls and pantry.
Tucked away in two low cupboards, I find a twelve-piece set of bone china with a white crackled glaze and green trim. It is too good to be tucked away and I pile it onto open shelves. Old copper pots now gleam as they hang from the ceiling rack, adding further warmth, and I have cut some sprigs of rosemary and lavender for scent. There are two new linen drying cloths too, found hiding under piles of tablecloths and serviettes, hanging neatly near the sink.
I consider whether to paint the kitchen. What I suspect was originally a warm yellow is turning brown. A soft white or cream would be a distinct improvement. It wouldn’t take long to paint but I do not know if I will be staying long enough to justify it.
By the time I make it back outside, it is late morning and the sheets are dry. I bring them in, hang out the next load and choose some logs for the evening to dry by the hearth. The old ashes from last night, I scrape into the newspaper pages that I won’t read. I put aside the news and business pages to tackle over lunch, take the ashes to the bin and spend the next two hours in the garden clearing the herb beds of weeds. I have also used the spade to re-establish the edges of the plot where the line between garden and lawn had become blurred. At the end of it, I am feeling pleasantly fatigued, but keen to get inside to begin the project that has been fermenting in my head since yesterday.
Trying to find a good warm, woollen scarf yesterday in the mall had proved impossible. Everything was of some man-made fabric that looks cheap now and will be abysmal after one wash. Walking from store to store, I couldn’t help notice the bland uniformity of everything. Nothing caught my eye because it dared to be different. I know I am lucky that my work—particularly with Claire—gives me access to one-of-a-kind pieces that most people with my budget could never aspire to. I supplement it with occasional finds at vintage and charity stores, and Claire and I used to haunt the Saturday markets. Marc also surprises me with the occasional piece.
My knack, though, is being able to see beyond today’s fashion to a timeless style I’ve made my own. I know instinctively what works together, how to curate a wardrobe, what to recycle and—importantly—pieces I like but cannot find a use for right now I will save as the basis for a new look in the future. Ignore anyone who tells you to discard anything you have not worn in twelve months. If you love it, leave it—that’s my advice. Its use may well become apparent over time.
More than an hour of searching yesterday turned up precisely nothing until I happened to venture beyond the mall and main shopping strip along a side street on the shabby side of town. I think it was determination that my quest not be in vain that brought me to the narrow second-hand clothing store called, uninspiringly, Vintage Rose. Inside was a treasure trove of the awful and the awesome, including collectors’ items from as far back as the 1920s. It took me only fifteen minutes to fill three bags with scarves, hats, jackets, bolts of fabric and balls of wool.
Now, as the sun drops low on the horizon, I pour everything out onto the long table in the oppressive dining room that I’ve barely ventured into and stalk around it, pondering as I drink a mug of pumpkin soup. After dumping the empty mug in the kitchen, I go upstairs to the armoire, which yields dozens of old padded hangers. Downstairs again, I grab my own bag of clothes, and return to the dining room
For the next two hours, I mix and match, trying every combination of old and new that I believe has potential, and narrowing it down to the nine strongest. My favourites are an exquisite silk slip from my own wardrobe paired with a mohair cardigan from the shopping expedition, still with its original price tag on, and a black embroidered cape from the shop teamed with singlet and skinny indigo jeans. With the ensembles finalised, I arrange them on hangers and play with hanging them around the house—from the bannister, against a window, from the armoire—in an attempt to find the most evocative backdrops.
I wish desperately for my phone to record them—and think wistfully of Marc’s old SLR camera. But, feeling inspired by my creations, I sit and write notes on each outfit, why it works and my feelings when I look at it. Fired up, I then draft ideas for a post about creating an individual wardrobe on a budget, thinking I will submit it to the Small Poppies website when I get a chance. I’m still not certain where the career is in all this, but I like the idea of helping women to dress sustainably and uniquely without spending a fortune.
Exhausted but elated, I suddenly realise that it is after eleven. It is time to pack up for the evening. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will need a new phone in order to be able to do anything, and that this will require another shopping expedition sometime soon.
Leaving the outfits where they hang like shrouds i
n the dark, I get ready for bed. In the bathroom mirror, my reflected face has a flush to it, my eyes a sparkle. I have been here more than a month, and time is slowly doing its job. Something about this house also has healing properties. Day by day, I can feel it—almost like a cushion, adjusting around me, protecting me from the sharp edges of what lies beneath, as I learn to function normally again.
I pad slowly to bed hoping that tomorrow is as good as today has been. As I walk in the door of my makeshift bedroom, I get the sense of someone close by. Even at the moment I feel it, I do not know that I could accurately describe it—a touch of static in the air, perhaps, or the whisper of a human breath. There is nothing in the slightest way malevolent about it, but I quickly switch on the light and glance around and behind. Of course, no one is there.
But sitting on the top of the waffle-weave blanket is my phone, the battery dead.
Ten
March last year …
Self-preservation can convince even rational human beings to do the most ridiculous things. I know many of my own shortcomings—self-absorption, selfishness and superficiality probably top the list, but you probably have worse to say about me by now. Vacuous, bitchy and insecure, perhaps? No doubt, though, we would agree that I would make the very worst type of parent. Children surely need parents with qualities the precise opposite of these to thrive.
Even knowing all of this, I have stopped taking my birth control pills because I have told myself that a child is the price I must pay for Marc. I knew there would be one, of course. You can’t plunge into marriage with someone you have known only a few short months and not discover down the track that there is a cost.
Neither of us raised the topic of children prior to our marriage; it wasn’t even on my radar. If I had considered it, I probably would have assumed Marc would want a child at some unspecified point in the future, perhaps in two or three years’ time. It was a major oversight. Now I know him and his family better, I am starting to understand that the whole lineage thing is a big deal for the McAllisters. I suppose when you are successful, you are keen to see it continued.