by J. C. Grey
Me? I can imagine nothing more stifling than a child, nothing more certain to demand attention I don’t have to give.
I’ve tried to allude to this without spelling it out to Marc that he has chosen a lemon if it is child rearing he is after. He should be smart enough to work it out for himself, but about this one thing he seems to be in denial. He is adamant about wanting a child with me, even if he has to wait until I am ready. Doubtless, it will be a pretty thing, especially its ears. I only hope that it has his head for numbers and not mine; his easy charm and not my discomfort in my own skin.
The thing I do have—apart from a certain style—is time. The beach shack has been finished for five weeks and I am back to twiddling my thumbs, or at least working sporadically on short-term projects that could easily make way to manage a squalling newborn. Is this why he has chosen me? Because I do not have a proper career?
For weeks, I find myself analysing every little thing he says to try and uncover his real motive. In the end, though, I decide all the obsessing is irrelevant. The only thing I need know is what the hell am I going to do about it?
Autumn seems endless and balmy, and now that the beach shack is finished, we spend virtually every weekend up here. Marc says he always knew it would be a triumph; I am not so sure of that. It is simple and uncluttered, without being too uncomfortably minimal. Structurally, little has changed bar a deeper verandah; it remains the unassuming weekender he bought shortly before we met. Our bedroom is upstairs in the eaves, small and quiet and cosy, with a tiny bathroom off it. The downstairs is almost all living area, with a kitchen along one wall, and adjacent dining and sitting areas sharing both the cosy winter fireplace and the glass doors that lead to the verandah and the beach.
The natural tones and fabrics bring out the best in it without giving it airs and graces, and any tension between us seems to dissolve the moment we park under the old fig tree outside.
I know the source of my tension but the cause of Marc’s eludes me. The subject of our prenup has not been discussed since before the wedding but I think it may continue to dog him because he is often distracted these days. Or perhaps, like me, he is consumed by thoughts of a potential pregnancy? Either way, suspecting I may be the source of his preoccupation spurs me to lead him up to the attic bedroom the moment we arrive, where I knead his shoulders until he groans. Sometimes, one thing leads to another that relaxes both of us still further.
Apart from making love, there is little excitement. We sit on the verandah over breakfast and the papers, wander down to the beach when we feel like a swim, people-watch from one of the local cafés. At some point in the late afternoon, one of us will find sufficient energy to clatter around in the small kitchen, usually Marc wearing an apron that sports an upright finger and the words Bugger off, Chef! I think he bought it for his father to wear while barbecuing, but Yvette won’t have it in the house.
Sometimes while we are at the shack I notice Marc casting me a glance from the corner of his eye as if unsure whether I am happy. The fact that I am—with the exception of the pregnancy issue—surprises even me. Certainly, a low-key weekend at the beach is not the kind of weekend I enjoyed before meeting him. Then, I would spend my days at bars—assuming someone else was picking up the bill, of course—or at opening events, sleeping in the following day, then shopping and dancing until dawn. In short, I was the ultimate party girl. Even I cannot quite believe how content I am just to be.
The size of the shack discourages visitors, although Sylvie and her family have been for the day, and Léo has slept overnight on the sofa a couple of times. Yvette and Gordon came for lunch one Sunday, and I have to say she was well-behaved for her, merely suggesting that a few family ‘treasures’ loaned from their Vaucluse home might save the beach shack from blandness. As yet, we haven’t taken her up on her offer.
It has been around six weeks since I stopped taking the pill, and nothing has happened yet. I felt Marc’s eyes keenly on me when my period was due two weeks ago, and his disappointment when his seed failed to take. I breathed a sigh of relief, though.
My renovation of the beach shack did not miss the attention of the magazine editors. We turned down two offers by magazines to do a photo shoot, but we could not prevent a paparazzo from showing up. Fortunately, we were not in residence at the time. The photos of the closed shutters and the hot yellow pigface on the verandah have done some good, however.
Since then, I have done a style consultation for a friend of Claire’s who has bought her first apartment and seems to have taken my suggestions on board with some enthusiasm and success. Given my fortunate circumstances, I felt I couldn’t charge a fee, but now Gordon, of all people, has referred me to someone with deep pockets who will be prepared to pay for the privilege of my style wisdom.
There has been a smattering of modelling jobs, too, enough to keep me from feeling like an utter freeloader. But nothing has really gelled yet. All around me, people who once were happy to drift—opening themselves to opportunity, as they called it—seem to be discovering their niche. Mine, though, remains maddeningly elusive. One thing I do know is that I must find my life before I bring another person into it.
Present day, night
I don’t know what to make of my phone’s return. There is nothing surreptitious about it. The mobile has been left where I would be sure to see it, almost like an offering. I grab it and rush from the room. The battery is so flat that it needs to be charged up before I can do anything with it, and once it has enough juice to restore the usual display, I realise my twenty-sixth birthday has been and gone without me noticing.
How can my phone disappear and reappear this way? It’s just not possible, unless …
As I stand in the kitchen, phone in hand, a shiver ripples through me at the implications. With so many of the house’s nooks and crannies unexplored, maybe it is not impossible that I am not alone. Perhaps my mind was not playing tricks a few minutes ago when I sensed a presence nearby.
The thought is enough to put all of my senses on high alert. Every shadow holds a threat; every tiny sound screams terror. My heart beats like a drum and I’m so paralysed with fear that if a knife-wielding stranger suddenly materialised in the kitchen doorway, I don’t think I could run to save myself.
When my phone is partially recharged, I unplug it and steel myself finally to re-enter the drawing room. My hand shakes on the handle. But the room is as I last saw it; nothing has been moved or removed.
In bed, I leave the light on and remain stiffly on guard, fingers curled tight around the sheet, until tiredness begins to overtake me. Even then, the only thing that eases my mind is to think of the house as a hotel. You don’t know every other guest in a hotel, do you? It does not mean they harbour ill intentions towards other guests.
It takes a while to get to sleep, despite my fatigue, yet oddly, I have another dreamless, restful night. While still on the chaise staring at the ceiling the following morning, I force myself to acknowledge there must be an attic level to Lammermoor House. When I picture the house in my mind’s eye, I can see the little pointed windows right under the roof. What I haven’t seen is access to the attic.
If I am not alone—and I am only acknowledging the possibility—whoever I am sharing the house with could have been living up there since before I moved in. The only other possible hiding place is the locked room but it’s not feasible for them to have been closeted in there all this time, is it? I surely would have seen them come and go.
In the cool light of day, it is easier to admit that perhaps I have sensed someone from time to time. Perhaps it is not so surprising that they might have wanted to observe the person invading their territory. In fact, I might consider myself lucky that they have not apparently objected to my presence and have only availed themselves of my phone for a short period. This suggests to me that they do not wish me ill. Once I have had the thought, it feels suddenly right. Whether it is logical or not I cannot be entirely sure, but I believe I am in no d
anger.
But who am I sharing the house with? Why are they here?
As I stand under the shower washing my hair, I consider how I feel about the house. It has been my sanctuary. Would that continue once I make the acquaintance of my housemate, and they make mine? Somehow, I don’t think so. At the moment, we can still maintain some pretence of being alone. If the status quo changed, one of us—or even both—might feel obliged to leave.
Certainly, a change to our current arrangement is not something to be approached lightly. Panic pinches at my gut as I envisage having to leave Lammermoor House. Although I feel stronger, the thought of slinking back to Sydney or having to find a new home fills me with disquiet. I am not yet ready to leave this comfortable womb. Equally, I am loathe to precipitate another’s departure. There is something comforting about the arrangement, about an unseen companion who asks nothing of me.
Dressed in a brushed cotton shirtdress and tights, I go into the kitchen to make pancakes, feeling ravenous. I know I must phone Marc as soon as possible and I try to anticipate the conversation in my head, but it is impossible. I know it will not go the way I want it to, even though I have no clear idea of what that is.
When my belly is filled with pancake, banana and Greek yogurt, I can put it off no longer. It is past nine, and Marc will have been in the office for an hour, responding to emails and preparing for the day’s meetings. I think of him, reading glasses on and a faint frown between his brows, and steel myself for the confrontation. To prepare, I finally scroll through the text messages on my phone. There are several, mostly from Brendan, Claire and a few friends who have been avoiding me since … well, before I left Sydney. I ignore them and check my emails.
To my surprise, there is just one from Marc in response to the one I sent days ago: Please call me. There is no endearment, which may indicate anger or frustration.
I feel momentarily light-headed, fearing something terrible has happened, but quickly discount it. Claire or Brendan or one of the rugby boys would have alerted me. It occurs to me that a mystery housemate snooping through my phone might have deleted some calls, texts or emails. The thought makes me queasy but when I look more closely at my text and call history, it does not appear to be the case. Neither do they seem to have initiated calls or texts of their own. The web browser, though, suggests an interest in French royalty. It surprises me until I realise it was probably me browsing European fashion.
In any case, all I can think of is Marc’s silence. The devil in my head taunts me with the thought that he has lost patience with me, but I push it aside. Yesterday’s paper lies unread on the table, and I pull it across to me, flicking the pages to find the finance section. I have no idea what the stock market and money markets have been—
My hand stills in the action of turning the social page. A photo of Marc and a former girlfriend, Daisy Davis, who is known as Double D for more than one reason, hogs the centre of the page. Her breast is snuggled very close to Marc’s side and to be fair he looks less than delighted by it.
This may explain the relative silence. Feeling not so intimidated, I call his number and he answers almost immediately.
‘Em. You found your phone.’
‘Yes.’
‘I did … as you asked.’ His voice falters and he clears his throat.
I had expected Marc to leap into an explanation of the photo; his words catch me off-guard.
‘Those freaky bear things we bought at Blackheath,’ he adds, alluding to the last request I made of him.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Flowers, too. Pansies in pots.’
‘Okay. Good.’
‘Can I see you?’
On the verge of saying yes, I stop myself and counter with a question of my own. ‘How will Double D take that?’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes. Ah. Did you think I would miss it?’
‘Not for long. In any case, I wouldn’t have kept it from you.’
He seems in no rush to justify himself, a good sign in my opinion. And hell will freeze over before I lower myself by demanding an explanation like some pathetic clinging vine.
‘If you see her again, you could tell her that she needs a stronger hammock … bra, I mean.’
He barks out a laugh. ‘You sound more like my snarky Em.’
‘I’m getting there.’
‘Thank God. And I won’t be seeing her again if there’s any mercy in the world. Claire will explain if you need to know more.’
‘I don’t.’ Much.
‘I’m only interested in us.’
I released a breath. ‘How have you been?’
‘James and Will dragged me to the rugby. It got ugly.’
It is my turn to laugh. ‘Good.’
‘Em.’ A note of urgency invades his casual tone. ‘I’ve given you the time you wanted.’
‘I know.’ I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘Soon. I just … another few weeks.’
‘And then we’ll talk? Do you promise?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ he says but he must be wondering how he can trust this vow when I’ve broken all the others.
I am too.
Eleven
April last year …
‘Well?’
Marc’s voice is muffled by the closed bathroom door but his impatience easily breaches the timber.
‘I don’t know yet. Just wait.’
‘I don’t understand why I can’t come in.’
Marc has no problems peeing in front of me. I, however, have always preferred privacy—and especially now when I am crouched awkwardly over the toilet bowl, trying to aim at a skinny stick.
At the bathroom sink, having shaken the living daylights out of the thing, I stare hard at it for a full minute. I can hear Marc breathing on the other side of the door. I give it two minutes longer but the line indicating a positive result remains absent.
Relief and guilt war within me as I open the door. I shake my head and watch Marc’s eager expression dim.
‘Sorry. I’m probably just a little late.’ I try not to let my relief show.
Almost fiercely, he pulls me into his body. ‘Don’t,’ he says tightly. ‘It’s not something to apologise for.’
But it is, isn’t it? When you are happy about something that hurts the person you are supposed to love most in the world?
‘We haven’t been trying long,’ I say.
‘I guess.’
‘There’s no rush.’
He nods but I can see he is not mollified, and a few days later while he is out playing squash with James, I log in to his email account and see that he has made an appointment with a fertility clinic.
I feel truly frightened in that moment, in a way I have not felt since my post-honeymoon panic when I feared he would realise just what a big mistake he had made. For several long months, I have managed to push it back into the dark recesses of my consciousness, but now it has broken its leash and is snarling viciously, threatening to rip and tear.
Realising my fingers are clenching the edge of the desk so tightly they are turning white, I deliberately relax them. Yet my mind is not so biddable. It is a frenzy of possibilities and certainties. I know that as soon as tests prove Marc’s sperm to be in excellent shape—as I am certain they are—the attention will fall on me. And once I am proven to be at fault—as I am certain I will—what then?
Marc, of course, will be supportive and loving. He will remind us of all the reasons—timing, our lifestyle and so on—that having a child is a not the best idea right now, as though he was the one to point this out originally, not me. But over time, he will begin to think quite differently. I know that some of Marc’s friends already have children; his younger sister is about to have her second. Will Marc not begin to think of what life might be like with a woman who isn’t barren? While, behind the scenes, Yvette will be plotting and planning, and in the background, the spectre of the curvaceous Double D lingers, her ripe body purpose-designed for producing children.
>
Stop it! Pulse racing, needing some physical release for my anxiety, I log out of his email account and shove up from the desk. I have not come this far just to give in without a fight. I am a survivor; I will feel my way through this situation as I have everything else.
When Marc returns from squash and a post-game beer, I am ready for him. As he comes into the apartment, calling my name, I waft by him dressed only in his navy robe. He loves it when I wear his clothes, even more so when I remove them as I do now on my way to the bedroom. His blood is up, the sex is spectacular, and my strategy works wonders. We are lying face to face on the pillow, satiated almost to the point of stupefaction, when he tells me what he’s done.
I thought he would; he’s always been one for pillow talk. I listen and nod, and that afternoon he phones the fertility clinic and tells the specialist that we will be attending the appointment as a couple.
Present day
I spend a full day photographing the outfits I have created, against different backdrops, from alternative angles and at various times of the day. They look as good as I hoped, but as I scan them, I realise that the house has inserted itself more compellingly into the frame than I had realised.
In the back of my mind, I always thought the house would add an element of drama to the shots. But it is as though, in the absence of a model, the house itself has breathed life into the clothes. In one image of the silk slip, a draught has caused the hem to lift, almost as though someone has just walked by. In another, of a beaded yellowish-green evening gown draped over an armchair in the library, it is almost as if an invisible partygoer sits waiting to go out for the evening. A third is of heavy corduroy pants and the lightest of angora sweaters hanging from a hook on the outside wall of the shed, half in shadow and half lit by the glowing sunset, above the muddy wellington boots.