Lost Girl

by J. C. Grey

  We sit in the car, frozen in silence after our appointment with Dr Macpherson. I have rarely seen Marc look as grave even though Dr Macpherson has been her usual matter-of-fact, upbeat self.

  Her view is that there is still every chance that we will be able to conceive a child, although she concedes we may need a little ‘assistance’. Marc and I both know this is code for artificial insemination at best and IVF at worst.

  Both of us flinched when she said it. We spoke of it months ago when it wasn’t a possibility. Thank God that won’t be us, we said. Hormones, needles, scheduled sex, intrusive questions. It sounds laughable but I think we thought a couple who have as much sex as we have—and are pretty good at it, I have to say—would never experience these problems.

  But we do.

  Not long ago, I was happy enough with the delay in proceedings, as you know, but things have changed. Now, I will do anything to erase that look from Marc’s face, even if it means getting a lumpy look and waddling gait, and putting the needs of some squalling, squash-faced infant above my own.

  He has that look now. It is more than grave; it is as though he is about to lose the one thing he treasures above all else. I don’t understand it, really. After all, you can’t lose something you’ve never had, can you?

  Or perhaps you can. What is more soul-destroying than crushed dreams?

  I wish so badly that I was enough for him. But I am not, and that is a fact, so one way or another I must get the child he wants so desperately.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I say into the silence that stretches the air between us so tautly it feels as though something is about to snap. ‘The doctor said most couples are pregnant within a few cycles. Once we’ve had a baby, we’ll forget all about what we went through to get it.’ I try to inject a touch of levity. ‘Just so long as you don’t plan on having six.’

  Silence.

  Sighing, I reach out and place my hand on his where it rests on the steering wheel. The moment I touch him, he comes out of his trance.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘We should do it. We’ve spent months trying to do it the old-fashioned way. I know Macpherson thinks we should wait a little longer because we have youth on our side but I don’t see the point.’

  Marc shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t want to put you, either of us, through that. I’ve heard of too many couples who’ve let it take over their lives. It becomes an obsession, their entire relationship pivoting on the outcome of something utterly uncertain. I don’t want that for us.’

  I ponder that, and start to suggest adoption as an alternative, but almost immediately shut it down. For Yvette, already riled by my presence in her family, bringing some poor child of an uncertain background into the picture would be a red rag to a charging bull. I couldn’t do that to Marc or the child. In any case, I am pretty certain that he would agree with Yvette that his progeny should be a McAllister in every way.

  ‘So, we keep trying.’ I muster a smile. ‘We’re very good at the trying bit.’

  He tries to say something but has to stop and clear his throat. His hand turns to grip mine. ‘We are,’ he says huskily.

  ‘Alternatively, we could get a turtle.’

  ‘What?’ He looks startled, then half-smiles, which is good.

  ‘I really don’t take to cats. We’re too much alike. And the apartment’s no place for a dog.’

  He’s a trouper and joins in, even though I know it is an effort for him to make light of what weighs so heavily. ‘There are other possibilities, you know. A ferret, for example.’

  ‘Penguin.’

  ‘Meerkat.’

  ‘Sloth.’

  ‘Centipede.’

  So it goes on for a few moments longer as we drive towards home, but I can think of no way to segue into less sensitive territory, and before long silence is upon us again.

  It is nearly six in the evening, dark, and the streets are busy, making it reasonable that Marc concentrates on the road, but I do not like this silence filled with thoughts unsaid.

  Rarely is it like this between us. We are often silent for periods, both in the car and at home, often listening to music. But it is comfortable, not this atmosphere of drumming tension.

  ‘Two months,’ I say suddenly as we turn into our street.

  I know that in his work, particularly when his firm invests in high-risk shares, Marc will impose a finite period to give the shares a chance to move in a positive direction. At the end of the period, he will reassess. I figure he will respond to a deadline, and I am right.

  ‘Two months? All right.’

  I have given both of us some breathing space. We don’t have to make a cataclysmic decision this minute—or perhaps ever if our bodies decide to do the right thing. Yet, even as I suggest it and Marc agrees, I know this scenario pivots on if.

  Although the two-month timeline has, on the surface, returned the matter to our control, as time goes on we both know it is just delaying the inevitable. And as June passes and another period begins, the pendulous silence returns. It feels as though we are in a game of Russian roulette. Will the next tug on the trigger be the bullet?

  Evenings that had once passed in conversations about our respective days, or snuggled up peaceably on the sofa reading or listening to music, are now spent largely apart. Once we have eaten dinner, Marc holes up in his study, and I am left to flick through magazines, my mind taking in little. Winter has temporarily interrupted our weekly migration to Palm Beach so even that respite has abandoned us, and barbecues with family and friends that characterised the warmer months are likewise on hold until spring.

  We try, both of us. I initiate a romantic weekend in Melbourne, where we are delayed for four hours at the airport and end up abandoning the trip. Marc books dinner at Hetty’s, after which I spend the night vomiting.

  Even our lovemaking, which so far has largely remained untouched by our trials, begins to change. Where once it was an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of touches, kisses, laughter and passion, now there is only one dish on the menu—driving intensity. The passion is still there. Sexually, we want each other as much as ever, but the desire to please is slowly being strangled by desperation and fear.

  This week, Marc has worked late at the office several nights. Last night, he came home when I was asleep, and woke me with his insistent kisses and caresses. Our lovemaking was desperate, savage, seeking. Afterwards, we both lay there awake, saying nothing. Eventually, I went out onto the balcony, despite the wintry night, to cry. When I came back, he was asleep.

  Today I am home, preparing for a final session at Ina Johnson’s. The painters finished last week, new carpet is down and the new furniture is being delivered. She has some extraordinary pieces—too many, really—most of which I am retaining. But my strategy is to combine them with some more practical but still beautifully made items so that the one-of-a-kind pieces stand out rather than being lost in the chaos.

  The Pollocks, although only prints, are good ones. They have been mounted and will come out of seclusion and into the main living area as the flagships for Ina’s eclectic style. They will be set off by a lot of white paintwork and a tomato-red sofa. I realise it will take me a good part of the day to arrange everything for Ina’s arrival this evening.

  She has taken the opportunity to do a short tour of the Australian west coast, visiting friends in Perth and travelling north to Broome and inland to Kings Canyon and the Bungle Bungles. I imagine the dramatic raven stripe through her hair and her scarlet lipstick will have made quite an impression in the desert.

  Collecting my folder and the plans I’ve drawn up, I am making for the door when the phone rings. I duck into the study, and tuck it under my ear.

  ‘Reed-McAllister residence. Emerald speaking.’

  ‘Oh hi.’ The voice is female, unfamiliar and surprised. ‘I’m after Marc.’

  ‘He’s not at home at present. Can I take a message?’ I’d rather not as my arms are full and it is almost ten already.


  The woman on the other end gives a sultry laugh. ‘Oops, I meant to call his mobile. Sorry. Don’t worry about the message.’

  Whoever she is she doesn’t sound sorry at all. In fact, she sounds rather satisfied. And then I catch on. ‘Is this Daisy?’

  I’ve never met Daisy Davis before, although she’s a regular on the social circuit and I’ve seen her photo in the paper. Marc dated her for a while, casually he says. I do believe him as she’s too obvious to really be his type—enormous bosoms squeezed into tiny tops and dramatic eye make-up night and day.

  ‘Yes. And you must be the wife.’

  The wife. The way she says it is both a put-down and a challenge, and I’m caught on the hop. It’s one of those moments when you really want an excellent retort to spring to your lips, but I find nothing to say that wouldn’t sound defensive or childish.

  ‘I’m surprised he’s told you about me,’ she continues and I am even more certain this is no accidental call.

  ‘Look, Daisy. I’m sorry but I’m running late for an appointment. You should be able to reach Marc on his mobile or on his work number. I think he’s in the office all day.’

  Before she can respond, I put the phone down and take a couple of deep breaths. Okay, so I didn’t rock the world with a witty comeback line, but I kept my cool. Even Yvette would have been proud of me.

  The drive to Ina’s apartment in the Audi is, as always, a delight, and I feel almost calm by the time I reach there. Then I am caught up with the removalists and directing the placement of furniture, art and objets, but Daisy Davis’s voice, smooth and sure, nags there at the back of my mind.

  Her phone call was designed to provoke trouble; she made no attempt to make it seem otherwise. I’m after Marc. But why now?

  My inner voice answers. Because somehow she knows you’re vulnerable. The question is: how does she know and has Marc told her?

  Fourteen

  Present day, late morning

  Deserted by the few tourists it attracts at other times of year, who presumably flee to warmer climes during the winter or stay rugged up in front of the fire, the fortnightly Lammermoor market today seems to rely on locals to supply both sellers and buyers. I am wearing the Oliver Twist outfit with my hair bundled under the cap and the chunky mohair scarf around my ears. In a sea of jeans and windbreakers, it attracts several stares, which makes me both happy and self-conscious.

  I spend longer shopping than I intended. As I wander through the throng, trying to find the woman I usually buy my fruit and veg from, I notice that a couple of stalls carry second-hand clothing, and several more sell bric-a-brac ranging from teapots to trunks. One even has some sizeable furniture pieces. My nostrils have caught the scent of the hunt and, before I can think better of it, I am flicking through racks and bins of clothing and accessories, looking for gems.

  Most of the clothing consists of inexpensive high-street brands, but I find a couple of good pieces—a felt beret in wine with a French label and a pair of black velvet evening pants. The bric-a-brac stalls yield an old woven tray, a pair of vintage brass candlesticks and a huge, four-seat sofa that looks as if it is from the thirties or forties. The upholstery could do with replacing but the structure is sound, and I know it is exactly what the house’s grand drawing room needs in front of the fireplace. In just about any other house it would dwarf the space, but in Lammermoor House its proportions will be perfect.

  Before I even speak to Val about extending my lease, I am paying for the sofa. The stall owner promises to have it delivered to a local upholsterer on Monday, and gives me their card.

  Fortunately, all my purchases are bargains and I have spent only a little more than four hundred dollars, but as soon as I have handed over the money I think of my dwindling funds and wish I hadn’t been quite so foolhardy.

  When I have lugged the smaller purchases back to the car, I retrace my steps and hurry through my grocery shopping, conscious that the real estate agency closes early on a Saturday. It is nearing lunchtime when I walk in. Sally is fortunately nowhere in sight, and Val is wrapping up a conversation with a young couple.

  ‘Ms Reed,’ she says, when they head for the door clutching a handful of brochures. ‘What can I do for you today?’

  ‘It’s about my lease.’ I smile at her, my fingers crossed for a positive response. ‘I’d like to stay on longer if that’s a possibility.’

  She frowns a little but doesn’t immediately discount the idea. What she does look is uncertain, which surprises me. Val has never struck me as someone who finds decisions tricky.

  ‘I’ll have to consult the owner,’ she says.

  I recall she said it was some kind of corporation. Presumably then there’s no chance of an owner wanting to move in, but they probably have plans for a boutique hotel or something similar.

  Inspiration strikes me. ‘If it makes a difference, I’m looking to make some small improvements to the house—nothing structural, just painting. I’m also maintaining the garden.’

  ‘Well, I’ll find out for you.’ She calls up my mobile number on the computer and I confirm that it is still current.

  ‘I should be able to get an answer for you today,’ she says.

  ‘Great, although next week is fine if you have problems reaching people over the weekend.’

  ‘How much more time are you looking for?’ Val asks.

  ‘Three months, possibly six.’

  ‘Well I’ll let you know.’ She pauses. ‘Everything is all right then?’

  ‘Yes. The house is perfect for me right now.’

  I wonder if I should tell her that the house and garden is likely to play a starring role in my new enterprise, but decide I’ve pushed my luck enough today. Investors might be happy enough for me to make improvements, but using the house for business reasons is likely to trigger an increase in rent that I simply cannot afford right now.

  Instead, I say goodbye, glad to have got away without another uncomfortable conversation with the impressionable Sally. My luck doesn’t last, however. I have just stocked up on cheese at the deli—where I actually had to wait to be served by people buying pork in order to try out the sticky ribs recipe in the window—when Sally comes out of her uncle’s hardware store. She can’t help but see me.

  ‘I’m just buying cheese,’ I tell her. ‘Not old wives’ tales.’

  ‘Please, Ms Reed. Uncle Bobby apologises for not saying anything before. He thought you’d go of your own accord.’

  I stare at her, flabbergasted. ‘What are you saying? That when I stuck around, he decided to put the pressure on? You know what? It’s not the house that’s creepy, it’s your uncle.’

  A low voice sounds behind us. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve unnerved you, Ms Reed.’

  Sally’s uncle has emerged from his shop and is standing on the step, observing us. How he has managed that without me noticing when I am standing just two metres away, I’m not sure. His beanie is pulled down low and his shoulders sag as though under a weighty burden. The prominent brow and sallow skin add to his brooding presence, quite the opposite of his open, freckled-faced niece.

  ‘My name is Robert Sanders. Sally’s stepfather is my younger brother.’

  The way he seemed to know what I was thinking unnerves me even more, and I take a step back.

  ‘Tell her, Uncle Bobby,’ Sally says urgently. ‘You have to tell her.’

  We are attracting more than a few glances from passers-by, our body language announcing that this is more than locals passing the time of day.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ Sanders says, opening the door.

  ‘Talk to him,’ Sally says. ‘Please. I have to go. Val will kill me if I’m not back at work in the next two minutes.’

  I hesitate. The stooping, sallow figure and his dusty, dreary shop are not enticing. But neither do I wish to become the subject of gossip. I nod to Sally and step past him into the shop. As he closes the door, the bell rings and then all I can hear is the steady ticking of the old cloc
k behind the counter.

  Neither of us seem sure of where to start and I, for one, have no idea where this is about to go. What is clear is that if I wait for Sanders to get it underway, I could be here all day. I wonder for a moment if I should hit him with my theory that he and Sally are contriving to drive me away for nefarious reasons of their own, but decide on a softer approach.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve moved the hydrangeas,’ I say—I think startling him that I am not on the attack.

  ‘About time. Never should have been there in the first place, but the miss, she wanted to see them from the kitchen.’

  Sanders has stepped so neatly into my trap that I can hardly believe it. He realises immediately that he has admitted some sort of connection with the house and his face takes on a rueful look.

  ‘She. Who was she?’

  ‘Evelyn St John was her name.’ His mouth moves in what I suspect is his version of a smile. It isn’t directed at me but at his subject. ‘Prettiest girl in Lammermoor and she knew it. Bit like you. Not that you look alike. She was blonde, with a proper figure. People used to say she looked a bit like Marilyn. Norma Jean was all the rage then. Everyone wanted to look like her but Evelyn really did.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, this is way back in the late fifties.’

  I am taken aback that he recalls so vividly events more than half a century ago. ‘Oh … you must have been just a boy.’

  ‘Six or seven, I think, when my father first took me to the house with my older brother Michael. Dad was the gardener there, and to keep me out of Mum’s hair, he’d take me with him to fetch and carry when I wasn’t in school. Probably more trouble than help. But I liked it up at the house, although Michael said it was boring and soon stopped coming.

  ‘Miss Evelyn always had lemonade and biscuits for me, even though the Brigadier and Mrs St John didn’t much approve. They were her parents.’

  I am confused. ‘Approve of what?’

  ‘Fraternising with the child of the hired help, I suppose.’ Sanders shrugs. ‘It was a different time. Things were changing in other places but Lammermoor was the same as it had always been.’