by Fiona Lowe
‘It will be hand embroidered with a ring of flowers, and accompanying bears or sheep,’ she offered by way of explanation despite wanting to avoid all discussion of baby accoutrements.
He took another look. ‘Sheep. You’ve obviously been to this rodeo before.’ Turning to the table that was groaning with food he picked up a platter and offered it to her. ‘Cake, Georgie?’
Oh, God. He knew her name. What the hell was his? Come on, brain. Spit it out. B … b …b … b … ‘Yes, please. Ah, thanks, B … Ben.’ His name shot out of her mouth.
‘Trying to remember my name’s been driving you crazy for the entire conversation, hasn’t it?’
‘Not at all, Ben,’ she said, trying to sound cool and queenly like her mother but failing miserably.
He laughed and once again his warm brown eyes gazed down at her. How had she failed to notice his lovely eyes before? Probably because she’d been busy wrangling 2C to line up so he could take them out for PE.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and as it was recess she pulled it out and read the message.
This is the recipe you’re making for Edwina’s 65th party. Harriet x.
She sighed.
‘Bad news?’ Ben asked between mouthfuls of cake.
‘No.’ She slid her phone back into the pocket of her dress. ‘Just my bossy big sister in seventh heaven, aka, organising everyone. This time it’s for my mother’s birthday party, which I didn’t even know was being planned.’
A streak of understanding shot across Ben’s dimpled cheek. ‘Once the youngest, always the youngest.’
‘Exactly.’ A moment of simpatico passed between them, warming her. ‘You never get to have an opinion and you’re always told what to do.’
‘But you can get away with a lot.’ Mischief danced in his eyes. ‘I reckon Mum and Dad had run out of parenting energy by the time I arrived.’
‘You don’t sound very scarred by that.’
He shrugged. ‘Flying under the radar has its benefits.’
Georgie thought about her own parents. She’d certainly been the surprise baby. Had they been tired of the job by the time she’d arrived? Come to think of it, that might explain a lot.
The pre-bell music suddenly blared out of the speakers, signalling that recess was almost over, and Lucy made a quick thank-you speech, her hand unconsciously rubbing her pregnant belly. Everyone cheered. Georgie clapped politely. The bell finally rang, sending relief washing through her like a balm; she’d survived and she was now home free. Walking purposefully to the door, she escaped into the corridor and took her first deep breath in fifteen minutes.
Ben caught her up. ‘You going to drinks tonight at the pub after work?’
She rarely went to Friday-night drinks and she opened her mouth to say no, but instead she got a flash of her tiny rented house. If she didn’t count the mould in the shower, the only living things waiting for her there were her potted anthurium and her cat. ‘Maybe.’
Ben smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll see you there.’
He pushed open the outside door and she stood watching him run sure-footedly down the bank of concrete steps, the sun-kissed tips of his curly hair glinting in the sunshine.
CHAPTER
2
Unless she’d been called out for an emergency, Harriet started most days with a run through the native grasslands and along the banks of the manna gum–lined creek. Today was no different. She’d run for years; it cleared her head, helped her prioritise the day’s tasks and it kept her slim. At forty-five, her daily run was more important than ever. She’d noticed any weight that snuck on thanks to holiday treats now sat high on her abdomen and she refused to be one of those women with a belly that started under her breasts.
Against the mocking laugh of the kookaburras, she turned back toward Miligili. It had always been a dream of hers to own one of the original Mannering homesteads and a decade ago she and James had bought the house and its accompanying five acres. Her ancestors had wanted to recreate a piece of England in this rugged, stony land with its sprawling gum trees and scrubby vegetation. In the 1870s and with money earned off the sheep’s back, they’d built spectacular mansions between Camperdown, Colac and Geelong. Miligili may have been the smallest but its grand Italianate style rivalled the great houses in Melbourne. She loved the house almost too much and every time she drove through the ornate iron gates, she got a buzz of happiness that it was their home.
Some people called her lucky but Harriet didn’t think luck had anything to do with it. She worked hard and she planned, and that meant she was able to take advantage of opportunities when they presented themselves. She felt that the way she and James lived their lives taught Charlotte the same values. Goals and plans were important; Harriet had learned that from her own father and she was trying to instil it in her daughter. Too many school leavers had no clue what they wanted to study or they were deluded enough to believe they could earn a living wage in the creative arts. Thank goodness Charlotte had come around to Harriet’s suggestions that the family business of medicine was an ideal career.
After a shower, she joined James in the kitchen. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and handed her a skinny latte with an extra shot of coffee just like he’d done every morning since he’d bought the Italian espresso machine.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled at him as he sat at the table, appreciating that unlike many of his peer group, he hadn’t entered his mid-forties, gone to flab and lost his hair. He was still fit, fair and fabulous, and she loved the fact that he was her husband.
‘Can we sync our diaries?’ she asked as she sipped her coffee. ‘Complicated emergencies excepted, I’m finishing early on Friday so I can be at the golf tournament’s opening cocktail party. My registrar’s finally finding his feet so hopefully he can handle anything straightforward that comes through the door.’
James nodded, his fingers on his phone’s screen, opening his calendar. ‘It’s a big weekend and the press will be all over it. It would be great if you could be at the presentation on Sunday afternoon to hand out the trophies.’
She laughed. ‘Trophy wife hands out trophies.’
James took a moment to smile. ‘You’re far from a trophy wife.’
‘Well, I love being the mayoress and I’m so proud of you.’ She rested her hand on his shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
He tensed under her touch and she thought about how much James liked to win. ‘Have you been over-practising your drive?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Take some ibuprofen.’
‘Good idea.’
They ran through the rest of the week’s commitments, including a visit to her mother, and she realised there was only going to be one night of the week when they’d both be home for dinner. James offered to cook. She accepted. Her husband was a keeper and she gave herself an imaginary hug, proud that twenty years ago she’d made the right choice in accepting an invitation to the Narrandera Bachelor and Spinsters Ball, even if she had dumped her date to spend the night with James.
Having finished her coffee, she turned her attention to her granola, fruit and yoghurt and as she ate, she checked her phone. Charlotte had sent a Snapchat of the girls’ rowing eight training on the Barwon River complete with a vivid sunrise behind them, and there was a message from Xara.
‘James?’
‘Hmm?’
She waited for him to glance up from the business section of the newspaper, having learned over the years it was pointless saying anything until she had his undivided attention. ‘Can you call Steve today? Apparently he’s left messages at the office and at council about the cheque for the respite-care house.’
James frowned and then uncharacteristically thumped the table with his fist. ‘Bloody hell. Between the pen pushers at council and Bianca, it’s a miracle I get told anything. I’ll talk to her and remind her that I’m paying her to be my secretary, not to plan her wedding.’
Harriet was used to his tir
ades against Bianca and she’d suggested more than once he get a new secretary. James was resistant and said that despite Bianca’s failings she knew how the office worked. He didn’t have time to train someone new, especially now he was juggling his financial planning business with his mayoral duties.
‘Can’t you just action the cheque to speed things up?’ she asked, knowing how important the respite-care house project was to her sister.
He sighed; a sound that said she was utterly clueless as to how the machinations of council worked. ‘If it was my money I could write a cheque right now,’ he said slowly, precisely and with a whiff of condescension, ‘but it’s council so every i has to be crossed and every t has to be dotted before the cheque can be processed.’ He glanced at the big station clock that dominated the light and airy kitchen. ‘You hate being late so you better get going.’
As if to back up his words, the pips of the news sounded on the radio, prompting her to stand up, dump her bowl in the sink and gather her wallet, phone and key fob. As she put the three items into her handbag she noticed James had already put Nya’s money on the kitchen bench ready for their housekeeper like he’d done every Wednesday for years. Friends complained about their husbands’ lack of organisational skills but not her.
She leaned in to kiss him goodbye, breathing in the fresh, sharp scent of his citrus aftershave. ‘You’re a man in a million.’
An unreadable look crossed his face and lingered for a moment in his blue-grey eyes. He blinked and it vanished. ‘That’s me. Now go.’
He swatted her on her pencil-skirt-covered behind and she laughed as she walked out the door.
* * *
Georgie put her head down and walked quickly, pushing against the wind that whipped dust, dirt and tuckshop rubbish against her skin, gritty and harsh like an exfoliating scrub. The north wind had blasted its heat over the school all day, making the kids feral and the teachers irritable. Everyone had been relieved when the bell had sounded heralding not just the end of the day but the end of another week and they’d beaten a hasty retreat to the comfort of their air conditioner and an icy cold beverage of their choice. Now, an hour later, the school grounds were empty of parents, kids and staff, and Georgie’s car was one of only three left in the car park.
She gave thanks that she wasn’t in Billawarre, where wind like this not only created dust storms but flamed bush fires. A momentary twinge of conscience reminded her that she really should ring her mother as soon as she got home. Another gust of wind buffeted her and she tightened her grip on the stack of 2C’s writing and storybooks she was taking home to read and stamp with smiley faces. Just as she reached the car, a loud clap of thunder broke overhead, making her jump and sending the books wobbling wildly. A large, fat raindrop plopped onto her nose and she berated herself for not thinking to get her keys out of her bag before she’d left the classroom.
Georgie leaned her knees against the car door, trying to use her body to protect the books, and plunged her left hand into her cavernous rice-bag tote. She’d bought it at a fair-trade stall to support women in Cambodia and it held heaps, but without internal sections everything just fell into a big mess at the bottom. Her fingers located old tissues, her phone, a nail file, a container of Tic Tacs, tampons, lipstick, her spare glasses, a bottle of water, some hand wipes and her wallet, but no keys. She was just about to start a new search when she heard, ‘Hey, Georgie.’
She looked up to find Ben next to her with a backpack slung on his shoulder, a bike helmet on his head and his left hand balancing a road bike. Despite a lack of lycra, he looked like the PE teacher he was, wearing a polo shirt that fitted snugly across his chest, emphasising the fact that the man worked out.
The last time she’d seen him was a week ago at Friday-night drinks, along with a dozen other staff members. Each time she’d tried to start a conversation with him someone had interrupted them. A frustrating half an hour later, he’d left. Unlike her, he obviously had a social life outside of work. After he’d gone, she’d felt disappointed and relieved, as well as a little bit foolish. Prior to the event, she’d wasted a lot of emotional energy worrying about being rusty at the dating game but as it turned out, she needn’t have bothered. Despite what she’d considered to be some definite staffroom flirting at the baby shower, his suggestion she come to drinks hadn’t come close to a date. He’d probably only mentioned the pub to be friendly and she’d read far more into it than existed. She wasn’t sure why she’d done that, especially when she’d vacillated about going right up to and including when she’d walked through the door of the trendy Fitzroy bar. Even before her life had fallen apart she’d never been one for bars. The entire episode had been uncomfortable from start to finish. When she’d arrived at school on Monday morning and read the bulletin informing all staff that Ben was away at grade six camp for the week, relief had slid through her.
It had been another lesson in the complicated dance of Gen Y dating. Going back into the dating pool at thirty-four was not only terrifying, it was ten times worse than starting out as a pimply and gangly thirteen-year-old. Back then, despite her braces and insecurities, her expectations had been blissfully simple. She’d been full of the hope of meeting a boy who liked her and who wanted to spend time with her. Now, she found hope hard to come by, and the permanently loud and ticking clock in her brain via her ovaries never gave her a chance to forget she was aging fast. That deafening sound had tainted the few dates she’d forced herself to go on in the last few months, along with booming questions like, is he looking beyond now and a good time? Does he want kids or is he like Jason and he’s just saying what he thinks I want to hear? And the kicker: does he want to risk his hopes and dreams on me?
‘Looks like you could do with a hand,’ Ben offered, tilting his head toward her unsteady tower of workbooks.
‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full with the bike.’
A teasing smile lit up his eyes. ‘Don’t spread it around, but I can actually do two things at once.’
‘A bloke who can multitask? I’d like to see that.’
A deafening clap of thunder boomed around them, immediately followed by another drop of rain. It turned into two and then five before a deluge fell from the sky with the intensity of the bucket dump at a water park. She squealed as cold water cascaded off her hair and threatened the workbooks. Shoving them at Ben’s chest, she grabbed at her tote bag, pulling it from her side and around to her front. She tried again for the keys, her fingers surfing frantically through the contents as the rain soaked her sundress.
At last she found the key fob and pressed it. Her car blessedly beeped and its lights flashed. ‘Get in,’ she yelled as she opened the driver’s door and hopped inside.
Ben abandoned his bike and as she closed her door, he opened the front passenger door and rain blew horizontally into the car. Sliding into the seat, he slammed the door shut behind him. Raindrops hung precariously from the ends of his eyelashes and clung to the tips of his hair that stuck out through the spaces in his bike helmet. No man should be allowed to have eyelashes that thick and dark when women paid a fortune to have theirs extended.
‘Man, that’s coming down.’ He peered through the windscreen, which was a wall of water like the one at the National Gallery, and then he shook his head, sending water spraying all over her.
‘Hey!’ She laughed, putting her hands up to fend off the sprinkles. ‘Are you part dog?’
He grinned and wiped his dripping face on the sleeve of his shirt before pulling the workbooks out from under his wet shirt. ‘Lookie here. Hardly damp at all.’ He leaned sideways, brushing her arm as he deposited the books on the back seat.
‘Thanks.’ The word came out a tiny bit strangled as a wave of goosebumps rose on her skin with a tingling whoosh.
In the small hatchback, she was suddenly very aware of Ben with his scent of sweat, rain and a soupçon of cologne. She shivered again, the sensations of heat and cold disconcerting her. In some ways it was a familiar
rush and yet it had been absent for so long its return was vague and foreign. She put it down to an adrenaline surge sparked by being half-drowned and diving out of the rain. Feeling ridiculously self-conscious, she glanced down at her lap and froze. Her free-flowing cotton sundress was now transparent and it stuck to her like it had been vacuum sealed against her skin. She was fully clothed yet naked. To add insult to injury, her rain-cooled nipples clearly stood to attention. Just fabulous. She’d kill for a towel or a blanket, or for any sort of covering at all but since moving to Melbourne she didn’t need to keep a fire blanket or a horse blanket in the car. She had nothing.
Honestly, Georgie. You’re a walking disaster for embarrassing situations.
She shoved Harriet’s voice out of her head and started the car.
‘You’re not going to kick me out into that are you?’
The rain was rock-band loud, hammering on the car’s roof but the embarrassed part of her wanted to be alone. ‘Well, you’re already wet so …’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’ He opened his big brown eyes wide and gave her a hangdog look. ‘Especially after I heroically saved 2C’s books.’
‘That’s true,’ she said, feeling her smile slide off her face under the onslaught of chattering teeth. She turned the heater on full tilt in an attempt to warm up. ‘But I’m frozen.’
He glanced at her. ‘You need to get out of that dress.’
And expose stretch marks and surgical scars? ‘Yeah, that won’t be happening.’
Despite his deep tan, the tips of his ears turned bright pink. ‘I didn’t mean right now.’ His embarrassment rode off him in waves. The fact that it came with a certain old-worldliness made her regret her quip, which had been all to do with her issues and nothing to do with him.
‘Sorry. Cheap shot.’
His wide mouth tweaked up on the left as if to say, Yup, I agree. ‘What I meant was you need a hot shower. I live just around the corner, so you’re welcome to warm up and dry your dress. Or I can lend you some clothes to get you home.’