by Fiona Lowe
She smiled at Vivian. ‘With these tiles, not to mention the incredible view from your new balcony, Country Living will want to feature the house for sure.’
After a day of dealing with police and difficult customers, a fraught dinner with her tired and grumpy children and an argument with Jon, Tara was thankful it was book club night. She’d been glad of the excuse to escape Tingledale, even if it was for Monique’s overstuffed McMansion inside a gated golf community on the other side of the river.
Monique passed around glasses of Russian vodka mixed with cranberry and pineapple juice. When everyone had a glass, she held up her own. ‘Nostrovia. Good health.’
‘I’m pretty sure that means “let’s get drunk”, which is fine by me.’ Kelly took a large mouthful of her cocktail.
‘You can’t get drunk until we’ve discussed the book,’ Monique said firmly. ‘Here, eat a cherry pirozhki.’
‘You’ve really excelled yourself this time, Mon,’ Rhianna said. ‘Where’s the Fabergé egg?’
The women laughed and Tara joined in despite her complicated mix of emotions. But the silky slip of vodka was helping as it unfurled its fire inside her, stripping away the tension that was as much a part of her as her skin. She adjusted herself on the couch, fighting for space among the cushions. Who needed this many? Tara didn’t do cushions, and just as well, because this week they all would have been thrown at Jon’s head.
At least Rhianna was here and not using book group as an excuse to meet Jon. Then again, Jon had vehemently denied having an affair with her. It had occurred to Tara since then that ‘Are you having an affair with Rhianna?’ was a closed question. A question Jon could answer truthfully. It didn’t mean he wasn’t seeing someone else and blaming all their problems on Tara to hide the affair.
She pushed away the agonising thoughts. Tonight was supposed to be a break from the mess that was her marriage. When Jon had asked her why she hadn’t tackled the painting and decoration revamp at the store yet, she’d told him her new challenge was training for the marathon, hoping it would spark an argument that would end in make-up sex. She wasn’t proud of her motivation—it felt like a tawdry last-ditch attempt to shock him into action—but she was desperate.
During the early years of their marriage when they were both working full-time, renovating a heritage-listed house and learning how to live together, they’d had some rip-roaring fights. Exhilarating sex always followed. More than anything, she’d wanted him to yell and pace and gesticulate wildly. Only he hadn’t done any of those things. He’d just stared at her, his face a blank mask. It was like he’d lashed down all his emotions under a thick tarpaulin and reinforced it with a cargo net so none could escape. But the emotions were all there, quivering under the surface of the rigid stiffness of his body.
When he’d finally spoken, the words came out slowly, as if he was doing a controlled release of two at a time to prevent them spilling in a rush.
‘You think … that will … make you … happy?’
You coming back to me would make me happy. But what was the point of saying that? He’d decided their problems rested one hundred per cent with her and nothing she tried had changed his mind. Training with Zac was the only break she got from the suffocating weight of their marriage crisis.
Before she’d replied he’d added, ‘I don’t … think so.’
‘It will make me happy!’ she’d screamed at his retreating back, furiously clutching onto her own anger so she wouldn’t care she’d upset him. Hell, they couldn’t even argue with passion any more. That gutted her as much as anything. If he couldn’t be bothered to argue with her, did he even care?
She heard someone say her name and realised she’d completely tuned out of the conversation. ‘Sorry?’
‘Pay attention, Tara. We’re talking about Anna,’ Monique said brusquely. ‘How she was her own worst enemy.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ Kelly said. ‘She was married with a kid. She shouldn’t have even noticed Vronsky.’
Beth giggled. ‘Well, I’m married but I’m not dead. When I pick up Duncan from footy training, I’ve been known to linger longer than strictly necessary.’
Tara ignored Beth. She was too busy focusing on Kelly’s comment and feeling incensed on Anna’s behalf. ‘Of course Anna noticed Vronsky. Alexei was emotionally cold, preoccupied with his job and barely aware of her except when he collected her for bed. Even then he just fell asleep.’
‘Sometimes I wish Jesse would just go to sleep.’ Dana’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God. Forget I said that.’
‘No chance.’ Kelly’s eyes sparkled, bright and eager.
Tara knew it wasn’t entirely due to the vodka. Kelly’s first love might be her phone, but her second was gossip.
‘Please, can we focus on the book,’ Monique said.
‘You were the one who gave us vodka,’ Rhianna said mildly.
‘Vronsky made Anna feel alive. Don’t we all deserve that?’ Tara asked.
Kelly snorted. ‘Oh, please! She was a selfish bitch and she deserved everything she got.’
‘Nothing in life’s that simple,’ Tara said.
‘It is if you’ve got self-control.’
‘Her mistake was she didn’t try very hard to hide the affair,’ Erin said. ‘If she had, she could have kept her son. And as long as she had sex occasionally with Alexei, he would have thought the baby was his.’
Every head in the room swivelled towards the woman whose opinions usually had to be wrung out of her. Had mousey Erin just admitted to an affair? The thought exploded in Tara’s head—if Erin could hide an affair and Jon was hiding one too, then surely she could.
‘That sounds like you’re speaking from experience,’ Rhianna said.
A pink flush raced up Erin’s neck, spreading to her hairline, and her hands fluttered in her lap. ‘No! Not me. God, the guilt would kill me. I’m talking about my great-aunt. On her death bed, she confessed to a twenty-year affair. We were gobsmacked. I mean, she’d worked alongside Uncle Phil on the farm for forty years, raised six kids and been both CWA and school council president.’
‘Twenty years?’ Monique said softly, momentarily distracted from keeping control of the group.
Erin nodded. ‘She said her lover gave her things Uncle Phil couldn’t.’
Tara understood. ‘Like with Anna. The affair was about sex and feeling alive again.’
‘Not exactly. Apparently Uncle Phil was great in bed, but he was a typical farmer and a man of few words. She said her lover gave her the intellectual stimulation she craved.’
Dana poured another cocktail. ‘Has anyone had an affair?’
Tara made a note never to serve spirits when she hosted book group. But despite herself, she couldn’t help glancing at Rhianna. The woman sat as serene and unruffled as ever, giving nothing away.
‘Let’s get back to the book,’ Monique said firmly. ‘Kitty and Levin—’
‘Talking about affairs is related to the book,’ Kelly said. ‘Methinks you’ve got something to hide, Monique.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Do I look like I have time for an affair? I work full-time and I’ve got four kids if you include Hamish. Why are you giving me a hard time? It was Dana who asked the question and Beth who admitted to ogling the Boolanga Brolgas.’
Beth laughed. ‘I’m just window shopping. It never hurts to take home a bit of fantasy to spice things up with Grant.’
‘And Dana’s already admitted she’d prefer less sex not more,’ Kelly said with just a little too much enthusiasm.
‘And Tara’s on too much of a good thing with Jon to ever throw that away,’ Rhianna said.
Tara’s hand tightened around her glass. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Exactly that.’ Rhianna’s green eyes narrowed like a snake ready to strike. ‘You have a husband who adores you and indulges your every whim.’
The cocktail sloshed in Tara’s
stomach, turning rancid. ‘I don’t.’
‘The perks of sleeping with the boss,’ Kelly muttered. She didn’t add the usual ‘joking!’
‘Oh, come on, Tara. There’s no shame in admitting your good fortune.’ Rhianna’s one-and-a-half-carat diamond flashed as she indicated the group. ‘You’re among friends.’
Was she though? She really only saw Monique, Dana and Beth at book group—she’d class them more as acquaintances than friends. And her friends in the room should be accepting of her, not demanding she justify the way she lived her life. Nothing about this scenario came close to being in a safe, non-judgemental space—it was an emotional warzone.
Fighting adrenaline, Tara tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I’m as equally fortunate as you, Rhianna. Our husbands’ businesses give us flexibility to work around the children. I see you at tennis on Tuesdays, at coffee on Wednesdays and at our bi-monthly lunches. How am I more indulged than you? Our lives are the same.’
Rhianna’s brows rose. ‘I’m not spending twenty hours a week exercising.’
‘Neither am I.’ Tara fisted her hand in her lap so she didn’t reach out and slap Rhianna’s sardonic cheek. But at least I am exercising.
Perhaps Rhianna read the thought on Tara’s face, because her slightly overweight body flinched. ‘Brent appreciates my love and support of him both at home and with the business. He doesn’t want a trophy wife, and I know for a fact that neither does Jon. Just sayin’ …’
The venomous words poured through Tara, locking her jaw. I know for a fact. How did Rhianna know? That night in their kitchen when she’d found Rhianna with her hand on Jon’s arm, had he been complaining to her about Tara? Or had he confided in Brent who’d told Rhianna? And what had he confided? All scenarios horrified her and words crowded her mouth like arrows waiting to be fired. More than anything, she wanted to scream, ‘If Jon thought I was a trophy wife, he’d be screwing me!’ But there was no empathy or trust in this room. The truth would alienate her even more.
Erin broke the taut silence. ‘These days, Anna would just get a divorce, right? Thank God for no-fault divorce.’
Monique threw Erin a grateful look. ‘Divorce might not be the social scandal it was in Tolstoy’s day, but women still lose more than men. Emotionally and financially.’
‘My father buggered off, leaving Mum with me and my sister,’ Dana said. ‘He never paid her any maintenance and Mum’s super is forty per cent of what the average bloke’s is. She’s worked hard all her life but, unlike him, she can’t afford to take early retirement. Meanwhile, my bastard father’s living in a million-dollar house on the Sunshine Coast.’
‘Well, I’ve got no sympathy for pampered women who screw around on their husbands just because they’re bored,’ Kelly said. ‘So Alexei wasn’t romantic or demonstrative—whose husband is? She got what she deserved. End of story.’ Kelly refilled her glass. ‘So what’s our next book?’
Tara almost said Frenemies.
CHAPTER
12
‘So that’s where things are at with the community garden.’ Helen finished her report with a wry smile.
Vivian matched it. ‘Wow! Poor you. That Judith’s something else.’
‘Thank goodness for Hoopers.’ But Helen wasn’t cadging for sympathy. ‘The extension is all part of the tiny houses plan anyway, but I don’t want people thinking of it as the “refugee garden” or the “housing garden”. It’s one big garden, serving the needs of our diverse community.’
Vivian nodded. ‘Absolutely. It’s a vital tool in building a cohesive community.’
‘Any chance you could come and say those words to the committee?’ Helen asked. ‘Mention the model rules? Remind them that the garden’s on shire land and it exists to reach the broader community regardless of age, gender or country of origin.’
‘I can do better than that. I’ll run a conflict resolution workshop for all the garden members and I’ll give Parks a hurry-up on sending that letter to satisfy judgey Judith.’
‘Thanks, Vivian. Sometimes I feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall.’
‘You’re not. You’re doing an amazing job with the garden and the park food. We’re lucky to have you.’ Vivian tapped her French nails on the folder Helen had delivered to her a few weeks earlier. ‘I’ve read your submission.’
Helen’s heart picked up. ‘And?’
‘Congratulations! It’s a well thought out and beautifully executed document. It’s got the perfect combination of heartfelt personal stories, stats and dollar amounts to soften the hardest bean-counter’s heart.’
Relief and joy swept through her. ‘So you think it’s ready?’
‘I do. Unfortunately, council isn’t.’
Helen’s euphoria evaporated, leaving a heavy weight pinned against her chest. ‘But we’ve got four votes. You, Cynthia, Messina and the mayor.’
Vivian sighed. ‘I won’t lie to you. Geoff’s withdrawn his support. I think he’s pushing for another tilt at mayor and he’s leery of aligning himself with anything that hints of controversy.’
‘But this isn’t controversial. We’re not pulling anything down, and there’s no existing housing so no neighbours to upset.’
‘I know it and you know it, but we have to deal with the fact that men have a different approach to most things.’
Helen was familiar with the concept—marriage to Theo had taught her that much. ‘I want to meet with the mayor but that secretary of his won’t let me near him. Can you set it up?’
‘I’ll do my best, but pushing Geoff isn’t the best way to make him change his mind.’
‘You think I’d do more harm than good?’
‘Please don’t take this the wrong way …’ Vivian tucked some stray strands of her sleek ebony hair behind her ear. ‘I find your enthusiasm refreshing, but I know these men. They like it best when they think something’s their idea. We only need one more vote so we’ll keep working on Don, Craig and Aki. Meanwhile, continue recording the numbers turning up to the park food nights. And why not talk to the bakery and the pub about their leftover food? You can apply for a community grant and formalise it. I’ll happily support the application. All these things help sway opinion.’
Helen sank back in her chair. It wasn’t the first time she’d been told she was like a dog with a bone. But if those men spent one night sleeping rough they’d understand. Perhaps she should suggest Boolanga had its own version of Sleep At The ’G.
‘Chin up, Helen.’ Vivian smiled encouragingly. ‘We’ll get there. Meanwhile, as we’re still chasing votes, the important thing is to keep the submission under wraps. The last thing we need is The Standard getting hold of it and using it to light outraged fires in the community.’
Helen’s stomach sank as she remembered telling Bob about the submission. She quickly reassured herself, recalling his promise to keep the information ‘safe as houses’. The local press was far more of a risk than Bob.
She grimaced. ‘You mean something like that article on the need for overhead lighting in the car park because of Boolanga’s so-called African gang? I told Peter Granski he can’t pass off rumour-mongering under the guise of investigative journalism.’
‘And there’s the problem,’ Vivian said. ‘The traders on Irrigation Road are a powerful lobby group who spend a lot of money advertising with The Standard. Of course Peter supports their nonsense.’
Helen’s nails dug into her palms. ‘But it’s not like we’re building a jail or a toxic waste dump. No one has any reason to be upset by the project.’
Vivian sighed. ‘Never underestimate the public, Helen. We don’t want our progressive housing project to be burned to ash before we’ve even started.’
The thought sent horror scudding through her. ‘Mum’s the word.’
Jade had done what Corey had asked—she hadn’t gone near the garden. If she didn’t count the checkout chick at Foodworks or the bloke on the end of the phone at Centrelink, the only person she’d had a
real conversation with in days was Fran at the library.
When Jade saw seven shiny copies of a book called Anna Karenina on the returns shelf, she’d asked, ‘Is this a new release?’
‘No, it’s a classic.’
Jade was whipped back to her senior school years and Mrs Kastrati. The English teacher often banged on about the classics and life’s lessons. More than once she’d said, ‘Jade, if you’d bother to apply yourself, you’re very capable of going to university,’ as if that softened the blow of the returned essay covered in red ink.
Fran picked up the book and hugged it like a teddy. ‘The first time I read Anna, I was at university and I fell in love. I’ve read it about ten times since.’
Jade stared at the thick hardback. ‘How many pages?’
‘Eight hundred.’
‘Eight. Hundred?’ She’d never read anything that length.
Fran smiled. ‘I promise it’s such a great story, it doesn’t seem that long. It was originally published in instalments in a magazine.’
‘Like The Middletons?’ Her mother had always gone straight to the serial story in Yours magazine.
‘Pretty much. Tolstoy wrote about the lives of rich Russian families. Even though it was written over a hundred years ago, not a lot’s changed. We still experience the agonies of falling in and out of love. We still have money problems. We try to do our best but make lots of mistakes, and we spend our lives trying to work out who we are and how we fit in the world. Sadly, just like in Tolstoy’s time, too many people are still living with the threat of war and poverty.’ Fran tapped the book. ‘It’s still very relevant. You should read it.’
Jade was sceptical. ‘I don’t think I could finish it in three weeks.’
‘I’ll just keep renewing it for you until you’ve finished. The Russian names can be a bit confusing at the start, especially as everyone has a formal name and an informal one, but I’ll photocopy the family tree for you. That way you won’t need to keep flipping to the front of the book to check who’s who.’