8
It was Tuesday night/Wednesday morning and, while over at Theo’s, I’d fallen into the stalkery, lurkery, reminiscenty hole that was Dec’s Instagram. Don’t worry, I was disgusted with myself too. But there he was in the moments he chose to share with the world: Dec in a suit; Dec’s car from the front; Dec in a fancy restaurant; Dec’s car from the side; Dec with a bunch of his AHC buddies at some corporate adventure day thing, their cheeks painted with black, brown and green streaks; Dec’s car from the back . . .
The images he’d chosen to represent himself didn’t come as any great surprise, but they also didn’t reflect the Dec I’d known for most of my life, the Dec who required so much time, energy and space to get over. That Dec would have an Instagram grid full of crinkly smiles, dogs he thought looked cool and, okay, his car from the front, side and back.
I tried not to torture myself by looking at the comments on his photos, but it was impossible not to notice the number of women commenting with things like ‘Looking good, babe!’ and ‘Hot stuff, O’Connor!’ Followed by lots of suggestive emojis.
When he’d first gone on Instagram, we’d sat together and laughed at the sort of photos he was now posting and rolled our eyes at the comments they were clearly designed to prompt. We hadn’t done that in ages, I realised. Sometime after he’d started with AHC, those companionable sessions on the couch while I flicked through my newest haul of second-hand recipe books and he scrolled through his phone, had become a thing of the past.
I sighed and moved on, skipping past selfie after selfie in a quest to find pictures of the two of us together until, suddenly, bam! There we were. It was a photo from the beach the previous summer, our heads close together, his hazel eyes at their most sparkling, sand dusting the tip of my nose.
It’d been a good day that one, a genuinely bright spot among our increasingly one-sided relationship, where we’d splashed each other in the ocean and then people-watched on the beach with none of the recent underlying tension. My eyes stung at the memory and I sighed again, giving them a quick rub. Talk about being careful what you wish for.
‘You all right over there?’
I looked up to see that Theo had turned from his laptop and was eyeing me with muted concern. Too late I realised that that was probably my twelfth sigh in the past five minutes.
I lowered my phone, almost guiltily. ‘I strayed from the wonders of the SR-71 Blackbird and I’m being punished for it,’ I said.
‘Right.’
That was all he said – ‘right’ – as if my explanation covered it to his satisfaction. It shouldn’t have come as any great surprise – in the week since we’d been having these witching-hour rendezvous I’d been constantly on the alert for any sign that Theo didn’t want me coming over anymore, but he seemed eternally unfazed by anything I said or did.
‘How do you do that?’ I asked, putting my phone to one side and pushing myself more upright on the slippery cushion of his enormous leather couch.
‘What’s that?’
‘Just accept what people say and–’ I waved my hands, trying to elucidate, ‘–not feel the need to push for more?’
He closed his laptop, giving me his full attention. ‘I don’t know that I necessarily just accept what people say,’ he said slowly.
‘But you don’t push for more?’
He gave it some thought, measured as he was in all things. ‘Not in a social context. I assume people will tell me what they want me to know. And, mostly, I find people tell me more about their personal lives than I need to know, rather than less.’
I smiled embarrassedly down into my lap. ‘Is that pointed?’
‘No.’
I raised my head to meet his gaze and was taken aback by how serious he looked.
‘I wasn’t trying to make any sort of point about you,’ he said earnestly and I laughed a little.
‘No, I know, you’re much too nice for that. I was joking.’ I pushed one of my curls behind my ear and admitted, ‘Sort of. I know I’m a bit of an over-sharer.’
‘You’re honest, that’s no bad thing.’ He got to his feet, heading to the kitchen, and I lost track of the conversation as I noticed how low his loose track pants had settled.
Oh dear.
Luckily there was no time for him to realise how dry my mouth had gone at the glimpse of his defined hips, as there was a sudden knock on the door.
Our gazes flew to each other and, as he looked just as quizzical as me about who’d be knocking on his door at half-midnight, I shrugged.
Theo turned to answer the summons and I scooted into the gloomier corner of his couch so he could have some semblance of privacy with whoever had come calling.
I knew I’d made the right decision when, as I’d barely resettled myself against the far armrest, a vaguely familiar woman with long, wild, hair burst through the door and threw herself into his arms.
Theo rocked back with the force of her affection and then, to my slight consternation, hugged her back. Before I had time for more than a flicker of completely unfounded jealousy, however, they were pulling away from each other, the embrace brief.
‘Of course you’re home on a Friday night,’ the statuesque stranger, who I just couldn’t quite place, announced in a husky voice. ‘You’re such a pathetic loser.’
The words were harsh, but her tone made ‘pathetic loser’ sound like an endearment and perhaps that was why Theo sounded like his usual unruffled self as he replied, ‘It’s Wednesday.’
‘Wednesday? Really? Huh, I guess time flies when you’re having fun.’ Unabashed, the woman cupped Theo’s face and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek in such a familiar way that my brain had a small malfunction and shouted, She’s another ex! As if I hadn’t been taught the dangers of making unfounded assumptions in almost this exact same spot a week or so ago. Still, the flat did seem suddenly to be clogged with a conflicting mess of fondness and tension.
The tall woman released him and whirled away, her arms wide as she announced, ‘I am drink, drank, drunk!’
Theo folded his arms and said wryly, ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘Uh-uh.’ She waggled a long, strong finger in his face. ‘No judgement, this is a reconciliation so me being drunk is to your benefit. If I was sober I wouldn’t be here telling you what I’m about to tell you.’
He looked supremely disinterested. ‘And what’s that?’
She gathered her dark, artfully knotted hair in one hand and threw it over her shoulder dramatically. ‘That I love you,’ she said, grabbing at one of his hands and pressing it to her chest. ‘And that I’m proud of you.’
Surprised by how much her confession made my stomach sink, I curled my hands into fists in my lap. His possible ex still loved him? I switched my attention to Theo, staring at him intensely as I waited to see how he’d react to that bombshell. I should’ve known it’d be an anti-climax.
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Yeah? I could’ve sworn last time we talked you said you didn’t want anything to do with me.’
‘That was ages ago.’ She was apparently unbothered by his less-than-enthusiastic response to her announcement, but if she had been his girlfriend she was probably used to the lack of bells and whistles that came with his company. ‘All is forgiven, turn again Dick Whittington, return to our fold and so on and so forth. Besides, I’ve been trying to call you for weeks and you’re the one who’s been dodging my calls, so it’s your turn.’
‘My turn?’ he asked, trying to withdraw his hand from her grasp, but she gripped it more tightly, her strong jaw set.
‘If someone says they love you and are proud of you, you have to say it back.’
‘That’s a rule?’
‘Yes!’
He stared at her for a moment and then freed his hand from hers with a yank. ‘Sounds like a trap.’ He turned to pull a beer from the fridge and I got the feeling he only did it as a way to show her he wasn’t giving her his full attention.
‘Three Bags!’ she sque
aled and, as I tried to puzzle out what she’d called him, his mouth twisted.
‘Fine.’ He straightened. ‘I love you.’
I bit the inside of my cheek. His visitor grinned, a great big sloppy grin that showed a perfect row of teeth bright white against her olive-toned skin. ‘Good. And . . .?’
‘And,’ he sighed, ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘I knew it!’ She snatched the longneck out of his hand, tipping it to her lips and slugging down a substantial portion of its contents. Pulling it away from her mouth, she pointed it at him and continued sharply, ‘So why haven’t you RSVPd for my unveiling? I’ve sent you enough bloody invitations.’
Theo shook his head, reaching out to retrieve his beer as he muttered, ‘Saw that one coming.’
She put her hands on her hips, the very model of a clichéd frustrated-wife type. ‘What’s the problem, oh sensitive one? You can’t fit the little people into your super busy and important life anymore?’
‘Are you the little person in this scenario?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘Because I would say you’ve got a centimetre or so on me.’
She gave him a look that made it clear how unimpressed she was with his evasiveness and he took a swig of his drink as if for fortification.
‘It’s the same problem it always is,’ he said. ‘I’m not interested in the drama that comes with these things.’
She let out a shriek that made me jump.
‘Drama? I’ve slaved over this for months, years, this is my life’s work, and you’re not going to come and support me just because you think you’ll have to cope with some drama? Frankly, Three Bags, I think you could do with some drama in your life.’
My heart pounded as much from the raw emotion in her tone as from the surprise of her screech, but Theo just gave her an incredibly sarcastic look. ‘Well, thank god you’re always around to ensure there is. Just out of interest, can you have a life’s work when you’re barely twenty-nine?’
I was genuinely concerned she’d burst into wild sobs then – she certainly seemed to be building up to it – and perhaps sensing he’d pushed her too far, Theo took a deep breath and said more softly, ‘I don’t think it’ll bring drama into my life, Lena, I know it will. We’ve been here before, remember?’
There was a weighted silence.
‘Fine,’ she said eventually, ‘how about instead of you being a big old scaredy cat, we make a deal?’
‘A deal?’
‘Yes, if you come and have drinks with me and Mum and Dad – because they forgive you for your no-shows, too, by the way – and then go on to the unveiling with us, you get complete anonymity. No photos, no interviews, no pointed looks during speeches. You’re just a bystander with no drama in his life.’
I hadn’t had a firm grasp of what they’d been talking about since the woman had arrived, but at this point I was thrown totally into the dark. Mum and Dad? Photos? Interviews?
‘And you think you can withstand the temptation to out me when all the lights and attention are on you?’ Theo asked.
‘Of course I can! If it’ll make you come.’
When Theo still looked unsure, she sent him a sly smile. ‘Come on, I bet mystery girl on the couch would love you to take her.’
I’d unconsciously leant forward to get a better look at Theo’s visitor, but I jerked back in surprise as I realised she was talking about me.
Theo’s reaction, however, was simply to look solidly at her as if he could refute my existence by not acknowledging it.
Far from taking the hint, she burst out laughing. ‘What? You thought I couldn’t see her?’ She pointed at me. ‘She’s literally right there, idiot!’
In the next second she’d abandoned Theo in the kitchen and swanned across the room to flop down on the couch beside me, bringing the scent of musky perfume, sweet alcohol and cigarettes – both legal and otherwise – with her.
‘Hello!’ she said brightly, holding out one of her long-fingered, surprisingly callused hands to me. ‘You’re not the fiancée.’
I blinked, a little stunned by her sudden, piercing attention. ‘No,’ I agreed hesitantly, shaking her hand. From the corner of my eye I saw Theo approach.
‘We broke up, you know this.’
‘Do I?’ Her dark eyes danced with amusement as she looked me up and down, a slight raise of her thick eyebrows making me think that maybe Zoë was right and my poncho really wasn’t fit for public consumption. ‘When did that happen?’
‘A couple of months ago. You threw me a commiserations party.’
‘Did I? Did you come?’
He made a noise of dark amusement. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
She cocked her head at me and pursed her generous, though rather chapped, lips. ‘She’s not as pretty as the fiancée, is she? Who punched her in the head?’
My hand flew automatically to the faded remnant of the bruise on my forehead and Theo’s expression hardened.
Taking a step forward, he snapped, ‘Her name is Giovanna and she can hear you. You owe her an apology.’
She rolled her eyes at me as if we were co-conspirators in thinking Theo was being a bit of a fuddy-duddy. ‘Sorry,’ she drawled, ‘but it’s nothing to take personally, the fiancée was seriously hot.’ She leant in as if she was about to tell me a secret and stage-whispered, ‘I even thought of going after her myself a few times.’
‘Great,’ Theo said flatly, and she shot him an impish grin before turning back to me.
‘So, how about it, Mystery Girl?’ she demanded. ‘You want to go to the highly anticipated reveal of The Family?’
The name that had been on the tip of my tongue for the past few minutes suddenly bloomed across it and, as it registered, my face went slack and my mouth fell open.
‘Oh my god!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re Helena Leventis!’
Her whole expressive face lit up and she reached over to smack Theo on the arm in excitement. ‘Finally you start screwing someone with an appreciation of fine art!’
My head was spinning, trying to comprehend the reality of who she was, but it shuddered to a sudden stop when I heard that.
‘Oh, we’re not . . . that,’ I said quickly, unable to look at Theo as my face started to burn with embarrassment. ‘We’re just–’ What? What were we? Unable to define our night-time hang outs, I clumsily changed the subject. ‘I can’t believe you’re . . . you! I love The Brother.’
This prompted a loud peal of laughter from Helena. ‘You hear that, Three Bags?’ She asked. ‘Mystery Girl luuuurves you!’
And yet another belated piece of the puzzle clicked into place. If this woman was Helena Leventis, then, despite the vast differences in their looks, it stood to reason that Theo was . . .
I looked at him and, after a brief hesitation, he gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’m Theodore Leventis,’ he confirmed unenthusiastically, before shrugging and adding, ‘as was.’
Except that Vanessa had called him something else, a surname that matched the dented trophy hidden away on his shelf behind me. McKenzie? No, McKillop.
‘My darling brother is very ashamed of his pedigree,’ Helena said cheerfully, correctly reading my confusion. ‘The day of his eighteenth birthday he applied to have his name legally changed and it just about broke our dear old mum’s heart.’
‘Our dear old mum likes the aesthetic of a broken heart, but I doubt she’s ever actually experienced one,’ Theo said dryly, but I barely heard him as I looked between the siblings trying to figure out if this was actually happening.
Okay, so they weren’t on a par with Australian royalty like the Minogues or the Hemsworths, but in the right circles, they garnered just as much adoration. The Leventises were the avant-garde darlings, the artistic doyennes, the absolute pinnacle of the Australian fine arts scene.
Theodore and Helena’s mother, Philomena Leventis, was sometimes referred to as a model, but was more accurately a muse. With her high cheekbones, Amazonian figure and the mottled and ridged burn that swept across her stoma
ch, the tarnish that somehow made her beauty stratospheric, she was the inspiration of seemingly everyone she came across. I’d seen that scar, the result of a childhood accident, a lot – the whole country had. Philomena only ever posed in the nude. Her existence alone would’ve been worthy of the tabloids, even without her husband being Harvey Apperston – yes, of those Apperstons, grandson of Huxtable Apperston, ex-Prime Minister of Australia.
Their story was part of the national consciousness. Harvey had first photographed Philomena when he was sixteen and she was eighteen, causing controversy at his elite private school when he refused to remove from his portfolio the nude photo of her stretched languidly across a white sheet, her dark hair and limbs creating a landscape of shadows.
It’d been the first, but certainly not the last, Leventis scandal. They’d married when Harvey was eighteen and, in another defiant two fingers up at his family, he’d chosen to take Philomena’s name as his own, passing it onto their children . . . until, apparently, Theo had rejected it.
And, speaking of Theo, he’d been at the centre of a scandal himself. Many years ago, the National Portrait Gallery had displayed one of his father’s photos of him as a naked six-year-old. He stood defiant in the picture titled Turbulence, his cherubic blond curls and chubby cheeks at odds with the stubborn look on his face as one hand clutched a toy plane. Its unveiling had caused a furore, of course, sparking the debate, as these sorts of things did every few years, over whether Theodore’s nakedness was art or constituted child pornography. The glitterati had taken sides, commentators weighed in, people discussed it over water coolers at work . . . and then something else controversial cropped up and everyone moved on.
And how, four years younger than Theo as I was, did I know all this? Well, I’d studied the case at school. My neighbour’s naked juvenile body was literally part of the Australian curriculum.
‘Did you honestly not know who he is?’ Helena asked, clearly delighted by the big reveal. ‘And you came back to his place, anyway? What did he do? Wow you with his personality?’
Cake at Midnight Page 12