The Near Miss

by Fran Cusworth

  Grace could hardly absorb this. Damien, rocking on the verandah singing songs to his children, her low-water-mark for a useless husband, was now employed. While she no longer even had a husband. ‘Well, it’s a credit to you. You believed in him all these years, you encouraged him to keep trying.’ Her own words stabbed her in the heart as she uttered them. Tom. The Oldbot, the solar roof, dreams once as dear to her as that of another child. Dreams which she had, Judas-like, betrayed.

  Anna rubbed at a spot on the table. ‘Oh, I had my moments, believe me.’ But she would say no more on the subject, suddenly preoccupied with her phone.

  Dissatisfied, Verity turned to Nina. ‘What about you? Do you ever think of . . . you know . . . with Brian?’

  ‘Leaving him? Sure. And since these guys broke up . . .’ Nina nodded towards Grace and lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘I can’t stop worrying about it. But I’m mostly terrified he’s thinking about leaving me! I mean if Grace didn’t see it coming, maybe I wouldn’t either. And it would kill me! The money! The kids, the psychological damage. Leaving my house. What my parents would say! And watching him get with someone else . . . Oh Grace.’ She squeezed her hand. ‘You must be devastated.’

  Grace nodded, undoubtedly numb with pain, and yet feeling somehow robbed of something by this conversation. Maybe her future. Oh, Christ. Watching him get with someone else . . . Would that happen? And did every dire implication really need to be pointed out to her? ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess . . . he might come back.’

  There was a tragic silence, into which Anna spoke. ‘I think there’s a good chance he will.’

  ‘You do?’ God, if she could just crawl into Anna’s lap and have a good sob on her shoulder, she would feel a lot better. If only her own mother could be so kind.

  ‘He adores you. You can see it.’

  Grace blinked hard and pulled out tissues. She never went anywhere without tissues anymore.

  ‘But didn’t you throw him out?’ Verity again, eager for more.

  Grace pressed a tissue to her eyes. She did not like to think of this, but yes, she had told him to choose between his plastic bottles or her. It was a foolish thing to have said. He was a fairly literal-minded man. And why should anyone have to choose? And why hadn’t she said his bottles or his family, which would have been a harder decision for him? ‘I didn’t really mean it,’ she said forlornly.

  ‘Oh God, of course you didn’t; I say stuff like that every day,’ said Nina. ‘Well, I mean I did. Until this. But nobody means it. He should know that. Were you premenstrual?’

  ‘Um. No.’

  ‘Still. He should know. It’s just something you say.’

  ‘Exactly. He’s using it as an excuse. I’ve asked him to come back. Over and over. I’ve apologised. I’ve begged him.’

  ‘And where is he living?’

  Grace now knew this. ‘In a squat. With some artists. Friends of Melody’s.’

  Eyebrows shot up around the table. ‘Oh. That was . . . nice of her. To help him.’

  Grace pressed her lips closed and made a grumbling sound in the base of her throat, which was correctly interpreted by all her companions, two of whom leaned forward in eager conspiracy.

  ‘Oh, dear. She’s a funny one, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s such a . . . I don’t know . . . such a . . .’

  ‘Hippy,’ said Grace.

  ‘Exactly! So dreamy and strange-looking and uncompromising. And I mean, hippies are so over, really.’

  ‘She did save Lotte’s life,’ Grace said, resentfully.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Anna. ‘Damian had some telly friends over the other day, people he went to film school with who work at that current affairs show — what is it? Round Up — and they were asking all about Melody. Heaps of questions.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think they want to get her back on the telly.’

  Grace was dismayed. ‘Would they do something else on it? On Lotte’s accident?’

  ‘I got the sense it was just Melody they wanted.’

  ‘Why can’t they leave her alone?’

  ‘She’s so attractive. So unusual-looking. The camera loved her. That’s what they said, anyway.’

  There was silent consideration of this. ‘She’s like a wild animal. Like something that just crawled out of the jungle and has to learn how to live a normal life,’ said Grace slowly.

  ‘It’s interesting you guys have hit it off.’

  Grace blinked. Had she and Melody hit it off? It had all been so out of the blue. One moment Melody had been an odd-looking character on a sidewalk, and months later she was a part of her life. Grace had even been thinking the past few days of asking her and Skipper to come live with them, at least until Tom came back. Why not? It would be cheaper for them both, and the kids would love it. The house was too big with Tom gone. And Melody seemed so out of place in that little box flat, whereas she always looked at Grace’s scrappy back yard with longing. ‘She’s different than you’d think,’ Grace said slowly, thinking of Melody making their detergent and bread and yoghurt; of how she had pointed out where to plant herbs and veggies, of the elegant simplicity with which she lived on very little, like a musician making a beautiful song out of only a couple of notes. ‘She’s actually quite practical. Certainly more than Tom.’ Which did sound odd, she realised now, comparing Melody to her former husband. But the girls switched in a heartbeat back to the subject of Tom.

  ‘Oh, God, I still can’t believe it! You guys were the perfect couple! And was there anything leading up to this, to make you expect it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Why had she mentioned Tom? It was exhausting, this probing of the wound, and she reflected that this was another thing that drew her to Melody; her lack of interest in the marriage breakdown. Melody rarely talked about the past, or speculated on the future. She just lived for the day, helping Skip with kindy, and making her soap and her bread and her lentils. She was a still pool.

  The others shivered with fear again, and fell silent, doing mental stocktakes of their lovers. Even Anna pinched her bottom lip between her fingers and stared into middle distance.

  ‘But why? Why?’ asked Grace’s mother, a pained if sturdy-looking woman named Dawn.

  ‘Mum, I don’t know more than I’m telling you. I wanted another baby, Tom wanted to sell our home and quit his job and make solar tiles from recycled bottles. It was — what do they say? — irreconcilable differences.’

  ‘Well, why on earth did you want another baby?’ her mother snapped. ‘I mean what have you achieved by wanting that! You’re not going to get another baby now without a husband, are you? And why would you want another baby anyway?’

  ‘Because I just did! I’m not that unusual. I mean Lotte is four, I think we’ve left it a long time as it is.’

  ‘Exactly, there’s no point having another baby now — they wouldn’t play together with this sort of age gap. I don’t know why you were so fixated on . . .’

  ‘Mum! I don’t need this sort of judgment, thanks very much.’

  ‘Don’t come all high and mighty with me, young lady. What about all my friends who gave you wedding presents, who set you up in a home . . .?’

  ‘We’d already been living together for two years. They didn’t—’

  ‘The Simondsons, who spent so much on that Sunbeam electric frypan, far too expensive, I told them—’

  ‘Well, I never used it; it’s still in the box. You can give it back to them if you like.’

  But her mother was weeping, stray phrases audible through the sobs. ‘. . . do this to me . . . after all I’ve been through . . . but as I told the golf women, oh well, what’s one more burden for this old back to bear . . .’

  Grace also had to face her mother-in-law, who was stiff and angry on the phone. ‘Tom needs to see a psychiatrist. I’ve told him so. I just want to, on behalf of the whole Ellison family, to apologise to you for what he’s done.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you, Maureen, but rea
lly, you’ve got nothing to—’

  ‘No. I mean it. This runs through the family. We’re riddled with it! More from my husband’s side than mine, although . . . Well never mind. I’m sorry we never told you. I told Tom to tell you before you got married. It was his duty, I said, but he just laughed at me.’

  ‘Riddled with it? Sorry? With what?’

  ‘Madness. Psychiatric disorders. This bottle foolishness.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Again, once again, I would like to state that I. Am. Sorry. On behalf of—’

  ‘In all fairness Maureen, Tom has had some good ideas for inventions. I mean, people have to invent all the amazing things we use, don’t they? They’re not all mad. And he’s quite well progressed on the Solarbottle. It’s not impossible, he could one day . . .’ Oh God, she was defending Tom. Had Maureen engineered this on purpose?

  ‘Oh, no, it’s the family malady. Invent a solar-paneled roof out of water bottles, he reckoned?’ She gave a sinister laugh. ‘Classic sign. Did he ever tell you about Uncle Adam, who believed he could win the Masters Golf Tournament?”

  ‘Uh, no. But I guess someone wins it, don’t they? Was Uncle Adam a golf player? Ambitious maybe?’

  ‘He only had one arm!’ crowed Maureen. ‘He went on naked, carrying a cricket bat.’

  ‘Oh. Well, Tom is a programmer. Good at computers. He’s pretty smart—’ Dammit, no! Stop!

  ‘And there was Aunty Rita, who cried all day, every day. My second cousin Donald, older than me, sleeps in trees, that’s his thing. Says he can see what’s coming that way. Even my younger sister Amy, who was a big-time barrister, had to give it up because she hears voices in her head. She was in court making no sense at all, talking one moment to the judge and the next to the voices.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ It was indeed a little strange that she had not heard of these characters in Tom’s extended family; she could only assume he had been completely uninterested or unaware of the common thread linking them. It would not be like Tom to neglect any opportunity for a laugh at his family’s expense, but then again, had she ever really known Tom? Maybe he was crazy. Grace thought uneasily of her eccentric daughter. Oh dear.

  ‘This is what I’m saying, right through the family. We must get Tom to a psychiatrist as soon as we can. There’s a good one I know of out your way.’

  ‘I really don’t think I could persuade him to do anything right now.’

  ‘You must try. In sickness and in health, remember. In the meantime, why don’t you let Lotte come here and stay with us for a few days? We’d love it. We’ll take good care of her.’

  ‘I think I need her close to me right now, Maureen.’ Now that you’ve declared your insanity credentials, thanks all the same.

  ‘How about next week?’

  ‘I, er, I’ve lost my job. I don’t have a lot to do. And Lotte needs me at the moment.’

  ‘You let her come soon then, alright? Little girls need their nannas at times like this. And while she’s with us, you can talk some sense into Tom. And have some time for yourself. Get yourself a nice haircut. Get the greys dyed over. Try out some different clothes. Just because you’re married, it doesn’t mean you can’t still show you’re a woman. You don’t have to look like a prostitute, but you could still look a little . . . come-hither. You know what I mean.’

  Grace contemplated lying on the floor with her face down. She might never get up again. Just when you thought the world had humbled you completely, it had one more go.

  ‘I’ll think about it, Maureen. Thank you so much for calling.’

  Chapter 11

  Eddy went to Bunnings and brought home a big old pinboard; white with a narrow pine frame. Inside, he used a handheld device to locate studs in the kitchen wall, and made chalk marks where the light on the device flickered red. He was just wondering how he would hold up the board while he drilled it in, when there was activity at the front door and Tom walked in with pizza. Tom never knocked anymore, and a trail of wet leaves marked his passage along the carpet. But whatever. Eddy welcomed company. He had finally returned to work and Melbourne winter was at its depth, wet leaves feeling obliged to wrap around your ankles as you walked to the train, and icy winds cutting through the crowds on the station, flattening out the women’s hair and making them screw up their faces into scowls. He hoped Romy was somewhere warm. She couldn’t stand the cold.

  Tom obligingly steadied the pinboard while Eddy used the drill to push screws through the soft cork and plaster, and then into the hard studs beneath.

  ‘What’s it for?’ said Tom, flipping open the pizza box. Salami- and olive-flavoured steam rose to their chests.

  Eddy tapped a pile of newspaper cuttings with one finger.

  ‘Ah,’ said Tom. ‘The criminal ex-girlfriend. Bit chilly in here, mate. What’s with the plastic?’ Eddy had hung a sheet of plastic between the ceiling and the kitchen bench, blocking out the lounge room.

  ‘Keeps the heat in.’

  ‘You’re like the reverse of all those renovation people doing the open-plan living area, aren’t you? Closed-plan living.’

  Eddy shrugged. The plastic was opaque, turning the lounge furniture beyond into a watercolour of indistinguishable shapes and smears.

  ‘I like smaller spaces in a house. You get an earthquake, you can close part of it off more easily. Barricade doors.’

  ‘In Melbourne?’

  ‘We get four point sevens, five point twos, every few years.’

  ‘Oh. What day is it?’ Tom had asked this every time he came, since leaving his job.

  ‘Friday.’

  Eddy’s mobile rang and he answered it.

  ‘Hey there, it’s Bella here. Romy’s agent.’

  ‘Oh. Well, she’s not here.’

  ‘I’ve been emailing her about an audition and she hasn’t gotten back.’

  ‘Okay. She’s not here.’

  ‘Do you have a mobile for her?’

  Eddy recited the number. Romy would be appalled to hear that Bella had not had her mobile number; she had been waiting for Bella to call for months.

  ‘I really want to get in touch with her,’ Bella added.

  Eddy would not add: that makes two of us. He had some pride. ‘Try that number’ was all he said, a little stiffly. It didn’t appear to answer to him, anymore, but Bella may be different.

  He hung up and returned to his board.

  Tom asked: ‘Is your heating broken?’

  Eddy shook his head. ‘I’ve turned it off. I live mostly in the kitchen, anyway. And if I keep the oven going it stays warm.’

  ‘Ah. Handy. You can bake at the same time.’

  ‘I don’t really bake.’

  Tom rolled his eyes and looked momentarily affectionate. ‘Yeah, I’d sort of noticed. Want some pizza?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Are you eating?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m alive, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re skinny. How’s work?’

  ‘It’s work.’

  While Tom ate pizza, Eddy took out a new box of thumb tacks and carefully pinned up his articles. There were eight. He studied the headlines as he pinned.

  Pirate and Cat get the Cream in 7/11 Hold-Up

  Fancy-dress Robbers Terrorise Eastern Suburbs in Small Hours

  Extra Night Security for Besieged Convenience Stores

  Pirate and Catwoman no Bonnie and Clyde, Say Armed Robbery Squad

  Pirate and Catwoman Get Own Facebook Page

  Pirate/Cat Combo Highly Dangerous, Warn Police

  Police ‘Being Played Like Mice’ Say Opposition, as Catwoman and Pirate Lead a Merry Dance

  Reward Offered

  ‘For any information leading to the arrest of notorious armed robbers connected to the recent spate of convenience store robberies,’ read Tom, through a mouthful of meatlovers. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Tempted?’

  ‘Save me a piece. I prefer it cold.’

  ‘No, dickhead, I mean are you tempted by the reward?’ />
  Eddy looked at him, offended. ‘I don’t know where they are!’

  ‘But you know Catwoman’s name. That’s more than our mighty men in blue. Useless bastards.’

  Eddy shook his head. He was surprised his own father hadn’t yet rung on the sly and dobbed Romy in. He studied the layout of the articles; he liked it very much. And only half the board was covered.

  ‘I think you’re proud of her,’ said Tom.

  Eddy sighed. Was he? He had pored over every grainy photograph, to read Romy’s body language. In the first few, she seemed hesitant, a little frightened. No one but he would have been able to tell. Moving on, the next picture was the first one where she stood straight, threw her shoulders back, held the gun with a new confidence. That self-conscious poise was there in subsequent pictures, too, although it had morphed into something closer to arrogance. And today’s picture was a wonder. She stood with her chin tipped up, her back long and straight, the gun raised to her eye and one hip cocked. She could have been on Charlie’s Angels. Eddy shook his head and couldn’t hold back a smile. Romy was acting now. She had read the newspaper stories, she had seen the television footage, she had thrilled to hear herself described as a modern day Bonnie to Van’s Clyde, and then she had, with the last gasp of her ambition, taken on that role as determinedly as Elizabeth Taylor took on Cleopatra. She might die fulfilling it, or go to jail, but she would go down being a somebody, not just a waitress.

  ‘In a crazy way, I think I am proud of her.’

  Tom cast him a wary look over the steaming pizza. Since he and Grace had broken up, he was here almost every two or three nights with pizza, or chicken and chips. He was cheerful and didn’t speak of Grace, or where he was staying. Sometimes he talked about his bottle roof, as if it were a troublesome but beloved girlfriend. They talked of rugby. They watched the news. They speculated over Romy and Van, as if it were an ongoing TV series. Eddy had wondered at first whether Grace and Tom would get back together, but weeks and months passed and Eddy looked back at the night of the thank-you dinner and felt he must have misunderstood appearances that night. The perfect young couple, with a mortgage and a child. But now look.