Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  “Can I help you?” I ask, hoping to get him out of the shop before he frightens the delicate sensibilities of my customers.

  “Sophie Molloy?”

  “Yes.”

  “For you.” He hands over the envelope and before I can say ‘disappearing act’ he’s out the door.

  I turn the envelope in my hand. Surely, I haven’t been summonsed? Doesn’t that only happen to people on TV law programs? I look over to where Lani is helping the girls with their final choices and decide I can’t wait a second longer to see what’s inside this mysterious envelope. Because it can only go two ways — either I’ve inherited millions from a long lost aunt I never knew, or someone is suing me. I pick up the letter opener Brendan gave me for my birthday last year, jab the point under the lip of the envelope and slice it open. I slide out the piece of paper and unfold it.

  Big. Mistake. Should have waited until shop was empty.

  The letter opener clatters onto the glass counter top, alerting everyone to my plight. I’m gripping the counter for dear life, afraid that if I let go my legs won’t be able to support the terrible weight that’s descended on me. I feel clammy.

  “Sophie? Are you okay?” Lani rushes to my side. Her hand is on my shoulder, gently soothing but it makes no difference. I can see in her eyes she’s thinking this is about the cancer — that something physical has happened to me — but it’s not. She deposits me in a chair behind the counter, where I sit, holding the piece of paper flaccidly on my lap and staring into space like a zombie.

  Our little group of customers stops and turns, their faces clouded with concern.

  “You’re very pale,” says one.

  “White as a ghost,” adds a second.

  “Are you ill?”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  At last, one of the girls announces that the best thing they can do is to complete their purchases as quick as possible and leave. So, the girls hand over their debit cards, gather their newly acquired hats and bags and head to the door.

  “I hope she’s okay,” the regular whispers, as they reach the door. “She’s had cancer, you know.”

  I don’t know how she knows this and I don’t exactly care.

  Finally, Lani and I are alone. She sits down on the chair next to mine and gathers my free hand in her lap. “Are you okay? Should I call Dr. Downer?”

  “I’m fine. Well, physically.” I hand her the letter.

  Lani’s eyes scan the page. Now, she’s as white as a ghost. She’s blinking and re-reading as if she thinks there must be some kind of mistake. But there’s not. We both know that.

  “The fucking bastard.”

  Woah. Lani never swears.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  As it turns out, I haven’t inherited millions from a long lost aunt. But my ex is demanding his three quarter share of our property. The letter from Brendan’s lawyer — who knew he had one? — informs me that Mr. McAllister would like his share, totalling some nine hundred thousand dollars, given current real estate values. Mr. McAllister does not wish to take this matter to court and would like it to be settled as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “Where the hell am I going to get…” I glance at the letter again, “…nine hundred thousand dollars?”

  Then I promptly burst into tears. These can’t be called tears though; they’re way too big and wet for that. They’re canals of sadness springing from my eyes.

  How could he do this to me?

  After everything we went through, he didn’t even have the decency to come and see me. Of course, I’d have given him his share if he asked me. I’m not about to be petty, but to do it like this? I’ve never said this about anyone, but I hate him. I absolutely hate him and I wish he’d drop dead.

  As I sit and sob, Lani gets up and silently moves to the door, turning the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. She bustles around out the back and returns with a cup of strong, sweet tea.

  “We didn’t have any scotch,” she says, by way of explanation. I sniff, giving her a watery smile.

  We sit. I sip my tea and stare at the letter on my lap. Lani looks out the window. Then, in a fit of rage, I screw the letter into a tight wad and throw it as far as it will go, letting out an angry grunt as I do. This, of course, goes little way to making me feel better. My missile is made of paper. Even with the most force I can muster, it’s landed a mere metre away at the bottom of the counter. Not satisfied, I stand up and stamp my foot on it, imagining it’s Brendan’s head as I do. Then I kick the waste paper basket, the wall and the corner of the counter, only stopping because I fear I may have done irreparable damage. To my toe.

  “What am I going to do?” I repeat. “I don’t have that kind of money. I’ll never have that kind of money.”

  When Brendan and I first made it official and moved in together, we bought the house in Floreat. It was a steal for two reasons. One, it needed a total renovation and two, the couple who owned it had fallen upon hard times during the GFC. The bank wanted their money. They didn’t care how much it got sold for. We lovingly put every cent we could into that place, knowing that one day it would be worth a mint. Financially, he’d contributed more than me, though I always assumed we were a partnership. I never knew the partnership meant he got seventy-five per cent.

  “Could you take out a loan?”

  I flop back onto the chair and rub my aching toe. “I could try but they’re pretty unlikely to give it to me. Especially with the loan I got to pay for my breast reconstruction.”

  Another casualty of my relationship with Brendan is that my private health insurance became null and void. I’ll have to pay the full cost of the reconstruction or go on a public health waiting list. One that could take years and will give me no option as to the type of reconstruction I get. And though I rejoined the fund as soon as I found out, I’ll have to respect the waiting period of twelve months before I can claim. I can’t wait twelve months. They need to review my case and let me have my reconstruction now.

  I slump forward, throw my head into my hands and groan, entirely aware that my stress levels have shot through the top of my head and stress is not good. Stress increases the risk of the cancer returning in spades. Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my head.

  “There’s always your parents,” Lani offers.

  “No! Absolutely not.”

  We sit for a minute longer, racking our brains for possibilities. Lani sneaks a nail into her mouth and nibbles in a fashion resembling a mouse gnawing at his last morsel of cheese.

  “I’ll have to sell the house,” I say. ‘There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to sell and Rory and I can move into a flat. Grover will have to go, too. There’s no way he can live in a small space. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  Lani looks devastated. “But you put so much work into the house. You love living there.”

  “I know. But when it boils down, it’s only a house. Home is where Rory and I are together. I only wish I could do it in a few months, after everything’s settled down.”

  With a heaving sigh, I drink the last of my mug of tea and take it out to the kitchen, where I wash it and leave it upside down in the dish drainer to dry.

  “You’d better get that ‘open’ sign turned back around,” I call to Lani, who’s straightening up the mess from the waste paper basket. “If I have to pay for a lawyer and a private doctor, we’re going to need a truckload more customers.”

  *****

  That afternoon, when I get home, I stand for a long time gazing around the home that Brendan and I built. I love this house but I have no choice but to leave it. Even though everything has gone so horribly wrong, there are memories here, a feeling that makes me comfortable. I had it the first time we walked through the door and I would have had it even if I hadn’t been with Brendan. Leaving will be difficult and Rory’s going to be devastated when I break the news.

  Breast Cancer has taken so much more from me than a breast.

  I thump my pal
m into the wall. I don’t understand why Brendan has done this. Why now? It’s not like I wouldn’t give him his share. I’m not vindictive or mean. A few more months wouldn’t have made a difference; we’re both contributing to the mortgage. Why does he have to add more stress to my life? It’s as if he’s punishing me because I ruined his life by getting cancer or something.

  Now, I’m angry again. I want answers and if nothing else, I feel I’m owed them so I pick up my mobile and go out onto the deck to call him, away from Rory’s supersonic hearing.

  Pacing the deck, I hear the phone company say the number I’ve dialled is no longer connected. Seriously? He’s changed his number so he won’t have to face me? My anger, dormant for such a long time is fuelled and ready to combust. It’s being fed by the emotions I’ve suppressed since Brendan and I got together, the ones he considered weak and girlie.

  I dial his work number.

  “Good afternoon, Golden Realty. How may I help you?”

  I try to disguise my voice. I know, Tracey, the receptionist won’t put me through if she recognises me. “Hello, may I speak with Brendan McAllister please?”

  “In regards to what?”

  So, he’s vetting his work calls more closely. Cowardly prick.

  “I’d like some information about a property he has listed.” I rattle off the address of a property I know is still for sale. I’m surprised how calm and normal I sound, given that I’m doing an impersonation of a pressure cooker about to flip its lid.

  “One moment please.”

  The wait seems interminable. And the longer it goes on, the higher my blood pressure gets.

  “Brendan McAllister.”

  It’s been weeks. He sounds the same. He doesn’t sound sad or depressed which makes me even crosser.

  “You fucking bastard.”

  And there begins my rant. For the next five minutes, I tell Brendan everything I ever wanted to say but held back on for the sake of our relationship. I stop short only at mentioning his prowess in bed, because that would be a bit below the belt.

  The other end of the line is silent as he absorbs my tirade. Then he says, “Are you finished, Sophie?”

  “Don’t patronise me. You know I’m not supposed to be stressed because of the cancer. Did you not have the decency to wait before you dropped this bombshell? It’s bad enough you cleared out our accounts and cancelled the medical insurance without consulting me. Because of you, I’m no longer covered and have to pay full price for my reconstructive surgery. That’s almost eight thousand dollars, Brendan. Eight thousand dollars, which I had to borrow from the bank because you closed our insurance account. And now you want to take the house too? I put up with the humiliation of not being able to pay the grocery bill because you cancelled my card. I had to hide my stunned look at the dentist’s the other week because I didn’t know what you’d done and the payment wouldn’t go through. What am I supposed to do after you take the house? Do you want us to live on the streets?”

  “You have the shop. If you want the house, sell the shop. I can list it for you.”

  Give. Me. Strength. If I could jump through the phone and throttle him, I would. My hands are shaking so much it would be a quick process.

  “And then what would I do for income?” My voice has become a high-pitched, frenzied squeal. “Seriously, Brendan. Can’t you wait for a couple more months or at least until after my surgery? I’ll put the house up for sale, then. But I can’t move house and have surgery at the same time and I don’t need this amount of stress right now.”

  “Put the surgery off, then. It’s not like you’re dying anymore.”

  “You fucking, fucking prick.”

  “Look Sophie, I want my money. I want to purchase elsewhere.” He’s calm and quiet. He sounds like a total stranger, a cold hard man, not the man I was in love with. Any scrap of empathy he may have had has disappeared along with the furniture.

  “Fine.” My voice matches his for coldness. It’s so cold I could freeze icicles with my breath. “If that’s the way you want to play this, I want the dinner set back that you took when I was out last week. And the linen.”

  “Why? They’re old and used. You have the new ones we bought the other month.”

  “I bought the linen with MY money and that dinner set was a gift to ME from MY mother. If you want one, buy your own. After you take every cent I have, you’ll have plenty.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And I want our photo albums.”

  “What for?”

  “So I can burn every single photo of you. After I’ve made a dartboard from your face, that is.”

  And with that, I hang up the phone.

  Then I ring the telephone company and get my numbers changed. It’s a pain and it takes ages to ring and text everyone else and let them know but by the end I feel a sense of finality.

  Chapter 22

  When I get to work the next morning, I haven’t slept a wink; I’m running on adrenalin. It’s as if the blow-up at Brendan has cleared the cobwebs away and the negative things about his personality that I’d considered quirky or swept under the carpet have shown their true colours. They’re quite dirty in the light of day. I’m glad we’re not together anymore. Let him find another girl to control.

  I flick the switch on the lights, turn on the computer and head out the back to stow my handbag and lunch. Then I seat myself on the chair behind the counter and look up the Yellow Pages. First job this morning — new locks for the house. If Brendan thinks he can swan in and out to his heart’s content, he’s got another thing coming. I’m over being nice.

  With the number of a local locksmith located, I give him a call. After giving me the exorbitantly pricey estimate to do the work straight away, he agrees to meet me at the house at lunchtime and I hang up. Then I go to my contacts and scroll through to find the number of my friend, Cameron. He’s a lawyer and seeing as Brendan’s decided I need one, and Cameron’s the only one I know personally, he seems a logical choice. I dial his number and wait while his assistant puts me through.

  “Hi, Sophie. How are you?” Cameron asks.

  “Good thanks.”

  “Everything going well on the cancer front?”

  I haven’t seen Cameron since the split and talking about my cancer journey doesn’t seem the thing to do. In general, most of the men I know tune out after they hear the word ‘mastectomy.’ They want to know you’re okay but not the intricacies.

  “Yeah, fine. The reconstruction process begins shortly.”

  Cameron lets out a sigh. “You’ve had a tough trot recently. Hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks. My treatment isn’t the reason for the call, though. I wanted to ask if I could pop by and get some legal advice? Not as a freebie. I need the services of a lawyer.”

  There’s a definite shuffling of papers on the other end of the line and when Cameron responds, I can hear the underlying tension. “Uh, I gather this is in relation to Brendan and the house?”

  “Yes. I…”

  He shuts me down. “Not a wise move, Sophie. Brendan’s my mate.”

  “You were my ‘mate’ before you were his. Are you saying you’ve taken sides?” I can’t believe this. Cameron and I were friends for years before Brendan entered the picture. I introduced him to his wife. Rory’s father is his best friend.

  “No. I’m still your friend but in this matter I can’t represent you.”

  “Why?”

  I’m hoping he’s going to say because he doesn’t want to get involved, because it’s too close to home and our friendship might suffer or something.

  “Because my firm’s representing Brendan.”

  The letterhead on Brendan’s demand did ring a bell. Now I know why.

  “Right. I forgot about the Boy’s Club.” No matter what’s happened or what’s gone before, boys always stick together. I attempt to swallow the feeling of nausea that’s suddenly rising from the pit of my stomach.

  “Please don’t take this per
sonally, Sophie. He asked me. I said ‘yes’.”

  “But I do take it personally. I take it very personally. Brendan has drawn a line in the sand. Apparently, we’re down to choosing teams and one of the people I considered a close friend has defected to my ex’s side of the court.”

  I hang up the phone.

  So. It looks like I’m finding a different lawyer. And possibly revising my Christmas card list.

  At this moment, Lani strolls into the shop. Today, she’s wearing a midnight blue tutu skirt with a peacock appliquéd on the front. It has real feathers sewn along the hem that are winding their way up her hip. More surprising than her choice of outfit for the day, however, is her hair. The baldness that liberated her a month or so back has begun to grow out. She’s been to the hairdresser and is now sporting a hot pink spiked do with an orange Minnie Mouse style bow clipped into the side, though how she’s managed this with a minimalist cut is beyond me. She looks like the Kewpie doll I won on the clown game at the Royal Show when I was six.

  “Nice outfit,” I remark. “Love the new hair.”

  Lani does a twirl. “My head was starting to get cold with winter coming on.”

  Not that you could call winter in Perth winter. People wear t-shirts.

  “It’s a lovely shade.”

  “I thought so.”

  Lani shoves her enormous shopping bag under the counter and stares at me. “You look like the Cadbury factory’s closing down. What’s up?”

  “I rang Cameron to see if he’d help me clear up this stuff with Brendan and he said he can’t because his firm is representing Brendan.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Wish I was.”

  “But wasn’t he on the scene way before Brendan? Didn’t you introduce them?”

  “Who knew they’d end up jumping into bed together? You don’t know a good lawyer do you?”