Dinner was long over, not that Caitlin had eaten anything. She’d pushed a baked potato around her plate before disappearing into her bedroom, rebuffing Lachie’s invitation to watch Teen Survivor, their favourite ‘reality’ program.
‘Well, some boy’s involved in this, for sure,’ said Hamish finally, still inspecting the Facebook post. ‘Everyone who knows Caitlin will guess that. I mean, she’s hot, right? It’s probably just some teenage boy who’s pissed off he can’t have her.’
Paula disliked the adjective ‘hot’ being applied to their daughter.
‘It could have been worse,’ Hamish added, standing up. ‘There’s no picture of Catie, it’s obviously a doctored image. And there're only two hundred likes.’
‘But that’s double the number from this morning.’
Hamish walked to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. ‘Want one?’
He knew she never drank whisky. Red wine, yes. Sometimes too much of it as she sliced and diced her way through dinner preparation. But never hard spirits.
Paula shook her head.
He lowered himself onto the lounge again. ‘My quads are smashed,’ he said, kneading his thighs with his knuckles. ‘There’s a new instructor at the gym, made us do fifty squats without a break. Bloody torture.’ Paula tried to remain calm. ‘We haven’t finished talking about this, have we?’
Hamish coughed behind his hand—the wheeze of neat whiskies—then said, ‘Look, Paula, I know it’s a shocker. But it’s almost November, it’ll be summer holidays soon and everyone will forget about it. It’s the nature of the beast with social media. A scandal one week, until the next big thing comes along.’ He shook the ice in his glass. ‘Do you think maybe Caitlin’s been fooling around with boys? Enough to make someone jealous?’
This line of questioning was almost identical to Mr Nelson’s.
‘No, Hamish. Caitlin just wants to kick a soccer ball around, you know that. She’s not into boys yet.’
‘You reckon?’ He quaffed his whisky. ‘Heaps of boys are into her. Like that soccer coach, Cooper. Gets a stupid look on his face every time he sees her. And kids these days experiment a lot younger than we did. The world’s a different place now.’
Hamish was right about that, Paula had to admit. She’d only recently discovered that some of Caitlin’s friends had smuggled alcohol into their last slumber party; bottles of rum and gin purchased for them by obliging older siblings. Paula had been horrified—she hadn’t touched alcohol until just before her eighteenth birthday—but was relieved to hear that Caitlin and Amy hadn’t joined in the drinking, because both had soccer training the next morning.
Paula was struck by a sudden thought. Could the Facebook post somehow be connected to that party? Had the noticeable abstinence of Caitlin and Amy infuriated their friends, so they’d posted a vulgar image about them, out of spite? She resolved to call Mr Nelson in the morning and mention it.
‘Come here,’ said Hamish, patting the sofa next to him. ‘You’re thinking too much again, I can tell.’ His smile told her he was seeking something more than conversation.
Paula looked in the direction of the TV room, where Lachie was lounging on his beanbag. Why did Hamish always want to make love when the children were still up?
She gestured at the mountain of washing in front of her. ‘I’m busy folding this.’
It had been weeks since they’d made love—almost two months, in fact. Their sex life had contracted in recent years, whittled away by the demands of domestic life. Her sex drive hadn’t been snuffed out completely; it was just missing in action, Paula sometimes thought, trapped outside her body somewhere. Jammed beneath the garden hoses at Bunnings, tucked under junk mail in the letterbox, stuffed between the toothpaste and the tampons in the bathroom cabinet. Initially, when the children were young, she’d explained her loss of libido as just a phase. Who could feel sexy, she reasoned, after a chaotic fourteen hours of running after a toddler and pre-schooler? She’d rationalised it to Hamish as a short-term loss: I’m sure I’ll feel like making love more when they go to school.
But it hadn’t happened that way at all. Nowadays she was still busy, and just as tired. Dealing with the daily grind of school lunches, homework, after-school activities. Catie’s soccer training, Lachie’s guitar lessons, the washing and hanging, ironing and folding, grocery shopping, cooking and cleaning. The unpaid bills, the barrage of birthdays, the medical appointments, the weekend sporting regimen, the never-ending gardening and maintenance jobs. The ceaseless rotation of school term and holidays, Christmas and Easter.
It was just a typical life in the suburbs, Paula understood, but at the end of most days, she had nothing left to give. She knew she had to make more of an effort—to mount a sexual search party of sorts, and invite Hamish along for the ride, so to speak. But the last thing she felt like doing late at night was watching a dirty video, or whatever else the glossy women’s magazines claimed would ‘reignite the spark’ in their marriage. Sex had somehow become just another chore in her domestic routine, to be deferred until unavoidable.
Hamish had found solace in his work. Slogging away at all hours, relishing the responsibility and reputation he’d acquired for himself over a decade. Not to mention the training opportunities, the bonuses, the regular team-building junkets to popular destinations around the country. Even during the toughest period of his professional life—when he’d been forced to lay off more than twenty staff members—Hamish’s passion for work never waned.
By contrast, Paula’s career held few prospects for advancement. As a part-time social worker at a local aged-care facility, she couldn’t say she enjoyed her work, exactly: her shifts usually involved liaising with distressed relatives of the elderly residents, flagging their illnesses and issues, or offering bereavement counselling. But she’d made a choice to accept that job when Lachie turned ten, mostly because of its flexible working hours. The pay was paltry, but in the past three years she’d never once been asked to work outside of school hours. It was a job of convenience, enabling her to use her skills in social work, while always being there for the kids.
More than once, however, Paula had toyed with the idea of retraining as a midwife. Her own birthing experiences had been supported by outstanding midwives; she could still remember their voices of quiet authority, their calmness under pressure, their comforting presence through one of life’s most miraculous processes. She’d been inspired by the idea of helping other women in the same way and, after researching her study options, she’d raised the idea with Hamish.
‘You don’t have to work,’ he’d objected. ‘My role covers us financially. If you don’t like your job at Bella Vista, reduce your hours.’
‘But I want to do something different, Hamish,’ she’d insisted. ‘You do training all the time. It keeps your brain fit.’
‘And I have the big salary to go with it,’ he’d replied. ‘If you train to become a midwife, what will we see for it at the end of five years of study? Not a six-figure salary, that’s for sure. If you want to stay fit mentally, pick something with a decent reward-for-effort ratio.’
From a purely monetary perspective, he was right. Retraining would involve plenty of outlay—of money, time and energy—for intangible returns like job satisfaction.
Meanwhile, there was nothing really wrong with her life, Paula had to concede. Many women would envy her the luxury of not having to work at all. Women like her sister, Jamie, who was trapped on a treadmill of mortgage repayments. So Paula had decided not to pursue the midwifery idea. Maybe when the kids left home, she told herself.
Paula sighed, folding another pair of Hamish’s sports socks. Family life was the ultimate contraceptive; there was nothing sexy about socks.
Hamish reached for the remote and turned on the television, flicking through the channels until he found what he was seeking: a mixed-martial-arts program. Men with crooked noses and bloodied eyes, fighting like cocks in a cage.
‘Hamish, abo
ut Caitlin . . .’
They hadn’t really concluded that conversation.
He dragged his gaze away from the television. ‘It sounds to me like the headmaster has it all under control.’ His eyes strayed to his mobile. ‘I’ve got some emails to answer.’
Of course, Paula thought. Work was always more important. All that typing and swiping, clicking and flicking. People online at all hours, acting as though they were indispensable.
‘Do you want me to talk to Caitlin?’ he asked, still focused on his phone.
She couldn’t suppress her irritation any longer. ‘Yes, Hamish, I do. Caitlin needs our support right now, and you’re sitting on the couch drinking whisky and reading your emails as if it’s no big deal.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Hamish said, hauling himself off the couch and walking into the kitchen. He plugged his phone into a recharger, then turned back to Paula. ‘I know it’s a big deal, I’m not pretending it isn’t. But there’s no point getting worked up about it, when we don’t have all the information yet.’
Paula relented a little. ‘I think I’ll call Charlotte Kennedy’s mum tomorrow. Maybe she knows something.’
‘Good idea.’ Hamish walked over and put his hands on her shoulders, massaging them gently. ‘I’ll go have a father–daughter chat with Catie now.’
‘Thanks.’ She watched him move down the hallway towards the bedrooms. ‘She’s a bit delicate,’ she called after him. ‘Be careful with her.’
He nodded and tapped at Caitlin’s door.
2
Fuck that hurts.
Knives in his knee, blades twisting up his left leg.
‘Are you alright, Mr McInnes?’
Hamish looked at the nurse through half-closed eyes.
‘Can I offer you some pain relief?’
She smiled at him, in a nursey kind of way. Efficient and caring, with an I’m-about-to-go-now edge. ‘I’ll do your obs first.’
He strained to return her smile. It was difficult to achieve with nasal prongs jammed up his nostrils.
Hamish watched as she wrapped a blood-pressure monitor around his bicep and pumped with her smooth, hairless arms. Caramel skin, hair the colour of ink—the type only Asian girls had—with a tantalising swelling beneath the buttons of her tunic. Manicured hands with neat oval nails. She was probably handy at a lot of things, he decided, imagining those soft hands touching him.
‘You’re doing fine,’ she said after a minute or two, releasing the velcro band.
Nice teeth. Lips like a pretty pink bow.
Ohhh.
The pain caught him off-guard, slicing through his knee and thigh. A monitor sounded nearby, just another bloody noise in this hellhole of a hospital.
The nurse walked around the bed and checked his drip. ‘The bag’s finished. I need to ask the doctor what antibiotics we’re giving you now.’ She smiled down at him again. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Hamish watched her leave, her petite arse swaying under her tunic. He’d like to lift that skirt up and . . .
‘Daddy!’
Hamish winced as his daughter threw herself against him. She locked her arms around his neck and wriggled in next to him, nuzzling against his shoulder.
‘Oh, poor Daddy.’ Caitlin was using her baby voice, the one he couldn’t resist. ‘This is all my fault.’
He inhaled the familiar smell of her freshly-washed hair. An impossibly blonde mane, the colour of platinum. Teamed with her olive skin, Caitlin always managed to look like a Scandinavian goddess.
He wound his arm around her waist.
‘It’s not your fault, honey. It’s mine. I shouldn’t have said what I did last night.’
One minute he’d been sitting on the end of Caitlin’s bed, asking her about the Facebook post. The next moment, he’d posed his own theory that it was all connected to Cooper Johnson, her soccer coach from Year Eleven. He’d seen the way she acted around him; all giggly and flirty behind her fringe.
‘You honestly think that’s Cooper’s penis?’ Catie’s face had turned white with rage before she’d bolted out of her bedroom. Along the hallway, past Paula, down the stairs and out through the laundry.
A moment later, in the backyard, Hamish had watched helplessly as Caitlin cycled down the driveway at breakneck speed in the dark.
Then, realising how badly he’d screwed up—and how ropeable Paula would be—he’d jumped onto his own bike and taken off after her.
He’d been cycling less than a minute when he turned onto Blackburn Road and hit a pothole—crashing arse over head into a parked car. He’d lain motionless on the road, his left kneecap shattered, until a waiter rushed out of a nearby restaurant and dragged him onto the kerb.
Next thing Hamish knew, he’d wound up in hospital. Doped up on painkillers, his left leg puffy like a balloon, awaiting the assessment of an orthopaedic surgeon.
Hamish looked over Catie’s head at Lachie, loitering next to his grandfather. His son had drawn the short straw in the genetic lottery, inheriting his mother’s height and freckled skin.
A wave of exasperation washed over Hamish. Where was Paula? She’d visited him earlier that morning, in the silent hours after midnight, when they’d first brought him in by ambulance. She’d sat by his side, holding his hand, promising to return with the kids in the morning. So why the hell had she sent her old man instead?
‘Hello, Hamish.’ Old Sid looked worried. ‘Bad luck, mate. I’m really sorry.’
‘Not sorrier than me, Sid.’
At his grandfather’s prompting, Lachie sidled around the bed and gave Hamish a stiff hug, careful to avoid Caitlin, who was still curled up next to him.
Hamish ruffled his son’s greasy hair. ‘How’s it going, mate?’
Lachie grunted, as he often did these days. Around his thirteenth birthday—almost to the day—he’d sprouted body hair and blackheads, while seemingly losing all function of his vocal cords.
‘That good, eh?’ Hamish winked at Sid over his son’s head.
Lachie pulled back and slunk away from the bed. It disappointed Hamish a little, but it didn’t surprise him. He’d concluded a long time ago that he and his son were cut from different cloth; Hamish was sporty, while Lachie was turning into a bit of a nerd. Hamish tried not to take it personally, but he sometimes wondered if Lachie might end up batting for the other team.
Hamish nodded at the suitcase his son had placed on the floor. ‘What’s in there, mate?’
Caitlin climbed off the bed. ‘I’ll unpack it for you, Daddy.’
She unzipped it and began stacking the items into a chest of drawers next to his bed. A toilet bag for the bathroom—that was so Paula. He hated toilet bags. Useless pieces of junk, right up there with popcorn-makers and antimacassars. He only knew what an antimacassar was due to Paula’s hygiene obsession, when she’d covered their new lounge suite in crisp white squares of linen. There’s no need to protect a sofa, he’d objected. It’s designed to be sat on, dirtied a bit. We could even dirty it together . . .
She’d ignored him, as she usually did.
Caitlin continued unpacking. Some old magazines, an alarm clock—what the hell would he do with that in here? Paula’s favourite muesli bars—the healthy ones that looked like dog turds—and a packet of disinfecting wipes. This is a hospital, he thought, they keep things clean in here. But Paula always insisted on carrying those wipes everywhere. Just like she kept her spices alphabetised in the pantry, changed the bath towels thrice weekly and liked to colour-code her Tupperware. She was the sort of woman who climbed out of bed and straight into the shower after lovemaking, to eradicate all signs of human contact. But Hamish was different: he’d happily lie in the wet patch, relishing the post-coital stickiness. Inhaling the lingering sweet and sour odour that told him he was alive.
‘That’s it.’ Caitlin held up the empty bag. ‘Do you need anything else, Daddy?’
Hamish tried to hoist himself up onto one elbow. Pain ricocheted through his left knee and the room sw
ayed before his eyes. He heard himself moaning; a dull, distant sound, like a patient in another ward.
‘You okay, Dad?’ It was Lachie’s voice, deeper now than it used to be.
‘Yes, mate,’ he said. ‘Did you bring my phone?’
Lachlan and Caitlin looked at one another.
‘Mum said she’d bring it later,’ said Caitlin.
‘What about my laptop?’
‘That too,’ said Lachie. ‘She said you need to rest.’
Treating me like a third child, Hamish thought. No respect for my wishes.
Hamish stared at the television suspended above his bed, a screen too small to watch.
‘I brought you a newspaper.’ Old Sid placed a copy of the Herald Sun on his tray table. ‘Mind if I keep this?’ He was holding the six-page racing guide.
‘Be my guest.’ Horses held no interest for Hamish. ‘You ever actually going to have a flutter, Sid?’ he asked. ‘It’s un-Australian not to.’
‘The fun’s in the picking,’ said Sid. ‘I got a trifecta at Caulfield yesterday.’
Hamish closed his eyes, suddenly tired again.
Bugger this accident, he thought. I can’t afford any down time.
‘Excuse me.’ He opened his eyes to find the Asian nurse next to his bed, looking at his family.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Visiting hours don’t start until eleven o’clock. You’re going to have to come back later.’
My saviour, Hamish thought. He’d had enough, even of his kids.
He rolled his eyes at Sid, pretending to give a shit. Then he yawned, causing an oxygen prong to pop out of his nose.
The nurse fussed over him, inserting the prong back into his nostril. As she did, he caught a glimpse of white lace through the buttons of her navy tunic. His dick moved involuntarily under his hospital gown.
Thank God for that, Hamish thought. My knee’s trashed, but my vitals are still working.
‘Daddy’s tired,’ said Caitlin, patting his arm. ‘We’ll come back later.’ ‘Okay, honey,’ he said. He lifted a hand at Sid and Lachie, then blew a kiss at Catie.
Wife on the Run Page 3