‘I should have known those words would come back to bite me on the bum,’ Gemma grumbled.
She’d met Charlie in the lift on the way out and had been recounting the whole episode till they got to the ground floor and walked out of the building. They started down the street together. Gemma pulled her coat around her but it didn’t quite meet. They were walking directly into a stiff wintry breeze, and she felt cold and uncomfortable and cranky.
‘Maybe I should just quit.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But then what would I do, Charlie?’ she implored. ‘I can’t raise a child without an income, and I couldn’t get another job now, at this late stage. Besides, I’ve burned too many bridges in the past, my résumé is like Swiss cheese there’s so many holes in it, and if I leave this job without an explanation . . .’ Gemma came to an abrupt halt, overwhelmed by her own predicament.
‘So I guess you’d better stick it out then,’ said Charlie.
‘But I hate it,’ she whined. ‘It’s so boring. And he’s such a pig.’
‘So leave.’
‘Char-lie!’
‘Gem-ma!’ he retorted. ‘What do you want me to say? Okay, I get it: you can’t stand your boss, you hate your job, but unfortunately you need it. You think you’re the only person who’s ever had to put up with a boss they didn’t like, or a job they hated? People do it all the time.’
Gemma pouted. ‘I didn’t ever want to be one of those people.’
‘Welcome to the real world, baby.’
She frowned at him. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. ‘It just gets a little frustrating after a while, this broken-record routine of yours, Gem. The MD’s not the villain here; he made it crystal clear to you what he expected from the start. He was honest. Stop trying to find someone else to blame for the mess you’re in. The fact is, you made a whopping omission to get a job you didn’t really want. What did you think was going to happen? That it would all magically sort itself out?’
Gemma hated it when people made perfect sense like that. Charlie did it all the time, so did Phoebe. And Helen was developing an annoying tendency that way as well.
‘Yeah, well, it will all be sorted soon enough,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m going to lose the job when I can’t hide the pregnancy any longer.’
‘Probably.’
‘Charlie!’
‘I’m just calling it like I see it, Gem,’ he declared.
‘Well, I wish you’d stop doing that.’
‘So you want me to say everything’s going to be all right? That when the MD finds out you’re pregnant, he’ll grant you paid leave, find a temporary replacement and welcome you back in a few months after he’s set up a crèche for the baby?’
But Gemma had stopped listening halfway through. ‘That’s what I need, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What? A crèche?’
‘A replacement. If I have someone all lined up to take over, then he can’t complain –’
‘He can if he wants to,’ said Charlie. ‘What if he doesn’t like your replacement?’
Now Gemma was getting frustrated. ‘Charlie, I’m just trying to come up with a solution here. You said I should stop expecting everything to sort itself out.’
‘Okay, fair call. Where are you going to find this replacement?’
‘I’ll talk to Kelly in HR.’
‘She can’t do anything without his say-so, you realise.’
Charlie was right. ‘I know. I could go to the temp agency I used to work for when I first came to Bailey’s. Actually, I have a pretty good reputation with them. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Once again, you can’t line up a temp to take your place, Gem, it all has to go through the proper channels.’
‘I hate that expression,’ Gemma grumbled. They came to the intersection where they would have to part ways. ‘Hey, do you want to go and get a drink? Something to eat?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Sorry, I can’t,’ said Charlie.
Gemma looked at him. ‘You’re seeing Brittany?’
He nodded. ‘As a matter of fact . . .’
‘When am I going to get to meet her?’
‘Oh,’ he said, considering it. ‘I was thinking around the twelfth.’
‘The twelfth of what?’
‘Of never.’
She pulled a face. ‘Do the lame jokes work with Brittie?’
‘Don’t call her that.’ The lights changed on the intersection. ‘Ah, there’s my cue, gotta run.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘Oh, come on, Charlie, let me meet her.’
‘Not going to happen, Gem.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’d chew her up and spit her out for breakfast.’
Gemma was indignant. ‘What do you mean by that? I’m a nice person.’
‘When you want to be.’
Gemma looked up at him; she hoped he could see the hurt in her eyes. She was trying very hard to make it obvious.
He sighed. The lights changed again and he drew Gemma away from the throng on the corner. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Brittany’s a very sweet girl. She’s not used to people like you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? If you’re trying to offend me, Charlie, you’ve succeeded. In fact, look over your shoulder, you crossed that line back on the twelfth of never.’
‘I wasn’t trying to offend you, Gem,’ he said. ‘Hey, Gem? Look at me . . . Gem?’
But she couldn’t look at him. She was trying to blink back these bloody tears that were welling up in her eyes. Damn, damn, damn, she had no control of her bodily functions any more. She was always leaking from some place or other.
She felt Charlie’s hand under her chin, lifting it so she had to look at him. ‘Gemma,’ he chided. ‘You’re not –’
‘No, I’m not,’ she sniffed, shrugging him off and wiping her eyes. ‘It’s just the pregnancy, okay? It happens for no reason at all.’
‘Okay,’ he agreed, watching her doubtfully.
‘Your light’s green,’ she said, pointing back to the intersection.
‘It’s all right, I can wait –’
‘Go,’ she insisted. ‘I’m going to miss my bus anyway.’ She took a couple of steps away from him.
Charlie stood where he was, still watching her.
‘Bye Charlie. Have a good night,’ she said as she turned and headed down the street away from him. Alone.
*
Balmain
Gemma was dreaming she was a teenage girl again. Lying asleep in her bedroom, gradually coming to consciousness to the sound of her parents’ voices. Often they were talking about her – if either of them knew what time she’d got in the previous night, if they suspected she’d been drinking, how they should handle it this time, should they bring it up, or should they just let it go, seeing as she had actually come home, after all.
Gemma’s favourite tactic was to pretend to be sick; actually, she didn’t have to pretend all that often. Her parents could never bring themselves to punish her when she was sick, even if it was self-inflicted. In fact, they usually started to fuss over her, mixing up Berocca, making coffee, preparing a hangover breakfast if they were feeling particularly benevolent.
But her parents didn’t seem to be talking about her this morning. Their voices were raised, polite, exaggerated . . . ‘What a lovely home!’
Gemma blinked a couple of times, bringing herself back to consciousness, back to the present. She stared up at the ceiling. There was the hippo, the little bird on its nose. She was in her bedroom in Balmain. So who did those voices belong to?
She dragged herself out of bed and wrapped her robe haphazardly around her as she stumbled out into the hall and wandered through the house towards the voices, like a child following the Pied Piper’s tune. She couldn’t still be dreaming, surely? She arrived at the entrance to the back room. There was Helen, in conversation with two figures whose backs were to Gemma, a man and a woman. But Gemma knew exactl
y who they were, and before she could stop herself she let out an involuntary gasp.
Helen looked up. ‘Gemma?’
The two figures turned around and the man said, ‘Gemma?’
The woman just screamed. ‘GEMMA!’
‘Gem-ma,’ the man repeated warmly, raising his arms towards her.
‘Gemma?’ said Helen again, clearly confused.
Just then Noah ran into the room from the kitchen, obviously startled by the commotion. ‘Whata matta, Gemma?’ he cried, his eyes wide, looking from face to face.
‘It’s all right, Noah,’ said Helen, scooping him up onto her hip.
‘Did Phee tip you off?’ said Gemma once she’d composed herself.
‘Phoebe knows you’re back?’ said the woman.
Now Gemma was mystified. If Phoebe didn’t tell them, then . . . ‘How did you find out where I was staying?’
‘We didn’t,’ the woman said breathlessly. ‘We came for the Bakelite.’
Shit. She should have known. Like bees to honey. But it was only in the local paper. ‘Do you read the Village Voice these days?’
‘No,’ said the man. ‘We found this terrific site online that links collectors to auctions and sales advertised in all the local papers.’
Damned internet had a lot to answer for.
‘This is some coincidence,’ he went on, his voice giddy with emotion. ‘What are the chances?’
Seven hundred fucking billion to one, knowing Gemma’s luck. But this had nothing to do with luck. Gemma should have known, should have realised. She should have left the damn Bakelite out of it.
‘Gemma?’ said Helen. She was still standing behind the man and the woman, who were gradually inching themselves closer to Gemma, preparing to pounce. Helen looked confounded, not surprisingly.
Gemma cleared her throat. ‘Helen,’ she began. The man and the woman turned around then to look at Helen. ‘These are my parents, Gary and Trish Atkinson.’
They were already veering back towards Helen. Noah buried his face in her shoulder.
‘Helen, it’s so nice to meet you.’
‘We haven’t met you before now, have we?’
‘I’m usually good with faces.’
‘No you’re not, Gary, but I don’t remember you either, darling. Are you and Gemma old friends?’
‘I’m pretty good with faces –’
Helen was trying to get a word in edgeways, but she didn’t have a hope.
‘You’ve never met Helen before,’ Gemma said loudly to get their attention.
They both stopped, turning around to look at her again.
‘What’s going on, Gemstone?’ her father asked, clearly bewildered, like everyone else in the room.
‘What are you doing here? And is, um, is Luke around?’ added Trish, glancing over Gemma’s shoulder as though he might materialise behind her.
Gemma sighed. She wasn’t going to get out of having the dreaded conversation. Unless . . .
‘No, Luke isn’t here,’ she said flatly. ‘I left him in Brisbane.’ That was sort of the truth. It was the last place she had seen him anyway.
‘When did you come back to Sydney?’ said Gary, a hurt waver in his voice.
Be vague. ‘Oh, just a little while ago,’ Gemma shrugged.
‘Why didn’t you let us know?’ asked Trish, the hurt in her voice gaining the sharp edge of accusation.
Gemma looked from her mother to her father to Helen; Helen looked from Gemma to her father to her mother, and back to Gemma again. Her parents looked at each other, then at Helen, then at Gemma.
Which meant everyone was looking at Gemma, waiting for an answer.
A couple of loud knocks sounded from the front of the house. Gemma breathed out.
‘Oh, that’s my next appointment,’ said Helen, looking apologetic.
‘You’re going to have to go,’ said Gemma to her parents.
They began to protest, as more knocks were heard, and Helen finally spoke over the top of them all.
‘Gemma, just take them into the kitchen,’ she suggested. ‘Quickly.’
‘Don’t sell the Bakelite, dear,’ Trish called as Helen hurried up the hall, Noah trailing behind her. He was clearly not about to hang back with the crazy people.
Gemma herded her parents into the kitchen and closed the door.
‘So how do you know Helen?’ Gary asked.
‘I answered an ad in the paper,’ said Gemma as she went to fill the kettle. ‘She had a room for rent.’
‘There’s no husband on the scene?’ Trish asked.
Gemma groaned inwardly. It didn’t take her mother long to start making judgements. This would show her.
‘Helen’s husband died,’ Gemma said, in a low voice.
They both looked aghast.
‘She’s so young; was he a lot older than her?’ Trish asked, already salivating over the details.
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about that now, do you, Mum?’ said Gemma, her eyes shifting towards the door and then back to them.
‘Of course, you’re right, darling,’ Trish replied, suitably chastened, but no doubt mentally making a note to find out the whole story at the soonest available opportunity.
‘So you’re renting a room here?’ her father said.
Gemma calmly plugged in the kettle and flicked it on. ‘That’s right.’
Wait for it . . . tick, tick . . .
‘We have plenty of rooms at home, darling,’ said Trish, her lip trembling ever so slightly. ‘Empty rooms, just sitting there. But apparently you’d prefer to stay with a complete stranger, and give her your money, when you could stay with your own family, who love you, and who would never take a cent off you.’
‘Mum, have you forgotten that I haven’t lived at home since I was a teenager?’ Gemma leaned back against the kitchen bench and her robe fell open.
‘Oh . . . my . . . God,’ her mother said slowly, for maximum dramatic impact. She was staring straight at Gemma’s bump. The thin singlet she wore as a pyjama top barely reached her navel. Gemma grabbed the edges of her robe and wrapped it around herself again.
‘What is it, Trish?’ said her father, urgently. ‘What’s the matter?’
Trish reached for the table to steady herself; she was clearly going to wring every ounce of melodrama out of the situation. ‘I think you’d better ask your daughter that, Gary,’ she said ominously.
He looked at Gemma, completely perplexed. ‘Gemstone?’
Gemma sighed loudly. ‘Okay, you had to find out sometime, so I guess this is it. Mum, Dad, I’m pregnant. And before you start –’ she added, holding her hand up ‘– remember I’m a grown woman, I’m not a teenager. So don’t talk to me like I’m a teenager, don’t treat me like I’m a teenager.’
They were both staring at her, carefully contemplating their next words.
‘It is Luke’s?’ her mother ventured after a while.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘But he’s still in Brisbane?’
‘I don’t know where he is now.’ Gemma was beginning to feel quite in charge of the situation. ‘But I decided he wasn’t good enough to be the father of my baby.’ Which was entirely true. After he had walked out on her, she was absolutely convinced he wasn’t good enough.
‘Well, I could have told you that,’ tsked Trish.
‘I believe you did, Mum, a number of times.’
‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell us you were here in Sydney,’ Trish persisted. ‘We’re your family, Gemma; who else but family is going to help you through this?’
Gemma turned to get cups from the cupboard. ‘Like I said, I’m a grown woman, I can take care of myself.’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion,’ said Trish. ‘You don’t have a great track record, let’s face it, Gemma, and now with a baby on the way you’re going to need us more than ever . . .’ Her voice trailed off as Gemma turned around and folded her arms, giving her mother a baleful look.
&nb
sp; ‘This is exactly why I haven’t been in touch,’ Gemma said tetchily.
There was a pregnant pause, appropriately enough.
‘She’s right, Trish,’ said her father, resting his hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘You know what the book said.’
Trish nodded sagely.
‘What book?’ asked Gemma.
‘Helicopter Parenting,’ said Trish.
‘About parents who hover,’ Gary added.
Good lord.
‘The thing is, is this what you want, Gemstone?’ her father asked.
Gemma shrugged. ‘I didn’t exactly choose it, Dad.’
‘But are you happy?’
How was she supposed to answer that? ‘The jury’s still out on that one too, I’m afraid.’
Her father looked a little bemused, but he came towards her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Well, congratulations, Gemma.’
She felt a slight lump in her throat. That was the first time anyone had offered her congratulations.
‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Am I at least allowed to ask after your health?’ said Trish, still clinging to what remained of her righteous indignation. ‘You look a little tired to me, Gemma.’
‘I just got out of bed, Mum.’
‘And what are you doing for money?’
‘Working,’ said Gemma, meeting her righteous indignation and raising it.
‘Oh, Gemma,’ Trish sighed. ‘You can’t be waitressing or working behind a bar in your condition –’
‘I’m not. I’m back at Bailey’s actually. Personal assistant to the managing director.’
Her mother had nothing to say to that, apparently.
‘Well, that’s great, love,’ said Gary. ‘Isn’t that great, Trish?’ he added, putting his arm around his wife and giving her a squeeze. ‘They were prepared to take her back, pregnant and all.’ He looked at Gemma. ‘You must have done the right thing by them in the past.’
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