by Brown, Honey
‘Nadine frightened him.’
Bonita started laughing. ‘She really did.’
‘You’d have thought I’d taken his balloons and given them to the kid without the red hair and freckles. I had to tell him we weren’t complaining. I said we were talking to you and you mentioned his name. Then I said … I didn’t know the two of you were having an affair. I was joking! It was funny.’
‘It wasn’t funny.’
‘Then he really did look like I’d stolen his balloons.’
‘He’s too young,’ Bonita said, screwing up her nose.
‘After a bit of confusion,’ Nadine said, ‘he explained he was a tenant of yours, and —’
‘They were being stupid,’ Jem interrupted. ‘I told Nadine it was unprofessional, for you. You like to keep your distance from your tenants. She was carrying on and made it sound like you talked about him all the time.’
‘No one can take a joke any more! I was maybe too loud. I may or may not have said, Don’t worry, Trudy has a policy to only sleep with the tenants who request it on the lease.’ She laughed and slapped the table. ‘I was trying to get him to smile. God … I’d had some wine, shoot me.’
‘The poor guy had been out there roasting duck,’ Bonita said, ‘and then he’s sent out here, to Nadine shouting and flirting and falling out of her top and saying his landlord sleeps with all her tenants and he’s next in line. And look how gorgeous you look; he probably does want to fuck your brains out.’
Nadine snorted happily.
‘Shh, stop it, both of you. It’s terrible,’ Jem said. ‘You stir up trouble. You forget what it’s like to be married. She’ll have to tell Bruce.’
‘Oh, boo-hoo.’ Nadine stuck out her tongue.
‘Are you all right?’ Megan said to me. ‘It wasn’t as bad as they’re making out. He could see they were being stupid.’
‘Look at her,’ Jem said. ‘You’ve upset her …’
‘I’m not upset.’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not.’
I was.
I told them I had a virus. That was why I was bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, and why I’d lost weight. I wasn’t feeling myself. I wouldn’t be staying long. The virus was one of those new-school ones that hung around for weeks. I must have caught it while away.
‘How was your trip?’
‘It was fine.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere really.’
‘Don’t tell Bruce I made you cry, ‘Nadine said. ‘I’ll be blacklisted. What am I talking about? I’m already blacklisted.’
‘It’s irresponsible,’ Jem lectured her. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing that starts trouble in marriages. And you shouldn’t ask her to keep it from Bruce. She should tell him. That’s what married couples do. They talk to one another.’
Nadine took a swig of wine. ‘Thought we’d banned passive-aggressive talk.’
‘That’s me being openly aggressive.’
‘Now, children, down,’ Bonita said.
A virus. A mugging. Stress at work. I was turning out to be an inconsistent liar. The stories converged on me. Home beckoned as the only safe place to be. Bruce beckoned as the only safe person to be with. My stomach rumbled. My hands trembled with hunger. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a proper meal. The thought of eating here made me nauseous. There were people I knew at the bar. A couple of school mums were at the till paying their bill. A plate of food appeared in front of me. Nadine took the wedge of lemon from the side of the plate and squeezed it over the vegetables.
‘Order something else if you like. Have this as a starter. It’s yummy. I had it.’
A ‘warm salad of autumn vegetables’ had been placed between my knife and fork. Marinated feta sprinkled over roasted pumpkin, red onion, mushrooms and zucchini, seasoned with chilli flakes and oregano. Nadine took a piece of pumpkin from the plate and ate it. Red wine was poured into my glass, and pushed into my hand.
‘Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall endure the wrath of Bruce.’
Nadine had a not-so-secret crush on my husband. She brought him up at every girls’ get-together, gushed in his presence, and her ears pricked up at any mention of his name. It was hard to be open with her because of this. How could I confide in her? She might see any weakness as a door left ajar, a gap for her to slide through.
The legs of the chair screeched on the floor as I pushed back from the table.
‘I’m just going to make a phone call. I’ll be back in a minute.’
The lobby had also had a facelift. There were geometrical shapes where the round shapes used to be. Small triangle couches had been placed in private corners. White studded leather boxes served as seats, tables or low partitions, depending how they’d been arranged. I sat down on a leather box by the window and called Bruce. The gutter outside was filled with fallen leaves. Across from me in the lobby was a man in jeans and a sports jacket. He had dark hair, a small face and wire-rimmed glasses. His legs were crossed and a newspaper was folded on his knee.
A recorded message informed me Bruce was already on the phone.
With the girls, I texted. Not going great. I can get kids if you want me to? Miss you.
I sent the text and sat waiting for his reply. The man in the sports jacket was facing the window. He had a phone in his hand and was flicking his thumb repetitively across the screen. I must have been staring, because he turned and gave me a strange look.
A noise to the right startled me. Finn had come out from the kitchen. For a moment I didn’t recognise him. Black made him look slimmer and gave him some authority. The cap hid most of his hair and freckled face. He had a docket in his hand and his chest rose and fell.
‘I saw you get up and go,’ he said, out of breath. ‘I thought you were leaving.’ He glanced at the man.
‘I’m about to go,’ I said.
‘I wanted to catch you before you left.’
‘Sorry about what my friends said.’
‘It seems we’re having an affair,’ he said, and blushed.
The woman at the reception desk looked over. A member of the kitchen staff blushing, talking about affairs, and breathing heavily in the lobby was not adding to the hotel ambience.
‘Come back in,’ Finn said. ‘You haven’t finished your meal. I was going to make you a special dessert. I thought I’d do a little bit of everything for you and your friends. As long as that’s all right? On the house.’
‘I wasn’t going to stay for dessert.’
‘Please,’ he said, and he tried his sulky expression on me.
Returning to the table I was jittery, not holding eye contact, gripping my phone, talking about how Bruce was picking up the children and how I’d wanted to make sure he had it clear.
‘I have to go soon …’ I murmured.
Jem was silent, stirring her coffee. The other three were discussing if Bonita had drunk too much wine to drive.
‘We’ll all stop drinking now,’ Nadine said, and placed her hand over her glass, ‘and we’ll be right in an hour. Finish what’s in your glass. Then that’s it. Hide that bottle. Get the waitress to take it away.’
‘I’m not going to be right in an hour,’ Bonita said.
I pushed my meal into the centre of the table. ‘The waitress can take that too.’
‘Jem went out looking for you and couldn’t find you,’ Megan said.
‘I was in the toilet.’
Jem ran the curved underside of her teaspoon around the rim of her cup. My other friends were inebriated enough and distracted enough for her to get away with saying, ‘I did see you, Trudy, out in the lobby, talking to someone …’
She glanced up at me. I could see what she was thinking, and that she was disappointed. Of all her friends I was meant to be the one to look beyond the hard work of marriage and stay true to the goal – lasting love. Jem and I were ‘stayers’, that was what set us apart from the pack. If I was cheating on my
husband, I was breaking our unspoken pact.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I told her. ‘We’re just friends.’
How I thought this clichéd statement would be enough to reassure her was proof of how low on commonsense I was.
The waitress came to the table and began clearing it.
‘Finn is sending something special out for you ladies.’
‘Well, well,’ Nadine murmured into her wine, ‘I do smell a rat …’
15
It was four o’clock before I got home. Summer was in the kitchen making rabbit ragout. A pile of sinew and gristle was beside the boning knife on the chopping board. The rabbit pieces had been browned and put to one side. Summer was now softening celery and onions and carrots in a pan. In the laundry, a bridle was missing from a hook, the back veranda was clear of a saddle, and one horse was missing from the paddock. Upstairs, Steven’s bedroom door was closed and I could hear him laughing, the low chuckle that accompanied his online actions. Something funny had been said to him over MSN, or he’d read an amusing Facebook update. His bed squeaked with movement.
I had to hunt Bruce down. I found him after five minutes of searching. He was in the orchard, between the fruit trees. When I saw him I stopped and watched for a moment, to see what he was doing. His legs were parted, his head was straight; he was motionless, not looking at anything in particular. When he saw me, he watched me come towards him with a steady, unsettling gaze.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘I’ve been threatened with an Apprehended Violence Order.’ Bruce wouldn’t leave the orchard. He stared at the fruit trees, the leaves, the spoilt oranges and lemons on the ground.
‘Do you remember I wanted to build a dry-stone fence?’ he said. ‘Before we slowed on the road, I said that to you – do you remember? Around here.’ And he pointed to the orchard’s boundaries. ‘I’ve got the rocks. Even before we went away I had it in my head to stop and look at those stone walls. I didn’t get to see them. I still haven’t looked properly at those walls. I was that close,’ he showed me how close with his thumb and forefinger, ‘that close to suggesting we put the holiday off until after we finished Cove Street. But I really wanted to look at those walls. I went on that holiday because I wanted to build a fucking wall.’
‘Come inside.’
‘I will burn these fruit trees if this isn’t worked out. I will set them alight and fucking burn them. Can you believe it? I’m the one to be watched? I’m dangerous? Shouldn’t I be the one taking out an AVO? I made one phone call. He got rid of the body of a man who tried to kill us. Can no one see the fucking anomaly there?’
‘Bruce. Come inside.’
‘They’re trying to make me look like the crazy one. I did the right thing – I rang and told Damien what I knew. And he got straight on the phone and told Guy Grant!’
‘He probably has to.’
‘ “Might”, “allegedly”; that’s how Damien talks about our attack. He blew off all my suspicions about what had happened at Cove Street. He doesn’t take me seriously.’
‘What made you call him?’
‘Because we need to do something!’
‘Come inside.’
‘Damien said I should take it seriously – me? If I do anything more I’ll be served with a notice, summonsed to court and any firearms will be taken off me. He asked if I had any firearms.’ Bruce pointed to his chest. ‘Have I got any firearms? No, but right now I wish I fucking did have!’ He walked a few steps, stopped, clenched his fists and braced his body in frustration, riling against the invisible opponent. ‘Fuck!’ he said.
My email inbox had two new messages, one from Finn and one from Jem.
Finn had written: Trudy, hope you liked the BIG dessert plate. Did your friends enjoy it? It was lovely seeing you today. Your chef tenant, Finn.
Jem had written: Will you be in at the office tomorrow, around 10? I’ll drop by xx
Bruce came into the study. ‘I’m going to ring Guy Grant.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I have to ring him. I’ll know by talking to him if he’s involved.’
‘How will you know that?’
My tone pushed Bruce out of the study. He backed away. His reaction was the same as mine when he’d asked me what I’d told my mother, although this was a more extreme version.
‘Would you please not talk to me like that?’ he said from the doorway. ‘Don’t you start questioning me. You’re the only one who knows we’re not crazy. Why do I feel like no one is on my side with this? Not even you.’ He turned and left.
He returned a few seconds later and stood agitated against the wall. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just not really sure how I’m expected to deal with knowing that there is a man out there who probably wants us dead and all the police can think to do about it is threaten me.’
‘It is the police you’re angry with,’ I said. ‘It’s like they will only investigate something if it’s by the book – there’s the dead body and there’s a guy holding a gun … Oh, yeah, I get it – the dead guy was shot by the guy holding the gun. It’s only in the movies the police track down killers. That’s how it seems to me. But, Bruce, you can’t go off like some vigilante. You can’t fix it on your own. Maybe it’s not something we’ll ever understand. How can you understand something like this? Even if Reuben was alive, convicted and in jail, we probably still wouldn’t understand why he did it. I think you’re searching for something that’s impossible to find.’
‘I know why he did it,’ Bruce stated. ‘Because he wanted to, because he could.’ He waved his hand to indicate that these questions weren’t what lingered in his mind. ‘What I want is to know what Guy Grant is going to do to us next. He’s not going to forget us. Eventually, whoever Reuben was, he’s going to be at least listed as missing. What then? What happens when we see his face on the news? What are the cops going to say then? Here’s a man, exactly as we described him, missing. You know what I think? I think it’ll come out who he was. And it will also come out that he and Guy Grant were together.’ Bruce twisted his two fingers, demonstrating the two men intertwined. ‘That’s what I think. And do the police ignore that? Do we shut up and take that too? Or will Guy Grant want us quiet before then, deemed mental?’
‘Don’t give him that. Step back. You can’t ring him. You know he’s not going to talk to you. What if he does? What if you find out he is definitely involved? How does that change anything? It doesn’t make anything easier. Are you going to find out his address? Hang around his house? Stalk him …’
Saying this triggered a thought in me. My mind veered and did a speedy U-turn. I remembered the man in the lobby at the Four Seasons Inn. He’d had dark hair, a small head and wire-rimmed glasses. The sports jacket he’d been wearing fitted perfectly across his shoulders, the soles of his shoes were un-scuffed. His thumbnail, flicking across the phone, was manicured. I’d looked right at him, and I hadn’t seen it … I saw it now.
The man in the lobby had been Guy Grant.
‘The police should be doing it!’ Bruce was saying. ‘They should be able to see that we’re a ticking time bomb to this man! Our whole family is in danger. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?’
I took a breath. My chest expanded as my lungs filled with air. Before saying anything though, I had to check my facts. I’d learnt that much.
Summer called that dinner was on the table. Alone in the study, I googled Guy Grant. I enlarged a photo of his face. But I needed to see him in glasses and in profile. I scrolled down and went to the footage of him – the unguarded moment, where he rubbed his eyes. The play button for the video clip was hard to click on because I was shaking so much. In the video he was wearing a sports jacket and jeans.
My hand rested at the base of my neck. I felt my pulse beneath my fingers. The man in the lobby had been Guy Grant. I should’ve guessed it by his aura alone. Wealthy people had a spark and glimmer to them, and the super rich had a golden glow. He’d emitted that gol
den quality; he’d not been an attractive man, but something made you look. The way he sat, the clean lines of him, there was money in the way his hair was cut and the way the paper was folded on his knee. Or was I imagining it? Did all nicely dressed men with dark hair and glasses look the same?
‘Come on, Mum!’ Summer was calling.
I racked my brain, trying to remember if he’d been in the restaurant. Had he been sitting alone at a table? Did I remember him standing by the bar?
‘Mum, are you coming?’
Summer was in the hallway, approaching. I had no time to think.
I closed the computer. If it was Guy Grant, how could he have known I would be at the restaurant? He couldn’t have. That was the simple answer. That was the truth. It couldn’t have been him. My eyes moved away from the screen and searched empty space beside it.
We sat down as a family and ate Summer’s rabbit ragout. Steven and Renee had a homework book open between them. Steven was tutoring his sister.
‘This always comes first,’ he was saying with a pencil poised above the page. ‘You’ve mixed up those two symbols here.’
Renee eyed the page with a look of consternation. Her knuckles were pressed to her lips and her body twisted in the chair. She reminded me of her father, the way problem-solving caused a physical reaction in her.
‘Dad, do you like the pappardelle pasta?’ Summer said.
I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye.
‘Mum, have you signed the forms I gave you from school?’
‘I will.’
After dinner Bruce went to the study and I watched TV in the lounge room. I stared blankly at the screen. Summer was lying on her stomach on the rug. She was writing out her restaurant menu. There were cookbooks open all around her. As she wrote, the tabby cat kept batting at the pen. On the TV was one of those formulaic US crime shows. The cops were investigating a paedophile priest’s apparent suicide – had he killed himself due to the shame of being outed as a monster, or had an old victim returned and put a bullet in his head?
I almost got to my feet, ready to walk into the study and tell Bruce I might have seen Guy Grant. I knew, though, that Bruce wouldn’t hear the word ‘might’. No matter how I put it, it would be as good as going in there and telling him Guy Grant was in Delaney stalking us. How would my husband react to that? What would he do, before we even had a chance to check the facts?