‘Turn that music down, Amber. The entire neighbourhood does not want to listen to that noise.’
‘Sure, Dad,’ Amber yelled back, nudging the volume up a notch, her hips gyrating to the Michael Jackson song—her theme song—BAD. Then she adjusted her shoulder pads, smacked her lips together and wedged the lip gloss in the pocket of her latest acid-wash jeans.
Now she had to hope her meeting up with Sara and that stupid banner idea of Poppy’s would not ruin her outfit.
That day’s combination of sweltering summer temperatures, the liquor-laced punch and the emotional fallout from Willow’s accident ended with Amber passing out drunk and Jack Bailey declaring rape.
It wasn’t rape—not really. That was her first lie. It wasn’t even Amber’s first time, not that she told her father that either. The boys, members of the local football team and their mates, were all older and most had consumed too much beer even before word spread about the punch. If she’d been able to sneak back into the house undetected her father would never have questioned her, and Amber would not have said the first thing that came to her lips. But both her mother and father were still awake, propped up in the living room, her mother crying drunk and nursing a bruised face from yet another fall. Amber’s own appearance—the dishevelled hair, the makeup smeared face—left her no choice, no other way to explain to her father how his perfect princess had ended up in such a state. She couldn’t tell him the truth: that she’d purposely got herself drunk after Poppy and Caitlin had given her a hard time about ditching Willow earlier in the day. Booze always seemed to successfully dull her mother’s anguish. Why not Amber’s?
Even after the alcoholic haze had cleared and Amber remembered the truth—how she’d ended up in the back of a panel van—it was too late. The damage had been done, the entire Calingarry Crossing football team named and shamed, some charged with supplying alcohol and spiking the punch, others warned. Police were called, allegations made and Amber’s one small lie became the biggest scandal. When Jack had pressed Amber for a name, swearing, ‘I’ll make the bastard marry you,’ she’d blurted the first name she could think of, the only boy she had any time for out of the pack of brainless jocks who made up the Calingarry Crossing football team.
Will Travelli.
Under pressure from Sara and Caitlin, Amber tried to change her story the next day, but her father refused to listen. He’d already made up both his mind and a plan.
Willow’s death that day, and the subsequent police investigation, consumed the town for weeks. Only as things started returning to normal did Amber discover she was pregnant. Within the confines of the family home, Jack’s anger and disappointment shifted easily from his daughter to his wife, pointing the finger at Cheryl for influencing her daughter and supplying her with the alcohol. Publicly, Amber could do no wrong according to Jack Bailey, and he made certain the rest of Calingarry Crossing knew his daughter had been the victim of a drunken mother, a degenerate football team, and the irresponsible reprobate Will Travelli.
He made no formal complaint, not wanting to test his daughter’s story. Amber’s father knew he only had to plant the seed and add a little manure—something there was plenty of in these parts—for townsfolk to concoct their own version of events. And rather than Amber or her father using the truth to put a stop to any of the resulting rumours, the pair left town.
One more wrong that Amber had hoped to put right by returning to Calingarry Crossing.
33
Amber groaned as the jagged pain of a blunt hacksaw carved through her skull. The headache was the only thing keeping her tucked under the bedcovers, resisting the desire to crawl back to that comfy, non-confrontational place—Sydney. For all her bravado, Amber did not do confrontation well.
Despite all evidence to the contrary last night!
Discarding the bedcovers, she threw on a robe and padded down the cold wooden floor of the hallway, stepping over a chunk of ceramic she’d missed in her clean-up last night. She hadn’t missed the contempt on Cheryl’s face, though. Returning to Calingarry Crossing was supposed to help Amber reconnect with her mother. Last night’s dinner had not only failed to bring them any closer; harsh words and years of pent-up emotion had driven a bigger wedge between mother and daughter.
In the light of day, Amber knew her outburst had been inappropriate and poorly timed. She had disregarded Cheryl’s feelings, acting like a self-indulgent debutante—one who’s had everything handed to her, who wants for nothing, except maybe a purpose, a reason to get out of bed every day and do more than simply decorate someone else’s life.
‘Time to grow up and stop blaming your mother,’ she said to the puffy-eyed face staring back from the mirror.
All the poor woman had done was fill an aching hole in her heart with a boy called Christopher, and fill a photo frame with another child’s drawing. Who could blame her? Amber sure as hell couldn’t. Didn’t she carry a photo in a frame as a way of patching up her own heartbreak? Amber and her father had blamed Cheryl for ruining their lives. As evidenced in those final stinging words of Cheryl’s before she’d left last night, it was Amber and her father who had done the leaving, walking out of her life without any thought as to how her mother would cope, not then and rarely in the years that followed.
For Amber—or as Jack used to call his daughter back then, the Attention Seeking Missile—there’d been plenty of tears and tantrums as she settled into life in Sydney as a teenage mum. In regard to decision-making, she’d gone along unquestioningly with her father—the only reliable person in her life—first idolising him, only much later seeing the charismatic chameleon for what he was. Even then she gave in to him. Surrendering was always simpler than standing against Jack Bailey. She should know. Amber was the apple of her father’s eye and everyone knows what people say about apples not falling far from the tree. What Amber and Jack still had in common was that what they let people see on the outside was not what they were on the inside; no one expects the shiniest of apples to have the grub.
Despite the dull, lingering ache in her head, Amber’s memory of the previous night was as sharp as the early-morning air. After a bad instant coffee, most of which ended up down the sink, she spent two hours returning telephone messages to cancel regular appointments, send her apologies for lunch dates and say yes to organisations looking for donations. Then there were the charity events and some recurring monthly commitments that she’d felt a little guilty about deserting, even though if she was honest, the group of women involved wouldn’t even notice her missing.
One event couldn’t be ignored. The Second Chance Surgeons Trust was Phillip Blair’s brainchild. The group of Sydney- and Melbourne-based plastic surgeons had been raising money for years—money that gave deformed or disfigured children a second chance for a normal life.
*
‘I hate it,’ Amber said to Phillip one night after dinner. ‘They think I’m too young. They don’t think I’m up to the job. I don’t think I am either.’
‘They’re jealous. You’re young and naturally beautiful. Of course you can do it. You’ll make a great committee chair.’
‘They’re a bunch of bitches.’
‘As long as you don’t tell them that to their face …’ Phillip smiled.
‘Well, they are. They call me Mrs Phillip Blair all the time.’
‘My love, that’s exactly who you are as of … hmm … three years, three months, and about four hours ago.’
‘One told a joke the other day, but I swear to God, Phillip, her face never budges. I can’t tell when she’s smiling or when she’s serious. Don’t laugh.’ Amber punched her husband in the arm and they wrestled together on the bed, their play quickly turning to lovemaking—slow, thoughtful sex, the usual urgency put aside.
She liked that.
Afterwards, her head resting in the crook of her husband’s shoulder, she said, ‘Seriously, Phillip, don’t ever let me end up one of those expressionless Barbie dolls. Promise me?’
&nb
sp; ‘You’ll always be beautiful. You won’t need any help from me. And you’ll knock ’em all dead when they see you in that dress.’
Amber had a new outfit every year, especially for this function, usually provided by an up-and-coming designer who knew Phillip Blair’s lovely young wife would always make it into the social pages.
This year it was a dress from a newly opened store in Paddington, a designer called Collette Dinnigan whose delicate lace designs looked scandalously like lingerie. Perfect shock value making them perfect for Amber.
In a few months they’d begin arriving: a rack of designer outfits delivered to her door. Once chosen and fitted, she’d select something from Phillip’s closet to match, lay out a couple of different ties, and …
‘And nothing!’ Amber muttered, cursing under her breath when she discovered the telephone charger was not in her suitcase. Probably still back on her dresser in Sydney. ‘Damn.’
One long breath in and out, her shoulders rising then falling, as the thought of never having to match Phillip’s outfit to hers again hit her hard in the heart.
‘Do you even have a heart in there?’ she said, tapping her chest, expecting to hear the sound of hail hitting tin. She was leaving him—had left him.
She swore aloud. Not something she did at home in front of the help.
No need to worry about offending anyone out here!
She looked at the phone, on its last bar of battery, and decided on a Don’t bother leaving a message, I’m out of town for a while voicemail recording before turning it off.
Shame life—especially hers right now—didn’t come with such buttons.
One to turn off her mind.
One to fast forward through the day so she could go back to bed.
One to deal with her self-imposed silence and the maddening isolation of the Dandelion House.
Ladies’ luncheons and the myriad social responsibilities back in Sydney might have been repetitive and predictable, but they were at the very least a distraction. She could do with one right now, a project of some kind, something to fill up her days. The interior of the old house could do with a makeover, if only that wasn’t such a waste of her time and money. No developer would see any benefit in retaining the building. Amber’s father had said years ago that the first thing he’d do if he got his hands on the estate was flatten the lot, carve it up into small prestige parcels, and market them as tree-change destinations or hobby farms, the ideal hideaway for the city-weary executive who has everything.
The idea of Jack unaware that his daughter was soon to secure a quarter-share in the place inspired a small, self-satisfied smirk. Selling the estate, Dandelion House in situ or not, would let Amber wield a whip over her father for a change and prove to Phillip and Fiona that she was capable and more than a pretty face. All she had to do was get the other three women to agree selling was the best option.
Okay. With the sprucing up of the buildings off the agenda, that left improving the grounds. But how? She had to do something, or else end up as tortured as the gnarly, woody creeper tangling its way around the railing, downpipes and guttering. Wisteria perhaps? The scattering of petals—now shrivelled lilac blooms blown into the cracks of the veranda—suggested so. Amber could plant flowers. She loved them, the ones regularly delivered to her door by the florist and those the caretaker kept pruned and pest-free at the entrance to their apartment block. But flowers served little purpose here and Amber was tired of things that did little more than decorate a room.
‘A vegetable garden on the other hand …’
She could see three weed-infested garden beds from where she stood on the veranda. There’d be a lot of work getting them prepared for planting, but what the hell. If her mother could garden, so could she. She did like the idea of fresh vegetables, of watching them grow, being responsible for their nurturing. The remains of a cherry tomato crop in autumn suggested anything would grow out here.
Remembering Poppy’s barb that first day in the Madgick boardroom, Amber muttered, ‘We’ll see who’s capable of getting her hands dirty, Ms High ’n’ Mighty Poppy Hamilton.’
Making a note of things she’d need—spades, a wheelbarrow maybe, gloves, a hammer and some nails to fix the wooden garden edging—Amber cleared away the cobwebs covering the larger of the two wooden sheds. What equipment she couldn’t easily put her hands on, she’d buy in town.
‘I can do this,’ she told herself, waving a stick at the cobwebs overhead like a demented Darth Vader.
‘Do what?’
Amber jumped at Christopher’s unexpected arrival in the doorway to the old shed, still astride his bike.
‘You scared me. I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you today.’ She’d fully expected Cheryl to end their arrangement after her tantrum last night.
‘Whatchya doin’?’
‘I’m thinking of planting a few vegetables. Some tomatoes maybe? Do you like tomatoes?’
‘Brussels sprouts,’ Christopher offered.
The answer made Amber laugh. ‘Argh! I hate Brussels sprouts. Don’t tell me you like them.’
‘Not to eat, but I can juggle six of ’em at once.’
Amber grinned. ‘Well, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what else can I plant? Something hardy to survive the winter, I guess.’
‘Why don’t ya ask your mum? She’s grown heaps of stuff, even asparagus.’ Christopher’s face scrunched.
‘What? Asparagus no good?’
‘No way. Looks weird, tastes weirder.’
Amber laughed. ‘I feel the same way about those Brussels sprouts.’
‘Your mum grew ’em. Reckon she’s tried everything. She’ll know what works and what doesn’t. I can help.’
‘Well, before we get too carried away, why don’t we see what’s here in the way of tools. Then we can go to the Stock and General for seedlings.’
‘Crops take a while, specially when you’re planting out of season and if your soil’s no good.’
Christopher bent down and sifted a handful of soil through his fingers. He seemed so mature sometimes. One minute he looked like any other teenager on a dirt bike. The next he was analysing dirt samples with a quick sniff. No wonder Cheryl enjoyed his company. Amber was starting to as well. He was smart and funny and entertaining, a distraction to help fill her days, much like he filled her mother’s. Another penny finally dropped.
‘I can see to the chooks if you like.’
‘Yes. Good idea. I haven’t checked for eggs today.’
‘No worries.’ He grabbed a small bucket from inside the shed door, draped it over his handlebars and mounted his bike.
Having Christopher around, and the idea of working on a project together, even though she wouldn’t be around to see the fruits of their labour, renewed Amber’s enthusiasm. Caitlin would enjoy fresh vegetables. She’d be here in winter. Showing Miss Goody Two Shoes that Amber Bailey was capable of thinking about somebody else was the final decider.
While Amber had mostly got on with Caitlin at school they’d had little in common, the doctor’s daughter far too conscientious and compliant for her liking. While Caitlin didn’t have a bitchy bone in her body, Amber knew she’d blamed her for screwing up that muck-up day. She’d accused Amber of being self-centred. Easy enough to say for the altruistic Caitlin, whose parents redefined perfect parenting. She’d only been a friend of Caitlin’s because Cait was friends with Poppy, who was a friend of Sara’s. And Sara had been a friend of Amber’s since kindergarten, when Cheryl had walked them both to school, making Amber wait on the corner for Sara, even though her tardiness meant a late note for them both.
‘You need to look after Sara,’ Cheryl would tell her, quoting some sort of There but for the grace of God something-or-other line. ‘Remember she didn’t ask for her life to be so hard.’
Those early-morning lectures, when sadness clouded her mother’s eyes—rather than booze—had been the closest Amber felt to her mother. But a pang of jealousy closely followed; Cheryl’s eyes wo
uld brighten the minute Sara turned the corner into Konjulup Road.
Wow. Where the hell did that maternal memory moment come from?
Snagging her trousers on a pile of rusty star pickets, Amber was ready to abort her shed adventure when she spotted something big and yellow shoved on a high shelf towards the back. Squeezing between the stockpile of bulk plastic containers, she reached in, tugged the rope, and the entire roll of vinyl fell to the floor.
Amber gasped, tripped, lost balance and fell back into a stack of hay bales.
‘You all right?’ Christopher asked from the door to the shed.
‘Of course. Fine.’ She regrouped and brushed her clothes, escaping the dusty confines a little breathless and, to her surprise, trembling.
‘Your face is all weird.’
‘It is?’ She fumbled with the bits of straw entangled in her curls.
‘Did you want me get that tarp for you?’
‘No. It’s … I don’t think it is a tarp.’
‘If it’s not a tarp,’ Christopher insisted, ‘what is it?’
‘None of your business. Just leave it,’ Amber snapped, until she saw the hurt look on the boy’s face. ‘It’s nothing, really, just a silly old banner we once used at school. I’m sorry for snapping. We shouldn’t be snooping around. Leave everything where it is. Let’s go.’ She ushered the boy away from the shed.
‘But what about the tools?’
‘I have to go into town and get a few things if we’re to make this garden happen. I’ll just buy what we need. You coming?’
‘Naaaah! I came over to move the sheep to a higher paddock. All the rain would’ve made the ground boggy. They don’t like wet feet.’
‘Should I stay and help?’
Goodness knows what she’d do to help. Amber had never herded anything in her life, unless you counted the Divot Divas: the gang at Phillip’s polo club of a dozen decked-out prima donnas carrying on like teenagers while tamping lumps of turf back into place with their toes.
‘Geez, no! ’Sonly two of ’em.’ He sounded rather amused.
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