by Anne Buist
‘Out of surgery and doing fine.’ Liam looked as if it had been him that was attacked. ‘Thanks for the help. Your friend was brilliant with him.’
Natalie waited, resisting the urge to stroke his cheek, grab his hand and pull him into bed with her.
‘About Tania. We were working. I’d left my phone in the car.’
Natalie shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
She wondered what his sadness was about. James and his current circumstances? Lauren and his fucked marriage? Her and their fucked relationship? Tania and whatever the fuck she’d interrupted? She didn’t trust her judgment on many of these options, but his kids? There, she was one hundred per cent sure. He loved them. And flawed as Liam was, he did his best as a father.
‘James is a really good kid,’ said Liam. ‘I don’t mean he isn’t messing up at the moment, but I think this might really have scared him. He and some mates were in a park drinking and a couple of older guys got stuck into them.’
There was a long silence before she spoke. She didn’t want it to sound like she was being a bitch, but from James’s point of view it was the big question.
‘Why didn’t he go to Lauren?’
Liam rubbed his temples. ‘Lauren’s angry. At me. At men. In general. Right now James seems to be included.’
‘I suggest you both need to pretend I was never the go-between here.’
‘No,’ said Liam, sounding firmer than he had for some time. She closed her eyes. ‘This is about what’s best for the kids,’ he said. ‘Lauren and I need to try to act like adults and keep our stuff out of it. Though I can’t say I know how to manage her side of that interaction, only my own.’
‘When she wants child care, surely she’ll want you onboard?’ asked Natalie.
‘Lauren is brilliant at outsourcing the practical needs. She has her mother if all else fails, but she’ll probably resort to a mix of latchkey parenting and sending me bills for nannies. At one stage when the kids were young, she had two nannies doing alternating shifts.’
‘Because you didn’t pull your weight?’ She didn’t look at him.
‘No, because I did my share hoping she’d meet me halfway. It was pretty hard for her to do that when she was at overseas conferences and meetings. I only ever missed one play Megan was in; she was a tree and I had a murder trial. Lauren missed plays, speech nights, virtually every sports match.’
If Lauren had accepted Liam outsourcing the sex the way she had of her mothering duties, they’d still have been together. They’d been attracted as intellectual equals but led parallel lives. It wasn’t the sort of relationship Natalie wanted. Would she and Liam be capable of something more? At least they had an interest in each other’s work. As well as the sex.
She heard him stand up as he spoke and closed her eyes again, didn’t want to look at him, figured he’d read her stillness for what it was, how she had learnt as a child, to protect herself from her father abandoning her, her mother being emotionally unavailable while dealing with all the shit life generated. No Irish accent was going to overcome a basic survival skill.
He didn’t touch her. Just stood so close she could feel his breath, so close she could smell the smell that she would always know as his, earthy and male, sexy and thick with just the right pheromones because all it made her want to do was drag him to bed.
Liam waited for her to open her eyes and look at him. Then he spoke. Not with the heavy Irish accent he used when he wanted to seduce her and get over her defences—just the natural light tones that only hinted at his origins.
‘Three things. One, up front. Yes, I slept with Tania. Once. After Lauren and I broke up and before you and I started seeing each other again. Not last night. And incidentally, she was the only woman I saw in that time. It was a mistake. Though unfortunately Tania didn’t entirely agree.
‘Two. You weren’t responsible for breaking up my marriage. I was. And so was Lauren. I knew the risk, and honestly? I think she was glad I took it. Gave her an excuse for me to be the bad guy. She’d wanted out for a long time—hasn’t wanted anything from me except keeping up appearances and looking after the children since they started school.
‘And three? I…I’m not happy with what I see in the mirror when I look. I feel torn and can’t ever feel I am being who I want to be because I’m pulled in opposing directions.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Natalie, I am sorry if I am saying this wrong. This emotional chitchat isn’t my thing. But I’m forty-three years old and crazy about someone who, quite frankly, everyone has told me is totally wrong for me. I don’t know how to juggle that, your thing with McBride and my kids, but I’m trying. I want to be there for you, I want there to be an “us”…but I don’t want to get in the way if you want something else.’
He looked at her and in his gaze she saw all the longing that had been there since the first time she’d slept with him. Knew her own longing was just as strong. Doubted the wisdom in it for them both.
If she loved him, really loved him…shouldn’t she put him first? He was trying to do that for her…give her an out, an option of a simpler life with Damian. This wasn’t his child—and by asking Liam to stay with her, he risked losing his kids: their mother was much more likely to poison them against him if Natalie was on the scene. She should know more than anyone how much children needed their father. Then there was the issue of managing life with the bean, dealing with his kids, living arrangements, feeling…pinned down.
‘I don’t know, Liam. I’m not sure what’s best or what I want.’
‘Take your time.’
She turned away, didn’t want him to see the lie, and the tears in her eyes. Her hand went to the bean, who just then gave a kick. As if to remind Natalie that, whether Liam and she acknowledged it or not, she didn’t have that much time.
43
Beverley showed Natalie four wedding invitations. ‘Which do you like best?’
It was easier to go with the flow than to tell her the truth, which was that she didn’t like any of them.
‘This one.’ It had lots of roses on it and Natalie thought it was unlikely anyone under the age of eighty would go for it.
Beverley frowned. ‘I don’t know. A bit too, well, flowery…’
The phone pulled Beverley back to what she was being paid for. ‘It’s for you.’
It was Gaylene Ambrose, Chelsea’s class teacher.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. I was after some advice. About how to handle an episode…Well, how to handle Chelsea really.’
The child who had always been good. Had her oppositional behaviour escalated?
‘I could drop by after school.’
‘Could you? I’ll be in the classroom.’
Natalie was at the school shortly after 4 p.m. Gaylene looked up when she heard the door and smiled.
‘Thanks for coming by. I’ve had one of those days where you want to have a bottle of wine or two after.’
‘Involving Chelsea?’
‘Among others. Do you have time to go the café?’
It was not the café Ted Beahre had taken her to; this one was more glass-fronted displays and bakery goods. They had shut down the coffee-maker but they could do wine—a chardonnay for Gaylene. And a mineral water for Natalie.
‘Look,’ said Gaylene when they’d settled into the back corner with their drinks. ‘I may be overreacting. And I guess after your visit I was more…well, watching out for Chelsea.’
Natalie nodded, taking a sip of her drink. She doubted it was an overreaction; Gaylene struck her as being very solid. But she might have been more observant than normal—all the better to help her understand and assist Chelsea.
‘It was just so out of character,’ Gaylene continued. ‘But she actually attacked Matilda. Who can be annoying, but Chelsea has always been very tolerant, at least when Amy isn’t around. And Amy wasn’t around.’
‘Can you start at the beginning?’
‘They were in the playground and I
was on duty. I didn’t see the start. One of the boys told me Chelsea slapped Matilda. When I got there, Matilda was crying. But I heard Chelsea say she was fat and no boy would ever look at her.’
‘Were those her words?’
‘No.’ Gaylene looked uncomfortable. ‘She said no boy would ever have sex with her.’
Natalie winced. ‘Did you speak to either of them afterwards and find out anything more?’
‘I was pretty shocked, to be honest. I mean I’m used to kids swearing but this was…kind of clinical.’ Gaylene twirled her wine glass on the tabletop. ‘I took both girls to the classroom and spoke to them. Matilda didn’t say anything very much then, though later when I forced Chelsea to say sorry, Matilda said she didn’t want a boyfriend anyway because they were stupid.’
‘And Chelsea’s explanation?’
‘That Matilda keeps annoying her, and that she is fat and needs to lose weight. I pointed out that that was being very unkind and normally…normally I’m sure Chelsea would have at least listened to me. But it seemed to go over the top of her head, like nothing I said mattered.’
Because at the end of the day, grown-ups were letting her down. The result was either depression—which was how Chelsea had initially looked—or getting angry and acting out. That’s where they were now.
‘Can I ask something off the record?’ asked Natalie.
Gaylene looked at her without replying.
‘Protective Services have stopped Chelsea’s father’s access,’ said Natalie. ‘But I’m not convinced she’s still safe. Is there anyone you know of…anyone else that might…’
Gaylene shook her head. ‘It’s always Jenna or her mother who picks Chelsea up. I’ve never seen anyone else, apart from Malik.’
‘I know you wouldn’t want to implicate anyone without proof, but…’ Natalie took a breath. ‘Any rumours, anything about any of the male staff? Gardeners? Maintenance men?’
‘You think it might be happening at school?’
‘I just want to look at every possibility.’
Gaylene shook her head. ‘The male teachers are never one-on-one with the kids—we aren’t even allowed to touch them when they’re hurt, we’ve all gone so PC. Chelsea occasionally goes to aftercare so I suppose there are gardeners and maintenance guys around then, but…It just couldn’t happen. You have to be signed in and out.’
‘You’re sure?’
The hesitation was so brief it would have been easy to ignore, but Natalie was watching for it. ‘I won’t say where I heard it.’
Gaylene sighed. ‘I really don’t want to get him into trouble and I don’t think there was an ounce of truth in it.’
‘What?’
‘Last year. Matilda’s mother accused one of the teachers of facilitating her ex being able to see Matilda. And I mean even if he did, it was his wife he was reported to be violent towards, not the children.’ But in her eyes Natalie saw the doubt.
‘And the teacher?’
‘He was investigated and found not to have done anything wrong.’
Natalie thought of the sports teacher’s defensiveness.
‘Ted Beahre, right?’
Gaylene nodded.
Liam rang just as Natalie reached Declan’s, an hour early. The school was on the way and there hadn’t been time to go home first, so—another café stop. She hovered over the call, wondered if ignoring him would give him the message she couldn’t bring herself to verbalise. In the end, she weakened.
‘Fucking bitch. She’s refusing to let me see Megan. Says my drinking has caused James to go off the rails and she doesn’t want me and my relationships to traumatise her too.’ Liam was the one sounding traumatised.
‘She’s just playing games. And Megan…give her time.’
‘Yeah, well Lauren’s timing is impeccable. I was pulled out of the Royal Commission to deal with it. The Commissioner went ballistic and wouldn’t let me back in.’
Natalie thought of Declan’s advice. ‘Sometimes when you have too many balls in the air you need to pick the least important and let it drop.’
‘Yeah, well that isn’t my daughter.’
‘What does she want, Liam? Lauren I mean? She surely doesn’t want you back. This is about making you suffer because she is.’
‘Fine. But it shouldn’t be Megan who suffers.’
No one wanted their kids to suffer—yet it was hard to avoid, whether in unhappy marriages that stayed together or unhappy ones that separated.
Right now, James needed them both if his teenage years weren’t going to become a litany of truancy, drugs and police involvement. If anyone knew that, it was Natalie.
Talking to Declan would help. Just being in his office would help the stress roll off her. She pictured molecules of adrenaline and cortisol racing around her body and skipping gleefully over the placenta. Evil molecules—she put beards on the cortisol and lycra on the adrenaline and became absorbed in the fantasy, wondering which of the LGBTTQQIAAPPH2O they fitted.
When she saw the car pull out from the street opposite she recognised it. It was her mother’s.
As she walked towards Declan’s, she wondered if she was mistaken. Her fantasy of stress molecules was only just below the delusion level. Maybe she was going manic; her meds would be diluted with weight gain; when you factored in the sleep deprivation, she was at risk of relapse, even with the extra medication Declan had suggested she take. But it didn’t feel like mania. Irritation maybe—worry about Chelsea, lack of sleep, nightmares. Surely within the bounds of normal? She hit the fence in anger, hurting her hand. She hated this, hated having to constantly challenge and question herself. Couldn’t she just be…What? Not normal. Just a bit more stable?
Natalie stood outside Declan’s house and office. She could see him faintly through the heavy lace. He was watching her. Her mother’s phone number had been on his pad. The blonde woman on the golf morning. Her mother—a blonde—leaving via the road that went to his back lane just now. It was her mother who had arranged for Declan to see her back then, when she was sixteen, and she’d obviously given him background on the family then. And he’d treated Natalie in psychotherapy. Which made him an unusual supervisor—he knew a lot about her. And about Jan. Her mother refused to tell her who her father was; could it have been because she was protecting Declan rather than Natalie? Because he was married? She stared at the window, then turned, unfastened her bike, and rode home.
There was a large bunch of flowers on the doorstep. The card said We can make this work—for our baby’s sake. Damian.
Declan had left a message on her voicemail: Natalie, ring me.
Quite aside from the missed appointment, Natalie knew why Declan had called. There was a letter from the College in her mailbox. She considered not reading it. Surely Lauren wouldn’t have complained?
She hadn’t. But Gavin Boreman had. And they had scheduled a hearing.
Natalie took an extra quetiapine and went to sleep.
44
‘I was wondering if you could do some drawings for me,’ said Natalie.
Chelsea was back to being subdued. She’d slouched into the office without even saying hello, after another missed appointment. Jenna had claimed it wasn’t her fault: she had to work and so did her father. Mickie had been unwell.
‘Draw your school and your friends, maybe? And your teachers if you want.’
‘I already drew me and Amy.’
‘How about Matilda? Or your teachers?’
‘I had a fight with Matilda.’
‘What about?’ Natalie sat down on the floor with her back to the window. The light caught Chelsea’s curled locks and made them seem very blonde. Still a pretty child, but for a moment her expression made her look older—and pure mean girl. As quickly as it had come it disappeared. Natalie wondered if the veneer would end up dominating. Natalie had gone down the biker-girl route, maybe for much the same reason: to protect herself. Anything was better than vulnerability.
‘She was horrible
.’
‘Matilda was?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say that was horrible?’
Chelsea shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. Mummy says her father hit her mother.’
Maybe poor Matilda, in seeking solidarity against fathers, had stirred Chelsea’s desire for her father to rescue her. Exploring her relationship with Ted Beahre would have to wait.
‘Families can be very confusing can’t they?’ said Natalie. ‘Sometimes doing a drawing of them can help make some sense of the confusion.’
Chelsea seemed more enthusiastic about this. She chose an A3 size sheet and looked at it then Natalie. ‘Can I draw it like I want them to be?’
‘Sure.’
Chelsea drew her father first, starting with his head and then body and limbs, finishing with a full head of hair. She then drew herself next to him, holding his hand. Neither of them had a smile. Next she identified Jenna, holding her other hand, in jeans and a beret.
‘Mummy got the beret in France,’ Chelsea said, adding a little colour. After a moment, she added Chris on the other side of her mother. ‘He’s playing in the mud and got into trouble,’ she said, explaining the brown colouring on his face.
‘Is there anyone else in your family?’
‘Nanna and Grandpa and Teta and Uncle Youssef.’
‘Do you want to draw them too?’
‘They won’t fit. I said this is how I want the family to be.’
‘Good point,’ said Natalie, nodding. But did this mean there was a reason for not wanting Youssef in the picture? ‘So how about your family now? Can you draw them?’
Chelsea started humming as she drew, but with little life to the sound. Was it a depressed version of ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’?
‘Do you know the words to that song?’ Natalie asked, remembering this was the child that didn’t like the football as much as the club songs.
‘Sure.’ Chelsea kept drawing without looking up.
Natalie started singing the words. After a moment Chelsea joined in. Their memories of the words differed in one spot—was it a little girl or a teddy bear that had to be good to get a treat?