by Lia Weston
Ellie hovers by the screen door, sticking cherry tomatoes into a broccoli tree.
In the far corner of the garden, a woman is trying to get a little girl to keep her flower crown on for a photo next to the dreamcatcher display, but the kid is having none of it. They both have the same waterfall of silver-blonde hair, like an Aryan dream family.
I wonder if my kids would inherit Sophia’s hazel eyes, or my height. Or my green eyes and Sophia’s height. Or some weird mix. Tall grey-eyed children who love to do push-ups on the beach.
‘You know who also got you a present?’ I say to Rosie.
Her eyes go wide. ‘Who?’
‘The tickle monster!’ I stick my hands under her arms while she squeals. It’s our favourite game, followed by Where’s Daddy Hiding This Time and Let’s Play Chasey Until Tom Breaks Something. Several other kids think the tickle monster looks like a great idea and pile on top of us, shrieking with joy. I’m pretty sure this will end with me getting a knee in the balls.
‘Tom!’
I push a kid’s foot off my forehead and a headdress out of my eyes.
‘We need more ice,’ says Ellie, standing over me.
‘There’s plenty of ice in the esky,’ says Mushroom Dress from the veranda.
‘That’s not enough.’ Ellie starts hauling children off. She’s stronger than she looks. ‘Can you get some from the corner shop, please, Tom?’
Metaphorical knee to the balls it is. I clamber out from under the remaining pile of children.
Rosie grabs a fistful of vegetable sticks and skips over to see if the circle of men have managed to make fire yet.
This is a neighbourhood of families. There are stickers on bedroom windows, basketball hoops over garage doors, plastic cricket bats abandoned by hedges. Mothers run with jogging prams, baseball caps low over their eyes, their babies shrouded from the sun. Front yards are uniformly green and rose-filled. This is a residential area where turf wars are fought over the placement of rubbish bins. No one has garage sales, because that would mean admitting you once bought something by mistake. One house has a name – Appleshaw Cottage, perfect for a bungalow five hundred kilometres from the nearest orchard – and you know the neighbours smirk at it whenever they pass. Not that they’d ever say anything directly. No one around here says anything directly; they let their bins do the talking.
The corner shop has oil stains like black continents on the map of the car park. Barely breaking his gaze with the TV, the cashier hands me a receipt. I head outside to the ice fridge and flip the latch. A red car reverses from the air pump, a brunette at the wheel. I stop. That profile. The hair. Sophia. Sophia? Turn your head, please turn your head.
She doesn’t.
At the exit she indicates right, heading towards Dan’s house. What are the chances . . .? I follow and forget to close the freezer door.
For two blocks, she’s forced to cruise, thanks to the council’s forty kilometres per hour zone. I belt past the jogging mums and sprint across the road without looking. The car passes Dan’s house and indicates right again, towards the main road. No, no, no, no, no. I tear over the median strip. The traffic ahead is bumper-to-bumper. Her indicator pulses like a heartbeat, one hundred metres away. Eighty metres. Fifty. Twenty. I’m almost there and some dickhead slows to let her in. I see her hand lifted in thanks and the red car is swallowed on the main road.
I stumble to a stop by a lavender bush buzzing with bees, chest heaving.
It probably wasn’t her. It could have been. But it probably wasn’t.
But what if it was? I was so close. Fuck it all.
At Dan’s gate, I realise I forgot the ice.
*
The wind has dropped enough for the barbecue to be lit. It’s now gently smoking the crowd. Everyone’s hair is going to smell like chops. I rip open the ice bag – second time lucky – and dump the beer in the esky, taking a bottle for myself, and go back inside.
A pretty woman is by the cake table, wearing a mint green jumper and a paper crown. She holds a tray of cupcakes out to me. ‘Would you prefer unicorn or Nutella?’
‘I’m okay, thanks.’ And I really don’t want to know what a unicorn tastes like.
‘Your loss,’ she says, putting down the tray. She selects a cupcake – Nutella, for those playing along at home – takes a huge bite and rolls her eyes. ‘So, so good.’ She holds out her other hand. ‘I’m Kimmie. You must be Tom. Rosie said, “He’s very tall like Superman and he has a nice face”.’
I’m flattered, though I also think everyone’s pretty tall when you’re five.
Kimmie’s wearing a necklace with an overlapping fan design that looks vaguely familiar.
‘Is that from The Sneak Collective?’
She touches it briefly. ‘You have a good eye.’
‘It suits you.’
‘Dan said you were an illustrator. No wonder you picked it.’
Illustrator, picture architect, image constructor. Do you like me as I am? No, I do not, Dan I Am. Dan used to happily tell people about IF.
‘He also said you read minds.’ Kimmie sucks chocolate off her finger and watches to see my reaction. I’ve never been picked up at a kid’s party before. Idle curiosity makes me go along with it.
‘It makes my job easier.’
‘I’m intrigued. So,’ says Kimmie, scooping out another wodge of chocolate, ‘tell me what I’m thinking.’ She sticks her finger in her mouth again and raises her eyebrows.
I take a swig of my beer. ‘You’re wondering how many grams of sugar’s in a tablespoon of Nutella.’
‘I . . .’ Kimmie catches her smile before she drops it completely. ‘Wow. Okay.’ She looks at the rest of her cupcake. ‘Do you know?’
‘No idea, sorry,’ I say, lacking my mother’s encyclopaedic knowledge of edible spreads.
‘Dan sure wasn’t exaggerating.’ She smiles up at me and moves closer, but only to gently turn me with her elbow so we’re both looking at the rest of the party. ‘Now, mister mind-reader, do your stuff.’
Dan is turning chops and pretending to be interested in a story he’s already heard at least three times. He hates chops. Ellie is drinking rosé with a straw from a tiny bottle, watching Dan through the barbecue smoke. She’s concerned he’s not being jovial enough; there must be at least one of her workmates here who she’s hoping to impress. Two out of the six men at the barbecue Dan has never met before, and he only likes one of those two. (I’m ready to bet that the other one is Ellie’s work friend’s partner.) Mushroom Dress is wondering how much the kitchen renovations cost. Rosie does not like being made to wear a princess costume. Actually, that last one’s easy: she’s trying to rip it off. Dog, the wombat, looks on impassively from the teepee. I can’t tell what he’s thinking because he’s stuffed.
‘Tell me a secret, Tom,’ whispers Kimmie.
I point out the woman who’s only drinking rosé to be polite, and the dude who’d be taking the tongs off Dan if he knew him better.
‘I want something more interesting than that.’ Kimmie leans against me slightly. The sweetness on her breath rises, mixing with the chalky citrus of her antiperspirant. I know exactly what she’s doing and I don’t really mind.
‘She thinks her kid isn’t fitting in.’ I indicate a woman who’s single-handedly demolishing the vegetable platter.
‘What about them?’ Kimmie nods towards three women chatting on the veranda steps.
‘The two nearest us can’t stand each other.’ I look at their shoes. ‘The woman with her back to us has a foot injury she’s trying to hide. Probably plantar fasciitis. Don’t ask me why she’s disguising it; I have no idea. Wait, she’s got new shoes, and doesn’t want her husband to know they’re the problem.’ I take another drink. ‘It doesn’t matter, though. They’ll be divorced by Easter.’
‘This is amazing,’ says Kimmie.
I scan the men again. ‘And the guy in the yellow shirt’s either organising a surprise party or having an affair.’
/>
‘How do you know?’
‘He’s disappeared three times in the last twenty minutes. Plus he keeps getting texts but won’t check his phone in front of anyone.’
The guy in question makes a very small movement and touches his pocket.
‘Aaand he just got another one.’ I finish my beer.
‘Did Tom tell you his job, Kimmie?’ says Ellie, through the screen door mesh. ‘He makes fake photo albums.’
‘Customised albums,’ I say, making a note to let down the tyres of Ellie’s Jeep later. Ellie is fortunately distracted by someone’s child falling down the steps. As the air raid siren cry starts up, the screen door opens, but it’s now Yellow Shirt, fingertips inside his pocket to make sure he hasn’t dropped his phone.
‘Ah,’ he says, stopping when he spots us. ‘Hey, there.’ His smile comes too late.
Uh-oh.
‘You prick,’ says Kimmie. Before I know what’s happening, she’s launching cupcakes at Yellow Shirt. ‘You.’ Splat! ‘Total.’ Blap! ‘PRICK.’ Splodge!
‘Jesus fuck!’ says the guy, getting a gold unicorn horn in the eye.
‘Who is it this time?’ shrieks Kimmie, hurling Nutella grenades at his head. ‘Who is it? That girl from the milk bar?’
There’s a wail from Rosie.
‘Not the cake!’ Ellie sprints inside as Kimmie makes a move towards the pink pedestal. The rest of the party eye each other.
I’m pretty sure this is my cue to get going.
Dan comes to the front door with me. Ellie is wiping rainbow-coloured icing off the curtains. I’m pretty sure that if she could stab me with a gold horn, she would.
‘Okay,’ says Dan, ‘what happened?’
‘She wanted to play your favourite game.’
‘You remember I told you Ellie’s sister is paranoid about her husband, right?’
‘I didn’t know it was her.’
‘How can you not know?’
‘I’ve never met her.’
Dan rubs his face.
‘She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring, either.’
That makes him pause before going back to being annoyed with me. ‘You can tell from someone’s car if they like spicy food or not, but you didn’t pick up on the fact that those two were together.’
‘I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘You were showing off.’
‘You told her I was a mind-reader. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Thank God June wasn’t here.’
‘I’m sorry. Seriously.’
Dan sighs. ‘It’s all right.’
‘My shout on Thursday.’
‘To make up for standing me up last week?’
In all of the excitement of ice-skating and then June, I had completely forgotten I was meeting Dan. ‘And a pizza.’
‘Two pizzas.’ He’s about to go inside, but stops. ‘So is he having an affair?’
‘They both are.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Tell Rosie I’m sorry I ruined her party. And don’t set the backyard on fire.’
I cycle home and wonder, yet again, whether I’ll ever manage to socialise like a normal person.
My mother has collapsed on the botanic gardens lawn like a starfish.
I poke her neon toe with my sneaker. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I could have done without the sprinting.’ She plants her elbows and squints up at me. ‘Are you taking some kind of stimulant?’
Only in the form of a new picture of Sophia barely wearing a sheet. ‘I just slept really well.’
‘You’re bouncier than a jack rabbit.’ Mum lies back down. ‘And you’ve lost weight that you didn’t need to lose. Eat some pasta, young man.’
‘I’m just not that hungry at the moment.’ It’s true. I have no idea why. Sophia is keeping me up at nights. I do sit-ups relentlessly when I can’t sleep. Hey, I may die lonely but at least I’ll have abs of steel.
Mum curls up to sitting, sweat still dripping off the ends of her hair. ‘Heard from your father?’
I glance at her to make sure this isn’t a trap. ‘Not since he picked up Gen.’
‘I’m guessing you haven’t reconsidered.’
‘Has it gotten any better?’
‘What do you think?’ She reties her laces, though they weren’t undone.
The memory of Dad slipping into Amity’s house presses against the back of my neck, dispersing the buoyancy that carried me through the run, like a pearl dissolving in vinegar. If you’re wondering if Dad’s been in touch, I’ll quote my mother: what do you think?
Two women speed-walking past do a double-take when they recognise Mum, then give me embarrassed smiles. I say hello over Mum’s bent head. The taller one looks familiar, and then it clicks: she was a brief, and one of my first ethical dilemmas. The book was commissioned by her parents, unhappy that their daughter had married another woman. It had never occurred to me that people would use IF this way, because I am apparently a complete moron.
I ended up handing over a traditional wedding album showing the bride with her new and entirely fictitious groom – tags: teeth, doctor – just as requested. The happy couple danced, they hugged, they ate cake. There were just two tiny modifications: the bride never looked directly at her new husband, and her real-life partner was in every picture. It was pretty hard to find her, though. It was my version of Where’s Wally.
I don’t want to think about work.
‘We’d better get back,’ I say.
Mum refuses the hand I offer to help her up. ‘I’m not ninety.’
On the return trip I try to make her laugh. I steer the talk away from Dad-shaped objects. I ask her about the video shoots, her new sneakers, whether she’s got an assistant yet (she doesn’t), and then we fight about whether papaya smells like vomit or not (it does).
‘Remind me not to make you my new watermelon cake,’ Mum says, unlocking the front door.
Bummer.
Gen bounces out of her room to greet us. ‘When are we going? Do we have to book? Is Mica still coming tonight?’ She turns to Mum. ‘I need some money.’
‘What happened to the money from last weekend?’ says Mum.
‘I bought a gun,’ chirps Gen.
‘I may need to borrow it,’ says Mum, unzipping her jacket and heading into her bedroom.
Gen turns to me. ‘It’s the actual, actual one they used in Underworld. Kate Beckinsale actually touched it. For real.’
‘How much was it?’
‘It was on sale because it’s like really old.’ She pretend punches me in the stomach and then frowns up at me. ‘You’re too skinny.’ She wheels away and skirts ahead into the kitchen. ‘Amity, do you think Tom’s too skinny?’
Amity. Shit.
She’s stationed at the kitchen bench, her top falling off her shoulder. She looks up from her tablet as we walk in. ‘Tom looks just fine to me.’ She winks. I ignore it.
‘Where’s Christopher?’ says Mum, entering on noiseless socked feet.
‘Gone to the shops,’ says Amity, still looking at me, somewhat perplexed.
Mum thunks her keys on the bench. ‘What for?’
‘He said he felt like some liquorice.’ Amity turns back to her screen.
Mum raises her eyebrows at me, as if this is all the proof I need of Dad’s transgressions. Liquorice: the adulterer’s confectionery of choice.
‘Can we gooooooo?’ Gen hangs off my arm.
‘We don’t have to be there until five,’ I say. ‘Plus I need to have a shower.’
‘And you’re having something to eat first,’ says Mum.
Gen whines. ‘But the bowling alley has hot dogs and stuff.’
‘And that’s why you’re having something to eat first,’ snaps Mum.
Gen sighs her way through her chickpea salad. Mum has added extra lemon to the vegetables. There’s a great deal of crunching. We are all sinners. Me, for my insensitive dumping of June. Gen, for being a teenager. Dad, for still not coming back
from the shops. Mum keeps checking her phone, getting tenser every time. She gives us all fruit salad, hacked into pieces. Even Amity looks surprised at her massacred mango. I haven’t even had a chance to get bits of mint stem out of my teeth when Mum whacks down some board games. It’s like a ten-minute play. Act One, Act Two, Act Three, applause, boom, done.
‘We’re playing KerPlunk.’
A strange choice involving steady hands and quiet concentration, but at least it’s not Operation. Pretty sure that wouldn’t have ended well.
‘Ugh, I hate KerPlunk,’ says Gen.
‘What about Monopoly?’ says Amity. ‘Tom, I’ll even let you have the top hat.’
I don’t answer and pretend to check the KerPlunk rules with great interest.
Amity sits back, puzzled at the continuing lack of reaction.
‘Cluedo, then.’ Mum yanks the box out of the pile.
Mrs Lash. In the kitchen. With an asparagus spear.
‘We can’t,’ says Gen. ‘We don’t have time. Tom, don’t we have to go now? I think we have to go now. It’s nearly five.’
‘Looks like it’s just us, Mandy girl.’ Amity waves the Cluedo box at Mum.
‘I need wine,’ says Mum, and stomps off in her socks to get a bottle.
‘What’s gotten into you?’ says Amity.
Not Dad, apparently.
The bowling alley lanes are flat and shiny as glass, the dividers lit purple neon. I eye the disco lights in the ceiling, which thankfully aren’t on.
Mica turns out to be a crack shot, if that’s the right term for a bowler and it probably isn’t. After two rounds where all she does is get strikes, we make her bowl with her left hand.
‘How are you still winning?’ whines Gen twenty minutes later.
‘Because even with my bad hand, you’re both still far worse than me,’ says Mica, flexing her knuckles.
Gen sits backwards on the seat, legs hooked over the edge, bouncing her heels off the hard plastic. She puts her chin on her knees and stares at the scoreboard as I get up to no doubt send my ball into the gutter. ‘You could still score one hundred and thirty-seven if you do like seven strikes in a row.’
‘I’ve already resigned myself to losing,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ says Gen. ‘It’s like a one hundred and ninety-two per cent increase.’