Melanie sniffed, wiped suds from her hands and pulled the plug, watching the water empty like so many of her dreams, then refilled her glass. The shower had stopped. She got into bed, wine on the side table, book propped up against her raised knees.
Richard appeared, wearing a towel around his midriff. He glanced at her, legs up under the sheet, book in place, and shook his head before padding across to the fridge to get a drink. She heard ice cubes crack into the glass, taken from the bucket-load he’d picked up at the store rather than the fridge’s inbuilt ice maker. She studied his shoulders, wide and muscular and still damp from the shower, beads of water in his hair, trickling down his well-defined spine to vanish beneath the towel covering his arse.
‘I’m going to check my mail.’ He sat at the table, laptop open, its lid towards her.
She nodded and began to read.
Two
They ate breakfast in a preoccupied silence, he skimming papers, she listening to her iPod and reading her book between mouthfuls.
‘Juice?’ he asked, and she nodded and kept reading. A line later, he got up and went to the fridge to fetch it.
‘Shit, is that all the bacon we’ve got? I was going to make filet mignon tonight.’
The dish was a personal specialty though he rarely made it these days. It was Melanie’s job to cook, except on Fridays when it was late night trading at Shelley’s Books. Richard’s overtime had increased as her pregnancy progressed. He’d made it sound like a sacrifice, shoring up their future and guaranteeing he’d be able to spend more time at home when the baby came. But the baby hadn’t come. Little Claudia had been buried in an indecently small casket, and Richard’s time at the office had continued undiminished.
The last time he’d cooked filet mignon was when he’d invited Leanne over. She’d arrived still wearing her unofficial uniform of above-the-knee skirt, black stockings, black jacket, white blouse. Her concession to informality had been, apparently, to undo the top buttons of her blouse to reveal a silver St Christopher’s medal hanging bright against the tanned skin above her push-up breasts.
Good old Leanne, apparently the only person at the office, if her mentions in conversation were anything to judge by. What he’d thought bringing her to dinner would achieve was anyone’s guess. Leanne had no children. She and her engineer partner never planned to, as far as Melanie could tell from the stilted conversation around the table. It was a relief when Leanne and Richard flowed into work talk, freeing her to clean up and retire to the sofa to read. Sarah McLachlan played on the stereo, masking their occult discussion. Leanne was there, Melanie had realised, entirely for Richard’s own comfort.
‘Mel, is this really all the bacon you bought?’
She thumbed down the volume of her iPod. Was it an omen or just coincidence that McLachlan’s ‘Silence’ should be playing? ‘I guess so.’
He checked his watch. ‘I’m going to drive down to the shop and pick up some more, make sure we’ve got enough for the week.’ For a moment, they regarded each other, both waiting for something more. ‘You want to come?’
‘I thought I’d go for a walk, before it gets too hot.’
He nodded. ‘See you when I get back, then.’
‘Okay.’ She offered a smile.
Tension she hadn’t been aware of faded from her shoulders with the sound of the Jeep’s engine. She regarded the breakfast dishes and decided they could wait. She cloaked her boardshorts and shirt with a serape, snatched up her straw hat and sunglasses and left the cabin. This time of the year, there shouldn’t be too many people on the beach. Jack was the only permanent resident at this tip of the island, and the tourists wouldn’t arrive en masse until school summer holidays started in a couple of weeks. Weekend visitors would most likely cluster near the township, although a chain of a half-dozen World War II bunkers strung along the dunes did draw the curious.
She toyed with the idea of visiting Jack to thank him for letting them stay, but decided against it; she didn’t feel like company. Instead of the road that linked the holiday cabins, she followed a narrow path through the brush. Wind-warped trees clacked overhead; fallen twigs dug into the bottoms of her sandals. She glimpsed a tin roof through the scrub, but couldn’t hear anything. As far as she and Richard knew, they were the only ones here apart from Jack himself, who lived in a shack at the northernmost end of the retreat, about a kilometre up the beach.
The path opened up through a dune held in place by a rampant rubber-leafed vine and clumps of spindly grass. The tide was high, probably on its way out. The water had carved a lip in the sand about as deep as Melanie’s knee. It was as though the sea was fighting the grass for the dune, and the sea was winning, bite by inexorable bite.
Two white-headed eagles wheeled over the water. The beacon held its position offshore. A tanker, faint and two dimensional in the haze, hovered on the horizon as it made its way through the passage with the dun and olive camouflage splotches of Moreton Island as a backdrop.
There were people at the southern point of the beach, near one of the bunkers. Melanie could see the shapes of children, a dog, a kite. She turned north and walked, blinking in the glare of sunshine off waves, ignoring the few people she passed: two fat men in togs watching her from the grassy bank; a young couple fondling each other through their bathing suits; a woman walking her German shepherd through the foam.
When she’d finally reached an unpopulated spot, Melanie took off her sandals and let her toes sink into the sand, delighted when a tongue of water lapped over her feet. Only after it had receded did she realise she’d laughed out loud. How long had it been since she’d done that? Smiling, Melanie walked without thinking, weaving along the swash, her shadow falling across the deep navy sky and cotton-ball clouds mirrored on the wet sand. The eagles swooped overhead, wings outstretched to catch the drafts. Her heart ached to share such freedom.
Melanie walked.
When she returned to the cabin, Jack’s rusted Land Rover was parked beside Richard’s Jeep. The two men were sitting at the weathered timber table on the deck. Jack wore his usual ensemble of shorts and a loose, button-up shirt. A blue heeler, muzzle resting on his front paws, lay at Jack’s feet. The dog opened one eye as Melanie approached, then lifted his head and panted a greeting, tongue lolling.
Jack’s leathery brown face split into a gap-toothed grin as she mounted the stairs. He doffed his faded cap so she could kiss him on the cheek, his salt-and-pepper stubble spiking her lips. His wispy grey hair seemed thinner than she remembered.
‘Jack, it’s so good to see you.’ She patted the dog on the head and was rewarded with a welcoming yelp. ‘You too, Friday.’
‘It’s been too long, Mel.’ Jack replaced his cap and appraised her. ‘You look good.’
She forced a smile. ‘Must be the sea air.’
‘Jack just dropped by to see how we were getting on,’ Richard told her.
‘And to cadge a beer.’ Jack hoisted the stubby gripped in his thick fingers.
‘He’s going to stay for lunch, aren’t you, Jack,’ Richard said.
‘Great,’ Melanie said, and meant it. For a horrible minute, when she’d seen the two figures on the deck, she’d thought of Leanne. ‘Thanks for letting us have the cabin. Richard needed some time away. We both did.’
‘Any time, you know that. Got the place to yourselves, too, pretty much; only got one other couple in Elysium. No one else is due in till the holidays.’
‘Sounds good. Some time alone is what this is all about.’
‘I hope I’m not intruding…’
‘God, of course not, Jack. You’re like family.’ She squeezed his forearm, feeling the cords of muscle, noting the sun-bleached hairs against the deeply tanned skin. ‘You’re always welcome.’
‘Well, get yourself a drink and join us, Mel. Tell me about how life in the big smoke’s treating ya.’
Lunch never got made in the end, but Melanie broke out a platter of cheese and crackers and a bottle of chardon
nay as the afternoon grew older. When the cheese was finished, Richard moved inside to prepare his signature dish, leaving Melanie and Jack to talk on the deck.
Melanie enjoyed chatting with Jack; his easy humour and funny yarns about life on the island always helped her to relax.
The sun was low on the horizon when Richard informed them dinner was ready. They stood, and Jack took her hand, holding her back from the door. ‘I was sorry to hear, when Richard told me.’
Her fingers caressed her locket, reaching for the few, downy strands of her daughter’s hair that were tucked within. ‘It happens.’
‘Doesn’t make it any less awful.’
‘No. No it doesn’t.’
‘How’re you faring?’
‘It’s been … almost five months now. We’re getting on with it.’
‘It?’
‘Life. You know.’
‘Trying again, you mean.’
‘No. Not just yet. Richard’s so busy with this big project, this just isn’t the right time.’
‘Of course. You’re only young. Time’s on your side.’
Richard leaned through the doorway. ‘Hey, food’s getting cold. Shall we eat out here?’
Melanie set the table. Friday, tail swinging, shadowed her every move.
Over dinner they talked politics, the weather, urban sprawl. When Richard started quoting Leanne’s thoughts on the future of Brisbane and its environs, Melanie pushed her plate away and picked up her wine glass instead.
Friday had eaten more of her meal than she had. Since she’d lost Claudia, Melanie hadn’t been able to stomach the taste of meat. Even the smell of it cooking nauseated her. She’d lost weight, she knew, even without Richard telling her how thin she’d become. She’d had to buy new dresses; her work uniform had become baggy.
‘That’s weird. What is that?’ Richard said. ‘A Muslim?’
Melanie followed the direction of Richard’s gaze. A figure was walking down the beach from the north, keeping well away from the waterline. A woman, in a strange ensemble of what looked like a beekeeper’s netted hat and a satin-shiny full-sleeved dress that glowed like amber in the late afternoon light.
The walker stopped opposite their cabin, in almost perfect alignment with the beacon off the beach.
‘I think that might be the woman who’s staying in Elysium,’ Jack said. ‘She’s not well, her husband told me.’
‘Certainly sun-smart,’ Richard said.
Friday barked, his snout pointed in her direction.
‘Hush, you,’ Jack grumbled at the dog. ‘They’re foreign, the Mediterranean I think. Maybe it’s their national dress.’
‘I wonder what she’s looking at,’ Richard said.
‘Us,’ Melanie answered.
‘How can you tell?’
‘I just can.’
Jack drained his stubby, stood, burped and apologised with a laugh. ‘I’d better go before you ask me to wash up.’
They said their goodbyes and Jack drove off, leaving a waft of diesel and the crunch of gears in his wake, the whine of the transmission audible even after the Rover had passed from sight. By the time they’d cleared the table, the sun was edging the tree-line behind the cabin, its dying rays tinting burnt-orange the cloud banks lined up thick and deep on the seaward horizon. The woman was still on the beach, sitting now and apparently watching the waves roll in. Gulls glowed sepia where they perched on the beacon, its steel post almost submerged by the tide.
‘Christ, what’s she doing now?’ Richard asked.
‘What’s that?’ Melanie had been enjoying the peace of the descending twilight, the calls of the birds, the susurration of the trees. Had been wondering how much grace the mosquitoes would give them before swarming; maybe the breeze was strong enough to keep them at bay tonight.
The woman had taken off her broad-brimmed hat. Short-cropped black hair crowned her boyish figure. With a simple flourish, she slipped out of her dress to stand naked with arms outstretched towards the setting sun. If she knew Richard and Melanie were watching, she gave no sign.
Richard’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, eyes glued to the spectacle. Melanie realised her breath was caught in her throat.
With legs shoulder-width apart and hands spread wide above her head, the woman seemed comfortable, as natural as the gulls. Melanie felt something inside her open, yearning for that sense of belonging. Her nipples tightened, and she felt a warmth in her groin that surprised her with its sudden intensity. This was not the slickness that came grudgingly from Richard’s probing, mechanical fingers, but a rush that seemed almost windborne. She wanted to be naked as well, free of the restraints of her clothing, free of everything. The sea called her and she was aware of one hand shaking, the other toying with the top button of her cardigan.
‘How old do you think she is?’ Richard said, his eyes fixed on that lithe form, so pale against the inky ocean, the descending night.
‘Hard to tell. Uni student, maybe?’ She sensed the thickening in Richard’s voice, could almost feel the heat of his arousal and felt guilty that she, too, had fallen prey to the reaction. ‘Uninhibited, at least.’
The woman turned to face the sea from which it seemed she might have climbed, Venus-like, lacking only a seashell carriage.
‘Must be European.’ Richard sipped his bourbon, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Whatever, she’s a pretty little thing.’
‘Pretty flat, you mean,’ Melanie said, and actually flinched at her own bitterness. Her own breasts, once shapely, were little more than worthless dugs. Richard used to worship at them; now he did not suckle or lick, merely twisted and kneaded as though they were the controls for a video game.
‘Must be European,’ Richard repeated, ignoring her barb. ‘They have nudist beaches there, don’t they?’
The woman held out her arms to the ocean, as though inviting it—daring it—to take her. She was just a gleam, a ghost. And then she was gone, invisible in the night.
Richard glanced at Melanie. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes roving over her from chest to crotch and back again before glancing towards the beach. ‘We should go inside. The bugs will be out soon.’
She nodded, angry that he had shared this sudden arousal, this flowering of awareness. That it wasn’t anything special.
Melanie stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Her finger throbbed where she’d cut it the night before. She felt restless, as though the wind in the trees was stirring her as well. It was kind of scary, being aware of her body again when for months it had seemed little more than meat, a cage for her sorrow.
Richard stood next to her, his hip brushing hers, his glass leaving wet circles on the bench.
‘Why did she do that?’ Melanie asked as she spooned tea into a pot.
‘Do what?’
‘Show herself like that. She must’ve known we could see her.’
‘Maybe not. Maybe the sun was in her eyes.’
‘It was so late, Richard. She must’ve been cold.’
‘I didn’t notice any goose pimples.’
Richard stood behind her, his body radiating heat as he scraped leftovers into the bin under the sink. His hand brushed her rump and she stiffened.
He washed his hands, dried them on a towel, and then gently laid them on her shoulders. The contact ran down to her toes and she felt her chest tighten, her mouth go dry. ‘Maybe she was teasing us,’ he said. ‘Showing off.’
‘Maybe.’
His hands moved down her arms to gently settle on her hips. He kissed her shoulders, her neck. She tilted her head, opening her throat to him.
The surf crashed loudly in her ears. Heat flooded her and she felt young again, almost carefree, and a knot in her lower stomach unravelled as his breath blew warm across her sensitive skin.
His lips, then teeth, closed on her skin. His hands moved, slowly, suggestively, towards her breasts that suddenly longed to be touched.
The phone rang.
For a moment,
the buzzing seemed surreal; a sound heard from the other side of dream.
It rang again.
Richard’s hands stilled on her body, and then were gone as he moved away, leaving her cold. She leaned back, chasing his heat, but he was already walking towards the phone on the wall.
‘Ignore it,’ she urged, desperate to cling to that moment of tenderness, to that feeling of … of renewal. ‘We’re on holiday.’
‘It might be important,’ Richard said. ‘Only Jack and the office have the number.’
She slumped against the bench, her body cooling, burgeoning lust subsiding into familiar despair.
‘Leanne, it’s Saturday night. Oh, I see. They have, hey? Fuck.’ He ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his scalp. ‘Tomorrow’s the best I can do. First barge is at seven, I think.’
Melanie stomped to the bathroom, stripped and stood under the shower, its spray as hot as she could tolerate. Tears filled her eyes.
Richard came in and stood by the door.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She didn’t move, just stood with her forehead against the tiles as the jet massaged her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry about that. It was Leanne. There’s a problem with the Mackenzie building. The bastards sent her an email. They want to cut the funding right back. Fucking thing will end up looking like a Soviet apartment building if I can’t convince them otherwise.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’
He reached for her. She closed her eyes, locking in the tears. His fingers stroked her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Mel. We can come back as soon as it’s sorted. I’m sure Jack will let us extend the stay if we want to.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘What?’
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her arms crossed over her heat-flushed breasts, shower spray thumping against the back of her head.
‘I’m staying here.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
She locked her jaw against the trembling that threatened to unhinge her conviction. Said nothing. Faced the tiles again.
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