But he wouldn’t, would he? Tim was just so . . . insubstantial. Emma had known him for twenty years, but she didn’t know him. She couldn’t say what he thought about anything, what his opinions were, if he even had any. He was just a pleasant, agreeable, accommodating man. A good father and ‘provider’, he had worked in a safe government job all his life; clearly he didn’t have an ambitious bone in his body. He laughed at other people’s jokes but rarely made any of his own, always showed polite interest in the conversations around him but never had anything of note to contribute. He did whatever Ellen told him to do without fuss. Had he simply bored her to death in the end?
No, according to Ellen this was mutual – they’d come to the decision together, neither was to blame, she wasn’t kicking him out and he wasn’t leaving her. They had just grown apart. True to form, Ellen intended to conceal the cracks even while her marriage was publicly collapsing. It was exactly like when she fell pregnant in her first year at uni. Somehow she managed to spin it so there wasn’t the faintest whiff of indiscretion about it. She and Tim had already talked about getting married, and when they did marry they wanted to start a family as soon as possible, she’d maintained. So this was just a little ahead of schedule.
Hmm, ahead of a wedding, a place to live, a job that could support them. But Ellen didn’t make mistakes. Occasionally she might get the timing wrong, but she never did anything wrong, and she certainly never failed.
Well, her marriage had failed. Like it or lump it. Whether the separation was going to be amicable or otherwise, Ellen’s marriage had failed.
No wonder she’d been so secretive. Though of course she’d told Liz. And what were they doing having drinks together anyway? Emma didn’t remember being asked out for drinks any time and not being available to join them. So that meant they hadn’t asked her. Of course if she’d said that out loud, Liz would have made another ‘It’s not about you’ crack. All right when you’re on the inside. Liz seemed to be everybody’s confidante. She was the only one Eddie would talk to about anything. Evie probably went to her as well. Though she couldn’t imagine Evie had any deep dark secrets. But Emma had always had her suspicions about Ellen. She always sounded . . . rehearsed or something. Everything couldn’t have been as perfect as she’d made out. And clearly it hadn’t been.
Emma wondered how their parents would take the news. She couldn’t help but see this as yet another episode that would place Ellen firmly on the centre stage as they rallied their support around her.
Of course Ellen needed their support, Emma wasn’t begrudging her that. But here in the privacy of her car, all alone, she felt the familiar stirrings of jealousy and resentment. Sandwiched between the eldest and the freakishly intelligent, Emma had done nothing to distinguish herself in the eyes of her family. Evie had never done anything particularly distinguishing but she was the baby – at least until Eddie came along more than five years later – so she didn’t have to. Throughout her childhood Emma tried to explore her talents and her strengths, just as her parents encouraged, but her mother wasn’t interested in the same things, and her father barely even noticed her, beyond that she was pretty. It was little wonder she didn’t score prominent roles in any of her dance concerts. Her mother never offered to work on the costumes, or help backstage for the actual performance; she rarely even made it to regular classes. Emma used to watch all the other mothers, lined up along the wooden bench at the back of the church hall, tapping their feet in time with their daughters, humming the tunes, knowing the routines off by heart.
‘And how many of those mothers have five children?’ her mother would respond whenever Emma mentioned it.
But somehow she managed to make it to Ellen’s debating competitions – ‘They’re Friday nights’ – and Liz’s rowing training – ‘That’s at five in the morning, I’m there and back before anyone’s even out of bed.’
Despite the excuses, Emma knew her particular talents were just not valued by her family. Her eye for fashion, her flair with makeup and hair, her innate sense of style, were all considered trivial. And even though those skills had eventually got her to where she was today – a highly sought-after stylist and image consultant – her parents still didn’t take her seriously. She had tried to get them to come along to magazine shoots in the past, thinking they might be impressed once they saw the kind of power she wielded, but they always maintained they’d only be in the way. They’d nod and smile when she’d show them the resultant fashion spreads, or drop names of the celebrities she’d worked with, but Emma knew they thought it was essentially trivial. She’d even taken on a couple of politicians as clients, but that only seemed to make them uncomfortable.
The only aspect of her life they did seem to take an interest in was when Blake was going to ‘do the right thing’ and marry her. Like it was all up to him! Emma would insist it wasn’t a priority right now, they were both just too busy. They would come back with, ‘Your sisters have both managed to get married.’
‘Liz hasn’t.’
‘Liz is a specialist!’ one of them would always respond, as though that was an excuse for everything. Whenever Liz was late, or forgot it was someone’s birthday, or even forgot to show up at all, they would nod in that knowing, smug, frankly infuriating way, and say, ‘She is a specialist, after all.’
‘Eddie’s not married,’ Emma tried on occasion.
‘Eddie is only in his twenties. He’s still sowing his wild oats.’
For parents who claimed they were not conservative, Emma found their obsession with her tying the knot a little out of character. And she said as much.
‘It’s only because we know how important it is to you, Emma,’ her mother had insisted. ‘You’ve been planning your wedding since you were a little girl, it was all you ever talked about for a while there. You used to drive us mad.’
It was true. Everybody was well aware of Emma’s obsession with weddings, it wasn’t like she kept it to herself, although now she wished she had. Her very first job was working for a wedding planner, it was like putting a kid in a candy store. She started collecting swatches of fabric, and samples of stationery, and brochures of venues, caterers, car hire places, anything and everything related to weddings, until she had accumulated several bulging folders. But she was a starry-eyed eighteen year old at the time. Nonetheless, she still adored doing wedding issues for magazines, though she kept that fact to herself these days. When Blake hadn’t proposed after a few years, she’d had to start acting as though she didn’t care any more. Not that anyone had fallen for it.
‘Now you and Blake have bought a place together,’ her mother continued, ‘and you seem so settled, it just begs the question, why won’t he marry you?’
The whole thing was demeaning. Did they think Blake actually didn’t want to marry her, that he was just holding off till someone better came along? It wasn’t as if Emma hadn’t thought of any of that herself, but Blake always insisted it was no such thing. They’d probably marry one day, maybe if they had kids, though that was another sizeable ‘if’. He just felt there were far better things to spend all that money on, not to mention the time and effort. And the hassle – he wasn’t even all that close to his family, so why invite a whole bunch of people he didn’t like to witness them taking part in an outdated convention he didn’t believe in?
‘We’re happy as we are, aren’t we?’ was Blake’s frequent mantra. ‘What difference is a piece of paper going to make?’
Well, thought Emma, it might just make all the difference in the world right now.
Blake was in the shower when Emma let herself into the apartment, she could hear the water running. He had probably been for a run, or maybe it was racquetball today. She tossed her keys into the bowl on the hall table and walked through the living room, pausing to take in the view of Sydney Harbour. They had bought their Pyrmont apartment off the plan before the area had really taken off. Blake was in property development, so it had given them an inside edge. Now of course ever
yone wanted to live here. The apartment had been superbly fitted out, with stainless steel European appliances in the kitchen, green glass splashbacks, parquetry flooring. But Emma had turned it into the showpiece it was today. The sweeping, custom-made modular sofa in burnt orange suede, the designer coffee table, the Philippe Starck clear perspex dining chairs surrounding the Nicholas Dattner table – a daring combination, but she was a stylist, after all. There were a few carefully selected investment art pieces – paintings on the walls, a sculpture – but she hadn’t overdone it, Emma wasn’t into showing off. This was her home, her sanctuary, she chose to surround herself with objects that gave her pleasure. The fact that Vogue Living had begged her to feature it in their magazine was merely a testament to her personal taste.
She walked into the bedroom and stepped out of her shoes as she heard the shower stop.
‘Hey, I’m home,’ she sung out with a light tap on the bathroom door. A muffled acknowledgement came back in reply. Emma had taken a shower at the gym this morning, but she’d need another before they went out tonight. She removed her jewellery as she wandered into the walk-in robe. She already knew what she was going to wear. Whenever they accepted an invitation Emma automatically assembled her outfit in her head, right down to accessories, taking into account what else she had on that week, what she had worn the previous time they were out with the same people, and any other relevant factors. It was a hazard of the profession, Emma’s mind just worked that way. She had even developed a code that she entered into her iPhone at the same time she added the event to her calendar. Emma never had to waste time fretting in front of the mirror, trying out combinations, stressing about what she was going to wear. It was a useful skill and she was proud of it.
She tapped on the bathroom door again and opened it. Blake was standing in front of the mirror, a towel tucked around his hips, frowning at his reflection as he smoothed one hand over the light bristle shading his jaw and chin.
‘What do you think?’ he asked her. ‘Should I shave, or does this qualify as designer stubble?’
She brought her arms around him from behind and ran the back of her hand against his cheek. ‘I think you should leave it. You look very sexy, very . . . Matthew McConaughey.’
‘Why thank you,’ he said, turning his head to give her a light kiss on the lips. ‘How was your lunch?’
Emma leaned her head on his shoulder, watching his reflection in the mirror as he squeezed moisturiser into his hand.
‘Actually, it was quite eventful,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ he murmured, smoothing the lotion over his face.
‘Quite eventful,’ she repeated for effect. ‘In fact, I don’t think you’re going to believe it.’
He lifted an eyebrow, meeting her gaze in the mirror. ‘Don’t tell me Andrew finally left his wife for Liz?’
‘Hm, that would be pretty unbelievable.’ Emma turned around, propping herself against the vanity cabinet. ‘No . . . it’s Ellen and Tim. They’ve separated.’
Blake stopped then and looked at her. ‘Seriously?’
She nodded. And then, unexpectedly, she felt a pang of sadness.
‘Wow,’ he said thoughtfully, leaning his hip against the cabinet and folding his arms. ‘Didn’t see that coming. They were one of those couples that just seemed . . . I don’t know, carved in stone. It was like they’d always been together and always would be.’
‘I know.’
‘So you had no idea?’
Emma shook her head. ‘She’s been a total dark horse about it . . . all for the sake of the kids, apparently.’
Blake frowned. ‘Is there someone else involved?’
‘According to Ellen there’s no third party, no indiscretions, no fault. They just grew apart.’
He shrugged. ‘Marriage’ll do that to you.’
She wished he hadn’t said that. ‘She’s going to tell Mum and Dad before the anniversary party. I think it’s really bad form, don’t you? Bloody selfish if you ask me.’
‘Does that surprise you?’ Blake picked up a bottle of cologne and turned to face the mirror again. ‘Ellen’s always been about Ellen. She’ll work it to get the most mileage out of this.’
‘Blake, don’t say that.’
‘Why? You know it’s true.’
‘She’s my sister.’
He leaned across to give her a peck on the cheek. ‘You’d have said it if I didn’t.’
‘It’s all right for me to say it.’
He smiled faintly as he dabbed the cologne on his neck and chest. Emma watched him.
‘I don’t know how Mum and Dad are going to take it.’
‘Oh, they’re pretty savvy, they’ll take it in their stride.’
‘But it’s their fortieth wedding anniversary,’ said Emma. ‘You don’t want news that the marriage of one of your kids has just fallen apart. It’s like one of your children dying, it’s not supposed to happen before you.’
‘I don’t think I’m following you,’ said Blake. ‘According to that logic parents are supposed to get divorced before any of their kids do.’
Emma sighed. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. I just think it should be a time for good news. For celebrating the future.’
‘It’s more a celebration of the past, isn’t it? The forty years they’ve spent together?’
‘It’s more than that,’ she insisted. ‘It’s a celebration of their life together, of everything they’ve achieved, their family, all going back forty years to the day they stood in front of each other and made that commitment. That should be the focus of the day.’
‘What are you proposing?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to have them renew their vows or something?’
She grinned then. ‘Did you say something about proposing?’
Blake frowned, she could tell he was mentally backtracking through the conversation. Then he rolled his eyes. ‘Oh come on, are you seriously going to tell me that’s the first thing that came to mind?’
It generally was.
But she just said, ‘Why, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Your sister’s marriage has just collapsed and that makes you want to get married? I would have thought it was the last thing you’d be thinking of right now.’
‘But we’re nothing like Ellen and Tim. They were kids who got pregnant, so they got married. You and I have chosen to be together, and stay together, for a long time. We’re established financially and in our careers. We know what we want, we wouldn’t be doing this on a whim, we’ve had years to think about it.’ She paused, waiting for some kind of response. ‘You’re always saying “one day”, so why not now, when it would bring some happiness into the family – a sense of hope?’
Blake raised a cynical eyebrow as he walked past her and out into the bedroom. Emma followed him.
‘Oh, I was supposed to tell you,’ he said, ‘Gordie and Sal want to meet a little earlier and have a drink first.’
‘You’re changing the subject,’ Emma said, folding her arms.
‘Just relaying a message, my sweet.’ He gave her a sugary smile and disappeared into the walk-in robe.
Emma fell onto the bed on her stomach. She propped herself up on her elbows. ‘You’re never going to marry me, are you?’ she said glumly.
‘Never say never,’ he muttered from inside the wardrobe.
‘Yeah, well just so you know, I won’t wait around forever, Blake. I’m not going to be a middle-aged bride, older women look ridiculous in all the white regalia. You have to tone it down, but I don’t want to tone it down. Not that I wouldn’t be elegant, of course, you know me. But I want to be a proper bride.’
‘Okay.’
Emma dropped her head onto the mattress and groaned. ‘You’re not even listening to me!’
He appeared above her a few moments later, staring down at her as he buttoned his shirt.
‘I was listening,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you were. I said okay.’
‘Okay about what?’ she pouted.
&nbs
p; ‘Okay,’ he paused, ‘maybe it is time we did this.’
Emma frowned, lifting her head slowly and then sitting all the way up. ‘What are you talking about?’
He perched on the edge of the bed, still buttoning his shirt. ‘It’s funny, we were talking about this at work the other day. Mitch had this theory that the married guys move up ahead of the rest of us. They get more opportunities, the biggest contracts, the important clients. And being given so many chances to perform, they ultimately get the promotions. I said he was crazy, he’d been watching too much Mad Men. That kind of attitude was from another generation. No one cares any more if you’re married or not, in fact sometimes they’re happier if you don’t have a family. They like ambitious, unattached young turks who’ll work long hours and take off at a moment’s notice. So Mitch bet me, and we went through the entire section, and it was uncanny. I don’t know if it’s just coincidence, but –’
Emma was not actually listening any more, she hadn’t been for some time. The only words that had sunk in, the last words she’d really heard, were ‘maybe it is time we did this’.
‘Blake!’ she said, interrupting him and grabbing him by the scruff of the collar.
‘Hey, careful,’ he protested. ‘You’ll crease my shirt.’
‘Did you say “maybe it’s time we did this”?’ she said urgently.
‘Well, I’ve just been thinking lately that –’
‘Blake, is that what you said?’ she cut him off. ‘More importantly, did you mean it? You can’t kid around about something like this, not with me, not after all this time. It would be cruel. And I’ve never known you to be cruel, Blake. So you have to tell me, did you really say it’s time we got married, and did you mean it?’
Emma’s voice had risen considerably and she was breathing hard, glaring at him, waiting for an answer. He just smiled back at her.
‘What?’ she said.
‘This really matters to you, doesn’t it?’
‘Blake, are you serious? Have you even been listening to me for the past . . . I don’t know how long?’
The Right Time Page 3