Annie took a deep breath and blew out the side of her mouth. ‘Very well. If it means everyone will leave the poor girl alone.’
‘That’s very sensible, Mrs Hooper,’ Lauren’s shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘You might also ask the doctor to have a word with Rachel about anything that may be bothering her … and about her weight. It would be useful to know if she is within normal limits,’ Lauren said, glancing at Peter and allowing her eyes to rest on him before looking over to Tim and giving him a similar degree of scrutiny. From the moment she had walked into the room, Tim had watched her slide the occasional surreptitious glance towards him and then Peter, as though ticking off an internal checklist.
‘If you insist,’ Annie said, standing. ‘Now, if that is all, I must get tea for my family.’
‘Yes. Thank you for your time, Mrs Hooper. I’ll phone you the day after tomorrow to make sure you’ve been able to arrange the doctor’s appointment. It would be preferable for Rachel to see a specialist child protection medico but she seems vehemently opposed, so in this instance the family GP, Dr Shepherd, will be fine. I’ve already had a word with him to expect your call.’
Annie led Lauren Quayle to the back door and Tim watched, relieved that the matter of Rachel’s overdose and everything that went with it was still on the boil — but with a niggling uncertainty that Lauren Quayle may suspect him and Peter of wrongdoing.
Meanwhile, Peter blandly wandered over to the fireplace and with a long groan, lowered himself into his chair, retrieving his paper from where it had dropped to the floor and flicking it straight before resuming his reading of it.
Already struggling to fathom Peter’s resigned silence in the face of what had just happened, Tim watched his mother reappear as the crunch of Lauren Quayle’s tyres on the gravel outside slowly faded.
‘Lordy! What a storm in a teacup. Tim, go and fetch Rachel and Ben, will you love?’ Annie said rushing towards the bubbling saucepans on the stove.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The crash of metal and tinkling of broken glass snapped Mia from the deepest of sleeps. She lay and listened to the voices outside, determined she would not move from her bed for anything less than an invasion.
‘You were texting. I saw you in my rearview mirror before you drove into me,’ an hysterical female voice exploded outside the bedroom window. It was unclear what the male mumblings were articulating, but Mia was intrigued enough to finally drag herself to her feet. She padded across the thick carpet and peeked through the shutters, pushing aside the effects of her blinding hangover and the aching hollowness that only severe grief can kindle. She had not felt the emptiness of such loss since her parents had died. Peering through the shutters she watched the well-coiffed woman and the young guy with multiple piercings exchange details and observed their crumpled vehicles — a Mercedes and a multi-coloured Holden. She noted there were no serious injuries and turned her attention to the sunless grey sky, mist hanging over the rooftops like smoke.
‘That’d be right,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s my day off so of course the weather is bad.’ And to make matters worse, Eric was due home that night. Bending to retrieve her towelling robe from where it had fallen last night, her head feeling as though it was about to spin off her shoulders, she carried it in a pincer grip to the en suite and dropped it into the laundry hamper. Eric’s scent when she then slipped into his navy robe, caused her the deepest of aches.
His text seemed no less brutal over coffee. Will be home Tuesday, but another appointment that evening so no plans pls. E. Mia’s primary thought was that she had never been subservient to Eric and she did not intend to start now. His command meant nothing to her. Her second thought was that she would fight back and cook his favourite dinner to remind him of the home comforts they had both enjoyed for so many years. Besides, he had to eat — and it would be an extraordinarily long stretch for anyone, even him, to define dinner at home as making plans. And cooking would keep her busy.
Fruit and vegetable stalls and fresh and continental meats; picture windows crammed with fresh bread, cakes and pastries; chargrilled steaks and chicken; Asian cooking, and different genres of music spilling from every third or fourth door along the street; vibrant and subdued conversations at tables lining the pavement. Mia could almost taste the sounds and smells, the atmosphere, despite the dreary drizzling weather. She loved her days off, which by their very nature transformed shopping from a ponderous obligation to an absolute delight. By the time she was done, her body pulsated with energy and hope.
Although Eric had not been specific she knew when he would be home because he invariably flew with the same airline. By 7.00pm the fire had warmed the house to the perfect temperature, the hearty aroma of ossobuco was all-pervading and French cafe music flowed unobtrusively yet joyously from the sound system. She cast one final glance at the table’s silver and glassware sparkling in the candlelight. Took several deep breaths and, running both hands down the front of her black skirt, smiled with satisfaction.
Yet the moment Eric’s car pulled into the undercroft, poise and confidence abandoned her. Suddenly breathless, she pushed the potato au gratin back into the oven and stood to attention at the breakfast bar. His footfall on the stairs seemed plodding and morose. She hurriedly placed two glasses on the bench, pulled a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and poured with as much composure as she could muster.
With a face like thunder, Eric struggled through the door, hip and shouldering it open, his carryall in one hand and briefcase in the other. His travel-rumpled suit, the dark shadow lining his cheeks and jaw, and his tousled hair, all stunned her into an awkward silence at the fresh realisation of how much she loved him. With a deep breath she stepped up, kissed him on the cheek and took the briefcase from his hand. ‘Welcome home. I’ve missed you,’ she said.
Eric muttered something made unintelligible by the door angrily banging closed behind him.
‘I’ve cooked your favourite dinner,’ Mia said.
Avoiding her gaze, he sighed and placed his luggage down. ‘Why did you do that? I told you I have another appointment tonight.’ He dug into his pockets and withdrew business cards, notes, coins and paperclips, which he dumped mindlessly on the breakfast bar.
Mia spontaneously pushed his pocket paraphernalia into the corner by the coffee machine as she always did. ‘But you need to eat,’ she said.
‘I have a dinner meeting, Mia,’ he said, sneering. He picked up his luggage and strode to their bedroom.
‘Well, that’s okay,’ Mia called to his back. ‘We’ll have it tomorrow night. The ossobuco will taste even better by then.’
‘I’ll be in Sydney tomorrow night,’ his voice echoed dismissively down the passage.
Mia rushed to the sound system and killed the French music. ‘Why the hell am I doing this, anyway?’ She blew out the candles with more force than intended and eventually dismantled the entire table arrangement, not knowing how she should feel, what she should think, because she had never experienced anything remotely like this before. Her instinct was to collapse on the floor in tears.
Instead, she rifled through the pantry for the Swiss chocolates she had forgotten about last night and, like a depraved troll, ripped the cellophane off the box and crammed a ball of chocolate-coated caramel with savage delight into her mouth. Then she retrieved a crystal glass and poured herself a generous serve of the exceptionally good red she had opened for tonight.
‘Fuck you, Eric,’ she muttered, smiling inwardly at the irony in her words. She gathered the chocolates and wine before adjourning to the lounge with her novel. But as she was leaving the kitchen something in the litter he had dumped from his pocket caught her attention.
Too often had her heart been sent thudding in her chest of late, and here it was happening yet again, she thought, as she withdrew the small slip of paper, her eyes unable to leave the elaborate ‘L’ at the bottom. The handwriting turned out to be unlike that on the pink note, but was Leila’s, Eric’s secretary. T
he message’s cryptic nature … QF388, 08.10, 4/8 … did not deter Mia. She knew precisely what the numbers meant. And 4/8 was tomorrow.
Knowing Eric would want to retrieve his pocket detritus tomorrow, she memorised the note’s message and returned it to the pile. With her fists and jaw clenched, she thumped along the passage to the bedroom, stopping before she reached the doorway and quietly clearing her throat.
Eric stood at the open wardrobe door wrapped only in a towel, his hair still wet from the shower. She glanced at his broad shoulders, his still straight back. His carryall lay flat and open on the white doona. With an eye-wateringly painful amount of effort he matched shirts with ties before carefully packing them into the carryall.
‘You must be sick of travelling,’ she said making her way across the bedroom to the white armchair in the corner. She kicked off her shoes and folded her feet under her thighs.
‘It’s just part of the job,’ he said.
‘The Singapore deal must have been stressful, too.’
‘It was stressful. But it was worthwhile, once we finally clinched it.’
She frowned at the smile softening his lips — the type of smile aroused by fond memories. ‘Who was working on the deal with you?’ she asked.
He hesitated. Turned to examine her face for a split second, then turned back to his packing. ‘An executive broker from the New York office.’
‘What’s his name?’ she said.
‘Lucinda Brayshaw-Mahoney,’ he replied. ‘We would not have closed the deal without her.’
‘She sounds clever.’ Mia’s nails dug into her palm.
‘She is.’ Eric quickly slipped a bundle of hand-sized packages into a side pocket of his carryall. Normally Mia would have taken no notice. But curiosity provoked by the crackling of cellophane, prompted her to focus on the newly acquired, unopened underwear in glaring hues of canary yellow, fire engine red and cobalt blue. For as long as she had known him, Eric had stubbornly confined his tastes in underwear to black, white and grey despite her urging him to live a little and try patterns or colours. She was already certain what his answer to her next question would be.
‘Is Lucinda going to Sydney with you?’ And does she wear red underwear, too?
‘Uh-huh,’ he answered stepping into the en suite bathroom. The sudden, invasive screaming of the hairdryer felt like a slap. Mute as a monastic monk she left her shoes abandoned on the carpet and wandered back to the kitchen. Her choices were limited. She knew what she had to do next.
Curled on the lounge with her book, she swallowed another mouthful of wine and shoved more chocolate into her mouth. Eric’s footfall on the tiles was hurried, businesslike. ‘Come and give me a kiss goodbye,’ she called to him as she would have done on any other night. He appeared at the doorway, his face expressionless, one hand in the pocket of his tuxedo pants, before taking a step forward and perfunctorily kissing her cheek with hard, dry lips. ‘Don’t I get a proper kiss?’ she asked, smiling to herself at the sarcasm.
‘Don’t wait up,’ he called before the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Lucinda Brayshaw-Mahoney. Lucinda Brayshaw-Mahoney …’ she repeated like a demented shrew as she booted up the computer. And there in the study, amid the clutter of their lives, and beside the old attaché case and the pink note that had entered her space like a wrecking ball, the image of her husband and Lucinda Brayshaw-Mahoney, both smiling, standing either side of the CEO of a Singapore finance company, flashed up on the screen. ‘Oh my god,’ Mia murmured, mesmerised by the perfect complexion, the heart-shaped face, naturally pink lips and round blue eyes. For two hours, Mia obsessively researched her new foe to learn that Lucinda Brayshaw-Mahoney was 31 years old, 17 years Eric’s junior, a negotiations guru renowned for speaking several languages, and a descendant of one of America’s wealthiest mining tycoons.
Of course, when Mia finally dragged her feet to bed, she could not sleep. She tossed and turned, pondering how ridiculously naive it had been to believe that coming to terms with the pink note and Eric’s glacial behaviour, along with the reality of his affair, would mean the worst was behind her. She realised now that she had not factored into the equation how devastating it had been to stare into the face of the woman who had stolen her life at almost half her age.
She must have slept eventually because she woke at the usual time next morning and immediately reached over to Eric’s side of the bed to find it empty. Far from being shocked, Mia had half-expected this further show of arrogance from him. But she also knew that this meant matters were about to come to a head, would be dragged out into the open, and she was not entirely sure she was ready.
She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, concentrating on the throaty cooing of pigeons scuttling among the spent camellias below her window. A sound that had always given her joy, but today was nothing short of irritating. She held her breath after hearing what she thought was a squeak from the bed in the guest room. Then there was the padding of feet and the sound of male urination followed by the toilet flushing. Unable to fathom the sense of relief that washed over her she jumped out of bed and pulled on shorts and singlet, then her tracksuit and runners.
‘Do you have another day off?’ Eric asked from the breakfast bar before biting into a slice of toast and treating this as though it was any other day.
She hated him at that moment. Slipping her gym bag over her shoulder, she replied, ‘Yes. And I can’t wait to get to the gym.’ She chose an apple from the fruit bowl and snatched up her car keys. ‘Hope your meeting in Sydney goes well,’ she said, kissing his cheek, aware of the smoothness of his skin, the soap fragrance on his cheek. ‘Let me know when you’ll be home … Oh, and lock up when you leave, will you please, Eric?’
She ran down the steps to the undercroft and pointed her remote at her car, feeling as though her heart was shredding. Forcing back tears, helped by a strong dose of self-admonishment, she backed into the road, drove 200 metres and turned into a side street. She reversed and parked facing the road again at a safe enough distance not to be seen. Then she cut the motor and sat, eyeing every car that drove past.
After five minutes she bit into her apple, for tension relief more than hunger. And after 15 minutes, Eric’s car drifted past. With hands like jelly she turned the key in the ignition and pulled out into the traffic at a safe distance behind him. And when it was evident he was travelling to the airport, she took an alternative route.
The airport road was chaotic with taxis, buses and cars turning into it from five different directions. She drove slowly, anxious about the distinct possibility of Eric’s car appearing at one of several roundabouts. She drove to the top floor of the airport car park, certain in the knowledge he would not be there, and ran down five flights of stairs to ground level in order to avoid the possibility of coming face to face with him in the elevator.
The courtyard between the car park and the airport terminal loomed like the Simpson Desert before her. And for once there was hardly any foot traffic. She could not have felt more exposed if she’d been naked. She took three, steadying deep breaths and made her way across the seemingly endless expanse of paving until, at last, she entered the revolving glass door of the terminal and felt the anonymity of being one of a thousand people buzzing about their business within the terminal walls. Even so, her head still ached from the fear of coming face to face with Eric and Lucinda. She stepped into the shadows between two car rental booths. Her watch said it was 7.40am. The note from Leila had said the flight left at 8.10. And the departure screens said QF388 left from Gate 18.
She planned her next move from the safety of her cover between the two car rental booths. Her mind played tricks as she imagined Eric in his pinstriped suit and ice-blue shirt walking confidently through the terminal, his back straight, his chin lifted, luggage dangling easily from each hand. Lucinda would be by his side, carrying a smart briefcase and dressed in an Armani suit. She imagined Eric’s scowl when they accidentally came face to face. He wo
uld look her up and down, sneering at her gym clothes, her face sweaty and terrified from following him like a heat-seeking missile to the airport. Lucinda’s round blue eyes would scan her before turning to Eric, bewildered and slightly annoyed. Just stop it, Mia. They should be the ones skulking around like criminals — not you.
Waiting in line at the security checkpoint, she peered around her, catching glimpses of the security staff and their bored faces, the buxom woman with a bad perm who slumped behind the scanner and the two anonymous uniforms on the other side of the metal detector, their scanners posed like lethal weapons. She stepped through the security archway, breathing a sigh of relief that her runners had not sent the buzzers into reckless conniptions and so incurring further unwanted attention.
She had decided to take refuge in the bookstore, which everyone passed by, whether arriving or departing. But not before she rid herself of the urgent need to pee. She scuttled the few metres to the nearest restroom and breathed a sigh of relief at finding it vacantly silent.
The woman who stared back at her from the mirror was horrifying. The blotchy face and neck, eyes hidden in swollen folds of red skin, the usually lustrous head of dark blonde curls flattened from sleep. She wished she had at least taken a moment to use a comb and some mascara at home.
She peered to the left and right before scuttling out into the walkway and joining the masses once again.
‘Can I help you?’ the young woman wearing Rastafarian braids asked politely once Mia had entered the bookstore.
‘No, thanks. Just browsing,’ she answered spotting a secluded spot with an open view in the reference section. She pulled a thesaurus from the shelf and, despite its weight, gave her best impression of being a potential customer.
Time was running out. She had lost interest in the books and she was growing increasingly anxious. She wondered if she had deciphered Leila’s cryptic message accurately. Then she heard a female voice call, ‘Eric,’ from outside the bookshop, to her left. And to her right, there he was … Eric, whose smile tore at her. She had not realised until now how much she missed it, that smile; it was the one he used to give her, the one that reached all the way to his eyes. The one she couldn’t remember last seeing. Lucinda stepped into view. Tall and snake-hipped, she looked precisely as she had in the photograph. But instead of the hugging couture suit and silk blouse, today she wore designer jeans, knee-high boots and a cropped jacket.
What Matters Most Page 8