Mrs Hinton is a widow whose life was once gardening, but now her garden has become overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. Archer and I have asked her many times to clean up her yard since I discovered that her garden was housing venomous reptiles. It had been a sunny Monday morning last spring, and I had put Marla in a playpen in our back yard, while I practised settings I found difficult to master on my newly purchased camera. I had saved Marla from being bitten by a brown snake that day. The snake had slithered out of the dense foliage of Mrs Hinton’s unruly garden onto our concrete path just as I was snapping a few random photos. Once I had taken a photo of the snake, I picked up Marla and ran inside to call a snake catcher. The next day I marched through Mrs Hinton’s weeds, which were hiding an assortment of colourful flowers, I banged with two fists on her door and demanded she clean up her yard. Tonight, as I prepare to trim her flowers, I’m glad that she didn’t listen to my requests. I can’t see my feet in the darkness, but I can’t risk Mrs Hinton seeing my torchlight. I crouch so that I’m closer to the ground.
I stop at a section of the overgrown yard with flowers that look like they would be colourful if I shone my torch on them. I realise that taking my phone out now to compare these flowers with the ones on my screen may not be ideal. I put on my glove and start cutting all the flowers I see, pink petalled flowers, flowers with yellow bulbs, flowers that look like spiders, flowers with large heads and flowers with small heads. I throw the flowers in a bag when I hear Mrs Hinton’s back door slide open. The door closes, I hunker down again and hurry towards the barbed wire fence. I swing my legs over and straighten my back as I run down to my door. I slide the door open casually in case Archer has returned home. I will have to explain why I’m walking in the back yard at night. First, he should explain where he was all evening.
When I am confident that he is not home, I quickly empty the flowers onto the kitchen table and spread them out as if I’m preparing to create a bouquet. I scan my phone over the top of the flowers and give a tiny squeal when I find my match. I pick up my precious Oleander flower and prepare to extract its juice.
***
I am annoyed tonight because we have a relatively small bed and I have to sleep so close to him; I didn’t wait for Archer to return home from spending the evening with her, by the time I had finished my complex chemistry experiment in the kitchen he still wasn’t home. Now he is here; I can hear him breathing next to me. I look at him; watch his chest rise. He lies flat on his back as he would if he lay in a coffin. The grey streaks in his hair are reflecting in the light. I get up to close the blinds. I don’t want to see him.
When I wake, I’m surprised that he is still in bed. I was hoping that he wouldn’t be here. As I walk to open the blind, I look back at him and notice he’s lying there with his eyes open.
I know he’s thinking that I look a mess, my grey worn out track pants stretch over my large behind and, as I stand at the window, I block out the sun. That is not what she looks like when he wakes up with her.
“Morning, aren’t you going into work today?” I ask perching my backside on the window sill and folding my arms; I don’t have a bra on so my arms will stop him from noticing my sagging breasts.
Then, as if I have interrupted him from deep thoughts about my massive arse, he fumbles and says, “I thought that after you take Marla to day-care, we could get some breakfast. I’ve been doing so much driving around from store to store recently, I haven’t had chance to sit down and eat a proper breakfast or lunch.”
Breakfast, now that sounds exactly like something I don’t want to do with him, I think as I take a black T-shirt and leggings out of my cupboard.
I continue the conversation about eating lunch thinking how sad that I don’t know what my husband eats for his lunch – or rather ‘fucks’ for lunch every day.
“I can’t believe that you never sit down for lunch during the day,” I say.
“No, I don’t have relaxing lunches. Lately, I’ve been grabbing those Caesar salads that you can get in the little bowls, and I eat them while I’m driving,” he says as I watch him take his phone from the table next to our bed. He walks past me to the bathroom and closes the door. I can hear the water turn on in the shower and he probably turns his phone on simultaneously. I imagine him searching for the latest photo he took of her; he is sliding his hand down his pyjama pants pretending that she is leaning over the sink. There, his head feels clearer for a moment. Then he walks under the pouring warm water.
I take off my roomy tracksuit pants and change into my slenderising active wear. After breakfast, I am going to take a yoga class. On my 32nd birthday, along with my bouncy ball, Archer gifted me a 12-month yoga class membership. I don’t enjoy them, but I go because I like the ladies there: they bend and stretch and do the downward dog, and it makes the yoga class worthwhile. Another benefit of taking this class is that it is located on the same street as Zody’s apartment.
***
We hold hands as we walk; we step on the last of the remaining autumn leaves, which have almost dried up, unlike our marriage, because today we have the perfect marriage. It’s almost as perfect as it was before we started growing apart – before Archer started seeing other women and before I was aware that I enjoyed women. Although I do notice he picked a café close to her house, the café that I visit regularly: Timeston’s Café. It’s an excellent one but today Violets Cave Café would have been a safer option for both him and me. His argument to get me to go to Timeston’s was that it was within walking distance.
Once Archer places our breakfast order at the counter, he sits back at the table, and I decide I have to probe him some more about where he has been spending his lunchtimes.
“What affairs have been unfolding at work that you’re suddenly so short on time? I thought you called your own shots,” I say.
“Affairs? Operations from head office have increased the area I’m looking after, I’ve got four more stores to manage on top of my existing stores,” Archer explains.
“You have a good working relationship with the team in Operations, don’t you? If I were you, I would probably be inclined to inform them you’re being put under pressure,” I say.
Then it happened. We were only sitting there for a moment. Is this what he was hoping for? I had noticed her before he did so I could see his reaction when he saw her. Of course, he didn’t react or he just succeeded well in hiding his body’s response to seeing her. Because you’re not supposed to know her that well, isn’t that right, Archer? I pushed my spine into the seat, wanting my body to melt into it and disappear, though with my size that would be a difficult thing to achieve. I pulled my eyes away, as it was too painful to see. Zody looked even better than my memory dared to remember. She is wearing a long, tan dress with white sneakers; actually, I suspect it may be a nightgown.
“You’re right I might need to talk to someone about it, I don’t want to disappoint anyone though, they have been investing in me with the training in Melbourne.” Archer keeps talking about his problems as I look over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about your work issues; this too shall pass,” I say waving my hand as I continue to gaze at her.
Damn, Archer was chattering in my ear, and I didn’t savour my last minute of watching her. I want her back so badly, but she left the café. She almost ran; I saw her from the corner of my eye. I watched her move; she was like a tan curtain that was blowing in the wind, then it was gone. I pull the crust from the sourdough bread that is sitting on my plate.
“You are killing that bread,” Archer says with a laugh.
“Sorry,” I say when I realise the mess I’ve made on my plate.
“I better head to work, I’ll have to walk back home to get the car first. Told you I never have time to sit for longer than two minutes,” he says. “You enjoy your day; I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.”
“Of course, off you go. I will pay for breakfast,” I say.
He is already halfway out the door when
I pay for the order. “I’m paying for table two, please. Oh, and I’ll take a couple of those delicious looking salted caramel brownies, I’ll have them to eat here, thank you,” I say.
I sit back at the table and start to eat my first brownie, with small slow bites. This is the café where she holds her meetings. I know that because I’ve sat here many times as close as possible to the table she sits at with her clients. Sometimes I’ve had to move from where I was sitting so I could hear what Zody was saying to them. It was like a real-life lesson on how to speak to potential brides and grooms. When I sit at the table next to her I pretend I am texting on my phone, but what I am really doing is typing the conversation, I type both sides: hers and that of her bevy. The first time I had tried to record the conversation on my phone. I’d been excited to take it home, hide in my bedroom, and reply to her voice, but when I listened to the recording, the background noise was too intrusive and drowned out Zody’s voice. I asked Archer if I could have a new phone, but he couldn’t understand why I would need a new one when mine had such a good camera. I didn’t tell him it was shit at recording peoples’ conversations.
Then there was that one day; I remember it had been raining. I’d taken Marla to day-care and come into the café to warm up. That day Zody was the one who sat her clients (who looked like they had just made a pit stop on their first-class trip around the world) next to me. So that fabulous day I didn’t have to move to be closer to her. I placed my order of arancini balls and began to type away on my phone what Zody was saying to her clients. She was so happy the couple had taken time to meet with her, and asked them to tell her the story of how they met.
The waiter brought my order and placed it before me. In the process, he bumped my phone. I watched as it slipped off the table. I fumbled to catch it, but all I could do was watch it land on the floor face up, displaying on the white background, the black words I had just typed. While I was staring at the screen, Zody bent over and picked up the phone and held it out for me. The screen had gone black by now. When our eyes met what I saw there was impatience; she wanted me to take the phone so she could continue with her meeting. I said thank you, feeling three sets of eyes on me. I took my phone back and continued to type their conversation. I told Archer later that day that my phone had fallen on the floor because of the clumsy waiter at the café. He treated me to a new one and since that day I have been able to record all of the conversations she has with her clientele.
Zody
“One small latte and a salted caramel brownie please,” I say. I scan the room for my potential clients, Lisa and Sam, and I sense eyes looking at the back of my head. I turn and find a large lady looking over a man’s shoulder in my direction, her face seems familiar, but I can’t quite place it in my mind. In a flash, her eyes dart away, now she’s looking toward the side of the café. I arrived earlier so I could do some work while I wait for my clients and at the moment it doesn’t look as though anyone is waiting for me. I reach into my bag for my purse and realise that a necessary object is missing. My mind races to work out what I’ve forgotten when a picture of my diary appears in my mind.
“Oh, shit,” I say to no one in particular.
“Hold onto that piece of cake for me, I will be back in a moment!” I say to the bearded barista.
I hate to be late for meetings, but because my clients haven’t arrived, I’m sure I can make it home and back to the café without it appearing I’m running late. It isn’t an option to conduct a meeting without my diary.
I dash out the door. Outside, someone has forgotten to tell the weather to make up its mind if it wants to drop some raindrops or stay cloudy and windy forever.
I pick up my pace and cross the street in case this is the moment it does start to rain as I am only wearing a slip of a dress. As I pass a group of ladies in active clothing entering a yoga class, I hear someone calling my name from the other side of the road.
“Hey, Zody.” Archer waves.
“Archer, hi, we are always crossing paths,” I say, waving back.
“Were you just at Timeston’s?” he asks pointing at the coffee cup I am holding. “I must have just missed seeing you in there. I was there having breakfast with my wife.” He talks loudly so I can hear him over the passing cars.
“Ah okay, I thought I saw a familiar face looking at me, that must have been your wife. How was your stay in Melbourne?” I ask as we continue to walk parallel to each other on opposite sides of the road.
I’m glad to see a familiar face. I realise that for some time I have denied myself male company and for a split second the ruggedness of a man would be a pleasure I could revel in. I’m not sure if it’s because Archer is looking particularly rugged today or I just need a man, any man. Even from across the road I can see his face is looking furrowed, maybe even a little tense; his brown hair is slightly messy and his suit is slightly wrinkled, but is tailored nicely to his body.
“Melbourne would have been terrific if I had a chance to leave the office,” he replies. “By the way, my company is ready with that campaign I mentioned to you last time we spoke at the airport; our marketing department is looking for a photographer.”
“Sounds awesome, ask them to send me an email, got to run, good to see you again,” I say, and I mean it.
“I will do, Zody, I’m happy to see you also, bye for now.” He turns down the lane opposite my apartment as I turn into my apartment complex.
I re-focus on the business in hand as I wait for the elevator to take me to the fourth floor. I could kick myself for forgetting my diary – usually my mind is sharp.
Opening the door to my apartment, I rush to the computer table where I keep my diary, but instead of its golden cover there is just an empty space. I look under the desk in case it has slipped off. I do a scan of my room, which is spotlessly clean thanks to my newly acquired cleaning lady. The cleaning lady! What if she stole my diary when was she here last?
I look at my watch: 8:49 a.m. Only five minutes until I’m due back at the café. I get on my hands and knees and look under the coffee table; I lift up my photo books and when I don’t find it there I look under the cushions. I replace the cushions and lean my back on them. I need a moment to think. I can’t go to the meeting without my diary, maybe taking it to the meeting wasn’t meant to be. But I have a list of important questions in there that I like to ask my couples; I’d have to remember them on the spot. Damn.
I try to retrace my steps of when I last had it. That always helps. This morning I hadn’t needed it. Before I left to go to the café, I cleaned and packed my photography gear into my backpack, before that I had woken up in front of my computer after falling asleep editing photos last night. Last night! I run into the bathroom and look at the side table next to the bathtub; the diary is not there. Then I see it. It has slipped down under the table. I bend down, grab the little book off the floor, and run.
Helena
Outside the café, high school kids occupy the only bench. I look up and down the patch of sidewalk to find a place to sit to eat my second brownie before the yoga class starts. I bite into my delicious dessert, and at the same moment I see her crossing the road from her apartment. Every step she takes brings her closer to me and my opportunity to speak to her without making it look like a planned meeting.
“Zody,” I say.
She turns her head to the sound of her name just before she enters the café. “Oh shit, you surprised me!”
I take a step closer but don’t apologise for startling her. “I am Helena Hoath; we met last year on the ferry on the way to Corfu; you may know my husband, Archer.”
Zody nods as if she knows him well, and gestures towards the café entrance. “I have a meeting, I’m already running late, can we talk another time?” she says.
I take another step closer in order to whisper; I’m nearly touching her ear with my lips. “It’s important we speak as soon as possible. It’s about an email you may have received in the last few days. I’m worried about you
r safety and mine.”
She doesn’t move.
“Come to my house later today; Archer won’t be home. Once we talk about what Archer has done, maybe we can go to the police together. I’m terrified for myself and my daughter.” I speak in a quiet, worried voice and it looks like it’s working, She is listening and wants more information.
“I will be back at home from eleven this morning, come over then. Here, let me write my address down for you.”
She passes me the gold covered notebook she’s holding against her chest; I write my address on the page she has open for me.
I keep the notebook in my hands and don’t want to let it go, I feel an energy and power as I hold the book, so I deliberately take my time to write my address: 45 Case St.
When I’ve finished, I watch her face, and I can see the worry I have planted there. It’s not possible now that she won’t come to visit me.
“I have to go inside for my meeting now,” she says taking her notebook back. She looks at me like she wants to say more, but we both know it’s best to leave talking through the details for later. Once she has gone inside the café, I walk down the road toward a lake, my heart beating at our interaction. I’m not sure anymore if I am feeling like this because I was standing so close to her, as I’ve wanted to do for so long, or because I had held her diary, or maybe just because of what I have planned when I see her again.
I stop near the lake, find a clean bench, and unwrap my brownie. I watch the blue-winged ducks swimming in the water: the broken fountain spurting sporadically makes the water choppy and disrupts the tranquillity of the lake for the ducks. The smashing sound of the water takes me back to the day trip we took to Corfu while we were holidaying in Greece, one turbulent ferry trip, and our first meeting.
Corfu - One Year Earlier
I push through the tourists on the promenade of the ferry en route to Corfu; it is as crowded as a train to Sydney at peak hour. I wrap my arms protectively around Marla who’s attached to me in a baby sling and I’m thankful she is asleep with her little cheek pushed against my chest. I try not to spill the two black coffees I am carrying.
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