Too Close to Home

by Georgia Blain

  He has, Matt answers. But it’s complex. He would much prefer to sit down with her and discuss it before Ella gets home from school.

  Freya feels sick.

  ‘What kind of complex?’

  ‘Please,’ he asks. ‘Let me just see you and talk about it face to face.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he promises. ‘Well, not nothing, but I don’t want to discuss it on the phone. I really need us to speak.’

  Back inside the cafe, Frank waits. He has ordered her a coffee and she holds it, warm in her hands, unable to drink as she explains that she can’t stay. She begins to tell him about Lucas, when he reminds her that she has already told him a little, and she remembers that she has indeed spoken of this before, back in the time when they were simply friends.

  She turns the sugar bowl around on the table, and says she is sorry but she really will have to go.

  ‘At least have your coffee.’ He sits back, legs crossed in front of him, paper folded up.

  She takes a sip and then puts it down again. ‘Are we going to be able to be friends still?’

  He ponders the question, mock serious as he rubs at his cheek with his hand. ‘It depends on whether we were friends in the first place or just pretending – in a feeble attempt to deny the attraction that was there, all the time, simmering under the surface.’

  She smiles, glancing down at the table. Beneath the lighthearted flirtatiousness, there is a truth to what he says. ‘I guess that’s just something we’re going to have to find out.’ She looks at the smooth line of his face and the softness of his lips and knows she would like to kiss him, to lean across right now and take his face between her hands and feel his skin again, and she also knows that part of the pleasure would be in travelling so far from where she should be – at home, talking to Matt. So, she reaches for his hand instead, and takes it in her own, lifting it to her lips, before telling him that she does have to go, she really does, and she is sorry she is so bad at all of this, but that just seems to be the way it is, and she is sure they will find their way back to an ease with each other.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world, you know.’ His eyes are hazel in the softness of the light through the window. ‘People do this kind of thing often. No one need know, and no one needs to get hurt.’

  There’s a seductive ease to his words. She would like to believe them.

  ‘Why not? We like each other. The small teaser we had was fun. We don’t have to get attached. I have a lot to sort out and you can carry on with your life just as it is – using me as a little break from it all.’ His smile is hopeful.

  She looks at him. ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  But her voice cracks as she whispers, and the fault line throws her slightly, enough to make her realise she has to push back her chair and get going. She shouldn’t and cannot stay.

  ‘You’ll call me soon?’

  She can only nod in reply.

  Outside, she walks quickly back to the train station, and then runs down the escalator, just getting through the doors of the carriage before they slide shut.

  Matt is in the kitchen, also reading the news. She sees him as soon as she opens the door, sitting in an almost identical pose to the one in which she found Frank earlier, head bent forward, legs stretched out in front of him.

  He looks up, reaching out for her to sit with him. ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’ He points to the front page and she is irritated.

  She hasn’t come back to talk leadership spills.

  He apologises, turning immediately to all that has happened.

  He has made promises – a room to stay, an offer to cover bail money. He doesn’t confess them all directly, and with each one she opens her mouth to protest but he asks her to just wait until he has finished.

  ‘She will pay us back,’ he assures her. ‘She needs to draw down on her mortgage and it takes a few days.’

  And then, when he finally finishes, Freya is too angry to speak. She wishes she had fucked Frank the other night, embarking on a betrayal far less puny than the one she had attempted, relishing the destruction, both hands on the frayed edges of her life as she pulls it apart, the rent jagged and mean. Instead she is here with Matt, listening to his attempts to explain why Lisa will be at their house, potentially with Lucas, and why they will be as good as standing bail for someone she doesn’t know.

  ‘How could you have made these decisions without even telling me?’ she eventually asks.

  ‘I had no time to call you.’ He is opposite her with his hands on her shoulders, his palms warm, his grasp firm, but she pulls away.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ Her voice is tight.

  ‘I don’t understand why you need to be so angry about this. We’re only putting up the cash until Lisa’s money comes through and then she’ll pay us back straightaway. They’ll be here just until they find a place to rent. And that’s only if he gets bail, which he may not.’

  ‘You don’t even know her.’ Freya looks out the back door to their garden, a small square of lawn bordered by an old tin fence, most of the grass taken up by Ella’s trampoline and the two citrus trees. There is no space, she thinks, no place to get away from each other, and that’s what she wants, to be anywhere but here. ‘You don’t even know if he’s your son.’

  It isn’t the first time she’s said this. She’s uttered similar words before, aware of their power because they make all this seem so very foolish, but also aware that she feels ashamed of herself.

  He is silent for a moment, running his fingers through his thick brown hair, a hard emptiness in his gaze. ‘Does it matter?’

  His words are petrol to her, a rich, oily slick ready to burn. ‘Of course it matters. Do we need to put up bail for every delinquent child belonging to someone you fucked – very briefly – a long time ago? You’re not responsible for whatever he’s done. And she should be ashamed of herself for making you feel like you are, when she’s not even prepared to say whether he’s your child or not. She should be asking someone she knows. Surely she has her own family? Why the fuck does she want ours?’

  Matt doesn’t move. ‘You finished?’

  Freya just glares at him.

  ‘Chances are I am his father, not that I’ve ever been one to him. But you’re right, I don’t know for sure. I don’t want to make her have a paternity test. I’ve told you that. But am I only allowed to help if there’s a genetic link – is my care and compassion limited to that? You and your friends sit around complaining about how little is done for others and you never look at yourselves. All I can do is make a decision about the way I think I should behave in the circumstances – and I want to help.’

  In the silence that follows, Freya keeps her eyes fixed on the toes of her boots, soft leather that she polished that morning in anticipation of her meeting with Frank.

  Matt reaches for her hand. ‘Can I touch you now?’

  When she had first found out she was pregnant with Ella, he had told her he wasn’t ready to have a child. She remembers that as she looks at her feet. She had been so angry then, a pure white rush of fury engulfing her as she had said it was too bad. They were having a child and he’d better get ready. It was, perhaps, the only other time her anger had matched the rage she’d just experienced and as she stares at her boots, she feels the same sick thud of descending from the dizzy spinning heights of the flame, the same tasteless smear of ash as she surveys the damage they’ve both done.

  ‘No.’ She pushes her chair back and stands.

  On their kitchen table, Ella’s homework is gathered into a pile, Matt’s coffee cup is still there, notes from the school and fruit in a bowl, apples and pears. It’s a domestic scene so ordinary it hurts.

  ‘You never consult me,’ she says, looking across at him. ‘You just do what you want to do. And then you make me feel small.’

  His eyes meet hers, his mouth in a straight line, his features immobile; an expression that does little to hide his anger, and i
t is too much to look at, this hatred, which she knows is also there on her own face, so she just walks up to her studio, slamming the kitchen door shut behind her, and sinks to the floor, knees to her chest, stunned.

  IN THE HOURS BEFORE Lisa arrives, they avoid each other.

  In her workroom, Freya tries to read, but it’s pointless. She calls Anna first, wanting to cry to someone, but there’s no answer. She tries Mikhala next, and then hangs up, too distressed to go through the whole story from the beginning. She can see Matt in the lounge, watching the television, and she wonders what has happened with the leadership spill. She logs on to a news site, wanting to distract herself with a live feed from Parliament House.

  It’s all over. Kevin Rudd has lost. She doesn’t know what she feels: any delight at Australia’s first female prime minister is severely dampened by the way in which it has occurred and her anxiety that this will lead to an election loss. The press are waiting for the speeches, defeat and victory, and she logs off. She cannot bear to watch.

  Each time she thinks about trying to talk, her anger rises again. How could he have made a decision to lend such a large amount of money without even asking her?

  She remembers two years ago when he’d suggested they have another child, she’d told him they couldn’t afford it, knowing that this would dampen his enthusiasm. He was often anxious about finances, cranky when she spent without first telling him.

  ‘It’d be another year of me not earning. Childcare fees again. It’s too much.’

  But it wasn’t just that. She didn’t really want to give up writing once more while she fed and cared for a baby in a sleepless haze. She would have become pregnant again if he could have stayed home, letting her continue to work, but his income was too important. And even if they’d been richer and that option had been available, he would have been unhappy, full-time fatherhood taking him even further from whatever it was he wanted.

  He was always unhappy, she thought. This constant gnawing dissatisfaction that ate away at her too if she allowed herself to alight on it. She’s afraid he’s looking for something, hoping it will be there with Lisa and Lucas. He’s opening up their lives to trouble without care. It’s all wrong. If Lucas is Ella’s brother, this is not how the news should be broken to her.

  She heads into the living room and turns off the television. Matt looks up at her.

  ‘Did you see Kevin Rudd?’ he asks.

  She shakes her head, amazed at his capacity to compartmentalise.

  She sits next to him, her voice still tight. ‘We need to be careful with Ella.’

  He knows.

  ‘This has all been your decision,’ Freya says. ‘I’ve had no say. You need to pick her up from school and you need to have thought out how to tell her what’s happening.’

  He agrees.

  A couple of hours later, he’s back from the school. As soon as he shuts the front door behind him, he tells Ella they need to talk. Seeing the seriousness on his face, Ella is worried, her eyes round as she asks him what’s happened. ‘Did you get the sack like Kevin Rudd?’

  He laughs. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You’re never home this early,’ she says.

  He shakes his head, sitting her down in the lounge to tell her he’s having a friend to come and stay, and maybe her son.

  ‘He’s got into trouble and I’m just trying to help her out.’

  Ella has questions. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Matt is vague, but the words ‘police’ and ‘courts’ only make her ask more.

  ‘He’s a teenager,’ Matt says. ‘He ran away from home and he was living on the streets. He might have stolen something.’

  First lie, Freya thinks as she listens from the kitchen.

  Ella wants to know if it’s that boy. He talked to her mother on the phone before. Remember?

  It is, Matt says. She’s clever how she remembered.

  Standing at the doorway, Freya looks at Matt, who doesn’t meet her gaze.

  ‘I thought you could give them your room for a few days, and come and sleep with us.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ella shrugs, and then she looks a little anxious. ‘But he won’t steal anything of mine, will he?’

  Matt tries to reassure her. Of course he won’t. Besides, it really won’t be for long.

  Ella wants to know when they are coming and he tells her he’s going to pick Lisa up from the airport that evening.

  Ella just looks at him. She’s lost interest. She wants to watch ABC Kids.

  Matt shifts the rooms around while Freya makes dinner. He goes up the street to borrow a mattress from Shane, putting it in the corner of their bedroom for Ella.

  He is about to make up the trundle bed in Ella’s room when Freya tells him he should wait.

  ‘It might just be Lisa. You don’t even know whether he’ll get bail.’

  He slides it back in.

  The three of them eat dinner in strained politeness, Ella doing most of the talking. She pushes her pasta around with her fork, and then lets it drop to the floor with a clatter.

  ‘I hate it when you’re like this,’ she says.

  ‘Like what?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Fighting.’

  Freya is surprised at how transparent their pretence is. She’s about to deny that there’s any disagreement and then she changes her mind. ‘Don’t worry too much about it,’ she tells Ella. ‘People argue and then they get over it.’

  ‘Are you arguing about her?’ Ella wants to know.

  Both Matt and Freya are quick to shake their heads, saying that it’s not that at all, it’s something quite different.

  ‘What?’ she wants to know.

  ‘Money,’ Freya lies, although it’s not entirely untrue.

  Ella rolls her eyes at the tediousness of it.

  She’s in bed when Matt leaves for the airport, and Freya sits out alone in the lounge room, the heater on and the blinds closed to the cold of the night. She shifts the pile of books from the low-lying teak coffee table that had belonged to her father, and puts her feet up, the television volume soft as she dials.

  Frank answers on the first ring. He’s told her he gets lonely working in Sydney, spending too much time in his small bedsit after a day in the theatre, wishing he had someone to go out with.

  ‘I presume you’ve called to talk leadership spills?’

  She smiles slightly, as she tells him that no, she hasn’t. ‘I know this wasn’t really part of what was on offer today, but I need a friend.’

  He’s silent for a moment, and then he speaks, his voice kind. ‘The other child stuff?’

  She bites back the tears. ‘I haven’t really told anyone about it apart from you and Anna. She’s not answering, so you’re getting the debrief call.’

  ‘I’m renowned for my listening skills,’ he tells her. ‘Spit it out. Be as nasty and uncharitable as you need and I’ll never repeat a word.’

  But she actually doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s worn out from the day, and she stops after only a few words on the subject. ‘You know what? I’d much rather talk politics.’

  ‘Then let’s do that,’ he says. He is silent for a moment. ‘I guess I have to start. Kevin Rudd brought about his own downfall. He was arrogant, apparently disliked, and he dug his own grave when he called climate change the greatest moral challenge of our time. It’s really got the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy.’

  ‘Can we go a bit lighter?’ she asks.

  He thinks, pausing as he does so. ‘This country will never be ready for a red-headed, unmarried, female atheist as prime minister.’

  ‘If that’s the case, I don’t have a hope in hell of ever getting the job.’

  ‘I didn’t think you wanted it.’

  She smiles again, settling back on the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her, glad that she called, and that he is there, separate from all this, and hers alone, just for now.

  LISA IS OUT THE back. She sits at the wooden trestle table, hu
nched forward as she stares across the garden, a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to her. She wears black trousers that have a slight shine on them from the heat of the iron, a white blouse, and a jacket Freya has lent her, the sleeves too long, the fit too loose around the slightness of her frame. Her blonde hair is brushed into a single clip, pale wisps escaping from its hold, and framing her face with a ghostly halo. Her make-up has been hastily applied, the foundation too light, the lipstick too bright. She looks like a child trying to dress as an adult.

  Matt had brought her home the previous evening, straining to carry her suitcase up the front stairs, while Freya waited, there at the top, with the door open.

  ‘I brought everything.’ Lisa looked embarrassed. ‘I just didn’t know how long it was all going to be. And I couldn’t make decisions.’

  Her eyes were red, the lids swollen from crying, and the dark circles showed she’d had no sleep.

  Freya introduced herself, and Lisa held out a limp hand, her skin dry and cold.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Freya asked. ‘Tea? A stiff drink?’

  Blowing her nose on a clutch of sodden tissues, Lisa just nodded.

  Which? Freya wanted to know. The tea or the drink?

  In the kitchen, she poured herself a scotch, and then two others.

  ‘She’s a recovering alcoholic,’ Matt told her, his voice a hiss as he tipped Lisa’s back into the bottle.

  ‘How was I to know?’

  Standing at the doorway, Lisa said tea would be fine. ‘Something herbal if you have it. I’m not sleeping.’ Her voice was soft, uncertain, and she bit on her lip. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  Matt passed her an ashtray, telling her not to worry, it was too cold to go outside, she could stay in the kitchen.

  Her hands shook as she lit a cigarette, and told them both she was sorry about this. ‘Turning up on your doorstep.’ She blew out the match and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I’ll organise a place of our own once bail’s set, even see if we can go back to Queensland until the trial, though the lawyer says it’s unlikely.’ She looked at Freya. ‘I know you don’t even know me. I really appreciate it.’