The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘I missed you too.’ The words caught in her throat.

  Jackson released her. ‘What’s been happening? I haven’t spoken to you much this trip,’ he asked over one shoulder as he wandered off to the loo.

  Christina perched on the arm of the lounge and dug her nails into the upholstery to anchor herself, ‘Not much. Same old stuff,’ she called after him.

  ‘And how’s Bee behaving herself?’ Jackson sauntered back into the room, zipping his fly.

  The smile froze on her face. Such a normal question but not now. Christina swallowed. ‘Oh fine. She has exams soon, she’s studying like mad.’

  Jackson opened the fridge, ‘I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since I got off the plane.’ He lifted the cling wrap off a bowl and sniffed the contents. ‘Ew!’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m guessing it’s the pub for dinner then.’

  ‘Great idea.’ Christina leaped off the couch. Anywhere where there were other people.

  Jackson was in his element at the Grand Hotel. He relaxed over his steak and regaled anyone he could waylay with a free drink with tales of his adventures in Vietnam. Christina half listened to his performance and drank another glass of red. Jackson, of course, was on tonic water. She tried to recall the reason Jackson gave her for not drinking. Some story about going a bit too hard one night with his mates at a party. Turned him off the stuff for life. Now she wondered if that was all it was, a story. Maybe the real reason he didn’t drink was so he didn’t lose control.

  Christina sipped her wine. Also, why did he spend so much time in Vietnam? Yes, she knew it was a hub for clothing manufacture, but did Jackson need to go there as often as he did? She’d never questioned why he’d started another clothing label after TBK. He’d said it was the business he knew, but was that all there was to it? Christina ordered another wine, laughed along with the others at some joke Jackson had made that she hadn’t heard. She had promised herself she wouldn’t drink but sitting here smiling and nodding in all the right places did nothing to quell the ballooning panic.

  ‘Act normal,’ Anne Rushmore had said. But what did normal mean? Until Jackson had held her in his arms, she hadn’t fully registered what acting normal might involve. Did the detective mean, ‘Have sex with him if that’s what it takes’? How could she stretch out naked beneath him, have him touch her with the same hands that had assaulted Bianca? It could not happen. No one was that good an actor.

  Excusing herself, she rushed to the ladies’ room and spent as many minutes as she dared hiding there.

  When Christina ventured out again, Jackson had sought company in the bar. The locals broke into laughter as she entered the room. Their blatant toadying, once so amusing, disgusted her.

  He caught her eye and squeezed her tight to his side. ‘There you are, honey. I thought you must have done a runner.’ He whispered he was tired then made a big show of yawning and blamed the jetlag.

  ‘I thought I might take Bianca out to Orange for the weekend. There’s this massive antiques fair. I wouldn’t mind taking a gander,’ he said as they reached the car.

  Christina cleared her throat, ‘Oh Bianca is staying at school this weekend. She’s trying to get ahead on her major work, take a bit of the pressure off.’

  ‘On whose say-so?’

  Her legs were damp against the car’s leather seat. ‘Mrs Hardcastle okayed it.’

  ‘Oh Mrs Hardcastle okayed it,’ Jackson singsonged, mimicking Christina. In his own voice he said, ‘We had a deal. Home weekends and holidays.’

  Jackson’s leg twitched madly in rhythm with his drumming on the steering wheel as he drove. ‘Busy little Bee, eh?’

  She ignored his sarcasm. ‘You’re the one always saying she needs to put the work in. You’ve taught her well.’

  Jackson shot her a glance. ‘And you’re never going to put your foot down, are you, CC?’

  ‘I didn’t see a problem with it.’

  Jackson let one hand slip from the wheel and slid it along the inside of her thigh. ‘So the little chickadee has flown the coop and left the grownups to play in private.’

  There was nowhere to go in the tiny space of the Porsche. Christina had expected Jackson to react with incandescent anger and demand that Bianca return home immediately, not this. She knew he didn’t really want her; to Jackson she was nothing more than sloppy seconds. Trying to keep her voice from trembling, she attempted to distract him. ‘Anyway, I’d love to go the antiques fair with you.’

  ‘Bianca and I have an agreement.’

  ‘Can’t you just let it go?’

  Jackson slammed on the brakes. He leaned in so close they shared the same breath.

  ‘Why, CC? She’s breached the terms. That’s never acceptable.’

  She gulped back her fear. Here, by the meagre light of the dashboard, Christina defended Bianca. ‘It’s done now.’

  Jackson slid one hand between the leather seat and the silk of Christina’s blouse. He pulled her close enough to kiss. ‘You don’t seem all that pleased to see me either. Has something changed since I’ve been away?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that . . .’ she trailed off, pinned by Jackson’s stare.

  ‘Prove it.’ Jackson ripped at the buttons of her blouse. She stiffened and knew he mistook it for excitement. His head dipped to her breast and Christina stared at the roof of the car, biting her lip. A long time ago, this was what they did after two weeks apart; screwing for hours until the burning, swollen nub of desire was soothed. When Jackson’s interest in sex had slowed, Christina had been desperate for them to return to this. Not now.

  She grabbed his hair and tried to push him away but Jackson chuckled and pressed her into the seat. He kissed her, his beard a hot graze upon her lips, his hands pulling her blouse apart. Christina gagged as she wrestled against him.

  ‘Stop it, Jackson,’ she managed to shout when he moved his mouth from hers. Jackson ignored her. He knew this game and how they played it. She felt his erection hard against her thigh. ‘Please get off me.’

  No matter what Jackson’s sexual demands, she’d never once been frightened, but everything had changed. Trapped in the confines of a small car on an unlit and deserted road, she knew that if he insisted on finishing this, she had no choice but to co-operate.

  Jackson kept his weight on her. ‘What’s the matter, CC?’ His hand slid between her thighs. ‘Have the painters come to visit?’

  He’d handed her a gift. She pulled her blouse over her naked breasts. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I don’t want to make a mess of the car.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He flopped back in his seat and stared into the blackness.

  Christina fumbled with the buttons. Two were now missing, she struggled with the others. Jackson’s hand closed around hers. Christina started. ‘What?’ she whispered.

  He pulled her hand to his crutch where his fly was undone and his erection poked out of his boxer shorts. He wrapped her fingers around it.

  ‘I can’t go home like this, CC.’ He gripped his hand over hers and rubbed himself up and down.

  Her eyes stung with tears but if she did this right, got it over with quickly, it wasn’t so bad. Not as bad as the alternative.

  Jackson shifted in the driver’s seat, arching his hips. She concentrated on the rhythm, trying to bring him to a quick climax, but he grabbed the nape of her neck, pressing her down to his lap.

  Christina gagged but could not move, held there by the pinched grip between his fingers and thumb on her neck, jammed between his thrusting erection and the steering wheel. It was all she could do to breathe. Jackson had crossed a line, this was not part of their game. Her mind fled to Bianca, and the sour taste of wine rose in the back of her throat, threatening to spill over. He was taking forever, thrusting again and again against the back of her throat. His rhythm grew more rapid and she hoped this would mean the end of th
e humiliation. Jackson’s movements grew desperate and jerky until the salty spurt choked her and his erection grew flaccid in her mouth. The pressure on her neck eased. Christina lifted herself upright, the cramp in her hips tearing as the blood flowed back into her legs. Jackson tugged up his zip and snapped on the ignition. She wiped the saliva and secretions from her mouth. The car jerked as he released the handbrake. They drove to the house in silence.

  Christina sat on the toilet and cleaned her teeth. She heard the mattress sink under Jackson’s weight, the click of the bedside lamp, the feathery shake of the doona. Their sex life had once been the most reliable barometer of their happiness. In those first few years Jackson lit her from inside, but then it all changed. Christina spat out the toothpaste. When they moved here, Jackson’s desire waned. Now she questioned whether he ever had.

  She stood goosebump naked in the doorway wishing she could hide inside a pair of pyjamas but they had always slept naked. The cool satins and lacy trims were for dress-ups, not for sleeping in. If she came to bed clothed, Jackson would be suspicious. Christina saw him watching her in the dressing-room mirror as she stole across the room and slid between the sheets, clinging to her side of the bed.

  Jackson lay there with the doona humped around his shoulders. It rose and fell and she waited for him to fall asleep so that she might relax her guard. Her own eyelids were fluttering when Jackson startled her awake. ‘I’m ringing that meddling school teacher in the morning. She has no right to interfere with our lives.’

  Christina stared at Sophia reclining on the crimson chaise lounge as the tears leaked into her pillow.

  ‘CC! Are you awake?’

  She murmured yes.

  ‘Did you hear what I said? I said that do-gooder is going to regret messing about in family business.’

  ‘Okay, honey,’ she placated, willing Jackson asleep.

  How was it that she had lain naked next to a man who for years had sought and found comfort in her body as he simultaneously soiled her daughter’s? How he had fooled her into thinking it was she that made him groan when he felt the hot slick of her desire. When the snoring started, Christina slipped from the bed and scrubbed the filth from her body in the shower down the hall, the tears pouring down her face. She had no idea how she was going to endure the next few weeks. Then she thought of the years Bianca had endured far worse and the tears dried.

  chapter twenty-five

  The weeks after Jackson returned passed at an excruciating pace. Christina absented herself from the house as often as possible, saying she was going to the library, which was mostly true. Her daily phone calls included Bianca, Mrs Hardcastle and DS Rushmore. The headmistress was the only one of the three who spoke to her at any length or returned missed calls.

  She managed to make Bianca’s excuses for two of the weekends. Thankfully there were zone championships and Josh’s birthday weekend which meant they were free of Jackson. But it was unavoidable that Bianca should make appearances, however fleeting, and those hours were fuelled on adrenaline and coffee. Hypervigilance masqueraded as a keen interest in spending hours together in the kitchen baking or Christina sitting on the battered milk crate whilst Bianca worked Licorice. They exchanged few words, neither of them trusting what words they should speak, but Christina took comfort from Bianca’s physical closeness.

  Jackson tried to separate them, suggesting a drive down to the back paddock to check on the cattle, but Christina insisted on coming too. She spent her nights barely sleeping alert to any shift on the far side of the bed, often roaming the house in the small hours, pausing to watch Bianca’s restless sleep.

  On that final weekend, Christina lay in bed, finding respite in the quiet hours before the dawn. DS Rushmore had promised that Jackson’s arrest was imminent but had refused to be drawn as to the exact time. ‘For your own sakes, it’s best not to know,’ she had said. As she lay there, planning the hours of the day stretching ahead, the peace was shattered by the ringing doorbell. One long sound cracked the silence. It was five am. Christina closed her eyes, whispering ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ Jackson was half out of bed, the back of his hair squished flat from sleep.

  Christina buried herself under the covers. She had imagined this moment in a thousand ways – Jackson resigned, relieved that the truth was finally out, and in every scenario devastated at the irreversible damage to his precious reputation.

  The single note of the buzzer rang on urgent and relentless as Jackson threw on some pants and stomped down the hall. She held her breath. A steady thumping joined the ringing doorbell. Jackson yelled, ‘This better be fucking life or death, mate.’

  Christina grabbed at her discarded clothes on the ottoman and peeked around the doorjamb. Her heart thumped loud in her chest. This was it.

  Bianca’s eyes, as round as a possum’s, peered through a crack in her bedroom door.

  They both started at the sound of the front door being wrenched open. Jackson shouting, ‘What the fuck?’

  Above the sounds of scuffling, swearing and glass splintering, Anne Rushmore’s voice floated in clear calm syllables. ‘Jackson Rex Plummer, I am arresting you on charges of sexual assault against a minor, aggravated indecent assault against a minor and inciting a person under the age of sixteen to commit acts of indecency. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be used in evidence against you.’

  ‘Are you insane?’ Jackson screeched. ‘Do you know who I am? Get your hands off me.’

  It sounded like an army was trying to pin him down.

  In the semi-darkness, Bianca’s skin was luminous and pale, stretched taut across her cheeks, sunk into the corners of her pinched lips. Looking at her broke Christina’s heart.

  Bianca shrunk into her bedroom. In an effort to show her there was nothing to fear, Christina dragged herself down the darkened hall and hovered in the shadows of the lounge, her heart hammering in her ears.

  Two solid police officers held a handcuffed Jackson at arms’ length. Struggling against his keepers, Jackson twisted around and saw her cowering in the corner. She pressed into the wall, horrified by this unrecognisable version of Jackson, his face contorted by outrage, spittle clinging to his chin like some rabid dog.

  He lunged at her, jerked to a standstill by the hand gripping his shoulder. ‘I’ll fucking get you for this, you cunt,’ he screamed and hawked a gob of spit at her. It coagulated on the parquetry in a frothy white spot. Her body shook, disgusted by the intimacy of such an action, frightened by the way hatred had transformed his handsome face.

  The officers pinned his elbows to his sides and frogmarched him to a paddy wagon where two more officers waited. Anne Rushmore trailed in their wake, muttering to her colleague as she walked, uninterested in the vigour with which the four cops flung Jackson into the van.

  Jackson screamed through the metal louvres, ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’ The bolt slid shut.

  One of the uniformed officers approached DS Rushmore and whatever she said made him grin. He climbed in the van, did a u-turn and took off down the driveway at bone-crunching speed.

  Christina could not move. A continuous loop of footage played in her head. Jackson spinning around, screaming obscenities, a gob of spit on the floor. The expression on his face when he turned. Not fear, not anger, but boiling murderous intent.

  She pulled her cardigan across her chest. The tears that had begun to fall were like water hitting a hot pan: dry the moment she saw his face. Through the open doorway, Anne Rushmore shook hands with a man dressed in overalls. The word FORENSIC was written in capital letters on the truck behind him. Officers carrying camera equipment climbed the hill towards the barn and the stables, others slouched against the truck sculling coffees.

  ‘Are you okay, Christina?’ Anne Rushmore crossed the floor.

  Christina nodded, then shook her head and pulled the cardigan tight
er. ‘I’m really cold. I should have worn something warmer.’

  ‘Even when you’re expecting it, it’s a shock when it happens,’ the detective said, moving to the kitchen and filling the kettle. She found mugs and teabags and made two cups of tea.

  Handing one to Christina, she indicated for her to drink the syrupy tea. ‘People say all sorts of things in the heat of the moment.’

  Christina scratched at a red patch inside her elbow. ‘Maybe.’

  DS Rushmore didn’t push it. Instead, she picked up the second tea. ‘Where’s Bianca?’

  Christina looked around. ‘In her room, I think.’

  DS Rushmore propelled Christina up the hallway. ‘Let’s see how she’s survived the ordeal, hey?’

  Bianca was fixed by her bedroom window, the perfect spot to observe the police operation.

  The detective offered the tea with a sympathetic smile. ‘How are you feeling, Bianca?’

  ‘They had guns!’ Bianca said in a tiny voice.

  DS Rushmore grimaced in sympathy. ‘It’s tough to watch, isn’t it? Not like on the telly.’

  Bianca rewarded her with a small smile.

  The detective continued to offer information in digestible chunks. ‘We’ve arrested your stepfather and taken him into Kitchener for questioning.’

  Christina straightened Bianca’s elastics and brushes on the dresser, picked up a pair of discarded jeans and looked for the dirty washing basket.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Bianca said.

  DS Rushmore indicated that Bianca should drink her tea, adding, ‘It’s time for you and Mum to leave. I want you well away from here before he returns.’

  ‘What!’ Bianca sagged against the window ledge. Christina hadn’t told Bianca about this part of the plan. Anne Rushmore had asked her not to. The only reason Christina knew was because it was she who had had to make the arrangements.

  ‘There’s no guarantee he’ll remain in custody,’ continued the detective. ‘He will be questioned and charged but I fully expect the magistrate will grant bail.’