‘Did I tell you that Edie invited my mum tonight?’ Al glanced up, then laughed at my reaction. ‘Hey, you got a problem with my mum?’
‘Course not.’ I hastily closed my mouth. ‘It’s just that she won’t know anyone –’
‘She’ll have everyone’s life histories within five minutes and become their new best friend by the end of the night,’ he said. ‘Trust me, you don’t need to worry about her.’
Trust me, I wasn’t. I was worried about me.
The thought of another meeting with Al’s tall, elegant mum made me nervous. Her first impression of me, screaming into her intercom, must have been terrible. And I didn’t know whether Al had already told her that we were going out. How could I make a better impression next time round?
I was seriously under-gunned in the clothes department, especially when it came to party wear. I owned nothing apart from jeans and jumpers (too sweaty), cut-offs and singlets (too scruffy) and school uniforms (which only very old, very sad people wore to fancy-dress parties). And as for footwear, I had an exciting choice between rubber thongs, sneakers and scuffed black school shoes.
Al didn’t seem to care what I wore, and I didn’t either. But maybe Mrs Armitage would. My spirits sagged at the thought of her, reclining on one of Edie’s gorgeous couches, in something dead simple and stunning, eyeing off the dried drool marks on my frayed denim shorts.
‘Ooh, don’t they look sensational!’ Edie swept into the kitchen, surveying the trays of nibblies with delight. She plonked a hot tray of barbecued chicken skewers on the bench. ‘That’s it, we’re done. We can reheat these when we’re ready to eat.’ She clapped her hands once. ‘Thank you both, for your help with the canapés. Al, you might like to head off home and make yourself beautiful for tonight. We’ll see you at eight with your mum. Kat, I need to borrow you quickly before the shops shut for the rest of the year.’
I nodded absently, and waved a distracted goodbye to Al. Then I started rearranging the fridge to stack in the trays of canapés and skewers. Edie murmured that she’d be back in a minute and disappeared, which was fine by me; I was still mentally working through my impoverished clothing options for the evening ahead. I hadn’t been to a party since primary school. No wonder I had nothing to wear.
Maybe I could do something with balloons, since we’d just blown up dozens of them. I could tie festive bunches around my hips, glitzing up my black cut-offs and black Supré singlet. Then I could slather on some eyeliner and lipgloss, make an effort with my hair, and hey presto, instant party outfit.
I sighed. It was a terrible idea, but no better options were presenting themselves.
‘Kat, have you got a minute?’
The tentative note in Edie’s voice snagged my attention. She was always so decisive – and now her face matched the uncertainty in her voice.
She held out a box, wrapped in silver paper. ‘Your birthday’s not for a couple of weeks, but I thought maybe you’d like this now.’ She thrust the box at me, which I baulked at taking.
‘But you already got me Herc,’ I protested.
‘He was more of a late Christmas present.’
‘And you spent all that money on the security cameras.’
‘Worth every cent. Here, take it.’ Edie pressed the gift into my hands. ‘If you don’t like it, there’s still time to change it.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But only if you hurry up and open it now.’
I couldn’t help myself.
Please let it be clothes. Please let it be something, anything, that I can wear tonight.
I ripped off the paper, opened the box and lifted out the coolest pair of high-heeled lace-up ankle boots I’d ever seen. I hugged them to my chest, numb with gratitude.
‘Nude suede,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Apparently they make your legs look longer and they go with everything. Or so said the funky little sales miss with the lurid tattoos. She swore they’re what all the young things are wearing. But you can change them if you want.’
‘No! No, I love them.’
I was already sliding my feet in and doing up the laces. They fit. I mentally forgave her for rummaging through my cast-offs; at least she’d found out my size. But the big question was, would they look good with cut-offs? Because that was all I had to wear them with.
I stood up and struck a pose. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you need this.’ She picked up the box and tilted it towards me.
At the bottom was something else wrapped in silver tissue paper and fastened with a fancy boutique label. I slid my fingernail under the sticker and the paper wafted open, releasing its secrets.
‘I’ve never seen you in anything other than shorts and a singlet, and wasn’t sure you wanted me messing with your look,’ she said apologetically.
I bit my lip and held up the rest of my present. Nearly three years I hadn’t spoken a word to her, and still she could read me like a book.
My birthday present was shorts and a singlet. Black lacy shorts and a black cutaway velvet singlet. I ran my fingers down the soft nap of the top, so like the supple folds of flesh under Herc’s throat, and tried to summon the guts to look her in the eye. When I finally did, I realised that in heels I was taller than Edie. I’d never been taller than anyone before. It gave me the courage to tell her what I really thought of her and her present.
‘I don’t deserve this,’ I said, my voice hollow and small. ‘Any of it. Not Herc. Not the shoes. Or the clothes. I’ve been so horrible . . .’
‘Kat, the only thing horrible about you is your wardrobe,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And I can assist you with that. Please, let me help.’
She was laughing at me.
I managed a wobbly half-smile in return. Then quickly, before I could change my mind, I hugged her.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered and fled, stiff-legged and awkward, in my nude suede heels.
Thirty-Three
I don’t know if it was the added height from the heels, the buzz of the new clothes, or Al’s slack-jawed gawping when I walked in with my hair swept up, but the party was surprisingly fun, despite it having mostly old people. Well, all old people, apart from me and Al. We decided to make ourselves useful, serving up what we’d spent the afternoon preparing, and let the oldies do whatever old people did at parties.
Nance was the first to arrive, trotting in with Miss Cocoapuff and sporting enough sparkles between them to put the Southbank fireworks to shame. She offered me a powdered cheek and a cunning smile. ‘Edie said partners were welcome and we do love a party, don’t we, Miss Cocoapuff?’ Her date for the night yipped once in agreement and sat prettily at Nance’s feet for the rest of the evening.
Half of Edie’s softball team rocked up with assorted partners of the non-canine variety. Al’s mum floated through the night in a filmy sky-blue caftan. With her flat beaded sandals and my nude suede heels, we were nearly the same height, which gave me the spurt of confidence I needed to go over and say hello. She surprised me with a hug, whispering, ‘Be nice to my boy, he’s a keeper,’ and with a twiddle of her fingers, she drifted off in a waft of scented silk.
Al was ridiculously cute in rolled-up denim shorts and a button-up shirt, his hair shiny and smelling of green apple shampoo. He charmed all the oldies by taking charge of the hors d’oeuvres and announcing each selection as though he was compering a show.
‘For those of you who would like to try the next in our extensive array of horse’s doovers, please see the lovely Kat, who has saddled up with devils-on-horseback.’ He shooed me forward with a tray of prunes wrapped in bacon. ‘Tasty and, according to the more experienced connoisseur, good for the bowels.’
Nance hiccupped a laugh. ‘Cheeky.’ Then reached out a bejewelled hand and popped two onto her plate.
‘But if, like me,’ he continued smoothly, ‘you prefer crabby little things with a bit of bite –�
�� he actually had the hide to wink at me as he produced a tray of savoury shells with a showman’s flourish ‘– then by all means, try one of these. Our delicious canapés à la Kat, filled with chilli crab dip and garnished with coriander.’
Everyone ate it up, and the hours slipped past. By the time Al and I had sword-fought each other over the last of the chicken skewers, it was nearly midnight and everybody had retreated to the verandah to wait for the fireworks to begin.
‘Your horse’s doovers were a hit, Edie,’ he said, offering her two lonely nibblies on the tray.
‘You’re the hit,’ she observed wryly, taking one and holding it up like a toast. ‘To crabby little things – long may they endure.’
Al laughed and snaffled the last one. ‘Amen to that.’ He popped it in his mouth, slung an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. ‘Crabby little things are the bomb, aren’t they, Kat?’
I opened my mouth to give him a blast but was drowned out by the thunder of fireworks exploding over the city and cries of ‘Happy New Year!’ reverberating across the street. I pushed up against the verandah railing and tipped my face skywards, drinking in the starbursts of colour, the whirling dervishes of fire, and the searing white waterfalls of light spilling across the night sky. Al pressed up behind me, linking his hands in front of my waist and pressing his lips against my ear.
‘They add magnesium to the gunpowder to make the fireworks that brilliant white,’ he whispered. ‘And iron oxide for the blood red.’
I couldn’t help but smile. ‘And blue?’ I asked, interested despite myself.
‘Copper sulphate.’
I turned to find his smile just centimetres from my own. ‘Good to know.’
‘If you ever need a study buddy for chemistry,’ he said, ‘I’m your man.’
‘Cool,’ I said, softly.
I stood in the circle of his arms, our faces tilted to the heavens, seeing out the old year and ushering in the promise of the new.
‘Happy New Year, darling.’ Mrs Armitage reached over and smooched Al on the cheek. ‘And to you too, dear Kat.’ Her lips were soft on my forehead. She patted me on the cheek and gave Al a knowing look. ‘I said we’d take Nance home. She and Miss Cocoapuff are saying their goodbyes. You’ve got about five minutes. Make the most of it.’
‘Happy New Year!’ I called after her, then turned back to Al. ‘Make the most of –?’
But his lips had found mine, and for the second time in as many days, the world went supernova.
I was still reeling when Al’s mum whisked him away, and didn’t protest when Edie insisted on an armed escort back to my place – half a rowdy softball team brandishing bats.
The security cameras hadn’t shown any movement at my house, but she checked the whole property anyway, inside and out, before she let me go inside. With her mates yahooing their goodbyes outside on the footpath, she gave me my final instructions.
‘When we leave, do what you normally do. Go downstairs, brush your teeth, switch off the lights and make like you’re going to bed. The team will be out front, pouring themselves into cabs for a while, so no-one will see you slipping out the back and cutting across to my place. I’ll smuggle you up to my room so you don’t have to sit downstairs in the dark by yourself.’
‘And if the prowler doesn’t turn up?’
Edie shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’ She must have seen the defeat in my face because she grasped my shoulders and looked me in the eye. Now that I’d taken off my stilts, we were exactly the same height. ‘We had a great party, didn’t we?’
I nodded.
‘Life is good, Kat, and it goes on. Even if we don’t always get what we want. We may never catch this prowler, but the people who care about you can and will keep you safe.’
‘And what about Herc? How can I protect him if the baiter is still out there?’
‘We’ll find a way, trust me.’ She squeezed my shoulders and then pushed me gently inside. ‘Now, go do your thing. I’ll let you in through the downstairs door.’
The last of the revellers were still out on the street waiting for cabs when I snuck in through Edie’s back door.
She locked it before following me up the stairs. She’d already drawn all the curtains and blinds, so if the prowler was out there, he had no chance of catching a glimpse of me stealing back into Edie’s.
‘I’ve made up a bed for you on the floor,’ she said, opening the door to her bedroom. ‘It should be comfy, but if you want more pillows, they’re in the linen cupboard in the hallway.’
I walked in, and couldn’t help but notice that apart from the unfamiliar doona cover and pillowslips, her room looked pretty much the same as the last time I was in it as an eleven-year-old.
Then Edie pushed past, talking rapidly, as she made a beeline for her bed. ‘I’ve hooked up a lamp, in case you want to keep reading after I go to sleep.’ She grabbed a photo frame off the bedside table, reefed open the top drawer and stuffed it face-down inside. ‘There’s a clean towel on your bed, pyjamas under your pillow –’ she turned, sliding the drawer shut behind her, a too-bright smile on her face ‘– and if you want anything else, just ask.’
‘What’s with the photo?’ I stepped past her and tugged on the drawer handle.
She pressed back against the cabinet, keeping it shut. ‘Nothing. It’s private, that’s all. Nothing to do with you.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Why is she lying to me? ‘I saw it. It’s a photo of you and me, on that red-and-white chequered rug at Ballymore. I have one with me and Mum and Dad that must have been taken on the same day. Why can’t I see yours?’
She shook her head and tried to laugh it off. ‘It’s silly. Embarrassing, really, me having a photo of the two of us next to my bed.’
‘I think it’s nice.’ Something about her unwillingness made me even more determined to uncover what she was trying to hide. ‘Can I see it? Please?’
Edie hesitated before gradually stepping aside, tense and reluctant. I slid the drawer open, took out the frame and turned it round to face me.
I was right. It was a photo of me and Edwina, taken on that red-and-white chequered blanket at Ballymore. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, my face-splitting grin echoing the one on Edie’s. My pigtails, a babyish version of the thick dark braids bracketing her face.
I glanced up at her and saw a strange mix of fear and hope warring in her face. Confused, I looked back down at the photo, my grip tightening on the edges of the frame until the tips of my thumbs slowly turned white. The dawning realisation drove me out of the room and back down the stairs, ignoring Edie panting my name with increasing urgency behind me.
I switched on the light and burst into the lime brightness of my old room, chest heaving, heart racing, as I snatched the other photo of that day from the shelf.
Side by side the two photographs told their own story. A story so obvious I wondered how it could have gone untold for so long. I staggered back until my legs hit the edge of the bed and folded beneath me.
Wordlessly, Edie sank down beside me and together we stared at the two photo frames lying on my lap.
In one, I was the little black-eyed pea sandwiched in between my two fair-haired parents. In the other, the only photo I had ever seen of the two of us together, I was a pint-sized version of Edwina.
Thirty-Four
Like tumblers in a lock, the steel pins of the past clicked into place.
‘The keeper of our secrets,’ I said numbly. ‘That’s what she called you. The day that she died.’
Edwina closed her eyes, as if bracing for a blow she had long known was coming.
My mum had whispered those words to me in the last moments we had alone.
Edie’s the keeper of our secrets . . .
She was fading so quickly, her skin, pale and translucent, stretched tightly over impossibly fragile bones. S
he seemed so insubstantial, I was afraid she would disappear completely before Jimmy made it back from the bathroom. Her fingers had clutched at me, and I had to strain to catch the wispy strands of her final words:
If you need to know anything, Kitty Kat, ask Edie . . .
The clock on the wall ticked down the seconds till Edie opened her eyes. She slid the photographs from my nerveless grip. ‘She didn’t want you to know, Kat. She didn’t want anyone to know. Not even Jimmy.’
‘You have to tell me,’ I said, my voice trembling. ‘You have to tell me the truth.’
‘The truth?’ She rubbed her hands over her face and then straightened, releasing a long breath. ‘The truth was that I would have done anything for your mum. Even before she became sick. And after . . . well . . .’ She tried to smile. ‘We were so full of hope after the first wave of treatment. Three years cancer-free. We thought she had it beat. She wanted to start a family, give Jimmy the baby they’d both always wanted.’
She paused, the pain of the past still alive in her face. ‘But the drugs had killed off more than the cancer cells. She couldn’t fall pregnant. The doctors suggested IVF, using Jimmy’s sperm and a donor egg.’ She paused again. ‘It was something I could do – for her and for Jimmy – so I did it.’
I closed my eyes, struggling to take in the enormity of what she was saying.
Edie was telling me that I was an IVF baby. Conceived in a test tube. Genetically, half-Jimmy, half-her. Not one part of me belonged to my mum.
And Edie had never had any kids of her own. She had to be forty, so maybe now, she never would.
I was it.
I was part of her and nobody had ever told me.
My head swirled with images from the past: Edie swinging me through the air, the two of us rolling down the grassy slope at Ballymore, Marco jumping over us, hysterical with joy, and finally that awful whispered confession:
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