by Liz Byrski
On this particular Sunday morning he was happy to be woken by the parrots, to get up and watch the mist lifting, and to drive down into town for his morning coffee. Sipping a large macchiato and gazing out across the calm waters of the Bay, he reflected on the admirable balance of his life: he ate well, exercised regularly, drank lots of water, got plenty of sleep and was about to embark on a business venture that would put him at the cutting edge of the lifestyle industry. All that was missing was love. True love. The sort of love he had watched between his grandparents in their cottage at the foot of the Sussex Downs. ‘They were passionately in love all their lives, even in their nineties,’ he told anyone who would listen. ‘In all those years together it was perfect, never a cross word between them.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Wendy, his first ex-wife, had said on a number of occasions. ‘Of course they had cross words, they must have done, they wouldn’t have been human if they didn’t. It’s just that you were a small child and you didn’t see it.’
Wendy had become even more outspoken on the subject when Ellis’s mother let slip that his grandfather had had a brief affair with the village postmistress in the thirties. ‘So, of course, there would have been more than a few cross words,’ Wendy had said triumphantly. ‘And apparently your grandmother cleared off and left him for several weeks just after the war because he’d also been having it off with a woman in the Women’s Voluntary Service.’
But Ellis retained his faith in the power of love. It all depended on finding the right woman, and so far he simply hadn’t managed that. ‘I’m the world’s greatest romantic,’ he would say, believing it and also believing that it made him more attractive. ‘Men are simply more romantic than women.’
‘Because women know the high price of romance,’ Wendy had said snippily.
The second time around, Ellis had decided that perhaps romance was not, after all, the ideal condition for marriage. Julia, his second wife, was a highly desirable companion: intelligent, well-connected, and always looking as though she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue. They had fun together but neither had fooled themselves that they were in love. It was a marriage of convenience, of shared interests, rather than a romance made in heaven, but that too ran aground, reaffirming Ellis’s belief that romantic love was all. But now here he was, a survivor of two marriages and several other romantic attachments, alone again, and he had been for some years.
Several weeks had passed since Ellis read the news about Heather, and he had been watching for subsequent reports. It distressed him that the police hadn’t even produced a suspect. He was intrigued too by all the talk of a ‘gunman’. Wasn’t it possible, he suggested to acquaintances in the coffee shop, that the shot was fired by a woman? The women at the table dismissed the idea; even the men weren’t willing to give it much credibility.
‘Perhaps a woman jealous of her success,’ he persisted, ‘or even a jealous wife?’
‘You should have been a novelist, Ellis,’ one woman said. ‘You’ve always got some weird theory. This is so obviously political.’
‘Probably,’ said another. ‘But on the other hand, Ellis, you know Heather Delaney personally. Is she likely to be having an affair with someone else’s husband?’
Ellis shrugged. ‘No idea. It’s almost forty years since I saw her. All I know about her these days is what I read in the paper.’
Knowing Heather had certainly done something for Ellis’s street cred. He’d only mentioned it to a few people but the news had spread through his circle like wildfire and seemed to confer an interesting status on him. He contemplated the idea of building on this by admitting to having known Heather in the biblical sense, but on weighing it up decided that it was a declaration that could work against him – too much information. But it all combined to keep Heather in the forefront of his mind just as she had been all those years ago: copper-haired, slim and sexy with exceptionally shapely legs. And apart from her looks and her obvious intelligence she had something else: a girlish softness combined with strength of character.
Moistening a fingertip to collect up the slivers of almond croissant from his plate, Ellis saw Heather and himself together, blurred into flattering soft focus like the dream sequences of a French film, luminous with meaning. She, delicate, loving and just a little in awe, and himself lean and muscled, his hair brushing the collar of his Cambridge blue shirt, standing hand in hand in a field of long grass. Had they ever stood together in a field of long grass? Well, it didn’t really matter because the more Ellis thought about it, the image acquired, as imagination so easily can, the veracity of memory; it became entirely real, a piece of their shared history. It convinced him that in some extraordinary way this terrible attack on Heather had a purpose, that he could provide a resolution to the confusion and conflict she must now be facing. And this would, in turn, resolve the past, bringing them back finally to where they should always have been – together.
Kirsty loathed getting up early and for each semester of her journalism degree she had planned her university timetable around ten o’clock starts, aiming to reach Ultimo at nine forty-five and race up to UTS in time for her first tutorial. Sometimes, if Adam had a rehearsal call nearby, she could get a lift with him, which gave her an extra fifteen minutes in bed. On other days she took the train. The one day on which she voluntarily rose early, however, was Fridays, the day she and Adam would struggle into their cycling gear, strap on their helmets and set off at six to ride a route they’d devised for themselves several years earlier. It was a ritual which they only varied if one of them was sick or away: a familiar, comforting and energetic ride through quiet streets, around the lake and along the cycle track through two parks until, an hour later, they ended up at the coffee shop two blocks from home.
Along with rising early, Kirsty also loathed sport and any sort of organised exercise, but there were two things she loved about cycling. The first was the way that, once encased in Lycra and wearing a helmet, she felt insulated from the rest of the world; the second was the bond it created with Adam, the companionable silence of the ride, and the special time in the coffee shop when she didn’t have to compete with Jill, Daisy or Toby or, worst of all, the wretched cello, for his undivided attention.
On this particular Friday morning, sitting at an outside table while Adam went in to order their usual coffee and muffins – blueberry for her, banana and raisin for himself – Kirsty contemplated how she would break the news that would freak her father out entirely.
‘Thanks,’ she said, as he unloaded the tray and dumped it on a nearby table. ‘Great ride.’
Adam nodded, and put his helmet with hers on the spare chair.
‘Beautiful, best moment of the week.’
Kirsty knew that this was a lie. She knew that although he loved the weekly cycle ride as much as she did and for the same reasons, for him it could never be better than time spent communing with Bach or Brahms or perhaps Dvorák, but she appreciated the sentiment.
‘I’d miss it if we couldn’t do it,’ she said. ‘Like, I really miss it when you go on tour or something.’
He nodded, breaking his warm muffin in half and spreading butter on it. ‘Me too.’
‘The thing is,’ she began, suddenly finding that her heart was starting to beat really fast, ‘the thing is that I was thinking that if I didn’t actually live at home, as long as I was somewhere nearby we could still do it.’
Adam sipped his coffee. ‘Mmm. If and when that time comes, we’ll have to find a way,’ he said.
‘Well . . .’ she hesitated briefly, ‘that time might have come.’ She swallowed hard, seeing his change of expression.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The time might have . . . actually, has come for me to move out of home. But I wouldn’t be far away,’ she rushed on. ‘Ten minutes, really. Just ten minutes on the bike.’
Adam put down his cup. ‘Leave home?’
She nodded, trying to swallow a piece of muffin.
&n
bsp; ‘To go where?’
‘Woodstone Road, with Nick. I’m going to move in with him.’
Adam choked on some muffin crumbs. ‘Move in with Nick,’ he spluttered. ‘Since when?’
‘Since as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘Like, probably the end of the month, when I’ve submitted my thesis.’ She felt his shock like a physical pain.
‘But why?’
‘Why not? We love each other. You like him and so does Jill. Even Mum liked him last time she was here. Why not?’
Adam seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. ‘Well . . .’ he stammered, ‘well . . . but I mean, are you sure? It’s such a big step, living together. Wouldn’t it be best to stay at home for a while at least?’
‘Dad, Nick and I have been going out for more than two years, we’ve known each other for yonks, and I’m twenty-two.’
‘But lots of people live at home these days. It’s cheaper for you and . . . and . . .’
‘And you can keep an eye on me.’
‘Yes. No! That’s not what I meant, it’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all, the idea of not having you there.’
‘One less person to worry about.’
‘Not really.’
‘I thought you might be relieved. More space for you and Jill. It can’t be easy . . . for her, anyway . . .’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not like that. We’re together, a family, that’s what I feel, Jill too, she feels the same, we all belong together.’ He picked up his cup and downed the short black in one gulp.
‘Dad, I’m grown up now. I have to go sometime. I have to get my own life.’
Adam sighed and rubbed both hands over his eyes. ‘Yes, of course. I know you do. But right now?’
‘Not today, but the end of the month. Like I said, it’s as good a time as any.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said, and Kirsty ached hearing the sadness in his voice. ‘I suppose you’re right. It had to happen sometime but I don’t like it, and I don’t suppose I’d like it any better if you were forty.’
‘But you do like Nick?’
‘Very much, it isn’t that. It’s just that you still seem like my little girl but, as you rightly said, you’ve grown up. I’ve been trying not to think about that but I’ll have to get used to it. Have you told Jill?’
‘No, I wanted to tell you first.’
Adam cleared his throat. ‘Yes, yes, I’m glad you did.’ He gave a strange, strangled sort of gulp. ‘I might never get used to it, of course, it only seems like yesterday . . .’ He stopped himself and stood up. ‘Sorry. I need a glass of water. You?’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘and, Dad, I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ Adam cut in quickly. ‘No, you mustn’t be. You’re right, you have to have your own life.’ He put his hand on her hair letting it linger there briefly, and she reached up and squeezed it. ‘You’ll always be with me, Kirsty, wherever you are. You know that, don’t you?’
Kirsty watched him make his way into the café and up to the counter. He was doing the funny crab-like walk that you did in bike shoes, and there was a droop to his shoulders that was very familiar. She knew he had gone to get water to give him time to reorganise his face. When they got home he would head for the music room, close the door and that was where he’d stay for several hours. She felt like crying for him but she also felt the relief of having leapt a huge emotional hurdle. Telling Jill would be easier. Kirsty loved Jill, as much as she loved her own mother. Yvette was more pedantic and controlling than Jill, and much harder to live with. Sometimes Kirsty wondered how Jill coped with Adam, the obsession with his music, the way he ran for cover whenever things got difficult. She thought Jill had been looking a bit strained recently, probably work and the littlies, or all the drama around Heather.
‘So you’ll tell Jill when we get back?’ Adam said, returning with the water.
‘Yes. Is she okay, by the way?’
‘Jill? Fine, why wouldn’t she be?’
Kirsty shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. Just thought she was looking a bit stressed out.’
Adam shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. Well, not any more than usual . . . you know, Daisy, Toby, work . . .’
Kirsty nodded, considered saying something further and then changed her mind. This wasn’t the time to start him worrying about Jill. She skimmed the foam from her cappuccino with a spoon. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her when we get home. And, Dad? . . . Thanks, thanks for understanding.’
Adam nodded and stared bleakly down into his empty coffee cup.
Diane had missed Heather’s first two days back at the office but, by all accounts, they hadn’t been an overwhelming success. According to Patsy, the other staff member and Shaun’s second-in-command, Heather had arrived about nine thirty and Shaun had had to take her home again within a couple of hours.
‘I think it’s the anxiety as much as anything,’ Patsy said. ‘We’ve got panic buttons everywhere now, even in the loo, and I guess you saw that guard on the door – he’s the size of a commercial refrigerator – but since Heather came back the whole place feels like a target lit up with neon signs.’
‘Well, we have to keep going,’ Diane said briskly. ‘The police are bound to tie it up soon; meanwhile, we just need to hang in till then.’ Everything was irritating her today and she hadn’t yet gotten over her resentment for not having been kept in the loop when it was all going on. She gathered up a mailing list and switched on one of the spare computers just as Shaun came out of his office.
‘Diane, I didn’t really expect to see you,’ he said. ‘The other volunteers felt it was too stressful worrying about security now Heather’s back. They’re staying away until things are sorted out.’
Diane shrugged. ‘Business as usual. You can’t let the bastards win,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d start updating this mailing list unless there’s something else you want me to do.’
‘That’d be good,’ Shaun said. ‘I’m going across the road to get some real coffee. Can I get you one?’
She looked up in surprise. The coffee run was usually dumped on her. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a strong latte.’
Diane genuinely believed it was important not to give in to the fear. It was a matter of principle, like not bargaining with terrorists; giving in went against everything she believed in. That belief had overridden the urge to stay away and look for something to do where she might really be appreciated.
She watched Shaun run down the steps of the building and head for the coffee shop. It was a strange sort of relationship she had with him. She was thankful for the influence he’d had on Charlene, but the balance of power confused her. As a potential mother-in-law she felt she should have the upper hand, but Shaun ran the office and was Heather’s right-hand man, so it seemed that she was, somehow, always deferring to him. Her aspirations for Charlene had been for someone devastatingly handsome, sensitive, charming and preferably extremely rich, who also viewed his potential mother-in-law as a fount of wisdom and beauty. Someone who would flirt harmlessly with her while adoring and being faithful to her daughter. Instead she had been faced with a series of spotty, monosyllabic youths with assorted piercings, followed by a married man in his forties and then Danny, the ghastly sleaze who Diane was sure was giving Charlene drugs. There was no doubt that Shaun was a huge improvement, but he still fell considerably short of the ideal. She watched him dodge the traffic as he crossed the street and then disappeared from sight.
Diane stood up. She hadn’t seen Heather since the shooting so she should probably go and say hello to her before starting on the mailing list. Tapping lightly on the office door she opened it and stuck her head inside. Heather, her arm in a sling, glanced up, looking like death.
‘Oh, Diane, hi,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were here. It’s good of you to come in. How was Bali?’
‘Great, gorgeous, lots of sun, lovely food, lounging round the pool . . . you know. How are you?’
Heather gave her a we
ak smile. ‘Pretty grim, the shoulder, the shock and being shit scared – it’s not a great combination.’
Diane thought she looked really rough, as though she were just hanging together. ‘You don’t look too good. Do you think you should be here?’
Heather leaned back in her chair. ‘I only managed two hours yesterday and Monday, so I’m determined to survive three today,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you want to be here? You know the risks. There’s no obligation for you to come in.’
Diane nodded. ‘I know and I’m here, aren’t I? I was wondering if you’re coping okay at home. I mean, I could get you some shopping if you like, or anything else . . .’
Heather’s face lit up. ‘Really? That’d be great. Barbara drove me down from Morpeth and she’s staying with me for a couple of days, but I think she’s finding it all a bit much.’
‘Well, if you want to make a list I’ll nip down to Coles later and get it, and I’ll put it in Shaun’s car for when you’re ready to leave.’
Half an hour later, Diane pulled into a parking bay outside the supermarket cursing herself. What was it about Heather that made her feel so inadequate? People were always running around after her. Did they all feel as she did, as though they were up in front of the headmistress? Shaun didn’t, he and Heather got on well, but everyone else . . . She dragged on the handbrake with unnecessary force and got out of the car with the shopping list. Why was she doing this? Wasn’t it enough that she helped in the office without dobbing herself in to do the shopping as well?
Striding irritably down the aisles with a trolley, Diane worked her way through the list: tuna, eggs, baked beans, cauliflower, tomatoes, brussels sprouts – brussels sprouts? Surely no one ate those from choice? Trust Heather to like something other people only ate on sufferance. Tea bags, washing powder, fabric conditioner. As she piled items in the trolley her resentment rose in the knowledge that she had only herself to blame. Charlene was right, the time had come for her to stop volunteering; her heart wasn’t in it anymore. She cared about all the things Heather was involved in but mostly she was there because it pissed Gerry off.