‘Well, I guess we are now,’ said Rachel. ‘But we’ve known each other since high school, we had a lot more in common back then.’
‘Oh, like what?’
Rachel thought about it. ‘Having parents we couldn’t relate to, I suppose.’
‘You and every other teenager.’
‘That’s true,’ Rachel smiled. ‘But she was a good influence on me, she was the reason I got through high school. She was so sure of herself, so sure of the future.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Lexie raised an eyebrow. ‘Catherine doesn’t come across as the eternal optimist to me.’
‘Well, the whole drama around the pregnancy really knocked her badly,’ said Rachel. ‘You’ve heard the story, haven’t you?’
Lexie nodded.
‘I think it made her determined not to let anyone screw her over like that ever again. And look, she had a baby when she was just a schoolgirl, that’s got to be so hard. She had to sink or swim, and sinking would never have been an option for Catherine. So I guess she had to become pretty tough to get where she is today.’ Rachel paused, thinking about it. ‘I don’t know, I was away for so many years, and of course we kept in touch, but when I came back she’d definitely changed. We didn’t really have much in common any more.’
‘You’ve stayed close though,’ Lexie commented.
Rachel wondered how close they really were these days. ‘I guess once you get past a certain age you stay friends out of habit,’ she shrugged. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be worried about Catherine. You need to be talking to Scott.’
‘I know, you’re right. He’s just so busy at the moment.’
‘Things quieten down a bit at the café after Australia Day, don’t they?’
Lexie nodded.
‘So don’t stress, one step at a time, everything doesn’t have to be settled by tomorrow.’
‘You’re right, of course.’
Rachel had never been told she was right so much in one conversation.
Lexie gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thanks for listening, Rachel. I just have all this stuff going round and round in my head till I can’t think straight.’
‘Happens to the best of us, Lex,’ Rachel assured her. ‘I’m glad you called, you know. You should call, any time, even if you just want to chat, whatever.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate that,’ said Lexie. ‘I’ve been feeling a little lost since Annie . . .’
‘Of course, you two were so close.’
Lexie nodded. ‘We had coffee like this all the time, she was only next door. A day hardly went by that we didn’t speak to each other, maybe just in passing, but she was always there if I needed to talk. She always listened.’ Lexie looked across at Rachel. ‘You know, this is probably going to sound strange, but I really miss not being able to talk to her about this, about grieving for her. I know she’d say all the right things. Does that make sense?’
‘It does actually,’ said Rachel. ‘Tom said something similar to me once, he said he didn’t know how they were going to get through this without Annie to show them the way.’
‘He said that?’ Lexie smiled wistfully. ‘That’s sweet. And sad.’ She looked at Rachel. ‘What do you miss about her?’
She wasn’t prepared for that, and she felt so guilty now even thinking about Annie, she went blank. ‘Um, well . . . I liked it when all of us were together, the four of us. I miss that.’
‘Me too,’ Lexie agreed. ‘It’s just not the same without her.’
‘It’s not. But we will readjust over time, Lexie,’ Rachel assured her. ‘We have to, because we need to be here for each other. Annie would want that.’
Lexie nodded. ‘You’re right.’
Again? This was some kind of record.
They chatted amiably for another hour or so, mostly about the kids. Rachel was happy to let Lexie talk while she continued to sample the wares. Riley wandered in from time to time, but he was not interested in joining them, Rachel clearly held no attraction. She had never held much sway with littlies, she always seemed to get on much better with older kids. It was an observation that made Rachel a little nervous about having children of her own; if it was ever going to happen, she wished the stork could deliver them once they’d turned, say, twelve.
She eventually decided she had better get going before she risked falling into a diabetic coma. Lexie walked her up the hall to the door.
‘How are Tom and the girls?’ Rachel couldn’t resist asking.
‘Well, Sophie and Hannah don’t seem to be around all that much,’ said Lexie. ‘I suppose they’re keeping busy in the holidays with their friends. Tom has to work, after all.’ She paused at the door, resting her hand on the lock. ‘But sometimes when I have to get up to Mia in the middle of the night, I see a light on next door. I don’t think he’s sleeping very well, poor thing.’
Rachel felt an involuntary pang at the mental picture of Tom sitting up on his own at night, wandering around the house perhaps, not wanting to go to bed alone. She remembered that night after the funeral, when he wanted her to stay till he fell asleep . . .
Lexie was opening the front door. ‘Oh, speak of the devil, there he is now. Tom! Hi!’ she waved eagerly.
Rachel couldn’t move. She wondered if there was any way to avoid him. What was she going to do? Duck out the back? She was being ridiculous. And now Lexie was watching her, standing frozen in the hall.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing, I was stopping to think if I’d left anything behind.’ Could she be more lame? ‘No, I reckon I’m all set,’ she smiled, coming forwards.
‘Look who’s here,’ Lexie turned to call out to Tom.
She really didn’t have to make an announcement of it. Rachel stepped out through the front door as Tom walked around from the other side of his car, holding a soapy sponge and a garden hose, wearing only a pair of board shorts. Great.
‘Hi Rach,’ he called out with a broad smile.
‘Hi there,’ she nodded. ‘Washing the car?’ she added superfluously.
He looked amused. ‘Your powers of observation are quite phenomenal, Rach.’
Lexie giggled, then she cocked an ear towards the house. ‘Ah, that’s Mia waking up. I’ll leave you guys to it. Thanks again, Rach,’ she said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘We’ll talk soon, okay? See ya, Tom.’
And she vanished into the house, the door closing behind her. Rachel looked over at Tom, who had ditched the sponge and the hose and propped himself against the boot of the car, waiting. She had to talk to him, at least for a polite minute or two.
‘You parents are odd creatures,’ she said, for the sake of saying something. ‘I couldn’t hear a sound then, but Lexie heard her own child from the floor below, through a closed door. Yet other times, Mia can be yelling “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!” at the top of her lungs, tugging at her skirt, and she doesn’t seem to hear it at all.’
Tom smiled. ‘It’s one of the very mild superpowers you get when you become a parent.’
‘Mild superpowers?’
‘Yeah, everyone can’t be a superhero, Rach, but we all have our own special powers. Things like . . . being able to judge whether furniture will fit through doorways. Or being able to get pens working again. That’s a very useful mild superpower.’
Rachel couldn’t help smiling then. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Tom?’
He grinned back at her. ‘It’s from a comedy song the girls played to us a while back. We all had to work out what our very mild superpowers were. Sophie’s is always knowing how a movie’s going to end.’
‘That could get annoying.’
‘You’re not wrong – we had to impose a gag order on her so she wouldn’t spoil the ending for us all the time. Now she writes it down, just to prove that she knew it all along.’
Rachel ambled slowly over towards him. ‘What’s Hannah’s?’
‘Oh, hers is good,’ he said. ‘She finds money, everywhere, all the time, on the footpat
h, in the sand even. Ever since she was tiny. Just coins, but she often finds gold ones.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Rachel. ‘What’s your very mild superpower, Tom?’
He smiled. ‘Peeling.’
She frowned.
‘Hardboiled eggs, mostly. That’s what started it. The girls were amazed how I could peel the shell off a hardboiled egg in a couple of pieces, clean.’
‘That is impressive,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Can you do oranges and apples so the peel is all in one piece?’
‘Of course,’ he said with a dismissive shrug. ‘Peeling is my very mild superpower.’
She smiled, and they fell silent for a moment. Rachel wondered if she should ask what Annie’s mild superpower was. Maybe this had only come up since . . . no, it sounded like it was part of their family folklore. But it might upset him? Though it could upset him more if she was ignored. Surely Tom would say something . . . After a while, Rachel couldn’t stand it any more.
‘Well, I must have been standing behind the door when they handed out the very mild superpowers,’ she said finally.
‘Oh, come on, you’re being modest,’ said Tom. ‘What about your talent for stating the obvious?’
‘Does that pass for a very mild superpower?’
‘When you do it so well . . .’
Rachel was standing in front of him now, trying to avoid staring at his bare chest. Well, not just his bare chest, his whole bare torso – his board shorts were sitting quite low on his hips. She looked away down the street.
‘You should have a shirt on, you know,’ she blurted suddenly.
‘Pardon?’
‘Or sunscreen at least,’ she remarked. ‘It’s hot out here.’ Or was it just her?
‘Was that a display of your very mild superpower again?’ he asked. ‘Or are you channelling my mother?’
‘I’m just saying, you don’t want to get burned. That sun is hot.’
‘Oh, do you want to come inside? I’ll get you a drink.’
‘What?’ Rachel’s eyes flew up to meet his.
‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’ Tom repeated calmly.
‘Oh,’ she hesitated, ‘are the girls home?’
He shook his head. ‘No, they’re both off for the weekend again. Their friends’ mothers insist on having them stay all the time. I think they worry they’re not getting fed properly or something.’ He gave her a crooked smile.
‘Does that bother you?’
He shrugged. ‘As long as the girls are happy. It’s nice for them to get a bit of mothering, I suppose. Whatever they need . . .’
Rachel couldn’t help feeling they needed their father more than other people’s mothers, but it wasn’t her place to say so.
‘Catherine called about dinner next Saturday night,’ said Tom.
‘Oh?’
He looked at her. ‘She said you knew about it.’
‘Um, she mentioned something last week,’ Rachel said vaguely. ‘Nothing definite.’
‘You will come, though?’
‘Did you say next Saturday?’ She screwed up her face, looking skyward, like it took a great deal of concentration to sift through her packed schedule. ‘No, Saturday’s no good actually. I’m busy.’
His face dropped. ‘You’re kidding? I only said I’d come because you were going to be there.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Well,’ Tom sighed, ‘I don’t really have that much in common with Martin.’
‘You’re both lawyers,’ she reminded him.
He shrugged. ‘And Catherine, well, you know, she can be a little . . . intense.’
Rachel could hardly argue with that.
‘I thought it’d be more relaxed with you there,’ he said. ‘You can’t get out of what you’re doing?’
She hesitated. ‘Could be a little awkward.’
‘It’s not another internet date, is it?’
‘No, no,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve given up on that.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Tom. ‘Maybe I should call Catherine back and reschedule?’
Bugger, then she’d have Catherine on her back, grilling her about what she was doing that was so important, and Rachel wasn’t that good a liar. She was obviously going to have to do this sometime or another, after all she was the one who insisted that they act like nothing had happened.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said finally.
‘Great, let me know, okay? We’ll pick you up if you like.’
Rachel nodded. ‘Anyway, I better get going.’
‘If you wait ten minutes till I rinse off the car, I can run you home.’
She waved him off. ‘No, I’m fine, it’s five minutes on the bus.’
‘Are you doing anything later?’
‘Huh?’ she blinked.
‘You want to go see a movie or something?’
‘No!’ she blurted, a little too adamantly, she could tell by the look on his face. ‘It’s just, I really can’t. I’ve got . . . a thing.’ She glanced at her watch without seeing the time. ‘Oh, and I’m really going to have to rush, get home, get ready, you know . . .’
He nodded. ‘You’re a regular social butterfly.’
‘That’s me,’ she said, walking away backwards. ‘I’ll let you know about next week, as soon as I sort it out.’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘See ya,’ she said, raising her hand in a wave before turning to hurry up the street. She didn’t look back at him again. She couldn’t. He’d seemed a little . . . well, forlorn, for want of a better word. Some friend she was. He was going to be alone for the weekend, as was she, and she couldn’t even bring herself to go to a movie with him.
Yep, she was the one who’d insisted that they act like nothing had happened.
It was a lot easier to make resolutions like that when he was wearing a shirt.
Wednesday
Catherine turned into the driveway, anticipating that delightful sense of relief she almost always felt arriving home. She’d had very strong ideas about what she wanted for this house and had worked closely with her architect; she got the impression he felt a little too closely at times. But Catherine was a self-avowed control freak, and she wasn’t about to apologise for it. She had lived in a number of period homes to date, and while she loved their grace and proportions, she was over it. She craved clean lines, smooth finishes, hallowed spaces; she wanted it to be an almost Zen-like experience walking through her front door, like living in a work of art.
‘Fuck!’ She gritted her teeth. Martin had parked his BMW in the driveway, far enough back so that he blocked the entrance to both garages. He was probably going out again, but the moron could not think to park out on the street so that he didn’t block her. No, that would involve using his head. Well, she would stop here, and he could waste his own time moving her car out to shift his.
She’d had a rotten day and she was in a foul mood. She could feel the niggling beginnings of a headache, and that pissed her off even more because she needed a drink, and if a headache was really coming on, a drink would only make it worse. But she was going to have a drink regardless.
She let herself in through the front door, slamming it behind her and dumping her briefcase on the hall table. She strode down the hall, shedding her jacket and tossing it over the back of the sofa as she passed through the living room and out into the kitchen, her heels clattering on the travertine the whole way.
‘Hello darling,’ Martin greeted her, poised over the chopping board.
‘Your car’s blocking the garage,’ she snapped, heading for the fridge.
‘Oh, yes, I’m expecting a call from the video shop. I booked that new film I was telling you about –’
‘Fine,’ she cut him off, grabbing a bottle of wine. ‘You can put my car away when you’re done.’
‘Of course,’ he replied calmly. ‘How was your day?’ he ventured.
‘Dreadful. And I don’t want to go over it.’ She turned h
er back on him to get a glass from the cupboard.
‘Okay, well, I bought a lovely piece of salmon this afternoon. I actually popped down to the fish market after work. And I’m going to bake it, with . . .’
And on he droned. Catherine tuned out, as she usually did when Martin started talking food. Why he persisted she had no idea, she had never shown any interest in cooking, and less in eating. It was okay when they were entertaining, but when it was just them, she couldn’t give a flying fuck. She poured herself a large glass of wine and replaced the bottle in the fridge, picking up the glass as she turned around to face Martin. He was still rabbiting on.
‘I’m going to sit outside for a while,’ she said, cutting him off again.
‘Oh . . .’ He looked a little taken aback. Then he sighed. ‘Right then, I’ll just get on with it, I suppose.’
Catherine turned for the doors out to the terrace.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said Martin, stopping her. ‘Alice wanted to talk to you about something when you got home. She’s up in her room, she’s waiting for you.’
‘Well, Madam can come and find me if it’s so important,’ she said, stepping outside. Although it had been a hot day, it was pleasantly cool out here under the shade of the flourishing grapevine. The jasmine had finished flowering for the season, but the air had the sweet scent of freshly mown grass. The gardener must have been today.
Catherine took a long drink before setting her glass down on the wrought-iron table and taking a seat on one of the matching chairs she had imported from France. She had wanted to recreate a Mediterranean loggia out here, despite the architect arguing that it was not in keeping with the modernist lines of the house. He had designed a Japanese-style garden on the original plans, but Catherine had rejected it out of hand. She knew what she wanted, and she always got her own way. She needed greenery, lots of it, and while she liked order, a raked pebble garden was a little too anal, even for her.
She breathed deeply, closing her eyes. She ought to know by now to schedule meetings with the spiteful Mrs Alannah Cresswell earlier in the day so she had time to recover. Catherine generally enjoyed her work. Securing generous settlements for women tossed onto the seconds pile was immensely satisfying, even where there had been little hardship involved. It was Catherine’s belief that men should be made to pay a fair price for ‘moving on’, usually into the arms of a younger woman. If they broke any other kind of contract, restitution would be expected and duly forfeited; it should be no different in a marriage contract. Of course she got the greatest satisfaction the more heartless the moving on, and the younger and blonder the replacement. But every now and then, a certain kind of woman turned up – more often than not the blonde replacement – who was nothing but a gold-digging opportunist. She would generally latch on to a wealthy man, take delight in watching his marriage fall apart in her wake, and then proceed to revel in the lifestyle he provided, contributing nothing, but then considering herself due for a share of his wealth when she inevitably became bored with her middle-aged husband with a paunch and thinning hair. Catherine was not in the position to judge, she had an obligation to her firm to get the best possible settlement for the client they were representing, regardless of the circumstances. But she hated it. She felt it undermined the rest of her work, and Alannah Cresswell was just the type of money-grubbing, pretentious little upstart who made her blood boil.
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