“Woohoo,” she cried. “Check you out, Ollie!”
Ollie glanced over, puffing out his chest at the unexpected praise.
Ollie. Ange. Isabelle certainly liked using people’s names. Ange was one to use names herself—in real estate, you had to—but she’d always been suspicious of others who did the same. When she did it, her motivation was to assert a false sense of friendship to help sell a house. The question was, what was Isabelle’s motivation?
“So tell me,” Ange started, “what brought you to Melbourne? You said it was work, but is that all it was?”
It may have been Ange’s imagination, but Isabelle’s spine seemed to straighten. “Yes,” she said. “Mostly.”
Ange jumped on that. “Mostly? So, there was more?”
“Let’s call it … a personal project.”
“Sounds intriguing.” Ange leaned in and touched her elbow to Isabelle’s, as if they were close girlfriends. “What is his name? Or … hers?”
Mr. Larritt’s car pulled into the street and honked the horn. Ange cursed at his timing.
“Ollie,” she called out. “Off the road.” She kept her eyes on Isabelle, trying to think of a way to casually bring conversation back.
‘“Does he look like his dad?” Isabelle asked before Ange could speak. “Ollie, I mean.”
“Oh.” Ange waved her hand dismissively. “He doesn’t look like either of us, really. We assume he’s a throwback. Anyway, tell me more about—”
Before Ange could finish, she heard a thump followed by the sickening crack of bone. By the time she looked, Ollie was lying on the ground. Before she even got her thoughts together enough to move, Isabelle was sprinting toward him.
9
In the hospital waiting room, Ollie was asleep with his head on Ange’s lap. She was certain this gave her the look of a caring, concerned mother—which was lovely, if entirely inaccurate. In fact, she was highly irritated with Ollie. Sure, his wrist was in a terrible state, but he was happily doped up on morphine and passed out, stretched across three seats. She could’ve used a little morphine, just quietly. Instead, she was pinned to a sticky seat by her drugged eight-year-old, unable to move or even to reach her iPhone.
Ollie gave a long, sleepy sigh. Ange knew, of course, that she was lucky. Things could have gone very differently. She remembered that split second after she heard the crunch of bone. Her fear had been ice cold, paralyzing. By the time she’d got her legs to move, Isabelle was already by his side, gently assessing his injuries while speaking to him in a low reassuring voice. The voice of a mother, Ange remembered thinking.
Mr. Larritt had braked in time, thank goodness, but Ollie had panicked and landed with all his weight on his wrist. Clearly it was broken, and quite badly—but as he was in no danger of death, Ange’s mind had immediately moved to practical matters. She knew they’d likely have to wait in the emergency room for hours before Ollie was fitted with a cast. There’d be paperwork, a visit to the chemist for painkillers. Lucas had come along for moral support, but of course he was currently nowhere to be seen.
Lucas had a habit of wandering off. Sometimes Ange felt like she was married to an elderly man with Alzheimer’s. Any minute he’d probably come back with someone he’d met whose job it was to … peel oranges at the juice bar. Lucas would be genuinely fascinated. (“She peels the oranges! Bet you never thought about who did that, did you? You just drank your juice and didn’t give it a second thought!”)
Lucas found everyone and everything amazing. It was the way they’d met, in fact, in the local coffee shop. (“You’re a real estate agent? You have your own business! Did you hear that, random guy reading the newspaper? She’s a real estate agent!”) Ange had been charmed, of course. Who wouldn’t be? A gorgeous man who found her fascinating! Unfortunately it was a trait that got old after a few years of marriage—particularly when he was impressed so easily.
Ange looked at the clock on the wall. They’d arrived an hour and a half ago and every minute since had crawled. Ange hadn’t been in Emergency very often, but each time she had, she found herself wishing her ailment (or more often, her child’s) was just a little bit worse. Not life-threatening, obviously. But worrying enough to get seen quickly. (Chest pain, apparently, was the meal ticket. If you said you had chest pain you always went straight to the front of the queue.)
Did eight-year-olds have heart attacks? she wondered.
Ten minutes later Lucas finally appeared, carrying a packet of Twisties and a bottle of water. He winked at her and Ange sagged in relief. Both her legs had gone to sleep and she was desperate for the toilet. Ollie was so doped up he probably wouldn’t even notice if she shimmied out from under him and let Lucas take her place. (It would make a nice pic for Instagram actually. She’d hashtag it #fatherandson #brokenarm #boyswillbeboys.) But as Lucas approached, a pretty thirty-something woman with a blond toddler on her lap waved at him. He stopped. For heaven’s sake. Ange gestured at him impatiently and he sped up again.
“Where have you been, I am about to wet my pants!”
“Sorry. I was just—”
“It doesn’t matter. Just … switch places with me, would you?”
But before Ange could get up, the waving woman appeared behind Lucas, the toddler in her arms. The child was dressed in blue but had shoulder-length white-blond hair. The mother was probably one of those hippies who wanted to raise her children as “genderless.”
“Lucas,” the woman said, frowning. “Is that you?”
Lucas turned. For a moment he didn’t speak. And then.… “Erin. How are you?”
She gestured to the child’s foot, which was wrapped in a green bandage, and made a face that said she’d been better.
“What happened?” Lucas asked.
“Charlie burned her foot in the bath. She turned on the hot tap when Mummy wasn’t looking.”
“Ouch,” Ange murmured. So she was a girl. With a boy’s name. How very hip.
Lucas half turned back to Ange, perhaps just remembering she was there. She remained half under Ollie, supporting the weight of his (surprisingly heavy) head in two hands while he snoozed on, oblivious. Ange wanted to say to Erin that while she was very sorry to hear about her genderless child’s foot, in fact they were having their own family emergency right so it might be best if they saved their catch-up for another time. But, of course, that would have been impolite.
“Ange,” Lucas said, “this is Erin, a client of mine. I took some photos of Charlie a little while back. Erin, this is my wife, Ange.”
Erin gave Ange the once-over and Ange did her best to smile. She knew a lot of people were disappointed to learn of her existence. Lucas had a way of making people fall in love with him, with his genuine interest in them, not to mention his aching good looks. How could she blame Erin for hating her?
Ange glanced at the sleepy toddler starting to drift off in Erin’s arms. She was a pretty little thing. Had the most beautiful jade-green eyes, she noticed. Ange had a weird sense of deja vu.
“Charlie looks tired,” she said.
“Yes,” Erin said. “I’d better get her home.”
Good, Ange thought. Ollie’s head was getting heavy and her bladder was now dangerously full.
“Do you need a hand out to the car?” Lucas said.
Ange held in a curse.
Erin readjusted the child in her arms. Say no, Ange willed her. Just fucking say no.
“Actually, that would be great.”
Erin had a handbag and a child—what on earth did she need help with? Or did she think that given the privilege of holding her bag, Lucas would forget about his wife’s existence and fall in love with her?
Ange was used to people lusting after her husband, but that didn’t mean she liked it. For one thing, it was an insult to Lucas, who was so much more than his looks. Lucas was kind. Adventurous. Calm. When the boys asked for the hundred and fifty-seventh time for ice cream for breakfast and she was ready to throttle them, Lucas would sit down
with them and ask them to break down the activities for the day ahead and then ponder whether sugar and fat would be sufficient fuel to help them achieve their goals. (It sounded ridiculous, but bizarrely the kids always went for it. It may have been the fact that he was genuinely engaged with them, rather than giving them a lecture.) He was also a much-needed injection of creativity in their family. If it were up to Ange, most weekends would be spent driving the kids from activity to activity, then sitting on the couch. But Lucas wouldn’t stand for it. Every weekend they had a family adventure. To the beach, to the country. Even to the local park. (One of Ange’s favorite adventures was when the kids were toddlers and they went to the park with no toys, no technology and they avoided the playground area. They spent hours following the kids around as they picked up sticks, scratched bark off trees, and collected stones. Ange never would have done that in a million years if Lucas didn’t force it.)
And yes, he was stunning. Tall and broad and golden-skinned, at forty-three, he still turned heads. He was buff (he worked out regularly with Ben Walker at T he Shed) and he wore V-neck T-shirts and jeans rather than the short-sleeved button-down shirts and chinos most men his age sported. His sandy hair was just starting to be streaked with gray, which only made him more handsome.
Of course, Ange wasn’t bad herself—she made sure of that. With regular Pilates, hair appointments, and facials, she wasn’t going to be the frumpy wife of the gorgeous man. Recently she’d also started getting “Baby Botox,” which involved receiving smaller than average dosages of Botox to soften wrinkles but still allow natural facial movement. Ange figured if she kept things looking good on the home front, Lucas would have no need to stray.
She watched him now, walking this strange woman toward the sliding doors. Lucas had the handbag (which actually seemed to be more of a diaper bag, now that she looked at it) flung over his shoulder, and Erin held the child. As they reached the doors, a gurney came rushing through, surrounded by four paramedics and Lucas touched Erin’s forearm. They both stood back out of the way. His hand remained there for several seconds until the doorway cleared and they continued through the double doors to the parking lot.
“Oliver Fenway?’
Ange glanced around. A woman in green scrubs and matching green booties pulled over her shoes glanced at her clipboard and then back around the room. “Oliver Fenway?’
“Yes,” Ange said. “Here!”
She still desperately needed to pee.
She tapped Ollie. He opened his eyes, then immediately closed them again. On her third try, she managed to haul him into a standing position and lead him toward the doctor. Before she proceeded through the doors into the ER, she glanced back at the doors out to the parking lot. Lucas was nowhere to be seen.
10
BARBARA
Barbara kept patting Mia long after she’d fallen asleep. It was official: that little girl had her wrapped around her little finger. Whether she wanted an extra bedtime story or a second biscuit, Barbara was utterly powerless to say no to her. A few months earlier, over dinner, Barbara had asked Essie and Ben: “How long do you pat Mia’s back at bedtime?” They’d both fallen about laughing.
“Pat her back?” Essie had cried. “Let’s see, approximately zero minutes.”
“I’d say it’s definitely a grandma thing,” Ben had said, grinning.
Kids had a knack, Barbara knew, for finding a weak link, and grandmothers were nothing if not weak links. In spite of what Essie and Ben said, whenever Barbara had her granddaughters for a sleepover, she still rubbed their backs until her wrists ached, and there was nothing she’d have rather done.
One thing you didn’t realize until you were a grandparent was that little children were a tiny glimpse of magic in a dreadfully difficult world. They had to be disciplined, sure, but they also had to be enjoyed. Parents worked so hard these days that often they didn’t make time to enjoy them, but grandparents knew better. The days were long and years were short, that was what everyone said these days. But as far as Barbara was concerned, the days were short too. And she was perfectly happy to spend them patting her granddaughters to sleep.
When Mia was snoring, Barbara moved to Polly’s crib and gazed down at her. She’d wrapped her in a white cotton sheet, but Polly’s hands had come free and now they were stretched out on either side of her head as though she was reaching for something. Darling child. She was, in many ways, the polar opposite to Mia. Chubby where Mia was petite, dark-haired where Mia was ginger. Brown-eyed where Mia was blue. And—thank goodness—easy where Mia had been challenging.
Barbara reached out and swept a damp curl off Polly’s forehead. Essie had bonded so quickly and easily with Polly. At first she’d even declined all offers from Barbara to babysit because she just couldn’t bear to be away from her. It would have been reassuring, if Barbara didn’t worry that she was burning herself out. Barbara knew, on some level, that Essie was trying to prove that this time she could do it.
“But you don’t have to do it alone,” Barbara kept telling her. She knew, better than anyone, how hard it was to do it alone. Essie’s father had run off while she was still pregnant with Essie. He’d promised all the right things—financial support, a role in the child’s life—but of course, he’d produced none of them. Barbara had been forced to move to Melbourne for family support. Her great-aunt Esther wasn’t exactly a lot of family, but back then, she was all Barbara had. So, yes, she knew about doing it alone. And she was determined her daughter wouldn’t have to do the same.
Essie had spent two weeks as an inpatient at the Summit Oaks—a psychiatric unit attached to the hospital—after she’d left Mia in the park that day. When she’d been released, she’d returned home with a psychologist’s card in her pocket and a prescription for Zoloft and had been expected to get on with her life. It wasn’t enough in Barbara’s opinion.
“You’re always worried,” Essie had told her.
“I’m your mother,” she’d replied. “It’s my job.”
But Essie may have been right. Now that Essie was asking her to babysit more often, Barbara was still worried. Call it a mother’s instinct, but these past few weeks Essie had seemed a little … off. Barbara hoped it wasn’t the beginning of something.
She snuck out of the spare room, leaving the door ajar, and made herself a cup of tea. She’d been trying to stay off the tea and drink more water lately, but she had a feeling she was coming down with a cold and she needed the comfort.
“Drink the damn tea,” her friend Lois had told her when they’d discussed it recently. “Everyone is always denying themselves these days. No sugar, no gluten. No dairy! For Pete’s sake, what is more natural than dairy?”
So Barbara made the tea, then slipped on her glasses to check her phone messages. Lois had sent her a text—a cartoon of two people with a smaller person between them. Barbara squinted at it. What on earth was that supposed to be?
Barbara hated texting. She much preferred speaking to people on the phone, but when she said it out loud, it made her sound so appallingly old that she just pretended to be happy with texting. She put up with texts from Essie and Ben, but why did Lois have to do it, for goodness sake? She punched in her number and called her. This was always her silent protest.
“Did you get my text?” Lois said. No ‘hello.’”
“I did. But I have no idea what it means.”
“Teresa is having a baby!”
“Oh!” she cried. “Lo, that’s fantastic. Congratulations to you all.”
Barbara felt a thrill that was perhaps disproportionate to the occasion, considering that Teresa wasn’t even a relative. But Barbara loved nothing more than a newborn. Besides, Lois’s daughter had been trying to get pregnant for two years. For the last year Lois had kept Barbara so well informed about Teresa’s fertile dates, ovulation cycles, and vaginal mucus that Barbara had felt positively shy around Teresa. According to Lois, they’d been about to try IVF. Now they wouldn’t have to.
“
Yes, she’s thrilled, of course. I would never have said anything but I was worried she was getting too long in the tooth.”
Lois had said that to Barbara, several times.
“When is she due?” Barbara asked.
“Don’t know. I should’ve asked that, of course. I actually have no details whatsoever. She just texted me a few minutes before I texted you.”
Barbara took a moment to digest that. Lois’s only daughter had texted to say that she was pregnant (she didn’t call?) and then Lois’s response was to text Barbara!
Stop being so judgmental, Barbara chided herself.
“Actually I should probably go, as she might be trying to call.”
“Yes, go. Great news, Lo. Give Teresa my best.”
Barbara put down the phone just as a sneeze came on. She pulled a tissue from her sleeve, then picked up her tea again and took a sip. A new baby. Was there anything more precious? It was particularly special, as it hadn’t come easily to Teresa. It hadn’t come easily to Barbara either, but back when she’d been trying for a baby they didn’t have IVF or support groups or fertility specialists. If anyone asked whether she wanted children, she was expected to smile and say, “Maybe one day.” As if wanting a child was a shameful secret.
Barbara’s phone rang.
“Barbie,” Ben said when she picked up.
“Hello, Ben.”
“I just left work. How is everything?”
By “everything,” of course, Ben meant Essie. She and Ben checked in with each other like this every week or two ever since … last time. Barbara had expected that as the months and years went on, Ben would stop checking in, but he didn’t.
For all his foibles, there was no doubt Ben loved his wife.
“Essie said you’re having the girls for a sleepover.”
“Yes,” she said. “Essie was tired.”
“Ah,” he said. He was panting, clearly running home. “And she … seems okay to you?”
The Family Next Door Page 5