The Family Next Door

by Sally Hepworth

  Fran had a sudden picture of Ava on a psychologist’s couch lamenting the fact that she’d never felt her dad’s approval and didn’t understand why. (“He’s so close to my sister,” she’d say. “But he doesn’t get me. He doesn’t even seem to want to get me.”) Adolescent girls were attuned to these kinds of things. It could ruin her for life. What if Ava spent the rest of her days searching for approval in unhealthy, even abusive relationships? Was that what Fran was doing to Ava by hiding the truth?

  Cupboard doors clanged as Nigel searched for plates. Clang, crash, bang. Quando, quando, quando.

  Fran sat up. She desperately wanted it to be simple. She wanted to be able to let this go, but these kinds of things kept tripping her up. Yesterday she’d found herself staring at Ava while waiting at the supermarket checkout—analyzing her every feature. Did she have Nigel’s nose? Lips? Eyes? Her eye shape did look like Nigel’s but the color was such a deep blue that it often garnered comments. “Are those baby blues from her father?” people asked, after checking out Fran’s own browny-green eyes. Fran always nodded, even though Nigel’s eyes were pale blue. Mark’s, as she recalled, were more vivid.

  She had to tell Nigel, she realized. She had to. And she needed to know for sure who Ava’s father was. If she found out she was Nigel’s, then they could really put this behind them—providing Nigel wanted to. And if Ava wasn’t Nigel’s, she supposed she’d live with that too. She’d have to.

  Fran heard the clank of the pan into the sink and then Nigel appeared in the sitting room with a plate and a glass of cold water, which he handed to Fran. Nigel preferred room temperature—it was better for digestion, he said—but day after day he filled the water jug and put it in the fridge so Fran could have her water chilled. He put the plate down between them and handed half the sandwich to Fran. The bigger half. It moved something in her. Fran knew that a lot of women seemed to wake up in their thirties or forties and find themselves shocked by the man they married. (What was I thinking? she’d heard a recently divorced woman from her work say once. I mean … he wasn’t even my type!) Fran had never felt like that. She’d always felt a secret thrill to be married to Nigel, as if she’d discovered a treasure that somehow everyone else had missed. Even while he was depressed, she’d always loved him. But now, she’d ruined it.

  “We should do this more often,” Nigel said. “Get the kids into bed early and spend time together. Did you say the new neighbor babysits?”

  He took a big bite of his sandwich, holding a hand out below to catch the crumbs. His glasses had become steamed up during cooking so he looked at her over the tops of them. Both the crumb-catching and the steamed-up glasses were so achingly familiar, she could’ve cried. There was no way out, she realized. She wanted to be able to leave the past in the past. Failing that, she wanted to have the courage to tell her husband what she’d done and to live with the consequences, whatever they were. The problem was, neither option seemed possible for her. Which left her trapped in a world of neither here nor there.

  “Yes,” Fran said. “Apparently, she does.”

  20

  ESSIE

  Polly wailed in Essie’s ear as she hung up the phone and Essie jiggled her uselessly. Polly had been fussy all afternoon so she had resorted to carrying her around in the Babybjörn, which hadn’t helped any. Essie laid a hand on Polly’s forehead, which was warm but not hot. The child was clearly just in a bad mood. Essie understood the feeling.

  “Who was on the phone?” her mum asked from the couch. She’d arrived a few hours earlier and since then she had ironed a basket of shirts, unpacked the dishwasher, sewed a new button on Mia’s pinafore, and vacuumed the living area. Now she was folding laundry on the couch while Mia knelt beside her at the coffee table, coloring. Sometimes, Essie’s mum was the only thing that made sense in Essie’s life.

  “Ben. He won’t be home until late.”

  Essie put the chops under the broiler. The weather had dropped a few degrees today but it was still warm, and in the kitchen with the baby strapped to her Essie felt hot and bothered. She opened the fridge. (“Alcohol,” she remembered Ange telling her once. “It’s the only way.”) Alas, Essie and Ben weren’t the type to keep it in the house so she plucked out a Lindt ball instead.

  “Do you need to put on all those chops then?” her mum asked.

  Essie popped the chocolate into her mouth. “What?” she mumbled.

  “The chops. If Ben’s not coming home…”

  “Oh. Right.” She chewed and swallowed, not tasting. “No, probably not.”

  Essie’s brain wasn’t working properly today. It was the crying. Crying had a way of boring its way into your skull until there was no room for anything else, particularly patience, logic, or reason. She opened the broiler and removed two chops just as there was a knock at the door.

  “Go away,” Essie murmured. “Whoever you are just go away.”

  “Give her to me,” Barbara said, appearing behind her. “You get the door.”

  Essie unstrapped Polly from the carrier and handed her over. She felt lighter immediately, free of her ball and chain. She took a minute to roll her shoulders and stretch out her neck.

  “Essie, the door!”

  “Oh. Right.”

  It was Isabelle. She carried a bottle of white wine and wore a preemptive smile that faded quickly. “Uh-oh. I’ve just done that thing childless people do when they call in during kids’ dinner, bath, and bedtime, haven’t I?”

  Essie wasn’t sure if it was Isabelle or the wine, but she felt an instant lift in her mood. “Technically you have done that thing. But you’ve brought wine. So let’s call it even. Come on in.”

  Isabelle walked inside.

  “Oh,” her mum said, as they rounded the corner. It may have come out wrong, but it didn’t seem like a friendly “oh.”

  “Hello, Barbara,” Isabelle said, equally curtly. She turned to Essie. “I saw the light on and I thought maybe you could use a drink. Don’t they call this time of day the witching hour?”

  “They do,” Essie said. “But if I had a broomstick, I have to say, I’d have been out of here long ago.”

  She filled two glasses, nice and full. She’d just turned to put the bottle in the fridge when she noticed smoke drifting out of the broiler.

  “Shit!” she cried, wrenching out the tray. Immediately she dropped it. The burning-hot tray clanged to the floor. “Oh … holy … owww.”

  Essie looked at her right hand, which was already pink and throbbing.

  “Are you all right?” Isabelle asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  But Essie wasn’t sure. She looked down at the tray on the floor—and then at her hand. It was already showing signs of blistering. For a long second she didn’t know what to do. Apologize for her silliness? Sweep up the charred chops? Call for pizza? She’d been feeling like this a lot lately. It was as though processing a series of thoughts or reacting to a basic situation was beyond her.

  Isabelle appeared beside her. She guided her over to the sink. She turned on the cold tap and held Essie’s hand underneath, letting cold water stream over the burn.

  “Better?” she asked after a moment or two.

  “Yes. Thank you. Sorry, I … don’t know where my head is at today.”

  “Neither do I,” Essie’s mum said, bustling up behind them. She’d put Polly in her swing and Mia was in front of the television. “In any case, why don’t you two sit down and let me clear this up?”

  “No, Mum, really I—”

  “I insist. We don’t need any more accidents.” Barbara stuffed her hands into oven mitts before Essie could protest any further. Essie felt a little like a teenager getting into trouble. She wondered what was up with her mum.

  “You know what I think?” Isabelle said. “I think you need a break. Why don’t you take the night off, Essie? Go and see a movie with Ben? I can babysit.”

  Essie felt herself sway with desire. A movi
e. For mothers of young children, going to the movies was the ultimate indulgence. The comfortable chair, the quiet, the escapism. The sugar, if she treated herself to a candy bar. The fact that no one was touching you, or talking to you. There had been nothing—including sex—that had transported her more completely since becoming a mother than seeing a movie. “Unfortunately,” Essie said, “Ben has to work late. But maybe … you and I could see a movie? You could babysit couldn’t you, Mum?”

  Barbara looked up from the tray she was scrubbing: a deer in the headlights. “But what about Polly? I thought you were worried she was coming down with something?”

  Essie looked over at her, gurgling happily on her mat. “She seems all right now, don’t you think?”

  Barbara put the tray on the draining board, her brow furrowed. Her hair, which she usually dyed herself with a box of Clairol ash brown, was threaded with gray at the temples. “I guess it’s all right,” she said finally, sounding like she meant the opposite.

  “Thank you,” Essie said, rushing to the bedroom to swipe on some lipstick and grab her bag. When she returned to the lounge room Isabelle was on her knees, talking to Mia and Polly in a funny, playful voice. They both smiled back at her, delighted at the attention.

  “We’d better go,” Essie said, and Mia made a pouty face. Polly started to cry again. Everyone seemed sad to see Isabelle leave.

  Everyone except Essie’s mum.

  * * *

  Essie and Isabelle had just ordered a second bottle of wine. They weren’t going to make it to the movies. Essie didn’t care. Dinners out with friends should be mandatory for mothers of small children, she decided. They should be the law.

  Essie didn’t usually do things like this. She and Fran and Ange met for tea and cakes, and for drinks at Christmas, but they rarely went out, and they rarely laughed. It felt sophisticated and fun, even if they were just at The Pantry in Brighton, the next suburb along.

  “What looks good, ladies?” the waiter had asked when he came to take their order.

  “The prospect of not cooking,” Essie had said, and Isabelle had laughed.

  It may have been the alcohol, but they’d spent a good portion of the evening laughing—at the waiter’s desperate attempt to get Essie’s name right (she’d called up and made a booking from the car) and their subsequent agreement to make the booking under the name “Jane”; at the men at the next table who kept ogling them, one of whom uncannily resembled Essie’s high school P.E. teacher; at Isabelle’s excellent impersonation of Jerry Seinfeld. It made Essie acutely aware that she hadn’t laughed much recently.

  They sat opposite each other at a small table with a single white flower and a drinks menu between them. Essie had already wolfed down her chili prawn pizza in a matter of minutes and now was watching Isabelle eat her linguini aglio e olio with similar gusto. Essie was relieved to find Isabelle wasn’t a salad kind of girl (not that it would have been an unforgivable offense, but it would have been a shame).

  “So,” Essie said. “I feel like you know everything about me and you haven’t told me anything about yourself.”

  Isabelle speared a mussel with her fork. “Sure I have.”

  “You haven’t. Just that you’re here from Sydney, looking for a missing child.”

  Isabelle chewed and swallowed, covering her mouth. She seemed to take longer than necessary before speaking again. “Well, that’s about all there is to me. I’m not married. No kids.”

  Essie cocked her head. “Which is interesting since it’s pretty clear you love kids. Have you ever thought about having any?’

  Isabelle paused for a long second. “Of course I have,” she said finally.

  Essie wasn’t sure why this surprised her. After all, just because she was gay didn’t mean she didn’t want children. Lots of gay people had children.

  “Let’s just say it hasn’t worked out for me so far.”

  Isabelle lifted a napkin to her lips and wiped then. She was probably the kind of girl Essie would have gone for if she were gay, she decided. She was so sensual. The way she walked, the way she dressed, even the way she wiped oil from her lips was appealing. Essie had kissed a girl once, back in her university days. She’d been on the dance floor at a nightclub when a girl had grabbed her face and pressed it to her own. Essie had gone along with it, mostly because there were guys watching and she thought it would impress them. And the kiss hadn’t been bad, exactly. The girl’s skin had been soft and she’d tasted like rum and Coke. But nothing had stirred inside Essie. If she’d been experimenting, the results were clear. She wasn’t gay. And yet when she looked at Isabelle, she felt … something. She wondered, had it been Isabelle on that dance floor instead, would the results of the experiment have been as clear?

  “But I’m not one to give up easily, so…” Isabelle was saying.

  Essie tried to regain her train of thought, but she’d drunk too much wine. “Sorry?”

  “Kids. I was saying that I am going to have them. Sooner rather than later.”

  “Wonderful,” Essie said. “Let’s drink to that,”

  Isabelle picked up her glass. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s drink to that.”

  * * *

  When they arrived back in Pleasant Court, the street was almost in darkness. But Essie didn’t feel tired at all. To the contrary, she felt exhilarated.

  “Do you want to come in for another drink?” Essie said, once they were out of the taxi.

  Isabelle paused. “What about the kids? We wouldn’t want to wake them up.”

  Essie giggled. For a moment she’d forgotten she had kids. “Oh wow. I’m drunker than I thought.”

  Isabelle laughed. “How about I take a rain check?”

  “Sure.” Essie concentrated on not slurring her words. “Good idea.”

  Isabelle gave her an unexpectedly tender smile. She reached out and touched Essie’s upper arm gently. “This was nice,” she said. “I really enjoyed it.”

  “I did too,” Essie said shyly.

  They smiled at each other. Isabelle’s lips parted and Essie’s breath stilled. She wasn’t sure if she was horrified or exhilarated. They remained like that for a heartbeat, then Isabelle’s hand slipped back to her side.

  “Well, good night,” Isabelle said.

  Essie watched Isabelle walk up her driveway, her chest alive with butterflies. Finally, once Isabelle’s door had closed, she headed into her own house. Essie’s mum was on the couch, her stockinged feet up on the ottoman, a novel splayed on her chest.

  “Mum? Where’s Ben?”

  “Ben will be home any minute,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Clearly she’d been dozing. As she sat up, the book slid off her chest onto her lap. “There was a problem with his app. It crashed or something. He’s been talking to his technical people.”

  “Oh, dear,” Essie said, though she wasn’t really concerned. She was more concerned that she was quite drunk, and even at the age of thirty-two, she felt weird being drunk in front of her mother.

  “How were the girls?” she asked.

  “Precious. Perfect.” Her mum located her purse on the floor by the couch and stuffed her novel inside. “How was your evening?”

  Something was funny about the way she said it.

  “It was great,” Essie said. “Really, really fun.” She hiccuped.

  “Are you drunk?” her mum asked.

  “A little.”

  Barbara watched her steadily. Essie got the feeling she was being scrutinized.

  “What?” she said. It was rare that Essie had more than one drink. But just because her husband didn’t drink much didn’t mean that she couldn’t.

  “I just wonder if you should check in with your psychologist,” Barbara said finally. “Just for a chat. You seem … a little off.”

  “Because I went out for a few drinks?”

  “No,” she said. “Because—”

  Keys jangled in the door and a split-second later, Ben was inside. He flung down his sports bag. “Ba
bs! I am so in your debt I can’t even … Oh look! Two beautiful women. It’s my lucky day!”

  “What happened to your app?” Essie asked dutifully.

  “Nothing you need to worry about. I got it all sorted out.” He looked at Barbara. “I owe you some flowers.”

  “Not necessary.”

  Ben frowned. He looked from Essie to Barbara and back again. “Everything okay here, ladies?”

  “Fine,” Mum said, standing. “But at my age you turn into a pumpkin at midnight…”

  “At my age too,” Ben agreed, yawning.

  Essie was glad they were doing all the talking. She felt both self-conscious about being drunk and irritated with her mother for being so judgmental. On top of all those feelings, she couldn’t possibly also process words.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Barbara said, letting herself out. Ben followed her, standing on the porch and watching until she got into her own house.

  When he returned to the house, Essie vaguely noticed Ben watching her with that soft, familiar expression. He leaned in to kiss her, but Essie was miles away. She was still thinking about that strange moment she’d shared with Isabelle.

  “Shall we go to bed?” His eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

  “I thought you were tired.”

  “Do I look tired?” Ben swaggered toward her and Essie couldn’t help but laugh. The confidence. Had this man considered for even a second that he wasn’t irresistible? “Just give me five minutes to convince you,” he said, as his lips hit hers. She didn’t protest, which Ben, of course, took as a green light. And it was a green light, at least in body. In mind, she was thinking about Isabelle arriving on her doorstep. Isabelle sipping wine over dinner. Laughing with Isabelle. And a few minutes later, as Ben led her into the bedroom, Essie found she wasn’t thinking of Ben at all.

  21

  ANGE

  Pleasant Court was starting to look quite different. A sign had been erected at the mouth of the street, warning people they were entering a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH ZONE. Wireless cameras had been installed in front of every home (except the Larritts’, who’d insisted it was overkill and they’d never had such a thing in “their day”). Whenever the camera detected movement they started recording and then emailed the footage to the person monitoring the camera. So far Ange had received an email of the Larritts’ cat trying to get into their garbage, Fran speeding past on a late-night run, and Ollie standing out in front of the house jumping up and down trying to trigger it.