by Nicole Hayes
‘You know how I feel – how we feel.’ The tiny laminated face of Ellen Page stares up at me from the badge on Kessie’s jacket collar, mocking me. ‘Eve Was Framed’ is in bold pink beside it.
‘It’s a pretty big deal,’ Tyler says gently, almost apologetically.
‘Thanks for your support, Ty!’ I snap, aware that the twisting feeling in my chest seems to increase whenever I see the two of them together. It’s not like I’m being replaced, I try to tell myself. I never went to these stupid protests before, anyway.
But still. Still.
Tyler blanches. She actually visibly shrinks. I instantly feel sorry. I know how much she hates confrontation. She has more reason than anyone to fight for a women’s shelter to stay where it can do the best work. I’d probably be cheering for her on a different day, but with this stupid election, all the tension and bloody Kessie dragging her along everywhere …
And not once asking me about my date with Jake.
‘Seriously?’ Kessie says, the look on her face searing me. She positions herself in front of Tyler like a bodyguard, like I’m something dangerous that she needs to protect Tyler from. ‘We’re not going to stop caring about the world just because it’s inconvenient for you and your mum.’
I look from one to the other: Kessie’s determination cut into her features, Tyler’s resolve quiet but firm. ‘It’s up to you how you spend your weekends, but if you want this audition to work, you need to focus on what matters most,’ I say finally, and stalk off towards the studio.
Rehearsal limps along. Kessie is still pissed off but she keeps to herself and we get through the entire set. Tyler must have said something to her. We still have to decide on the last song, and it’s possible my head will explode if we don’t sort it out soon, but right now nothing seems to close the set the way it needs to.
On the tram home, I drag out my phone and see messages from Harry, Sarah and Mum. Nothing from Dad and nothing from Jake.
The messages don’t give anything away; they all just tell me I need to talk to Harry as soon as I can. Mum reminds me that ‘they’re just words’, that nothing – not even the truth – gets in the way of a good story. She says she’ll be home late and will talk more when she’s back. Mum’s going bush for the next couple of days, trying to cultivate the rural vote, some of the more marginal seats that could go either way. The country’s always been a bit difficult for her. She used to live in the bush, near the South Australian border, when she was little but she never talks about that, so the media and the voters see her as a Melbourne politician. Being a woman is problem enough, but appearing to be Melbourne-centric? Unforgiveable.
I call Harry. Then Dad. Then Sarah. Even Christie’s number gets a run. Everyone’s phone goes to voicemail, which means they’re all probably in a meeting, so it’s up to me to work out what sort of disaster looms. I open the browser and start searching the mainstream papers first. I stop at a headline about Mum and more queries over unexplained expenses. I scan the article but it’s still not clear what they’re talking about. There are quotes from her press release claiming that she has nothing to apologise for, that any mistakes made in her entitlements were corrected as soon as they were identified. That she is ‘getting back to the business of running Victoria’. The photo they’ve used is a file pic from weeks ago, which shows Mum hurrying up the Parliament steps. She looks good, as always, but is frowning at something off-camera. I remember that photo because a couple of the outlets had used it. She’d been held up before a vote and was hurrying so she wouldn’t miss it. It was a big one – the forced adoptions bill. I know her expression is nothing more than concentration on not tripping on the steps while checking how much time she has with Sarah or Christie – whoever it was she was looking at off-camera. Except, next to this article, it makes Mum look like she’s running from something, or not prepared to answer questions. It’s out of context – and it works.
Something about the newspaper’s decision to link this photo with this article makes me queasy. It’s as if they’re determined to tell a story even if they don’t have all the facts, like they’ve made up their minds already.
I stare at the screen, trying to decide whether it’s worth checking Seamus Hale’s blog. I decide to continue with the other mainstream media – the tabloids can be nasty and careless in their reporting, and talkback radio is brutal like no other. But nothing beats the anarchy of the political blogosphere, Seamus Hale being king of them all. Surprisingly, the tabloids have been easy on Mum – they left Evan Sandry alone when he announced his early retirement, probably because we’d had a decade with a different government and it was still a new administration. Mum’s appointment meant a fresh start and there’s usually a honeymoon phase at the beginning, where even the media feels positive and hopeful.
I scan several websites and decide that the tabloid articles are about the same, though with big pictures and fewer words. Nothing dodgy and nothing new. And yet, together, they’re making a case – building a narrative, Harry would say – and it’s not a good one.
There’s no putting it off. I have to deal with Seamus Hale sooner or later.
I click on the link and brace myself for the onslaught. There she is again. It’s probably the closest thing to a bad photo I’ve seen of my mum. Her hair is ruffled as though she’s been caught in the wind and her jacket is rucked up roughly on her shoulder. She seems rushed and untidy – under pressure. But that’s not what worries me; it’s the headline across the top: ‘Yummy Mummy’s Secret Life’.
I read the article. It’s three paragraphs long and takes me about four minutes to discover that there is no secret or any evidence of anything at all. Hale just repeats the unexplained expenses bit from other news, referring to a couple of ‘unscheduled gaps’ in her diary, and includes a couple more photos of Mum hurrying somewhere or looking the other way. Except none of that matters because, at the top, there for all to see, is a quote from ‘a source close to the Premier’ (code for a total stranger) claiming that the Premier is too busy ‘consorting with a man half her age in the middle of the night’ when she’s supposed to be taking care of Victoria.
Consorting with a man half her age. In the middle of the night.
I re-read the article. Still no real explanation, just a brutal headline and a few words dropped like a bomb with no attempt to even prove them. Smear Politics 101, Harry calls it.
I shut my phone, wanting to undo the words that are now branded on my brain. I look up, get my bearings and jump off the tram when it stops. I need to walk to clear my head. A part of me knows I’m letting it get to me, exactly what I’ve been warned against. It’s media manipulation – dirt being thrown in the hope that some of it sticks. Filthy, rotten, made-up dirt. I know none of it’s true. I do.
So why does it feel like the ground is collapsing beneath me?
CHAPTER 18
DOUBLE DISSOLUTION
It’s after midnight when I hear Mum and Dad come in. They’re arguing again. Their voices are loud enough that I can distinguish who’s talking and when, but not so loud that I can understand the words.
I tiptoe to the kitchen door and stand outside. Is it eavesdropping if their voices are carrying outside the room? I press my ear against the wall, trying to still my breathing. I’ll just wait here a minute, I tell myself, to find the right moment to go in.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ Mum says, her voice tired and unsteady.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ Dad replies.
‘Trust me, Brant. Just … trust me?’
‘I’m trying to.’
‘We can’t give it oxygen,’ Mum says. ‘They can’t chase a non-story.’
‘But it is a story! Because it’s you.’
‘This is not how to handle it.’
‘But you’re not handling it! You’re just ignoring it. You don’t think the kids will find out?’
‘Frankie knows not to trust Seamus Hale. She knows it’s just words.’
‘But they’re not just words, Rowena. Are they?’
There’s a muffled response, some movement I can’t identify.
‘There’s no proof of anything, just scattershot rumours with nothing to back them up.’
‘Except that it’s true! How long before they find something? Then what?’
‘Tell me how I can fix this?’ The anguish in Mum’s voice is harsh and shocking. Where’s the calm woman I’ve known my whole life? The one who can cope with anything? Who fixes the unfixable and rights the wrongs?
I hear Dad sigh, though it’s more of a groan. ‘Then tell the truth.’
‘I am telling the truth. Right now.’
‘Only because you had to.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to make it better.’
‘No, you’re not. That’s exactly what you’re not doing.’
‘I know you need time –’
‘God. Ro, time won’t change anything. You’re missing the point.’
‘Brant …’
There’s a heavy quiet, and I press closer to the door, no longer pretending that I’m not listening.
‘I want to make it right,’ Mum says, tears thickening her voice.
A chair scrapes across the slate floor. A body sits heavily.
‘You need to put an end to it.’
I hold my breath. A man half her age.
‘What?’
‘If you want to fix it,’ Dad says. ‘Do that for me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
‘Both.’
‘That’s not fair.’
There’s a long pause. ‘I know.’
‘You’ve kept this secret long enough.’
‘I’ll talk to the kids when I get back.’
‘Not just the kids. You’ve kept it from everyone!’
‘One step at a time.’
‘I want to be there too.’
‘We’ll talk to them when you’re back from the retreat. They don’t have anything, Brantley. Just Seamus stirring things up. We need to deal with this as a family.’
‘And what about the public? The voters? You need to tell them too.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t keep lying.’
‘It’s not a lie! It’s my life. My private life.’
‘Except it’s not private now, is it?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mum says wearily. ‘It’s not up to me.’
‘You’re not thinking this through. What about Frankie and Luke?’
‘Don’t you see? That’s exactly what I am thinking about. They’re all I’m thinking about. Frankie and Luke – what it means to them.’
‘And to him.’
‘Yes. To him. God, yes. Finally, to him.’
Him? There it is again. I stand perfectly still, frightened to move. I hold my breath, aware suddenly how loud my breathing is.
‘Please?’ Dad’s voice is rough and desperate.
‘No,’ she says.
Silence stretches for so long that I wonder if they’re still in there.
‘That’s it?’ Dad says, asking the question like he knows the answer.
‘Don’t make me choose.’
‘It feels like you already have, and we have to live with the consequences.’ Dad’s voice drops so low I’m not sure I hear correctly. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
The noise that comes next is almost primitive, like the sound a wounded animal would make. I step back, reeling. I shouldn’t be here.
I creep away as quietly as I can, slipping inside my bedroom. I pull the door to without shutting it to avoid making any sound.
A part of me wants to confront them now, to ask them to explain. Except, no matter how I turn it around, twist it or tilt it to one side, there’s nothing else it could mean.
Mum is having an affair.
CHAPTER 19
THE PUBLIC GALLERY
The morning is awkward and empty – Dad reminds us about his retreat to Woop Woop, acting like nothing has changed. Luke barely looks up from his pile of rabbit pellets topped with every shape and hue of berry known to man, while my toast and honey sits there, growing cold on my plate. It takes every ounce of energy not to yell at Dad to tell us what the hell is going on.
But I don’t. Seeing Luke wolf down his breakfast, happily oblivious, keeps me quiet.
When Dad gets up to leave, he tells us he’ll check in when his phone is in range.
I leave Luke in the kitchen and follow Dad to the front door. ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.
He touches my hair, presses his hand to my cheek. ‘It will be.’
And then he kisses my forehead and leaves.
Mum caught an early flight to Mildura and won’t be back for a couple of days. She left a note saying she needs to talk to us when she returns, that she’ll call later to check in.
On my way to school I turn off my phone and shove it in my bag. I don’t want to talk to either of them if they’re just going to keep lying. I don’t bother with the tram – I need to walk.
I stand on the blocks at the pool centre for the start of the 200m Freestyle, desperately wishing I’d chucked a sickie as I wait for the starting gun. The school swimming carnival sucks at the best of times. Today, it feels like a special kind of hell.
But when the gun fires, something explodes inside me. I launch into the pool, an all-consuming fury driving me forward. My body seems to glide along the surface almost like I’m flying, the other competitors lost in my wake.
I towel off after the event, my legs like rubber, hands tingling with the exertion. A couple of kids from my class clap me on the back or call out their congratulations. Kessie is down the other end of the pool deck, a clipboard in her hands. She’s the middle-school sports captain and has responsibility for marshalling. On any other day, she’d be cheering wildly while mocking my ‘talent’, but today all I get is a grim smile, a half-nod and then I’m on my own, and it’s all about recording times and numbers before I’m free to disappear into the crowd again. I tuck my towel around my waist and head back to where the rest of the senior students are knotted together. I find my bag and am about to escape to the change rooms to get dressed when I notice a small group of Year 10 kids huddled around an iPad, their focus trained on whatever they’re watching. One of them looks up at me – Alicia Harrison from my English class – and she seems almost to wilt.
Whatever they’re watching is somehow relevant to me.
I rack my brain for things I’ve done, or might have done, that could have been captured on film. Has the vomit meme made a comeback? Is there a director’s cut I didn’t know about? Then my fuzzy, sleep-deprived brain remembers the night before. No, it’s not about me. It’s about Mum.
The slow pounding of my heart seems to fill my ears. It’s like I’ve been anaesthetised and am slowly waking up.
‘Put it away!’ Alicia hisses.
Eight faces turn to look at me.
I step towards them, determined to see. It’s difficult to make out the images on the iPad in the bright sun, but my vision adjusts and then I can see clearly. It’s a photo of Mum, front and centre, her hand cupping the chin of a young man. They’re staring intently at each other like there’s no one else in the world except them.
The caption across the top screams ‘Yummy Mummy’s Secret Rendezvous’.
Consorting with a man half her age …
My face burns hot and my knees wobble beneath me. I shift on the cement, the warmth against my soles the only sensation that feels real.
‘Yummy Mummy’s got a toy boy, has she?’
I look up to see Travis Matthews smiling cruelly. I open my mouth but no words come out. A surging wave of fury envelops me and I find myself climbing over the huddle of kids, grabbing at the iPad. I half-stumble, half-fall, but Travis is too fast. He clutches the iPad to his chest, leaping to his feet and moving out of my reach.
‘Give it to me,’ I say. ‘Fuck off.
’
‘Give it to me.’ I step towards him.
I know that getting Travis’s iPad doesn’t change the fact that the picture still exists. It’s not going to stop anyone else from seeing it. But clutching it in my hand and turning that brutal thing off has suddenly become the only thing that matters. I hold out my palm.
Travis cocks his head. ‘Can I help you?’
Everyone is watching now.
‘Give it to me,’ I repeat. My hand shakes as I hold it out to him but my gaze does not waver.
‘Give us a kiss and I’ll think about it.’ Travis chuckles, taking a step closer. He twitches a little as he holds the iPad.
My feet are glued to the spot though my body screams to get away from him. ‘In your dreams, Meathead.’
He blinks a little – no one calls him Meathead to his face – then he laughs, a sharp, biting sound. ‘Bad luck, then,’ he says and turns to walk away.
I lunge at him again and this time my hand makes contact with the iPad. But only enough to knock it from his hands and send it crashing to the ground, where it shatters against the cement.
Stunned, we all stare at the mess on the concrete. I don’t know what I thought would happen when I lunged for it but, oddly, it wasn’t this.
Travis is speechless. He closes the small space between us and it occurs to me that he’s angry enough to hit me. I should be terrified. I should back off and hide. Every fibre in my being is saying, ‘Run, Frankie! Run!’
But I don’t. Instead, I step forward and lean in, daring him to go further. ‘Go on, Travis. Do it.’
There’s a tiny flicker of uncertainty in Travis’s eyes. I see it then – the boy I knew in primary school, the boy who used to ride his bike to my house and watch TV when it rained. But then it’s gone and the Meathead is back.
Still, I hold his gaze.
‘Teacher!’ someone yells.
Seconds later, Mr Campaspe appears, finding space between Travis and me. ‘What’s going on here?’
Travis doesn’t flinch but he doesn’t answer, either.