by Fiona Lowe
‘Have you talked to a counsellor about Alex?’
Sarah shifted on the couch. ‘Do you still have your key for Mill House?’
‘God, no.’ She tried to block a rising memory that she’d stashed down deep and out of harm’s way—an image of the last time she’d held the key to her childhood home. Her gut lurched. If Sarah’s reasons for avoiding answering her question about counselling were as strong as hers were about the key, then she understood the silence.
Sarah made a soft grunt that said, Why did I even ask? She selected a key from a large and congested bunch.
‘I’ll get Rita to clean your old room,’ she said, handing her the key.
‘I’ll sleep in the guest room.’ The words rushed out faster than Ellie had intended. ‘After all, I’m a guest and I’m not sleeping in a single bed. Perhaps Noah can sleep in your room?’
‘Mum turned my room into a clothing depository and dressing room years ago. Yours and Cam’s are still intact,’ Sarah said snippily.
It was on the tip of Ellie’s tongue to say, ‘I wish mine was something else,’ but she stopped herself. No point inviting comment on something she had no plans to discuss. ‘In that case, Noah can sleep in Cam’s room.’
‘Hallelujah. You’re finally being practical. I’ll sleep well tonight knowing you’re not homeless.’
Ellie raised her glass to her sister in an ironic toast. At least one of them would sleep.
* * *
Margaret opened her eyes, frowned and shut them. Giving herself a shake, she tried again but the visuals didn’t change. Where were her dove-grey drapes? Her carved mantelpiece and antique gilt mirror? And who had taken her beautiful armchair and replaced it with this horrible vinyl monstrosity that burped whenever she moved? She’d sat on a dreadful chair like this once before. A straight-backed chair in a cold hospital corridor on the night Kevin died …
Two nurses helped her up from the chair before flanking her as she half walked, half stumbled into the morgue to identify her husband’s stiff body. Thankfully, the nurses thought her so grief stricken they didn’t twig to the fact she was more drunk than bereft.
Gripping the edge of the trolley for support, Margaret stared down at Kevin’s handsome but now alabaster face and tried to focus. She pressed her lips together hard to stop from crying out.
‘Yes. That’s Kevin. You know it’s Kevin, Phillip.’
The police sergeant spun his cap in his fingers. ‘I’m very sorry to put you through this, Margaret.’
‘Please accept our sincere condolences,’ the doctor added. ‘Kevin’s done so much for Mingunyah Base—’
‘May I have a few minutes alone with him?’ She was in no fit shape to listen to platitudes.
‘Of course, Mrs Jamieson.’ The obsequious medico was probably thinking about his fundraising target. ‘Press the buzzer when you’re ready.’
When the door clicked shut behind the two men and their footsteps faded, Margaret raised her hand and slapped Kevin’s cold face hard. ‘You stupid, idiotic, useless excuse of a man. You even screwed up dying. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.’
‘Yoo-hoo, Mrs Jamieson? Did the physiotherapist wear you out?’
Margaret startled and the past scuttled away like a cockroach slipping under a skirting board. A woman with greying curls and wearing navy pants and a colourful blouse was setting down a small tray containing a teapot and a slice of cake.
‘A cup of tea’s the perfect pick-me-up after a chair nap.’
‘I don’t nap,’ Margaret said indignantly. ‘I’m far too busy for that.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Mrs J. You’re not the first person here to have a quick kip. I’ll leave a second cup for Sarah, shall I? She usually visits about this time.’
Before Margaret could reply, the woman left the room and Sarah walked in clutching a big bunch of white eyeliner lilies.
‘Hello, Mum.’ She kissed her on the cheek. ‘I thought you might enjoy these.’
‘Why? The perfume makes me sneeze and the pollen stains everything it touches. You know I never have them in the house.’
Sarah’s mouth formed a familiar yet quiet smile tinged with restraint. Kevin’s smile. ‘In that case, I’ll take the flowers home and enjoy them there …’
‘Margaret,’ Kevin said, holding something in his hand and waving it at her. ‘I’ve got tickets to the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra at the new concert hall. I thought you might like to come?’
‘Seriously, Kevin? If it was the opening, I’d have tolerated the classical music, but it’s not so I won’t.’
‘In that case, I’ll go and enjoy it on my own.’
Margaret looked at her daughter and tried not to sigh. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing your father would have said.’
‘I’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Margaret muttered, making a grab for the cake.
Sarah’s eyes widened and the teapot clattered onto the tray. ‘Mum, is everything okay?’
‘No! Why am I here? I want to go home.’
‘I know you do but you’ve had a stroke, remember? If you want to keep living at Mill House, you need to be steadier on your feet.’
No one told Margaret Jamieson what to do, especially not her daughters. ‘You can’t keep me here against my will.’
‘No one is keeping you against your will,’ Sarah said quietly as she put her hand gently over Margaret’s. ‘The sight in your left eye isn’t great and neither is your balance, which is why you’re here in rehab. All I want is for you to get better.’
Margaret pulled her hand away and straightened in her chair. Her eldest daughter lacked Cameron’s and Ellie’s model good looks and she had too much of Kevin’s personality in her for Margaret’s taste, but Sarah was her most biddable child; the one who always tried to please her.
‘I’m your mother. If you love me, you’ll take me home.’
‘Of course I love you, Mum.’
Familiar anguish tinged the words and Margaret relaxed. As soon as she got home she’d—
‘Which is why you need to stay here until you’re capable of doing things without assistance.’ Sarah poured the tea. ‘The OT’s assessing your cooking tomorrow and then she’ll do a home visit in preparation for your discharge.’
A white rage exploded inside Margaret and she trembled all over. ‘I am going home and you can’t stop me. No one can stop me. I demand to talk to that nice young man who told me not to let anyone take advantage of me.’
Consternation pulled Sarah’s brows together and she leaned back in her chair—shoulders straight, chin lifted—in the same exact and measured way Kevin always had when Margaret yelled. ‘What nice young man, Mum? One of the nurses? The physiotherapist? A doctor? What does he look like?’
The questions came at Margaret like the ack-ack fire of a machine gun. She lifted her hands to her ears, trying to block the sound. Think. But her mind was encased in lead and filled with cotton wool as it often was now and she struggled to conjure an image. ‘Black hair.’
‘He had black hair?’
Margaret’s head ached so badly all she wanted to do was sleep. ‘Who?’
Sarah leaned over and pressed the buzzer that rested on the neatly made bed. ‘The nice young man with black hair who told you not to let anyone take advantage of you.’
Ray … Rodge … Rex … No! ‘Rupert.’ The name brought exquisite relief. ‘Yes, I want to see Rupert. I was very impressed by him.’
A nurse appeared in the doorway. ‘You rang the bell Mrs Jamieson?’
‘Go away!’ Honestly, no one here had a clue about anything. She could teach this lot a thing or two. After all, she’d made a vast amount of money out of not very much.
Sarah turned in her chair. ‘I rang it, Jenny. Is there a Rupert on duty?’
‘Rupert?’ The nurse looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know any Ruperts. I can check the agency staff list to see if anyone with that name worked t
he night shift but it’s a pretty distinguished name. I think I’d have remembered it.’
‘Rupert isn’t here, Sarah,’ Margaret said irritably, pressing her fingers onto the cake crumbs before sucking the granules into her mouth.
Sarah’s eyes took on the wild and crazy look she got whenever someone exasperated her. ‘If he doesn’t work here, where does he work?’
Margaret couldn’t remember. ‘His office has a magnificent view. You really should see it for yourself.’ The Women’s Weekly magazine next to the tea tray caught her attention. She picked it up, flipping straight to the fashion section.
‘Jenny,’ Sarah said, rising to her feet. ‘Is Doctor Kafi available?’
CHAPTER
12
‘Have fun with Daddy.’ Anita kissed the little girls goodbye before leaning in to kiss Cameron.
His hand squeezed her behind as he said quietly, ‘And when you get home tonight, we can have some fun.’
An electric shot of desire thrummed between her legs and she squirmed deliciously against him. ‘There’s a divine gown that’s split to the thigh.’
His grey eyes shone like polished ore. ‘I like the sound of that.’
The sales of Margaret’s dresses were exceeding expectations. Even in their wildest dreams they could never have imagined the strength of the demand and they were working hard at cataloguing outfits. The moment they uploaded the detailed description and the accompanying photos that showcased all aspects of the dress, someone bid. There was something utterly addictive about watching the last few moments of an auction. Her heart pounded, her stomach churned and she squeezed Cameron’s hand hard, withholding squeals of delight as the price ratcheted up. But most of all, Anita loved that Vintage Glamour was a family project that not only helped her mother-in-law, but gave her precious time and fun with her husband. After the sale of the tenth dress, Cameron suggested that, as a reward for all their hard work, they use their commission to buy themselves something.
The idea of a commission thrilled her but it was offset with a general unease. The roles and responsibilities inside a family were vague and untested concepts for Anita as she had no similar experiences to draw on. Just before her ninth birthday, her father had vanished. Abandoned and ill-used, she couldn’t forgive him for sticking her with a mother who was incapable of functioning without him. As Anita had watched her mother drink herself to death, she’d lurched between guilt, hating her father and fantasising that one day he’d walk through the door and restore her life to the way it had been before he left. The closest he ever got to walking back through the door was via a police officer, who’d confirmed that her father’s abandonment of her was complete.
The only man who had ever entered her life with good intentions was Cameron. She’d told him the basics of her childhood—‘Dad left, Mum drank and I started planning my exit from home at thirteen’— but she’d avoided the details. She’d certainly never revealed the sordidness of their poverty; Cameron just assumed that money in her household was tighter than in his. She’d never told him how she’d hidden money from her mother so they could eat. How her part-time job waitressing at the local pub meant enduring having her bum pinched, her boobs stared at and a barrage of misogynistic comments. How she had no choice but to put up with the sexism, because it was the only job on offer and she couldn’t afford to quit.
As far as she was concerned, the past belonged firmly where it was and all that was important now was that she had a real family— one who loved and supported her.
‘A commission? But I thought this was a love job for Margaret. You know, something family just did?’
‘Absolutely it is, but think about it: we’ve both spent hours working on Vintage Glamour on top of our own jobs. You’re getting Cooked By a Friend off the ground, running after the girls and me, and hell, my work’s flat out at the moment. When was the last time we sat on the couch together after dinner and watched TV? Vintage Glamour is a job in itself and it would cost Mum a hell of lot if she was paying a professional to do it.’
‘That’s true, but we’re having fun doing it. It doesn’t really feel like work.’
He’d given her an indulgent smile. ‘Perhaps “commission” is the wrong word. Really, it’s just a gift of appreciation from Mum for all our hard work.’ He’d kissed her. ‘And you know it’s considered bad manners to refuse a gift.’
He’d chosen new golf clubs and she’d selected a small but brandnew Valentino handbag instead of a preloved one. Sometimes, the thrill she got holding it was better than sex. Although recently, courtesy of Margaret’s clothes, the sex was the best it had been since before they had children.
She carefully placed her handbag on the front seat of the car before swinging into the driver’s seat. ‘See you tonight, darling, and please don’t let the girls run riot today.’
Cameron closed the door for her. ‘I’m a better babysitter than that.’
‘Exactly. You’re their father.’ She kissed him again and reversed onto the street.
Apart from the tourist traffic in the main street, Mingunyah was quiet this Saturday as the Tigers had a bye, so it was a surprise when she turned into Sawmill Lane and had to brake. The narrow, but usually tranquil, road was crowded with cars and the Sorenson’s Motors van was parked outside Mill House. Surely Hamish Makin wasn’t buying another souped-up vehicle? She pulled in behind an old Subaru wagon with a black Sea Shepherd Conservation Society sticker and a distinctive ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker. Ellie’s car.
A new sticker had been added: Valley View Alpine Ranges Football Club. Anita rolled her eyes. Even she, a relative newcomer to the valley, knew the rivalry between the two footy teams was fierce and a sticker like that in Mingunyah was a red rag to a bull. As Noah idolised Gus, she couldn’t imagine he’d been the one to insist on it. Honestly, why did Ellie do stuff like this?
A familiar streak of chagrin charged with jealousy made her grind her teeth. Once again, Ellie was giving Mingunyah and her family the finger. Anita had little time for Ellie, who’d both thrown away and turned her back on all the golden opportunities she’d been offered growing up—opportunities Anita would have killed for. Why was Ellie even here? She never visited Margaret, and now that her mother was in hospital there was absolutely no reason for her to be at Mill House unless …
No. Anita scotched the idea. Ellie wasn’t thoughtful enough to come and collect something Margaret might want or need from the house. Besides, the day Margaret had arrived by ambulance from Melbourne, Anita had come to the house and packed a bag for her mother-inlaw. She had also bought chocolates, flowers and a stack of magazines. While she was packing everything into the car to take to the hospital, Sarah had turned up, but instead of thanking her for her thoughtfulness and help, she’d quizzed her on exactly what she had packed.
Anita had indignantly recounted the episode to Cameron saying, ‘Sarah might be going through a marriage break-up but that doesn’t give her carte blanche to be rude.’
‘Oh, baby girl.’ He’d shaken his head fondly. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken this long for the scales to finally fall from your eyes. Sarah needs to control everything. When she can’t, she’s a right bitch.’
‘I want to be on her side but part of me is wondering if Alex might have a point. If she keeps on like this, I’ll be wanting some space from her too.’
Exiting the car carefully, Anita opened the hatch, lifted out the esky and walked past Ellie’s car, critically noting the encrusted mud clinging to the duco. Her cooking class started in an hour but she liked to be early so she could double-check everything and light the wax-melt burners, giving time for the scent of lemongrass and ginger to waft through the house.
As Anita approached the front door, Ellie and a tall, good-looking man stepped out. Her sister-in-law stopped abruptly in the portico, surprise written clear on her face, but the blond-headed bloke kept walking, meeting Anita halfway down the path.
‘Can I take that for you?’
; Before Anita could reply, he lifted the bulky esky out of her hands.
‘Where do you want it?’
‘I—the kitchen. Thank you.’
He flashed her a smile, his vivid blue eyes crinkling around the edges. ‘Too easy.’
Anita watched him bound up the steps, appreciating the view, and gave a momentary thought to suggesting to Cameron that he dress up in navy blue cotton work pants and strap on a tool belt. Who was this man? Cam was convinced that Ellie was gay and in a secret relationship with one of the women she lived with. Given Ellie’s clothing and food choices, Anita agreed wholeheartedly, and yet Ellie was in the company of a male every heterosexual woman would sneak a second look—or just plain stare—at with open admiration. Her mind boggled.
Ellie, who’d jumped sideways to give the man room to enter the house, finally spoke.
‘Hi, Anita.’
‘Who’s that gorgeous specimen of manhood?’
Ellie frowned. ‘You do realise you’ve just objectified him.’
And this was another reason Anita had little time for Ellie. She was a politically correct killjoy. Although Ellie was much closer to her in age than Sarah, her elder sister-in-law was a lot more fun— or at least she had been. The old Sarah would have responded to her comment about a sexy man by fanning herself and saying, ‘Well, my day’s just been made.’
‘If I objectified him, we’re even. He just inflicted gender bias by not letting me carry my own esky.’ Not that Anita believed that for a second; she loved it when men showed good old-fashioned manners. It was one of the traits that had attracted her to Cameron.
Ellie’s mouth twitched in wry amusement. ‘Touché. Who knew you were such a radical feminist? His name is Luke Sorenson. He’s a plumber.’
Anxiety raced along Anita’s veins. ‘Oh God, has the guest toilet blocked? Is that why you’re here? I told Cameron the other day it was playing up and he said I was worrying over nothing but I’ve got six women arriving for a cooking class and—’