Keep Your Friends Close

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Darcy,’ Luke says, sternly, and I realise he continued talking while I zoned out. ‘I’m trying here. I really am trying to make this easier for you. But I can’t help you, unless you help yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care about a damn TV,’ I snap. I haven’t been able to watch television since Tina’s appearance on Lindsay’s show. I’ve avoided social media since then, too. I’ve no doubt a storm is waiting for me online, but with Andrew Buckley’s murder and then losing Jinx I’m not strong enough to face any of it. I haven’t even been able to bring myself to talk to Luke about it.

  Luke’s gaze falls on to the bedside table. I haven’t touched my breakfast. He’s made granola with summer berries sprinkled with icing sugar and there’s freshly squeezed orange juice, and I can tell from just looking at the glass that there’s no pulp – just the way I like it.

  Luke tilts his head to one side and says, ‘Won’t you even taste a little bit? I don’t want to leave for work until I know you’ve eaten at least something. I’ll be worried all day otherwise.’

  My stomach rumbles, thankfully not loud enough for Luke to hear from the far side of the room. But it’s uncomfortable and it reminds me that I’m starving. But I just don’t feel like putting a morsel past my lips. All I can think about is Jinx. And even though I know it’s not Luke’s fault, it’s not anyone’s fault – except maybe a neighbour’s with their overzealous use of weedkiller – I’m still filled with anger and resentment.

  ‘How about a nibble?’ Luke says, pointing at the dark flakes of nuts and seeds smothered in bright berries.

  My stomach rumbles again, louder this time, drawing Luke’s attention, and I hear him exaggerate a sigh.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I reiterate for what seems like the umpteenth time this morning.

  ‘Darcy,’ Luke says, and I hate it when he says my name like this, as if it’s too much effort to get the syllables past his lips. ‘Please, Darcy,’ he says, his eyes round with concern.

  Finally, I pick a large, juicy strawberry from the top of the bowl. There’s lots of sugar on this one. I take a bite and flavour bursts in my mouth. It’s delicious. I reach for another. Before I know it I’m munching into the whole thing. I’m just too hungry to stop, despite knowing I’ll pay for it later with my head over the toilet bowl. Some days I feel good for the first half an hour or so and I enjoy an initial energy burst. I might have time to grab a shower, or pop downstairs to stretch my legs. Other times I’m too exhausted to get up at all. It’s completely unpredictable and out of my control. But one thing that never changes is my desire to get back to normal.

  I can see the relief wash over Luke. I suspect he’s counting down the days until the baby is born as much as I am. I’m sure he’d like his wife back too.

  ‘Right,’ Luke says, watching as I wash down the last mouthful of granola with refreshing orange juice. ‘I better get to work.’

  ‘Call me if there’s any news on the contracts with Buckley & Co, won’t you?’ I say, dabbing the corners of my lips with my fingertips to wipe away some sticky sugar.

  Luke nods and starts explaining how accountants and solicitors on both sides are holding things up. I’m well used to the never-ending paper trail and how sluggish these things can be. But that’s not why I stop listening. My concentration has moved to my tingling fingertips and the sensation travelling up my hands and into my wrists. It happens a lot recently straight after I eat. I haven’t told Luke, or my doctor. I know it will only give Luke something more to worry about, and my doctor will no doubt suggest hospital admission yet again. That seems to be his answer to all my unorthodox pregnancy ailments. Thank God I have Luke here to take care of me, or I’d have ended up in hospital long ago.

  The sudden ring of the doorbell is loud and almost obnoxious as it bursts through the whole house without warning.

  ‘Jesus,’ I say, clutching my chest.

  Luke laughs. ‘It’s just the door, Darcy.’

  My cheeks flush.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Luke says, walking towards our bedroom door.

  It’s a redundant comment, but it pinches more than it should. I’m in no fit state to answer the door even if I wanted to. Luke pauses to turn his head and passes me a look that says, Sorry, as if he can read my mind. Sometimes I think he can. I smile as the doorbell rings again, impatiently.

  Luke walks out of our room and I hear his tired footsteps on the stairs. I crane my neck to better hear the chatting that follows. Luke’s deep tone drifts towards me, followed by a female voice. But when the words reach me, they’re nothing more than indecipherable mumbles.

  The talking continues for quite some time and then I hear the closing of the front door. There’s a moment of silence before voices continue and the sound shifts, and I know Luke has invited someone in and they’re walking towards the sitting room or kitchen. An internal door closes, shutting the voices out.

  My eyes are sleepy and my body is heavy. An all-too-familiar pang settles in my chest – today is going to be a bad day. But I’m determined not to succumb. Deciding that looking at some photos of Jinx will cheer me up, I stretch my arm out and pat my hand around on the bedside table searching for my phone. I knock against the glass of orange juice and it falls to the floor with a bang. I exhale, frustrated, and open my eyes, sliding myself to the edge of the bed. I look over to find the glass hasn’t broken, but there’s a small puddle of orange juice and it’s gradually seeping between the floorboards. Dammit.

  With limited energy I stand up and drag myself to the bathroom to fetch some tissue. By the time I get back, most of the orange juice has soaked through the crack. I bend as best I can and begin to dry up the rest. I notice the gap between this floorboard and the next is wider than any other in the whole floor. It’s not hugely noticeable, but now that I’ve seen it I know it will grate on my nerves as a glaring imperfection for ever more. When I scrub hard on the floorboard it slides a little from left to right as if it’s loose and could easily be lifted. I wonder if there’s something wrong underneath. This floor must be pretty old. These boards were in the house when we bought it. We had them sanded and re-polished until they sparkled. But the builder couldn’t give us a guarantee on the work because he couldn’t say how old the boards were exactly, or how they’d cope with the new varnish. I wanted to replace the floor entirely but Luke pushed to keep it. He was really rather adamant. He’d left all the other decorating to me so I didn’t feel I could argue about this one insignificant detail. But I’m wondering now if we shouldn’t just replace the whole floor – perhaps there’s woodworm or rot or something separating the boards. No doubt it will be expensive and something we could do without.

  I decide to investigate a little further. I reach for my phone and use the torch app to shine between the boards. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, really. Dark spots, cracks maybe. Any signs of mould or extensive wear and tear. I’m not expecting to find something white or cream. Paper, perhaps. I try to adjust the angle of my phone so the light shines on whatever is down there, but the narrow gap offers a limited view. Finally, I bend as low as I physically can and squint above the gap. I’m certain now that I can see a small mound of stacked paper. There’s something printed on the top page. Numbers and letters. I nudge closer. My back aches, pleading with me to straighten up, but I ignore the twinges and squint. I can just about make out the bottom line of letters and I’m slowly sounding out F.I.N.A.L. N.O . . . when there’s a squeak and something grey and furry scrambles across the paper.

  ‘Rat. Oh God a rat.’ I shriek and kick the rug over the hole in the floor before I straighten up and my back cracks audibly.

  My hands seem to instinctively cradle my bump and my head is spinning as Luke hurries into our room. He catches me just as I’m about to fall and I find myself floppy and helpless in his strong arms.

  He helps me to sit on the bed, before he asks, ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ My heart is racing and I place my hand
s on each side of my head to steady myself and stop the room from spinning.

  I can’t tell Luke about the rat without him knowing I was peering through the floorboards. Luke has clearly been hiding paperwork from me and I want to see for myself what it says. I decide the best thing right now is to swallow my pride and play my part as the damsel in distress that my husband seems to think I am.

  ‘I had a cramp,’ I lie, rubbing my thigh for effect. ‘I needed to stretch my legs.’

  ‘Oh you poor thing,’ Luke says, taking over rubbing my leg for me. But I want to push him away because I’m beyond hurt that he’s been hiding bills from me.

  ‘That explains the screaming,’ he says, his hands stroking me. ‘I thought you’d seen a ghost.’

  It’s so hard to force a smile and I can feel the pounding of frustration in my temple.

  ‘You should have called me,’ Luke says. ‘I heard a bang. I thought you’d fallen.’

  ‘I dropped a glass,’ I say, pointing to the semi-cleaned-up orange spill and the glass lying on its side next to Luke’s foot.

  Luke shakes his head as he bends to pick up the glass. I hold my breath and wonder if he’ll notice the gap in the floorboards. It seems so glaringly obvious now that I know it’s there. But he stands up without a word. He takes the glass into the bathroom and I hear him running the taps before he returns with a damp cloth. At first I think he’s going to finish cleaning up the mess, but he presses the cool cloth against my forehead and reiterates, ‘You should have called me.’

  He sounds exhausted or exasperated – both, maybe.

  I wince, and not just because the cloth is cold and uncomfortable against my skin.

  ‘You’re sweating up a storm,’ Luke says, shaking his head as I try to wriggle away from the cloth and his hand holding it in place.

  My skin is hot and clammy under my nightdress but I feel cold and shaky. Luke dabs my forehead with the cloth.

  ‘Were you coming to see who was downstairs?’ Luke asks, his words accusatory. As if I’m a small child disobeying a parent.

  I take exception to his passive-aggressive tone and push his hand away from me.

  ‘No. I told you. I was stretching my legs,’ I snap, standing up despite very much wanting to stay sitting down. ‘But now that you bring it up, who was at the door?’

  Luke exhales and shakes his head. ‘No one.’

  ‘No one,’ I echo, as my eyes narrow and I stare at Luke with a face that says, So you were downstairs chatting to no one for the past twenty minutes?

  Luke sighs. ‘It was Gillian, actually. She’s a bit odd, isn’t she? I think she’ll take a lot of warming to.’

  ‘Is everything okay? Did she mention the deal?’ I ask.

  Luke shakes his head and I inhale sharply and am reminded that my back hurts.

  ‘Should we be worried?’

  ‘I knew you would worry,’ Luke says. ‘This is why I didn’t want to tell you she was here. But everything is fine, honey. Please don’t stress.’

  Luke seems to have picked up a bad habit of lying to me since I’ve been pregnant. I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it. Any time he seems to think I’ll worry or be upset about something he alters the facts, or hides them completely. I know he’s doing it to protect me. He’s trying to take all the worry on his shoulders to spare me, but I wonder when he will realise that keeping secrets is what worries me the most.

  Luke pushes his shirtsleeves back and checks his watch. ‘Christ I’m late,’ he says. ‘Will you be okay here on your own while I’m gone?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, already planning all the phone calls I’m going to make today from the comfort of my bed. First Gillian, then our solicitor, then some sort of vermin exterminator. ‘Have a good day, honey. I’ll see you later.’ Because I have a horrible feeling the furry creatures under the floor aren’t the only rats in my life.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  DARCY

  Thursday 16 December 1999

  The smell of pine cones and cinnamon dances in the air at the annual school pre-Christmas dinner. Every student, from every year, is crammed into the canteen, along with all our teachers. The windows are wide open. And despite it being minus two degrees outside, the canteen is unbearably stuffy, complete with thick condensation on the skylights in the roof. Every now and then an unsuspecting student shrieks or laughs when a droplet of moisture falls on their head.

  The long, rectangular canteen tables are laid with red, plastic cloths embellished with green holly leaves in a distinctive design that repeats on a loop. There’s non-alcoholic punch that tastes as bad as it smells, but the food is fantastic. Baked ham, roast turkey with pine-nut stuffing and all the trimmings. For most of the kids, today’s celebration marks the start of the holiday period and excitement clings to the air as they can’t wait to get home to spend quality time with their families. For others it’s the nearest thing to a family dinner we will see this Christmas, and each of us treasures the evening for our own personal reasons.

  The chatter is noisy and the laughter is even louder and the roof feels as if it might lift off, but the teachers never once encourage us to quieten down as they usually would when we’re overly boisterous or excited. Christmas spirit is high and it’s the most content I’ve been since I lost my parents. I really have found my happy place. St Peter’s is more than just my school. It’s my home. It’s where I belong now.

  Luke is sitting beside me. Every now and then I’ll feel his hand on my knee or the warmth of his shoulder against mine as we both enjoy the banter at our table. But when he taps me on the shoulder I stop talking to the girl beside me to turn around to face the boy I’m falling in love with. He passes me a cracker which he holds firmly at the other end.

  ‘Pull,’ he says, smiling as brightly as I do.

  We both tug and there’s a quick snap and something falls on to the table between us as Luke clings to the larger piece of the broken cracker.

  ‘You won,’ I say, picking up the silver key ring and bottle-green paper hat that have dropped out of the centre of the cracker and landed next to my plate. ‘Here you go.’

  I pass Luke the silly trinket and he tilts his head towards me so I can pop the hat on his hair.

  ‘It suits you.’ I giggle as he straightens up, proudly wearing his floppy paper crown that is much too big for his head and is just about held in place by his ears.

  Luke’s face is serious as his eyes lock on to mine. ‘I know we said no gifts,’ he says unexpectedly, as he leans a little awkwardly to one side so he can slide his hand into his trouser pocket.

  I hold my breath. We did say no gifts. Well, I said it, actually. I thought it would make everything easier and not put pressure on us to put a title on our relationship. Exchanging presents feels very much like something a boyfriend and girlfriend would do. And although Luke and I spend almost every waking moment together, we’ve never actually said what our relationship is. Of course, the rest of the school enjoys gossiping and mumbling behind our backs. And although I pretend not to notice, I quite like it when someone says something like, ‘Oh, they make a cute couple’, or, ‘I can totally see them staying together when we finish school’.

  ‘It’s just something small,’ Luke assures me, obviously noticing the embarrassment written all over my face.

  I try to hide it, but I can feel the heat in my cheeks and I’ve no doubt they’re glowing as brightly as the crimson bauble hanging on the beautifully decorated Christmas tree close to us.

  Luke produces a small box wrapped in shiny silver paper that catches the light. But before he can pass it to me there’s a sudden wave of shushing and everyone turns towards the top table where all our teachers are sitting. The teachers’ table is incredibly long and it sits at the top of the canteen, perpendicular to the rest of the tables. The teachers all sit on one side, facing into the canteen. The rest of the tables are stacked up like dominoes with students sitting on both sides. We’re squashed so close to the person next to us
that there’s barely room for our plate and glass in front of us.

  The shushing grows louder and more insistent until all chatter stops. I look at Luke and he places his hand on my knee and smiles at me with gentle eyes that tell me we’ll pick our conversation up exactly where it left off as soon as we can. I smile back in excited anticipation.

  The vice-principal clinks her spoon off the edge of her glass with such animation I’m surprised it doesn’t break. And when the large canteen crammed with giddy students and equally excited adults is completely silent, apart from the odd cough or the squeak of a shoe rubbing against a chair leg, Principal McEvoy stands up.

  It’s no surprise to find him in the centre of the teachers’ table. ‘Good afternoon everyone. I hope you’re having a lovely time.’

  Loud applause erupts. There’s foot-stomping too, so enthused the floor vibrates below us. I toss my head back and gasp, guzzling in the joy.

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ Principal McEvoy says. His cheeks are hot after too much wine and his eyes are glistening with happiness. ‘Are you all ready for Kris Kindle?’

  The noise in the canteen is deafening. Joyous whooping rings in my ears and the stomping is more ecstatic than ever.

  ‘On the count of three,’ Principal McEvoy says, and I look around as heads duck under tables, hands slide into pockets and arms reach under chairs. Gifts seem to appear out of thin air and are placed on top of all the tables. Silver, red, green and gold wrapping paper explodes over every table like a stunning Christmas-coloured rainbow. The wrapped gifts are all shapes and sizes and it’s anyone’s guess what’s inside.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ our principal says, his gaze concentrated on the teachers’ table like an eager child, because there’s no doubt a gift is waiting for him too. ‘Tuck in.’

  Luke and I smile at one another before rummaging around the table to find the presents with our names on the label. I find mine first. It’s a small box: matt gold wrapping with a not-so-neatly tied bright-red bow. It takes Luke a little longer to seek out his, and there’s an awkward mix-up between Luke and one of the other Lukes in the year below us. It’s easily sorted out and once everyone is in possession of their present, frenzied unwrapping begins. The excitement is palpable and my heart beats fast as Luke looks at me and says, ‘On the count of three.’