The Things We Never Knew

by Megan Mayfair

  The Things We Never Knew

  Megan Mayfair

  Copyright © 2020 by Megan Mayfair

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  For Michael

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  One Year Later

  The Things We Always Wanted

  The Things We Leave Unsaid

  The Things We Promised Ourselves

  About the Author

  Also by Megan Mayfair

  Chapter 1

  Glancing up at the crest of the university, sitting smugly against the brick wall of the office, Michelle’s stomach turned over.

  She knew what was coming. It shouldn’t be a surprise after the last few years, but even so, today felt like a foregone conclusion.

  Maybe there was a small glimmer of hope that one day she would have a nice piece of paper with the university’s logo on it, but that seemed like a distant possibility now, especially after everything that had happened.

  Did she care?

  Her brother Pete lined up his iPad and phone on the table in front of him with perfect precision. His attention turned to her, a worried look on his face. “Have you gone over the transcript? And the notes we made?” He was always one for notes, records, and paperwork.

  She shrugged, but as his eyes narrowed in a concerned, overprotective brotherly way, she nodded and rummaged in her bag, producing the crumpled papers. She placed them on the table in front of her and smoothed them with the palm of her hand. She wasn’t sure how much they would help.

  Her transcript was not exactly pleasant reading.

  “Michelle Fitzgerald?” A man with greying temples and a dull suit entered the room, a file perched under his arm.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Her brother hissed, “Stand up.” He was already on his feet.

  Following his lead, she scrambled to stand. “Do you want me to curtsy, too?” she whispered back. “Doff my cap, gov?”

  He scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “This whole process is ridiculous,” she muttered.

  “And you are?” the man asked Pete.

  “I’m Dr Pete Fitzgerald. I’m Michelle’s brother, and I’m here to be her advocate.”

  She watched as her brother and the dull-suited man leaned over and shook hands. Advocate? She didn’t need an advocate—it made her sound helpless—but the family had insisted, so Pete had taken annual leave to be there to support her so she’d gone along with it. And with a PhD to his name, nobody in the family knew academic-speak like Pete did.

  “Yes, that’s fine. We’ll wait for my colleagues and we’ll begin the process.” The man nodded to Michelle and sat down. He unbuttoned his jacket, the colour of which reminded her of the colour of water that was left in the bucket after washing the car.

  Michelle and Pete also sat, and she tilted her head to the roof. She wanted this over with. She knew what the outcome was. Why couldn’t they have just sent her a text message or an email about this? Maybe a gif. ‘Hey girl, you stuffed up!’ sort of thing. That would tell her what she needed to know and would save her from this overly formal ‘hearing’ in the university’s offices.

  The door flew open, and in shuffled an older man who nodded at her and took a seat next to the man in the dull suit. On closer inspection, both their suits almost seemed the same colour. Coincidence, or standard issue?

  A woman walked in next with a severe bob haircut and a black knitted dress. It was chunky, and far too big for her. She was all hair and scarves and wild earrings, and her over-rouged red cheeks added to her overall flustered appearance. She also took her place on the panel, letting a pile of papers fall onto the table in front of her.

  This was the panel of people that was going to determine Michelle’s fate? It seemed depressing that this was what her life had come to. She was being judged by a woman with a smear of lipstick on her teeth, and two men in ill-fitting suits?

  There was no glamour, that was for sure. Michelle picked up her transcript and fanned herself with it. The room was stuffy and oppressive in a physical sense, but also in a less tangible way.

  The sound of shuffling pages and the clearing of throats cut through the air as the proceedings begun. She listened as the woman recited her academic transcript, which consisted of the odd pass (that would be the highlights) but mostly fails and withdrawn units.

  Pete had a copy of the transcript in front of him on his iPad and was ticking off each unit with his finger as the woman spoke to ensure no passes had been left out.

  He was a good advocate. Michelle couldn’t fault him for his dedication, and she felt guilty for being such a rubbish case for him to defend.

  The discussion commenced. It was sort of surreal, having three complete strangers pick over her academic performance and commitment to study. But it was real. Painfully real as the failures were noted and discussed with vigour.

  “And the exchange program in Canada, Michelle?” the woman asked, the fire-engine red lipstick still spotted on her front teeth.

  “Err, yes?” Michelle scrambled to sit up straight.

  The woman tapped a pen on the table. “A disappointing year in terms of academic performance. You didn’t pass one unit while you were there.” She narrowed her eyes.

  “No, I didn’t. I tried really hard, but I couldn’t concentrate.” On study, at least. She shifted uncomfortably as she thought of Ashton. She’d not had any trouble focusing on him.

  “Since she’s returned, she’s refocused on her studies,” Pete said. “Michelle has committed to a regular study pattern and has worked very hard to bring up her GPA with subjects over the summer.”

  Oh yes. The subjects she’d done over summer, which she was unlikely to pass.

  And her GPA? It was low. Seriously low. Oh, Pete. His eternal optimism usually grated on her, but now she harboured a pang of sympathy for him. He was so diligently fighting a lost cause, like an inspirational football captain rallying their team when they were ten goals down with six minutes to go and the supporters were starting to pack up and leave.

  “Is this true?” The tone of the woman was sharp and matched her eyebrows, which were now fiercely arched. “Your marks for ACC20002
are very low. We’re still awaiting the exam results, but it doesn’t look like you’ll pass without an excellent mark in the test.”

  “I’ve tried,” she admitted. It was so hard to concentrate when Ashton kept popping into her head and turning the words on her computer screen to mush.

  But she hadn’t tried hard enough. Her grades were still awful. Assignments were still not handed in. Tutorials not attended. And that exam they were waiting on? She’d be lucky to string together twenty marks out of one hundred. She’d sat in that test and for a good ten minutes, she’d wondered if she’d accidentally wandered into the wrong exam, as nothing on the page made any sense to her at all.

  “Hmmm.” The woman ran a finger down a page as she made her doubtful noises. Her lips pursed, as no doubt she noted the scores dwindling. “I feel we have enough information to make a decision. We will take a moment to confer,” the woman said, looking up.

  “Of course,” Pete said, and gestured for Michelle to stand.

  They walked outside and Michelle leaned against a wall. She could use a drink now, a lovely, crisp, refreshing Canadian beer like Ashton used to order for her when they’d settle in front of the fire in the ski lodges after a day on the slopes.

  “I’m not sure how long they’ll take.” Her brother inspected his watch.

  “Why are you so good at school and I’m so rubbish?” she asked.

  He rubbed his chin as if perplexed by the idea. “I don’t know. I guess I found my passion.”

  Chemistry and medical sciences certainly weren’t a passion for her. Too many calculations and things to remember. “Lucky you,” she sighed. What was her passion? It certainly hadn’t been the business degree she’d been studying.

  Skiing? Clothes? Men she shouldn’t have been dating? She could hardly make a career out of that.

  “You’ll be right. You’re smart.”

  “Not smart enough.” She rubbed her temples. “They’re going to throw me out.”

  “You don’t know that, but if they do, you’ll figure something out.”

  The optimism now was not only annoying it also felt misplaced, as if he was lying to her.

  She really had no idea what she’d do if she weren’t studying. Not that she spent a lot of time actually studying, but being a student was her job. What could she do if she didn’t have that?

  “Mum and Dad will kill me,” she told him with a groan.

  “I’ll make sure they don’t.”

  They’d invested money in her. She chewed her lip before pausing. She didn’t want to end up with lipstick over her teeth like the woman inside had. Yet, the thoughts remained. All that money she’d wasted while she was in Canada … and for what point? A broken heart and a ruined future. Her parents worked hard, very hard to finance her trip, and she’d just partied through it.

  “Michelle?”

  She looked up as her name was called, and they filed back into the room, and as quickly as they sat down, it was over. She couldn’t follow everything that was said, but awful-sounding words and phrases peppered the dialogue. ‘Disappointing’, ‘unfulfilled potential’ and ‘failed’ stuck with her. But they were enough. She knew it wasn’t good.

  Suddenly, there were no distractions. No inner commentary on the clothing of those judging her. No thoughts of anything but a whistling noise that ran through her brain as they told her it was better for her to seek “opportunities elsewhere.”

  Unable to speak clearly, she mumbled something as the room emptied, leaving her alone with her brother.

  “I’m sorry.” Pete placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have other options.”

  She nodded glumly, but she knew it was her brother’s extreme positivity at work. She had no other options. Besides, the only option she wanted was Ashton.

  And that simply wasn’t going to happen.

  Chapter 2

  Bebe walked into the National Gallery of Victoria, perched her sunglasses on the top of her head and scanned the foyer for an attendant.

  Finding a woman in a grey uniform, she asked if Petra Baranov was available.

  The woman gave her the once over, her gaze lingering on Bebe’s vintage, purple Doc Marten shoes tied with polka dot laces. She looked up. “And you are?”

  “I’m her daughter.”

  The woman brought a hand to her chest. “What a talent your mother is. We are so lucky she was available to curate the Picasso exhibition. There are few people who understand his work like your mother does.”

  “Yes. She’s an expert.” Bebe hesitated. She wasn’t in the mood for a long conversation about her mother’s curation skills. “May I see her, please?”

  “This way.” The woman beckoned, and walked towards a door.

  Bebe followed, taking in the gallery space, and paused to run her hand along a glass panel that encased a stunning water feature.

  She’d been born in Melbourne, yet had never been to this gallery. She’d not been many places at all in her hometown, and had spent the morning exploring various monuments and buildings in an attempt to immerse herself in her own history.

  The attendant cleared her throat as they walked through to an exhibition space.

  Bebe caught her mother’s eye, who blew her a kiss and immediately turned back to a pair of black-clad assistants, who were supervising the unpacking of a painting.

  Ouch. Bebe rubbed her temple to dull her headache. She was still jet-lagged after her flight from London a week earlier. She’d swallowed a couple of aspirin tablets on the tram on the way to the gallery, and was looking forward to sitting down and resting.

  “A little to the right.” Her mother’s voice echoed against the empty walls as she directed two men who were attempting to hang a painting in the exact spot she wished.

  They placed it where she had requested and looked back at her.

  “Well?” one asked.

  Petra exhaled and placed her hands on her narrow hips. “I’m not sure.”

  “Me neither,” said one of the black-clad assistants.

  “Or me.” The other assistant clearly didn’t want to be out-done.

  Bebe removed her phone from her bag. This could take a while.

  Her mother clasped her hands in a prayer-like position against her lips and stared at the painting.

  Yes. This could definitely take a while.

  There was a familiar look in her mother’s eyes—a laser-like focus that meant her mind was on her art and her art alone. Not that it was her art. She hadn’t painted or drawn the works in the frames, yet she treated her arrangement of them as if she had created them. She could pull paintings and art together in a way that told a story of its own. Sometimes a bold narrative to make a point, sometimes a subtle story to allow the viewer to immerse themselves in the art, but it was always an arrangement that would take a lot of time and concentration to perfect.

  Best to leave her to it.

  Bebe checked her email and bit her lip as she opened up a new message from the Director of the L’Or Master Class in New York, reminding her of her upcoming enrolment and course information.

  A shiver of anticipation hurtled through her body. She’d applied three times for this class and finally, it would be happening in two months, three days and…she checked her watch…four hours.

  She traced a finger over the flourish of L’Or logo with pure joy. Just about every graduate of the Master Class found themselves a place at one of the world’s cutting-edge fashion houses. All that hard work was finally going to pay off.

  Moving from her email, she opened her Instagram feed. She hit search and found an account she dared not follow, but regularly looked at.

  Michelle Fitzgerald. Otherwise known as Shell_Fitz27.

  There wasn’t much new to see. Michelle was back in Australia too after spending time in Canada. It appeared she had been on some sort of student exchange at a university. There’d been lots of photos of Michelle on ski fields and in bars holding Canadian beer bottles, one of a university campus, but mo
stly of parties and gatherings.

  Michelle was a party girl and perhaps not the best student, but Bebe couldn’t help but like her. She had since the moment she’d started searching for the Fitzgeralds.

  Bebe was closer in age to Lauren, the fourth child in the large Fitzgerald clan, yet Lauren was a closed book—all her accounts were set to private and she gave precious little detail. Her profile picture was a cartoon drawing of a cupcake.

  Michelle, on the other hand, she hid nothing. No matter how embarrassing or private, she shared what she had for breakfast, her outfit of the day and arguments with her phone company.

  In the series of endless photos, posts, shares, and videos, she had, unwittingly, shared her entire life with Bebe.

  “To the left!” Her mother’s voice boomed around the room.

  Bebe flinched and looked up.

  She wasn’t the only one startled. The two men rushed towards the painting and lifted it.

  “No, no, no! More!” The directions rattled around the deserted gallery, echoing against the parquetry flooring and largely empty walls.

  Bebe glanced around her surroundings. As much as she enjoyed the final exhibition, she loved to see the space before it was filled with paintings, sculptures, textiles and etchings. The space had to be blank enough for the pieces to shine but still have character and charm to make the visitor feel welcome.