This space achieved that, she decided, before returning to her phone—specifically to Michelle’s feed. The girl-next-door with the chestnut hair and wicked grin hadn’t posted much since she’d been back in Australia, but it didn’t appear she’d been back for that long. Maybe a few months?
Photos from late the year before had shown Michelle hanging out in bars in Canada with a dark-haired, good-looking guy that Bebe had discovered to be Ashton James, the playboy, hard-partying son of a wealthy family who dabbled in business and politics. The ‘Canadian Kennedy’ as he’d been dubbed by the press had been a firm fixture on Michelle’s feed until any new photos of him dried up a few months earlier.
Did the departure of Ashton from her photos have anything to do with her returning home to Australia?
Whatever had caused her to come back, it had strangely seemed right.
After all, it had been the reason Bebe had started to check into her account. Never following her. That would be weird. But just checking. Looking. Watching. Gaining a sense of what her life was like.
A life Bebe could have had? Perhaps.
Not that it was a life she pined over, but Michelle’s life was so completely different from her own that it had been strange and exotic in a steady, stable, structured sort of way.
She hovered over the photo of Michelle and her parents. She focused on it, meditated on it, as she often did, trying to imagine everything about them. Social media was so brilliant for stalking, and it certainly made it easy when people were as open and shared as much as Michelle did. Sometimes she posted two or three times a day, and over the last few years, Bebe had watched the photos carefully, piecing together so much of the Fitzgeralds’ lives—birthdays, holidays, family events …
She brought the phone closer to her nose. They looked so happy, and as usual, it set off a deep sense of longing in the pit of her stomach. She hated that feeling. Why did she have these strange pangs of jealousy when she had such an enviable life?
“Bebe?” Her mother’s crisp tone caused her to fumble her phone.
“Yes?”
Her mother gestured at the painting and folded her arms. She raised an eyebrow as if seeking her daughter’s guidance.
Bebe was lost in the whirl of cool, blue tones and Pablo Picasso’s angular brush strokes. She turned her attention to the weary men in overalls, one of whom was wiping his brow with a handkerchief and the other one had his hands on his hips.
She disliked adding to their workload, yet it didn’t look quite right. Squinting her eyes, she assessed it and finally knew what was wrong. “It’s too high.”
Her mother was tall, as was she, but sometimes forgot the more vertically challenged of art patrons. To appreciate the painting, it needed to be at the perfect level, and a millimetre could ruin the entire viewing experience.
It was much like fashion. Get a measurement wrong, even by a few inches, and a gown could go from red-carpet to potato sack in the blink of an eye.
Her mother frowned and glanced back at the painting, nodding. “Agree. Move it lower.”
One workman sighed, and the other stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket before starting the task again.
Bebe flicked some strands of her blonde hair from her face and turned back to her phone and Michelle’s feed.
Was it cosmic that Michelle should be back in Melbourne at the same time she was here, awaiting her visa to be finalised and L’Or to commence?
She placed the phone back in her bag and looked again at the painting as her mother carefully supervised the repositioning.
If it was fate that both be here now, perhaps it was time to finally answer those burning questions that had haunted her for most of her life.
Chapter 3
The worst part of the day hadn’t even started. Michelle closed Pete’s car door behind her and followed him up the garden path. Her stomach churned, causing a wave of nausea to rise into her throat. Could she take ill?
There was little point. It would only extend the misery.
Pete gave her a hopeful look as they approached and stood on the stoop. “You’ll be right,” he said as he unlocked the door.
“What will they say? I’ll never hear the end of it from Mum.”
“They’ll understand.”
Was he talking about someone else’s parents? Calm, reassuring parents who never interfered or offered unwanted opinions? Perhaps those parents could also do her laundry for her.
There was no way their mum and dad would understand.
The Fitzgeralds were all about hard work and solid foundations—the exact opposite of what she’d been building the past few years.
“Please say nice things at my funeral,” she begged her brother. “Ask Clare to do my eulogy. She’ll put a positive spin on my life.” Her sister-in-law had a lovely Pollyanna quality to her that was perfect for glossing over any sort of dodgy moments of Michelle’s life.
He scoffed and opened the door. “It’ll be fine.”
Mum was in the hallway, arms crossed, a red and white chequered tea towel flung over her shoulder. “Well?”
Michelle looked to her brother. He placed his hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “The academic board decided it was best for Michelle to start somewhere new.”
“She got kicked out?” Lauren appeared and bit into a shiny, red apple.
Michelle stared at her sister. What was she doing here, casually eating fruit? She was certain she’d be on shift today at the hospital.
“Kicked out?” Another voice echoed from the hallway. Luke? Why was everyone here? Didn’t they have anything better to do with their lives than hang out in their childhood home? “You’re kidding me. I thought they just wanted to scare you with all that academic woo-woo stuff,” he added, with a low, incredulous whistle.
“Yes. Kicked out,” Michelle muttered and walked through to the living room, leaving Pete, her mother, and Lauren whispering, punctuated by the crunching of Lauren’s apple.
“I can HEAR you!” she called back to the hallway.
Marching into the kitchen, she flung open the fridge and started looking for a block of cheese. That was what she needed now, along with an enormous, novelty-glass-size serving of wine that might render her unconscious and in sweet oblivion regarding how pathetic her life was right now.
Removing the cheddar and closing the door behind her, she found her Mum standing in the kitchen. She looked down at the block of cheese in her hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes meeting her mother’s.
Mum sighed, took the cheddar and placed it on a chopping board on the bench. She expertly cut a couple of perfectly even slices, retrieved a barrel of crackers from the pantry, and laid some on a plate.
She handed it to Michelle.
“What do you think Dad will say?” Michelle looked at the snack. It was her go-to comfort snack ever since she’d been a small child.
“We’ll talk about it at dinner.” And with that, her mother swept from the kitchen, the red and white tea towel flying behind her.
Michelle chewed glumly. If she’d been judged today by the dull brigade, now it was time to be sentenced by the Fitzgeralds.
It was like having dinner in a parallel universe or watching a play about her life. A really bad play where it was clear the characters were in for a bumpy ride, but there was nothing that could be done other than keep watching the inevitable train wreck that was about to follow in the second act.
“She could help with the business,” her brother Steve suggested through a mouthful of chicken.
She? She was right here, crammed around the wooden family dining table with her parents, siblings and their partners and kids. Why were they talking about her like she was the cat or still in another country?
She picked at her meal, shuffling peas from one edge of the plate to another, and then back again.
“Doing what?” Mum demanded. “She’s not a qualified plumber.”
Exactly. Excellent point. The problem was she wasn’t
qualified to do anything. She did have some sort of certificate that meant she could teach skiing to rich children whose parents sent them to ski school in Canada, but that was hardly going to be in demand at the start of autumn in Australia. There would be some snowfall come winter, but ski slopes were small and offered fewer employment opportunities than in Canada.
“She could be an apprentice,” Steve’s wife Heather suggested, draining her glass of wine. “Help Steve out a bit during the busy times and learn a trade. That would be good for her future.”
A plumbing apprentice was definitely not high on her list. Unclogging toilets and bathplug holes filled with other people’s hair? No, thank you.
“Yeah, it’d be great.” Steve leaned back, his hands resting on his stomach. He looked pleased with himself, like he’d solved a complex problem.
“Would you like to work with your brother, Michelle?” Mum asked, as if this was the most exciting and tempting opportunity, like being cast in a James Bond movie, or being whisked away on a private jet to inspect five-star properties in the Maldives.
It was as far from any of that as humanly possible. The offer was essentially to embark on a long and exhausting apprenticeship in an area she had no interest in, and in the meantime, be her brother’s cheap labour so he could take on more clients and make more cash for his wife to spend on manicures and expensive trinkets like charm bracelets and designer sunglasses.
“It’s just not me.” Michelle examined Heather’s charm bracelet, already heaving under gold love hearts and four-leaf clovers.
“Well, what is you? Clearly, your business degree wasn’t you.” Mum gritted her teeth and took a deep breath, as if she were trying to stay calm.
“I don’t know. I think I need some time to figure that out.”
“How much time? You left school years ago,” Luke said.
Oh, Luke: subtle as a sledgehammer.
“I can put in a good word and see if I can get you some hours at the hospital,” Lauren suggested, leaning forward.
“Oh!” Mum said. “That’s a good idea. Reception, perhaps?”
“No. You need to be a medical secretary for that, and she doesn’t have any qualifications.” Her sister shook her head. “I was thinking maybe in the canteen or the car park or something like that.”
“That’s nice of you,” Dad said to Lauren before turning back to Michelle. “Would going into some sort of medical administration be of interest to you? I’m sure you could do a TAFE course for that. You’re very organised.”
That was a blatant and ridiculous lie. She was always losing her keys and forgetting dentist appointments, and she missed the cut-off date to lodge her taxes regularly. Imagine if she lost someone’s medical records, or, heaven forbid, got them mixed up with another patient’s files? She shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near such sensitive materials. Especially not when it came to people’s health and surgical procedures.
“She should get an apprenticeship,” Heather said loudly while pouring another glass of wine, her bracelet clanging against the bottle. She was clearly unwilling to let the idea of the cheap plumbing labour for her husband’s business go. Must have been all that daydreaming about some new car with the heated seats and tinted windows to show off to all the yuppie school mums at drop off. “It’d be better for her long-term options.” She turned back to her meal, as if aware of how self-serving her suggestion truly was.
“But a medical secretary”—Luke rubbed his chin—“that’s a good, solid option. People are always going to need to go to hospital. You remove the risk if the economy flattens out.”
“People are always going to need drains and showers, too, no matter their financial situation,” Heather countered.
Michelle didn’t really think either of them knew anything about economics, and certainly nowhere near enough for her to base her next move on their flimsy advice.
“I know people need plumbing, but look at her! She’s not very strong.” Luke crinkled his nose. “You have to be fit for that sort of manual labour.”
“She’d get fit,” Steve said, helping himself to the last piece of roast chicken from the platter in the middle of the table. “All that lifting and moving stuff about. She’d be in great shape in a few weeks.”
Michelle buried her head in her hands as everyone squabbled over her future, the economy, and her fitness levels.
Clare cleared her throat, and everyone, including Michelle, turned to look at her.
“Perhaps Michelle’s right. Maybe she does need some time to think about her options,” Clare said quietly, before turning red. “This only happened today. These things take time to sink in.”
“That’s true.” Pete bounced his baby, Timothy on his knee. “Things tend to work themselves out. We’re not going to sort it out over dinner. On another note, Mum, any chance of dessert?”
“Oh! I did make a trifle.” Mum stood and hurried into the kitchen to retrieve a sweet reward for the son with excellent qualifications, long-term career prospects, a stable marriage, and an adorable, cherub-like grandbaby.
Michelle had never liked trifle with the strange combination of fruit, custard, cake and cream, but right now, she was delighted to hear her mother had constructed one. “Thanks,” she mouthed at her brother—the golden child. At least he used his powers for good in helping her out—the screw-up of the family.
She leaned over and held Timothy’s chubby little hand as he gave her a gummy, wet smile. He was a cute baby—all cheeks and big eyes and tufts of dark hair. He let out a sudden shriek of delight, and Michelle couldn’t help but smile at him.
His pure childhood innocence was a nice reprieve from the reality of her terrible ‘adulting’.
Following the trifle, and a minor squabble about fantasy football teams that further took the focus from her woes, Michelle escaped to the kitchen with Clare.
“I’m sorry,” Clare said as they loaded the dishwasher.
“It’s okay.” Michelle gave a weak smile. “I brought it on myself. I’ve not paid any attention and Canada was …” She couldn’t find a good way to end that sentence. A disaster? That didn’t really capture it.
Clare nodded knowingly. “I know that none of those jobs that everyone mentioned tonight were a good fit for you.” She paused and furrowed her brow, as if trying to think of the right words. “I meant what I said. Now isn’t the time to rush into anything.”
“Like a plumbing apprenticeship?”
Clare gave a small smile. “Perhaps not, and I don’t want to confuse you any further, but I do have an idea if you’re interested.”
Michelle nodded. It couldn’t be any worse than any of the other ideas, and this sister-in-law wasn’t as self-serving as Heather. “Why not?”
“I was talking to Tessa yesterday, and she’s looking for some help at Espresso Walk. You know her café that’s not far from that big apartment complex Steve is working on.”
“Yeah.” Michelle remembered Clare’s friend Tessa. Her café, Espresso Walk, was cool. Michelle had been there with Pete and Clare. Not only was it situated in a trendy street nestled amongst funky converted warehouses that were now airy studio apartments and eclectic design spaces, but the coffee was awesome and the food was always on point.
“You’ve done some waitressing, right?”
“A little.” Taking orders wasn’t necessarily her best attribute, but her customer service skills were passable. At a pinch.
“I thought it might be a good place to work for a little while and take some time to figure out what you’d like to do next. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.” Clare smiled.
“That would be awesome.” It would get her family off her back, it would be cash in her bank account, which could fund further trips, and it would be a pretty cool place to hang out in the meantime.
And it was certainly more appealing than unclogging toilets or directing cars at the hospital.
“Thank you. It’s a wonderful idea. I really appreciate it.”
“Clare!” Pete hollered from the living room. “Timothy’s thrown up.”
“I’d better go and help sort that out. I’ll speak to Tessa for you,” Clare promised and left, calling out to Pete that she was on her way.
Michelle slipped back to her room. She usually didn’t mind the noise and chaos of her family. After all, being the youngest, she’d lived with it her entire life. Tonight, however, she wanted to be by herself to mope about and flick through fashion magazines while snuggled in the pink, fluffy blanket that lay on top of her bed.
She gazed at the collage on her wall of all the cut-out pictures and maps of places she wanted to visit one day. Miami. New York. Buenos Aires. Madrid. Stockholm.
It used to inspire her. Now it depressed her. She didn’t have the cash to get to Brisbane, let alone Beijing.
She picked up her phone to message Pete and Clare to thank them for their support. She opened her messenger app, but as she did, she found herself searching for Ashton. She hadn’t intended to, but it was a bit like muscle memory. Her fingers typed his name without her brain even realising it until she was at the ‘t’.
He was there. Online. A little dot next to his name indicated he was using the app. It was early in Vancouver. What was he doing online at this hour? He usually slept in until at least eleven if he could.
Maybe he was doing something for his father’s business, or his mother’s campaign. It surely wasn’t too far away until their election now—not that she paid much attention to elections she was required to vote in, let alone in Canada.
No wonder he’d dumped her. She wasn’t exactly the brightest spark in the room, and especially not in the rooms he circulated in.
Hovering her finger over his photo, her heart ached as she considered sending him a message. But it was no good. It was over. The messages she’d sent him had fallen on deaf ears. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t want her, and who could blame him?
She closed the app, stuffed her phone under her pillow, and picked up a magazine from her bedside table to keep herself busy. Tomorrow would be better. She’d get over Ashton, she’d put her failures behind her and ignore the numbness that overtook her body and zapped all of her energy.
The Things We Never Knew Page 2