by Ana McKenzie
‘She’s right, Olivia. It’s not like that. Our Merren is a well-balanced, strong-minded, and intelligent young woman.’
‘And Bianca is not some dirty old man!’
Olivia crossed her arms. ‘I just worry, that’s all. I’m a mother. It’s my prerogative.’
Sitting up again, Merren shook her head. ‘Well, we’re all worrying over something that hasn’t come to pass; that may never, in fact.’
There was silence from all three of them. Finally, Naomi patted Merren on the arm. ‘You’ll be fine, girl,’ she said. ‘Just be aware of the consequences.’
‘The Inescapable Fact.’
‘Indeed. And Bianca is vulnerable in so many ways at the moment. So, take it gently, okay?’ Naomi’s hand went pat pat pat, and then she took it away and waved it at Olivia instead. ‘Are we going to take these photographs today, or not?’
‘We are,’ Olivia said, and came forward to plant a kiss on Merren’s forehead. ‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart. Just be your honest, wonderful self.’ She smiled. ‘And Bianca is welcome to visit here anytime she wants. I liked her very much.’
Merren nodded and stood up. ‘Thanks Mum, Grandma,’ she said. ‘I’m going to do the lawn anyway, okay?’ She glanced at the plates of baking. ‘Have fun with the photoshoot. How’s the website and business coming along anyway?’
‘Marvellously,’ Olivia said, turning to her plates of grain-free delights. ‘I am in love with Instagram.’
Merren laughed. ‘Let me know if you need any more tech stuff done. I’ll be out trimming the grass within a millimetre of its life.’
She let herself outside with relief. She’d come wanting distraction, not dissection. The physical effort of mowing the lawn. Or so she told herself. Walking over to the garden shed, she rubbed her hands against her thighs. Her palms tingled. Everything was electric, as though she’d plugged herself into a whole new grid, where the nerve endings sizzled, and she felt as though she might possibly melt where she stood if she didn’t ground the energy somehow.
The memory of Bianca’s warm breath against her cheek returned and she groaned against it. Her grandmother was right – she was smitten.
A glance at her watch showed her that Bianca would likely have gotten the post by now. And in it – the parcel Merren had sent her the previous afternoon, stopping to buy and send it on the way home from Bianca’s house.
‘The Inescapable Fact,’ she reminded herself, and pulled open the shed door.
Every action has consequences.
She thought she might be suffering from some of them already.
Chapter Fourteen
She hated making the trip down the driveway to the mail box. It wasn’t dangerous. The driveway wasn’t long, nor was the surface problematic. She simply didn’t like it. It felt too close to being in public, and with her sight the way it was, being in public felt like walking around with a blindfold over her eyes, and not a stitch on the rest of her.
Bianca hugged the edge of the driveway, following its curve down to the road and the mail box, thankful that it was curved, that her house, gardens, and lawn were out of sight of the road. No one walking past would ever see more than the top floor of the house, its orange-tiled roof and two sets of big chimneys. All set in a fringe of grown trees of various denominations.
The sun was out again, but it had rained overnight, the way it did so often, a soft, drifting rain shed from a dark, care-worn sky, washing clean the city ready for a new day. She could smell it on the grass, and on the gravel of her driveway. It smelt good. She liked it, and for a moment, she forgot she was venturing out to the boundary of her property and simply breathed in, trying to see the smell in her mind.
How would it look in paint, she wondered? And what sort of paint?
By the time she was half-way down to the mail box, she’d decided on a pearly blue-grey. That was the colour of rain. As for paint, she was undecided. Oils might not be the most appropriate anymore.
That made her think of the studio. All her paints were still in there, along with her easel. And that made her think – unwillingly – of Merren. She stopped walking.
Damn. She’d been trying to steer clear of thinking about the woman all morning. She’d even been successful. Mostly. Somewhat.
Well, a little.
It was just that Merren was good company. And good grief, she’d had none of that recently. But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?
Did she like Merren’s company because she was lonely? Or did she like Merren’s company because she liked Merren? For some reason, it seemed important to know the difference. On the other hand, it wasn’t important to know anything about the young woman. Because she was young, almost young enough to be Bianca’s daughter. If you squinted hard and entered the territory of teenaged pregnancies.
Scuffling along again, Bianca heaved a sigh into the steamy-warm air.
‘Hey Bee. You’ve got a package.’
She turned her head towards the voice and sighed again. Bianca was doing a lot of sighing today. ‘Hi Rita,’ she said.
‘Where were you yesterday? I came over to see if you wanted me to grab you anything from the supermarket or whatever, but you weren’t home.’
Rita, her neighbour. A buxom redhead of twelve who had the misfortune to suit her old-fashioned name in ways that weren’t especially welcome, at least to Bianca’s mind. There was something about Rita that made Bianca think of pin-up girls. It was probably the boobs. Even mostly blind, she couldn’t avoid seeing them. The kid was a double D at the very least. And was set to become a siren for every acne-afflicted boy in the neighbourhood. Which was where the misfortune came in, because the kid was smart, bookish, and embarrassed by the bounty nature had seen fit to give her.
Bianca smiled. ‘I went out yesterday.’
‘I know. That’s how come you weren’t home.’ The voice was teasing. ‘Hospital again?’
Bianca shook her head. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘I have a package?’
‘Yeah. It’s right here.’ A large, stiff envelope landed in Bianca’s hands. She smoothed her fingers over the face of it, feeling the stamps. Turning it over, she traced a finger along the sealed flap.
‘So.’ Rita wasn’t giving up. ‘If you didn’t go to the hospital, where did you go?’
Bianca turned back towards the house. Rita fell into step beside her. Bianca shook the envelope.
‘Anything?’ Rita asked.
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t expecting any parcels,’ she said.
‘Cool. A mystery gift. I love getting stuff in the mail. It’s even more fun than going shopping for it. Especially when it’s a surprise, you know?’
Bianca supposed that was true. Although these days, she missed shopping. Any sort of shopping. She’d be happy to go get her own groceries.
‘I don’t need anything from the shops today, Rita,’ she said.
The girl was walking close enough that Bianca felt her shrug. Rita smelt of raspberry candy. ‘You have a terrible sweet tooth,’ Bianca said.
‘Huh?’
‘You’ve been eating that raspberry liquorice again. I can smell it.’
‘Yeah. It’s my favourite. So, where’d you go yesterday? I was worried about you.’
Bianca raised an eyebrow. ‘You were not,’ she said and laughed. ‘Good try.’
‘Aw, come on! I actually worry about you all the time.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘I went out with a friend.’
‘The woman with the electric car.’
‘Yes,’ Bianca said. ‘How did you know?’ Then she shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me. You have nothing better to do than hang around spying on your neighbours.’
‘She’s real cute,’ Rita said. ‘You could do worse.’
Bianca shook her head. ‘With a friend, I said. Not a girlfriend.’
‘She’s still cute. You should hook up with her. She could be your girlfriend. She likes you.’
A frisson of
excitement shivered its way through Bianca. ‘She does?’
‘She was all wide-eyed and adoring every time she looked at you.’ Rita’s voice turned smug. ‘And she was always looking at you. She’s got it bad.’
‘We’ve only just met.’ Bianca couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with a twelve-year-old. Really, it was time to start seeing people again. She wished she felt confident enough to call up some of her friends. She’d been putting them off all winter.
Of course, that meant telling everyone about her eyesight. And that sounded painful, exhausting. She hated to think of their reactions. Not to mention the fact that the news would be all around the art community in mere moments – and that would affect every aspect of her career. Which was why she hadn’t done it yet. She heaved another sigh.
But Rita was dispensing her juvenile wisdom again. ‘You don’t have any friends. No one ever comes to visit. It’s not healthy, you know.’
Touched by the girl’s concern, Bianca found a smile. ‘It isn’t?’
Rita flapped a hand at an insect or something in Bianca’s peripheral vision. ‘Of course it’s not. Unless you’re an introvert or something. I’m an extrovert. My mum’s an introvert. Which is why she’s so boring. Always like go away Rita you never give me any peace and quiet. Are you an introvert?’
‘Actually, no, I’m not.’ They had reached the top of the driveway, and Bianca could see the dark mouth of the house. She hugged her surprise package to her chest and turned away, holding her face to the sun for a bit longer. Reluctant to admit she was almost enjoying the conversation. And that there was a question she wanted to ask.
‘How come you don’t have any friends, then?’
‘I do,’ Bianca said. ‘Some.’
‘Where have they been then, since you got sick?’
‘I’m not sick.’
Rita’s voice was impatient, and there was a crackling noise and the strong scent of raspberry. ‘Blind then. Shouldn’t your friends be around every day being supportive?’ She sniffed, and the raspberry odour quadrupled in strength as she bit into the liquorice. ‘Wait, I forgot. You haven’t told anyone.’
Bianca closed her eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I wanted to get used to it myself, before I told anyone.’
‘Yeah, all your non-existent besties. Anyway. That just means you really need to spend some serious time with the woman from yesterday. What’s her name?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Tell me, or I won’t describe what she looks like for you.’ The words sounded wet with the juice from the liquorice.
Bianca scowled in Rita’s direction. The damned kid knew that was exactly what she wanted to know. What did Merren look like? She was dying to know more than the fuzzy details she had worked out for herself. The compact, curvy figure, the short dark hair. Bianca’s mouth was dry.
‘Give me some of that damned stuff,’ she said.
Rita passed her a stick of thick round liquorice. Bianca bit into it and her mouth flooded with the sweet, artificial flavour.
‘Well?’
‘Merren Hardy,’ she answered. ‘And this is blackmail, you realise that, don’t you?’
‘And you’re paying up. What sort of name is Merren?’
Both of them chewed their liquorice and thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ Bianca said at last.
‘I like it,’ Rita said, as though she’d come to some big decision. ‘It’s better than Rita. Rita always sounds like a name for someone with a lot of freckles.’
‘You have a lot of freckles.’ Bianca blinked. ‘Or you used to, last time I saw.’
‘So, there you go,’ Rita replied. ‘I’m right about it then, aren’t I?’
‘Well, you can always change it.’ Like most conversations with Rita, this one was slightly surreal. ‘Now, your turn.’
‘She has blue eyes. Brown hair.’
‘What sort of blue?’
Another sniff. ‘I couldn’t get real close, you know.’
Bianca didn’t say anything. Blue was more than she’d known five minutes ago. She couldn’t complain.
‘French blue, I reckon.’
‘You’re just saying that because it’s your favourite. You’re always wanting me to paint with the French Blue.’ She corrected herself. ‘You were, I mean.’
‘And her hair is like, burnt umber. Yeah.’
‘Burnt umber and French blue?’
‘Yeah. And she’s like, pretty curvy. Not as big as me, but I reckon you’ll be happy. If you’ve got enough sense to go to bed with her.’
‘Rita!’
‘What? Like I said. It’ll be good for you. You want some more liquorice?’
Bianca hadn’t finished the first piece. She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’
‘Righto then. I gotta get along. Yell over the fence if you change your mind about needing anything. I’m going to the shops with Mum in an hour. Apparently. If Mum ever gets her nose out of her book.’
‘Okay, Rita. Thanks.’ She watched Rita jig a little way down the driveway.
‘Sure. Let me know what’s in the mystery envelope.’
Bianca had forgotten about the package in her arms. She turned toward the house and waded into its dimness, threading her way through to the kitchen, running her hands over the envelope and wondering what on earth could be inside it.
She set it on the table and turned to flip the jug on. She’d have a cup of coffee. It would be the second of the day but what the hell. She’d live dangerously. She’d have a piece of cake too.
It couldn’t be put off any longer, once the coffee was made, the cake sliced and transferred to a plate, set on the table nice and neat. Bianca reached out and touched a fingertip to the package.
It was irrational, she knew that. It wouldn’t be from Merren. Why on earth would it be? Why was the thought even occurring to her?
Why did she want it to be?
She’d had such a good time yesterday, that was it. Her house seemed quiet and brooding after the bright hour of laughter and talking she’d enjoyed at Merren’s mother’s home.
And her ears missed the sound of Merren’s voice. Her hands itched to reach out and graze lightly against Merren’s warm skin.
Bianca’s heart thudded inside her chest, as though trying to get her attention. She closed her eyes. And felt the phantom breath of memory. Merren’s lips almost touching hers. So close. Merren’s fingers warm around her own, the hands strong, sure.
Bianca snapped her eyes open. The overhead light was on, and the package was to her right, in her line of sight, although still just a darker blob on the white of the tablecloth. She took a deep breath.
‘Stop being silly. It’s probably nothing,’ she told herself, picking it up and feeling for the way to open it. Her fingers found a loose strip and she tugged on it, peeling the cardboard envelope open. ‘It’s probably just some sample some company’s sent you.’
There was a board of sorts inside the package, and Bianca drew it carefully out, a frown on her face. It was cold to her touch, smooth-edged. There was something on the surface of it.
She touched her fingers to the board, realising what it was, some sort of magnetic whiteboard. Just a small one.
But that wasn’t what made the edges of her lips curl in an unconscious smile.
No, it was the plastic numbers fastened to it that did that. She traced her fingers over them, recognising them too – people with kids stuck them on their fridge. Numbers and letters.
She didn’t have the whole range from one to ten, however.
Just enough to spell out a phone number.
Chapter Fifteen
She placed the board, careful not to dislodge any of the numbers, to one side on the table, where she could just about see it, and sat down to drink her coffee and eat her cake. It lay in the narrow field of vision she still had, and seeing it, even hazy, made her whole body buoyant, so that fancifully, she hooked a foot around one of the chair legs to anchor herself.
Because, of course, it was Merren’s number. She must have posted it yesterday after driving away, and in spite of promising to come back in three days.
It was ingeniously endearing, Bianca decided, although she hated the fact too, that she’d been reduced to reading things made out of kiddie’s plastic toys. But the simple fact that Merren had thought to send this to her had Bianca smiling, and a flush of pleased warmth coursed through her body, making her skin tingle.
When her dishes were washed and dried and put away – Bianca had learnt the hard way to do so after every use – she picked up the board with the numbers on it and carried it through the house to the room she used as an office, where the telephone was. Not her mobile, unfortunately. She still had no idea at all what had happened to that one. Rita would have to come and hunt through the house for it.
Bianca sat down at the desk, deflated at the thought. It had been all right, mostly, through the winter, when she wasn’t doing anything but moping her way through the house like a devastated little animal. She couldn’t have cared less where the hell her phone was then, except that every now and then it rang, and she answered it, so she could put the caller off. After a while, it didn’t ring anymore.
But, like sap rising in a tree, she could feel movement inside her, an almost physical thing, a drive to get up, shake herself off, pick up the pieces of her life, if that was possible.
What did that mean though? What pieces were important?
‘Painting,’ she said out loud to the room. Her fingers traced their way over the plastic numbers. ‘If I can do that, I can do the rest.’
Like getting back out into the world. It was almost December. The Public Art Gallery always had a big event just before Christmas. If she could get the painting happening again, then she could show her face there, let everyone know that yes, sure, she had some vision problems, but all that meant was that she was entering a new phase in her career.
Her palms flattened against the telephone number and she lifted her face to the room, blinking into the shadows. Everything hinged on getting back to the painting. It paid the bills. Bought food. Kept up the maintenance on this place.