One Summer Between Friends

by Trish Morey

  Then the boyfriends appeared, and a threesome had become three couples.

  It had been wonderful for a while.

  But that was back then. There was nothing lovely about being forced to confront a past that was so badly broken there was no way to fix it. And her mother thought it would be lovely to catch up with her old friends? Not likely.

  No. Better to stay as far away from the fallout as you could get, raise the drawbridge, and protect yourself.

  The chirp of her phone interrupted her thoughts. Sarah checked the caller ID and gave a wry smile. So it wasn’t just the sauce she was stirring?

  She turned down the gas and answered her phone.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘Hi, Danny, I’m well, as it happens, thank you. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Did you tell Mum you expected me to move home to look after her?’

  Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘No, though I have no doubt that’s the line she spun you.’

  ‘She said you suggested it. Why the hell would you do that?’

  ‘Hang on, little brother. I simply told her that if she was going to ask me to put my life on hold, then she better make sure to ask you too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s only fair she’d ask us both, don’t you think? And who knows? Maybe you’ve had enough of the big smoke and would like six months’ downtime? The fact is she needs help in the shop. Deirdre’s looking to cut her hours, and besides, they need someone younger and fitter.’

  ‘You didn’t have to drop me into it. You know she hates Silvio.’

  ‘For a start, I didn’t “drop you into it”. She’s your mother too, so this is something that concerns us both. And for the record, she doesn’t hate Silvio. She likes him. She just hates it that you’re gay.’

  ‘And that’s going to change any time soon?’ He snorted. ‘Fat chance.’

  ‘Maybe it will. Give Mum time to get used to the idea, rather than drop in and blow her world apart. Let her see you together and realise that you love each other.’

  ‘You actually believe that bullshit you’re spinning?’

  ‘Okay, so it’s a long shot, but seriously, why shouldn’t you step up when your parents need you?’

  ‘It’s easier for you. You’re the one who hasn’t got a partner to worry about.’

  ‘Thanks, bro, for pointing that out, and you’re right, I don’t have a partner, just the noose of a massive mortgage around my neck keeping me cosy at night.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Danny said dismissively. ‘I’m not going. I told her it was impossible. I’ve got my career to think about.’

  She didn’t mean to snort. She really didn’t. But if her brother was going to be so unhelpful, she couldn’t find a good reason not to. Mind you, she really hadn’t meant him to hear.

  ‘What the hell did you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘Okay, Danny. I don’t mean to be rude, but seriously, you sell men’s underwear in Myer.’

  ‘That is such a cheap shot. We can’t all be hotshot accountants in Sydney, can we?’

  ‘Give me a break. Our mother is demanding someone go home to look after the shop—’

  ‘Well too bad, sis, because it won’t be me.’ And the connection was cut.

  Marvellous, she thought, as she put her phone down, braced her hands against the benchtop and looked out onto the dark of the backyard and the sleeping bush of the steep valley beyond. Was there any relationship in her life that wasn’t fucked up?

  4

  Lord Howe Island

  ‘It’s chilly tonight,’ said Floss, listening to the sound of rain on the tin roof and the wet slap of palms in the wind. It was wintry outside and it had been a long day and she could really do with a bit of comfort.

  Andy grunted as he climbed into bed alongside her.

  She reached out a hand to touch him under the covers. ‘Are you going to turn off the light?’

  ‘In a minute. I’m going to read a bit,’ her husband said, smelling minty fresh as he picked up his book from the bedside table.

  She ran her fingers up and down his side, as much to let him know the direction of her thoughts as for her own pleasure. Because even through the cotton of his pyjamas she could feel the rippling skin-scape of his ribs and abs. Andy might be on the cusp of forty, but he still had the body of an athlete, and just touching him made her thighs clench in anticipation. ‘Are you sure? Because you have to leave early in the morning on the supply ship and I won’t see you for ages and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And I’m wearing this …’ She flipped down the covers, exposing her red silk negligee. Andy’s favourite, he’d once told her, because it had shoestring straps instead of sleeves and he’d reckoned he could peel it off quicker than he could a banana skin. It was way too cold this time of year to go without flannelette pyjamas but the night air sure worked a treat on her nipples. She looked over at him. ‘And don’t you want to make love to your gorgeous wife before you go? In case she forgets you when you’re gone.’

  He didn’t spare Floss a glance. He just sighed as he fished out the bookmark and placed it flat on the quilt lying over his chest. ‘I’ll be back Wednesday.’

  ‘Hey, you haven’t even looked.’ And maybe she had stretchmarks where Andy had muscle tone, but she had a couple of things she knew he liked. She waggled her chest, the bullet points of her nipples jiggling under the silk. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come and play?’

  ‘Not now,’ he said, still not looking as he turned the page.

  It was the turning the page that did it. That and the fact he couldn’t even spare her a glance. Couldn’t bother to say sorry or that he’d like to make love but he was too tired. Because no way was she giving up yet. He just needed some encouragement.

  ‘There’s always two ways to do things …’ Floss said, as much to herself as to the inanimate object that was her husband beside her. She sat up. ‘The easy way, and—’ She yanked the book out of his hands before rolling over, shoving the book under her nightie and curling into a ball. ‘The hard way!’

  He roared, rearing up in the bed, plunging his hand beneath her, and she squealed with delight at finally having his hands on her and his heat around her. Any second now he’d be sure to see it was much more fun playing bedroom games with his wife than reading some dreary book.

  He wrestled with her, his hands busy trying to snatch the book back. He was strong, but she was no slouch, and she wriggled some more and shoved the book inside the band of her knickers. ‘Come and get it!’

  He didn’t bother. He flopped back against his pillow, abandoning the chase. ‘Bloody hell, Floss,’ he said. ‘I get all of ten minutes a night to read.’

  ‘And how much time do I get? How much time do you allocate to me every night?’

  ‘We had sex.’

  ‘Three weeks ago!’

  ‘There you go. So give me my book back.’

  She wrangled it out of her knickers and hurled it at him, whacking him hard in the chest. ‘There’s your sodding book,’ she said, as she clambered out of the bed and pulled on her fleecy dressing gown, lashing the tie tight. ‘Enjoy your uninterrupted nights with your boring novel. I hope you’re both very happy together.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She pulled on her slippers. ‘Anywhere you’re not.’

  ‘Fine. So maybe we’ll both get a good night’s sleep for once.’

  ‘You really are an arsehole, sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘an arsehole who just wants ten minutes’ peace and a good night’s sleep.’ He put down his book and punched his pillow. ‘Deal with it.’

  A sound came from down the hall, a jerking staccato cry that quickly escalated into a wail.

  Floss groaned. ‘Now look what you’ve gone and done. It took me half an hour to get Mikey settled.’

  ‘You’re blaming me? All I was tryi
ng to do was read. You’re the one who had to turn bedtime into World War Three.’

  ‘So I guess I’ll take care of our child’s needs. As usual.’

  He switched off the light. ‘Makes sense to me, seeing you’re the one—’

  ‘I’m the one what? The one who wanted him? Don’t you ever let him hear you say that!’

  ‘Relax. I was going to say, seeing you’re the one who’s already up.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she whispered as she padded down the hallway towards their youngest’s room before his cries woke the rest of the family.

  But she was too late, because Annie was there before her, her three-year-old baby brother in her arms, singing the boy a soft lullaby to calm him in the glow of the nightlight.

  ‘Oh, Annie, I’m sorry,’ Floss whispered, transferring her baby from her eldest child’s chest to hers. He grabbed her and clung like a monkey, like he never wanted to let her go, and she kissed his head, rocking him from side to side to calm him and wondering, because he felt hot. She hoped there was nothing more seriously wrong with him than a temperature. She turned to her daughter, who was watching, her lip caught between her teeth. ‘You should go back to bed, lovey.’

  ‘I was already awake. I was doing homework.’

  ‘So late?’ But now she looked harder, she could see Annie’s jeans poking out the bottom of her dressing gown before disappearing into her ugg boots, and she gathered she was still dressed under her gown. ‘Well, you better get off now. It’s too cold for us both to be up and you’ve got school tomorrow.’

  But the girl didn’t move. ‘What were you and Dad arguing about before?’

  Annie had heard that? Floss put a hand to Mikey’s brow. Definitely warm. ‘Do you think Mikey’s running a temperature? Maybe I should take him to see the doctor.’

  ‘Mu-um.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. That was nothing.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’

  ‘Okay, then, it was nothing you need to worry yourself about. Grown-up stuff.’

  ‘Don’t fob me off with that crap,’ Annie snapped and even in the low light her blue eyes were as sharp as Ball’s Pyramid, the blade of rock that speared from the sea some twenty kilometres away. ‘I’m sixteen, Mum, I’m not a kid anymore.’

  Sixteen. When had that happened? The child in her arms hiccupped, his sobs gradually subsiding, though Floss knew it would take some time before this little one properly settled again. She’d have to find him some children’s paracetamol, if he could keep it down.

  She put a hand to her daughter’s cheek and sighed. Her skin was so smooth, so perfect. Suddenly Floss felt old, more like fifty than the thirty-seven she was turning next week. Everyone said Annie looked like her, and sure, she could see vague similarities, but was she ever as pretty as Annie? She couldn’t remember ever being that young, let alone that pretty. Then again, she couldn’t remember anything much. It suddenly felt like she’d been sleepwalking her way through the last twenty years. ‘No, you’re not a kid.’

  ‘Are you and Dad going to get a divorce?’

  ‘What?’ She laughed. Or tried to as she sat in the rocking chair where she’d nursed all five of her children. A good thing she and the rocking chair were well acquainted—it was likely going to be her bed for the night. She tucked a crocheted throw around the child at her chest. It was too early to put him back to bed, he’d whimper at the first hint of separation. ‘No. Of course not. Why would you even ask that?’

  ‘Because you’re always arguing. I hear you at night when you think we’re all asleep.’

  ‘Every old married couple argues,’ Floss said, because it must be true. ‘Besides, we don’t argue that often.’

  ‘You do lately.’ Annie took a step closer and her eyes softened. ‘You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, Annie, nothing’s wrong. It’s just—married stuff. We’re busy with our jobs and sometimes it all gets a bit hard and we get a bit snippy. That’s all.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s normal.’

  Her daughter shuffled a bit, her expression uncertain, as if unsure whether to believe her or not.

  ‘Hey,’ Floss said, ‘give me your hand.’ And when Annie hesitated: ‘Do you want me to try to get up with Mikey plastered to my chest?’ That earned her a half-smile.

  Annie came closer, slipping her hand into her mother’s.

  Floss sighed and let her eyelids close as she squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I love you, sweetie. I loved you from the moment I knew you were coming. I loved you the day you were born and first wrapped a hand around my finger, and yourself around my heart. And I’ve loved you more and more every day since. And I love your dad, because he gave me you and your brothers, and I wouldn’t be without any of you for all the world.’

  ‘So—everything’s okay then. Between you and Dad, I mean.’

  Floss pressed her lips together in what she hoped passed as a smile and nodded. ‘Of course it is, silly billy. Come here and give your mum and Mikey a kiss goodnight and then get off to bed. You’ve got school tomorrow.’

  Annie smiled softly and leaned down. ‘Night, Mum,’ she said, holding back her hair as she planted a soft kiss to Floss’s cheek and then her brother’s hair. ‘Night, Mikey-boy,’ she whispered.

  Floss heard her footsteps recede down the hallway and then the snick of her bedroom door, and then there was nothing but the spatter of rain on the roof and the wind swirling through the trees, rattling the palm fronds. Sixteen already. No, definitely not a baby anymore, and yet, so different from how Floss had been back then. She’d had her life pretty much mapped out at Annie’s age. Marriage to Andy and a houseful of kids—so she’d made a slight miscalculation with the actual number and the four kids had become five—but what was one more when you already had a mob to chase after? She’d got what she wanted and more.

  But was this it? Was this all there was?

  Because she really didn’t think she could stand another forty-plus years of sleeping with a man who didn’t want to make love to her.

  Then again—divorce? The thought had never once crossed her mind. She loved Andy. She always had. She always would. She just didn’t know if he still loved her.

  Another heavy shower of rain pounded the roof. Mikey snuffled against her chest. The air around them seemed to quiver, weighted down with questions to which there were no answers. A shame she was wearing her nightie instead of her repel-all-boarders flannelette pyjamas, because they also managed to repel all cold, but it was impossible to go and change into them now.

  But the cold tendrils worming their way under her dressing gown and around her legs were good. The cold was pain. And right now a little discomfort was the perfect accompaniment to wondering how it was that things had gone so wrong.

  She hugged the bundle clinging to her chest tighter as the cold needled into her bare legs and salt water squeezed from her eyes.

  How the hell had they come to this?

  5

  Saturday morning sleep-in. Were there any more beautiful words in the English language? Jules stretched under the doona and blinked an eye open, wondering what had woken her. Outside was still the dark of a winter morning, the wind already up, rattling the shutters and slapping palm leaves together so it almost sounded like the crick of cicadas, but inside her bed was blissfully warm, aided, no doubt, by the little bundle that had wormed its way alongside her sometime during the night and now lay pressed hard against her back, a wayward elbow wedged painfully into one shoulder.

  Cheeky girl.

  Jules smiled as she shifted the offending joint and settled back down for another doze. There was no rush to get up, her shift at the museum didn’t start until twelve. It was so nice to sleep in for once. So nice to be able to drift back off …

  The water in the lagoon was warm. Weird, seeing it was the depths of winter, weirder still to be swimming, but the water was blissfully warm and luxurious until she moved and something stuck to her skin. Seaweed. No, she realised
in horror, suddenly wide awake. Her pyjamas.

  ‘Oh, Della!’ she said, throwing the covers back, the smell of freshly unleashed urine hitting her nostrils, banishing any thoughts of dozing any longer.

  The girl rubbed her eyes into wakefulness, her face crumpling when she realised what she’d done. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ she wailed.

  ‘I know,’ Jules said, scooping her daughter’s sodden form out of the bed, kissing her cheek and cursing Pru for boasting that she’d had Jules out of day nappies at eighteen months and night nappies at two and insisting that Della should be dry by four. Why had she listened? It wasn’t a bloody competition.

  But she was madder with herself. She should have taken her daughter to the bathroom when she’d first realised she was there. Della hadn’t been sleeping dry through the night for that long.

  ‘It’s okay, sweetie. How about we go have a shower together?’

  They passed the hall table on the way to the bathroom. ‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ Jules growled half-heartedly to the photo there. ‘Wherever you are now.’

  ‘Who’s satisfied?’

  ‘Your father, my sweet,’ Jules said as she put her daughter down and turned on the shower to let it warm up before peeling off Della’s sodden pyjamas, one leg at a time. ‘Yuck,’ she said, as the urine-soaked pyjama bottoms hit the tiles with a wet slap.

  ‘Yucky,’ her daughter mimicked, holding her nose. Which made it all the harder to tug off her pyjama top, but Jules managed, checking the water temperature in the shower before she lifted Della into the stall and under the spray.

  Her own pyjama bottoms met the same fate. A good thing she had a twelve o’clock start, because she’d sure be giving the washing machine a work-out this morning. It was when she was cross-armed and reefing off her top that she brushed something odd with the back of a fingernail. Something that didn’t belong there at the side of her breast. A pimple.

  She backed up to the mirror, arm raised, examining it with her eyes, feeling it with her fingertips. No, not a pimple. A lump. Only about the size of a baby pea, but very definitely a lump.