One Summer Between Friends

by Trish Morey

  ‘I’ve got seven weeks left, then it’s back to the Port.’

  ‘Will you be happy to get back?’

  ‘Yes and no. But I’m glad I came.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I got to meet you.’

  Oh boy. His voice had dropped an octave and the music had changed too. Someone was crooning in Italian now, something that sounded half familiar. ‘Angels’, she realised. Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’, sung in Italian, the notes making the air in the room shimmer. She felt Noah’s fingers under her chin, coaxing her face closer to his, felt the warm puff of his breath and the heat from his skin, and gave herself up to the press of his lips against hers. The kiss was warm and wonderful, and just as the first touch of their lips outside had promised, only better, because she knew that brief moment was no mistake.

  When finally they drew apart, however many minutes later, she found herself flat on her back with her hands under his jumper and both of them breathing hard.

  Gasping, he said, ‘Sarah, I’m sorry, but this is going to get out of hand pretty quickly. If you want me to stop and take you home, tell me.’

  She knew what he was asking, and respected him even more for doing so. She battled her own ragged breath to say, ‘I’m not the kind of girl who sleeps with a man on the first date.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, that lonely syllable laden with disappointment. ‘Of course. In that case—’ He pushed himself up.

  She pulled him back. ‘Don’t you dare take me home until I say I’m ready to go.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I didn’t finish. I’m not the kind of girl who sleeps with a man on the first date—but tonight, I’m thinking it’s time that changed.’

  He growled and the sound rippled under her skin and vibrated into her bones, then his lips descended again, and she was lost, giving herself up to pleasure.

  Logically, Sarah knew all men were different—they came in different shapes and sizes and looked different, after all—but she’d never spent much time thinking how different they must feel. She’d never had to, because Richard was the only man she’d ever really held close. After twenty years together, she was so used to the feel of Richard that the memory of him was imprinted on her: a man felt like Richard; a man smelt like Richard. Naïve, perhaps, but that’s all she’d ever known.

  But Noah was a world apart. The girth of his arms, the width of his shoulders, the scent of whatever cologne he wore, spiced and exotic, which complemented his own masculine scent. Her fingers traversed his skin, exploring the different textures, the dips and bumps and planes, and the nubble of his hard nipples.

  ‘Hey,’ he said between kisses. ‘Stop thinking about him.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Your ex-husband.’

  She looked up at him through dazed eyes. ‘How did—’

  ‘Because you’re touching me like I’m some kind of science experiment and you have to catalogue all the differences. I don’t know about you, but in my view, three people in a bed is one person too many.’

  She groaned. ‘Sorry. I’m just not used to—somebody else. It’s hard.’

  He smiled down at her, kissing the tip of her nose and then her chin, his thumb stroking her brow. ‘This isn’t about anyone else. This is about you. All you have to do, is feel.’ He pressed his lips to hers, a kiss as gentle and tender as it was beautiful. A kiss that held the promise of so much more.

  A kiss that carried Sarah away with it.

  33

  The radiation oncologist explained the treatment and the possible side effects—the sunburnt skin, the discolouration, the itching and rashes and fatigue. Why did the side effects always sound worse than the treatment? It seemed a lot to endure for something she’d been thinking of as mopping up—insurance. She had a CT scan to take measurements from which the specialist would make the calculations to determine the area to be treated and dosage. Calculations that normally took a week, but were fast tracked so that Jules didn’t have to be away from home longer than necessary.

  She felt another fluttery rush of apprehension as she was introduced to another strange machine, half bed, half donut. Both breasts were turned into some kind of medical craft project, drawn on, wired and taped, before the strange bed was slowly conveyed beneath the circular scanner. Then came the crowning glory: three tiny blue tattoos inked left, right and centre of her breasts. Markers to ensure she was placed in the exact same position for every one of her sixteen treatments. Treatments that would start the day after tomorrow.

  Jules breathed a sigh of relief when it was done. She couldn’t wait to start counting down.

  She texted Molly as soon as she was out.

  Back in Sydney for radiotherapy.

  You go, girl! You’ve got this!

  Wish you were here. No-one to murder songs with.

  Lol! How’s the jumper going?

  I finished it! Jules flicked through her photos, attaching one of Della wearing her new red jumper, before hitting send.

  Wow! Looks fab! What are you doing next?

  A shawl for Mum. Then I don’t know.

  Check out Ravelry again. Loads of great ideas there. Hey, school run beckons. I gotta go. Take care!

  Thanks, I will.

  And meanwhile, lie back and enjoy the journey. Hahaha!

  Jules couldn’t help but snort even as her thumbs tapped out a reply.

  Cow! :)

  The next morning the sun was shining and Jules had no intention of spending it moping around the lodge. There was a yarn shop not far away that she wanted to check out, to look for something special to make Pru’s shawl, and then she was going to take a leaf out of Molly’s book and head for Taronga Zoo.

  The yarn shop was eye-opening. Walls of shelves bulging from floor to ceiling with balls and skeins of wool in all the colours of the rainbow, and in so many varieties, from the softest, finest baby wool to the chunkiest multi-coloured balls that Jules could see knitted into a throw rug. Her fingers itched with the possibilities. But that would be getting ahead of herself, because her mother’s shawl came first.

  Eventually she found something that would be ideal: a yarn coloured in graduated shades of blue that reminded Jules of the sea and sky that surrounded the island. The yarn was a blend of wool, alpaca and possum, which promised warmth and softness. She couldn’t wait to get started.

  But first she took the ferry across the harbour to the zoo. She wandered the winding paths, taking dozens of photos and videos of the animals for Della. The scents and sounds of the park, the delight in children’s laughter, made Jules smile. How long since she’d been to a zoo? How long since Della had been to a zoo?

  Guilt twisted her insides. She shouldn’t be doing this alone. She remembered Della screaming at the airport, and it was all she could do not to cry again. She promised herself then and there that the next time she came to Sydney, she was bringing Della with her, and they’d be visiting the zoo for sure.

  She rode the ferry home in good spirits. Radiotherapy proper might not start until tomorrow, but today had been a kind of therapy too, first the thrill of finding the perfect yarn, and then the kind that made you laugh and feel happy you were alive. Why shouldn’t she be happy? She’d dodged a bullet. Early-detected DCIS, meaning no chemotherapy. Radiotherapy for insurance, to zap any wayward cells left in her breast, and improve her chances that it wouldn’t happen again.

  So by the time the first of sixteen appointments rolled around the next day, Jules was ready to get started.

  She lay down on the same awkward table, her bum perched on a ledge, her arms above her head, while the radiotherapists got her in position by tugging her this way and that while checking and calling out numbers. The screen above her threw a track of green and red numbers down her chest and abdomen, and in a matter of minutes the attendants were gone, and she was left to listen to the piped music, while the bed was raised and the radiotherapy machine rolled into position.

  Six bursts of bu
zzing on the right, one long, five short, the machine zipping into a new position between each burst. And then it circled over her head, power cables encased in something that looked like a long dinosaur spine, to attack from the other side. Four buzzes this time, before the machine fell silent.

  A few moments later she heard the doors open and her attendees reappeared to lower the bed and lift the machine clear. ‘All done.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. You did well.’

  Jules hadn’t done anything but lie there, but it was good to know that treatment was as easy as lying down and letting the machine do its thing. She’d felt nothing.

  Later that afternoon she skyped home. ‘One down,’ she told Pru, ‘fifteen to go.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Fine. I expect I won’t feel the worst of the side effects—if they crop up—for a few weeks.’ She paused. ‘How are things? With you, I mean.’

  ‘Good,’ said Pru. ‘Fine, no problems here.’

  Jules smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That’s great to hear, Mum.’

  ‘Well,’ her mother said, ‘I’ve got a very important person to look after. Speaking of which, she’s watching a video in the next room, I’ll go get her.’

  Jules felt herself relax. It was early days, sure, but it looked like her mother was taking her responsibilities seriously.

  A few moments later, she was back. ‘Look, Della, it’s Mummy.’

  ‘Mummy!’ squealed Della, jumping up and down as she held onto the table under the screen. ‘Mummy, I wuv you!’

  Jules had tears in her eyes when they finally said goodbye, and not just because Della was still wearing the jumper she’d knitted. Pru had told Jules that she insisted on wearing it every day. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and blinked away the moisture that was gathered there. Jules knew she could handle this course of treatment, and if Pru could manage while she was away, she knew she’d made the right decision.

  34

  Sarah heard the party long before she arrived, the music and the laughter and the sound of excited children’s voices telling her it was well underway. She paused a while on Floss’s driveway and took a breath. It had been a few years since she’d been here, but Beached looked better than she remembered, the units fresh and inviting among gardens filled with colourful frangipani, hibiscus and swaying palms.

  A thwack punctuated the air, accompanied by screams of anticipation and then groans of disappointment.

  Sarah flexed her clammy hands a couple of times. She could do this. She wanted to do this. She wanted to be friends with Floss. God, she could do with a friend.

  With one last breath to fortify her, she followed the path around the office to the residence where an army of children were gathered under the covered pergola. Floss was in the centre, covering a child’s eyes with a blindfold. Above them hung a colourful, battered, piñata. Everyone stood back as the boy was spun around and handed the broomstick.

  Sarah watched from the outer edge of the group with a few hovering parents. She nodded to a couple of people she recognised then saw Tammy on the other side of the group and quickly looked away in time to catch the broomstick smack hard into the piñata. A crack was made in the side, but, while the piñata swayed and wobbled crazily, it refused to release its cargo.

  ‘My turn!’ a child squealed, and the blindfold was duly transferred.

  Floss looked up when she was finished, caught Sarah’s eye and smiled before spinning the girl around and pointing her towards her target. She had a quick word to Andy, who frowned and then scowled when he saw Sarah. She wanted to hide, but Floss was already threading her way through the group.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, her face bright, her cheeks red. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me. I won’t stay long.’

  ‘Stay as long as you like. You’re just in time for birthday tea.’

  Another thwack and the piñata spun and swayed, and the children sighed, growing impatient with the game. Floss’s Brodie took the blindfold next.

  ‘This’ll be good,’ Floss said, leaning closer to Sarah, as everyone stood clear for the teenager to take a mighty swing.

  There was a crash, a tearing sound, and suddenly sweets were raining down onto the ground. There were squeals of delight as they were hoovered up by the waiting children.

  Floss laughed. ‘Told you so,’ she said. ‘Come inside, I’ll get you a punch before this lot descend on the party food.’

  The kitchen was much as Sarah remembered it, with bottles and lunch boxes stacked on one bench, paintings the kids had done at school lining the walls and knick-knacks they’d made decorating the window sill. To Sarah, whose home had clear benchtops and never a thing out of place, it felt cluttered and claustrophobic, and yet, at the same time, kind of wonderful. Floss’s house didn’t feel like a show home, it felt warm. It felt like a family lived here.

  Floss ladled Sarah a glass of punch and then began removing cling wrap from plates of sandwiches and fairy bread, and pouring potato chips into dishes. Sarah helped out where she could, but Floss was a one-person party organiser and Sarah felt she was in the way, so she stood back.

  ‘You’ve done this before.’

  Floss laughed, snapping a pot on the stove to cook the little frankies she’d retrieved from the fridge. ‘Only a couple of hundred times.’ The oven beeped. ‘Ooh, can you rescue the sausage rolls? There’s a plate all ready.’

  Sarah was only too happy to do something to help out. ‘I didn’t see your folks outside. Are they away?’

  ‘They were here earlier,’ Floss said. ‘Mum got tired and Dad had to take her home. Mum’s got MS.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’

  Floss shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s a bitch, but what can you do?’

  Sarah was sorry to miss Neill and Sue; she’d always got on well with Floss’s parents, although that had been before. She remembered the look Andy had given her and thought that maybe it was better that there were two less people to glower at her. She found an oven glove and pulled out the tray of piping hot sausage rolls. Her tummy rumbled. ‘Oh, these smell so good.’

  ‘Don’t they? You better get in quick if you want one. They won’t last long when that lot gets inside.’

  Sarah wasn’t about to say no. She put the plate on the table and squeezed a dab of tomato sauce on top of a sausage roll then blew on it until it was cool enough to bite into without burning her tongue, while Floss bustled around getting the last few items to the table.

  It was every bit as good as it smelt, the pastry flaky and light and the filling delicious. God, how long was it since she’d had a homemade sausage roll? ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘The best.’

  Floss grinned. ‘A girl’s gotta have a talent for something, I reckon. Queen of the sausage rolls, that’s me.’ Then she stood back and looked at the table with a critical eye. ‘I think that’s it. I reckon it’s time to let in the hordes.’

  Sarah hung back while the children swarmed around the table. It’s okay, she thought, not feeling the least like hyperventilating, I can do this.

  Tammy smiled at her as she sat down across the room and Sarah found a brief smile in return before she looked away, training her eyes on Floss moving around the room, topping up a plate here, mixing up another batch of punch there, seemingly oblivious to the din.

  Sarah couldn’t imagine how she would have coped with making homemade sausage rolls and organising games if she’d ever got to the birthday party stage. She probably would have resorted to a caterer and an entertainer, or at least a bouncy castle or a clown—that’s apparently what mothers on the North Shore did, according to the conversations she’d overheard at work.

  Annie bounced into the room, holding hands with a curly-haired boy about the same age.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ said Floss.

  ‘We’re here now, aren’t we?’ Annie said, poking her tongue out and handing her fr
iend a plate. ‘Hey, who pinched all the sausage rolls?’

  Floss simply smiled and winked at Sarah. ‘You should have got here earlier.’

  Sarah felt strangely humbled to be included in the joke.

  Yeah, she could do this. Maybe when it came to her green-eyed envy, she’d finally worked her way through those five stages of grief. Maybe she was getting to acceptance, at least on this score. She would never have children. Why take it out on those who had?

  Andy sidled over to her, a full plate in his hands. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Sarah.’ His voice was low and his displeasure was clear.

  ‘I’m lucky to be invited, I know.’

  ‘You hurt Floss again like you did before, and you’ll know about it.’ He turned and walked away.

  Okay. So she probably deserved that. She could feel her cheeks burning, saw the empty cup in her hands and made for the punch bowl, taking a welcome sip of the cool, sweet drink.

  When she sat down again, Tammy’s baby was fussing. Without hesitation, Tammy lifted her jumper, released the snap on her bra to reveal her breast, and started feeding her baby.

  Sarah couldn’t tear her eyes away. The baby had latched on to the nipple, her cheeks moving as she suckled, while her tiny hand clutched the breast and her big eyes looked adoringly up at her mother’s face—the mother who was smiling down at her. It was beautiful, the iconic image of Madonna and child. The baby suckled, pausing for a moment, a breath, before resuming. So beautiful. So poignant, Sarah could almost feel the baby suckling at her own breast.

  Without warning, a wave of grief-laced want rose up and crashed over her. She couldn’t breathe, her throat growing achingly tight, her lungs squeezed flat. She couldn’t stay here a moment longer. Somehow she wobbled to her feet, found a horizontal space in which to park her glass before it fell from her hands, and staggered outside.

  She stood under the pergola, arms tight around herself, gulping in the fresh air, feeling the breeze cool her skin and her heart rate settle to something closer to normal. Above her head swung what remained of the shattered piñata, broken and bereft. She knew exactly how it felt. So maybe she hadn’t quite made it to acceptance yet.