One Summer Between Friends

by Trish Morey

  ‘Am I intruding?’

  ‘Oh, Officer Lomu,’ Dot said, putting on her best so-pleased-to-see-you expression. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  He smiled charmingly and nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Rooney, I heard.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘You look lovely, Sarah. Are you ready?’

  ‘I was just about to serve—’

  ‘I’ll handle it, lovey,’ her dad said. ‘You deserve some time off for good behaviour.’ He winked as he relieved her of the oven mitts. ‘You two kids go and enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ Sarah said, removing her apron and kissing him on the cheek. ‘Night, Mum.’

  Her mother mumbled something unintelligible as Sarah grabbed her coat and a bag of groceries and left.

  ‘You okay?’ Noah said when they were outside, gently burying a hand in her hair as he drew her head in close for a kiss.

  She smiled against his warm lips, and thanked god for strong men who knew how to make an entrance. ‘I am now.’

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘if I’d realised you were already cooking dinner for your folks, I wouldn’t have agreed to this plan of yours to cook for me.’

  ‘That’s why I never told you,’ she said. ‘Come on. You’re a man with a healthy appetite. You must be starving.’

  He chuckled as he led her to the car, holding her door open for her. ‘The way to a man’s heart,’ he said.

  Half an hour later, Noah’s kitchen was filled with the aroma of chilli, tomatoes and garlic as Sarah poured more hot stock into the pan. She felt his hands at her hips as he leaned over her shoulder to breathe deep.

  ‘That smells amazing.’

  ‘You do,’ she said, because he’d obviously showered before he’d picked her up, and smelt clean and spicy.

  ‘Be careful, woman, or I may not be responsible for my actions.’

  Sarah knew that if he kept leaning up against her, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions either, but she wielded the wooden spoon and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to be fed?’

  ‘Well, there is that,’ he said, as he grinned and left her to go organise the bowls. ‘But after we’ve eaten, watch out.’

  Sarah finished the risotto by adding some Kalamata olives and shaved parmesan, Noah pulled garlic bread from the oven and they sat down at the table.

  ‘This is a bit fancier than what I’m used to,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘In which case, my advice is don’t go getting used to it.’

  Noah finished his first bowl of risotto by the time Sarah was halfway through hers. He sat back in his seat.

  ‘Amazing,’ he said.

  ‘It’s good,’ she said, without an iota of false modesty, sprinkling on extra parmesan. ‘It’s an easy recipe, one of my favourites.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t talking about the risotto, although that, too, is good. I meant you’re amazing.’

  Her fork faltered on the way to her mouth.

  ‘Being here, having to put up with all the crap you have to put up with … I heard what Dot said to you.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ she said, staring into her bowl, shifting the risotto from side to side. ‘It won’t be forever. I’ll go home, make a new start with a new job.’ She lifted her eyes to his, adding a crooked smile. ‘But I’ll always have you to thank for making my time here a lot more interesting than it could have been.’

  ‘Only “interesting”?’

  ‘Okay, also sexy and wicked and fun.’

  His gaze became suddenly intense. ‘I’d like to see you, again. After this is over, I mean. When I’m back in Port Macquarie and you’re back in Sydney.’

  Sarah swallowed. She’d been thinking this was a brief fling to brighten her stay. A holiday romance with an end date. Thinking longer term had never been on her radar. ‘That’s weeks away.’

  Noah shook his head. ‘Not so many weeks that I’m not already thinking about what happens afterwards.’

  She was lost for words. They’d both been outsiders here—the short-term locum copper and the reluctant returnee. It made sense that they’d gravitated towards each other, finding something in each other that slotted into their current circumstances: a convenient hook-up.

  But the thought of this extending past Noah’s leaving sent bubbles fizzing in Sarah’s blood. Not only bubbles of excitement, but of panic. She was done with men, or so she’d thought; at least done with long-term relationships and commitment. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say you’ll meet me when we’re both finished here.’

  She took a deep breath to replace the air the bubbles had whisked away. She’d never expected to find something valuable when she returned home for six months—something she might want to hang on to. She’d expected to get in and get out again. So Noah was a bonus. But now that he’d made her feel like she was special, now that he was talking longer term, maybe she should think about his offer to meet up afterwards.

  She licked her lips, feeling like she was on the edge of a precipice. She barely knew Noah. She could still say no and walk away. Surely that would be the sensible thing to do?

  But sensible Sarah was finding it hard to even think about ending this. She hadn’t felt so good in the presence of a man—in the presence of anyone—for years. Why would she give that away?

  ‘If you still feel the same way when it comes time to go home …’ she said cautiously, because, god knows, she’d managed to fuck up every other relationship she’d ever had, ‘I think I’d like that.’

  When Noah made love to her that night, it was like coming home. He was no longer a stranger, no longer unfamiliar. He was all she thought about. His touch was what she craved. His pleasure had become hers.

  And afterwards, when she lay with her head in the curve of his shoulder as he slept, her legs woven between his, she felt the tiny stirrings of something she’d thought long lost to her: a fragile flickering in her chest that whispered of possibilities of a future.

  She wanted to laugh at that. She’d been there once before, and delicious as it was, she wasn’t fool enough to want to rush into another relationship. She was over men, she wasn’t looking for anyone, especially not after Richard. She wasn’t afraid of being alone.

  But a holiday fling that made her feel more desirable than she’d felt in years? She wasn’t over that. And if it didn’t have to end just yet, she’d take it.

  37

  The pattern of Jules’s days was quickly set, twenty-four hours revolving around one fifteen-minute appointment when she would lie back and allow herself to be tugged and shifted and tweaked until her tattooed dots were lined up before the machine was let loose on her breast, six buzzing bursts from the right that sounded like they were coming from a comic ray gun, before the machine rolled slowly to fire another four bursts from the left, the long dinosaur tail snaking over her head in between.

  It was weird, but it was nothing like the biopsies she’d had to endure. When she was done she was free to go and smooth calendula cream over her breast to cover the area she’d been advised by the nurses could be affected. She’d been warned about the possible discolouration, maybe even rashes and itching and burns as the treatment progressed, but for now it was early days. She allowed herself a smile as she worked the cream in. Lovely to have something to look forward to—not.

  After her treatment she was free to do what she liked again. Walk, or catch the ferry across the harbour, or knit. That wasn’t the problem, she was loving knitting more than she’d ever imagined, and she was getting better and faster, her mother’s shawl growing at a rate that meant she’d be looking for a new project soon. It was just that every day was the same as the one before.

  Buzz. Zap. Buzz.

  Knit. Pearl. Knit.

  Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

  The only thing that kept Jules going was her regular Skype sessions with her mother and daughter. The night after her fifth treatment, already sick of the city, she called home, needing the connection to the ones she loved, reli
shing the background of her kitchen behind her mother’s head as she came into view, the ancient sideboard filled with knick-knacks, Della’s artworks lining the walls.

  ‘Della’s still in the bath,’ Pru said, looking flustered. ‘I didn’t realise the time.’

  ‘We agreed it, Mum.’

  ‘I was baking and lost track,’ she said. ‘I’ll get her.’

  So long as baking was all you were doing. The uncharitable thought—fear—came from nowhere. ‘Before you do …’

  Her mother turned back to the computer. ‘Yes?’

  ‘How is everything, Mum?’ And then, to be certain her mother understood, she said, ‘How are you?’

  Her mother fluttered one hand in the air. ‘Oh, you know.’

  Jules wished she didn’t. ‘One week already. I’ll be home before you know it. No time at all.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘I just wish you didn’t have to be away so long.’

  ‘We both do, but with weekends, it’s only another three weeks.’ Jules took a deep breath. ‘You can do this. You promised.’

  ‘I know, but it just seems so long …’

  ‘It’s not that bad. Some women have five or six weeks of it. Men who have prostate cancer can have treatment every day for eight weeks.’

  ‘Can they? Oh, heavens.’

  ‘So you see, it could be worse.’

  Pru gave a relieved smile. ‘Just as well you don’t have prostate cancer then,’ she said. ‘Hang on a sec. I’ll go get Della.’

  Jules blew out a long breath once her mother had disappeared, feeling simultaneously relieved and stressed. Bugger this disease. She couldn’t fault the doctors and the nurses. She couldn’t fault the organisers, the ones who arranged the accommodation and made the patients feel welcome. They all made it as easy as they could, and that was great, but when you were stuck in Sydney twenty-four hours a day all by yourself and the people you loved were far, far away …

  It was crazy. People imagined you might feel trapped living on an island like Lord Howe. Trapped by the geography, the tiny size of the island and its distance from the mainland. And yet people never seemed to consider that you could be trapped in the midst of a huge city.

  Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by it all. Why the hell had she agreed to radiotherapy anyway? The surgeon had told her there were clear margins, so she must have got it all. Why was she even here putting up with this?

  She closed her eyes and when she opened them it was to see Della draped in a towel, running towards the screen.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  Jules smiled, swiping the tears from her eyes. Because there, dripping wet and grinning wildly, was the reason why. This treatment was insurance against it happening again.

  ‘Tell me,’ Jules said, injecting lightness into her voice, ‘what have you been up to since we last talked?’

  ‘Nana and me made scones and then Nana took me to the ’seum for story time and then I did a drawing.’

  ‘Oh? Do you want to show me?’

  The little girl looked around, pouncing on her latest artwork when she spotted it. Clutching her towel in one hand, she ran back to the screen, holding the picture up in the other. ‘It’s Horny!’ she cried.

  ‘I can see!’ Jules said, clapping her hands, the ancient hollow-eyed, pointy-skulled turtle unmistakeable. ‘That’s very good. Well done, you!’

  Della beamed as Pru appeared behind her, pyjamas and dressing gown in her arms. ‘Come on, Della, let’s get you dry and into PJs while you talk to your mum.’

  Jules felt redundant, watching her mother wrangling her four-year-old, a bundle of skinny arms and legs and incessant chatter, and then it was bedtime and Della kissed the screen to kiss her mummy goodnight.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ said Pru, as Della skipped off to the calendar to cross off another day, and then went to bed.

  Jules picked up her knitting while she waited. She was loving the mix of blues.

  ‘What’s that you’re making now?’

  ‘Oh.’ Jules hadn’t realised Pru was back. She hid her knitting in her lap. ‘It’s a surprise. You’ll have to wait and see.’

  Her mother’s eyebrows rose and she smiled. ‘Sounds intriguing. You’re really getting into this knitting thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s relaxing. It passes the time, and it’s productive. You should try it, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’d be any good—’

  ‘Why not? Grandma used to knit. And if I can, anyone can. Hey, can you take a photo of Della’s picture and send it to me? I want to brighten up my room.’

  Her mother tsked. ‘So help me, she’s nuts about that creature. You know she stands there and talks to it?’

  ‘I know,’ Jules said. ‘It makes me laugh.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Pru said, looking over her shoulder towards the dirty dishes piled up on the sink. ‘I suppose I should go and clean up a bit around here.’

  Jules felt guilty all over again at what her mother was dealing with while she was away. ‘Thanks, Mum. I owe you, big time.’

  ‘You just get fixed up, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘I will. Eleven to go. Counting down.’

  38

  Coffee with Sarah at the Halfway Café didn’t seem nearly as strange a concept to Floss as it once would have. She leaned back against the corner booth’s upholstery, sipping what was left of her cappuccino while Sarah visited the bathroom. In front of her sat a plate with two forks and crumbs, the remains of the lemon tart they’d shared. They’d actually shared, just like old times. They’d talked about how things were going with the store and Dot and how Sue’s symptoms had thankfully eased so Neill was getting a bit of a break.

  But they’d shared more than that. Sarah had even ’fessed up to Floss about her budding romance with Noah. Not everything, but enough to have Sarah blushing and giggling. Girl talk with a girl she hadn’t spoken to for so long. Floss hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it.

  It felt good to be friends again. It felt right.

  Sarah wove her way through the tables, the smile on her face good to see. She parked herself down at the table and said casually, ‘How’s things going with Andy? Better?’

  Floss looked into her cup, found it empty, and sat back, frowning a little. ‘Okay, I think. He’s away on the supply ship right now.’ And then she deflected the question. ‘Actually, I think I need another coffee. You?’

  Sarah looked conflicted.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve probably got to get back to relieve Deirdre. Don’t mind me.’

  But instead of taking the easy escape, Sarah nodded. ‘Sure, same again.’

  Floss went to the counter with their order and spent the walk back biting her lip. She knew this subject was going to be a tricky one to broach. ‘Sarah,’ she said, sitting down carefully. ‘I’ve been thinking. About Jules.’

  ‘Oh.’ And the look Sarah gave Floss told her that she was regretting ordering that second cup of coffee.

  ‘I know. I know. But I’ve been feeling bad about her going through the treatment all alone.’

  ‘She did bring it on herself.’

  ‘What? The cancer?’

  ‘No. The being alone.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  A waiter delivered their coffees. ‘There you go, ladies,’ he said, beaming at them. Sarah smiled weakly back. Floss just nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ said Sarah, ‘maybe you should get whatever it is off your chest. I really should be getting back to relieve Deirdre.’ She plucked a sugar stick from the bowl on the table, briskly ripped it open and stirred the contents into her cappuccino.

  ‘You see,’ Floss began, ‘I was angry with Jules. Because of what she did.’

  ‘We all were. Still are,’ Sarah said, spooning froth into her mouth.

  ‘But the thing is, you know I told you about Andy and me having problems and you asked if I thought he was having an affair …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Andy.
’ Floss looked at her old friend with worried eyes. ‘It was me.’

  Sarah put her cup down with a clatter. ‘What?’

  Floss slumped into her chair. ‘You see, there was this man—a guest—’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Floss,’ Sarah said, her hand covering her mouth. ‘Don’t tell me. You didn’t—’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t.’ She stared at the table. And then she looked up, her eyes beseeching. ‘Though I wanted to. But only because things haven’t been good for a while. Months, to be honest. It’s been so long since Andy looked at me as anything more than the mother of his children and the woman who makes his morning coffee, and it was so nice to feel attractive for once. And he was a real gentleman and smelt nice and he even had a beard. I’ve never kissed a man with a beard. It was different from what I would have imagined. Nicer.’

  ‘Oh god,’ said Sarah, through the fingers pressed over her mouth. ‘You actually kissed him?’

  ‘I know! We were just talking and sharing a bottle of wine, and maybe we were flirting, but then it moved up a gear—well, a few gears—and suddenly we were kissing. And it was so nice to kiss someone—anyone—that I didn’t stop him, but then he started mucking around with my clothes and I froze. Do you know what stopped me?’

  ‘The fact you’re married? Your wedding vows? Your kids?’

  Floss’s face screwed up. ‘No, it wasn’t any of those.’

  ‘But what else could it be?’

  Floss looked at her with a kind of apology in her eyes. ‘My stretchmarks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know. Can you believe it? My bloody stretchmarks and what he might think of me when he saw them were what stopped me. And that’s what’s so wrong. That’s what’s eating away at me. Because I should have been thinking about Andy and the kids and my marriage vows from the start, but instead I was thinking about how nice kissing this man feels and then how horrible I look naked and how I couldn’t bear it if he saw them.’ Floss twisted a sugar stick that was never destined to make it into her cup. ‘That’s mental, isn’t it? Worrying about what some stranger thinks when I don’t give two shits what I’m risking with my marriage?’