Bec’s mind went straight to Suzette, for some reason. She’d have on-trend lipstick and patent high heels and an office with a big window. She’d be the outrage-dampening female who was paid enormous sums to help men like Stuart get on with their lives.
‘Where’s Suzette?’ she asked.
‘Sydney.’ No surprises there, then. ‘I’m flying up Thursday. Hopefully within a couple of weeks, things’ll start getting back to normal.’
Bec extracted herself, and crossed the room to turn on the kettle. She remembered the time – they’d just got engaged – that she’d been squatting down in the supermarket looking at five-kilo-bags of rice, and a man had come and stood right next to her. ‘Like it down there, sweetie?’ he said, with his hand on a packet of arborio. She said something inaudible, and stood up, and walked away. She didn’t stop to take the basmati, which was annoying, because she needed it. When she told Stuart he said, ‘Do you think maybe he was just being friendly?’ And she, pathetically, had thought, Well, it’s possible. Maybe I got it wrong.
‘So. Do you think it’s the right outcome?’ she said. He’d sat back on his stool. She stayed standing, and faced him across the bench.
‘What?’ Incredulous.
‘Did you say it? Did you ask for that blow job?’ It just burst out. Loud and unexpected, like when the sound system goes wrong at a school assembly.
‘No!’
‘Then why, Stuart? Why would she complain?’
‘Christ, I have no idea, Bec.’ He kept his voice quiet, because of the children upstairs. ‘Maybe she was hoping for money. Maybe she’s delusional. Shit, how would I know?’
‘And you think there’s no chance that you and your “mates” got a bit carried away?’ Her throat was closing over, so that her voice sounded jagged and uncontrolled. ‘No chance at all that you had a few drinks and decided it was your big night and you’d just have a bit of friendly banter with a pretty young thing?’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Those men make me sick.’ She spat the sentence out. He’d always known she didn’t like them, but he’d gone along with the whole thing anyway, with having them over, with going to their ‘functions’. ‘The way they talked about Miranda. The way they look at me, even.’
‘I’m not them, Bec.’
‘Yes, but you invited them. You stand there and . . . guffaw with them. You . . . enable them.’ ‘Enable’ was the kind of word Stuart hated, and she took great pleasure in using it against him.
He didn’t speak. He got up from his stool, but stood there, his hands on the bench, looking at her.
After a moment, the kettle clicked off. She fumbled with the tea bags and slopped some water into a cup, and reminded herself that she was sleeping with – yes, screwing! – another man, and that maybe Stuart hadn’t said it. And he’d been so excited, and so relieved, and so happy to share the good news with her.
‘Want some tea?’ she asked, in a semblance of her normal, friendly-wife voice. ‘And why didn’t you call me straight away? When you heard from MPRA? You could have called me at work, darling.’
‘I did,’ he said. ‘I left you a voice message.’
‘Oh.’
‘Bec? I thought . . . Bec, didn’t you believe me?’
She stretched her eyes open wider and smiled and nodded. ‘Of course I did. I do. I just . . . Sorry. I didn’t mean. Of course. Of course. I’m really . . . It’s great, Stuart. Absolutely fantastic. We should celebrate. Vodka and tonic? Or Champagne?’ She was already heading towards the cabinet where they kept the drinks.
But he held up a hand to make her stop. Every line on his face deepened at once.
‘Sweetheart,’ she said. She walked back to where he was standing, and hugged him, tenderly this time. She put one hand on the back of his neck, and the other on his back, between his shoulder blades. His head sagged, piteous, on her shoulder.
‘I didn’t say it,’ he said. ‘I promise I didn’t. I promise.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’
‘Work’s one thing, but if you didn’t believe me then that would be – the worst outcome imaginable. Bec. You do, don’t you? Believe me?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Either way, there was no point arguing.
After a bit longer, she turned her head, and rested one cheek on his chest, and looked over at the sink. There was nothing in it. She decided not to say, ‘Well done on the dishes!’ She hugged him tighter. In a minute, she’d let go. Then she’d sort out the school bags while he finished making dinner.
Soon she’d be doing it all herself. He’d be at work until seven most nights, the windows would be un-smeary and she’d cook the dinner and very often eat with the kids.
Life would be getting back to normal.
*
The day Stuart went to Sydney to plot the rehabilitation of his public image, Bec came home from work and made sausages and mashed potatoes for everyone. She stirred horseradish through some of the potatoes and left the rest plain. (Lachlan and Mathilda did not like horseradish. Essie did sometimes. Stuart did not like mashed potatoes without horseradish. Bec liked whatever.)
At just before five, Stuart rang. His plane had been delayed; he was only just boarding; he wouldn’t be back until the children were in bed. Could she please save him some dinner, because the airport food was not particularly appetising, and maybe the two of them could eat together?
‘Lovely!’ she said.
Fine then, she thought.
She went back to planning what to wear for Ryan the next day.
‘I’ve been thinking about your thing at Daniel’s,’ Stuart said, a few hours later, when they were sitting eating dinner in the quiet (tidy) house. He meant her job. ‘Tomorrow you could give four weeks’ notice. I presume that’d work for all concerned.’ He looked up from his horseradish mash. ‘With the hospital wanting me back straight away. You’re all right with that, aren’t you?’
‘Sure,’ she said. It wasn’t as if she enjoyed her work. If she felt like getting out of the house, then she certainly had better things to do than hear about Michelle’s gluten intolerance – ‘Not pleasant to be around today! I’ve had Nutri-Grain! Nightmare!’
‘Yes. If you think. That’s totally fine.’
‘How is Daniel?’ Stuart said. It was the first time he’d asked. ‘Think he’ll manage without you?’ Oh, the condescension of these men. She’d like to see them put in a day behind that reception desk. They would honestly not last ten minutes.
‘Same as ever. He was always sort of . . .’ she paused, trying to think of an accurate but not-too-inflammatory description, ‘unpleasant.’
‘Daniel? You serious?’
‘One of those people you just don’t warm to. Unlikeable.’ She put a small forkful of dinner into her mouth, and remembered the looks Daniel had given her, and the three times he’d left his hand on her arm just a split second too long.
‘I understood you were enjoying working there,’ said Stuart.
‘Really?’ Her mouth was still full; the word came out all mangled. Through her broccoli, she managed a jokey you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me face and sat back in her chair. She swallowed. ‘No. Not really.’ It was the most gracious response she could think of. (‘How can you be so dense? Don’t you know me at all?’ would have been more real.)
‘So why did you work there?’
‘Because I had to work there, Stuart. So we could buy food and electricity and petrol and keep living here.’ (Enjoying the ridiculous marble splashbacks you wanted, she added, silently. Those ostentatious, look-at-how-much-money-I-make-because-I’m-so-brilliant splashbacks that cost a semester of my little girls’ school fees.)
‘All right, all right. Settle down.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me to settle down!’ He really did act as if it was 1950. He probably had said it.
‘Bec, can we just enjoy our meals, please?’
‘I don’t like it when you tell me to settle down.’ Her
voice was steady, bitter and serious.
‘I apologise. And about your job. You’re quite right. Entirely.’
She nodded. She knew she was right. He didn’t have to inform her of that, as if he was the arbiter of rightness.
‘Now, about the school situation.’ Stuart’s tone was serious. ‘What do you think?’
At least he cared about the kids.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering because—’
‘Would the disruption of changing back outweigh the benefits of Briarwood?’
She, of course, hadn’t been wondering in such a neat, PowerPoint-presentation sort of way. She’d been thinking about how weird it would be to go back to Briarwood. All the questions and glances. Allie. The feelings. The feelings that Stuart never seemed to know, notice or care about.
‘Um . . .’ Bec folded her arms.
There was something else too. It was that she didn’t like Briarwood as much, for some reason.
Bec had noticed that, compared with Briarwood days, she now presented herself differently at pick-up. If she wasn’t in her work clothes, she’d go get the kids in jeans she hadn’t ironed and a round-the-house shirt; she’d started letting her hair stay frizzy. She liked it. It reminded her of university. It reminded her of James the Canadian and how they used to lie in bed and listen to Oasis and talk about nothing much. The other day, she’d even listened to Oasis while she cooked dinner. ‘Are you trying to do the floss dance, Mummy?’ Essie had asked, earnestly.
She liked the way the Ashton Heights mums talked to each other, even though they didn’t, yet, talk much to her. And she liked how the P & F hosted a mid-year pizza night instead of a silent auction, and how lots of the kids rode their bikes to school. Ashton Heights wasn’t exactly disadvantaged: the kids all lived in a fancy suburb, most of them would go on to private secondary schools and university. But Briarwood had its own indoor swimming pool, and Ashton Heights felt somehow more like her. The kids there had stopped seeming raucous and hostile and had started seeming spirited and scrappy and authentic. She found that she wanted her kids to be Ashton Heights sort of kids.
‘I don’t think Briarwood would have places right now,’ she said. This was almost certainly true. ‘And cash flow might take a while to, you know, get back to normal. How about we just leave it for a bit? I’ll call Briarwood soon and see what their availability’s like for next year. If we’re not happy, we can look at changing them back then.’
‘Sounds very reasonable,’ Stuart said.
She smiled over at him – a we’ve-been-through-a-hard-thing-but-look-at-us-working-it-out-together sort of smile – but he was busy placing gourmet sausage and horseradish mash onto his fork.
*
‘I made you a dream-catcher,’ Ryan said, the next morning. ‘Or at least, my version of one.’ She’d just arrived, and he’d ambled the two of them into his bedroom. He pointed up at a mobile, hanging from a newly installed hook on the ceiling.
‘It’s made from willow. Willow is the tree of emotion and love.’ He met her gaze very directly. ‘And then, that’s a rose quartz, amethyst, crystal quartz for clarity, that feather is from a black swan, for strength and beauty and taking flight.’ He smiled, and said something about it just being a little hippy offering from a penniless surfer boy. ‘But from my heart,’ he added, not even shyly.
‘So how does it work?’
‘Well, it’s supposed to channel good dreams down to you, and protect you from bad dreams. Or if you don’t want to think about it like that, then it can just be something nice for you to watch when we’re lying in bed.’
Of course, she didn’t say the obvious. She just thanked him, and said she should have a proper look. She took off her coat, and they lay down, chastely, on their backs. It was just like that day on the mountain, except now she was looking up at her dream-catcher. ‘That really is beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
They kissed and he said, teasingly, ‘You don’t bring me chocolate biscuits anymore.’
‘Well, we barely talk anymore,’ she answered, between kisses. ‘And your kissing has got so ungentlemanly.’
‘Oh yeah. Conversation. That thing. How are you, then, Mrs Henderson?’ She didn’t really like him calling her that, but it seemed churlish to tell him, especially right now, and when he always said it so affectionately.
‘Let me see.’ She could flirt perfectly well, actually, whatever Kate may think. ‘I’m seeing this really gorgeous younger man, and the sex is OK, but the conversation is amazing, so I can’t complain.’
He stopped kissing her. He looked kind of sad.
‘Well, actually, I think I’m going to quit my job,’ she said, in her normal voice. ‘It looks like the complaint against my husband’s not going to go anywhere, so his work’ll be coming in again, we think.’
Ryan appeared to put aside his hurt feelings. He watched her face for a moment.
‘So, you think he didn’t say it? Or just, you’re not sure, but . . .’ He spoke with so much sympathy. Not pretending that anyone could be certain, but realising that even if Stuart had said it, Bec might choose to ignore it, or to forgive him, just so her life could go on.
Bec shrugged. ‘I think he probably didn’t,’ she said. That was the honest answer.
She rolled onto her back, and looked up at the black feather rotating slowly above her head. Ryan kept his hands on her, in an undemanding way she liked. ‘It’s just,’ her voice became very quiet, ‘I’m more thinking about, well, you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I went – I want to tell you – I went and saw a psychologist, to try to work out what to do, and I think, well, what came out of it for me is that maybe my marriage is founded on – on – not on healthy foundations. But I—’
Ryan put his fingertips across her lips. ‘I know I said we could talk, Bec. But turns out, I don’t reckon I can. I might pressure you, because of what I want. Not fair on you.’ He kissed her collarbone. ‘And, y’know, it hurts a bit much.’
He stroked her mouth, firm and slow, and then got to his feet. She rolled onto her side to watch him. He wasn’t angry, but his movements, as he straightened his clothes, were less deft than usual; there was a subtle haste to his gait. At the doorway, he turned around.
‘I don’t really see myself as your gorgeous young man to – have sex with,’ Ryan said.
‘I don’t think I can leave him,’ she replied.
Tears filled his eyes. He looked wretched. Your decisions, they have consequences, said Kate’s voice, in her head. Oh, yes. Yes, they did.
They were still for a moment. The man over the back fence was calling his dog.
Ryan turned away and went into the kitchen.
That time, she didn’t wait for him to make up an excuse. She just said she had to go. He helped her on with her coat, and kissed her goodbye at the door. The kiss became more and more passionate, and he put his hands up under her skirt. She wasn’t wearing underwear.
Ryan swore. He was almost panting. She thought maybe they’d have sex right there in the hallway. But he swore again, and stepped back.
‘So that was a proper kiss,’ he murmured. ‘Not the gentlemanly sort.’ He opened the door for her. ‘Bec? Reckon you could do that some more? With your underwear?’ Sometimes he sounded so young and so . . . easily delighted. ‘And you could think of me? ’Cause I’ll be imagining you. Like that. All the time. All the time, Bec. Till I get to see you again.’
*
That night, she and Stuart were drinking peppermint tea after dinner.
‘I wanted to apologise properly for last night,’ he said.
She made an effort to look receptive and pleased. He always did this kind of thing, as if apologising – or saying goodbye, or choosing a present – were challenging techniques and he was committed to continuous quality improvement.
‘It was great you took that job. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. I’ve seen how hard it is in reception.’
‘Thank you.�
�
‘I know people can be awful, and it’s not – not as if it was ever your dream job. And so much of the load here, you were still carrying, but you just got on with it.’
‘Thanks, darling.’
‘You’ve always done so much for us all. And I took care of the financial side of things.’ He leaned forward slightly, so he could meet her gaze. ‘So it was very difficult, to be in a position where I wasn’t able to do that. That’s why I was being unreasonable yesterday.’
‘Oh well,’ she said. She touched his thigh.
‘You’re the glue for all of us, Bec.’ He reached out and rested his fingers on her wrist. She smiled at him. They both had tears in their eyes.
She looked down at his hand. She looked up at his face.
She thought of her kids.
She thought of Ryan, and of the dream-catcher, and of strength and beauty and taking flight.
What was she going to do?
*
When Bec was at university, she would sometimes dream that she was sitting at an old-fashioned wooden school desk, the kind with an inkwell in the top right corner. She would be in a big room – one the size of a football oval – with countless rows of other students, all sitting in stern silence at their own desks. The invigilator would say, ‘You may begin,’ or there would be a bell, or Bec would realise with a jolt that she was supposed to start – it varied – and she would turn over a pale-blue examination paper. Then she would find the exam was in a subject she hadn’t taken, and didn’t know anything about. Eventually, after failing to make anyone understand, she would wake up. She hadn’t thought about it in years. But all day Bec had felt the sick kind of terror that she remembered from that dream.
By the time Stuart arrived home, the children were in bed and the kitchen was clean. Bec was sitting on the couch in the lounge room, doing nothing. Reading was impossible. The washing was already folded. Looking at a screen felt disrespectful; leaving her phone in her bag seemed a small but important penance. She was definitely wearing underwear.
The Mistake Page 23
