The Mistake

by Katie McMahon

  ‘Didn’t you used to work at the hospital?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But my sister has been very unwell, and so I’m taking an extremely early career break.’ She’d honed that line, used it so many times it rolled off her tongue lightly, amusingly even. Bec waited for surprise – or concern, or horror (A Fellow Doctor! Working In A Shoe Shop!) – to show on his face, but it didn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘I hope she makes a good recovery.’ Men like him! They might be entitled, but they had such excellent manners. And they were so conscientious, with their well-kept shoes and de-pilled jumpers and ironed scarves and impeccable teeth. Immaculate Woman was on her way back towards them.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bec. She was wearing a soft, buttercup-yellow sweater that day, with a pair of tight-ish black pants. Then she added, ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  Stuart smiled at her. Bec smiled back. When she told Kate about her day, she’d make Stuart extra handsome – he was pretty handsome, anyway – and really, really arrogant. She’d make Immaculate Woman mean and jealous and way too thin. All in a good cause.

  ‘Stu?’ said Immaculate Woman, coming over. Stuart’s head turned toward her but he kept looking at Bec.

  ‘Bec here is a doctor,’ he said. His eyes didn’t leave Bec’s face. ‘She used to work at the hospital. We met when I was down here last year, while she was doing her orthopaedic term.’ He ran a hand – briefly – over the back of his own neck. ‘Her sister’s been unwell.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ Immaculate Woman said to Bec. Bec could tell immediately from the grave way Stuart said ‘unwell’ and the tender way Immaculate Woman said ‘sorry’ that Immaculate Woman must be a doctor too. ‘Unwell’ – when said in that particular way – was practically medical code for either severe mental illness or cancer.

  Bec thought they would leave, but Dr Immaculate Woman jerked her head at Stuart and said, ‘He wasn’t too annoying to work with, was he?’

  ‘Just – you know – the standard amount of surgical insufferableness,’ said Bec. ‘Only kidding. I couldn’t tell you, to be honest. We didn’t really work together much.’

  ‘This is my sister Phoebe,’ Stuart said, rather hastily. ‘We’ve all come down for Dad’s birthday. She forgot her shoes.’

  Phoebe said something about how her parents often came to Hobart for a long weekend, how they loved Tasmania, how they might even retire here one day.

  ‘Anyway, we’d better let you get on with your work,’ she said. ‘And we have to do the impossible and find Dad a present. Nice to meet you, Bec.’

  ‘Bye now,’ said Stuart. At the doorway he turned and glanced back. Bec was still looking at him. They smiled at each other again.

  She’d flipped back her hair and leaned very slightly forward and been glad she’d decided on the flattering yellow angora.

  *

  The gappy bookshelf stared down at her.

  Sometimes, she thought, you don’t know in advance. You plan and think, but until things actually happen, you can’t know how they’ll make you feel; you can’t see, beforehand, what you can see so plainly, even a short time afterwards.

  A number of things were suddenly clear.

  One was that she hadn’t been free, back then. She really hadn’t. But she also realised that it wasn’t how she’d been then that mattered. Because the long-ago decision to end her career was irrevocable, and despite it, she’d ended up pretty happy.

  The other thing was that she had, deeply and definitely, loved him.

  *

  In the end she texted Kate. Talking was impossible; they’d both get all upset, and Bec had to go and see Ryan soon. Best to keep it short. Less unbearable.

  Stuart left, she texted. Almost immediately, she sent a second text that said, He left me, I mean.

  Predictably, her phone rang straight away.

  ‘What?’ said Kate, without preamble.

  ‘I told him, last night.’ Bec made a small sound of both sorrow and contempt. ‘He didn’t even want to talk about it. He left this morning.’

  ‘What about the kids?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Bec put both her hands on her phone, and winced. Then she voiced what she’d been thinking for the last hour. ‘Actually, Kate. Maybe. I really hate to ask, but is there any chance you could come down, straight away, to sort of, you know, support them? And . . . me?’

  ‘Since when do we call it support?’ snapped Kate. ‘You’re an idiot, Bec, and I’m your sister, not your social worker, and of course I’m coming.’

  *

  Bec had a second shower and then drove to Ryan’s house while her hair was still wet, combed back from her face, the way he liked.

  Walking along the nicely swept path, she took a deep, cleansing breath. She didn’t need to decide whether to act casual or vulnerable or decisive, for goodness’ sake. He had wanted her to tell Stuart.

  ‘I did it,’ she said, as soon as Ryan opened the door. She wasn’t prepared for the exultant smile that formed around his white teeth. He threw back his head.

  ‘Whoo-hoo!’ he said, to the ceiling. Then, ‘Come in!’ He stood back as she entered, and shut the door behind them.

  He flicked on the kettle. She had bought it for him a week ago: the very cheapest one she could find, white plastic, so that he wouldn’t feel like a toy-boy. (‘What says toy-boy louder than a mid-range kettle?’ Kate had snorted, when Bec mentioned it. ‘It’s Stuart’s money you spent, anyway,’ she’d added, brutally and unfairly, considering how she’d always gone on about couples being economic units.)

  Last week, he’d leaned against the bench and she’d stood between his legs while the kettle boiled. Today he was busy with teabags. After only a microsecond of hesitation she sat down on one of the stools.

  ‘How are you?’ Ryan said, over the puff of the kettle. Did he sound shocked? Excited? ‘How did it go?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. He left.’

  ‘To . . . just think about what to do?’

  ‘No.’ She was conscious of how her lips were pressed together.

  ‘Well,’ he said, turning around properly. ‘Main thing’s how you are.’

  ‘I’m OK. Just. The kids.’

  He emptied his hands and walked across the kitchen to put his arms around her. His chest smelled like a health food shop.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Least everything’s out in the open.’

  She could hear the lub-dub of his heartbeat. Fast and hard. So his system, too, was flooded with adrenaline. She looked up at him, and prepared to make her pitch.

  ‘Ryan, I just want to say that this doesn’t have to change anything between us. I’m not expecting anything from you.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, thoughtfully. He put a hand on her cheek. ‘But maybe you can stay over sometimes? When the kids are with Stuart?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. He was so young. She put her face back on his chest and heaved an enormous sigh.

  He was silent.

  ‘Maybe I could meet them?’ he said, eventually.

  ‘Um,’ she said. Only really irresponsible people let their children meet new partners too early. It would be very confusing, send all the wrong kind of messages to her daughters. Not to mention Lachlan. She looked up at him. ‘We probably have to be very careful about the children.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. He dropped his arms and moved away, back to the tea. ‘Just let me know when you’re ready.’

  ‘Is that all right?’ she asked his back. ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them. But we have to see what happens, how they take the news, and then give them time to sort of adjust and to explain things.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, as the smell of lemongrass filled the room. ‘I just want us to be authentic with them. We don’t give kids enough credit.’ He reached for the honey, then turned around and said, ‘You know, probably most children have more EI than adults.’ (‘Emotional intelligence,’ Stuart would have scoffe
d. ‘Surely that was only invented to make dummies feel better.’)

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. She rubbed her face. Lying and concealing didn’t exactly send good messages either. ‘Let’s just see.’

  ‘Just saying, we want to let this thing between us come together naturally.’ He gave her the sweetest glance when he said ‘this thing’. ‘And your kids are part of your life.’

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘I know.’

  She remembered she had no underwear on. For some reason, that made her start to cry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kate

  I’d been in Tasmania for six days. I was staying at Bec’s house, and thinking about Adam only 92 per cent or so of the time. It probably would have been 97 per cent, except the kids were quite demanding, Bec was a bit up and down, and my PhD proposal was needing attention.

  Luckily, Bec had stopped asking me about ‘that Adam guy’. I didn’t mention him, and I only cried in bed. No humble pie in front of my little sister. Not even when her marriage was rubble.

  *

  On Thursday, Bec took the older kids to the dentist on the way home from school. In true being-supportive-while-simultaneously-keeping-myself-busy fashion, I took Essie to a park nearby, and pushed her on the swing.

  NO CALLER ID, said my phone, when it rang. I don’t know why I answered. Actually, I do know. I wanted so much to hear his voice. It was cold, in the park. I was tired. He caught me at a low ebb.

  ‘Yes?’ It was difficult to wedge the phone under my ear and push the swing.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ He sounded the way he always had. Calm and friendly and pleased to hear me.

  ‘No.’ To his credit, he didn’t say, ‘Why did you answer then? And I’m already talking to you, so hahahaha.’

  ‘Please?’ It did sound like a plea, too. ‘Not on the phone. Can we meet?’

  ‘I’m in Tasmania.’ I was already hating myself for even answering the phone. And what was even worse than the fact I’d answered, was that there was this little part of me which was thinking that maybe all the lies didn’t matter. Maybe we could just pretend everything was all right and I’d take us on a lot of nice holidays or buy him a house or a Ferrari or something. It would be like one of those 1950s marriages where the wife knows the husband’s gay, but she just goes along with it. At least I’d get to have lots of nice sex. At least I’d get to say I had a boyfriend and have someone to go to dinners with.

  ‘Can I come there, then?’

  ‘It’s a free country.’ It may have been better if I’d got that retort out of my system during high school.

  ‘Where are you staying, babe?’

  ‘Don’t you fucking “babe” me.’ Essie twisted her neck so far around to look at me that I thought she was going to fall off the swing. She looked delighted and horrified. I did an oops-but-this-is-a-very-naughty-person expression, and she giggled.

  ‘Sorry. Kate. Can we maybe meet somewhere?’

  ‘No. Go away.’ I hung up.

  Of course, I know that no means no, but at the same time, I also knew I was only pretending to myself. I actually didn’t really want him to leave me alone.

  Sometimes that kind of thing is very confusing.

  *

  Bec and the other kids arrived back at the park while I was still pushing the swing, because Essie could stay on a swing for hours and of course we were all being extra nice to the children. In order to forestall any revelations, I said, ‘Sorry, Bec. I accidentally said the eff word in front of Essie.’

  Bec smiled at me and spoke for Essie’s benefit. ‘Oh well. Even grown-ups make mistakes. The main thing’s to say sorry afterwards.’

  We exchanged a nice little look.

  ‘Time for a go on the slide, Essie,’ I said. Essie will usually do pretty much whatever I suggest so she only said, ‘Awwww,’ once, and then ran off. Bec and I wandered over to a seat.

  ‘That Adam guy rang,’ I said. And I said it as an explanation. I just couldn’t keep pretending. Low ebb.

  She stared at me. ‘Are you all right, Kate?’ We watched Essie make it to the top of the slide’s ladder.

  ‘Oh, you know. No. Not really.’ I shrugged in the way that means ‘I’m very, very far from all right, but I suppose eventually it’ll pass’. Bec curved one of her nice little hands onto my leg.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I hope you meet someone properly nice one day. I mean, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’ I didn’t even bother trying to sound casual. I just sounded how I felt, which was humiliated and hopeful and despairing.

  ‘That fucking fucker,’ she said, as a joke, and we both laughed.

  ‘Adam was—’ I wanted to tell her that Adam was treasured and beloved. That he was my first lover – my sole and so-long-yearned-for lover – since I lost my arm. I wanted to tell her that I had lied. I’d weaved stories and twisted words and created an image. I’d pretended because I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me, and because, also, and perhaps especially, I didn’t want Stuart to feel sorry for me.

  The effortless, easy way Stuart flirted with me, as if I was a maiden aunt from the olden days, it just mortified me. The ‘sensational legs’ and the ‘torturing Melbourne men’ and – last Christmas – ‘you’re looking far too hot to be allowed, Madam Kate’ – it was all so very much worse than if he’d screeched and pointed and called me Armless. Because he wouldn’t have said those nice things, if I had my arm, you see. That was just the reality. He couldn’t have. He would have felt too shy; he would have been much too aware of the line that the two of us must never, ever cross. And Bec would not have liked any flirtiness, then, either. She wouldn’t have laughed her secure-wife laugh. She would have hidden her hurt face.

  ‘Adam was the—’ But it turned out, I just couldn’t find the words. I looked at her, and shrugged, and settled on, ‘I really liked him. So much.’

  Then I swivelled towards her a bit, and said, ‘And how are things with Ryan?’

  ‘He’s great,’ she said. And I swear, she got this expression on her face: this terrible, bewildered, child-like expression, as if we were schoolgirls and someone had said something mean to her on the bus. I was about to ask her what was wrong, but she took a breath in and said, ‘We seem to have something very precious. And very’ – she gave me a shy, proud little smile, which reminded me, somehow, that she was the younger sister – ‘very passionate, I suppose. And, you know, it’s not something we feel we need to view in terms of either future plans or our physical ages.’

  For God’s sake, I thought. She’s been drinking too much elderflower cordial or something. But also, I saw that she was wondering whether she’d done the right thing. It was not as if I didn’t understand what that sort of torture was like.

  ‘I really hope it works out for you all,’ I said, meaninglessly. But sincerely.

  I still hadn’t told her the truth, though. I still hadn’t told her that I’d lied about my fabulous sexy life. That I’d invented my fabulous sexy self. That in reality, I’d so often been lonely and jealous and struggling to make the best of it.

  I felt my face go into a frown; I licked my upper lip with the effort of forming the words that would say, ‘Bec. About Adam . . .’ because I knew I shouldn’t let her go on believing my lies. I knew I should tell her. I knew I should.

  ‘We better get these kids home for dinner,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ I stood up. ‘It’s nearly five.’

  But I knew I was making a mistake. Maybe if I’d told her, things would have worked out differently.

  *

  Adam found me the next morning.

  I was running along the beach in front of Bec’s. I saw him from a long way away, but acted as if I hadn’t, so I had about forty seconds to compose myself. You know the feelings, when you see a person you unfortunately love despite the fact you know they don’t love you. The impossible, overwhelming, body-wide rush of whatever chemical it is, and you know that you’re n
ot going to be able to do or say or be all the things that you wish you could, because the person doesn’t love you back, and so the way you want to be doesn’t make any sense. There is simply no place in the world for the way you want to be.

  He walked towards me and stood in my path. Not creepily so. A few metres away. So I wouldn’t have to go out of my way to greet him.

  I stopped. I wasn’t in the least out of breath, because I have excellent cardiovascular fitness. ‘Yes?’ I said, in a tone that would have made Catherine of Aragon proud.

  He had a small black wallet in his hand, and before he started speaking, he held it out towards me.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said. ‘I work in organised crime.’

  We both took a small step forward. He flipped open the wallet in an impressively dextrous gesture. Fitted inside were a metallic badge on one side, and a photo ID on the other. The photo was definitely him. The writing said: ADAM CINCOTTA. Then a short series of numbers, and the words CRIME COMMAND. There was also the Victoria Police logo.

  I took another step towards him. I reached out and touched the badge. It was all I saw for quite a few seconds. I heard nothing. Then a healthy-looking older man ran past, and a young woman with a bouncy pedigree dog on an aqua leash. I withdrew my finger. He flipped the wallet shut and put it away. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. For your safety. And mine.’

  It was such a dramatic CSI-type sentence that I laughed automatically.

  ‘Really?’ I said. I looked at him. For one thing, it seemed such a bizarre conversation to be having. Especially at that particular Sandy Bay beach. Discussions about anything other than outdoor-space refurbishments and school fees were practically forbidden there; God alone knew when it had last seen any sort of emotionally charged confrontation. ‘Really?’

  As if he was answering my question, he said, ‘The first night we went out to dinner, I took my firearm. Just in case.’ His voice was quiet, level and serious.