‘Might not be possible, then,’ I said. Then I decided the man’s life had pretty much ended, and I should not be such a selfish cow. ‘Actually, all right. How about tomorrow morning? And Adam could join us?’
Stuart is very polite, so even though he definitely still thought Adam was a dick, he said, ‘Good. Eleven at Redman’s?’ (He is also a more concise communicator than some others I could mention.)
‘Lovely. We’ll see you then.’ Apparently, I was back in the ‘we’ swing of things already.
I wondered if I should text Bec to tell her, and decided not to.
I wasn’t being deliberately disloyal. I truly wasn’t. I just thought that when the fire-eater sex wore off, and she came to her senses, she’d see that it was for the best.
*
The next morning, we had room-service toast for breakfast and then I called Bec. I told her that Adam and I were going out for a sweet treat and then I was taking him to the airport.
‘I’ll fill you in later,’ I said, even though I still hadn’t worked out what I’d say. Not only about seeing Stuart, but about Adam’s job.
‘All right,’ Bec replied. ‘It sounds like you two need some couple time.’ I had often wondered why Bec felt compelled to give all forms of activity a label. (Me Time. Family Time. Couple Time. Quality Time. One-On-One Time. What would be wrong with just doing things?)
‘We’ll have to sit down the back,’ I told Adam, when I hung up. ‘It’s like an undercover operation.’
‘Yes, Kate. This is exactly what they’re like.’ His tone was tinder dry. He and Stuart could start an acerbic comments club.
Stuart was already there when we got to Redman’s. It is a very nice café in a very picturesque, ye-olde-convict-would-be-surprised-to-find-the-dim-sandstone-cottage-where-she-once-scrubbed-hearths-is-now-worth-two-point-three-million-dollars sort of area. Of course, the place was chockers with tourists, and the three of us clustered (down the back) around a table about the size of a tennis racquet. Stuart and I ordered long blacks. Adam asked for a flat white and a lemon-curd tart. I really don’t know how he stays so lean. Perhaps ‘dolerite bouldering’ and so on are very kilojoule-burning.
‘On second thoughts,’ I told the waiter, who looked as if he had either hayfever or a rotten hangover, ‘I’ll have a hot chocolate and one of those custard donut things.’
‘A Berliner?’
‘Yes.’
During this exchange, Adam rested his hand on my arm. He is not really the type for public displays of affection, and after a second I realised that he wanted the waiter to know that he – not Stuart – was the one ‘dating’ me. (Dating here meaning: seeing me exclusively, and getting on a plane purely to tell me he wanted to be with me, due to his being ‘so much in love with’ me.) (Just saying.)
Anyway, the little arm touch – the pride behind it – was unexpectedly moving. I gave him a smile – gentle, understanding, intimate, like a 1990s ad for decaffeinated instant coffee – and shifted in my chair, so that I was closer to him. Poor Stuart probably now felt as if he was doing a panel interview. Something like Oprah, where she lets the audience ask sympathetic questions until the guest – usually a ‘survivor’ of something horrible – cries. (I went through a stage of watching a lot of daytime television. Oprah was actually one of the better shows.)
‘So, how are you?’ I said to Stuart. ‘And by the way, Mum and BFG are totally on your side.’ Of course, they hadn’t said that out loud, because Mum doesn’t believe in taking sides and the BFG hardly ever talks, but I could tell.
‘Well, things are rubbish,’ he said. ‘Totally crap. But life goes on.’ He didn’t look crap. He looked shiny-haired and even-keeled and, maybe, just a tiny bit tired.
‘He’s not coming to the house. He hasn’t met the kids,’ I said.
‘Are you sure? I mean she said that, but . . .’
‘I’m positive. She wouldn’t lie to you. You know that.’
He didn’t even have to raise his eyebrows.
‘About things with the kids. I meant. Sorry.’
Stuart looked at the table in a way that made everything feel awkward. Adam, excellent man that he is, said something about being back in a minute and walked off.
I turned back to Stuart.
‘Look. I’m so sorry. I told her to stop it. We were never . . . I’d hate you to think that we were sort of giggling about it or something.’
‘Kate, I’ve known you nearly fifteen years.’ To show he believed me.
‘Really? God, we’re old.’
‘Yes,’ he said, and I could tell he was working hard to avoid ‘becoming emotional’. I affected interest in the mascarpone-and-berry items being delivered to the next table until Stuart said, ‘So how are things with Adam?’ He’d gone all surgeon-y; it was as if his next question would be about my blood pressure.
‘Going well,’ I said. I stopped talking while the drinks were delivered. When the waiter had gone, I started to say something else non-committal, but I changed my mind. Own judgement, I thought.
‘Hey, listen. Adam? He’s a police officer. Senior. Organised crime. He keeps his job quiet. And you have to keep it a secret. Seriously, Stuart. I’m not even telling Bec or Mum or BFG yet. But’ – I was turning into a woman who cried in public – ‘you’ve always looked out for me. Since I’ve known you, you’ve been like a brother to me. An older brother, obviously.’ Shaky laugh. ‘And I want you to know.’
Stuart stared at me for a second and then looked away. His forefinger made a slow half-circle around the rim of his water glass.
‘And you’re sure that’s true?’ He looked up. ‘He’s not trying to – impress you?’ Dear, lovely, tactful Stuart. I knew he thought Adam was after my money.
‘I’ve seen his badge.’ It already felt like ages ago.
‘And you’re sure?’
‘Yep.’
‘A badge?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well.’ He made a face that said life just kept surprising him, but at least this time it was in a nice way. ‘Well, it’s very good to see you happy, then, Madam Kate.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And seriously, no one else knows. No one in our family, I mean.’ I may have been first to hear that his wife was shagging the fire-eater, but by God, he was the one with the scoop on my boyfriend’s occupation. ‘So. Secret. All right?’
He nodded his competent nod, and we started our drinks.
When Adam came back, Stuart stood up and shook his hand.
‘I told him about your badge,’ I said, by way of explanation. ‘He won’t tell anyone.’
I had a split-second fear that Adam might be cross, but he returned Stuart’s handshake in a grave, we’ve-got-a-lot-of-testosterone-but-we’re-modest-about-it-aren’t-we? way and then sat down and began his coffee.
They both looked enormously relieved, actually.
Chapter Twenty
Bec
‘It’d be good,’ Ryan said. It was less than a month since Stuart had moved out, Kate had gone home, and they were eating Sunday brunch at – for the first time – Bec’s house. The kids were with Stuart, but Lachlan and Essie were due back by one o’clock. (Mathilda had a swimming intensive that afternoon.) ‘Be good for them. Good for’ – he waved his toast in a back-and-forth gesture – ‘them and me.’
‘Hey! Want to go boogy-boarding?’ she asked Lachlan, when he got home.
‘With you?’
‘With me and Ryan.’
‘Whatever,’ Lachlan said.
‘How about you, Essie?’
‘Everwhat,’ Essie said.
Bec looked at Ryan for an isn’t-she-adorable? glance, but Ryan hadn’t noticed.
‘Well, your choice.’ Bec’s tone was brisker than Essie was used to.
But a little while later, Lachlan appeared in his rashy – it was suddenly a bit too small for him – and said, ‘So, are we going? Or what?’
The beach was white and long and exposed; the water grey under a hug
e, shifting sky. Bec stood on the sand, taking deep releasing breaths and then looking at her watch.
Stuart had agreed that Ryan could ‘meet’ the children. (He’d agreed reluctantly, and because he knew he didn’t really have any choice. No doubt he’d calculated that it would be a waste of energy and poor strategy to argue.) And there they were – Lachlan and Essie and Ryan – in the surge and swell of water that was shallow but which seemed to Bec to be as turbulent as a washing machine. She was pretty sure Stuart would not have agreed to that.
Well, she thought, it’s not as if Stuart ever took them boogy-boarding on weekends. This sort of thing was so much lovelier than the relentless swimming lessons he’d insisted on. (She imagined Mathilda at her lesson now. Stuart would be checking his emails as she trundled up and down her tepid chlorine lane. Maybe Bec should talk to her about how it was possible to be too much of a good girl.)
Bec chewed the inside of her cheek, then smiled when she saw Lachlan. He was coasting into shore, trying to hide how delighted he was. Bec gave him a discreet thumbs-up sign, which he returned in a professional, manly sort of way. On the wave behind him was Essie. Her eyes were fixed on her big brother’s back, her chin was jutting out of her life jacket like a too-short driver at the wheel of a big car. She looked somewhere between astonished and elated as the unspooling roll of white foam delivered her back to the beach.
Ryan stood some distance behind her, his hair full of water and sunlight. He was laughing.
*
‘I won’t go in the water today,’ announced Essie, the very next Saturday. Lachlan had spent the week subjecting them all to a relentless please-boogy-boarding-this-weekend-please campaign.
‘Really?’ Bec left the wiper on the dining table and got down to Essie’s level. ‘How come, darling?’
‘Just . . . don’t want to.’ Essie looked over at Ryan, who was washing the morning-tea plates, as if she was worried about hurting his feelings.
‘Not in the right mood today, hey?’ Bec kept her voice soft.
‘Don’t want to,’ Essie said.
‘Sometimes the idea of something seems a bit scary, but then when you—’
‘I don’t WANT to. I don’t LIKE that beach! And stop SAYING things to me!’
‘All right, darling.’
Essie stomped off into the lounge room, where – in breach of former rules about the lounge room being grown-up space – her Sylvanian Families house had been set up. Bec straightened and went over to the sink.
‘I’ll do that,’ she said, indicating Ryan could step aside.
Ryan kept washing for a moment, then put a damp hand on her back.
‘Reckon she’s just a five-year-old being five,’ he said.
‘I suppose so,’ said Bec. ‘You and Lachlan can go. I’ll . . . I’ll stay here with her and Mathilda and we’ll make a cake or something.’
‘Think he’ll be OK with that?’
‘Who? Lachlan? Or Stuart?’ said Bec.
He winced. ‘Both. Last thing I’d want to do is—’
‘Lachlan’s been ready since dawn,’ said Bec. ‘And Stuart will just have to deal with it.’
*
‘Hello. I was busy.’
She’d waited until Monday evening, when she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be operating, but it hadn’t helped. No matter when she called, his tone was terse and clipped. And she was no better. It was as if they were in a competition about mean politeness.
‘Thank you for finding time to take my call. It’s about one of your children.’
‘What do you need, Bec?’ That was his new way of saying her name. In place of an exasperated tut at the end of sentences.
‘I want to discuss Essie.’
‘Yes?’
‘How does she seem to you?’
‘What’s your concern?’
‘Well.’ She left a deliberately long pause. She wasn’t, after all, his intern. She didn’t have to prepare a concise list of dot points for his consideration. ‘Essie just seems very clingy. Very. At school she’s very withdrawn, apparently. And still being really tearful, at drop-off. I mean, she has a new teacher, so maybe . . . But wanting to sleep in my bed. There’s an excursion in a few days and she’s saying she doesn’t want to go. And when she’s home she . . . she just doesn’t seem all that happy.’
‘And why is this bothering you today, in particular?’
‘I thought I should see if you, her father, had a view. If you think she’s just going through a normal sort of adjustment, or if we – by which, of course, I’d mean I – should look into getting her some professional help.’
‘I find it very difficult to believe there’s any form of help, as you put it, that will make our children happy. Of course she’s “adjusting”. All of them are.’
‘That’s your view?’
‘Yes, at this juncture, Bec.’
‘Fine. Thank you for your support.’
They both hung up.
*
The Friday of the excursion started well enough.
Essie’s class was going to Clifton – way over the river! – to see what a real surf beach was like. It was part of their ‘Exploring Where We Live’ project. Ms Goldbold was on long-service leave, providentially, and Essie’s new teacher was a youngish man called Michael Castilano, who wore shorts in all weathers and encouraged the children to call him Mr C. Of course, they weren’t going swimming. For one thing it was July, and for another, even Mr C wasn’t up for supervising twenty-six kids in that sort of water.
‘Be brave!’ Bec said, as she kissed Essie’s cheek. Bec wasn’t going along to do ‘parent help’. She had plans to see Ryan, and to be honest, she’d done so much parent help over the years that it felt as if it would be fair enough to leave it to someone else once in a while.
By eight-thirty the children – excited, mostly – had been installed on the bus in their pairs. Essie waved through her tinted window, turning her head all the way around to Bec. She was sitting next to Mr C. Not a good sign, Bec felt.
Bec waved with one hand and rubbed her forehead with the other. There it was: that unambiguous sensation between her eyebrows, as if the skin there was being unpicked from the muscle beneath it. She knew it would soon be much worse. The headache would kill every thought; the nausea would be as inescapable as the sky. Well, it was entirely her own fault: she should have known better than to let Ryan talk her into red wine, especially with the kids in the house. She needed to be stronger with him. He was too young, and too childless, to be expected to understand. (‘It’ll make us all slow. And you’ll go all gorgeous and soft.’) She needed to get her act together. She should have more self-control.
With a sinking heart, she texted Ryan to say she was sick, drove home, took two Nurofen and got into bed.
*
Her phone woke her up.
‘It’s Michael Castilano, Bec,’ said the teacher. He had that enthusiastic excellence with using names. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to need to collect Essie. She’s all right. It’s just the same sort of thing, and we’ve tried a few strategies but no luck today. Pretty distressed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s coming down with something, even.’
‘OK,’ said Bec. She got the details of Essie’s whereabouts and stood up. Her chest seemed to fall down into her legs and the urge to vomit overwhelmed her. She sat on the bed to collect herself, and had to lie straight back down again. Four minutes passed; she watched them on the little silver clock beside her bed.
There were two other options. She forced her mind to circle each of them, tried to stand up for a second time, and retched. In the end, she picked up her phone again and dialled.
*
‘Hello. I’m between cases.’ Stuart called back a few minutes later.
‘Fine. It’s sorted.’ She couldn’t even lift her head off the pillow.
‘What’s sorted?’
‘Essie’s on an excursion. They were having trouble calming her down. Wanted me to go.’
‘I have a migraine. You know how I—’
‘Right. So what’s happening?’ He knew her parents were on Bruny Island that week.
‘It’s fine.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘You can get back to your case.’
‘What. Is. Happening. Bec?’
‘Ryan is getting her.’
‘What!’
‘Look, I’m unwell. You were too busy to answer my call. He was near there anyway.’
‘Where is Essie?’
‘You’ll have the email from the school, Stuart, same as me.’
‘Where is Essie, Bec?’
‘Clifton Beach. Stuart.’
‘When did you send him to get our daughter?’
‘I don’t know. A little while ago.’
‘Bec!’
‘One point three minutes ago, Stuart. Maybe one point four.’
He hung up.
*
‘It was a simple misunderstanding,’ she said, for the second time. She was digging her thumb, hard, into the bone under her eyebrow.
‘They happen,’ said the police officer. He was young and uniformed, and had something earnest about his demeanour that suggested he might be a Christian. ‘Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor about your headache, Mrs Henderson?’ He glanced at Stuart as he spoke. Stuart met his gaze in a level, why-are-you-asking-me-mate? way.
They were in a small, linoleumed room off to the side of the police station reception. On the wall was a poster showing an old-fashioned, aerial-bearing mobile phone with a red line through it. When she first sat down, Bec had, for a confused moment, thought it meant that people should upgrade their phones. Migraines always made her mind go a bit funny.
Stuart, in what was clearly a major over-reaction, had brought Essie here when he’d found her paddling alone on a quiet beach near Clifton. Essie was now sitting off to the side, earpieces in, delighted to be watching a Frozen-related YouTube clip on Bec’s phone. Ryan had gone back to his place.
‘That man left my child alone on a beach. A beach that is well known to be dangerous,’ said Stuart. ‘It is pure coincidence I arrived before she took herself into the water.’
‘I accept that, sir. But I understand your daughter’s whole class was on a school excursion at a beach nearby?’
The Mistake Page 27
