She spotted her father standing next to an attractive woman she didn’t recognise. He had his hand on the small of her back and her face was lifted up to his, a coy smile on her lips. Her father couldn’t help it if women were attracted to him. He was charming and handsome. People – both men and women – were drawn to him. Who could blame him for flirting sometimes? Frances was miserable no matter what he did.
Anna caught his eye and lifted her hand in a wave. He grinned and waved back, made his excuses to the woman, and crossed the courtyard to her side.
Unlike the scratchy and volatile relationship she had with her mother, Anna’s relationship with her father was easy and loving. They enjoyed each other’s company, made each other happy.
‘There you are,’ he said, bending down to kiss her cheek. ‘I was wondering if you were going to make an appearance.’
She told him about the party she’d been to earlier. The people she’d met. As usual he was interested and engaged: he didn’t say mean things about her friends, he didn’t criticise the way she talked or try to fix her posture or her hair. When her mother came to join them, standing beside her father with her arms folded across her chest, Anna became immediately self-conscious and what had been an easy conversation became stilted and forced.
The sudden noise of glass shattering made Anna jump.
‘Bugger,’ Marcus said, bending over to pick up the beer bottle he’d dropped on the stone tiles. Anna bent over to help him collect the shards. She placed them carefully in his hand and he took them over to the bin.
‘Sorry for frightening you,’ Marcus said when he returned. ‘You almost jumped a metre high.’
‘Oh God, Marcus, you really don’t need to apologise,’ Frances said loudly, getting everyone’s attention. She spoke in a bright, tinkly tone of voice and smiled widely, so nobody could accuse her of being cruel. ‘Anna is scared of her own shadow, always has been. She was such a nervy little girl. She wouldn’t even sleep in her own bed until she was almost twelve. It was so annoying and not exactly good for marital relations, if you get what I mean.’ She glanced knowingly around at her friends. ‘The poor thing used to have terrible nightmares and wander around the house at all hours of the night, half asleep. There was no way you could wake her up and she’d say the most ridiculous things – all this stuff about monsters and demons and ghosts. And I’m not just talking about when she was a baby – this went on until only a few years ago! Once we found her down in the ballroom in the middle of the night. She was crying. Absolutely beside herself. She’d convinced herself that her father had been killed by some kind of monster. It took an hour to wake her properly, set things straight. And he was standing right in front of her!’ Frances shook her head and looked around, eyes wide in remembered astonishment. She reached out and put her hand on Anna’s head, ruffled her hair. ‘I’m afraid Stephen may have over-indulged her a bit. Created his own little princess.’
‘Princess?’ Anna echoed, incredulous. ‘Princess?’
‘No?’ Frances said. ‘Not princess. That’s right. We prefer flower, don’t we? You’re Daddy’s precious little flower.’
The word ‘flower’ was loaded with years of resentment and Anna could see the satisfaction in her mother’s eyes, the momentary relief at getting it off her chest. The flower was a small sculpture Stephen had given Anna when she was young. He had made it himself at one of those business functions – the kind where the team was supposed to bond over some sort of creative activity. It was just a simple sculpture, a basic flower, bright with red glaze painted over the petals. On the base of it her father had engraved a message into the clay. ‘For my own little flower! Happy 7th birthday. Love Daddy xx’
He had laughed at his lack of artistic ability, apologised for the clumsy craftsmanship, but Anna had loved it immediately, and had treasured it ever since.
A sudden tide of rage swept aside all the inhibitions that normally kept Anna compliant and agreeable. She could feel everyone watching her, but she didn’t care. She stepped closer to her mother and raised her voice. ‘You can’t stand it that Daddy and I get on so well. You’re just jealous!’
Frances tried to laugh it off, but Anna could see the embarrassment in her eyes – embarrassment and fear – and for a moment she felt drunk with the power of it.
‘No wonder he doesn’t love you anymore. You’re a horrible, jealous person. I hate you, Frances. I hate you.’
‘Oh, Anna.’ Her mother tried to smile. ‘Obviously that champagne has gone to your head.’ She put her hand on her chest, and Anna could see the tremble of her fingers. ‘You always were argumentative and difficult.’
‘And you were always a selfish bitch,’ Anna said, turning on her heel.
She rushed down the hall. She wanted to go up to her room, straight to bed, but there was a couple standing on the landing. They were kissing, no doubt hidden up there because they were cheating on their spouses. She couldn’t face any more of her mother’s revolting friends and so she ran back downstairs and out the front door. She paced back and forth in the front garden, her thoughts racing, her fists clenched by her sides. Why did her mother always have to goad her? Push her buttons? Why couldn’t she just leave her alone?
It wasn’t until she’d calmed down and stepped onto the front porch that Anna realised she’d left her key inside. There was no way she was going to knock. She’d have to wait for someone to leave.
She went back to the garden and sat on the grass beneath a tree. It was getting dark, and nobody would see her there unless they looked carefully.
It wasn’t long before she heard voices at the door, and saw Marcus and Fiona leaving.
‘That was so weird,’ Fiona said, after the front door had closed and they were walking down the front path.
‘Wasn’t it?’ Marcus said.
‘I always thought they were the perfect family,’ Fiona said. ‘I had no idea things were so tense.’
‘Every family has its problems,’ Marcus said.
Anna felt her face burn with shame.
‘I felt so sorry for Anna. Imagine your mother telling a story like that. In front of all those people too. Almost as bad as Grandma.’
As they drew closer Anna cleared her throat, letting them know she was there.
Fiona stopped, her hand flying to her mouth. Marcus swore.
Anna stood up. She was glad of the dark because she was certain her face was red.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I locked myself out.’
Marcus recovered first. ‘Oh, do you want us to—
’‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t really want to see anyone. Don’t worry. I’ll go back inside later.’
‘We can’t just leave you out here all alone,’ Marcus said in his funny formal way. Anna had always thought of him as being a bit uptight. Old-mannish and fussy. But she could see that underneath all his stuffiness, he was actually a kind person.
Anna laughed. ‘Better off out here than in there anyway. I’ll find a way to sneak back eventually.’
Fiona stepped towards her. ‘Why don’t you come back with us for a while? We’re only in Cremorne.’
‘Fiona,’ Marcus said. ‘I don’t think Anna—’
‘But why not?’ Fiona insisted. ‘She could end up sitting out here for hours. May as well be comfortable at our house. She doesn’t want to go back inside, tail between her legs, and I don’t blame her.’ She turned to Anna. ‘What do you think?’
It was a surprising and strange invitation – not at all what Anna would have expected. But her headache was gone and the argument with her mother had filled her with restless energy. Even if she did manage to get back inside without being seen, there was no way she’d be able to sleep anytime soon.
‘I think it’s a very good idea,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
They drank whisky and stayed up till early in the morning. It was Anna who did most of the talking. She talked and talked. She told them about her childhood, about her stormy relationship with her mot
her, stuff she’d never told anyone before.
‘I feel sorry for my father,’ she told them. ‘Mum is always mad about something. Always making wild accusations. She’s insanely jealous.’
‘Jealous? Of what?’
‘Oh, she always thinks he’s cheating. But he’s not. He wouldn’t. Not that anyone would blame him if he did. Putting up with her all this time.’
Marcus was quiet, but sympathetic. Fiona asked question after question. Never once did Anna feel she was boring them. Eventually Marcus said goodnight, explaining that he needed to get some sleep.
‘You should probably stay over,’ Fiona said to Anna. ‘It’s too late to go home now.’
Fiona lent her a nightie and toothbrush, took her to the spare bedroom and hugged her goodnight. As Anna slipped between the clean sheets she felt as if she’d been liberated from some kind of prison, albeit one largely of her own imagining. Her mother’s emotional hold over her had been like a cell with an unlocked door. She’d only had to push the door open and walk through to be free.
*
If only that sense of freedom had lasted. If only she’d had a chance to enjoy it. But the things that have happened since that night, the events that have left her alone in this empty old house, miserable and guilty, deserving of every bad thing life chooses to hurl her way, have only trapped her in a different prison. And it’s a prison with smaller cells, without windows or light, a prison with a tightly locked door that can never be opened, no matter how hard she pushes.
12
NOT LONG AFTER FIONA AND MARCUS HAVE LEFT, I GET A CALL from Dad.
‘Sorry, mate, but do you think you’d be able to come in tonight? Liam can’t make it. Fell off his bike and hurt his wrist. I wouldn’t ask, but we’re fully booked.’
Normally I hate being asked to work on my day off, but today the idea of going to the restaurant doesn’t seem so bad. Better than hanging around the house with Anna. I get ready to go, then knock softly on Anna’s bedroom door.
‘Hey Anna,’ I call through the door. ‘I’m just heading off to work. Hope you’re okay. Call me if you need anything.’
I wait but she doesn’t respond.
‘Okay. See ya,’ I say.
The restaurant is booked out for an anniversary party. They’re not arriving until seven, so when I get there at five I cook an early meal for the staff so we can eat before the rush of customers. I grill up some fish and make a big bowl of salad and another huge one of chips, then we all sit down with glasses of cold lemonade and Coke.
‘So, how’s it going up at the house?’ Blake asks me as he shoves chips into his mouth. ‘Did you ask the girl – whatsername? – about the painting? Did she remember me?’
‘Anna,’ I say. ‘Don’t think so. Not sure. She didn’t say much.’
‘What’s that?’ Dad asks, looking from Blake to me.
I explain about Blake painting the house.
‘So you’ve met Anna then?’ Dad asks Blake.
‘Yeah,’ Blake says. ‘Nice girl.’
‘A lot has happened to her since then,’ I say. ‘I think she’s changed a fair bit. I mean, she’s still nice, just a bit quiet these days. Her parents died, for one thing. And someone else close to her died, too. Some bloke called Benjamin.’
‘No kidding? Her parents died?’ Blake shakes his head. ‘That’s too bad. What was her mother’s name again?’
‘Dunno,’ I say.
‘And who’s Benjamin?’ Dad asks.
‘I think he must have been Anna’s boyfriend. But I don’t know for sure,’ I explain. ‘I don’t actually know who he is or how he died. I just know he died.’
Dad looks at me curiously. ‘And how do you know that?’
‘Because,’ I frown, trying to think of the best way to explain it. ‘Anna had some friends over yesterday and they told me. I mean, they told me Benjamin was dead without actually saying who he was. If that makes sense.’
‘How?’ Dad asks.
‘How what?’
‘How did he die?’
‘I told you,’ I say irritably. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Hey, you guys,’ Jo says slowly, looking around the table. ‘Do you remember the story that was in the papers a few years ago? Might have been on the telly, too, come to think of it. That horrible car crash? A semi-trailer lost control coming down some hill and ran up the back of a car. Totally crushed it.’
‘Don’t remember it,’ I say.
‘Some rich couple were killed. And the papers went on and on about their daughter being left all alone. “Poor little rich girl” they called her. Orphan Annie. I’m sure that’s what they said. Stuff like that. It was really sensational coverage. I remember my mum commenting on it, saying it was exploitative,’ Jo says. ‘They put photos of her parents in the paper and then these stupid pictures of her looking really sad. Do you think that was your Anna, Tim?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Could have been.’
‘God. The poor thing. Imagine having to put up with that kind of crap.’
‘And that would help explain things,’ Blake says. ‘Why she’s changed. Why she’s so quiet now.’
‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ Jo says, stabbing her fork into a piece of fish. ‘What a shit situation. Both your parents gone and then your boyfriend dies. She must feel so lonely, so ripped off by life.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s all pretty full on.’
*
I find Anna in the kitchen early the next morning. She’s sitting at the table, a mug in front of her. She looks tired, pale, unhappy. She glances up as I walk in and I get the sense she’s been waiting for me.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ she says immediately.
I put the kettle on, get myself a mug. ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ I say.
‘Yes I do. I was an idiot.’ She puts her hand on her forehead. ‘I think I had too much beer.’
I don’t answer until I’ve made a coffee and sat at the table opposite her.
‘First of all,’ I say, ‘you didn’t behave like an idiot. There’s nothing wrong with being sad. And secondly,’ I take a breath, smile, ‘you can blame the beer if you want but it’s obvious there’s something else going on. There’s clearly something wrong.’
‘Something wrong,’ she says wearily. ‘That’s an understatement.’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘I get that.’ I don’t want to be too pushy or ask too many direct questions. Anna’s so nervy and on edge – one wrong move and I’m scared she’ll flee. I’m pretty sure her sadness is mostly about Benjamin, but Marcus’s strange anger yesterday makes me reluctant to ask about him. The whole topic just seems far too volatile. For the time being, at least, bringing up the death of her parents seems like a safer option. ‘Can I just ask you something?’ I say, watching her face carefully. ‘What happened to your mum and dad? I mean, I know they both died in some kind of accident. But what happened?’
She stares down at the table for a second and I think I’ve blown it, but when she looks up and speaks, her gaze is direct.
‘It was a car accident. A semi-trailer lost control coming down Mona Vale Road one night. Ran them down.’
So Jo had been right about the couple in the paper, the newspaper and television stories. I don’t mention what I’ve heard.
‘That sucks,’ I say. ‘You must miss them.’
She takes so long to reply that I’m sure she’s too upset to speak, but eventually she sighs.
‘I miss my father,’ she says. ‘I miss him every day.’
I’m silent.
‘I’ve shocked you,’ she says.
‘Nope. Not really. I guess your mother wasn’t perfect, then?’
‘Maybe I wasn’t the perfect daughter.’
‘I think there’s more obligation on the parents to get things right,’ I say firmly. ‘Not to be perfect, necessarily, but at least not to fuck it all up.’
‘I guess,’ she says. She stares over my shoulder towards the garden. ‘We were fi
ghting before she died. We hadn’t talked properly for a week. I said some terrible things to her. I called her a bitch. And then she was dead.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you—’
She continues as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Before she died I wished she’d go away. For ages I’d been thinking about it, wishing for it. I just wanted her out of my life. And then she was gone. Permanently.’ She blinks, looks down. ‘You know what they say – be careful what you wish for.’
‘Yeah, but wishing for things doesn’t make them happen. I mean, it’s not your fault.’ I should probably just leave it at that, stop while I’m ahead, but I blunder on. ‘People don’t just die because somebody wishes they weren’t around. They just don’t. You can’t blame yourself. You can’t—’
‘Look,’ she interrupts. And now she looks at me directly, speaks firmly, and I see a surprising flash of anger. ‘You seem like a very nice person and I don’t want to be rude, but there’s something I should say. You’re just my flatmate, someone to share the house with. Don’t assume you can help me. Not in that way.’
She puts her cup on the table and pushes her chair back. Before I have a chance to say another word, she stands up and leaves the room.
13
SHE LEAVES TIM SITTING AT THE TABLE AND RUSHES UPSTAIRS, STRAIGHT to the attic. Tim is too easy to talk to. It’s something in his face: the soft hazel of his eyes, the childlike spatter of freckles across his nose, the hesitant smile he wears when he asks questions. It’s impossible to believe that someone with a face like that could hold any malice, or be judgemental, and it’s so tempting to blurt everything out to him, tell him every heartbreaking detail, every black thing that’s ever happened, and let him ponder and probe the dark places she doesn’t dare investigate on her own.
14
I GET HOME FROM WORK LATER THAT NIGHT AND FIND THE HOUSE in darkness. It’s well past midnight and though I’m physically buggered, I’m still mentally pumped from another busy night at work. I need a few beers, an hour in front of the TV, something mindless to watch – and with Anna presumably already in bed it’s the perfect opportunity to have the living room to myself for once. I open the beer I’ve brought home with me from the restaurant and spread myself out on the couch. I flick lazily through the channels.
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