by Brandy Scott
She’d wanted more for Tansy. And, selfishly, for herself. Lou had wondered, just briefly, on the drive back from Fenton, if she could somehow leave Tansy to get on with it, as her parents had with her. But she knew there was no way; Tansy was two years younger than she’d been, and Lou wasn’t her parents.
Yet for the first time, she could understand what her parents must have felt. Just a little. The frustration, that years of educational-trip-organising and homework-supervising had all been for nothing. The helplessness, as they saw their daughter engulfed by something she was in no way ready for. And the anger. They’d certainly been angry, raging, that Lou hadn’t listened to their pious, oblique lectures on ‘saving herself’. Lou had been much more open with Tansy, and therefore she was angry too, angry that her otherwise streetwise child didn’t have the sense to use a bloody condom.
And maybe she shared a faint glimmer of hope with them as well, despite herself. There was still a chance that Tansy wouldn’t want the baby. She’d been so freaked out by the doctor’s questions, so uninterested in the scan. Lou had held back from asking. One thing at a time. But there was plenty of time. Seven weeks. That was nothing.
Lou’s neighbour appeared in the garden opposite and gave her a wave. ‘Forgot it was out here!’ Angelique called, as she gathered up washing so dry the tea towels could have stood on their own. Lou was used to staring at her neighbour’s laundry; in this part of town, that was your view. Rotary lines, trampolines, rusty bikes. Hensley was wealthy, but not everyone in Hensley was wealthy. Not everyone had Melinda’s 180-degree balcony and river sunsets. Some just got a cold concrete step and a neighbour’s faded Bonds.
Lou lit up a second cigarette — last one, she told herself — and poured another slosh of Cointreau. She allowed herself a moment of guilty fantasy that Tansy would decide against going through with the pregnancy, that they could both carry on as planned, Tans away to school and uni, Lou finally out of this town, travelling and having her own adventures. This whole situation could simply disappear. It didn’t need to ruin everyone’s lives, again.
But she wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t even suggest it. She’d give Tansy the time and space to make her own decisions. Lou hadn’t even asked who the father was, just turned the radio on as soon as they got in the car, drove back from the clinic in a silence they both seemed to appreciate. No, she’d leave Tansy alone. Because while she might understand her parents’ position — a little, only a little — she was not who they were, and she’d never do to Tansy what they’d ended up doing to her.
‘Lights on or off?’ asked Nick, as he climbed in beside her.
‘On,’ said Aimee. ‘But let’s be quick. Just ten minutes, then sleep.’
‘Right you are,’ he said, rearranging the pillows behind them. ‘Tell me when you’ve had enough.’
Aimee scooted under the duvet, nestling herself against his warm skin. This was the best part of her day, when the house was tidy, the kids were in bed, and she and Nick could lie next to each other and quietly read. An article about running a profitable cellar door for him — as if Aimee would ever allow hundreds of strangers to roam around her property — and something lifeaffirming for her. Aimee’s Oprah books, Nick called them, her bedside stack imploring her to Face the Fear and Do It Anyway.
It was also the only time they got to talk, really talk, about what was going on. With the vineyard, the kids. Their catching-up time. Their putting-right time. Aimee understood why men were more comfortable speaking side by side; it took the judgement out of things. Made you more honest. And yet Aimee had avoided all conversation about the accident since New Year’s Eve. She hadn’t told him about the letting-go ceremony at all.
To be fair, on New Year’s Eve itself, they’d both been quite pissed. Nick hadn’t wanted to read or talk, just reached for her with whisky breath and a hard-on, and she’d been more than happy to be distracted from the bright flash in the sky. Afterwards they’d both fallen straight asleep, Nick snoring so heavily she’d had to move into the spare room.
But this was the third night she’d lain next to him since they’d let the lanterns off, and Aimee was still debating whether to say anything. To tell him she was worried about what they’d done. It wasn’t like them to hide anything from each other. Aimee and Nick had an open-bathroom-door sort of marriage. The man had massaged vitamin E into her perineum, for goodness sake. She’d once licked a stuck contact lens off his eyeball. Aimee folded the corner over on her Deepak Chopra and placed it in her lap.
‘Good day?’ he asked, not even looking up from his issue of Wines & Vines.
‘Mmmm,’ she said. ‘It was okay.’
If she told him, he’d talk it through with her, she knew. But was that fair? Nick had enough on his plate at the moment. A heavy November frost had hit the lower lying areas of the vineyard, wiping out the chardonnay crop and tens of thousands of dollars. The last thing he needed was to worry about what was going on in Aimee’s head. And he would worry, she knew.
‘Just okay?’
When there wasn’t any reason to. She wasn’t getting obsessed or anything. She was just a little concerned. But Nick wouldn’t see it like that. He’d start watching her, treading carefully, wondering out loud if she might like to go and talk to someone.
‘Yeah.’
Which she didn’t fancy at all. So there was no point bringing anything up.
‘This morning went well, I thought,’ said Nick.
And if Aimee was honest, she was embarrassed to admit to her fire-volunteer husband that she’d watched the lantern burn, and not done anything about it.
‘Feel a bit sorry for Melinda,’ he added.
‘Me too.’
He turned a page in his magazine. ‘I saw her in town, gave her a hand with her boxes. She seemed a bit flat.’
Something niggled, something unconnected with the accident. ‘Hey, did you tell Mel we were having money issues?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Might have.’
Because Aimee hadn’t. ‘When?’
‘Not sure.’ He turned another page. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’ And there wasn’t, not really. Nick had chosen Aimee, clearly and completely. ‘I want to be with someone who wants the same things I do,’ he’d said, on their first proper date. ‘Mel and I were moving in different directions, and I didn’t want to go in hers.’ Aimee hadn’t pushed it. Nick and Melinda were on friendly enough terms, Nick’s parents were delighted, and no one seemed to blame her for dating him so soon after he’d broken up with her oldest friend. And Aimee did want exactly what he did: a family, in the town they both loved, settled and steady and safe.
‘You’re not bothered, are you?’
Which was almost exactly what Aimee had asked Melinda, when Nick first suggested the two of them grab a drink. She’d phoned Melinda at the London pub she was working in, shouted down the phone to be heard over the punters. ‘Couldn’t care less,’ Melinda had said, and Aimee knew it was true. Melinda was off having adventures, roaming around Europe, not worrying about what was going on in little old Hensley. ‘He’s better suited to you than me,’ Melinda said, and Aimee knew that was true as well. Nick hadn’t even freaked out when she’d got pregnant so quickly. Just drove her back to his parents’ house and got a diamond ring out of his sock drawer. ‘Bought it the first week we were together,’ he’d said, getting down on one knee in the middle of his bedroom. ‘Whadya reckon? Could you handle living here for a bit until we’re sorted?’ They’d never left.
Aimee leaned over and kissed her husband. ‘Not bothered at all,’ she said. ‘Just wondering how she knew.’
Nick put his magazine down. ‘What did you get up to anyway, after the launch? I came back here to sort your spuds out, and you were gone.’
If he pressed her, she’d tell him. ‘I went over to Maddocks Clearing.’
‘Where Pete Kasprowicz’s plane came down?’
‘Yes.’ If he asked, then that was a sign. To confide. To come clean.<
br />
But ‘Poor bastard’ was all he said. Nick rolled over towards the light. ‘You had enough now? Can I turn this off?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m done.’
CHAPTER 8
Cameron leaned forward in his economy-class seat, a jockey on a horse, willing the plane to go faster. He rested his forehead against the seat in front, the shuffling of its occupant banging the edge of the tray table gently into his skull.
‘You okay, love?’
‘Fine.’
‘You don’t look okay,’ the elderly woman next to him insisted. Someone’s grandma, all talcum powder and muted florals, her wedding rings buried in the spotted flesh of her fingers. ‘Are you a nervous flyer?’
He was on edge all right, but it was nothing to do with the plane. He shook his head, mentally willing her to shut up.
‘I find a small whisky helps myself,’ she confided. ‘I could ask the stewardess, if you like.’
Cameron gritted his teeth against her concern. ‘Bugger off,’ he whispered.
‘Has something happened? Do you want to talk about it?’
He didn’t. He went back to letting his forehead judder against the moulded plastic. Come on, come on. He’d been too late last time. Not his fault. But he had to be there now. The PA came on, the captain warning about turbulence, and Cameron undid his seatbelt. Better to distract himself with the bumps of the plane than think about what might be waiting for him on the ground. I’ll be a better brother, Cameron promised. A proper brother. Stick around. Take you with me. Whatever you want. Just fucking hold on, Lincoln. Just hold the fuck on.
‘Do you want a mint? I’ve got some — Oh goodness. Here, have a tissue. There you go. No shame in crying, that’s what I always told my boys. Let it all out, love, you’ll feel better after, I promise. That’s it. Good on you.’
CHAPTER 9
It was Lou’s birthday picnic. Melinda and Aimee’s idea, a big celebration down by the river, just friends, family and a few thousand of her closest neighbours. Because it was also the first day of the Hensley Town Festival, an event conceived in the very bowels of hell. Nine long days of go-kart races and fundraisers, baking competitions and art exhibitions, tea parties and vineyard tours and self-congratulatory speeches and picnic lunches. Like this one. Lou had always felt it the ultimate irony, to be born in the same week as the town she couldn’t wait to be shot of. And now she was thirty-five and Hensley was one hundred and sixty, and both of them were still bloody there.
Lou stood at the top of the main street, watching the activity down by the river, and rearranged her face into a smile. Because she had to be cheerful at events like this, lest the others think she’d stopped making an effort. She caught them watching sometimes, checking for signs she hadn’t given up. Which was laughable. The thing about raising a child on your own was that you didn’t get to give up. You might not always wear the cleanest clothes, or wash your hair, or greet your friends with enthusiasm and good humour, but you didn’t get to stop. You didn’t ever, ever, get to stop.
‘Louise,’ called a high-pitched voice. Sharna from the post office. The town’s unofficial crier, she waved as she manoeuvred two small grandsons and her husband down towards the river. ‘Happy birthday! I understand the girls have organised quite the celebration for you! Aren’t you lucky?’
Lou gave her an ironic thumbs up. ‘So lucky!’
And grateful. That was the other thing with being a single mum — you had to be so grateful, all the bloody time, for everything anyone did for you, no matter how unwelcome. The invitations to seminars on how to fix your life. The set-up dates with deadbeat single dads who’d never paid for a nappy. The ‘thoughtful’ gifts. Last year, Melinda and Aimee had bought her a massage voucher that cost as much as her monthly power bill. Pamper yourself! She’d gone, but the whole time she’d lain there, having her chakras opened with hot stones, Lou had just thought, What a waste.
She could see Melinda below, spreading out a blanket smack-bang in front of the rotunda. Perfect for watching the band, yet far enough away from the crowds and the speakers. But of course Melinda would secure the prime spot. Nothing less would be acceptable. There were wicker picnic baskets dotted artfully around, a silver wine bucket next to her, filled with ice and what looked like sunscreen and fancy sprays. Aimee’s contribution, no doubt. Nice to have the time to mess about with things like that. Lou had spent the morning doing the council accounts, gone in at five so she could have her birthday afternoon off.
No. Stop it. She shook her head, literally shook it, to try to force the nasty thoughts out. Enough. These were the women who’d rallied around her when no one else wanted to know, who’d driven hundreds of kilometres back from uni every month to check that she was okay, who’d left groceries on her doorstep and then denied it so she could save a bit of face. God, what was wrong with her? Since Tansy’s announcement, Lou had been hit by a wave of self-pity and resentment she hadn’t experienced since her first months of motherhood. And she didn’t like it.
Melinda was looking for her now, hands on hips, scanning the crowd. Lou took a few steps onto the grass, but instead of plunging into the mass of excited parents and children, she swerved, ducking behind a row of fast-food stalls. The smell wasn’t the best — oily and hot, the popcorn already rancid — but at least it was private. Lou pulled a box of cigarettes — the third she’d bought since the doctor’s surgery — out of her handbag, and lit up.
One puff, two, head swivelling to make sure she couldn’t be seen. This was like being back at high school. Lou perched awkwardly on an upturned plastic crate, trying not to crush her new dress. She needed to sort out her attitude, like she was always telling Tansy. Aimee and Melinda organising a party for her was lovely. It was just that the last thing Lou felt like doing was celebrating. There was nothing to celebrate, from where she was sitting.
Lou took a final drag. But she would, for her friends. Eat and drink and laugh and pretend nothing was wrong. Accept her spa voucher or pointless sequinned clutch with fake enthusiasm, and try to ignore the fact that her life at thirty-five was no different from how it had been at thirty-four, or thirty-three, or thirty-two. Or how it would be at thirty-six. She still had nowhere to carry a sequinned clutch.
Lou rubbed her cigarette along the stubbly grass. She fished a roll of mints and an old body spray out of her handbag and sanitised herself, reapplied her lipstick. At least she looked nice. She took a moment to rearrange the crepe cocktail frock she’d picked up in the Country Road sale: still $160, way more than she’d normally spend, but it made her look curvy rather than dumpy and showed off her cleavage. Lou had felt almost attractive in the changing room, with its flattering lights and magic slimming mirror. She caught the teenage boy manning the hot-dog stand staring as she hoicked up her breasts and gave him a wink. He went bright red and dropped a sausage, fumbled trying to retrieve it and dropped the tongs. Lou laughed out loud. Still got it. By the time she stepped back into the crowd she was genuinely smiling. Right then. Let the bloody celebrations begin.
Everybody wanted something. Melinda kept a taut smile on her face, as tight as the gazebo strings she was adjusting, as a steady stream of Hensleyites stopped by her patch and tried to interest her in their business ideas, their expansion plans, their unwanted kittens.
‘A cat?’ she asked, hammering in the strings with her little mallet. ‘What would I want with a cat?’
‘Mum thought it might be good for you,’ reported a horribly honest child. ‘Since you’re all on your own. Said you probably needed the company.’
Melinda was still fuming when Lou came trotting down the hill in something far too low-cut. ‘Do I look like a crazy cat woman to you?’ she asked Lou, kissing her. She stopped, sniffed. ‘Have you been smoking?’
‘Tansy.’ Lou pulled a bottle of something nasty-looking out of her handbag and sprayed it around, covering them both in cheap vanilla. ‘This looks amazing,’ she said, taking in the gazebo, the pastel picnic rug
s, the chilled bottles of champagne. She fingered the gingham bunting. ‘Aimee do this?’
‘No!’ said Melinda. ‘I did. I can be domestic as well, actually.’
‘Oh shit, sorry,’ said Lou. ‘But of course you did. It’s colour-coordinated, and it’s ready on time.’ She looked around their little campsite. ‘Where is Aimee, anyway?’
‘Still at the house, icing your cake,’ said Melinda. ‘Where’s Tans?’
‘Helping her, apparently.’ Lou grabbed a piece of mango from a bowl of chopped fruit. ‘Wonders will never cease.’ She shook her head, gave a bright smile. ‘This does look fantastic,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Melinda squeezed Lou into a side hug. ‘Happy birthday, my lovely. Wait till you see what we’ve got you for a present.’
The embankment was filling up now, passers-by staring enviously at their floaty tent and all its goodies. ‘Is it too early for a drink?’ asked Lou.
‘Never,’ said Melinda. ‘Actually — I’m really glad you’re here first.’ She popped the cork on a bottle of Moët. ‘Oh, why not,’ she said, when Lou raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s your birthday. Let’s go crazy.’ She dropped a strawberry into Lou’s glass and filled it. ‘To you,’ she said, clinking.
‘To us,’ said Lou. ‘Still speaking, after thirty years.’
‘Miracle, isn’t it?’ Melinda pulled Lou down onto one of the blankets. ‘Speaking of us. And speaking of speaking, can you do me a favour and have a word with Aimee?’
‘A word?’
Melinda lowered her voice. ‘About this plane accident.’
‘Oh God.’ Lou had clearly forgotten. ‘Pete Kasprowicz and his son. That was awful.’
