by Brandy Scott
And then just the one light, brighter than all the others. Floating in front of them like a luminous jellyfish. The ground, swinging towards them. His father yelling. Lincoln, hands over his eyes, not wanting to know. Like a child. Like a bloody child. His dad, leaning over him. Shielding him. The flame in the engine like a beautiful, deadly firework, ready to explode.
The blackness turned to grey, then to gritty beige, then full-on fluorescent buzzing white. Bright. Loud. Lincoln tried to move an arm, his hand, but nothing obeyed. His head. He could roll his head. The foreign words came closer. Faces. Too close. He closed his eyes again, forced his tongue free, seeking water. Thirsty. He was so, so thirsty.
CHAPTER 17
‘I’ll take two vanilla cannoncini. The nice fat one at the front, and the big one there in the second row.’ Aimee pointed out the pastries, careful not to leave smudgy fingerprints on the display case. She normally made her own cakes, but the custard horns at Elisabetta’s were Lou’s favourite. ‘Extra icing sugar, if you don’t mind.’
‘Take away?’
‘Please.’ Lou was letting her phone go straight to voicemail, obviously still bruised. Aimee placed the cake box carefully on the passenger seat, tucking her handbag in front so it wouldn’t fall off. Poor Lou. Melinda had been horribly bossy, when Lou needed understanding, not instructions. Aimee picked the pastries off the seat and placed them in the footwell instead. Safer. And the whole adoption idea was simply insane. Not just the thought of Melinda with a baby, which was ridiculous enough, but throwing it at Lou five minutes after she’d told them about Tansy? Aimee normally approved of Melinda’s refusal to censor herself, but that was going too far.
But then Melinda was being more insensitive than usual at the moment. Cold, almost. Look at the way she’d delivered her ultimatum on the accident. Her refusal to even have a conversation about it. Aimee turned the ignition on, then off again. She walked back into Elisabetta’s and ordered Lou a cappuccino, large. What Lou needed now was a good heart-to-heart. She might not think she wanted company, but Aimee knew better. Hence the expensive pastries and takeaway coffee, treats Lou rarely allowed herself. They’d sit out on the back step, and Lou would finally have a chance to really talk about everything that was going on. Aimee drove a little faster in anticipation. Lou would be grateful for the chance to speak honestly about how freaked out she was, as she’d tried to before Melinda had shut her down. And then Aimee would share a few of her own fears as well, so Lou didn’t feel alone.
Aimee puttered down the main street towards what counted for suburbs in Hensley. Poor old Lou. And bloody, bloody Tansy, letting her mother down again, when Lou gave up so much for that girl. It must feel like one blow after another. Aimee thought briefly of the whole shoplifting phase, the tongue piercing. Shelley had been told nothing but earlobes while she was still using their water and electricity, but really, they hadn’t even needed to say that. Shelley had asked permission to start wearing nail polish.
Elegant verandas gave way to squat brick bungalows, the houses becoming smaller, the front yards sparser, the further Aimee got from the town centre. Lou needed gentle handling, not harsh home truths. She needed to be bolstered, to be convinced she’d still be able to travel, see the world. Although Aimee wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Tansy had about as much natural ability to raise a baby as Melinda; Lou was going to have to downsize her ambitions dramatically. Maybe Aimee should suggest a small trip for the two of them before the baby arrived. Get them both out of Hensley. For the first time she could remember, Aimee desperately wanted to be somewhere else as well.
A couple of sun-bleached magazines lay in the middle of Lou’s lawn, next to a ripped cardboard box. God, she was really letting the place go; she must be even more upset than Aimee realised. She clutched the pastry box as she trotted evangelically towards the front door, secure in her belief that she was bringing salvation and solace to the troubled family within.
Except no one was answering. Aimee knocked again, rang the bell. There was music, Lou’s car in the drive — they were blatantly home. She knocked harder. This was no good; the coffee was getting cold. She stooped to fish the spare key from inside the gnome that sat beside the front step, but the gnome was gone, along with his plastic wishing well. She tried the door. Open. It was never open. Aimee gripped her mobile phone.
‘Lou?’ She took a cautious step into the hallway, ready to run if necessary. The bare hallway, its paintings and trophy cabinet missing, a dark square on the carpet where Ken’s precious birds had once lived. Had they been robbed? Although what kind of burglar took taxidermy? ‘Lou? Is everything okay?’ She walked through the lounge, empty except for two beanbags and a scattering of takeaway cartons. Maybe everything had been repossessed. Maybe Lou was in financial trouble. Aimee poked her head into Tansy’s bedroom as she passed. Empty as well, only a mattress on the floor. This was just weird. ‘Lou!’
‘Out here.’ They were in the backyard, throwing shoes into a skip filled with old clothes. Aimee hovered at the kitchen door, uncertain.
‘I called the council, but they said you were working from home. I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘We’re spring cleaning,’ Lou called, emptying a washing basket of men’s trousers on top of the pile. Bruce Springsteen blared from an old cassette player perched precariously in the open kitchen window. Lou gave a little twirl as the trousers fell, a dozen corduroy legs spinning as though they were dancing as well. ‘You’re just in time to watch this lot go up.’
‘It’s not spring,’ said Aimee, feeling a little silly with her box of pastries.
Lou just laughed, as though she’d said something hysterical.
‘Where’s all the furniture gone?’ said Aimee. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘I know,’ said Lou, wiping dirty hands down her jeans with no thought for stains. ‘Isn’t it great? We’re starting over.’
Aimee didn’t know what to say. She thrust the box towards her friend. ‘I brought cannoncini.’
‘Amazing.’ Lou balanced the box on an old bird bath. ‘And coffee. Thank goodness. We accidentally binned the kettle.’ She turned towards the garage. ‘Tansy!’ she hollered. ‘Aimee’s brought food.’
Tansy was also filthy, dirt tattooing her face and arms. She ran across the lawn, dodging the skip, and thrust a greedy hand into the pastry box. ‘Vanilla, my favourite,’ she said, shoving the biggest cake straight in her mouth. Aimee waited for the reprimand, but Lou just ripped the other horn in half. ‘Want to share?’ she asked, waving the fatter end, custard dripping.
Aimee shook her head. ‘I came to see how you were,’ she said, staring meaningfully.
‘We’re fab,’ said Lou. ‘Having a long-overdue clear-out. We’re going into Melbourne tomorrow, getting all new stuff. Even a TV.’ She looked younger, lighter. Happy.
Aimee pulled at the neck of her mumsy tunic. ‘Well, there should be New Year’s sales on, I guess.’
‘Oh, Tansy’s made us a load of money selling everything online.’ Lou waved at her empty house with bandaged fingers. ‘She’s amazing. You wouldn’t believe what people will pay for old clothes. Mum’s crocheted minidress, the lemon one? Two hundred and fifty bucks. No joke.’
‘That’s — Lou, your hand!’
‘Oh.’ Lou looked down. ‘Yeah. I bumped it.’
‘Bumped it?’
‘Against a door. Long story. It’s better than it was.’
‘Right.’ The fingernails peeking out the end of the bandage were an unhealthy shade of blue; Aimee felt as if she’d tumbled down the rabbit hole.
‘But we’ve made thousands, Aims. Well, Tansy has. Honestly, she’s a genius. Knew which stuff to phone antique shops about, what to auction online. She made more in three hours than I would in a week at work.’
‘Maybe she should come round and go through our house,’ said Aimee, remembering the missing necklace. She could never prove anything, but she’d always known.
‘Nah, your
stuff’s the wrong kind of old.’ Tansy licked custard off her thumb. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.’
Lou slung an arm around her daughter. ‘Anyway, we’re going to set fire to this lot. Toast some marshmallows over the final evidence of my parents’ bad taste. Fancy it?’
Aimee shook her head. ‘I have to get back. I only popped in to drop these off, a little treat.’
‘They were a big treat.’ Lou smiled generously. ‘Really lovely of you.’
‘Well.’ Aimee looked from Lou to Tansy, leaning against each other, grimy and content. ‘Do you want to walk me out?’
‘Sure.’ Lou untangled herself. ‘Tansy, wait for me before you let loose with the lighter fluid. I don’t want you breathing the fumes.’
They didn’t speak as they walked through the house, Lou bouncing ahead of Aimee towards the open front door.
‘Sorry,’ said Aimee. ‘I must have forgotten to shut it. I was just a little shocked.’
‘No worries,’ said Lou. ‘Nothing to take anyway.’ She laughed, a new, looser laugh.
Aimee reached for her friend’s unbandaged hand. ‘Lou, are you okay? I was worried, after the other night. Melinda was really off, and you haven’t been answering your phone —’
‘My phone?’ Lou shook Aimee’s hand away, reached in the pocket of her skinny jeans. ‘Oh, it’s on silent. I didn’t even realise.’
‘Well, if you want to talk, I’m here. We can sit in the car if you want, go over everything.’
‘Nah.’ That dismissive wave of the hand again. ‘I’m done with talking. Moaning really, let’s be honest. I’m all about action now. Although —’
‘Yes?’
‘I want to book a plane ticket. For three years from now. It’s largely symbolic, but — would travel agents even do that?’
‘Lou, you don’t need a travel agent. You can do it all online. Although I don’t think they issue tickets that far out.’
Lou laughed. ‘Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.’
‘Is this a ticket because Tansy will be in uni?’ Aimee did the maths: Lou was obviously giving Tansy a year to settle in.
‘Not really. I mean, she will be at some stage, hopefully, but she’s having the baby. She’s quite certain about it.’
‘Oh. Oh Lou. I’m so sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. Like you said, she won’t need my help forever. And I’ve made some calls and she’s eligible for benefits, even if she’s living here, and more if she’s studying. There’s heaps of support. So you were right. It doesn’t have to mean the end of things.’
‘I see.’
‘Honestly, it’ll be fine. She’s more capable than we give her credit for. And it’s her choice. I’m not going to push her into anything. You know how I feel about that.’
Did she? ‘Yes.’
There was an impatient shout from the backyard. ‘Tansy, wait!’ Lou turned back to Aimee. ‘But I do want to book a ticket, or do something to feel like I’m still moving forward, you know?’
Aimee wasn’t sure she knew anything about Lou any more. ‘You could probably make a hotel reservation.’
‘Brilliant.’ Lou squeezed Aimee’s arm with her good hand. ‘You sure you don’t want to stay? We’re getting Lebanese for lunch later.’
Aimee shook her head as she fumbled with her car keys. ‘I’m just glad everything’s okay.’
‘Thanks for coming. It was really sweet of you.’
Aimee climbed into her car, but she didn’t start the engine. Instead, she watched Lou saunter back into the house, head high, arse swinging. Jaunty. She hadn’t even asked how Aimee was doing. There was laughter from the backyard, a crackle as the flames went up. The smell of petrol made her gag; she had to wind up the window. Aimee sat staring at the smoke for a good five minutes, watching the black clouds billow and spread across the neighbourhood. Then she put her foot down and headed for the hills.
‘Good morning, Ms Baker.’
Melinda shut her eyes, as though that would block out the warm breath in her ear, the hand tickling its way down her stomach. Clint. She was in bed with Clint. And not for the first time either. Every night of LoveFest she’d wound up drunk on her increased popularity and sparkling Australian wine, and in bed with her IPO advisor. A man she now knew had a scorpion tattoo on his shoulder, a hairy lower back, and a predilection for a manicured finger in his anus.
‘Not ready to face the day? Shall I order coffee?’
His erection wriggled hopefully against her bottom. Melinda nodded, and arched subtly away from his bobbing penis. ‘Black,’ she croaked. There had been a lot of wine.
Clint opened the curtains a crack as he rang down for room service. He had a good body at least — long, lean. Nice arse. He was considerably younger than her. Twenty-nine, he’d admitted; he’d lied to HR at his first consultancy firm, and no one had checked since. Melinda quite admired that. She’d do the same. But he was Clint. A man who used the word on-boarding as a verb. Although the sex had been . . . interesting. Borderline kinky, which was new, and made her feel a little younger as well. She’d even taken a pill last night. A pill! Without even asking what it was. He’d told her it would set her ‘on fire’, and she’d just gone with it. The thought of Melinda, control freak extraordinaire, swallowing something without checking its provenance and chemical makeup was so out of character she wanted to phone someone and boast about her new-found recklessness. Lou, probably. Not Aimee. Aimee would have a heart attack.
It couldn’t continue, obviously. Both the drug-taking, and the Clint-fucking. They had to work together; Melinda needed to be able to pull rank. Hard to do with someone who knew you swore when you came. And there was the fact that she didn’t actually like Clint. Fancied him, obviously more than she’d realised, although that could be fifty per cent prosecco. But in terms of being interested in what he had to say, what he was up to other than driving her company forward? Not really, if she was honest. He could be a bit of a dick.
Melinda listened to Clint pee, flush, brush his teeth. The everyday sounds of cohabitation that other people took for granted. The only sounds in Melinda’s flat were those she made herself, or that came from electronic devices. Melinda generally appreciated the peace and quiet, but there was also something infinitely depressing about knowing that every human interaction was yours to arrange. If she wanted to speak to someone, eat with someone or go to a movie, she had to initiate it. And accept the crappy time slots. When you were the only single left, you got used to meeting people for coffee or lunch rather than dinner — family time! — and obviously weekends were out. Which left an awful lot of lonely, empty evenings, wondering where you’d gone wrong. Melinda had spent thirty-eight years waiting for the right man to show up. And he hadn’t. At what point did you admit to yourself that this was your life, and that it only took up one side of the bed?
And yet. Here was a firm impression in the mattress next to her, a man gargling in the ensuite. A man who hadn’t casually mentioned a not-quite-ex-wife, or a criminal record, or asked for a loan. A man who asked her what she was into, rather than just trying to push her head towards his crotch. Melinda had once slept with someone who’d asked if she wanted foreplay, as though it was optional.
The coffee arrived. Clint answered the door with a towel around his hips, paid and tipped. Melinda had waitressed through university; she approved of people who tipped. There were many good points to Clint, she reminded herself. He was very considerate with his oral hygiene. He could discuss a profit and loss statement for hours. He automatically reached for the bill and kept hold of it, even if she insisted. Melinda had had enough of men who expected her to bloody pay for everything, just because she could.
‘Hey, check out the story on page five,’ he said, kneeling up beside her. ‘I knew they were in trouble.’
And he brought her the business pages in bed. Maybe he understood her better than she thought.
‘Want me to pour the coffee?’ he asked. ‘Black, two
sugars, right? I told them it had to be strong.’
She reached beneath his towel.
‘It’ll get cold,’ he warned, warm and growing in her hand.
‘Don’t care,’ she said. ‘Come here.’
‘Well, well.’ It was the first time she’d initiated anything; he was pleased, she could feel. ‘But what about —’
They’d run out the night before. Gone through a full box, in less than three days. God, what was she doing?
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, tugging his towel off. ‘I’m on the pill.’ Melinda pulled Clint down on top of her and welcomed him inside.
‘You again.’
Aimee smiled nervously. ‘Sorry?’
‘You were here yesterday, weren’t you?’ The investigator tipped his hat back. But he didn’t seem annoyed, or suspicious. He sounded pleased, almost. It must be lonely, standing by the side of the road all day. ‘You’re the muffin lady.’
‘Muffins? Oh, right.’
‘So did you bring any?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think. I just came to —’ What? Confess? Come on, Aimee. Stay calm. You’ve got this.
He waited, the sun at his back shining right into Aimee’s eyes. She shifted closer towards him, into his shadow, so she didn’t have to squint.
‘To explain,’ she said. She’d been practising in the car. ‘What I was doing here. What I am doing here.’
‘Yes?’ There was a smile now, small and amused, that Aimee had to tilt her head back to see.
‘I’m a friend of the family. Of the Kasprowiczes. So I wanted to see what was happening, to make sure —’ Her mind went blank. ‘To make sure it’s all being done right.’
‘You mean you keep turning up here, driving past all the time, to check that I’m doing my job properly?’ He chuckled. ‘And there I was thinking you just wanted to see me.’
Aimee felt her face explode a guilty red as she tried to calculate how many times she’d scoped the field out, how often she’d slowed down to get a better look. Dozens. Two, three times a day, at least. Oh God. She might as well be wearing a T-shirt that said WE DID IT. ‘You noticed me drive past?’
