by Brandy Scott
‘Oh, Aimee, I’m going to need you, don’t worry. This cellar door isn’t going to run itself.’ He stepped over the damp concrete between them, planted a kiss on her forehead. He smelled of wine and wood and sweat, smells she loved. ‘We’ll talk about it tonight, okay? Don’t get yourself into a twist. It’s all doable. You might even enjoy it.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
‘You look nice, by the way. Lucky pensioners!’
Lou made sure the office was empty then pulled her mobile out of her bag. She’d felt terrible leaving Tansy at home, her little face white with worry and pain. But what could she do? She wasn’t Aimee, with a nice husband providing for her so she didn’t have to work. She wasn’t Melinda, who worked from home the whole summer, every summer, just refused to go down to the city. Which you could do when you were the boss. Lou wasn’t the boss of anything except the stationery cupboard. Sometimes she denied people extra notepads, told them they’d hit their monthly quota, just because she could.
‘Come on, Tans, pick up.’ But it was probably better she was sleeping. The test had looked brutal, despite the doctor’s assurance she’d feel nothing more than a bit of cramping after. Lou had to look away as the needle went through Tansy’s pale stomach. But at least she’d finally agreed. There’d been one aborted attempt, two days earlier, when Tansy had fainted as they explained the procedure to her. They’d given her an ECG instead, just in case there was something wrong with her heart, which was ridiculous for a healthy, if slightly underweight teenager. Ridiculous and expensive. Lou’d had to pay for an extra doctor’s appointment, and a cancellation fee for the CVS.
Lou was starting to feel a bit sick herself every time she handed over her card. It hadn’t been refused yet, but — Nonsense, Lou told herself as the call rang out. This was just some weird debt phobia, a hangover from when she was younger. She had a steady job, no mortgage. What was the worst that could happen? She tapped a quick message to Tansy, reminding her there was custard in the fridge, her latest obsession.
She’d have a quick peek, though, while Rex was out. Lou logged onto her bank account. Four unread messages. Lou bit her lip. She’d taken her eye off the ball, what with Tansy, and then all this stupid Aimee and Melinda stuff. Not paid enough attention to the day to day. When had she last even checked her balance? Lou braced herself as she re-entered her password to access her bank messages. But they weren’t final demands, or however people told you they were going to come and repossess your compact disc player these days. Lou let out a little laugh. The last time she’d been in debt, people actually sent you letters, physical letters, with actual red writing on them. The last time she’d been in debt, people bought compact discs. She clicked open the top statement, the one for her current account.
Holy. Shit.
Lou had never seen that many zeros. And they weren’t on the good side either. She scrolled down, the account summary going on forever. Lou’s bank statement usually contained the same boring four or five entries. Power. Rates. School fees. The cash she took out every week to live on so that they never spent more than their budget. This list was just insane. Lou clicked to go over the page — over the page! She’d never gone over the page before. But then, she’d never bought a satellite television subscription before. As well as Netflix. Because Netflix didn’t have Game of Thrones, and she and Tansy wanted to know what all the fuss was about. The same way they’d wanted a rocking chair, and a dishwasher, and a microwave that didn’t stink, and a proper coffee machine, and a bassinet. The money they’d raised selling the old stuff didn’t cover a third of it.
Her hard-won savings were all gone. She was in overdraft, for the first time in a decade.
Lou paced around the council reception area, tapping her fingers on filing cabinets and copiers. Okay. Okay. This was manageable. She’d get paid at the end of the month, and she and Tansy would have to be extremely careful, and they’d have to leave the nice posh clinic and transfer to St Margaret’s, and Tansy would just have to understand.
Except that the bank account wouldn’t be the worst of it. Because most of their big purchases — the television, the sofa suite—she’d put on the magic ask-and-we’ll-lend-it-to-you app on her mobile phone.
Lou made herself sit back at her desk, made herself log into the account the man in the electronics shop had set up for her. Six months’ interest free, he’d said. So at least if her chickens were coming home to roost — God, she had to get that dreadful phrase out of her head — they wouldn’t do so until the middle of the year. The statement came up, another frighteningly long list of purchases, but yes, there was a little note saying she didn’t need to start paying interest till July.
It didn’t mean she didn’t have to start paying anything till July, though. Lou swore, loudly, in the empty office. Because of course there were still monthly payments, of the balance; what did she think it was, free money? And then, just to scare herself more, she clicked on the small print — the link actually said The Small Print, in that horrible comic-book writing — and looked at the rate of interest she’d be liable for if she didn’t clear her balance in time.
No wonder it was so damn easy to use the app. This made credit card charges look like mate’s rates. Lou put her head down next to her keyboard. How could she have been so stupid?
They’d nearly worked their way through the hotel’s chicken parma menu, from Hawaiian to Hibernian. Parma and a pot, nineteen dollars; they were getting a bit of a routine going now, ordering two flavours and going halves. The Italian worked, they both agreed. Aimee was less sure about the Greek.
‘Feta cheese does not belong on a parma,’ she said, waving her fork. ‘It doesn’t melt.’
‘But the eggplant’s good,’ said Damien. ‘That feels authentic.’ He pushed his chair away from the table. ‘So how’s Pete doing?’
‘The same,’ said Aimee. ‘Getting around a bit better, and his arm’s healing well. Still no improvement in his sight, though. The doctor says it’s psychological, the shock of the accident, but he’s convinced it’s never coming back.’
‘What about his memory?’ Damien folded his hands over his stomach. ‘Anything new?’
‘Nothing,’ said Aimee. ‘Or at least, nothing he’s mentioned.’ She placed her knife and fork together. ‘He doesn’t really like to talk about it.’
‘You need to keep him talking about it,’ said Damien. ‘It’s good for him. And it might jog something, help him remember.’
Aimee wasn’t sure she wanted anything jogged in Pete’s memory. But the visits were good for her. Like these lunches with Damien. She smiled at the investigator over the table, but with her mouth closed, in case there was parsley in her teeth. Nothing new to report, he’d said as he pulled her chair out in the Princess Royal’s little pub garden. They were running the engine from the plane in a special bath, or at least that’s what she thought he’d said. To see what condition it was in. So far, they hadn’t found anything suspicious.
It might just be, Aimee thought, that the person who knew what was best for Aimee’s head was Aimee herself. Forget their books full of lists, their little tricks to push her out of her comfort zone. Aimee didn’t need to be forced out of her comfort zone; that was only going to make her crazy. The doctors were clearly in cahoots with the pharmaceutical companies, pushing her until she had no choice but to take pills and lie in private psychiatric hospitals. What Aimee needed was to feel safe. And the closer she kept to the investigation, the more she knew and the safer she felt.
Damien started to make a little bill-signing motion to the waitress, then stopped. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did you want coffee?’
It was also nice to spend time with someone who didn’t treat her like a mental patient. Just offered her coffee like a normal person, without worrying what it might do to her nervous system.
‘Maybe a cake? They do a good ginger crunch. Or do you have to get back?’
And who wasn’t mentally comparing her to
his skinny ex-girlfriends.
‘I don’t have to be anywhere,’ Aimee said.
‘Hensley Council, Lou speaking.’
Lou had gone through the motions all morning. Answering the phone, dealing with the mayor’s Post-it demands — he loved a Post-it — updating the council website, her head whirring the whole time. What the hell was she going to do?
Because there were two things Lou knew for sure. One: this wasn’t her fault. She might have gone slightly overboard buying things, but it was only the stuff everyone else had. It wasn’t like she’d gone out and installed a Jacuzzi, for God’s sake. Lou was just trying to live like her friends did, in a comfortable house with furniture that didn’t hate you and beds you actually wanted to sleep in.
And two: it was only going to get worse. They could change doctors, but the real costs would arrive with the baby. Lou had been secretly googling chromosomal disorders, and among the heartbreaking pictures and testimonials, she’d discovered there was a very real chance that this baby could live, for a few years at least. Which was a wonderful thing, of course it was, but she couldn’t imagine a minute of those years was going to be cheap.
Seven to ten days, the doctor said. Let’s not leap to any conclusions until we’ve seen the results. But even if the test came back clear, they’d still need money, more money than they were currently living on. Lou had been fooling herself, she could see that now. Their finances had already been tight, and now their little family was about to grow by fifty per cent. Yes, there would be benefits and assistance and whatnot, but Lou knew first-hand that you always went over. Babies were expensive.
So what were her options? Lou waved the equality campaigners the mayor had specifically asked her to get rid of towards his office. ‘Go straight in,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to knock.’ She could ask for a raise, but there was about as much chance of that as her finding a winning Lotto ticket tucked down the back of her new couch. She could sell the house. She’d only moved in because she knew it would’ve upset her parents. But how much would they get for a run-down brick bungalow in the wrong part of a country town? And then where would they live? She could get a better job, but she didn’t exactly have a stellar CV, or the energy to even look. Lou eyed up the petty-cash box, wondering if she’d get away with it.
‘Louise.’ Rex came bustling into reception, followed by the campaigners. ‘Could you make our friends here a follow-up appointment, in around six months?’ The women started to protest politely but the mayor just flapped his hands. ‘Progress takes time, ladies, progress takes time.’ Lou could hear him locking his office door as he closed it. She booked the women in for early February, blocked off the whole morning. ‘Bring your friends,’ she said. ‘I’ve reserved the conference room.’ And she went back to worrying about money, a habit she thought she’d finally outgrown.
There was three hundred dollars in petty cash. Not even the price of an ultrasound. Lou stole a bottle of ibuprofen from the first-aid kid and left the money untouched. Less than a month earlier, she’d been convinced she’d be on a plane to London before she turned forty. Lou pictured herself on Melinda’s balcony, holding that stupid lantern, planning her escape. Ha. Three weeks later and all her careful savings were gone. Her running-away fund had got her as far as the Fenton Women’s Clinic. The only way she was leaving this office was in a coffin.
Lou fiddled with the little badge the equality women had given her. IT’S ONLY FAIR. There was one thing she could do. If she was brave enough. ‘Keep fighting,’ one of the campaigners had whispered, as the mayor stuck a Post-it to her computer screen asking for COFFEE, even though she was sitting there. Lou tore it in half. She’d stopped fighting a long time ago. The teenage Lou had allowed herself to be scared off by legal jargon and empty threats. By the time she realised what they were doing was wrong, her stubbornness had taken over. She’d gone from You owe me to I’ll show you.
But now she needed money, proper money. She pinned the badge to her Kmart shirt. Seventeen years ago they’d been able to buy her off. Seventeen years ago, they’d been able to bully her, to make her doubt herself. You don’t really know, do you? But she did. She always had. And now it was time to stick up for herself.
‘Louise.’ The mayor stuck his head around his office door, frowning at her equality pin. ‘I thought I asked for coffee.’
‘Get it yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m going on my break.’
‘And you?’ Damien said. ‘Forget everyone else. How’s Aimee doing?’
‘I’m all right,’ said Aimee, licking the froth from her spoon. The iced coffees here were excellent; they made them with condensed milk. She’d had two. ‘Still horribly sad about everything, but it’s not about me.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘You’re so close to the family. It’s only natural you’re upset.’
Aimee fiddled with her teaspoon.
‘I can’t get over how well everyone’s keeping it together,’ Damien continued. ‘Pete especially. I splashed boiling water on my youngest once, dropped a jug when she was little, and it ate me up for months. I can’t imagine what it’s like to think you might somehow be responsible for your child’s death.’
It came out of nowhere. Aimee felt a rush of adrenaline down her arms, and then she was trembling uncontrollably, heart pounding, her breath coming in little gasps.
He was at her side in a flash. ‘Aimee?’ He pressed a glass of water into her hand, held it steady so she didn’t drop it, his big fingers curled around hers. ‘It’s just a panic attack. Have a drink of that, you’ll feel better.’ She took a small sip, then another. ‘Good girl.’ He dampened a paper napkin, pressed it against the back of her neck. ‘What’s going on with you, Aimee Verratti? What aren’t you telling me?’ He smoothed the hair back from her forehead. ‘Talk to me. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.’
Melinda tried to stay focused on her emails, but it was impossible. Every few minutes her mind would float away from press requests and prospectus drafts and towards the unanswered questions that kept rising and exploding like fireworks in her brain.
Could a sky lantern actually set an engine on fire?
Weren’t planes designed so that things couldn’t randomly fly into them?
Weren’t there two engines anyway, just in case?
This is the last time, Melinda told herself, as she opened a new browser window. It was amazing how much she now knew about aviation. Accident statistics, health and safety regulations, the complete training and certification requirements for pilots in Australia. Melinda could probably land a light aircraft if she had to, just from what she’d read on the internet. She watched the unread emails pile up as she googled. Engine mechanics. Previous incidents. There were a few former pilots on Quora who looked useful; she created an account under a fake name and posted a carefully hypothesised question.
This must be what it felt like to be Aimee.
They’d only spoken once since the incident in the town hall. Melinda had been researching the range possibilities of sky lanterns — instead of dealing with a pile of curator concerns about their new targets — when she’d discovered they’d been illegal in Australia for nearly a decade. Wow, your blood really can run cold, she’d thought, as she stared at the Consumer Protection Notice permanently banning them. The notice was aimed at retailers, said nothing about actually using them, but even so, Melinda could see this made everything a hundred times worse.
Aimee hadn’t answered straightaway, and when she did, her voice was as cold as Melinda’s veins.
‘Did you know,’ Melinda said, not bothering with any niceties, ‘that they were illegal?’
‘I didn’t then,’ said Aimee. ‘Obviously. But I do now.’
‘But you bought them,’ hissed Melinda.
‘In 2001!’
The rest of the lanterns had still been at Melinda’s place, helpfully put away in her hall cupboard by the twice-weekly cleaning lady. Melinda yanked them out and threw them in the recycling.
Yanked them out of the recycling, and put them in an empty bin bag. She’d dump them later, on her run.
‘It means we committed a crime, doesn’t it?’ said Aimee, voice wobbling. ‘Even if we didn’t hit the plane.’
‘It’s only a crime if you get caught,’ Melinda had said, and then instantly regretted it. ‘Oh God, Aimee, I don’t mean that. No, we haven’t done anything wrong. Of course we haven’t. Lots of people must still have lanterns hanging about. Just best not to mention it to anyone, you know? No point confusing things.’
But Aimee had hung up.
Melinda turned back to her search query. God, the rate that private planes came down, it was amazing anyone used them. She wouldn’t, even if she had the money. When she had the money. But she wasn’t going to get this IPO off the ground looking at images of horror crashes. Melinda thought sadly again of Aimee. Her cousin could have been anything she wanted. But her head had decided to self-sabotage, and Aimee had chosen to hide away in poetry and children.
Emails began to ping up on the side of her screen from Clint. URGENT, they claimed, and Need your sign-off on this. Well, Melinda wasn’t going to sabotage her business just because Aimee hadn’t kept up to date on product recalls. Although she felt for Aimee, she really did. After all, the lanterns had been her idea. Melinda had originally planned to burn their resolutions in her (probably also illegal) chiminea. ‘No,’ Aimee had said. ‘I’ve got something better.’ No wonder she felt guilty. It really was a miracle she’d managed not to burst forward with some kind of public confession. Maybe she was coping with everything better than Melinda thought.
She was actually keeping very quiet, considering. Even Nick didn’t seem to know anything.
Melinda pulled her keyboard back towards her and entered ‘Aimee Verratti’ and ‘Hensley’.
A million links about school fairs and poetry readings and how to sign up for the local gardening club.
