Laura, I tell myself, firmly. Laura is my option now. I need to get Laura’s take on it.
But then again, maybe I need to keep it close. What if it’s nothing? It very likely is nothing. He’s new in the neighbourhood. He’s married. He’s just grateful Tim’s looking out for Bon, and he hasn’t lived here in Australia for a long time.
I rack my brains, trying to remember where he grew up. Melbourne, I think. Or possibly Perth. As soon as the kids are in bed, I’ll get online and stalk him. Not stalk him, research him. Just look at what he’s been up to since we last met; have a glance to see how locked down he keeps his Facebook profile and his Instagram. A harmless little check. Not stalking at all.
I’m strangely energised. The children notice and feed off it. We play music at dinner, and I make a game out of eating where we each spear a piece of food and feed it to the person on our left, while the person on our right feeds us. It’s very funny, until Freya accidentally stabs Tim in the cheek with her fork and I have to shout at them, in the particular, slightly guilty way I have when something that was my idea goes wrong.
Chapter Four
By the time Friday rolls around again I have cleaned my house until it’s unrecognisable. The toys are all put away in labelled tubs on shelves and the girls are ill at ease with their new environment. They can’t find anything they want, as obviously they are too small to read, and boxes with neat tags that say ‘trains’ and ‘dress-ups’ are of no use to them.
Before we leave the house at pickup time I quickly smear on some dark pink lipstick and attempt to organise my hair. It’s not that different from Inspector Tilde’s hair, really. It’s also shoulder-length and a colour best described as ‘blonde when I was a kid’. But my hair hasn’t been expensively highlighted and it doesn’t sit neatly like Tilde’s. Mine’s more like a disappointing fluffy triangle.
‘Why are you wearing that?’ Freya asks, wrinkling her nose and pointing at my lips. ‘Are you going out? Who’s going to look after us?’
‘What? No, I’m just, I don’t know, I just felt like a bit of colour.’
‘Can I do colouring in on my face too?’
‘It’s not really colouring in,’ I lie. ‘It’s just a bit of a pick-me-up.’
‘Can you pick me up too?’ asks Lola. ‘So I can see in the mirror and colour in on my face?’
‘Kids aren’t allowed to colour in their faces.’
Do we really have to have this conversation right now? One day I will explain to them about how makeup can be just for yourself, not necessarily for the male gaze. I’ll explain about the media’s portrayal of women and how conflicted you can feel when you want to set an example for your children about how self-love needn’t be tied to appearance, but I’ll do that on a day when I’m not trying to look hot for someone else’s husband.
* * *
We all walk back from the school together, the kids running ahead and mostly failing to stop at driveways to check for cars.
Adam’s very easy to talk to. He’s still funny and, honestly, I think I’m doing okay. At a glance you wouldn’t be able to tell that I haven’t flirted with anyone in eight or nine years. It seems to be a skill that stays with you, dormant, until needed. Like riding a bike, as they say, although without any kind of protection so if I crash it will hurt. I have to keep reminding myself he’s married. Any flirting I’m doing is strictly practice in case I meet someone who isn’t married.
We pass the afternoon drinking tea, separating Lego pieces on request, chatting about this and that, and scrupulously avoiding the topic of my ex-husband and Adam’s current wife.
Tim’s beyond delighted to have a playmate who isn’t a three-year-old girl, and my guilt subsides slightly. I haven’t made as much effort as I should to invite his school friends to play. Our afternoons are usually so full of Lola’s classes that there isn’t enough time.
I mention this to Adam as I’m sprinkling grated mozzarella on the pizzas, and he’s confused.
‘Why don’t her parents take her to the classes, if they’re so keen for her to learn all those things?’
‘They both work,’ I say, knowing already what his next three questions will be because I know how stupid this sounds.
‘Don’t you work too?’
‘I do, but I’m a freelancer and all I need is my laptop. I can work anywhere. I can take her to classes and still get my work done, whereas Troy needs to be in the head office a lot and Helen’s a Pilates teacher, which is hard to do via email.’
‘You don’t feel a bit taken advantage of?’
‘No,’ I tell him brightly. I put the pizzas into the oven. ‘I love being able to make it possible for my kids to spend time with their sister. I’m lucky I have such flexibility. And Helen and Troy don’t take advantage, really. They take my two every second weekend, when they’re not travelling. They’re back from Bali tomorrow, and they’ll take all three of them for the next two nights. It’s a pretty tidy set-up.’
The doorbell rings and all four children shriek as if they’re expecting Santa and the Easter Bunny to be there, arm in arm, ready to announce their engagement.
I hear someone open the door and then ‘Mummy!’ squeals Lola.
What?
‘Hellooo,’ comes Helen’s voice down the hall. ‘Surpri-ise! We came back a day early! There was going to be a problem with volcanic ash, they were saying, so we jumped on the plane today. More time with my baby!’
She appears with Lola in her arms in my kitchen. She looks like Instagram has been attached to a 3D printer. Her tan is perfect, her hair is shiny and falling in waves around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a boho Balinese dress with a cashmere jumper. Instead of looking like she just climbed out of a charity bin, like I would in that outfit, she looks ineffably chic.
Her eyes widen at the sight of Adam.
‘Well, hello. I didn’t realise you had company, Emma. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
‘Just a playdate. Helen, this is Adam. Adam, Helen. Adam’s son is Tim’s new buddy.’
‘How lovely. And your wife, Adam? Is she on her way to join you?’ Helen doesn’t mess around.
‘She’s overseas.’
‘Ah,’ says Helen with a little raise of her eyebrow at me.
‘Are you planning to take the kids now?’ I ask her. It would be very nice if she would go, quickly. ‘If I’d known you were coming today I wouldn’t have arranged dinner with Adam and Bon.’
I’m not sure what to do. If she takes the kids now, like they’re supposed to do the night they return, I’ll just be left sitting here eating a huge amount of pizza with Adam and Bon, which I suspect will be as boring for Bon as it will be awkward for Adam.
‘The kids haven’t eaten yet,’ I say. ‘Can I drop them over after dinner? I’ll need to pack my guys’ stuff for the weekend too.’
‘Oh, darling,’ says Helen. She puts on a serious face now. ‘Troy was going to explain but he’s just popped into the house to get the heating running. It turns out we can’t take Tim and Freya this weekend after all. It’s so sad.’ She makes a little frowny pout at me.
It turns out. Because this is all just in the lap of the gods, and not at all in your control.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You can’t. I . . . well, right. How come?’
‘It’s just that we were going to take them all to Troy’s mum and dad’s at Whale Beach but Marianne’s not been well and it’ll be too much for her, having the whole gang, so we thought maybe she could just have some Lola time this weekend. Besides, we’re going to be super jet-lagged and it just wouldn’t be any fun for the kids.’
It wouldn’t be any fun for her and Troy, is what she means. They were planning to dump all three kids on their grandparents all weekend and now they can’t. So my kids get the heave-ho and just one kid will be ditched with her sick grandma. Well that’s just fucking lovely. I’m not surprised Troy didn’t dare come in to share this bit of news.
I can’t look at Adam. Suddenly
I remember this feeling. It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced it and it very quickly reminds me why this whole fancying-people thing is a mug’s game.
This is the feeling you get when someone figures out who you are, when they see through who you’ve been desperately trying to present yourself as. I’ve been trying to show him unflappable Emma, tough Emma. Emma, the awesome single mum. In-charge-but-not-bossy Emma. Everybody-loves-Emma Emma. The Emma I was, all those years ago.
I wanted him to think I was the kind of person who, when life gives them lemons, whips up a lemon meringue pie and makes the extra yolks into hollandaise sauce without breaking a sweat.
Right about now he’ll be realising now what a fraud I am. I’m just taking the lemons and sucking them.
He must think I’m the most pathetic wimp.
It strikes me that I’m not used to witnesses. There’s not usually anyone here to see how this dynamic works between Troy, Helen and me. I’m used to operating in a shame vacuum.
Honestly, I would fight back about this — I mean, I do absolutely see why it needs fighting back against — but Helen and Troy always pull these stunts when all the kids are right there.
I can’t bring myself to stand before my children begging someone else — even if he’s their father — to take them away. How damaging would that be? So, as always, I just take it, even though it means looking like a downtrodden loser in front of Adam. ‘I’ll get Lola’s things,’ I say.
‘Yours won’t mind anyway,’ she says. ‘You’ve got your lovely friends here this evening and I would hate to drag Tim and Freya away from that just to hang around with boring old Daddy and me! And gosh, doesn’t that pizza smell wonderful. I couldn’t tear them away before they’ve had some of that.’
I know what I have to say here and I hate myself as I say it.
‘Would you like to take some pizza home? You probably haven’t got much in the fridge.’
‘You sweet thing! This girl is a complete darling,’ she says to Adam. ‘Troy and Lola would love some, but only if you’ve got enough and only if it’s no trouble.’
By the time she trips out the door ten minutes later, Helen has two pizzas, on a tray and ready to be baked, a litre of milk, a few apples and a dozen eggs, and only one child, whose clothes from the past week are all washed and folded neatly in her suitcase.
I close the door behind them and rest my head on the stained glass inlay for a moment. I don’t want to go back to the kitchen where Adam is sitting with his glass of wine and his rapidly declining opinion of me. But the pizzas are going to burn.
He’s taking the pizzas out of the oven when I come back in.
‘More wine?’ I offer. If I’m breezy and cool perhaps he won’t notice how I was just taken for a complete ride.
‘Allow me.’ He tops up my glass. I can’t meet his eye.
‘Does that happen a lot?’ he asks.
‘What? Helen borrowing milk? No, she’s usually very organised, but since they’ve just got off a plane—’
‘I meant more the flaking on taking the kids. That can’t be easy. Do you have to explain that to Tim and Freya or will their dad do it? Will they be very disappointed?’
I take a sip of wine so substantial it probably qualifies as a swig.
‘Not that often. Maybe once a month. And it’s easier on the kids if I tell them. Troy isn’t always as tactful as he could be. But honestly, I don’t mind.’
‘I thought the way you dealt with it was amazing. I don’t know how you didn’t tell her where to go, but I can see why you didn’t.’
I am flooded with relief.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘I know it looks like I’m being taken terrible advantage of.’
‘Which you are,’ Adam says, ‘but as far as I can see, there isn’t very much you can do about it that won’t make everything really shit for the kids.’
‘Exactly!’ Oh my God. He understands. Someone actually understands. There is a very handsome man sitting in my kitchen, drinking wine with me and understanding. And soon we will eat pizza.
I know later things will be bad again, because my kids have been rejected, once more, by their dad, and they’re going to figure it out eventually. But selfishly, right now, in this very moment, I’m the happiest I have been in years.
* * *
Tim doesn’t say much over dinner. I’m planning how I’ll talk to him about it later, when there’s no one else around if he needs to have a cry, when Adam asks, ‘You right, mate? You a bit disappointed about the weekend?’
‘Yep. I’m okay,’ Tim says, staring down at his pile of pizza crusts. ‘My dad’s very busy. Did you know he’s the Lord of the Juice? But he’s going to make some one-on-one time for him and me soon.’
My moment of happiness is turned to ash by the incinerator that suddenly seems to have taken up residence in my chest. If I look at Tim I will properly cry.
Even worse than me knowing that Troy isn’t going to make time for his son is Tim knowing that too. The truth is that Troy is only barely interested in being Lola’s dad and he is almost completely not interested in his other two children. This fact is something I had hoped I could keep from my kids.
There is a fashion in modern child-rearing of not lying to children. You know, apart from the Big Three lies — Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy — that are socially required. Once upon a time I was on board with that theory. I know better now. The people who don’t lie to their kids are the people who don’t have any real reason to.
I’ve spent three years lying to myself. I’m exceptionally good at it. Troy doesn’t love me. He hasn’t for a long time.
And there isn’t a lot of evidence that he loves his kids that much either. But I hope I can avoid ever admitting that to them. There are some truths that should not be told.
‘That sounds like a good plan,’ Adam says to Tim, and I can tell he knows something’s up. ‘Bon’s probably a bit over one-on-one time with me. If you ever want to hang out with us, Tim, we’d be very happy to have you along. Maybe next time we go down to the harbour to fish you could come with us.’
I smile gratefully at Adam and he gives me a little nod. He gets it. I can tell. God, he’s hot. What on earth is the story with his wife? Something’s not what it seems there. I have to find out more about this situation, but I can’t quite figure out how without making my intentions clear.
What I need is to be back in high school. I need a friend to go up to him outside the chip shop after school and suss out who he likes, who he like likes and who, if anyone, he loves.
Or I suppose, I could be an adult about this and just enjoy his company, and if it turns out that he and his wife are no longer together, maybe I could, in a totally casual and grown-up way, seduce him some time.
Ha. As if I would have the first clue how to go about that. My three years of single life since Troy left haven’t exactly been a riot of passion. Between the children in my bed and my own ridiculous pining for the prick who abandoned me, sex has been fairly close behind exercise as the last thing on my mind.
This evening, however, sex seems to have burst forth from my psyche like a long-dormant bulb in the garden. No, actually it’s not as subtle as that. Sex has leapt out of whatever dark shrubbery of my mind I’ve had it stuffed into, like a flasher, whipping off its raincoat and waving all its bits around for everyone to see. Frankly, it’s alarming.
I feel so aflame I’m convinced Adam must be able to tell that although I seem to be participating in a conversation about the upsides and downsides of our suburb (upsides: excellent bakery, low crime rate, good school, many coffee options; downsides: stultifyingly boring after eight in the evening and moderately boring before, painfully middle class, yet no Japanese restaurant), I’m actually thinking only about what his chest might feel like.
All the wine we’re drinking is not helping the situation. It’s making me think of ways to ask him more about his marriage. Ways that seem subtle to me now, but which may actu
ally just be a function of my thoroughly shiraz-soaked judgement.
Freya’s eyes are at half-mast and I realise it’s past eight o’clock. Someone has to put this kid to bed. That person, once again, is me. I don’t want the evening to end.
‘What time’s Bon’s bedtime?’ I ask Adam. ‘Shall I put Freya down and we can put a movie on for the boys?’
Christ, I might as well have just taken off my top and jiggled my boobs in his face. As come-ons go, that had all the subtlety of a lap dance.
But he nods! ‘Normally he’s in bed by now, but what the hell? It’s Friday.’
‘Okay, will you choose something? Netflix is on my laptop, plugged into the telly. I’m happy with anything G, or PG if you think it’s okay for Bon. Tim will try for Jaws because he heard about it in the shark talk at the aquarium, but I’m not ready for his childhood to end, so absolutely not. Other than that I will leave it to your discretion.’
‘Roger that,’ says Adam.
I scoop up Freya and, bypassing a bath, plonk her on the loo for a wee while I give her teeth a fairly cursory scrub with her beloved Tigger toothbrush. A pull-up, tiger-striped pyjamas, a kiss and only one reading of The Tiger Who Came to Tea later, she is fast asleep.
I return to the kitchen, where Adam is loading the dishwasher. I practically have an orgasm on the spot.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ I tell him.
‘It’s no trouble,’ he says.
There’s a pause. The pause turns into a proper silence. What do I say? Is this an uncomfortable silence? It is for me. Is Adam finding it weird? How can I tell? His back is to me and he’s scrubbing melted-on cheese from my pizza tray, like something out of Mills and Boon.
I just stand there and watch, mesmerised by the shape of his back and the way I can see the muscles moving even through his shirt and jumper.
How to Be Second Best Page 6
