The Grand Tour

by Olivia Wearne

  OLIVIA WEARNE was born in Melbourne. She is both a novelist and a screenwriter with several film credits to her name and a Masters in creative writing. Olivia now resides in Ballarat, Victoria, where she writes at the kitchen table that she shares with her filmmaker husband and two young sons. The Grand Tour is her first novel.

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To Michael

  For all the time

  For all time

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  Angela prowled the motor home’s interior as though casing the joint, sweeping her hand over surfaces and resting it on seating options, curtseying at each window to appreciate the view.

  ‘It’s fabulous,’ she whispered.

  ‘You don’t feel claustrophobic?’ Ruby asked from the doorway where she was cautiously stooped.

  Angela gasped at the idea. ‘It’s positively vast.’

  Ruby contemplated the glossy brochure in her fist, a page of white vans, each one a slight variation on the other, like a spot the difference. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to choose. I can’t tell which one this is.’

  ‘I feel like I’m on set.’ Angela draped herself across the dinette’s leatherette bench. ‘Mrs Brakenberg, they’re ready for your close-up.’

  ‘It’ll take some getting used to. We’ll have to start off slow, take a few shorter trips, just like we discussed.’

  ‘Scaredy-cat.’ Angela sprang to her feet again. ‘A sink, a microwave, it’s even got a water filter—they thought of everything. I’ve stayed in five-star hotels that weren’t this swank.’ She began opening cabinet doors. ‘There’s more storage here than in our units. Here. And here. And here, and here, and here—’ she laughed, ‘and here, and here …’

  ‘It doesn’t say anything about price. How do I know how much they cost?’ Ruby was feeling deflated. Of all the things she could spend her money on, this trumped-up donut van had topped the list. She’d equated motor homes with freedom: safe, comfortable, manageable freedom. She’d foreseen spontaneity and adventure, something to stop her from stagnating. The idea now seemed oppressive. Escape was never on the cards; you can’t break free from yourself.

  Angela’s enthusiasm took her as far as the bathroom. ‘Oh dear.’

  Ruby took a step forward to see through to the WC.

  ‘It’s practically a commode,’ Angela said. ‘It’s like a bathroom you’d find in a prison cell, or a submarine.’ She turned to face the basin and made a sound like a deflating bagpipe. ‘The mirror’s unkind. The light’s too blue. I look like a corpse dolled up for a viewing.’ She angled herself out of the niche. ‘We’ll have to pick one with a better bathroom.’

  ‘I’m not sure our budget will extend that far. What do you need more room for? It’s not like you’ll be doing yoga in there.’

  ‘I’ll be doing yoga every time I try and use that toilet.’ Angela’s admiration was clearly on the wane. She plopped down at the dinette and tilted her head back to see the TV bracketed to the wall. ‘I’ll get a crick in my neck if I watch a film.’

  Ruby opened the under-sink cupboard and a pair of bins unfurled. ‘One for recycling,’ she marvelled. ‘Goodness, they really have thought of everything.’

  ‘I’d happily downsize to a double bed, if it meant a little more space at the basin. I can be flexible.’

  ‘Flexible? You wouldn’t let me hang my jacket on your coat rack.’

  ‘It’s not a rack, it’s a display. Didn’t you notice my vintage hats? You almost flattened my silk turban.’ Angela slipped her white pump on and off her dangling heel. ‘I think we should look at some more models. This one feels like a bunker.’

  That’s it, Ruby thought to herself, that’s what it is: a portable panic room.

  The Winnebago growled contentedly as it gobbled up the highway. This was the second model they had viewed, after Ruby discovered the price of the first, which entailed tracking down an elusive salesman and teasing the figure out of him like a confession. She requested point-blank that he show them something in their price bracket.

  Ruby shifted her grip on the steering wheel. Her elbows annexed her ample bosom, soft and pliable. She occasionally joked that her physique matched her personality—they were both well rounded. For thirty-seven years, Ruby McPherson had manned the sick bay at Ballarat East Primary. Her ward, the small, off-white room with its two wire beds, served as a refuge from the scholastic social order. Desperate outcasts stood anxiously in her doorway complaining of sore stomachs (always the stomach; like method actors, they drew from what they knew), while the vibrant and potentially terrifying whoops and playground chants drifted in through the open window. Ruby’s days were spent administering to the bloodied knees and noses, sunburn and sprains, allergies and ailments of an ever-changing, never-changing procession of five- to twelve-year-olds.

  She had been honourably put out to pasture two years ago, an occasion that called for a paragraph in the school newsletter that read like an obituary and a morning tea attended by the less socially active members of staff.

  Ruby’s passenger wriggled irritably to emphasise her discomfort. Endless hours strapped in one position made it feel like Angela’s coccyx was boring a hole through the car seat. Unlike the driver, Angela was incapable of sitting quietly. She was forever fussing and fidgeting, allowing little hushing sounds and broken passages of thought to slip from her lips. Her every movement was accompanied by the pleasant jangle of gold jewellery scaling the length of her arm—a living wind chime. Every now and then, in ode to their princely conveyance, she was inspired to warble what little she knew of ‘King of the Road’, amounting to a jaunty ‘Dum de dum—King of the road …’

  ‘Half the country has the same idea,’ Angela murmured, as two four-wheel drives toting tin trailers passed by. Their all-in-one motor home seemed both practical and luxurious by comparison.

  She flipped down the visor to examine herself in the credit card-sized mirror attached to its back. ‘A seed,’ she observed, examining the offending irritant, caught between her teeth. ‘Fruit toast?’

  Ruby agreed it seemed most likely.

  Angela took the opportunity to smooth her hair and rectify minor flaws in her make-up. ‘I look like a marsh-mallow. Why didn’t you tell me I had too much powder on?�
� Despite her sixty-four years, Angela was as concerned with her appearance as she had been at thirty. She’d made a career out of looking immaculate. ‘My face is my calling card,’ she’d say, bestowing the listener with a can’t-you-tell? simper. She’d been a hair and make-up artist since dropping out of beauty college, working mainly in film and television, where her skills were employed enhancing Mother Nature ‘rather than paint caricatures for the stage,’ the quip accompanied by a theatrical grimace. Arriving on location with her red cosmetic case, which opened into three astonishing tiers of colour, Angela Brackenberg, nee Barkley, talked incessantly as she worked, earning a reputation as a gossip and rumour-monger, a status she vehemently denied, yet took no pains to rectify. She’d always felt compelled to charm. She was a social chameleon, adapting her behaviour to meet the personality of whomever she was addressing.

  Satisfied, Angela flipped back the visor and rocked on her seat before settling into silence. She knew she didn’t have to talk around Ruby, although expressing her thoughts tended to happen automatically. With Ruby she could be herself without having to amuse or entertain. The only other person Angela had felt so comfortable around had been her husband.

  She watched straw paddocks and ghost gums whipping by, then tilted back her head to watch the power lines tracking them from above, running like a perpetual music stave.

  ‘Dum de dum—King of the road …’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The billboard suspended from the railway overpass featured a faded suggestion: ADVERTISE HERE. Bernard noticed the poster’s bottom half had come loose so the contact number’s legibility depended on which way the wind was blowing. For a number of years Bernard’s face had graced this Ballarat bridge, smiling down at drivers beside a tagline: YOUR NEWS NIGHTLY. He hated the implication that he was personalising the news—it wasn’t anyone’s news, it was just news (and frankly, even the term ‘news’ seemed an overstatement).

  Passing under the billboard, the face staring out had provoked its model. Bernard had struggled to settle on the right expression and eventually opted for a direct look down the lens with a slight softening at the corners of the mouth—ideal for advertising insurance, not quite handsome enough for toothpaste or razors—but the man who appeared on the board had eyes that looked vaguely terrified and the smirk of an arrogant teenager. With frequent appraisal the face became ever more indistinct, whether due to exposure to the elements, or overexposure, Bernard couldn’t say.

  Bernard arrived home and dropped his package on the kitchen table. A new pair of windscreen wipers. This is what his days had been reduced to—a quest for productive reasons to leave the house. He’d also purchased a steering wheel cover, a lovely woolly sheepskin pelt. No longer would his palms be branded by black leather. (Nothing so practical as a carport was allowed to sully the historical integrity of his period home.) He was beginning to minister to his vehicle like a pet, his trusty steed. The car’s number plate was one of those personalised affairs that advertised the driver had more money than sense. Bernard’s had been a gift from the news crew, back when his popularity had equated to long-term employment. OWDEE 3. Bernard was stunned that there were two other Audi owners driving around with similarly inane epithets.

  A waft of Guerlain Samsara alerted him to the presence of his fairweather wife in the garden. He peered through the window at a figure reclining on a sun lounger; a slender arm reached out to collect a coffee mug from the pavers.

  Bernard grappled with the French doors. He had Mia to thank for the restoration of their home twelve years ago. Had she foreseen their future separation? Was the shoddy workmanship intentional? A daily reminder of their marital union by way of domestic annoyances: dripping taps, lifting tiles, creaky boards … a plethora of petty grievances.

  Bernard considered his house effeminate, all that Victorian fuss and trim. The building seemed to flirt with him whenever he returned to it—I knew you’d be back. He had to stoop slightly when passing under the veranda’s latticework and then wiggle his key in the lock until sensing some give, before pushing hard against the door; as with the sash windows and antique wardrobes, a battle had to be fought and won before any would submit to being opened. The home’s authenticity had been maintained at the expense of light—having overcome the front door, he was unfailingly surprised by the darkness, following the dim hallway like a miner descending a shaft. The rooms each bore a single stained-glass window, so that dust motes danced within spotlights of ruby or cobalt.

  He crossed to where his former spouse lolled on the bed of plastic straps, her head cushioned by a shock of black coffee curls that sprung from her scalp like broken clockwork. Her hair was now smudged with grey, like a charcoal sketch, because Mia even aged stylishly.

  ‘There is nothing in this house that hasn’t dropped or risen over the years so that it achieves the opposite of its intended function.’

  Mia flipped the page of her magazine. ‘You should get someone in.’

  ‘I’m not paying someone.’

  ‘Then fix it yourself.’

  Bernard had never wielded a tool in his life and felt completely inadequate about it, as his wife well knew.

  She lifted her eyes from the page and flicked her forefinger at Bernard’s pocket. ‘What the hell do you keep in these?’

  ‘State secrets.’ Mia had introduced Bernard to cargo pants at the height of their fashionableness. Now, decades on, he refused to wear anything else. He owned thirteen pairs in various lengths and colour combinations; including a three-quarter pair in terracotta (for when he was feeling bold). He’d team the cargos with a crisp cotton polo, and thought the outfit was inspired, being both comfortable and dignified. Not like those floppy fleecy trackpants favoured by cretins, sealed with a band of elastic to save the inconvenience of a button or zipper, like the pull-ups of toilet-training toddlers. Only the severely arthritic should be exempt from adult fasteners.

  ‘I wish you’d stop wearing them. You look bloody ridiculous. You’re fifty-eight. Too old for play clothes.’ Mia dipped her chin toward his feet. ‘And those.’

  Bernard didn’t bother looking down; the boat shoes were the perfect accompaniment to his outdoorsy pants.

  Mia shunned footwear in all its sensible forms. She loved to exhibit her feet and methodically filed and painted her toenails every week and wore open-toed sandals to show them off. Bernard always knew winter was approaching when Mia stepped out in a stiletto ankle boot. Seeing that harsh tapering heel gave him a melancholy sense of summer being over.

  ‘I was going to ask you to dinner tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m having people over and I need you to make up the numbers.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I said I was going to ask you—I haven’t actually asked. I’m not sure I want you coming if you’re going to turn up in that.’

  ‘Christ, Mia, what do you care?’

  ‘Your choices reflect on me—on my taste. I chose you once. If you fall into ruin then any crusty local might think he was in with a chance.’

  ‘I thought when you fled the coop I’d be released from having to impress your friends—most of whom you can’t stand, by the way.’

  Mia informed him, ‘I’m only having ones I like tomorrow. The Clarkes have pulled out. They’re driving Louise to the airport first thing in the morning. Can you believe little Louie the Fly is going to teach English in Japan? I don’t think I ever heard her grunt more than two words, let alone string a sentence together. How the hell is she going to teach the Japanese to speak English?’

  ‘She spoke a sentence to me once. She asked whether some band was going to play at Arena Stadium. Apparently I’d mentioned it on air.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘I didn’t remember having said it.’

  ‘Poor girl, she broke her vow of silence for that.’

  Mia had always been disdainful of his role as a regional news anchor. She’d been disdainful of his career in general: ten years playing Dr Charles Monroe on Red Cross, fo
llowed by a lengthy stint hosting a daytime talk show. That was where they’d met: Mia had been a guest on the program. She was an artisan jewellery designer who’d been commissioned by Princess Di to make a one-off necklace and earring set. At the time, Mia’s jewellery was all coloured baubles of hand-blown glass and resin. She would later move on to incorporating found objects into her pieces. Never jewellery—pieces. This entailed spending hours unravelling then re-entwining paper clips and coathangers, deconstructing cutlery, ripping apart dolls and umbrellas, or smashing crockery for mini mosaics. Toward the end of her career she took to plucking and dismantling deceased animals; a pair of diamante chicken feet earrings left little change from five hundred dollars. Mia had mounted the thank-you card that she’d received ‘in appreciation’ from the Princess in a frame alongside a photo of Di at an AIDS event wearing the pieces.

  She also mounted the interviewer, five years her junior.

  Dating an artistic older woman gave Bernard the kudos he needed to advance into more serious journalism. He began as a guest presenter on 60 Minutes, where he was mainly called upon to interview celebrities. This led to a role hosting a current affairs program, until deflated ratings were blamed on his popularity and not the appalling content. Before his sacking went public, Bernard accepted an offer from a regional station to anchor their prime-time news hour. His broadcast territory encompassed over a hundred thousand viewers, all of whom considered themselves the centre of the civilised universe and liked their evening news to reflect this: an average program might devote three minutes to a high school drama class performing The Pirates of Penzance for residents of the district nursing home.

  Mia loved to impress upon dinner guests just how provincial their local news coverage happened to be. She developed a comedy routine based around the show, mocking its total disregard of world affairs and token sampler of national politics, which she claimed it delivered begrudgingly, as though the government made them do it. She regaled their friends (all of whom had entered Bernard’s life through Mia, in much the same way as they’d pooled their CD collection), generally shipped in from the big smoke, with impersonations of Bernard’s feigned enthusiasm. They were entertaining on the evening the Pirates performance went to air. Mia had mimicked, ‘Aren’t those kids great? So true to life.’ Turning to the guest on her left, she re-enacted Bernard’s turn to his sportscaster. ‘I hope none of the elderly residents got seasick.’ She concluded by aping Bernard’s chuckle, her top lip arching to reveal a left incisor, a grin she said made him look like a loan shark.