He goes on to attack the vet, the government and the RSPCA. It’s out of hand, and Abby wishes it was over. The arguments are circular and repetitive and no traction is being made in any positive or constructive direction. The facilitator obviously agrees; soon afterwards he closes the meeting. The issue is far from resolved, but Abby supposes they have at least gone through the motions of public consultation, which was probably all the meeting was meant to achieve. That would have been the government directive, she assumes. This is a rather tragic perspective, but she can’t suppress her cynicism.
She files out of the auditorium with the rest of the crowd, listening to their hostile murmurings. Nobody is happy—this was always going to be the case. In the foyer she sees Cameron talking to Martin Tennant again, overhears him offering the activist a ride to the airport. For a moment their eyes lock and Cameron nods at her apologetically. Then he looks away and not long after he is gone, striding out through the doors with Martin.
Abby hovers among the dispersing crowd, waiting for Quentin. She feels lost after seeing Cameron, but she knows this is a situation of her own creation. It could have been very different. If she had reconciled with Cameron she could have been sitting with him today. He could have held her hand and discussed the proceedings with her.
Directionless and unsure what to do with herself, she asks Quentin to drop her in the city. It’s on the cusp of evening and the walkways have thinned out, everybody has gone home to dinner. She visits the bottle-shop then wanders into a Thai restaurant and sits at a table with her bottle of wine. It’s cheap rubbish, but it’s all she can afford and tonight she doesn’t give a damn—she has bought it for effect, not for quality . . . the meeting has left a bad taste in her mouth. She waves the waiter over to open the bottle and take her order.
‘How many glasses?’ he asks tactfully.
‘Just the one, thank you,’ she says, trying to appear comfortable in her aloneness, but in fact feeling small and isolated and sad.
He delivers a glass and she fills it, starts swigging; what else can she do? It’s a stupid strategy but she sits at her solitary table by a small flickering tea-light candle and works her way through half a bottle.
When her food arrives—spring rolls and curry puffs and a bowl of white rice—she is unable to eat. She feels herself crumpling, a well of ridiculous self-pitying tears rising. Seeing Cameron today has unhinged her again, it has reminded her of her loneliness. She had good reason to end their relationship, an important inescapable personal cause. But it was good when she was with him. He was supportive and accepting, and she liked the feel of his body in bed, the smell of him, his deferential attention. Fact is, she wants him but she can’t have him, and her rational self knows why. He was digging too close, cleaving to the needy parts of her soul, so she pushed him away. But it’s too confronting, too raw to see him moving on with his life. He’s managing without her—of course he is. She simply has to get over it.
She empties her glass of wine and leaves the rest behind, goes to the counter and pays her meagre solo bill. Involuntary tears well again and she bats them away. She’s had enough of herself for one day. She has to go home.
Dazed and only marginally sober, she leaves the restaurant. Outside, the world ticks on—the city has come to life again after dinner. Couples drift by, arm-hooked, raucous groups of young men guffaw at their own pathetic humour, and late-night shoppers waltz along, strung with bags.
Abby moves uncertainly among them, seeking the nearest taxi rank. On auto-pilot she finds herself at the roadside near a café. Cars flash their white eyes at her as they plough past, and jaywalkers flit through traffic. Across the road, in glass-fronted restaurants, people chat and laugh over dinner. Watching them, Abby feels a stab of regret. That could have been her with Cameron tonight, wining and dining together, if she’d played her cards differently.
She chokes on the sour taste of disappointment, and when she sees an empty taxi her hand shoots out. It slides to the kerb and she gets in. The driver swivels to look at her, his eyes gleaming in the muted light. He is tall and dark, and for a moment he reminds her of someone. The tangle of the day roils in her like a brewing storm. She gives the address, leans back and closes her eyes.
They are there in less than ten minutes. It is shadowy and quiet among the towering apartment blocks, the light subdued. She hesitates then pays the driver, gets out and watches him pull away. Her feet are leaden as she walks to the door and presses the buzzer. No response.
She swings away, semi-relieved, walks twenty metres up the street, turns back reflexively and presses the buzzer again. There is a click then Cameron’s voice: ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Abby.’
Silence then another click. ‘Come on up.’
Tight with misgivings, she takes the lift and walks the hushed carpet to his door. In the dim light of the corridor she pauses and considers, almost turns and leaves, then lifts a tentative hand and knocks. Emptiness spreads around her. There is nothing behind the door. She wavers, gathering the internal momentum to walk away, then the door swings open and he is there, arm crooked against the architrave, his face dark and unreadable.
‘I just wanted to talk,’ she says.
He leans his head against his arm, sagging slightly, and emits a slow sigh, his eyes swinging away from her then sliding back. She smells muskiness on his breath, the tang of alcohol.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I can go away.’
‘No.’ He stretches like a waking cat and steps back. ‘Come in if you like.’
Up close to him like this, she realises she has once again forgotten how big he is, how tiny she feels beside him. His gaze is brooding, deeper and heavier than she has seen it before. She slips by him into the apartment, unsure whether she should be here, aware of his eyes on her skin. The door closes behind her. Swallowing her anxiety, she stands tall and walks through to the lounge where the dim lights glow yellow on the artwork. The carpet absorbs all sound and when she turns he is standing closer to her than she realised. Something in her stomach contracts.
He lifts a tumbler from the chunky wooden coffee table and takes a deep swig of drink. The ice rattles and his hand curls around the glass. ‘Do you want one?’ he asks, raising his glass and his eyebrows at her.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Bourbon. You can have it with or without Coke.’
‘With, please.’
He strolls into the kitchen, something unreadable about him, and clunks his glass on the white stone bench, pulls another tumbler from an overhead cupboard. He crackles ice into both glasses from the dispenser in the stainless steel fridge. Then he sloshes in generous portions of spirit, topping hers with Coke before thrusting the glass at her. Task completed, he glides by her and slumps on the couch. ‘Sit down,’ he says.
She deliberately chooses an armchair diagonally across from him and sinks into the soft leather, but she’s unable to relax. His vibes are less friendly than she’d expected, and there is something raw and restrained about him, as if he is curbing buried anger. ‘You’re not very happy to see me, are you?’ she says.
‘You’ve interrupted my private binge.’
‘Why are you drinking?’ she asks, even though she already knows.
‘Stress relief,’ he says.
The words seeing you hang unspoken in the air. Dodging his eyes, Abby sips her bourbon.
The apartment is quiet. In the past when she’s been here, the TV has usually been on or there has been music playing. Not tonight. She hears the slow huff of his breathing and the sound of ice clinking in his glass as he takes another swig. Her heart rate ratchets up.
‘Why are you here?’ he asks.
She’s disarmed by his directness and her courage evaporates—she shouldn’t have come. ‘I wanted to talk.’
He exhales as he leans forward to set down his glass. Then he sits back, his arms spread along the top of the lounge. His eyes darken as he looks at her. ‘You didn’t just com
e here to talk, did you?’
Her voice catches in her throat and there are no words she can glue together. She’s suddenly shy and fluttery. Why is she here? Something about that taxi driver.
‘Come here.’ He pats the couch beside him.
She shakes her head, a small attempt to assert herself, and he gives a semi-exasperated sigh and stands up. He holds out a hand, and she accepts his warm grasp and lets him draw her up out of the chair. He takes both her hands and holds them in his upturned palms while he studies her. Then his hands slide up her arms and he moves close, touching his lips to her neck.
Yes, he is right. She isn’t just here for a chat. She is here for losing and forgetting, surrender and release. When he holds her and kisses her and slides his tongue on her skin, her blood hums and her body sings and she gives herself over to the crush of desire.
It’s wild and desperate love-making, hungry, as if this is the last time and the world is about to end. The intensity and emotional brutality of it breaks them both open. Abby can feel herself tearing inside—it is wonderful and terrible all at once. She wonders if it is the same for Cameron. In his eyes, she sees both ecstasy and pain.
Afterwards she presses her face against the broad hairiness of his chest and weeps. He crushes her close. She feels the power of his feelings in the hard thud of his heart beneath her ear. He knows she won’t stay—she can feel it in him: a heavy sadness of premature loss.
He holds her a long time and they breathe into each other, chests rising and falling, skin against skin, their limbs enmeshed. Her fingers trace the shape of his back—the nub of his shoulder blade, the curve of his shoulder. He smells rich and humid like a damp evening after a hot day.
He tries to stay awake—she senses the effort in him—but sleep slowly takes him. He twitches with it, his limbs gaining slack stillness, his breaths deepening, beginning to rasp softly.
She disengages herself with infinite stealth, expecting to waken him, but he sleeps on.
In the lounge room she tugs on her clothes where she left them on the floor. Then she tiptoes on fairy feet to the door, escaping like a thief. In the lift her heart sinks in synchrony with her descent.
31
Daphne is standing semi-naked in the bedroom. She has fumbled undone the buttons of her cardigan and blouse and trousers and let them drop to the floor. All that is left is her bra and underpants and several folds of sagging old skin. She’s no oil painting anymore, that’s certain. She hasn’t put on any weight since she was younger, but all the tone and elasticity have gone. When she looks at herself, she’s reminded of the dog in the toilet-roll ad, all sad and droopy. There’s not much she can do about that.
She dips her hands into the cardboard box on her bed and lifts out the shimmering pink dress, admiring its sheen in the soft afternoon light. She likes the smooth feel of the fabric between her fingers. It’s not very fancy compared with ballgowns these days, but to her it is still the dream-filled sumptuous garment it once was.
She concertinas the dress and, with effort, lifts it up over her head. It’s a struggle to insert herself inside, not because the dress is tight, but because her shoulders are weak and she hasn’t the strength to keep her arms elevated for long. For a moment she thinks it is all going to end badly—she is encased in fabric and can’t find a way through . . . an image of Mr Bean with his head stuck inside a Christmas turkey comes to mind and she almost laughs. But it won’t be funny if she can’t sort out this tangle. She will end up on the floor in a heap, and it would be far too embarrassing to be discovered by Ray, who is working in his office as usual.
Gasping a little, she lowers herself to lie sideways on the bed and rests for a moment, her arms still extended above her head, the box pressing into her back. Sound thumps in her head like a hammer—it’s always worse when she’s stressed. She forces herself to breathe slowly then pushes upright again and wriggles her way into the dress.
There she is in the dressing-table mirror, her face flushed and her mouth gaping. It’s not a pretty sight. Her body has crumbled these past decades: her lips are thin and lined, her face has deep valleys, and her shoulders are stooped. But the dress is still gorgeous and it hangs from her in an almost flattering way. She smiles at the broad mauve-grey ribbon that is stitched around the hem, the band of matching lace around the waist, the dropped-V back, once so risqué and revealing. If only she could wind back the clock.
She reaches behind her back in an attempt to grasp the zip, but it’s beyond her. She will have to leave it for later—perhaps Abby can help. That’s why Daphne has pulled the dress out after all, so she can show it to Abby. She had planned to give the girl a peek into the box, but then an irrepressible urge had come over her to try the gown on again.
She slides her hands down over the fabric, enjoying its silken touch. Then she goes to the bathroom to put on some make-up. Standing in front of the vanity she smiles wryly. This could be interesting . . . she hasn’t attempted eye shadow in years.
At two-thirty, she has the kettle boiled and several pieces of Pam’s lemon slice laid out on a plate. Pam has gone supermarket shopping with Ben prior to collecting Jamie and Ellen from school. They’ll all be home after half past three—noise and madness arriving as they surge through the door. Daphne hopes she will be done by then so she can save Abby from the onslaught of her great-grandchildren.
There’s a knock at the door, and Daphne smooths her hands over the dress again, her heart bunting with excitement. Abby must be here. Daphne wonders what she will think of the dress. She arranges a smile on her lips then goes to the door and swings it wide.
Abby is looking down the street as if she might be expecting to see someone, maybe that young man in the red Commodore—Daphne hasn’t heard anything more about him. But no, she thinks, as she watches the girl, something else is distracting Abby, something internal, a suggestion of melancholy and deep sadness. Daphne had intended to focus on the story of the dress today; but now she determines to alter her agenda. In the girl’s dejected posture she sees there is more important work to be done. The gown is a mistake. Daphne wishes she wasn’t wearing it.
At that moment, Abby swings and meets Daphne’s eyes. Her reaction, her transformation, is almost comical; the melancholy slips away and her eyes widen. She hesitates then steps back as if for a better view. ‘Wow. What an amazing dress.’
Daphne musters a coy smile. She will have to play the part, even though the plan has changed. ‘Do you like it?’ She shuffles backwards and orchestrates a slow turn, stretching her arms out for effect. When she completes her uncertain spin, she notices tears in Abby’s eyes.
‘You look beautiful,’ Abby says.
This is a generous lie, but Daphne doesn’t mind. ‘I think I made a mess of the make-up,’ she says.
Abby laughs. ‘The lipstick’s a bit wobbly, but you’ll do.’
‘I couldn’t do the zip,’ Daphne says.
‘Here, I’ll fix it for you.’
Abby finishes off the zip and the hook and eye while Daphne tries not to think about the girl inspecting her knobby, white-skinned back. She’s beginning to think there is more humiliation than joy in parading the dress for Abby. She asks the girl to re-boil the kettle and goes to her bedroom for a cardigan to cover some of her blotchy exposed flesh. Perhaps it would be even better to take the dress off, but it is beyond her arthritic shoulders, and she can’t bring herself to ask Abby for assistance in this task too.
In the kitchen, the girl is staring out the window at the yard. Or perhaps it is more like mooching: a dreary semi-absence as if she is here more out of duty than desire. This is not a feeling Daphne has ever had in Abby’s presence before, and she knows things are not right with the girl. ‘You’re not yourself today, are you?’ she says, gently drawing the girl’s attention back into the room. Abby sets a too-bright smile on her face, but it droops at its corners, and Daphne knows she has hit a raw spot.
‘It’s not about me today,’ Abby says. ‘It’s
about you and your dress.’
Daphne shakes her head resolutely. ‘There is a story behind the dress, but it can wait. You’re feeling blue and I need to know why.’
Abby sighs and leans her hip against the bench, focuses back out the window, her hair falling about her shoulders in a disheveled and unkempt way—it appears she hasn’t brushed it this morning. ‘Have you been reading the papers?’ she says. ‘All this kangaroo stuff is getting me down.’
‘You mean the cull they’ve been talking about?’ Daphne asks.
‘Yes, that.’
Daphne knows all about the cull because it has triggered even more craziness around here lately. Her granddaughter Sandy’s wildlife group has been caught up trying to stop it, and, as usual, everyone has had to bend around Sandy’s needs. With all Sandy’s emergency meetings, the children have been practically living here. Four-year-old Ben comes nearly every day, and then Jamie and Ellen have to be cared for after school. Pam has been up late at night cooking stews and casseroles, and when Sandy comes to pick up the children each evening, they stay on to dinner. Pam and Sandy bath the children then plonk them in front of the TV, after which Sandy starts sewing pouches for the joeys that will be orphaned when the cull goes ahead. Pam has been roped into sewing pouches too; Daphne can’t believe it. She watches them both—her daughter and her granddaughter—heads bowed, needle and thread in hand, tacking old jumpers and windcheaters into cosy new homes for joeys. But Daphne can’t help thinking it’s all a bit futile. While the others sew, she sits in her chair and reads and does crossword puzzles, keeping her mouth tight-shut, thankful her arthritis and poor eyesight exempt her from helping. She wouldn’t be seen making pouches for orphaned joeys that ought to be killed with their mothers.
During the sewing bees, there have been numerous discussions about Sandy’s wildlife group and their plans. Apparently the joeys will be shared among the experienced carers in the group, which means more joeys for Sandy. Pam doesn’t think Sandy can cope, but when she says as much, it falls on deaf ears. Sandy wants to save as many joeys as possible or the poor things will be knocked on the head and thrown into a pit. She bursts into tears, and Pam rushes to console her, promising to do whatever she can to assist. It isn’t a good resolution, Daphne thinks. In fact, it’s no resolution at all. But whenever she tries to weigh in and add some perspective, Sandy becomes hostile, arguing that she doesn’t expect Daphne to understand. Gran, you’re from a time when the rights of animals didn’t matter. You fed kangaroos to the dogs. But things are different now. Society is more evolved. We can’t just keep shooting things. It always ends with Pam reaffirming her support for Sandy while sending Daphne an eagle glare that says, Shut up, we don’t need your input on this. Daphne generally takes the hint and goes to bed.
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