by Kris Webb
‘This is a great place,’ Tony said, looking around.
‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘I bought it about a year ago and Patrick moved in to help with the mortgage. He has his own space downstairs, so it works well.’
We chatted as I made coffee for the three of us. I spooned froth onto the last coffee and handed mugs to Tony and Patrick. Pushing Jack’s highchair in front of me, I led the way to the deck. As an afterthought I threw an extra couple of pancakes on his tray. Any development on the previous week’s diet was a good thing.
‘Tony is the producer for a television station,’ I informed Patrick, terrified that the conversation would peter out.
‘Assistant producer on a very small community station,’ Tony qualified.
‘So you do ethnic programming and things like that?’ Patrick asked.
‘Well . . . no.’ Tony looked embarrassed. ‘Most community TV stations do that kind of stuff. The whole idea is to provide everyone in the community with access to TV. But a guy called John Abbot started TV53 about five years ago. He’d made a stack of money in the property market and always fancied being in television, but no one was interested in him. So he decided he’d buy his own station – how he got the approvals, I have no idea. So, not only do commercial stations think we’re a joke, so do the real community stations. Credibility is something we are very short on.’
‘What kind of shows do you make then?’ I asked.
‘We do all kinds of programming – mostly pretty badly. That doesn’t seem to bother John, though. I’m convinced he thinks we’re giving CNN a run for their money.’
‘So why do you work there?’ Patrick asked.
Tony shrugged. ‘I finished a film and television course a year ago but couldn’t find any other job in the industry. My theory was that at least it was a foot in the door, but lately I’ve been starting to have my doubts.’
I wondered briefly what he had been doing before that but didn’t want to seem like I was prying.
‘Still sounds more glamorous than being an accountant,’ Patrick commented.
‘You’re an accountant?’ Tony asked in surprise.
‘Yeah, afraid so,’ Patrick said glumly.
Patrick made no attempt to hide how unsuited he and the accounting profession were and was convinced he had been temporarily insane when he enrolled in a business degree. He claimed that the university social life was then so good, he gave his career little thought until three years later he found himself sitting in a suit and tie in a tiny cubicle in a big firm in the city.
‘Sorry.’ Tony seemed concerned that his reaction had offended Patrick. ‘It’s just I wouldn’t expect an accountant to come up with a routine like that.’
‘No, we’re not exactly a wild and crazy bunch, are we?’ Patrick was clearly not in the least insulted.
I looked at Tony out of the corner of my eye – he was definitely not ugly. A flash of resentment hit me. Even if there had been a vague possibility of Tony being interested in me, Jack’s presence would put me in the too-hard basket. I had been lumbered with someone else’s child who was going to ruin my professional and personal life.
I looked over at Jack, who was still fully occupied ripping his pancakes apart, and immediately felt a rush of guilt. It wasn’t Anita’s choice not to be around to bring up her child. The fact that she thought I would be the best person to look after him was the greatest compliment anyone had ever paid me.
And anyway, my love life hadn’t exactly been spectacularly successful before Jack came along.
I’d broken up with Michael, my last boyfriend, two years previously. He and I had moved to Sydney together. I’d worked in Jennings Walker’s office there, while Michael had found a job in a competing law firm. We’d had three great years spending every cent we made – mostly on eating and drinking. It had all been fabulous until I’d woken up with a monumental hangover one Sunday afternoon just as the sun was going down on a glorious day. I’d decided that I needed to make some changes to my life. In a rush of enthusiasm, I’d joined a gym and started a cleansing diet, much to Michael’s amusement.
But when he discovered I was serious, he stopped being amused and we started fighting. Without the parties and the alcohol, we didn’t seem to have all that much in common any more. I moved out shortly afterwards and requested a transfer back to Brisbane not long after that.
Two years and some spectacularly unsuccessful dates later, I had been wondering whether I’d done the right thing.
Michael had been in Brisbane for a wedding a month ago and in true ex-couple style we’d arranged to meet up for a drink one night to catch up. One drink had become two, and many hours later we had ended back in his hotel room deciding we should never have separated. That decision had lasted until morning, when we’d disagreed on where we should have breakfast and then on pretty much everything else. He’d returned to Sydney and I’d realised once and for all that we weren’t meant to be together.
But my chances of finding the love of my life now seemed to have plummeted from small to infinitesimal.
Patrick’s laugh brought me back to the present and I realised I hadn’t heard a word of the conversation.
‘You’re not serious, they were really picketing?’
‘Trust me, I wouldn’t joke about something like that,’ Tony said ruefully. ‘A few weeks ago my boss gave me a bit of leeway to make some programming changes. I decided that the children’s show was awful and figured that there’d only be about three mothers and a couple of insomniacs tuning in anyway. So I axed it. Every day for the last week I’ve had about ten women and children parading around the car park with banners demanding my head. We’ve got a bit of a stand-off happening at the moment. I’m going to have to come up with some kind of alternative fast – otherwise Hooray It’s Morning! is going to be back on.’
‘Hooray It’s Morning?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Yup,’ Tony replied with a grimace. ‘What do you think, Jack?’ Tony turned to him. ‘Would you be seen watching a television show that has a host who dresses up as a flower?’
Jack spat some half-chewed pancake out of his overloaded mouth.
‘See!’ Tony exclaimed. ‘My thoughts exactly. This boy has taste.’
I wasn’t so sure as I watched Jack spread the masticated mess across the highchair tray.
Tony watched Jack for a few seconds before looking at me. He smiled slightly, his eyes sad.
‘No wonder you’re falling off gym equipment,’ he said simply.
Unable to think of a suitable response, I just nodded. A silence stretched and Tony looked at his watch.
‘Well, I need to get back home and try to come up with some ideas for a new show before I’m due at the station. I was hoping the gym session would clear my head, but it doesn’t seem to have worked.’
He drained the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘It was very nice to meet you all.’
‘Thanks for driving me home,’ I said to Tony at the door. ‘Guess I should get onto my mechanic again – the day his company starts giving frequent flyer points, I’ll be jetting all over the world.’
‘Good luck with it,’ Tony said as he headed down the steps. ‘Maybe I’ll see you at the gym again – stay off those sit-up balls!’
Well that, as they say, is that, I thought glumly, turning back inside.
SEVEN
As I realised the faint light filtering through the blinds was from the sun and not the streetlights, I drew a deep sigh of contentment.
After six almost sleepless nights, Jack seemed to have finally got the idea that dark hours were for sleeping. Last night we had both had almost seven hours uninterrupted sleep and as I stretched on the cotton sheets I felt a surge of optimism.
Maybe the worst of it was over and things were going to get better from here, I thought lazily. Turning over, I closed my eyes again and dozed happily, dreaming that I was having my arm stroked by a faceless but, I was sure, beautiful man. The dream faded but the stroking rema
ined and became an insistent tugging. Opening my eyes I saw Jack standing beside the bed with one hand on my arm.
The first morning I’d been woken by Jack rummaging around in the study, I had just about had a heart attack. I had thought that the whole idea of a cot was that it kept a child in. It wasn’t until I discovered Harold wedged against the side that I realised that Jack had used him as a step to climb over the rail. How he managed to get down from the top remained a mystery. But as he seemed to be able to do it without breaking any limbs, I wasn’t going to add it to my already extensive list of things to worry about.
‘Good morning,’ I said softly. ‘Would you like to jump into bed?’
He nodded and I pulled him up and into bed with me. He snuggled down beside me with his head on my pillow, and feeling slightly foolish I found myself blinking back tears.
This was the first time Jack had voluntarily sought me out and here he was tucked up beside me in bed.
I could feel his warm tummy against me where his pyjama top had ridden up. His soft hair tickled my face but I didn’t want to move in case I spoiled the moment.
As if we did this every morning, he looked at me commandingly and said what sounded like ‘boos’.
‘Ah yes, I’m sure there is a bus outside, Jack,’ I ventured uncertainly. A headshake and a frown made it clear this was not the desired response.
‘Boos . . .’ I repeated to myself. ‘Ah,’ I said as an idea struck me. ‘Wait here a second.’
Leaping out of bed I hurried into Jack’s room and gathered an armful of the storybooks that had been in his suitcase.
The smile on his face when he saw them confirmed my guesswork and I settled back into bed with him. Half an hour later I decided I couldn’t read Diggers and Dumpers one more time. Despite the choice of all kinds of much more colourful and beautiful books, it was the only one he was even remotely interested in and he wanted to hear it over and over again.
Breakfast was a bowl of cereal for each of us. Miraculously, Patrick’s pancakes seemed to have broken Jack’s hunger strike. Patrick’s theory was that Jack was a processed-food guy and at his suggestion I’d given him fish fingers for last night’s dinner, which he’d devoured. This morning I put a bowl of Patrick’s sugar-laden cereal in front of him and he scraped the bowl clean. Still not exactly a diet to brag about at a mothers’ group, but I figured any development was a good one.
By 8 a.m. we’d eaten and I’d cleaned up and was wondering what on earth we would do for the rest of the day.
In my old life, which was now starting to seem as though it belonged to someone else, my favourite way to spend a Sunday had been going to see a movie. I loved the whole experience of visiting a cinema. Loved the excitement as the lights went down. I even loved the rustle of chip packets from the row behind at the pivotal cinematic moment. But as I watched Jack work his way around the room swinging Harold above his head, I realised that I’d better find myself another hobby. Movies and Jack were just not going to mix.
Okay, so taking out long lunches and Sunday sessions at the pub, that left . . . I had no idea. What did parents with kids do on the weekend? Despite all the toys I’d bought, Jack had quickly exhausted the entertainment value of the house and I was now venturing out at least once a day, for my sanity as much as his.
He picked up a tennis ball and flung it across the room where it bounced off the television and rolled under the sofa. I pretended not to see, deciding if he didn’t know I was watching there was no need to discipline him.
He scrabbled under the sofa in search of the ball, but came back out clutching a small shiny object. Toddling over, he held it up to me triumphantly. It was an Easter egg and a quick mental calculation told me that, given it was February, it couldn’t be much less than a year old.
My gaze fell on the weekend paper, which, except for the employment section, I hadn’t managed to even glance at.
With sudden decisiveness I unwrapped the egg, handed it to Jack and opened the lifestyle section. Not to my surprise he deemed chocolate to fall within his acceptable food range and crammed it into his mouth immediately.
At the same moment Patrick appeared at the top of the stairs and I jolted guiltily. One look at him, though, made it clear he was oblivious to anything around him.
‘Late night?’ I asked enviously.
Mornings weren’t Patrick’s best time of the day and I was used to him emerging from his room with the back of his hair sticking up and sheet marks on his face. But this morning he looked even worse than usual.
‘Mmm.’ He slumped morosely in the armchair.
The night before had been the first time Patrick and Jennifer had gone out for dinner together. Apparently Jennifer had only agreed to the outing on the basis that they eat somewhere no one would recognise them. After a tough negotiation over the restaurant section of the Yellow Pages, which had started with her nominating establishments halfway to the Gold Coast, they’d settled on a Greek restaurant in Greenslopes. However, judging by Patrick’s appearance, all was not well in paradise.
‘Don’t tell me you and Jennifer had your first fight?’
Patrick shook his head and then winced at the movement. The smell of cigarettes clung to him.
‘Worse,’ he said, looking sightlessly at the far wall. ‘Jennifer told me that she loved me and that she’d decided to leave her husband so we could be together.’
‘Oh . . . what did you say?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Well, not much at first. I just sort of sat there.’
I stayed silent as he continued.
‘And then I tried to persuade her that she should think about it before she made any rash decisions . . . that maybe if she talked to her husband they could work it out.’
‘Ah . . .’ I tried to keep my voice neutral. ‘I’m guessing she didn’t think much of that suggestion?’
‘Noooo, you could say that,’ Patrick replied. ‘She asked me what the hell I meant. When I confessed that I just thought we were having fun, it started to get really ugly.’
‘Oops.’
‘Yeah – oops. She then proceeded to tell me – loudly enough for the whole restaurant to hear – how much she had sacrificed for me. Finally, she slapped my face and stormed out.’
‘And that was it?’ I asked, slightly disappointed.
Patrick nodded, wincing at the movement. ‘I left some money on the table and slunk out of the restaurant just as our meals arrived.’
‘So where did the hangover come from?’
‘Well, I decided I needed a beer after all that, so I stopped at an Irish bar nearby. There was a pool competition happening so I signed up and . . .’ He trailed off. ‘At least I won a hundred bucks,’ he added.
I suddenly realised that Jack had been silent for way too long, something I was fast learning was never a good thing. Looking away from Patrick, I spotted him in my study.
‘Jack – no!’ I screamed.
Crayon in hand, he was standing over a textbook Jonathon Earl had lent me from his private collection.
In the last week Jack hadn’t shown the slightest interest in pencils or crayons, despite the fact that I had bought every type of colouring book known to man. But, as I dived across the room, I saw that he had almost covered the entire front cover of the priceless book with red scrawl.
I pulled it away from him and he bellowed his protest just as the phone began to ring.
Expecting Patrick to answer it, I carried a kicking Jack towards the deck. The ringing continued and I looked back over my shoulder to see Patrick pressed back in his chair with a look of terror on his face.
‘I’m not home,’ he mimed dramatically to me, shaking his head violently in case I hadn’t received the message.
If it was Jennifer, then she could just call back, I decided, intent upon my more immediate disaster.
The ringing stopped and then started again immediately. Unable to bear it, I left Jack on the deck and ran back into the living room, the defaced book sti
ll in my hand.
‘Hello?’ I was only half listening as I rubbed frantically at the cover with the bottom of my T-shirt.
‘Hello. Could I speak to Patrick please?’ asked a cool female voice.
‘Uh, he’s not, uh, here,’ I stuttered.
‘Fine, thank you very much,’ the voice replied before hanging up.
‘Was it her?’ Patrick asked.
‘She didn’t say, but I think so.’
‘Did she sound angry?’
‘Well, she wasn’t exactly bubbly.’
Shaking his head, Patrick turned around and headed downstairs.
I looked down at the book in my hands. It was one Jonathon had declared to be ‘a timeless authority’, which I was willing to bet meant that finding it for sale anywhere would be nigh impossible. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if I returned it without its dust jacket, I thought without much hope. I put the book down on the kitchen bench and tried to put it out of my mind. There wasn’t much I could do about it today.
Patrick reappeared, holding his mobile phone as though it was about to bite him.
‘She’s sent me a text message.’ He held his phone up so I could see the screen.
Work car pk - 10 - pls b there.
Somehow the stark characters conveyed a strict instruction rather than a pleading request.
‘Are you going to go?’
Patrick looked stricken. ‘I don’t really think I have any choice, do you?’ He looked at me as though I could write him a note saying he was sick.
I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so.
‘Maybe she’s calmed down now that she’s had time to think about it,’ I added hopefully.
‘Yeah, right,’ he replied unenthusiastically. ‘Bloody hell. The work car park . . . that place will be deserted today. Pretty damn creepy.’
I had to agree. Visions of Fatal Attraction filled my mind and I made a mental note never to get Jack a pet rabbit.
