by B M Carroll
Grace can’t believe it either. The venue for the reunion was decided months ago: a boutique city-centre hotel. A deposit was paid, which evidently didn’t guarantee anything. Given the short notice and the busy run-up to Christmas, Katy was lucky to find this alternative: a function room on the third floor of a pub in Manly.
Grace sees a man coming in their direction. ‘I think this must be the manager.’
The man is very attractive: early thirties, dark hair and skin. He sticks out his hand. ‘I’m Stan. The function room is upstairs. Come and have a look.’
They follow Stan up a narrow staircase. He’s nicely proportioned from behind and Grace has the sudden urge to nudge Katy, to whisper something like, ‘Check him out.’ She averts her eyes to take in the framed photographs on the stairwell.
The function room is a good size: a platform for the DJ, a generous dance floor, plenty of tables and chairs, and what appears to be a well-stocked bar. Stan gives them some brochures outlining the different drinks and food packages on offer.
‘Let’s have a coffee downstairs and talk it through,’ Grace hears herself suggesting.
‘Good idea.’ Katy’s smile comes readily and Grace experiences an inexplicable liking for her; inexplicable only because she recalls being so derisive of her at school.
Downstairs, they settle into one of the nooks and order coffees from the gorgeous Stan.
‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ Grace comments. Then she laughs at herself. Here she is, acting like a swoony teenage girl instead of a happily married mother of four.
‘Yep, but I bet he’s taken.’ Katy sighs deeply. ‘All the good ones are.’
‘Are they?’ Grace asks, intrigued.
‘Only the dregs left,’ Katy says with a roll of her eyes.
‘I know someone!’ Grace exclaims, one of Tom’s colleagues suddenly coming to mind. ‘He’s just come out of a long-term relationship.’
‘Oh no, not a rebound!’
‘Rickie’s nice-looking, a hard worker. I’m going to set you two up so you can see for yourself ... You’ll have to name your first child after me.’
‘Ha, ha, steady on.’
Stan returns with the drinks. Grace contemplates starting a conversation with him but Katy shoots her a warning look. There’s obviously a limit to how much matchmaking she’s willing to tolerate. Grace pulls over the brochures and at the same time notices some soil under her fingernails. Spending so much time in the garden is wonderful for her soul but brutal for her hands. She doesn’t think Katy is the type to notice such things.
She starts to read the brochures. ‘Should we go food only, or drinks and food?’
Katy chews her lip. ‘The original venue was food only. I want to make sure it’s affordable for everyone.’
Grace appreciates her thoughtfulness. This time of the year is particularly tight in her own household with Christmas looming on the horizon.
‘Food only, then,’ Grace says decisively. ‘I like option two, the antipasto platters ...’
‘Me too. Motion passed.’
Grace laughs. ‘What’s next on the agenda?’
‘Dress code. Formal attire isn’t really appropriate for a function room above a pub.’
‘Casual wear it is, then.’ Grace mentally says goodbye to Tom’s tuxedo. On the positive side, she won’t need to buy something new for herself.
Katy sips her coffee, her expression clouding over. ‘Luke got one of those emails. Very similar to yours ...’
‘Luke Willis?’
She nods. ‘It really shook him up ... Me, too ... Parts of it were very personal ... I can’t understand how this person is getting their information.’
Grace recalls her own email, which also felt very personal. Her worries about Lauren, her heartbreak about the miscarriage. The only person who knows any of it is Annabel. She bawled in Annabel’s kitchen after the miscarriage, and has expressed her concerns about Lauren numerous times. Maybe that means Jarrod knows too, although Grace isn’t sure how much information Annabel shares with her husband. Certainly not as much as she shares with Tom.
‘Who is doing this?’ she asks in exasperation. Has Annabel or Jarrod been indiscreet? Has Tom?
Katy shrugs. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know ... I got this crazy idea that someone might have been in my flat, on my laptop, looking at my Google history.’ She laughs sheepishly. ‘I actually jumped out of bed the other night to double-check the locks.’
‘Oh my God. Do you really think—’
Katy shakes her head. ‘No, it was just my imagination running wild ... But should I take it as a sign? Call off the reunion and drop the whole idea of a new yearbook? Claim there’s not enough interest? I could take advantage of the fact that the venue has fallen through.’
‘All because of some immature idiot who’s trying to freak us out? It would be such a shame ... Have you reported the email address as malicious?’
Once again, Katy shakes her head. ‘There’s nothing threatening or pornographic or anything that might qualify as malicious.’
‘I suppose so.’ Grace sighs. ‘Except when you’re standing in our shoes and wondering how on earth this person knows what he, or she, knows!’
Who could it be? Someone at the core of the old group or someone on the outside? Her instincts say it’s the latter: someone who was overlooked, who faded into the background and is now ready to command everyone’s attention.
‘So, what to do?’ Katy asks, worry filling her eyes.
‘Do nothing.’ Grace is suddenly decisive. ‘They’ll get bored. All they want is a reaction from us.’
She glances at her watch. It’s later than she thought it was. Tahlia has a party this afternoon and Tom has to work; weekend shifts are a downside of his job, along with the woeful pay.
‘Sorry, I have to go.’
‘No problem. I’ll sort out the booking.’
‘I’ll send on Rickie’s details,’ Grace promises.
Katy pulls a face. ‘What if he isn’t keen?’
Grace snorts. ‘Oh, he’ll be keen all right. He’ll be thanking his lucky stars.’
Now Katy’s blushing again. Does she always get embarrassed when someone pays her a compliment?
‘Remember, first child is to be named after me,’ Grace calls over her shoulder as she hurries towards the exit.
‘Of course.’ Katy’s giggle is somewhere behind. ‘Even if it’s a boy.’
Grace is smiling as she emerges into the bright, blue-skied afternoon. She is smiling all the way home in the car.
The birthday party is at the aquatic centre. Twenty-odd preteens squealing, splashing and diving. Grace takes the other children swimming in the public lanes while they wait for Tahlia. Lauren likes the water and everyone is happy at first. But, as with all outings, there comes a point when Lauren’s had enough and insists on going home. It’s as though some sort of alarm goes off inside her head.
‘I want to go home.’
‘We need to wait for Tahlia.’
‘Why can’t Tahlia come now?’
‘Because the party isn’t over. Would you like to leave a party before it’s finished?’
Stupid question. Lauren doesn’t get invited to parties.
Lauren is quite distraught by the time they get home. It takes over an hour to settle her down. A tight hug. A quiet chat. Some alone time in her room. Grace is late putting on the dinner. She feels tired and uncharacteristically out of sorts by the time she gets everyone fed, washed and off to bed. She pours herself a drink from the open bottle of wine in the fridge. Her thoughts are skittish.
Lauren. What is she going to do about Lauren? Is it time to seek intervention? How much is intervention going to cost?
Katy. Lovely Katy, so considerate, humble and utterly likeable. Why weren’t they friends at school?
Rickie. Grace must remember to ask Tom if Rickie is still single when he gets home.
Tom ... Shouldn’t he be home by now?
Sh
e picks up her phone to text him but for some reason she texts Annabel instead.
Saw Katy today. We’ve picked another venue for the reunion.
The reply comes so fast that Annabel must be doing the exact same thing as Grace: sitting down with a glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other.
Not sure if we can go. Can’t leave Daniel on his own. Just can’t trust him at the moment.
Can’t trust him, why? But Grace learned a long time ago to tread carefully and not ask such questions outright.
Quite suddenly, she recalls why she wasn’t friends with Katy Buckley at school. At some stage, pretty early on in their school life, Annabel decreed that Katy was beneath them. Most of the time she blanked Katy out, pretended she wasn’t there. Except for the time when Katy – for some foolish, naive reason – left a birthday card in Annabel’s locker. Grace remembers Annabel smiling as she opened the card, her face transforming when she realised who it was from.
‘Don’t send me birthday cards,’ she hissed, ripping the card into a flutter of tiny pieces. ‘I am not your fucking friend.’
Grace is appalled by the memory, appalled that she would mutely stand by and allow Annabel to behave so viciously, birthday or not. Maybe instead of ogling Stan today, she should have been issuing an apology for being complicit in Annabel’s meanness. Looking back, it is hard to fathom why she remained friends with her. She can only hope that her children are more discerning with their friendships, and braver about speaking up when someone is out of order.
She hears the rumble of the garage door: Tom. Almost an hour late. He must have got caught up with something. He often finds it hard to walk away.
He comes through the door, tiredness imprinted on his face, smelling of hard work and the night air.
‘Annabel and Jarrod might not be coming to the reunion,’ she tells him in greeting. ‘They’re worried about leaving Daniel alone.’
He goes to get a clean glass from the cupboard and turns on the tap. He drinks thirstily before replying. ‘His behaviour at Mia’s communion was disgraceful. No respect for his parents, no sense of responsibility towards the younger kids. He needs to be taught a lesson or two.’
‘Oh, Tom, don’t be so harsh.’
Her husband doesn’t understand people who don’t have the same parenting instincts as he does. From the moment the children were born, he seemed to know exactly what to do. When to be firm, when to be soft. When to be protective or to step back and allow them to make their mistakes. How to coax them to do something they did not want to do. How to command respect and the understanding that his word is final. Grace learned from watching Tom.
He rinses the glass, turns it upside down to drain. ‘The truth can be harsh.’
Grace loves her husband dearly. She wouldn’t change anything about him except this one thing: sometimes she wishes he was less judgemental.
14
MELISSA
Melissa is having dinner with Henry at the new place on Bronte Beach. The food is fresh and zesty in contrast to the conversation, which is decidedly stale. As she looks across the candlelit table at her husband, she can’t help feeling irritable and dissatisfied with their life together.
‘So what’s been happening at work?’ Henry enquires, adjusting his glasses so they sit higher up his nose.
‘Oh, we’re doing budgets for next year. Some of it is crystal-ball stuff.’
They’re being ultra-polite with each other, cautious with their words and even their facial expressions. They could be distant acquaintances rather than husband and wife. The politeness is to cover up the tension. One wrong word or look and that would be it: an argument of epic proportions. The odd thing is, they don’t argue frequently, and when they do it’s usually over quickly with apologies all round. For some reason, she feels that the argument brewing is nothing like the ones of the past. It won’t be over quickly, and she, for one, won’t be saying sorry. How can they go on like this? Living apart, a few hours of togetherness snatched here and there?
‘Do you think you can reach the targets?’ he asks benignly.
She shrugs. ‘I’m not going to sign off on them unless I think they’re achievable. We’re still in negotiations.’
He laughs. ‘You’re scary when you’re in negotiating mode.’
She laughs too, but without any mirth. She’s been talking about forecasts and budgets all week at work. She and Henry should be talking about something else.
‘I’ve told you about the school reunion coming up? You’ve kept that night free, haven’t you?’
‘The eleventh, isn’t it? It’s in the diary.’
Would he need to rely on his diary so much if they lived together? Why does every aspect of their relationship feel so forced and unnatural? And why does she feel so critical of everything tonight?
She makes another effort. ‘It’ll be interesting to see everyone. Find out where they’ve ended up in life.’
‘Any old boyfriends I should be watching out for?’
Melissa had a couple of boyfriends in high school. Short, intense relationships that were over in a matter of weeks. The one that meant the most, that cut the deepest, never really got off the ground: Jarrod Harris.
‘Dozens,’ she jokes. ‘I was the school slut.’
Henry laughs. ‘Snow White meets School Slut, now there’s a paradox if I ever heard one!’
It wasn’t funny at the time: being dropped by Jarrod and at the same time ostracised by Annabel and Grace. For the first time in her school life, Melissa found herself on the outside, having no one to sit with or talk to. Her self-esteem took a dent, as did her focus on her studies. But it was character building in the end.
Henry is asking a question. ‘How long is it since you’ve all got together?’
‘A proper reunion? This is the first, actually. Someone tried to organise a five-year one but everyone was off travelling. At the ten-year mark they were all in the throes of new parenthood.’
Melissa feels a stab of something when she thinks that most of her old school friends are parents many times over by now. It’s not quite jealousy. A sense of missing out? Or perhaps resentment that the decision has been made for her – by virtue of Henry’s reluctance as well as their bizarre living arrangements. Melissa has always made her own decisions, forged her own path. The logical part of her brain tells her that she may have ended up here anyway: it’s not as though reproducing was high on her list of priorities. But that doesn’t stop it from rankling and contributing to her general irritability of late.
‘Katy Buckley seems to be doing a better job of mustering everyone this time round. Good on Katy!’
‘Is that sarcasm?’
‘Not at all.’ She frowns at him. He can’t seem to get it right tonight. ‘You know I admire a job well done.’
Henry comes back to the apartment after dinner. His children are with their mother, for once, and he can stay the night and most of tomorrow. Melissa feels more daunted than pleased at the thought of all this uninterrupted time together.
‘Want a nightcap?’ she asks. Maybe another drink will make her less brittle.
‘Go on, then.’
She pours two glasses of white wine – Henry doesn’t drink red – and they sit out on the balcony with a rug across their knees. The apartment has an ocean view but all that can be seen at this time of night is blackness. The ocean can be heard, though, waves crashing one after another on to the beach, the rhythm having a massage-like effect on Melissa’s tension. At last she relaxes. Henry does too. His fingers lace through hers. She rests her head on his shoulder. They talk very little. She much prefers this companionable silence to the polite small talk of earlier. It feels more natural. More like what a married couple would do.
Her thoughts revert to those last few months of school, when she ended up learning less about the syllabus and more about life. She learned that female friendship doesn’t have to be hard – another group of girls accepted her into their circle without any
sign of reticence or schoolyard politics. She learned that loyalty is something she values above everything else. And she learned to recognise the power and destructiveness of fear. The blood that spurted from her finger that day in food tech could be traced back to her own carelessness, to Grace’s lack of backbone and ultimately back to Annabel: barely eighteen, pregnant, petrified out of her mind.
Henry yawns, so does she, and by mutual agreement they decide to go to bed. Henry rinses the wine glasses while she locks up. They take turns in the en suite, switch off the bedside lamps, and then they have urgent, frantic sex. Strange that the controlled tension over dinner and the restrained truce on the balcony should culminate in this abandoned coupling: ripping their clothes off, fumbling in the dark, panting and grunting and gasping, with undertones of something forbidden and doomed yet deeply thrilling.
Melissa is sad afterwards, strangely vulnerable and unsure of herself as she lies in the dark. It’s like she’s eighteen again and it’s Jarrod Harris who’s in the bed beside her. Jarrod Harris who has blown her mind and senses with what he has just done to her body. Jarrod Harris, with whom she has this insane connection, while at the same time knowing that she can never keep him. Annabel hasn’t yet dropped her bombshell, but Melissa is intuitively aware that there are too many things mounted against them.
Not that different to how things are with Henry today. It must be the sense of doom that’s reminding her of Jarrod, sucking her back in time.
Henry is fast asleep, breathing heavily, oblivious to her turmoil. What is going to happen with them? Has she wasted the last three years of her life? If she was faced with this situation at work – a client who couldn’t or wouldn’t fully commit – she would cut her losses and walk away. It’s always incredibly frustrating when something you’ve been working on dissolves to nothing but there’s no choice but to rally oneself and move on. Right?
Melissa throws back the sheet and slips out of bed. She feels around the floor for her pyjamas, which were discarded during their lovemaking. In the kitchen she pours herself a glass of water and drinks it standing at the sink. Her phone is where she left it on the counter. No, she will not give in to the temptation to check work emails at this hour of night. Yet her hand, of its own volition, reaches for the phone. She quickly checks the news headlines: floods across Europe at the same time as water restrictions are threatened in Sydney; a celebrity chef who’s in trouble for being politically incorrect. Next thing she’s clicking on Facebook. Photos of friends, old and new, scroll in front of her eyes. Like, like, like. Marcus, a colleague on holiday in Vietnam, has posted so many photos over the past week Melissa feels like she’s been in Vietnam too. Like, like, like. Then her breath catches. Jarrod and Annabel and one of their children are staring back at her. The little girl is wearing a white dress; it must be her communion day. Melissa savours Jarrod’s strong features and jaw, his smile for the camera, the muscular shoulders that used to be such an asset in rugby scrums. Still an attractive man, still capable of provoking the same reaction from her: an instant flare of lust. She routinely squashes it, which is what she got used to doing in school, after they broke up. How odd that she should come across this tonight, when he has been so much on her mind. She and Jarrod have been Facebook friends for years but he rarely pops up in her feed. She thinks for a while, then types.
