by Cassie Hamer
PRAISE FOR AFTER THE PARTY
‘Hamer’s strength is in the slow, considered revelations that pepper the novel, making it difficult to put down … After The Party forces the reader to confront uncomfortable questions like, How far would you go to protect a child? How clear is the line between right and wrong? And, what does it truly mean to be a good mother?’ —Mamamia
‘Everything I love in a novel – jam-packed with intrigue and humour. After the Party will keep you turning the pages into the early hours.’ —Rachael Johns, bestselling Australian author
‘I guarantee you will recognise your child, your neighbour, your partner or yourself in this story … light-hearted and heart-warming … I can see it being passed from sister to sister, or from girlfriend to girlfriend, with a knowing look, an exasperated sigh and a genuine giggle.’ —Cass Moriarty, author of The Promise Seed and Parting Words
‘… blending the relatable with the extraordinary, Cassie Hamer hits the sweet spot with her debut novel, After The Party …’ —Daily Telegraph
‘In a very clever way, Cassie Hamer has intertwined several stories into one, almost forcing you to keep reading.’ —Starts at Sixty
‘It’s the type of writing I love … Very real and relatable.’ —Debbish.com
‘Sharp and witty prose … well paced, funny, and appealing, and should delight anyone looking for fresh women’s fiction this season.’ —Word Mothers
‘Sensitively crafted … excellent pacing. This one won’t disappoint.’ —Happy Antipodean
‘An enjoyable and often emotional read.’ —Who
‘Cassie Hamer creates a complex cast of characters and circumstances in After the Party, which leads to moments of hilarity, poignancy, and drama. Hamer strikes a careful balance of these elements to craft a novel well worth a weekend on the couch.’ —The Chronicle
CASSIE HAMER has a professional background in journalism and PR, but now much prefers the world of fiction over fact. In 2015, she completed a Masters in Creative Writing, and has since achieved success in numerous short story competitions. Her debut novel After the Party was published in 2019. Cassie lives in Sydney with her terrific husband, three mostly terrific daughters, and a labradoodle, Charlie, who is the newest and least demanding addition to the family. In between making school lunches and walking the dog, Cassie is also working on her next novel, but she always has time to connect (or procrastinate) with other passionate readers via her website – CassieHamer.com – or through social media. You can follow her on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.
Also by Cassie Hamer
After the Party
The End of Cuthbert Close
Cassie Hamer
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
To my three gorgeous girls – Ruby, Sasha and Lucy.
It IS possible!
Contents
Also by Cassie Hamer
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
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
Bring a plate!
The three little words sat so cheerily at the bottom of the invitation.
So simple, so innocuous, so friendly.
So deceitful.
Because it wasn’t just a plate, was it, thought Alex O’Rourke as she removed a tray of shop-bought spinach and cheese triangles from the oven. After all, any old clown could turn up to a party with a piece of dining-ware. She had a million plates and platters that did nothing more than collect dust in her kitchen cupboard. They’d love an outing to a party!
She started stabbing at the formerly frozen pastries with a spoon.
‘Hmmm … something smells good.’ Alex’s husband, James, sauntered into the kitchen and peered over her shoulder. ‘Did you make these?’
He went to pick up a triangle and Alex tapped his hand away. ‘Of course I didn’t make them.’ She stabbed again to make divots in the golden pillows.
‘What are you doing? You’re ruining them. They’re perfect. Stop it.’ James put out his hand to shield the defenceless triangles.
‘They’re too perfect,’ said Alex. ‘No one will ever believe I made them. Maybe if I just burn them a little …’ She went to open the oven door but James stood in front of it, arms folded.
‘No one cares if you bought them from a shop. You have twins. A full-time job. The neighbours don’t expect pastry made from scratch.’
Alex looked at him. Her sweet, supportive husband, trying to be so millennial, while completely failing to understand that some things never changed, like the meaning of that god-awful phrase bring a plate, which meant today what it had always meant – that a plate of homemade food was to be produced (exceptions could be made for foodstuffs by a celebrity chef. A Zumbo cake, for instance, could be forgiven) and, as keeper of the social diary, the responsibility for such provision lay in the hands of the woman of the house.
Bring a plate was the phrase that time forgot.
‘It’s all right for you,’ Alex grumbled. ‘No one expects you to cook from scratch.’
‘But I would have, if you’d asked me. Remember my meatballs?’
Alex nodded. ‘Impressive balls.’ She tapped her nose. ‘And you’ve given me an idea.’ She smiled and kissed his cheek.
‘Glad to be of service.’
Alex set about loading the triangles onto a platter, humming happily.
‘Er, so what is this idea?’
‘I’ll tell them that I specifically asked you a week ago to make the meatballs, but you forgot, so rather than having the neighbours go hungry, I ran out and picked up a box of spinach triangles from the supermarket.’
James frowned. ‘But that’s a lie. You never asked me. If you had, I would have made them.’
‘They won’t know that. And because you’re a man, they’ll think nothing of it.’
‘But these people are our friends. Cara? Beth? They wouldn’t judge you.’
Alex thought of the women who lived in the houses to their immediate right. Beth, two doors up, an incredible homemaker and mother extraordinaire, and Cara, right next door, who managed to be both strong and fragile as she negotiated parenthood all on her own.
‘You’re right. Cara and Beth wo
uld understand.’
‘But the rest?’
Alex sighed. Her husband’s desire to see the best in everyone was endearing and exhausting. ‘They’re neighbours. We smile, we wave, we say hello and we get together once a year. They don’t know what happens in my house and I don’t know what happens in theirs. The one little insight they get is through what I bring to the party. And you know what they see when a full-time working mum turns up with a plate of frozen pastry?’
‘A woman with an actual life?’
Alex gave him a look. ‘They see a woman who’s put her work in front of her family, values convenience over health, is a little bit stingy, isn’t quite coping, and doesn’t really care if other people’s arteries become clogged with trans fats.’
‘They get all of that from a plate of pastry?’ James looked crestfallen.
‘You have no idea.’ Alex wearily covered the steaming parcels with a sheet of aluminium foil. ‘Here, you can carry them out. It’ll look more like your fault that way.’ She handed over the platter and checked her watch. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘They’re out front playing with Henny.’
Alex whipped around. ‘You left them alone, unsupervised, with a three-month-old guinea pig?’
James shifted his weight uneasily. ‘They won’t hurt her. They love her to death.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Have you seen the way Noah hugs her?’ Alex strode towards the driveway and cursed inwardly. How could she and James have been wasting time discussing pastry when their little boys were potentially monstering a poor, defenceless guinea pig? If any harm had come to Henny, Alex knew exactly which three little words to blame.
Bring a plate.
Beth Chandler poked the last of the licorice tails into a prune and stood back from the bench to survey her collection of edible mice. So cute, with those little musk lollies as eyes. Twenty-two, she counted – that would be enough for the kids of Cuthbert Close. What was the collective noun for a group of mice? A nest? Yes, nest. A nest of mice for the nest of kids in her street. Perfect.
‘These aren’t for the party, are they, Mum?’ Twelve-year-old Chloe sidled up beside her.
‘What do you mean? The prunes are seedless, if that’s what you’re worried about. None of the kids could possibly choke.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’
Chloe bit her lip. ‘It’s that they’re kind of gross.’
‘Rubbish. Kids love my mice. We had them at all your parties when you were little.’ Beth wiped her hands on the tea towel.
‘But that was before we knew they were made from prunes.’ Chloe picked one up and held it between her fingertips like a piece of toxic waste. ‘Only old ladies eat prunes.’
Beth did a quarter turn and drew herself up. ‘What rot. Prunes are for everyone. They’re full of fibre and vitamin K and they’re as sweet as a lolly.’
Chloe dropped the mouse back to the tray and wiped her hands down her sides. ‘They’re disgusting.’
‘What’s disgusting?’ Ethan sat up from where he’d been lying on the couch and removed his earbuds.
‘Mum’s made the prune mice,’ said Chloe.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Ethan went to put the buds back in.
‘No, seriously. They’re here.’ Chloe wrinkled her nose.
‘Oh, Mum, you haven’t, have you? They are all shades of wrong.’ Ethan leapt up. ‘Remember the effect those things used to have on me? I’d be on the toilet for days after my birthday.’
Beth started to wash up the pots and pans that had accumulated during her preparations for the neighbourhood party. As well as the mice, she’d elected to make a range of other treats for the kids, figuring that as she was one of the few stay-at-home mothers in the close, she had the most time to give. And besides, she did enjoy cooking.
‘That’s a complete lie, Ethan Chandler. You were not.’
Her son came to the sink and put his hands on her shoulders. At seventeen, he’d well and truly outstripped her in the height department. ‘Mum, please tell me there’s going to be something else for the kids to eat at this thing. It’s not just prune mice, is it?’
‘Of course not,’ said Beth in a huff, wriggling out of her son’s condescending grasp and opening the fridge door. ‘Look, there’s fruit kebabs, mini quiches and cheese-and-vegemite sandwiches.’ She’d even used her star-shaped cookie cutter. ‘Healthy and delicious.’
Chloe and Ethan exchanged glances.
‘Mum, it’s a party. The food’s supposed to be … like … good, you know?’ said Ethan.
‘Yeah, like chips and pizza – that kind of thing.’ Chloe leant her elbows on the bench.
‘I think I know what little children like to eat, thank you very much. I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten, but I actually raised two of them, and anyway, Cara’s little Poppy loves my vegemite sandwiches and Alex’s little boys will love the mini-mice. They look just like that new guinea pig of theirs.’
‘You really think a kid wants to eat their pet?’ Ethan shook his head and Chloe giggled.
‘They wouldn’t be— Oh look, never mind. It’s too late now to do anything else, and besides, your father’s going to be cooking up some sausages, so there’ll be plenty of food if no one likes what I’ve made.’
Ethan exhaled with relief. ‘Phew. Those beef ones are pretty good with heaps of sauce.’
Beth went to open her mouth but thought better of it. They’d find out soon enough that the sausages were of the chicken variety – so much lower in saturated fat than beef or pork.
‘Speaking of Daddy, has anyone seen him?’
Chloe smirked. ‘I think Daddy is in the garden.’
Beth glared and handed her the tea towel. ‘Thank you, Chloe. You can finish the washing up for me.’
The near-teenager took it sullenly. ‘What’s the point in having a dishwasher if we never use it?’
Beth held up a finger. ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. We have two dishwashers. They tend to moan quite frequently and they cost a lot of money to run, but we just can’t bear to get rid of them. You never know, one day they might just do the dishes without an argument.’ She went to kiss her daughter lightly on the forehead, but Chloe feinted and ducked.
‘This family sucks,’ she said under her breath.
Beth stopped, stung. This was not her sweet little Chloe. The child who, less than a year ago, had insisted on kissing her at least ten times a day and never walked anywhere without her hand slipped into Beth’s. Where had it all gone so wrong? Hormones? Or something more … Was this somehow Beth’s fault? Maybe she’d coddled her children too much? Held them so tightly that now they were springing, like elastic bands, away from her. Beth hurried out of the kitchen and towards the front yard, hoping neither Chloe nor Ethan would notice the flush in her face or the heat in her eyes. But, of course, how could they notice, when her son was too busy nodding away to the music between his ears and her daughter was caught up in cursing the unfairness of her life.
Beth stood at the top of the steps, breathed deeply and repeated the mantra she’d started using when Ethan was only a few weeks old, though back then they didn’t call them mantras, just sayings.
This too shall pass.
She closed her eyes. Usually it gave her a sense of peace.
This too shall pass.
But maybe that was the problem. Everything was passing, just too quickly for Beth to keep up.
She breathed deeply one more time and opened her eyes. Living in the ‘bulb’ end of the cul-de-sac gave her a good overview of the length of the street. The party was beginning to take shape. Lanterns and fairy lights going up. Neighbours pulling out deckchairs and tables.
She made her way towards the garage and stood at the door.
Inside, through the gloom, she could just make out her husband in the corner of the garage, frowning over his phone, the lines on his face accentuated by the screen’s eerie glow.
‘Oh,
there you are. Everything all right?’
Max looked up, surprised, and quickly stuffed the phone back into his pocket. ‘Oh, nothing. Just a couple of issues at work. Tony couldn’t find some keys for an open house. No drama.’ He came towards her through the dim light. ‘Everything set for the party?’
Beth made a face and put her hands on her hips. ‘Chloe and Ethan say the food I’ve made is all wrong and none of the kids will eat it.’ As she spoke, her stomach contracted with nerves. Perhaps the children had a point. Maybe kids of today had different tastes. More sophisticated. Salmon sushi seemed to be a staple food from what she saw of children at the local food court.
‘Just ignore them,’ said Max. He turned away from her and began sifting through the gardening tools and sports gear. ‘What does it matter? This party’s more about the catch-up than the food. The kids probably won’t eat anything anyway. They’ll just scoot up and down the street like they always do.’
Beth folded her arms. It was all very well for him to tell her not to worry, all he had to do was wheel out a barbecue and throw some sausages onto it. The difficulty level of that was close to zero, certainly much lower than making mice out of prunes.
‘I don’t want the neighbours to think I don’t care. I did promise to provide for the children.’
‘And you are.’ Max stopped ferreting about under the surfboards and stood still. ‘You need to stop worrying. You always do this and you should know by now that it’s always fine.’ He glanced down again. ‘Now where the hell did I hide the barbecue tongs.’
Beth coloured. Max had given her similar pep talks before every one of the kids’ birthday parties, events that always brought her panic levels to fever pitch. For a stay-at-home mother, a child’s party was a little like a performance review, or a grand final – the culmination of so many hopes and dreams, for the child, that is. But Max was so easygoing, he always treated it like just another day, albeit with a few extra kids involved. No biggie. Beth told herself it was good for her – the laissez faire approach. He was the yin to her yang. The ebony to her ivory. Usually, his pre-party spiels served to reassure her, but this one in the garage sounded more like a rebuke and she was glad of the gloom to cover her flush.
