by Lily Malone
Then the game-changer on my birthday last year. He bought me a beautiful bunch of flowers and massaged my shoulders for half an hour before his hands slipped to my breasts. We tried to have sex that night and when it didn’t work, he raked his hand through his hair so hard the brown whorls stood up straight and said: ‘Are you sure it’s not all in your head?’
He hasn’t asked me about it since.
It hits me in a rush. ‘God, Em. I’ve been such an idiot.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she says.
‘Jack and I aren’t intimate anymore. Not in the bedroom. Not anywhere. There’s some chemistry there still, but…’
‘It’s not enough,’ Emmy finishes.
It’s not enough. ‘We don’t talk. We don’t go anywhere together. We don’t do anything. He says I don’t make an effort, but he’s at the golf course all the time… even golf was something we used to do together, but not anymore. Not for a long time.’
‘Bet he knew you were better than him. Or you would be if you played as much as he does.’
‘I’m so tired of thinking about my fanny all the time. I just want sex to feel normal again. I don’t have to see stars. I don’t want multiple orgasms. Normal. Do you think that’s possible?’
She opens her mouth to reply, and that’s when the phone rings.
‘I bet that’s Jack,’ she says.
Chapter 3
‘Do you want to talk to him?’
I shake my head. ‘Not tonight.’
Emmy finds the phone and picks it out of its charger. Everything I hear from that point is one-sided and brief. It doesn’t surprise me. Even in the best of circumstances, Emmy and Jack can barely do polite.
‘Hi, Jack.’ She meets my eyes. ‘Yes, they’re here… Yes, she’s okay — a bit messed up. No, she said she doesn’t want to talk to you, not tonight…okay, I’ll tell her.’
There’s a pause and she says again: ‘I’ll tell her.’
She hangs up. ‘He said he’ll call you in the morning.’ Her lip curls.
‘He should save his breath.’
‘He also said to say to you not to believe everything you hear about him and Marnie James. Something about not listening to golf club gossip.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? I heard more than enough of Marnie James today to last me a lifetime. I’ll never get it out of my head.’ She called him Jacky for crying out loud.
Emmy shrugs. Walking around the kitchen counter, she puts a hand on each of my shoulders, squeezing gently. ‘You have to talk to him at some stage.’
Then she excuses herself for the bathroom.
My mother always said you’re stuck with the father of your child for life, so choose him wisely. Mum’s greatest fear when we were growing up in Karratha was that I would end up pregnant at fifteen and have to drop out of school.
Somewhere in the next decade as I inched closer to thirty and remained childless, she changed her tune. Instead of, ‘You’ll be careful now, love, won’t you? Don’t go off with the boys alone,’ it became, ‘You don’t want to wait too long, Jenn, you’re not getting any younger.’
That’s my mum. She loves to hedge her bets.
When Emmy gets back, she takes a box of crackers from her pantry and slashes open a slab of brie. I’m not sure I’ve got room for anything else after the ragout, but the brie is good. I love red wine and cheese.
She takes the Scrabble set from the chest of drawers, sets it up between us, deals tiles. Halfway through the game she asks me: ‘So what happens tomorrow? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you can stay as long as you like, but there’s not much here that’s fun for Seb to do. I don’t even have a backyard.’
She spells karma with her tiles and makes it fit ring and after. It includes a double-word score, and the grin on her face is evil as she calculates, and writes her tally.
I have a y, two n’s, an a, an s, and more o’s than an octopod, plus a q with no u, and I’m wondering if kayos counts as a word. I could use Emmy’s k.
‘If I buy Seb a spade and a bucket, we could pretend your yard is the beach,’ I say.
Emmy glares at the screen door leading out to the porch. There’s no guard rail out there. A handyman was all set to fix it months ago, but he picked up a fly-in, fly-out job in the mines instead, and so far none of the other tradies she’s called have even bothered to come and quote. Emmy’s pot plants guard the six-foot drop, terracotta statues threatening to smash themselves on the sand pad below.
I lay kayos on the board.
Emmy leans over to check, brandishing the cracker in her hand like it’s a thesaurus, then declares: ‘That’s not how you spell chaos.’
‘It’s kayos.’
She snorts. ‘Kayos is so not a word. You’re the wordsmith, you should know that.’
‘Kayos like in boxing. To win by knockout… when a boxer gets kayoed.’
‘That’s kayoed then, not kayos. No plurals allowed.’
‘Well that’s debatable. Whether it’s a plural or not.’ I’m feeling a bit smug. The y is on a triple-letter square. ‘I let you have zit.’
‘Zit is so a word.’
‘It’s slang. No slang allowed.’
She picks three letters from in front of her and uses my y to make baby. ‘Very dull and boring compared to kayos. But it’s legal.’
‘Ha.’ I shuffle Scrabble tiles, trying to work out if I can make bonbon with her baby. Banana? I don’t have enough a’s.
‘You’re stuck aren’t you?’ Emmy starts making ticking clock noises with her tongue.
‘I’m not stuck, I’m thinking.’
‘Holy hand grenades, me too! I just had a brilliant idea.’
‘Hold the phone, Emeline. It’s not even your bloody turn.’
She bounces on the stool. ‘Forget Scrabble, Jenn. I’m talking about you and Seb. Why don’t you use the beach shack if you want to get away for a while?’
‘The beach shack?’ Already, my brain spins with the reasons why and why not.
I haven’t been to the Culhane’s shack at Busselton in years, not since Emmy and I graduated from uni. We used to go there all the time. Our gang. Emmy, Brayden, me, Pope, Marvin…
‘No one’s using it. Go down there, get your head together. Work out your next move.’
I’m tempted but I hesitate, and I know it puzzles Em. She’s footloose and toddler-free, so none of the things I’m considering even enter her head. Like: what happens if I get a flat tyre on the three-hour drive, or something goes wrong with the Corolla, or: what do I do for an entire weekend at a beach house with a toddler and no enclosed fence?.
‘Do you have any jobs on?’ Emmy asks. ‘Anything that can’t wait?’
I think for a minute. My boss, Nathan Blain, like most real estate agents this time of year, is on holiday. January is dead in property. People don’t want to make big decisions about buying or selling a home when they’re on holiday.
‘Nathan is on annual leave. He mentioned a property in Scarborough is coming on the market soon but I don’t think he’ll need me to write it up till at least next week.’
‘Then there you go. Sorted.’
‘But will your folks mind?’ I’m stalling for time, thinking it through.
Emmy bats the question away. ‘Of course they won’t mind. They only use the place at Easter and Christmas. They’ll be glad to think someone’s using it.’
‘But you’ll ask them, right?’
‘Sure. I’ll call them in the morning. It’s too late now, they’ll be in bed.’
When we were teenagers, driving from Perth to Busselton for a weekend at the shack was a joyride. I’d have three hyper-aware hours where I got to sit behind Brayden — he was always in the driver’s seat — and if I ever dared, I could have reached out my fingers and touched his ginger-blonde hair as it tangled in the wind rushing through the car window.
‘Fish and chips on the beach, walks on the jetty…Seb will love it,’ Emmy pleads.
Those magi
c words cut through. Seb will love it.
I’d do anything for my son, plus, this gets me out of the city and away from Jack. Company would be nice though. ‘Can’t you come, Em?’
‘Sorry, no.’ She’s already shaking her head. ‘I have Mrs McClusky’s colour first thing in the morning and a wedding on Saturday. I have the entire bridal party to make beautiful. Speaking of which,’ Emmy looks at my hair. ‘I need half an hour with you too before I let you leave.’
I groan. I like haircuts about as much as I like shopping.
‘Okay. Thanks, Em. That sounds great.’ I smother a yawn. ‘I think I’ve got to go to bed. I’m too tired to spell.’
‘I’m too drunk to keep you honest.’ She snorts at me. ‘kayos.’
We pack the game into the box, then Emmy shows me how to work the low-volt night lights in the corridor outside my room.
‘There are towels in the linen cupboard, sweetie. Help yourself to whatever you need. Have a shower if you want.’
‘I will, Em. Thank you for keeping me sane tonight. I’m so lucky to have you.’
She hugs me tight, patting my back. ‘It will all work out. You’ll see.’
After a quick, hot shower, I’m asleep in no time. The good thing is, I don’t dream of lemon-coloured knickers or golf bags on a grass green. When Seb wakes for his night-time feed, I’m jolted from dreams that are vivid and blue, of a never-ending sky meeting an endless sea.
***
My mobile phone vibrates on the bedside drawer just after seven the next morning. I don’t need to look at the screen to know that it’s Jack.
Swinging my feet out of bed, I grab the phone and close the bedroom door behind me so Seb stays asleep. I couldn’t settle him in the portacot after his bottle in the night so he slept in the double bed, lying on top of my chest until I had to roll over and push him off or my lungs would have squashed.
The shower is running and the television is on low, tuned to one of the morning current affairs shows.
I press the button to accept the call. ‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Jenn. Hey. Are you okay?’
Jack has a beautiful voice — it’s like gravel tumbled through silk. It’s my favourite thing about him and now I have to steel myself against it. ‘I’m fine.’
There’s a silence each of us wants the other to break.
‘I got your note,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing going on with me and Marnie.’
I slump against Emmy’s bright yellow wall. ‘I know that’s not true.’
‘Marnie cops all this flak around the club because I’ve taken her under my wing and she’s the President’s daughter. You’d remember what that’s like, Jenn, when you’re the Pro’s protégé? Everybody talks.’
In the bathroom, Emmy has switched the shower off.
Jack’s voice caresses my ear. ‘I mean, I don’t know who’s been filling your head with that kind of crap, but you can trust me — ’
‘Give it a rest, Jack, I know you’re lying.’
‘Babe — ’
‘You and Marnie were in the bunker on the twelfth yesterday afternoon, about five-thirty. I saw her knickers by the green, Jack. I heard you tell her I didn’t like the sand.’ Saying the words, giving them life, is like vomiting a bad prawn.
‘What are you talking about?’ Jack’s breath whooshes through the phone. ‘You never come out to the club anymore — ’
‘I did yesterday. I thought I’d surprise you — you know — make an effort. I thought we might hit a few balls, go home — I had the champagne on ice. I had all sorts of good things planned. Silly, silly, Jennifer.’
Emmy emerges from the bathroom in tracksuit pants and a T-shirt with a towel twined around her hair. She sees me and mouths: ‘Jack?’ I nod, and she puts two fingers up like a gun and shapes like she’s shooting. Then she drifts to her bedroom to give me some privacy.
Turning to the spare room, I open the door a crack. Sebby is sleeping with his bottom in the air, his face turned to the wall. My heart swells with love for that beautiful bottom and its beautiful boy.
I twist the door handle back in place.
Jack says, ‘This thing with Marnie, it didn’t mean anything. I know it’s not what you want to hear right now and it doesn’t help, but, it was just sex. I mean, you’ve had your… problems in that department.’
‘You’re right, Jack. It doesn’t help.’ My fingers clench the phone. ‘Thank you so much for finding a willing vagina to save my dodgy one the trouble.’
‘That’s not what I — ’
‘I’m getting away for a few days with Seb. Emmy’s offered me her beach house at Busselton. When I get back, you and I can talk. I don’t want to spend all our cash on lawyers, and I don’t want to do anything that means you lose your house. I want what’s best for Sebastian.’
‘The best thing for Sebby is to have his parents together. You just told me you came out to the club because you wanted to make an effort — ’
Again, I cut him off. ‘It doesn’t matter, Jack. It’s not worth it. We’re finished.’
‘So does that mean Brayden Culhane is worth it?’ Jack sneers. ‘Maybe he’s there, is he? You’re at his sister’s house.’
‘You have no reason to — ’ I break off. It’s all been said before. Jack will always be jealous of Brayden and there’s nothing I can say, or do, to change his mind. Taking a deep breath, I rub the nape of my neck with my free hand. The muscles are knotted tight. ‘Can we please try to be amicable, Jack, for Sebby’s sake?’
‘Amicable?’ He tests the word, like he’s on the edge of spitting it at me, then I hear a sigh as he relents. ‘We can do better than amicable, Jenn. You know that. We can be good together.’
Good. Never great.
‘Jack — ’
‘Think about it while you’re in Busselton. I know I’ve stuffed up big-time, but please, babe. Don’t rule out anything yet. Seb’s my son. You’re the woman I want to be with. I’ve been a dickhead, but I can change.’
‘I’ll think about it, but don’t hold your breath. After what I heard yesterday…I’m not sure I can go back.’
He’s silent, and then he says simply, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes, Jenn. Drive safe.’
And he hangs up.
I’m sour inside, tight and tired around the eyes. I’ve got three hours in a car with a toddler, all on my own, and I’m exhausted before I even start.
***
A cup of tea helps.
So does the half-hour of toddler-free solitude I get to drink it with Emmy, even if she does make me churn through the pages of her magazines, looking for hairstyles I like.
‘Nothing fussy, Em. You know me. Nothing that needs blowing dry before I can leave the house. Okay?’ I’m grim with the okay. Give Emmy an inch, she takes a mile.
‘Trust me,’ she says, way too sweetly.
Seb’s squawk from the bedroom puts the dreaded haircut off for the next hour while I get his breakfast, and my breakfast, and then get both of us dressed.
‘Sit.’ Emmy says after that, pointing at a tall stool and draping a plastic coat around my shoulders. Seb watches her, fascinated. She has to keep moving her scissors and clippers closer into the centre of the counter so his little hands can’t reach.
Emmy’s adamant I need layers to get my hair off my face. ‘It will lighten it, Jenn. It’s just hanging right now, doing nothing for you.’
‘I never knew hair had to stay busy,’ I grumble. ‘Oh what the hell. Go for your life.’
For Emmy that means foils, because a few highlights can’t possibly hurt. I end up with pale blonde streaks through the crown, lightening my hair so it’s closer to that nirvana called honey than I ever thought it could be, and a sleek cut that curves at the front to frame my face. At its longest, the cut just sweeps the nape of my neck.
It makes my eyes look bigger, my mouth wider.
I like it.
When she’s finished she blows it dry, despite my protests that there’s no po
int because it won’t happen again. I don’t even own a hairdryer.
‘Do you love it?’ Emmy asks, showing me the back in her mirror.
I reach out to pat her on the hip. ‘It’s great, Em. Thanks. It feels nice.’
‘It’s better than nice. You look hot.’ She admires her work a few seconds more, flicks here, cuts there, and declares me done. ‘Now for Mrs McClusky.’
After Emmy leaves I do a sweep of the house, collecting sleeping bag, nappy bag, cereals, bottles and bowls, dismantle the portacot. I make my bed, tidy the bathroom, and then pack the car.
There are things I’ll want close to hand in the front: emergency rations like bribery biscuits, Seb’s sippy-cup filled with water, a cheese and vegemite sandwich (crusts off) cut into tiny squares.
Before we leave I heat a bottle of milk, wedge it between my handbag and the lunch bag so it won’t tip. In half an hour it should have cooled enough for him to drink. Fingers crossed, he’ll then sleep most of the way to Busselton and by the time he wakes up, we’ll smell seaweed and hear gulls.
Just after eleven, I lock Emmy’s house behind us and we’re on the road, winding our way south along the coast. It’s a stunning day. Waves lick and foam against Cottesloe Beach and already the carpark along the foreshore is packed. I keep the window open. The breeze makes Seb’s curls flutter. My own hair dances soft and fluffy against my cheek.
Soon I join the new Kwinana Freeway, settle in the left lane so the faster traffic can flow past. In the days we used to come down for holidays, we crawled south via Rockingham and Mandurah. There wasn’t a freeway then.
I shake a square of cheese sandwich out of the lunch bag and pass it back to Seb. He’s been babbling his own brand of baby-talk most of the drive but he’s quiet now, getting that far-away glaze in his eyes that says it’s time for milk and sleep. I pass him a second square of sandwich. When he finishes I get the bottle, now at the perfect temperature, and pass it into his grasping hands.
Buzzing the window three-quarters shut to stop the fiercest rush of wind, I channel surf for a radio station, lean back into my seat, and let the sunshine warm my chest. The pain that’s been lodged there since yesterday eases.
