by Lily Malone
‘Please, Jenn. Do it for me.’
‘I’ll call him,’ I say, as my tummy quivers with that low-down buzz. Emmy doesn’t have to beg. Who am I trying to kid? I can’t wait to hear his voice.
‘Atta girl,’ Emmy says.
***
I wait till after Seb is in bed. Brayden takes a while to answer the phone, but when he does, he sounds pleased to hear me.
It takes a while for us to warm into easy conversation. He sounds so far away, and making small-talk when my heart is pounding so hard I can’t sit still feels silly.
He tells me about his parents’ reaction to the accident. ‘Shit scared, trying to stay positive,’ is how he describes it. He says the HR guy at the mine was supportive and they want him back at Newman for work in a week.
I can tell his heart isn’t in it.
‘Did the accident make today’s paper?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Three paragraphs beside an advert for BBQ sausages. It didn’t name me, but it said a Newman man died in hospital after a road accident.’
‘I don’t think you get named till an arraignment, but I’m hazy on the details. It’s a long time since I covered court reports.’
Then we move on to my next job for Blain & Barrow. Brayden’s enthusiasm, compared to Jack’s, is chalk and cheese.
That’s when we run out of words and I start noticing little things, like the hum of the fridge, a spider spinning a web in the window, and it feels like the air is so electric it could spark.
That’s when I blurt the next thought that enters my head.
‘Emmy’s determined to get us together this time.’ I don’t have to elaborate, Brayden knows what I mean. I hear it in his ragged intake of breath.
‘I know. She rang before,’ he says. ‘Has she told you about this beach shack reunion she’s planning for the weekend?’
‘She told me. You, Pope and Em.’
‘Is it okay by you if we all descend on your peace? I can tell Emmy to back off. I promised myself I wouldn’t crowd you.’
Closing my eyes, feeling my pulse quicken in my veins, I think about what he’s saying. I’ve never wanted him more.
‘You don’t crowd me, Brayden. I don’t think you’d know how.’
‘I want you in my life. I want you in it big. But with you and me, Jenn, we cross that line, we don’t go back.’
No more friends.
‘I think we’ve got to see what happens. Don’t we? I don’t want another eight years to go by and know we had a second chance and we never took it.’
He sighs, and I can picture him, trawling his fingers across his beard. He says, ‘I wasn’t ready for you back then. I thought I was doing the right thing. When I walked away, it almost broke me.’
‘It broke both of us. I’m not the same girl you knew then, though. There’s Seb now. There’s Jack — he’ll always be in my life because of Sebby. I come with so much baggage.’
‘You’ll always be Jenn to me.’
They’re beautiful words.
He’s an amazing man. Maybe this time, there’s a chance we’ll get this right.
Chapter 16
Seb wakes early on Tuesday morning, so I have plenty of time to get organised and do a few housekeeping chores before I meet Carl Barron in Dunsborough just after 10am.
True to my promise to Carl, Seb falls asleep on the drive to the first property, and plays in the sandpit at the second.
The drive back gives me opportunity to talk, and when I ask Carl about copywriting he tells me Blain & Barrow have a PR firm who put most of their marketing together.
‘But I don’t like how they write. I mean, I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I need a dictionary to know what they’re talking about sometimes. Too many big words for me.’
I quiz him a bit more about how many listings he gets a week, and does he think other agents would use me. He thinks they would, if my price is reasonable. He says the market is picking up.
‘Who’s the principal in Dunsborough?’ I ask.
‘Kennett Pickering. He’s the big boss.’
In the shopping mall carpark outside Carl’s office, I swap the car seat and Seb into the Corolla, tell Carl I’ll be in touch when I’ve finished the proof, and head for Busselton.
When we get back to the shack, I call Kennett Pickering. He is in a meeting, but his PA takes my mobile phone number and says she’ll get him to return my call. This he does later that afternoon.
I’ve been writing the Yallingup property for Carl, so I’m out on the front porch with my laptop. Seb has been clingy most of the afternoon, but right now he’s playing with a soft toy dog. The dog’s bark is broken, so when Seb squeezes his tummy, he makes a kind of wheeze.
‘Carl said you might be in touch, Jenn,’ Kennett says, after we’ve made our introductions. My name isn’t a new one to him. He says Nathan Blain has mentioned my work previously, in the Company Directors’ meetings.
Kennett has a classic real estate voice, smooth with a serve of oil.
He says he’s open to using me for copywriting and marketing and tells me of an idea he’s been tossing around about starting a blog. That’s positive. On the downside, he lets me know that the individual sales agents are the ones who’d pay my bills for articles, not the agency, which means it’s each salesperson’s decision about who they use.
‘Some of them are good at that sort of thing and find it no big deal to write up properties. Others, like Carl, hate the writing. It depends on their skillset.’
Fair enough.
When I hang up the phone, I tackle the next item on my list. Nathan Blain’s is a number I know by heart.
‘You’re still on holiday aren’t you?’ I say as he answers. People chat in the background, and I can hear something that sounds like a Pink CD. Nathan is on his third wife and he’s had daughters with all three.
‘The girls have a jazz dance concert about to start and I have to be a judge,’ he says, sounding hen-pecked in a way he never does at the office.
‘Should I call back?’
‘Just let me go inside, I think I’ve got time before curtain call. Hang on.’
I imagine him looking at his wife, pointing at his phone. I bet her eyes roll when he mouths, ‘it’s work’.
The music fades, as does the background noise.
‘Okay, Jennifer. You there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. I won’t take long. Carl Barron asked me to write another two properties today, at Dunsborough. And it started me thinking whether there’s an opportunity to stay in Busselton, and work for them. I just got off the phone to Kennett Pickering.’
‘Pickers is a good guy. They’ve had a good couple of months. Sales are picking up.’
I wince at the thought of working for a guy called Pickers. ‘Kennett thinks they could use me, permanently like.’
‘Yeah, I bet they could.’ He doesn’t sound concerned.
‘It wouldn’t worry you?’
‘We’re all Blain & Barrow, Jennifer, just in different locations. I’d rather you were writing for us than our competitors. You do a great job.’
He’s said this before, but it’s always nice to hear.
‘Anyway, it won’t change what you do for me, will it?’
A door opens, I know, because dance music blares again. ‘I’d do my best to make it work so I can keep writing for you, yes.’
‘Good. Got to go, Jennifer, they’re ready for me on the dance floor.’
As I hang up the phone a frown creases my forehead. Nathan asked if this will change what I do for him. Surely it must. Perth is close to a 500km round trip from Busselton, too far to travel every time Nathan has a new listing.
It’s something I have to think about, but it’s not insurmountable.
Another item crossed off my list. Baby steps, but I’m kicking goals.
I’m a bird. I’m a plane. I’m Super Jenn.
***
By Friday afternoon, I could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Heck, maybe I can
fly. I’m sitting on the beach house steps next to Sebby, waiting for Emmy and Brayden, my legs stretched warm and lazy to the front. It’s faint, but if I kick off my sandals, I swear there are white lines of an upside-down V over my big toe.
Tan lines. I haven’t seen those in a long time.
‘See?’ I say to Sebby proudly, rolling my foot.
We’ve had the best week.
I’ve written up the two properties for Carl, plus two blog posts for Kennett. I have more work lined up next week, and that’s not all. Today, Seb and I made banana muffins. Good ones. They didn’t taste like hockey-pucks.
A car engine draws my eyes to the street and starts a butterfly parade in my stomach. For a few seconds, I think it’s the Pajero and my pulse bumps into overdrive, but this car has more of a navy sheen than black and there’s no bull-bar across the front.
It slows on the verge. Any second now I bet the passenger window opens, and someone asks me for directions.
Then it stops with its tyres proprietarily parked on the Culhane’s lawn. Tinted windows make it too dark to see inside, but I don’t have long to wait. The passenger door swings open and out steps Amber Bannerman.
Chapter 17
Designer black wool pants and a crisp white shirt are the perfect pairing for Jack’s mother, teamed with summer sandals in a light jade heel, short and to the point. Watching her stride across the grass, I figure she could have carved those heels with her teeth.
‘Sebastian darling,’ Amber calls, opening her arms. ‘It’s Nanna.’
Seb squirms, making me realise how tight I’ve got him pinned. I force myself to relax my stranglehold.
The driver’s side door opens and Jack emerges.
‘There’s Daddy,’ I croak. I try again, standing up, one hand clutching the rail, ‘It’s Nanna Amber, and Daddy.’
Seb doesn’t have far to toddle because Amber is almost halfway across the grass, heels spiking holes with each step. Jack shadows her.
These Bannermans sure got the genes. Mother and son are both beautiful people.
Amber doesn’t like showing her greys, so if anything, her hair is darker than Jack’s. They’ve each got sunglasses shielding their eyes, though now, Amber hikes hers to the top of her head.
‘Da-dada,’ Seb chirps, bypassing Amber to rocket into, then up, in Jack’s arms.
It punches a hole through my chest. Seb’s first word — and it’s not Mum.
I move off the bottom step, setting sandals on the grass.
‘How can he grow so much in a week? He’s so tall, Jennifer,’ Amber says, managing to make Seb’s growth spurt seem like it’s my fault. She looks around for the first time, taking in the beach house, counting each curl of peeling paint.
I’m glad I’ve pulled the weeds.
Telling myself to stay calm for Seb’s sake, I stumble forward and greet her with a kiss. My lips contact her cheek, and her favourite floral perfume hovers close. She pecks the air over my shoulder.
‘This is a surprise,’ I say.
‘Nonsense, Jennifer. Jackson said he told you we were coming.’ Clapping her hands like a performing seal, she puts all her sugar in her smile for Seb, ‘Have you got a hug for Nanna?’
Jack leans toward her and Sebby holds out his hands.
If he calls her Nanna, I’m not feeding him for a week.
Questions leap to my lips, like: how did you find me, what are you doing here, when are you going? But as Jack leans low and I realise he’s about to kiss me hello, I can’t find words. I turn my head as he aims for my lips, and his mouth contacts my ear instead. He smells like new car, all velour and trim.
I thought I’d feel more seeing him again — but there’s nothing. Not even anger. He leaves me cold, and it hits me: I don’t care.
Can Jack see this on my face?
‘I did warn you we were coming,’ he says, almost, but not quite, apologetic.
‘I guess. A confirmation text might have been nice.’
‘Yeah, but then you might have unexpectedly been called away. We would have wasted the trip and put 500 clicks on Mum’s new car.’
He’s standing too close. He hasn’t really moved back from our non-kiss hello. Jack is six foot-four, lean, with a shock wave of brown hair. If I’m really close, and I look for it, there are faint marks in the skin near his mouth, relics of problem acne as a teen.
By any count he’s a good-looking guy. I’ve never had to think twice about why I let him pick me up the afternoon we met, even if I have questioned my sanity since.
I retreat a half step, and his eyes narrow. ‘Looks like you’re expecting someone, sitting out in the sun like that.’
‘Emmy and Brayden are coming.’
His mouth twists. ‘Joy.’
‘Darling,’ Amber interjects, bouncing Seb in her arms. ‘No arguing please. We just got here.’
I check my watch. ‘I’d offer you tea or coffee — ’
‘That would be lovely,’ Amber gushes as only she can. ‘Tea for me please. No sugar. White.’
Great. ‘Coffee, Jack? White and one?’
He nods. ‘Thanks.’
‘Take a seat,’ I start up the stairs and they follow. ‘They should be clean. Or near enough. But you might want to check, some are a bit dusty.’
Suddenly, the Culhane’s porch is overflowing. To think I wanted company.
I escape inside. Well, it feels like escape. No one pursues me, although Seb’s cry follows me as the screen door shuts. Amber soothes him, then I hear Jack’s deeper rumble, switched to pacify mode.
I fill the kettle, light the gas.
A cup clangs as I bring it to the counter a little too hard, spoon in coffee and sugar.
Emmy sent me a text when she and Brayden left Perth, but they might have stopped for lunch or supplies. It’s after five o’clock now so they can’t be far away. Hopefully I can get rid of Amber and Jack without too much drama.
Sebby’s cries grow, and now I’m torn. There’s a nasty part of me that’s glad he’s crying — let Daddy and Nanna sort it out — but even as I’m thinking that, the mother in me aches.
One more serious scream is all it takes. I run to the porch. Sebby’s face lights up when he sees me. It’s me he reaches for, my arms he wants.
‘He doesn’t like it when he can’t see Mum,’ Amber says, not unkindly.
‘It’s been just us two here all week. He’s had so much change to take in. That’s all it is, I think.’
‘Well he’s happier now you’re here, that’s for sure,’ she says.
Jack leans back in the chair I think of as Brayden’s. I have to admit, he looks good in it.
Inside, the kettle whistles.
For a second, all three of us stare at each other, then Amber rises, saying, ‘You stay here, I’ll get it.’
‘Jack’s is the coffee. You and I have tea. The one with sugar is mine, leave the teabag in,’ I call after her.
Sitting, I turn Seb in my lap so he faces Jack, and I hug him close. It keeps my hands occupied, and I’m glad. I won’t chew my fingernails or do anything else that makes me look as uncomfortable as I feel.
‘It’s good to see him,’ Jack says. ‘It’s good to see you, too. You look great.’
Talk about too little, too late. ‘Why are you here, Jack?’
‘I told you. I miss you both like you wouldn’t believe, and Mum wanted to come. You know what she’s like. She thinks you should come home. I do too.’ Listening to Jack speak is like listening to a river of melted chocolate curl into a honeycomb lake.
It’s taken me a long time to learn that his sublime voice is not enough.
Amber pushes the screen door open with her hip and sets three cups on the table, sliding the coffee across to Jack.
Thick gold chain circles her neck and her wrist below a watch almost too dainty for the chunky gold links. The jewellery was an anniversary present from her husband — Amber’s first husband, not Jack’s father. Husband 1 had the money. He owned a chain
of caryards in the city, five or six of them. Holden dealerships, I think. His estate went to Amber when he died.
I’ve never met Mr Bannerman, Jack’s father. Amber says he ran off with the nanny when Jack was small. I don’t know if that’s true.
‘So, Jennifer,’ she begins, wrapping manicured hands around a Fremantle Dockers mug. The purple of her fingernails is a perfect match for the cup. ‘You’re looking very settled.’
She says it like I pitched my tent in the worst part of the holiday park when I could have gone for the cliff with the ocean view.
‘Seb loves it. It’s kind of how a beach shack should be, don’t you think?’ I indicate the neighbour’s two-storey glass palace. ‘We wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves in something like that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A little luxury on holiday is always nice, I think.’ Amber glances sideways at Jack and I don’t miss the emphasis on holiday. ‘Darling, would you get my handbag from the car? I was so excited to see Sebastian I forgot it, and there’s something in there I need.’
When Jack is gone, Amber’s eyes collide with mine. She looks so much like Jack it’s scary, because it also means she looks so much like the boy on my lap.
‘You’ve had your week’s little sabbatical, Jennifer. When are you coming home?’
Straight to the point.
‘I’m doing some writing down here. Real estate jobs for the same firm I worked for in Perth. I’m thinking about whether I can make a business out of it. I might stay for a while. Test the waters.’
Amber trills a light laugh. ‘It’s lovely to holiday in the country, but you don’t want to raise Sebastian here.’ She shudders delicately.
‘It’s Busselton, Amber, not the Bronx. And I’m talking about work, not a holiday.’
She puts her mug on the table. ‘Think of all the opportunities Seb will have in the city: schools and careers.’
Squeezing Seb a little tighter, I say, ‘It’s a long time before we need to worry much about that.’
Amber leans forward. ‘You can never start them young enough. The good schools have long waiting lists you know. I wish I’d got Jackson to understand how important school was. He was more interested in socialising than science. Always girls first — ’ She breaks off, because Jack is back, spilling his mother’s handbag on the table.
