by Lily Malone
‘That’s dedication for you,’ Emmy groans, watching the walkers.
‘You don’t look too flash, Em,’ Brayden says.
Emmy grips her coffee cup in interlaced fingers. Her face is pale and her hair is a nest going everywhere all at once. ‘I don’t feel too flash.’
Sebby watches her with big blue eyes as he drinks his milk. The devil inside me wants to suggest Em take him for a spin on the kitchen chair.
‘I’ve gotta go back to bed,’ Emmy says, taking a tentative sip from the same Fremantle Dockers mug Amber used yesterday.
‘There’s a guy I want to catch up with in Dunsborough for an hour or so this morning,’ Brayden tells us.
I’m immediately curious, but too polite to ask. Emmy has no such qualms. ‘Who do you know in Dunsborough?’
‘A guy from the mine. He’s on his fortnight off.’ He looks at me. ‘I’d ask you to come for the drive. But they have these big bloody dogs. They’re probably good as gold with kids, but, you know. Not worth taking the chance.’
‘Shit yeah,’ Emmy whispers over her cup. ‘Stay away from that.’
My skin crawls the second Brayden says “big bloody dogs”. Nothing would get me in his car now.
‘That’s fine. We’ll stay. There’s some Panadol in the bathroom cabinet, Em,’ I offer.
Emmy shakes her head, pushing up to her feet. ‘Do the crime, do the time. Panadol is for sissies.’
***
After breakfast, I strap Seb in the pram and Brayden and I go for a walk. It’s the only way to keep things quiet for Emmy.
I ask him about the court case and he tells me he’s found a lawyer and the lawyer wants him to meet with one of his legal aides to take a statement. Brayden starts work again on Monday. He’ll be away five weeks. His roster is five weeks on, two weeks off.
I press him about the lawyer, but there’s not much more.
‘He told me to get used to it being a slow process. It could take more than a year before the case comes to court. I’m in the system now. It will spit me out when it’s good and ready.’
‘Hell of a long time to have your life in limbo,’ I say, feeling for him. It’s all so uncertain.
Not long after that, Brayden says we should get back. ‘I told my mate I’d be in Dunsborough before ten.’
***
Brayden hasn’t been gone long when Emmy emerges from her bedroom for the second time, looking a million times better — cream-coloured, rather than white. After a shower, she looks almost human.
‘I need a meat pie, Jenn. A fizzy drink. And a real coffee.’
‘Good hangover food. Same for me.’
I give her directions to the West Busselton corner store and she takes my car, because it’s all so much easier to get takeaway and bring it back than pack Seb in the car and take him with us.
My mobile phone rings while she’s gone.
‘I hope you woke up in a better mood this morning,’ I greet Jack.
‘Hello to you, too. Mum wanted me to ring and check what time you want us to come by this afternoon.’
‘Seb has his day sleep from about twelve to two. If you come after that, you should get a good few hours where he’ll be happy.’
Right now, Seb is at the kitchen table eating blueberry yoghurt for his morning snack — taking the bits of blueberry out with his fingers, eating the smooth parts with the spoon.
Silence stretches, and I’m on the verge of saying okay, I’ll see you then, when Jack says, ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’
I digest the apology for a few seconds, testing whether it’s genuine. I think it is.
‘It must be hard to see Seb with another — ’ I could say person in his life, but I know that’s skirting the problem. Jack and I have done that for too long, so I say it straight, ‘ — man in his life.’
There’s a harsh intake of air and then Jack says, ‘I’ve never liked that guy. You know that. Anyone else and I’d be fine.’
Which is complete and utter crap. ‘You’d act exactly the same no matter who it was.’
‘I’ve seen how he looks at you — ’
‘I’ve barely seen Brayden in eight years, hardly at all since I’ve been going out with you. Last weekend was the first time I’ve seen him since Emmy’s…’ I stop, trapped by the words coming next and my skin crawls cold all over.
He supplies the words for me. ‘Emmy’s twenty-fifth birthday. I know. I was there, remember? I had to stand there and listen when she cut her damn cake and everyone shouted at her to make a wish.’
Emmy took the DJ’s microphone to make her speech. Jack was standing next to me, and I remember how his hand crushed his empty beer can when she said —
Jack fills in the blanks. ‘She wished her two favourite people in the world would get together, Brayden and Jennifer, because you, Jenn, were the best thing that never happened to him.’
Sebby has stopped eating blueberries. He’s watching me with huge, scared eyes.
I used to buy in to Jack’s jealous crap. It would keep me awake all night, worrying what else I could do to make him feel more secure. Not anymore.
I force myself to breathe slow, stay calm. ‘We’ve had this argument so many times. I couldn’t control what Emmy said then, and I can’t control it now. All I can tell you is that I never acted on anything with Brayden after you and I met, or any other man. Never. And there’s no reason you should think otherwise.’
We do this. We go around in circles.
‘You don’t know how many times I’ve been on the verge of asking you to marry me, Jenn — it’s so many. But something always held me back. I think deep down I knew you didn’t love me. Not enough.’
Whatever. ‘Jack, it really doesn’t matter.’
‘No. Apparently not. Apparently there’s nothing about me you think matters. Not even if it’s best for Seb.’
‘It’s best for Seb if you and I can get on with each other without tearing him in tiny pieces.’
‘The best thing for Seb is for us to stay together. Give me one more chance, Jenn. We can take things slow; get away for a while, just the three of us. Let me prove it to you how good we can be as a family. I’ll do whatever it takes. It’s not too late.’
‘It is too late, Jack. It was too late last Thursday when you decided to screw Marnie James.’
He’s too quiet.
A hellish thought slams me like a train. ‘Exactly how long have you been screwing her, Jack?’
‘Sorry? The phone line dropped out there. I lost you.’
He’s stalling. I know it. ‘How long, Jack?’
‘Shit, I don’t know. You’re blowing this out of all proportion. I told you it didn’t mean a thing.’
‘Were you sleeping with her at Christmas? Seb’s first birthday?’
‘What difference does it — ’
A whole new kind of horrible spears me. ‘Tell me you used a condom.’
‘Marnie’s clean, Jenn.’
‘Oh my God, you didn’t use one…’ I’m beyond screeching.
And just like that, whatever the tenuous string is that’s been holding part of me to Jack, it drops clean away. Snip. Like Emmy cutting hair.
‘When Amber comes to pick up Sebastian this afternoon, you are not with her. If you’re in the car, I’ll take Seb inside and it’s off. All off. Do you understand me? I’ll take you for every cent I can squeeze out of you.’ My voice doesn’t quaver. It’s hard, cold and flat. A sheet of pack ice, uncracked.
He tries again. ‘I told Marnie it’s over. You and Seb are all that I want.’
‘Amber picks him up, Jack. It’s the only way.’
‘This is so fucking unfair.’ Then it bursts from him, ‘None of this would have happened if you weren’t so fucking frigid.’
I didn’t think I could feel more pain. I thought I’d be numb by now. But some part of my body obviously didn’t hurt enough because now, it hurts more.
‘Tell Amber to come at two o’clock, and have Seb back here b
y five.’ I hang up.
Jack thinks I’m frigid.
Bullshit.
I can’t be.
There’s no way I’m making this vagina shit up. I wouldn’t wish the last year on my worst enemy. There’s no way this is all in my head.
No way.
***
The meat pie Emmy buys me is a pepper-steak pie, and its heat comes from more than just temperature. The pastry is flaky, buttery, and melt-in-the-mouth. She bought Seb a treat too. It’s one of those cheap ice-lollies wrapped in plastic that are sugar with fake fruit juice, water, and not much else. His lips are stained orange from sucking on it, but he’s happy. That’s all I ask. I don’t have brain space for Sebby right now.
I don’t tell Emmy about my conversation with Jack and she’s hungover enough not to notice that I’m quieter than usual, or that my hands shake as I wrap them around the takeaway latte.
I’m trying to remember the last time Jack and I attempted to have sex. There was the miserable night of my birthday in August. After that, November springs to mind — Jack’s birthday. New Year’s Eve too, after a bottle of pain-dulling champagne. All these times we failed miserably, but enough contact occurred that if Jack had any STDs, he could have given them to me.
And I blamed my recurrent thrush on antibiotics.
What an idiot.
I need a plan. I always function better with a plan. I’ve been putting off another doctor’s visit. I kept hoping my hormones would get back in balance, the olive oil and loose clothes would do the trick, sex would get easier, Jack would be patient, and my world would be okay.
Talk about burying my head in the sand.
Jack’s raised the stakes now.
I want this chance with Brayden. I want him every way, and I don’t want my dodgy vagina to blow it. If Jack’s given me some hideous STD, I need to know that, too.
‘Em, is it okay if Seb and I stay at your place on Monday night?’
She glances up at me. ‘Yes. Of course it’s okay. But then what? You’ll come back here?’
I nod. ‘I think I’ll have a job for Nathan Blain on Tuesday — he’s put it off for a week — and I’ve got a couple of things to sort out in the city. After that I’ll probably come back to Busselton, as long as your folks don’t mind me crashing here.’
‘They won’t mind. Is everything okay?’
Grease and caffeine must be repairing her radar.
It’s tempting to spill my heart to Emmy. I know she’d understand and she’d sympathise, but this is too personal, and I need to sort it out myself.
So I put all my acting ability, which has never been much, into a bright smile. ‘Everything’s fine.’
I don’t know if Emmy’s convinced, but she lets it go.
‘Are you up to a trip to the beach, Ms Emeline?’
‘I think I can drag my sorry arse that far, yes,’ Emmy says, finishing the last of her snack.
***
Brayden returns just as I’ve put Seb down for his sleep. Emmy and I took him to the beach and he had a great time chasing seagulls and digging his bulldozer in the sand. He was almost asleep in my arms as I carried him the last stretch home.
Brayden picked up a loaf of fresh bread in Dunsborough and a cooked chicken, which he pulls apart. I didn’t think I was hungry after the pepper-steak pie but the scent of just-off-the-rotisserie chicken makes my mouth water.
I dig in the fridge for beetroot and tomatoes, mayonnaise and cheese. We take everything out to the porch and just as the first crusty slices are cut from the baguette, Pope arrives, parking his Landcruiser on the verge.
‘You’ve got good timing,’ Emmy calls, stealing a piece of chicken with the crispy skin still attached.
‘He always could smell a free lunch,’ Brayden says.
The four of us eat on the porch until we can’t fit another bite.
‘I feel like that airship thing they put up at the cricket.’ I pat my stomach.
‘You mean the Goodyear Blimp?’ Pope says.
Emmy chokes on the last bite of her roll.
I laugh. ‘Yeah. The blimp.’
‘What about we go for that golf game to work off lunch?’ Pope says. ‘Seriously.’
I freeze inside. Emmy throws a concerned glance my way, but I can tell she’s torn.
‘You guys go,’ I say.
Emmy adds, ‘What about if you boys play? Jenn and I can go shopping or something.’
I sit straighter. That’s almost worse than the thought of a golf game. ‘You play too, Em. I’ll need to be here when Amber comes, and I told Jack I want them home by five. You won’t get through eighteen holes in less than three hours.’
‘We’ll play nine holes then,’ Brayden says. It’s the first time he’s broached the subject.
I can’t read his face.
‘It probably costs close to thirty dollars for the round, plus whatever they charge to hire clubs. I’m on a budget guys, I’d rather not stretch it,’ I say.
Pope shifts his backside and pulls his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. ‘Mum had a voucher that came with this entertainment discount booklet she gets. I’ve got it here. It gives half price on the round and club hire at the Busselton Pro Shop when one person pays full fare. Maximum four players.’ He swooshes the voucher across the table.
I’m fast running out of excuses. ‘Guys. I don’t want to play golf. Okay? End of story. Sorry, but I’m not in the mood.’
‘Right.’ Brayden stands, bumping his thighs on the table. ‘You’re coming with me.’
Emmy and Pope’s faces mirror my surprise.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
He reaches for my arm and gets me just above the elbow, calloused fingers rough and at the same time beautiful against my skin, and I’m propelled upwards so fast my head spins. My knee bumps his shin. My nose skims the Corona logo on his white T-shirt.
We freeze like that.
Then his grip on my elbow softens. ‘Get your shoes, Jenn.’
I glance at my toes, with their scratchy layer of cherry-coloured nail polish. Brayden looks down too. My legs are bare. The denim skirt has crept up my thighs.
‘Shoes?’ I mumble.
‘You need something you can hit a ball in. Not sandals.’
‘I’m not playing golf.’
He swears under his breath. ‘Right now, Jennifer, or so help me.’
‘Oh. Okay. Fine.’ I scuttle into the house to get my shoes, because I know better than to sass him when he’s calling me Jennifer.
Creeping into the bedroom so I won’t wake Seb, I find my joggers propped against the wall, socks scrunched inside and I sit on the window seat in the kitchen to pull them on. I can hear the others talking, but it’s only once I reach the porch that I pick up the gist of what Brayden’s saying.
‘…taking her into the Pro Shop. Can you wait for Amber and Jack, Em? Then you guys can meet us out there.’
I push through the screen door. ‘You won’t have to worry about waiting for Jack. Amber is the one picking Seb up. She’ll be here at two.’ I twist to Brayden again. ‘Whatever you’re up to, can’t it wait half an hour? I should be here when Amber comes. I haven’t packed the nappy bag or done anything for his lunch, or… anything like that.’
‘I’ve got it under control, Jenn,’ Emmy says. ‘You guys go.’
‘Fine.’ I’ve found my indignation. ‘I’m glad you lot have got my life sorted out. God knows I was doing such a crappy job of it.’
I march down the front steps before I realise Brayden’s not with me. This makes me flounce around, and then I have to raise my hand to shield my eyes so I can see in beneath the roof. The two Culhanes, and Pope, are all smiling at me.
‘What?’ I fume.
‘I could say you’re cute when you’re angry,’ Pope says.
‘Try it.’ I almost spit.
‘Save it for the course, Tiger,’ Brayden murmurs. He picks up his wallet and joins me at the base of the steps. While I was changing my s
hoes he’s done the same, and his tread makes no sound on the timbers, although they still vibrate with his weight.
‘Good luck,’ Pope calls. ‘We’ll see you out there after two.’
‘Cool. Let’s go, Jenn,’ he says, touching my arm.
Brayden reverses the car out, straightens up, and we’re off, bumping the length of the drive, crunching across the gravel shoulder. Then it’s smooth bitumen and the four-wheel-drive picks up speed.
‘So you want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘We are going to measure you up for a new set of clubs. Then Em and Pope will meet us and the four of us are going to play a lazy nine holes before Amber drops Sebby back at the shack.’ He looks at me, briefly, before he returns his attention to the road. ‘How’s that sound?’
‘It sounds nuts.’ Crossing my arms, I stare out the window.
Brayden flicks the CD player on and turns it up. It’s Sarah.
‘Don’t you own any music except Bob Dylan?’
‘I got a Travelling Wilburys’ CD.’
‘That’s the same bloody thing,’ I say.
He turns right at Fairway Drive. It’s an appropriate name, I guess, but I can’t help the tickle in my spine as the sign flashes past.
Peppermint trees blur green and black. Both our windows are open and the scent of the bush is strong through the cab.
The song changes. Love Minus Zero, No Limits.
‘I can’t take much Bob Dylan, but if you have to pick two of his songs I do like, you’ve just played them both,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he answers, straight-faced.
‘How? I never told you those were my favourites.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘Crap.’ I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I say I can remember every conversation I ever had with Brayden. There were years where I analysed what he said word for word, looking for special meanings and hidden messages. Favourite Bob Dylan songs? I have no memory of that. Not a thing. ‘Okay then, I give up. When?’
His gaze meets mine. ‘The night we walked back from the nightclub.’
‘Oh.’ No wonder I don’t remember. Huge tracts of that evening are black holes in my memory. Not the kiss at the end of it though. That’s crystal clear.
