Antoinette snorts. ‘A spell?’
‘That was me,’ Loki says. ‘That was my word.’
‘I didn’t cast a spell, Loki. You think I’m what, some kind of witch?’
‘That’s not what I said. You were the one talking about magic.’
‘For want of a better word, god! I didn’t mean that I literally–’
‘Enough,’ Jacqueline says. ‘Both of you, stop it.’ She closes the notebook, slides it across the coffee table. ‘It would be nice to know what Ant wrote – nice for Loki to see the words that shaped him, so to speak – but it doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t explain how he was made, or what happens to him now.’
‘You weren’t even here,’ Antoinette protests. ‘How can you know anything?’
Jacqueline sighs and leans back against the couch. Fine lines crease her forehead, pull the corners of her mouth into a taut and thoughtful expression that Antoinette knows only too well. Her sister, contemplating what needs to be said, each potential word and phrase weighed and measured according to some precise internal scale of her own, and it drives Antoinette mad sometimes, this over-thinking of anything even vaguely important, when she should just bloody well come out and–
‘Tell us,’ Loki says, his voice soft, smooth and firm as a hand gloved in leather, and Jacqueline turns to look at him, her eyes snapping back into focus.
‘Yes,’ she says and then, to Antoinette: ‘Remember when we were little, really little? Remember the fendlies?’
Antoinette starts to shake her head, starts to say that she doesn’t have the foggiest what her sister is on about, and yet that word – fendlies – feels strange and familiar both at once, its flint-sharp edge striking a place laid so deep in her memory it defies articulation. Throws off merely a spark, vivid and certain but too brief to catch hold, too painful to fan and, no, she warns herself. Not that, not there.
You don’t want to see that.
‘You must remember something,’ Jacqueline says.
‘No.’ Antoinette swallows the last of her wine in two large gulps and deposits the empty glass on the floor. ‘I don’t remember anything.’ Not sunlight flickering through trees or the shriek of girlish laughter, not the glimmer of glass-bright eyes or the silken warmth of fur against her cheek.
‘What are the fendlies?’ Loki asks.
‘We were only children,’ Jacqueline tells him. ‘I wasn’t even in school yet, so four years old perhaps? Which would have made you about two, Ant?’
Antoinette crosses her arms. ‘How can you expect me to remember if I was only two?’
Her sister ignores her. ‘There weren’t any other children around where we lived and our mother didn’t believe in playgroups or kindergarten, or perhaps she couldn’t afford to send us, so we only had each other. The fendlies were . . . well, Ant was only little. She couldn’t say friends properly, or friendly. So, friendly ones became fendly ones. Fendlies, you see?’
Loki nods, glances at Antoinette. ‘None of this rings a bell?’
She shakes her head. A dull, throbbing pain has set up camp behind her eyes and she just wants them to shut up, her sister and Loki both, to shut up and go away and leave her alone.
‘They weren’t real,’ Jacqueline continues. ‘She made them up. They weren’t human, either, most of them. More along the lines of animals, or . . . other things. Like the puppets from Sesame Street.’
‘So?’ Antoinette snaps. ‘Lots of kids have imaginary friends.’
Her sister stares at her. ‘But, Ant, I could see them as well.’
‘You could see them?’ Loki echoes.
‘I used to think I imagined it all,’ Jacqueline says. ‘We were both so little and it’s not as though I can remember all that clearly anymore either. I told myself that I must have simply been pretending along with Ant, convincing myself that the fendlies were really there – you know, the way children do with monsters under the bed, or Santa Claus – because anything else was impossible, wasn’t it?’ She reaches out and touches his face, trails the tips of her fingers along his jawline. ‘Until now. Until you.’
He smiles, captures her hand with his own and squeezes. ‘I’m not impossible?’
‘Perhaps, but you’re most definitely here.’
Antoinette wonders at the effect Loki is having on her sister. She has never seen Jacqueline so at ease with someone who is, after all, a near perfect stranger. Her relaxed posture, the way she allows her hand to sit so still within his, the curious, almost coy tilt of her head when she speaks to him – all of it so utterly unlike the sister-shaped space that Antoinette keeps in her heart.
‘What happened to them?’ Loki asks her. ‘The fendlies, where are they now?’
‘I told you, I don’t remember.’ Antoinette’s headache intensifies and there’s a taste like sour milk in the back of her mouth.
‘They disappeared,’ Jacqueline says. ‘They weren’t like you, they didn’t stay with us. Once we finished playing, they . . . they just went away.’
‘Is that what will happen to me, Antoinette?’ The fear in his voice wounds her to the quick. ‘Am I going to just disappear?’
You don’t want to see that.
‘I don’t know!’ She lurches to her feet, struggling against the nausea that locks around her throat as she tries to tell them again that she doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t know anything, not about the fendlies or Loki or the barbed, blackened place in her mind whose perimeter hurts too much to even tiptoe around, let alone get close enough to–
Then she’s running. Down the hall with one hand clamped over her mouth, smashing her hip on the bathroom vanity as she makes for the toilet in the corner and half-kneels, half-falls onto the tiles before it. Not much in her belly past the tuna salad she had for lunch, but still she retches until her muscles ache and her throat is raw with bile, until Jacqueline is there with a glass of water and a cool, damp cloth to wipe her face.
‘It’s all right,’ her sister tells her. ‘Everything will be all right.’
Antoinette spits into the bowl. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’
‘You’re okay, though? Antoinette?’ Loki is standing in the doorway, the expression on his face every bit as scared and confused as she feels, every bit as lost, and she gets to her feet, wills her knees not to buckle as she shuffles over to him. In her arms, he feels solid and warm and fixed. He feels real in a way that she knows – that she forces herself to remember, skimming as close to the blackness as she dares – the fendlies never were.
‘You’re not going to disappear,’ she whispers, hugging him even tighter. ‘You’re staying right here with us, I promise.’
As exhausted as she is, Jacqueline cannot sleep. Not with Ant in the bed beside her. Sighing, shuffling, stretching her legs every five minutes. After meeting Loki, Jacqueline assumed he was the reason behind the annexation of her room – a queen bed providing greater comfort for an eager new couple than the futon – but apparently, perplexingly, not.
You sure you don’t mind? Ant asked as they brushed their teeth. I can sleep on the couch if you want the bed to yourself.
Of course I don’t mind. You’re my sister.
It’s just, with me and Loki . . . it’s a bit awkward, you know.
But Jacqueline didn’t know. Still doesn’t know. She rolls over towards her sister. The room is dark, but she can make out enough detail to see that Ant is lying on her back. Most likely staring sleepless at the ceiling. ‘You made him for yourself, right?’ Jacqueline asks. ‘To replace Paul?’
‘Something like that,’ Ant replies. ‘I told you, I was pretty wasted. It’s not like I had an actual plan or anything.’
‘Yet here he is. And Paul is out of the picture?’
‘Definitely.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Only that you seem to have gotten over him very quickly. Perhaps there’s still a torch burning there, perhaps that’s why you won’t let yourself have Loki.’
‘It’s not that.’ Her sister sighs. ‘I don’t love Paul, but I don’t hate him either. When I think about him, about us, I don’t feel anything except tired. It’s different with Loki. I do love him, just not . . . you know.’
‘Not the way he loves you.’
‘Don’t think for a second I feel good about that.’
‘Why not make him happy, then?’
‘What, just lead him on? Brilliant idea, Jacqueline.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud, it’s just sex – and I’m sure you’ve equipped the man with superlative skills in that department.’
Silence. Served with bristles and spikes.
Jacqueline wishes she could take back her words. ‘That was harsh, I’m sorry. But I don’t understand, Ant, I honestly don’t. He’s beautiful and sexy, and he knows how you feel about him – or, rather, how you don’t feel – and he still wants you. You made him to want you. What’s the harm in having a bit of fun, the both of you?’
‘You’re right, you don’t understand.’ Her sister’s voice is thin and drawn, as though it might snap if rubbed in the wrong spot. ‘I’m not like you, Jacqueline. If I’m in love with someone, then sex is more than just a bit of fun. It actually means something. I’m pretty sure Loki would feel the same.’
‘So if he didn’t love you, then . . .’
‘God, why don’t you fuck him, you’re so bloody keen!’ The mattress creaks as her sister rolls heavily onto her side. Turns her back and curls herself foetal beneath the covers. ‘I need to get some sleep.’
Jacqueline hesitates, balancing words on her tongue. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she whispers at last. Reaches out her hand in the darkness and rests it on her sister’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, honestly.’
Ant shrugs but doesn’t pull away. ‘If you ever let yourself fall in love, even for a day, then maybe you’d understand.’
‘Maybe.’ The word barely audible. She squeezes Ant’s shoulder then tucks both hands beneath her own chin, pressing tight enough to feel the pulse of blood in her throat. Lies there motionless, thinking of Loki. That sharp, pale face. Those ice-cut eyes and lips lush as slivers of fruit. The odd twist of longing that drew her to him earlier that afternoon, that somehow draws her still.
Maybe. The syllables echo. Swell with possibilities unbidden, unwanted. Yet she cannot bring herself to shut them out.
Maybe.
— 12 —
Jacqueline takes off her sandals. Digs her feet into the warm, dry sand and smiles. Loki nudges her with his elbow. ‘Glad I dragged you down here?’
‘I am,’ she says. If he hadn’t coaxed her out of the door and onto a tram, she would likely still be hip-deep in the chaos of her apartment. Growing ever more frustrated in her attempts to restore order. The place simply isn’t big enough for the three of them – and even if she could conjure up the space to stow each box and suitcase neatly away, she knows Ant will simply haul it all back out again whenever she wants to find something.
It’s impossible. She needs to talk to her sister. Set some boundaries.
‘Hey,’ Loki says. ‘You feel like an ice cream?’
He’s gone before she can answer. Loping up the boardwalk towards the Mr Whippy van parked by the pier. Jacqueline turns back to the beach, shielding her eyes from the sun. It’s not as crowded as she expected St Kilda to be on such a glorious summer day, and she has to remind herself that it’s only Friday afternoon. Most people will still be at work.
Speaking of which.
Jacqueline retrieves her phone from her bag. No messages. No missed calls. She hesitates, then redials the last number on her call list. It goes straight to voicemail, to the terse recorded greeting that she knows too well, and she hangs up before the beep. He must be working. Sweltering in his studio with only the smell of paint for company and no patience for distraction. Which, she tells herself, is a good thing. He’ll call when he finally takes a break. When he switches on his phone and hears the message she left this morning. He’ll call, or he won’t. In any case, her days of playing phone tag with Ryan Jellicoe are over.
Instead, she flicks through her contacts to Seventh Circle. Becca answers on the third ring, her voice losing its polished tone when Jacqueline announces herself. ‘Dante is in a meeting,’ the girl informs her. ‘For the rest of the day.’
‘That’s all right, I was hoping to talk to you.’
‘Me?’
‘I wanted to apologise for being so snippy yesterday. I really appreciate you keeping on top of things while I’ve been away. I know it can’t have been easy, putting in all those extra hours.’
‘Oh.’ Becca pauses, long enough to melt the frost from her tongue. ‘Thanks, Jacqueline, that’s really nice of you to say. But it’s been fantastic, getting to see how everything happens behind the scenes. Dante’s been unbelievably supportive too. There’s this certificate? Business administration, something like that? Anyway, he thinks maybe I can do that through the gallery as a trainee.’
‘A trainee?’
‘That way the government pays for part of it, or something.’
Jacqueline bristles. Dante has never once offered her any sort of training or qualifications upgrade, but less than a week alone with Sunflower Girl and he’s tossing business certificates around like confetti. ‘Listen, Becca?’ She keeps her tone light. ‘Has Ryan Jellicoe been in touch by any chance?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘He said he might give me a status update before the weekend, that’s all. I thought he might have called the gallery instead of my phone.’
‘Okay, well if he . . . sorry, Jacqueline, there’s a client just walked in.’
‘I’ll let you go. But if you do hear from Ryan–’
‘I’ll be sure to have him call you.’ The girl has already switched to the cool, rounded vowels of how may I assist you, and a moment later Jacqueline finds herself wishing goodbye to an empty line.
‘Nice speaking to you as well,’ she mutters.
‘I thought you were supposed to be on holiday?’
Jacqueline starts, almost dropping her phone in the sand. ‘Don’t do that!’ she snaps as Loki steps out from behind her. In each hand he holds a large soft-serve cone, one of them coated with chocolate, the other chopped nuts.
‘Don’t bring you ice cream?’
‘Don’t sneak up on me.’
‘Sorry.’ He grins. ‘Chocolate or nuts? I forgot to ask.’
She doesn’t feel like either, but chooses the cone with the chocolate because it doesn’t appear to be melting quite as fast. ‘I’m not on holiday,’ she says. ‘I’m on leave. Forced leave.’
‘That’s not what you told Antoinette this morning.’
‘She has enough on her plate without worrying about me.’
Loki bites the top from his ice cream. Makes a face as though he’s been tricked into swallowing a mouthful of soap. ‘What the hell do they call this?’
Jacqueline points to the side of the van. ‘Ninety-five percent fat free?’
‘Taste free would be more accurate. You gonna eat yours?’
‘After such a glowing endorsement?’
Grimacing with disgust, Loki collects her untouched cone and promptly dumps it onto the sand along with his own. ‘Seagulls can have them, they get desperate enough.’ He wipes his hands on his shirt, picks up her sandals. ‘Come on, let’s take a stroll.’
Jacqueline returns her phone to her bag. ‘Where?’
‘Wherever we end up.’ He smiles, a bright flash of teeth she can’t help but return. His fingers find hers. Pull her into mo
tion. ‘You know, I don’t have much on my plate right now.’
‘Mmm.’ Sand shifts beneath her shoeless feet. Her toes curl with each step. Two young girls play in the shallows, squealing as each incoming wave foams and splashes against their legs. Their mother stands watch nearby, her face concealed by a floppy-brimmed hat. Jacqueline looks away.
‘So you could talk to me,’ Loki prods. ‘No worries at all.’
‘Talk to you? I barely know you.’
He squeezes her hand. ‘That should make it easier.’
Remarkably, it does. They walk almost the entire length of the beach, stopping just shy of the marina where sand gives way to scrub and stone, and the words fall from Jacqueline’s mouth as effortless as breath. Loki remains silent. Allows her simply to speak. No interruptions, no commentary beyond the occasional murmur of acknowledgement or request for clarification, and perhaps because of this she finds herself telling him everything. Ryan Jellicoe, the surreal nightmare that was Brisbane, the fear that her job might be secured by only the slimmest of threads.
Even, with only a minor hesitation, her concerns about her health. The sudden, inexplicable headaches and dizzy spells. The blackouts.
‘Scary,’ Loki says.
‘Yes.’ Jacqueline pauses. ‘You’re not going to insist I see a doctor?’
‘Is that what you want me to say?’
‘No,’ she admits. ‘Anyway, I’m sure it’s only due to stress. I’ll manage.’
‘Maybe you should talk to Antoinette.’
‘But I’m the older sister.’ She steps onto the footpath that runs parallel to the beach. Braces herself on his shoulder and dusts the sand from her feet. Slips back into her sandals. ‘I’m the one who solves the problems. I’m the one who fixes things. Ant needs me to be strong, and I need to be there for her. The other way around, we don’t make any sense to each other. Trust me.’
Loki stares at her, bemused.
Perfections Page 15
