Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  I was raised by my mother’s parents after the suicide of my mother. We moved to Tamworth when I was very small and so I grew up in a big country town, with all the spaciousness and adolescent boredom that goes with that sort of life. My grandmother told me something of the tragic story of my mother and my birth, but she refused to speak my father’s name in the house – all she would say was that my mother’s heart was broken by ‘a wicked man who deserted her’. It took a great deal of underhand searching when she was out of the house to unearth newspaper clippings and some letters written by my mother before she died. From these, I was able to piece a little of my history together. I’m hoping that you and Kit will fill in more. Fortunately, I’ve met a wonderful man and may have found the way to release the grief of my early years. But more of that when we meet. As soon as I move into my grandmother’s cottage down south, I’ll contact you. Until then . . .

  Gemma refolded the letter, wondering if the wonderful man was connected to The Group mentioned in Grace’s latest communication.

  There was no address on the writing paper or the envelope. Gemma put the letter, which she’d reread many times, back in the drawer, once again touched by the similarity in their respective histories. At least, and unlike Grace, she had known her mother. Until she was five, anyway. Her thoughts turned to the grave that lay only a few kilometres away, in Waverley cemetery. Her and Kit’s mother had also died in tragic and horrible circumstances. Gemma had discovered only recently that Grace’s mother had committed suicide because her lover, Dr Archie Chisholm, refused to leave his wife. Gemma thought: my family is cursed. It would have been better all round if Dr Archie had left his wife for his mistress. Two lives might have been saved.

  She turned away from the sliding doors, thinking about her own baby. If she did keep him or her, what would she tell her child about their grandparents? Angie’s comments at dinner had made her realise she hadn’t even started to deal with the pregnancy. She hadn’t even decided whether or not to go through with it. All she’d done so far was flinch away from it.

  Gemma knew she had a very tough decision to make. And she was running out of time.

  •

  She woke next morning to find the rain had stopped. Another day, and she was still pregnant. As she rolled over to check the time, her mobile rang. Angie.

  ‘Sorry about running out on you last night, Gemster,’ said Angie. ‘Any word from Jaki yet? Little bugger wasn’t at the Killara scene – no one could reach her. Bloody Mr Right strolled in around the same time I got there,’ Angie was referring to Sean Wright, ‘and whinged all the time. Then Paulette finally arrived. She’d barely had time to turn around from attending the Lindfield job. Very tired, naturally. But she got on with it, nice and steady. Not Sean. He wouldn’t stop grizzling. I felt sorry for Paulette. As if there isn’t enough to worry about attending a scene without your colleagues acting like dickheads.’

  ‘I saw the news flash about it on television last night,’ Gemma said. ‘How’s the little boy?’

  ‘Hanging in there. I can’t say too much until the details are released, but it involves someone we know. You’d remember Natalie Sutherland?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Gemma. Natalie Sutherland had been an ambitious and brilliant young inspector a few years older than Gemma who had presented lectures during Gemma’s days at the Police Academy in Goulburn. Inspector Natalie Sutherland was a bit of an icon in those days, and held in high regard by women police. ‘What’s Natalie’s involvement?’

  ‘I can’t talk on the phone. What are your movements today?’

  ‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,’ said Gemma, ‘then a new client to see, and then I’m dropping in on a brothel.’

  ‘Baroque Occasions?’ asked Angie. ‘Okay, then let’s meet near there. You know that place on the corner near the El Alamein fountain? Where we had coffee that time Julie and Sean came with me?’

  ‘I remember. What time?’

  ‘Call me when you’re finishing your business and I’ll shoot over.’

  ‘Ange, before you go, have you heard anything about something called The Group? I had a letter from my half-sister. She sounds like she’s very involved with some community by that name.’

  ‘The Group? Isn’t it some sort of spiritual community?’ Angie asked. ‘But surely you can find out more about it when you meet each other.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to meet me any more,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Sorry, gotta go,’ said Angie, calling off.

  •

  By nine-thirty, Gemma was sitting in Heather Pike’s consulting room, watching as Heather unwound the velcroed tourniquet from her upper arm.

  ‘You’re a bit elevated, but nothing to worry about. The morning sickness will pass,’ the GP assured Gemma. ‘I must say, it’s a surprise. Why did you leave it so long before coming to me?’

  ‘I was busy,’ Gemma said, aware how pathetic it sounded.

  ‘Were you now?’ said Heather. ‘Then get used to it. Because in six months or so, you’re going to be busier than you ever thought possible.’ She smiled. ‘So, Gemma. How are you feeling about this? How are you coping?’

  Gemma tilted her head and gave her GP a look.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s have a look at you, then, and see how things are going for baby.’

  Gemma clambered onto the examination table and lay back, legs apart, a sheet over her knees, staring at the poster-sized aerial photograph of the eastern suburbs and coastline from Manly to Maroubra, trying to find the main road near Phoenix Bay.

  ‘This is a very inelegant position,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s the baby’s father?’ Heather asked. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘We’ve split up,’ said Gemma sadly.

  Heather made a soothing noise. ‘That feels like a healthy three months uterus,’ she said finally, pulling off the rubber gloves. ‘Where are you going to have the baby?’ she asked as Gemma sat up and readjusted her clothing.

  ‘I haven’t decided anything like that yet, Heather. I haven’t even decided whether or not I’m keeping this baby.’

  A knock at the surgery door interrupted them. Heather excused herself and went to answer it. ‘I won’t be a moment, Gemma.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Gemma, swinging off the examination table. As she waited, she couldn’t help overhearing the conversation with Heather’s husband, another GP, about picking up their children after school.

  A pang of envy stung Gemma and, briefly, she thought how comforting it must be to have a partner to share work with, as well as the burdens of life. In her mind, the scales tipped the other way.

  ‘Sorry about that interruption,’ said Heather, returning. ‘You were saying you haven’t made that decision?’ she asked.

  Gemma nodded her head.

  ‘You’d better apply yourself to that pretty smartly then,’ said Heather. ‘You haven’t got much time.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a termination,’ said Gemma, surprised at hearing the words. It was the first time she’d verbalised this.

  ‘Then you’ll need to see Family Planning,’ Heather said, reaching for a pen.

  Again, Gemma nodded. ‘Heather,’ she began, ‘in a couple of years I’ll be forty. Like I said, I’ve broken up with Steve. I’m not sure about my future – business is really quiet at the moment. I don’t know how I’m going to manage financially unless work picks up. To have a baby by myself simply sounds impossible under the circumstances. And . . . there’s something else.’

  A long silence ensued. Heather waited, leaning back in her chair.

  ‘I’m not sure about my capacity to . . .’ Gemma finally said, groping for words, ‘. . . my capacity to love. I come from a family where love wasn’t a big part of the equation. I don’t have that automatic I-love-ki
ds thing I’ve noticed in other people.’ She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. ‘I think I’ve got a problem.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know if I could love a baby.’

  Gemma was relieved to see that Heather didn’t seem shocked by her admission. ‘You’re not the first woman who’s said that to me,’ she said. ‘In fact, it’s not an uncommon attitude. I think it comes from anxiety rather than any sort of psychopathology.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled at the long word. ‘But before you make up your mind about termination,’ Heather continued, ‘think about it carefully. If you only knew how many women patients I’ve had over the last few years – women your age and younger – desperate to get pregnant.’ She put her pen down and focused her steady grey eyes on Gemma’s. ‘I don’t really want to influence you one way or the other. But I feel I’d be failing in my job as your doctor if I didn’t remind you that falling pregnant at your age has a lot of statistical odds against it, and that this could be the only chance you ever get to have a baby.’

  Gemma considered this. Why did it have to happen just now? Why couldn’t it have happened last year, or the year before, when Steve was around and business was strong? Why now?

  ‘The other reason I’m saying this,’ Heather went on, ‘is because some of those same women told me they wished that a doctor or someone had told them that before they went for a termination. This could be your one and only chance. Do think about it.’

  Gemma glanced at her watch. She jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve got to rush,’ she said.

  She left the surgery feeling envious of her GP’s settled, comfortable domestic arrangements. It was okay for someone like Heather Pike, with a hard-working doctor husband to share the domestic rounds and the child-care, plus a large shared income, to have kids. But could she give a child the same security, the same stability? The same love?

  •

  Back home for a quick shower, she wondered about Natalie Sutherland’s connection to the fatal shootings. Smart, pretty, able to deal with the dickheads and stay smiling, Natalie had been the youngest trainer at the academy. Some years later, Gemma heard she’d married a senior police officer, had left the job and was now practising law somewhere. Why didn’t I do something smart like that, she asked herself, stepping out of the shower and rubbing a clear spot in the mirror to examine her body. Despite the weight loss from the constant vomiting, her breasts were rounder and heavier than they’d been a month ago, but her stomach seemed the same as it had always been.

  Gemma made a quick snack of plain crackers, and was taking the plate into her office when she saw through the window a tall, lanky man coming down the steps from the road. She knew it would have to be the new client who’d phoned yesterday. She put her plate down and pulled out the fresh file with his name on it.

  ‘The police aren’t taking it seriously at all,’ Toby Boyd said once he’d got settled, fiddling with a tiny edge of unstitched leather on the arm of the old club chair in Gemma’s office. He scratched his halo of frizzy gold hair, both hair and startled expression reminding Gemma of a Fra Angelico angel on a fresco in one of her art books.

  ‘They think my sister just got cold feet and ran away from the whole business. It’s hard being part of a reality television show. And her ex is her agent, an entrepreneur – or so he thinks – and I’ve always had severe reservations about him. But the producer and the station manager are both giving me the line that Steffi must have lost confidence after shooting the last episode. It was particularly revolting, she said,’ and the anger on his face made him look older than the late twenties Gemma had estimated. ‘The girls were humiliated by the compere, though some of them didn’t recognise what was happening. Steffi did. They’re saying she’s bolted because of that – that she can’t take the flak. I think that’s bullshit. They haven’t even filmed the semi-final episode yet. Steffi is absolutely determined to win.’

  Gemma was vaguely aware of the popular television program about finding an Australian bride for a European nobleman who was living in Australia for the duration of the series and allegedly in need of a wife.

  ‘And Steff would have told me if she was going to chuck it in,’ Toby continued. ‘I was doing everything I could to talk her out of it. We’re very close. We’re twins, actually. We tell each other everything. And I know there’s no way my sister would just go off like that and leave everything – her family, the series. She’s a really responsible person, and she’d already won the first round and the long weekend in Venice with his royal highness.’

  Again, Toby Boyd fiddled with the arm of the large leather chair. ‘Steff’s been gone for nearly three weeks now and Mum’s going round like a ghost. She can’t sleep; can’t eat. Mark Simons at Missing Persons has listed Steffi, but they’ve got hundreds of cases to deal with state-wide and a staff of twelve to do it with. The local area command is overworked, understaffed and basically not very interested. So I can’t just leave it to them. That’s why I’m talking to you now.’

  ‘What do you think’s happened?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘I’ve never trusted that ex-fiancé of hers. There’s something . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . something really off about him. Anyone who really loved her wouldn’t have let her go into this contest. Prince Heinrich is not only a fool but also a drunk. Unfortunately, my sister is very stubborn and she’s got it into her head that if she wins this and becomes Princess Stephanie, she’ll be able to do all the things she wants to do.’

  ‘So she’s not looking for a love match,’ said Gemma, drily.

  ‘She’s in love with the ex-fiancé. But she’s also a practical girl. She said she’d make the situation work for her.’

  Toby Boyd stood up, restless. ‘Mary Donaldson has a lot to answer for,’ he said. ‘What did my sister think she was doing, trying to marry this jaded old drunk? She’d be stuck on his country estate while he flies around the world, living on borrowed money, snorting coke and screwing cheerleaders. Please, Miss Lincoln. I’m really worried. Something’s happened to Steffi.’

  ‘You’re sure it hasn’t got something to do with the television series?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Absolutely sure. They’re angry. They think she’s reneged on her contract. Steffi’s desperate to become an actor. No way she’d throw it in. She’s auditioned for NIDA twice now and twice they’ve sent her away. So when this princess bride business came up she was crazy about the idea. I did everything I could to argue some sense into her, but she’d made up her mind. Think of all the exposure it will give me, she kept telling me. It’ll make a path for me to get where I want.’

  ‘Stress can do strange things, you know,’ Gemma told him gently. ‘She might have just run away from the pressure of it all.’

  ‘No way,’ said Toby vehemently. ‘Not Steffi. Ever since she used to put on plays for her dolls and the snails in the garden, she’s wanted to act. She loves the rush of adrenaline.’

  ‘What’s the name of the ex-fiancé?’ Gemma changed tack.

  ‘Martin Trimble. I feel certain he’s got something to do with her disappearance,’ said Toby.

  ‘And why is he an ex-fiancé?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Trimble saw this show as a way for Steffi to stand out, to give her a profile, but the girls who auditioned had to be single and unattached. That’s why he called the engagement off. I might just be a jealous brother, but I think he’s a real loser. He’s backed very bad rock bands, and lately a surfer who would’ve probably got a place in the world championships except for a liking for cocaine. I can’t talk to him. He just hangs up on me.’ Toby shrugged. ‘God knows why, but Steff loves him! She was heartbroken when he called off the engagement, even though she knew it was necessary. She’s paid a fortune for this wedding dress, over two thousand dollars – being Steff, it has to be a bit idiosyncratic and it is. No one was supposed to see it, but I noticed it one evening when I visited her – she shares a hous
e with Trimble. It’s got tiny red, blue and yellow dots on the fabric, like confetti.

  ‘I don’t know why women seem to go for those sorts of guys. Trimble makes you feel he couldn’t care less about anything – except money.’ His voice faltered. ‘I’m scared to think what might have happened. Twins feel each other’s pain and something’s happened to Steff – I can feel it.’ Strain and tension showed on his angular, mobile face.

  For a moment, Gemma felt unequal to the task of dealing with these people and their problems and muddles. She had enough of her own. But she was a professional investigator with bills to pay, she reminded herself, as she duly took all the details about Stephanie Boyd, the television series Search for the Princess Bride and the manager–agent, Martin Trimble. Toby had thought to bring photographs with him. Gemma studied the portrait of the heavy-eyed prince. She’d always distrusted men who wore cravats, even cravats pinned with an embossed coat of arms, and the cool, superior expression on the prince’s face gave her little reason to change her original judgment.

  ‘That’s the photo he gave all the contestants,’ said Toby. ‘And here’s his pedigree.’

  Gemma put the prince’s autographed photo down and studied the genealogy. It was extremely long-winded and confusing, culminating in a massive spreadsheet of foreign nobles and princelings. ‘Very impressive,’ she said, passing it back.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Toby, with the first hint of a smile. ‘My Russian Blue has something very similar. And about the same amount in the bank.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘The prince did an interview with one of our tougher journalists. It wasn’t spelled out, but to anyone who could read between the lines the fellow practically admitted that he’s only involved in the program because of the huge fee he’s being paid. Personally, I think he’ll end up choosing anyone with money – as long as she’s female and disease-free.’

  Gemma smiled. ‘I’m sure your sister is a lot more than that.’