Replacement Wife

by Rowena Wiseman

  ‘That would be great,’ she said, smiling.

  It was just an early, child-friendly 5pm dinner, but Suzi looked as though she’d gone to considerable effort. Her hair looked an inch shorter, and her curls were tighter and more controlled than usual. I thought perhaps she’d been to the hairdresser earlier that day. She was wearing a green A-line skirt with a black singlet tucked in, containing her pretty little waist, and a three-quarter sleeved black cardigan. With her long necklace of orange circles, she looked nothing like a seedy crime writer.

  Suzi brought a bottle of Mornington Peninsula Pinot with her. Luke held it up like he’d just won a trophy. ‘I love Red Hill Estate,’ he said, ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ she said, and I could see a great big white tick drawn through the air over her head.

  It was a balmy evening, so we sat on the deck while the boys kicked a soccer ball around on the grass down below. Luke had used the evening as an opportunity to launch his new blue-and-white checked shirt with black arm-patches and red buttons. He was wearing his favourite pair of tight black jeans and his recently purchased brown suede pointy shoes. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing him around home in anything other than his grey tracksuit pants or those t-shirts he wore on the weekends when he was fixing up something in the garden — the ones that had started off as good t-shirts eight years ago but had steadily declined to being the ones that were worn only for painting or gardening, falling just short of being the ripped bits of cloth that ended up polishing school shoes. He’d put product through his hair after his shower, and I could smell a dab of aftershave on him. It was weird having an attractive man hanging around the home again.

  ‘I love your garden,’ Suzi said, admiring the vegetable boxes Luke had built along the bottom of the deck. ‘It’s so lush. I wish my veggie garden looked as good as that.’

  ‘You should use Seasol, liquid seaweed. I swear by it,’ Luke said. ‘And have you ever tried companion planting?’ Suzi shook her head. ‘People think it’s complicated, but it’s actually very simple. I always plant dill with our broccoli and lettuces — it’s like a miracle plant. I’ll lend you a fabulous book.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Suzi said, overflowing with enthusiasm.

  ‘So, how is your book coming along?’ he asked.

  ‘Great. Luisa’s been so helpful with it,’ she said, looking over at me. ‘It was a bit of a dog’s breakfast, I must admit. But she’s really made sense of it. It needed a lot of work. Dave is going to have a look this week, and then hopefully it will go to design.’

  ‘So what’s next, then?’

  ‘You know, I just can’t stop thinking about Martin Bryant. But there’ll be uproar if I write about him. It’s still too raw. So I’m thinking about the women in his life, like his girlfriend at the time. I mean, how weird would it have been to have woken up one morning and seen all that on the news and that was the guy you were sleeping with? And he had a younger sister, did you know that? And there was that old lady he was living with, who left him all her money when she died — now that was a weird relationship. And there were escorts and prostitutes whom he saw after he received the inheritance . . . There’s so much material there, it’s overwhelming. I have to think of the right approach, you know? Something that’s going to sell some books, without being offensive or glorifying the guy and causing a public backlash.’

  ‘I like it,’ Luke said. ‘I read this book about the Frankston Killer a few years back. What was his name again?’

  ‘Paul Denyer,’ Suzi said.

  ‘He was seriously creepy.’ I could practically see Luke’s mind ticking over, trying to find something interesting to say about this killer. It was the only true-crime book he’d ever read, I was sure. He didn’t read much except the sports pages of the newspaper and the back of seed packets. ‘Have you seen that he’s lost all this weight and turned himself into a woman? I mean, how ironic, he goes around killing women with such hate, and then turns himself into one.’ Luke did it! He actually said something insightful and completely relevant to Suzi’s interest in women and Australia’s notorious killers. I almost wanted to applaud him.

  The two of them sat there and continued to indulge in a conversation about various killers. Although Luke had never been interested in hearing about the true-crime stories I was editing, all of a sudden Australia’s killers had become the hottest topic of conversation. He was practically bouncing out of his seat about them.

  I couldn’t watch any longer. I got up and lit the barbecue, and Luke didn’t even notice, or care that this was usually his job. I did the salads and he did the barbecue, this was the way it had always been. But that night, I did it all. I put the meat on the barbecue and then slipped inside to dress the salads and cut and butter the baguette. I watched Suzi and Luke from the kitchen window. They looked good together; they would make a great couple. As the sky turned a dark orangey pink and the trees became silhouettes against the clouds and the mosquitoes came out for a nibble, the two of them sat there talking as though they were the only people who existed in the world.

  I stalled by the barbecue for as long as possible, but just as the meat was turning to charcoal I yelled out to the boys to wash up for dinner. I was impressed with Brodie. Although only a year older than Max, he had a nice level of maturity and pleasant manners. He was quiet but not shy, seemed aware and considerate of others, and was more of a listener than a talker. His orange hair was ungoverned, thick and curly, and he had thoughtful green eyes and a cute baby chin. Over dinner, while Luke and Suzi continued their discussions, I got to know Brodie a little. I asked him about school, and I liked the positive way he talked about things, not launching into everything that he hated about school, as some kids of that age did. He liked playing football and basketball, and was taking guitar lessons. Certainly he didn’t seem too damaged by his parent’s divorce, which was reassuring. Suzi must have handled it all really well.

  At one point I tuned back into the adult conversation. ‘I hear you’re growing a beard,’ Suzi said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Luke responded. I think I saw some colour around his ears. He hadn’t been thinking about it at all, what a grand liar. What happened to all that itchy chin business he had been worried about?

  ‘I’m loving this renaissance of the dark, thick beard,’ Suzi said. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’

  I thought about Jarvis and his lovely soft beard, the way it had felt against my lips. My plan was definitely working. One day soon I would have Jarvis’s beard lying on my bare chest. I got that familiar feeling in my stomach of yearning and lust.

  I don’t think I was the only one around that table who was feeling a yearning. Suzi was definitely hot for my husband. Somehow, it was even making Luke look more attractive. Old dusty eyes had been replaced with a charming imposter. He was in such a good mood I thought he was about to break out into improv dance moves. She’d managed to dig up my old husband, the one who had been buried for so long. Here he was shooting out glossy lime-green sprouts: he was bursting with humour, he was fresh and funny and attentive.

  I was enjoying the company, but after everyone had finished their meals I sent the boys inside to play the Wii so I could tidy up. Luke and Suzi made token gestures to help clear the table, but I insisted that they stay put, and carried all the dishes inside myself. It was dark outside by then, so I switched on the spotlight on the deck so that I could keep an eye on them from the kitchen window. It sure was a fascinating performance to watch: my own husband flirting with another lady, with my permission. I had no idea what they were talking about, but as I washed the dishes I could observe their body language — the way they were positioned facing each other, the way he ran his hands through his hair every now and again, and the way he laughed more animatedly than usual.

  I was just washing the last salad bowl when they finally came inside, both claiming that it had suddenly got cold. ‘I’ve got goosebumps,’ Suzi giggled like a schoolgirl, rub
bing the bare part of her arms with her hands.

  ‘I’ll make coffees,’ Luke said. ‘Baileys, anyone?’

  It was late for the boys, but we adults sat by the fire and drank our coffees and Baileys. I don’t think Luke or Suzi noticed how little I contributed to the bubbling conversation. We were in a verbal game of snakes and ladders. They were both climbing together to the top and I was somehow slipping down those snakes to the very bottom. I felt quiet, reserved and tired. I wanted to sneak away and check whether there was a new message from Jarvis — something beautiful and poetic, perhaps a new song to stir up my emotions. But I remained seated on the floor, sipping my Baileys on ice, waiting for Suzi and Brodie to finally leave.

  That night Luke made some moves on me in bed. It was especially lovely because nothing like that had happened in over a year.

  23

  Hattie was texting and ringing and leaving me messages. She obviously felt bad about the other night. But I didn’t want to talk to her about Jarvis anymore. What I had with him was clearly so sacred that nobody else would be able to understand it. We shared something that transcended reality. We weren’t yet proper lovers, but we were beyond friends. It wasn’t a physical love; it was a cerebral love, where we caressed each other with words, and ideas and feelings. It was just like that John Donne quote Jarvis had sent me: more than kisses, letters mingle souls.

  We lived in the same city, only twenty minutes away from each other, yet circumstances kept us from actually seeing each other. I knew that I would not be able to trust myself if I found myself alone in the same room with him. And although my relationship with Luke had gone to the dogs, I still didn’t feel as though I could physically cheat on him. Yet I thought I was quite happy for Luke to do that to me.

  Rita started seeking out a friendship with me. She asked Max over for a play date and asked me to stay and have a cup of tea. She lived in a very modern warehouse conversion near Gertrude Street. She must have done well out of the divorce.

  ‘He looks after us quite well. His financial contributions equal the guilt that he feels,’ she explained after I admired her home. ‘But I miss my backyard. We used to have this beautiful four-bedroom home near Edinburgh Gardens. It was my dream house. I still cry every time I drive past it.’

  We sat at her kitchen bench, a minimalist kitchen with Miele appliances, a marble bench-top, a hidden double sink and handleless black cupboard doors. The effect was sleek and modern, but I found it unsettling. She made me a chai latte with soy milk, because she didn’t drink coffee, and we snacked on unsalted mixed nuts and dried figs from a pistachio-green dish.

  ‘I’ve just gone through a green phase,’ she said. ‘I painted the kitchen last week.’ She pointed to the vintage Volkswagen-pastel-green above the black cupboards. It was highlighted by three large green apothecary jars next to the sink and a large green fruit bowl on one side of the kitchen bench. ‘That wall used to be blue, before that black. I like to change things around every now and again. Out with the old, in with the new. I repainted the entire apartment last year, all by myself. I love painting, it’s meditative.’

  I hated house painting. We’d repainted all of the rooms in our previous house. When we’d first talked about it, I’d imagined myself painting with a red paisley scarf around my hair, in a white t-shirt and jeans, and pictured Luke and I talking and laughing and singing along to music. But it wasn’t anything like that. Instead, it was washing down walls with sugar soap in grumpy, exhausted silence, applying masking tape to window frames, cutting in edges with a small paintbrush and getting a sore neck from using the roller on the ceiling. It was not nearly as thrilling as a Dulux ad would lead you to believe.

  I found Rita’s home pretentious. The L-seater couch was white, with red scatter cushions. It was impractical for two young boys; she must have made them leave their shoes at the door and wiped their hands with wet-wipes after every meal. The floorboards were polished in a dark tint. It didn’t feel homely. Everything had a place and there was no clutter. She even had a black container for the three remotes by the television. There was a silver cookbook stand on the kitchen bench. God forbid someone actually laid a cookbook open on that marble bench-top of hers; imagine how much space it would take up and how messy it would look! The fridge door was bare, except for a thin notepad filled with a running list of jobs that had to be done: make hummus, book chiropractor, wash car, make granola, pay term activity fees, hairdresser, make and freeze pesto, book in car service, buy new football boots for Josh . . . I felt stressed just looking at that list of hers.

  I thought about my own disorganised life and my cluttered home. We had so many books we now had to stack them on top of bookshelves. Our hallway was plastered with Max’s artworks, dating right back to his kinder days (I could never part with them). I’d covered the back of the toilet door with my favourite Leunig cartoons from The Age. Our fridge was so covered with old photographs, birthday invitations and school notices that we could no longer see a white background. We could never find the DVD remote control.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the stool, feeling like I was messing up her space just by sitting there with my handbag on the floor under me. The boys were in Evan’s room playing, and I felt vulnerable. I didn’t belong there. My friends have always been earthy, not pristine. Give me some dust and crooked artworks on the wall and I’m much more comfortable.

  ‘How are things with Luke?’

  ‘Oh, okay, fine . . . I shouldn’t have said anything the other day. I was premenstrual. I probably want to divorce him for one week in every cycle.’ It was meant to be a joke, but it kind of fell flat.

  ‘Peter didn’t even end up with the woman that he cheated on me with. Can you believe it? The two of them destroyed our family and then weren’t even able to make it work together. What a waste.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Someone he worked with.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘She wrote a sexy message on a business card. And he kept it in his wallet. It was almost like he wanted to be caught. My therapist says that some people do this, because it takes the decision out of their hands. He’s a weak piece of shit all round.’

  ‘Are you still friends?’

  ‘We’re painfully polite to each other. We have to be, because of the boys. He’ll come to their birthday parties, that kind of thing. My mother can’t even say hello to him. And he comes from a big Greek family: they’re so protective of each other, no one would even acknowledge what he did to us.’ She spoke rapidly, like she was firing out rounds of bullets.

  ‘How often does he have the boys?’

  ‘He’s supposed to have them every second weekend, but he often cancels. Last weekend he had a work function on the Friday night, so he didn’t pick them up until the Saturday morning. Then he took them to Luna Park, spoiled them with show bags, rides, you name it, took them out for dinner and then dropped them back early Sunday morning because he had a cousin’s engagement party to go to. So I never get a real break. He takes them out and has fun and then brings them home with their bags full of washing. I’m always the bad guy, the one whingeing at them to eat their breakfast, get ready for school or pack the dishwasher. It’s constant. Lucky my mum is so good — I’d go mental without her.’

  ‘How was your marriage anyway?’ Perhaps, truthfully, this was a loaded question: surely people wouldn’t cheat in a happy marriage, but would only go looking for things outside of the marriage when something is missing.

  ‘It was okay. I don’t know, it wasn’t perfect, but whose marriage is?’ I looked around at her overly ordered home and wondered whether that had something to do with it. ‘My chiropractor says that seventy per cent of people regret their divorce. Have I told you about him? He’s brilliant. My boys have both been seeing him since they were one month old. He’s helped with everything from attachment issues to colic, reflux and ear infections. Josh used to be totally hyperactive, but my chiropractor’s helped to settle him down
. I could give you his number, I highly recommend him.’

  I didn’t believe for a second that a chiropractor could do all that. I had more belief in the existence of ghosts than in a chiropractor treating reflux and hyperactivity. It sounded like bullshit to me. Rita had a level of intensity that only a certain kind of man would be able to cope with, I suspected. And the more I spoke with her, the more I was drawing a black line through her name for Luke. She was off the list for sure. Only Suzi remained.

  The conversation took a turn for the worst when she got onto the school canteen and her disbelief at what they sold there.

  ‘And they put a healthy tick on the menu next to cheese-top rolls. Do you know what are in those? But if parents are stupid enough to believe that, then let them go ahead. What they need is a Thermomix in the canteen to make fresh soups.’

  My toes curled up. I couldn’t stand the idea of a Thermomix. If any woman mentioned the $2000 or whatever it was they’d spent on one, I knew she wasn’t the sort of friend for me. I looked over at the opposite bench by the wall, and there it was: the Thermomix, shining in all its silver glory. I had to get out of there. My brain was saying ‘run, run’. I could hear emergency sirens in my ears, see red and blue flashing lights. I gathered my bag up from the floor, made some excuses, grabbed Max by the hand and got the hell out of there.

  24

  I finally agreed to meet with Hattie again. I couldn’t be mad at her forever. She’d only been speaking her mind, which was what I’d always loved about her. We met up for brunch the following Sunday morning at the Rose Street Market.

  ‘How are things going with Tess?’

  ‘Perfect, amazing! It just keeps getting better and better. She picked me up after work on Friday night, and she had organised a surprise special night for us — drinks at Double Happiness, dinner at the Toff in Town, jazz at Bennetts Lane. We went back to her place and I haven’t even been home yet. And you know the best thing about being with a woman? I can borrow her clothes!’ She held up her hands so that I could admire her outfit. ‘She’s my size. Can you believe it? We completely fit each other.’