by HC Michaels
She pressed a button on the security system.
“I’m coming,” she called in the cheeriest voice she could muster. She didn’t need Mariana’s sympathy. There were worse things that could happen to a person than chemo.
She saw Mariana open the gate, cradling a large bunch of flowers in her arms. Skye hastily got the scones out of the oven before they burned. They looked fantastic. Her reputation as the queen of desserts would remain intact. Her colleagues loved it when she brought them sweet treats. She’d already prepared a tray of peppermint slice for Mariana to take back with her.
She set down the scones on the counter and removed her apron, then quickly changed her mind and put it back on. It made her look more homely. Plus, it might protect her eskandar silk shirt dress from the pollen that was no doubt going to fall from the heads of those flowers. She went to the front door, adjusting her knotted headband while she walked. Her hair was patchy, but nothing a wide headband like this one couldn’t hide. Soon, she’d have to gather her courage and shave it all off.
“What a house!” cried Mariana when Skye opened the door.
Skye could barely see her behind the flowers she was thrusting towards her as she simultaneously tried to kiss her on each of her cheeks. There were gerberas of every colour imaginable. They were as beautiful as they were inappropriate for Skye’s colour scheme.
Mariana wasn’t a tall woman, so Skye found herself stooping to catch the kisses. Her loud outfit was a sharp contrast to Skye’s soft, rose-coloured dress.
Mariana wore a red suit jacket and black pants. Her bright orange hair should’ve clashed with the jacket, but somehow on Mariana it seemed to fit. A chunky yellow necklace dangled above her cleavage, the colour a perfect match to the frame of her glasses. All she needed was a pair of brown shoes and she’d look like a tree in autumn.
“What beautiful flowers,” Skye said, stepping back from the door so Mariana could enter. “Thank you.”
“I can’t believe this house.” Mariana stepped into the entrance hall and spun around, trying to take in her surroundings, her eyes darting from the sweeping staircase to the enormous French windows and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the hall.
She reached out to touch the larger than life sculpture of Athena the goddess of wisdom that sat at the bottom of the stairs. Theo had commissioned this for Skye as a wedding gift. It wasn’t just a nod to his Greek heritage, but his way of telling her how smart and beautiful he thought she was. Skye had loved it on first sight. It wasn’t one of those gaudy statues adorned with gold but was cut from marble of the purest white. Athena looked as vulnerable as she did wise. It should probably be in a gallery or museum, not her entrance hall.
“Come through to the kitchen. I’ve just baked some scones,” said Skye, trying to divert her attention away from Athena.
“I told you not to go to any trouble.” Mariana tore her bulging eyes away to plant them on Skye.
“I’m feeling good today.” Skye smiled. “Besides, you know I like baking. I’ve made a slice for you to take back to the office to share with the others.”
“Do I have to share?” Mariana giggled.
Skye laughed politely as she led Mariana through the living room.
“This way,” she prompted to hurry her up. She’d stopped to look at the Charles Blackman above the fireplace. Personally, Skye hated that painting and all its colour, but Theo already had it when she moved in and had dug his heels in about keeping it. He claimed to be sentimental, saying that painting was the only way he’d gotten her to come home with him when they met. She reminded him she hadn’t even seen the painting that night, but he didn’t seem to care. As far as he was concerned, it was staying. If you asked Skye, it was on borrowed time.
“Is this an original?” Mariana’s jaw hung in awe.
“Yeah. Theo bought it a long time ago.” Skye tried to sound casual but failed. Marina knew her art. She’d know Theo would’ve paid a small fortune for that painting. Or a large fortune, depending on your perspective.
She knew she’d made a mistake agreeing to Mariana coming here.
“Wow.” Mariana’s eyes were as wide as a virgin’s at a strip club.
Skye cleared her throat. “Scones are getting cold.”
“Of course.” Mariana tore herself away from the painting and followed her through the dining room, her eyes boggling at the glass table suitable for entertaining thirty guests. At the rate she was going, Mariana was going to need a new prescription for her glasses, her eyes were getting so worn out.
Skye had considered entertaining her in here, but decided she’d feel foolish taking up only one end of such a large table.
The kitchen would be better. They could sit at the stools at the counter and keep things casual.
“You certainly like the colour white,” said Mariana, taking in the sparkling kitchen.
Skye looked around trying to see the room through her eyes. It was a large, square shaped kitchen with an enormous alabaster marble island counter in the centre, surrounded by chrome stools with white leather seats. A circular light fitting hung above the counter made from architecturally moulded plastic. The glossy white floor-to-ceiling cabinetry and frosted glass splash-back caught the light making them seem even shinier than they were.
A breakfast room connected to the kitchen with plush white upholstered sofas marking out the borders of the room. A smaller version of the glass table in the dining room sat on a fluffy white rug nestled perfectly in the curve of the large bay window, set off by white Egyptian cotton drapes that hung in sweeping folds, tied back by lush white silk ribbons. There was a china vase on the table with a bunch of long-stemmed iceberg roses. Last week it had held some lilies. Skye’s florist sent her a bunch of whatever white flowers were in season two times a week.
There was quite a bit of white, she supposed. But it did look fabulous.
She decided Mariana didn’t look like an autumn tree. Now she was inside her house, she looked like more like a circus clown caught in a snow storm.
Mariana took a seat at the kitchen counter while Skye reached into a cupboard and selected a vase for the flowers.
“These are lovely,” she said.
“They’re from all of us. We’ve been so worried about you.” Mariana shifted on her chair, as if sitting still was a burden. She must be itching to take a look at the rest of the house.
“Oh, don’t worry about me.” Skye filled the vase with water and began arranging the flowers. “You know I’m a fighter. Always have been.”
“Maybe we should’ve bought white flowers.” Mariana laughed, but Skye could sense her hesitation.
“Not at all,” she lied. “A bit of colour is nice.”
“I’m sorry to be rude, but do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Mariana hopped off her chair like it had a spring in it.
“It’s straight down the hall, second door on your left.” Skye smiled. Mariana had a bladder made from steel. She didn’t need the bathroom. She just wanted to see more of the house. She’d probably take a selfie of herself sitting on the loo.
Skye finished with the flowers and set them down on the breakfast table, wincing at their brightness as she thought about how far she’d come in her career since her days in that hellhole of a call centre. She’d hated the job and how invisible it made her feel to be one of a hundred people doing exactly the same thing, but it’d helped pay the bills.
She’d dreamt of one day doing something like she was doing now, never imagining she’d become this successful. She hadn’t gone to university, only just scraping through high school. Maybe if she’d had more support at home things would’ve been different. She’d certainly proven now she was capable of much more than D-average marks. The only D-average she had these days was her bra size and she’d had to pay a fortune for that.
“Gorgeous bathroom.” Mariana sailed back into the room and balanced on the stool at the counter once more.
“Thanks,” said Skye, waiting for h
er to begin sussing out whether or not she had a cleaner.
Mariana leant forward on the counter. “It must be a lot of work to keep everything so clean.”
Yep, there it was.
“It is.” This wasn’t a lie. It was a lot of work for Linda. If Mariana wanted to know if she had a cleaner, she’d have to ask her directly. She was a trained journalist for goodness sake. Why didn’t she just come out with it?
Mariana blinked at Skye. “You must have someone come in to help you with it all.”
Bingo! There we go.
“I get a little help,” Skye said, throwing her a crumb.
“I must say, you look fantastic,” said Mariana, dropping the subject. “I mean, you’re awfully thin and a little pale, but otherwise still your gorgeous self. Are you feeling well?”
“I’m pretty good at the moment. Chemo was a week ago, so I get a brief window of feeling good before the next one. I was a mess last week.” Skye grimaced at the thought.
“Yet you still managed to send me an article. I loved what you wrote by the way. We’ve had heaps of comments. Oh, that reminds me ...” She picked up her handbag and shuffled around. It was one of those bags sold at markets, made from pieces of old fabric stitched together in a kind of retro kaleidoscope effect. Who knew where that fabric had been! Mariana could be walking around with the crotch from an old man’s pyjamas slung around her neck. The thought made Skye shudder.
Mariana pulled out a small bundle of letters held together by a pink rubber band and handed them to her. “You have some fan mail.”
Normally people wrote to Skye electronically, but occasionally she received snail mail at the office. Usually they were cards or letters wishing her well or invitations to events she’d never dream of attending.
The letter on the top caused Skye’s breath to catch in her throat. Could it be the letter she’d been waiting over twenty years to receive? No, she was jumping to conclusions. It could be anything. Millions of people lived in Paris.
She placed the letters to one side. “Thanks, I’ll take a look at them later.”
“Skye, your hands are shaking.” Mariana reached for her, but Skye took a step back, folding her arms across her chest.
“Just a side effect from all the medication,” she said. “I’m fine thanks. Now, how about those scones?”
“Oh, yes please.” Mariana rubbed her hands together.
Skye put the scones onto a serving dish and retrieved a tray from the fridge that she’d arranged with small dishes of cream and jam.
“This looks amazing.” Mariana’s tongue darted over bottom lip. “But I wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble.”
“It’s good to keep busy. I feel so useless stuck in this house.” Skye flicked a switch on her coffee machine without asking Mariana if she’d like one. Of course, she did. She practically lived on coffee.
“You know if you need to take a break, we’ll all support you.” Mariana helped herself to a scone, slicing it in half and smearing it with jam.
Skye retrieved two coffee mugs from the cupboard and set one underneath the machine. “I don’t need a break but thank you.”
“Are you sure?” Mariana added a giant dollop of cream to the scone and smiled. “Maybe some time off would do you good.”
“I’m sure,” said Skye. “I like working.”
“Thank god for that!” Mariana mimed wiping sweat from her brow. “You’re the hottest potato in town at the moment. You’re on fire! Advertising on our site has gone through the roof. I’d be devastated to lose you. You’ll be getting a raise of course. We’ll double your rate per published piece. We’ve even put you on our home page. Have you seen your twitter stats lately? They’ve gone bananas.”
It seemed to Skye that Mariana was the one going bananas. She was salivating over her stats (or was it the scones?) Still, it was great news about the raise. She knew about her twitter followers, of course. The hashtag #ReachForTheSkye had been trending ever since her cancer was announced. She was the hottest potato in town. Far preferable to being yesterday’s cold soup. Mariana certainly hadn’t paid her any home visits back when her stats were shrinking like a pair of testicles in the arctic ocean.
“That’s very generous of you,” said Skye, wondering if the real reason for Mariana’s visit was to ensure she didn’t drift over to a competitor’s website. Perhaps that was something to think about. After all, people who were on fire generally didn’t stand still in the one place.
“I just don’t want you to think we’re taking advantage of you,” said Mariana.
“Take advantage of me. Please!” Skye laughed. “Something good’s got to come out of all of this.”
She could tell by the look on Mariana’s face that was exactly what she intended to do.
And given it was working in her favour, Skye really didn’t mind a bit.
Skye pushed aside the vase of gerberas. She’d have to send them home with Linda tonight. They were a lovely thought but were starting to hurt her eyes.
There was something else a lot more interesting Mariana had brought with her that had nothing to do with flowers or gossip from the office. It was the bundle of letters, in particular the one on top with the French stamp.
Her stomach clenched as she slipped it from the confines of the rubber band. Her name had been written in sweeping, cursive handwriting—the kind favoured by the older generation. She tried not to get her hopes up. It could be from anyone. She had fans all over the world.
She turned it over, her heart pounding harder and faster as she saw the name of the sender.
Jacques Moubray.
Her father.
He’d responded to her letters at last. It only took him twenty-two years and a little bit of cancer on the side.
Every year since she was eight-years-old Skye wrote him a letter on her birthday. And every year since she was eight-years-old he failed to reply. Until now. There’d been a difference with the last letter she sent. Firstly, it wasn’t her birthday and, secondly, she told him she had cancer. He must have responded the moment he’d received her letter. It seemed too good to be true.
Maybe he hadn’t received her other letters? Although if he got this one, he must have. The address had to be correct.
On her eighth birthday, her mother had asked her what she’d like as a present and she’d asked for her father’s address. Her mother had quietly gone to her bedroom and returned with a piece of paper.
“Good luck,” she’d said, half smiling, half crying.
Skye was surprised to actually receive what she’d asked for. The year before she’d asked for a pony and received a Ballerina Barbie.
She could remember sitting down to write that first letter. How she’d painstakingly selected a sheet of her mother’s best letter paper, the one with the lavender watermark nestled behind a set of neatly drawn lines.
‘Dear Dad,’ she’d written, having already thrown away several other drafts beginning with Dear Father, Dear Papa and Dear Mr Moubray. She wasn’t sure what to write, so she decided to just get to the point.
‘I’m your daughter, Skye. My mother is Clara Butterford, the ballerina. When you come to Melbourne next time can you please come and visit me?’
She’d paused at that point. Having said what she wanted to say left her wondering what else she could put in there. It looked a bit short. There were still a dozen blank lines left to fill. She should probably tell him a little bit about herself.
‘I am eight years old and I am in grade three. I like cats, watching TV and writing stories about fairies. My best friends are Sarah and Mia.’
She wondered if she should ask him about himself. That was what you were supposed to do with grown-ups. But she didn’t know anything about him to ask after.
‘What do you like to do? Do you still work in the ballet? Do you have children other than me?’
She decided that should do it. She signed it off with ‘Love from Skye,’ drew a picture of a fairy and a cat and put it i
n an envelope.
Her mother gave her five dollars to post it and said she could keep the change.
It was the best birthday of her life, for it was filled with hope, dreams and a bag of lollies from the milk bar next to the post office.
But her hopes were soon dashed when her daily check of the letterbox failed to turn up a response.
He must have been busy with his other children or working in the ballet. Or maybe he was dead. Her mother had said he was older than her so he must be fairly ancient.
Banking on the chance he was alive, she continued to write to him on her birthday, a tradition she carried on into adulthood. Her letters grew longer as she aged, but the response remained the same. This taught her one more thing about her father—he wasn’t a very good pen pal.
She now knew her mother had given her the address for her own selfish reasons. Maybe she could achieve what her mother had failed to do and get her father to respond. She’d looked the address up online and was surprised to discover that her father lived on a farm just over an hour’s drive from Paris. That seemed an odd choice for someone who worked in the ballet, but Skye assumed he must be the sort who needed a home life far different to the one he lived at work.
When she went to London with Dean for their honeymoon, she considered visiting him, but ended up avoiding not only Paris, but the whole of France. Her father didn’t love her. He didn’t want her. He never had. Seeing her wouldn’t change that. Her relationship with him consisted of a one-way annual letter. She may as well be writing to a ghost.
But now he’d replied, and she was holding his words in her hands.
Theo had never understood her need to continue writing to him. He’d offered on more than one occasion to have his investigator look into him, but she’d refused, preferring to do things her own way. Her father should be the one to contact her and tell her about this life. Using a private investigator added a whole new level of humiliation to the situation.
That was when she’d started using her work address on her letters. If her father replied, she didn’t want Theo getting his hands on the letter. She was certain he’d make a copy and start an investigation without her permission. The thought of him knowing things about her father that she didn’t rubbed at her nerves. This was between Skye and her father. Theo needed to stay out of it.
