Tommy’s birthday party would be the last of their alfresco celebrations. She had been at Driftwood since 8 am, mixing punch, assembling paper lanterns and chopping vegetables for salads. The Texan had joined her to knead loaves of sourdough for the oven. Someone was always in the Driftwood kitchen, no matter the time of day. And it wasn’t like the share houses of her youth where people hoarded their own food—it was the opposite. If Wendy had lettuces from her garden she’d bring them. If milk was on special at the supermarket Phoebe would buy bulk and leave a few litres in the fridge. The Texan was always whipping up rhubarb to have on yoghurt or baking muffins, which he insisted were eaten straightaway, fresh from the oven.
The Texan had taught her some of his recipes and she found herself behind the kitchen counter helping him, more often than not. She learned to make a fragrant chicken curry with fresh coriander and ginger from the garden, and tasty dhal with lentils that had been soaked overnight. She baked bread and cultured yoghurt from scratch. These were all things she had consumed in her former life from packets, never imagining she would have the time or inclination to create them herself.
Flick brought out a tray of wineglasses and Phoebe climbed down the ladder and helped her arrange them along the table.
‘Do you think Tommy’s freaking out? Forty’s a big milestone,’ said Flick, brushing leaves off the tablecloth.
Phoebe laughed. ‘Somehow, I don’t think Tommy does “freaked out”. Mildly concerned perhaps . . .’
Flick nodded. ‘True. And it’s not like he doesn’t have everything you’re meant to by this age. Bastard.’
Phoebe felt her neck muscles tense. She knew what Flick meant but resented how the passage of time needed to be accompanied by socially acceptable milestones, even in a joking fashion.
‘You know what?’ She hated how defiant her voice sounded but went on. ‘In society’s eyes I’m in the worst position of my entire life right now. I’ve gone from having a glamorous job and owning a nice apartment with a guy, to single, unemployed, living in the country, but I’m the happiest I can remember since I was a kid.’
Flick smiled indulgently and narrowed her eyes. ‘Really?’
She nodded forcefully. ‘Really.’
Flick raised her eyebrows and shrugged in surrender. ‘Okay. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’ve got a great little thing here, but God, what I wouldn’t give for a gorgeous guy to come and sweep me off my feet.’
As if on cue, Jez appeared, carrying a bag of ice on his shoulder.
‘Speaking of gorgeous guys,’ Flick said loudly.
Phoebe reddened and bent down on the pretence of steadying a rickety table leg. Jez had been sending her letters. She found the first folded into a tight square inside a small envelope in the letterbox.
Today you looked sad. Just checking you’re okay. I’m here if you need me to fix anything.
She knew he meant more than a broken light. She wrote back, telling him how the melancholy thread of her sister sometimes wound itself around her until she couldn’t breathe. He told her he was lonely, that he couldn’t reach Asha. That he was trying, but he couldn’t sleep at night with the confusion he was feeling.
But mostly the letters were short and simple and written in his loose, tradie scrawl, torn out of pages of a notebook. He told her about his days. The view across the rough waters of the Bay where he’d eaten his Vegemite sandwich and drank from a thermos of coffee on Tuesday. Various amusing dramas involving wildlife encounters in people’s roofs. Sometimes he imagined their future together. The simple things they’d do: come home to each other, sleep in the same bed, watch TV together. And he told her about his dreams. She was in them. The unborn child he couldn’t have was in them.
Phoebe could see that he was wrestling with the same guilt as she was. He delivered the letters daily as he drove past on his way home each afternoon. By that time she was already at Driftwood. Just as her love for Jez had grown, so had her attachment to his home and its inhabitants.
His arrival after four each day was heralded with the thump of his heavy boots being kicked off in the hall. The Texan, Wendy, Asha and Flick were usually in the kitchen by that time, snacking on the Texan’s hummus, almonds, baby tomatoes, or whatever other thing had been plucked from the garden that day. Phoebe couldn’t help but watch Jez’s interactions with Asha closely. The way he kissed the top of her head in greeting, the way he’d pour her a glass of wine. Knowing all the while that a letter was there, waiting for her. She hated this. Jealousy and guilt had become two sides of the same coin. She hated herself for their emotional deception but she couldn’t stop herself. Their every interaction was cast with tiny, shining lines, caught beneath the surface like fishing wire. She held tight to the knowledge that they had not been physical with one another. You could call what they had a deep friendship, but really, in the darkness of the night, when she woke breathless and panicked at 2 am, she knew this was not an excuse.
She would read his letters, curled on the lounge, right before sleep. Most days she wrote back at breakfast time and left her letter in the box for him to pick up. Sometimes if she was early enough, he’d collect it on his way to work. She told him what she had planned for the day—a little gardening, going to Driftwood to make chicken soup for Flick whose chronic fatigue symptoms had flared unexpectedly. Picking up some medication for Ginny in the Bay and dropping in a batch of her lemon and almond muffins.
But there had been no letter from Jez for three days. Phoebe had tried to calm herself—he was busy with Tommy’s birthday surprise, maybe he didn’t have a lunch break this week—but she couldn’t help thinking something had shifted. Something was wrong.
Jez was behind her suddenly. ‘The table wobbly?’ He put down the bag of ice and crouched beside her. She was acutely aware of his body so close. ‘Here, let me fix it.’
She looked around. Flick had gone inside. She felt his hand enclose around her wrist and he pulled her under the table. No part of her resisted. It smelled like cut grass and autumn leaves. She could feel the moisture coming up from the earth through the grass, the warmth of his body and then his lips. She couldn’t tell who kissed who but everything else disappeared. The taste of him had not changed. It was the same as it had always been. It took her back like a long forgotten song, clear and remembered. Her body trembled in the places his hand touched. Her arm, her shoulder, her cheek. She wanted to stay here with the tablecloth billowing around them, in this cocoon of light. But they were both listening out for the sounds of others and the guilt was like stones in her stomach, worn smooth from shifting and moving.
People talked about the excitement of affairs and Phoebe couldn’t deny the feeling that coiled in her belly every time she saw him. But there was sadness too, and stress. Why were they in this situation? This emotional pull with no clear direction? Had she become what so many women before her had? The woman a man will never leave his wife for? Everything had changed so slowly, like the summer leaves crisping to autumn. Now he controlled the way the world looked when she woke. She hated and loved him for this in equal measure. She pushed him away gently and her voice was a whisper. ‘It’s so hard, Jez, doing this.’
She waited for his response but he drew her into him again, pressing his face into her neck.
‘It’s not fair to Asha.’ She hated herself for pushing him away.
His face went pale or maybe it was just the bleached light reflecting off the tablecloth. She searched his eyes for some clue but the sound of Asha’s voice floated over the lawn.
‘Jez, we need you to tell us how much beer we need.’
He stiffened. ‘Coming,’ he yelled, trying to mask any urgency. He placed his hand over Phoebe’s. ‘We need to talk. Tonight. After the party.’
She wanted to feel relieved, to smile, to kiss him again, but her gut was churning in the way it always did when she was picking up cues she didn’t understand. She was torn between pushing him for more and escaping, and then the sound of a car on the dirt road r
oused them both.
‘Tommy’s here,’ he said, and was gone.
* * *
Harry squirmed with what may or may not have been delight as Asha snuck a tickle under his arms. He was moving trains around his track with the same fierce intensity that rarely left his little face. They sat on the picnic rug in the shade of the liquidambar, Harry dressed as Superman and Asha cross-legged and also in uniform: one of her long white cotton dresses. Phoebe had been surprised when Asha had volunteered to babysit to give Tommy and Jenna time to enjoy their lunch. She usually approached Harry with caution, clearly unable to invest in something she was denied.
Phoebe thought, not for the first time, that Asha looked like a haunted character out of Picnic at Hanging Rock. What would happen to the dresses as the cooler weather set in? At first Phoebe hadn’t been able to marry this sweet, innocent image with Asha’s caustic remarks but as their relationship thawed, she saw that this whimsy suited Asha. She was a maternal hippy, really. She wanted a life of barefoot children and making things with her hands, but she also wanted the stability Jez afforded—so different from her own upbringing with her neglectful mother. Phoebe could see she was single-minded about this. Asha would not be poor and struggling again and Jez was the key to this. It didn’t matter that their relationship was dysfunctional. Phoebe couldn’t help but feel Asha was using Jez, and her power lay in her looks. Phoebe suspected that Jez had become accustomed to having something that other men desired. Perhaps they had ensnared each other equally.
Phoebe felt her heart ache. She had walked into such a mess. And now Jez had kissed her. She should just walk away right now but she had been preparing for this party for days. She felt a measure of pride at how much Tommy and Jenna had been moved by the surprise lunch. The long table was piled with plates of roast and cold meats, salads and breads. Phoebe was seated at the sunny end of the table between Jenna and one of Tommy’s work colleagues. The guy wore his confidence like a loose tie about his tanned neck. He was a new Federal Police recruit. She could see it in his eager eyes, the arrogant way he tipped his beer back. As soon as she sat down she knew there was some kind of unspoken set-up going on, probably instigated by Tommy. She wondered if he had any clue about what was going on between her and Jez. The two were close but affairs were not things to be easily shared, even with the people who you trusted most.
‘It’s nice to see Asha playing with Harry,’ said Jenna, interrupting her thoughts and leaning over to fill her wineglass.
‘Thanks,’ said Phoebe, taking a sip, happy not to have to hear any more about the fitness routine of the guy whose name she’d already forgotten.
‘Sometimes I feel like it’s too painful for her to interact with him, but Harry really likes her. He won’t sit and be entertained by just anyone. He’s very picky. She’d make a great mother, don’t you think?’
Phoebe nodded mutely, her skin crawling with what felt like tiny biting insects. She tried to remain still, to ignore the erratic beat of her heart. She tried to press the thoughts out of her head. Surely Jez had been careful, given everything that had been happening between them. But she’s still his wife. They still have sex. The thought lodged in her like the piece of ill-chewed meat in her throat.
‘This means so much to Tommy. Thanks for making it all so beautiful. He comes across as very sure of himself but really . . . this means a lot.’
Phoebe shook her head, willing herself to focus. Jenna’s eyes had become misty and Phoebe was glad of all the effort everyone had gone to in making the day special. ‘It was all Jez’s doing. He’s been planning it for ages.’
They both watched Tommy, reclining in his seat, wineglass balanced precariously in his hand. He was holding court, his defences loosened by alcohol and adoration. It was rare that he told a work-related story.
‘And this guy, we bring him in and he’s all tough guy, tatts, steroid abuse, a string of priors, the whole bit, and he’s, you know, he’s been on our watch list for a while.’
Jez began shaking his head, a knowing smile on his lips. He’d obviously heard this one before.
‘And we’ve got his laptop, and our guy has checked it and there’s nothing incriminating, but the guy’s got this weird obsession.’ Tommy paused, the whole table quiet, hanging on his words. ‘Nothing criminal, mind you, but . . .’ Jez squeezed his eyes shut trying to control his amusement.
‘They’re called Bronies—men who are into My Little Ponies. We’re talking every episode, chat rooms, Ebay searches for figurines. It’s a thing.’ Tommy shook his head and finished his wine in one gulp. ‘More disturbing than most of the stuff I’ve seen, Jesus.’
His mates slapped their thighs, doubled over in mirth.
Jenna cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m pretty sure he told me that was classified.’ Phoebe laughed and Jenna rolled her eyes. ‘Maybe I just need to get him drunk more often, so he’ll tell me more about work.’
‘And what about the dude who had the Smurf sex fetish? He had to be painted blue,’ said Jez, elbowing Tommy in the ribs.
‘Looks like Jez gets all the juicy stories,’ said Phoebe.
‘It’s lovely how close they are,’ said Jenna. ‘What, with their mum gone.’ She took a sip of her rosé. ‘Were you like that with your sister? Before . . .’ She trailed off.
Perhaps it was the wine or the lingering anxiety over what was going on with Jez, but Phoebe said what was in her heart. ‘Yes, we were best friends, just like Jez and Tommy. It’s the anniversary of her death next week and I just can’t stop thinking about her. She would have turned forty next year.’
Jenna’s delicate features darkened and her large eyes searched Phoebe’s. ‘Oh, Phoebe, how awful for you. And here we are all celebrating.’
Phoebe’s throat constricted but she managed to shake her head. ‘No. It’s okay, life goes on. People are still allowed to have birthdays.’ She gave Jenna a comforting smile. But if she was honest, sometimes it didn’t feel like it was okay. Sometimes it felt like every celebration, every new birth, everything that showed that life went on and was good, was a kick in the face to Karin’s memory. A lot of grief’s journey was working through these feelings and trying to come to a place of acceptance.
Jenna looked into her lap, wringing her serviette, clearly trying to find the right words. ‘I’m just so sorry. I had no idea the anniversary of her death was next week.’
Phoebe took another sip of wine. She was becoming pleasantly numb. It was the only way she could cope with the uncertainty over what was going on with Jez. She looked at Jenna, head hung, and over at Asha, smiling on the rug. Both of them lived with uncertainty. How their child would survive in the world, and whether a child would ever come. Solid ground was a myth; it had just taken Phoebe this long to realise it.
She felt a tap on her shoulder and swivelled in her seat to see a bottle of white wine held aloft and a raised, questioning eyebrow. She was surprised to find that her wineglass was empty. She was drinking too much but she allowed Tommy’s mate to refill it.
‘You ladies were looking a bit serious. I thought I’d cheer you up.’
She forced a smile onto her face and their glasses clinked in cheers. Jenna left to join Asha and Harry on the picnic rug and Phoebe felt relieved and a little drunk. Maybe Mr New Recruit was okay. Maybe she just needed a bit of fun in her life. Everything was too intense, too serious. What did they say about just having fun for a while after a big break-up? She’d certainly skipped that step. She shot Charlie, that was his name, a more genuine smile. He actually wasn’t bad looking. He leaned in and she could smell his cologne.
‘So tell me about yourself, Phoebe.’
It was easy to edit her life to sound good. She mentioned working for Joet et Halo, being in charge of their social media and how that meant going to lots of amazing events and travelling, all the promotional parties she went to, the freebie champagne stashed in every room in the house. He didn’t need to know she’d quit. The apartment she owned—h
e didn’t need to know it was now being rented out to cover the mortage, while she and Nate got their act together to sell. She mentioned her successful family, omitting the small detail of the suicide. He nodded and made a whistling sound when she told him where her parents lived. She remembered this feeling, how addictive it was. It was like trying on her old self, her old life.
She thought about how her social media accounts looked right now. They were suspended, frozen in the same filtered version of her life that she’d just told this stranger. The last photo she’d posted was of her and Nathaniel drinking cocktails on the beach at sunset. There were no lonely tears in the dark, faces staring up at her from the river depths, affairs. Even now, she knew she could manipulate things to make them appear perfect. Her Instagramable organic vegie patch, the little community at Driftwood—like a second family. Even her affair with Jez could be made glossy. They were childhood sweethearts, destined to be together after all this time.
She put her hand over her glass as her companion went to top it up again. But she fumbled and it fell, spilling wine over her dress and the table. His laugh was a boom and his hand was suddenly patting down her lap with a napkin. She began to giggle. When she looked up she saw Jez standing beside her. His face was serious. More serious than a spilled glass of wine warranted. Was he jealous? She stood and the world tilted. She steadied herself on the back of her chair and suppressed another giggle. She muttered something about needing to use the ladies and focused on staying upright while she found her equilibrium. She thought Jez was going to take her arm, but of course he didn’t. He couldn’t. Everyone was here. Everyone would see. He began mopping up the spill with serviettes. She steadied herself again on the back of the chair.
‘I’ll be back,’ she said, her voice sounding slow in her ears. She made it to the bathroom and sat on the cool toilet seat with her head in her hands. When she stood against the bathroom vanity the world was still spinning. She tried to find herself in the face staring back in the mirror.
The Lost Summers of Driftwood Page 17
