Dad would crucify me for this, Hamish thought, watching the cobweb on the ceiling again. He was a true gentleman.
It wasn’t the first time Hamish had compared himself to his father and found himself wanting. His father had been effortlessly chivalrous, or so it had seemed to Hamish. Women had fawned over him, yet there wasn’t a skerrick of lasciviousness about him. This confounded Hamish, whose dick almost always interfered in his relations with women. Fortunately for his professional life, there weren’t many female employees at Crossroads.
‘Mr McInnes?’
It was Jan, the grey-haired nurse, whose brief appearances at his bedside had become a welcome distraction.
‘I found that number you asked for. Only a few people in Melbourne have “Dogger” as a surname. It’s quite unfortunate, isn’t it?’ She chuckled. ‘Here it is—T.G. Dogger, Springvale.’ She waved a small piece of paper at him. ‘He’s the one, I take it?’
Hamish’s eyes brimmed with gratitude. He looked over at the telephone perched on the chest of drawers near his bed, his private line in hospital. It hadn’t rung once since his arrival.
‘Would you like me to dial the number for you?’ asked Jan.
He nodded mutely.
‘Oh, darling, you’re in the wars, aren’t you?’
Her sympathy made him want to lean into her chest and cry like a baby.
She pushed her spectacles back onto the bridge of her nose, picked up the telephone and dialled.
‘There you are.’ She passed the handset to him and walked to the door. ‘If you need to hang up, just press the call bell.’
‘Thanks, Jan.’
He lifted the receiver to his ear.
Tina answered.
‘Hamo!’ she squealed, as she always did.
‘Is Doggo there, Tina?’
‘He’s just helping Mitch with his homework, hang on.’
The alarm clock on the bedside table told Hamish it was now six o’clock, exactly the worst time of day to telephone a family of seven.
‘Haaamo.’ Doggo sounded his usual chipper self. ‘How are ya, mate?’
‘I can’t get to drinks tomorrow, I had an accident.’
Doggo said nothing for a moment.
‘You okay? What happened?’
For the second time in two minutes, Hamish found he couldn’t speak. He tried to swallow it down, keep a lid on it. Didn’t want to bawl like a girl down the phone to Doggo.
‘Fell off the bike. Smashed my knee bad.’
‘Where are you, mate?’
‘Box Hill Hospital. Orthopaedic ward. They had to operate.’
‘Jesus.’ Doggo paused. ‘I’ll come and see you after dinner, mate, around eight-thirty. Unless Paula or the kids will be there?’
Hamish tightened his fist around the edge of the bed sheet.
‘Eight-thirty’s good.’
‘Righto.’ Doggo hung up.
Hamish let the receiver drop out of his hand and rebound towards the chest of drawers, swinging by its spiral cord.
‘Hamo.’
Ants were crawling all over him. Bloody tiny itchy ants, boring their way under his skin and into his ears and up his nose. He couldn’t move to flick them off.
‘Hamo.’
It was Paula. She was there again, he could smell her. That perfume she’d been wearing since she was twenty-three, the citrus one. Oranges and lemons on a summer’s day. He smiled, but couldn’t prise his eyelids apart.
‘Hamo. You awake?’
His eyes snapped open.
Doggo’s face hovered above him.
‘Shit, mate. What happened?’
Hamish blurted out the whole story.
How he’d argued with Caitlin about the Facebook scandal and she’d flounced off on her bike. How he’d followed her and crashed on Blackburn Road, shattering his knee in three places. The surgery, the wound infection, the time off work he’d be forced to take. And somewhere in that shit-storm, how Paula had discovered his online liaisons with Lisel.
‘Oh, fuck.’ Doggo looked genuinely scared.
‘It’s not good, Doggo.’ Hamish noticed that his own voice sounded wispy; a bit like an old man’s.
‘How much does Paula know?’
‘Enough, mate. Everything, probably. She’s been in touch with Lisel herself.’
‘Jesus H. Christ.’ Doggo sat bug-eyed, biting at the edge of his right thumbnail, a nervous habit of his since high school. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘No idea. Paula hasn’t come to see me since the day I was admitted.’ His chin trembled. ‘Even after the surgery.’
Don’t you cry, you weak-as-piss pussy.
‘Do you want me to . . . to go round to your house and see her?’
Hamish looked at Doggo, his mate of almost thirty years. They’d met as twelve-year-olds at high school and since then, they’d seen and done it all together. Girls, clubs, drugs, porn, hangovers, surfing, Europe, marriage, kids, chicks on the internet. Doggo was a bloke of few words, but he knew Hamish better than anyone else.
Hamish didn’t trust himself to speak; he could only nod at Doggo.
‘Righto.’ Doggo looked relieved to have a plan. ‘I’ve got to finish a big job tomorrow, but I’ll go over Saturday.’
‘Thanks, Doggo.’ Hamish felt like hugging him.
‘When will they let you out of here?’ Doggo asked.
‘Doctor reckons early next week. The infection’s fucked me over. But after it’s cleared, I’m good to go.’
‘Do you need anything from home?’ Doggo stood up from his chair.
‘Not unless you can get my phone off Paula.’
Doggo chewed his thumb again. ‘It’ll take a helluva lot to dig yourself out of this one, Hamo.’ He reached for Hamish’s hand, as if to shake it. But their timing was off, and Doggo’s connected with the IV drip.
They laughed at their clumsiness.
‘At least we can still laugh, eh?’ said Doggo, clapping him on the shoulder.
Hamish choked up. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Doggo flicked both thumbs up, his trademark farewell, before heading down the corridor.
4
‘Mum, what are you doing?’
Paula jumped at the sound of Caitlin’s voice.
She looked up at her daughter, standing in the bedroom doorway, her blonde hair mussed by sleep, long tanned limbs protruding out of a skimpy pink nightie. The one they’d argued about, a birthday gift from Amy, with a plunging neckline and Playboy bunny insignias plastered all over it.
It’s slutty and it sexualises her, she’d told Hamish.
But she’s only wearing it at home, he’d pointed out. No blokes will see her in it.
But I can, she’d replied.
Pick your battles, he’d said. It’s not a big a deal.
So Paula had let it go, but it wound her up whenever she saw Caitlin wearing it.
‘It’s past midnight, Catie,’ she said. ‘Did something wake you?’
‘No.’ Caitlin wandered across the room and sat down on the end of Paula’s bed. ‘I just can’t sleep.’
‘Me neither.’
Paula placed another pile of folded clothing into the suitcase that lay open on the floor.
‘What’s this?’ Caitlin gestured at the items spread across the bed.
Paula stalled. ‘Well, I was going to tell you tomorrow.’
She sat down next to her daughter. ‘We’re going away.’
‘Where to?’
As far as possible from your father.
‘Around Australia in the caravan. You, me and Lachie. And Gramps, too.’
Paula opened the cover of the adventure scrapbook she’d created with Hamish years ago, with its map of Australia glued across two pages.
Caitlin looked dismayed. ‘But . . . I’ve got school.’
‘No you don’t. Mr Nelson hasn’t given you the all-clear, remember?’
‘But he will.’ Caitlin pouted. ‘Amy said so. As soon as Facebook takes t
he photo down, he’ll let us both back. And Mr Nelson’s given everyone three days to unlike the post, or he’s going to—’
‘I know.’ Paula had heard as much from the principal himself, in a brusque voicemail message. But the Facebook post remained active for all to see, and Lachie still hadn’t returned to school either.
Paula’s world had been turned upside down in less than a week: first, by the Facebook incident with Caitlin, then by Hamish’s accident, and finally, her discovery of his online indiscretions. After so many unremarkable years, three disastrous events had occurred within twenty-four hours.
Bad things always happen in threes, her mother used to say.
‘It’s only six weeks until the end of school.’ Paula tried to look upbeat. ‘We’ve got nothing else planned for the summer holidays. It’ll be a big adventure.’ The one we always said we’d go on, your father and me.
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘We’ll only be away three months. It’s not forever.’
‘Three months? What about Dad? Where will he be?’
‘Here, at home. I’m sure he’ll agree it’s the right decision.’ Paula didn’t quite believe her own propaganda. ‘Look, Catie, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’m in a situation I never imagined I’d be in.’
Caitlin glowered at her.
‘The truth is, Dad and I . . . need to have a break. I love your dad, and I love you and Lachie. But I don’t think I can stay in this house with your father for a while.’
Paula looked at the pillows on their bed. The idea of lying there next to Hamish made her feel sick.
‘Why? What did Dad do?’
‘I think I’ll let Dad explain.’
‘You always tell us honesty is the best policy.’
‘It is.’ Paula couldn’t believe how difficult this was. ‘But let’s talk about it in the morning.’
‘No.’ Caitlin scowled. ‘I won’t go anywhere until you tell me what Dad did.’
Paula paused, deliberating. It was one o’clock on a Tuesday morning and here she was, physically and emotionally exhausted by the events of the last five days. And now she was being drawn into a conversation with her daughter that she really wasn’t ready to have.
But how will I be better prepared tomorrow? she asked herself. Or any other day, for that matter? It’s going to be a difficult discussion at any time.
Caitlin’s eyes drilled into her.
‘Alright, Catie. Your dad’s been having an affair on the internet. I found out the morning after his accident.’
Paula picked at a stray thread from the quilted doona they sat on. Only last week she’d made a diary note to buy a new doona cover at the January sales. She’d kept everything orderly for years, fulfilling the countless duties of a devoted wife—never imagining for a moment that her husband might be cyber-screwing a seventeen-year-old.
The thread blurred in Paula’s fingers as she remembered the appalling discovery. How she’d found Hamish’s phone recharging on the kitchen bench the morning after the accident. Her initial relief at finding it, one of the only times he’d ever not taken his phone with him. She’d have to call Hamish’s workaholic boss, Gary, she decided.
‘Lachie,’ she said, turning to her son, ‘do you happen to know the passcode for Dad’s phone?’
Lachlan looked up from his Weet-bix and smirked. ‘Duh, Mum, I’ve seen it a million times. It’s 1995.’
Of course: their wedding year.
‘Go and get dressed, kids,’ she urged. ‘Let’s go up to the hospital.’
Paula turned Hamish’s phone over in her hands and keyed in the numbers.
A second later, she was looking at a Skype browser already open on the screen.
A tab jiggled at the bottom: 26 unread messages. That seemed an unusually high number for one night’s absence from work.
Paula scanned the list, most of which were from a user named Lisel17. Then she clicked on a random entry.
What r u up 2?
The informality was odd, she thought.
Im home alone.
Wish u lived closer.
Then maybe we could meet.
Paula frowned.
Horny alone is no fun. Well let me try . . .
Ive got my hands where urs should b.
U turn me on Hamo.
I’m pressing my pussy with ur big fat cock.
She gasped.
Pleeease fuck me.
U r pushing in2 me now.
Ohhh that feels good.
Ive got my hands all over my pussy baby.
Im so slippery now.
U turn me over and fuck me from behind.
Harder Hamo harder
In n out in n out in n out.
Im about 2 cum.
Begging u 4 more.
Im cuming Hamo Im cuming.
Paula dropped the phone, her heart hammering in her ears. She sagged against the pantry, then onto the cold blue tiles below.
She looked around, disbelieving, at the icons of her domestic life. The Suncoaster blender, a wedding gift from Aunty Dinah. The expensive knife block she’d bought on special from Hardy’s Knives. The Tupperware canisters of macaroni, rice, sugar and flour, standing tallest to shortest in the pantry like sturdy domestic soldiers. The jaffle-maker, a staple of their weekend routine, perfect for soccer lunches and easy snacks. Her chalkboard shopping list, prompting her to buy mayonnaise, pickles and juices for the school lunches. All of her endless planning and management, oiling the wheels of family life.
Trembling, Paula stood up again and got herself a glass of water.
Maybe it’s not what it seems, she told herself, gulping down mouthfuls. Maybe it’s some sort of sex spam.
She seized the phone again. Keyed in 1995.
Scrolling through the messages, she searched for signs of Hamish’s innocence.
Did u get what I sent?
Noticed the number . . . PO Box 69 . . . specially for me? :)
Ur turn 2 send me something now.
12/9 James Street Mandurah WA 6210.
Send me something hot ok.
Paula dry-retched into the sink.
It wasn’t spam. Lisel17 knew their postbox number, presumably because Hamish had given it to her. And that looked like a real address, albeit on the other side of Australia.
‘Mum, are you okay?’
She turned and saw her daughter, still perched on the end of the bed that Paula and Hamish had shared for seventeen years.
Caitlin suddenly leaned forward, pushing her lithe body against Paula’s stout one. In earlier years, Hamish had described Paula’s figure as ‘womanly’, or even ‘cuddly’. Now, he said nothing. But she noticed his expression whenever she had an extra helping of lasagne, a second slice of birthday cake, one more row of chocolate. The disapproving set of his mouth that said: You don’t need that, fatty.
Paula looked into Caitlin’s face, which was ashen now.
‘Who . . . um . . .’ Caitlin looked embarrassed. ‘Who did Dad . . . have the affair with?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’ Paula was determined not to reveal anything about Lisel, especially her age. ‘Someone he met in a chat forum, I think.’
Caitlin crumpled sideways onto the bed and began to sob, her face buried in the doona.
‘Shhh, it’s okay.’ Paula began stroking Catie’s back. It was quite enough to manage her own emotions, let alone have to deal with someone else’s. Her open wardrobe, half-empty now, looked exactly like she felt.
‘Catie, I’m not saying it’s over with Dad.’ Paula guessed this was the reason Caitlin was crying. ‘I just need some time to think.’ She continued rubbing her daughter’s back. ‘We could all do with a break, Catie. You’ve worked so hard this year, it won’t be long until school finishes. And after the holidays, we’ll come back fresh for a new school year. Gosh, you’ll be in Year Ten next year. So grown up, I can’t believe it. I can still remember when I could fit you in here.’ Paula pointed at the crook of her arm
and smiled, remembering the tiny, gurgling bundle her daughter had once been. ‘You were such a gorgeous baby, Catie. People used to stop me in the street and tell me how perfect you were. You still are.’
Caitlin pulled herself up and sat cross-legged, fingering the edge of her nightie.
‘You mean, we’d be home by the end of summer?’
Paula nodded. ‘And we’d see some amazing parts of Australia on the way.’
Caitlin’s bottom lip began to quiver. ‘But it won’t be the same without Dad.’
‘I know, honey.’ Paula’s voice broke. ‘But you and Lachie can stay in touch with him the whole time.’
Paula and Hamish had often talked about taking leave from work and doing the ultimate Aussie road trip with the kids. Just the four of them in a comfortable campervan, toasting marshmallows over campfires, swimming in outback billabongs. But the time had never been quite right.
Until now.
Paula dabbed at the edges of her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Catie. You can stay here with Dad, I won’t be cross. But I need to get away for a few months.’ The more Paula talked, the more resolute she felt. ‘Lachie can decide for himself too. I won’t be forcing anyone along.’
Paula watched as Caitlin lifted a head torch from the bed, clicking its bluish light on and off. It was old, but with the new battery Paula had purchased, it was still in good working order. It hadn’t been used since their first year of marriage, when Paula and Hamish had taken a trip to Jervis Bay. Paula could still recall that magical week over Easter, camping in a pristine national park by the ocean. The dolphins, rosellas and kangaroos at dawn, the rubbish-raiding possums at night. They’d had sandy sex and gone swimming afterwards, drunk too much red wine and cooked every meal over the campfire.
Paula reached for her equipment list.
Spare batteries for head torch, she wrote.
‘When are we leaving?’ asked Caitlin.
Paula smiled at the ‘we’.
‘Thursday.’ Paula knew it was ridiculous, reckless even, to leave in just two days’ time. But she also knew that if she waited until Hamish returned from hospital, she’d probably change her mind. In all their years of marriage, she’d rarely resisted Hamish’s persuasions.
Wife on the Run Page 7
