by Emily Brewin
Malcolm scratches his head. ‘So you want … maternity leave?’
‘No.’ She shifts in her seat. ‘I’d like time off while I’m doing IVF. Then, once I’m pregnant, I’ll take maternity leave.’ She couldn’t be much plainer.
‘That’s quite an unorthodox request,’ Andrew interjects, his eyebrows rising.
She frowns, feels the power shifting back in their favour. She wasn’t expecting this. Everyone knows how dedicated she is to the firm. She’s their best and brightest, devoted to a fault. This is the least they can do. Suddenly, the light from the window is too bright.
Malcolm rises from his seat and wanders to the sideboard to pour a drink. ‘My sister-in-law has been doing IVF for five years,’ he says. ‘She still hasn’t got a baby.’
Isobel shakes her head slightly. As far as she’s concerned, the odds are stacked in her favour. She’s fit and healthy and has the best fertility specialist money can buy. Plus, Dr Vann assured her when Marcus left the room to move the car, it was always easier to fall pregnant the second time around.
Andrew adjusts his tie.
‘My mother’s dying.’ It pops out before she can stop it, leaving her shocked and Malcolm’s glass hanging in the air on the way to his mouth.
Andrew frowns so that a trench appears between his brows. She curls her hands in her lap. The conversation isn’t meant to go this way. Her mother really has nothing to do with it.
The partners exchange another look. It’s the most she’s ever divulged and it’s clearly making them uncomfortable.
‘I’ve got months of leave owing.’ She pushes her shoulders back. ‘I’ll need a year, tops, as well as five months maternity leave.’ The last part was said with absolute confidence, in spite of Andrew’s steely gaze.
The partners know what she is capable of. Having a baby would, frankly, be child’s play compared to some of the cases she handles at work.
Apart from the sound of Malcolm swallowing, the room is silent. She sits, drawing confidence from the fact of her large corner office upstairs and her indisputable track record.
‘Bernard could step up.’
It comes from nowhere and reverberates around the mostly empty room. Isobel stares for a moment too long at Andrew then swivels towards Malcolm.
‘It would definitely test his mettle.’ He puts the glass down on the sideboard and considers Andrew over the top of her head.
She’s struck dumb. Haven’t they noticed the casual manner Bernard uses with clients or the fact he leaves early on Fridays?
‘He does have a certain je ne sais quoi that works in his favour.’ Andrew picks up where Malcolm left off.
They’ve obviously broached this topic before. Bernard. Suddenly she’s doubting herself again.
Rosie
THIS TIME SHE IGNORES the call. It’s an unknown number again, same as the last five. If she picks it up, there’ll be the same quiet nothing.
The first time it happened she was polite, picturing a confused pensioner on the other end. The second time she heard traffic but the line went dead before she could demand an answer. After that she lost patience and blasted the caller with a whistle they got with the breakfast cereal. Now the ring sends a cold rush of terror through her. She tussles Petey’s hair for reassurance and takes a deep breath before banging on her mother’s door.
Maureen answers. She hasn’t changed a bit in the six months since Rosie saw her last. Still has the peroxide-blonde hair and witchy cackle of an ageing rock star. Maureen’s been part of the furniture ever since she can remember. Although she never lived with them, she blended in well with her mother’s patchouli-scented hippy shawls and tacky plastic flowers. Vera sees herself as a bit of an earth mother, but in reality it’s a struggle to find anything earthy or motherly about her. Shabby and overly affectionate when pissed is as close as she comes.
They step through the front door into Vera’s unit. The stale air hits them like a slap and it takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. She would have turned around and left again if Maureen hadn’t suddenly grabbed her in a hug that smelt like cask wine and cheap perfume.
Once, when she was ten, Maureen took her in for a bit when Vera nicked off up north with a bloke from the pub.
‘Just for a little holiday, pet,’ Maureen told her; though they both knew the truth. It was the most settled she ever felt.
Petey hesitates at the door, staring into the unit until Maureen bends down and gently squeezes his cheek. ‘Nanny’s in the kitchen waiting for you.’
‘It’s okay, mate,’ Rosie says, giving him a gentle tug, not bothering to explain who Nanny is.
They move down the worn carpeted hall. The place stinks of ciggies and incense, the scents of her childhood; those and the sickly smell of the alcoholic lolly water Vera likes to drink. Pineapple was her favourite. She reckoned it kept her young, but all it really did was give her type two diabetes and flabby arms.
Vera sits at the kitchen table, as promised, done up like a dinner and not a bit nanny-like. The place is haphazard; dirty dishes clog up the sink and the bin in the corner looks ready to explode.
Petey stays close, slipping his cold hands under Rosie’s army jacket so she can’t sit down.
‘Bit old for that, isn’t he?’ Vera croaks, tapping ash from her cigarette into a cracked mug.
She steels herself.
‘Shush, Vee,’ Maureen chortles across the room, giving him a toothy grin.
‘Happy birthday,’ Rosie says from the other end of the table. It’s been years since they touched and she isn’t going to start now.
She craved it once, the brush of her mother’s hand on her face like the other mums did, but deep down she knew Vera wasn’t capable. She’d had it rough as a kid and didn’t have it in her to be tender. After a night at the pub she might attempt a sloppy kiss, but Rosie hated the greasy apricot mark her lipstick left on her face and the abuse she copped for rejecting it.
‘You want to head out for a bite?’ she says to Vera, clutching the back of a kitchen chair. ‘My shout.’
Her mother’s head snaps up. ‘You must be doing all right.’ She stubs out the butt until it crumples. ‘Got a kiss for Nanny, Pete?’
Petey’s fingers dig into the skin on her back.
‘I’ll get me handbag,’ Maureen says, teetering off to the living room.
‘C’mon,’ Vera gets out of her chair and holds out her arms, the skin on them dry and flaky.
Petey shakes his head and refuses to let go until Vera’s arms flop back to her sides. ‘Just like your flamin’ mother.’
Rosie bites her tongue, determined the afternoon’s not going to turn to shit. She knows Vera’s dying to get under her skin. She’s like that. Always pushing buttons.
‘Found it,’ Maureen comes back with her bag and hands Vera hers. It’s purple with silver studs and a cowboy frill around its base. It flicks against her vinyl pants when she walks.
Vera picks the café. It stands, shabbily, between a truck mechanic’s workshop and a tile factory outlet store not far from home. Most of the customers are blokes in overalls and high-vis vests. One of them winks at Vera, asking if she’s going down the pub later. She narrows her eyes like a cat and says, ‘If you’re there, handsome,’ so that the man blushes. She and Maureen giggle like teenage girls when he leaves in a way that’s irritating.
Petey sits so close that the metal arm of his chair digs into Rosie’s elbow.
‘Chip, chips, chips,’ he trills when she asks what he wants.
‘Chips it is,’ she says, pushing the pale hair from his eyes.
Vera watches then orders a burger with the lot and a large Coke. The woman behind the counter tells her to get it from the fridge. Maureen orders the same with a Fanta and Rosie guesses she’s paying for both of them.
‘So, what’s new?’ she asks Vera. The fluorescent lights above highlight the deep lines in her mother’s face.
‘Not much,’ Vera answers sulkily. ‘Just getting by
.’
Petey starts playing with Rosie’s fingers, like he does when he’s bored. She pulls her hand away.
‘Still playing bingo?’
Maureen snorts. ‘Is she ever! She won a big game last week, didn’t ya, Vee? Go on, tell her what ya won.’
The food arrives on a large brown plastic tray that the waitress leaves with them. Vera takes a bite of her hamburger, leaking tomato sauce onto the table. ‘Gold-class movie tickets,’ she says smugly. ‘Might take Maureen if she’s lucky.’
Maureen elbows her.
They eat in silence except for the sound of chewing. Petey sees how many chips he can fit in his mouth then spits them into a napkin when he can’t swallow. Maureen doesn’t stop smiling at him.
‘He looks so much like you did,’ she says.
Rosie knows it. The way his hair turns into waves when it grows and the dark spray of freckles across his nose. He shoves another handful of chips in, oblivious to the conversation.
‘Looks like his father more,’ Vera says without glancing up from the egg yolk she’s wiping around her plate with the bun. It leaves a shiny orange smear.
Rosie puts her toastie down and glares at her across the table.
‘A real chip off the old block.’
For a moment, she’s speechless. Maureen shifts stiffly in her seat and the woman at the counter fires up the coffee machine, but all Rosie can see is Vera’s jaw jutting out like a challenge. Petey wipes his hands on his top and slurps his orange juice. She focuses on the sound, determined not to take the bait.
‘He’s got Joel’s eyes.’
She doesn’t do Vera the favour of looking at Petey. She knows where his eyes come from. Every time she stares into them she’s reminded. At times they’re unsettling. But then she reminds herself you only have to spend one minute with him to know he hasn’t got a mean bone in his body. Joel had enough for the three of them.
‘Can we talk about something else.’ It’s not a question. She pulls a new Spiderman colouring book from her bag. It’s a treat, designed to keep Petey entertained so she can finish her meal. He whoops when he sees it and pulls a ziplock bag of pencils from his backpack.
‘Good idea, love,’ Maureen says nervously. ‘Ya mum’s just miffed cause she’s one year older.’
But it’s not as complicated as that. Vera just likes to stir the pot. Cheap thrills.
‘I’m only telling the truth.’ Vera grins and leans towards Petey. ‘Did Mum ever tell you ya look just like your dad, darl?’
‘No dad,’ Petey says matter-of-factly as he colours Spiderman’s boots black.
‘Drop it,’ Rosie warns. The café’s cleared out and she’s losing patience.
‘What?’ Vera’s on a roll. ‘I tried to tell you he was a dropkick, but Miss High and Mighty never listens.’ She crosses her arms. ‘And look what kind of trouble it got ya into.’ Vera swallows. ‘Should of listened to your old mum and maybe ya wouldn’t be on the run.’
It’s like someone’s pinched her, hard. She flinches. Vera needs to watch herself. She knows what that bastard put her through.
Maureen slaps Vera’s arm. ‘Geez you’ve got a mouth.’
But Rosie doesn’t stick around. She picks up Petey’s book and pencils and stuffs them back into his pack.
‘Mum!’
‘Time to go, mate.’ She pulls out his chair but he clings to the edge of the table.
‘I’m not finished, Mum, I’m not finished.’
She knows how much he hates leaving things half done but there’s no way she’s sticking around to listen to Vera.
‘Sorry, mate.’ She wrenches his hands from the table and loops an arm around his waist to half pull, half drag him from the café. He screams blue murder and the bag’s zip comes undone with the tussle, spilling its contents across the floor.
Maureen bends over and scoops stuff off the ground before handing it back. ‘You’re right, love,’ she reassures softly.
‘What about the bill?’ Vera calls as Rosie shoulders the bag and drags a sobbing Petey through the door and down the street.
The bus trip home is peaceful enough once she gives Petey back his book. He chatters happily and she takes comfort in the warmth of his body leaning against hers. What was she thinking, visiting Vera like that? Nothing’s changed. Rosie had hoped the time apart might make things easier between them. That maybe they could see more of each other, for Petey’s sake.
She watches the railway line running beside the road, the broken beer bottles in the gutter and the graffiti-stained walls, and recalls Joel taking her to a place nearby years ago. He’d found an old mattress under the bridge and they’d spent the night on it, messing around in the dark then dropping acid until they could hardly see. Joel had stumbled onto the tracks yelling, ‘Fuck me,’ then dragged her on too.
‘No,’ she’d yelled, laughing at first then screaming as train lights came into view. ‘Joel, stop it!’
She tried to loosen his grip but he held her tighter until all she could hear was the sound of blood pulsing in her head.
‘Trippy!’ he screamed in her ear.
She fought like a bagged cat, but he was stronger and had a laugh like a maniac. Finally, she bit his arm so hard he let go. Then he scrambled after her until they were clear of the tracks.
She stood, shaking, but he was off again, high as a kite, screaming to the world she was his soulmate.
The train swept past them, a shriek of colour and light, deadly and beautiful.
She’d never met anyone like Joel before, never felt so needed. He took her in his arms and pashed her until the tension in her body fell away and it all felt like magic. It’s just the way he is, she told herself.
It went downhill from there.
Isobel
HER FIRST DAY at Nottingham Girls Secondary College was a blur. She had to remember room numbers, teachers’ names and the house she belonged to, Chisholm, after some lady called Caroline. Not to mention the rules, like wearing a blazer outside the school grounds and keeping your socks pulled up to your knees, except during PE when you had to change them altogether.
At primary school, all you had to remember was the hook you’d left your bag on that morning and which seat in the shelter shed had chewy stuck to the bottom. She doubted there was chewy on any of the seats at Nottingham, a notion that made her feel even more out of place.
At recess she sat on a bench near the toilets by herself and wished for the stink of rotting seaweed. During summer it wafted up the road from Altona Beach, creating a backdrop to her days at school.
Thankfully, a girl she recognised from assembly that morning sat down too. Jennifer Mason was hard to forget, with her swinging blonde ponytail and Young Talent Time stride. She and another girl had marched the school banner to the front of the hall, drawing loud applause from the audience. Sitting with her made Isobel feel ten feet tall.
‘How you finding things?’ Jennifer asked with an air of authority, despite being in year seven too.
‘Okay’, she answered shyly. ‘It’s pretty different though. At my old school …’
A sidelong glance made her stop talking.
Jennifer tightened the ponytail and tilted her head so her grey eyes caught the light. ‘Someone said you’re on a scholarship.’
Isobel swung her legs and nodded proudly.
‘Does that mean you’re poor?’
Her legs stopped. She’d never thought so, but sitting next to Jennifer highlighted the dullness of her warehouse shoes.
A small group of girls approached. ‘This is Isobel,’ Jennifer pointed before jumping up. ‘Come hang out with us,’ she called over her shoulder.
Isobel nodded but the commanding tone in Jennifer’s voice made her wish she was invisible again.
She considers her parents’ lounge room, with its ugly brown decor and netted curtains that water down the sun, and realises it was a mistake to come. The last visit to Altona with Marcus had lulled her into a false sense of security. W
ith him everything was less depressing, the room less dull, her father less troubled and her mother less sick. It was almost pleasant, her hand resting lightly on the small of his back as he leaned in to debate the declining state of Medicare with her father. Their talk filled the house, pushing out the fact her mother’s skin was turning a unsettling shade of yellow.
But here she is again, and this time there is nothing between her and the disturbing truth.
‘Sit, Belly,’ her mother orders lightheartedly from the dining table. She’s wearing a silky purple dressing-gown that accentuates the new angles of her body. ‘It makes me tired watching you stand.’
Isobel lowers her handbag to the floor and pulls a chair out on the opposite side. Her father isn’t home and the house minus his bustling is unnervingly quiet. In days past, Buddy Holly crooned from the record player while her mother whizzed up a cake in the kitchen. She used to crave silence. Now there is no noise to hide behind.
‘How’s work, darling?’ Her mother’s eyes still shine. ‘I wanted to ask last time, but Dad and his politics …’
Isobel gets up again. ‘How about a cup of tea?’
She rounds the kitchen bench to put the kettle on. The space is so familiar that if she closed her eyes she’d still find everything she needed, the mugs in the cupboard to the left and her mother’s coloured wineglasses displayed through a pane overhead. She doubts she could do the same at her own house. The thought distracts her so she forgets to add two spoons of sugar to her mother’s tea.
‘Make it three,’ her mother waves when Isobel realises. ‘I’m living dangerously.’
Isobel sets the mug back on the bench. She only spoons in two because, frankly, three sugars is ridiculous.
Her mother arches an eyebrow but says nothing.
Isobel stirs one into her tea too. It’s something she hasn’t done for years but suddenly she craves sweetness. She delivers the mugs and a plate of custard creams to the table. ‘I’m taking a break to do IVF.’
The gown slips off her mother’s shoulder revealing her cotton nightie, and the tea and biscuits remain untouched.
