Lauren shrugged. ‘There’s not really anything wrong with him, I guess, but he’s no Jonesy. The whole mood of the place has changed. Like I said, he runs a tight ship now, he keeps an eye on pretty much everything. But otherwise, socially and that, he seems to keep to himself. I suppose it can’t be easy for him.’ She considered Gemma’s strained expression. ‘Seriously, give Kelly a call. Things are so tight, there’ll be no new positions coming up for ages. You might as well go for this one. What have you got to lose?’
*
Balmain
‘How are you going to afford to pay for the nursing home?’ were almost Tony’s first words on the phone from London. He’d swiftly dispensed with the ‘how are you’ plus a mumbled apology about not being able to get back for the funeral, before cutting right to the chase.
‘Sorry to put it so bluntly,’ he went on, ‘but you have lost a wage.’
Was it possible for him to be more insensitive?
‘Tony,’ Helen replied levelly, ‘I’ve lost a husband.’
‘I know that, Hel, I’m just looking at the big picture, because I doubt that you are. I’m worried about you.’
No, he wasn’t. Once upon a time maybe. But Helen didn’t know what his agenda was any more.
‘How will you cope?’ he went on. ‘Those fees aren’t cheap, and you’re a single mother now.’
‘I’m a widow, Tony.’
‘Which is worse: you won’t be getting any child support.’
Christ.
‘How are you going to get by?’
‘If you’re so concerned,’ said Helen, ‘you could always contribute to Mum’s fees for a while, till I get on my feet again.’
There was a significant pause. ‘Hel, if you need anything, you only have to ask,’ he said carefully. ‘But you have to be realistic about your situation.’
Helen could feel a tightening in her chest. ‘What are you suggesting, Tony?’
‘I’m only thinking, do you and Noah even need such a big place? The two of you must be rattling around there these days.’
‘Are you saying you want to kick your only sister and your only nephew out on the street?’
‘Of course I’m not saying that,’ he denied. ‘Helen, I realise this is an emotional time for you, but I don’t know how you can even suggest that I’d see you out on the street. I was only thinking you might be much more comfortable in a nice little townhouse, without all the maintenance –’
‘It’s not the time to sell,’ said Helen flatly.
‘On the contrary, I’ve been looking on the internet and the market’s quite strong at the moment.’
‘Not everything comes down to economics, Tony! Mum is still alive. If we sold the house, that money would have to sit in a trust for her. You couldn’t get your hands on it anyway.’
Her words seemed to echo down the line, all the way to London.
‘That’s not fair, Hel. I wasn’t thinking of myself. I’m thinking of you and Noah.’
He sounded genuinely hurt, but then again it was hard to tell. He worked in the theatre, after all.
‘Well, it wouldn’t make any difference to my situation,’ Helen said after a while. ‘I either live here rent-free and support Mum, or I pay rent somewhere else. I’d be struggling to do either right now.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘It sounds like you’ve found yourself in that most unenviable of places, little sister,’ said Tony finally.
‘Oh, where’s that?’
‘Smack bang between a rock and somewhere just as hard.’
Helen felt the lump rising rapidly in her chest, and a sob escaped before she could do anything to stop it.
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Tony, but not unkindly. ‘That’s how you always got around me when we were kids. And Dad. Mum never fell for it though.’
Helen sniffed, collecting herself. ‘That’s because you were her favourite.’
‘Mum didn’t play favourites.’
‘She still asks for you,’ said Helen, ‘every single time. She doesn’t even know me most days.’
‘There’s nothing I can do about that, Hel,’ Tony said quietly. ‘It isn’t my fault, I wish you wouldn’t always think the worst of me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’m really not the selfish bastard you think I am.’
‘I don’t think that –’
‘I know it’s been hard on you, with me living over here. And I’d send you money if I had it, but London is so expensive, you have no idea . . .’ His voice trailed off, and then he cleared his throat. ‘You know I’m sharing this place with three other people, and one bloke’s just moved out. We’re all struggling to cover his share of the rent while we find someone to take his place.’ He paused. ‘Hey, why don’t you do that?’
‘What?’ Hadn’t he just said ‘find someone to take his place’? What was he suggesting . . .?
‘Get someone in to share the expenses,’ said Tony.
Helen felt queasy. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘A boarder.’
‘What, a total stranger?’
‘Well, not once they start living with you –’
‘I don’t think I could do that, Tony.’
‘Look, I’m just saying it’s an option, Hel,’ he said. ‘And you don’t seem to have a whole lot of those.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said glumly.
‘Are you getting any counselling, Hel?’ asked Tony after another pause.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just think it would be good to talk to someone about all this.’
Helen didn’t say anything.
‘Look, I have to go,’ said Tony. ‘But, listen, call me, Hel, any time, even if you just want to talk. You should call me more often.’ He paused. ‘We’ve gotten out of the habit the last few years, and I miss talking to you. You know we’ve only got each other now, Hel.’
She breathed out. ‘I know.’
Pyrmont
Gemma rolled over with a groan. Her bladder was giving her a nudge. Again. She’d already got up once at four. She’d heard somewhere it was nature’s way of preparing the mum-to-be for interrupted sleep. After all, that’s the only kind of sleep she’d be getting for the next three years, give or take. Mother Nature was a bitch.
Her bladder could not be ignored any longer. She opened one eye and squinted out. Daylight. Perhaps if she kept squinting the whole way to the bathroom and back again, she could trick her body into believing it hadn’t actually woken up, and she’d be able to go straight back to sleep. She peered out through barely opened lids and climbed carefully out of bed, as though she was trying not to wake a sleeping partner. She crept from the bedroom, down the hall to the bathroom, lifted her nightie and sat. Aargh! Straight onto cold porcelain! She jumped up, looking behind, scowling at the toilet bowl as she slammed the seat down. She hated men.
Gemma sat back on the toilet, wide awake now. She turned to focus on the digital clock conveniently located at eye level on the vanity cabinet. Phoebe was a time-management freak and she had clocks in every room, sometimes more than one. She probably timed her toilet stops: forty-five seconds for ones, three minutes thirty for twos.
The vanity clock had just ticked over to 8.40. Gemma supposed it could have been worse. She listened for signs of life, but it was quiet in the apartment. Well, as quiet as Pyrmont could get. There was never any respite from the traffic noise; it was like living in the middle of a freeway. Which, come to think of it, was a pretty apt description of the suburb.
Phoebe and Cameron were probably still sleeping it off after their big night last night. And what an excruciating night that had turned out to be. Gemma had had to stay sober while a bunch of finance and law prats jostled verbally with each other to prove who was richest and cleverest and could drop the most designer names for everything, right down to gardening tools and cooking utensils, for chrissakes. Food, apparently, was the new black. Phoebe knew her stuff, and with
thorough preparation and planning her menu had been a triumph of style over substance, incorporating the hippest, coolest ingredients sourced with varying degrees of difficulty from the hippest, coolest purveyors of foodstuffs across the city. Her guests had been suitably impressed, though quick to detail their own recent culinary feats to the oohs and aahs of their little coterie. They were like a bunch of preschoolers trying to outdo each other in the sandpit. It was nauseating, which Gemma found all the more annoying as she’d only just got over her morning sickness.
She stepped in front of the mirror and considered her reflection. Her blonde mop could do with a cut – she was getting a bit of a surfie-chick, bed-hair look about her, and even Gemma conceded she was too old to get away with that. She turned sideways. Did she look pregnant? She had to meet this MD bod next week and she didn’t want to look even vaguely pregnant. She caught her nightie in close at the back so that the thin fabric clung to her silhouette. Her breasts were definitely bigger, which wouldn’t go against her. She smoothed her hand over her belly. Although she felt bloated, there was really nothing to show for it yet. Gemma had been blessed, or cursed – depending on the mood she was in, or what style of clothing she was trying to fit into – with a pear-shaped figure. At its worst, too much on the bottom and not enough up top, but passable most of the time. She only hoped these so-called child-bearing hips would live up to their name and provide the peanut with a nice little hideout where it could remain tucked away discreetly for the time being.
Gemma heard noises at the front door. She walked down the hall to the living area just as Phoebe and Cameron bounded in, their faces shiny with perspiration, wearing not quite matching but certainly coordinated jogging outfits.
‘You cannot be serious,’ said Gemma, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Please tell me you haven’t been for a run?’
‘If you want,’ Phoebe panted, heading for the fridge, ‘but it wouldn’t be the truth.’
‘You were both pissed as newts last night.’
‘We weren’t pissed,’ Cameron refuted.
‘Were too,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m surprised you could get out of bed, let alone run anywhere.’
‘Running’s good for a hangover,’ said Phoebe, passing Cameron a bottle of water. ‘Gets the heart pumping and the blood flowing to clear all the toxins away.’
‘Not that we were pissed,’ Cameron added.
‘You were all pissed from where I was sitting,’ said Gemma. ‘It was excruciating.’
‘That’s only because you’re usually more pissed than anyone,’ Cameron threw at her.
‘Ah, those were the days,’ Gemma returned, unfazed.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ he said as he walked up the hall.
‘So, last night,’ said Gemma, perching herself on the edge of the table. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Yeah, I think it went off well,’ Phoebe said. ‘I’d say it was a success.’
‘No, what I was actually asking was whether you had a good time.’
Phoebe crossed her arms in front of herself. ‘What are you getting at, Gem?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, I was just wondering . . . would you call those people last night close friends, Phee?’
‘I don’t know . . . we have lots of friends,’ she said defensively.
Gemma walked over to the fridge and opened the door. ‘They just don’t seem like your kind of people.’
‘Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,’ said Phoebe airily.
Gemma smiled, glancing at her sister. ‘I know you used to eat snails out of the garden before you knew they were escargots and –’ she straightened, flourishing one hand and affecting an accent, ‘– so 1980s, darling. Who was that prat Duncan?’
‘Duncan Reynolds. He’s senior partner at the largest law firm in the country. He’s very influential and very rich.’
‘Then why doesn’t he go out and buy himself a decent personality?’ said Gemma, picking up a bottle of juice and closing the fridge door again.
Phoebe slumped in defeat. ‘God, I know, he’s such a bore.’
Gemma swung around, her eyes lit up. ‘Ha! You big fake!’ She pointed a finger accusingly at her sister. ‘What are you doing hanging around with people like that, Phee?’
‘I don’t hang around with them,’ she defended. ‘Cam just likes to network with the right people.’
‘He must have been thrilled no end to have me here,’ said Gemma wryly. ‘They all looked at me like I had a disease when I told them I was a waitress.’
‘Yeah, well, you could just as easily have said you work in advertising, if you’d wanted to fit in.’
‘Why would I want to fit in with that lot?’ Gemma said, pouring herself a glass of juice. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t have a hope. I felt like Bridget Jones, only pregnant.’
‘Bridget Jones was pregnant in the final instalments.’
‘Was she? Who was the father?’
Phoebe looked at her. ‘Do you really want to have a conversation about the paternity of Bridget Jones’s baby?’
‘It’d be better than some of the conversations going on around me last night,’ Gemma groaned. ‘Work and real estate were all anyone could talk about.’
‘Well, maybe when you have a job and you can afford somewhere to live, you’ll feel comfortable sitting at the grown-ups’ table.’
‘Ouch,’ said Gemma. ‘I told you I’m going to start looking for a place.’
‘And I told you it’s not a problem you staying here.’
‘Obviously it is.’
‘I was only joking about the grown-ups’ table, Gem.’
‘I know,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s not you. Cameron can barely stand having me here a few weeks; he’d have a stroke if you told him I was staying indefinitely.’
Phoebe started to protest the unprotestable.
‘Besides,’ Gemma interrupted, ‘Mum and Dad are going to end up finding out if I don’t get out of here soon.’
‘They have to find out sooner or later, Gem.’
‘I’m opting for later.’
Phoebe leaned back against the kitchen bench. ‘They have a right to know –’
‘Are we going to have this argument again? One thing at a time is the best I can do, Phee, and “grandparents’ rights” are not exactly high on my list of priorities.’
Gemma picked up the glass of juice and skolled it back. Phoebe was watching her. ‘You know you can see right through that nightie. Your tits are enormous.’
‘I know, aren’t they great?’ said Gemma, smoothing the nightie over her breasts. ‘The one time in my life I’ve really got a rack, and I’ve got no one to appreciate it.’
‘Gem!’ Phoebe winced.
‘What?’
‘You’re pregnant!’
‘So, I’m not a nun,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you expect me to stop having sex?’
‘I expect you won’t have a lot of opportunity, not while you’re pregnant.’
‘I’ve heard some guys really get off on the idea of doing it with a pregnant woman.’
Phoebe grimaced. ‘Well, now that you’ve loaded me up with that mental image, would you mind getting dressed before Cam comes out of the shower?’
‘Okay, okay.’ Gemma drifted off towards the hall. ‘Hey, I thought later you might want to help me find something to wear for my interview?’ she said, turning halfway around.
‘Sure,’ said Phoebe. ‘Where do you want to look?’
‘I was thinking we could start in your wardrobe,’ Gemma threw over her shoulder as she disappeared up the hall.
Balmain
Helen had been trailing the bus for blocks now. Stopping, lurching forward, stopping again. It was Friday afternoon and the streets were clogged. She couldn’t get around it, she couldn’t get away from it, she couldn’t do anything but sit behind it, staring at the garish ad for some kind of lolly-flavoured alcoholic drink, three bottles lined up doing the can-can, with leering big grins on their labels. Why no
t just say it up front? Come on, kids, try us, we taste like soft drink so you can get drunk really easily! How much more fun can you get in a bottle?
‘Mummy,’ said Noah from his car seat in the back.
‘Yes, Noah?’
‘Is atta bus what smooshed Daddy?’
Helen turned her head sharply to look at him. ‘What did you say?’
She had struggled over telling Noah the actual details of David’s accident, but he had to be told something, and she and David had always been honest with him. David was scrupulous about that. He would have told him, she knew in her heart, so it seemed only right that she tell Noah the truth. Jim and Noreen had been horrified when they found out. They more or less accused her of child abuse. She wished she could handle them the way David had, but she was completely out of her depth.
‘Is atta bus what smooshed Daddy?’ Noah was repeating insistently, in almost a singsong rhyme.
Helen tried to collect herself. He was a child, asking an innocent question. She had to hold it together. But she was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. She opened her window to get some fresh air, though how she thought that was possible on Darling Street at peak hour, she didn’t know.
‘Uh, I don’t think so, Noah,’ she answered finally, looking over her shoulder at him. ‘That bus was in the city, near Daddy’s work.’ She turned to look ahead again. Her hands trembled as they rested on the steering wheel.
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, Noah?’
‘Did it hurt Daddy?’
Helen’s heart froze. ‘What, darling?’
‘Getting smooshed.’
Her throat was dry. ‘It happened too fast, Noah. Daddy wouldn’t have felt anything.’
‘Why didn’t Daddy hold sum’n’s hand?’
Helen turned around again. ‘What do you mean, sweetheart?’
‘Daddy did tell me one day that I always haffa hold sum’n’s hand across a road or else I’ll get smooshed by a bus. Why didn’t Daddy hold sum’n’s hand?
‘. . . Mummy?
‘Whata matta, Mummy?
‘Why you crying, Mummy?’
False Advertising Page 6
