‘What the –’ And then he stopped. Dead. Staring at the scribbled words ‘I’m pregnant’. He slowly turned his head to look up at Gemma.
She snatched the note back off the screen, screwing it up tight in her hand. ‘Now will you come and have a coffee with me?’
*
‘And you haven’t seen or heard from him since?’ Charlie was asking her.
Gemma shook her head, taking a sip of her tea. She still couldn’t drink coffee, but she could at least tolerate the smell of it now. They were sitting in a cafe up the road, somewhere they were unlikely to be interrupted. It wasn’t quite fashionable enough for the Bailey’s crowd. Gemma had just finished telling Charlie the whole sordid story. It was a relief to get it off her chest, especially to Charlie. She’d almost let herself forget what a good friend he’d been. He’d always listened, never judged, always made her feel okay about herself . . .
‘So you must be feeling pretty foolish right now?’ he said.
‘Charlie!’ Gemma protested. ‘I thought you’d understand.’
‘I do understand, and I reckon you must feel like a fool, Gem, mostly because you acted like one.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
Charlie looked squarely at her. ‘Do you want me to butter you up or do you want me to be honest?’
Gemma shrugged. ‘Couldn’t I have honesty with a little butter on the side?’
He smiled then. A proper Charlie smile. Not guarded at all.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘About what?’
‘About telling the boss you’re having a baby, for one thing.’
‘Oh,’ she dismissed. ‘I haven’t even thought about that yet.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Same old Gem, worry about it when it happens, eh?’
‘Well, what’s the point of worrying about it before that?’ she declared. ‘In the meantime, I intend to be a model employee so he won’t want to sack me when he finds out.’
‘But what’s he supposed to do while you’re off having the baby?’
Gemma waved her hand. ‘Oh, I’ll come up with something.’
‘Do you even want to be a PA long term, Gem?’
‘No, of course not. I want to get back onto a team, work with you again.’
‘But didn’t you just say that he made it quite clear the job was not a foot in the door –’
‘Okay, okay,’ Gemma interrupted impatiently. ‘I thought I could count on you for support. Why are you being so negative, Charlie?’
‘I’m not; I’m being realistic, and you’re not facing facts, Gem. It’s like you’re driving along in a car with no brakes, and you know there’s a steep downward slope ahead but you’ve got your foot planted firmly on the pedal and you’re pushing on regardless.’
She looked at him. ‘So, are you coming along for the ride?’
‘Ha,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you think I’m mad?’
‘A friend would,’ said Gemma. ‘Aren’t you my friend any more, Charlie?’
‘A friend, a real friend, would be doing everything he could to stop you.’
‘The wheels are already in motion,’ Gemma shrugged. ‘I just want to get as far as I can before it all spins out of my control.’
‘Great plan,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Is this how you intend to approach motherhood as well?’
Gemma dropped her eyes, frowning down at her cup of tea. Okay, so she knew she would make a hopeless mother, and the peanut would obviously be better off with someone else – that’s why she was considering just that. Still, she didn’t like having the fact rubbed in her face.
‘Gem?’
She looked up and Charlie was gazing intently at her, his head tilted on one side.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s okay.’ She waved it away. ‘I know I’ve made a mess of things, and I have no one to blame but myself. I’ll find a way through it, I just thought . . .’ She hesitated, biting her lip.
‘What?’
‘I just thought I could count on you, Charlie, like before. Like always.’
He seemed uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what you expect from me, Gem.’
‘Just friendship, that’s all. You were the best friend I had here, Charlie. One of the best friends I’ve ever had.
‘And you pissed off without so much as a goodbye or any word in all this time. I don’t think that’s how you treat a best friend.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Gemma agreed solemnly. ‘And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry I could kick myself. In fact, I will kick myself if that’ll make you happy.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ll do whatever you want. You name it. I’ll bring you those muffins you like, I’ll let you beat me at your stupid video games.’
‘I always beat you at my “stupid” video games,’ said Charlie, unmoved.
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m just trying to show you that I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. So we can be friends again.’
He looked across the table at her, his face set into a frown, but as she met his gaze steadily and openly, his expression eventually relaxed and finally he sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant smile. ‘Banana nut, don’t forget.’
Gemma let out a little shriek of delight as she reached over to hug him.
‘What are you doing?’ he mumbled. ‘Cut it out.’
‘I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever,’ she beamed, settling back into her seat.
‘Yeah, well don’t push it.’
‘I won’t, I promise. I’ll be the best –’ Suddenly Gemma gasped. She’d just felt a strange flutter low in her belly.
‘What is it?’ Charlie asked.
There it was again. ‘Oh my God!’ she breathed. ‘I just felt it, Charlie, it kicked, or jumped or did a somersault, I don’t know, it’s probably only the size of a teabag . . . But it moved. All on its own.’ She looked straight at Charlie. ‘For the first time.’
Gemma suddenly realised there was actually a baby in there. In the beginning it had been a shock, and then a novelty, then when Luke left, it became a pregnancy. It was something happening to her, a ‘condition’, an inconvenience. The inevitable outcome was something she preferred not to think about. Now it was making its presence felt, literally, and Gemma could ignore it no longer. She was going to have a baby.
‘How does it feel?’ asked Charlie.
Tears sprung into her eyes, uninvited. This wasn’t like her – she didn’t get soppy and sentimental. She swallowed. ‘Terrifying.’
He reached across the table and took hold of her hand. ‘It’s going to be all right, Gem, you’ll see.’
Gemma wished she could be so sure.
Friday
Helen couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d talked about it with the counsellor and it was time. After all, it was a simple trip into the city from Balmain, it was no big deal. Of course, a simple trip to the city took somewhat longer now because she had to drive, and that involved finding somewhere to park, so it was expensive as well. In the past she would have just taken the bus, but Helen had discovered she couldn’t bring herself to get on a bus. It made no sense, she was well aware of that. David had not been a passenger on the bus that day, at least not on the bus that killed him. He’d caught a bus to the city as usual and arrived in one piece. Passengers on the bus that struck him were unhurt. So why should Helen be bothered about getting on a bus? If she was trying to protect herself, the last thing she should be doing was driving a car, which was by far the most dangerous of all modes of travel. But for some unreasonable reason, she just couldn’t step foot on a bus. She hadn’t mentioned that part to the counsellor; she didn’t want her to think she was crazy.
Of course, the problem was, driving in the city involved being behind, ahead or beside a bus for much of the time. And that still made Helen uncomfortable. No, more than uncomfortable, it made her anxious, even frig
htened.
By the time she found a parking station she was a wreck, and the walk to David’s office only made her worse. She jumped every time a bus barrelled past her, and she had to circle around in a wide arc to avoid the site of David’s accident. She felt like a basket case by the time she arrived at the front entrance of the Railco building.
Going into David’s office to pick up his belongings was never going to be an easy thing to do. Helen had been promising to go in for months now, not that anyone had hassled her. As if. Helen was becoming used to being handled with kid gloves. A contingent from the office had showed up at the funeral, and they’d sent flowers to the house as well. It was the right thing to do, the least they could do. David was a young man killed in a tragic accident before his time. They came because it could happen to anyone, they came because they felt guilty that they were glad it hadn’t happened to one of them.
Helen caught the lift to the floor where David had worked. When the doors opened she stepped out and walked over to the reception desk. ‘I’m here to see Mr Craven.’
The woman glanced up at her with a fixed smile. ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘And your name, please?’
‘Helen Chapman, um, Mrs . . . David Chapman.’
The woman’s eyes registered. She got to her feet. Here we go.
‘Oh, Mrs Chapman, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you.’
What did that mean? What had she planned? To roll out the red carpet, have a group of wailers greet her?
‘I’ll take you to Mr Craven’s office,’ she said, coming around the desk.
Helen knew visitors would usually just be given directions, but losing a husband obviously meant losing your bearings as well.
‘I’m Sally,’ said the woman.
‘Helen.’
‘I didn’t actually know your husband –’
Oh, this was by far the worst kind. People who had never met David thought it was their duty to wax lyrical about his reputation. That somehow, hearing what he was like from people who didn’t know him from a bar of soap was going to make her feel better.
‘I started just before . . . but anyway, from all accounts he was a fine colleague. Dependable. Solid.’
Helen groaned silently. If David was still alive and this woman had been asked about him, she would mostly likely have said, ‘Gee, don’t know him really. Can’t help you.’ But instead she felt duty-bound to give a meaningless eulogy.
This wasn’t like her, sniping at people this way, even if it was in the privacy of her own mind. Helen had to remind herself that people were only trying to be kind; they just had no idea what was the right thing to say. Helen had no idea either. That was the problem: there was no right thing to say to someone whose husband had been hit by a bus.
They arrived at the door of Paul Craven’s office; it was ajar and Helen saw him look up, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
‘Mrs Chapman,’ Sally announced, her tone heavy with foreboding.
Helen watched his expression change to dread, and her heart sank. She should be getting used to it, but how do you get used to that? It was as though she was a marked woman, an emissary of the Grim Reaper himself, forever a reminder of the fate that awaits us all.
Sally held the door back as Helen walked through and Paul Craven got to his feet, composing himself. Sally closed the door as she left, relieved to be escaping, no doubt.
Paul Craven walked around the desk and grasped one of Helen’s hands with both of his, meeting her eyes directly. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Chapman.’
Rehearsed, but nonetheless genuine. ‘It’s Helen.’
‘He was a very decent man, your husband,’ Paul Craven went on. ‘A good worker, reliable, never one to gossip or have an opinion, couldn’t draw him on anything . . . Even the football – David would never take sides.’
Helen wondered if he realised that these weren’t necessarily traits worth lauding.
‘And reliable,’ he said, releasing her hand and forgetting he’d already said reliable. ‘You could always count on David to do the job and not ask any questions.’
Helen had half hoped she was going to find out that David was the office clown, or a brilliant problem solver, or a leader of men . . . not the reliable one who never had an opinion about anything. He’d certainly had enough opinions at home. He liked to talk everything out ad nauseum, to the point where it exhausted Helen at times. In the end she usually just agreed with him, but he saw right through her. He was not content till he was certain she was genuinely seeing things his way.
But apparently he had kept to himself at work. He had told her that he didn’t feel as though he belonged. He didn’t fit in, he had different aspirations, but it didn’t bother him too much; he wasn’t going to be there forever. Helen had never met any of David’s work colleagues. Christmas parties were for staff only, and David had never stayed long anyway. She could probably count the number of times on one hand that he had stopped in to have a beer with them on his way home. He said they were all nice people, he had a lot of respect for Paul Craven, felt he ran the place fairly, but Helen couldn’t recall any other names. Of course he had mentioned people, but that was all, only a mention.
‘Would you like a seat, can I get you a coffee . . . or something?’ Paul Craven said awkwardly, breaking into her reverie.
‘No, no, I’m fine. I can’t stay.’
He looked relieved. ‘Well, let me show you to his things. I hope you understand, when you didn’t come in right away . . . well, we had to clear his desk.’
‘Of course.’
Helen followed him to a storeroom on the other side of the office. One or two people looked up as they passed, but as they had no idea who she was, they were uninterested. Helen was glad to be anonymous; in fact, she found her greatest relief these days in anonymity. Paul Craven opened the storeroom door and turned on the light, ushering her inside. It was about the size of a small bedroom, windowless, with shelves lining the walls either side, stacked with files, paper and other items of stationery. There were two overhead projectors against the end wall, one on a stand and the other on the floor beside it.
Paul Craven stepped on a stool and reached up to the top shelf to retrieve a Reflex box with ‘David Chapman’ written on the side in thick black marker. He stepped down again and handed it to Helen. It wasn’t heavy at all.
‘If you’d like to have a look through first,’ he suggested tentatively, ‘I could find a desk for you outside, or you can use my office.’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Helen, ‘but just here will be fine.’
He frowned mildly. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ she replied, ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
He left her alone and Helen sat on the footstool and rested the box on her lap. The lid was taped down, and she peeled the tape away carefully so that it could be resealed. The inside looked rather forlorn. It appeared to be mostly stationery: there was even a pen clearly marked with the departmental logo. Perhaps there was a policy that on the death of a staff member the family inherited everything on their desk at the time. There was a notepad and a half-empty box of paperclips; a couple of old Christmas cards that must have been given to him at work, from Paul Craven, and from a Sue and family to David and family. And there was a framed picture of Noah at preschool; they had given him that last Father’s Day to replace the baby photo, but that was still here as well. Helen picked up a packet of Tic Tacs that didn’t look as though they had been touched. Was that because someone had given them to him and he didn’t like them, or because he’d only just bought them? And did it matter? What did it tell her about David? What did any of this tell her about him? Here was his whole working life in a cardboard box. It didn’t tell her anything.
Helen realised she was finding it hard to breathe – there was no air in this tiny windowless room. She shoved everything back into the box and car
ried it with her out of the room, out of the office and out of the building. She didn’t speak to anyone, or even make eye contact. And she did not look back.
‘So what are we going to do with this?’ said Gemma, holding up the bottle of champagne Phoebe thrust at her as she opened the front door.
‘Celebrate, you know, drink to your new place.’
‘Except I can’t drink.’
‘Damn, I keep forgetting,’ said Phoebe. ‘I can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that you’re not drinking.’
‘You and me both.’ Gemma stood back as Phoebe walked past her into the hall.
‘Wow, it’s a great old place,’ she said, gazing around. ‘A bit shabby, but imagine what you could do with it.’
‘I’d rather not,’ declared Gemma. ‘I’m glad it hasn’t been homogenised into some poncy designer’s wet dream. It has character.’
Phoebe raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘So, is your landlady home?’
Gemma winced. ‘Don’t call her that; she’s barely older than me.’
‘So? She’s still your landlady.’
‘Yeah, but landlady makes her sound like a little old woman with hair rollers and an apron,’ said Gemma. ‘And no, she isn’t here right now, but she should be home any minute. She sticks to a pretty rigid schedule with Noah, and it’s bath time soon.’
‘Rigid schedule? Must be a challenge for you,’ Phoebe remarked. ‘So, are you going to show me around?’
Gemma took her on the grand tour, bypassing Helen’s and Noah’s bedrooms, and ending up in the family room at the back of the house. It had probably been tacked on sometime in the sixties, and the larger windows helped make it feel a little less claustrophobic than the rest of the place. But it was still cluttered and dreary.
‘It’s like a museum,’ Phoebe murmured.
‘Apparently she grew up here,’ said Gemma. ‘I think she’s lived her whole life in this house.’
‘And nothing’s changed all that time, by the looks of it.’ Phoebe wandered across the room, pausing in front of a closed door. ‘Where does this lead to?’
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