by C. J. Duggan
As each scenario ran through my mind, I felt sick. Maybe I would stick close this weekend, lurk in the shadows. I remembered the words of warning from the au pair agency when I was sent to the Liebenbergs: don’t overstep barriers or blur the lines by falling into the trap of helping. I had to keep that in mind. Besides, Ben was a strong, capable businessman who navigated tough waters; I mean, Penny Worthington was his mother, for God’s sake. Alistair himself had said he had an au pair; had there been a maternal influence on Ben at all, could he be blamed for the way he behaved?
Things were just so much simpler where I was from. We grew up without much money: Dad was a labourer, while Mum did cash-in-hand work cleaning hotel rooms. I thought about Mum being in Frieda’s place with Penny Worthington and it made me mad. There was a distinct difference in our social statuses, and from day one, Penny and Emily had made me feel my place; the only people who hadn’t were Nikki and Alistair, even in our brief meetings.
The more I thought about it, the more adamant I was that there would be no lines crossed. Ben would just have to step up and be a dad, his arms weren’t painted on.
And as the mood pushed me in the right direction, I picked up the iPad and started researching my weekend’s activities. After all, I did have a tourist wishlist to fulfil and come Saturday I was heading to my number-one spot.
Hello, Tiffany’s!
Chapter Eleven
With Grace down for a nap that I knew I would pay for later in the night, I curled up on the nursing chair. I wondered where Ben had gotten his tattered copy of Charlotte’s Web from – it was by far the only thing in the entire apartment that seemed to have a bit of personality, a history. Even in Grace’s room the walls were blank – so much wall space and nothing hanging there, like a rental property. It would be a little while before Grace could provide any paintings for the fridge, but it wasn’t out of the question to reconnect with my roots and get back into painting again. It’d be nice to create something for Grace. Painting was the one activity I’d loved to share with the boys back home; on a sunny day we would sit in the garden and they’d attempt to tell a story with scribblings about cars and family portraits with mythical pet dogs, rainbows and chimney smoke, while I tried to tap into a lost part of myself from my high school days, painting semi-abstract art with blocks of colour. At the start I was way out of practice and frustrated enough to think that the boys’ paintings were turning out better than mine, until one evening when Dr Liebenberg observed one of my paintings drying on the clothes horse in the laundry and declared his love for it: ‘It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for, for the office. It’s perfect.’
At first I’d thought he was just being polite, but when he asked me how much I wanted for it, the smile fell from my face.
‘Every artist has a price,’ he’d insisted, and for the first and only time in my life, someone bartered the price up. Every amount I mentioned, Dennis Liebenberg laughed, then wrote out a cheque, scribbling his signature with his barely readable doctor’s handwriting, tearing it from the stub and passing it to me.
‘You have to own what you do, Sarah.’
I’ve never forgotten those words of wisdom; I’ve also never forgotten the shock of reading the cheque: three hundred and fifty dollars, substantially different to the twenty-five I’d originally asked for. I’d thought him mad, but, hey, each to their own.
With the support of Lorraine Liebenberg, I’d nervously gone into Rosie’s Café and asked if it was possible to display my work on the walls in return for a small commission if they sold. Rosie seemed unfazed and allowed me to hang my work with my signature and a price tag in the corner. I had thought myself quite the artist, even if the rest of the town didn’t seem to be as enthusiastic about my art as Dr Liebenberg. As far as I knew, the pieces were still for sale in ol’ Rosie’s Café. A bit of a blow to the ego. But it was nice to know there was a Sarah Williams original hanging over the fireplace somewhere in remote Slovenia. How many artists could claim that?
I was positively giddy about looking online for supplies. Entering in the details of my credit card, I decided to start out small, a basic sketch pad and pencils, easy enough to slip into my tote bag and transport anywhere.
As I clicked on the button to complete my purchase, the doorbell rang. I checked my iPad. Surely express delivery wasn’t that express?
I revelled in the freedom of running without a baby attached to me, making sure I got to the door before the bell rang a second time and woke her. I promised myself that the first thing I was going to make with my new materials was a ‘Do Not Disturb – baby sleeping’ sign. And that would go even for Penny Worthington.
I hoped this wasn’t her, swinging by for a post-lunch visit with Alistair. This time I thought to spy through the peephole on my tippy toes. I smiled broadly and opened the door with glee.
‘Hello!’ I said, a little bit too high-pitched.
Nikki Fitzgerald stood before me, looking dishevelled yet still pretty with her ash-blonde hair unruly around her face and dressed in what looked like a maternity kaftan, sunglasses and carrying an oversized bag.
‘Quick, I have one hour of peace so I have to make the most of it,’ she said, causing me to step aside as she waddled through the door and dumped her bag on the floor like a teenager’s backpack after school. She shucked off her shoes and placed her hands on her lower back with a groan before perching her sunglasses on top of her head and parting her curtain of hair. Her cheeks were flushed, and I could tell she was struggling to lug around her belly.
‘Are you okay? Do you want a drink?’
‘Yes, please, you will be my best friend,’ she said, supporting herself on the banister.
‘You’re not going to go into labour, are you?’
Nikki laughed. ‘I should be so lucky, and why does everyone keep asking me that? It’s like everyone is scared to be around me or something. I’m beginning to get a complex.’
‘Hey, we’re just looking out for the pregnant lady,’ I said, holding up my hands and heading down the hall.
‘I like you, your accent is funny,’ she said.
‘Funnier than an Irish accent?’ I asked, veering toward the fridge.
‘Ah, yeah, Seamus, bless his tartan socks. I swear when we first started dating, I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.’
I laughed, pouring a lemon squash from the jug. ‘And now?’
‘Now? Now I’m his interpreter.’
‘Well, I look forward to meeting him,’ I said, handing the glass to her.
‘Thanks.’ She gulped the lemonade, the ice cubes tinkling against the edge of the glass. She drank like she had been stranded in the Sahara, smacking her lips together in appreciation. ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ It was only then that she seemed to be back in the moment, skimming her eyes around the lounge. ‘Where’s Gracie?’
I sat down opposite her, pulling my legs to my chest on the plush leather lounge. ‘She’s down for a nap.’
‘Is that child ever awake? I swear, every time I come for cuddles …’
‘Trust me, she’s awake plenty. Maybe come for cuddles any time between one and five am, apparently those are the party hours.’
Nikki laughed, sipping another mouthful. ‘No wonder Emily offloaded her quick smart.’
I so wanted to ask about Grace’s mum. As much as I had settled in and felt comfortable hanging out with Nikki, there was always this disconcerting feeling pressing on the back of my mind, one that I just had to have answered.
‘You know what really irks me?’
Nikki’s question pulled me from my thoughts. ‘What’s that?’
‘My darling brother is an architect and he couldn’t even install a goddamn lift for his favourite pregnant sister to access the roof terrace on a beautiful sunny day.’
‘I know, right? Did you want to go up? It’s beautiful today.’
‘Oh, you tease. Honestly, I don’t think I would make a single flight. I guess we’ll have to settle for the
garden. Come, we’ll sit outside, and you can tell me how you’re finding the Big Apple. I now have fifty minutes left to listen.’ Nikki stretched out her hand in the universal sign for ‘Help me? I’m huge.’
‘If you ever get lonely in this big, beautiful, architecturally sound townhouse, you should bring Gracie over to Brooklyn for a day out. One afternoon at my house with the horde and you will think loneliness is a godsend.’ Nikki flexed her swollen feet as she reclined on the sun lounge.
The courtyard was immaculately landscaped with retaining walls, overgrown ivy and charcoal grey pavers. The foliage was so well-established that the sun had a hard time piercing through the canopy. It was like being in a jungle with a distant city soundtrack. If you wanted a hit of vitamin D, the roof terrace was the way to go.
‘That sounds awesome, I’d love to.’
Nikki and I chatted about our days, but, unsure if my Alistair secret was just for Ben or if it applied to all Worthington siblings, I decided to leave that little detail out.
‘I love the sound of your painting,’ Nikki said. ‘I wish I could do something like that, but I don’t have any talents.’
‘Everybody has something: music, writing?’
‘Does breeding count? I tend to do that very well.’ Nikki laughed, rubbing at her belly.
I blushed. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Oh, how depressing, Sarah. I don’t even have a hobby.’ Nikki whined like a bored child. In many ways she reminded me of a delinquent, rebellious teenager, so different to her icy older brother and sister.
‘We’ll think of something.’
‘Don’t bother, once the baby comes I won’t have time to shower, let alone dabble in pottery. Isn’t it utterly depressing how we lose such a huge part of ourselves when we’re trying to keep these little screaming human beings alive?’
‘I hardly think I’m an authority on the subject. I mean, I get weekends off.’
Nikki clutched her heart. ‘Oh, that sounds divine – a whole weekend.’ She scooted up in her seat. ‘I’m going to have to live vicariously through you. What have you got planned? Tell me in the most intricate detail, don’t leave anything out.’
‘Well,’ I winced, ‘first, I think I might sleep in.’
‘Mary, Mother of God, tell me more.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to rub it in.’
Nikki laughed. ‘Sarah, my love, any time you’re having a down day, feeling alone, homesick, as though the sleep deprivation might tip you over the edge, I want you to think of the woman in Brooklyn dreaming of being you, even if it’s just for an hour.’ Nikki glanced at her watch. ‘Ah, crap, an hour that’s already over. I better get going. There will be rioting on the streets of Brooklyn if I’m not back before they close the door to the city.’
My heart sank. ‘Are you sure? I was just about to check in on Grace.’
‘Well, in that case I definitely better go; one cuddle from her and I won’t want to leave.’
I followed Nikki to the front door, helping her with her bag. Although I knew it was probably a huge mistake, I just couldn’t let her leave without at least posing the question.
‘Nikki, can I ask you something?’ I said, leaning against the edge of the door.
‘Let me guess, you want to know the best Thai takeaway around here?’
I did, but I didn’t want to confuse my purpose. ‘Ah, not exactly.’
‘I have three minutes, so ask away,’ she said, looking at her watch again, which surprised me since she didn’t strike me as the most punctual of people.
I felt nervous in spite of my determination. I looked directly at the glowing, smiling Nikki, the closest thing I had to an actual friend in this city. If I was going to ask anyone it had to be her – there was no one else.
‘Will Ben be okay with looking after Grace on the weekend? I mean, if I’m out?’
And when I saw her smile fall from her face and darkness set in her eyes, I wished I had never asked. I’d been so adamant about not overstepping my boundaries – maybe questioning her brother’s parenting ability was a bridge too far.
Nikki sighed. ‘He’s going to have to be, Sarah, he’s been apart from reality for far too long, and now’s the time he has to step up, whether he likes it or not. Just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Let him do it. No matter how much every instinct tells you to step in and do the right thing, unless it’s a life-or-death situation, just leave it with him.’
I breathed out a laugh, thinking those were the exact words Ben had uttered to me about contacting him during business hours. And I had done as he’d asked, just gotten on with it, battled through the uncertainty. Nikki’s tough love did make me feel better, if not totally anxiety-free, but she was right; I had to let Ben step up to the mark. And for that reason, come Saturday, I would be anywhere but here.
Chapter Twelve
On Friday I received a succinct message:
Village tonight. B
I had resigned myself to the fact that it was going to be Grace and me alone again. The rest of the week had rolled on quite nicely. No more unexpected visitors, and even Penny Worthington hadn’t made good on her threat to visit; she was probably reacquainting herself with her prodigal son. I wondered if Ben knew about Alistair’s return. But then I wondered a lot of things, like did Ben even like beef stroganoff, which I was cooking for dinner tonight? I had pretty much been flying blind all week. Not that I had minded, there was a certain comfort in just hanging out with Grace; we were settling into a new routine: afternoon strolls to the park, followed by bathtime and storytime. I was even becoming accustomed to what her cries meant, and her sleep patterns.
I started to prepare for Ben’s homecoming by peeling extra vegetables. It intrigued me that he didn’t refer to the townhouse as home; did Lafayette Street mean more to him? Were Grace and I just his dirty little secret from the corporate world? As for Grace’s mum, she was still a mystery. Not even Nikki, the one person I thought might have some answers, had offered a clue. But after our conversation in the hotel bar I knew better than to go there again.
‘Dad’s coming home tonight, Grace,’ I said, aligning the remote controls and fluffing the cushions on the couch as she twisted and kicked on her little rug on the floor. I blew out a breath as I looked around the lounge to see if everything was as Ben had left it.
‘I wish I was as carefree as you are, Grace,’ I said. I lay next to her on the rug, my head resting on my palm as I placed my finger in her hand for her to grab and squeeze. ‘If you sleep more than three hours through the night for your dad, you and I will be having some serious words, you hear me?’
Grace’s eyes moved to my face at the sound of my voice.
‘Yes, I’m talking to you.’
A gummy smile formed, and her kicking and gurgling increased with excitement.
‘This is not a laughing matter, Gracie Worthington, I am very serious indeed,’ I said, tickling her belly and making her squirm until the oven timer buzzed, the reminder to check dinner. Grace flinched from the sound, her smiley, happy face dropping into misery as she thought about whether she wanted to cry or not. She decided she did.
‘Oh, Gracie,’ I sighed, sitting up and bringing her to my shoulder, rubbing her back soothingly as she cried and drooled on my top. ‘Your dad is going to have so much fun with you.’
I don’t know what had me thinking Ben would get home late, that we would all be in bed, a note on the bench telling him dinner was in the oven. Maybe it’s what I wished would happen? So when I heard the front door open while it was daylight, well, I wasn’t entirely prepared. His footsteps came up the hall and, as I mashed the potatoes, each step made my heart beat faster, and my mashing became more frenzied, the steam of the potatoes curling the wisps of hair that framed my face. My cheeks felt flushed and I suddenly panicked about having seasoned dinner enough. Shit, had I put salt in the potatoes at all? Was this dinner too rich, maybe Ben was a kale and couscou
s man with an intolerance to dairy? Surely this was a life-or-death question. This meal could be a disaster.
I was just about ready to throw the masher in the sink and break down uncontrollably in a pile of potato when Ben rounded the corner carrying a plastic bag. He stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Oh, you cooked,’ he said, looking as if the thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
I remembered all the times my mother went off at us kids for not appreciating the meals she had slaved over. I gripped the masher with white-knuckled intensity, trying to remain cool, not an easy feat when standing over a saucepan of hot potatoes. My eyes went to the plastic bag Ben was holding as he placed it on the bench.
‘I bought Chinese for dinner. I can see communication is going to have to get better between us,’ he said in a way that made me feel like this was somehow my fault. Was he serious? Mr Don’t-contact-me-unless-it’s-a-life-or-death-situation was speaking about communication? I wanted to bludgeon him with my masher.
I opted for a language he would recognise: passive-aggression. If Penny Worthington had taught me one thing in my short time here, it was that being passive-aggressive was by far the most infuriating way to communicate.
‘That’s okay. The stroganoff has been slow cooking for four hours, but I’m sure it will keep for tomorrow,’ I said, casually washing the masher in the sink.
Ben didn’t move, but out of the corner of my eye I could see him staring at me, probably equally pissed that his thoughtful gesture was not being recognised. After all, I thought bitterly, he had hunted and gathered for his family, surely that deserved a medal? It took every fibre of my being to reel in my snarkiness when I turned to him. I plastered a calm smile across my face as if it was no bother at all and placed the lid on the pot of potatoes.
