Those Other Women

by Nicola Moriarty

  She considered for a moment what this could be like if it wasn’t all about who had the power. If it had nothing to do with playing complicated games or winners and losers. What if instead it was about telling the truth or saying what you wanted and when you wanted it? Or desire and kindness and seeing where things went?

  But it just wasn’t her.

  * * *

  In the car as they left the office, Lawrence tried to casually suggest they grab a bite to eat. Annalise knew what was happening – he was trying to turn it into an actual date.

  ‘Not hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Liar,’ he replied, ‘you’re always hungry. I’ve seen you put away a double hamburger and chips and go back for a hotdog.’

  ‘When have you seen this?’

  ‘Last year’s office function for the launch of the new camera line.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re not taking me out to dinner.’

  ‘Who said I was trying to take you out?’

  ‘Lawrence, I see right through you.’

  ‘You’re not as perceptive as you think. I’m just hungry. I’m going to stop somewhere and grab something to eat real quick. You can wait in the car if you want.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, sure, sure.’

  She thought she had him pegged when they turned towards the riverfront restaurants. ‘You can hardly call this a quick bite to eat,’ she began, but then he made another turn and another and next thing they’d turned into the carpark of McDonald’s.

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘Told you,’ he said as he parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘You want me to bring you back some nuggets or something?’

  Annalise had to laugh. ‘I’ll come in with you.’

  They walked inside and ordered separately, he didn’t try to pay for her meal. Then he sat at one of the larger shared tables with a bunch of teenagers down the other end and Annalise took a seat opposite him.

  Throughout their early dinner, they chatted about work, about soccer. He stopped with the lewd jokes and suggestive comments, and Annalise was simultaneously caught off-guard and put at ease. But the more they chatted, the more she shifted towards an understanding.

  I don’t feel that way about you, Lawrence. I just don’t.

  She loved his company. He made her laugh. He was decent in bed. He wasn’t bad-looking. He could be a nice guy.

  But she didn’t feel that way about him.

  It was a sad realisation. She’d been playing this part for so long. This cool, easy-going, ‘I’m only here for the sex’ role. And yet all this time, there’d been a small part of her that was half thinking, maybe I’m not just in it for fun. Maybe he’ll find a way through. Maybe he’ll wake me. Maybe I’ll turn.

  So to know that he wouldn’t turn her, that she wouldn’t wake, that maybe she never would, for anyone . . . it was sad. And the thing was, she didn’t really want to break his heart. She wanted to be his friend.

  When they were all done she went to the bathroom. When she came back to the table, thinking they were about to head off and wondering if it would be wrong to sleep with him tonight, she saw him waiting for her with three sundaes in front of him.

  ‘I didn’t know which flavour you liked,’ he said.

  * * *

  Annalise stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at her naked body.

  ‘It wasn’t about him,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘It was about you. It was about you getting what you wanted, what you needed.’

  ‘What did you need, Annalise?’ she asked, a little louder. The sound of sheets rustling made her fall quiet.

  A low rumble of muffled music started to come through the ceiling and she looked up, tried to focus her hearing, figure out what Poppy was listening to up there. Oh God, it was the Smashing Pumpkins’ Adore album. Arguably their saddest ever. Poppy hadn’t listened to that since the very first days after Garret.

  Pull yourself together, Annalise. This isn’t you. You had a moment of weakness. A moment of hope. A moment of wondering if maybe you could make it work. All over a fucking sundae. Forget about the sundae. The fact is, you can’t create love where there is none. You want to turn out like Poppy? Listening to depressing music and pining for a guy who broke your damn heart?

  Now you need to do one of two things:

  One – go back to the way it was. Harden the hell up and keep using him however and whenever you want and who cares if you break his heart.

  Two – call it off for good. Before he falls any further.

  But how was she supposed to decide?

  She picked a T-shirt up off the floor and pulled it on over her head, fished a pair of PJ shorts out of the wash basket and stepped into them, not bothering to find underwear first.

  Either way, Annalise, you don’t hide in the bathroom after sex. This isn’t you.

  She strode into the bedroom and lifted one foot to prod at the slow-breathing lump under the covers with her big toe. ‘Up,’ she said. ‘Come on, up and at ’em. Up and at ’em and get out.’

  Lawrence rolled over and opened one eye to squint at her.

  ‘Fuck, you’re a harsh bitch, Annalise.’

  ‘That’s what my tombstone will say,’ she replied. ‘Here lies Annalise. She was a tough bitch. She fucked a lot of men and she never let them stay for breakfast. Now piss off, I have to go upstairs and see Poppy.’

  Lawrence sat up wearily. ‘You know, next time you call, I might not come running.’

  ‘Bullshit, you’ll always come running. And if I remember correctly, you were the one who chased me today.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Lawrence as he lifted the covers to hunt for his underpants. ‘I do have some self-respect you know.’

  ‘Ha! I’ve never seen it.’ Annalise turned away, pretending she was looking for his pants. But in truth she was hiding a stray tear that had sprung into one of her eyes. She squeezed them shut tightly. Forced it away. Then she opened them again and spotted his pants on the floor. She picked them up between her toes and flicked them at him. ‘Hurry up. Actually, just let yourself out, will you? I’m going upstairs.’

  It was late, so she didn’t think she needed to worry about running into anyone in her pyjamas when she stepped outside her apartment door. Almost immediately, the door opposite swung open and her neighbour charged out, pushing a stroller with a toddler wrapped up in a dressing gown. ‘Don’t judge me,’ said the woman, a young mum with a strong South African accent who Annalise had met maybe once or twice before. ‘The only reason I’m taking her out this late is because she won’t sleep.’

  Annalise shrugged her shoulders with complete indifference. She wanted to make it clear that she couldn’t care less. ‘Umm, all good by me,’ she said, unsure what the neighbour – what was her name again? Cynthia maybe? – was expecting her to say.

  ‘Sometimes she’s an angel. Tonight, she’s the devil.’

  ‘Okey doke,’ said Annalise, raising her eyebrows and bouncing on her toes, hoping Cynthia – if that was her name – wasn’t going to want to keep chatting.

  ‘Anyway, have a good night,’ said Maybe-Cynthia. She paused before adding, ‘I swear to God you don’t know how good you’ve got it.’

  Annalise left Maybe-Cynthia waiting for the lift and headed up one level via the stairs to knock on Poppy’s door, once, twice and then again harder, until the music was finally turned down. Poppy opened the door and stood back to let her in. She’d known who it would be.

  ‘All right,’ Annalise said, ‘what’s the deal? You haven’t thrown up in the gutter in front of another random bloke, have you?’

  Poppy laughed but Annalise could see she’d been crying.

  ‘Nothing like that. Honestly, I’m all good.’

  Annalise pulled the door shut behind her and they both headed for the couches. Poppy sat down and curled her legs up underneath her and Annalise stood over her, sizing her up, wondering what had triggered the setback. ‘Is it because you didn’t close the deal with Will?’
>
  ‘Nah,’ she said, but a strange expression crossed her face when Annalise mentioned his name, and she suspected it did have something to do with it.

  ‘I’m just feeling emotional,’ she said. ‘I am allowed to relapse, you know. That happens.’

  ‘Relapse?’ Annalise scoffed. ‘You’re not a bloody cancer patient. Hasn’t it been . . . you know, long enough now?’

  Poppy threw her hands up in the air. ‘I don’t know! I mean, it’s been about five months but I’m not the expert on getting over your husband leaving you for your best friend. Either way, I do think you’re allowed to keep feeling stuff . . . especially when you know that eventually, they’re going to be bringing a new life into the world.’

  Ah, so that’s what was bothering her.

  ‘Yeah, okay, but you’ve got time to prepare for that. We can make sure you’re ready and by the time this baby’s on the scene you’re not going to care less. But for now, I just don’t see the point in wallowing.’

  ‘Wow, you can be harsh sometimes.’

  ‘Can I? That’s the second time someone’s said that to me tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? Wait, did you have someone with you downstairs?’

  Annalise looked away. ‘Yeah, no big deal.’

  ‘Lawrence?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And what made him call you harsh?’

  ‘Just the usual. Me kicking him out after sex. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.’

  ‘Annalise, don’t you think it’s been going on long enough now that maybe . . . you know, maybe you could actually let him stay the night?’

  ‘Don’t you start on me. I get enough of this shit from him. Anyway, I came up here to talk about you.’

  ‘I swear I’m all good,’ said Poppy. ‘No rescuing required.’

  Annalise held her hands up defensively. ‘Okay, I’ll drop it. But did you record The Voice tonight? Because I need something to do while I give Lawrence enough time to clear out.’

  ‘Of course I did, and of course I haven’t watched it yet. You want a coffee?’

  ‘Only if you put a shot of Kahlua in it.’

  * * *

  When Annalise got back downstairs to her apartment, Lawrence was gone, as she’d asked. But for once, as she climbed into the cold empty bed, a part of her – just the smallest part – was wishing he hadn’t listened to her. She reached down to her bag that was sitting by the bed and searched through it for her notebook. The moment her fingers closed over the hard edges, she felt a sense of relief. Knowing she’d be able to pour everything out of her mind and onto the pages made her feel better.

  CHAPTER 12

  One day every week, Annalise doesn’t drink. She figures it’s pretty impressive – her level of restraint. People ought to hold a parade for her. One day out of seven when she doesn’t consume alcohol. She knows that probably makes her sound like she’s an alcoholic. If anyone asked her though, she’d tell them she’s not. Because it’s a choice. If she wanted to stop, she could. That’s why she doesn’t drink on Tuesdays. She’s making a point. She can choose not to drink if she wants to.

  On Tuesdays Annalise has a routine. She doesn’t fuck men on Tuesdays. She comes home from work and changes into her leggings or shorts or track pants. Sports bra, singlet, trainers. She puts her soccer ball in her netted bag with the strap that goes across her chest. She takes the stairs instead of the lift down to the ground floor of her apartment building. She jogs through the streets and down to the river. When she hits the grass, the ball comes out of the bag and she dribbles it along the riverbank. It’s a challenge because the grass is thick and there are weeds and rocks and muddy patches. Every now and then she almost loses it into the water. Maybe it teaches her bad habits – kicking a ball over rougher terrain instead of on the flat pitch – but it’s awesome exercise. And then again, some of the local grounds they play on aren’t that well taken care of, so maybe it’s good for her game-playing skills.

  After thirty minutes she reaches a concrete skate bowl. It’s lit up by a couple of street lamps, covered in graffiti and almost always deserted. Sometimes she wishes she had a board and knew how to skate. But she doesn’t. So instead she uses it to train. She kicks the ball against the concrete sides of the bowl; she runs up and down the slopes. The ball echoes when it hits and bounces off at unexpected angles. More challenges. She goes hard until she hits the point of exhaustion and then she pushes herself some more.

  If she thinks about having a drink, she kicks the ball harder.

  If she thinks about calling Lawrence, or picking up some random bloke for a one-night stand, she kicks the ball harder.

  She doesn’t stop until she physically must.

  Not until her legs are jelly and her back aches and her chest is tight and burning.

  The walk back to her place is painful but brisk. The thought of a hot shower spurs her forward.

  Back at her place, she has a shower followed by a bath. Indulgent. Wasteful, she knows. But she needs to wash the sweat and grime off her body before she can lie down and soak. After all, who the hell wants to marinate in their own dirt? She fills the bath with Radox powder and her sore muscles start to heal. A glass of wine would go down nicely with the bath, but she can refrain – because it’s Tuesday. She drinks a Berocca or a Gatorade instead.

  When she’s done, she eats something simple for dinner – cheese on toast. Or a tin of baked beans.

  But on a Tuesday night in early May, things went differently.

  On that Tuesday night, she heard a thump from upstairs.

  THE IMPOSTER

  She almost slipped up. Gave herself away. On the one hand, she’d grown so used to this fabricated persona that it came naturally to her. But on the other hand, she’d been a mother for so long that it was easy to fall back into old habits. When my daughter was younger, she’d started to write. Holy shit! she’d thought, clapping her hand to her mouth. How did I almost write that? Delete, delete, delete.

  She started again: When my niece was younger . . .

  PART THREE

  Poppy

  CHAPTER 13

  Tuesday night Poppy put a scalpel through her hand.

  She didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t an angsty teenage self-harm thing. Well, not entirely. She was being stupid though. Stupid and self-destructive. Unfortunately, she had never been great with blood.

  She’d been sitting on the floor in the lounge room and using the scalpel and a cutting mat to chop up some old photos for an album she was putting together for her mum and dad’s anniversary. Her half-eaten dinner was on the carpet next to her – an open pizza box and a foil-wrapped stick of garlic bread. She was listening to the soundtrack from one of her favourite old films – Dirty Dancing – it was mellow enough to enjoy while she sipped on red wine and worked on the photos, but upbeat enough that Annalise wouldn’t start banging on her ceiling to tell her to cheer up. She was feeling good. The previous night they’d won another game of soccer. Elle had put Poppy back into goals where she felt at home again, while Annalise had been returned to striker and scored twice.

  She took a break to scroll through Facebook on her phone and that’s when she saw him. Garret. It was his face that caught her eye first. Obviously, they were no longer friends on Facebook, so she wasn’t used to coming across his familiar features in her newsfeed. There was the initial shock just at seeing him again – his round, cheery face, beaming out of the screen at her. And then there was the slow realisation as she took in the rest of the photograph. The beige walls, the monitoring equipment. The hospital bed. She knew what this was.

  And then she saw Karleen. Red-faced and sweaty. Strands of her curly hair sticking to her cheeks. A smile of pure unadulterated joy. Wrapped up in a pink-and-yellow striped blanket in her arms was a squishy, wrinkled baby. All scrunched up eyes and mottled skin.

  Why? Was her first thought. Why I am seeing this! Why do I have to know that the baby is here?

  It was because they’d po
sted the photo publicly and a mutual friend had commented.

  Okay, so what is this that I’m feeling? Why does it feel as though my body’s just been coated in dry ice? I mean, it can’t be jealousy, can it? Because I didn’t want that. I don’t. And I don’t even want him anymore. I’m sure of it. I don’t! So why am I reacting like this? What’s wrong with me?

  She started doing the calculations. What was the date today? Wasn’t it far too soon for their baby to have arrived? That was why she was freaking out – because she wasn’t ready. When did they split up? When did she arrive home to find the two of them waiting smugly at her kitchen table? How many months had it been? She counted on her fingers and her brain struggled to function, struggled to list the months in order. January, February, March. She chanted in that sing-song tune she’d memorised as a child when she was first learning the names of the months. But eventually her mind slipped into gear and she had her answer. Karleen was already pregnant when they told her. And she would have been far enough along to have known. In fact, she would have been close to four months along. Was she showing? Had Poppy been so distracted that she hadn’t even noticed a change to her friend’s lanky body? Four months. The exact amount of time Karleen had said they’d been seeing one another. So, he’d knocked her up on day one, had he?

  How could they not have told her? Hadn’t they owed her that much? Hadn’t they owed her the whole truth?

  She tried to pick up her glass to gulp down some wine and that’s when she noticed how much her hands were shaking. The red liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass and stained the carpet. She looked at the small pink marks and slowly, carefully, she got to her feet. She walked over to the kitchen bench and put down the wineglass. She searched through the cupboard until she found baking soda and then she took it back, got down on her hands and knees and shook it over the stains. At first it sprinkled. A light dusting. But then she shook harder, until several small mounds of white powder formed.