Suddenly Liv saw the perfect solution, written in code on that little slip of paper in her drawer.
‘Liv, you’re not saying anything,’ Rick prompted her after a while.
She stirred, looking straight at him. ‘You’re making some pretty huge assumptions about my personal life, Rick. When in actual fact you have no idea what I do, or who I might be doing it with.’
He started to blink rapidly. ‘You’re not seeing anyone,’ he sneered.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Well . . .’ he floundered. ‘The boys would have told me.’
‘The boys don’t know,’ she said calmly. Neither did the man in question, for that matter, but she could soon fix that. Besides, she wasn’t actually saying anything specific. She wasn’t lying, she was just planting a seed, and allowing Rick to fertilise it . . . No, wait, she didn’t like that analogy at all. What she was doing was just allowing Rick to fill in the blanks with his own imagination.
‘You see,’ Liv went on, ‘I decided a while ago that it was best not to over-share with the boys. They’re at a delicate age, developmentally, and the way they think about their mother . . . well, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how Oedipus turned out. I have every second or third weekend to myself, I have my own life, Rick. I’ve moved on, and I’ve never looked back. I’m sorry that all your alternatives haven’t worked out, but I’ve been having a great time. And I wouldn’t go back for anything.’
Sunday
Liv was still reeling when she woke up the next morning. Rick had left soon after her revelation, obviously unsettled and out of ammunition. For the meantime. Now she had to cover her tracks. She waited until the boys were occupied after breakfast and it was a respectable hour on a Sunday morning to ring someone – she figured ten was acceptable. Then she grabbed her mobile and ducked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She went to her desk and took out the slip of paper. She perched on the end of the bed as she smoothed it out and thought about what she was about to do. Was she really going to call this guy just to prove something to Rick? No, she couldn’t, that would be wrong. She had to do it because she wanted to do it for herself.
Well, she had salvaged it from the wastepaper bin the other day.
But that was only in reaction to her mother winding her up.
Liv bit on her lip as she stared at his name, for so long that it started to look weird. Funny how that happened, the letters no longer seemed to spell anything, and it looked like gibberish. So now she was just procrastinating. All right, what were the facts? He seemed like a nice person; he was nice looking, neat and well groomed. Of course, that was usually said about serial killers and mass murderers after the fact.
Why are you doing that, Liv? No need to go there.
Back on track. He was certainly easy enough to talk to, and he was a reader – both points in his favour. The fact that his daughter had lived with him was probably also in his favour, but as Liv had no idea of the circumstances, she couldn’t necessarily put that in the pros column just yet. Though the chance to hear that story was in itself a good reason to go out with him.
In the cons column . . . well, she didn’t know what he did for a living – not that that had to be a negative. Perhaps she needed a column with a question mark as well. She didn’t know about his previous relationship, or relationships, plural. She didn’t know if he was just divorced, if he was on the rebound, or if he was a compulsive flirt, handing out his number willy-nilly to any woman he sat next to on a plane or a bus or whatever, batting his eyelids and telling them all the same sweet tale about making promises to himself . . . Now that she thought about it, it was beginning to sound like a very well-rehearsed line.
Liv stopped for a second and heard her own voice reverberating inside her head. What the hell was wrong with her? Seriously? Madeleine would remind her it was only coffee. And if Mad was in the same position, Liv would be telling her to go for it. In fact, that’s exactly what she had done. Cripes, Liv had encouraged Madeleine to go to the other side of the world for Henry.
And now they were getting married. Liv didn’t want to get married – she hadn’t wanted to get married in the first place.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, what was wrong with her? She was just being a wimp. Without further ado, she entered the number into her phone and tapped Call. She was startled when it was answered almost immediately.
‘David Lessing.’
‘Oh, hello, David. I hope this is a convenient time.’
‘Look, if you’re selling something –’
‘No, no,’ Liv said quickly. ‘I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I sat near you on a plane last week –’
‘Liv!’ he said. ‘Named after the actress.’
She smiled. ‘That’s right.’ She supposed he couldn’t be handing his number out to every woman he sat next to, or he could never have come up with her name like that, unless he was some kind of voice-recognition freak.
‘You called,’ he said.
‘I did. I am . . . calling.’
‘Well, I’m glad. What made you change your mind?’
‘I hadn’t exactly made up my mind,’ said Liv. ‘So I didn’t change it, as such. I just got to thinking about what you said about, you know, putting yourself out there, and how people are always asking you, and saying you should, and they act like that’s the norm, that it’s weird if you’re not, so there must be something wrong with you, or that it means something that it doesn’t at all, you know? They judge you on your inaction, when it might not even be inaction but an actual active choice . . . not to act. You know what I’m saying?’
‘Not really,’ he said in a bemused tone. ‘But would you like to have coffee sometime?’
Liv breathed out. ‘Yes, I would. I’d like that very much.’
Pittwater
‘I really don’t mind going the whole way,’ Madeleine said as she backed the car out of the garage.
‘That’s what she said.’ Aiden looked at her sideways.
‘Stop it.’
He was taking a late flight to Brisbane, where he would be met by a delegation of aid workers who were going to escort him – via two more flights and several hundred kilometres in a four-wheel drive – to an Aboriginal settlement in Far North Queensland. But Aiden had refused the offer of a lift to the airport in Sydney.
‘Just get me back to the edge of civilisation,’ he was saying now. ‘I can find my way to the airport from there.’
Madeleine grinned. ‘It’s not quite as bad as all that.’
He shook his head. ‘It was like déjà vu when Henry brought me to your house the first day.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s so much like his place in the Hamptons.’
‘Really?’ Madeleine said uncertainly. ‘He took me there when I visited New York. I don’t think the houses are anything alike.’
‘Not architecturally,’ Aiden said. ‘That’s true. And the terrain is different in the Hamptons, it’s a lot flatter mainly. But the distance, and the isolation, they’re just the same.’
Madeleine didn’t know the place well enough to comment, but the observation didn’t sit comfortably with her. The three of them had had a wonderful weekend of swimming, and barbecues, and a fabulous lunch at a restaurant in Palm Beach that Madeleine had been wanting to try. They’d even played board games on Saturday night, which was hilarious. She hadn’t had so much fun at home since they’d moved up here. They never had visitors, and on the weekends it was too far to go back to the city, especially when Madeleine had to make the trip every day during the week. So they’d go for walks, or to the beach, now that it was getting warmer. They did have the odd meal at a restaurant or café, and once they had gone to the local cinema. But it was a quiet life, to say the least.
‘How do you feel about living all the way up here?’ Aiden asked after a while.
‘It’s okay. And Henry needs a quiet place to work.’
‘Fair enough,’
he said. ‘I just can’t help wondering what’s in it for you.’
Madeleine hesitated. She didn’t want to answer that right now, because she didn’t have an answer. ‘Well, just take a look out there,’ she said, nodding her head towards the expanse of ocean on their left. ‘I could think of worse places to live.’
They drove on, as she breathlessly rattled off the attractions of the peninsula at every turn, thereby preventing Aiden from repeating his original question. She just didn’t want to talk about it with him: she still had the vague feeling that it would somehow be a betrayal of Henry.
When they drove into Dee Why, Aiden spotted a taxi rank, complete with waiting taxi. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘You can drop me here.’
‘But I haven’t taken you very far at all,’ Madeleine protested.
‘You have to drive all the way tomorrow,’ he said. ‘This is far enough for me, Maddie.’
He must have been really bored with her monologue, she decided. She knew she was. Madeleine hopped out of the car and came around to the passenger side as Aiden dragged his bag out of the back seat. ‘So don’t forget,’ she said, ‘lunch at my sister’s next Saturday, if you make it back in time. And if you want to.’
‘What? Of course I want to,’ said Aiden. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your family.’
‘Henry doesn’t know why we’re putting you through it, when you’ll meet them soon enough anyway.’
‘Henry should get that giant stick out of his ass,’ Aiden said with a wink. ‘I’m sure I’ll be back. In fact, I’m hoping to get back no later than Friday.’
‘Well, you’ve got my mobile number – I can pick you up if it’s in the afternoon, and you can drive home with me.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ He leant in to give her a kiss on the cheek and half a hug, as he had only one arm free. It was better than no hug at all.
‘Have a good week,’ she called, as he walked up to the taxi and opened the back door.
‘Sydney airport, thanks,’ she heard him say.
Madeleine went back to the car and headed for home, without much enthusiasm. It was going to be quiet without Aiden. And when she walked into the house, she realised just how quiet. The place felt empty, yet it was no more empty than usual. It was just more noticeable now.
She crossed the living room to take the stairs down to Henry’s office. He was working, which was why she’d offered to take Aiden, and why he’d stayed behind.
‘Hi,’ she said as she came in through the doorway.
Henry was in his usual position, hunched over his drawing board. He swivelled a half-turn on the stool as Madeleine walked over to him. ‘How did it go?’ he asked. ‘Did Aiden get away okay?’
She nodded, propping her elbow on his shoulder. ‘He got a taxi at Dee Why. How’s it going here?’
‘All right.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But I’ve got a fair bit to catch up on, I lost a lot of time with Aiden here.’
He had laid out a sequence of drawings across the top of the board and was now working on the story. Sheets of writing paper were spread out over the remaining available space, each covered with clusters of words, crossed out, reinstated, scribbled over. Henry didn’t write on a computer, not because he was a Luddite – though there was some truth in that – but because there wasn’t a great deal of text involved, and he needed to visualise the words with the pictures. He sweated so much over every element, right from the first draft, when there were so many more stages and opportunities to tweak further. But that’s what made him so good. It always amused Madeleine when she heard people suggest that writing children’s books must be easy – they had no idea.
Henry shifted a little to block her view; he was always self-conscious about a work in progress, even with Madeleine. Writers. Typical.
‘Do you think you’ll be long?’ she asked.
He looked apologetic. ‘I wanted to keep at it, at least until I nail this draft.’
Which meant he would be ‘at it’ half the night.
‘I guess I’ll go and do some reading then,’ she said.
‘Okay, don’t wait up.’
So he definitely intended to be at it half the night.
‘If that’s the case, you better give me a kiss goodnight now, then,’ said Madeleine, circling her arms around his neck. He didn’t resist, but his lips did: they were unyielding, remaining firm under pressure. She remembered that they hadn’t had sex since the morning after Aiden arrived, and it obviously wasn’t going to happen tonight either. She drew back to look at him. ‘Well, goodnight,’ she said.
‘Goodnight, Madeleine.’
Back upstairs she wandered around, feeling that odd restlessness again. They’d had an early dinner with Aiden, and Henry had cleaned up after they’d left, so there was nothing for her to do. She really should take the opportunity to read; that was what she normally did when Henry was occupied downstairs. Which was often.
She went to her room to fetch her e-reader and then walked back out and onto the balcony. It was cooler outside, but pleasantly so. The only sound breaking the deafening silence was the deafening chorus of crickets. Madeleine started to read. It was a debut novel by an actress slash model turned budding author. They wouldn’t have any trouble getting publicity for her, but Liv had asked Madeleine to give some thought as to which publicist would be a good fit, someone who wouldn’t be too starstruck. Ren was an obvious choice, but then she might not be starstruck enough. Natalie was probably panting for it, but they suspected she’d enjoy the celebrity scene a little too much, and forget that it wasn’t all about her. Madeleine had been surprised to discover that the book wasn’t too bad, and the last time she’d picked it up she had been quite absorbed. But after clicking through a few pages tonight, she realised that she couldn’t recall a word she’d just read. She sighed, closing the cover of her reader. Her restlessness was rapidly escalating towards agitation. If this kept up, she was going to have trouble getting off to sleep tonight, especially without Henry, or sex.
Then she remembered that there was an opened bottle of wine in the fridge. They’d had wine with meals while Aiden was here – it was only polite, he was on holiday, after all. But Madeleine had been very careful not to overindulge again. Ever conscious of Henry’s watchful gaze, she’d only had one glass at a sitting, not even allowing Aiden to top it up. But she could really do with a glass right now; she knew it would smooth out the jagged edges. She tapped her fingers on the cover of her reader. There was nothing wrong with having one glass. She was an adult. And if she wasn’t getting sex tonight, then surely she was entitled to a measly glass of wine.
Madeleine got up and walked back inside and into the kitchen. She made some noise filling the kettle and switched it on. Then she went to the fridge. The bottle was in a shelf in the door. She carefully lifted it out to inspect it, relieved to see that there was more than a glass left. So she could have one and Henry wouldn’t notice, unless he’d measured it, and she doubted he’d go that far.
Madeleine quietly removed a glass from the cupboard – just a water glass, there was no need to use a wine glass. Her hand trembled a little as she carefully poured half of the remaining wine into the glass. She held it to her lips and breathed it in before taking a mouthful, letting it pool on her tongue, and then swallowing it down. She swallowed again and again, feeling the warming sensation as it travelled through her chest, and then the slight tingling buzz in her brain. And then the glass was empty. She quickly returned the cap to the bottle, and the bottle to the fridge, exactly where it had been. She rinsed out the glass, wiping it dry with a tea towel before replacing it in the cupboard. The kettle boiled and then clicked off. She didn’t want a cup of tea anyway. She switched off the lights, and walked up the hall to their bedroom. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth vigorously, then used a little mouthwash, rinsing her mouth out repeatedly. She changed into her pyjamas and climbed into bed, pulling the pillow over her head to muffle the sound of the deafening bloody crickets.
Madeleine sat down at her desk and switched on her computer. She’d been feeling a vague sense of unease, or ennui or something, all the way into work this morning. Even walking into the office hadn’t given her the usual reliable buzz. As her screen came to life she noticed the date. The wedding was drawing inexorably closer, and she still had so much to do. Which only served to heighten her complete lack of motivation.
She had to snap out of it. Emails filed into her inbox, one by one. There was nothing from Emily Tanner yet, but that was okay, Madeleine knew she wouldn’t rush her response. There was, however, a brisk reply from Lydia Carlyle. Madeleine had sent a copy of Jane Eyre by courier to her the same day as her dummy spit, the day Aiden had arrived. Plenty of time for Lydia to have read the cover blurb, and hopefully the foreword, written by a devout Brontë scholar. Her email contained one line:
You can inform the event manager that I approve her press release.
There was nothing further, just her florid automated email signature with bonus soft-focus headshot. Madeleine glared at the photo. Why yes, Lydia, my pleasure. No, don’t thank me. Oh, wait . . .
‘Boo!’
Madeleine looked up to see Liv smiling down at her.
‘What’s up with you, Debbie Downer?’ she asked.
Madeleine dropped her chin in her hand. ‘I don’t like Mondays.’
‘Well, before you take a shotgun up to the roof, cheer up. I’m going to take you to lunch.’
‘What, now?’
‘No, silly!’ Liv said. ‘At lunchtime. Are you free?’
‘Free as I’ll ever be,’ said Madeleine. Which wasn’t very free at all. She really had to snap out of it.
‘Okay, I’ll call for you at twelve thirty, one o’clock,’ said Liv. ‘Toodles!’
Madeleine forced herself to get down to work. She didn’t have the energy to instigate anything today, so cold calls were out, and she wasn’t going to start ringing up her contacts to pitch for radio spots or print interviews – that required too much enthusiasm. The most she could manage was confirmations; she could do those largely by email, so she didn’t have to be all chirpy on the phone.
The Best Man Page 14
