by Lia Weston
‘Anyway, isn’t your dad coming or something?’ said Zach.
‘Yeah. I wish you could meet him. He’s cool. You’d like him.’
Zach smiled. His fingers played with the edge of her jeans. Again, she felt her skin ignite. She reached back to toy with his alpha male hair, fitting her body to his. ‘You could, you know, maybe come over after the gig . . .’
‘Therese’ll crack the shits.’
‘So?’
Zach bent his head to look at her. ‘You know I can’t.’
Mary dropped her gaze and picked at her fingernail instead. ‘Fine.’
‘Got something to show you.’ Zach hooked an arm around Mary’s waist and reached with the other for his guitar case. After rummaging for a moment, he flipped a CD into her lap.
‘Oh my God! Is this the album?’ She snatched it and sat up.
‘Kind of. It’s a mock-up.’
‘That’s so cool.’ The cover showed a picture of the band, though Zach took up most of the shot. He had smudgy eyeliner and quite the artful tousle going on. ‘You look hot.’
Zach looked pleased.
‘Where Angels Go To Die. Cool name.’ She flipped it over. ‘Why’s everything in such tiny print?’
He gave a cough. ‘Song titles are kinda too long.’
‘Is there a dedications section? You know, where you thank people and stuff?’
‘Maybe,’ said Zach.
‘Am I in it?’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
‘Maybe.’
Before she could look, he grabbed the CD back and threw it behind the chair.
‘Hey!’
They wrestled for only a short moment before he started kissing her with an intensity that wiped out all thought. By the time she resurfaced, the CD was forgotten.
*
After the warmth of the outdoors, the supermarket’s interior felt like Antarctica. The enormous car park out the front was empty. The lone cashier was flipping through a magazine and wearing a beanie. She frowned at Evie for disturbing her reading time.
Evie had forgotten how to calculate how many eggs she would need. She looked at the piece of paper in her hand. A special order may be required; they didn’t seem particularly well stocked. The last carton was on the top shelf at the back.
Evie put her foot on the bottom shelf to try and reach it. No luck. She put her basket down and tried to move the carton closer by poking her fingers underneath it and sliding it forward along the bars. The carton moved a few millimetres, then stopped.
‘Come on,’ said Evie, working with the fingertips of her uninjured hand. She’d resorted to buying a first-aid kit from the supermarket’s meagre selection. You’d think they’d have more emergency supplies in a town full of farming implements. ‘Come on, you fucker.’
The carton was lifted off the shelf above her head and presented to her. Cheeks flaming, Evie turned to face a familiar chest.
Really, it was amazing she had managed to avoid him for this long in a town this small. Then again, she had barely left the house and had made excuses to skip every committee meeting since the carnival, mostly because Cameron would probably have been there. Joy and Cameron in one hit. Ugh, Joy. Double ugh, Cameron.
Amy had sent a couple of texts. So far she seemed to believe Evie’s line about having the flu. People could have the flu for six weeks, couldn’t they?
‘What happened?’ Phil pointed at the band-aids criss-crossing Evie’s palm as she put the eggs into her basket.
‘Just a kitchen accident.’
‘It’s puffy.’ He took her hand before she could pull away in time and partly peeled off the band-aids.
‘It’s fine, really. Truly.’
Phil frowned. ‘That’s a pretty deep cut.’ He gently put his thumbs on either side of the puncture. Evie gritted her teeth and pretended it didn’t feel like he was stabbing her with an icepick.
‘Been to see Amy?’
‘Why would I see Amy?’
He prised the rest of the band-aids off. ‘Amy’s a doctor.’ Taking the first-aid kit out of her basket, he opened the antiseptic.
Evie looked around. The cashier was still reading a magazine. She probably wouldn’t have noticed if Evie and Phil had started playing frisbee.
Phil looked appropriately apologetic while dabbing on the disinfectant. She watched his fingers, so sure and steady, and tried not to remember the flash of hurt on his face when she told him she didn’t think of him as date material. She bit back the urge to tell him she was sorry.
‘You’re a good nurse,’ said Evie.
‘Lots of practice,’ said Phil. ‘On myself. How’s Mary?’
‘In the middle of exams. Her birthday’s next week, too, which isn’t helping. I keep forgetting to buy her present.’
Evie had thought she’d witnessed every mood a teenage girl could conjure up, but Mary was like a kaleidoscope at the moment – stressing about study, joyfully showing Evie plant cuttings that were shooting, grouching about how much Sweet Meadow sucked, tearing through her wardrobe like a tornado, disappearing at random points in the day, sulking, laughing, sighing heavily. It was like living with an entire weather system slouching around the house and eating all of Evie’s practice cakes.
Phil carefully and expertly wrapped the bandage. For a man who looked like he could rip a phone book in half, he was very delicate with a safety pin.
‘Thank you,’ said Evie, holding her hand to her chest.
‘Keep an eye on it.’ Phil looked at her for a moment, then nodded a farewell and headed for the check-out. Evie watched him from the aisle, and wished yet again that she could reverse their conversation in the rose garden.
The alarm was bleeping, muffled under the pillow she had thrown at it. Evie rolled over to plant her face in the covers. She’d been up until 2 am, shaping and reshaping the passionfruit flowers until she almost went blind.
From the dregs of sleep, an uneasiness lingered. Had she forgotten an appointment? Of course not; her only appointments right now were with her tools and painkillers. Evie pulled the bandage aside and looked at her palm. Despite Phil’s efforts last week, it didn’t look any better.
Mary was already up for some reason, crashing around in the kitchen, no doubt using three plates, a spatula and the microwave to make toast. She had been eating a lot of instant noodles lately. Evie flattened her guilt. It wasn’t for much longer. They’d be back to regular meals soon, and she’d make a special birthday dinner for her tomorrow. She still hadn’t bought Mary’s gift. Hooray, another thing to feel terrible about. Fallow Halls had a bookshop. She’d go today while Mary was at school. And while she was shopping, she could also buy a large crucifix in anticipation of Gabe’s visit tomorrow. Evie pushed her face further in the pillow. There would be an ulterior motive to his coming, she just knew it. He would swan in, unrepentant and beautiful, and give Mary a soul-crushingly expensive gift guaranteed to reduce Evie’s offering to ash no matter what she ended up buying. He’d also probably whisk Mary off for a lavish birthday lunch, leaving Evie to roll out nine kilos of fondant and leaving Mary too full for dinner. For his final act, he would continue to avoid disclosing his full financial position so their settlement would continue to drag on for at least another year. Who said men couldn’t multitask?
The back door banged. Voices drifted up the stairs. Evie rolled over and stared at the ceiling rose. Why had the boys come over so early?
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey . . .’
Mary’s birthday was tomorrow. Tomorrow was the twenty-first.
‘. . . and you smell like one tooooo . . .’
Evie picked up her mobile to confirm the date, took a deep breath and pressed a pillow to her face to muffle the scream.
‘Birthday hug!’ Mini D tackled Mary.
‘Felicitations,’ said Travis, ever the gentleman.
‘Thanks, Mr T.’ Mary turned to the pantry, still wrestling with Mini D. ‘Food. I need f
ood.’
‘What, no breakfast cake?’ said Mini D, ducking under her arm to check out the shelves.
Travis gestured to the table where rows and rows of fondant roses hung from racks. ‘I think her mother has been otherwise occupied.’
Despite initially vowing not to return to the slippery dip, Travis had not been able to help himself. Each time, Evie had been hunched over the table, rolling and cutting into the night. At one point he had fallen asleep, and when he’d woken up hours later, almost frozen in place, she was still at it.
‘Babyduck, I’m so sorry.’ Evie burst in wearing a feather-trimmed dressing gown. ‘My alarm didn’t go off. Happy birthday! Hello, you two.’ She gave Mary a quick hug and began pulling packets out of the freezer.
Underneath the gauzy layers, Travis could see her back was bare. When she said his name, he started guiltily.
‘Would you be a sweetheart and take those into the dining room?’ She gestured to the rose racks with her elbow.
‘Of course.’
Travis had decided in advance that the best way to avoid any potential awkwardness was just to pretend that their last conversation never happened. Evie, smiling her thanks, seemed to be doing the same. Carrying the racks down the hallway, he again thought how well suited they were, like Romeo and Juliet, if Juliet had been in her thirties and someone else’s mum.
The dining room door was closed; he nudged it open with his toe.
There was no room on the table for the racks. There was no room anywhere for anything. Fondant roses in shades of pink and crimson lay in fields and acres across the floor, across the table, along the windowsill and on the bookshelves. Ivy hung from the curtain rails and filled the window with emerald strings. Travis imagined them coming to life at night-time and taking over the house, grappling up the stairs, sending sugared roots between the floorboards, crawling towards Evie as she slept.
He backed out and went down the hallway to the living room instead. The living room was already full. More roses, joined by irises now, a landscape of sculpted petals and leaves.
Surely no cake needed this many decorations. Unless it was the size of a car. Perhaps it was.
No wonder Evie had not had time to make breakfast cake.
Travis bent down and carefully slid the racks under a chair, where they joined several dozen more. He shut the door carefully, as if the occupants were sleeping.
In the kitchen Evie was reaching for a baking tray on an upper shelf. The sunlight bounced off the back fence and lit her silhouette through the gown. She was, as Travis had suspected, bra-less.
‘No pancakes?’ said Mary. ‘We always have pancakes on birthdays.’
‘I thought you might like croissants instead. Just for a change.’ Evie bent over to switch on the oven. Travis wondered if she was also underwear-less, and then had to go and sit down.
‘No arguments here,’ said Mini D. ‘Can I have ham and cheese in mine?’
Mary slumped in her seat, grumbling about missing out on maple syrup.
‘I cannot lie. This is not a pancake,’ said Travis, handing Mary a neatly wrapped gift. After a Conan Doyle first edition had proved uncomfortably out of his budget, Travis had found a leather-bound notebook engraved with gilt ravens.
Mary tore off the paper. ‘Oh!’ She threw an arm around his shoulder and squeezed. ‘I love, love, love it.’
‘Dear Diary, today I’m going to teach Zach to read,’ trilled Mini D. Mary smacked him on the back of his head.
Mini D’s gift was a bottle of perfume that smelled sharp enough to take the paint off the ceiling. Its gift-wrap was a green glittery scarf, which Mary wound around her head like a turban.
‘Oh, hey,’ said Mini D, digging in his schoolbag. ‘This was in your letterbox.’ He unearthed a tiny giftbox and a card.
Travis watched Mary’s face illuminate, her blue-black hair falling into her eyes. She slit the envelope open with her fingernail.
‘It’s from Dad.’ She looked at Evie. ‘Why wouldn’t he just give it to me tomorrow?’
‘Maybe he wanted to make sure you had it on the day,’ said Evie, putting a tray of hot croissants in the middle of the table.
‘Maybe I should wait.’
‘Open it, open it, open it,’ chanted Mini D. ‘It’s not a grenade.’
Mary undid the bow. The box clacked open. She drew out a gleaming earring, a chain of stones ending in a pea-sized diamond. ‘Wow.’
‘Is it real?’ said Travis.
Mini D took the earring, huffed on the biggest stone and examined it critically. ‘Yup.’
Evie bent forward to see, her hand on Travis’s shoulder. He felt her body lightly brush the side of his head and almost passed out.
‘I don’t have pierced ears,’ said Mary quietly.
‘Therese will probably do them for you,’ said Mini D, cramming half a croissant in his mouth.
‘Yeah, with an icepick,’ said Mary.
‘What time’s your exam today?’ said Evie.
Mary looked at her phone. ‘Soon. Gotta go.’ She leapt up, scattering crumbs, tucking the earrings back into the box. Mini D crammed the other half of his croissant home.
‘Happy birthday, sweetheart.’ Evie gave her a kiss. ‘I’ll give you your present tonight.’
They scuttled out the back door, past the elm tree. At the gate Travis looked back, but Evie had already disappeared.
*
They had just crossed the road when Mary turned into a laneway and pulled them aside.
‘What are you doing?’ said Travis.
‘Testing a theory,’ said Mary, unwinding the glittery scarf from her head.
‘We don’t have time,’ said Mini D. ‘I’ve still got to cram for Economics.’
‘Just wait.’
Nothing appeared to be happening at first, but it only took a minute for Evie to emerge from the front door, handbag in her teeth, still zipping up her skirt. She sprinted down the path and wrenched open the car door.
‘I knew it,’ said Mary. ‘She forgot my birthday.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Travis, though he had a feeling Mary was unfortunately correct.
‘I swear, she’s so out of it at the moment with the cake stuff.’
‘Marzipan is a demanding mistress,’ said Mini D.
With a shriek of tyres, the Mini took off. Mary clutched the top of the fence, staring after it.
‘You okay?’ said Mini D, putting his hand on her arm.
Mary shrugged it off. ‘I’m fine.’
The car laboured in first gear all the way down the road until it disappeared around the corner, straddling lanes. Evie was brushing her hair with one hand.
‘Where’s she going?’ said Travis.
‘To buy me a present.’
‘She’d be better off buying a new starter motor,’ said Mini D.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tap, tap, pause.
Tap, tap, pause.
Surely someone who worked in a bookshop would be able to type. Evie fought back the compulsion to scream, and instead willed the woman behind the counter to burst into flames.
After several more stop-start minutes, the woman frowned at Evie. ‘Sorry, what did you want again?’
Evie braced her hands on the counter and leaned forward. ‘Again, I need a book for my daughter. I was hoping you could recommend one.’
The one-fingered typing resumed. ‘How old?’
‘Same age as the last time you asked, she’s sixteen.’ Evie corrected herself. ‘Seventeen. She’s seventeen.’
‘Does she like werewolves?’
‘She prefers vampires.’
The woman made an unpleasant face. ‘Very passé.’
‘How can they be passé? They’re undead.’
‘Saturated market. What about angels? Very popular right now.’
‘God, no. Find me something less stupid, please.’
‘There’s no need to be rude,’ said the woman.
‘I’ve been tryin
g to buy my daughter a birthday present for ten minutes and the only thing you can suggest is a book about shagging angels.’
‘Why, Evie, what a surprise.’ Amy Wei emerged from the biography section, doing up the clasp on her baguette handbag. ‘Need a hand?’
‘I don’t want a hand,’ said Evie. ‘I want to use my loyalty points.’
‘They’ll keep,’ said Amy, looping her arm through Evie’s. ‘It’s a roll-over system. Let’s go get some fresh air, shall we?’
Amy blew a thin stream of smoke over Evie’s head. ‘What’s going on?’
They had adjourned to a bench in Fallow Halls Centennial Park. A group of joggers, all sleeveless tops and hunched shoulders, passed by. In the distance a small black dog belted after a red ball.
Evie rearranged items in her handbag. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You haven’t been to a meeting in weeks.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
Amy looked at the ladder in Evie’s stockings. ‘With what?’
‘Personal errands.’
‘How’s Mary?’
‘It’s her birthday today.’
‘Leaving the gift shopping a bit late, aren’t you?’ Amy tapped a butt of ash into a tiny cloisonné box, keeping her eyes on Evie.
‘Like I said, I’ve been busy.’
‘You must be pleased about the carnival, at least. The final total was fifteen thousand eight hundred dollars. After expenses, give or take.’
‘Yes, Nathan told me.’ Evie ran her thumb along the bandage over her palm.
‘Hmm,’ said Amy, taking another drag of her cigarette.
Two men jogged past the bench, chatting easily, running an assessing, nonchalant eye over them.
Amy casually watched them go. ‘Did I tell you my parents wanted me to be a teacher?’
‘Oh,’ said Evie, wondering what on earth she was getting at.
‘I started a teaching degree to keep them happy. But the more I did it, the sicker I felt. It took a scorching case of glandular fever plus an eating disorder to get me to listen to what my body was telling me.’ Amy flicked another butt of ash into the box. ‘It’s exhausting to pretend to be something you’re not.’
