by Jenni Ogden
“Yes. I’m fine. Great, in fact. I’m so glad you’re back though.” I could feel myself mooning at him. Thank heaven for my dark glasses.
“Anna, Kirsty, meet Collette. Collette Dubinois. She’s here to check up on the turtle program.” He turned to the woman. “I think you’ve met everyone else?”
“Yes. Hullo, Diane, Ben,” she said, ignoring Kirsty and me. She looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor—an impossibly perfect face. I felt like an elephant.
“Hi, Collette,” said Diane. “How long are you here for this time?”
“Eight weeks perhaps. I’ll see.” She turned to Tom. “Let’s go and get settled in. I would kill for a cold drink.”
“Right. I hope I’ve got something in the fridge.” He nodded to Jack. “Do you want a hand first to unload?”
“No thanks. Nick’s gone to get the tractor. I’ll deliver your stuff and Collette’s in a bit. Go and get the lady settled.” Jack’s grin looked distinctly lecherous.
“I’ll see you later, Anna. I want to hear all the gory details.” Tom smiled at me, hauled on his pack, and scuttled after Collette.
Hamish had woken with all the noise, and Pat had extracted him from Kirsty’s shawl and was cuddling him, a look of wonder in her blue eyes.
“Oh Kirsty, he’s a miracle. However did you manage?”
“Anna did it. And Diane and Ben. It was in the middle of the cyclone …”
Her words tumbled out but I wasn’t listening. All I could think about was Tom and Collette. Who the hell was she? Why hadn’t Tom warned me he’d be bringing her back with him? Eight weeks here, staying with Tom? What about me?
PAT CAME AROUND LATER TO ADMIRE HAMISH, AND I asked her straight out who Collette was. The good news was that she wasn’t Tom’s love interest, and the bad news was that she was his boss. I hadn’t known he had a boss, but according to Pat, Collette was a professor at the University of Queensland and one of the principal investigators on the turtle research program. I knew what that meant: she was the one who wrote the grant applications and published the research papers, and Tom was the minion who did the hard work. I’d assumed that Tom had his own research grant and danced to his own tune. He seemed too—I didn’t know, confident, I supposed—to be a mere research assistant. And Professor Collette Dubinois who, according to Pat, fancied herself as descending from the French aristocracy, looked as if she couldn’t tag a turtle to save herself.
The other bad news was that she got to stay in Tom’s house while she was there. It was, in fact, not Tom’s house but belonged to the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service, along with Tom’s boat. They provided the grant money and paid Tom’s salary through Collette’s grant. It took me right back to Boston, where I was Collette—albeit a rather larger and plainer version—and my lovely researchers were my Toms. I couldn’t have done my research without their fieldwork, going into the homes of Huntington’s disease families and assessing their terrible symptoms and talking to them about their even more terrible fate.
Damn. My fantasies about creeping over to Tom’s place at night, pretending I was tagging turtles, were custard. For a moment I almost wished Kirsty could go home to her mother, but as if she had second sight, Pat handed Hamish to me, and my heart melted. Tom could wait. I’d have little enough time to cuddle this precious little warm body.
When Pat left, I went for a stroll along the beach with a vague idea that it would be perfectly natural to drop in on Tom. I should bring him up to date on the turtle numbers since he left. I supposed Collette would want to be in on our conversation, seeing as she was the one I’d apparently been working for—voluntarily, at that—and not Tom. Luckily I was spared this pleasure as I met Tom on the beach.
“Are you checking out the cyclone damage?” I asked when he came near.
“No. I’m coming to see you.” He looked at me, his face aglow in the opalescent evening light. He touched my face. “I missed you.”
My whole body was instantly infused with happiness. I felt like one of Pat’s rum babas—a crusty golden muffin on the surface, but pop it in your mouth and it disintegrated, every morsel bursting with sweet warm rum.
We meandered down to the water’s edge. The tide was full and the lagoon was still and blue and gold. It was hard to believe it had been a thrashing sea monster only days ago. We gazed at it in companionable silence for a while, and then Tom asked me about the cyclone, and the birth. It all came tumbling out. I hadn’t realized I was still so emotional about it all. Tom listened with that wonderful, intent way of his—I could feel his total focus on me. There was no one else on the beach, and he took my hand. We found a spot under the Casuarinas, back a little from the exposed beach, and sat down.
“How was Sydney? How is your father?” I should have asked him earlier, not waited until I had told him every little detail about what had happened while he was gone.
“He’s not good. We had to move him into a nursing home. Mum couldn’t cope any more.”
“I’m so sorry. Is she okay?”
“Not really. It was hard for her to let him go, but she’s exhausted. Dad often doesn’t recognize her any more, and even though he is so thin now, he’s too heavy for her to lift.”
“That’s so sad. Dementia is a tragic disease.”
“I tried to get Mum to come back here with me for a break, but she wouldn’t. She’ll be in at the nursing home for hours every day.”
“It must have been hard for you to see him like that. Did he recognize you?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
I fancied I could hear the anguish in his voice and leaned over and kissed him. He lay down and I lay beside him. After a while he turned towards me and gave me his crooked smile.
“Sorry about Collette. I didn’t know she was coming over. It’s a good job Mum didn’t come back with me; she wouldn’t get on with Collette.”
“Would anyone?” I couldn’t stop myself.
“Wicked woman. You should feel sorry for her.”
“Why?”
“She’s so short.”
“Silly.”
He drew me to him. We kissed for a long time. I felt about seventeen. In the evening light, Tom looked about seventeen. This was happiness.
HAPPY ONE MOMENT, DOWN IN THE DUMPS, THE NEXT. Like I said, I felt about seventeen. Next afternoon I went over to Tom’s to go over the data Ben and I had collected. We’d just sat down at his computer and opened up the Excel file when Collette appeared from her bedroom and, without so much as a hullo, asked Tom what he was doing.
“We’re going over the data Anna’s entered while I’ve been away.”
“Is that necessary? If she’s entered it correctly it will be self-evident.”
I might not have been there.
“Anna is an experienced researcher. She’s giving me much more information than can be conveyed by the numbers on the spreadsheet.”
“Well, hurry up and get it done. I want you to go over the last six months’ data with me. We won’t be needing volunteer help from now on.”
I turned around and glared at her. “My volunteer help wasn’t for you, it was for Tom. If he still wants me to help, that’s for him to say, not you.”
“I approve the workers on this project, not Tom. We’re grateful for your assistance but it’s no longer necessary. Most of the work from now on will be data analysis and interpretation, and preparing research papers, and that is not a job for amateurs.”
“For heaven’s sake, Collette. Anna’s given the project an enormous amount of time. She’s not an amateur. She’s a senior scientist; I told you that. She’s written dozens of research papers. We’d be lucky to have her input if she wanted to help. She’s already shown me how we can analyze some of the data better.” Tom sounded very irritated.
“Tom, we’ll talk about this later. I’m going for a walk and I’ll be back in an hour. I want a meeting with you then.” Collette flounced out the door and Tom and I looked at each other, not knowing whether to lau
gh or swear. So we laughed.
“God in heaven, what did I do to deserve her?” Tom said when we’d calmed down.
“Why ever did you take on the job in the first place? You must have had an inkling of what she would be like?”
“I inherited her, for my sins. I did my PhD with her predecessor, and later he employed me as his research scientist, funded out of his research grant. Three years ago he had a heart attack, out of the blue, and that was that. One minute as healthy as a horse and next minute, dead.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, it was. Anyway, Collette had been appointed as an associate professor in his department the previous year, and he’d kindly added her as one of the investigators on this project. When he died, she became the principal investigator. I only have to put up with her once or twice a year when she comes over here, and occasionally when I’m in Brisbane I have to suffer for a few days. I love what I do so I put up with it.”
“Why don’t you try and get your own research grant?”
“I’m no academic. It would be difficult to get a grant without having a tenured university post. And in truth, it’s the fieldwork I love. I’m not sure I have the ability—or the desire—to do all the complex analyzing and write research papers, even if I could get a grant without having to be an academic as well.”
“Of course you could. I’d help you.”
“Dear Anna. I’m sure you would, but you’re leaving in October.”
“I could stay.”
“Don’t be silly. Turtle research is a bit different from the high-level medical research you do in Boston. And you’d need a PhD in marine biology, not neuroscience.”
KIRSTY WASN’T HOME WHEN, STILL FUMING, I GOT BACK. She’d left a note on the table saying that she’d taken Hamish to visit Violet and she’d make dinner when they got back. I felt better. I would miss Kirsty when she left. She was the sort of young woman who carried happiness into a room, always laughing and seeing the good side. I got myself a beer and opened up my computer. I needed to vent.
When I get back to Boston, I’ll track down my research assistants, and if they’re still in the area I’ll take them out for dinner and thank them properly. I know I didn’t appreciate them enough. I just took them for granted. All their hard work with the Huntington’s families. They probably knew I could never have done it myself. But I’m sure I didn’t treat them like Collette treats Tom. How he puts up with her I can’t fathom. She treats him like a slave; do this, do that.
This morning, Kirsty tried to convince me that Collette might turn out to be perfectly nice and that we could even become firm friends. Pigs might fly. When she was speaking to Tom like that and ignoring me, I was shriveling up inside. Not that I showed it. But it was there. I’ve felt it before with those sorts of people; the ones who suck the air out of the room. Like Professor bloody Knight. My esteemed PhD supervisor. Knight by name and dark by nature. All over me until he had me where he wanted—under him. Arrogant, cold man. I hope he rots in hell. On the positive side, he makes Collette seem like a silly little girl. And at least I no longer have to worry that Tom fancies her.
TWELVE
The night sweats came out of nowhere, and came with a vengeance. Of course I’d heard them described by menopausal females—they seemed to talk of nothing else—but they are impossible to imagine if you haven’t actually experienced one. It’s like a burning from deep inside and within milliseconds your whole body is on fire. The speed at which it happens beggars belief. There is nothing for it but to rip off all your garments as fast as possible and get outside where there might be a cool breeze. Thankfully it was quite a lot cooler on the island at night now. The southern part of the reef didn’t exactly have seasons, but by April it was beginning to get too cold in the sea to swim for long without a wetsuit. Still, I spent the night leaping out of the top bunk and trying not to disturb Kirsty as I hurtled outside, ripping off my T-shirt. I did disturb her, of course, and what with Hamish’s three-hourly feeds we didn’t get much sleep.
It was cruel, so cruel. It was bad enough being separated from Tom—in the biblical knowledge sense, at least—until either Kirsty or Collette had left. But to have slammed in my face my looming status as a wizened up spinster, irrefutably past the age where sex was a biological imperative, is brutal. From seventeen to fifty was not the sort of time travel I was interested in.
I looked back on my last birthday with amazement. It seemed a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. I could barely remember what it felt like to be lonely any more. Not that I admitted I was lonely in Boston. I always told myself that I liked being alone. If I had to go back there, how would I live with myself, all alone? How would I live without these perfumed days?
Perhaps I’ll make Eggs Benedict with bacon—tinned salmon won’t cut it—for breakfast next week. Kirsty would love it, and she didn’t need to know it was my birthday. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially Tom. How could he feel romantic about a fifty-year-old? Of course he knew I was forty-nine, but that sounded so much younger than fifty. I’d somehow have to hide the night sweats from him, too, if we ever slept together again.
HERE WAS I THINKING I HAD SUCCEEDED IN HIDING MY upcoming birthday when the Gossip Group showed up, laden with a giant paella overflowing with sea creatures, great bowls of salad, and warm, crusty, homemade bread. Tom was behind them with his offerings of five kinds of cheese, biscuits, fresh fruit, and an enormous box of dark liqueur–filled chocolates. And wine, of course, lots of it. All together, nine of us sat down to my surprise birthday feast—Violet and Bill, Diane and Ben, Pat, Tom, Basil, Kirsty, and me. Violet and Bill’s two children were sound asleep on the bottom bunk, and Hamish snuffled in his bassinet. It felt like family. The one I’d never had. The candles flickered on the table on the deck, and the stars sparkled above in the dark sky. I found myself thinking of my last birthday, crying over red wine in a posh Boston restaurant with Fran. A lifetime ago. Dear Fran; if she were here now, tonight would be better than perfect.
“How did you know?” I asked them at some point during the evening.
“Remember that first time we came over here for our book group?” Violet said.
“The Gossip Group, you mean?”
“Whatever. We were talking about our star signs and we asked you what yours was. You didn’t have a clue so we asked you when your birthday was.”
“And you remembered?”
“Naturally. These things are important.”
“Well, I’m glad. I didn’t think I wanted to celebrate it, but it’s lovely. More than lovely.” I was a bit tipsy, we all were, but no one had to drive.
Then Kirsty brought out a chocolate cake, “Happy Birthday Anna” blazoned across it and candles—not fifty, but a fair few—circling the outside.
“Oh, Kirsty, it’s beautiful. Did you make it?”
“I did. Over at Pat’s so you wouldn’t see it. Happy birthday, dear Anna.”
Later I asked Kirsty how they knew I was fifty. I was sure I hadn’t told them my age when I let slip my birth date.
“We didn’t know your age until you told us tonight. Who cares about age, anyway?”
“Oh my god. You mean I could have kept it a secret, or pretended I was forty?”
“Yep.”
“Damn.” I was grinning.
“Right on, girl.”
Pat as well as Tom had known I was forty-nine. Neither of them had let the cat out of the bag. But I was glad it was out now, and what’s more, I didn’t give a toss. If only fifty didn’t come packed in night sweats and hot flushes …
COLLETTE WAS STILL ON THE ISLAND AND GAVE NO SIGN of leaving any time soon. I had felt a bit mean that she hadn’t been invited to my party, but Tom told me to stop fretting; my party was for sharing with the people I really cared about. And two of those people were soon to depart. Kirsty’s mother was back in Brisbane, and Kirsty and Hamish were leaving on Jack’s boat when he returned after delivering the supplies next weeke
nd. Kirsty didn’t want to go, but her mother was desperate to meet her first grandson, and in truth, Kirsty couldn’t wait to show him off. The only good thing about it was that Tom and I would have some privacy at last. But if I had the power to choose, I would have kept Hamish—and Kirsty of course—there with me. My heart clenched tight as I thought about Hamish growing up in Australia, while, on the far side of the world, I trudged on through life.
At six thirty on Sunday morning, four hours before he would be gone, Kirsty passed Hamish and a fresh diaper up to me on the top bunk. I had lain awake listening as she fed him, lying below me, not caring about the tears that wouldn’t stop oozing from my eyes. I changed Hamish’s sodden diaper and tucked him under the sheet close to me while Kirsty boiled the kettle for our morning tea and packed the last of their things. We didn’t speak; we were both feeling the impending loss.
Everyone—barring Collette—was on the wharf by ten to say goodbye. In the four months she had been there, Kirsty had become part of the community, and as Pat said, Hamish, at only four weeks old, had a unique place here. No one else still alive on the planet had actually been born on the island. Even Danny, Violet’s youngest, had first seen the light of day in Brisbane.
“Time to go, Kirsty,” Jack said once he’d stowed all the gear on board.
“I know,” she said, her voice wobbling. I handed Hamish to her and she did the hug rounds. Hamish’s eyes were wide open, taking it all in. After every person there had kissed his downy head, Kirsty came back to me.
“He’s yours too,” she whispered, putting him in my arms. “You’ll always be part of him.”
I held him close one last time. His fingers closed around one of mine and he smiled his rosebud smile. I kissed him quickly and handed him back. With a hug, Kirsty turned and almost ran up the gangplank. I felt Pat beside me, her arm around my waist. Tom was helping Jack cast off, and for a second I imagined him leaving as well.
I don’t know why I am feeling so upset about Kirsty and Hamish leaving. I’ve never been especially interested in kids; they seem like more trouble than they’re worth. If I were his aunt or his grandmother I could understand it. Obviously my involvement in his birth, and then him living here with me, gives him a special significance, almost as if I were related to him. But even that doesn’t seem enough to account for my sadness. It feels deeper than that. More like grief.
