‘Hey.’ Ryan and Sal sit down opposite me.
Sal wrinkles her nose at the plastic blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, then runs her eyes around the restaurant while Ryan peruses the blackboard menu. The man at the table closest to ours is reading a small hardback and making notes with a stubby pencil in the margins. I watch his long hair sweep across what’s left of his scrambled eggs as he reaches for his glass. Cat Stevens’ ‘Wild World’ plays in the background.
‘Any reason?’ I ask, pointing at Ryan’s clean-shaven face as he rubs his fingers across his chin.
‘I couldn’t stand one more comment from my mother.’
I laugh. ‘Betty can be quite persuasive.’
‘You remember?’ He smiles.
Sal strokes his cheek. ‘You’re gorgeous no matter what.’ Then sighs. ‘I’d forgotten how boring Brisbane is.’
Since I’m keen for them to feel this way I don’t defend the place. But in truth, her comment doesn’t make sense in this part of town, a suburb I frequent because it’s never dull: there’s a mix of factories, a cinema, market gardens. I don’t point out the man and woman who’ve wandered out from the Anarchist Centre and are heading towards the bus stop, both visions of West meets East or, rather, West steals clothing from India, hairdos from Jamaica and jewellery from Africa. Sal has more or less given me an opener to the conversation I want to have.
‘Probably time to think about heading back to KD,’ I say.
The waitress puts our coffees on the table and Sal gives hers right back, ignoring my words. ‘Too milky.’ Working in a restaurant hasn’t changed the way Sal deals with people whose job it is to serve her. ‘I’ll need another one.’
‘Sal, honey,’ Ryan says as the waitress takes her cup.
‘Why should I drink bad coffee?’
He gazes at her as though she’s said something delightful. I don’t know why we both find her arrogance endearing, forgivable, almost elegant, but we do.
‘Anything to eat?’ The waitress regards us with contempt. ‘I’ll be sure to hold the milk.’
As so often happens, I try to compensate for Sal’s rudeness. ‘A toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich, please. Thank you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Same,’ Ryan says. ‘Sal?’
‘A decent coffee.’
The waitress walks away, shaking her head.
‘So, hey,’ I try again. ‘What’s our go-home date? I’m thinking I can leave by February.’
‘February?’ Ryan says. ‘Why are you hanging around that long?’
‘There are a few things I need to sort out.’
‘Are they to do with Skye and your dad? Because I reckon it’s better if we don’t talk about that, man.’
‘More than happy to leave that subject alone.’
‘Good. You need to get back before February if you want to run KD. Otherwise we should give it to Ketut and Made.’
‘Why would we –?’
‘We’re staying in Brisbane, Charlie,’ Sal says flatly, and though the music has cranked up and a car with a hole in its muffler roars down the street, I hear her as clear as a bell. ‘It’s over in Bali.’ She ignores the waitress when she places the fresh coffee on the table.
‘You don’t mean that. You just said Brisbane was boring. Why would you want to live here?’
‘I told you at the pub. I said we were checking out houses,’ Sal says.
‘That’s Alan Nolan from the co-op.’ Ryan knocks on the window. The man on the footpath, twenty-something, tall, lanky and thin, is wearing loose patched jeans and a dark green t-shirt. He smiles at Ryan, waves to Sal.
‘Back in a sec,’ Ryan says.
Sal makes no move but smiles at Alan.
‘What are you doing?’ I say. ‘I thought we were going to convince him not to stay here.’
‘He wants to come home.’ She makes a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug.
‘You can’t stay in Brisbane. You’ll be miserable.’
She sips her coffee, pushes the half-full cup away from her.
‘Do you want to go back to the place you first met Finn and –? Is that what you want? Or Byron? We could go to Byron.’
‘There’s no “we”. Ryan and I need to do our own thing. You can’t follow us around all the time, Charlie.’
I pull my head back in surprise.
‘First of all, I didn’t follow you to Bali, you invited me. And second, you’re saying now we’re back in Brisbane we’re not friends?’
She watches Ryan talk to Alan Nolan. ‘I’ll treasure our time in Bali forever. But we’re done there. Ryan and I need to make a new life and it won’t work if you’re hanging around telling us to go back to Kuta.’ I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off, turns steely eyes towards me. ‘You’re going to have a lot more trouble letting go of Bali than we are. We need to get some space from you. I need some space from you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She rubs a smudge of something off her thumb. ‘You think Ryan doesn’t notice the way you look at me?’
‘Get over yourself.’
‘I love Ryan and I would never –’
‘Never run your fingers up my arm, never kiss me?’
She laughs and tips her head back. ‘Oh, cute. You thought I’d leave Ryan for you?’
‘You’re such a bitch.’
‘Hey, cut it out.’ Ryan walks towards the table. ‘I could hear you from the doorway.’
‘Then you know what he said.’
He remains standing. ‘I could hear what you were saying, too.’
Sal is unrepentant. The waitress appears next to Ryan and puts our toasted sandwiches on the table. She’s smirking.
Ryan clenches and unclenches his fists. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, sweetheart,’ Sal murmurs. ‘Charlie’s got a little crush on me. I’m letting him down easy.’
‘Don’t bullshit me,’ Ryan says. ‘Are you having sex with him?’
‘No, baby, no. He doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Charming,’ I say.
‘You don’t.’ And I see in her eyes that it’s true.
‘You know she felt us both up in the truck that day we went for the fridge? She could’ve gone with you or me, wouldn’t have made any difference to her,’ I say.
‘Charlie,’ she says. ‘You are delusional.’
‘You want me gone? Consider it done.’ I turn to Ryan. ‘You can’t trust her.’
‘Don’t think I can trust you either.’
I stomp out of the coffee shop then stand on the footpath, queasy, not sure what to do, feeling the heat come up through my thongs. Across the road, a group of Aboriginal men walk towards Musgrave Park. I look back through the window at Ryan and Sal. Ryan is hunched over his plate, eating his sandwich. Sal, chin up, flicks her hair off her shoulder, her hand moving like the tail of an irate cat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday 31 December 1974
Abby
It’s late morning, and the air is gummy, cloying, with dark clouds blocking out the sun.
I’m leaning against the pushed-open sliding door, holding a mug of coffee that I have no interest in drinking. A task that had filled empty minutes. The kids are burying Matchbox cars in the sandpit. For the moment, they don’t need or even want me. And I have no idea of what to do with myself. Most days I move around this house like a pinball: from veranda to backyard to kitchen to bathroom to laundry to bedroom, quick detour to letterbox, then back to kitchen. Picking up and watering and chopping and folding along the way. Right now I can barely summon the energy to stay upright.
I don’t know where Mark went, but I’m guessing he’s at Geoff’s house. Dad will be at the farm. I won’t try phoning either of them because even the thought of how those calls would go makes me want to fall into bed and sleep for a hundred years. What could I possibly say other than repeat that I’m sorry? I know that’s not enough. I have no idea where Charlie is, though h
e’ll be with Ryan and Sal. Tonight, I’ll see out this sorry year with my children, who’ll probably be asleep before the first fireworks light up the sky.
I look to the sandpit as Sarah and Joanne giggle. Petey is putting a fistful of sand into his mouth.
‘Petey, don’t do that.’ I hear the exhaustion in my voice.
He spits out the doughy muck, leaving a ring of it around his lips. ‘Sarah told me to.’
I hold a hand out to Sarah in a ‘why?’ gesture.
‘I want to know what it tastes like.’
‘Then eat it yourself.’ She’s rightly surprised by this suggestion. ‘Forget I said that. Get your sandals. Let’s go visit Auntie Lou.’
We need to do something to fill our day, and I need the company of an adult who won’t look at me with disgust. I’ll tell Lou I won’t be coming to the street party tonight, and that Mark has gone and I’m scared because I don’t know when he’s coming back. I’m not sure what reason I’ll give for our fight, but I know I can think of one.
The two-minute walk to Lou and Andrew’s house is made longer as the children stop to pick up sticks and rocks and flowers, peek inside people’s letterboxes, and squat to peer at a white cat hiding in the shade under a car. Which is fine. I’m in no rush.
When we’re close to Lou’s house, the kids break into a run and scurry up the driveway, arguing about who gets to knock on the door. They all bang on it at once.
When Lou opens the door, smiling and making faces at their noise, I can see she’s three sheets to the wind.
‘Shhh, Uncle Andy’s snoozing,’ she says to the children. ‘Kids are out back. Tiptoes.’ She turns to me. ‘Went to a champagne breakfast. Head Something Someone from Andrew’s work. Boring as batshit. What could I do but drink?’ She points at Sarah’s all-white outfit and the headband to which I’ve taped an empty toilet roll.
‘She’s a unicorn.’
‘Ah, be the change . . .’ Lou makes a shushing noise as we pass through the living room to the sun-drenched deck. Andrew is lying on the couch, snoring so loudly I can’t imagine what noise the kids or I could make that would be heard. My kids and Lou’s fall into a happy tumble on the lawn, shaded by the tall leafy line of bamboo that grows alongside the fence. I sit on a bench beside the slat table, under a canvas umbrella patterned with pink and orange flowers.
‘Wine?’ Lou asks, and before I can answer she’s heading back into the kitchen, muttering, ‘Yes. A little. Nearly lunchtime.’
She returns with a bowl of peanuts, a cask of moselle and two plastic cups. ‘Hair of the dog.’
‘I don’t think you can call it that when you haven’t stopped drinking,’ I say with a smile. ‘But sure, fill her up.’
Since she’s my friend, Lou agrees with every word I say, every edited half-truth and deluded justification, every lie about Mark and I arguing about the unfairness of our domestic arrangement. Since she’s spent the morning drinking, she agrees voluminously.
‘Bastard,’ she says when I tell her that Mark stormed out last night, insisting he did more than most men would. ‘Bastard,’ when I tell her he hasn’t been back since. Her elbow slips sideways, so she’s propped up on an angle. Her makeup isn’t quite where it should be: lipstick smudges the lip of her cup, mascara flecks above and below her lashes, and there is a rub of blue eye shadow on the side of her face. She stares intently at me, pausing before she speaks again. ‘But he’s not actually a bastard. You know that, don’t you? You’ll sort this out. He loves you, love.’
‘I know he does.’
She reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. ‘Loves you like crazy, one hundred per cent. We both do.’
‘I love you, too. Might be enough wine for now. How about I put this back in the fridge?’
She keeps hold of my wrist. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen you sloshed before.’
‘Really, really sorry.’
I smile at her. ‘Is it my straw hat? I never thought I’d get it back anyway.’
‘You’re my best friend.’
I sit up straight, my hand still on the wine box.
‘It didn’t mean anything. Nothing. Which is not to say – you know, it does mean something or we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? The important thing is you’re my best friend and that’s more important than any bloke. It’s urges, biology, but we should be, I mean, there’s no excuse. I’m not excusing anything.’ She seems to lose her train of thought. I’ve never seen her quite this drunk before. ‘Because that’s what they want, isn’t it? Women against women. But we’re sisters aren’t we, so that won’t happen.’ She pauses. ‘It’s over. You can be sure about that. Hundred per cent.’
‘Okay.’ I nod, trying to figure out what she’s telling me. Has she had a fling with Charlie? My God, with Finn? No, she hasn’t met him.
She makes a childish pout. ‘Because at the time you might not recognise a mistake, body chemicals take over, but then . . . And then you do it again. That part is harder to explain away. But I know it was a mistake – huge mistake.’
‘Charlie?’ I ask.
She frowns at me. ‘What?’
‘Did you and Charlie –?’
‘God no.’ She stares up at the sky. ‘Though not out of the ballpark.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘You and me would make more sense, you know. Though I’ve never been physically attracted to a woman. But mentally, I’m much more into you. Boobs though, boobs are good.’ She looks off into the backyard, where the children are playing with the totem tennis pole, using their hands to fling the ball around. ‘It was the flood, you know, seeing him so ape-man rescuing me and the kids. Andrew should’ve been here but –’ She waves vaguely at the house. ‘Doesn’t excuse the times that came after that, I know. And like I said, hundred per cent finished.’ She takes a deep breath, nods vigorously. ‘Finished.’
It’s as though I’m watching a hideous beast rise up from the deep sea, seeing its black shadow first, then the glint of its wet back until it rears up to its full height, enormous and terrifying, all claws and fangs. My voice is thin, unfamiliar. ‘Mark? You and Mark? No.’ I yank my hand away from her. ‘No. You’re my friend.’
‘It’s over. Finished, I swear.’
‘No. Stop talking.’ The only words I wanted to hear were that I’d misunderstood, that she’d meant something entirely different and I’d jumped to a crazy conclusion. Charlie, Finn, even Dad! Because she would never have sex with my husband. I must have got it wrong. She’d laugh, put her hand on her chest in horror that I could even think that. I’d sigh with relief, and we’d share another drink. But she won’t stop saying what I cannot hear.
‘It was a physical thing. I’d never try to steal him away from you. It was – biology.’
‘Stop. Shut up.’ I feel dizzy, panic-stricken. ‘Kids, we’re going.’ I stand too quickly and one knee buckles beneath me. I grab the edge of the table.
Lou reaches for me again but I escape her and walk shakily down the few stairs that lead from the deck to the grass. I stand next to Sarah. ‘Darling, we need to go now.’
‘But we’re not finished yet.’ Sarah holds up the fuzzy tennis ball attached by a string to the pole. ‘It’s a tournament.’
‘You can finish it next time. We need to go.’
‘Abby –’ Lou stands behind me and touches my back.
I jerk forward. If my children weren’t right here I would hit her with all my strength. ‘No!’ I shout.
The kids freeze mid-motions and stare at me.
‘You’re my best friend, in the world,’ she says.
I shove her away. This much I allow myself. ‘We are not friends. And I won’t have this conversation in front of my children.’
She strokes the top of Sarah’s head. ‘Sweet girl.’
‘Stay away from her.’ I grab Sarah’s arm. ‘Petey, Joanne, come here now.’
‘I want to stay. Why can’t we stay?’ Sarah whines. She pulls away from me an
d plops down on the grass.
‘Get up.’ I yank Sarah to standing. She howls in outrage. The twins sense something is wrong and start to snivel. ‘Oh for God’s sake, stay here then.’ I let go of Sarah’s arm and turn to walk back through the house. I hiss at Lou, ‘Why not have my kids, too? Take everything. Don’t follow me. Do not.’ I poke her chest with one finger as she leans towards me. ‘We are done.’
She ignores me, follows me, back onto the deck, through her house where Andrew is still snoring on the couch, to the front door, talking in a loud and relentless whisper all the while.
‘He was missing you. You’re all about the kids and the house and, you know, it happens. And Andrew’s never here. I was lonely, Abby.’
I turn to face her once I’m outside. ‘You want me to feel sorry for him? For you? Go to hell.’
The rain splats down onto her drive as I walk away, my legs shaky, my eyes flooded with tears.
I nurse a gin and tonic, picturing the drink as clear glue sliding down my throat, working to hold me together internally, while the children splash about in the plastic pool. Once the rain eased, they’d wandered back home, hungry, Lou having gone to her room to ‘nap’ according to Sarah. I’m thankful that they seem oblivious to my pain, interested only in lunch and then fun. I watch as Woof cocks his leg and wees on a pile of abandoned goggles and masks.
Mark calls while I cook lamb chops, carrots and peas for the kids’ dinner. Sarah picks up the phone – her latest joy – and tells me, once the conversation is done, that Dad has a lot of work to do and will be home late, after sleep-time. He doesn’t ask to speak with me.
When Mark walks into the living room after eleven o’clock that night, I am curled up in an armchair, in the dark, a half-empty glass on the side table.
He stands in front of me. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I got so mad. It’s bloody horrendous, and you should’ve told me. I’m not excusing you, I can’t. I know you’ve spent your life covering for Charlie, but –’
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