Growing up, we’d spent our summers in Portarlington, a quaint beach town on the less glamourous side of the bay. On the main street opposite the beach was a fish and chip shop, a pub, and a shop that sold beach chairs and umbrellas. For the entire month of January, old, bald men sat in deckchairs along the sand, exposing their bellies, and middle-aged women in sunhats stood in the shallows in frilly one-piece bathers and tie-dye cover-ups, offering children watermelon from Tupperware containers. Prior to visiting Tom and Diana’s place, I always thought of a beach house as a place that had sand on the floor, beach towels on the rail of the deck, and a jumble of plastic shoes inside the front door. But Sorrento is something else entirely.
‘The Greenans are coming for dinner tonight,’ Diana said on the phone to Ollie this morning. ‘You remember Amelia and Jeffrey, don’t you?’
I remember Amelia and Jeffrey. Amelia is nice enough, but Jeffrey, a colleague of Tom’s, is properly awful. All of the ‘ists’: sexist, racist, classist. The first time we met (and within minutes of meeting) he asked me what school I went to, and when I said Bayside High, he scrutinised me a moment and then said (a little awed): ‘Wow. You’d never know.’
Another reason I’m delighted to be going to Sorrento.
When we arrive, Nettie and Patrick are still unloading their bags from the car. Patrick resembles a packhorse, lumbering under half-a-dozen bags while Nettie only carries her purse. Nettie looks a little green.
‘Welcome!’ Tom says, standing in the grand front doorway, his arms outstretched. ‘Diana, they’re all here!’ He beams at us, on top of the world. Having all the family down at the beach house—this is his happy place. ‘Where’s my grandson?’ he says to me. I put Archie down and he toddles over to Tom. ‘Well, hello there, my boy. Haven’t you grown?’
I kiss Tom and then walk past him into the house. I set my purse on the oak dining table, custom built to seat sixteen guests (‘Why sixteen?’ I asked Tom when he pointed that detail out, but he just seemed baffled by the question and moved on to detailing the next item on the tour. I suspected he himself wasn’t entirely sure.) Although it’s not exactly to my taste, there’s no denying the house has wow factor. The soaring ceilings, the vast open spaces, the floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the sea and the cliffs. Walking in the door feels like stepping into the pages of an interior design magazine (and in fact, according to Tom, they have been ‘begged’ to feature the Sorrento house in several publications, but Diana has declined, calling it ‘vulgar’). Diana catches my eye now, fussing around in the adjoining gleaming white marble kitchen.
‘Diana,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘Hello, Lucy.’
‘Hi, Mum,’ Ollie says, entering the house behind me. He puts down the bags and plants a kiss on her cheek. Besides Tom, Ollie is one of the few people who is always pleased to see Diana. If the feeling is mutual, it’s hard to tell. She always seems shy, almost embarrassed by the attention.
‘Hello, darling,’ she mutters.
Tom strides into the house, holding Archie up like a trophy. ‘Di! Come and see your gorgeous grandson.’
A flurry of activity follows—Patrick appears, asking for some Panadol for Nettie who has a headache; Archie spots a bowl of nuts on the coffee table and upends them, spilling them everywhere, and Tom tries to figure out which remote control (there are six) opens the garage door. Meanwhile, Ollie picks up the bags again and walks toward our usual room.
‘Ollie, wait!’ Diana cries.
Ollie freezes mid-stride.
‘I’ve set up the rooms downstairs for you and Lucy and Archie,’ she says with less certainty.
Miraculously, all the action stops and there is silence. Even Archie looks up from the spilled nuts, sensing something is up.
‘I . . . thought you might prefer having your own space,’ she says.
It’s a good suggestion, a practical suggestion. The downstairs area is huge, and we’ll have a separate bedroom for Archie. If he cries during the night, it won’t disturb anyone. I can walk the hallways with him all night if I needed to.
So why does it feel so much like a slap?
That evening, we are bathing Archie when the Greenans arrive. Actually, Nettie is bathing him and I am sitting on the vanity with a glass of rosé. Out in the hallway, Ollie and Patrick are sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall, drinking cocktails that Patrick has made. I find, to my surprise, that I’m not having an awful time.
Nettie has been a godsend. When she heard we’ve been relegated to the downstairs rooms (admittedly ‘relegated’ is a little harsh; our room is grander and more spacious than most hotel suites), she promptly told Diana they would be moving their bags downstairs too. (‘We’ll make a party of it,’ she’d said, winking at Archie.) Patrick and Nettie are wonderful with Archie. All afternoon they took it in turns to play with him in the garden or swim with him in the pool while Ollie and I ate lunch and unpacked. In fact, I’ve hardly seen him all day.
‘What time does he go to bed?’ Nettie asks.
‘Seven,’ I say.
‘So what happens now?’
‘Once he’s in his sleepsuit he’ll play for a bit. Then I read him a story, give him a bottle and put him to bed.’
‘Will he wake during the night?’
Nettie is interested in every detail. It’s funny and also unnecessary because she is a natural with babies in a way that few people are. In the past I’ve had the impression she and Patrick are waiting a while before having kids, perhaps until their careers are more established, but now I wonder if that’s the case. I think of Nettie’s green complexion earlier and wonder if she might be pregnant.
‘The Greenans are here,’ Diana’s voice announces from the top of the stairs as Nettie is washing Archie’s hair. ‘Can you kids come up?’
‘We’re bathing, Archie,’ Nettie replies, grinning at Archie. He grins back at her.
There’s a pause. ‘All of you?’ Diana askes pointedly.
I open my mouth, ready to say that I’ll finish up, that everyone else should head on upstairs. After all, I’d rather be down here than up there. But Nettie, to my surprise, gets in first. ‘Yes, all of us.’
The silence stretches on and on. I find myself desperate to fill it but Nettie looks at me and shakes her head. In the tiny gesture, I realise I’ve underestimated Nettie. She’s a better ally than I originally thought.
‘I’ll go,’ Ollie says, climbing to his feet. Patrick also rises, though I expect it’s his desire to drink Tom’s top-shelf wine rather than his desire to appease Diana. Nettie remains where she is on the floor, rinsing Archie’s hair and babbling to him in a low, soothing voice.
By the time Nettie and I make it upstairs, everyone is sitting at the outdoor table and the pleasant hum of music and chatter can be heard from the stairwell. I watch the scene through the huge glass doors, taking it all in—water as far as the eye can see; twinkling fairy lights strung up on the trees, the peach glow of sunset spilling its light all over everything and everyone. The table has been decorated in white and burlap with silver lanterns, candles and ornaments . . . it’s breathtaking.
‘Here they are,’ Tom says, spotting us.
Everyone turns. Jeffrey Greenan’s teeth are already stained red from wine. He makes a great show of getting up when we appear, despite our insistence that he remain seated.
‘Ladies!’ he says, swaggering over. His white shirt is unbuttoned just a little too far and grey-black hair curls up his chest almost as far as the jugular. ‘My, my, Lucy, motherhood suits you. And Nettie, aren’t you growing up?’
It strikes me as an odd thing to say to a woman in her mid-thirties. He winks and Nettie’s smile tenses.
He is already more awful than I remembered.
I walk over to the outdoor power outlet and plug in the baby monitor. I flip the switch and the green light illuminates, indicating that it’s working.
‘What is that noise?’ Diana exclaims and my stomach pulls tight. ‘Tha
t . . . crackling?’
Admittedly, the monitor has seen better days—it’s a second-hand one I found at a charity shop. It works fine but, when switched on, it hums a highly static tune. I’ve become so used to it I’ve stopped noticing. ‘Oh, Archie was a little fussy so I brought the monitor up.’
Diana looks perplexed. ‘Does it always make that sound?’
Everyone quiets down and listens while I stand there like a fool. Somewhere in the back of my mind I think, If you hadn’t sent us downstairs to the dungeon, we wouldn’t need the darn monitor.
‘Oh, but aren’t they great, these little devices they have nowadays?’ Amelia says, touching Diana’s arm. Amelia is petite and freckled, in a white linen dress and gold slide-on sandals. She is, at once, pretty and plain, with small blue eyes, a grey-blonde bob and a propensity to touch that somehow makes her endearing—the very opposite of her husband. I find myself fantasising about having Amelia for a mother-in-law. Even with Jeffrey for a father-in-law, it might be worth it.
It might be.
‘Wouldn’t we have wished for monitors when we had little ones, Diana?’ Amelia continues.
Clearly Diana wishes nothing of the sort. She is a no-nonsense kind of mother and grandmother, the kind that thinks breastfeeding and back-to-sleep and seatbelts are all nonsense because her kids didn’t have them and it never did them any harm. At least I think she is that kind of mother, but I don’t know because she rarely bestows on me any actual advice or opinions. In theory this is a good thing, but instead it just leaves me with a general feeling of getting it wrong without any idea of how to do better.
‘Just make sure the volume is turned down,’ Diana says under duress as she begins to hand out the plates.
‘Come and sit next to me,’ Jeffrey says to me. Nettie has already taken the other remaining chair so I don’t have a lot of choice. ‘Tell me . . . how are you enjoying motherhood so far?’
‘I’m enjoying it a lot more now that those first few months are over.’
‘Yes.’ He nods as though he knows exactly how those first few months are, then he looks knowingly at Ollie. ‘All tits and shits, those first few months, right, Ollie?’
Ollie’s face remains carefully neutral and Jeffrey breaks into a laugh more suited to a five year old. ‘Not that they’d have it any other way, ladies, am I right? It’s primal. A mother just wants to be with her baby. It’s how it should be.’
On the monitor, Archie lets out a short whimper. Diana returns to the kitchen while the rest of us serve ourselves chicken and a variety of interesting salads—ancient grain, couscous, kale and almond. I deduce that Amelia must have brought them as Diana doesn’t do interesting salad.
‘What about you, Nettie?’ Jeffrey asks, his mouth full of couscous. ‘When are you and Patrick going to take the leap? You don’t want all your eggs drying up, do you? Having a career is all well and good, but a job isn’t ever going to love you back, you know.’
Amelia, on the other side of Jeffrey, puts a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘That’s enough, Jeffrey.’
But Jeffrey is unperturbed. ‘What? Everyone wonders why there is a fertility crisis these days. You must be . . . what . . . thirty-five, Nettie? You’d be a grandmother if you were in Africa. You girls just leave your run too late, that’s what it is. You need to get in that saddle, so to speak. Am I right?’
He looks at Tom, then at Ollie for support. They both studiously avoid his gaze.
I visualise shoving a chicken breast directly into Jeffrey’s mouth.
Nettie keeps her gaze forward, on the table. Jeffrey opens his mouth again, and I am about to say something—anything—when Patrick stands.
‘Enough.’
Patrick’s voice is cool, calm. I haven’t seen this side of him before, the protective side. Standing over us like this, he looks quite ominous. In an odd way, I feel quite . . . impressed.
Jeffrey, blessedly, looks a little uncertain. ‘All right, no need to get upset. I was just saying—’
‘Enough.’
Nettie touches Patrick’s arm, while Tom nimbly takes over the conversation, steering it toward football. He and Jeffrey are both mad Hawthorn supporters, so it’s a good choice. Patrick keeps his gaze on Jeffrey for a few moments longer before lowering himself into his seat.
‘Well,’ Amelia says some time later, when the tension seems to have eased somewhat, ‘Archie’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Is he sleeping through, Lucy?’
‘Not exactly. He tends to be unsettled in the first half of the night, but he usually gets a good stretch in after midnight. It’s actually a miracle we haven’t heard from him tonight.’ I glance at the monitor. ‘Uh oh.’
I walk over to the monitor. The power is off. I look at Diana.
‘Did you turn this off?’
I don’t sound accusing, because I don’t believe it. What kind of grandmother would turn off the baby monitor? But the way she sets her jaw, I start to wonder if she did.
‘I turned it down,’ she says defensively.
‘Down to off?’ I twist the dial, increasing the volume until Archie’s hysterical sobs pierce the air. I can tell from the pitch, he’s been crying for a while.
‘Mum!’ Ollie says. ‘Tell me you didn’t—’
But I don’t hear the rest because I’m already running down to get my baby.
It takes me twenty minutes to calm Archie down. When he finally stops crying, he will only sleep in my arms. I pat and soothe him while whispering furiously to Ollie in the dark. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow, Ollie. First thing.’
Ollie stares at me. I know what he’s thinking. For him, this isn’t a big deal. Tomorrow things might be a bit awkward, but then they will go back to normal. After all, Archie is fine. No need to cut the holiday short.
Sure enough he says: ‘Luce, let’s not make a bigger deal of this than it is.’
‘This is a big deal. Diana has no respect for me as a mother, so I can’t stay here. How dare she turn off my baby monitor? How dare she?’
‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it maliciously. Maybe she thought it was the right thing to do, to give you a little break?’
‘She had no right. No right at all.’
‘But—’
‘If you want to stay, Ollie, knock yourself out. But I’m leaving tomorrow and so is Archie.’
We go back and forth for a few minutes before Ollie agrees, out of exhaustion more than anything else. Almost immediately afterward he slides down in the bed, his breathing becoming steady and rhythmic. I stay awake a few minutes longer, patting and rocking Archie into a deep sleep. I’ve just placed him into the portacot when I hear a whimper, a gentle muffled sob. But it’s not coming from Archie. It’s coming from somewhere nearby—across the hall.
Nettie’s room.
17
LUCY
The present . . .
Something is niggling at me.
I lie on the sofa with my feet in Ollie’s lap. The kids are in bed and I am nursing a glass of pinot noir. Ollie is nursing his own glass—usually it’s my favourite part of the day. But today, something is niggling at me. And I have a feeling I know what it is.
Guilt.
When Ollie’s mobile starts to vibrate, we both spring to life as though we are expecting it.
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
‘Don’t recognise the number . . .’ he says.
‘Why don’t I get it?’ I ask. ‘It could be the funeral home or . . . I don’t know . . . something important. Maybe the police?’
He shakes his head ‘I’ll get it,’ he says, then presses the phone to his ear. ‘Oliver Goodwin speaking.’
He frowns, cocks his head. Then he meets my eye. ‘It’s Jones,’ he mouths after a second.
‘Put it on speakerphone,’ I mouth back and he does. Jones’s cool, efficient voice fills the room.
‘We’ve received your mother’s autopsy report. We’d like to talk to you about it down at the station, if possible.’
�
��The station?’ Ollie blinks. ‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’
‘It’s easier if you come here. Your sister and her husband are coming down too.’
Ollie looks at me. I shrug. ‘If that’s what we need to do. I’ll be right there—’
‘Actually, we’d appreciate it if both you and Lucy came down. We’d like to talk to both of you.’
‘Both of us? Together?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s eight-thirty at night. Our children are in bed!’
‘Then I suggest you find a babysitter,’ Jones says. ‘Because this is important. And we’d like to see you both tonight.’
18
DIANA
The past . . .
‘Have you heard the news?’ Tom says, his face a shiny beacon of cheer.
I glance around in surprise. The entire family is gathered in the good room—Tom, Nettie, Patrick, Ollie, Lucy, even Archie. Tom’s face is a shiny round beacon of cheer. Though I’ve seen everyone individually over the past year, we haven’t all been together as a family since the baby monitor fiasco at Sorrento when Lucy and Ollie scurried back to Melbourne after one day (a dreadful overreaction, in my opinion, even if I did overstep). In any case, I’m pleased to see everyone together again.
‘What is it?’ I say, glancing at Nettie. I can’t help it. Lucy is eight months pregnant with baby number two, it has to be Nettie’s turn. But she just shrugs as if to say: Don’t look at me.
‘Ollie is going into business for himself!’ Tom can barely contain his joy. ‘A boutique recruitment agency!’
‘Oh!’
My voice registers my surprise. Ollie has never showed any interest in starting his own business, in fact he’s always been resistant to the idea. As his mother, I’ve never known him to be particularly ambitious, and despite Tom’s desperation to see his son ‘make a name for himself’, I thought it made him happy, working for someone else, having less pressure, even less money. The fact is, Ollie has never been motivated by money. ‘Well . . . congratulations, darling.’
The Mother-in-Law Page 10
