The Mistake

by Wendy James

  His instinct is to storm out immediately, but he follows his wife’s directions, robot-like, collects their belongings, calls Tom. He makes no attempt to soothe David, who fusses about them, almost weeping with shame, assuring and reassuring Angus of his loyalty, his undying friendship, trying hard to explain and excuse Susan’s unexpected and violent hostility: ‘There was that miscarriage back when we were first married – she took it so hard …’

  Tom skips ahead of them, waiting at each streetlight or running back like an excited puppy, enjoying the novelty of a walk late at night. Now that they’ve made their escape, Angus feels eviscerated – the episode had been almost frightening in its intensity. Though he can hardly pluck up courage enough to broach it, he’s certain that they need to discuss the situation, to debrief, as it were. To consider not just Sue’s viciousness, but the entire substance of the conversation. He eventually makes some sort of denunciatory comment about Sue’s behaviour, but when Jodie is unresponsive, he attempts to reassure her about his own position. ‘You know what she was saying, Jodie, about all this meaning that I’ve lost my chance at mayor –’

  ‘Well it does, doesn’t it?’ She is curt.

  ‘Well, maybe. But only for now. When all this blows over … Who knows?’ He gives an airy shrug.

  ‘It’s not about to blow over, Angus. We all know that.’

  He is bemused by her resistance, the faint belligerence he senses beneath the blunt statement, just as he was surprised by her assuredness during the evening. ‘But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about. I just wanted to tell you that I don’t care about the mayor business. We haven’t ever really discussed it, but you know I don’t give a shit. It’s not important. We’ll be okay, you know. It doesn’t matter what people like Sue and Dave think. As long as we’ve got each other, everything’ll be okay. Nothing else matters.’ The words sound trite, even to his ears, and he can’t help wondering how much of what he’s saying is genuine, how much is wishful thinking.

  Jodie too must sense his doubts. ’Of course it matters, Angus. Don’t be silly. This has changed everything. But I honestly don’t give a toss about Sue. She’s always a loudmouth when she’s pissed. She’ll be begging my forgiveness in the morning.’

  She increases her speed, catching up with Tom, and the two of them march the rest of the way together, swinging arms and whispering.

  Angus has only a brief moment to regret his wife’s reluctance to discuss the evening’s events, to worry about her very evident doubt, before the panic makes an untimely visitation. He is able, just, to hold himself together for the remainder of the walk home, to check the desperate urge to run, to regulate his breathing. But by the time he reaches the front gate he is almost overcome. He pushes past his astonished wife and son, breathlessly claiming an urgent need to pee. He rushes to the bathroom and locks himself in, then lies prone on the floor, his cheek pressed hard on the cool tiled surface, waiting for it to be over.

  12

  When Susan doesn’t call her the following morning, or even the next, Jodie doesn’t know what to think. Though she was hurt (and appalled) by Sue’s outburst, she wasn’t particularly surprised – Sue is renowned for her propensity to become hostile, to say things she later regrets after a few too many. Jodie’s never actually been the object of her aggression before, but she has seen her in action, has been privy to the aftermath a few times. She knows that typically Sue will be eager to restore peace, has anticipated greeting her at the front door the very next morning, bearing flowers, cakes, effusively apologetic, has expected at the very least a conciliatory phone call. But there’s nothing.

  Despite Angus’s assumption that the two women are close, Jodie has never really considered Sue to be a particularly good friend. In fact, regarding herself in the cool and dispassionate way that is lately becoming a habit, it’s apparent that though she can boast a vast number of acquaintances, a wide social circle, none of them are truly, exclusively her friends. Those she sees most frequently are wives of Angus’s colleagues or, like Sue, Garrow family friends. And although she is accepted and included – even in her most paranoid moments she could never say she was ever made to feel unwelcome – Jodie cannot think of one woman she would class as a true intimate.

  Giving her news to those she knows best, she had noticed that none had sought further information. She has not had to field any awkward questions, or been invited to confide her thoughts or feelings, or to justify her actions, past or present. The common response from those she’s personally informed has been one of mild incredulity, bemusement, and then a furtive, but determined, retreat.

  She had noticed immediately on their arrival at the Foresters’ a slight but unmistakable change in their manner: the way Sue had avoided looking at Jodie directly, the coolness of her voice, her set expression, David’s agitation, his anxious deferring to her, the overwrought laughter, strained conversation. Sue had barely spoken, had declined all Jodie’s offers of assistance, which would be eagerly accepted in the ordinary scheme of things. When Hannah and Laura were on their way out the door, Jodie had overheard Susan reassuring Hannah quietly: ‘If you need to talk to someone about everything, darling, just give me a call. Any time. You know we think of you as another daughter, so if you ever need to get out …’ Jodie, only a few feet away in the dark hall, had pulled back as if stung, her ears burning.

  When the evening descended into utter farce soon after, it had almost been a relief to have what needed to be said, said – to have it all in the open.

  In the days following, she notices, as Helen had warned her, an unmistakable dropping off of engagements, both social and otherwise. She can’t quite tell, though, whether this withdrawal is external or self-imposed – perhaps it is Jodie herself who is retreating. She has never felt less like meeting up with friends, engaging in chitchat, doing coffee – suddenly all those things that once seemed vitally interesting have become rather pointless. Earlier, when the new school year had begun, she had rung and excused herself from all the various organising committees and volunteer positions she had signed up for in previous years – the trivia night fundraiser for the new school theatre at the New England School, the annual Grammar fete, the school canteen work, sessions in the library covering books. And where once her involvement seemed crucial, her ideas sought, now she sees very clearly that she’s not indispensable, that they will all do very well without her. She has stopped playing Thursday morning tennis, too, pleading a pulled hamstring, but when she calls to apologise to her long-term doubles partner, she can hear the quickly disguised relief in Mary’s voice, her instant assurance that it’ll be no problem to find a replacement, that she has someone in mind. Then the hollowness of Mary’s regretful flattery: ‘Not that Fiona will really be able to replace you – her backhand is pretty patchy …’ offered up as a consolatory afterthought.

  Despite the tapering off of outside occupation, she makes an effort to keep herself busy, trying hard not to think much beyond the here and the now. She spends extra time on the house, doing the jobs she would ordinarily contract out – cleaning windows, touching up wall paint, washing curtains. She devotes extra time to Tom, helping him with the maths homework he loathes, and reading to him at night. They have reached the third book in the Narnia series in as many weeks, though she suspects that he is really too old, and would rather read to himself, that typically of her generous boy, he is only consenting to keep her happy. He hesitates when she asks if he wants to go and see the new Transformers movie with her one evening after soccer practice, looks slightly bewildered. ‘Okay,’ he says eventually, ‘why not?’ Then adds, in the most innocent betrayal of his true inclinations, ‘I can always go and see it with Harry and James later, can’t I? I guess it’ll actually be cool to see it twice.’

  Most weeknights, Angus, returning home late, eats quickly then retreats to the office; Hannah locks herself in her bedroom, ‘studying’. So after putting Tom to bed, Jodie spends the evenings alone, desultorily reading, fli
cking through the channels, or making shopping lists – itemising ingredients for elaborate meals she’ll never make. Occasionally Angus joins her, and the two of them sit together quietly, reading or watching television, but by tacit agreement, there is little conversation, no discussion of the madness that is unfurling around them, no consideration of the innumerable what-ifs. Sometimes he leaves the room abruptly, without warning; she will hear the bath running and knows he won’t emerge before bedtime.

  Following her initial revelation there had been a few weeks of renewed passion, and an atmosphere of tender concern had flourished between the two of them. But after the arrival of the letter, things had changed. He had dismissed her explanation, her attempted apology, saying briskly that it didn’t change anything, that he understood her desire to keep the story simple. But nevertheless she had sensed a slight awkwardness, a tension between them. And now the crisis is more tangible, more real – now they’re in an odd state of limbo, the police involved, the rumour mill grinding – waiting. They appear to have retreated, both of them, into their own private spaces, have each sought and found solitude with no apparent opposition from the other. There are reasons for it – Angus is busy at work, she knows, and they’re both distracted, but there is also a sense of separateness, of disconnection that would alarm her if she let herself think too much into it.

  Jodie is expert at not thinking too much into anything – at living in the moment, discarding the unwanted past – after all, she has spent the last twenty years not thinking about so many areas of her life: her childhood, her lonely pregnancy, the labour and everything that followed, and later, Angus’s betrayals – the ones she knows about anyway. Even now, when the past is coming at her from all angles, is ever present, she still finds it easy to deflect unpleasant thoughts.

  She has taken to going to bed late, waiting until Angus is soundly asleep, so she can concentrate on clearing her mind before sleep, without demands or distractions. She has perfected her own bedtime ritual: a sort of homespun meditation, involving a long gathering of breath, a holding and then releasing, all equally timed, that miraculously maintains her distance from herself, from her thoughts, and ensures that she’s asleep within moments of her head touching the pillow. Paradoxically, it is only when she sleeps that Jodie is compelled into awareness, forced into memory, obliged to recall events that would be better forgotten. Asleep, the dreams arrive, uninvited but inescapable, and she is once more locked in that dark, hot, airless place, desperate for relief, for release. Despairing, knowing it can never come.

  13

  Hannah meets him at a party. Not one of the regular but very exclusive weekend parties attended by the Grammar girls and Newie boys – where parents are still supervising, even if they’re not in evidence, and the scene is generally pretty tame – but a much more hardcore party held by a bunch of theatre studies students from the university. She and Assia had auditioned for a student play last summer, a clever adaptation of some Marvel comic, and had both been chosen for small parts in a crowd scene. Hannah had been disappointed at first, certain that she could have handled the main character better than the tall, thin, blonde girl, slightly older, who was given the part. In the end she’d been able to enjoy, with minimal effort or responsibility (and the attendant nerves), the pleasure of ensemble work, which was, she realised, a big part of what she loved about acting – a part she enjoyed almost as much as being able to transform into another person.

  The theatre studies group – most of them college kids recently moved out into shared accommodation – were friendly and laidback, and invitations to parties were extended willy-nilly to the younger members of the cast. Getting to the parties had been slightly problematic, but nothing Hannah couldn’t handle. It was easy to make these gatherings appear innocent and enterprising – she only had to claim that they were rehearsing, or, when the initial run was over, that they were rehearsing new work, or helping the director with an original script. Her mother had occasionally been suspicious, but her father, always a fan of her moving beyond what he considered the slightly insular Arding private-school scene, enthusiastically encouraged the new social connections.

  Though Hannah has absolutely no intention of ever attending what she regards as the only-for-losers local university, she’s been surprised to discover that the students – some of them local, a few from Sydney and Brisbane, but most from other country towns and regional cities – are such an easy, fun, non-judgemental bunch. Though there is no way that she really wants to be a part of their boho post-punk hippy scene (with their vintage clothes, their incense, their laconic faux-metro drawls), around them she somehow feels comfortable, at home. She’s aware she’s not quite right for Grammar, where glamour is in, the most popular girls deliberately, painfully thin, their long hair gleaming and full, their packed-on make-up, their expensive designer clothes. It’s all just another aspect of the whole competitive atmosphere – a competition that includes comparative wealth and success of parents, naturally.

  Up until the thing with her mother, she had been firmly – and almost comfortably – situated near the top of the tree, socially speaking. But now, just as she’d predicted, she is enduring a slow but steady descent. There is nothing she can put her finger on; it has all been very gradual, very subtle. And it is more than just the bitchiness she’d half expected of her so-called friends. The school itself seems to be in on it – she hasn’t been made a prefect, for instance, which has always been more or less guaranteed, and while she can tell herself it has something to do with the Sydney debacle, the fact that Assia and Bella have both received the honour makes her wonder. There is the matter, too, of conspicuously lost invitations to a couple of recent parties (OMG! You really didn’t get my text? We wondered what happened!!! Love u xxxx) and the suddenly blocked access to certain Facebook pages.

  She has made a few attempts to wrangle her way back ‘in’, but has moved too far from her try-hard past to really want to go back that desperately, and in the end it is easier – and more dignified – to snub those who have never been real friends before they snub her. Of course she has, would always have, Assia. And now these new friends too – friends whose whole world doesn’t revolve around the stagnant pond that is Arding, whose parents, in the main, don’t know her parents; kids whose only response when they realise that it’s her mum in the papers is an offhand cool or awesome or that must suck.

  Here amongst these older kids, kids with no axes to grind, she can relax into being more herself – though she has only the dimmest of ideas about what that – who she – actually is. But she can stop feeling self-conscious, stop holding herself in, stop sneering, stop always being entertaining – get rid of the brittle, bitchy, sharp persona she’s developed over the past few years. The drama students are almost an undifferentiated bunch, casually generous, always kind, expecting nothing, seeming to like her for no particular reason, and she can feel herself expanding, enjoying herself genuinely for what seems like the first time since she’d hit the thorny years of adolescence.

  There’s no denying too, that she takes a real pleasure in deceiving her parents right now. She’s lied to them before, of course, but much less deliberately, much less vengefully. She has no doubt that she’d be in deep shit if they really knew what she was up to – that she was going to real parties, with no responsible adult supervision, everyone drunk or drugged or both, everyone looking to get laid, and with the added excitement of violent gatecrashers, visits from the police. She’s in the real world, now – not the protected world they’ve chosen for her – and the stakes are high.

  The boy rocks up to the party late – most of the company, Hannah included, are already completely smashed. The police had left only a few minutes before, responding to noise complaints, and Hannah (understandably cautious – a few parties ago a couple of girls, very obviously underage, had been given an official ‘escort’ home by some zealous young constables) has just clambered from the wardrobe she and Assia have been hiding in, giggl
ing hysterically.

  The boy is leaning against a wall smoking, watching the goings-on around him – it is all disintegrating at a rapid rate, bodies collapsed across the carpet in various stages of consciousness and coupling – with a look of somewhat grim bemusement, maybe even disdain, eyes narrowed, lip curled. He is tall and exotically dark-skinned, with fair dreadlocked hair escaping from a very grimy Rastafarian beanie, and Hannah is immediately intrigued: there is something very authentic about him – something in the way he holds himself, the way he isn’t quite a part of the scene; she’s sure he isn’t just a middle-class boy affecting seediness – his toughness looks real.

  She has tried a bit of everything on offer tonight – some E first, a few puffs of a joint, and then a considerable volume of goon – and all her edges have been nicely blurred and blunted. She has no qualms at all about making a beeline for him, ignoring a request from her suddenly queasy friend that they call a taxi and head home.

  ‘Hey,’ Hannah offers, leaning into the wall beside him.

  ‘Hey.’

  Close up – and she’s come far closer than she’d normally dare – he is slightly less exotic. Not Brazilian as she’d hoped, but Aboriginal, maybe, his skin brown, with an odd little sprinkling of darker freckles, his nose a bit too broad, his teeth – bared in his return greeting – crooked and slightly yellow. He’s obviously not going to extend the conversation, looks at Hannah consideringly, takes a long drag on his joint. Waits for her to make the next move. Or not.

  ‘So. I haven’t seen you around before?’ As a pick-up line, it’s lame, but it’s out before she can think of anything more original.

  His reply is terse, flat; his accent broad, with a vaguely Koori inflection.