A reply had arrived by the time she reached her car.
Cute baggage.
Priya momentarily considered deleting the app. Forget about it, and close her mind to what Nick was doing online. Stay married, have a baby. Try not to think about it. But instead of backing away, she plunged in further.
Are you single?
The minute she sent the words she wished them back. She could see the bouncing dots that meant he was typing. They bounced. She waited. A response appeared: ; p. And then: I told you I was a package deal.
Enraged, she typed more: I assume you are single, since you’re on here. So, your buddy Jacker is your one true love? What do you love about him?
He’s so playful.
He didn’t deny being single. She read over the messages, imagining her husband alone and bored on the couch. Had he written anything unforgivable? Not yet. Her phone trilled: Are you playful, Rose?
Anger flared in Priya’s chest. She wanted to tell Nick she knew who he was. She wanted to scare and shame him. But that wouldn’t give her the answers she needed. Instead she typed, I can be playful and inserted a winking emoji.
The car was cold, illuminated only by the grey light of her phone’s screen as she sat, staring at the conversation panel. It cast an unfeeling glow. Nick didn’t respond.
She turned on the engine, pumped up the heater and headed back to their house. As she made her way up the brick path she and Nick had laid by hand she checked the device one last time. There was a reply: What games do you like to play, Rose with the sexy smile?
Instead of going into the main house, Priya snuck around the back to the studio and pulled an old canvas down from the stack on top of the wardrobe. She dropped a sheet over his weights and flicked on her stereo. She squeezed shiny slugs of vermillion, white and royal blue onto a pallet and sat down to paint. Feeling the oils glide beneath her brush comforted her. She had betrayed him too, she knew. Tricked him and trapped him, but he had forced her.
When she picked up her phone an hour later there were two texts from Nick: Where are you? and It’s late, are you at Viv’s?, two missed calls and, finally, mail for Rose. So, tell me, Rose, are you a cat or a dog person? Priya angrily punched in a response.
Dog, definitely.
You sound very sure of yourself. I love Jacker. I love all dogs. But I also love pussy.
Priya threw the phone aside, ran to her sink and vomited.
Jacker found her the next morning on a nest made from cushions. He wedged his muscly body up against hers for warmth and was soon snoring. Her paints had dried on the pallet.
She got up, unfolded her stiff joints, and took the pallet to the sink to clean it.
There was a blue dot on her screen. What do you say, Rose? What are you down for?
I’m down for anything, she shot back. Her mood had turned from sad to furious. She had to push it to see how far he would go. When can I see you?
The dots appeared and then a message: This weekend?
She felt like her chest has been cleaved open.
She shook Jacker from the blanket. The beast looked startled, then hurt. ‘I’m sorry, Jacker,’ she said, scratching behind his ears. ‘It’s not your fault your master is a deadbeat.’
Saturday afternoon, she typed. Two o’clock. Do you know the Exeter?
A message buzzed in. Perfect.
On Saturday, Viv put her arm around Priya as they stood a block from the Exeter.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she said.
Priya looked at her sister imploringly. ‘This is the last thing I want to do. What I want to do is paint our nursery with my faithful husband.’ A tear rolled down each cheek. ‘I feel so guilty. So angry and so guilty.’ She swiped her face with her sleeve. That morning she’d told Nick she was catching up with Viv. He’d said he was going to watch the game at the pub. ‘Do you think I’m a bad person?’
‘No,’ Viv said emphatically, squeezing her shoulder. ‘If he shows up you’re a smart person. It just feels so final.’
‘I feel like I’m about to commit a crime. But I need to know.’
Viv nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’ She looped her arm through Priya’s as they entered the pub and made their way upstairs. Not long after they sat, a waiter appeared, but Priya barely heard what Viv ordered as her eyes darted around the bar downstairs. A football game was playing on the flat-screen TVs mounted on the walls. She trained her eyes on the front door.
‘There he is,’ Viv said, jolting to life. Nick was exiting the men’s bathroom, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. Priya flew out of her chair and whipped off her sunglasses.
‘What are you doing?’ Viv hissed, grabbing her wrist.
‘I’m going to kill him.’ Priya’s voice was high. Shocked. ‘I can’t believe he actually showed up.’
‘Let’s see what he does,’ Viv said.
‘I can’t look,’ Priya said, sinking into her chair and holding a hand up to her eyes.
‘He’s not doing anything.’
‘Of course he’s not doing anything, his girlfriend is a figment of our imagination. Oh God,’ Priya said. ‘Why did I do this? Why?’ In the back of her mind was her upcoming appointment with Doctor Carmichael. She wanted to be spending her day preparing for a baby, not staking out her spouse in a pub.
Viv grabbed Priya’s hand and held it tightly. Together they watched Nick stroll around the room as casually as if he were taking in a garden show. Waiters delivered plates the size of hubcaps covered in chips and chicken schnitzels smeared with parmigiana sauce and capped with oily cheese. Priya stiffened as she saw Nick walk with purpose towards a booth.
‘What?’ Viv swivelled to see better. His target was a blonde in a blue baseball cap sitting in a banquette reading the menu.
Nick sidled up and tapped her shoulder. She looked up and Nick shot the blonde his million-dollar smile as he spoke. She was responsive, but shook her head. He nodded and took a step back. He swung around to take in a view of the room and checked his watch. It was ten past two. He took a seat at the bar and signalled to the barman that he wanted a beer. They watched as he pulled out his phone and played with it, turned to look at the door, then went back to drumming on the bar.
‘The bastard’s nervous,’ said Viv.
‘I can’t bear this, let’s go,’ Priya said.
‘We can’t. He’ll see us.’
Something crucial must have happened on the football, because the group of men erupted into a roar. Nick looked up, his eyes zipped around the bar until they locked onto Priya, glaring at him from the balcony. He did a double-take, then squinted. Her long black hair was tucked away in a ponytail under a Rabbitohs cap. His Rabbitohs cap.
‘He’s seen us,’ said Viv.
He jumped off his stool and made for their direction at the same time Priya leapt from her seat and barrelled down the spiral staircase. She pushed past him, thumping into his left shoulder so that he snapped back, shocked by the force.
‘Priya!’ he said, alarmed. ‘What are you doing here?’
She turned, fire in her eyes. ‘What am I doing here? What are you doing here?’ She took a step towards him and punched his huge chest. ‘What are you doing here, Nick?’ Her voice rose. She hit him again, and again, pummelling his barrel chest with her delicate hands.
‘I—I just came to watch the game.’
‘Liar! You came here to meet her.’
‘Her? What her? There is no her.’
‘Rose! You came here to meet Rose. Down-for-anything Rose.’
His eyes widened. ‘Wha—How?’
‘I’m Rose.’
Nick’s face went white. ‘You set me up?’
‘You forced me,’ she howled and hit him again. Her fists bounced harmlessly off his chest. ‘How could you do this?’ she cried, her blows landing without effect as her last burst of energy left her. ‘We’re trying to have a baby and you’re sneaking around with internet sluts.’
Nick held his hands up. �
��Priya.’ He seemed barely able to process what was happening. He gripped her wrists to still her hands. ‘Stop it, will you? Don’t you see how messed up this is?’
‘You messed it up!’
Viv stepped between them, breaking contact. ‘Priya, come on.’ She turned to Nick. ‘Stay away,’ she said savagely, her finger held up in warning, her eyes wild. ‘Just stay away, Nick.’
‘Viv, c’mon,’ Nick appealed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Nick threw his hands over his head as Priya ran for the door.
Viv caught up to her sister in the street and wrenched the car keys from her hands. Priya was panting, her face twisted in agony. Her mouth was a slash of pain.
‘I’ll drive,’ Viv said, opening the passenger door and helping Priya in.
‘Get me out of here,’ Priya said between gasps. ‘Get me away from him.’
‘We’ll go to my place. You can stay with us,’ Viv said, starting the engine. ‘I’ll send Rajesh around to get some clothes.’
Priya’s phone rang. Nick. She stabbed her thumb over the reject button. ‘Why did I do this?’ she asked.
‘Because you had to,’ said Viv.
Eleven
Grace was already awake when the birds started chirping at five o’clock on the morning of her forty-fourth birthday. Forty-four, she mouthed to herself, testing out the feel of the words. Another F word drifted into her mind.
The three embryos had failed. They were all Grade A, and—Grace and Dan had learned—all boys. Specialists had sent in a battalion of three strong soldiers and not one of them had survived in her hostile womb.
Grace had filled the day with activities so she wouldn’t have a moment to dwell on what options remained. She wasn’t ready to face it. And so, she had organised breakfast with her mother, morning tea with some of the Corella staff at the Vaucluse House tearooms and lunch looking out over the harbour high above The Palisades. And in the evening, a themed dinner party for eight. But the sun was barely up and already she could feel a black shadow creeping across her heart.
She had made an afternoon appointment to have her hair set in hot rollers for the party, but after considering, she stole out of bed and left a message with the little salon on Bridge Road to cancel.
The hours in the chair would afford too much time to contemplate a milestone that was—she felt—hollow. It had been two weeks since the three embryos had failed and Grace couldn’t stop blaming herself. That brown bottle. The drops in the water. She was dogged by the thought that this time it really was her fault, and she hated herself for it.
Before meeting her mother she drove to Corella to find Bridget waiting for her as usual. Grace shuffled into the passenger seat and stuck the L-plates to the windshield while Bridget made her way to the car. They had decided, after Grace had been chauffeuring Bridget to her cooking class for a few weeks, that it was a good opportunity for Bridget to practise for her driving test.
‘Hello, Bridget.’
The girl was all smiles. ‘Happy birthday, Mrs Arden.’ She held out a cake box tied with ribbon.
‘Is this for me?’
‘It’s for your dinner party tonight.’
‘Shall I open it now?’
‘Yes, please.’ Bridget looked ready to burst with pride.
Inside the box was a chocolate layer cake with Happy Birthday expertly piped across the middle.
‘Bridget, this is wonderful. The decoration is so intricate. How did you manage it?’
‘Ms Collings helped. I wanted to do something to thank you. I wouldn’t be able to do anything like that if it wasn’t for you.’
‘I’m really touched,’ Grace said. ‘Thank you very much.’
She leaned across the seat and hugged her.
After she had seen Bridget off to class Grace called the hairdressing salon and told them she would come in for her appointment after all.
Nine hours later Grace walked into the house with her hair highlighted and set in a chignon, her arms weighed down with gifts and Bridget’s cake box.
Dan whistled appreciatively. ‘Look at you.’
‘It was a surprisingly good day, in the end,’ Grace said. ‘Look what Bridget made for tonight.’ She popped the lid off the cake box.
‘That’s your kindness coming back to you,’ he said.
Grace tilted her head. ‘I can hardly take credit for Bridget’s thoughtfulness. She’s always been a very sweet girl. It’s sad to think she’ll be leaving Corella soon.’
‘You can still be friends.’
‘It’s never the same.’
‘My Year Eleven English teacher, Mr Dobson, taught me everything I know. He had a heart attack two years after I graduated. I still think about him from time to time. I like to think, if he were alive we’d drink whiskey together and discuss the state of modern media.’
‘I’m sure you would. Do you need a hand with anything in here?’ The kitchen was a hive of activity. Pots were boiling. Pastries were baking.
‘I most certainly do not. Shoo, go pamper yourself, this is my department.’
‘I want to help,’ she said, dipping her finger into a jug of sauce and tasting it.
‘You need to shower.’
‘How about this: we cook together, then we shower together.’
Dan smiled. ‘Deal.’
They took their time in the shower. Grace had to tilt away from the spray so that she wouldn’t upset her hair. Afterwards she changed into a black flapper dress and elbow-length gloves. Her costume was more nineteen-twenties than thirties, but when she saw it in a vintage shop on King Street it had been too late to change the theme. If pressed, she would say she was a thirties gal who was behind the times.
Dan sat next to her on the end of the bed and held out a present. ‘I thought this might go with your ensemble.’
She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’ Grace tore off the paper and eased open the jewellery box. ‘Dan,’ she breathed, taking in the soft glow of a pearl necklace.
‘It’s vintage. I had it cleaned so it looks new. Let me help you.’ He slipped the pearls around her neck.
The clasp—which sat at the front—was inlaid with tiny diamonds.
‘It’s perfect.’
Dan had spared no expense for the party. He had set up the bar cart with cocktails in the lounge room, and arranged hors d’oeuvres of caviar blinis, pâté on Melba toast and pork pigs tucked into crispy pastry blankets. Noël Coward played in the corner. Their friends—Beth and her husband, Grant, Kent and Melody Caruthers, and Rochelle and Brian—all arrived in quick succession. Caroline had been unable to come because her son, Jamie, had a fever, and for this Grace was relieved. She didn’t want Caroline filling her head with more methods and tricks that had worked for friends-of-friends.
Caroline had her own podiatry practice, and while her scientific mind seemed at odds with her enthusiasm for alternative treatments such as feng shui and numerology, she delivered them with the authoritative doctor’s confidence that Grace found hard to resist. She was glad to be spared the argument for the night.
‘Unusual theme,’ Kent said, accepting a Dark ’n’ Stormy from Dan. ‘Well executed, though.’
‘We thought the thirties was a neglected era. Everybody loves nineteen-twenties flapper parties, then they seem to skip straight to nineteen-fifties Mad Men,’ Dan said.
‘I enjoyed the challenge,’ Melody said. She wore a mid-calf dress with puffed sleeves in a blue floral pattern. Her blonde hair was expertly curled and pinned. ‘It’s called a Victory Roll,’ she said.
‘The reason nobody throws thirties parties is because the nineteen-thirties was the era of the Depression,’ Brian said. ‘Should we read something into that, Gracie? Are you feeling down and drab as you get another year older?’
‘Not at all.’ Grace touched her pearls self-consciously.
‘I don’t know what you’re so cocky about, Brian, you’ll be forty-seven in December,’ Beth shot back.
Brian was wearing spats and had p
encilled on an eyeliner moustache. Rochelle laughed. She had dug up a real fur muff, which she now didn’t seem to know what to do with. ‘It was my grandmother’s,’ she said, plopping it on her lap as she sat on the couch.
‘So, you’ve come as Fascism,’ Kent observed, looking pleased with himself.
‘I’d never buy real fur, of course, but it does feel lovely.’ Rochelle stroked it like a cat.
‘You look marvellous, Beth,’ Dan said, handing her a Tom Collins in a tall glass.
‘I’m Ginger Rogers.’ Beth kicked up her foot for effect. She was wearing a red kerchief knotted around her neck and a white sailor’s hat. ‘From Follow the Fleet.’
‘So you are,’ said Dan. ‘I thought you were joining the navy to head to Pearl Harbor.’
‘We had the hat,’ she said, slipping it off her head and spinning it around on her index finger. ‘So I built a costume around it.’
‘I wish I’d thought to model myself on a thirties film star,’ Rochelle said. ‘Without my muff I just look like a sort of Communist train conductor.’ She patted the fur idly.
‘Well then, you must keep your muff out where we can all see it,’ Kent said.
‘Kent!’ Melody whacked her husband’s belly, causing him to eject an ‘oof’ sound.
They all laughed. Even Grace found herself smiling, but before she could say anything more, the oven timer screeched.
‘That would be the dinner gong,’ Dan said, standing. ‘Follow me through to the dining room, please.’
They settled themselves around the candle-lit table and Beth gave an account of the most recent case she had been working on—a twenty-one-year-old man who had committed a ‘thrill kill’ in regional New South Wales, executing an elderly couple in their home apparently for no reason.
‘Most murderers aren’t that remarkable. They just got caught up in drugs, or they have deep psychological disturbances. Of the hundreds of people I’ve defended, I’d say only a handful of them have been purely evil.’
‘His poor parents,’ Melody said, visibly shivering.
‘I don’t know how sorry I feel for the parents,’ Brian said. ‘They’re the ones who unleashed the little sadist on the world. I’d be investigating what it was they did wrong that messed him up so badly.’
The Mothers Page 11
