The next morning my head aches and throbs, as though I drank a bottle of vodka last night instead of sparkling grape juice. Breastfeeding Lily means that alcohol is off limits, so the hangover is a bit confusing, and undeserved. My eye feels like it’s about to explode out of its socket. My own touch causes me to flinch in pain and I find that my eye is swollen to the point of closure and caked with dried blood. What the?
The blurry vision makes it hard to see out of my other eye, but from here it appears as though my bed is the lounge room floor, not the slightly lumpy mattress in our bedroom. Where’s Chris? Perhaps after feeding Lily last night I got confused and crashed out here? Probably doing the nice wife thing and not disturbing Chris. But there’s no memory of getting up to feed Lily last night, which is odd because she is a four-hourly kind of baby. Why didn’t she wake up? Why is there carpet on the floor? We have lino, not carpet. What the hell is going on here?
Then my heart rate starts to soar with horror as everything assembles in my mind. No! Please no!
As I clamber to my feet, the room stops spinning and comes into view: the mushroom-coloured walls, the chaise longue, the big-arsed plasma, my bag, my phone, my empty vodka bottle and my X5 parked out the front. Everything is just how it was… before. My phone reveals the date — April 1st. Not January 1st, 1962. No! NO! NO!
My racing heart sinks down into my stomach as reality hits. Whatever sent me to 1961 has now decided, in all its elegant fucking wisdom, to send me back to my modern life. Shit! This is not my home anymore. My home is… here…but not now, not in this time.
What about my family? Chris? My new baby? Will? Gran, Uncle Din and Aunty Maeve? My new life, our amazing marriage, where has everything gone? What’s happened there? Is the other me back there? Did 1961 really exist or was it a drunken dream?
It’s not possible to understand anything right now. Waves of anger and frustration roll off me, strong enough to move furniture. A quick tour of the house results in the feeling of reverse déjà vu and my hands start to twitch again, as I realise that there is no Lily or Will, that the front room is Chris’ office and everything is the same as it was before my other life.
From memory, Chris wanted me gone by the time the kids woke up. My Chris. My gorgeous, loving husband, who made love to me last night as though I was the most desirable woman in the universe. I have to remind myself that this is a different Chris; or is that the same Chris, but a different Juliette?
Not wanting to antagonise him further, I pack up my things and move toward the door. Tears stream down my face as memories of this house flood my mind, memories of my husband and family and how incredibly happy we are… were. Leaving our home feels so wrong, because this is not something the new and improved Juliette would ever do. Ever. And therein lies the problem; how the hell can I fix this mess?
The feel of my car is foreign to me, my clothes are uncomfortable and my skin is suffocating under what’s left of my makeup. The reflection in the rear-view mirror shows me to be the enhanced version of myself — of course. It’s hideous. Over done, flashy, fake and hidden well behind my enormous sunglasses.
My first thought was to go to Dash’s, but right now I need some time to think about what’s happened and how much of that experience should be shared with Dash. They still lock people up for claiming to be time travelers, and once again, being committed wouldn’t further my cause. A pot of tea and a plan is what’s needed right now. The first step is to get things straight in my own mind before sharing them with someone else, so Diego’s it is.
The cafe is quiet. It’s early on Sunday morning — too early for the majority of brunchers to be out and about just yet. My usual table is empty, so I plonk myself down and order a pot of tea from the waitress, Alexa.
“Tea? No latte?” she asks, her eyebrows disappearing under her blunt-cut fringe.
“No lattes anymore, Alexa. It’s time for a change,” I say.
“Diego!” she calls out over her shoulder. “You need to cut down on the number of milk cartons delivered each day. Juliette isn’t latte-ing anymore,” she laughs.
“Juliette! Oh, I am so glad you are here. I was going to ring you,” Diego says as he rushes over to my table.
“Diego, what’s wrong?”
“I want you to accept my sincerest apologies, my friend.” His accent is all but gone, although sometimes it makes a comeback when he is excited.
“Why? The coffee’s fine, I just like tea now.” What is he talking about?
“No, no! For my ex-staff member, Anita. I get rid of her as soon as I find out.”
“Sorry, I’m lost. Anita?” I say.
“Yes, she was spying on my customers, tipping off the photographers when a celeb was here, for money,” he says, “I am so sorry. Such an invasion of privacy. My customers are safe here, I won’t allow them to be harassed.”
The mental wheels slowly turn.
“So when I had meetings here…”
“Yes, she call the paparazzi,” he says.
“Oh, well, that’s no big deal really. They usually want the paps around them anyway. No harm done, Diego,” I say.
“Not just that, Juliette. The last time you were in, on Friday. Another woman, she wanted to know when you arrived, she reserved the table on the opposite side of the screen. I forget her name, Anna, Arnie?”
“Anya?” I say.
“Yes, that is her. She tell Anita that she want to be close enough for you to overhear her conversation, but not see her. I am so sorry for this.”
Why would she want to do that…have me overhear her but not see her, or her not see me? What an odd thing to… Oh. My. God. Oh my God! That bitch. It was all a set-up! My excitement must be lighting up the room like a mega-watt chandelier. Chris didn’t kiss her, she wanted me to think that he did. She was trying to break us up.
The weight of a thousand years has been lifted off my shoulders and my body floats out of its chair like a helium balloon. He didn’t cheat on me. Chris didn’t cheat on me! Nothing happened.
And then, the fires of anger and vengeance are ignited.
Gran’s words speak louder than any other voice in my head. “You’ve got fighting blood in your veins. You’re made of the good stuff.”
Now’s the time to kick some arse and there’s only one person who can help me there…
I pull up outside Dash’s house and ask myself how much I should tell her. They still lock crazy people up and she is a nurse, so it’s probably best to see how things go. She opens the door after the first knock, her brunette ponytail swishing behind her.
“Jesus! What the Hell happened to you?” Dash asks, her eyes wide with shock at my sunglasses-less, smashed up face.
I’m torn between telling her not to blaspheme and throwing myself into her arms. Nine months is a long time not to see your sister, even if it was only yesterday.
“Long story. I got drunk, fell over and landed on my face.” Then I passed out and woke in 1961 — nah, probably better not to go there.
“Come on in, let me take a look. You might need stitches.” She hauls me inside.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Joe took them to the park so I can get some sleep. I’ve just come off night duty.”
“Oh, sorry. I can…ummm…come back later?” Please let me stay. I’ve nowhere else to go.
“No, that’s alright. I’m glad you’re here actually. You know, after last night I feel like hitting you myself. What were you thinking, Jules?”
“I know…”
“Ethan was devastated, Chris was furious…”
“I know! I was there for that part! Thanks for the re-cap.”
She breathes out, shakes her head and leads me to the kitchen.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“No, tea thanks.”
“Tea? Since when do you drink tea?” she asks, putting the kettle on.
“It’s a new thing. Anyway…”
“So, let’s hear it,” she says, tapping her fingers on the benchtop as I take my usual seat.
“Hear what?”
“The PR crisis that caused you to miss the concert and break your son’s heart. Go on,” she dares me.
I let out a sigh and ponder the answer that has been forming in my head for the last two months, since visiting Mum at the asylum, but all that comes out is: “I answered the phone when I shouldn’t have. I needed to let it ring, just this once. Despite my intentions, I made the wrong decision.”
“Well, there’s no argument from me there,” she says.
“Most other women can balance work and motherhood and do a great job of it, although it beats me how they do it. I screwed it all up because I am — was — incapable of moderation, of saying no.” My mind is working overtime as my mouth struggles to articulate at the same speed.
Dash is silent as I continue.
“Working, and being obsessed with work in order to avoid participating in life, are two very different things. I thought that I worked only because I enjoyed it, but that wasn’t the case. I worked day and night mostly because I was hiding — I was too scared to face up to my past and deal with it, and keeping stupidly busy seemed to hold the hounds at bay. Work wasn’t the issue. The issue was me and my relationship with my work, my motivations.” Oh, what a relief to get it out.
Dash’s mouth is now hanging open like an oven door.
“But now I realise just how damaging that obsessive behavior was. It wasn’t my fault Dad died — it was an accident. And Mum really did love me, but the alcoholism masked her depression and led me to believe that she despised me, when in actual fact, she was just a lost soul without him. Oh, and I may have been a bit difficult as a child.”
“Difficult? You? No!” Dash says, rolling her eyeballs. It’s impossible to tell if she’s serious or not.
“I’m sorry Dash. You’ve been burdened with the most inconsiderate sister imaginable, when all you’ve ever done is love and care for me. I’ve been too busy trying not to…feel.”
She rushes over to me and scoops me into her arms.
“Don’t say that. You’re the best sister in the world. I understand what you’re saying though; ever since Dad died you’ve been, well, not you. What’s happened to make you realise all of this? Did you have an epiphany? An angelic visit? An ecstasy tablet?”
“Sort of,” I laugh. “It’s a long story.”
“So what’s happening with Chris?”
“He told me to leave and not come back, which is understandable, considering what I did.”
Dash passes me a tea and an ANZAC biscuit as she sits down next to me. The biscuit is almost as good as my own.
“Mmmm, yum. Needs more golden syrup,” I say.
She squints at me, takes a bite and then nods in agreement.
“And what are you going to do about Chris?”
I fill her in on what Anya did and the truth of the matter.
“She what? That fucking bitch! Just wait til I get hold of her…”
“Throw some ideas at me, how can I cut her down to size?”
“Let me do some digging around, see what I can find. I know a new Mum at school who seems to know her from Sydney. I’ll talk to her today,” Dash squints and nods like a Mafia hitman.
“Have I told you you’re the best lately?” I ask.
“No, not for about, let’s see, 25 years,” she says.
“Well, for the record, you are the best and I love you. Please don’t ever change. Just one more thing; got any spare pregnancy tests?”