By the next morning the initial crisis is dealt with and covered up as much as possible, but should these events ever come to light, the club will drop Saxon Jones faster than anyone can say ‘liability’. At seven-thirty I pull up out the front of our house, exhausted not only from a long night of work but from obsessing over Chris and Anya’s ‘date’.
Our suburb, Clifton Hill, dates back to the late nineteenth century and is a short distance from the city and my office, although the traffic is a killer. The house is two rooms wide with a hallway down the middle and is so small that it could fit on a modern block four times. What it lacks in size it makes up for in character. We renovated around what remained of the Edwardian features when we bought it as a deceased estate nine years ago. It had been reinvigorated and renovated by every family that owned it and we wanted to keep this charming chameleon’s story going.
Chris took up professional residence in the old formal dining room at the front of the house seven years ago when he went solo and has worked from there ever since. The structure of the house wasn’t altered, with the exception of the addition of a small ensuite in our bedroom as well as modernisation of the bathroom and kitchen.
The house is quiet — unnaturally quiet for a dwelling that is home to Callum. The boys’ beds are empty, which was expected seeing as they were having a sleepover at Sylvia’s. But our bed is also empty, meaning that Chris didn’t come home last night. I crawl into it and cry until sleep overtakes me.
Three hours later I am woken by two small, flat feet pounding up the hallway and squeaky-toy giggles that are about to lift Callum off his feet and carry him over the rainbow. Wearily, I peel my makeup-clad face off the pillow and look in the mirror. Unsettled by the image in front of me, a Gothic raccoon with hair that contains enough static electricity to light up Las Vegas for a week and a pillow crease deeply imprinted the length of my left cheek, I reach for my wrap and attempt to make myself less terrifying to small children.
“Dad-dy, you chase me?” The soft little voice is filled with excitement that could spill over into an ear-piercing squeal at any moment; the kind that divides the human brain directly down the centre.
“I’m going to get you Callum, yes I am! Here I come!” Two large feet plod up the hallway.
Helpless with laughter, the two little feet run in the other direction, followed by more squeaky giggles.
He’s home. Finally, he’s home. Thank God. Maybe everything is going to be alright. Maybe he’s forgiven me and we can move on. Or maybe he’s going to tell me that our marriage is over and he’s fallen in love with Anya. There are too many possibilities running through my mind.
“You better run, Cal. I’m going to get you.”
“Quick, hide, Cal. Come with Ethan, come on.”
“E-fan hide me?”
“Yes Cal, come on. Let’s hide from the Daddy-bear.”
A huge roar like a prehistoric monster breaks the silence and two small voices burst into crazed giggles amidst half hearted cries of ‘No!” and “Stop Daddy!” The kind that usually precede a pants-wetting episode.
“And now I’m going to tickle you…arrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhh!”
More helium laughter.
The sound of Chris playing with the boys brings a smile to my face and gives me hope that everything will be alright, that he didn’t fall in love with Anya last night. My hope is that his time with her showed him just how well suited he and I are to one another and that even though the grass may seem greener on the other side, there’s nothing better than your own paddock.
On the other hand, no one would really blame him for jumping the fence. It’s not as though my performance as a wife and mother is award-winning. Our relationship has struggled for the last three years, since before Cal’s birth. It wasn’t until he pointed it out yesterday that I realised how much of my time is spent at work, and how much he dislikes it.
Right now, though, we’ve got to sort out our issues, and if that’s by having a huge argument, then so be it. If it saves my marriage, then let’s get it on.
I open the door and wander out into the kitchen.
“Mum!” Ethan throws himself around me and then looks up to my face. “Aargh! What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asks.
“Nothing, sweets, I just didn’t take my makeup off before going to bed. Do I look like a panda?”
“Nah, more like Alice Cooper. Especially with that hair,” he says.
“Alice Cooper? How do you know about him?” I ask. Since when do seven-year-olds know about Seventies rockers?
“Uncle Rob was reading a book about him. He looks pretty scary,” he says.
“Scarier than me?”
“No.” What is it with kids and brutal honesty?
“Hey Mum, it’s only thirty-four days to go until the school concert,” Ethan says.
“I can’t wait, you’ll be fantastic.” He smells good enough to eat. Obviously had one of Sylvia’s lavish breakfasts; bacon, eggs, sausages and pancakes.
“You are going to be there, aren’t you? You’re not going to forget or get busy with work again?”
“I promise to be there, sweetie. Super-duper promise. How was your night?” I ask.
“It was great. We had chips, lollies and lemonade. Then we made tents in the lounge room and camped out.”
“Dad-dy…look, Mummy home,” Cal points to me as though I am a rare artifact from an archaeological expedition.
“Yes Cal, Mummy is home,” Chris answers him, barely acknowledging my presence.
“How was your night?” I ask as casually as possible.
“Good. It was nice to be the one going out for a change.”
Ouch! I want to give him the third degree about his night out with Anya, but listen to my inner voice that tells me treading lightly will be of more benefit than surging forward like a tank.
“So, where did you go?” I ask.
“A couple of places that Rob likes, can’t really remember their names,” he yawns.
“Why? Did you have too much to drink?” Oops, that sounded more abrupt than planned.
“No, why would you say that? Do I look hungover?” He checks his reflection in the door of the microwave. He looks like a wrinkly t-shirt, despite minimal sleep. My appearance is more akin to a linen suit that has been rolled in a ball and kicked under the bed for six months.
“No, sorry. That came out wrong.” Got to keep the peace here.
“How was your night? Did you solve the crisis, save the world?” he asks.
Other than spending the entire night worrying about you falling in love with a woman who appears to be everything that I’m not, yeah, it was great.
“Yes, thanks. So, you had a good night then?” He doesn’t have any interest in my work, he says all of my clients are ‘phonies’, so there’s nothing to be gained by filling him in on the details. “Did Lauren have a good time? And Rob?”
“Yeah, she seemed to, not sure about Rob though.”
“Rob wasn’t there?”
“He was, but left pretty early with another hook-up.”
He what? No way! Define early. No, keep calm, swallow that fear but don’t choke on it. Be cool.
“I bet Lauren is pretty tired after a late night and early yoga class,” I say, still fishing but not reeling much in.
“No, she left early too.”
At least he’s being honest with me.
“Oh, so it was just… you and Anya then?” My attempt to sound nonchalant comes across more like the Spanish Inquisition. Damn it.
Chris snaps, “Yes, Juliette, it was just Anya and I. Is that alright with you?”
No, it’s not alright with me at all, but his voice is sharp and has a sense of finality about it that tells me this topic is not open for discussion. My stomach is grumbling so loudly it could join in the conversation, so I start making toast.
“I wasn’t saying…”
“Good, Juliette, because I would be offended if you were implying something.” The intensity of his stare rivals that of Medusa. I pinch my arm to ensure that it is still made of flesh and not stone.
I tip-toe around where Chris is standing in the middle of the kitchen, and spread some Vegemite on my anemic toast, unsure of what to say or do next. It’s not like Chris to be so snappy. He must be really cross with me.
“Want some?” The smallness of my voice surprises me.
“No, thanks,” he mumbles.
I love Vegemite, Chris hates it. He says it tastes like ‘kack”, which is a nice word for shit. We sit down at the table, look at each other and sip our coffee; it’s the eerie stillness of the night before a cyclone. I pick up the toast and take a bite. It tastes like cardboard with kack on it. My stomach feels like a trampoline and I fear that the toast will come rebounding up again any moment. My hand flies up to my mouth as the toast forces its way back up. I run to the toilet and bring up the remaining kack on cardboard, although chewing adequately seems to be a problem because not only has it resulted in an esophageal exfoliation, but the lumps floating in the toilet are big enough to attract a flock of seagulls.
It’s over quickly and even though vomiting is not a choice pastime, I am relieved that it provided a legitimate reason to escape from the kitchen.
The sounds of the boys playing in the backyard floats through the cedar bi-fold doors as I re-enter the kitchen. Chris doesn’t even query my vomiting, which provides the motivation to get this discussion started.
I hold my breath and gather the kind of courage needed to pull off a waxing strip, before starting the conversation. “Are you mad with me for having to go to the meeting?” The answer is already clear but someone has to pave the way for this argument to begin.
“No, I’m not mad at you for having to go to the meeting.”
Really? Because the tension in this room is so thick that the walls are about to buckle, but I’ll play the game.
“Why are you mad at me, Chris?”
“I’m mad at you for choosing to go to the meeting, Juliette. For leaving your family again to pursue your career.” There, he’s said it. It’s out now. This has been brewing for a while; last night finally pushed him over the edge. Despite having expected this conversation for the last three years, there are no appropriate words floating around in the void between my brain and mouth.
“Choosing? You think I choose to be away from you? You think I choose to work these crazy hours?”
“Yes, I do think that you choose these things, Juliette. You chose to open a business, you chose to work day and night on it and you chose to develop it to gargantuan proportions. It was only ever meant to be a small boutique business, enough to make a nice living for us. But it’s turned into this…this…life-sucking, family-destroying entity.”
“Right, I see.” Stalling for time seems the best option, because he does have a point. I have to concede that these choices were consciously made, and the business has gotten out of hand in the five years since it was born. I search the recesses of my supposedly PR-gifted mind for a comeback to his statement. Unfortunately, there’s nothing, not a thing. The next best option is to go on the offensive. “Why did you ask Anya out? What was that about, Chris?”
“What? No! You don’t get to turn this around where I’m the bad guy. This is not about Anya.”
“So what is it about?” As if the question needs to be asked.
“This is about you being more involved with your work than you are with your family,” he says.
“Chris, I’ve worked so hard for this business. You know how important this is to me. This business helps to pay our way, our mortgage, cars, Ethan’s school fees.”
“What, and my work doesn’t? Don’t pull that crap about you earning more than me again. The money, the prestige, it doesn’t matter to me. In fact, I just find it pretentious and annoying,” he spits.
I didn’t mean to pull that one out again. Architecture, when self-employed, is not always a constant stream of work, meaning an unreliable income. This has been used in the past to justify my workload and commitment to the business, but it comes across as more of an attack on Chris’ worthiness.
“No, Chris, those weren’t the right words. I’m really sorry.” He’s wounded, his eyes can’t hide it. “Inside me is a real passion for my business, not so much the PR industry anymore, but running my own company, achieving things. It makes me feel better about myself. Except for the time I’m busy hating myself for being such a crap Mum and wife.”
My self-deprecating humour does nothing to lighten the mood.
I continue, “It’s too easy to get carried away. It’s tiring working at this pace all the time. There are days where getting out of bed is a Herculean effort. But at the same time, my goals are so close now.”
Chris shakes his head. It’s clear my argument isn’t convincing.
“This contract will be good for us. Things will change when the new staff settle in from the old agency. Madaya Moore doesn’t have a need for them now she’s lost Al’s contract, so once they’re up and running there will be plenty more time. I can step back and focus on our family.”
“Will you really step back?” He stares at me, still not convinced.
I pause for a moment to consider his question and it occurs to me that it is one that cannot be answered, despite the words of assurance that just flew out my mouth. The thought of someone else running my business, my baby, makes me feel as though I am five years old again and someone is trying to take my favourite dolly away.
“Yes, I promise.” That’s what he needs to hear right now. Even though I am in no position to make any promises because all the ones made previously have been broken, twisted or conveniently forgotten, buying time will help me in getting things sorted out.
“This is not the family life I want for my children. This is not the marriage I want to live in. You’ve turned into a professional version of your mother, minus the cask of wine.”
His words cut deeply; opening old wounds that have grown a protective covering, like shutters erected over broken windows.
“That’s not the same thing Chris, and you know it.” Biting back my anger and desire to return the hurt twofold, I am relieved when Ethan bursts into the room.
“Dad, I need to do my science project, can we do it today, please?”
Chris doesn’t take his eyes from me, still intense and angry, his face as cold as a marble statue.
“Dad?” Ethan repeats, our eyes still locked on each other as though we are gladiators about to launch into mortal combat.
Chris touches Ethan on the shoulder in a show of affection. “Sure mate, let’s do it now.”
They move out of the room, leaving me in a crumpled emotional heap as though my bones have liquefied.