‘I’ll take two vanilla cannoncini. The nice fat one at the front, and the big one there in the second row.’ Aimee pointed out the pastries, careful not to leave smudgy fingerprints on the display case. She normally made her own cakes, but the custard horns at Elisabetta’s were Lou’s favourite. ‘Extra icing sugar, if you don’t mind.’
‘Take away?’
‘Please.’ Lou was letting her phone go straight to voicemail, obviously still bruised. Aimee placed the cake box carefully on the passenger seat, tucking her handbag in front so it wouldn’t fall off. Poor Lou. Melinda had been horribly bossy, when Lou needed understanding, not instructions. Aimee picked the pastries off the seat and placed them in the footwell instead. Safer. And the whole adoption idea was simply insane. Not just the thought of Melinda with a baby, which was ridiculous enough, but throwing it at Lou five minutes after she’d told them about Tansy? Aimee normally approved of Melinda’s refusal to censor herself, but that was going too far.
But then Melinda was being more insensitive than usual at the moment. Cold, almost. Look at the way she’d delivered her ultimatum on the accident. Her refusal to even have a conversation about it. Aimee turned the ignition on, then off again. She walked back into Elisabetta’s and ordered Lou a cappuccino, large. What Lou needed now was a good heart-to-heart. She might not think she wanted company, but Aimee knew better. Hence the expensive pastries and takeaway coffee, treats Lou rarely allowed herself. They’d sit out on the back step, and Lou would finally have a chance to really talk about everything that was going on. Aimee drove a little faster in anticipation. Lou would be grateful for the chance to speak honestly about how freaked out she was, as she’d tried to before Melinda had shut her down. And then Aimee would share a few of her own fears as well, so Lou didn’t feel alone.
Aimee puttered down the main street towards what counted for suburbs in Hensley. Poor old Lou. And bloody, bloody Tansy, letting her mother down again, when Lou gave up so much for that girl. It must feel like one blow after another. Aimee thought briefly of the whole shoplifting phase, the tongue piercing. Shelley had been told nothing but earlobes while she was still using their water and electricity, but really, they hadn’t even needed to say that. Shelley had asked permission to start wearing nail polish.
Elegant verandas gave way to squat brick bungalows, the houses becoming smaller, the front yards sparser, the further Aimee got from the town centre. Lou needed gentle handling, not harsh home truths. She needed to be bolstered, to be convinced she’d still be able to travel, see the world. Although Aimee wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Tansy had about as much natural ability to raise a baby as Melinda; Lou was going to have to downsize her ambitions dramatically. Maybe Aimee should suggest a small trip for the two of them before the baby arrived. Get them both out of Hensley. For the first time she could remember, Aimee desperately wanted to be somewhere else as well.
A couple of sun-bleached magazines lay in the middle of Lou’s lawn, next to a ripped cardboard box. God, she was really letting the place go; she must be even more upset than Aimee realised. She clutched the pastry box as she trotted evangelically towards the front door, secure in her belief that she was bringing salvation and solace to the troubled family within.
Except no one was answering. Aimee knocked again, rang the bell. There was music, Lou’s car in the drive — they were blatantly home. She knocked harder. This was no good; the coffee was getting cold. She stooped to fish the spare key from inside the gnome that sat beside the front step, but the gnome was gone, along with his plastic wishing well. She tried the door. Open. It was never open. Aimee gripped her mobile phone.
‘Lou?’ She took a cautious step into the hallway, ready to run if necessary. The bare hallway, its paintings and trophy cabinet missing, a dark square on the carpet where Ken’s precious birds had once lived. Had they been robbed? Although what kind of burglar took taxidermy? ‘Lou? Is everything okay?’ She walked through the lounge, empty except for two beanbags and a scattering of takeaway cartons. Maybe everything had been repossessed. Maybe Lou was in financial trouble. Aimee poked her head into Tansy’s bedroom as she passed. Empty as well, only a mattress on the floor. This was just weird. ‘Lou!’
‘Out here.’ They were in the backyard, throwing shoes into a skip filled with old clothes. Aimee hovered at the kitchen door, uncertain.
‘I called the council, but they said you were working from home. I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘We’re spring cleaning,’ Lou called, emptying a washing basket of men’s trousers on top of the pile. Bruce Springsteen blared from an old cassette player perched precariously in the open kitchen window. Lou gave a little twirl as the trousers fell, a dozen corduroy legs spinning as though they were dancing as well. ‘You’re just in time to watch this lot go up.’
‘It’s not spring,’ said Aimee, feeling a little silly with her box of pastries.
Lou just laughed, as though she’d said something hysterical.
‘Where’s all the furniture gone?’ said Aimee. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘I know,’ said Lou, wiping dirty hands down her jeans with no thought for stains. ‘Isn’t it great? We’re starting over.’
Aimee didn’t know what to say. She thrust the box towards her friend. ‘I brought cannoncini.’
‘Amazing.’ Lou balanced the box on an old bird bath. ‘And coffee. Thank goodness. We accidentally binned the kettle.’ She turned towards the garage. ‘Tansy!’ she hollered. ‘Aimee’s brought food.’
Tansy was also filthy, dirt tattooing her face and arms. She ran across the lawn, dodging the skip, and thrust a greedy hand into the pastry box. ‘Vanilla, my favourite,’ she said, shoving the biggest cake straight in her mouth. Aimee waited for the reprimand, but Lou just ripped the other horn in half. ‘Want to share?’ she asked, waving the fatter end, custard dripping.
Aimee shook her head. ‘I came to see how you were,’ she said, staring meaningfully.
‘We’re fab,’ said Lou. ‘Having a long-overdue clear-out. We’re going into Melbourne tomorrow, getting all new stuff. Even a TV.’ She looked younger, lighter. Happy.
Aimee pulled at the neck of her mumsy tunic. ‘Well, there should be New Year’s sales on, I guess.’
‘Oh, Tansy’s made us a load of money selling everything online.’ Lou waved at her empty house with bandaged fingers. ‘She’s amazing. You wouldn’t believe what people will pay for old clothes. Mum’s crocheted minidress, the lemon one? Two hundred and fifty bucks. No joke.’
‘That’s — Lou, your hand!’
‘Oh.’ Lou looked down. ‘Yeah. I bumped it.’
‘Bumped it?’
‘Against a door. Long story. It’s better than it was.’
‘Right.’ The fingernails peeking out the end of the bandage were an unhealthy shade of blue; Aimee felt as if she’d tumbled down the rabbit hole.
‘But we’ve made thousands, Aims. Well, Tansy has. Honestly, she’s a genius. Knew which stuff to phone antique shops about, what to auction online. She made more in three hours than I would in a week at work.’
‘Maybe she should come round and go through our house,’ said Aimee, remembering the missing necklace. She could never prove anything, but she’d always known.
‘Nah, your stuff’s the wrong kind of old.’ Tansy licked custard off her thumb. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.’
Lou slung an arm around her daughter. ‘Anyway, we’re going to set fire to this lot. Toast some marshmallows over the final evidence of my parents’ bad taste. Fancy it?’
Aimee shook her head. ‘I have to get back. I only popped in to drop these off, a little treat.’
‘They were a big treat.’ Lou smiled generously. ‘Really lovely of you.’
‘Well.’ Aimee looked from Lou to Tansy, leaning against each other, grimy and content. ‘Do you want to walk me out?’
‘Sure.’ Lou untangled herself. ‘Tansy, wait for me before you let loose with the lighter fluid. I don’t want you breathing the fumes.’
They didn’t speak as they walked through the house, Lou bouncing ahead of Aimee towards the open front door.
‘Sorry,’ said Aimee. ‘I must have forgotten to shut it. I was just a little shocked.’
‘No worries,’ said Lou. ‘Nothing to take anyway.’ She laughed, a new, looser laugh.
Aimee reached for her friend’s unbandaged hand. ‘Lou, are you okay? I was worried, after the other night. Melinda was really off, and you haven’t been answering your phone —’
‘My phone?’ Lou shook Aimee’s hand away, reached in the pocket of her skinny jeans. ‘Oh, it’s on silent. I didn’t even realise.’
‘Well, if you want to talk, I’m here. We can sit in the car if you want, go over everything.’
‘Nah.’ That dismissive wave of the hand again. ‘I’m done with talking. Moaning really, let’s be honest. I’m all about action now. Although —’
‘Yes?’
‘I want to book a plane ticket. For three years from now. It’s largely symbolic, but — would travel agents even do that?’
‘Lou, you don’t need a travel agent. You can do it all online. Although I don’t think they issue tickets that far out.’
Lou laughed. ‘Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.’
‘Is this a ticket because Tansy will be in uni?’ Aimee did the maths: Lou was obviously giving Tansy a year to settle in.
‘Not really. I mean, she will be at some stage, hopefully, but she’s having the baby. She’s quite certain about it.’
‘Oh. Oh Lou. I’m so sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. Like you said, she won’t need my help forever. And I’ve made some calls and she’s eligible for benefits, even if she’s living here, and more if she’s studying. There’s heaps of support. So you were right. It doesn’t have to mean the end of things.’
‘I see.’
‘Honestly, it’ll be fine. She’s more capable than we give her credit for. And it’s her choice. I’m not going to push her into anything. You know how I feel about that.’
Did she? ‘Yes.’
There was an impatient shout from the backyard. ‘Tansy, wait!’ Lou turned back to Aimee. ‘But I do want to book a ticket, or do something to feel like I’m still moving forward, you know?’
Aimee wasn’t sure she knew anything about Lou any more. ‘You could probably make a hotel reservation.’
‘Brilliant.’ Lou squeezed Aimee’s arm with her good hand. ‘You sure you don’t want to stay? We’re getting Lebanese for lunch later.’
Aimee shook her head as she fumbled with her car keys. ‘I’m just glad everything’s okay.’
‘Thanks for coming. It was really sweet of you.’
Aimee climbed into her car, but she didn’t start the engine. Instead, she watched Lou saunter back into the house, head high, arse swinging. Jaunty. She hadn’t even asked how Aimee was doing. There was laughter from the backyard, a crackle as the flames went up. The smell of petrol made her gag; she had to wind up the window. Aimee sat staring at the smoke for a good five minutes, watching the black clouds billow and spread across the neighbourhood. Then she put her foot down and headed for the hills.
‘Good morning, Ms Baker.’
Melinda shut her eyes, as though that would block out the warm breath in her ear, the hand tickling its way down her stomach. Clint. She was in bed with Clint. And not for the first time either. Every night of LoveFest she’d wound up drunk on her increased popularity and sparkling Australian wine, and in bed with her IPO advisor. A man she now knew had a scorpion tattoo on his shoulder, a hairy lower back, and a predilection for a manicured finger in his anus.
‘Not ready to face the day? Shall I order coffee?’
His erection wriggled hopefully against her bottom. Melinda nodded, and arched subtly away from his bobbing penis. ‘Black,’ she croaked. There had been a lot of wine.
Clint opened the curtains a crack as he rang down for room service. He had a good body at least — long, lean. Nice arse. He was considerably younger than her. Twenty-nine, he’d admitted; he’d lied to HR at his first consultancy firm, and no one had checked since. Melinda quite admired that. She’d do the same. But he was Clint. A man who used the word on-boarding as a verb. Although the sex had been . . . interesting. Borderline kinky, which was new, and made her feel a little younger as well. She’d even taken a pill last night. A pill! Without even asking what it was. He’d told her it would set her ‘on fire’, and she’d just gone with it. The thought of Melinda, control freak extraordinaire, swallowing something without checking its provenance and chemical makeup was so out of character she wanted to phone someone and boast about her new-found recklessness. Lou, probably. Not Aimee. Aimee would have a heart attack.
It couldn’t continue, obviously. Both the drug-taking, and the Clint-fucking. They had to work together; Melinda needed to be able to pull rank. Hard to do with someone who knew you swore when you came. And there was the fact that she didn’t actually like Clint. Fancied him, obviously more than she’d realised, although that could be fifty per cent prosecco. But in terms of being interested in what he had to say, what he was up to other than driving her company forward? Not really, if she was honest. He could be a bit of a dick.
Melinda listened to Clint pee, flush, brush his teeth. The everyday sounds of cohabitation that other people took for granted. The only sounds in Melinda’s flat were those she made herself, or that came from electronic devices. Melinda generally appreciated the peace and quiet, but there was also something infinitely depressing about knowing that every human interaction was yours to arrange. If she wanted to speak to someone, eat with someone or go to a movie, she had to initiate it. And accept the crappy time slots. When you were the only single left, you got used to meeting people for coffee or lunch rather than dinner — family time! — and obviously weekends were out. Which left an awful lot of lonely, empty evenings, wondering where you’d gone wrong. Melinda had spent thirty-eight years waiting for the right man to show up. And he hadn’t. At what point did you admit to yourself that this was your life, and that it only took up one side of the bed?
And yet. Here was a firm impression in the mattress next to her, a man gargling in the ensuite. A man who hadn’t casually mentioned a not-quite-ex-wife, or a criminal record, or asked for a loan. A man who asked her what she was into, rather than just trying to push her head towards his crotch. Melinda had once slept with someone who’d asked if she wanted foreplay, as though it was optional.
The coffee arrived. Clint answered the door with a towel around his hips, paid and tipped. Melinda had waitressed through university; she approved of people who tipped. There were many good points to Clint, she reminded herself. He was very considerate with his oral hygiene. He could discuss a profit and loss statement for hours. He automatically reached for the bill and kept hold of it, even if she insisted. Melinda had had enough of men who expected her to bloody pay for everything, just because she could.
‘Hey, check out the story on page five,’ he said, kneeling up beside her. ‘I knew they were in trouble.’
And he brought her the business pages in bed. Maybe he understood her better than she thought.
‘Want me to pour the coffee?’ he asked. ‘Black, two sugars, right? I told them it had to be strong.’
She reached beneath his towel.
‘It’ll get cold,’ he warned, warm and growing in her hand.
‘Don’t care,’ she said. ‘Come here.’
‘Well, well.’ It was the first time she’d initiated anything; he was pleased, she could feel. ‘But what about —’
They’d run out the night before. Gone through a full box, in less than three days. God, what was she doing?
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, tugging his towel off. ‘I’m on the pill.’ Melinda pulled Clint down on top of her and welcomed him inside.
‘You again.’
Aimee smiled nervously. ‘Sorry?’
‘You were here yesterday, weren’t you?’ The investigator tipped his hat back. But he didn’t seem annoyed, or suspicious. He sounded pleased, almost. It must be lonely, standing by the side of the road all day. ‘You’re the muffin lady.’
‘Muffins? Oh, right.’
‘So did you bring any?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think. I just came to —’ What? Confess? Come on, Aimee. Stay calm. You’ve got this.
He waited, the sun at his back shining right into Aimee’s eyes. She shifted closer towards him, into his shadow, so she didn’t have to squint.
‘To explain,’ she said. She’d been practising in the car. ‘What I was doing here. What I am doing here.’
‘Yes?’ There was a smile now, small and amused, that Aimee had to tilt her head back to see.
‘I’m a friend of the family. Of the Kasprowiczes. So I wanted to see what was happening, to make sure —’ Her mind went blank. ‘To make sure it’s all being done right.’
‘You mean you keep turning up here, driving past all the time, to check that I’m doing my job properly?’ He chuckled. ‘And there I was thinking you just wanted to see me.’
Aimee felt her face explode a guilty red as she tried to calculate how many times she’d scoped the field out, how often she’d slowed down to get a better look. Dozens. Two, three times a day, at least. Oh God. She might as well be wearing a T-shirt that said WE DID IT. ‘You noticed me drive past?’
‘Course. Good-looking woman, great hair. Terrible driving. Who wouldn’t notice?’ He grinned. ‘Your left tail-light’s gone, by the way.’
Hang on. Was he flirting with her? ‘I don’t think . . . that’s not . . .’ Aimee drew herself up to her full five feet, which brought her nose about level with his neck. ‘I really don’t think that’s appropriate.’
His voice changed. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re here because you’re worried about your friends, and I’m hitting on you. It’s very inappropriate.’ But he was still smiling. ‘Shall we start again?’ He held out a hand. ‘Damien Marshall, Australian Transport Safety Bureau.’
Oh bugger. ‘Aimee.’
He kept hold of her hand. ‘Do you have a last name, Aimee?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re not telling.’
‘No.’
He laughed. ‘Right. So then, Aimee Not Telling, how can I help you?’
Leave her alone. He could just leave her alone. Aimee yanked her hand back. All she’d wanted to do was explain herself, to make her actions seem less suspicious, and now this man, this official crash-site investigator, knew her name and her car and that she was effectively stalking the place.
And he was making fun of her.
‘Hey. Shit. Don’t cry.’ He stooped down so their faces were level. ‘I was only teasing.’
‘I’m just —’
‘Worried. You’re worried. Of course you are. Your mates are in hospital and some arsehole is flirting with you.’ He tipped his hat back again, wiped his forehead. ‘Last thing you need. Forgive me. I’m being a jerk.’
Aimee wiped her own cheeks. Her hands came away black with mascara. ‘Forget it.’
‘Nah, but seriously. How can I help?’
‘You can’t.’ No one could.
‘Well, I might be able to. You said you were worried the accident wasn’t being checked out properly. It is, but . . . shall I explain what we’re doing? So at least you feel like something’s being done?’
The offer shimmered in the hot air between them, almost tangible, as though Aimee could reach out and grab it. This was the moment, she knew — the jumping-off point. She’d had moments of clarity before, described them to her doctors even, when her brain gave her a lucid choice: to walk away, or dive further into the crazy. It was never an easy decision. Her brain craved reassurance like a six o’clock gin and tonic. But she also knew that if she stopped feeding the craving, then the merrygo-round in her head would eventually grind to a halt. She just needed to resist.
‘Aimee?’
She could resist.
‘Aimee?’
It was like an itch. If she gave in, she’d only need to scratch it again, and again.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’
She looked at him with genuine regret. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be here. Talking to you. I have to go.’ And once again, she turned and ran to her car.
They’d only been in the shop ten minutes, but Lou had already lost her sense of perspective. The televisions covered every surface, shiny screens all showing the same cricket match. Dozens of men in white leaped silently for a ball to the left. Thousands of fans jumped to their feet in mute celebration. Lou had stopped going into shops that sold things she couldn’t afford years ago; it was the best way she knew of saving money. In the interim, televisions seemed to have undergone some kind of revolution. She had no idea what any of the initials meant, whether HD was better than LCD, let alone why anyone would want a curved screen. Worse, she couldn’t even tell which televisions were big any more. Thirty-two inches sounded large, but compared to some of these wall-mounted monsters, it looked positively tiny.
‘You really don’t want anything under fifty inches,’ the salesman said. ‘Not if you want a comfortable viewing experience.’
‘We do,’ she heard herself saying back. ‘We want the most comfortable viewing experience going.’
‘What are you watching, Netflix? Foxtel? Movies?’
Aimee had Netflix, didn’t she? ‘That’s it.’
‘Then I know exactly what you need.’ He directed them to a television the width of her car. ‘Sixty-five inches, smart capabilities, Ultra HD 4K. Netflix and all the rest are already programmed in.’ He pushed a few buttons, and Gilmore Girls flicked up on the giant screen.
Over a thousand dollars for a television. It sounded obscene.
‘We can’t buy that,’ Tansy said quietly.
We shouldn’t, thought Lou, watching Lorelai drink coffee. These must be re-runs, surely. The show was older than Tansy. Lou had had a boxy TV for the first few years in their old flat, left behind by the previous tenant. Gilmore Girls had been one of her favourites, proof that you could do it alone.
‘Let’s look at some smaller ones,’ said Tansy. ‘Or I can find us something second-hand online.’
The old television had blown up one evening, the ancient tube finally giving out with a puff of actual smoke. The repairman Lou called had laughed. ‘Not worth fixing that, love,’ he’d said. ‘Cheaper to buy a new one.’ Lou, who hadn’t bought a new anything for three years, quietly paid his call-out fee and shoved the TV Week in the bin.
‘If cash flow is an issue, we can help with that,’ said the salesman.
‘We’re fine,’ said Tansy. ‘We don’t need it.’
‘We do actually,’ said Lou. ‘Tell me.’
There was an app, apparently. You entered the amount you wanted to borrow, and the purchase was either approved, or not. ‘Six months interest-free. Have you got something with your address on it?’ She did. They didn’t even need to go back to the counter.
‘But you hate debt,’ hissed Tansy.
Which was true. But where had that attitude got her? A house that her daughter didn’t want to hang out in, and that Lou didn’t want to either. On the oversize television, Lorelai and Rory hugged. Lou decided that was a good omen.
‘We’ll take it,’ she said. Because didn’t she have a PayPal account full of cash from the old furniture, and a steady job, and a mortgage-free house? ‘Show me how to download this thing.’
She had a plan, Aimee reminded herself, as she flew down River Road, darting across the one-way bridge when it wasn’t even her turn to go. She gave a wave of apology to a visibly startled Sharna as she passed. But Aimee had a plan, with numbered steps to follow, all logical and prescribed. Literally prescribed — it was in a booklet she’d been given by a clinical psychologist to prevent her brain from spinning. You could argue it was already in motion, but that didn’t mean Aimee couldn’t slow it down.
She didn’t bother to pull into the garage, just abandoned her car outside the house, blocking the ute but she’d worry about that later. Aimee strode down the hall to her study. The booklet was locked away at the bottom of her filing cabinet. She grabbed it and sat down at her desk.
‘Mum?’
‘Not now, Shelley.’
‘But, Mum —’
‘I’m writing!’ The kids knew her writing time was sacrosanct. And it wasn’t even a lie. Aimee turned to the first fresh page. WHAT’S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN? it asked. She wrote the date in the top right-hand corner, as she had a dozen times before.
Thinking on paper. That’s how the psychologist described it. When the brain knows there’s a plan, a solution, it calms down. Pros-and-cons lists don’t work — a really obsessive mind will always manage to create an even score — but writing out a worst-case scenario forces the brain to acknowledge that everything is manageable. That the worst-case scenarios are, in fact, in your head.
It was a process Aimee believed in, because it had worked for her before. She turned her attention to the first column. THE SITUATION.
Well, that was easy. She wrote quickly, describing the accident.
MY FEARS.
Keep it simple, that was the key. That we caused the crash, Aimee wrote in tiny letters. That we put a man and his son in hospital. In intensive care. They said in town that Pete had lost his sight. So they’d have blinded him as well, a widower, living alone, raising a teenager. Aimee gripped her pen.
WHAT’S THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO?
This bit was always the hardest. We get found out. Everyone hates us. No one ever speaks to me again. I go to jail. I get sued. We lose the vineyard. I never forgive myself. Nick never forgives me.
WHERE AM I BEING IRRATIONAL/FORTUNE-TELLING/CATASTROPHISING/EXAGGERATING/DISTORTING/JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS/USING MAGICAL THINKING/DOING OTHER PEOPLE’S THINKING FOR THEM?
Aimee couldn’t remember what magical thinking was, but it didn’t matter. There was enough here to get on with. She sucked the end of her pen. This was usually the eye-opening bit, where the flaws in her thinking became apparent. But she couldn’t see any here. She wasn’t being irrational. She wasn’t catastrophising, or imagining things. A plane had come down. That wasn’t in her head. And people who caused accidents, especially those who hid them, got into trouble. Fact. So she’d need a lawyer, and they couldn’t afford one. They didn’t even have enough money this year to fix the roof. Pete could sue them; that was a very real possibility. In which case they’d have to sell the vineyard. The land that had been in Nick’s family for generations. Nick would be heartbroken, and his parents would never speak to her again. Aimee stared miserably at the blank box in front of her. Obviously this technique worked better on abstract fears, rather than things that had actually happened. She drew a big question mark in the middle of the page.
WHAT WOULD I DO?
And this was the part that was supposed to make her feel better. Where she wrote a practical answer to her worst-case scenario. I’d move into an apartment with the children. I’d fly to Adelaide and nurse Mum until she died. All answers she’d given to her fearful What If? situations in the past. Aimee stared at the little notebook. But there were no answers for this one. No Plan B to reassure her. Because this problem was real, so clever psychology questions to stop her head making things up didn’t work.
There were only two questions that mattered, and neither of them was printed on this sheet of paper. Aimee tore the double page from the booklet and started ripping it into tiny strips. One: Did they cause the accident? And two: If so, did anyone know? Those were the questions she needed answers to, and she needed a new strategy to get them.
It was amazing how just walking through the door of your childhood home stripped years off you in a way the fanciest face creams never could. Melinda twisted her watch, the first really expensive thing she’d ever bought, to remind herself she was an adult as she vied with the cricket for her dad’s attention.
‘Two more minutes, Mellie, I want to see if — YES! YES! Oh, well done!’
A successful adult. Melinda let out a small sigh, loud enough to be heard but not to be reprimanded for.
‘Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me,’ whispered Polly. ‘We can have a glass of wine and a gossip, leave him to it.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Melinda, slouching further into the sofa. She had no desire to hang out with her father’s latest girlfriend, a chirping parakeet of a woman who’d be replaced in a few months anyway. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’
‘Hold your horses,’ said her father. ‘They’ll be done in a — oh YES! Nice one!’
Melinda scrolled through her emails as her dad slapped the side of the armchair. She should have called instead. But she’d been driving past, and in such a good (post-orgasm) mood that she’d thought, Why not? She stared at the back of her father’s bushy grey head. This was why not.
The last wicket fell and the crowd erupted. Melinda’s dad nodded appreciatively. ‘So what can we do for you today then, Miss Mellie?’ he asked as he searched for the remote control.
‘I was on my way back from the airport. I came to tell you how well it went.’
‘How what went?’ He jabbed at the mute button.
‘The conference. LoveFest.’
‘Right, right.’ The batteries in the remote were clearly dead. Her dad got stiffly to his feet and started rummaging around the TV console. ‘Well, go on then, tell me.’
Melinda tried to recapture some of her former excitement. ‘It was fantastic,’ she said, the words sounding hollow to her own ears. She’d been so looking forward to describing the packed ballroom, the cheering crowds, the positive news coverage — ‘television too. It’s still online if you want to watch.’
‘Mh-hm.’
‘I’ve emailed you the links. There was a particularly flattering segment on Weekend Breakfast.’ Australia’s Jo Malone, they’d called her. ‘I’ve had two more offers to buy me out.’
Her dad nodded, distracted. ‘Polly, where are the batteries? I’m sure I bought more.’
It was like being twelve again. Melinda followed him into the kitchen. ‘We’re already looking at spaces for our first American conference. New York probably, or maybe LA. We might even have to hold two.’
Her dad nodded again, forehead wrinkling as he scanned a supermarket receipt. ‘America, eh? Fancy.’
‘And I’m going to be on the cover of Forbes.’
The email had been sitting in her inbox when she landed. Melinda had actually hugged a flight attendant, then apologised in case it was harassment. ‘No worries, Ms Baker,’ the woman had said, fingering her ‘eternity ring’ locket. ‘We all find you such an inspiration.’ Melinda had promised to send her the matching earrings.
‘Mh-hmm. See, Polly, I did buy them, three packs it says here. Where’ve you put them?’
‘Dad!’ Melinda could hear the whine in her own voice. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I did. Forbes. Very nice.’
‘It’s the Asia issue, not the international one obviously, but that’s actually perfect because we’ve earmarked Singapore and Hong Kong for expansion. And the magazine is really well respected, lots of people in the finance industry read it —’
‘I do know what Forbes is, Melinda.’
‘You don’t seem very excited.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course I am.’
Polly smiled nervously. ‘Your dad’s super proud of you, Melinda. He talks about you all the time.’
For fuck’s sake. Polly was what, ten years older than she was?
‘It’s a sign that we’re being taken seriously,’ said Melinda. ‘That we’ll get a strong reception if we go for a secondary listing.’
‘That all sounds great, Mellie. Really.’ Her dad rubbed his hands together, made a little clapping sound. ‘So what else have you been up to?’
Other than preparing to expand my company in seven countries across three continents while raising ten million dollars? ‘Not much, funnily enough. That’s about it.’
‘Being in the paper will be exciting,’ said Polly.
‘It’s a magazine, actually.’
‘Hey,’ her dad said mildly. ‘Don’t be rude.’
‘Sorry.’ Melinda dug her nails into her palm. Adult, she reminded herself. ‘But enough about me,’ she said. ‘What have you guys been doing?’
‘Oh, we’ve got lots going on,’ said her dad, coming to life again. ‘Polly’s all go with the shop, aren’t you?’
Melinda searched her brain to remember what kind of shop Polly ran. A florist? A dress shop?
‘And the firm’s flat out. I keep talking about taking a week off, finally getting a bit of a holiday, but the clients keep knocking on the door. Harrisons’ have a girl suing them for wrongful dismissal, got pregnant in her probation period. Silly mare.’
Melinda said nothing and hated herself for it.
‘And we’ve got Matthew coming down from the Gold Coast, which’ll be great, won’t it, Polly? Don’t see enough of him. Sounds like this new DJing gig of his is going well. Very well. Going to be a nice little earner that one, I reckon.’
Melinda had a cheque for Matt in her handbag, the second she’d written in three months.
‘Just need him to meet someone nice now, settle down and give me some grandchildren.’
‘Actually, I’m thinking of adopting a baby.’
‘There was one girl he was dating, we got all hopeful, didn’t we, Pol, but she didn’t seem to last long.’
‘Dad, did you hear me?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I’m thinking of adopting a baby.’
Melinda’s dad stared at her for a few seconds then roared with laughter. ‘What, you?’
Polly glanced at her boyfriend then started to titter as well.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Come off it, Melinda. That’s hardly your sort of thing. You’re not going to fit a breast pump in that now, are you.’ He waved a hand at her Prada saddle bag. ‘Express your milk between conference calls.’ He started laughing again.
‘I said adopt one, not have one.’ Melinda walked quickly over to the sliding door and stared out into the safety of the garden. She didn’t really believe in crying. Just like she didn’t believe in blaming your parents for anything after the age of eighteen, or allowing other people to dictate your emotional state. Her father was still chuckling, Polly giggling. Melinda focused hard on a blurry row of silverbeet. She wouldn’t normally care what they thought. She was just tired, with all the late nights recently. And maybe a little hormonal. She went for a subtle eye-swipe with the top of her index finger as her father pulled her into his side.
‘Ah now, love, don’t cry. We’re just having a laugh.’
‘I’m not crying,’ she mumbled.
He leaned down, wrapped her in a surprisingly bony hug. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’ He patted her hair. ‘We’re just a bit surprised, that’s all. You’re not the kind of woman who wants a baby.’ He said the word slightly incredulously, as though she’d expressed a desire to start an alpaca farm.
‘I might be.’
‘No you’re not, Mellie.’ He gave her another squeeze. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s not you at all.’
They’d bought a houseful of furniture, but Lou didn’t mind. Not even when they veered away from the IKEA plan and ended up in Freedom Furniture. Or when they upgraded from Freedom, and found themselves buying a posh department-store sofa, large and deep and soft. The type of sofa you could you collapse into. Comfortable.
Nothing bothered her today. Not the Hensley Festival go- kart race they’d got stuck behind leaving town, the buggies that had taken over the main street adding an extra half-hour to their journey. Not the growing stack of receipts in her wallet, as they charged everything from a dining room table to a barbecue on her magic app. A barbecue. Imagine. A flash one too, with infrared burners and a warming rack. She had images of Melinda and Aimee and the kids all hanging out in her backyard, Tansy walking around with a tray of steaks, Lou being the hostess for once, rather than the ever-grateful recipient of everyone else’s generosity.
‘What should we bring?’ they’d ask.
‘Nothing,’ she’d say. ‘Just bring yourselves.’
Lou was beginning to realise that she hadn’t had to scrimp and save so much over the years. Other people bought stuff on credit. Other people let themselves have nice things. And a lot of them earned less than she did.
Lou and Tansy wandered down Bourke Street, sipping their Starbucks like everyone else. Just one stop to go, then they’d call it a day. Lou’s feet were going to kill her later, but too bad. She ignored the blister forming on her right heel and enjoyed her five-dollar macchiato.
The baby shop was an older one, its facade dated among the trendy clothes shops. There were newer chains they could have gone to, but this was the shop Lou had wandered through more than a decade before, belly distended, rubbing the handles of prams she couldn’t afford. Tansy’s pram had been a gift from an anonymous wellwisher, dropped off in the stairwell of her building during the night. It was black and grey and a bit ugly, but she didn’t care. She was just glad it hadn’t been nicked.
The prams, however, had gone the way of the televisions: instead of two or three plasticky upright models, there was a veritable fleet of all-terrain vehicles. Some of them even had gears.
‘Isn’t it a bit early?’ whispered Tansy.
Lou kissed the top of her head. ‘We don’t have to,’ she said. ‘But I thought you’d made up your mind.’
‘I have,’ said Tansy. ‘But it makes it all feel a bit . . . real.’
‘We can just look then. It’ll be fun to look.’
And it was fun, the most they’d had in ages. Better than stripping the house even. Lou and Tansy fondled tiny bodysuits and miniature booties, Tansy asking Lou’s advice on fabrics and sizes as though Lou was a fount of knowledge, rather than a nuisance. Lou felt a brief flutter of excitement. This baby was her own flesh and blood, after all. We’ll just buy one, they agreed, picking out an adorable mint-green suit with a sleepy stegosaurus on the breast. Well, maybe two.
‘Aren’t these precious?’ said the saleswoman, as she wrapped up their pile. ‘And these are for —’ She looked uncertainly from Lou’s mid-thirties bloat to Tansy’s teenage flatness.
Tansy stuck her chin out. ‘Me.’
‘My daughter,’ confirmed Lou. ‘I’m going to be a grandmother.’
‘Well, isn’t that exciting?’ said the woman.
‘Hugely,’ said Lou. ‘We’re over the moon.’
And do you know what? she thought, as she carried their oversize bags back to the car. I think I’m even starting to mean it.
Aimee pulled at the neck of her slippery shell top and tried not to feel like a complete idiot. It’s really only a T-shirt, she told herself. A bit of makeup. And a skirt. You’re not that dressed up. Melinda wears this kind of thing every day. So why did she feel like she was going to a wedding? Aimee wanted to turn the car around, drive back to the house and pull on her jeans. Instead, she smeared on another coat of lip gloss and took a quick swig from her water bottle. Right. Showtime. She forced herself out of the car.
The muffins were warm against her shirt as Aimee trotted across the field, her wedges catching as she ducked under the flapping plastic police tape. They weren’t the ideal shoes but she’d wanted the extra height, and heels would have made her look ridiculous. If she didn’t already.
Damien spotted her and waved, strode towards her smiling as he checked his phone. He wasn’t a bad-looking man. Probably ten years older than her and Nick, a bit florid in the face. She’d heard the accident team were putting in as many hours at the pub as they were on the crash site. His wedding ring caught the sun as he shoved the phone into his pocket. Harmless banter then, she told herself. For both of them.
‘I thought you might be back,’ he said.
‘Well, I had to deliver on my promise.’
‘And which promise was that?’
‘The muffins.’ She held out the plastic container. Their hands brushed slightly as he took the box from her.
‘Homemade?’
‘Of course.’
He cracked the lid. ‘Smells delicious. Banana?’
‘Carrot. Sorry.’
‘Even better.’ He grinned. ‘So what do you want in return?’
Aimee hadn’t flirted with anyone since she was a teenager. ‘Reassurance that you’re not just out here chatting up the local women,’ she said, looking up through her lashes. ‘That you’re doing your important job properly, to protect everyone.’ God, she sounded like a bad Mills & Boon. ‘And I wanted the chance to see you again, of course.’ Actually, Mills & Boon had better lines.
‘Well, someone’s in a good mood. You must have heard the news.’ He grinned at her confusion. ‘What, you don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Your mate’s son is awake. Hasn’t anyone told you?’
Lincoln was awake? Aimee wobbled on her stupid shoes. She grabbed Damien’s forearm to steady herself.
‘Opened his eyes this morning. Not able to speak yet, but he’s conscious, and looking good.’ Aimee tightened her grip, not trusting herself to stand. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Careful. People will talk.’ But he was smiling.
Awake. That was amazing. Aimee felt ten kilograms lighter, everything felt lighter: the sun, the heat, her head. Because if Pete’s son was awake, then none of this was as bad. She could live with what they’d done if they hadn’t killed anyone. Aimee took a breath of wonderfully fresh air and sent a silent thankyou upwards.
‘Made your day, haven’t I?’
Aimee grinned. ‘You have no idea.’
‘You won’t need me any more then, I guess.’ He squinted at her. ‘To tell you about the investigation. Remember? Or are you not bothered about that now?’
Was she? Strangely, not as much. That all-encompassing need to know, the urge to check and ask and just be there, in case she could influence things, had dissolved in the shimmery heat of the January sky. If they found part of a lantern, well, what did that really prove? Anyone could have let them off. Aimee felt as though she’d been given a second chance.
‘Not that anything I could tell you matters that much anyway,’ Damien continued. ‘Not any more. Important thing now is going to be what the boy has to say. He’s the one who’ll be able to tell us what happened.’
Melinda’s dad insisted on seeing her to her car.
‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ he said, as they strode across the lawn. ‘Don’t want you driving if you’re upset.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Melinda. ‘I need to get back and start dealing with emails.’
‘You don’t want to stay for tea?’
‘I really can’t.’
‘Well, make sure you put your shades on. You’ll have the sun in your eyes heading into town.’
It was only twenty minutes to Melinda’s apartment, but her dad always behaved as though she was crossing the Nullarbor. They stood shoulder to shoulder staring out towards the hills, the sun starting to play peekaboo behind the purple ranges.
‘Never get tired of that view,’ he said. ‘You don’t get a view like that in the city.’
Melinda nodded, mentally prioritising the work she had to do when she got in. It was all very well spending hours rolling around naked with her IPO advisor, but it would take her the week to catch up.
‘Terrible thing what’s happened to that boy, though,’ her father continued. ‘Poor old Pete. That’s got to be killing him.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Melinda placed her handbag on the passenger seat.
‘There’ll be some lawsuits with that one, mark my words.’
Melinda straightened up. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Lawyer’s intuition.’ He tapped his forehead with a wrinkled finger. ‘You’ve got a competent, experienced pilot, ditching a plane for no reason? With his son strapped in next to him? I don’t think so. Something happened. Either with the plane, or with the fireworks. None of those vineyards will have had permission for a display. And I’d be surprised if that Cessna was being kept up to spec. Finances at the aero club have been tight for years.’ He shook his head. ‘Someone will be liable. Someone always is.’
Lou slipped into Tansy’s room, pulling the door quietly shut behind her. Tansy still slept like she had as a toddler: on her back, arms flung sideways, hair sweat-stuck to her forehead. The sheet had been kicked free from the mattress she was using till the new furniture arrived. Lou rested her bum on the windowsill and watched her daughter breathe.
Lou hadn’t breastfed Tansy for long, hadn’t spent months gazing lovingly at her suckling child. Not because she didn’t want to. Tansy had turned her head away after the first couple of weeks, rejected anything that didn’t come in a bottle. Bloody-minded. Her mother’s daughter. So Lou was used to sneaking these quiet moments of adoration. She slid down the wall and sat hugging her knees on the floor. Secret adoration that Tansy would never countenance awake. Although Lou wasn’t the type of mother to engage in gratuitous child worship anyway. She’d never been a helicopter parent, hovering over her daughter in case of splinters or accidental nut ingestion. She’d never been one of the health Nazis, sending Tansy off to birthday parties with a printed list of what she wasn’t allowed to eat.
No, Lou had been pretty laissez faire, making things up as she’d gone along. As if she’d had another choice. She leaned over and pushed Tansy’s damp hair away from her face. Would things have worked out differently if she’d given Tansy a father? Pointed a finger at someone in town and forced him to take responsibility? You heard so much about the importance of male role models. But Lou hadn’t wanted to lie. It didn’t seem fair.
And they hadn’t done that badly, not really. Yes, Tansy was pregnant, and Lou looked fifty at thirty-five, but they were alive and healthy, and they didn’t steal or cheat or hurt others. Lou took stock of her sleeping daughter, better behaved in the past forty-eight hours than she had been in the last ten years. Maybe she could choose to look at this baby not as the end of everything, but as a fresh start. Lou knew she hadn’t made much of her life so far. But she could be a fantastic grandmother. Modern. Hip. She pictured Tansy and her taking a toddler on road trips, family holidays to Bali or Fiji. They could all get passports. It wasn’t quite the big European trip Lou had dreamed of, but it still sounded pretty good.
The room lit up, the moon scanning the floor like a searchlight as it broke free of the scattered cloud. They’d pulled Tansy’s curtains down as well, even though they were an inoffensive beige; the curtain pulling had become a little addictive. Lou started to fold T-shirts now, to stack fashion magazines into neat piles on the floor. She leaned over to grab a dirty sock and accidentally knelt on Tansy’s hand.
‘Mum? What are you doing?’
‘Shhh. Go back to sleep.’
Tansy squinted at her. ‘It’s night-time.’
‘I know. I’m just having a tidy. Shut your eyes.’
Tansy obeyed. Lou kept sorting, the way she had when Tansy was a baby, grabbing random bursts of time for chores while her daughter slept. She started chucking dirty laundry towards the door.
‘Mum —’
‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m going now.’ Lou leaned over and kissed Tansy on the forehead, breathing in sweat and skin and a hint of Allure, Lou’s only good perfume that had mysteriously disappeared a few months earlier. She said nothing, just snuck another kiss while she could. ‘Love you,’ she said.
‘Love you too,’ muttered Tansy, and Lou sat back on her heels in surprise. As she did, she knocked a photo off a stack of books next to the mattress. She moved to put it back, then paused. It was one of her dad’s seventies shots; Lou recognised the rounded corners, the yellow and brown tones, the Kodak branding on the back. She held the photo up to the moonlight. Her mother stared blankly back at her from a hospital bed. Her arms clutched a baby Lou, too tightly. She wasn’t smiling, but no wonder. The photo must’ve been taken straight after Lou was born; her hair was still damp, her face red. There were no flowers or congratulations cards yet. Just one exhausted new mother — Lou was a fifteen- hour labour, she’d continually been reminded — and a nervous young father, capturing the moment with his trusty Pentax.
‘Tansy,’ she whispered. This had to be the earliest photo of herself. So why hadn’t she seen it before? ‘Hey, Tansy, where did this come from?’
‘Mmhm?’ Tansy rolled over.
‘The picture. Where’d you get it?’
Tansy opened one eye. ‘It was in the album. In an envelope.’ She smiled sleepily. ‘You look like me. Same nose.’
Her mother probably hadn’t thought it was flattering, but Lou liked the photo. It looked real. It looked like what motherhood was: hard work.
‘Leave it,’ whispered Tansy. ‘I want it here next to me.’
Lou rested her hand on top of her daughter’s damp head. Her daughter, who had all that hard work to come. ‘I’ll get you a frame,’ she promised.
The December sales figures were better than forecast. And what perfect timing, just ahead of their investor roadshow. Melinda poured herself a glass of wine to celebrate and tried to appreciate the numbers parading proudly in front of her. Except that she didn’t feel like celebrating. She felt like crying. No, she felt like howling. Throwing herself onto her 1800-thread-count white Egyptian cotton sheets face first, mascara be damned.
Beyond her balcony Hensley was coma-still; the town had already tucked itself into bed. Melinda tried to focus on her spreadsheets, but the house was too silent to concentrate. The peace that she usually loved — double doors flung open to the summer night, the only noise the gentle rustling of her curtains, the chirp of distant cicadas — was suddenly too much. Her beautiful, sparse apartment felt as empty as she did.
Post-event comedown, that’s what this flatness was. Melinda took a slug of wine. She’d had three days surrounded by noise and excitement, everyone treating her like some kind of guru. It was only natural to feel a bit low. She picked up her phone. Nearly twelve. Too late to speak to Aimee or Lou. And there was no way in hell she was phoning Clint. You didn’t booty call someone on your payroll, even if they had licked prosecco from your vagina. Hensley prosecco, of course. Even drunk and horny, Melinda was loyal to her friends.
Outside the building, a car alarm went off; inside, Melinda logged on to Instagram. She felt her shoulders loosen as she began to scroll through dozens of photos of herself. Melinda speaking, Melinda laughing, Melinda dancing with her dress hitched up around the top of her thighs. God, she didn’t remember that. On and on she scrolled, switching to Facebook when the feed ran dry. Her curators had wasted no time and no emoticons in letting the world know just how awesome LoveFest had been. She smiled at the images of herself, a more relaxed version than usual, hugging her curators, posing for selfies. There were more than a few photos with Clint; they looked good together. Natural. She poured a little more wine, unsure if the warmth and relaxation she was finally feeling was coming from the bottle, or the memory of how happy she’d been in Sydney. Part of the stream of life, rather than merely an observer. Could you tell in the pictures she was having sex? Yes — there was absolutely a glow.
There was also an adoption conversation. Melinda clicked on the comments under one photo, captioned ‘Sexy Mama — yes, really!’ Her curators were discussing her ‘announcement’. Well, Clint had warned her. She leaned back, trying to decide if that was a good thing. Or more importantly, whether other people felt it was a good thing.
Melinda had thought carefully about this, on the short drive into town. It didn’t matter whether her family felt she was capable of raising a baby or not. (Matthew had left a charming voice message while she was in the shower, hooting about the whole adoption idea and calling her Melinda Jolie.) But it did matter what the public thought. Potential investors, fund managers, analysts. Her defensive blurt about adopting might well put them off. Who wanted to invest in a company where the CEO had other priorities?
Melinda opened a fresh browser and searched for ‘Melinda Baker’ and ‘baby’. Then ‘Melinda Baker’ and ‘adoption.’ Unsurprisingly, the story had leaked. She pulled the laptop closer, back in work mode now. Beyond the curator gossip, a couple of investor forums were discussing the idea. A few users — male, by the looks of it — had questioned her commitment, but they’d quickly been eaten alive. Interesting. Several Women in Business blogs were supportive to the point of being giddy, but you’d expect that. Only one mainstream newspaper had picked up the story. There was a sidebar in the paper’s Investor Notebook. Melinda clicked through.
Melinda Feels the Love, it stated, running quickly through the statistics from LoveFest, the new incentive structure. And then at the end:
It seems LoveLocked may not be Ms Baker’s only baby for long.
In an emotional speech, the popular entrepreneur revealed that she was infertile, and looking to adopt. AustraStock analyst Phil Shepherd said the news didn’t alter his buy recommendation for her upcoming IPO. ‘If anything, the opposite,’ he told Investor Notebook. ‘This brings Melinda much closer to her sales and customer demographic and might make her more relatable to her core constituency. And if there is one woman who can juggle both a multimillion-dollar business and motherhood, it’s Melinda Baker.’
Melinda sat back in her chair. The chances were zero, less than. Single woman, working fifteen-hour days, six days a week, across three time zones. No family support. An impractical glass-filled, sharp-edged apartment, not even safety locks on the windows. There was no way in hell anyone would give her a baby. But it would look good to try. And she really had to now. She didn’t need anyone accusing her of lying, any clever journalists wondering why there was no paperwork. Melinda leaned forward and started to type.