It was Lou’s birthday picnic. Melinda and Aimee’s idea, a big celebration down by the river, just friends, family and a few thousand of her closest neighbours. Because it was also the first day of the Hensley Town Festival, an event conceived in the very bowels of hell. Nine long days of go-kart races and fundraisers, baking competitions and art exhibitions, tea parties and vineyard tours and self-congratulatory speeches and picnic lunches. Like this one. Lou had always felt it the ultimate irony, to be born in the same week as the town she couldn’t wait to be shot of. And now she was thirty-five and Hensley was one hundred and sixty, and both of them were still bloody there.
Lou stood at the top of the main street, watching the activity down by the river, and rearranged her face into a smile. Because she had to be cheerful at events like this, lest the others think she’d stopped making an effort. She caught them watching sometimes, checking for signs she hadn’t given up. Which was laughable. The thing about raising a child on your own was that you didn’t get to give up. You might not always wear the cleanest clothes, or wash your hair, or greet your friends with enthusiasm and good humour, but you didn’t get to stop. You didn’t ever, ever, get to stop.
‘Louise,’ called a high-pitched voice. Sharna from the post office. The town’s unofficial crier, she waved as she manoeuvred two small grandsons and her husband down towards the river. ‘Happy birthday! I understand the girls have organised quite the celebration for you! Aren’t you lucky?’
Lou gave her an ironic thumbs up. ‘So lucky!’
And grateful. That was the other thing with being a single mum — you had to be so grateful, all the bloody time, for everything anyone did for you, no matter how unwelcome. The invitations to seminars on how to fix your life. The set-up dates with deadbeat single dads who’d never paid for a nappy. The ‘thoughtful’ gifts. Last year, Melinda and Aimee had bought her a massage voucher that cost as much as her monthly power bill. Pamper yourself! She’d gone, but the whole time she’d lain there, having her chakras opened with hot stones, Lou had just thought, What a waste.
She could see Melinda below, spreading out a blanket smack-bang in front of the rotunda. Perfect for watching the band, yet far enough away from the crowds and the speakers. But of course Melinda would secure the prime spot. Nothing less would be acceptable. There were wicker picnic baskets dotted artfully around, a silver wine bucket next to her, filled with ice and what looked like sunscreen and fancy sprays. Aimee’s contribution, no doubt. Nice to have the time to mess about with things like that. Lou had spent the morning doing the council accounts, gone in at five so she could have her birthday afternoon off.
No. Stop it. She shook her head, literally shook it, to try to force the nasty thoughts out. Enough. These were the women who’d rallied around her when no one else wanted to know, who’d driven hundreds of kilometres back from uni every month to check that she was okay, who’d left groceries on her doorstep and then denied it so she could save a bit of face. God, what was wrong with her? Since Tansy’s announcement, Lou had been hit by a wave of self-pity and resentment she hadn’t experienced since her first months of motherhood. And she didn’t like it.
Melinda was looking for her now, hands on hips, scanning the crowd. Lou took a few steps onto the grass, but instead of plunging into the mass of excited parents and children, she swerved, ducking behind a row of fast-food stalls. The smell wasn’t the best — oily and hot, the popcorn already rancid — but at least it was private. Lou pulled a box of cigarettes — the third she’d bought since the doctor’s surgery — out of her handbag, and lit up.
One puff, two, head swivelling to make sure she couldn’t be seen. This was like being back at high school. Lou perched awkwardly on an upturned plastic crate, trying not to crush her new dress. She needed to sort out her attitude, like she was always telling Tansy. Aimee and Melinda organising a party for her was lovely. It was just that the last thing Lou felt like doing was celebrating. There was nothing to celebrate, from where she was sitting.
Lou took a final drag. But she would, for her friends. Eat and drink and laugh and pretend nothing was wrong. Accept her spa voucher or pointless sequinned clutch with fake enthusiasm, and try to ignore the fact that her life at thirty-five was no different from how it had been at thirty-four, or thirty-three, or thirty-two. Or how it would be at thirty-six. She still had nowhere to carry a sequinned clutch.
Lou rubbed her cigarette along the stubbly grass. She fished a roll of mints and an old body spray out of her handbag and sanitised herself, reapplied her lipstick. At least she looked nice. She took a moment to rearrange the crepe cocktail frock she’d picked up in the Country Road sale: still $160, way more than she’d normally spend, but it made her look curvy rather than dumpy and showed off her cleavage. Lou had felt almost attractive in the changing room, with its flattering lights and magic slimming mirror. She caught the teenage boy manning the hot-dog stand staring as she hoicked up her breasts and gave him a wink. He went bright red and dropped a sausage, fumbled trying to retrieve it and dropped the tongs. Lou laughed out loud. Still got it. By the time she stepped back into the crowd she was genuinely smiling. Right then. Let the bloody celebrations begin.
Everybody wanted something. Melinda kept a taut smile on her face, as tight as the gazebo strings she was adjusting, as a steady stream of Hensleyites stopped by her patch and tried to interest her in their business ideas, their expansion plans, their unwanted kittens.
‘A cat?’ she asked, hammering in the strings with her little mallet. ‘What would I want with a cat?’
‘Mum thought it might be good for you,’ reported a horribly honest child. ‘Since you’re all on your own. Said you probably needed the company.’
Melinda was still fuming when Lou came trotting down the hill in something far too low-cut. ‘Do I look like a crazy cat woman to you?’ she asked Lou, kissing her. She stopped, sniffed. ‘Have you been smoking?’
‘Tansy.’ Lou pulled a bottle of something nasty-looking out of her handbag and sprayed it around, covering them both in cheap vanilla. ‘This looks amazing,’ she said, taking in the gazebo, the pastel picnic rugs, the chilled bottles of champagne. She fingered the gingham bunting. ‘Aimee do this?’
‘No!’ said Melinda. ‘I did. I can be domestic as well, actually.’
‘Oh shit, sorry,’ said Lou. ‘But of course you did. It’s colour-coordinated, and it’s ready on time.’ She looked around their little campsite. ‘Where is Aimee, anyway?’
‘Still at the house, icing your cake,’ said Melinda. ‘Where’s Tans?’
‘Helping her, apparently.’ Lou grabbed a piece of mango from a bowl of chopped fruit. ‘Wonders will never cease.’ She shook her head, gave a bright smile. ‘This does look fantastic,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Melinda squeezed Lou into a side hug. ‘Happy birthday, my lovely. Wait till you see what we’ve got you for a present.’
The embankment was filling up now, passers-by staring enviously at their floaty tent and all its goodies. ‘Is it too early for a drink?’ asked Lou.
‘Never,’ said Melinda. ‘Actually — I’m really glad you’re here first.’ She popped the cork on a bottle of Moët. ‘Oh, why not,’ she said, when Lou raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s your birthday. Let’s go crazy.’ She dropped a strawberry into Lou’s glass and filled it. ‘To you,’ she said, clinking.
‘To us,’ said Lou. ‘Still speaking, after thirty years.’
‘Miracle, isn’t it?’ Melinda pulled Lou down onto one of the blankets. ‘Speaking of us. And speaking of speaking, can you do me a favour and have a word with Aimee?’
‘A word?’
Melinda lowered her voice. ‘About this plane accident.’
‘Oh God.’ Lou had clearly forgotten. ‘Pete Kasprowicz and his son. That was awful.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Melinda, not wanting to get into details of the awfulness. ‘But I’m worried about how Aimee is taking it.’
‘Taking it?’
Was Lou living on another planet? ‘Her obsession with it. And,’ Melinda glanced over her shoulder, ‘this whole crazy idea that our letting-go exercise might have had something to do with it.’
‘Right.’ Lou swirled her champagne, brow creasing. ‘Do you think there’s any chance it did? That we did?’
‘Not at all.’ Melinda was emphatic. ‘You know we didn’t. It was miles away.’
‘Yes.’
‘There were fireworks everywhere. It was dark. They flew straight into a hill. And I don’t mean to be rude, but Peter Kasprowicz is only an amateur pilot.’
‘Right.’
Melinda topped up Lou’s glass. She needed to shut the situation down before it became one. Because when Aimee got obsessed about something, she started reassurance-seeking, and Melinda did not need Aimee asking everyone in town if they thought she and her friends had caused a plane accident. She shuddered internally at what Clint’s reaction would be. ‘Reputation is everything at this stage,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t want anyone to even catch you littering.’
‘Look,’ said Melinda. ‘You know what Aimee’s like when she gets one of these ideas stuck in her head, decides she’s responsible for something. She stops being able to see straight. Her thoughts loop. It’s painful for her.’
Lou nodded.
‘I don’t want to see her go through that again.’
‘Especially since she’s not on her medication any more.’
‘She’s not?’ Shit. ‘Well, let’s make sure she doesn’t have to go back on it.’
Lou took a swig of her champagne. ‘I worry about her sometimes,’ she said. ‘Sitting in that big old house all day, scribbling in her notebooks.’
‘Exactly.’
‘All that time in her own head. It can’t be good for her.’
‘She needs a proper job. Or to be more involved in the vineyard. Something.’
Lou nodded, as Melinda knew she would. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.
‘You know my theory,’ said Melinda. ‘Nature abhors a vacuum. If you’re not working, you have time to come up with all sorts of crazy. Look at the gossipy school mums you have to deal with.’
Lou pulled a face.
‘So, are you with me?’ Melinda looked Lou straight in the eye, her closing-the-deal look. ‘Actually, maybe don’t have a word, but if she mentions the accident, can you just not engage? Remember what the therapist woman said last time. No enabling, no reassuring. If she brings it up, we shut the subject right down.’
‘Okay.’ Lou took another swig of champagne. ‘That sounds sensible.’
‘I’m only thinking of Aimee,’ said Melinda. ‘I don’t want to see her go downhill again.’ She took a decent swallow of her own drink. ‘And I’ll be honest,’ she said, as the bubbles hit her bloodstream, ‘I don’t really fancy people in town having another reason to talk about me. I imagine you don’t either.’
Lou stared off towards the river. ‘No,’ she said, sounding sad. ‘I’d rather they didn’t.’
Maybe that was a little near the bone. Lou had been the talk of Hensley for months when she’d got pregnant. Who was the father, would she keep the baby? While Melinda skipped happily back to university, Aimee following, visiting whenever they were home with stuffed toys and little outfits, but whispering their relief to each other on the way back to Melbourne afterwards. Thank goodness it wasn’t them.
Melinda shuffled around so she was sitting next to Lou, looking at the crowds gathered below them on the riverbank, unpacking tarpaulins and picnics, but nothing as nice as theirs. She put an arm around her friend. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For not being more tactful,’ said Melinda. ‘And for not telling you enough what an awesome job you’re doing, raising Tansy.’
Lou gave a hiccupy snort-laugh.
‘You are,’ said Melinda. ‘A fantastic job. You should be proud of yourself. I know you think she’s out of control sometimes, but I don’t think she’s that different from how we were.’ She thought of Lou’s secret teenage tattoo, of Aimee’s ill-advised Goth stage. ‘She’s beautiful and energetic and clever, and she’ll sort herself out. Honestly, this is just a phase. Tansy’s going to be fine.’
Lou shuddered a little, and Melinda squeezed tighter. ‘Oh Lou- Lou,’ she said. ‘Don’t get teary. See, this is what happens when you drink before lunch. And you know what the cure is?’ Lou shook her head. ‘More champagne. Here. Pass me your glass.’
Aimee sat happily under the gazebo enjoying the band, the darkening sky, the twinkling fairy lights. And the champagne. She was especially enjoying the champagne. She’d arrived to find Lou and Melinda already half-cut and felt obliged to catch up. Which she had, easily. Melinda kept producing bottle after bottle, like some kind of Moët magician, making one of Aimee’s favourite occasions even more special.
Aimee adored the Hensley Festival, always had. At events like this she could feel the whole town wrapped around her, like a warm blanket. She waved at Sam the newsagent and his wife, at the Surthis and their new baby. She loved the sense of community, the sharing of scones from Tupperware containers. She volunteered for everything during festival week, or at least all the safe activities, things like cake judging and flower arranging, where only feelings were likely to be hurt. Backroom roles. Although this year she’d somehow agreed to write a poem for the town’s anniversary and recite it, in front of everyone, at the annual concert. The mayor was giving her top billing. Actually, Aimee wasn’t looking forward to that particular event so much. That particular event might necessitate a Valium.
But right now, it was time for cake. Aimee was particularly proud of the cake. Three layers of chocolate espresso torte, made with almond flour so it was extra dense, heavy cream between the layers. She and the girls had spent all morning trying to replicate a marbled mirror icing that Shelley had seen on YouTube, scraping it off three times before they got it right.
She gave a nod, and Shelley and Tansy pulled the cake out of the esky. ‘Tah dah!’ they said, wobbling slightly. Clearly the adults weren’t the only ones enjoying the champagne.
‘No way,’ said Lou. ‘Did you two make this? This is amazing.’
‘Well, Mum helped,’ said Shelley.
Lou nodded. ‘Good to see she’s earning her keep.’
‘Set it up on one of the tables,’ Aimee directed. ‘Carefully. Byron, give them a hand.’ She rummaged in her bag, pulled out the special candles she’d bought earlier. ‘Bugger. Has anyone got a lighter?’
No one did. Aimee sent the kids off to ask around.
‘Honestly, that is one hell of a cake,’ said Lou, inspecting. She laid a gentle finger on the mirror icing, glassy and perfect. ‘It seems a shame to stick candles in it.’
‘But we have to,’ said Aimee. ‘You need to make a wish.’
‘Didn’t we already do that for New Year’s?’ said Lou.
The mention of their letting-go ceremony struck Aimee’s chest like a tiny arrow, but it didn’t penetrate. Didn’t set her heart racing. Good. She was secretly proud that she hadn’t brought up the accident all day, despite the morning paper reporting that there was going to be a formal inquiry. She’d practised her deep breathing and kept her thoughts to herself. The champagne was helping with that too, making everything feel lighter. Maybe she should develop a drinking problem. She gave a little giggle.
‘Aimee?’ said Lou.
‘Nothing.’ Aimee smiled. ‘So what did you wish for? When we . . . you know.’
‘To get out of here, of course,’ said Lou. ‘What do you think?’ She looked at Aimee. ‘What did you wish for?’
Aimee was conscious of Nick beside her, ready with the cake knife, of Byron hovering awkwardly at the edge of the gazebo, of Shelley eagerly holding out a box of matches. ‘Nothing important.’ She put her arm around her daughter. ‘Good girl.’ Hang on. Why were there only two teenagers? ‘Where’s Tansy?’ she asked.
‘She met some people, down by the stage.’ Shelley looked uncomfortable. ‘She said she’d be back later.’
‘Well that’s just bloody rude,’ said Nick. ‘I’m going to go find her.’
Lou looked embarrassed; Aimee shot him a warning look.
‘No,’ said Nick. ‘It’s your birthday, she should be here. Shelley, you call her and tell her to come back.’
Lou shook her head. ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘We were lucky to keep her this long. Let’s just get on with it.’
‘Right then,’ said Aimee extra brightly. ‘Who’s going to be brave and stick these candles in for me?’
Shelley stepped forward, taking the bright-yellow 3 and 5 from Aimee’s hand, and screwing their plastic bases into the cake. The icing cracked as the glaze gave, tiny fissures running in all directions.
‘Oh no,’ said Lou.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Nick, handing her the knife. ‘You’re going to have to cut into it anyway.’
Lou moved so she was behind the cake, positioned the knife above the shiny icing.
‘Wait!’ cried Shelley, shaking the matches. She held the wavering flame carefully to one candle, then the other, and Aimee tried not to think of their lanterns. ‘You need to make a wish,’ she said, forcing the image out of her head.
‘Wish,’ they all called. ‘Wish, wish!’
Lou gave them a half-smile and bent her head forward. Melinda held her hair back, as though they were sixteen again and someone was going to spew.
‘Well?’ asked Nick. ‘Was it your usual, or does being thirty- five warrant a whole new wish?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Aimee. She winked at Melinda and motioned for her to get ready. Melinda turned slightly so Aimee could see the blue-and-green package behind her back. ‘We know what Lou’s wish is,’ said Aimee. ‘To see the world.’ She grinned, bubbling with the delicious anticipation of what was coming next. ‘Well, maybe this will help.’
Melinda set the fat little parcel on the table in front of Lou. They’d wrapped it in maps, layers and layers of them, like a child’s pass-the-parcel, torn from an old picture book of Byron’s: Italy, Spain, Japan. Aimee had deliberately not used the Australian pages.
‘Open it!’ the children called.
Aimee got ready with the camera, the proper Nikon, not just the one on her phone. She couldn’t wait to see Lou’s face when she unwrapped this year’s present. This was even better than the vintage Betsey Johnson clutch. Aimee and Melinda had truly outdone themselves.
Lou took her time, turning the parcel over, feeling the hard little sides of it. She’s guessed, thought Aimee, but no, Lou looked completely taken aback when she finally peeled off the last layer of paper and took out the passport.
‘What —’ Lou’s face was white. ‘But how?’
‘We applied for you!’ Aimee was fizzing, like the champagne. ‘Melinda’s idea. Tansy found us your birth certificate and your driver’s licence photo, and we filled in all the forms. Melinda had to pretend to be you, and Sharna at the post office had to pretend not to know she was really Melinda, but let’s not dwell on that bit too much —’
‘No, let’s not,’ said Melinda.
‘But we knew you wouldn’t mind. And — here you go!’
Lou looked shell-shocked.
‘Hey.’ Nick leaned over the table, tapped a white envelope sticking out of the passport. ‘I think the girls have another surprise for you.’
It was a travel voucher, for five hundred dollars.
‘Just to get you on your way,’ said Melinda.
‘You can use it with any airline,’ said Aimee.
Lou put her face in her hands and burst into tears.
Melinda had taken over, and for that Lou was grateful. She hustled the three of them into a taxi, threw her car keys at Nick and instructed him and the kids to pack everything up.
‘To the old commercial hotel,’ she told the driver, while Lou sat between her friends and cried. Cried in a way she’d never cried before, not when she’d realised she was pregnant, not when her parents had disowned her, not when she’d found herself filling out application forms for child support rather than university. She cried so hard her breathing couldn’t keep up, as though a dam had burst and sixteen years of disappointment was finally gushing free. The others hugged her nervously; Lou was a little freaked out herself. She knew she was pissed off, but not that she was this miserable. By the time they reached Melinda’s she’d run out of tears and was hiccupping like a colicky baby.
‘Right,’ said Melinda, when they were all inside and she had the kettle on. ‘What on earth is going on?’
‘Tansy’s pregnant.’
It was a relief to finally say it. Lou felt a perverse pleasure in the shock on Aimee and Melinda’s faces. See. This was earth-shattering. This really was the end of the world.
‘Fuck,’ breathed Aimee, who never swore.
‘Bloody hell,’ agreed Melinda. ‘Oh Lou. I’m so . . . sorry?’ She put the fancy tin of tea bags she was holding back down on the bench. ‘God, I don’t even know what the appropriate response is.’
‘I don’t think there is one,’ said Lou. Hallmark didn’t make ‘Congratulations on Your Pregnant Teenager’ cards.
‘What does she want to do?’ said Aimee.
‘Who’s the father?’ said Melinda.
‘Does she want to have the baby?’ asked Aimee. ‘Keep it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lou, slumping against the bench. She could feel the damp of the sink seeping into the back of her new dress, already irreparably crumpled by the taxi ride. ‘I don’t really know anything,’ she admitted. ‘We haven’t really talked about it.’
‘Why the hell not?’ said Melinda.
‘I didn’t want to push her.’
‘Well, you clearly have to.’ Melinda picked up the tea bags again, made a big bustle of sorting out mugs. ‘You have to make her tell you.’
Lou crossed her arms. ‘I’m not going to make her do anything.’
‘But you need to know who the father is, at least,’ said Melinda. ‘What the circumstances are. She’s still only sixteen, isn’t she? So this could be a case of . . . well.’ She pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge, poured it straight in their tea without sniffing it. In Melinda’s house, the milk was always fresh. ‘I mean, she could have been coerced. Taken advantage of. Especially if he’s older.’
Lou shook her head. ‘I don’t think Tansy needs anyone to take advantage of her,’ she said grimly. ‘God, that sounds awful, but you know what I mean. Anything she’s got herself into, she’s got herself into.’ Got them both into. Lou tried not to think about the stiff little passport in her handbag, its virgin pages that would stay that way. ‘She’s always been . . . I couldn’t . . .’ Lou stopped. Tansy was just Tansy. That was the problem.
‘Now, Lou,’ said Melinda, passing her a mug, ‘this is not your fault.’
Lou frowned. ‘I didn’t think it was.’
‘Well, just with all the statistics.’ Melinda had switched to her slightly patronising voice, the one she used with the slower sales associates who didn’t quite get it. Lou had been one of Melinda’s ‘curators’ when Tansy was young. The fact she’d managed to handle having Melinda as a boss for nearly a year without becoming violent was a minor miracle.
‘Statistics?’ asked Lou quietly. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘You know, teenage mothers creating more teenage mothers. The cycle.’
‘I created this?’ Lou’s hands tightened around her tea. ‘We’re part of a cycle?’
‘Sugar?’ Aimee moved between the two of them. ‘Biscuits? Have you got any biscuits, Mel? I really fancy something sweet.’
Melinda flushed, her neck blotching a deep pink as though someone had thrown hot tea at her. ‘It’s just more likely, that’s all. Kids with Tansy’s upbringing. To repeat what they know. It’s really common. What I mean is, you can’t blame yourself.’
Lou placed her mug back on the bench. ‘I don’t,’ she said slowly. ‘But it sounds like you think I should.’
‘No!’ said Melinda. ‘Of course not. I’m just saying I see how you could, if . . . Oh, never mind. This is coming out wrong.’
‘Yes,’ said Lou. ‘It is.’
‘Lou?’ Aimee pulled the French doors to the living room shut behind her as she stepped outside. ‘Sweetheart? Can I join you?’
Lou shrugged. Aimee decided to take that as a yes. She stepped around Melinda’s artfully distressed deckchairs and terracotta pots of basil as she made her way across the balcony. Lou looked almost luminous in the streetlights, leaning over the wooden railing in her floaty dress.
‘Can I have a puff of that?’ Aimee asked, holding out her hand.
Lou snorted. ‘You don’t smoke.’
‘Neither do you.’
‘Well, desperate times and all that.’ Lou still didn’t turn her head.
Aimee shuffled over so they were standing side by side. Below them, families flooded back into the main street from the river, laughing and calling to one other, clearly having a much better evening than Aimee and her friends. ‘You know she doesn’t mean it,’ she said.
Lou said nothing.
‘She doesn’t understand. Because she doesn’t have her own.’ Aimee took a drag of the cigarette Lou passed her and tried not to think about the last time they were on this balcony together. ‘Ugh. Nope, still foul.’ She handed it back with a shallow cough.
‘It was a shitty thing to say.’
Aimee nodded, trying to swallow away the burnt tobacco taste. ‘It was.’
‘Do you think it’s my fault?’
‘Of course not.’ Aimee searched for the right words. Words that would make things better rather than worse. ‘And neither does she. It’s just . . . you know what she’s like. She sees life as a series of challenges to excel at, and motherhood doesn’t work that way, obviously.’
‘The reason I’m not pushing Tansy on this isn’t because I’m a lousy mother. The reason I’m not pushing her is because I don’t want to be my mother. I don’t want history to completely bloody repeat itself.’
‘I know.’ God, the hours she spent interpreting Melinda’s comments for those who required a little more humanity in their interactions. ‘I get it, I really do. But Melinda’s black and white, you know that. Something is either right or wrong, and if it’s wrong, how do we fix it? She doesn’t really deal in flexibility.’ Aimee sank into a deckchair. She didn’t feel drunk any more, but the champagne had definitely loosened her tongue. ‘I sometimes think it’s just as well she didn’t have her own,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she’d have been very . . . cuddly.’
Lou stubbed her cigarette half-heartedly on the railing and threw it over the side. Little sparks escaped it as it fell. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘She’s far too wrapped up in her own life for children. Too self-absorbed. All those courses. All that travel. You can’t do that if you’ve got kids.’
Aimee willed herself to stay in the chair, not to get up and check where the smouldering cigarette had landed. ‘But I don’t think she ever really wanted them either,’ she said, speaking more to distract herself than continue the conversation. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t exactly describe her as maternal.’
‘Well, she can stop telling me what to do with mine then.’
‘She can’t help it,’ said Aimee. ‘She likes to manage things.’ She forced herself to lean back into the generous cushions. The cigarette would go out, and there was only concrete beneath them anyway. ‘Maybe the world is just divided into two types of people: parents, and those who’ve never experienced the madness.’
‘Parents, and people who were never meant to be.’ Lou sounded bitter. ‘At least you understand. I mean, this could be you and Shelley.’
‘Well, let’s be honest, it would never be Shelley,’ said Aimee. ‘I don’t have to worry about anything with her, thank goodness.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘But I worry about Byron all the time,’ Aimee said quickly. ‘And then I worry that worrying makes me horrible and old-fashioned and prejudiced.’
‘It doesn’t,’ said Lou. ‘It makes you his mum.’
‘I’m scared I’m getting it wrong.’
‘You’re not,’ Lou said loyally.
Aimee sighed. ‘Nick always seems to say the right thing. But me? If I ask too many questions, I worry I’m prying. If I don’t ask, I worry I’m being neglectful. That he might think I’m not taking an interest because he’s gay, you know?’ Aimee bit her lip. This was the stuff that kept her awake at night. ‘I like to think I’d be freaked out by Byron growing up regardless, but what if this isn’t a normal mother-type freak-out? What if I’m not as open-minded as I think?’
‘I think you’re overthinking it.’
‘Well there’s a first.’
Lou laughed out loud.
‘Maybe there is no perfect balance,’ said Aimee. ‘Care too much, they end up in therapy. Don’t care enough, they end up in therapy.’
‘Or pregnant,’ said Lou.
Aimee shook her head. ‘Now that’s where Melinda is right,’ she said. ‘This is so not your fault. You’ve done everything you could for Tansy.’ And Aimee was going to give that girl a piece of her mind later, for running off on her mum’s birthday. Especially now. ‘Children are going to make their own mistakes regardless,’ she continued. ‘All we can do is pick up the pieces, and hope there aren’t too many of them.’ She reached over and took Lou’s hand. ‘But Tansy’s pregnancy doesn’t need to take over the rest of your life. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘She’s sixteen.’
‘So you help her out for a couple of years. But not forever. Not if you don’t want to.’
Lou closed her eyes. ‘I just felt like I was almost done with the hard stuff, you know?’
‘You are almost done,’ said Aimee. ‘This is a delay. Not a cancellation.’ She gave Lou’s hand a squeeze. ‘You’ll still use that passport, I promise.’
Lou shrugged.
‘Lou, listen to me. You don’t have to raise this child for Tansy. God, she won’t even want you to. At the beginning, yes, of course. She’ll need you. But eventually’ — Aimee pictured Tansy’s stubborn little chin, the same as Lou’s — ‘she’ll put you in a taxi to the airport herself.’
‘I guess.’ Lou wandered over to the edge of the balcony, pulling herself up onto the railing in a move that made Aimee’s stomach drop. ‘I didn’t wish to travel though,’ she admitted.
‘Sorry?’
‘Tonight. Blowing out the candles. Nick was right.’ Lou was fiddling with her lighter again. ‘I wished she wouldn’t have the baby.’
‘Ah,’ said Aimee. Crikey. ‘Then you really do need to have a chat with her, sooner rather than later, don’t you?’
Just as well she never had children. Not particularly maternal. Too self-absorbed. Melinda sat on the end of her bed and replayed the nastiest of the insults in her head. What else had Lou and Aimee said? Not exactly cuddly. Melinda wrapped her thin arms around herself, clutching her tiny biceps, the muscles she trained four times a week to define. Because yes, she did go to the gym, just as she went to conferences and personal-development courses and away on work trips, because you had to fill your life with something. It wasn’t selfish, it was practical. She could hardly sit at home twiddling her thumbs, waiting for the husband-and-baby fairy to turn up.
She could see the two of them silhouetted through her gauze drapes, heads close together, completely unaware of their voices floating through the open door to Melinda’s bedroom. Was that really what they thought of her? Was this how they talked about her when she wasn’t around? Melinda stared miserably at her highly impractical, non-child-friendly cream silk rug. It must be. They’d been so casual, so matter-of-fact. Oh yeah, Melinda, not mother material. Presumably they didn’t think she was wife or girlfriend material either. Melinda pressed her lips together. It was one thing for her to worry about her lack of meaningful relationships, but another thing entirely for everyone else to think she wasn’t capable of having them. And it must be everyone, she realised. Because people had stopped asking when she was going to settle down, had stopped teasing her about whether she could hear the clock ticking. Her father hassled her brother, Matthew, about grandchildren, but not Melinda. Worse, he never really had.
Melinda stumbled into her ensuite and ran herself a glass of water. A new packet of contraceptive pills sat next to her toothbrush; she’d been taking them for her skin since she was thirteen. Handy, she’d thought, not to have to worry about pimples and accidents, to know exactly when you were due. When she’d realised you could skip a cycle she’d decided to stay on the pill for the rest of her life. ‘Aren’t you worried,’ one of her university housemates had asked — a girl who went on to become a biochemist, no less — ‘that it will permanently mess with your hormones?’ Melinda had ignored her, in love with the convenience of periods-on-demand, but what if her housemate had been right? What if the reason she had no real maternal instinct was that she’d been medicating it away? Worse, what if other people could smell it? The pill mimicked the first month of pregnancy, didn’t it, which meant she might not be giving off some vital ovulation pheromones. Maybe all men got from her was Clarins and Chanel, and not the eau de fertile they were sniffing around for.
Melinda leaned her forehead against the icy cold of the bathroom mirror. She stared down her black silk vest at her small, stretch-mark-free breasts and tiny pink nipples. Like a teenager’s, Dave-the-married had marvelled. You’ve got the body of an eighteen-year-old. But he’d still returned to the generously curved mother of his three children. Melinda had googled her, found a Facebook page full of homemade birthday cakes and fancy-dress costumes. Like a candidate for mother of the bloody year.
‘This is not helping,’ she hissed at her reflection. ‘This is negative thinking.’ There was a dull ache behind her forehead; her hangover was kicking in. Melinda opened the medicine cabinet and fished out a box of Panadol, knocking her contraceptive pills into the sink. They stared mockingly up at her in the moonlight, round and cute and peach and pointless. ‘Fuck off,’ Melinda told them, picking up the little plastic strip and flicking it into the bin.
‘Melinda?’ A male shadow hovered in her bedroom doorway. ‘Are you in there?’
Nick. ‘Hang on,’ she called, tidying her hair with her fingers. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ She gave her teeth the world’s quickest brush, silently spitting, before stepping back into the bedroom.
He was inspecting the 55-inch TV she’d had installed above the dresser. Curved screen, surround sound. ‘This’ll keep you company at night,’ the delivery guy had joked. Melinda had given him a scathing online review.
‘I came back to drop off the cake,’ Nick said, tearing himself away from the TV. ‘Make sure everything was all right.’ He looked slightly ridiculous with a Tupperware container tucked under his arm like a football. ‘What are you doing hanging out here in the dark?’ he asked. ‘And where are the others?’
Melinda quietly pulled the balcony door closed. ‘Headache,’ she said. ‘Too much champagne.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Lou and Aimee are outside having a chat,’ she continued. ‘About Tansy. Mum stuff. You know.’
‘Ah.’ Nick shuffled uncomfortably as his gaze bounced around her bedroom, from her open underwear drawer to the unmade bed. ‘Bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with all that.’
For fuck’s sake, had the whole world written her off? She stared icily at Nick. ‘Actually, I’m still thinking I might.’
‘You?’ Nick gave a half-laugh. ‘You always said you didn’t want any.’
‘Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes, really,’ said Melinda. ‘I’ve realised I might have been wrong.’ She pictured Aimee giggling over her lack of maternal instinct and felt a sudden kick of nasty in her blood. ‘About a lot of things.’
Nick stared at her, inscrutable in the shadows. ‘Shame you didn’t figure that out earlier.’
Melinda could take that either of two ways; she chose the safer option. ‘I’m planning to adopt, actually,’ she said, the idea coming out of absolutely nowhere. ‘So age won’t matter.’
‘Right,’ said Nick, stony-faced. ‘Well, good for you.’
It could have been eighteen years ago; the conversation had the same cold deliberateness of their old arguments. Small, pointed sentences, dropped with the precision of heat-seeking missiles.
‘Thank you,’ Melinda said, turning her back on Nick and their shared past, and heading for the safety of the well-lit lounge. ‘I’m very excited about it.’
‘Excited about what?’ Aimee and Lou were cuddled up on the sofa like teenage BFFs, a tub of melting ice cream between them. ‘Oooh, is that the cake?’ continued Aimee. There was a smudge of double chocolate near her elbow on Melinda’s off-white upholstery. ‘Thank goodness. Daytime drinking always makes me hungry.’ She wriggled excitedly, further griming the ice cream into the couch. ‘Cut us a slice, will you, Nick? A big fat one, lots of icing.’
Nick opened a drawer in the middle of the kitchen island and pulled out a stack of plates. ‘Aren’t you going to tell them?’ he asked.
Outplayed. Melinda shot him a look. ‘I’m thinking about adopting,’ she said.
‘What, a baby?’ asked Aimee.
‘No, a fucking puppy,’ said Melinda. ‘Yes, a baby. Or a child. Whatever’s possible.’ Silence. ‘Well, you needn’t look so surprised.’
Lou didn’t look surprised. She looked horrified. ‘But you —’
‘Have been thinking about it for a while, actually,’ said Melinda. ‘Ever since I visited the orphanage in Vietnam.’ Another solo holiday. Two weeks on her own, taking cooking lessons and village tours, anything to keep herself occupied. ‘I just think it’s time.’
Aimee eyeballed her. ‘Right.’
‘Yes.’ Melinda marched into the kitchen. She grabbed a knife out of the block and began carving up the remains of the cake. ‘Like I said, it’s very exciting.’ She slapped two plates down on the coffee table in front of her friends. ‘What, you’re not happy for me?’
Lou scrabbled around on the floor in front of her. ‘I don’t think I can be happy about any baby news right now, to be honest,’ she said, shoving her feet into a pair of scuffed mules. She grabbed her handbag. ‘Sorry, but I really can’t take any more surprise announcements.’ She looked around, slightly wildly. ‘I have to go.’
Melinda knew she should probably feel bad, but she didn’t. There was too much hurt and anger in the way.
‘Lou, wait,’ called Aimee. ‘How are you going to get home?’
‘Walk,’ came the muffled voice from the hallway. The building shook as the front door slammed.
Aimee turned to Melinda. ‘Oh, well done.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t think that was a bit insensitive?’
That was rich. ‘I don’t, actually,’ said Melinda. ‘Tansy’s pregnancy doesn’t impact my plans.’
‘No, nothing ever impacts your plans.’
‘I’m going to wait in the car,’ said Nick, escaping.
Melinda, however, was ready for a fight. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Come on, say it to my face.
Aimee sighed. ‘Do you not think you could have waited to drop that particular bombshell?’ she said. ‘Given how upset Lou is about Tansy?’
Melinda shrugged.
‘I don’t even think you mean it,’ Aimee continued. ‘So why say it? And why tonight?’
‘Why wouldn’t I mean it?’
‘You’ve never mentioned children before.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in having them,’ said Melinda. ‘Or are you trying to suggest I’m not cut out for it? That I’m too — oh, what’s the word? Self-centred. Too self-absorbed. Not cuddly enough.’
Aimee flushed, her face and chest glowing.
‘That was the nastiest shit anyone has ever said about me,’ said Melinda.
‘I didn’t really mean it,’ Aimee said desperately. ‘I’m still a bit drunk.’
‘Oh, I think you did,’ said Melinda. ‘I think you’ve probably thought it for a long time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Aimee.
She hated confrontation, Melinda knew. Couldn’t stand arguments, especially if she was in the wrong. But Melinda didn’t want to let her off the hook by telling her it was all okay. Because Aimee got to go home and cry to her nice husband in her cosy farmhouse, with a whole family to hug her and beg her not to get upset. While Melinda would be here all alone in her self-made penthouse with just her high-definition TV for company.
‘I’m not really thinking straight at the moment,’ Aimee said. She was pulling at the little ringlets at the base of her hairline, a nervous tick Melinda knew well. ‘This accident, it’s left me feeling a bit unsettled. I can’t focus on anything else, not properly.’ She stared at Melinda, pleadingly. ‘You know how my head can get . . . distracted.’
Melinda did. But she was also a bit sick of how much time they all spent not upsetting Aimee because of her head. No one ever worried about not upsetting Melinda.
‘There’s going to be an inquiry,’ said Aimee, who certainly did seem distracted now the subject of the plane crash was in the room. ‘I read it in the paper. They’re going to look into what might have caused it, search for clues —’
‘Aimee, they have an inquiry when the bloody town loos get blocked.’ Melinda’s headache was back; she just wanted to be in bed now.
‘I know.’ Aimee was clearly debating whether to continue. ‘But —’
‘Aimee. Don’t go there.’
‘But they’re asking for witnesses.’ Aimee spoke quickly, as though it wouldn’t count that way. ‘For anyone who might have seen anything to report it. And we did, we saw a flash, and then what must have been the plane, in flames —’
‘Aimee!’ Melinda slapped her palms down on the kitchen counter. ‘That’s enough. You’re not a witness, you were halfpissed and on the other side of town. You’re not going to report anything. To anyone.’
‘Even if —’
‘No one. And that includes me.’ There was a harshness in Melinda’s voice that surprised them both. ‘I mean it. I don’t want to hear another word from you about this bloody accident. The subject is closed.’