2

Brigitte stared out the window. Sunlight and shadows streaked Gip TV’s manicured lawn; green patches of moisture crept up the thirsty, grey fence. She looked back at the computer screen and tapped two fingertips on the mouse, uninspired about writing a fifteen-second TV-commercial script about water tanks. She opened Facebook and took a bite of her salad roll.

‘Guess who’s going to be in Lakes tomorrow?’

Kumiko, the receptionist, was always sneaking up on her. She swallowed her mouthful. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Guess.’

‘I don’t know. Nick Cave?’

‘No. Give up?’

She nodded and sipped her apple juice through a straw.

‘Matt Elery.’

Kumiko waited until Brigitte stopped choking on her juice, and said, ‘Book signing at Lakes Books.’

She sucked up a big drink.

‘Read any of his books?’

‘Not my cup of tea.’ She opened a drawer, pretended to look for something, and then banged it shut. ‘Have you finished the brief for the Metron TVC yet?’

‘His new novel’s set here.’

Brigitte swivelled her chair.

‘It’s fictionalised, but everybody’s saying it’s Gippsland. About a cop whose wife is found dead in a lake. Called Dead in the Water.’

Brigitte scoffed. ‘He wouldn’t call his book that. Nobody would call their book that.’

‘He did. Wanna go?’

‘Where?’

‘The book signing.’

She pressed down on the arms of her chair. ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’

Cam, the production manager, placed an A4 document in front of Brigitte and tapped it with his knuckles, then chubby fingers. Kumiko scuttled back to the reception desk.

‘What’s this?’ Brigitte looked up at Cam’s lineless face.

‘Bairnsdale farmers’ market script.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing. You have to be on camera for it.’

She frowned and rubbed an eye.

‘Talent hasn’t turned up and we have to shoot it now.’

She shook her head. ‘No way.’

‘Yes way. Has to air before the weekend. Maree Carver’s coming up to promote her new cookbook at the market.’

‘Get Kumiko to do it. She loves being on telly.’

‘No. You’re the only one around here who fits the brief: anglo, friendly looking, late twenties.’

She laughed at the late twenties.

‘Yeah, we’re really pushing it there.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Come on. Won’t take long. Practise your lines in the car.’

Brigitte tied on a Bairnsdale farmers’ market apron while Cam decked out the display kitchen like the set of a cooking show: designer cookware; chopping boards topped with fresh herbs; small bowls filled with oils, condiments, raw eggs. He placed a Metron Homes brochure indiscreetly on the granite bench — a free plug for the use of the location.

Maree’s Family Cooking stood on a bookstand: Maree Carver wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron, and looking up from an old-fashioned, basin-style bowl, a TV-smile on her face. Brigitte opened the book to a cake recipe, and watched Cam untangle cords and set up the camera and lights. Johnno, the lighting technician, was having a sickie.

Cam brought in a step stool for her to stand on, and smirked. ‘For the vertically challenged.’ He filled a mixing bowl with a packet cake mix and asked if she wanted a rehearsal.

‘No, just shoot it. Get it over with.’ A thought fluttered up, like dust: What would Matt Elery look like now? The thought was swept away as Cam stuck his hand down the front of her apron. ‘Oh my God, Cam! What are you doing?’

‘Oh, pleeaase, just trying to attach the lav mic. Here, you do it.’ He handed her the microphone. ‘Stick it in your cleavage.’

She attached the tiny microphone to her skin with double-sided tape, threaded the wire under her apron and shirt, and stuck the transmitter in her back pocket. While she was managing this, she did the maths: He’d be forty-seven now.

When she thought Cam was ready, she looked down the barrel of the camera and said the lines from the script: ‘I always love cooking for my family and I’m so —’

‘I wasn’t ready. You have to wait till I say “action”.’

She groaned.

‘OK. Camera rolling, and, action.’

‘I always love cooking for my family and I’m so excited Maree Carver, from One, Two, Three, Cook!, is coming to Bairnsdale.’ She followed the script — looked engagingly at the cookbook while holding a jug of milk over the bowl.

A watery memory of Matt: He’s wearing long denim shorts and a white T-shirt; his feet are bare. She’s worried about him standing on a syringe in the street. He looks so out of place in this part of town — fresh and shiny against the grunge. She’s looking out a taxi window, sees the flash of his blue eyes from the other side of the street. Was she arriving or leaving? Was that the last time she saw him? No, he came to the hospital years later. ‘Maree will be holding cooking demonstrations at the Bairnsdale market this Sat—’

‘Cut! Bairnsdale farmers’ market. Come on, Brig, you wrote these lines, you should know them.’

She gritted her teeth.

‘Ready? Remember: friendly, happy, happy — preparing a marvellous meal for the kiddies and that sexy hubby of yours.’

Guilt flooded her chest. For what? Thoughts don’t count.

‘Rolling, and, action.’

‘Maree will be holding cooking demonstrations at the Bairnsdale farmers’ market this Saturday.’ She wrinkled her brow, trying to make a confused face like it said in the script. ‘Do I blend or fold? I never know the difference.’ She shrugged and poured the milk into the bowl, stirring with a wooden spoon.

‘OK, great. Now let’s do it again.’ He came from behind the camera and refilled the jug. ‘With a bit more energy this time.’

They shot it again.

And again.

And again.

‘What was wrong that time?’

‘Nothing. Just need a few to choose from when I’m editing. Too many’s better than not enough.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You said this wouldn’t take long.’

‘Depending on the talent.’

‘Fuck off.’

Seventies music — ‘Kiss You All Over’ — swooned from somewhere.

Cam looked around. ‘Where the fuck is that coming from?’

Brigitte shrugged. It got louder.

‘It’s your bag, Brig!’

She gasped, rushed for her handbag, and fished out her phone. Aidan. More guilt. ‘Very funny.’

‘What?’

‘Changing my ringtone.’

‘Knew you’d like it. What do you want?’

‘You rang me.’

‘Returning your call.’

‘Sorry. My phone must have accidentally dialled you. Forgot to lock the screen again.’

‘What are you wearing?’

She turned her back to Cam. ‘Aid! I’m at work.’

‘Me, too. Just dispatched two officers to an in-progress in Ross Street. Suspect allegedly removing roses from some old bloke’s front yard.’

‘Aren’t roses spring flowers?’

‘Always knew you were cut out for detective work. Let you know next time we’re recruiting.’

She glanced over her shoulder at Cam. He was tapping his foot.

‘How about I drive over and take you out for lunch?’

‘Can’t. I’m in the middle of something. Bit late for lunch anyway.’

‘I’m open to other suggestions. I could wear a uniform.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t offer.’

A pause. Something in the silence?

‘Everything OK?’ he said.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘See you tonight.’

She hung up and turned back to Cam. He was looking at his watch. ‘Is it true what they say about Italians?’

She twisted her mouth.

‘He is Italian, isn’t he, your hubby?’ He adjusted the camera. ‘Got any brothers?’

‘Two sisters.’

‘Oh. Let’s go again. Ready? This is the one. Happy, happy, and, action.’

Matt was probably bald. And overweight. She put on a big fake smile. ‘There’s also a great competition you can enter.’ She’d caught the taxi from the car-licensing place in Carlton. She looks so happy, even though they told her not to smile in the photograph on her probationary licence. She feels light. She’s going to tell him. She couldn’t remember exactly why she hadn’t told him, it was hazy — photographs, broken things, yelling on the stairs, closing doors. Their baby would have been eighteen now. She’d buried that thought all these years. She gestured with her hand and knocked over the bowl of eggs. ‘Fuck!’

‘Brigitte!’

They cleaned up the mess, re-dressed the set, and started again.

They were still shooting at four o’clock. Her face hurt from smiling.

‘There’s also a great competition you can enter, with fabulous prizes, including cookbooks and the latest kitchenware.’ She gave one final, vigorous stir, and looked excitedly at the camera. ‘Don’t miss this huge event.’

The script said to taste the batter and make a face. She lifted a spoonful of the runny, white mixture to her mouth and tasted it. ‘I definitely need to be there,’ she said straight to the camera.

‘Cut!’ Cam was laughing.

‘What now?’

‘Maybe don’t taste it. Looks like you’ve just given somebody a blow job.’

***

Brigitte’s phone buzzed as she parked her X-Trail in the Paynesville Primary School car park. A text from Cam: Dinner for Gip TV staff with Maree Carver at the Bateau House 2nite 8pm. She groaned — a long enough day with Cam; she didn’t feel like going. She replied with a white lie about being unable to make it because one of the kids was sick.

The twins were the last two in the school aftercare room, and the teacher was grumpy when Brigitte walked in. And she was late to collect Ella from the kinder-daycare centre.

‘I’m starving. What’s for dinner, Mum?’ Finn asked from the back of the car.

‘Fish.’ She parked on The Esplanade, outside Joe’s fish shop.

‘No fish for me,’ Phoebe said.

‘Get you some potato cakes instead.’

‘And chips,’ Ella said.

‘No, we’ll make a salad at home.’

The kids complained as Brigitte went into Joe’s.

She pushed aside the rainbow of door strips as she entered. There were two tables covered in red-checked cloths. Joe sat at one of them, doing the crossword in the paper, humming along with classical music. He smiled and put a hand on his knee as he stood; stiffness, a wince — she knew that pain.

He asked how the kids were as he walked around behind the counter. She glanced through the fish and bubbles painted on the shopfront and saw Finn doing something to annoy Phoebe; Phoebe was yelling, and Ella was in the middle, crying. The car windows were fogging up. She turned back to Joe and asked how he was.

‘Not bad. Cold weather’s no good for my bones. Sylvia says we should move up north.’ He straightened the brochures on the counter top. ‘Saw Detective Aidan the other day. Some illegal fishing going on round the back of the island.’

‘Yes. Heard about that.’ A breeze from Bass Strait blew across the water and crackled the door strips. Brigitte pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and ordered four bits of fish and a couple of potato cakes.

‘Flatty’s good today.’

‘Got bones?’

‘Fillets shouldn’t have too many. Nice with a parmesan-and-yoghurt crust.’

She wrinkled her nose and said she’d stick with the flake, grilled.

‘So adventurous.’

She shrugged.

They chatted more about the weather and the kids while he cooked the fish, wrapped it, and took her money.

‘Going to the farmers’ market?’ he said. ‘Maree Carver’ll be there.’

‘I know.’

‘We love her. Watch her on telly all the time.’

Brigitte gripped the steering wheel as she drove onto lane one of the ferry and killed the engine. Heat climbed her body like ants. She wound down her window. The kids complained that it was too cold.

Scott, the ferry operator, walked over to greet her. She heard his country music playing softly on the upper deck: ‘Back in My Baby’s Arms Again’.

‘Thought you weren’t working Thursday nights anymore,’ she said, pushing up her sleeves.

‘New bloke called in sick.’ Scott’s loose sweater billowed under his hi-vis safety vest as he waved a few more cars on board. ‘Heard you’re having tea with the telly chef and your hoity-toity friends.’

She laughed. ‘Is there anything anybody doesn’t know about everybody’s business down here?’

‘Nup.’ He ambled across the three-lane vehicle section and climbed the checker-plate steel stairs to the control stand, above the sign that said, Users must follow the directions of the ferry operator at all times.

The ferry buzzed underfoot and creaked in the wind. The hydraulic ramp groaned as it was raised. Panic, as always, turned from heat to ice water trickling down inside her arms to her fingertips. She looked at her white knuckles on the wheel and relaxed her grip. Crank: the gypsy wheels engaged the submerged chains and started to haul the ferry across the 150-metre strait between Lake Victoria and Lake King. She pulled down her sleeves and wound up the window.

The floor of the car seemed to drop beneath her, like in a lift. She caught a whiff of diesel over the fried fish as she did her diaphragm breathing — slowly, in through her nose, out through her mouth — and counted: the techniques a psychologist had taught her to control anxiety after her breakdown following her first husband’s death. Techniques revisited after Aidan had been shot during the raid at Laurie Hunt’s house.

It’s not always this bad, she lied to herself. You’re just tired. She blocked out the kids’ nagging, closed her eyes, and didn’t open them until she felt the jolt of the ferry aligning with the concrete slip on the island.

Zippy carried on as if they’d been away for a month. He jumped and knocked Brigitte back against the gate. The rusty bottom hinge finally gave way. She yelled at him. The kids ran inside and he turned his attention on them.

She stuck her head in the door, and called that she was going to Harry’s to get some lemons for the fish.

On the way, she stood on tiptoes to inspect the bathroom window frame. In the morning rush, she’d forgotten about last night’s commotion. There were some marks at the bottom. Indentations, scratches? She stretched to touch the wood; paint flaked away. Had something been leaned or pushed against it? More likely, the marks had always been there. She took a couple of steps backwards. There was a snapped tree branch hanging low enough for the wind to have blown it against the window. That’s all it was — what the crashing sound must have been. A fat koala, drunk on eucalyptus oil, climbed on it, weighed it down, and fell out of the tree. Aidan had been overreacting again.

She reached up and used all her weight to break the branch off completely.

Harry’s station wagon wasn’t out front of his house. She walked past a boat in his workshop. An unopened cardboard package from Lang Hardware was sitting on the bench.

There was a half beer box of lemons on his porch and a note tucked behind a torn bit of screen on the security door: Brig and Aid. Visiting my mum. Back tomorrow. Help yourselves to lemons and anything from the veggie garden. Harry.

The grass out back had been mown recently. One foot in front of the other, she stepped carefully along the neat brick path between the veggie garden beds. What was Zippy’s squeaky toy duck doing down here among the lettuce leaves? She picked it up. Naughty dog. They’d have to get around to fixing the gate.

Aidan arrived home half an hour later — they must have just missed each other on the ferry. She met him on the porch. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant, is that a gun in your pocket?’

He didn’t seem to find it amusing or cute tonight. Something was up. She followed him inside.

‘No kissing, no kissing.’ Ella giggled, standing between them, pushing them apart. But they weren’t kissing.

Brigitte started telling him about Zippy getting out the gate again, but he seemed distracted and walked over to admire Ella’s latest painting stuck on the fridge.

‘Wow! You’re a great artist. That’s the best painting I’ve ever seen,’ he said without really looking at it.

‘It’s a cow and a farmer and the sun,’ Ella said. ‘For you to take to work.’

He thanked her, crouched for a hug and a kiss, and she ran off to annoy Phoebe. He opened the fridge door, took out a couple of beers, and handed one to Brigitte. ‘Heard you’re gunna be famous.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She laughed through her nose.

Finn yelled from the lounge room for Aidan to come play Xbox.

‘In a minute, OK?’

‘Have you got any homework?’ Brigitte called.

No answer.

Aidan went to change his clothes in the front bedroom, which was really the back bedroom, but they never came in or went out the front way. Brigitte followed and stood in the doorway watching him. A frown, a slight wince as he took off his shirt and pulled on a T-shirt.

‘Your shoulder sore?’ she said.

‘Bit.’

‘Anything I can do to take your mind off it?’

‘Maybe later.’

He slipped off his trousers, folded them, placed them on the bed, and took a pair of jeans from the chest of drawers.

‘Something else wrong?’

He shut the drawer. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Fish and salad.’

He stepped into the jeans. ‘Also heard your old boyfriend’s gunna be in Lakes Entrance tomorrow.’

She felt her neck flush as she sipped her beer. Like her pole-dancing days, the subject of Matt Elery was taboo.

‘You going?’ he said, adjusting himself and zipping his fly.

‘Why would I?’

‘Dunno.’ He looked into her eyes, daring her to look away. ‘Just to see.’

She held his gaze, took another mouthful of beer, and heard herself swallow.