35

Aidan boomed at her from the kitchen to get up and take the kids to school. His emergency-response voice? She covered her head with the pillow, and groaned when Ella jumped on her. ‘Mummy’s not feeling very well,’ Brigitte said. ‘Could you please get my dressing gown and slippers?’

She heard Ella rip the dressing gown off the back of the door, felt her throw it on the bed.

She sat up slowly. She’d slept in her clothes; bra straps twisted and biting into her shoulders. The pillow was make-up-smudged, and her coat lay like a dead rabbit stretched out on the floor. She slid her feet into the slippers. Her mouth tasted like kitty litter; chunks of vomit were caught between the back of her throat and nose. She reached for the tissues on the bedside table, blew her nose, felt dizzy, and had to lie down again. Aidan yelled louder. Crockery and cutlery clashed, and Ella told him that Mummy wasn’t feeling well.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Mummy. She just thinks she’s twenty again. But she’s not.’

‘Are you twenty, Dad?’

‘Bit older. Now go and get dressed.’

‘Are you sixty-seven?’

‘Get a wriggle on.’

Brigitte made it to the bathroom, shut the door, dry-retched over the toilet, and then lay on the cold tiles for a while before running the shower. Too washed-out to stand, she sat on the shower floor and shampooed vomit from her hair. Stupid, Brigitte. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why don’t you ever learn? She hugged her knees to her chest. Her stomach ached as if she’d done a hundred sit-ups. The warm water running over her back was a small comfort. Until Aidan turned on the washing machine, hot cycle.

Aidan ended a call and pocketed his phone when she walked into the kitchen. He was wearing his flannelette shirt again. RDO? She’d lost track of his roster. And she hadn’t looked at him properly for a while. He looked good — fit from boxing, hair not tamed by product.

She caught her reflection on the stainless-steel surface of the toaster: she didn’t look good. She poured a mug of coffee — Fuck, they were out of milk — and slumped at the breakfast bar, leaning her head on her hand. ‘You wanted to talk?’

‘Not anymore.’ He finished his coffee, rinsed his mug, and placed it in the dishwasher. His phone rang, and he took it out on the porch, sliding the doors shut behind him.

I wonder who? She dropped a Berocca into a glass of water and stared at the fizzy orange tablet ricocheting from side to side like an out-of-control spaceship.

Aidan came back inside with extra worry lines on his forehead. ‘Coupla teenage boys just walked into the station and confessed to Zippy’s killing.’

She sat up straight.

‘Off their heads on ice, by the sound of it.’

‘Bastards.’ Anger mingled with relief. Thank God she hadn’t told him about chapter fifteen. ‘What will happen to them?’

‘Be charged with animal cruelty, in the Children’s Court.’

‘And?’

‘A fine, probation.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘It’s too early to know if there’s any link.’ He headed to the door.

‘Can you take the twins to school?’

‘Where’s your car?’

‘Traralgon.’

‘Fuck!’

She winced as he yanked his keys from the hook.

‘Maybe Jeremy could drive you to get it?’ He walked towards the lounge room.

‘Where are you going?’

He turned in the doorway. ‘To get the twins. What’d you think?’

‘And then?’ Fishing again? Something more strenuous maybe?

‘There’s a flat coming up for rent in the block where Ray lives. Thought I might go check it out.’

Bang: her heart crashed against her chest wall. He went to wrangle the twins.

As he walked back through the kitchen, she opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, but she couldn’t speak, the words were stuck. He snatched his wallet from the table and shoved it into his back jeans pocket as he left. The twins dawdled after him, kissing Brigitte on the way past, school bags bumping against their backs.

She looked across at the wedding portrait hanging on the wall. Aidan drop-dead gorgeous in a charcoal suit, Brigitte in a petrol-blue halter-neck dress. Behind them, the concrete-and-copper rotunda, and elm trees in the Edinburgh Gardens, North Fitzroy. She was pregnant with Ella, but you couldn’t tell — only in the glow on her face, which she’d always suspected the photographer had photoshopped. There was only one print of that portrait. They’d have to get it copied. Or just cut it in half! She sniffed. No, she’d keep it; he’d, no doubt, get a new one.

The portrait was surrounded by snapshots: the kids and Zippy; family past; a black-and-white shot of a young, handsome Papa fishing from his old tin boat on Lake King. Next to the photos hung Aidan’s Rothko Four Darks in Red print: four lozenge shapes in different shades of red, from crimson at the bottom to liver-brown at the top. At least she wouldn’t have to look at that anymore. She’d never told him that she didn’t like it. It reminded her of bloodstains. She wiped her eyes and sipped her black coffee.

She called out to see if Ella was OK. Yes, she was watching a Wiggles DVD. Brigitte went back to bed.

Some of Zippy’s wiry hairs still peppered the doona cover. She rang around and organised a lift home from school for the twins.

There was an email from Tate on her phone:

Hey Brig

Last night was fun (aside from the fight). Nose is fine, just a bit bruised, and Cam giving me shit about it. I noticed your car still in the street. Want me to come over after work and drive you to it?

T x

How could he have gone to work? Maybe he hadn’t drunk as much as she had. And he is quite a bit younger, she reminded herself. She replied, saying it was too far to drive; she’d organise some other way to get her car. She signed off with B and an x, and then deleted the x before pressing send.

It’s not too far.

Let me know when you’re ready to read my novel manuscript.

T x

She couldn’t remember agreeing to read his manuscript. She tossed her phone aside and buried her face in the pillow. She’d have to change the sheets soon, and then the smells, the last traces, of Aidan and Zippy would be washed away.