Chapter 19

Beth

I spent the next few days washing and packing, finishing any work that couldn’t be passed to Alannah or shelved until I got back, and worrying about whether we were doing the right thing. When I arrived at Gran’s house on the morning we were due to leave, I was hoping she might provide me with some reassurance. Instead, I found her in a complete tizz. It was unnerving, to say the least; Gran was usually a pillar of calm who I relied on to coax me in off the edge. But, instead of hearing her melodic trills as I dragged my suitcase up her front path, I heard her ranting to herself.

‘Gran?’ I called out through the opened front door. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Come in here, will you,’ she called as she bustled into the kitchen. ‘Come and see what I’ve done.’

I hurried after her and found her standing over the kitchen table staring at a sodden pile of papers. Beside them, a potted cyclamen was lying on its side. Water was cascading off the edge of the table and pooling on the floor, where it was mixing with spilled potting mix. I stepped over the slurried mess and grabbed for her passport which was among the papers. Mercifully, only the cover was wet.

‘Can I smell burning?’ I asked.

‘Oh, God!’ she lunged towards the toaster and popped up a charred piece of bread.

‘Are you okay, Gran?’ More than just frazzled, she looked pale and a bit off kilter.

‘I’m okay; I’m just a bit lightheaded. I’ll be fine in a sec. The pot was slippery so I dropped the ruddy thing.’ She gestured to the plant as if it should take its share of the responsibility for the mess.

‘Come and sit down.’ I guided her to a seat. ‘I’ll look after this.’

I wiped up the water while I made another piece of toast and boiled the kettle for tea. I righted the cyclamen, scooped most of the potting mix back into its pot and replaced it on the windowsill, then cleaned up the mud on the floor.

‘Right,’ I said as I washed my hands. ‘All better. Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Thanks, pet,’ she said nodding.

‘But are you still dizzy? Should you even be travelling today?’

Mum told me that, after freaking out we were travelling to the UK to take part in an assisted dying program, she’d pressed Gran on her health. Apparently her doctor was monitoring her blood pressure, which was a bit high. I wondered if she’d told her doctor that she was travelling to the other side of the world for a life-altering adventure filled with nervousness and exhilaration. I doubted it.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. It comes on sometimes, but it’s nothing,’ she said dismissively. I looked her up and down for signs she was okay, or otherwise.

I set her tea down in front of her and watched as she put three heaped teaspoons of sugar in it.

‘Sweet tea. My mother’s cure for nerves,’ she said, anticipating my reaction. I hoped her nerves would subside quickly, or she’d likely be battling diabetes as well as light-headedness before too long.

‘I’m not surprised you’re nervous, Gran,’ I offered. ‘It’s a big deal.’

Gran was fiddling with her wedding band again.

I had been anxious about the trip too, and not just because it was so spur-of-the-moment. (Mum was right; I’d spent more time deliberating on what to have for dinner than I had on booking the trip.) I was worried that Gerry might not be as pleased to see Gran as Gran was to see her. Or that Gerry had changed, and Gran would be disappointed. But, most of all, I worried that Gran would get hurt again, and she’d blame me.

I tried to remind myself about how I had convinced Gran to come on the trip in the first place: we were simply a grandmother and granddaughter going on a nice holiday together. If one of us happened to meet up with someone from their past, then that was just a bonus.

I also couldn’t shake the sense of discomfort I had felt since I told Mum about the trip. She was so excited at the prospect of us all travelling together. Had I been too quick to shut it down? I might have been irritated when she suggested Jarrah come too, despite her not being able to afford it, but it would be hypocritical to ignore that the only reason Gran and I were going was because I’d won the lotto. Of course I had savings, but I certainly wouldn’t have been digging into them for an impromptu jaunt to the UK. And if I had given my family some of my winnings when I’d planned, Mum and Jarrah could have come as well. The guilt sat in my stomach uncomfortably, but I reminded myself that when we booked the tickets and accommodation, no one else knew about Gerry. Besides, the focus of the trip was on Gran’s reunion; the last thing they needed was the entire Dwyer circus arriving to pull focus.

The car that picked us up – part of our business class ticket – was a fancy BMW that smelled like new leather and a hint of the driver’s cologne, or possibly the air freshener hanging from the mirror. After insisting that he look after our suitcases, rather than have me lift them into the boot, he ran through all the mod-cons of the car and took our preferences for music selection and ambient temperature. It was the most luxurious car I’d ever sat in. The royal treatment continued when we arrived at the airport and were welcomed into the business class lounge, which provided access to delicious food and free drinks.

‘I could definitely get used to this,’ Gran said, as we clicked our champagne flutes and ate a selection of cheeses. Calm-looking travellers chatted away in hushed voices or tapped at keyboards, while staff poured drinks and surreptitiously cleared tables around us.

‘There’s even a spa here,’ Gran whispered excitedly when she returned from the bathroom. ‘And you should smell the hand soap.’

She held her hands to her face and breathed deeply.

I wished I’d known there were spa facilities in the lounge. As this trip had been so last-minute, there had been no time for my usual pre-holiday personal grooming regime. I always liked to ensure I was well kept before heading abroad, but things were pretty unruly ‘downstairs’.

Compared to the pandemonium of the rest of the airport, the lounge felt like a utopia. When our flight was called, I steeled myself to re-enter the ‘real world’ and endure the chaos of the security queue. But, instead, Gran and I were guided past the long line and straight to the gate.

On board, business class was everything I’d imagined and more. Large, luxurious seats that converted into flat beds, attentive flight attendants and spacious bathrooms made the trip incredibly comfortable. I was disappointed to see all the single-use plastics in the comfort packs waiting for us on our seats, but the bamboo pyjamas were very nice and the lemon myrtle and macadamia hand cream felt amazing.

Midway through the flight, I walked to the galley to stretch my legs and found a woman from a few seats over using every available inch to perform yoga stretches. Gran and I had boarded just after her and had shared whispered speculations about her age. It was hard to pick – her face was unnaturally plumped and smoothed – but, if I’d had to guess, I’d have put her in her early forties. Her travelling companion, whom we assumed was her partner, but could have been her father, was easier to age. We put him in his seventies.

‘Hi there,’ she said, twisting her torso away from her bent knee. ‘How’s your flight so far?’

‘It’s great, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I even slept. Being able to lie down is a game-changer.’

She laughed, flashing a luminous set of pearly whites that I suspected were as fake as her boobs.

‘I know, right. I can’t understand why anyone would ever travel in economy,’ she said with a flick of her diamond-ladened hand. ‘It’s so cramped and gross. And have you seen the state of the cabin by the end of the flight? Those people are animals.’

I assumed she was referring to the incidental rubbish created by hundreds of passengers who have been jammed in like chattel and serviced by only handful of flight attendants.

‘Where are you off to?’ she asked. Without pausing for the answer, she switched poses and continued. ‘Hubby and I are popping over to Rome for a little vay-cay for our anniversary. He just lurves to spoil me. We’re away for two weeks. Actually, three if you count the wellness retreat I’ve booked for when I get home to detox from all those Italian carbs.’

She patted her washboard-flat stomach.

‘And the best part: I don’t have to see his kids for two whole weeks. Hubby owns a mining company, which his kids work for, so we see them a lot. Unfortunately.’ She rolled her eyes but the rest of her face remained completely still. I wondered how much money had gone into crafting her perfectly smooth forehead and angled cheekbones.

‘That’s how we met,’ she continued, answering a question I hadn’t asked. ‘I used to work at the company. His kids don’t really like me because of the way their parents separated.’

I knew I shouldn’t make assumptions about her based on the stereotypical relationship between a moderately young attractive woman and her wealthy old male boss, but she wasn’t helping. She folded her body over so her chest was on her thighs as I changed my left ankle rotations from clockwise to anticlockwise.

‘I need this holiday so badly,’ she continued, her voice slightly muffled as she spoke into her knees. ‘I’ve had such a busy couple of months. We’re renovating at the moment and it’s been a total nightmare. We’ve been living in one of our other houses, so I’ve been back and forth each day to keep an eye on the tradies. You know what they’re like.’

I did not know what she meant, and I resented being made complicit by association in whatever judgement she was making. Was this what all rich people were like? Or just the second wives of mining magnates? I had the feeling Gerry – who had come from old money and aristocracy – would be different. I hoped she was.

‘I was nervous about leaving them alone for this trip,’ she continued. ‘Last time we went away they laid one of the marble tiles the wrong way round in one of the guest bathrooms. Hopeless. But you’ve got to take some time for yourself. Am I right? That’s why this is our fourth overseas trip this year …’

As she chattered about flying to Morocco to find tiles for the pool house, spending a week in Bali and travelling to Dallas to see Taylor Swift in concert, I mentally calculated how much they must have spent on airfares alone (not to mention the carbon cost to the environment). I wondered how rich you had to be for four double business class airfares to be inconsequential and how long it took to recalibrate your definition of ‘expensive’ when you came into wealth.

‘Anyway, I’d better get back to my seat,’ she said, untwisting her legs from around each other. ‘Hubby will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

She sashayed out of the galley.

I thought back to the photos on the walls of the Lotto Head Office and the smiling faces of the major winners. I wondered if they’d adjusted to a life of international travel and Moroccan tiles. Indeed, my win had changed my life, and I was certainly enjoying some of the upgrades I had made by opening up to the idea of letting a little bit more luxury into my life – but with the exception of this one-off flight in business class, I would be happy to retreat back to my life of middle-class privilege once we were home.