‘Always.’
In fact, Briony not only remembered every word ever uttered by every boyfriend she’d ever had—she also enjoyed analysing the tone, pace and syntax of her conversations with the opposite sex. She would carefully weigh each sentence, picking out a concealed insult here, an equivocal choice of adjective there. It was her favourite pastime. We’d all found ourselves roped into long sessions over a glass of wine (in the evening) or a cup of tea (in the morning); it was like doing a lit. crit. tutorial, only lit. crit. tutorials don’t usually finish up with a quick reading of the runes, which Briony kept in a little suede bag under her pillow.
She was a real ditzy one, was Briony. She seemed to have no sense of risk. I’ve already mentioned the big, shaggy guys she’d bring home, but that wasn’t the half of it. At one stage she’d moved in with a gay guy under the (mistaken) impression that he was in love with her, and that she’d changed his orientation forever. She’d been caught trying to smuggle a Rolex, a necklace and a camera into South Korea, after meeting a dubious Taiwanese guy in a Hong Kong youth hostel. (She was simply expelled from the country, her possessions confiscated, but it was still a dicey venture.) She had a tendency to spend her money on French cotton underwear when the rent was looming, and to run up huge credit card bills buying smoked salmon for seaside picnics or tarot consultations when her love life was problematic.
I used to shake my head over Briony. I used to get together with Veronica and Miriam, and we would shriek about her latest excesses. Slowly, however, things have changed. Shortly after Matt and I began to live together, Briony took to hanging around the yacht club at Rushcutters Bay. There she met an extremely rich American, who took her off to the US with him on his million-dollar yacht. From then on news of her was scant but enticing. She was living with the American in Carmel, California. The American had dropped her, but she’d landed a job minding houses for some other rich people in Beverly Hills. She was going out with a Paramount script editor. The script editor had dropped her but an entertainment lawyer had taken up with her, and had installed her in his mansion. She was working in a high-class fashion store, where she’d met Demi Moore and Cameron Diaz.
Veronica has been the source of all these tidbits, because Briony keeps in contact with a friend of Ronnie’s, called Samantha. That’s one of the main reasons why Veronica and I get together once a month or so—to chew over the latest instalment in the Briony saga. Today was no different. We met in one of those subterranean coffee shops around Martin Place, where they serve things like microwaved chicken crepes and vegetarian focaccia. After ordering a ham and cheese croissant, Ronnie opened the conversation with a Briony update, informing me that Briony was now in Europe.
‘Europe!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where in Europe?’
‘Florence,’ said Veronica. ‘She met an Argentinian artist on a trip to New York, and now she’s living with him in Florence. In a tiny little flat near some famous church—I can’t remember the name of it.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘And she’s working as an artist’s model.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘Apparently she spends all her time in cafés with his artist friends, or staying at dealers’ villas in the Tuscan hills. Can you imagine?’
‘I can, actually.’
‘Yeah. Me, too.’
‘She always had a thing about pre-Raphaelite clothes. You know—gauzy.’
‘Yeah. And that French cotton underwear. And all the cherubs on her photo frames.’
‘Yeah.’
There was a pause. I had suddenly been plunged into the most profound gloom; the thought of Briony flitting past the Duomo on her way to work, or draped over a hunky Argentinian artist in some smoky little café smelling of espresso and scampi, was almost too much to bear. For years I had regarded Briony as a disaster waiting to happen—as messy, impractical, dense, flaky and cursed with a terrible taste in men. For years I had derived some comfort from the belief that, because she had her priorities all wrong, she would end up stranded, like some sort of middle-aged castaway, without a career, without any savings, without a house, without children. Yet her terrible taste in men had led her straight to wealth and glamour; her lack of priorities had landed her in the most romantic of lives—a somewhat rootless existence, it was true, but inexpressibly cultured and dazzling.
I don’t need this, was my first reaction. I can do without this, right now.
‘She always liked that Florentine writing paper you get in David Jones, remember?’ Ronnie went on. ‘She went out to buy something at the Food Hall once—something for a party—and came back with that bloody paper. You told me about it.’
‘She’s got the right hair,’ I observed. ‘That Botticelli hair. I couldn’t pull it off, myself, I don’t have the right sort of hair.’
‘You reckon?’ Ronnie was twitching for a cigarette, I could tell. ‘But look at my hair. Caroline Tuckett always said I had Titian hair, and what good’s it done me? I mean, did Titian ever paint any pictures of Family Court administrative assistants? I don’t think so.’
‘Yeah, but that colour isn’t exactly yours, is it? I mean, come on.’
‘Anyway, it’s a bit of a shock. I had to have a Bex and a good lie down, when I heard. What I’d give to earn my keep sitting around all day with my clothes off. It’s not fair.’
Nevertheless, despite the unfairness of it, Veronica seemed strangely upbeat. There was an odd little gleam in her eye. She seemed jumpier than usual. Normally, she cultivates a kind of disillusioned drawl, which combines successfully with her tough-girl haircut, nicotine-stained fingers and long, sprawling legs to create the impression that she couldn’t give a shit. Today, however, there was something different about her.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, after she had uncharacteristically knocked over the vase of wooden tulips in the centre of the table. ‘You seem a bit . . . I dunno . . .’
As I trailed off, a sheepish smile spread across her face. She lowered her eyes, rubbed her nose, and said: ‘Phil and I got engaged.’
‘No!’
‘Yeah.’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Yeah, we did it.’
‘But where’s the ring?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve got to have a ring, Ronnie, my God!’
‘Phil’s mum’s given me his grandmother’s ring. But it didn’t fit me, so we’re getting it altered.’
‘Well I’ll be damned.’ It was big news. Big news. Ronnie and Phil had been living together for six years. Phil was a rangy redhead who worked for the National Parks and Wildlife Service; he was the silent rock against which Ronnie sometimes sharpened her wit. I’d always been well disposed towards him, but could never quite understand the dynamics of their relationship. Ronnie seemed so trenchant, on occasion, and Phil seemed so dull. I’d often wondered if theirs was a partnership based more on convenience than anything else.
Yet here they were, taking action. Moving forward. Getting hitched.
‘That’s great, Ronnie.’ I don’t know how convincing I sounded; I was still reeling inside. ‘Have you set the date?’
‘Well . . . we were thinking the middle of next year.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s got cousins coming down from England then, so . . . you know.’
‘Right.’
‘It won’t be too big, but we’ll have to make a bit of an effort or his mother’ll never forgive us.’
‘Sure.’ Phil was his mother’s only child. A daughter had died in a car accident. ‘Well—I hope you’ve at least got room for me, or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Oh, I think we can squeeze you in. If you don’t tease up your hair too much.’
‘You should invite Briony.’
‘Yeah.’ Veronica laughed. ‘See if she turns up with the Argentinian.’
‘Oh, she won’t do that. Not a chance. But you wouldn’t want her to. Just send her a really posh invitation, with, like, the Right Honourable Lord Cedric and Lady Malmsey invite you to the wedding of their so
n, Philip Edward George William, and Miss Veronica Eklund, to be held at St Mary’s Cathedral—’
‘—with dinner and dancing afterwards at the Sydney Opera House, right.’
‘And a note scribbled in one corner. I know you probably won’t be able to make it, but maybe we’ll see you in April, on our six-month European honeymoon. Phil has some family vineyards he wants to visit in Bordeaux.’
We laughed together. Inside, though, I wasn’t laughing. All I could think about was my own wedding, and how fantastic it had been: a perfect wedding. So how had I ended up where I was, in such a mess? Why had Ronnie decided to get married just as my own marriage seemed to be faltering? What kind of insidious timing was this, for God’s sake?
I remember how, when Jonah was at his very worst and I was floundering about in an hysterical mist of fatigue, everyone around me seemed to be falling pregnant. I used to plaster a fake smile on my face as I congratulated my pregnant cousin, my pregnant neighbour, my pregnant sister-in-law, my pregnant former boss, biting my tongue and hoping that my dismay didn’t show. I mean, who was I to cast a pall over their happiness? Who was I to start ranting about sleepless nights and postnatal depression?
So I pumped Ronnie for information about Phil’s proposal (‘If we want to buy a house together, we might as well get married’ was what he had said), and her wedding dress (‘a plain silk sheath and a wreath of flowers’), and her stance on garters (‘Not in a million years’) and I said absolutely nothing about my troubles with Matt. I managed to rein myself in until I reached my office, after lunch.
Then I closed the door and rang Miriam at work. This time, she was there.
‘Hi,’ I said, when she answered the phone. ‘It’s me.’
‘Helen?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh God, Helen, I’m sorry.’ She sounded contrite—almost flustered. ‘I only just got back to my desk. I was going to return your call—’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Things are really insane here.’
‘Things are really insane here, too.’ I didn’t know where to begin, so put off the moment at first. ‘Did you know that Ronnie’s getting married? To Phil?’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I’m not. They’re engaged. I had lunch with her today, and she told me. Oh—she also told me that Briony’s in Florence now, shacked up with some Argentinian artist. Spending weekends in Tuscan villas. Typical, eh?’
‘Typical,’ said Miriam. Her tone was slightly distracted, as if she was casting her eye over a computer printout. ‘Amazing.’
‘Miriam?’
‘What?’ Her voice sharpened, suddenly. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Have you ever heard of someone called Megan Molesdale?’
‘Who?’
‘Megan Molesdale.’
A pause. ‘No,’ Miriam replied at last. ‘Who is she?’
‘I don’t know. Matt’s been calling her. From our home phone.’
Another pause. At last Miriam said: ‘You haven’t asked him yet, have you?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘Why not?’
I tried to explain, in the process sorting out and classifying my muddled emotions. I was scared. I felt guilty. I didn’t want to scuttle the ship over a slight suspicion. I didn’t want to give Matt an excuse to walk out . . .
‘You think he’d do that?’ Miriam demanded.
‘I don’t know.’ Hesitantly. ‘What do you think?’
Miriam sighed. She seemed to be thinking. ‘Look, don’t ask me,’ she said at last. ‘You’re the one who’s married to him.’
I was horrified. ‘You mean you think he might?’ I squeaked.
‘Helen, I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘But you really think he’s capable of that kind of deceit? We’re talking about Matt here!’
‘Helen, I don’t know the guy. I mean, think about it. How well do I know him?’ She sighed again. ‘All I know is that it’s amazing what can happen. It’s amazing what people will do.’ She gave a weird kind of snort. ‘Always expect the unexpected,’ she added dryly. ‘That’s my motto.’
I thought: that’s your motto because you’ve spent your whole life dealing with con men. But I didn’t say it aloud.
‘Well—I can’t do anything about it right now,’ I bleated, shaken to the core. ‘Not at work.’
‘No.’
‘How are you doing, anyway? How’s your job going?’
‘Oh . . . pressured.’ Again, that funny, dry note. ‘A bit full-on.’
‘Do you fancy a vent? Do you want to try and do a coffee, for once? On neutral ground. I could probably manage.’
This time the pause was so long, I began to wonder if she’d put me on hold—though I could still hear background noises. When she finally spoke, her voice was tight and clipped, as if she was upset about something.
‘Look, uh—let me get back to you. I don’t know, things are a bit . . . I’m so sorry about this, Helen, I wish I could be more help, really.’
‘It’s all right—’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have dumped this on you. Maybe I should have left well alone.’
‘No, no. You were trying to do the right thing.’
‘Was I? Maybe. I don’t know any more. I’m out of my mind here.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Oh, stuff. Work stuff. I’m sorry—I’ve got to go. I feel bad, but I’ve just got to.’
‘It’s okay . . .’
‘I’ll call you. I will. I promise.’
Click.
I was left a bit shell-shocked, I have to admit. And I began to wonder: was Miriam having trouble with Giles, too? Could she have jumped to conclusions about Matt, for that very reason?
Rather than clearing my head, the whole conversation had left me more confused than ever.
This afternoon, on my way to pick up the kids from day care, I took a rather long detour through Randwick. I could do it because I had booked an overnight car; normally, I have to take a train to Marrickville, walk to the day care centre, then catch a bus home, all of which takes time. You might be wondering why, in that case, Matt gets to take the car to work. If you’re anything like some of my more feminist co-workers, you might be up in arms already. But the fact is, Matt has his own private parking spot, and I don’t. Nor am I in a position to rent a spot in the city for $250 a week (or whatever it is nowadays). So Matt gets the car, and I get public transport.
C’est la vie, I guess.
Because I had a car, I found myself with time to spare this afternoon. Not a lot of time—just enough to swing past Megan Molesdale’s address before I raced off to pick up the kids in Marrickville. I didn’t know when I’d have another opportunity to do this. I also didn’t know what I was hoping to accomplish, except to satisfy my overwhelming curiosity. Maybe I was hoping to spot the Girl With Purple Hair. At any rate, and entirely against my better judgement, I fought the traffic all the way to Randwick, where I located Megan Molesdale’s house squashed in amongst a line of terraces near Alison Road.
It was a shabby little house. You don’t often see shabby houses in the eastern suburbs any more, but this looked like rental accommodation; it probably hadn’t been painted since the seventies, because there was a lot of mission brown all over its doors and windows and iron lace. Nevertheless, it didn’t look totally uncared-for. Proper curtains had been hung. An elaborate wrought-iron bellpull had been installed over a hand-painted tile that featured the house number and a lot of baroque curlicues. A set of pottery wind chimes was suspended from beneath the boards of the first-floor verandah. There were more ceramic things in the tiny front yard: two glazed female figures on the gateposts, a kind of birdbath thing inlaid with bits of broken china, several large flowerpots covered in vivid designs. Studying them from across the road, I wondered if the occupant was a potter or a sculptor.
Or an art student, perhaps? An art student with purple hair?
I considered getting out of th
e car, walking up to the mission-brown front door, and tugging at the wrought-iron bellpull. What would happen then? Would she answer the door herself? I hadn’t the faintest idea what I would say to her if she did. As a matter of fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that I might vomit all over her garishly painted toenails, because I felt cold and sick at the very thought of such a confrontation.
Nevertheless, I did get out of the car. I did cross the road, and push open an iron gate so rusty that it shrieked like a slaughtered pig. It gave me a terrible fright; my hands were shaking when I tugged at the bellpull, which clanked in a wheezy sort of way. My heart was in my mouth. My mind was a blank.
I waited and waited.
The wind chimes clinked. In the distance, car horns yelped angrily. I gave the bellpull one more tug, and rattled the security door, which was made of black iron bars like something out of a maximum-security prison. Then I moved over to the living room window, and peered in.
Grubby white lace impeded my view. There seemed to be a table of some kind with a stack of paper on it. A little glazed bowl half full of congealed candle-wax sat on the windowsill.
I returned to my car slowly, more relieved than disappointed. I also felt that I could have done with a stiff drink. Unfortunately, however, I had to negotiate the peak-hour traffic, and decided to forgo even a quick stop at the local pub, which looked fairly civilised. (Lots of canvas umbrellas, not many yellow tiles.) This was probably a wise choice, because as I was sitting at one of the interminable traffic lights on Cleveland Street, something suddenly clicked in my head.
Megan.
After that, I was desperate to get home. I practically broke into a sweat just thinking about the photo albums stuffed into our linen cupboard. But I had to inch my way up Cleveland Street, down City Road, along King Street, until I finally popped out of the crush on Enmore Road and roared off to the day care centre, arriving only seven minutes late. Then there was the slow process of collecting bags, finding hats and toys, signing out, adjusting the seatbelts in the car, which of course didn’t contain anything remotely resembling a booster seat, and explaining to the kids that they should keep their heads down. The rest of the trip was a nail-biter; I was afraid that I might get arrested for not strapping Jonah into an appropriate restraint. (But it was only a ten-minute ride, for God’s sake— what was I supposed to do?) On arriving home, I had to rush about getting dinner ready, settling quarrels, washing hands and running baths. Jonah had to be fed. Emily’s latest graze had to be treated and dressed. They both had to be helped into their pyjamas, after which there was story time, the toilet (for Emily), a bottle of milk (for Jonah), tooth-brushing, nursery-rhyme singing, several calls back into the bedroom . . .