Hello from the Gillespies (11 page)

In New York, Genevieve had almost finished packing. Not that it had taken long. In her time here, she’d lived in what she would have termed dog kennels back in Australia: tiny apartments in the East Village. They’d all been up several flights of stairs, with small windows looking down into similar apartments or onto brick walls and fire escapes. Nothing like the vast rooms she’d seen on
Friends
. She’d learned to keep her wardrobe small. She’d bought some artwork, but again, small paintings only, knowing one day they’d have to be shipped home. The time had come.

Megan had rung her the night of her sacking. Coffee Guy, the kind security guard, had obviously kept his word and passed on Genevieve’s personal phone number.

‘Girlfriend!’ Megan had shouted. ‘It was you all along! We have to meet!’

They’d met the next night, in a bar they knew film folk didn’t go to. Megan’s idea. At least she was honest. ‘You’re radioactive, darling, sorry. If I’m seen with you, I might get sacked too.’

The set had been in an uproar after her revelations, Megan told her in technicolour detail. Work on the surface, of course, but gossip at every opportunity.

‘The director’s brother, Coffee Guy, said —’

‘His
brother
? I thought he was just the security guard.’

‘He’s a man of many talents, I discovered. He was also asking lots of questions about you today. His name is Matt, by the way. I told him he should ring and ask you himself if he was that concerned. I said he’d better be quick, before you disappear into the outback. I still can’t picture it, you and your dreadlocks back there. Won’t you scare the kangaroos?’

‘They’re not easily scared.’ Genevieve tried to imagine walking down the streets of Hawker looking like she did. Perhaps if she was just home on holiday she could brazen it out. But skulking back, with her tail between her legs . . . ‘Megan, would you come back to my place and do me a favour?’

‘And fix up that blue rats’ nest of yours? I thought you’d never ask.’

Back at the apartment, Genevieve’s phone rang as Megan was midway through her new hairstyle. They’d opened a bottle of wine. Everything that had previously seemed worrying seemed hilarious now. Genevieve was giggling as she answered.

‘You sound okay,’ a man’s voice said. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘It’s Matt. Matt from the film set.’

‘Well, hello, Matt from the film set,’ she said. Megan gave her a thumbs up. ‘Yes, I’m great, thanks. It was the best thing that could have happened to me. I’ll get to spend more time with my family now. Isn’t that what politicians say when they’ve been publicly humiliated?’

Megan was waving at her, mouthing at her to clam up, slow down.

Genevieve took her advice. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. Please excuse that little rush of bitterness. I’m fine. Really. Thanks.’

‘Megan tells me you’re going back to Australia?’

‘On Tuesday, yes.’

He’d been so kind. She’d really enjoyed talking to him on the set. He was also great-looking.

They talked over each other.

‘Would you like to meet for a drink before I go?’ she said.

‘Can I buy you a farewell-to-New-York drink?’ he said.

More thumbs up from Megan.

‘Tomorrow?’ Genevieve said. ‘At nine. Great. Yes, I know that bar. Thanks, Matt. That’s great.’

Megan whooped as she hung up. ‘A date! That calls for dancing. Come on, let’s go out again.’

As they left, Genevieve caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror. Her hair was half-finished, blue dreadlocks on one side, an emerging pixie cut on the other.

‘Could you finish this first, do you think?’ she said.

The following night, she was regretting not just the last glass of wine with Megan, not just the haircut, but also accepting the date. She’d woken up that morning with another hangover, in a pit of dread. This date with Matt was probably a set-up, to find out what else she knew about the director. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Why else would he get in touch with her?

She rang Megan, using the code name they’d decided on. ‘It’s me. Ophelia.’ She talked quickly, comparing hangovers, and then airing her theory.

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Megan said. ‘I talked to him again today. He’s a really nice guy. I’ve also asked around. Everyone had only good things to say about him. Smart, funny, decent. Much nicer than his brother. Chill, Ophelia. Enjoy.’

She rang Victoria too, of course. Her sister gave her blessing as well. She also asked for a full report as soon as possible afterwards.

It took Genevieve only five minutes to fix her new-look hair. She’d given herself a fright when she looked in the mirror first thing, expecting to see the blue dreadlocks and instead being greeted by this dark-brown pixie cut. It felt like years since she’d seen her natural hair colour. She liked it. She liked the style too. She quickly applied more eye make-up than usual. Lipstick. Sparkling earrings. She had a big collection of costume jewellery, including some pretty hairpins. They’d been lost in her blue hair. They looked great with this new short look, if she did say so herself.

She was at the bar five minutes before nine. She found a table at two minutes to nine. She was taking a sip of a glass of red wine at nine o’clock, steadying her nerves and quelling her hangover. At ten minutes past nine she realised she had been stood up. She’d been toying with her phone, pretending to text while waiting for word from Matt, but there’d been nothing. Was she angry? Maybe. More disappointed. He’d seemed nicer than that. Decent. She’d just picked up her glass to swallow the rest of the wine and then go home when she heard her name.

‘Genevieve?’

She spun around with the wine glass in her hand. So quickly that her drink flew out of the glass. Not onto her. Onto Matt. Matt and his white shirt.

An hour later, she sent that wine a big thanks. If she hadn’t spilt it, his shirt wouldn’t have been covered in a large red stain. There wouldn’t have been three minutes of flustered conversation as he apologised for seeming to be late. He’d been in the bar since before nine, looking out for a woman with blue dreadlocks. It was only on his fifth circuit around that he recognised her sitting on her own in a corner. She wouldn’t have laughed and apologised for not warning him about the haircut, and for spilling the wine. He wouldn’t have asked whether she minded being with someone who looked like he’d just been shot. She wouldn’t have suggested he come to her apartment to rinse out the stain.

If they hadn’t been in her apartment, perhaps they wouldn’t have begun talking so easily, laughing so readily. About work. About her family. His family. Australia. America. Films they liked. Books they liked. Music they liked. If they hadn’t got talking, and laughing, they wouldn’t have started kissing. And normally she didn’t have sex on the first date and this wasn’t even a date, it was just a drink, but he was there in her living room which doubled as her bedroom, courtesy of the fold-down bed, and he was so lovely, and she was leaving and she suddenly wanted a final New York adventure, something great and romantic and fun and carefree.

She kissed him first. Or did he kiss her first? Whoever started it, it set off a wave of lust and urgency that seemed to surprise them both. Was this what all those casual, friendly chats in front of the coffee van had been leading to? If she had known he knew how to do this with his lips and his fingers and his body, she would have locked him in the trailer with her long ago.

After the second time, she lay her head back on the pillow and said the first word that came to mind.

‘Wow.’

‘Wow yourself,’ he said, with the smile that she’d already fallen a little bit in love with.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked. ‘A cigarette?’

‘Do you have to move to get either of those things?’

‘No, I have a butler. He’ll be here any minute with it all on a silver tray.’

‘Can he bring me a smoking jacket too?’

‘Of course. And a footstool?’

‘Marvellous.’

They were both attempting and failing to speak in very upper-class English accents. She turned her head so she was looking directly into his eyes. His lovely eyes, now she was close enough to see them. Dark brown but with golden flecks in them. About to make a joke, her usual approach at intimate moments like this, she had the sudden urge to tell him the truth.

‘That was great, Matt. So great. Thank you very much.’

‘That was really great, Genevieve. You’re very welcome.’ He gave her another one of those beautiful smiles.

She wanted to keep telling the truth. ‘I wish I hadn’t waited until I’d shot myself and my career in the foot and spread scurrilous gossip about your brother and his unorthodox private life before I asked you out for a drink.’

He tensed slightly. She felt it. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. I won’t mention your brother again.’

‘It’s fine. And I asked you out for a drink first, remember. And I’m sorry you lost your job.’

She moved closer. He put his arm around her and started to slowly stroke her skin, from her shoulder down, his fingers feather-light and so, so sexy.

‘That really does feel good,’ she said, feeling her eyelids grow heavy, desire starting to build again. ‘In fact, everything you do feels good. Even though normally I wouldn’t do anything as brazen as this on a first date, of course.’

‘This isn’t a first date. We’re work colleagues. We’ve known each other for months.’

‘Weeks,’ she said.

He shrugged. She liked the look of the muscles on his shoulder as he did that. She reached up and kissed him. He kissed her back. She moved until she was lying on top of him, skin on skin. He felt very good indeed. Another kiss, a long, searching kiss, accompanied by his hands stroking her back, slowly, gently, moving lower, holding her tight against him. There was no more talking for a while.

‘You’re some kind of superman,’ she said, after the third time.

‘I am? Damn. I always wanted to be the Incredible Hulk.’

They lay head beside head on the one pillow. She felt wonderful, she realised. Every cell in her body had enjoyed every moment of every one of those three orgasms. She felt sensual, sexy, reckless. She was leaving in three days. There was no time for games, playing coy or waiting for him to make the next move. She told him the truth again, but this time masking it in a joke, borrowing a line from a film she’d grown up watching.

‘Looks like I picked the wrong week to go back to Australia.’

His lip twitched. ‘Surely you can’t be serious.’

She grinned. ‘You know
Flying High!
?’

‘Of course. Except we call it
Airplane!
over here.’

‘My sister and I can quote that entire film to each other.’

‘I can quote that entire film and the sequel.’

‘Really?’

‘Is that a shock? Because I seem so serious. So auteur?’

‘Exactly. So intellectual.’

‘You want intellectual? I know lots of intellectual film quotes too.’

‘Me too. You say one and I’ll guess the film,’ she said.

‘And if you get it right?’

‘You get to do what you’ve just done to me again. And then we go out for another drink. My treat.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got one. Sure you’re ready? It’s very obscure.’

She nodded.

He paused. ‘“You’re a wizard, Harry.”’

She bit her lip. ‘Gosh. That is difficult. I hope I don’t embarrass myself with the wrong answer.’ She reached up and whispered it in his ear.

‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Right the first time. You really do know your cinema. So then, a deal is a deal.’ He shifted position, lying facing her. He kissed her lips. Then her neck.

‘When do you fly out?’ he murmured as he kissed her shoulder.

‘Tuesday,’ she said, trying to concentrate.

‘I’d take you to the airport —’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I would, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m flying to Costa Rica tomorrow. Location scouting.’

‘You do that as well? For your brother?’

He kissed her other shoulder. ‘Not this time. A friend from film school. He and I are going into production together. A dystopian comedy drama.’ His lips went lower.

It was now getting extremely hard to concentrate. ‘Really? Vampires? Werewolves?’

‘Rabbits.’

‘Rabbits?’

‘Zombie rabbits. It’s the new horror genre.’

She closed her eyes in pleasure. ‘Sounds scary.’

‘It will be. Wait until you see the action figures.’

She was now kissing him too. In between kisses, they were still trying to talk.

‘If you’re ever in outback Australia doing any location scouting, do drop in, won’t you?’

‘Sure. Do I need an address or do I just stand in the middle of nowhere and shout your name?’

‘That’s one way. Or you could always try my phone number.’

‘Thank you. I like the new haircut, by the way. Did I tell you that yet? I liked the blue hair too, but this is even better.’

‘Why, thank you. I like your hair too. And your body.’ She showed him just how much.

Their visit to a bar was delayed for another hour.

In Sydney, Victoria was cursing herself.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Victoria.
Why had she said yes? Why had Mr Radio only had to send her a text for her to leap up like some overeager dog, keen to do his bidding? She was so stupid. She should ring him right now, this minute, tell him to forget it, she didn’t ever want to see him again.

But she did.

It was foolish and she knew there was no future and she knew he would never leave his wife and kids. But he was just so fantastic in bed, so unexpectedly brilliant and inventive and gentle and sensual, and he made her feel so good and sexy that she couldn’t stop herself. He was why she had put on weight. He was why she had turned to food. Not out of unhappiness. Because one day he had said there was nothing he loved more than a shapely woman. And the first time they had got drunk and ended up in bed together, he had made it clear that he meant every word of it. He talked about how much he loved the curve of her waist, the heaviness of her breasts, the plumpness of her thighs. Her body image changed in that instant. She had felt womanly, Rubenesque. Now, knowing he was just fifteen minutes away, she could feel the desire start to build inside her. She was already wearing the black lingerie he had bought her, under a silk robe that tied with ribbons. She knew how much he loved to untie them.

Out of nowhere, she had a memory of another man. Her first boyfriend, Fred Lawson. The oldest son of their nearest neighbours. Sex had been wonderful with him too. They’d been each other’s first lovers, enjoying a heady combination of shyness and eagerness, which had soon turned into passion. She’d known him all her life, watched him grow from being a stocky, blond-haired boy into a stocky, blond-haired man.

At the age of nineteen, she had fallen hard for him. It took him a little longer, but four months after they’d started dating, he’d told her he was in love with her too. After that, they’d been inseparable. They’d started talking about what they might do when they finished their degrees. He was studying agricultural marketing and economics, she was doing an arts degree, but already thinking about continuing her studies, looking at environmental science, something that would be helpful on the land. It was an unspoken agreement between them – they were still young, after all – but she could already picture them married, living on the Lawson station, having children while young, like her own mother. And perhaps one day, if all her dreams came true, taking Errigal over from her father.

But her dreams hadn’t come true. Four years to the day after they had first got together, Fred had arrived at her sharehouse in Adelaide unexpectedly. She’d known even before he started talking that it was bad news. It was worse than she expected. He’d been offered a scholarship to go to Canada. He wanted to take it. On his own. ‘I love you, Victoria. I’ve loved being with you. But I’m sorry, I’m not ready to settle down yet.’

A month after that, he was gone. Six weeks later, the same week Victoria needed to put in her application for the environmental science course, Genevieve had sent her the ad for the rural reporter job at the radio station in Port Pirie. She’d applied. She’d got it. And so her media career had begun. She’d risen through the ranks, gained experience, all of it leading her day by day towards this job in Sydney, this situation in Sydney. This mess in Sydney.

Along the way, she’d learned to be tougher, though. She’d had to. Even if some days in the radio station, all she’d wanted to do was run home to Errigal, to give up what sometimes felt like nonsense work, producing hours of babble that served no real purpose. Even if some days she still thought about that course she’d never taken, that she might have ended up working on Errigal. That if she had been there, with or without Fred by her side, she might have been able to help her father.

Of all of the family, she had been the most shocked at the news about the mining lease. On her last visit home, for a weekend in October, she’d tried to talk to her father about it. They’d gone out for a long walk across the property together, the way they always did whenever she was home. It was her way of grounding herself, of reconnecting to Errigal, shaking off her city life even for a few days. As they’d walked, she’d tried to find out more about the deal, about why he had accepted it. ‘It’s complicated,’ was as much as he would say. In subsequent phone calls home, she’d tried to ask him again. He’d cut the conversation short each time, just as she’d been about to ask, putting her on to her mother. She loved her dad. Trusted him. She knew he loved the land as much as she did, that he felt as strongly about preserving the landscape as she did. But for him to accept a deal like this? He must have had no choice. She still wished it hadn’t been the case. That somehow, one day, her childhood dream of running Errigal herself could have come true.

She had to stop thinking like that. Stop worrying about what might have been. What was Genevieve’s mantra? Or mantras?
Seize the day. You only live once. No regrets.
All her life, Victoria had tried to be more like her twin, fearless and brave, taking risks, not caring what people thought. It was one of the reasons she had applied for work in Sydney, even though the thought of it terrified her. One of the reasons – a secret reason – that she had begun her affair with Mr Radio. It had made her feel all those things she thought she should be – bold and reckless.

Thinking of him now concentrated her attention. She checked her appearance in the mirror again. She looked just the way he loved her to look. Voluptuous. Sexy.

By the time the doorbell rang, she was pacing the floor. She didn’t let him speak. He opened the door, stepped inside. She was kissing him before he’d even put down the bottle of wine.

An hour later, she was sated. On an intellectual level, she hated him again. But her body didn’t. Her body felt full, exhausted, wonderful. It already wanted more.

They finally spoke. ‘I’m sorry all this happened,’ he said.

He didn’t care a bit, she knew that, but at least he was pretending to. ‘Thanks.’

‘Once the fuss dies down, maybe you can come and work with me again?’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, would it?’

‘No, probably not. What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going home.’

‘Back to Woop Woop?’ He’d always thought his nickname for any place in country Australia was funny. She’d never laughed with him. She didn’t laugh now. She just nodded.

He sat up, reached for his clothes, began to dress. She didn’t say anything. She just lay and watched him.

He didn’t take long to get ready. He never did. ‘It’s been fun, Vic.’

She’d always hated him calling her Vic, too. But that didn’t matter now either. ‘It sure has.’

‘Take care.’

‘You too.’

‘I’ll let myself out. Enjoy the wine.’

‘Thanks.’

That was it. She lay there, the tousled sheets around her, scraps of lace on the floor beside her, her body white and plump in the lamplight.

She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. But she suddenly wished she was home. With her mum and her dad. With Genevieve. Lindy. Ig. With nothing outside but space and trees and rocks and creeks all around, that huge and beautiful sky above.

Yes, she wanted to go home right now.

On the verandah of the homestead, Lindy decided she felt quite like Jane Austen. Admittedly, she was in Australia in the twenty-first century, wearing jeans and listening to the radio, but those facts aside, she was feeling very old-fashioned and ladylike. So busy in simple, gentle pursuits. She pulled at the last stitch and held the cushion cover out so she could admire it properly. All three words were done now. With practice, she hoped to get faster, but there was no denying her needlework was very delicate, very suited to well brought-up young ladies.

Yes, this was all very Jane Austen-ish and English-ish. If she could just ignore the fact the magpies were making a racket outside the old chook shed, that she’d just seen a kangaroo hop by the fence, that it sounded like her dad was in the office skyping his Irish girlfriend again, and especially if she could ignore the fact her little brother was a hundred metres away playing in a giant cubby made out of dozens of cardboard boxes, while simultaneously talking to an imaginary friend. Jane Austen never had to worry about those kinds of distractions, did she?

She put down the cushion cover. ‘Mum? Mum?’ She waited. ‘
Mum?
’

After a while, as always, came the reply. ‘Yes, Lindy?’

‘Are you making tea?’

‘No, Lindy.’

‘Oh, Mum, please.’

‘Yes, Lindy.’

Good old Mum. Even with that huge party to organise, and with Celia on the way, and Genevieve and Victoria dropping their bombshells, she’d stayed perfectly calm. Her mum was like one of those swans, Lindy decided. Always so serene on top, gliding along, getting everything done, while underneath she must surely be paddling like mad. If it was her, Lindy, she’d be running for the hills in a panic. She had every intention of giving her mother a hand, of course, but thank God she wasn’t in charge of anything.

Her mother came out onto the verandah with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.

‘Thanks, Mum. Look, I’m getting there.’ She held it up. ‘I just need to do the border now. I’m going to do a row of purple cross-stitch first, then another row of green inside it. What do you think?’

‘Lovely. I’ll leave you to it.’

Her mother was back inside before Lindy had a chance to stop her. Drat. She’d wanted a longer chat. It still felt like such luxury to have her mother all to herself like this, Ig and her dad aside. Herself away from the twins, she meant. Lindy loved her big sisters, of course she did. But they did take over the family when they were around.

For the hundredth time, Lindy wished she had a twin. Or even an extra non-twin sister who was her special friend and ally. Because it was hard not to feel left out sometimes around Victoria and Genevieve. They were like a mini-family within the larger family. They had so many in-jokes. That way of calling each other by their full names all the time, for example, which was very Jane Austen-ish, now Lindy thought about it. But mainly it was their sense of a united front, the two of them against the world, even when they were on opposite sides of the world. That was something Lindy would like. Someone who was always on her side.

Yes, the more she thought about it, the more she realised she was the outsider in this family. The loner. Her mum and dad had each other. The world’s most perfect marriage, it sometimes seemed. Friends of hers with divorced parents said they had grown up hearing arguments all the time, the house full of tension. It had never been like that with her parents. She’d grown up hearing them talking and laughing with each other. She’d always loved lying in bed and hearing them sitting up in the kitchen, their voices filtering down the hall. It was what she wanted when she got married, she’d decided. Someone who looked at her the way her dad looked at her mum. As if he couldn’t believe his luck. Not that he ever went on about it. Her dad was definitely one of those strong, silent types, but it was obvious he really loved their mum. And the way they had met, that chance meeting in Sydney, their whirlwind courtship, it was all so romantic.

So they had each other. Victoria and Genevieve had each other. Ig had his own special friend, even if Robbie was invisible. And imaginary. She was the only one on her own. It was no wonder she had to find solace and companionship in her own creativity like this. Perhaps that was going to be her lot in life. Never to be lucky in love, but instead to give pleasure to many through her artistic pursuits. Yes, she quite liked the sound of that.

Lindy sewed in silence for the next while. The border would only take a day or two, she hoped. If she kept at it full-time. She edged her chair around to avoid the view of the boxes of cushion material behind the woolshed, not to mention the sight of Ig standing, hands on hips, chatting to Non-Existent Robbie about where best to hang the curtain or bedsheet or whatever that green thing was he was dragging around. In just over a week, the woolshed would be filled with people for the party. The thought of that was making her feel a bit sick too. Not about all the guests. Just one.

She could still recall the horror she’d felt when she saw the name on the RSVP list two weeks earlier.

‘Mum, no! You’ve invited Horrible Jane Lawson to the party?’

‘Of course. I’ve invited all our neighbours and their kids. Why, didn’t you want me to?’

Lindy didn’t mind if Mr and Mrs and the other Lawsons came. Or even Fred Lawson, though he’d broken Victoria’s heart all those years ago. Or she’d broken his. One or the other. It was Horrible Jane, Fred’s younger sister, who Lindy never wanted to see again in her life.

Genevieve had given Jane the nickname many years before, when Jane first started bullying Lindy at primary school in Hawker. The nickname made Jane easier to handle, in a funny way. It also gave Lindy a dart of happiness to hear every member of her family casually refer to Jane as Horrible Jane. Unfortunately, it had no psychic effect on Jane herself. She’d gone on to be even more horrible when she and Lindy found themselves at the same boarding school in Adelaide.

It had been five years of hell. Subtle insults. Vicious remarks wrapped up in a teasing tone. Casual ostracism. Dig after dig about Lindy’s looks, her figure, her family, her school marks, her lack of boyfriends. Relentless, but played under the radar so Lindy never felt able to go to her form teacher about it. After her sisters graduated, she had three years at the school on her own. She had no choice but to retreat into herself, away from Jane’s malice and influence. She spent lunchtimes in the library. Stayed in her room rather than sit in the common room where Jane held court. The only positive was the amount of studying she’d got done. She’d been worried she wouldn’t pass her final exams. She did surprisingly well, enough to get easily into uni in Adelaide to study for an arts degree. As soon as she’d graduated, she’d headed across to Melbourne to look for work with some of her uni friends. Adelaide was too small for her, she decided. There was surely a wider range of interesting jobs in Melbourne too. Also, she’d heard a rumour that Horrible Jane was planning on staying in Adelaide once she’d finished her dental studies. Lindy wanted to put as much distance between them as possible.