Lyrebird Hill (4 page)

‘We’re going back to the coast tonight. I’m sorry, Mum, I know it’s inconvenient, but I really need to—’ I hesitated, glancing across the gallery. Rob was nowhere to be seen, and the room was emptying fast. Mum was probably anxious to catch people before they left, to thank them for coming and say her goodbyes, but I simply couldn’t stop myself asking.

‘Esther said Jamie’s death wasn’t an accident. Is that true?’

Mum seemed to deflate. For an instant, I glimpsed not the porcelain-skinned artist at the centre of everyone’s attention, but the broken soul she’d been after my sister’s death: ashen-faced, old beyond her years, engulfed by sadness.

‘Oh, Ruby,’ she said. ‘You do this every time we see each other, poking and prodding about Jamie. No amount of digging up the past is going to bring her back. Why can’t you let her rest?’

She glanced across the gallery. The crowd had begun to thin, and people drifted towards the exit, calling their goodbyes and complimenting my mother on her wonderful exhibition. It should have been a crowning moment for her, a triumph to savour.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said quietly, looking back at her. ‘I don’t want to wreck your night, but I really need to know.’

Mum drew air through her nostrils, and finally, with what seemed like a great effort, she looked at me.

‘There was an investigation. As it turned out, Jamie’s injuries were not caused by a fall, but police forensics couldn’t confirm that anyone other than you and Jamie had been on the rocks that day. You see, it had been raining – any evidence that might have led us to the person responsible was washed away.’

I tried to breathe, suddenly lightheaded amid the cavernous gallery with its pockets of intense light, the vibrant paintings, the taste of wine on the back of my tongue . . . and the sight of my mother’s face, pale now, her eyes huge and dark, her lips raw where she’d bitten them.

‘Person responsible?’ I managed.

Mum nodded.

My pulse began to hurtle, then abruptly slowed. The words drifted from me, as if from far away. ‘They thought I did it, didn’t they?’

Mum shook her head. ‘No, Ruby. No one ever thought that. No one ever blamed you.’

You did
, whispered a voice in my mind.
You blamed me
.

I shook my head to clear it. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’

‘I wanted to spare you the grief. You were just a kid. You idolised Jamie, and losing her was traumatic enough.’

‘So you let me think it was an accident.’ I stopped, distracted by the sudden din of my thoughts. I was angry that Mum had kept the truth from me, but it came as no real surprise. All these years I had sensed there was more lurking beneath the still waters of my amnesia; I’d instinctively
known
my sister’s fall wasn’t an accident.

The police could find no trace that anyone other than you and Jamie had been on the rocks that day.

Suddenly I wanted to be outside in the cool air, away from the chatter and clink of glasses, away from the paintings that stirred to life a past I had no desire to remember. And away from my mother who had, with her years of silence, just resurrected my darkest fear.

‘Earth to Ruby . . . Anyone home in there?’

We were standing in the car park outside the gallery. The only car left was Rob’s Jaguar, gleaming blackly in the floodlights. My mother had invited us to join her at the post-exhibition party, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in the offer. Our talk about Jamie had frazzled us both, and I knew she was relieved to see me go.

‘Ruby, are you okay?’ Rob said, watching me.

I was beyond tired. The wine had gone to my head. The nerves that had been fraying away all day were suddenly ragged. All I wanted at that moment was the quiet solitude of a dark space, somewhere cosy and safe, preferably my bed, where I could hide, barricade myself against the day’s events. Anywhere but here, in the empty car park with its stark security lighting.

Rob jangled his car keys. ‘Babe?’

Drawing a deep breath, I dug in my bag and pulled out the scrap of black lace.

‘How do you explain this?’

Rob stared from my face to the bra, then back to my face, apparently bewildered. He shrugged, palms up. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?’

His eyes narrowed and he grew wary. ‘Now, hold on a minute, Ruby. You’ve lost me. You’d better start at the beginning.’

My cheeks burned and my heart swooped around my rib cage, my lungs suddenly too tight to breathe. ‘This morning while you were in the shower, I smelled cigarette smoke on your
jacket. I picked it up to shake it out, and this’ – I waved the bra aloft – ‘fell out of your pocket.’

Rob’s lips quirked up into a smile, but he didn’t look happy. ‘And based on that, you’ve now surmised that I’m cheating on you?’

I nodded.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I stopped at the bar on my way back to your place last night. A couple of the lads were there. Maybe one of them slipped it in as a joke. You know what they’re like, childish idiots sometimes. Stupid pranks like that—’ He gestured at the bra and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s just their way of letting off steam.’

My hands shook. The bra quivered in my fingers. My legs were jelly.

‘I don’t believe you.’

Rob looked pained. ‘How can you say that? How can you even think it?’

I shook the bra. ‘I’ve got proof.’

‘Oh hell, Ruby. When are you going to get it through your thick skull – there’s no one else.’

I searched his face for falsehood. The gallery light silvered the edges of his cheekbone and jaw, making him seem godlike and inhuman, as distant as a star. Then he moved and the illusion broke apart. He was just Rob again, big gentle Rob with his tailored suit and strong pale hands, shaking his head in worry.

‘You’re the only girl I want. Ever since I met you – love at first sight, remember? You’re the only girl I’ll
ever
want.’

Cramming the bra back in my handbag and out of sight, I couldn’t stop myself asking, ‘Why? You could have anyone – why
me
?’

Rob actually laughed. ‘Why? Because you’re suspicious and untrusting and you always think the worst. You whinge relentlessly when you’re sick, you interrupt when I’m trying to tell
you something, and you scrape your plate all through the news. Oh . . . and you snore.’

‘I do not.’

He nodded. ‘Afraid you do, babe.’

I shuffled precariously in my tight shoes, feeling my argument deflate. An exhausted, vaguely tipsy numbness settled over me, urging me to surrender. I sighed.

‘Is that it? You like me because I’m so hopelessly flawed?’

He smiled seductively. ‘Well, you do have a rather glorious bottom.’

‘Ugh.’ I gave him my sourest look. ‘You’re so shallow.’

His smile fell away. Closing the gap between us, he cupped my face in his hands and drew me against him.

‘You’re the girl of my dreams, Ruby. Haven’t I told you that a million times? I used to dream about you before we met, and since that day in the bookshop, you’re all I think about.’ He kissed me tenderly, then murmured against my lips, ‘Don’t you know how much I love you, Ruby?’

The words came at me so softly, so unexpectedly, that I flinched.

For the past three years I’d longed for him to open up, to tell me how he truly felt – if indeed he felt anything at all. I knew better than to rush him, knew better than to press the issue, but three years felt like an eternity for love to go unspoken. I had tried to be understanding, tried to remember that despite Rob’s outward strength he still carried the scars of his own troubled past. So, I’d waited. And told myself that although Rob had a knack for extracting personal confessions from other people, the workings of his own heart were a tightly guarded secret.

Until now.

I love you
, he’d finally said.
I love you
.

I gazed into his eyes. His irises were dark, nearly black. As fathomless as the sea. Though we had shared only three years of history, it felt to me at that moment that there lay an eternity between us.

I love you, Ruby.

I groped for the appropriate answer, but none came. Maybe later, I reasoned; maybe after a strong cup of tea and a good night’s sleep. Tipsy was no state from which to declare anything of importance, least of all love.

Pulling away from him, I stared up at the sky. A full moon drifted weightlessly above us, haloed by misty clouds. Rain was coming. A day away, maybe two.

I shivered. Despite Rob’s words, despite his tender kiss and confession of love, I sensed a shift. A boundary had been crossed, a layer torn away.

All day I’d been dreading his honesty, making myself sick with worry in anticipation of hearing the truth. What I hadn’t counted on was the possibility of a lie.

The headlights bored a tunnel into the darkness as we sped back to Coffs. Roadside trees thrashed in the wind, and the sky was a starless black wasteland of ragged clouds. Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ drifted from the dashboard speakers, its bittersweet piano casting a spell of melancholy over me.

I’d intended to doze until Ebor, where we would stop to eat, but I was too wound up. Every time I shut my eyes I was standing in front of Mum’s walnut-tree painting, hearing Esther’s voice.

They never did find out who was responsible, did they?

The stereo lights shimmered. Dark waves of music rushed at me. Gone was the sweet melancholy; the tempo was now pure agitation and it made me jumpy.

‘Mind if I change this?’

‘Go ahead,’ Rob said, not taking his eyes off the road.

Flicking on the overhead, I scrabbled through the CDs in the glovebox. Mozart, Shostakovich, Liszt. I would have loved to hear some Roky Erickson right then – his quirky lyrics and
gravelly voice always managed to lift my mood – but a blast of psychedelia from the seventies would have really blown Rob out of the water. I chose a soothing Brahms instead, but as I pulled it from the pile another disc toppled out.

I looked at the cover in surprise.

A young woman in jeans, with a gingham shirt tied jauntily at her waist, open at the cleavage. She had bottle-blonde hair and spider-black lashes and was sitting on the backboard of a dusty ute nursing a huge Dobro guitar. Her smile was broad and friendly; the gap between her front teeth made me like her.

Removing Beethoven, I fumbled this new CD into the player. The woman’s voice filled the cabin. Her guitar style was laid-back, a bluesy metallic twang that suited her clear, strong vocals.

‘Ainslie Nash,’ I read from the cover, then looked at Rob. He was staring straight ahead at the road, apparently lost in his thoughts. ‘I never picked you as a country fan.’

Rob’s fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘You’re always telling me to broaden my musical horizons.’

I frowned. In three years Rob had never strayed from the classical. Why now? I tried to tell myself I was edgy after Mum’s show and my conversation with Esther, and after my drama with the bra this morning – but the heaviness in my chest warned me that something was off. Rob sounded defensive. His mouth was pinched in a line, and the furrow between his brows was deeper than usual.

I looked back at the CD. Ainslie Nash’s smile was no longer quite so friendly. She was very slim, I noticed. Her milk-coloured hair was gathered at the back of her head, spilling long tendrils over her shoulders. She had small breasts, and just above the swell of them – beneath the collar of her gingham shirt – peeped what might have been an edge of black lace. Peering closer, I tilted the CD cover this way and that in the overhead light. Then I looked at Rob.

‘Where did you get this?’

He didn’t answer. Pressing the volume switch, he killed the music and drove in silence. A minute dragged by. Two minutes. Still, he didn’t speak.

‘Rob?’

A weary sigh. ‘Give it a rest, Ruby. It’s been a long day.’

‘I can’t let it rest. Did someone give it to you, a girl?’

For a long while – an eternity, to be exact – he frowned at the road, his fingers white-knuckled around the wheel. When he finally spoke, his voice was resigned.