Nefarious Doings (24 page)

‘So your girls must be a handful.’

I frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘Well, they’re so … noisy.’

‘No noisier than any others. In fact, sometimes they hardly say a word.’

‘Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just when I grabbed the wine in there they were so …
giggly
. That’s all.’

Still frowning, I followed his glance towards the house, and then realised his mistake. ‘Oh god,
they’re
not all mine! For starters, they’re all the same age! What, did you think I had quintuplets or something?’

‘Well, I knew you had five girls and there were five girls there. So I put my highly tuned detective skills to work and came up with a deduction.’

‘Do
you
have children?’ I asked, already suspecting the answer. It was also something of a test, as any man who appended their answer with ‘… that I know of’ automatically lost brownie points.

He shook his head. ‘No. Not that –’

‘Ever been married?’

‘Once. For about six years. We’re still good friends.’

‘That’s great,’ I said, meaning it. ‘I think acrimonious break-ups are such a waste.’

‘Agreed.’ He gave Gusto one last neck ruffle and then leant back, gesturing towards the house. ‘So where are the rest of yours then?’

‘Spread around the countryside. The others are all adults, you know.’

‘Oh.’ He looked relieved. ‘Oh, that’s marvellous.’

‘Thank you. I count it as quite an achievement myself.’

‘Although you look too young to have that many adult daughters.’ He added this quickly, as if it was de rigueur.

‘I was a child bride.’

He grinned. ‘And where might the husband of the child bride be nowadays?’

‘In an apartment on the Gold Coast,’ I replied smoothly. ‘Rueing the day he left.’

‘Was that day fairly recent?’

‘Seven months ago.’ I took a sip of wine. ‘Which is long enough.’

‘Good to hear. So …’

I took another sip, stalling. Everything was a little nebulous, as if it didn’t quite count. ‘So a date would be very pleasant, but I should tell you at the outset that I’m not interested in a relationship. You know what would be even better? A weekend away!’ I imagined transferring this scenario, with us sharing a bottle of wine, to a hotel balcony. Perhaps dressed in white fluffy dressing-gowns. I smiled and then realised Ashley was staring at me, clearly surprised. ‘Maybe I should explain myself better. I’ve just got out of a twenty-five year marriage to a serial philanderer and both before and after we split I thought the permanency of a relationship was what I wanted. No matter what. So even a few weeks ago, if you’d asked me out, I’d have been really thrilled and hoped it might lead to another, and another. But not any more. See, for the last seven months when I’ve been
pretending
to extol the joys of solitude, I actually had a point. I just wasn’t listening.’

He was still staring. ‘Um, look, I was just asking you out on a date. That’s all.’

‘And the old me would now be feeling all embarrassed at oversharing, but the new me is just going to shrug –’ I demonstrated ‘– and say honesty is the best policy. All
I
want to do is draw a line and then cross it. Maybe twice. I don’t want you to end up getting hurt.’

‘I don’t want to get hurt either, so thanks.’ He leant back even further, balancing the chair on its rear legs for a few minutes. ‘You’re very interesting, do you know that?’

I nodded, quite pleased.

‘Most of the time I’m the one trying to slow things down. Yet here you are laying down the ground rules from the beginning. I could point out you’ve
already
agreed to a date. Sailing, if I remember right.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes, but you had just been rescued from several days chained in a wine cellar, so I wasn’t going to hold you to it. Unless I had to.’

I frowned as I dredged up a vague recollection of something to do with sailing, but there was also some cheerleading in there, so I wasn’t sure if it was an actual memory or one of Quinn’s teen movies. ‘Well, I still think a weekend sounds nicer. Separate from all this.’ I waved to the house in general. ‘You don’t want the complication of being involved in my life, and same here. Let’s just take off instead.’

He rocked back again, regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I’d
like
things to be complicated?’

‘But maybe I wouldn’t?’ I smiled, to take the sting from my words. ‘How about we have our weekend away, and then assess it from there.’

‘Should I bring along some evaluation forms?’

‘Only if you’ve a particularly high opinion of yourself,’ I replied. ‘Or you’re fine with constructive criticism.’

He grinned as he leant forward to empty the bottle into our glasses. ‘Bit of both. Now you’ll have to excuse me for a tick. Bathroom break.’

I watched as he strolled towards the back door, admiring the way his cargos sat. The further away he walked, the more blurred he became around the edges, until his image rippled like a mirage in the heat. I wondered if that would happen with my time spent in the cellar, that it would fade until all that remained was the nucleus alone. At the same time, it seemed that my middle-aged invisibility had done the opposite. I had never felt so alive, so
visible
, as I felt right now. It might be temporary, just a hiatus in the fabric of my time, but I was going to make the most of it. Maybe
I’d
get a YOLO tattoo. I turned back and took a sip of my replenished wine. Gusto came over to keep me company, scrambling onto the deckchair and then draping himself across my lap. From inside the house came the high-pitched squeals of thirteen-year-old girls being delightfully frightened by vampires or zombies or whatever unworldly creatures featured on their latest movie.

I took another sip and suddenly frowned, holding the glass up and examining the etched rim, then glancing across at Ashley’s. Recognition dawned, alongside amazement that of all the glasses in the cabinet, he had chosen the two that matched those Darcy had taken for his wine-cellar trysts. I wondered if this was some sort of omen, or just coincidence. I pressed my lips against the rim and then watched as the damp imprint condensed to nothing.
Middle-aged woman enjoys risqué weekend with rugged detective. Ex-husband crushed. By an elephant.

Peals of laughter burst from the house and Gusto started, then settled again with his head on my thigh. I heard a door shut inside, which meant Ashley would no doubt soon be joining me again. What a two weeks it had been, what an amazing, tragic, life-changing two weeks. I held up the glass again, letting the setting sun transform the wine to a ruby claret, and gave a toast. To Berry, who had deserved so much more of everything, and to me, who was going to get it.

This book has had a slow birth, with many interruptions. However, what started off as an experiment soon turned into one of the most enjoyable writing experiences I have ever experienced. For that I would like to particularly thank all those who sent me encouragement through social media. It can be both a curse and a blessing, often at the same time (damn you, Words With Friends!), but those connections are sustenance in themselves. Except for the chain mail, and ambiguous postings (you know who you are), and pictures of cats, and other people’s gourmandising – particularly when all you have is dry crackers because you’re too lazy to go down the street.

Thanks also to my offspring, Michael, Jaime and Caitlin – the latter two who were unknowingly (and metaphorically) flung into the blender to serve as models for the Blake-Forrest girls. And thanks to Tricia Woodroffe, who was a font of murder mystery advice, and Charlotte Evans, as always.

Huge thanks to Joel Naoum of Momentum Books for taking my manuscript on board and offering such support, and also to Ali Lavau, who provided the much-needed spit and polish. Great job. I would also like to thank Lindy Cameron of Clan Destine Press, whose words of encouragement came at a very opportune time.

And lastly, but certainly not leastly (is that a word?), thanks to Nell Forrest, who became such a great friend during the course of this book that I am already planning her next visit. My turn for the wine and cheese.

Ilsa Evans was born in the Dandenongs, east of Melbourne, in 1960 and enjoyed a blissful childhood that has provided absolutely no material for writing purposes. Fortunately adulthood served her better in this regard. After spending time in an eclectic range of employment, from the military to health promotion to seaside libraries, she returned to tertiary studies and completed a doctorate on the long-term effects of domestic violence in 2005. She has now settled into an occasionally balanced blend of teaching, public speaking and writing and lives in a perpetually partially renovated house, not far from where she was born, that is held upright by a labyrinth of bookshelves. 

Ilsa is the author of eleven books in a variety of genres, including two murder mysteries in the Forrest Murders series. She also contributes to several newspapers and online journals on social issues and won the Eliminating Violence Against Women (EVA) Award for online journalism in 2011.