Our Kind of Love (4 page)
Joe grimaced. There was nothing like being brought back down to earth by people you’d known since you’d worn short pants. There was something about knowing you’d always have a place where people knew exactly who you were, who would always strip away the bullshit. Whether you wanted them to or not.
Ry glanced at his watch. ‘You two kids stopped fighting yet? We’ve got to drive up to Adelaide and catch a plane so I can whisk you away to Rome, JJ.’
‘Whisk away,’ Julia said, and when she gazed up into her husband’s eyes, Joe felt a pang of something weird. Something that shifted the safe marital ground he’d been standing on during his marriage. That look in Julia’s eyes? That dreamy thing women did when they were in love? Jasmine had never looked at him like that. Not once.
The heavy slam of the front door was like an exclamation point on that memory of his marriage.
And then there was silence. Joe looked around the house. The place was damn near perfect. White. Neat. He’d have to make a special effort to keep it looking that way, would have to control his natural tendency to leave newspapers scattered around from arsehole to breakfast, and a dozen coffee cups in the sink.
He sauntered over to the white leather sofas and flopped backwards onto one, resting his interlocked fingers on top of his head. The coffee table made a convenient footrest and he let out a deep sigh.
This was going to be good. Living the high life without the price tag. House-sitting, especially in this house, wouldn’t be a chore. A quick glance to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the sparkling waters of Middle Point and Joe realised he’d have plenty of thinking time.
There been stuff he’d pushed aside, pushed down deep, things he’d been putting off for months. And all that thinking began with the big question.
What the fuck do I do now?
Alex smoothed his perfect hair with the palm of his left hand and glanced over to the staff behind the counter. For what Anna estimated must have been the tenth time.
‘Are those coffees ever going to arrive? It’s been ten minutes already.’ He then lifted a hand to the back of his neck and searched the room. He looked rumpled, agitated, and she knew him well enough to know it wasn’t about the damn coffee. Something did look off about him, she noticed. Uncharacteristically he’d left his suit jacket in his office. It would have rankled him, she knew, being not quite dressed. He’d never liked former Prime Minister Paul Keating’s politics, even in a nostalgic way, but he’d sure loved his taste in suits. Alex’s shirts were always snow-white with modern wide collars, his ties had to be just the right width for the season and he took great care in choosing his cufflinks. It was that attention to detail that made Alex who he was. Anna realised it was that same attention to detail that meant he’d got away with cheating on her for so long.
She knew he was doing everything possible to distract himself so he didn’t have to look at her. Mr Big Shot Lawyer and Perfect Husband had turned out to be a gutless wonder.
‘Why did you choose this place if the service is so slow, Alex? Tell me that.’ Anna’s jaw tightened and she held her lips together to hold back what she really wanted to say. Her fingers found her St Christopher medal and she turned it over and over between her fingers. ‘Be just a little patient, won’t you? It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Half of Adelaide is in here.’
Wouldn’t a quiet place have been more appropriate for the discussion he wanted to have? This was anything but. It was power suit central. The café smelled like coffee and success. The stylish city venue was filled with pressed and pin-striped people, crouching over their designer coffees with heads close together, deep in confidential conversations. Others spoke loudly into mobile phones pressed to their ears or jabbed and swiped at tablets lying flat on the tables. Half the men looked like heart attacks on legs, too many lunches lurching above their belts, and the women made Anna cross by ordering skinny weak decaf lattes to take back to their desks. Call that a coffee? In Anna’s book, it was a ‘why bother’.
‘I haven’t got that much time,’ Alex whispered as his eyes darted across the café.
This place was so not Anna’s style. She didn’t ever have time to go into the city just to drink coffee. Her practice was in the city’s north-eastern suburbs, smack bang in the middle of little Italy. Where you could get real espresso, brewed to be consumed in one gulp. Where old school Italian delis were crowded with displays of dried pasta in packets, tinned tomatoes, Parma hams suspended from ropey strings. Where the vintage refrigerated cabinets displayed open tins of salted sardines, wedges of Parmegiano-Reggiano and bowls of juicy, shining olives. Anna wished she was there now.
Alex pushed back the cuff of his immaculate shirt and stared at his gold watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting at eleven.’
‘Listen,
Alex
,’ Anna said with hard emphasis on his name as she gritted her teeth, ‘You’re not the only one who’s in a hurry. Grace has moved half my morning patients so I can be here. And why did you choose this café, anyway? It hardly seems like the place to talk about …’ Anna bit back the words. ‘To have a private discussion.’
‘You know why. It’s near my office.’
‘Well, it’s not near mine.’ Anna’s voice rose a little louder than she wanted. She sat back in her chair and lifted her shoulders so she could breathe.
Alex cleared his throat, ran a finger around his collar. ‘Jesus, you’re not going to go all Italian on me, are you?’
Anna squeezed her eyes shut. She had previously gone all Italian on his arse and he knew exactly when and where that was. Five weeks ago when she’d found the credit card account for a five-star hotel in Adelaide. It was for a Wednesday night, a night when she was at her regular family dinner and he was supposed to have been hard at work with his colleagues on a case. Yes, he was lucky to be sitting across from her with his balls still attached. And judging by the white as a sheet look on his face, he still feared for their safety.
‘You should just—’ Anna stopped.
She’d become invisible. Alex was staring right over her shoulder, past her. She knew that look but with a shock of recognition, realised she hadn’t seen it on Alex’s face for a million years. It was lust. It was a purely masculine reaction to a woman. And it was directed at someone else.
Her heart began to pound. Everything suddenly got too loud. The scrape of Alex’s chair against the floor as he stood, buttoning his suit and straightening his shoulders. The conversations all around Anna had become a buzzing white noise. The smell of frothing milk made her feel sick and there was a hammer pulsing in her head.
She followed Alex’s gaze to see a woman approaching the table; a slinky, tall blonde in a black suit and heels. Anna watched them acknowledge each other. The woman darted a split-second glance at Anna before swishing her hair over her shoulder with the flip of a hand and giving Alex a furtive smile. He straightened his tie and smiled back.
Anna stiffened. She felt the uncontrollable rage build up inside her. Her teeth clenched together with such force she thought she might crack a filling and a surge of heat fired up her body from her shoes to her hair. She was shaking and she couldn’t seem to stop it.
At that moment, the waiter arrived with their coffees. Alex slowly sat down, all his attention on the perfect arse of the blonde who’d just walked out of the café.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘About time.’
Anna needed that coffee but her fingers were shaking so much she was afraid she might drop it. She stared at the brown froth rippling in the small white cup. The barista had created a fancy heart design in the milk.
‘Did you do that on purpose?’
‘What are you talking about?’
If Anna wasn’t mistaken there was a sneer in Alex’s voice and on his lips. ‘That woman. The one you just said hello to. Is she one of them?’
Alex leaned over the table. His eyes were cold, unrecognisable. ‘It’s none of your business. You gave up all rights to know anything about me when you decided that you didn’t want to be a lawyer’s wife.’
Anna’s shaking fingers clenched into fists. ‘When exactly did I do that?’
‘For God’s sake, Anna. You made that choice years ago when you chose being a local bloody GP over being my wife. I’m about to be made a partner and I need someone who’ll be a lawyer’s wife. I don’t need a bolshie Italian from the ’burbs who’s still fighting the class war.’
It took Anna every bit of strength she had to hold back her rage at this man. She had wanted to be his wife. Had wanted a life with him and to be loved by him with all the promise of their courtship, for all the years they lived. She’d believed her wedding vows. They hadn’t been simple words for her. They’d been a solemn promise to Alex. To her family. To herself.
And now it was all ending in this betrayal. His deliberate and calculating betrayal and the cold way he was justifying it.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Anna looked at the stranger sitting opposite her. Who was he, this man who had lied and cheated; a man who had fundamentally changed under her very nose without her realising it.
‘I’m a man who is moving on, Anna. I suggest you do the same.’
Moving on? She suddenly wanted to scream at the top of her lungs:
Guess what, Alex? I’ve already done it and in one night he was a better lover than you ever were
. She saw Joe’s face and remembered how she’d felt in his arms. Desired. Free. A woman who for one night didn’t care about what other people would say. That feeling of mysterious confidence surged through her like a drug. Her fingers stopped shaking. She could breathe again. The only thing she wanted to do to Alex now was walk away from him.
‘Why did you want to meet me, Alex? We could have done all this on the phone.’
The crowd of people at the table next to them all stood at once, their chairs scraping and echoing in the café. It was immediately filled by more people, who looked exactly like the ones who’d just left.
Alex finally met her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to do this on the phone or by email.’
‘You’re such a lawyer. What, are you scared of a paper trail?’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘I’m not interested in how you think I should act.’ Anna felt a calm settle over her. An Italian calm.
‘I need to organise removalists to get the rest of my things from the house. Some furniture, the mid-century Danish pieces. My law books. The second TV and DVD player.’
Anna stilled ‘You wanted to meet me here, I’ve come all this way, cancelled my patients, to ask me about the DVD and the TV?’
‘They’re Bang & Olufsen.’
Anna lifted the coffee to her lips, considered it, and then swallowed it in one gulp. The milk froth heart disappeared into a smear on the sides of the cup.
‘One week,’ she said, rather too loudly for Alex’s liking, given the way he nervously looked to see who might have heard. ‘You have one week to sort that out before I change the locks.’
She rose on determined feet and hefted her handbag on to her shoulder.
‘Don’t get all Italian. Keep your voice down,’ he hissed under his breath.
Anna paused for a moment, wondered how satisfying it would be to create a scene. But she decided he wasn’t worth it. She leaned over the table, planted her palms flat and glared at him. This stranger. Her husband in name only until she could do something legal about that.
‘One week, Alex.’
Joe rustled the Saturday paper and looked over the top of it at Lizzie’s neighbour, Harri Byrne. They were seated at her kitchen table, a freshly brewed pot of tea and two cups the only things between them and the general knowledge quiz.
‘I know you’ll get this one, Harri.’
Harri eyed him shrewdly. The seventy-something retired politician had recently been given a new hip and now sported an even hipper attitude.
‘Hit me. What’s the next question?’
‘Name the seat Gough Whitlam held in the Federal Parliament.’
Harri rolled her eyes. ‘You think I came down in the last shower? I campaigned for Gough. It was Werriwa in New South Wales.’
Joe watched as Harri sipped her tea, the twinkle in her eyes giving away just how much she enjoyed this ritual. Since Joe had been back in Middle Point, with little more to do than feel sorry for himself, drink too much and stare at the ocean, they’d taken to doing the Saturday quiz together. What had started out as a friendly diversion for two people who had lived and breathed politics, was now an intellectual battle of wills. Harri gave as good as she got and Joe found out pretty quickly that he always had to bring his best game.
‘So, wonder boy, tell me how many times he won the seat?’
Joe narrowed his eyes, thought about it. ‘Ten?’
‘Twelve,’ Harri said smugly.
‘Give me a break, Harri. I wasn’t even born when he was elected. Or when he was sacked.’
Harri almost dropped her cup into its saucer and shifted stiffly in her chair. ‘Don’t get me started on that.’
‘Ready for the next one?’
Harri reached for a biscuit, dipped it in her tea. ‘Not quite. So, Joe. There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you. While I do enjoy your company and I’m actually rather enjoying the rumours around the Point that you’re my toy boy, surely you have better things to do than sit around in my kitchen and drink tea.’
Joe waited a beat before answering. Harri’s observation was shrewd and he knew he had to come up with just the right answer to fend off any further questions. He decided to go with flattery and diversion. ‘You brew a mean cuppa, Harri.’
Harri tilted her head to one side, observing his obfuscation with a wry grin. ‘When are you going back to work, young man?’
Joe jumped to a joke, a defence mechanism that had worked well for him since he’d been a teenager. ‘Work? And leave behind the rollicking social life of Middle Point?’
‘You’re too young and way too good a journalist to be down here entertaining me. What’s your plan, Stan?’
Joe picked up his tea and took a sip. The simple truth was he didn’t have one. Almost twenty years of work had counted for fuck all when he’d been made redundant. Redundant. What a weasel word that was. He’d been sacked, just like the cavalcade of other people whose jobs had disappeared in the twists and turns of the modern economy. His newspaper, the one he’d lived and breathed for the best part of two decades, was on life support and getting thinner. It didn’t matter that his face was on page one or page three next to his by-line almost every day with the latest breaking story. When it came to the crunch, he was a number like everyone else – albeit an expensive number – and he’d been marched out the door on a fateful day the previous October with thirty of his colleagues. It had all been done politely, of course, with a cake for the dear departing and speeches and tears, time for a farewell column, which had ended up full of bullshit like ‘new adventure’ and ‘spend more time with my family’. Joe would never forget the haunted look on the faces of those left behind in the newsroom, the look that said ‘thank God it’s not me’ but which really meant ‘Oh God I could be next’.
