The Alphabet Sisters (27 page)

She smiled to herself as he turned off the engine. This might be even more fun than writing the musical.

T
he next day, Bett was driving back to the
Valley Times
office with Daniel. They’d spent the afternoon following one of the Valley’s young winemakers around his small winery, as he showed them the process from grape to bottle. At the end of the session, Daniel had handed over the digital camera and watched as she flicked through his shots. They were good, a bit quirky, with plenty of action and interest in them. Rebecca would be very pleased.

Bett was pleased with herself, too. So far today she’d managed to stay quite composed in his company. She’d tasted a glass of the new Shiraz without spilling it everywhere. Even better, she’d had several conversations with him without turning bright red. Perhaps deep down she actually was a mature grown-up.

The car radio was playing the new single from the country’s latest manufactured pop band. He turned it up. “Great, one of my favorites.”

“You’re kidding.”

He had a glint in his eye. “To tell you the truth, I can’t decide between this lot and the all-girl band formed after that supermarket reality show.” He pressed the button to change stations. A screaming punk song filled the car. Bett winced.

Daniel noticed and turned it down. “I take it you weren’t ever a punk?”

She shook her head. “Why? Were you?”

“For a whole six months. I even changed my name.”

“You didn’t.”

“It was written in studs on the back of my best denim jacket. Danger Hilder. I was extremely scary for a twelve-year-old.” He grinned. “So you were never spiky-haired? Covered in safety pins?”

“No. Unfortunately I reached my teenage years in time for fluorescent socks and sweat bands.”

“Ah yes. I think I may have seen a photo from that time.”

Had he been at Lola’s birthday party? No, she was sure he hadn’t been. Color raced up her neck into her face. There was only one other way he could have seen them. “Has Lola shown you the Alphabet Sisters photos?”

He nodded solemnly. “Quite a lot of them, actually. She’s very proud of you, isn’t she?”

“That’s it. I’m going to break into her room and burn them.”

“You’ll never find them. She had them hidden in books and under boxes all over her room. ‘I have to hide them or the girls would have them spirited away in seconds.’ ”

She had to laugh at his good impression of Lola. His mobile rang before she could say anything more. He pulled over to take the call, and she took the opportunity to have a good look at him. He was probably thirty-five or thirty-six by now, she guessed. She thought she remembered his celebrating his thirtieth birthday just after she’d first joined the
Valley Times.
They had worked together on only a few jobs, but she’d occasionally spoken to him in the pubs, or in restaurants around the Valley. He’d had a girlfriend at the time, hadn’t he? One of the high school teachers, if memory served her right. And she had been going out with Matthew. Engaged to Matthew, even.

Back then, she’d always found him easy to work with. It had been the same today. Bett had interviewed the winemaker while Daniel strolled the property taking photographs, like a normal journalist and photographer team. The only difference being they’d had a night of wild sex three years ago and not mentioned it since. She decided she had to bring it up today. Get it out of the way. Into the open, as Lola would advise.

He finished the call, from one of the other reporters on the paper setting up a photo shoot for the next day. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“No problem.” She decided to launch straight into it. “Daniel, before you start the car, I think there’s something we need—” She was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile again.

He glanced at the display screen. “Sorry, Bett. I’ll need to get this.”

It was obviously a personal call. He got out of the car and walked a short distance away. Her window was already wound down, and snippets floated in. He was soothing someone by the sound of things. Listening a lot and then reassuring the caller. She wasn’t close enough to hear any more. “I’ll see you tonight. Okay. Bye.”

He got back into the car. “Sorry, Bett. You were about to say something?”

She noticed his mood had changed, become more serious. She lost her nerve. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

He started the car and they had driven for a little while before he spoke. “That thing you were about to say. Was it about that night in Melbourne, by any chance?”

“Yes. Yes, it was.” Was that squeak really her voice?

“I wondered which of us would bring it up first.” He was still serious. “Bett, it’s all right. I’m a grown man. I got over it.”

“You got over it?” Had it been that bad? Something that had to be got over?

“Of course,” he said. “It wasn’t the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

That he had a one-night stand? “Really?”

“Yes, really. Honestly, don’t give it a moment’s thought.”

She was feeling worse, not better. “I thought I had to mention it, at least. You know, now that we were working together. In case you were thinking …” She trailed off. In case you were thinking that I was an old slapper who would jump into bed with you at any opportunity. She couldn’t say it.

They were coming into the town now. “Bett, it’s okay. I got the message in Melbourne. So please don’t feel awkward working with me.”

What message? She hadn’t left him a message. She’d been so embarrassed she’d crept out without even waking him.

His phone rang again, and he answered it without pulling over. “Hi, Rebecca. About five minutes away. No worries. I’ll drop Bett at the office and head straight out there.” He turned to her. “Sorry, Bett. Do you mind? That fire out at the old quarry has flared up again. Rebecca wants me to go straight there.”

“Of course.” They were silent as they drove up the main street of Clare. He deftly pulled in behind one of the tall trees sending out splashes of shade onto the hot bitumen.

“See you later, then.”

“Yes, see you.” She got out of the car so quickly she nearly tripped.

T
he following night the cast was once again gathered in the function room. Bett’s hands were folded in her lap. She’d given up playing any of the songs. Carrie was in the middle of the group, looking mutinous. Anna was in front, extremely unhappy.

“General MacArthur, have you actually looked at the script since our last rehearsal?”

“I intended to, Anna, I really did. But I had trouble with the dam at the end of the bottom paddock, and I ran out of time.”

“And what about you, Mrs. MacArthur?”

“I looked at it. But the school fair was this week, and I had to choose between making three dozen fairy cakes or learning my lines.”

Anna looked from one cast member to the next.

“The dog ate my script.”

“The cat weed on my script.”

“I got called away to fight a fire at the old quarry.”

Anna sighed, put her hands on her hips, exasperated. “I bet a million dollars Andrew Lloyd Webber never hears excuses like this.” Everyone laughed. That was the whole problem, she realized. No one was taking it seriously. What would Lola do if she was here? Whatever was necessary, she guessed. She’d have to do the same.

She stood up, composed herself, mentally searched through her voice repertoire until she found the most cajoling one, and then coughed politely to get everyone’s attention. Speaking persuasively, she started talking about General MacArthur, about what he had meant to people during the war. She reminded them all about Lola’s dream, about the need for a new ambulance, about the highs and lows of acting, about pride, belief in your work, determination.

Good heavens, Bett thought. She felt a verse of “Climb Every Mountain” coming on.

Carrie wasn’t listening. She’d learned her lines days ago. She’d had nothing else to do in the lonely house once she got home from work. She and Matthew had tried to have another conversation on the phone that afternoon. It had ended in disaster again. Another row. More shifting blame. It was getting to the stage where they nearly hung up before they said hello to each other.

She shot a glance at Bett. They’d hardly spoken a word to each other since that night in the office. It was all very well for Bett to say she wanted to see Matthew. What was she supposed to do? Produce him out of a hat? Say, “Here, Bett, have him back”? She longed to ask Lola’s advice, but that would mean telling her the whole story of their separation. She couldn’t bear the shame of it. If only there was some way of making things all right between her and Matthew again. She turned away as Bett looked up and caught her eye. She stared rigidly at the script, pretending to be concentrating on Anna’s speech.

“So, please, all of you,” Anna said passionately, her voice husky by this stage. “Please have your lines and the words of your songs learned before our next rehearsal. We’ve got only a few weeks to put this together, remember. And I want to say again how much it would mean to my elderly grandmother to see her dream brought to the stage.” She lowered her voice. “You all know about the accident, and it does worry me how frail she has become, that she is losing her already tenuous grip on life. I think it would give her a real boost, and I hope you’ll all give it your best shot.”

She gazed around. Was that woman on the left crying? Oh dear, perhaps she’d gone a little too far. “So, Bett, let’s try ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo,’ from the top.”

I
n her room at that moment, Lola took a long sip of her gin and tonic and pointed the remote control at the CD player. She did love singing along with those old show tunes. There was nothing like them to buoy the spirit. But now it was break over and time to get back to work.

Settling herself more comfortably in the armchair, she put on her glasses and studied the two rather wobbly handwritten lists on the page in front of her. She wished she’d thought of doing this years ago. Who’d have thought there could be such entertainment in the little matter of getting two people together?

She had followed the matchmaker’s guidelines to the letter. First, draw up a short list of available suitors. Hers was short, just the two names. Then draw up a list of their attributes. She’d done that, too, based on her interviews, formal and informal, over the past little while. They were similar in some ways. Both seemed very kind, with lovely senses of humour and the necessary glints in their eyes. They both had a bit of life experience behind them, too—always a good thing. They’d both lived in the city, but had chosen to be in the country for the time being—also a good thing.

Now all she had to do was make her final choice. It was hard enough, with both of them having so much going for them. She read the lists again. It was close, certainly, but she was veering toward the one on the left. Yes, she decided firmly. He was the one.

All her project needed now was a name. It finally came to her and she wrote it carefully on the folder.

Operation Richard and Bett.

Chapter Fifteen

A
t home in the farmhouse two nights later, Carrie poured a glass of wine and moved from the living room to the bedroom, then back into the kitchen, trying to decide where to do it. It didn’t help that there were traces of Matthew everywhere—a pair of boots in the hallway, his Driza-Bone jacket on the back of the door. And memories in each of the rooms, too. The painting they had bought in Adelaide not long after they were married. The lamp she had admired in an antiques store up north one weekend they’d been away, which Matthew had gone to such trouble to get for her as a surprise, driving three hours there and back. The hall cupboard the two of them had spent weeks sanding back, only to find the wood underneath in such bad condition they’d had to paint it all over again.

She finally settled on the kitchen. She pulled a chair up to the wooden table, reached into her bag, and took out the magazine. She’d seen it in the newsagents in town that morning, its glaring cover line talking directly to her—“How to Save Your Marriage.” She’d bought a whole selection of other items to pad all around it—pens and writing pads, even a
Your Garden
magazine—so the woman behind the counter, whose wedding she had helped organize, wouldn’t guess.

“You looking for a new man, Carrie?”

She had nearly leaped out of her skin. “No, Matthew’s fine. He’s just away for work for a while.”

“Don’t want him to catch you looking at that, then.”

“No.” She was flaming red by that stage. It was only when she’d gotten into the car that she realized what the woman was talking about. “Fifty Most Eligible Bachelors. Tasty touch-me-now photos inside!”

She skimmed past the perfume ads, the fashion pages, and the eligible bachelors until she reached the “How to Save Your Marriage” article. Please let it be a matter of mixing up a quick potion of pomegranate seeds and vinegar, or chanting over an old photo of the two of them, she thought. She realized a little guiltily that most of their photos were in a bag in the shed where she had thrown them after the last row. Still, at least she hadn’t ripped them up. She corrected herself. At least she hadn’t ripped all of them up.

She skimmed the introduction to the article.
Do you feel the gloss has gone out of your relationship?
Not just the gloss. The relationship had gone out of the relationship.
Don’t know where it went wrong?
She shifted uncomfortably. Next question.
Have things really changed for the worse?
That was easy.

Then try this exercise to get in touch with your feelings. Sit quietly, and recall the early days of your relationship. Think about everything that first attracted you to him, and him to you. Remember your first touch, your first kiss, the first time you made love. Let the memories wash over you. Let go of any anger you may feel now. Let go of any hurts or misunderstandings. Take your mind back to your early days, remembering the wonderful first moments of attraction.