The Last Anniversary (20 page)

Is that normal? He wants to ask someone but he can’t bear the jokes. He doesn’t want his brother to give him that complacent big-brotherly look: ‘I told you, mate. Forget sex!’

Sometimes in the middle of the night he wakes up with his heart pounding, a terrifying thought in his head:
Grace doesn’t love me any more.
He remembers how everything changed in an instant with Pauline, as they were eating those sandwiches. That time of his life was so terrible, and he realises now that he didn’t even love Pauline! Not the way he loves Grace. In the morning he laughs at himself. Everything is fine. Everything is perfectly normal. He is thirty-five years old with a beautiful wife, a brand-new baby, a career and a mortgage on a house which is being built when it’s not raining.

Except that sometimes when they’re eating dinner and he’s watching Grace move her fork to her mouth and he’s talking about his day at work, he has a sick, frightened feeling in his stomach as though he’s teetering on the edge of a terrible chasm where one wrong move will send him flying off the edge.

‘Good morning,’ says Grace, next to him.

‘Good morning. Did you get back to sleep OK?’ Callum turns over but already Grace is out of bed, walking towards the bathroom, pulling at the strap of her nightie which has slid down over one shoulder.

She seems to wake up instantly these days. No more Girl in a Coma.

I miss you, Grace
, thinks Callum.
I really miss you, honey
.

A
unt Connie’s solicitor is about forty, well dressed, tall, with a crooked grin, gentle brown eyes and a tiny v-shaped scar on his left cheekbone. His name is Ian Curtis. On his desk there is a photo of him knee-deep in snow, with a small, cute nephew sitting on his shoulders. After Ian finishes explaining the rather peculiar terms of Aunt Connie’s will, he takes Sophie to a coffee shop and makes her laugh unexpectedly three times. He says, ‘Mrs Thrum told me I’d like you. She was never wrong, that woman.’ He asks Sophie if she’d like to go out to dinner one night after she’s settled into Connie’s house. She says yes. She does not blush. She also does not even come close to looking at her watch.

Sophie’s girlfriends shriek down the phone lines. Everyone had a
feeling
she was going to meet the right guy very soon. There is no doubt that this is the ‘nice young man’ in Aunt Connie’s letter. It’s just so
obvious
. It’s just so
perfect.
Finally!

T
he man employed full-time to look after gardening and maintenance on Scribbly Gum Island is called Rick. He is muscular, tanned and shirtless. He has a tattoo of a small green turtle on his right shoulder. He meets Sophie in Connie’s back garden one afternoon and makes her feel quite breathless as he gives her very firm instructions about taking care of the roses, the freesias and the busy lizzies. He says, ‘Mrs Thrum told me she was leaving her house to a very pretty girl. She was never wrong, that lady.’ He asks Sophie if she’d like to go for a picnic at this beautiful spot down the river, once she’s settled into the house. She says yes. She does not look at her watch and she does not blush.

Sophie’s girlfriends become quite deranged. There is frenzied debate. It’s brains versus brawn! But solicitors can be brawny! Gardeners can be brainy! Aunt Connie was clearly referring to the Sweet Solicitor. Aunt Connie was clearly referring to the Gorgeous Gardener. Aunt Connie’s opinion is no longer relevant. She must
not
sleep with either of them. She must
definitely
sleep with both of them. She must have a passionate fling with the gardener and then marry the solicitor. She must weigh up her pros and cons. She must go with her heart. She must go with her head. She must take her time. She must hurry up or she’ll lose them both.

Sophie’s girlfriends are starting to annoy her, just a bit.

‘D
o you think Grace is coping OK with the baby?’

‘Oh
yes
, darling! She’s so organised! She’s amazing! And she never takes offence–even when I’m giving her all this advice she probably doesn’t want. She’s always been so lovely and polite that way, even when she was a little girl. Not like Veronika. I shouldn’t say this but there were times I could cheerfully have swapped daughters with Laura!’

‘Yeah. I just sometimes–’

‘That’s just between us, of course. I wouldn’t want Veronika to know I thought about swapping her for Grace. I mean, I didn’t
really
want to swap!’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, one thing, Grace has certainly got her figure back, hasn’t she! Lucky girl.’

‘She just sometimes doesn’t seem quite right to me. I even wondered if she could have postnatal depression.’

‘Oh, no, darling, I’m sure she hasn’t! Look at those beautiful thank you cards she sent out to us all. Now, I can assure you a woman with postnatal depression would not be able to manage that.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘She’s just a bit distracted by the baby. That’s the thing with us women. We fall in love with our babies and maybe we don’t pay quite as much “attention” to our husbands as we normally would.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean I wasn’t getting enough–’

‘I know you didn’t, darling. Don’t you worry. Grace certainly does
not
have postnatal depression.’

‘C
allum told me he was worried Grace has postnatal depression. He’s such a sweet boy.’

‘I don’t believe in postnatal depression. Of course you feel depressed after you have a baby! Who wouldn’t? It’s when you realise how much damned work they are and that you’re stuck with them forever! I cried solidly for the first six weeks after Laura was born. I thought my life had ended. Your father just pretended not to notice. I remember my teardrops sizzling in the pan while I cooked his chops.’

‘That’s not normal, Mum!
You
probably had postnatal depression.’

‘Rubbish! I was just tired. Anyway, I like a good cry. Grace is fine. She’s always been a tough cookie, that one. Never cries. Postnatal depression! Pfff! Look at those pretty cards she sent out!’

‘Yes, that’s what I said. Still, I’ll keep an eye on her. Maybe she would like to come jogging with me. I’m taking up jogging. Why are you laughing? It’s not funny! Well, it’s certainly not
that
funny. I’m getting you a glass of water. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mum!’

I
t’s the second weekend since Sophie moved into Connie’s house and she’s out on the back balcony watering Connie’s herb collection that has been thriving for over forty years, and which Sophie is pretty sure she’ll manage to kill off within the next two weeks. Already the parsley looks sad and wilted.

She rests her elbows on the balcony and breathes in deeply, the sun on her face. The island is just close enough to the ocean so that there is always a hint of summer holiday in the air.

Yep, even the air she breathes is different. Over the last week her life has been transformed.

Instead of waking each morning to the muted roar of traffic, she is woken by a symphony of chiming bellbirds. (‘I expect you’ll be in the market for a sniper gun soon,’ said a guy at work, causing Sophie to throw a floppy disk at his head.) Instead of eating a muesli bar while she blow-dries her hair and then pelting to the bus stop and squashing herself onto a misery-packed city bus, she eats a leisurely nutritious breakfast on the balcony, looking beatifically out at the river. Then she climbs into Connie’s dinghy, starts the outboard engine with a deft flick of her wrist (she loves that part, she is so pleased with herself when it roars into life, like an obedient pet) and putt-putts capably across a shimmering vista of water, past silently majestic sandstone cliffs and rolling bushland. She doesn’t care that it takes an hour and fifty minutes to get to work each day. It’s like starting each day with an aromatherapy massage.

Instead of coming home to fumble in her handbag for her security-door key under a flickering light, then climbing four flights of stairs breathing in other people’s dinner smells, she walks up a paved footpath fragrant with honeysuckle, from her own private jetty, and opens a tiny green wooden cupboard helpfully marked ‘Key’. When she flings open her door each night the house seems delighted to see her. Her sterile, stuffy old apartment had never shown the slightest interest when she got home from work.

But best of all, for the first time in her life, she feels like she’s part of a big, quirky family. Enigma, the island’s most accomplished fisherwoman, has taken her fishing at sunset and shed tears when Sophie caught a respectable bream with a hook she’d baited herself. Rose has asked her if she would like to come one day next week for an early morning swim. Margie has turned out to be another closet reality-TV addict and has been around to watch
Survivor
with her, clutching Sophie’s arm and gasping when someone unexpected was voted off. Even Ron turned up on her doorstep late one night to ask her opinion about whether a bottle of wine he’d received from a client was corked or just awful. (‘Both,’ said Sophie, after one sniff.)

And, most importantly, there are Grace, Callum and the baby. Since their lunch, Sophie has been around to dinner twice and watched a video with them. It’s true that she seems to be getting to know Callum better than Grace, but that’s because Grace keeps going to bed early, or just vanishing for ages at a time, leaving them to chat. Sophie even went along with Callum to a concert when Grace couldn’t go at the last minute.

There is nothing untoward going on, of course. It’s just an innocent platonic new friendship with a really nice guy. She doesn’t know why she needs to keep telling herself this because it’s perfectly true. Besides which, she really
likes
Grace. She’s a bit distant, but Sophie will break through eventually, and they’ll all be friends.

Nothing is going to go wrong. It’s one of the happiest times of her life. She resolutely ignores that whiny, pessimistic voice telling her she must be heading for a fall.

At work, in meetings, watching people talk, Sophie can’t help but smugly imagine their dull suburban homes and soulless city apartments.
She
lives on an island.
She
can start an outboard motor.
She
owns a brand-new pair of gum boots! She feels different. Outdoorish. A touch tomboyish. Glowing with fresh air.

‘Actually, you do smell different,’ says Claire when she comes to visit that afternoon, pulling at her sleeve and sniffing at Sophie’s shirt. ‘Sort of mouldy. Old-ladyish.’

‘I expect I smell fragrantly
earthy.
Rivery. May I remind you that over the next few days I have “engagements” with not one but two very eligible, good-looking men?’

‘Yes,
that’s
true.’ Claire gives Sophie a suspicious look.

‘What does that mean?’ asks Sophie. ‘You’re my only friend who isn’t mad with excitement about these two guys. You just get this really annoying expression as if you know something I don’t.’

‘All I know is that when you talk about a certain neighbour, who is supposedly happily married to somebody else, you get a very interesting expression on
your
face. It’s Callum this and Callum that. Whereas when you talk about your two eligible men, you look a bit ho-hum. I still can’t believe you postponed your date with Ian the sexy-sounding solicitor so you could go to that concert with Callum stupid-name Tidyman.’

‘They had tickets. Grace couldn’t go at the last minute. I was just doing them a favour. I was being neighbourly. What’s the poor guy’s name got to do with anything?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t have the hots for him.’

‘What a charming expression. I like Callum as a friend. I like Grace as a friend too! I babysat for her the other day.’ She says this with pride. As well as being able to start an outboard motor she can rock a baby back to sleep. She is becoming extremely accomplished.

Claire doesn’t look impressed. ‘Yes, and that’s another thing. She’s just had a new baby, Sophie. She’s probably lost confidence in her body and then along you come, sashaying around–’

‘I told you, the woman is a supermodel!’ Sophie is surprised at her rising irritation with Claire. She’s ruining her happy mood. ‘I look like a hobbit next to her. I’d never have a chance with Callum.’

‘But you’d like a chance, wouldn’t you?’

Her words have such an uncharacteristically bitchy edge that they both look startled.

‘Gosh,’ says Sophie.

‘Oh, well,
sorry
,’ says Claire ungraciously.

They sit in silence for a few seconds while Sophie remembers that prat of a law student who cheated on Claire when they were in their twenties. Claire had been a white-faced wraith for months. ‘You’ve just got to snap out of it,’ they all told her kindly. ‘You’ve got to have your dignity.’

‘I’m not going to have an affair with Callum,’ says Sophie.

‘I promise. I like Grace too much.’

Claire still looks doubtful. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you wasting your time falling in love with a married man. You’ll only get hurt and then the next thing you know your chances of having a family will be gone forever. You’re all feelings, Sophie. You let your heart rule your head, and I think your heart is interested in Callum, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not,’ says Sophie. ‘I’m going to fall very sensibly head-over-heels in love with the nice young man Aunt Connie has got picked out for me. I just have to work out which one it is. And now because I’m all
feelings,
I
feel
that both our glasses are empty and I’m going to get us some more of the wine that you bought, which I
feel
was a very nice choice.’

Claire lifts her hands in surrender.

Claire is being overdramatic, thinks Sophie that night. Nothing is happening. Nothing is going to happen. Sophie is a
good
person. Callum is a good person. They’re becoming good friends. That moment at the concert when his hand knocked (brushed?) against hers during the interval when he handed her the chocolate magnum had meant absolutely nothing.

(Actually, she thinks it
had
meant something. Because he looked embarrassed, and you don’t look embarrassed about touching someone unless you secretly like them a bit. But nothing was going to happen. She didn’t want anything to happen. She wouldn’t like him if he cheated on his wife. She could tell he loved Grace. It was just that…it was just that…well, it was just nothing really. And there was no need to keep remembering that moment over and over. It wasn’t like they kissed. It was just a brush of hands. It just made her happy to spend time with him. That’s all. You feel happy when you spend time with new friends.)