Trust (38 page)

Gerry gave a murmur of satisfaction. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You know, Suze, I probably shouldn’t say this but —’

‘Stop!’ Leigh exclaimed, holding up one hand. Gerry stopped. ‘Susanna, thank you. I know you’ll think about this, and we’ll come back to it in our next session. And Gerry, thank you, too, because you’ve just presented us with the phrase of yours which I felt it would be worthwhile to examine.’

Gerry looked at him questioningly.

‘ “I probably shouldn’t say this, but”,’ quoted Leigh. ‘What’s the significance of that phrase, to you? What are you thinking about when you say it?’

‘Well, uh …’ Gerry thought about it now. ‘I guess it signifies that I’m about to say something particularly truthful, and honest.’

‘And why do you preface it by saying that you probably shouldn’t say it?’

‘Because people don’t like to hear the truth, do they? For the most part, they don’t like honesty.’

‘Why do you think people might not like to hear the honest thing you’re about to say?’

Gerry chuckled. ‘Because they don’t like to get their precious feelings hurt.’

With a kind of forensic delicacy, Leigh asked, ‘Are people’s feelings really precious, Gerry?’

‘They are if they’re mine,’ he shot back, adding a short hearty laugh. ‘Joke!’ He sat back again, knees confidently apart, arms relaxed. ‘Look, everybody’s feelings get hurt sometimes. It’s all just part of the cut and thrust of life.’

‘So when you say something you know may hurt the other person’s feelings, you see that as being just an everyday comment?’

‘Sure. Everybody does it.’

‘Do you think Susanna says things, knowing they may hurt another’s feelings?’

Husband and wife looked assessingly at each other, and then Gerry gave a dismissive shrug. ‘No. Susanna’s too concerned with being
good
,’ he said, giving the word a derisive emphasis.

‘And you’re not?’

‘Look, I’m a bloke, and a competitive sort of bloke. I play to win. Susanna doesn’t.’

Leigh rested his forehead on his steepled fingers for a few moments, then took his hands away. ‘And what if she did? What if there was, say, one issue, that Susanna played to win? That she was
determined
to win?’

Susanna watched as the skin around the corners of Gerry’s mouth tightened. ‘Then she wouldn’t be the Susanna I married. She wouldn’t be the Susanna I know.’

But if you don’t know me, then who does?
She felt a lurch of fear, as though an unimaginably deep and wide chasm had suddenly opened up in the earth before her, and she was looking across it.
If I’m not the person you married, who have I become? If I am not your wife, who am I?

‘Well, that was really interesting,’ Gerry was saying with enthusiasm as they walked back toward the car. ‘I reckon he —’

‘
Sh, sh!
’ said Susanna fiercely.

Gerry hated being shushed. Scowling, he swung his head toward his wife and saw that she’d stopped in her tracks, her mobile phone to her ear. Gerry halted abruptly too, reaching for his own phone which, like hers, had been turned off, at Leigh’s request, during the session. Then Susanna jerked as though a bolt of electricity had shot through her.

‘She’s woken up!’ she yelled, and started running for the car. ‘
She’s woken up.’

THIRTY-THREE

Susanna watched her sister standing, absorbed, before each of the three watercolours hanging in a neat row on their mother’s living room wall, and felt ashamed that for years she’d barely glanced at their father’s landscapes. At heart, indeed, she’d been dismissive of them because they weren’t … very good.
As if that matters
, she thought now.

‘It’ll be ten years, this November,’ Angie said, touching her finger-tips softly to the spidery signature:
Neville Greenfield
. ‘The sixteenth.’

‘Yes.’

‘Mum always blamed me for Dad’s death. Even though he’d had that heart condition since he was a kid, she still blamed me.’

‘I know,’ Susanna said quietly, instead of denying, or defending, or changing the subject, and her sister shot a surprised glance over her shoulder. ‘It wasn’t fair.’

‘You didn’t, though. I knew you didn’t,’Angie said, her face softer.

Susanna gestured at the row of paintings. ‘You must have them,’ she said.

‘Not all of them,’ protested Angie. ‘You take one, at least.’

‘No, keep them together. It’s right.’

‘Well, you have the portrait,’ Angie said, going over to the painting of the two of them. ‘It’s so special.’

‘How about we share: I’ll have it for a year, then you?’

Angie agreed, and they moved over to the pile of flattened cardboard boxes. ‘And keep an eye out for anything else you’d like as we pack,’ Susanna added. ‘I really appreciate you helping me do this, Ange. I just couldn’t face …’

‘Packing all this up on your own? No, of course not.’ Angie began assembling boxes, one after another. ‘You just tell me where to start, ’cause I don’t know. I’ve only been here a couple of times.’

‘Start with the books, maybe?’ Susanna suggested, as she taped one end of each box.
She’s only been here a couple of times
, she thought wonderingly. Jean’s unit had been like Susanna’s second home, and she was struggling to come to terms with the fact that soon it would be sold, and she would never be able to come here again.

Angie, kneeling by the bookcase, asked, ‘How are you feeling about selling this place?’ and Susanna started. It was as though her sister had read her mind.

‘Oh … not great, to tell the truth. But we have to.’

Angie settled a batch of books into the box and paused, her forearms resting on its edge. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound mercenary, Susu, but – I am
so
looking forward to paying off my mortgage. That is going to be such a huge weight off my back.’

‘That’s what you’re going to do with your share? That’s
great
, Ange.’

Angie gave a brief laugh. ‘Look at you, so relieved. You thought I was going to give it all to Faith Rise, didn’t you?’

‘I — oh, not really, I hadn’t …’

‘Well, I am going to make a donation, but not a big one. The mortage is where most of it’s going.’ Angie smiled ruefully. ‘It’s what Mum would’ve wanted, isn’t it? Finally, I’m doing
something
that Mum would have approved of.’

Approved
, Susanna thought. ‘Do it for yourself, Ange. Because it’s what
you
want.’

‘I am. What about you, what are you going to do with your half?’

‘Maybe renovate our place,’ Susanna said, keeping her eyes on the cups she was wrapping. ‘Put on a second storey. That’s, um … that’s what Gerry wants to do.’

Angie, watching her, asked, ‘You don’t?’

Susanna shrugged. ‘I’m, ah – I’m not sure. I don’t know that it’s a great idea to put in stairs, you know, with Stella-Jean. How is she going to handle them? But she
is
progressing amazingly, so maybe it won’t be an issue …’

Angie was nodding. ‘Finn’s so happy she’s coming home. He doesn’t say much, but he’s missed her terribly.’

‘She’s missed him, too.’ Susanna kept packing the contents of Jean’s china cabinet, uncomfortably aware that she was being evasive. She had never told her sister that it was Stella-Jean who had raised concerns about Gabriel and Finn.
All the things I don’t talk about
, Susanna thought.
Even now.

The sisters worked steadily for a couple of hours, making good progress. Everything was so orderly; Jean had left no messy drawers, no broken items tucked away in cupboards. Susanna tried to be tough with herself and keep only the minimum: the photograph albums, of course, a few boxes of books and treasured knick-knacks like the old tea caddy with the paintings of camellia blossoms painted on the sides. A few items of furniture were going to her house: Stella-Jean had asked for the floral couch, Gerry the pair of wooden bookcases, and he’d also suggested the walnut cabinet for Seb’s trophies. Everything else, including kitchenware and clothing, right down to the pegs in the peg-basket, would be collected by a charity Leonard Styles was involved with, helping to resettle refugees who had arrived with nothing.
Mum would have approved
, Susanna thought, and smiled wryly. What significance that word possessed for her now, ever since that first session with Leigh Fermor —

And still Gerry won’t tell me when he started fucking around
. The thought crashed into her mind like a rock – or a duralex glass – through a window.
Right from the beginning? I still don’t know.
She stood, frozen, in her mother’s bedroom, a pair of Jean’s slacks half-folded in her hands, possessed again by the shock and anger of those unfolding revelations of Gerry’s betrayal. She saw herself spitting denial at Angie in the cafe in Degraves Street, just hours before the crash; the fear and confusion when no one had been able to reach him in New York; saw herself opening that green bag, jumping back in fright from the buzzing cock ring.
Naïve fool!
Hurling that glass through the window in a blind rage at Gerry’s stupid, stupid lies; the harsh rasp of her voice when she said ‘I’m angry’ to Leigh Fermor.
Angie doesn’t know about any of this. Nothing. I’m still pretending I’ve got the perfect marriage.

It hit her that if she wanted to hear the truth – from Gerry, Angie, her kids, anyone – then she’d have to get a lot better at telling it. She’d been trying to, but … Susanna dropped the clothes she’d been folding and walked quickly toward the kitchen, where Angie was working. But Angie had stood up from the box she was filling and was already walking toward her.

‘Angie —’ she said, just as her sister was saying ‘Suse —’, with equal urgency, then they both smiled and Angie said, ‘You go first.’

Not letting herself pause, Susanna said, ‘Ange, you were right. About seeing Gerry in that hotel in Sydney, with another woman – you were right.’

‘I knew it,’ Angie gasped. ‘Oh, Susanna. Who is she?’

‘He says she’s not anyone special. That’s the thing. He’s been playing around for years, he still won’t say how long. Maybe the whole time we’ve been married.’

Angie clapped a hand to her mouth. Her eyes above it were very round. Then she stepped forward and put her arms around Susanna. ‘I’m so sorry, Susu. I’m so sorry.’

With the hug, Susanna very nearly lost it. A noise, something between a moan and a whimper, sounded in her throat, but she kept her lips clamped tight, fighting for control. ‘So,’ she said at last. ‘There it is.’

‘What’s going to happen?’ Angie asked, without a trace of righteous triumph.

‘I don’t know.’ Susanna shook her head. ‘We’re seeing a counsellor. I’ve only told one other person, the woman who runs the art studio, and now you know too. I suddenly felt like I was being such a hypocrite, not telling you. Anyway. What were you just about to tell me?’

Angie closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself. ‘I was about to tell you that
you
were right, too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s something not right about how Gabriel treats Finn. The discipline is – oh, I
know
Finn’s behaviour is so much better, everyone can see that, but … I keep wondering, why
did
he run away that day? Was it really just that he was missing Stella? It’s true: he’s scared. And he won’t tell me why.’

That’s exactly what Stella-Jean said
, Susanna thought.

Angie pressed her lips together tightly, and sighed. ‘I don’t — I haven’t said anything, but I don’t leave him alone with Gabriel any more.’

Susanna nodded, several times. ‘I think that’s wise,’ she said.

Angie caught her hand. ‘Have I – Susu, have I been a bad mother?’ she pleaded.

‘No! Angie, sweetheart, you’ve been a wonderful mother.’ It was Susanna now who hugged her sister. ‘You’ve done the best you could, always. We can’t ask more of ourselves than that, can we?’

‘Mum thought I was a bad mother,’ said Angie, starting to sob.

Tears came into Susanna’s eyes as well. ‘Never mind,’ she murmured, rocking Angie gently. ‘I know how much you love him, Ange.’ She wished she could say that their mother’s approval didn’t matter, but in truth, she knew all too well how much it did.

Leonard Styles had invited them to lunch, and as they walked through the quiet retirement village, Susanna described him to her sister, who couldn’t remember meeting him at Jean’s funeral. He had been, she said, their mother’s … she hesitated over the appropriate word.
Beau
, she chose in the end, and Angie repeated it, with a tiny chuckle. He welcomed them warmly into his unit, which was just as Susanna had expected: lots of books, a functional masculine simplicity.

After they had eaten and the table was cleared, Leonard produced a manila folder and sat leaning forward a little with his hands clasped on top of it, looking very much the former magistrate. Susanna, sitting beside her sister on the opposite side of the table, had a sudden image of movie scenes in which a will is read.
Was there a second will? Did Mum change her mind and not leave half her estate to Angie?
Instantly, she knew that if that was the case, she would defy her mother’s wishes and split the proceeds of the sale with her sister.
And I don’t care if Mum would’ve approved or not!

‘Susanna,’ said Leonard solemnly, and she braced herself, ‘do you recall showing me, not long after your mother’s death, a notebook in which she had been writing?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Susanna said. ‘All in shorthand.’

‘I offered to get it transcribed. I do apologise that it’s taken rather longer than I’d anticipated.’

Susanna made a gesture to say it didn’t matter. ‘I’d completely forgotten about it,’ she said quickly, which was true.

‘My former secretary, Mrs Henderson, has kindly transcribed the entire notebook. I have it all here.’ He tapped the folder, then opened it and drew out several pages. ‘This, however, appears to be the final draft of what Jean was writing. It’s a letter. Even though the letter addresses itself to one of you, you will see that it concerns you both. Such was my certainty that you would want to read it together, I have taken the liberty of making two copies.’