The Last Anniversary

  Then it hits her. Callum and Sophie probably danced together. Of course they danced together; how could Callum resist dancing with a real live woman instead of a cardboard cut-out?

  She becomes aware of a digging pain, as if someone is poking her in the side. It's jealousy. She wanted Sophie to marry Callum and now she's jealous at the thought of them dancing together. She lets the feeling take hold of her. It's so much better than that horrendous dull nothingness; it's a proper, human emotion. Real spiteful human blood is pumping through her veins.

  She says, 'Well, would you look at this nice freshly made bed.'

  Callum squishes a pillow into a pillow slip. He looks blankly at the bed and says with endearing uncertainty, 'Yeah?'

  'Don't you think we should mess it up a bit?'

  He drops the pillow and has her flat on the bed so fast she's laughing while he's kissing her, his hand on the back of her neck, his tongue in her mouth, and she must have been out of her mind to have thought of giving him away to another woman.

  'Eddie Ripple,' says Sophie. 'I haven't seen you for thirty years. Can you believe we're old enough to say, "I haven't seen you for thirty years"? Did you ever think we'd get this old and still be us?'

  She is sitting with ice wrapped up in a tea towel held against her hand while Eddie kneels with a dustpan sweeping up the broken cup. He looks up at her with exactly the same green eyes of the little boy who used to sit with her under the tuckshop stairs. The Blusher and The Twitcher. The Outcasts. The Spastics. The Retards.

  He says, 'I think I thought anything that happened to me after I turned thirty would be sort of irrelevant.'

  His voice is deep with the slower rhythm of a laconic Australian farmer being interviewed on TV about the drought. Sophie can feel her own voice, her own heart beat, perceptibly slowing down to match his pace. He sounds like a country boy, and of course, she remembers, that's what he'd become. His family had moved up to Queensland to live on a farm. Sophie, who only had very vague ideas about what the 'country' meant, had always imagined him going to a one-teacher school in a horse and buggy, with girls wearing bonnets, like in Little House on the Prairie.

  'I missed you when you left,' says Sophie, remembering that all of a sudden as well. That first day at school without Eddie by her side had been like the first time she'd travelled to another country on her own. She'd felt simultaneously invisible and overly visible at the same time. She used to go to bed feeling sick about school the next day. She says, 'But guess what? Then I got popular and I didn't miss you at all.'

  'How did you manage that?'

  'My eleventh birthday party was a social coup. We got an in-ground swimming pool, you see, and my dad made this amazing slide into the pool. I became A-list after Dad built that slide. All the girls decided my blushing was cute and the boys pretended not to notice.'

  'I don't think I missed you,' says Ed, considering, and of course that was the thing about Eddie Ripple, he was always devastatingly honest. 'Everything in Queensland was so different. We went to school barefoot. We caught yabbies in the creek at lunchtime. It just felt like I stepped into another world and you didn't even exist any more-like my old bedroom, my old street, the whole state of New South Wales had just vanished. And then, thirty years later, I'm having dinner right here in this house, with Callum's family, and they started talking on and on about this girl called Sophie who blushed, and I thought, How many blushing Sophies can there be in Sydney? And it all came back, all those conversations under the tuckshop stairs-I seem to recall discussing existential dilemmas with you, Sophie Honeywell, as well as making up bloodthirsty stories about how we'd get revenge on Bruno, and all the kids who were mean to us. Anyway, I kept remembering things while they were all talking about you, and then your ex-boyfriend, Thomas, pulled out a photo and there you were, all grown up and beautiful.'

  'Thank you.' Sophie grabs hold of a blush and swiftly slays it. 'Do you still twitch, Eddie Ripple? Seeing as you've opened the door on our disorders!'

  He smiles. 'Not as often, but if I'm nervous or stressed it comes back. I don't worry so much about it these days.'

  Sophie says, 'How do you know Callum?'

  'I met him when I moved back to Sydney. I play saxophone in his band.'

  'So you were there on the Anniversary Night? Actually, I think I saw you and thought you looked familiar!'

  'Yep, but I never got a chance to say hello, and then when there was all the disaster with Grace's allergic reaction I thought I'd leave it for another day. Callum told me you want to repaint this house, so I thought I'd come over and ask if you want me to quote on doing it.'

  'So is that what you do, paint houses and play the saxophone?'

  'I do a bit of this and a bit of that. I paint houses because I write poetry, and I've discovered the only way for me to write a poem is to paint a house. I manage a poem a room. The painting pays a lot better than the poetry. The problem is I paint slower than the average house-painter, so my clients have to be patient, but my quality is outstanding, if I do say so myself.'

  'Are you a published poet?'

  'Well, yeah. But it hasn't exactly flown to the top of the bestseller lists. I actually think my mother might be responsible for all of my sales. She gives them away to waitresses in coffee shops. What about you? What did you end up becoming?'

  'Oh, well, I accidentally became a Human Resources Director for a company that makes lawnmowers,' says Sophie.

  'Hey, did you know that our old nemesis Bruno is married with twins and working as a chartered accountant for one of the Big Six firms? I had a two-week fling with him.'

  'Really? Remember Gary Lochivich?'

  'I always thought he'd become a hairdresser.'

  Eddie gives her a puckish grin. 'You were right,' he says. 'He did become a hairdresser and I had a fling with him.'

  It seems Sophie's Fairy Godmother has made just a slight error of judgement. It doesn't matter how perfectly the glass slipper slides on to her tiny foot...Prince Charming isn't looking for a princess.

  Enigma and Rose, Margie and Laura are having a meeting at Rose's house to decide what to do about the Alice and Jack business, now that Rose has 'gone public'. Ever since they issued their media release the phone has been ringing endlessly. Margie has organised for the Alice and Jack business to give a very big donation to some charity group (an overly generous one, Enigma thinks, but she is keeping her mouth shut) as a 'public apology'. Margie also has some idea about offering the Alice and Jack house as a free place to stay for families with sick children, or mothers suffering from postnatal depression, which everybody is excited about, and although it's awful to think of the house being changed after all this time, Enigma quite likes the idea of having nice, grateful people staying there. It gives her a pleasant, kind-hearted feeling.

  Apparently some silly legal organisation called the Australian Consumer and Competition something or other wants to talk to them about 'misleading and deceptive conduct', which is very bad, according to Ron, and just goes to show that Rose has got them into hot water! Fortunately, Ron seems to be dealing with lawyers and talking to a lot of serious-looking chaps in dark suits, and they are working out something called a 'loophole', which sounds like a good idea. Anyway, it's nice for Ron to have something to do and to feel important, so they all act interested and encouraging when he talks about it.

  Of course, nobody wants to interview Enigma any more, oh no, she's no longer the Mystery Munro Baby. She's a nobody. She'll never be on This is your Life now. She'll never have another Women's Weekly spread and nobody will ever want her autographed photo. She's just an ordinary old widow who isn't even very good at tennis. She may as well be dead.

  'Is Rose talking to another journalist?' asks Laura.

  'Oh, probably,' says Enigma. 'She's probably there right now telling the whole world that I'm illegitimate, that I'm the daughter of a rapist with a head shaped like an egg. Why does she have to say that part? What's that got to do with anything? Everybody i
s probably looking at me thinking my head is egg-shaped! There's no need to snort like that, Laura, it's very bad-mannered. Well, Laura, I blame you for this whole debacle, it is your awful friend's fault-he started it! I said from the beginning he was a kook, but I didn't know he was my own daughter's beau! People are very upset about this, you know. Very upset. Did Rose think of that before she started blabbering on? I can see you giggling, Margie. Why are you so happy these days?'

  Enigma feels all itchy with irritation. Nobody is giving her any sympathy whatsoever. 'You look like the cat that swallowed the cream.'

  'I think it's because she's stopped swallowing cream,' says Laura.

  'Oh, ha, ha,' says Margie happily. 'You're just jealous. I'm nearly as skinny as you.'

  'Well, I think actually you're in much better shape than me,' says Laura. 'You're very toned, I must say. I was admiring the back of your arms before.'

  'They're called triceps,' says Margie. 'I can do tricep push-ups on my toes.'

  Rose comes back into the room-another one who looks like the cat who swallowed the cream, with her sophisticated new haircut! She's still so pretty really, and it gives Enigma that jealous, hurt, proud feeling she'd forgotten. When she'd learned that Rose was her mother, she'd thought, I have a beautiful mother, so maybe I'm beautiful too? But nobody who knew the truth had ever commented about Enigma's resemblance to Rose. Daughters were meant to be prettier than their mothers, but Enigma knew, deep down in her heart, that she could never, ever be as lovely as Rose. Enigma probably resembled her father. A rapist! It wasn't fair. Her blood was dirty. Enigma hated her father for what he'd done to Rose-a secret, powerful hatred that could make her feel quite dizzy.

  Rose says, 'Sorry about that. Another journalist. Oh, Enigma, I forgot to tell you that some young girl called from Channel Nine this morning and asked if you and I would be prepared to be interviewed by Ray Martin. I said I certainly didn't want to be on TV, thanks very much, but I'd check with you.'

  Enigma nearly spills her cup of tea. 'Well, Rose, of course I'd like to be on TV! It would be a good opportunity to set the record straight.' Television! She'd get her hair and make-up done by a professional! She'd have a tiny microphone pinned to her jacket. Ray Martin would look at her with those kindly interested eyes and ask her questions. All the tennis girls would videotape it.

  Rose says, 'I said I was fairly sure you'd be interested,' and Enigma catches her winking at Laura and Margie but she doesn't care because she's going to be on television-finally!

  Sophie and Ed are in the living room talking about the colour 'duck-egg blue', which Ed thinks might be perfect to lighten the room, when Sophie says irrelevantly, 'Are you single, Ed?'

  And there's the twitch. A lightning-quick spasm of all his facial features, as though an invisible hand suddenly slapped him across the face. The twitch hasn't changed at all, except that it only happens once and it's so fast that you're not quite sure if you imagined it. He says, 'I had my heart pulverised about two years ago, and I know it's hard to believe with these devastating good looks but I've been single ever since. What about you?'

  She says, 'I haven't been in a relationship since I broke up with Thomas three years ago.'

  'It's difficult, sometimes, being single,' says Ed reflectively, and Sophie remembers the scientific way he would examine his own feelings when the boys at school used to do horrendous imitations of his twitch. 'Most of the time I'm fine, just getting along with my life, but sometimes I just get hit by this sulky left-out feeling. Like when you played musical chairs and the music stopped and you were there feeling like a moron. You know what I mean?'

  'Oh, I know,' says Sophie. 'I know.'

  She watches Ed stopping to examine the framed photos that line the mantelpiece of Connie's old fireplace.

  'That's my collection of godchildren,' she says. 'I've got nine of them. I'm considering telling my friends there are no new vacancies.'

  Ed says, 'I've only got one, a friend's daughter called Sarah. She's a little princess. Her mum and dad and I all have to sit around having tea parties with her.'

  He picks up one of the photos and says, 'I always assumed I'd be a dad. It's weird. I think I knew I was gay even before I realised what the word meant, but I also had these deeply conservative ideas about how I'd grow up and have kids and live in a house with a white picket fence.'

  'I'm sure you could find a nice guy prepared to wear a flowery apron for you,' says Sophie flippantly, but then she sees the stoic expression on his face and it's identical to the one she's felt tightening her own facial muscles, when she says to women with false bravado, 'Well, my biological clock is sure getting nervous!'

  She watches his profile as he picks up another photo and thinks, with a surge of anger on his behalf, Well, for heaven's sake, why shouldn't Eddie Ripple-sweet, kind, sad Eddie Ripple-be a Dad?

  She thinks maybe Aunt Connie had it exactly right after all.

  'Have you got to be somewhere?' asks Ed, as he turns around and finds Sophie looking at her watch.

  'No,' says Sophie. 'Just checking the time.'

  59

  Grace is walking to the top of Kingfisher Lookout. She has the baby in a sling across her front and a backpack full of supplies, from a change of nappy to a sketchpad, just in case Gublet makes an appearance.

  It's only an hour to the top of the lookout but it's been like packing for a month-long trekking expedition and Grace had begun to wonder if it was such a good idea. After all, it would be no problem finding somebody to watch Jake for a couple of hours, especially now that people are treating Grace like she's made of glass. Veronika and Audrey have even offered to take him for a whole night, so that Callum and Grace can go and stay in a hotel and have a romantic dinner together. 'I think it's crucial for your relationship,' Veronika had lectured. 'You need to see yourself as Grace and Callum again, not just in your roles as parents. You have to work to keep the romance alive, you know; it's not like in the early days when everything is just perfect and you can't imagine arguing with the other person, or even being annoyed by them!'

  'You mean not like it is for you and Audrey,' Grace had teased, and Veronika had grinned her new sheepish grin and said, 'Well...yes, but anyway, love is a decision, that's what Aunt Connie told me before she died. Actually, I don't really know what her point was, do you?'

  Grace hasn't done much exercise since the baby was born. It's a warm spring day and within a few minutes she can feel sweat trickling down her back. Her heart is thumping, her legs feel heavy and sluggish, the baby is a lumpen weight against her chest, while the backpack thuds uncomfortably against her shoulder blades, and she thinks miserably, 'Oh God, I should just forget it!' and then, 'Oh, no, no, stop it!' because she can feel the swirling blackness ready to suck her down and under and she's been just managing to hold it at bay for the last few days, mainly through the rediscovery of mind-numbingly good sex.

  She keeps on walking and thinks about that ridiculous woman yesterday saying piously, 'Well, you know what, when I feel down, I just say to myself, Megan, every day is a gift.' If it hadn't been for the girl sitting to Grace's left, who'd caught her eye and pointed discreetly at her mouth, mimicking retching, Grace might have walked out of the Glass Bay Postnatal Depression Support Group at that very moment. She had only agreed to go to it to please her mother and Callum. Laura was all for getting Grace straight onto Prozac, while Callum just wanted her to see a good doctor about it. Grace was steadfast: no drugs, no doctors. No drug could make her love her baby like a proper mother. No doctor could magically cure her. Besides which, she was feeling much better-and she didn't have postnatal depression-she'd always been a grumpy, bitchy type of person. That was just her. The very thought of sitting in front of a doctor, with all that doctorly focus on her and her inappropriate feelings, made her feel unbearably trapped, like a pinned butterfly.

  But when Callum came home with a yellow flyer pulled from the noticeboard of the Glass Bay fish and chip shop, she'd agreed to try out th
e support group-just once. That was the deal. At least the attention wouldn't be on her alone.

  Within ten minutes she had decided she absolutely wasn't going to a second meeting, especially after pious Megan was followed by a pale wispy wraith of a woman who'd just had twins, and now had four children under the age of five, and a husband in the army who was likely to be shot at any moment in the Middle East. She talked apologetically about how some days she didn't have time to brush her teeth and she felt really down and guilty about not coping. Grace shifted uneasily in her chair, thinking, Well, of course you can't cope, you poor girl-for God's sake, who in the world could! The government should give her a full-time nanny or something. How could Grace possibly make a comment after that?

  But then another woman had said, 'Well, this is going to sound really bad after what you've been going through, because I've only got one baby, who sleeps through the night, and a very supportive husband. I'm a corporate tax lawyer and I've actually always been quite vain about my time-management skills. I mean, I could achieve-but anyway, that's why I don't understand how this has happened.' She had taken a deep breath and looked around at the group with a half-fearful, half-laughing expression. 'Yesterday I sat at my kitchen table and stared at a packet of cream cheese for a whole hour.'

  'Oh!' Grace leaned forward. She hadn't intended to contribute a single word, except to compliment the host before she left on her chicken vol-au-vents (actually quite stodgy, far too much cheese) but the words were just tumbling out of her mouth. 'That happened to me, but it was a carton of milk.'