Sebastian was irritable. ‘What is it? I was making us something to eat.’
‘Watch this. It’ll spin you out.’
‘I’ve seen them all a million times.’
‘Not this one. Look. It’s unbelievable.’
She played it again. Tessa smiling and flirting. Blowing a kiss. Sarah asking Leonard to turn the camera off.
‘I reckon they must have been having an affair. Tessa and your dad,’ she said. ‘Look at her. You don’t act like that with a friend. There’s no way.’
Seb stared. Said nothing.
‘So? What do you think?’
He marched over to the television, ejected the tape, tossed it back into the drawer, slammed it shut. Claire got a shock when he turned around. His skin was pale, his face rigid with anger.
‘You should go and get dressed now,’ he said furiously. ‘Get the hell out of here.’
38
LiBBy
I drove over to Cooper’s on Saturday afternoon. We planned to hang out at his house for a while, then drive back to my place and walk to the beach for the party.
I was nervous. It was going to be a big night. I was about to meet Cooper’s mother, then he would meet mine. And I was taking Cooper out with all my friends for the first time. I’d seen Hari at uni during the week. She’d apologised for the phone call, for being, in her own words, a stuck-up bitch. She’d hugged me and promised to give Cooper a proper chance. But still, I knew they’d all be intensely curious. Whether we liked it or not we were going to be scrutinised and judged.
I knocked on the door and Cooper answered almost straight away. His hair was damp, his face freshly shaved. He grinned, grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. He wrapped his arms around me, kissed my mouth, my face, my neck. I could smell soap, feel the warm damp of his skin.
‘You’ve just had a shower,’ I said unnecessarily.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you on a guided tour of the Bartholomew estate.’
I followed him down the hall. The house was small but very tidy, with a comforting smell of something herbal or medicinal. Tea-tree oil or eucalyptus.
‘That’s Mum’s room,’ he said, pointing at a doorway. ‘And that’s mine,’ he added, pointing at another. I was curious about his room, how he kept it, what he had inside, whether he made his bed and put his clothes away or left them on the floor; all the small details that revealed so much about a person. But Cooper went quickly and I couldn’t just stop and gawk. I glimpsed a bed and a desk and got the impression that the room was fairly neat. A second later we passed through a small lounge room into the kitchen.
‘That’s it,’ Cooper said. The kitchen was old, small and a bit shabby, but it was bright enough and very clean. It had green benchtops, doors with scuffed edges, a chipped vinyl floor.
Cooper opened the fridge, peered inside. ‘So. There’s beer,’ he said. ‘And Mum’s got some wine here – you could have some of that. Or do you want a hot drink?’
‘Tea?’
He put the kettle on. Collected cups, tea bags, sugar.
Just as I started to wonder where Cooper’s mother was, she appeared. She came through the back door, slightly breathless, as if she’d been out walking. She was short, petite and trim. I couldn’t see any obvious resemblance to Cooper: she was much fairer, her skin pale. Her hair was very short and a dusty grey-blonde. She wore a singlet top and yoga pants and her arms had the look of a woman who exercised, muscular and fit.
‘Libby?’ She put her hand out. ‘I’m Tessa. Nice to meet you.’ I expected a normal, brief handshake, but she held on, not letting go immediately. Her clasp was firm, her expression warm, her gaze intense.
‘You too,’ I said.
Tessa smiled, and her eyes crinkled up in the corners. Her smile, I noticed, was just like Cooper’s.
‘Do you want some tea?’ she asked.
‘Already onto it,’ Cooper said.
We sat at the small red laminated table. One corner of the laminate had peeled off, exposing the raw chipboard beneath. I thought of the beautiful timber table Cooper was making at the shed. Cooper watched me and smiled, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
‘Where do you live, Libby?’ Tessa asked, raising her cup.
‘Adams Street.’
‘Eastside,’ Cooper explained.
‘Cooper said you’re at uni? What are you studying?’
‘Arts.’
‘What’s your major?’
‘Philosophy or film studies and literature. I haven’t really decided on my major yet. I might do a double.’
‘Lucky girl,’ she said wistfully. ‘All those books and interesting conversations. I would have loved to study the humanities.’
‘What?’ Cooper stared at her. ‘You never told me this. I mean, I know you love reading, but you never said you wanted to study.’
‘I don’t,’ Tessa said. ‘Not anymore.’
‘You should have done it if that’s what you wanted to do,’ Cooper insisted.
Tessa shook her head. ‘I made different choices. And I’m not complaining, Cooper. I’m just saying that in an alternative life I would have studied.’
‘It’s not too late. You can study now.’ Cooper took a biscuit and stared at his mother with a frown. ‘If that’s what you want to do, go for it. That’s what you’re always saying to me.’
She smiled. ‘That’s because you’re my son. It’s my job to be encouraging.’
Cooper looked irritated. He ate his biscuit, stared at the table.
‘Cooper said you’re a nurse,’ I said to Tessa, to break the silence. ‘What kind of nursing?’
‘Oh, I’m just an assistant, so I don’t really have a specialisation. I work all over the hospital. Wherever they need beds made, patients bathed. Stuff like that.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s a job.’ She shrugged. ‘Hard sometimes. But I get to meet some interesting people.’
‘The job sucks,’ Cooper said. ‘She works her guts out and doesn’t get paid enough.’
‘Cooper.’ There was a note of warning in Tessa’s voice. ‘Drop it.’
Cooper pushed his cup away. ‘We should probably get going,’ he said abruptly. ‘Don’t want to be late.’
Tessa gave me a hug goodbye at the door. ‘Sorry if that was a bit awkward. Come for dinner soon and we’ll have a proper chat.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Great.’ She grinned mischievously and glanced towards Cooper, who was already marching to the car. ‘I have to say . . . I’m just so glad Cooper’s with a nice girl like you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, returning her smile.
Cooper was waiting at the car. Before I opened the door I stood next to him and slipped my hand into his.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Sorry. Just Mum. She annoys me sometimes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she doesn’t do anything for herself.’ He glanced back at the house and sighed. ‘It’s like she’s got this block. It’s almost like a martyr thing. She wants all the good stuff in life for me, tells me to work hard and aim high, but then she won’t do the same for herself. I mean, fuck, look at our place. It’s shit. And we’ve lived here in the worst street with all the biggest losers in Walloma my whole life. I don’t get it. I don’t get why she didn’t ever do anything to change it.’
‘Maybe it was just too hard,’ I said. ‘Being a single parent and everything?’
‘Hard maybe, but not impossible,’ he said. ‘Other people sort things out. She could have taken some time off to study. We could have lived with my grandparents for a couple of years. She barely earns more than the pension anyway, and now she never will. It’s almost as if she thinks she doesn’t deserve anything. Like she just decided to give up on herself when she had me. Or when Dad died. I dunno. But it shits me. She’s smart. She could have done a lot more if she’d tried.’
‘Maybe she just wanted to
concentrate on you?’
‘Well, she shouldn’t have.’
I tugged on his hand. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Harsh but true,’ he said. ‘Anyway, this is boring. It’s Saturday night. Let’s get out of here.’
I was going to tell him that nothing he said was boring. I wanted to hear everything. All his thoughts, good and bad. But he took my face in his hands and kissed me, and the words died on my lips.
39
CLAiRE
Claire made herself a very tall drink, half vodka, half lemonade, and took it to the living room. She lit a cigarette, drew the smoke in, tipped her head back and exhaled, so that the smoke made a thick cloud across the low ceiling. She didn’t normally smoke inside – Bree complained too much. But Bree wasn’t there, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
Rod had called earlier in the afternoon and asked if she wanted to work that night: an unexpected party had booked and he was understaffed. Claire said sorry, no, she had to study (it was her night off, there was no way she was going to be conned into working!) but was later disappointed to realise that Rod had also called Bree and she’d agreed to go in.
She drank the rest of her drink quickly. It was sweet and syrupy and went down far too easily. She already felt smoother, less jittery. She went to the kitchen and made herself another, emptying the bottle. On her way back to the living room she stopped in the doorway, took a good look around.
The flat was a mess. The floor needed vacuuming, every surface needed dusting, dirty dishes were piled in the sink. The air was stale. Suddenly the Palace seemed so small and depressing and grubby. She knew she should probably clean up a bit, straighten the sofa, pick up the discarded clothes from the floor, wash a few dishes. It might even make her feel better. But it was Saturday night and cleaning was not part of her agenda.
She put her iPod in the dock, chose a song, turned it up loud. She sang the words, danced around a bit, but couldn’t get herself in the mood. She was bored, disappointed that Bree wasn’t home, frustrated that she had no more vodka. She wanted to talk to someone and get pissed. Have a bit of fun. She didn’t want to stay in alone all night, feeling sorry for herself.
She realised with a sudden and uncomfortable jolt of awareness that she was lonely. She rolled the word around in her mind for a while. The whole idea had an unfamiliar shape, with sharp, uncomfortable edges that make her shrink away from the sting of it. Loneliness. It was something she’d always imagined was reserved for stinky old people. For total losers. Not her. Not Claire Forrester. She was popular.
Popular.
The word made her laugh. It was such a high-school concept. So stupid and meaningless. What it really meant was that deep down everybody hated your guts, but for various reasons wouldn’t admit it. At least not to your face.
She hadn’t spoken to Sebastian since the Sunday before. She hadn’t seen him at uni and had been afraid to send him a text or call him. He’d been so furious after seeing the video she’d felt compelled to leave when he told her to. She put her clothes on and left. She’d been trudging down his street, feet killing her, wishing she had money for a bus, when he’d screeched up beside her in his car. She got into the passenger seat and Seb drove her home. His face was stony and he drove aggressively and fast and didn’t say a word the entire trip. He dropped her off without saying goodbye.
But the alcohol had made her brave. She’d call him. He didn’t have to answer if he was still mad.
‘Yup,’ he answered immediately.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Not much.’
‘You okay?’
He hesitated, then asked in a cold voice. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Want to do something?’ she said brightly. ‘Get high?’
‘My olds are home.’
‘So come over here. Bring some stuff. And maybe get a bottle of Stoli on the way?’
‘Such a generous offer,’ he said sarcastically. ‘How could I refuse?’
She laughed. ‘So that’s a yes? I’ll see you soon?’
40
LiBBy
As I showed Cooper around my house, I couldn’t help being conscious of the vast differences between our homes. I’d never before thought of our three-bedroom house as being particularly large or luxurious, but compared to Cooper’s it was both. The ceilings were high, the halls wide, the rooms generous. We had a relatively modern kitchen and an open-plan living area. French doors led out to a leafy backyard.
When we were in the dining area, Mum emerged from the study. She had her glasses perched on top of her head, and looked rumpled and tired. No doubt she’d been writing an essay and slogging through piles of old legal judgements. I was nervous introducing them, but Cooper did all the right things, reached out to shake Mum’s hand, smiled warmly, asked polite questions. I could tell that she was charmed.
We had to do the whole tea and conversation thing again. Mum made a pot of tea, arranged chocolate biscuits on a plate. Just as we’d done at Cooper’s, we took it to the kitchen table. Cooper flashed me a bemused look as we took our seats.
Mum got straight into the interrogation. ‘So, Cooper?’ she asked. ‘You work with Cameron Woodley?’
‘Yep. Making furniture.’
‘You didn’t ever think of going to uni?’
I glared at her. If I could have done it surreptitiously enough I would have kicked her in the shin.
‘I did think of it,’ Cooper said, unfazed. ‘But I wanted to get out and earn some money first.’
Mum nodded.
‘And when I started down at the shed I realised I liked it. There’s actually a real craft involved in working with timber. And I’m good at it. I want to learn what I can from Cameron and try to get work in Sydney. Start up my own thing eventually.’
‘Why Sydney?’
‘Because there’s more money and I’m going to need people with money to buy the kind of stuff I want to make.’
‘And what kind of stuff is that?’
‘Bespoke furniture. Handcrafted original pieces.’
‘What’s the difference?’ Mum asked, laying her palm flat on the table. ‘Take this for example. I bought it at Casey’s. I don’t suppose it’s a one-off. But how would you even know?’
He bent over, his head disappearing beneath the table for a moment. When he emerged he grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s obviously mass-made. The joints are nailed together, the legs are held on with metal brackets. There’s no give in it at all.’
‘And that’s not good?’
‘It’s okay. It’s fine. But it won’t last a hundred years. A piece made the traditional way, with proper mortice and tenon joints, can last forever.’
Mum laughed. ‘But why would I even want my table to last forever?’
‘You might not. Lots of people don’t care.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you want a family heirloom, a special piece of furniture, something that lasts for hundreds of years . . . well, that’s what I want to make.’
I piped up then and changed the subject. I asked Mum what she’d been studying – knowing that she’d probably give us a detailed account of whatever case she’d been reading – so that Cooper would get a break from the questions.
As soon as we’d finished our tea I dragged Cooper to my bedroom.
‘Sorry,’ I said as soon as we were alone. ‘She can’t help herself.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s all pretty standard. Mum’s the same.’
‘It feels weird, though, doesn’t it? I mean, they put us through all this totally obvious scrutiny and yet we all just sit there and act like we’re having a normal conversation. It all feels so . . . I don’t know . . . forced. We should just write them a list and hand it over. Good and bad points. Strengths and weaknesses. Ambitions and future prospects. Like a job application.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sounds cool.’ But he wasn’t really listening. He was looking through the pile of boardgames I kept in one c
orner of my room.
‘Mastermind!’ he said, pulling a box from the shelf. ‘I used to love this. Want to play?’
We sat cross-legged on my bed.
Cooper made the secret code first. It took me eight goes to figure it out when I could normally always get it in four or five turns. I found it hard to concentrate or care with Cooper sitting so close to me. We played a second time. I watched him stare down at the game, his brow furrowed.
He was such a big and different presence on my bed and I couldn’t help but feel hyper-aware of his physicality, his maleness. I could smell him: dust and skin, some kind of clean, woody smell, the faintest tang of sweat. While he was absorbed in the game I ran my eyes over him, getting to know him close like this – broad shoulders beneath a soft T-shirt, bare brown feet, muscular forearms and big hands. Square jaw, generous lips. Long, strong denim-clad legs. I stared at his face, wishing he’d look at me properly, really notice me. I could think of much better things to do than play Mastermind.
Eventually I got sick of waiting. I shoved the game to the ground, slid over the bed and kissed him. He laughed and wrapped his arms around me. We shifted down the bed so our heads were on my pillow, and we lay on our sides, facing each other.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I just had to attack you.’
‘You have a pretty awesome form of attack. Feel free to do it anytime.’
I kissed him again, my tongue exploring his, our bodies pressing tight. He put his hand on my shoulder, ran it down the side of my arm, stopped at my waist. I took his hand and lifted it beneath my shirt so that I could feel his skin on mine.
Pretty soon we were both breathless and hot. I would happily have taken all my clothes off, happily have gone all the way with him then and there, and every cell and fibre of my being was begging me to do just that. But I was conscious of Mum being just down the hall. We couldn’t do it with her so close. And though I didn’t think she’d just walk in, I couldn’t be certain.
I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed myself away. I sat up, tucked my hair behind my ears, smiled down at him.