False Advertising (20 page)

Gemma was dreaming she was a teenage girl again. Lying asleep in her bedroom, gradually coming to consciousness to the sound of her parents' voices. Often they were talking about her – if either of them knew what time she'd got in the previous night, if they suspected she'd been drinking, how they should handle it this time, should they bring it up, or should they just let it go, seeing as she had actually come home, after all.

Gemma's favourite tactic was to pretend to be sick; actually, she didn't have to pretend all that often. Her parents could never bring themselves to punish her when she was sick, even if it was self-inflicted. In fact, they usually started to fuss over her, mixing up Berocca, making coffee, preparing a hangover breakfast if they were feeling particularly benevolent.

But her parents didn't seem to be talking about her this morning. Their voices were raised, polite, exaggerated . . . ‘
What a lovely home!
'

Gemma blinked a couple of times, bringing herself back to consciousness, back to the present. She stared up at the ceiling. There was the hippo, the little bird on its nose. She was in her bedroom in Balmain. So who did those voices belong to?

She dragged herself out of bed and wrapped her robe haphazardly around her as she stumbled out into the hall and wandered through the house towards the voices, like a child following the Pied Piper's tune. She couldn't still be dreaming, surely? She arrived at the entrance to the back room. There was Helen, in conversation with two figures whose backs were to Gemma, a man and a woman. But Gemma knew exactly who they were, and before she could stop herself she let out an involuntary gasp.

Helen looked up. ‘Gemma?'

The two figures turned around and the man said, ‘
Gemma?
'

The woman just screamed. ‘GEMMA!'

‘Gem-ma,' the man repeated warmly, raising his arms towards her.

‘Gemma?' said Helen again, clearly confused.

Just then Noah ran into the room from the kitchen, obviously startled by the commotion. ‘Whata matta, Gemma?' he cried, his eyes wide, looking from face to face.

‘It's all right, Noah,' said Helen, scooping him up onto her hip.

‘Did Phee tip you off?' said Gemma once she'd composed herself.

‘Phoebe knows you're back?' said the woman.

Now Gemma was mystified. If Phoebe didn't tell them, then . . . ‘How did you find out where I was staying?'

‘We didn't,' the woman said breathlessly. ‘We came for the Bakelite.'

Shit. She should have known. Like bees to honey. But it was only in the local paper. ‘Do you read the
Village Voice
these days?'

‘No,' said the man. ‘We found this terrific site online that links collectors to auctions and sales advertised in all the local papers.'

Damned internet had a lot to answer for.

‘This is some coincidence,' he went on, his voice giddy with emotion. ‘What are the chances?'

Seven hundred fucking billion to one, knowing Gemma's luck. But this had nothing to do with luck. Gemma should have known, should have realised. She should have left the damn Bakelite out of it.

‘Gemma?' said Helen. She was still standing behind the man and the woman, who were gradually inching themselves closer to Gemma, preparing to pounce. Helen looked confounded, not surprisingly.

Gemma cleared her throat. ‘Helen,' she began. The man and the woman turned around then to look at Helen. ‘These are my parents, Gary and Trish Atkinson.'

They were already veering back towards Helen. Noah buried his face in her shoulder.

‘Helen, it's so nice to meet you.'

‘We haven't met you before now, have we?'

‘I'm usually good with faces.'

‘No you're not, Gary, but I don't remember you either, darling. Are you and Gemma old friends?'

‘I'm pretty good with faces –'

Helen was trying to get a word in edgeways, but she didn't have a hope.

‘You've never met Helen before,' Gemma said loudly to get their attention.

They both stopped, turning around to look at her again.

‘What's going on, Gemstone?' her father asked, clearly bewildered, like everyone else in the room.

‘What are you doing here? And is, um, is Luke around?' added Trish, glancing over Gemma's shoulder as though he might materialise behind her.

Gemma sighed. She wasn't going to get out of having the dreaded conversation. Unless . . .

‘No, Luke isn't here,' she said flatly. ‘I left him in Brisbane.' That was sort of the truth. It was the last place she had seen him anyway.

‘When did you come back to Sydney?' said Gary, a hurt waver in his voice.

Be vague. ‘Oh, just a little while ago,' Gemma shrugged.

‘Why didn't you let us know?' asked Trish, the hurt in her voice gaining the sharp edge of accusation.

Gemma looked from her mother to her father to Helen; Helen looked from Gemma to her father to her mother, and back to Gemma again. Her parents looked at each other, then at Helen, then at Gemma.

Which meant everyone was looking at Gemma, waiting for an answer.

A couple of loud knocks sounded from the front of the house. Gemma breathed out.

‘Oh, that's my next appointment,' said Helen, looking apologetic.

‘You're going to have to go,' said Gemma to her parents.

They began to protest, as more knocks were heard, and Helen finally spoke over the top of them all.

‘Gemma, just take them into the kitchen,' she suggested. ‘Quickly.'

‘Don't sell the Bakelite, dear,' Trish called as Helen hurried up the hall, Noah trailing behind her. He was clearly not about to hang back with the crazy people.

Gemma herded her parents into the kitchen and closed the door.

‘So how do you know Helen?' Gary asked.

‘I answered an ad in the paper,' said Gemma as she went to fill the kettle. ‘She had a room for rent.'

‘There's no husband on the scene?' Trish asked.

Gemma groaned inwardly. It didn't take her mother long to start making judgements. This would show her.

‘Helen's husband died,' Gemma said, in a low voice.

They both looked aghast.

‘She's so young; was he a lot older than her?' Trish asked, already salivating over the details.

‘I don't think it's appropriate to talk about that now, do you, Mum?' said Gemma, her eyes shifting towards the door and then back to them.

‘Of course, you're right, darling,' Trish replied, suitably chastened, but no doubt mentally making a note to find out the whole story at the soonest available opportunity.

‘So you're renting a room here?' her father said.

Gemma calmly plugged in the kettle and flicked it on. ‘That's right.'

Wait for it . . . tick, tick . . .

‘We have plenty of rooms at home, darling,' said Trish, her lip trembling ever so slightly. ‘Empty rooms, just sitting there. But apparently you'd prefer to stay with a complete stranger, and give her your money, when you could stay with your own family, who love you, and who would never take a cent off you.'

‘Mum, have you forgotten that I haven't lived at home since I was a teenager?' Gemma leaned back against the kitchen bench and her robe fell open.

‘Oh . . . my . . . God,' her mother said slowly, for maximum dramatic impact. She was staring straight at Gemma's bump. The thin singlet she wore as a pyjama top barely reached her navel. Gemma grabbed the edges of her robe and wrapped it around herself again.

‘What is it, Trish?' said her father, urgently. ‘What's the matter?'

Trish reached for the table to steady herself; she was clearly going to wring every ounce of melodrama out of the situation. ‘I think you'd better ask your daughter that, Gary,' she said ominously.

He looked at Gemma, completely perplexed. ‘Gemstone?'

Gemma sighed loudly. ‘Okay, you had to find out sometime,
so I guess this is it. Mum, Dad, I'm pregnant. And before you start –' she added, holding her hand up ‘– remember I'm a grown woman, I'm not a teenager. So don't talk to me like I'm a teenager, don't treat me like I'm a teenager.'

They were both staring at her, carefully contemplating their next words.

‘It is Luke's?' her mother ventured after a while.

‘Yes, it is.'

‘But he's still in Brisbane?'

‘I don't know where he is now.' Gemma was beginning to feel quite in charge of the situation. ‘But I decided he wasn't good enough to be the father of my baby.' Which was entirely true. After he had walked out on her, she was absolutely convinced he wasn't good enough.

‘Well, I could have told you that,' tsked Trish.

‘I believe you did, Mum, a number of times.'

‘I still don't understand why you didn't tell us you were here in Sydney,' Trish persisted. ‘We're your family, Gemma; who else but family is going to help you through this?'

Gemma turned to get cups from the cupboard. ‘Like I said, I'm a grown woman, I can take care of myself.'

‘Well, that's a matter of opinion,' said Trish. ‘You don't have a great track record, let's face it, Gemma, and now with a baby on the way you're going to need us more than ever . . .' Her voice trailed off as Gemma turned around and folded her arms, giving her mother a baleful look.

‘This is exactly why I haven't been in touch,' Gemma said tetchily.

There was a pregnant pause, appropriately enough.

‘She's right, Trish,' said her father, resting his hand on his wife's shoulder. ‘You know what the book said.'

Trish nodded sagely.

‘What book?' asked Gemma.

‘
Helicopter Parenting
,' said Trish.

‘About parents who hover,' Gary added.

Good lord.

‘The thing is, is this what you want, Gemstone?' her father asked.

Gemma shrugged. ‘I didn't exactly choose it, Dad.'

‘But are you happy?'

How was she supposed to answer that? ‘The jury's still out on that one too, I'm afraid.'

Her father looked a little bemused, but he came towards her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Well, congratulations, Gemma.'

She felt a slight lump in her throat. That was the first time anyone had offered her congratulations.

‘Thank you,' she said in a small voice.

‘Am I at least allowed to ask after your health?' said Trish, still clinging to what remained of her righteous indignation. ‘You look a little tired to me, Gemma.'

‘I just got out of bed, Mum.'

‘And what are you doing for money?'

‘Working,' said Gemma, meeting her righteous indignation and raising it.

‘Oh, Gemma,' Trish sighed. ‘You can't be waitressing or working behind a bar in your condition –'

‘I'm not. I'm back at Bailey's actually. Personal assistant to the managing director.'

Her mother had nothing to say to that, apparently.

‘Well, that's great, love,' said Gary. ‘Isn't that great, Trish?' he added, putting his arm around his wife and giving her a squeeze. ‘They were prepared to take her back, pregnant and all.' He looked at Gemma. ‘You must have done the right thing by them in the past.'

Gemma smiled weakly. There was a light knock and next thing Helen's head appeared around the door. ‘Okay if I come in?'

‘Of course it is,' said Gemma. ‘It's your house, Helen. How's it going out there?'

‘Really well,' she said. ‘This man owns an antique place in Rozelle. He's putting together a list before he makes me an offer, so I thought I'd give him some space.'

‘He's not interested in the Bakelite, is he?' said Trish urgently.

‘I won't let anyone else have it,' Helen assured her. ‘You were here first.'

‘Well, I tell you what, young lady,' said Gary. ‘I want you to carefully consider all offers for the Bakelite –'

‘Gary!'

‘Hear me out, Trish,' he said. ‘You let us know the highest offer, and we'll top it.'

‘That's really not necessary,' said Helen.

‘Yes it is,' Gemma broke in. ‘They can afford it.'

‘So that's settled,' said Gary.

‘And now we'd better get out of your way,' said Trish. ‘Gemma, when are we going to see you?'

And so it begins. ‘I'll give you a call.'

‘Oh, no,' said Trish, ‘if we leave it up to you, we'll be lucky to see our grandchild before he starts school.'

‘Hey, Trish,' said Gary, smiling broadly. ‘We're going to have another grandchild.'

‘Hmm,' she shook her head. ‘And I don't look old enough to have one, let alone three!'

Gemma had been waiting for that.

‘So, what night can you come over for dinner?' Trish persisted.

Gemma's shoulders sagged. ‘I don't know, Mum, I get really tired after work.'

‘So we'll make it lunch on Saturday, or Sunday.'

‘Sunday lunch, now that sounds like a treat,' said Gary.

‘Sunday it is then,' said Trish. ‘I'll get on to Ben and Phoebe, and you must come too, Helen.'

‘Pardon?' Helen was taken aback. ‘Oh, no I cou–'

‘Of course you could!'

‘Mum, don't drag poor Helen into this,' said Gemma. ‘How's she supposed to say no now?'

Trish took hold of Helen's hand. ‘Why would she want to say no to a lovely family Sunday lunch? And she's like family now, aren't you, Helen?'

Helen didn't know what to say.

‘And of course you'll be bringing that darling little boy of yours. He looks to be about the same age as Emily, our granddaughter. They'll have a lovely time together.'

‘Thank you,' said Helen. ‘I'd better get back out there.'

‘Of course, see you next week.'