Sweet Damage (15 page)

She starts laughing. I watch for a moment, surprised, but her laughter is contagious and soon the two of us are roaring. We laugh so much that tears come to our eyes and we double over, clutching at our stomachs. We try to stop, to breathe and take control, but each time we make eye contact we only start again.

‘Stop it,' Anna says eventually, still sniggering. ‘You're giving me a headache.'

‘Me too,' I say, taking a deep breath. ‘Just stop. Breathe. Stop.'

‘Yes. It won't do at all,' Anna says, shaking her head in mock seriousness. ‘All this happiness. Quick. Let's get back to being miserable.'

It's such an unexpected thing for her to say that we look at each other and laugh again.

I barely even notice when an email comes in from Lilla saying she'll be there.

31

S
HE SAVES THE BEST BIT FOR WHEN
T
IM HAS GONE TO WORK
. A
NEW DRESS
.

She searches for an hour before she finds the right one and orders it. The website guarantees it will be delivered within three days – plenty of time before the party.

Once she's ordered her dress she flicks idly through Tim's bookmarks. They are mainly links to surfing websites – graphic pictures of tiny-looking men on horrifyingly big waves. There are links to a few cooking sites, one to a site on the tsunami. Almost without thinking, she clicks on the last link, which takes her to Tim's Facebook page. Before she has a chance to even look at anything, a message appears at the bottom of the screen.

Back again, Timmy?

It's from a girl called Lilla. Of course Anna doesn't respond. Tim would find out and think she was snooping. Which she is. But, unable to control her curiosity, she clicks through to Lilla's Facebook page and browses through her photos. Lilla is pretty, dark. There are a lot of pictures of her with a well-built blond guy and Anna is surprised by how relieved she is at this visual confirmation that Lilla has a boyfriend. There are hundreds of photos. Photos of Lilla looking wild and outrageous at parties, photos of her wearing skimpy little dresses that show off her tanned, athletic body. Photos of her dancing, riding bikes, hiking in the bush, swimming at the beach, drinking beer in pubs, drinking cocktails in posh bars. There are photos of her in fancy dresses, in tight jeans, in rumpled pyjamas. She looks equally confident and sexy in everything. She looks bold, brash, happy, as if she's having the time of her life.

Anna feels a powerful and irrational jealousy – of Lilla's life, her obvious carefree happiness, her 798 Facebook friends – but most of all, of her apparent friendship with Tim.

There's one particular photo that she stares at for a long time. Lilla's standing on the footpath, the facade of a building behind her. She's punching the air with her clenched fist,a huge, victorious smile on her face. There's something about the picture that makes Anna curious, something familiar, something that tugs at her memory.

Still here snooping, Tim? Another message appears from Lilla and Anna closes the page, shuts the computer lid and rushes away, feeling ashamed of herself.

And a strange, mildly unpleasant feeling of inadequacy stays with her for hours. It's ridiculous, idiotic. She doesn't even know the girl.

*

That afternoon she goes to the junk room to find the lights that her mother used to put up for parties. It's early yet – the party's not for a few days – but she wants to set them up so she can show Tim just how spectacular the ballroom will look.

She takes the lights to the ballroom and dusts them off, then spends the rest of the afternoon stringing them up around the walls of the ballroom. She needs a ladder from the back yard and, though she feels anxious walking out there, going into the dark, cobwebby interior of the shed, she manages to avoid a panic attack and makes it back inside, ladder in hand. She works all afternoon and evening. It's a hot, uncomfortable job, climbing up and down the ladder, holding her arms over her head while she hooks the lights up. There are enough lights to make three complete circles of the room. When she's done she closes the door and turns the lights on to get the full effect. She turns the chandeliers on as well, switching them to low, and the combination of chandeliers and fairy lights creates the perfect ambience. Dreamlike, soft, beautiful.

It's past eight and she's hungry. She goes to the kitchen to make herself some dinner. She hasn't had an appetite like this for a long time. She usually sees food as a necessity rather than a pleasure, as fuel that she has to put in her body in order to survive, but tonight she's ravenous.

She toasts three slices of bread and butters them generously. She cuts a mango into pieces and puts it a bowl with a dash of cream on top. She gets one of the beers that Tim keeps in the fridge and takes it all to the ballroom. She eats sitting on the floor, lights glowing around her, enjoying the atmosphere. For the first time in months she feels a sense of accomplishment; if not exactly happy, she is at least temporarily content. She has a pleasant ache in her arms, and every mouthful of food, every sip of beer, tastes delicious and well-deserved.

Normally she goes to the attic in the evening, but tonight she doesn't want to dwell in the past. Instead, she watches television in the living room. She has another beer while watching a late-night movie, and then another, and another. By the time she hears Tim's key in the door she's feeling tipsy, light-headed.

She rushes to the door and pulls it open.

‘Shit,' he says, taking a startled step back. He looks almost frightened, but then he smiles and steps inside. ‘Anna. You scared me.'

‘Sorry, sorry, it's only me,' she says, and she takes his arm, leads him towards the ballroom. ‘I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to show you something.'

She closes the ballroom door behind them so that everything is momentarily black. She turns on all the lights.

‘Wow,' he says, and he turns, taking it in. His wide eyes and delighted grin make it all worth it. ‘This is awesome, Anna. Awesome.'

‘And I've ordered balloons and streamers,' she says. ‘They'll be here on Saturday. It'll look even better when I've finished.'

Then he does something surprising, wonderful. He puts his hands on her shoulders, leans down and plants a kiss on her lips. ‘It's beautiful,' he says. ‘Thank you.'

She's glad the lighting is dim so he can't see the look on her face, the heat she can feel spreading over her skin.

‘Hey,' she says, turning away. ‘Do you want a beer? I've been drinking yours, I hope that's okay . . . But there's still some left. We could have one in here?'

‘Okay,' he says, laughing, and she rushes from the room, filled with a strange sense of urgency, as if Tim might disappear, as if the delicate thread of happiness she can feel expanding within her might just snap if she doesn't hurry back.

PART 2

32

O
N THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY, SHE TAKES HER TIME GETTING DRESSED
.

She hasn't thought about clothes for a long time. When Benjamin died she lost all interest. The way she looked, clothes, make-up – all the things that she'd once found so absorbing and believed so important – became immediately irrelevant.

But something about Tim, and the way she's starting to feel when she's with him, has made her care about the way she looks. It's a nice change to worry about something so trivial, to devote her attention to a problem so easily solved.

It's both refreshing and liberating being with someone who didn't know her before, someone who doesn't remember the old Anna London. Tim never looks at her, mouth agape, and wonders what the hell happened to the happy-go-lucky girl he used to know. Eventually she will, of course, have to tell him everything. It's not a secret she can keep forever. But even then, he will only know it as a story, a sad piece of her history, and he will never look at her in the same part-pitying, part-morbidly curious way her old friends do now.

She showers, taking her time, shaving her legs and washing her hair while she's in there. Afterwards, she moisturises, sprays perfume – two things that used to be automatic but now feel slightly self-indulgent, after going so long without. She puts her new underwear on. It is red and delicate; the bra designed to lift and create cleavage, the matching underpants brief.

She pulls the dress over her head and smooths it over her hips. It's black and figure-hugging, with a pattern of large old-fashioned burgundy roses all over, and a v-shaped neckline. Her shoes are red too, with wedge heels and thin, elaborate straps that twist around her ankles.

The dress looks amazing on – a perfect fit.

She blow-dries her hair and leaves it loose so that it sits thick on her shoulders, framing her face. She opens the vanity cabinet and scrabbles through her basket of make-up, looking for a lipstick. When she finds the one she wants, in exactly the right shade of red, she pushes her lips out and steps close to the mirror, applying the colour carefully.

She looks utterly changed.

She takes a deep breath and smiles at herself in the mirror. She's used to feeling anxious, but this is a completely different kind of nerves. It feels like an eternity, a thousand empty years, since she's had this happy tingle of anticipation in her belly.

33

I
DRESS UP FOR THE PARTY
–
AT LEAST
, I
ENGAGE IN MY VERSION OF
dressing up, which involves putting on a pair of cargo pants instead of my usual shorts, and a relatively new and intact T-shirt. I wash my hair and try to comb it into something resembling a style, but I look ridiculous and end up shaking it out into its normal mess. I consider asking Anna to help me do something with it, maybe even trim it a bit, but I get the feeling she'd be even more hopeless than me. There's nothing about her to indicate that she's got any talent for fashion, or that she even cares. She pretty much wears a T-shirt and a shapeless skirt or pair of jeans every day. I've never known a girl who puts less effort into her appearance.

Which is why I'm so surprised when she comes downstairs in a dress. A dress that's the very opposite of shapeless.

I hear her approach and look up. I must do a double take or make some other obvious gesture of surprise, because she hesitates.

‘Do I look okay?' She pulls at her dress, smiles shyly.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘You look . . . you look
great
.' I lift another bag of ice, making it look like more effort than it is, hoping the heat I can feel in my face appears to be the result of the physical exertion, rather than the embarrassment I'm suddenly feeling.

I don't quite look at her again, but I can tell she's pleased with my answer. She walks over to the ice and champagne, her shoes noisy on the floor, and pulls a bottle free.

‘Why don't we open one of these?' she says. ‘I think we deserve it.'

‘So do I.' I straighten up, managing finally to look at her, to smile.

‘You look nice,' she says.

‘Not as nice as you.'

Nice is an enormous understatement but still, I think she understands exactly how impressive she is in that dress, especially with her hair all loose and sexy around her face. She grins, opens the bottle and pours champagne into two plastic glasses.

‘Cheers,' she says. ‘And happy birthday.'

With the lights on and the balloons up the ballroom looks spectacular, like something out of a magazine. Tables covered with white cloths are arranged around the edges of the room. Glasses are stacked in neat rows. Large white tubs containing ice and drinks sit at the end of each table. We're ready.

*

People start arriving about twenty minutes later. The first to appear are a group of guys I used to play footy with. I haven't seen them for at least a year, but we immediately slip back into our old, familiar ways, teasing and joking. As soon as I open the door they start bagging me about the house, asking me when I won lotto. I introduce them to Anna and notice the way they glance sideways at each other. I don't know what they must think, but I enjoy their obvious bafflement, and avoid explaining anything properly, preferring to let them wonder.

Marcus and Fiona are the next to arrive. Anna brings them to the ballroom, where they say hello and wish me a happy birthday in their weird, formal way.

By eight, the house is full of people, and it's crowded and noisy and alive in a way that it hasn't been since I moved in. The ballroom echoes with the sounds of talk and laughter, and I'm high with the energy of it all, the thrill of having so many people I know together in the one place. I notice people's faces, the way they look around the ballroom, eyes wide, and I enjoy their reactions to it all.

Lilla arrives late with a scowling Patrick by her side. She strides into the ballroom in her long boots and tiny skirt as if she owns the place. She leaves Patrick leaning against the wall, arms folded aggressively across his puffed-up chest, goes straight to one of the tubs and helps herself to a beer. She smiles when she spots me, lifts her arm in a wave, then comes and stands beside me.

‘It's looking pretty swish in here, Mr Ellison,' she says.

‘Yep. But I can't take any credit. Anna did it.'

She raises her eyebrows. ‘The mysterious Anna.' She covers her mouth and leans close. ‘Are you sure we're safe?'

I wish I'd never told Lilla about Anna. Lilla's too harsh, too scornful. And I don't want to laugh about Anna. Now that I know her better and like her more, I feel a sense of loyalty and protectiveness. And considering all that she's done for me, I feel like an arsehole for ever gossiping in the first place.