Sweet Damage (23 page)

I watch her face carefully, wait.

‘I never mentioned it, not to anyone, there didn't seem any point . . . but there were these other people there that day. This big family with a whole bunch of really wild kids. And I always wondered if one of those kids had . . . just by accident, or just some kind of silly game or something . . . maybe just bumped it. Unlocked it. Turned it the other way or something. Maybe they saw it rolling into the water and freaked out. Ran away. You know what kids are like.'

‘You should have said something, Anna,' I say. ‘You should have told someone.'

‘I couldn't. I couldn't go around blaming anyone else, could I? Ultimately it was my fault. Even if someone did unlock the pram or bump into it or even push it. I left him there. I was his mother. I was responsible for him.'

‘And what about Marcus? He was just as responsible. You asked him to watch.'

‘He was half asleep. I should have checked that he heard me, that he really understood. I shouldn't have been so complacent. And what would it help anyway if I found someone else to blame? Benjamin's dead. He isn't coming back. Whether it was my fault or not. Benjamin is gone.'

57

H
E DOESN
'
T TURN AWAY OR LOOK UNCOMFORTABLE
. H
IS GAZE REMAINS
direct and open.

He believes her.

And despite her words, her assurance that what people think could make no possible difference, the knowledge that Tim believes her fills her with a beautiful warmth, a satisfying and intense relief. The tension that normally keeps her so trapped and tight and afraid falls away so that she feels soft and buttery, immensely conforted. And her heart expands with happiness in a way that feels perfect and new.

58

‘C
OME WITH ME
. I
WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING
,'
SHE SAYS
, getting up, holding her hand out towards me, and I know by the expression in her face that she means to take me to the attic.

There's a cot in one corner. Next to it a big armchair. The cot is made up with sheets, a soft baby blanket. A colourful mobile hangs over it, yellow ducks and red balls. There's a chest of drawers next to the cot with a collection of framed photos sitting on top of it. Anna holding her baby. Close-ups of Benjamin's face.

She walks to the cot, reaches up to the mobile and twists the key. The ducks go round, a soft lullaby rings out in the air.

‘I just come up here. Sit right here next to his cot.' She steps back and lowers herself into the armchair. Fresh tears fall from her eyes and she takes a shaky breath. ‘I just pretend. That's all. I pretend I'm waiting for him to wake up. I pretend none of this ever happened. That he never died. And sometimes I even believe it. For a second or two. Sometimes I get this wonderful content feeling, like I'm just a normal mother waiting for her baby to wake up. I almost feel happy. And those moments make it worthwhile.' She lifts the blanket to her face, presses it to her nose, closes her eyes. ‘I used to be able to smell him on this. For ages. I think the smell has gone now. But still. It reminds me of him.'

‘You've spent a lot of time up here?' I ask. ‘Since he died?'

She nods. ‘I was on my own most of the time anyway, especially once Fiona and Marcus left. May as well be up here.'

‘Why did they even move out? I would've thought you'd need them. I would've thought they'd want to help. Be around for you.'

She's quiet for a moment, folds the blanket in half on her lap. She keeps her eyes down, smooths the fabric with her hand. ‘I'm sure they wanted to help. In fact I
know
they wanted to help. I just don't think Fiona could cope. I was pretty messy when Benjamin died. Pretty bad. Imagine the emotion of today times ten. And then think of living with that day after day after day.'

‘Pretty intense,' I say.

‘And then imagine if you're Fiona, someone who hates even normal displays of emotion. Marcus tried to explain it to me. He said that they had such a messy, unpredictable childhood that now, as an adult, she needs to be in control of things. Of her environment, of every single thing in her life. Well, you can't control grief. You can't even really help the person who's grieving.' She laughs sadly. ‘I think the fact that it just went on and on and on, scared her. Made her feel useless.'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘I suppose that makes some kind of sense. But . . . one thing . . . while I'm asking questions . . .' I hesitate.

She lifts her head. ‘Go on.'

‘The green room?' I ask. ‘Was that yours before? Was that where you and Benjamin slept?'

‘Yes,' she says. ‘Fiona and Marcus and I did it up before he was born.'

‘And you shifted into the smaller room after he died?'

‘I couldn't stand it in there afterwards. Couldn't sleep. I took my father's old office,' she says. ‘All the other rooms just seemed too big. Too empty.'

‘Did you ever consider moving?' I ask gently. ‘Selling up? Getting something smaller?'

She shakes her head. ‘No. I couldn't. This was Benjamin's home. This is where he lived. I could never leave.'

We're both quiet for a moment and I wonder where things will go from here. What do you do with a person so broken and sad? I feel tongue-tied and inadequate. What she's been through is so huge, so profound, I feel like we come from two fundamentally different worlds. We share a language, a culture, but now that seems like surface stuff. Inside, she's different, foreign, and that scares the hell out of me. I knew exactly what I wanted from her earlier – sex – but now that seems inappropriate and impossible, crude even.

She must sense my thoughts, my confusion, because she stands up and takes my hand, stares straight at me, her expression frank and intense.

‘Tim,' she says. ‘Can you do me a favour?'

‘Of course. What?'

‘You don't have to . . .' she sighs. ‘You're looking at me differently. And I don't want you to. It's not necessary. Or helpful. I'm sad. Okay. My baby died – I will always, always be sad. But that's not all of me. I'm still a girl and yesterday I remembered that. It was the best I've felt since Benjamin died. And I know what I've just told you must feel really heavy and serious, but if you could just forget about it for a while? I just want to feel good again. I want to kiss you. I want to get that feeling back again. Last night I felt more alive than I have in forever . . . and right now I just want you to stop looking at me as if I'm an invalid, and start looking at me the way you were last night – as if you like me, as if you think I'm hot.' She takes a deep breath and smiles. Her cheeks are red, her eyes wet. She looks more beautiful than ever.

‘I do like you,' I say. ‘And you are hot.'

‘So kiss me then,' she says.

And I do.

59

T
HEY GO BACK TO
T
IM
'
S ROOM. THEY MOVE SLOWLY, CAREFULLY, BOTH OF
them self-conscious at first, both trying to seem more confident than they feel. They undress each other, then get beneath the doona, and once they're both enveloped in the cosy warmth their self-consciousness disappears and they move close, press together, kiss. They take their time, they take hours. They touch and kiss each other all over. Mostly she keeps her eyes closed so she can focus on sensations: the feel of Tim's fingers on her belly, his lips on her neck, the salty smell of his skin, the scratch of his stubble; but when she does open her eyes, she finds Tim smiling at her, his green-hazel eyes wrinkled up at the corners, an expression of surprised delight on his face
.

And for a while she's happy, taken up in the moment, remembering what it's like to give and receive pleasure, what it's like to feel alive.

60

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
WAKE LATE
. A
NNA
'
S STILL ASLEEP, CURLED
on her side, facing me. Her expression is peaceful, her lips are turned up, almost as if she's smiling, and I get a buzz from that, from the fact that I've made her happy. I get out of bed as quietly as I can and go downstairs to make coffee.

I go through the familiar process on autopilot, my mind drifting back upstairs, to yesterday. I'm certainly no virgin, and I don't think I'm particularly inexperienced for my age or anything like that, but being in bed with Anna was a revelation. I've never spent so much time, gone so slowly, taken so much care. I've never before felt so conscious of the other person. I've never fully realised just what a beautiful, transformative thing sex can be.

When I eventually take the mugs back upstairs Anna's sitting up, the sheet pulled high and tucked under her arms. She smiles, lifts the doona for me.

It's strange, but Anna, naked like this, more exposed and vulnerable than she's ever been, is more comfortable, more at ease, than I've ever seen her.

*

Anna and I stay in bed all morning and half the afternoon. A couple of painters arrive to fix the mess in the hallway and I get up to let them in but I go straight back to bed and leave them to it. I only get up because I have to take a shower, go to work. I get to the restaurant at four, at least an hour later than I should, considering I'm on my own in the kitchen and have a lot of prep to do. But I'm on a sex high, full of energy, and I get everything done in record time. I think about Anna as I work, what we did together that morning, the night before, what we'll probably do again tonight, and every time I think of her, I get a buzzy, happy feeling in my gut.

I notice Dad watching me from the kitchen doorway. I realise I've been humming and I have a big, dopey grin plastered on my face.

‘You're in a good mood,' he says.

‘Brilliant surf before work,' I say. There's no real reason to lie, but whatever's happening between me and Anna is still too new. I don't want to talk about it, spoil it by exposing it.

‘Yeah?' He looks surprised. ‘Where was that?'

It's only then I remember that the wind had been onshore when I'd walked to work, and the entire northern beaches would have been crap.

‘Dee Why,' I say. ‘Turned out better than it looked. There was an okay bank in front of the clubhouse.'

‘No kidding,' he says. ‘Who'd you go out there with?'

‘Just some mates,' I say, turning away, uncomfortable with the lie.

*

Later, in the middle of service, when the kitchen is hot and my hands are full, I hear a text come in. I only look in case it's from Anna.

Tim – Sorry!

Lilla. I push the phone away, ignore it, get back to work. Another text arrives a few minutes later.

Been thinking about it nonstop. I was totally and completely out of line. I feel terrible and I'm really, really sorry. Lilla xx

I'm still busy, hands full, so I don't text her back immediately. When I finally get a chance to pick up my phone, another message appears.

Don't torture me. I really am genuinely sorry. I was being a dick. Can we let it go? Be friends?

Not torturing,
I text back.
At work. Flat out.

Am I forgiven?

This time
.

xoxo. Love you. Thank you. And SORRY
.

*

After service I clean up faster and more efficiently than usual, and am ready to leave by half-past ten. Just as I'm turning the kitchen lights out, my phone buzzes again. Another message from Lilla.

You still at work? Come and meet me for a drink at the Steyne? I'm here already. I'll shout you a beer
.

It occurs to me that this is the first time I've ever felt inclined to say no to Lilla. She's lost her hold over me. It's just gone. And suddenly, despite everything she's said and done, I feel sorry for her.

What's up?
I write back.

Several things. Can we just talk? Won't take too long. Promise
.

I find Lilla in a corner booth, cradling a beer in her hands. There's another full glass on the table.

‘That one's for you,' she says.

I slide into the booth opposite her.

‘What's happened?'

She sighs.

‘Actually, don't tell me,' I say. ‘Let me guess. You've broken up with Patrick?'

She nods. Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes grow glassy, but she doesn't cry. Lilla doesn't cry easily.

‘He's a cheating arsehole,' she says.

I try not to look too cynical, too smug, too anything.

‘I knew something was going on,' she says. ‘He was acting all strange when I got home yesterday. Something was weird. I just had a feeling, a sixth sense. Anyway, I left my phone in his van with the record function on. He goes out there all the time. Makes these mystery phone calls. He says it's business but that's just bullshit. Anyway, I totally busted him.' She slaps her hand down on the table. ‘The bastard. I recorded him talking to someone. He told her he couldn't wait to get her naked.'

‘You recorded him? Without him knowing? Wow, Lilla, the trust. It's remarkable.'

She rolls her eyes. ‘So I recorded him. He cheated. I don't exactly think I'm the bad guy in this particular situation.' She digs around in her bag, pulls out her phone and starts fiddling around with it. ‘You want to hear it?'

‘No, no thanks.' I don't bother pointing out the hypocrisy of her outrage. No point kicking a dog when it's down. ‘That sucks,' I say. ‘But you're better off without him.'

‘Whatever,' she says. ‘I didn't exactly expect sympathy from you. Not after the other day.'

I don't say anything. I'm not about to make it easy for her.

‘Speaking of which, I was wrong and I'm sorry,' she says. ‘I was being a bitch.'