The Mothers' Group (38 page)

‘That's a courageous step.'

‘Come with me, Cara.' His voice was quiet, urgent.

She swallowed. Her heart began to pound.

‘Come with me,' he urged again. ‘We got it wrong this past year. Let's make it right.'

Yes, Cara thought.
Yes.

She closed her eyes.

‘I can't,' she said finally. ‘I have a good job now. And Jason. I can't just leave them both.'

Ravi waited.

‘You were away too long.' The words rushed out of her mouth. ‘You didn't even
try
to contact me. You could have at least tried. Things have changed, Ravi.
I
have changed.'

‘I understand,' he replied. ‘It was foolish of me to ask.'

‘Ravi, I . . .' She was already regretting her words.

‘Don't,' said Ravi. ‘I understand. We will be friends. I will email you.'

And he had, every month for the next four years.

Over that time, Cara left both Jason and her job. When Jason asked her to marry him on their three-year anniversary, she refused, unable to articulate exactly why. Not long after moving out of his warehouse, she started as a junior copyeditor at the Sydney office of
Global Voice
. She could hardly believe her good fortune and emailed Ravi:
One day I might
get posted somewhere exciting!

It had happened more rapidly than she'd imagined. When Ravi returned to Sydney two years later, she was already based in Johannesburg. He wrote her a long email.

It's strange to be in Sydney without you, Cara. I passed my exams and am
sharing rooms with Dr Robert Sturgess, a general and colorectal surgeon.
He's close to retirement and winding back his practice. There's secretarial
support, referrals, and access to patients. I get to assist with some of his
operations, mostly bowel resections and colonoscopies, a bit of urology. Yes,
it's quite predictable, but I need a break from remote living. The problems
in the Pilbara are more than one surgeon can fix. I'm not sure how long I'll
last in the city, though. Who knows, maybe I'll end up in Africa?

It was a throwaway comment to which Cara held tightly. As the correspondent covering social justice issues in Africa, her working life was relentless. She travelled from one country to another, filing articles on epidemics and famines, tribal warfare and ethnic cleansing. The work took its toll, slowly eroding Cara's belief in the possibility of change, her faith in human goodness. She lost weight, and heart. She wasn't lonely—she had a wide circle of expatriate friends and the odd romantic liaison. But none of them ever progressed to permanency. Everything was transient in South Africa; people left as quickly as they'd arrived. The prospect of Ravi landing in Johannesburg and standing alongside her, amid the anarchy of Africa, was thrilling.

On the day of her thirtieth birthday, the telephone rang in her office.

‘
Global Voice
, Johannesburg.'

‘Happy birthday, Cara.'

For a moment, it didn't register.

‘Ravi!' Her excitement was childlike. ‘It's so good to hear from you.'

Was he ringing to tell her he was flying over?

They exchanged stories about their work. She talked up her experience of Africa.

‘It's despots, dictators and disease, mostly,' she said, laughing. ‘But someone's got to do it. You'd love it here, Ravi. People with your skills are in high demand, you know.'

‘I'm sure,' he said. Then, suddenly, ‘I've met someone.'

‘Oh.' Cara attempted to sound nonchalant.

‘Her name's Tess. She's the office administrator here at the consulting rooms.'

‘Oh,' she said again.

‘She's a really nice person.'

‘I'm happy for you,' she lied.

‘Thanks, Cara.'

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She couldn't continue exchanging polite chit-chat with him, not now. Not ever.

‘Ravi, I have to go. I'm sorry. I have a meeting in five minutes.'

‘Sure.' She thought she detected a note of disappointment in his voice. ‘Let's keep in touch.'

She put down the telephone and wept into her hands.

Alone in her office in Johannesburg, a world away from the people she loved, Cara recognised a simple truth she'd been denying for some time. It was time to go home.

A month later, she touched down in Sydney. As the plane flew in to land, Cara pressed her face against the window and cried. The ferries carved their frothy paths across Sydney Harbour, the curved sails of the Sydney Opera House shone brilliant white. Two great grey bridges straddled the city she loved. All these familiar sights that she'd missed so much.

Her parents collected her at the airport. As she walked through the glass doors of customs, she could see her mother in the crowd, jiggling a heart-shaped helium balloon emblazoned with the words
Welcome back!
Her father stood alongside her, waving madly. By the time she reached them, weaving between the crowd with her oversized suitcase, they were all crying.

‘I'm sorry,' she blubbered into her father's chest. ‘I've missed you, Dad.'

She moved back into her parents' home at Seaforth and began the search for an apartment. Her editor at
Global Voice
willingly accepted her back into the Sydney office. The team had expanded and now covered Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, Micronesia and New Zealand.

Not long after her return, she telephoned Ravi at his consulting rooms. He wasn't hard to find in the telephone book.

‘Hello, Ravi.' Her tone was consciously even. ‘I'm back in Sydney. How are you?'

‘Wow,' he said, with a hint of an Australian accent. ‘Cara, I can't believe it. I'm great. How are you?'

‘Well, you know what it's like when you've been away. It feels strange to come home.' She was grateful he couldn't see her face. She took a deep breath. ‘Can we catch up, Ravi?' She wanted to ask, ‘Are you still with Tess?' but stopped short.

‘Of course, how about tomorrow night?' he said. ‘I can meet you after work.'

And so they'd met again, at a café in Glebe. Cara had trouble finding a parking space and was ten minutes late. She hurried through the café's door and instantly spotted him seated in a rear booth. Now in his mid-thirties, Ravi looked even more appealing. He'd lost some of his lankiness, which wasn't a bad thing. Cara noticed the odd streak of grey through his thick, dark hair. He beamed at her, his face alight.

‘Cara.' He rose to his feet and kissed her on the cheek. Cara wanted to stay in that moment forever. The soft brush of his lips brought back the night of his graduation, all those years ago. He even smelled the same, a trace of spice.

But it was impossible to span the breach of more than four years. And besides, it was immediately obvious that Tess was still in Ravi's life. His eyes softened when he spoke of her.

‘You must meet her, Cara,' he'd said. ‘You'd like her. We're having a housewarming next Saturday night. We bought a flat in Waverton. Will you come?'

Cara shook her head. ‘Ah, no, I can't, sorry. I'm busy.'

Ravi's eyes met hers. He knew she was lying.

And that was the last time they'd seen each other for almost a year. They kept in touch by email, and the odd telephone call. Cara waited patiently, hoping against hope that one day Ravi would announce that he and Tess had split. In the interim, she immersed herself in her work, taking several overseas trips. She found an apartment in Annandale and began to reconnect with old friends. She had a few dates here and there, but none of them went further.

And then, one Tuesday evening, she arrived home to find a gold-embossed envelope in her letterbox, her name and address inscribed in flawless handwriting. She opened it to find a crisp white card cordially inviting her to the Marriage of Ravi Nadkarni and Tess Hughes. Gasping, she stumbled against the kitchen bench as if she'd been physically struck.

She stared at the invitation for hours, willing it to be a figment of her imagination. But the handwritten note on the back of the card, in Ravi's trademark doctor's scrawl, was undeniable:
I hope you can be there, Cara.
It would mean the world to me.
In the end, it was this that persuaded her to RSVP to Mrs Hughes and inform her that yes, she would be attending. And no, she wouldn't be bringing a guest.

*

‘Excuse me, would you like to dance?'

Cara looked up, startled. She was the only person left at the table.

A benign-looking man smiled at her, the same one who'd helped her when she'd collided with the waiter. Standing this close, she noticed he had ginger hair and freckles.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I was a world away.'

Her dessert lay untouched before her. How long had she been sitting there, contemplating the past?

‘Is that a no?'

She smiled. ‘I'm sorry, how rude of me.'

‘My mother is a friend of your mother's,' the man said suddenly. ‘She told me to look out for you.'

‘Really?' Cara couldn't fathom a connection.

‘Yes, they go to the same support group in Balgowlah. My dad's got Alzheimer's too.'

Cara stared at him. Her father's illness was not something she talked about with her closest friends, let alone a complete stranger. After her return from South Africa, her parents had waited three months before revealing the diagnosis.

‘I'm Richard, anyway.' He shook Cara's hand. ‘I'm Michael's best mate.'

She looked at him blankly.

‘Michael. The MC,' he explained. ‘We went to school together.'

‘Oh.' She nodded politely.

‘I've dropped your mum back to Seaforth a couple of times, after support group,' he continued. ‘My parents don't live too far from yours, over in Clontarf.'

Cara looked at Richard more closely now. She knew her mother had been attending a carers' support group every Wednesday afternoon.

‘You don't work on Wednesdays?' Cara asked.

‘Technically, I do.' He smiled. ‘But I've got my own business. Things are pretty difficult for Mum at the moment. She's Dad's full-time carer. I figure I can take two hours out of my day to give her a bit of support. My office is in Balgowlah, so it's pretty easy.'

‘That's nice of you.' Cara felt rather negligent by comparison.

‘Your mother and my mother have become quite good friends. I'm driving them to the Opera House tomorrow morning.'

‘Oh.' It felt strange to be hearing this information second-hand. ‘Well, Richard,' she said, ‘I suppose we'd better dance, then.'

They walked towards the dance floor. In heels, she was slightly taller than him. She manoeuvred herself into the dance floor's crowded centre and began to rock awkwardly from side to side. She'd never been any good at dancing.

And then she saw them, Tess and Ravi, not two metres away. The DJ saw them too and the music changed to the introductory bars of a love theme from a Baz Luhrmann film. Well-wishers began to encircle the couple and the DJ bent towards his microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the bridal waltz.'

Cara began to back away, bumping straight into Richard.

‘Sorry.'

‘Are you alright? You look a little unwell.'

‘I need some fresh air.'

A wall of onlookers blocked her exit.

Ravi and Tess, moving as one, turned beneath the spotlight trained on them. Tess rested her cheek against Ravi's chest, arms wound tightly around his waist. As they swayed together in a slow circle, Ravi raised his head and opened his eyes. There was nowhere else for her to look.

She pushed her way through the crowd. Someone called her name, but she didn't stop. She ran out the door, down the stairs, and out onto the darkened street. It wasn't until she was at her front door, breathless and aching, that she realised she'd left her handbag at the function centre. She couldn't face returning there tonight. Sliding her fingers under a pot plant, she found the spare set of keys.

The click of the lock echoed through her empty apartment. All was in darkness, bar the eerie light of the fish tank. She tossed her earrings onto the dining room table and unpinned her hair. In the bedroom, she drew the blinds. Her dress rustled to the floor like falling autumn leaves. She threw her high heels at the wardrobe and sank onto the bed.

Someone was at the door. She sat up with a start and squinted at the clock. Nine thirty. It was probably her neighbour, she thought, who had no sense of boundaries, even on weekends. Wasn't Sunday morning sacred?

Cara threw back the bedcovers and found her bathrobe. She marched to the door and flung it open.

Her mother and a woman she didn't recognise hovered on the doorstep, flanked by the man she'd met the night before—Rodney, wasn't it?

‘Oh, you
are
home. I left a message an hour ago,' her mother said.

‘It's Sunday morning.' Cara's tone was terse. ‘Of course I'm home.'

‘Yes, well, Richard here . . .' Her mother glanced sideways at him. ‘He was a little concerned. He mentioned you didn't look well last night. And he collected your handbag, with your keys inside it.
And
your mobile phone. I can't imagine how you left them at the function centre. And since we were passing, I suggested we drop in . . .'

Cara looked from one to the other.
Passing?
Her apartment in Annandale was nowhere near her parents' home in Seaforth. Richard looked apologetic.

‘I'm fine.' She pulled her robe tightly across her chest. ‘Thank you anyway.'

Richard passed her the handbag.

‘We're off to the symphony,' said her mother brightly.

Cara vaguely recalled Richard mentioning this last night. The woman standing next to him must be
his
mother.

‘Right. Enjoy that.'