The Soulmate by Sally Hepworth
For Alex Lloyd,
for all the last-minute changes.
1
PIPPA
NOW
‘Someone is out there.’
I’m standing at the kitchen sink, my hands plunged in warm soapy water. Gabe is beside me, supposedly drying dishes but mostly drinking red wine and singing to ?dith Piaf. He made coq au vin for dinner using every pot in the house, but if there is one thing to be said for my husband it’s that he knows how to create a mood. He’s dimmed the lights, lit some candles, even trotted out his best French accent. If not for the kids and my older sister Kat – who is perched at my kitchen counter – it might have been romantic.
‘Where?’ Gabe asks.
I lift my gloved hand from the water and point through the window. It is a woman, I think, though it’s hard to be sure, with the sun setting behind her. In any case, I have a clear view of a figure, twenty-odd metres away, beyond the edge of our property where the lawn gives way to a sandy walking path. On the other side of the walking path is a sheer drop down to the jagged rocks and the beach thirty metres below. It’s not uncommon for people to stop here and admire the view, particularly at sunset, but when they linger it always gives me pause.
‘There.’
I keep my voice quiet, steady. I don’t have the privilege of hysteria given the proximity of the curious four-year-olds.
‘Where are you going, Daddy?’ Freya asks, as Gabe reaches for his coat.
‘Going to catch frogs, poppet,’ he says without breaking stride.
Gabe is entirely unflappable. He’s your classic run towards a burning building kind of guy. He might emerge a hero. He might not emerge at all.
‘Call the police,’ he says to me, as he slides open the back door.
I remove my gloves and drape them over the tap to dry. Sometimes I wonder if I should be a little more like Gabe. More of a hero. Instead, I am a helper. In times of crisis, I am a creator of meal rosters, a procurer of goods, a collector of donations, a dispenser of information. Last year, when news of the pandemic started to filter through, my entire family – parents, sister, sister-in-law, sister-in-law’s parents – all called me to get my take on social distancing, masks and vaccinations, hanging on my every word and taking notes as if I were an epidemiologist rather than a wills and estates lawyer. I rose to the challenge, dishing out advice gleaned from reputable verified sources and subduing family panic. But the kind of emergency happening outside right now? That is Gabe’s domain.
I call the police from the next room – they don’t need much in the way of an explanation from me anymore. I’ve made seven phone calls like this since we moved to the cliff house, a year ago. Now, I merely say, ‘It’s Pippa Gerard – there’s someone on the cliff,’ and it’s sufficient.
It’s hard to believe now that we’d bought this house because of the cliff.
‘Imagine sitting outside on warm nights and watching the sun sink into the sea,’ Gabe had said the first time we saw it. ‘What a dream.’
It did indeed seem like a dream. A cliffside home in Portsea, a sleepy coastal town a couple of hours out of Melbourne, the last in a procession of increasingly exclusive beach towns at the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula? It seemed unfathomable that we’d be able to afford such a place, even if it was a ramshackle cottage rather than one of the sandstone mansions that flanked it. We were shocked to discover we could afford it. Being from the city, we weren’t aware of the notoriety of The Drop, where the tall cliffs had become popular among those wishing to end their lives. By the time we realised this was the reason for its relative affordability, Gabe was too in love with the place to let it go.
‘Do we really want the girls to be around this, Gabe?’ I’d asked him. ‘How are we supposed to explain it to them? And what if they wander too close to the edge themselves?’
‘We’ll put a fence up. And if they have questions about the people who come to The Drop, we just answer them in an age-appropriate way.’
Gabe had been so calm, so pragmatic, that it was hard to argue. And to his credit, he practised what he preached. The day we moved in, he had a fence erected around the perimeter of our land and warned the girls they couldn’t go beyond it unless they had a grown-up with them. And in the year we’ve been here, they’ve never gone beyond the fence, and they’ve certainly never seen anyone jump. They couldn’t have, because out of the seven souls who have come to the cliff since we moved in, seven have walked away. Gabe has saved them all.
‘What does he say to them?’ Kat asks, joining me at the window. She’s been working today, and her tracksuit pants and fluffy slippers are oddly incongruent with her fully made-up face. This is the first time Kat has been present when someone has visited The Drop, and she is clearly exhilarated by the drama, while trying to remain appropriately sombre.
‘He asks if he can help them with anything. Or, he might ask if they like the view. Anything to force them out of their thoughts and back into the world. Then he tries to get them chatting.’
We watch as Gabe approaches the woman, and she turns to face him. She is further back from the edge than they usually are, which I hope is a good sign.
‘The view?’ Kat says. ‘That really works?’
‘Apparently.’
But we both know it wouldn’t matter what Gabe said. People don’t come down from the cliff because of something he says. They come down because of who he is. When people meet Gabe, they feel safe. Seen. I’ve always thought he would make an excellent cult leader. Or used-car salesman. Last week there’d been an article about Gabe in the local rag – NEW RESIDENT SAVES LIVES AT THE DROP. The article had referred to him as an ‘angel’。 Gabe had posed for a photo at The Drop, smiling broadly. With his golden tan, blue eyes and sandy windswept hair, he looked half surfer, half mountain man.
I’ve often wondered if his good looks play a part in his ability to convince people to live. I’m reminded of his good looks daily – not by Gabe but by everyone else.
‘How’d you land him?’
‘Is that your husband?’
‘He is gorgeous.’
It’s not that I’m unattractive. At high school, a group of boys ranked me 7/10 for looks – which got them ranked 10/10 for assholery, but I think the 7 was accurate. I have a nice smile, wavy blonde hair, a well-proportioned figure . . . and I also have a larger than average forehead and smaller than average eyes. I do my best with what I’ve got, and with make-up and heels I could probably get as high as an 8.5. Still, the fact is, most mornings I wake up looking like Shrek while Gabe wakes up looking like Chris Hemsworth, and there is no use denying facts.
Gabe and the woman appear to be talking animatedly. Gabe is using a lot of hand gestures. Admittedly, he’s partial to a hand gesture, but there are even more than usual today.
‘What happens if they don’t want to look at the view?’ Kat asks.
I shrug. ‘Thankfully we haven’t had to face that problem yet.’
The first time we saw someone on the cliff, it was mid-afternoon on a Sunday and the girls were on the grass playing in the blow-up paddling pool because Gabe and I couldn’t be bothered walking down the zillion steps to the beach. We’d just moved into the cliff house. It was a sunny day, with a gentle breeze off the water. Gabe and I had gin and tonics and were in the midst of congratulating ourselves on our clever sea change.