‘I’m not forcing you to be buried there,’ Mr Peterson is saying. ‘I just said that you’d be welcome.’
‘You’re unbelievable!’
‘Calm down, woman – we’ll be dead, for crying out loud. Besides, I already paid for the plot and there’s room for six!’
Dad puts the newspaper and coffee on the table beside me. I nod my thanks and take a giant slurp. Then he goes into the kitchen and starts unloading the dishwasher. （‘And clean up while you’re there,’ Mum must have said. ‘Unload the dishwasher or something.’）
‘We can come back to this,’ I say to the Petersons, ‘when you’ve had some more time to discuss it. In the meantime, I think we should move on to the –’
‘Everything comes down to money with you, you cheap bastard!’
‘And you wonder why I don’t want to be buried with you.’
Dad chuckles as he unloads the water glasses and puts them back in the wrong spot.
‘For all of his foibles,’ Mum always says, ‘at least your father does what he’s told.’ I wonder what my marriage would have been like if I’d married a man like that. Someone dependable. Responsible. I suspect Mrs Peterson is wondering the same thing.
‘What if you get cremated?’ Mr Peterson is saying. He has his reasonable, mansplaining voice on now, which will irritate Mrs Peterson no end. ‘You could be sprinkled somewhere nice. Down at the golf club, perhaps.’
‘The golf club? While you’re getting cosy with Jilly down at Sorrento?’
Dad finishes unloading the dishwasher and looks around. He must have run out of specific jobs that Mum told him to do and has graduated to ‘then look around and see if anything else needs doing’。 I wave at him and point to the door, giving him permission to leave, which he does with obvious relief. I look back at the screen.
Mr and Mrs Peterson are now facing each other, hurling insults. They may have forgotten I’m here. Outside the window, a woman slows down at The Drop. Keep walking, I will her. Keep walking! Thankfully, she does. I keep an eye on her until she’s disappeared from sight.
‘Look, I think we might have reached an impasse,’ I say to my bickering clients. ‘We can either move on, or we can pause things here and set up another meeting when we have reached some agreement. I will remind you that we have gone over the ninety minutes now, and while I’m happy to wait for you to work this out, I’m sure you’d rather not pay me to listen to you argue.’
Talk of the hourly rate is usually an effective way to move things along, and certainly Mr Peterson seems to snap to attention, but as Mrs Peterson is intent on resolving the issue, they decide to end the session and book another meeting in two weeks. As I end the Zoom call, Mrs Peterson is already asking if he’d like to be in the same coffin with Jilly too.
I close the lid of the laptop and walk to the kitchen to move the items Dad unloaded into the right cupboards. I don’t have any more meetings this morning, so I make a cup of tea and flick through the newspaper. Dad had brought the local paper rather than the national, which suits me, because I get the national news via podcast anyway. I flick past an update on the latest attempt to fix the beach that was ruined by dredging – the community was up in arms about it two years ago but have become increasingly apathetic – and skim-read an article about how suburban councillors and mayors have voted to pay themselves the highest amount permissible under state government legislation. I am looking for the horoscopes – I do not for one second believe in them, but I do like to read them, and it is spooky how sometimes they are very accurate – but before I find them, my eyes land on a picture of a woman who looks vaguely familiar. I scan the article. It’s about the unexpected death of a woman, two nights ago. There’s no information listed about how she died. But when I read her name, the air leaves my lungs.
14
AMANDA
AFTER
My body has been identified by dental records. It’s probably for the best because, unsurprisingly, I’m not in great shape after my fall from the cliff. Twisted, bloody, broken. Half my teeth have been knocked out and there is some gnarly facial damage. It probably would have been enough to make Max bring up his breakfast.
Although . . . Max hasn’t eaten breakfast. Not today. Not yesterday. Usually, he is militant about his All Bran and peaches and black coffee, but he hasn’t been doing well since the police told him about me. I’d like to think it’s the grief of losing me. I hope it is. I know it’s not only that, though. Max is many things, but he’s not stupid. He knows something isn’t right about my death. He knows that while I would have been upset about what he’d done, I had plenty of ammunition with which to retaliate. Taking my own life isn’t something that I’ve ever talked about, ever considered. It doesn’t make sense and Max knows it. It’s driving him crazy and I have a front-row seat to his misery.
But I don’t enjoy it as much as I thought I would.
15
AMANDA
BEFORE
I wouldn’t say I was nervous the first time Max came to my mother’s house. ‘Worked up’ would probably be a better description.
I was aware how her house would look to someone like Max. An unrenovated single-fronted two-bedroom next to a petrol station in Melbourne’s inner west, before the inner west became trendy. I suspect that until he met me, Max thought the inner west was only for factories and industrial estates, not a place where anyone actually lived.
I knew Mum had spent the day cleaning the house from top to bottom. She’d made a roast chicken using a Jamie Oliver recipe she’d found online. When I arrived, I found her in her best floral dress, and she was wearing lipstick. Something clutched at my heart when I saw that. She was on her best behaviour. Max had better be on his best behaviour too, I decided. If he looked down his nose at my mother’s house, the relationship was over.
Max arrived exactly on time, with flowers and a bottle of wine. He greeted Mum with a hug. Before he arrived, she’d worried about whether he’d give her one kiss or two . . . she’d even asked her friend, Rhonda, she said. The hug had been disarming and Mum had been surprised.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Max said.
‘Ditto,’ she said shyly.
It was a surprise, how well the evening went. By that time I’d seen Max dine with businesspeople, but this was something quite different. He appeared invested in impressing my mother. He asked thoughtful questions and gave intelligent answers. He talked about my （still-fledgling） photography career as if I were Annie Leibovitz. After dinner, he told my mum to relax while he cleared the table.
Mum was beside herself.
‘He’s the one,’ she whispered, as he carried the plates into the kitchen. ‘He’s your happy ending.’
The house was small, and her whisper was loud. When I turned around, I saw Max looking very pleased with himself. But I wasn’t pleased. ‘He’s a good choice,’ I corrected her. ‘It makes sense.’
After dinner, we sat on the couch and ate Sara Lee Sticky Date Pudding with ice cream and looked at photo albums. Each time Mum produced another one, she said, ‘Look at me – I’ll be boring you to tears, Max!’ and Max shook his head and insisted she continue. At the end of the night, Mum was the one to hug him.