‘The garden is looking great, Mrs Hegarty,’ Gabe says as we stop outside their house. Even under these circumstances, he can’t turn off his charm.
Mrs Hegarty practically levitates with pride.
‘We decided to get some weeding done while the sun is out,’ she says, removing her floral-trimmed gardening gloves. ‘Who knows when we’ll get another chance, with all this rain!’
The Hegartys are gold-star neighbours – no loud parties, always keeping an eye on things, happy to take our rubbish bins out or collect mail if we go away. They have a flourishing lemon tree, and we regularly come home to a bag of lemons on the doorstep. They adore the girls and have admired many a ‘street performance’ Asha and Freya have put on, as well as having regular chats with them at the fence.
Mrs Hegarty has told us many times how pleased they were when we bought the cliff house.
So many weekend homes around here, she said. It’s nice to have permanent neighbours. And ones with children!
To society, there is nothing purer than a family with small children. Except, perhaps, being elderly and enjoying gardening. We trust people based on the strangest, most arbitrary things, none of which have any bearing on whether or not you are inherently good. The Hegartys have no idea what we are capable of. No one does.
‘How are you both holding up?’ Mrs Hegarty puts a hand to her chest. ‘It’s tragic, what happened to that woman. And the paper said she was only fifty-two. So young! What on earth would possess her to jump?’
The newspaper hadn’t said Amanda Cameron had taken her life, but the Hegartys would have seen the police and rescue operation two nights ago and it didn’t take much for people around here to put two and two together.
At first, I think Mrs Hegarty’s question is rhetorical, but when she says nothing more, I realise that she is wanting an answer.
She discovered an incriminating video of me and her husband, I imagine saying. When she realised what I’d done, she decided her life wasn’t worth living.
Gabe’s eyes dart to me for just a second. Then he says, ‘We don’t really know.’
‘But you were with her, weren’t you, Gabe? Surely she must have given you some indication of why she jumped?’
He hesitates a moment. ‘She said her husband had been unfaithful.’
Mrs Hegarty tuts. ‘Well, I hope it was worth it. Now he’ll have to live with guilt for the rest of his life.’
She looks over her shoulder at Mr Hegarty, as if in warning. He keeps his head down. After a moment, she turns back to us. ‘Pippa? Are you all right, dear? You look unwell.’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I don’t feel well.’
Gabe puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘I’d better get her home.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Hegarty says. ‘Go. Just sing out if you need anything.’
She gives us a wave and Gabe and I shuffle off.
We’ve almost reached our driveway when she calls after us: ‘I’ll bring you some lemons!’
22
PIPPA
THEN
‘I‘m pregnant.’
We’d been married two years when I became pregnant with Freya. It was a good time for us, in a lot of ways.
After two years in the job, Gabe had gone from promotion to promotion, pay rise to pay rise. We could finally afford those suits he’d been buying. We had saved a good deposit for a home. I was even starting to buy nice things for myself. Now, he was running the investor relations team and apparently he’d single-handedly brought in more than fifty per cent of the company’s investors that year. If they’d used a broker to find those new investors, he told me, it would have cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars in fees.
Still, I was nervous about revealing the pregnancy to Gabe. Not because I thought he’d be unhappy. After all, when I’d suggested we try, he was the one to ceremoniously empty my birth control pills into the toilet. My anxiety stemmed from another issue I wanted to talk to him about, something I’d been increasingly worried about over recent months.
‘Now that we’re having a baby,’ I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about these late nights. I don’t see you a lot.’
‘You’re right,’ Gabe said. ‘I’ll dial it back. Time to focus on family.’
‘The other thing is,’ I said, gaining courage, ‘your drinking.’
I wasn’t sure when alcohol had become a fixture in Gabe’s life. It wasn’t necessarily a huge cause for concern. He didn’t drink every day; he didn’t hide bottles around the house. But when he did drink, he drank to excess – usually when he was out with work colleagues. Several times, he’d come home so drunk after a night ‘working’ he couldn’t get his key in the front door.
Gabe was quiet as he contemplated my comment. One thing I’d learned in our marriage was that some topics had to be broached delicately. During the year that he kept leaving jobs, for example, we talked about it – even just between the two of us – in terms of ‘opportunities’。 It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold down a job; rather, he was lucky to have these new opportunities. Gabe took the same care with me, though he really didn’t need to. In that way, I was far less fragile than he.
After a moment, he nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right. With the baby coming, it could be better to stop the drinking.’
Gabe stopped drinking the same day, just like that. Overnight he developed a new interest – and it was preparing to become a father. The late nights ceased, too. Thus began the evolution of Gabe from young partying executive to family man.
Freya’s arrival, on her due date, was the conclusion of the metamorphosis for Gabe.
For him, it was love at first sight. He was besotted with Freya. His patience was endless. He paced the hallway with her at night, patting her and cradling her little head and marvelling at her existence. He came to her paediatric appointments and listened intently to the nurse’s suggestions. Whenever he saw another baby – in the street, on TV, in a commercial – he said he felt bad for the parents that their baby wasn’t as beautiful as Freya.
Admittedly, Freya was a pretty baby, petite and delicate with a heart-shaped face and piercing blue eyes. She was also a placid baby: content if she was being held, happy to observe. From day one I felt like she was watching me. Often, I wondered if I was meeting her expectations.
I was certainly prepared for motherhood. I’d read the books about the first three months, the ‘wonder weeks’， the eat–play–sleep routine. Gabe and I took a class in Baby First Aid. I’d set up a nursery with everything I might need. I’d purchased bottles and formula in case breastfeeding didn’t work out. I was ready for anything. I assumed I’d excel at it. Maybe that was the problem? Motherhood wasn’t really something you could excel at. You did the same thing, day in and day out: feed, sleep, change. Hold her while she cries. Visitors came and went, and I acted the part of loving mother for all of them. I even performed it for Gabe. Yes, I feel so much love. It’s mind-blowing. What did I ever do without her? But the truth was, I found it hard to feel much of anything. To me, Freya was a prop in a pointless show I had to perform in, over and over, to no audience.