‘My mother did the housework,’ said Logan. ‘That was never an issue between them. It was a traditional marriage in that way. She’s . . . of that generation.’
‘But didn’t she help run the tennis school as well?’
Logan looked impatient. ‘I’m not saying it was fair.’
She waited.
He said, ‘I’m telling you I never once saw them argue about housework.’ Was that an unconscious curl of his lip on the word ‘housework’？ Did his eyes just flick over to Ethan for masculine support? Can you believe this chick? Or was she projecting her own unconscious biases? She never saw her parents argue about housework either, and yet that plate in the sink ended their marriage. He just ignores me, Christina. I ask so nicely and he just ignores me. No-one was too old or well mannered for the sudden snap of rage.
‘So what did they argue about, then?’
He looked away. ‘My dad wasn’t always an easy man. He’s different now.’
And now we’re getting somewhere. ‘Was he ever violent towards your mother?’
‘Jesus. No. Never.’ He looked back up at her, seemingly appalled. ‘You’re getting the wrong impression.’
Yet she saw a flicker of something: a question, a thought, a memory. It was gone before she could grab it.
‘Never?’ she probed.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you think that, because that is so wrong. Dad could just be . . . moody. That’s all I meant. He shut down when he was upset. Like a lot of men of his age. But he adored my mother.’ He muttered something inaudible.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
He smiled uneasily. ‘I said, he adores my mother. He still does adore my mother.’
In a moment he was going to shut down himself.
Christina changed direction. ‘What can you tell me about this woman who lived with your parents for a while, last year, was it? Both your sisters mentioned her.’
‘Savannah,’ he said heavily. ‘Yeah, well, speaking of complicated. That got complicated for a while there.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way.’
chapter thirteen
Last September
‘So it’s just until she finds somewhere to live,’ said Joy to Brooke, the walkabout phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder as she dusted the living room with a green ‘microfibre dusting cloth’ she’d bought at one of those unbearable parties where she’d had to endure various ‘product demonstrations’ by a very nice woman whose three children Joy and Stan had privately coached for many years without improvement, and therefore Joy had felt obligated to buy three dusting cloths, one for each kid.
Joy had a rule that whenever one of her children telephoned, she dusted （even if it was Logan calling, whose calls lasted an average of thirty seconds）。
She was in a good mood today. Last night she and Stan had sex. Surprisingly excellent sex. If she could still get pregnant, last night would have got her pregnant. （She always used to say that Stan only had to look at her to get her pregnant, which had caused a very embarrassing misunderstanding with Brooke when she was six and one day accused dear little Philip Ngu of trying to get her pregnant at recess.）
It had been the first time in months. Joy had actually been wondering if they were done with it, and she hadn’t even been upset about it, which was upsetting in itself. She suspected it was somehow related to Savannah. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that they were closing the bedroom door again, which used to be the signal for sex, or maybe Stan’s libido was helped by the sight of a pretty young girl flitting about the place?
Joy honestly didn’t care if that was the case. She had on occasion found excuses to wander around her own front yard while Caro’s grown-up son Jacob did the gardening with his shirt off. She’d known that boy since he was a child, but he’d grown up to look like a young Robert Redford and Joy was not dead yet.
It really had been very good sex for people of their age, Joy thought. She had to suppress the urge to tell Brooke about how well her parents had performed in the bedroom last night, as if they’d won a particularly tough match.
‘Why are you laughing, Mum?’ asked Brooke.
‘I’m not,’ said Joy. ‘I’m dusting. It’s tickling my nose.’
Brooke had left two voicemail messages today. She’d learned about Savannah firstly from her sister, and then apparently Logan had called the moment he left the house this morning, so she was now in a fine state. Joy knew that not calling Brooke earlier was an error of judgement. Brooke expected to be the first to find out about significant family developments. The truth was that Joy had put off calling her, because she knew Brooke would react to the news of their house guest with incredulity, disapproval and anxiety, and this was proving to be correct.