‘Watched me wordlessly, then said, “What am I supposed to do with that?” It was my second grand entrance of the day, and I somehow managed to look more drunk than I did falling off the motorbike this morning.’
‘You fell off the motorbike? Gawd, Kate – are you okay?’
I take a deep breath. None of this is relevant to the purpose of my call. Something’s been niggling me about being here with Hugh, even though I’m not here with him.
‘I keep thinking about you,’ I admit. ‘With The Whole Hugh Thing.’ That’s what we’ve labelled the ill-fated matchmaking fiasco.
She shakes her head. ‘Kate, there was never a Whole Hugh Thing with me, was there? He’s a lovely man, but he just wasn’t into me that way. I think I was into the idea of him for a while, but that was really just the version of him that you’d painted. I barely got to know him. It wasn’t your fault the chemistry was missing for us.’
At the time, we’d blamed the lack of vibe on the twenty-something, strikingly hot Singaporean student one of my colleagues caught him lunching with at a yum cha restaurant near the university. I’d been crushed for Grace. I’d suspected he was dating other people, which was fine – he and Grace hadn’t even had a second date. I just hadn’t understood how a woman half his age could eclipse the supernova that is my best friend.
He’d gone all quiet then too. Lots of closed-door phone calls and unusually early knock-offs. When he’d told Grace he didn’t think it was going to work out between them, he’d said he was ‘preoccupied with something personal’。 Someone personal, he should have said. She kept popping up for months! If not at yum cha, in the work car park, the coffee shop, on his phone screen – even in email notifications once, when he was sharing his screen during a meeting with the vice-chancellor! Ruby someone. Annoying.
‘Has it occurred to you that the reason Hugh and I are always so awkward with each other around you is that we didn’t want to disappoint Cupid? You were more upset about it not working out between us than we were.’
That’s because of me? Had I imagined the heartbreak and resentment?
‘So let me be perfectly clear,’ she says firmly. ‘If you want to have any more showers with Hugh, that’s totally fine by me.’
She has this so very wrong.
‘Right,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Also, Justin gave me his number,’ I confess next. I should have brought a clipboard and checklist to keep all the discussion points sorted.
This time something does pass across her face. It’s not as strong as envy, but it’s there. Disappointment, I think.
‘It’s normal for neighbours to exchange numbers, isn’t it?’ I ask. ‘In the likely event, in my case, that there’s ever a problem to report?’
‘Perfectly normal,’ Grace agrees, but her upbeat tone is forced.
I’m going to text him straight after this call and somehow convey the message that he will definitely not be receiving a rose from me, no matter how spectacular he looks on a motorbike.
There’s so much more I want to cover. All the grief stuff. The ocean thing. The Adventure Board epiphany. Ireland. The writing agony. Cam’s notes, and the fact that they’re not scaffolding after all. They’re a cage – and sometime soon, I need to break free.
‘Mate, this conversation would dismally fail the Bechdel Test,’ I observe. ‘Bloody men!’
She laughs. ‘Okay, tabled for our next discussion: donor insemination – pros and cons. Talking about sperm doesn’t count, re: Bechdel, does it?’
‘It’s permissible. And I do, very much, want to discuss that with you, Grace.’
In fact, it’s more than that. I’ve been mulling over a big idea now for ages. I know we’re roughly the same age, but perhaps my eggs are more viable? They were never our issue when we had treatment. And with Cam gone, my opportunity for further children has passed. I’d give Grace this gift in a heartbeat if she needed it.
‘I love you, Grace. So much.’
‘Forever,’ she replies.
22
I’m in the change room at the op shop when I text Justin. ‘Thanks again for the lift,’ I type. ‘Apologies again for waking you.’
He starts typing back almost immediately. Dammit. I don’t want to get into a conversation. I just want to get these words out.
‘Change of plans here,’ I draft. ‘We’re away till Sunday. Good news though, Grace is staying at mine all weekend with Charlie.’ Should probably stop there, even though I want to add, ‘Maybe you should have that ornithology discussion over a drink with her.’
Let me think about how to position this . . .
I whip off Cam’s T-shirt and the PJ bottoms so I can try on a dress.
‘Heard you’re staying the weekend there,’ he writes back, too quickly for me to structure the essay I’m typing. ‘Your mum called in to pick up something for Charlie. I was out the front . . .’
There is nothing worse than a hanging ellipsis when someone’s about to share a story about Mum. There’s a big pause. He’s not elaborating. I hope he didn’t tell her about the grenade. Or the motorbike. Although, what am I, fourteen? I don’t have to fill Mum in every time I cause a security incident, or talk to a boy.
My phone springs to life with an unexpected FaceTime call from him and, even though I’ve been a smartphone owner since 2008, I still jump at the immediacy. Unless I’m talking to Grace, I prefer messages. Add to this that I’m already on tenterhooks and wrung out from the earlier ordeal in the shower – plus the fact that I’m reaching that point where you start swaying with sleep deprivation – and that’s my excuse for the fact that I accept the call even though I mean to decline it.
‘Kate,’ he says, coming into view.
The other thing in view is me, in a change room in my underwear! I grab the dress I’m about to try on and hold it up against my front. I’m meant to be dousing any potential flames here, not sexting him!
‘How was Mum?’ I ask, on edge.
‘Actually, she was really sweet,’ he responds, popping the cap from a beer bottle in his kitchen.
We are talking about my mum, aren’t we?
‘Ended up inviting her in for a cup of tea and TimTam, because she was a bit upset.’
Upset? Mum experiences many heightened emotions. Frequently. But she’s never ‘upset’。 I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry, even when I was a child and she was on her own with me.
‘Charlie was at school, so we talked for an hour. She told me the whole story about Cam. It sounded awful, Kate.’
It was.
‘Must be so hard for a parent to watch a child go through that.’
It is.
‘I asked if she’d ever sought help – she said people her age just get on with it . . .’
Hang on, back up. I thought we were talking about me, and how hard it is for me to watch Charlie go through life without his dad. I’ve been so laser-focused on that, it never occurred to me that Mum must be feeling the same way, watching her child go through life without her husband.
Mum needs help? I’m not prepared for the anxiety this thought gives me. Or the regret.