Arch seems relieved for the change of subject.
‘You ready to head off soon?’ Hugh asks me. ‘No rush.’
I nod. ‘Thanks. Arch, it’s been lovely to meet you. Thanks for the dancing! Hope to see you again at another event.’
He smiles, then goes in for an unexpected hug, crushing me to his chest while he whispers in my ear, ‘I’m so sorry again, Kate.’
When he releases me, I nod, pick up my bag and follow Hugh out of the room, down the stairs and through the exit into the cool evening air.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Grief convo. Awkward as usual.’
‘Yeah. But it looked like you were having a good time before that?’
I was. The first good time I’ve had in a really long time. And I’m sorry the evening is over.
Hugh opens the Uber app. ‘Do you feel like going home?’ he says. ‘Or would you like to make the most of your freedom? We could get a drink somewhere?’
The idea of going home feels horrifically lonely. No Charlie, who’s sleeping over at Grace’s for a treat. No Cam. No distractions. Just me in the house. I don’t think I’m ready for it.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ I blurt. ‘I don’t know where. It’s been so long since I’ve been out in the world after dark. I don’t know half the bars in town these days.’
‘I know exactly the place,’ Hugh says, booking the car.
Chapters is a new bar on the corner of an old street in the redeveloped central suburb of Kingston, not far from Hugh’s apartment. It’s tastefully art-deco inspired, with worn leather couches, coloured glass panels, metal accents and high ceilings. The lighting is warm and the music soft enough to speak over. I think I’m in love with the place and, best, the drinks are named after classic authors. I take a photo of the drinks menu and send it to Grace by way of an update on my evening.
‘Chapters? You’ll love it! Please tell me you met a hot guy at the gala and you’re about to have a wild night of drunken debauchery and merry-widow sex.’
‘Everything okay?’ Hugh says, returning from the bar with our drinks – the ‘Austen’ for me and a ‘Thoreau’ for him. In a flap, I drop the phone on the low table right beside where he’s placing my glass. It lands face up, of course, with Grace’s message broadcasting from the screen, the words ‘merry-widow sex’ blaringly obvious.
I snatch the phone back, flustered, and check his expression to assess the damage.
‘Grace doing okay with Charlie tonight?’ he asks. He is the world’s best actor. I pick up my glass, tap it against his and take a sip.
‘She didn’t say,’ I respond.
‘Other things on her mind,’ he says, and snorts with laughter.
Kill me.
I glance around the bar, desperate to find a talking point, landing on nothing of note until my eyes rest back on Hugh. He’s watching me from the other end of the couch, one leg crossed lazily over his knee at the ankle, arm spread along the back of the couch. He is a picture of someone perfectly at ease, starkly contrasting with my perfectly het up.
‘Hugh,’ I begin, unsure of exactly where I’m taking this.
‘Yes, Kate?’
‘I am not a merry widow.’
He uncrosses his leg and angles his body towards me. ‘I know.’
‘I don’t have nights of drunken debauchery,’ I explain, for who knows what reason, as it’s unnecessary. ‘Last time I did that, I ended up marrying the guy.’
He nods.
‘I do not have . . .’
Stop. Talking. Kate.
‘I don’t meet hot guys. Or any guys. It’s just Grace. You know what she’s like.’ Of course you do, I made you date her.
‘Kate, relax. It’s none of my business,’ he says.
‘Yes, but I don’t want you to have a mental picture of me cavorting through late-night drinks establishments with random men, when in reality, I spend every single night streaming crime dramas and scrolling social media until it’s so late and I’m so exhausted it’s safe to get into bed and fall asleep before I notice how empty it is.’
Somehow this feels like an even worse topic to have raised than the debauchery. Now it’s him who takes a sip of his drink.
‘Grace nags me to get back out there,’ I go on. ‘Not for anything serious, just – because life is short.’
‘Life is short,’ he agrees. ‘And maybe the time will come when you feel ready for that, but there are no rules. There’s no rush. Everyone responds differently. You can’t expect anyone to understand how hard it is unless they’ve actually been there.’
I shake my head, trying to process his words. ‘You always get it. I don’t know how.’
He puts his empty glass down on the table. ‘The point is, it’s your life. Your decision. Your timing. You might resist it now, but you’ll know the moment when it comes, and not before. And then you’ll realise the bigger risk is not taking a risk.’
25
When we arrive back at the beach house from the op shop, I spend a while taking macro photos of tropical flowers in the garden. I’ve got a special lens attachment for my phone that helps you get right up close and capture the detail. I don’t know enough yet about the big camera to lug it with me for what was only going to be an overnight trip. Pity. I could have watched YouTube tutorials and figured out the settings while we were here.
After a while, I make my way upstairs and ease into the hammock on the balcony, listening to an episode of the podcast ‘So you want to be a writer’。 It’s one of hundreds of interviews with successful writers about how they got their big breaks. From what I can tell the secret seems to be to put actual words on pages. Any words at first, regardless of quality. If only the writing process was as easy as it feels when I’m emailing Grace chaotic stories about Mum or Charlie or work. Or when I’m writing about Cam in my journal and the story tells itself, like it’s downloaded from some deep, subconscious source.
A video call from Mum breaks into the podcast. This will be Charlie, home from school. His beautiful face fills the screen and my heart melts. Being so many hundreds of kilometres away from him is a wrench, though truthfully the hammock and afternoon breeze is going a long way towards soothing that.
‘Mummy! I want to go as a dinosaur for Book Week.’
God, when is that?
‘Nanna has this all in hand,’ Mum says, coming into sight.
I get a flashback to Book Week in Year Four, when she sent me to school decked out in Poland’s national dress, carrying a non-fiction book about Poland, even though we aren’t Polish and I had wanted to go as Pippi Longstocking. Preferably with a horse.
But now, as a mother myself, I get it. I was not genetically blessed in the fancy dress department. Cam was always so gung ho about costume parties – he’d have excelled at Book Week. Yet another event in the school calendar that I’ve been dreading, surrounded by all the mums and dads. I guess it’s not as bad as Father’s Day will be. I think we’ll play hooky when that rolls around.
Bluey’s theme song kicks off in the background. Charlie says, ‘Bye, Mum!’ and rushes away, perfectly content in my absence.