Dark Oil (20 page)

Then the thought crossed her mind that maybe he didn't even want to see her. He might be dreading her return. It hurt to think that, hurt to realise how far they were from the couple that once couldn't go anywhere without holding hands. Her limbs heavy, a lump forming in her throat, she slid into a cab.

As the taxi drove off, she looked out at the familiar eucalypts, the blue sky, and the sandy ground. She was home, in her own country, where she belonged. She was safe now.

She would take a shower without fear of wetting her face. She would eat knowing she wouldn't vomit within a couple of hours. Her bathroom would smell of perfumed soap and freshly washed towels, not of sewerage. Her bed would be soft and clean. And before night fell she would see her husband.

She should have been happy, relieved, at peace. She should have been looking forward to Tim's embrace. But all she felt was dread and emptiness. Her life could collapse at any minute. It was like a run-down building whose foundations, slowly but surely gnawed at by termites, needed little more than a push to crumble. She was acutely aware of that.

She closed her eyes and to her surprise she saw Jack's face, his strong hands. Somehow it calmed her.

She peered through the taxi's window as it drove her home. The Australian summer was upon them. The clear blue sky, the dry yellow patches in the gardens, reminded her of that. Still, the vegetation was lush here compared with Zakra.

The cab pulled up in front of her house and the driver unloaded her suitcase. She walked up the garden path, fumbled in her bag for the keys and opened the door.

The house seemed bigger than ever. Luxurious, too. The marble kitchen bench-top, the gleaming parquetry floors, the high ornate ceilings pointed to their financial success. Well, that was what Tim always said. To Lara, there was an emptiness to all this. To her, these were the symbols of years devoted to paying off a big mortgage, possessions that told the story of unbalanced, hectic lives.

She dropped her suitcase on the floor near the lounge room. Longing for a leisurely hot shower, she took off her shoes and headed for the ensuite. She couldn't wait to put her head under the water, without fear of catching some unpronounceable disease, as was always the case in Negala, and let the soothing drops run down her body.

As she passed the family room she noticed Tim had left a shirt and tie on the couch. She smiled. Most other guys would have clothes strewn all over the place, dishes in the sink and dirt trodden over the carpets. Not Tim. A shirt and tie on the couch was a mess to him.

When she reached the bedroom she gasped. She'd never seen it like that. The bedcovers formed a mountain on the wool carpet. The sheet on the bed was crumpled, amassed into a ball. The feather pillows were depressed in the middle as if they had been thumped.

The blinds still closed, the room was dark and she noticed it had an unusual smell. It was musty, sweaty even. If she hadn't known Tim better she would have thought it a bachelor's den, a place where he'd rolled around with his conquests, throwing caution to the wind. Tim had never been like that. Not even when they'd first dated.

There must have been an emergency. He must have been called in to work at the crack of dawn, on a project that couldn't wait. Or perhaps he hadn't felt well, hadn't slept much. Perhaps he'd had nightmares while she'd been away, awful dreams that had caused him to toss and turn. He'd certainly left the place a shambles. Or perhaps. . .she pushed the thought away. No, surely he wouldn't dare. Not here. But, against her will, an image kept creeping into her mind, an image of Tim holding another woman in the very same bed Lara had slept for the past ten years. She shivered.

She opened the blinds to let in some light and as she looked around, taking in the sight of messiest room she'd seen in a long time, she suddenly stopped, holding her breath. She'd heard a sound in the bathroom, she was sure about that. Was it a tap dripping? A leak? No, it was more like the sloshing of water too hot, mixed by hand with cold to bring down the temperature. Or someone moving around slightly in a bath.

“Tim? Is that you?” She frowned. What would Tim be doing home at this time of the morning? A knot formed in her stomach. The blood rushed from her head. She felt dizzy. The knot tightened.

She knew before he answered. Before he came out wrapped in a towel, she knew. She should have run out, there and then, but how could she listen to herself? It was too painful.

“Christ, you're supposed to be in Negala!” His voice was full of reproach. “Couldn't you call?”

Lara's gaze was drawn to a red ball of fabric, thrown on the floor in the corner of the now bright room. She picked it up. It was a dress that was not hers. Under it lay a lacy black bra, underwear that belonged to another woman. She breathed in deeply and it was rage, not oxygen that filled her lungs.

“Who's in there with you, Tim? Damn it! I can't believe you're doing this to me. You told me you loved me. You said it'd be forever. We're married! Who's in there? Answer me!”

It was Tim the little boy who spoke. “It's not what you think, Lara. It just sort of happened. It's not—”

“The cat's out of the bag, Tim. Tell her. It's time.” The woman's voice was seductive, husky. The words seemed to roll off her tongue like the music of a sultry jazz singer.

Lara heard water again, someone stepping out of a bath, and she imagined Tim's wet body, water dripping on the marble floor. Suddenly she was driven by an uncontrollable desire to humiliate the pair of bathing lovebirds. She wanted to rip into them, destroy them and let shame consume them forever. She wanted them to suffer the way she did.

Her heart thumping, her teeth clenched, she put her hand on the door knob. With the flick of the wrist she turned it. It wasn't locked.

“For God's sake!” Tim screamed, jumping forward, using his naked weight to shut it. Before it slammed Lara caught a glimpse of the towels on the bathroom floor, of Tim shaking his head, droplets of water on his glistening chest. She saw the young woman who was standing next to him, a good ten years her junior, young and shameless, an amused smirk on her face.

Lara would never forget those pouty red lips, the outline of those perky breasts. As the door slammed in her face Lara pounded it. In her mind it was Tim she was hitting, her anger traversing the wood, her fists meeting her husband's chest with full force. “How long has this been going on?” Lara screamed. “How long, you bastard?”

Her whole body trembled and no matter how hard she tried Lara couldn't calm down. Her world was crumbling and along with it so was she. She felt stupid, ugly and old. She'd done everything to be a good wife, she'd been so loyal, and yet here she was. Inadequate. So inadequate another woman was sleeping in her bed.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She thought of the months—or was it years?—Tim had ignored her, all those evenings out with the boys, all the times he'd left his mobile phone here or there and she hadn't been able to contact him.

She remembered his secretary saying how he often worked from home. And finally, the cough in the car. Her worst fear had come true. Lara let out a wail of pain, holding nothing back. She thought she heard Tim draw a sharp breath behind the door.

“It's been going on for ages, hasn't it? Years!” she managed to say through her tears. “Why? Why keep up the charade? Why bother?”

“I'll tell you why.” It wasn't Tim. It was her,
that
woman, her voice now a deep whisper.

“Shut up.” Tim sounded furious.

The woman continued, unrelenting, pitiless. “You don't get it Tim, do you? She knows. It's too late. Don't try and patch things up now. You've lost her and the way you're going you'll lose me, too.”

There was a second of silence and then she started again. “You wanna know why?” She was louder now. Lara realised the woman had come closer to the door to address her. “Your mother's sick, isn't she? He was hanging on for that. That's the only reason, believe me.”

“Because my mother is sick? I didn't think you even liked my mother.” Lara felt confused. Was he worried about leaving Lara if her mother didn't get better? Was he worried about her having to cope on her own with a mother who was undergoing chemotherapy?

Well, he was human after all, decent enough to put his life, this new life he must have wanted, on hold until he was sure Lara would be strong enough to handle it, wasn't he? It meant he still cared. Maybe he even still loved Lara enough to want to hang in there, to see if things changed. Maybe he never meant what he'd told the woman with the red lips. Maybe he was never serious about leaving Lara. There were many married men who had flings. Many.

“For me? So I wouldn't have to handle a divorce and my mother's illness at once? Or because. . .because you never really wanted to leave me? Tim, which one is it?”

What happened next shocked Lara beyond belief. Laughter poured out of the other woman without restraint. It was the laugh of an evil and heartless witch. The door suddenly opened and there she stood, a towel around her, her amused eyes filling with tears of mockery as she continued to chuckle. “He did warn me you were naïve when it came to him.” She draped her bare arm over Tim's shoulder. “We were waiting for the money, honey. Your mama's dough.”

“Frankie!” Tim stared at his companion. His lips turned into a thin line, probably from anger rather than embarrassment, anger that his plan had been ruined, but it was too late. The truth, cruel and rancid, was out. Lara knew what it was now.

“Get out! Both of you. Get out of my house.” Lara felt her arm move backwards as if it were someone else's. Then, gathering speed and strength, it cut through the air and a loud slap landed on Tim's cheek. “My mother won't die. If it's cancer again she'll get through it, just like she did last time. You're not about to inherit. You piece of shit!”

Lara stood arms crossed in a corner of the bedroom as Tim and the mistress gathered their clothes in haste. “Leave your forwarding address with my law firm. I'll send your stuff, unless I burn it. Don't call me and don't come back here. Ever.”

“It's my house as much as yours. I'll come back if I want to.”

“No you won't, or I'll make sure you end up very, very poor. I'll fight you every step of the way for every single thing you want. Mistake number one, you married a lawyer. Mistake number two, you thought I was stupid just because I tried my hardest to make this marriage work.”

A few minutes later Lara heard the front door slam shut. They were gone. They couldn't see her or hear her any more. She slid to the ground under the weight of humiliation.

Tears flowed down her cheeks, fast and free, blurring her vision. Soon her top was soaked. She wiped her eyes on her blouse, and saw her black mascara, the mascara she'd put on just before landing, to look pretty when Tim saw her, had stained it. She didn't care.

She cared about nothing. It felt like the end of the world. Her marriage, the marriage she'd tried her best to make work, was over. The marriage for which she'd put her own desires of a slower life, her need to be a mother, on hold, had collapsed.

Tim had treated her like a cash cow, staying with her only to inherit her mother's fortune. He'd taken advantage of Lara's trust in him. He'd stabbed her in the back. And for what? For money, her mother's money! He must have hoped Susan would fade away quickly, must have been bitterly disappointed when she went into remission. He must have prayed the cancer would come back soon, would rage through her body. He would have rejoiced at her funeral. And how long would he have waited to abandon Lara after that? Months? Weeks? Or not even a day?

Lara stared at the sheets at the bottom of the bed. She had been right when she'd first walked in. The room had the scent of sex, wild, forbidden sex. She could smell the other woman's body on her own sheets, mixed with her husband's familiar scent. She corrected herself— ex-husband. Suddenly, she couldn't stand it any longer.

She gathered all the bed linen, tearing off the pillowcases and turning her head to the side so as not to see the pubic hair on the sheets. Hardly daring to breathe, she ran outside. She opened the rubbish bin and shoved in the Egyptian cotton covers. Back inside, she scrubbed her hands with soap.

Then she dragged herself into the family room, longing to sit for a while. There were top of the range leather couches in there, her favourite armchair too, but she didn't want them. They felt all wrong. Instead, she was drawn to the floor. She curled up on the cold, hard, polished wood and let silence envelope her. She lay there for hours, not knowing what to do, not wanting to think, unable to move. She listened to the clock ticking away on the mantelpiece, the car that drove by, the magpie that warbled outside. It was all so familiar yet none of it comforted her.

She'd believed in fairy tales as a child. She'd believed in good as an adult. She'd trusted Tim and he'd taken advantage of her in the worst possible way. How many times had he made love to her without wanting to, with disgust, even? How many times had he thought of Frankie while he'd been with Lara? And all for her mother's money.

Yes, Tim had always loved money. He'd wanted the designer clothing, the most imposing home and all the toys, but never would Lara have guessed he'd go this far.

Her eyes were dry now. The terrible pain in her tight throat had been replaced by an infinite emptiness. She covered her face with her hands, and lay there in shame.

Would she ever trust a man again? She swore she wouldn't.

That night, Lara's mind raced. She saw Tim in a different light— his lips were thin, his eyes conniving, his cruel laugh promising her a life of pain and regret. Her dreams mixed with memories of Frankie and Tim as she drifted from sleep into wakefulness and back again, and by the time morning came and she opened her eyes, Lara could barely tell the difference between the two states, reality and nightmares having merged into one too many times.