False Advertising (13 page)

‘It was an accident, a really tragic accident,' Gemma said gravely. ‘You're not going to believe it.'

‘Now it really is starting to sound like an Agatha Christie novel.' Phoebe turned to look squarely at Gemma. ‘Did it happen here in the house? Is that why you're so interested in that room?'

‘No, no,' said Gemma, pausing for effect. ‘He got hit by a bus.'

Phoebe looked confused. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, a bus ran him over.'

‘For real?'

‘For real.'

Phoebe winced. ‘It sounds like a bad joke.'

‘I know. Imagine having to tell people that all the time.'

They were silent for a moment till Phoebe sighed loudly. ‘Well, I think I could use that drink now.'

They sat at the kitchen table, Phoebe sipping her wine and Gemma sipping orange juice.

‘So when did it happen?' Phoebe asked.

‘Just a few months ago apparently.'

‘It's so sad . . . and tragic . . . I mean, what do you say to a person in those circumstances?'

‘Nothing,' said Gemma. ‘She doesn't want to talk about it.'

‘No wonder,' said Phoebe. ‘Does she seem okay to you?'

‘I guess, but she doesn't have much of a life. She gave up work. She doesn't seem to do much of anything, except look after Noah.'

‘He's the little boy?'

‘Yeah. Poor kid.'

‘Poor her. The kid's probably young enough to get over it. How's she supposed to get over it?'

Gemma wondered how she would feel if she found out Luke had been hit by a bus. At the moment, she had to admit she'd probably throw a party. Maybe not right away. She'd put it off till she could have a drink at least.

‘Moving on to less morbid territory,' said Phoebe, setting her glass down in front of her. ‘How's the new job?'

‘It's all right,' said Gemma. ‘Joanne left today – I'm on my own from next week.'

‘You're ready for that?'

Gemma propped her chin on her hand, thinking. ‘Yes and no. The MD has got this complicated scheduling system, you have
no idea. But I think I've figured it out. I don't like it, but I can understand it. It's just that I'm not going to get much of a chance to impress him if I'm stuck at my desk the whole time.'

‘What makes you think you'll be stuck at your desk all day?' Phoebe asked.

‘Joanne spent all day long, day in, day out, at the workstation. She didn't go to one meeting with him all week.' Gemma shook her head. ‘Liz used to shadow Jonesy; that's what I thought a good PA did.'

Phoebe shrugged. ‘Depends on the boss, what he needs.'

‘Well, I've barely caught sight of him all week,' said Gemma. ‘He didn't even show up on Friday afternoon to say goodbye to Joanne. He just rang. I was beginning to think he was avoiding me.'

‘I think you're being a little paranoid, Gem,' said Phoebe. ‘If he was avoiding anyone, it would have been Joanne. He wasn't going to have to see her again, whereas he'll be working with you from now on.'

‘I suppose,' said Gemma, just as they heard the front door, followed by voices in the hall. ‘That'll be Helen. Don't say anything about . . . you know,' she added, dropping to a whisper.

Phoebe pulled a face. ‘Sure, like I'm going to bring that up.'

A moment later Helen appeared in the doorway. She looked a little startled, or rattled. Something was bothering her.

‘Hi Helen,' said Gemma brightly. ‘This is my sister, Phoebe.'

Phoebe jumped up from her chair and offered her hand across the table. Helen seemed a little dazed, just staring at it.

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Phoebe expectantly, her hand still hanging midair.

Helen appeared to shake herself out of her reverie, taking Phoebe's hand. ‘Nice to meet you, too.'

‘Would you like a glass of bubbly?' Gemma asked.

Helen glanced down at the bottle. She used to drink more; in fact, she went through a bad stage after Tony left and her mother sank into a fog of depression that never lifted, eventually becoming the confusion and disorientation that was Alzheimer's. As Helen was able to get out less and less, she found herself turning to the bottle more and more, until the night she passed out and
her mother left the house, wandering the streets dressed only in her nightgown. It was the call from the police that finally woke Helen. Marion had been found curled up asleep in someone's front yard. On being disturbed, she apparently had one of her more lucid moments and was able to parrot off her name and phone number. The police were calling to verify before they drove her home. Helen tried to sober up quickly, but she never forgot the look on the face of the policeman who brought her mother to the door. Helen stopped drinking after that. She had still enjoyed the odd glass or two of wine with David on special occasions, but he'd never been much of a drinker anyway.

‘Really,' Phoebe urged her. ‘I can't drink it all by myself.'

‘No, um, no thanks,' said Helen, backing out of the doorway again. ‘Noah's getting ready for his bath. I'd better go and help him.' And with that she slipped out of sight.

Gemma and Phoebe looked at each other. Gemma mouthed the word ‘weird' and Phoebe shrugged her shoulders.

‘Should I go, do you think?' she whispered.

Gemma shook her head. ‘No way. Don't tell me I can't have people visit.'

In the bathroom Helen was filling the tub when Noah appeared in the doorway, his arms laden with a collection of toys.

‘Noah,' she protested mildly, ‘look at all the toys you have in here already.'

‘But I haffa have these ones for my game.'

What did it matter? ‘Okay,' Helen sighed wearily, turning off the taps. Noah emptied his conscripts into the bath with a splash and clambered in after them. Helen leaned back against the doorjamb, watching him but not really seeing him. All she could see was that sad little box of David's belongings, the sad little job that he'd never wanted. But neither had he summoned up the wherewithal to leave. Would he have stayed there forever? Would that have been his life? Maybe walking in front of a bus had been the best thing that ever happened to him.

Helen shook her head to banish the thought, horrified with herself that she'd even entertained such an appalling idea. ‘I'll just be in the kitchen, sweetie,' she said to Noah, who was oblivious
to whether she was there or not. She walked briskly down the hall, appearing rather breathlessly in the doorway. Gemma and her sister looked up at her, a little startled.

‘Um, maybe I will,' she cleared her throat, ‘maybe I will have a glass with you.'

Gemma smiled reassuringly. ‘Sure, come on in, join us.'

Helen nodded, crossing to the cupboard where the wine-glasses were kept. She brought one back to the table and sat down, while Phoebe poured the wine.

‘Thanks,' said Helen.

‘So how was your day?' Gemma asked warily.

Helen took a mouthful and set the glass down in front of her. Just say it. ‘I had to go into David's office today to collect his things. I've been putting it off . . .'

They were uncomfortable, clearly – she was making them feel uncomfortable. That was her role in life now.

Phoebe spoke first. ‘Gemma told me what happened. I'm so sorry for your loss.'

‘Thank you.'

More awkward silence.

Helen sipped her wine, feeling despondent. Apparently she couldn't even sit around with a couple of girls and have a drink and a chat without dragging everyone down. She missed the company of other women, the camaraderie, the shared experiences. But who was she going to find that shared her experience now? She had become a kind of freak because her husband had died in a freak accident. Maybe she could start a support group for people like her. She couldn't think of anything more depressing.

‘Well, I'd better get going,' said Phoebe, standing up.

Helen looked across at her anxiously. ‘Please, I didn't mean to break things up.'

‘No, no, you didn't,' they protested in a chorus. ‘There's ten kilometres of road somewhere with Phoebe's name on it,' Gemma added, but Helen only frowned.

‘She's one of those people who jogs,' Gemma tried to explain. ‘Not in her right mind,' she added in an exaggerated whisper.

‘Actually,' Phoebe interrupted, ‘we're going out to dinner
tonight, so I really do have to get going. It was lovely to meet you, Helen.'

Gemma walked her sister to the door as Helen went to check on Noah. He was still immersed in his game. It usually took a bit of cajoling to get him into the bath, but once in, she couldn't get him out. He would happily stay till the water was cold and his skin completely shrivelled. Noah seemed content to play on his own, which was just as well: he wasn't going to have much choice. Seeing Gemma and her sister, the banter between them, made Helen think about Tony. They'd been so close as kids, and even through their teens. In fact she had always planned to meet up with him overseas. That of course had never happened, and now it felt as though there was so much distance between them, and not the kind measured in kilometres. She really should make an effort to keep in touch, like he'd suggested.

‘Is everything all right?'

Helen turned around to see Gemma watching her expectantly.

‘Sure, everything's fine.'

Gemma nodded. ‘It was okay? My sister coming –'

‘Of course, don't even mention it,' Helen dismissed. ‘Any time.'

‘So, you are all right?' Gemma persisted.

‘Yes, why wouldn't I be?'

‘Well, it's just that it couldn't have been easy today, I would imagine.'

Helen took a breath. ‘No, it wasn't.' She walked past Gemma and around into her room. She was still holding the glass of wine. She sat on the bed and took a sip. When she looked up, Gemma was hovering in the doorway.

‘Do you want to talk about it?' she asked tentatively.

‘Talk about what?'

‘Today, going to your husband's office . . .'

‘There's not a lot to talk about. They had a box already packed up. There was just stationery, a packet of Tic Tacs, not much to say about any of that.'

Gemma nodded. ‘Well, if you ever did want to talk, you know where to find me,' she said with a faint smile.

‘Thanks.' Helen watched her slowly turn away. ‘Gemma?'

She turned back again.

Helen looked at her directly. ‘Do you think . . .' She hesitated, searching for the right way to say this. ‘Oh, never mind.'

‘Go on, what is it?' Gemma urged, walking further into the room.

Helen took a breath. ‘Do you think everything happens for a reason?'

Jesus, that was a bit of a delicate question, to say the least. What was she supposed to say to that?

Gemma decided to go with honesty. ‘I don't know. I mean, it all depends on whether there's a god or not, doesn't it? And I don't just mean whether you believe in one or not; I mean whether there really is one or not. The people who believe in one tend to think everything happens for a reason, regardless. Sickness, health, good luck, bad luck, rain or shine. They pray that it won't rain on their daughter's wedding day, while the farmer is praying that it will. If it rains, who's right?'

Somewhere in there, Gemma realised she'd lost her point. The expression on Helen's face confirmed it.

‘That's not exactly what I was getting at,' said Helen politely. ‘I was just asking if you think accidents really happen, if there's not some kind of intent involved.'

Frigging hell. Her husband got hit by a bus. What was Gemma supposed to say? More to the point, what did Helen want to hear?

‘Well,' said Gemma, going to sit on the bed beside Helen, who looked a little taken aback as she shifted to make room. ‘You can't have an accident on purpose,' Gemma went on. ‘That's an oxymoron. If there was intent, it wasn't an accident.'

‘I guess I'm wondering if there isn't hidden intent in everything we do,' said Helen. ‘I mean, most people would agree that adults are responsible for their actions and the consequences. So how can anything truly be considered an accident?'

‘If that was the case, then it wasn't an accident that I got pregnant,' said Gemma. ‘I had sex, so I had to be prepared for the consequences. Fair enough. But does that include the father pissing off? Did I somehow knowingly choose someone who would walk out on me at the slightest whiff of commitment or responsibility?'

‘Maybe you did,' said Helen guilelessly.

Gemma blinked.

‘I mean, it gives you an excuse,' Helen went on. ‘You can bring a child into the world maintaining that it wasn't what you'd planned, it was an accident, so it's not your fault if it all goes wrong.'

Gemma didn't think she wanted to listen to any more of this. She stood up and walked to the door.

‘Gemma, I'm sorry,' said Helen quickly.

She stopped and turned around in the doorway, waiting.

‘I don't think that came out right. I wasn't meaning to imply . . .'

‘You know what, Helen, I don't think everything happens for a reason, I think it's all random,' said Gemma. ‘There's no plan, no purpose, no deep meaning. Shit happens, and unfortunately life seems to consist of shovelling it out of the way the best we can.'

‘Come on, Charlie,' Gemma pleaded. ‘Just show me what you're working on. I'm going to see it eventually.'

‘Yes, you will,' said Charlie, unmoved.

‘So, come on.'

‘My understanding of the word eventually is “at some later time”.'

Gemma groaned. ‘I just want to be up to speed before the meeting this afternoon.'

‘But you're not invited to the meeting this afternoon,' Charlie reminded her. ‘You just got through telling me you're not invited to any meetings, and that you're going stir-crazy and you can't take it any more –'

‘That's why I'm not waiting to be asked this time,' Gemma said simply. ‘I'm gatecrashing.'

‘It's not a party, Gem. What are you going to do when the MD asks you to leave?'

‘He won't, or he might at first, but I'm going to impress him with my savvy knowledge of the campaign, dazzle him with my invaluable input and generally blow him away with my talent and insight. He won't ask me to leave; in fact, I'll wager he'll be asking me to every meeting from now on. Before long, he'll have me running meetings –'

‘Is that before or after you have the baby?'

Gemma scowled at him. ‘You know what you're like, Charlie? You're like a rusty bit of jagged steel on a country road, lying in wait to puncture me the minute I'm getting anywhere.'

Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Please tell me you're not going into copywriting?'

‘Maybe I will; who knows what's ahead of me?' she declared archly. ‘You know what, Charlie, I've decided I can do anything. Why should I let a pregnancy get in the way? I was almost not going to take this job just because I was pregnant. How shortsighted is that?'

‘About as short-sighted as thinking a baby's not going to change your life.'

‘I was only talking about the pregnancy,' Gemma replied. ‘I don't even know if I'm keeping the baby at this stage.'

Charlie's jaw dropped. ‘Are you serious?'

Gemma stood up and walked towards the window so she didn't have to look at the shock on his face. ‘I'm serious that I don't know.'

He was right behind her. ‘What are you talking about?' he said anxiously. ‘You can't just give your baby away.'

Gemma turned to face him. ‘Why can't I? It's Luke's baby too, but he got to run off and he doesn't even have to think about it again. I, on the other hand, have to carry it for nine months, stop drinking, smoking, or having any fun, and what do I get in return? Childbirth, stretchmarks, boobs that'll end up hanging to my waist, stitches where even the sun don't shine, probably incontinence . . . But wait, there's more. I'm also supposed to sacrifice everything to bring up a child that I didn't plan, that I didn't ask to have, when there are people out there who are desperate to have a baby and would give anything?'

Charlie looked stunned. ‘But it's yours, Gem. You can't . . .' His voice faded away.

‘I might not have a choice, Charlie,' she said. ‘I can't look after a child if I don't have a decent job, some kind of future. If the MD thinks I'm indispensable, I might just manage to keep my job, then I can think about whether I keep the baby.'

Charlie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Come on then, let me show you what I have here.'