False Advertising (16 page)

Noah grinned a big wide grin. ‘It's not getting cooked,' he said, shaking his head and giggling. ‘It's growing and devepoling.'

Gemma giggled along with him. ‘No, it's cooking. Like a cake. In fact, I'm going to call it Muffin if it's a girl.'

Noah positively shrieked with delight. ‘What if it's a boy? What are you gunna call it if it's a boy?'

Gemma was struck dumb by the idea. The little person growing and ‘devepoling' inside her might be a boy, with a penis, and an excessive flatulence gland, and all the other things that make up a
boy . . . snails and puppy dogs' tails, what have you. It didn't feel right somehow. And worse, what if he ended up just like his father? That did not even bear contemplating.

‘What are you gunna call it if it's a boy, Gemma?' Noah repeated, his eyes bright with anticipation of the hilarity to come.

Gemma rolled on her side to face him. ‘I might call him Chupa Chup!' she declared.

Noah dissolved into giggles as Gemma proceeded to list all the names she might call a baby boy – Jelly Bean, French Fry, Whizz Fizz . . .

Gradually they became aware of raised voices out in the hall, followed by the sound of the door, if not exactly slamming, then certainly closing forcefully. After a short delay they heard Helen call out for Noah.

‘We're in here,' Gemma called back. ‘In my room.'

Helen appeared at the door, her eyes glassy, her cheeks stained pink from distress.

‘Are you okay?' Gemma asked.

‘Of course,' she dismissed. ‘Come on, Noah. You've bothered Gemma long enough.'

‘He hasn't bothered me at all. We were having a nice chat, weren't we, Noah?'

He nodded, giggling again. ‘Gemma's gunna call her baby Jelly Bean, Mummy!'

‘Oh,' Helen said vaguely, not really listening as she scooped Noah up off the bed and set him on his feet.

‘What happened?' Gemma persisted.

Helen stirred. ‘Nothing. They just, um . . .' She hesitated. She didn't know if she felt all that comfortable talking about this. She barely knew Gemma. But then again, they were living together now, and Gemma would be sharing a pretty significant event with them soon enough. Helen swallowed. ‘Noah, go and get ready for your bath.'

He pouted. ‘Why do I always haffa go away?'

‘You don't.'

‘Yes, I do.'

Helen sighed, crouching down to his level. She should be honest: she and David had always said they'd be honest with
Noah about everything. ‘The reason I don't want you to hear what I have to say is because I'm really cross with your nanna and pop, but they're really good to you, and they love you very much, so I don't want you to feel angry with them just because I'm angry with them.'

‘I won't, I promise,' he pleaded, joining his hands as though in prayer.

Helen sighed. ‘Well, it's not such a big deal, Noah. They just want to get a plaque for Daddy –'

‘What's a plaque?'

‘Um, well, it's like a flat piece of wood, or maybe metal, and it would have Daddy's name engraved on it, written on it, and the day he was born and the day he died.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, it would be like a sign, to say where Daddy's ashes are.'

‘But we're taking Daddy's ashes to a special place, aren't we, Mummy?'

‘That's right, at least that's the plan,' said Helen. ‘Because that's what Daddy wanted. But Nanna and Pop think it would be better if his ashes were scattered in a rose garden, at the cemetery, where a whole lot of other people's ashes are scattered, conforming to their idea of what is right and proper, not your daddy's wishes, scattering his ashes in a place he'd never even been –'

‘Can I watch TV, Mummy?' Noah interrupted, his eyes glazing over. Obviously that was a little more information than he strictly needed.

Helen straightened up. ‘Okay, you can watch TV for a little while. You should be in the bath. And only channel two,' she called after him as he scampered from the room.

Gemma was sitting up now, a couple of pillows propped behind her. She patted the bed. ‘Sit down.'

‘No, it's okay, I don't want to bother you . . .'

What was with her incessant fear of bothering people?

‘What did you say to them in the end?' Gemma prompted. ‘About the plaque.'

Helen took a breath. ‘I said if you want a plaque, get a plaque, but I don't know where you're going to put it because David's ashes are going to be scattered according to his wishes.'

‘Good for you.'

‘Except, I don't know,' she sighed. ‘They carried on about how foolish it was, the whole idea. He must have watched too many trashy Hollywood movies, they said. Which only goes to show how little they knew him. David couldn't stand trashy Hollywood movies.' Helen perched one knee on the edge of the bed. ‘The thing is, to be perfectly honest, I don't know for certain how much it mattered to David where his ashes ended up. He'd only ever said it casually, when we used to go to this place. It's in the Royal National Park, down south. He used to camp there as a child, when he was in the scouts. Every time we went back there he used to get nostalgic, and sentimental, and say this was where he wanted his ashes scattered. But I don't know if he really meant it; you don't seriously make plans for the disposal of your ashes when you're only thirty-five.' Helen paused. ‘But I just know he wouldn't want his final resting place to be an urn in a cemetery, or scattered on a rosebush, with a silly plaque. He just wouldn't.'

‘Then don't let it be,' said Gemma.

‘But Jim wanted to know where they're supposed to go to remember him, which I guess is a fair point,' Helen admitted. ‘But I said there was a lot more chance of remembering him at a place that was special to him than in a cemetery.'

‘I agree.' Gemma drew her knees up, hugging them to her chest. ‘My Nanna Lola died when I was a girl,' she said quietly. ‘Twelve turning thirteen: you know, that age. I missed her so much; I felt like she was the only person in the family who understood me. Anyway, she was buried in a lawn cemetery, with a nice plaque, all very neat. We went to pay her a visit a few times, but it never felt like she was there. But when we'd go to see Grandad, I used to go out into the backyard. She loved gardening, she was always out there, surrounded by her plants, under her beautiful old jacaranda tree. She used to say that she matched her hair colour to that jacaranda.' Gemma smiled, remembering. ‘And I'd sit on one of the low branches of the tree, and I knew she was right there with me.'

‘Is the tree still there?' asked Helen.

‘I think so, I hope so,' said Gemma. ‘But Grandad passed away too, and the house was sold. Still, whenever I drive around the north shore when the jacarandas are in bloom, I always think of her.'

Helen smiled faintly.

‘You should do what you think David would have wanted,' said Gemma. ‘After all, you knew him better than anyone.'

Helen almost winced. Did she? She wasn't even sure about that any more. She knew this much: David would have wanted to stand up to his father and prove his point. He was always at loggerheads with Jim. They both held such strong opinions, polar opposites, but just as stubborn about them. A lot more alike than either of them would care to admit. Helen would never have stood up to Jim herself, but she had to do it for David.

Gemma put down the phone, smiling, as the MD appeared around the corner. ‘Good morning,' she chirped.

He looked a little taken aback. ‘Morning.'

‘That was Joanne's mum on the phone. Joanne had the babies yesterday – a boy and a girl, Luke and Leia.'

‘You're kidding me?' he said, pausing at her desk.

Gemma shook her head. ‘Wouldn't have picked her for a
Star Wars
nut, but there you go. Looks can be deceiving. So, I'll organise flowers?'

He frowned. ‘Is that the done thing?'

‘What do you mean? Of course it's the done thing.'

‘Even though she got the job on false pretences and then only worked here for four months and now she's no longer an employee?'

‘Nice to hear you don't hold grudges,' said Gemma.

‘Pardon?'

‘Nothing,' she said airily. ‘So, I'll arrange for flowers to be delivered to the hospital, with all best wishes from Bailey's . . .' Gemma paused, pretending to concentrate on her computer screen. ‘And how about I make an appointment for you for a haircut while I'm at it?' she added.

‘What was that?' he asked, leaning slightly over her desk.

‘I just thought it was due . . . and uh, well,' she said, trying feebly to hang onto her ill-timed chutzpah, ‘you see, MD, I consider it part of my job to anticipate your needs, and so, the thing is, I know a good hairdresser, a very good, stylish hairdresser . . . and you, well, you obviously don't.'

Gemma dared to glance up at him then and she saw his face had darkened, indicating either anger or embarrassment; whichever, neither was good.

‘Here in Sydney, I mean,' she added quickly. ‘I'm sure you had someone in Melbourne. I was only saying that I could put you onto a good hairdresser nearby . . . convenient, you know . . .'

Too late – he was walking away. He paused at the door of his office to look back at her. ‘I'll be the one to decide when I need a haircut, thanks all the same.'

‘Right you are!' she said brightly as he disappeared into his office, closing the door firmly behind him. She dropped her head on the desk. Gemma, Gemma, Gemma, when will you learn to keep your big mouth . . .

At five forty-five, Gemma decided to call it a day. The MD had left late morning and not returned; according to his schedule, he would still be in a meeting on the other side of the city. There was nothing more for her to do. As she went to shut down her computer, she heard the ubiquitous ping as an email was delivered. It was from the MD.

‘Mum was asking about you again,' said Phoebe. ‘Or should I say, interrogating.'

Gemma sat down opposite her at the kitchen table. Friday
afternoons had become a regular thing, Phoebe coming over for a drink – wine for her, juice for Gemma.

‘You didn't tell her anything, did you?' she asked.

‘No, but –'

‘Phee,' Gemma warned, ‘you promised.'

‘And you promised that once you had a job and a place to live you'd tell them yourself.'

Gemma sighed dramatically. ‘I just don't think I can face it, Phee. Not yet.'

‘So when are you going to tell them? Are you going to call from the hospital when you've had the baby and say “Surprise!”?'

‘Tempting . . .'

Phoebe groaned. ‘I hate this, Gem. I don't like lying to them. Just pick up the phone, you don't have to see them if you really don't want to. But Mum's going to be so hurt if you don't tell her about the baby soon, and she'll have every right to be.'

‘It's not just about the baby,' said Gemma. ‘Can you imagine how she'll carry on once she hears that Luke did a runner? “He was no good, I knew it all along,”' she mimicked. ‘“Just another one of your hopeless loser boyfriends . . .”'

‘So? It's the truth, isn't it?'

‘Yeah, but I don't need to hear it from her.'

Phoebe dropped her head onto the table.

‘Phee, okay, okay, maybe I deserve it. I know I pushed the boundaries a lot when I was growing up . . .'

‘Pushed the boundaries? You knocked the boundaries down and trampled right over them.'

‘Whatever. The problem is, Mum and Dad still see me as the same rebellious kid they have to keep rescuing. I haven't grown up in their eyes at all. Even when I had a good job they didn't really believe I was going to stick at it.'

‘And they were right.'

‘Yeah, well, no wonder I finally walked out of Bailey's, seeing it was exactly what they were waiting for me to do.'

‘Oh, so you're saying it's their fault that you left?'

‘No,' said Gemma, frustrated. ‘They're just like the parents who keep telling the kid up in the tree, “You're going to fall, you're going to fall,” and he does, because that's the picture
they've put in his head. Whereas if they said, “Climb down safely, you can do it,” then he probably would.'

‘Come on, Gem!' Phoebe exclaimed. ‘Maybe you do need to grow up.'

Gemma blinked at her.

‘I mean, listen to yourself, you still react to them like a child. If you want to be treated like an adult, you need to take responsibility for your own decisions.'

‘That's exactly what I'm trying to do now. I have decisions to make and I don't need their interference while I sort out what I'm going to do.'

‘What are you talking about exactly?' Phoebe asked, frowning at her.

Gemma hadn't told Phoebe giving up the baby was an option, because she knew she'd freak. Just as her parents would. They wouldn't allow it, not over their dead bodies, their grandchild would not be brought up by a stranger . . . blah, blah, blah. And that was why Gemma couldn't talk to them yet. She would lose control. It wouldn't be her decision any more. And it was hard enough as it was.

Just then they heard the front door slam. Gemma checked her watch. Saved by bath time.

A minute later Helen appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, obviously rattled. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes fiery, and she seemed to be out of breath. ‘You're not going to believe what happened.'

‘What?' the sisters chorused.

‘Oh, hello Phoebe.'

‘What won't we believe?' Gemma prompted her. She was guessing the in-laws had something to do with it. They usually did. Helen could not so much as talk to them on the phone without getting into a flap.

‘Um, I'd better get Noah in the bath,' she said vaguely, glancing back up the hall.

‘Don't pat a dog with a wagging tail,' said Gemma.

‘Pardon?'

‘He's content, leave him be. It's Friday night – routines are allowed to lapse on a Friday night.'

Helen stared at her across the table. She was right, they used to have toasted cheese sandwiches on Friday nights, growing up. In front of the telly. They were allowed to stay up longer – it was the start of the weekend. She remembered it was fun. When had she become so rigid?

‘Would you like a glass of wine?' asked Phoebe, waving the bottle.

‘Of course she would,' said Gemma, jumping up to get a glass.

Helen sat down at the table, the glass was placed before her and Phoebe poured the wine.

‘To Fridays,' said Gemma, holding up her glass of juice. They all raised their glasses and then watched as Helen took a sizeable gulp from hers.

‘So,' Gemma urged, ‘tell us . . .'

‘Oh,' Helen stirred, the colour beginning to deepen in her cheeks again. ‘One of the fathers at preschool,' she began slowly. ‘I can still hardly believe the audacity . . .'

‘Go on,' said Gemma, wide-eyed. This sounded intriguing, and it didn't appear to have anything to do with the in-laws.

Helen cleared her throat. ‘When I went to pick up Noah from preschool, one of the fathers . . . well, there's no other way to put it.' She paused for effect. ‘He asked me out.' She looked across the table at both of the women, her indignation plain.

‘I don't understand,' said Gemma, because she didn't understand. Had she missed something? Blacked out for a second?

‘You and me both,' said Helen, confounding her further.

‘So, he asked you out on a date?' said Gemma, attempting to clarify.

‘Yes, that's exactly what he did. He tried to play it down, suggesting we go for coffee one morning after we drop the kids off. But he was asking me out.'

Gemma was still struggling to understand the problem. ‘He's single?'

‘Yes, of course. But that's not really the point, though, is it?'

Apparently not. ‘So, what's he like?'

‘What do you mean?' Helen frowned.

‘Is he good-looking?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What do you mean, you don't know?' said Gemma. ‘Does he wear a mask?'

‘I don't care what he looks like,' Helen insisted. ‘He could be . . . I don't know –'

‘Johnny Depp?' suggested Phoebe, sighing.

‘Fine, he could be Johnny Depp, it wouldn't make any difference.'

Phoebe and Gemma looked at her as though she had completely lost her mind.

‘Come on,' said Gemma, ‘are you telling me if Captain Jack asked you –'

‘Don't you get it, Gemma?' Helen interrupted her. ‘He has no right to ask me out. It was completely inappropriate. I'm a married woman.'

Gemma and Phoebe were staring at her. Helen recognised that look. They thought she was crazy.

‘You're just trying to say that it's too soon,' said Phoebe helpfully. ‘That you're not ready yet . . .'

‘Because you do realise,' added Gemma, in a tone Helen had heard used often at the nursing home, ‘you're not married any more.'

‘But I am. I'm still the same person, nothing happened to me. I'm still David's wife.'

Helen looked earnestly at Gemma and Phoebe, while they looked gobsmacked back at her.

‘Look, I'm not crazy,' said Helen. ‘Think about it. If something happened to Noah, I'd still consider myself his mother, forever. If something happened to either of you, you'd still consider yourself sisters, wouldn't you? You may not have a sister any more, but you'd still be a sister.' She paused as they contemplated that. ‘It's the same for me. I may not have a husband any more, but I'm still a wife. I didn't choose to be a widow, I don't feel like a widow.' She sniffed. Tears were nudging their way into her eyes.

They sat in silence for a minute. Gemma could see the logic, kind of, but it didn't stop it from being absurd.

‘But, don't you think you have to . . . move on, eventually?' Phoebe suggested carefully.

‘Why?' Helen sniffed again.

‘Well, lots of reasons –'

‘Sex for one,' said Gemma. ‘You do want to have sex again in your lifetime, don't you?'

Now it was Helen's turn to look gobsmacked. ‘I'd better go and run Noah's bath,' she mumbled as she got up from the table and left the room before either of them had the presence of mind to stop her.

Phoebe was glaring at Gemma across the table.

‘What?' Gemma said innocently. ‘I was only stating the obvious.'

‘To you maybe,' said Phoebe. ‘Gem, the woman couldn't cope with the idea of having coffee with another man, let alone sex.'

‘Well, maybe she needs to be snapped out of it. It's not normal.'

‘It's not normal that her husband was run over by a bus. Give the poor woman a break. I don't know how I'd handle it if anything like that happened to Cam.'

Gemma found herself daydreaming about Cameron being run over by a bus, which was a strangely satisfying thing to dwell on. She glanced at Phoebe, who was eyeing her suspiciously. Quickly, a diversion.

‘So, do you think my belly looks big in this?' she asked, standing up and pulling her blouse taut over her stomach. ‘Can you tell I'm pregnant?'

Phoebe tilted her head, considering her sister's midsection. ‘Well, I'm not sure,' she shrugged. ‘I know you're pregnant, so that probably affects my perspective.'

Gemma's jaw dropped. ‘So you're saying that there is something to see?' She looked down at herself, aghast. ‘I thought the MD was giving me a funny look the other day.'

‘You're imagining things,' Phoebe scoffed. ‘He probably just thinks you've put on weight.'

‘Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.'

‘What does it matter to you? You're going to get a lot bigger soon enough. Have you worked out what you're going to do yet, once you can't hide it any more?'

Of course she hadn't. No lightning bolt had struck out of the blue. No magician had waved a magic wand to fix everything. ‘Something'll come up,' she said offhandedly.

Phoebe gave her another withering look from across the table.

‘You know, Phee, there's really no reason for me to get in touch with Mum and Dad when I get all the disapproval I can handle from you.'