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‘What kind of appointment?' the MD asked. He did not look impressed.

‘It's personal,' said Gemma, hoping to stop this line of questioning. Men never liked to pry into secret women's business. He'd assume she was going for a pap smear or something else to
do with ‘down there' – which in truth it was – and Gemma was quite sure he would not seek any more information.

‘If it's personal, why is it scheduled during work hours?'

Gemma blinked. He was not so easy to put off. ‘I didn't have a choice,' she said. ‘Look, MD, I haven't so much as taken an hour off –'

‘I wasn't aware that taking hours off through the middle of a normal working day was some kind of entitlement.'

Gemma had had him up to here. She should tell him to shove his stupid job. Except right now she had to focus on blinking back tears. Damn pregnancy hormones, like sodden little traitors giving away her position to the enemy.

The MD was watching her closely. ‘Okay, just don't make a habit of it,' he said finally, looking back at the computer.

Sure thing. No problem at all.

Gemma rushed into the office just shy of eleven. She hadn't expected to be kept waiting so long. Nor had she expected the several blood tests, or the peeing in a cup, or the internal examination, or the Gestapo-style interrogation on everything from her family medical history and the state of her sex life to what she put in her mouth and, most disgustingly, what came out the other end. She had felt strangely disconnected from her body, as though her head were attached to a walking incubator. Gemma the person was quite secondary to Baby Atkinson, which at least would get her used to being treated as a second-class person from now on, she supposed.

She dumped her stuff beside the desk and turned on the computer as she reached across and pressed the button on the intercom.

‘Yes,' came the MD's voice, a moment later.

‘Just letting you know I'm in,' she said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm.

‘It's about time.'

Her heart sank. She didn't really want to have to take any grief over this; it was hard enough already. She felt weird, jittery, even a little teary – again. More than anything she felt overwhelmed with the burden of responsibility. The baby wasn't even born yet and already she'd been labelled a bad mother. Or at least that's how some of the staff had made her feel, with their tsk-tsks every time she said ‘I don't know' to one of their innumerable questions. They had even asked her if she was taking drugs. Now, still, at this stage of her pregnancy. Just because she'd had no antenatal treatment, there wasn't a father in sight and she couldn't remember when she'd had her last period, they decided she was a junkie. Helen had assured her they had to ask everyone those questions, they weren't picking on her; they'd seen a whole lot worse than Gemma. Which strangely didn't console her at all.

Whatever. Today she had been confronted with the cold, hard, needle-sharp, hospital-grade-disinfectant reality of her condition. She had to start taking this whole thing seriously. And that was going to mean fessing up here at work, sooner rather than later. She was going to have to take more time off for an ultrasound next week, and who knew what else after that. She felt like Harrison Ford in
The Fugitive
, when Tommy Lee Jones was closing in on him and he was running out of time. Except there was no one-armed man to pin the whole thing on.

‘I have a stack of files here I'd like you to put away,' the MD was saying into the intercom.

‘I'll be right in,' she replied.

Helen walked through the door of her mother's room, carrying the box of crystal ornaments and a few other bits and pieces she had saved for her.

‘What have you got there?' Marion asked warily. ‘I didn't order anything. I didn't order anything and you're not going to make me pay for it either.'

Helen set the box down on a chair. ‘You're not out of bed yet, Mum. You really should get up – it's not good for you to stay in bed all day.'

‘I want you to take that away,' she said, pointing at the box, as though Helen had not even spoken. ‘I don't want it in my room, I don't know where it came from and I don't want it here.'

‘Let me show you what's inside,' said Helen patiently, opening the box. She had carefully wrapped each piece in tissue paper, and she picked up one from the top, removing the paper to reveal a small crystal bird. It was a pretty piece, and Helen took it across to her mother to show her.

‘Look at this one, Mum, I bet Dad gave it to you.' She held it out on the palm of her hand. ‘What kind of bird do you think it is? A robin, or maybe a wren? What do you think, Mum?'

But Marion wouldn't even look at it.

‘Okay, why don't I put it over here?' Helen crossed to the sparse bookshelf. Her mother used to have more of her belongings around, but she'd gradually given things away, or thrown them away, or said she didn't want them any more. The room was beginning to look a little spartan.

‘I said take it away,' Marion was saying. ‘I don't want it in my room.'

Well, this was going well. Helen returned to the box and unwrapped another piece, an elephant this time. Her mother had collected elephants for a while, which was a rather ironic talisman, considering what elephants were renowned for.

‘Look, Mum,' she said, bringing it closer. ‘This must have been one of your favourites.'

Marion still refused to look. Helen pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. ‘Come on, Mum, just look at it.' She paused, considering her mother. ‘Tony gave you this one.' Helen had no idea if that was the truth, but it got her mother to turn her head and take a look at it.

‘I don't like it, I don't want it here. Take it away.'

‘But Mum, you used to love these.'

Marion stared at the glass elephant. ‘Why would I love that . . . that thing?'

‘You did, you used to collect –' Helen frowned. ‘What are they called, Mum?'

‘Oh, you know,' she said, frustrated. ‘Everyone knows what they're called.' But Marion didn't any more.

‘It's an elephant, Mum.' Helen stood up and took it over to the shelf. ‘You used to love elephants.'

‘Well, I don't any more,' she retorted, and suddenly she was at Helen's side. ‘I told you I don't want them.'

‘But Mum –'

Marion snatched the bird and the elephant off the bookshelf and walked over to the box, tossing them back in. ‘I don't want things here, they only come and steal them.'

‘Who steals them?'

‘They do.'

‘Who are they, Mum?'

‘The . . . others,' she said. ‘They come and steal my things in the night, when I'm asleep. They won't come if I don't have anything, so I don't want anything here. Take them away.'

‘Mum, no one's going to steal them.'

‘Why don't you just listen to me, you stupid girl? You never listen. I said take them away, and you can go right along with them.'

So Helen closed the flaps on top of the box, picked it up and walked from the room, down the corridors and out of the building. She was heading for her car when she noticed a skip bin at the far side of the parking area. She hesitated for just a moment, before walking briskly over to it. She lifted the lid and rested the box on the edge for a second. Helen took a breath and let go; it fell to the bottom with a clang. Then she dropped the lid and walked away.

*

‘You didn't have to come, you know,' Gemma said as they drove across the Bridge on their way to lunch at her parents'.

‘Yes, I did,' said Helen plainly. ‘Your mother's phoned every other day this week to remind us. It'd be rude not to show up now.'

‘That's how she guilts you into doing what she wants,' said Gemma. ‘She's like, like a, what's that dog whose jaw locks when it latches onto something? Is it a pit bull? You have to beat it till it lets go. That's what my mother's like.'

Helen smiled, shaking her head, as she veered to the right to take the Military Road exit. ‘Gemma, I have no idea what issues you have with your parents, and I'm sure they're valid, but on first meeting they don't seem that bad.'

‘I could say the same thing about your in-laws.'

Helen glanced across at her. ‘No you couldn't.'

‘No, I suppose not,' Gemma relented. ‘Look, of course my parents seem fine when you first meet them. They're like costume jewellery – all shiny and colourful and fun. But overdo it and it's tacky, and it always tarnishes eventually.'

Helen laughed lightly. ‘You have a lot of analogies for them.'

‘Okay, if you want it upfront, they suck as parents. They only wanted to make us all over in their image, only better, maybe. They wanted us to have everything they never had, be everything they never were.'

‘That's what parents do. It's natural for them to want the best for their kids.'

‘But it's always been what they thought was best,' Gemma tried to explain, ‘not what I wanted. I never felt like they understood me, or that they even wanted to understand me. That would have been too confronting.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, despite all their hype about loving us for ourselves, only wanting us to be happy . . . truth is, they wanted us to make them happy, fulfil their dreams, give them something to crow about to their friends. Ben and Phoebe did just that, but I feel
like they don't even know who I really am, and they don't want to know.'

Helen was thoughtful. ‘My mother doesn't know me at all.'

‘Then you understand what I'm talking about.'

‘No, I mean really, my mother doesn't know me. It's been months since I've seen even a glimmer of recognition from her.'

There was a pause. Gemma didn't know if she was supposed to say something. If she was, she didn't know what.

‘She doesn't even seem to recognise Noah any more,' Helen went on, ‘and he was one of the only people who could still cheer her up.' She pulled up for a red light. ‘You know, I used to get upset because Mum would pick on my clothes or my hair, or the way I did something, anything.' Nothing Helen did had ever seemed to be right. She had often got the impression her very existence irritated her mother. ‘I used to wish she'd just leave me alone, not notice every little thing. Now I wish she'd notice anything at all.'

Gemma had the feeling she'd just been subtly put in her place. ‘So are you saying I should feel lucky that my parents notice me at all, even if it is only to criticise me?'

‘No, I wasn't saying that,' said Helen calmly, and apparently without any further need to explain herself.

‘Maybe it would be a relief if they didn't recognise me,' Gemma grumbled. ‘I don't feel like they know who I am anyway.'

Helen glanced at her before taking off with the traffic again.

‘Sorry,' said Gemma, ‘that wasn't very sensitive, was it?'

‘I'm beginning to get that sensitivity's not your strong suit,' said Helen.

‘You're not wrong there.'

Gemma directed Helen through Neutral Bay and into Mosman, and finally into the street where she'd grown up – the highly desirable location set amongst other quality homes; quiet and leafy, close to schools and shops. As they pulled up out front, the door flew open and even from inside the car they could hear Trish call, ‘They're here, everybody. Come on, they're here!'

‘She must have been keeping watch,' said Gemma. ‘Hold onto your hat, it's going to be a bumpy ride.'

The family converged on them with all the restraint of a tsunami as they attempted to make their way through the front door, with Trish providing a running commentary.

‘This is our eldest, Ben, Gemma's big brother, there's just the two years between them, but he's virtually running the family company now –'

‘Steady on, darl.'

‘Shoosh Gary, you know it's true. And here's Ben's wife, Leisa, and our little princess, Emily. Have you seen a prettier little thing in all your life? Going to be a heartbreaker, she is. I think you and Emily might be right about the same age, Jonah –'

‘It's Noah, Mum.'

‘And Jasper's running around somewhere, probably kicking that soccer ball outside, can't get him to stop since he was named Player of the Match yesterday. Of course it was no surprise to us, he was Most Valuable Player last year, in his very first season. He's just like his dad, Ben always excelled at sports, got that many trophies we had to have a display case made. Isn't that right, Ben? Where did Ben go? Is he on the phone again? Oh, and I believe you and Phoebe have already met, Helen, but have you met her husband, Cameron? I didn't think so. Cam and Phoebe are both lawyers, a real pair of high-achievers. Though they're dragging their feet a little in the baby race –'

‘Mum.'

‘– and this is my sister, Lyn, and her husband, Bob, and here's . . .'

Gemma had not expected half the extended family to be here as well but, true to form, her mother had gone overboard in her enthusiasm to drag her daughter back into the fold. Helen looked a little shell-shocked, not surprisingly, and poor little Noah had his head buried under his mother's jacket and was clearly not planning to emerge any time soon. The rabble formed a cordon around them, drawing them further inside, firing questions without waiting for answers, tossing one-liners about, laughing at in-jokes that were all hopelessly lost on Helen.

She was unprepared for the number of people, or for the sheer size of the house. It had obviously been added to over the
years, with no expense spared, but unfortunately without a lot of imagination either. It pre-dated the McMansion era but was essentially the same animal. Big was good. Huge was better.

Helen realised a drink had been thrust into her hand, a flute of champagne with a strawberry wedged onto the rim. ‘Oh, thanks, but um, I'm driving,' she said.

‘One's not going to put you over the limit, love,' said Gary.

‘Besides,' added Trish, ‘Gemma can't drink. Why don't you drive home, Gemma? Then Helen can drink all she likes.'

‘It's fine, really,' Helen protested feebly.

‘No, let me drive,' said Gemma. ‘Drink up,' she said under her breath to Helen, ‘you're going to need it.'

‘I'm just going to steal Gemma away for a minute,' Trish was saying. ‘I want to show you what I got for the baby. Gary, why don't you show Helen around?'

Gemma saw the look of uneasiness on Helen's face. ‘No, Dad, we left the box of Bakelite in the car. Helen, give Dad your keys.'

Her mother let out a squeal of delight. ‘Yes, yes, Gary, you go get the Bakelite, we've got the cheque already made out, Helen.'

Helen smiled, passing Gary the keys.

‘Okay, then,' said Trish. ‘This way, girls.'

They trailed her down a short hall to the ground-floor guest-room and Trish flung back the door for Gemma to see. Parked in the middle of the room was an enormous jogging pram in gleaming chrome and forest green.

‘I can't stand these things, Mum, they're hideous,' said Gemma. ‘They're like the four-wheel drive of prams.'

Helen winced, but Trish was unfazed. ‘Oh, don't be ridiculous, Gemma, what's your problem?'

‘They're such a wank.'

‘Now you're just being a snob,' said Trish. ‘They're actually very practical. And durable, and they're ergonomically designed for both mother and baby. The fellow in the store told me –' She stopped short as she saw the look of disdain on Gemma's face.

‘I kept the receipt,' said Trish, changing tack. ‘If you don't like it you can exchange it for something that suits you better.'

Just then Leisa walked into the room. ‘Oh, these are great!' she gushed, quickly checking for the logo. ‘And this is
the
brand to
have, Gemma. You know the best thing about them, don't you? You can kill two birds with one stone – take the baby for a walk and go for a jog yourself.'

Why the hell would she want to do that?

‘And –' Leisa wasn't finished, ‘I'll tell you something for nothing, Gemma, when they're little, you just don't get any “me” time. Once, I had to go ten weeks between waxings. I nearly went mad. I don't know how I would have got by without Vicki.'

‘Vicki was a godsend,' Trish agreed.

‘Who's Vicki?' asked Gemma.

‘Our au pair, little British girl, don't you remember her?' said Leisa. ‘Though she wasn't exactly “little”, she could have lost a few pounds. She wasn't much to look at either, plain as an arrowroot biscuit, but the kids didn't seem to mind, and she was fabulous with them. Her visa ran out last year or I would have kept her till Emily started school.'

But Leisa still wasn't finished.

‘Though it's probably just as well, what with Jasper's school fees, and all his extracurricular activities, and now Emily's taking pre-music lessons and dance class. It's constant. I was only saying to my masseur the other day that if I didn't have a personal trainer, when would I ever get any exercise, let alone any “me” time. Don't you find, Helen?'

Helen had been mesmerised watching Leisa's perfectly painted fingernails flick and swoop to punctuate her every word. Leisa seemed to be waiting for some kind of response to her stream of babble, but Helen could think of nothing to say. Not a single thing.

‘I think I'd better take Noah outside to find the other children,' she finally came out with. ‘Before he gets stuck permanently,' she added in a lowered voice, patting Noah's head, still planted firmly under her jacket.

‘Leisa,' said Gemma after Helen had left the room, ‘how about a little sensitivity?'

‘What?' she blinked. ‘What's wrong?'

‘It's not exactly appropriate to stand there in front of Helen, going on about private school fees and music lessons and
personal trainers.' She rolled her eyes. ‘Surely you worked out her circumstances are a little different from yours?'

‘Oh, that's right,' said Leisa, nodding. ‘She's recently widowed, isn't she? I forgot.'

Gemma turned to glare at Trish. ‘Mum! You told Leisa? Why did you go and blab all of Helen's business?'

‘I did no such thing.'

Gemma was gobsmacked at the barefaced audacity of her mother – caught red-handed and she still wouldn't admit it.

‘I didn't “blab all of Helen's business”, Gemma, because you didn't tell me any of it,' she said airily. ‘The only thing I know is that she's terribly young to be a widow. Was it cancer?'

Gemma groaned.

Leisa clicked her fingers. ‘It wasn't something controversial like AIDS, was it?'

‘Oh for . . .' There was only one way to shut them up. ‘It was a road accident, okay? And it was very tragic and she's not over it so do not say a word,' Gemma hissed threateningly.

‘Okay, okay, you don't have to make such a fuss,' said Trish.

‘You have to promise.'

Trish sighed dramatically. ‘I promise.'

‘Leisa?'

‘Of course I won't say anything,' she said defensively. ‘Do you think I'm completely socially inept?'

Gemma decided not to answer that.

Trish checked her watch and shooed them out to the kitchen to help serve lunch. For the next ten minutes Gemma and Leisa and Phoebe and Aunts Lyn, Carol and Sue, along with adult cousins Rachel and Lauren, wore a path from the kitchen to the dining room carrying platter after platter of salads, meats and antipasto, a range of hot dishes, baskets of bread and rolls, bottles of wine and jugs of softer alternatives. The vast table looked as though it might collapse from the weight of it all.

‘Pass me your plate, Helen,' said Trish when they were all seated and serving themselves. ‘You must have some of this baked ham, it's divine.'

Helen glanced at Gemma.

‘Helen and Noah are vegetarians, Mum,' Gemma explained for her.

‘Oh my God, Gemma, why didn't you tell me?' Trish cried frantically. ‘Well, this is just awful, what on earth are you going to eat, Helen?'

Helen surveyed the feast in front of her. ‘I'm sure we'll find something.'

Trish stood up, anxious. ‘I wonder if I've got any salmon in the freezer, that wouldn't take long to grill up . . .'

‘Mum, sit down,' said Gemma. ‘Vegetarians don't eat fish either, but there's enough food to feed a small African country here.'

‘Honestly, we'll be fine,' Helen agreed.

Trish sat down with a heavy sigh of resignation, and soon the rabble resumed. Helen tried to keep up, but she felt as though she were suffering from sensory overload. There was so much of everything. The food on the table vied for space and attention with assorted table decorations, and every platter, dish and receptacle was virtually a work of art in itself, but lost amongst the clutter. The room was the same: so many cushions on the sofas, you'd have to move some to sit down; enormous vases filled with enormous arrangements of flowers everywhere she looked; the light fittings were huge sculptural edifices, but if they didn't provide enough illumination, elaborate wall conches were set at frequent intervals around the room, dotted amongst ornately framed pictures, paintings, photographs, in groups, rows, or alone if they were too large. Helen knew her place had been cluttered, but this took it to a whole other level.