False Advertising (8 page)

Gemma looked at her doubtfully. ‘That bad, eh?'

‘I don't know,' she sighed wearily. ‘Sometimes I just feel like I've had enough. I'd like to drop out, move to the country and grow vegetables and sew patchwork quilts.'

Gemma pulled a face. ‘Well, that's just weird,' she said. ‘But honestly, Phee, why don't you quit if it's making you so unhappy?'

Phoebe looked at her sideways. ‘We can't all go through life like you, Gemma.'

‘Well, we all could, you know,' she declared. ‘And the world would be a much more laidback place. But seriously, Phee, you're uber-smart and you have all this experience as well as a law degree. You could walk into any job you wanted.'

‘Different bear pit, same animals.' Phoebe leaned her head back. ‘You're lucky, you know, Gem.'

Gemma blinked, turning to look at her sister. ‘I'm single, pregnant and homeless and had to lie through my teeth to get a job that I'll probably lose again in a few months when I'm found out. “Lucky” is not the word that springs to mind when I think about my situation.'

‘You're having a baby,' said Phoebe. ‘I mean, no matter what else is going on,
you're having a baby
. Doesn't that put a different perspective on everything?'

‘Yeah, it does, believe me, it does,' said Gemma dryly. ‘So what's stopping you?'

‘From what?'

‘From having a baby of your own?'

Phoebe's face fell. ‘Oh, well, it's not a good time. We need two wages to cover the mortgage, and Cam's travelling a lot . . .'

‘If you wait for everything to be just right, you'll never do it, Phee.'

Phoebe looked sheepishly at her sister. ‘Cam's not very keen.'

‘No kidding,' said Gemma. ‘But what do
you
want, Phee?'

Phoebe appeared to be searching for an answer, but in the end she gave a little shake of her head. ‘It's only the hormones talking. Aren't you supposed to be closest to pregnant right before your period?' She shook her head again, more purposefully this time. ‘I'm being ridiculous. I have a bad day at work and my solution is to pack it all in and have a baby?' She thrust the ice-cream container at Gemma and jumped off the bed.

‘What am I thinking?' she said, undoing the buttons of her blouse. ‘I have a job and I have a mortgage. And it took us ages to find this apartment, and it's not exactly an ideal place to bring up a baby.' She tossed her blouse in the hamper. ‘And I'm still young. I mean, I can hear the biological clock ticking faintly in the background, but there's no cause for alarm just yet.' She slid back the door of the wardrobe and took out her running shoes.
‘I mean, I keep fit. I still have a decade of fertile years ahead of me if I take care of myself –'

‘Hey, Phee, do you actually need me here for this conversation?' Gemma interrupted.

Phoebe smiled, dropping the shoes on the floor. ‘Okay, what about you? Are you going to call about that place?'

‘I guess,' Gemma hesitated, staring into the container of ice-cream. It probably couldn't technically be called ice-cream any longer; it was more like Cream of Caramel Crunch soup. ‘Let me just see if my self-esteem has room for yet another rejection.'

Phoebe looked over her shoulder as she changed into her running gear. ‘Then don't say you're pregnant.'

Gemma frowned. ‘I don't know, I got away with that at the interview, but I'm not sure I can get away with it with someone I'm going to live with. I don't want to be tossed out on my ear in a couple months.'

‘I'm only saying don't tell her over the phone,' said Phoebe. ‘Go and meet her, check out the place, see if it's a fit.'

‘Then what?'

‘Then use your considerable powers of persuasion to convince her you're her new housemate.'

‘You and Cameron are actually counting down the days, aren't you?'

‘No,' she denied. ‘Well, maybe Cam is, but I'm going to miss you.'

‘Don't worry, I'll never be far away. You're it, remember: you have the dubious honour of being my one and only support, little sister.'

Phoebe stopped in the middle of tying her laces. ‘You never talk about him.'

‘Who?'

‘Luke. You never say you miss him, or how you feel about what he did.'

And that's the way it was going to stay. Gemma had pulled more than her fair share of stunts over the years, but finally her chickens had come home to roost. Only she was the chicken doing the roosting. She could hardly expect sympathy, so she just
had to tough it out. She wasn't going to let anyone know how she felt – abandoned, frightened, embarrassed, ashamed. To be so unceremoniously dumped was pretty confronting. Gemma wanted to believe it said more about Luke, but she had the sickening feeling that it said an awful lot about her – and that was something she didn't want to explore right now.

So she simply shrugged, stirring the ice-cream soup absently. ‘To be honest, I'm so pissed off with Luke I haven't thought about whether I miss him.'

‘That's grief.' Phoebe was nodding sagely.

‘Hmm?'

‘You being pissed off with Luke. Anger is one of the stages of grief.'

‘I thought the stages theory had been debunked?'

‘I didn't get that memo.'

‘Yeah, I'm sure it has, I saw it on Doctor Phil.'

‘Who's Doctor Phil?' asked Phoebe.

Gemma looked sadly at her sister. ‘There's a whole world of daytime television you're missing out on. You really should stay in more.'

Gemma pushed back the front gate and it protested with a feeble squeak. The path before her divided a slightly wild, though modest, patch of garden, and led to an unpretentious cottage: cosy, if a little shabby, which suited Gemma just fine. She was hoping it was not going to be one of those precious restoration jobs or, worse, a twee Laura Ashley doll's house. This was an honest, hardworking labourer's cottage, a Balmain original. If the owner was anything like her abode, Gemma was in with a chance.

She stepped up onto the verandah and knocked confidently on the front door. Showtime. This was it. Gemma had always
considered herself a pretty tough person, but the last couple of months had knocked her about more than she cared to admit. And while she was all chutzpah with Cameron, giving as good as she got, it was not the most desirable of situations to be living where she was clearly not wanted. She had to get this place. She had a feeling her options were running out.

Gemma could hear footsteps approaching from inside. And then the door slowly opened and a woman peered out at her. She seemed wary. She was attractive, potentially even striking, with large dark eyes like oversized almonds, set off by cheekbones to die for, but she was pale and gaunt and visibly apprehensive, as though she was steeling herself for bad news. Gemma hoped this was the right place.

‘Helen Chapman?' she asked tentatively.

The woman nodded, clearing her throat as she clutched her cardigan around herself. She seemed nervous, but why should she be nervous? She was the one in the driver's seat.

‘You must be Gemma Atkins?' she mumbled, not meeting Gemma's gaze.

‘Atkin
son
,' Gemma corrected. ‘But call me Gemma, please. It's nice to meet you.' She thrust her hand at the woman, who considered it a little cautiously before unravelling her arms and barely placing her hand in Gemma's, only to withdraw it again a second later.

‘I can't wait to see inside,' said Gemma, placing a foot squarely on the doorstep like a vacuum cleaner salesman. ‘Can I come in?'

‘Oh, um, okay,' said Helen. She seemed a little unprepared for that. Had she not expected a prospective tenant would want to look inside the house?

Gemma charged past her into a wide hall. ‘This is great!' she declared, on what was, granted, very little information. There was a room either side of the hall, but both doors were closed. The one on the right was decorated with clown letters which spelled out ‘Noah', the four-year-old boy, Gemma deduced. There was a doorway straight ahead to a sitting room, but the hall continued in a dogleg around it.

‘The room, um, the room for rent, it's just around to the left,' said Helen in a small voice.

‘Do you mind if I take a look?'

Helen seemed to hesitate, but then her shoulders sagged as though in defeat. ‘Sure, of course.' She walked around the corner of the hall. ‘That's the bathroom,' she said, indicating a door on the left. ‘And this is the room here.'

Gemma stepped into a generously proportioned room with a single tall window above a double bed that was covered with a blue chenille bedspread. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen chenille. A heavy, dark timber wardrobe stood against the opposite wall, next to a similar style dressing table.

‘This is it,' Helen said, almost apologetically.

‘This is all I'll need to get started.' Gemma turned to look at Helen Chapman. She was twisting her fingers together, seeming pretty anxious about the whole thing. Gemma suddenly felt an overwhelming compulsion to be honest with her. Lay the facts out before her and take it from there.

‘Look, I've got something I need to tell you,' she said.

The anguished expression on Helen's face was a little disturbing. She really needed to lighten up.

‘I'm pregnant,' Gemma said quickly. ‘Going on about four months.'

She watched Helen's expression morph into relief, and then morph again into confusion.

‘So, can I see the rest of the house?' Gemma asked hopefully.

Helen had made a pot of tea and they were sitting at the table in the large, sunny kitchen. This was the only room where Gemma could breathe; the rest of the house felt claustrophobic. It was crammed with ancient heavy furniture, and scores of knick-knacks cluttered every available surface. It was all very old-fashioned, but not in a good way. Doilies and cut-glass featured prominently, as did dark timber, dusty velvet and faded old florals. The place felt like an old lady lived here, not a thirty-something woman and her young child.

‘I'm just wondering why you didn't tell me on the phone,' Helen was saying as she poured the tea. ‘About your, um . . . your condition.'

‘Would I be sitting here now if I had?' asked Gemma.

Helen glanced at her sheepishly, setting the pot down. ‘Still, you must have known you wouldn't be able to hide it for long. I had to find out sometime.'

‘That's right,' said Gemma. ‘I wasn't trying to deceive you; that's why I told you straightaway. I just wanted to meet you first, have the chance to put my case to you in person.'

Helen looked at her, waiting.

‘I didn't get past a phone call with anyone else,' Gemma explained. ‘Once I told them I was pregnant they didn't want to give me the time of day, let alone a room. And I understand, they're all households of working people, no kids. When I saw your ad, I thought you might be more open to the idea, seeing as you have a child.'

‘A baby's different.'

‘I know, but, well, I assume you're on your own, like me.'

Helen dropped her eyes, nodding faintly. Sticky subject, obviously. Steer clear of that for the moment.

Gemma cleared her throat. ‘Look, you're probably thinking that I'm some kind of hopeless loser –'

‘I don't know you,' said Helen quietly. ‘And I certainly haven't formed an opinion of you.'

‘But a pregnant woman shows up on your doorstep needing a room?' Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘You have to be wondering what happened.'

Helen didn't say anything, she just took a sip of her tea.

‘The pregnancy wasn't planned, I suppose you've figured out that much,' said Gemma, ploughing on. ‘My boyfriend and I were working up in Brisbane when I found out, and it was too late to do anything about it.'

Gemma saw a flicker of discomfort in Helen's eyes. Move on, quickly.

‘But we were solid, me and Luke, or so I thought. After we got over the shock, we decided we'd get married, and I flew down to Sydney to announce it to my family.'

‘You have family here?'

‘Sure, I'm crashing at my sister's place at the moment, but I can't stay there.'

‘Oh?'

‘Her husband's not exactly wild about the arrangement.'

D'oh! What the hell are you doing, Gemma? You're supposed to be trying to impress the woman.

‘Don't worry, I'm perfectly housetrained,' she added quickly, ‘but you know how it is . . . three's a crowd.'

Helen nodded faintly. ‘So what happened between you and, um . . .?'

‘Luke,' Gemma nodded. ‘Well, when I got back to Brisbane, he was gone.'

Helen blinked. ‘Gone?'

‘Gone,' she repeated. ‘Not a word. Oh, except he called me at the airport to say he wouldn't be able to pick me up.'

‘Did you have any idea?' Helen asked. ‘Were you having problems . . .?'

‘We were having a baby,' Gemma said drily. ‘It hit us both pretty hard but I thought we were getting used to the idea. Turns out he wasn't, so much.'

‘That's what he told you?'

‘He hasn't told me anything. I haven't seen or spoken to him.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't know where he is. He was gone when I got home, he'd taken all his stuff, he wouldn't answer his phone . . .' Gemma shrugged. ‘Anyway, eventually the number was out of service. I haven't heard so much as a word from him. Neither have any of his friends. He might as well be dead.'

Helen looked visibly stunned. Her face had gone white.

‘It's all right, I'm okay with it,' Gemma assured her. ‘I mean, not at first, at first I felt like I'd been hit by a bus.'

Helen fumbled her cup, spilling tea into the saucer and splashing it across the table. Gemma watched her clucking and fussing and apologising and berating herself as she blotted out the tea with a paper napkin. She certainly was a nervy type of person. Gemma was beginning to wonder how they would get on living together.

‘Look, the thing is,' she resumed when Helen sat down again, ‘although I'm obviously better off without him, I never expected to be doing this on my own.'

Helen seemed thoughtful. ‘And, um, and your parents can't . . . they don't have room?' she said awkwardly.

Gemma's heart sank. This woman wasn't a fool. She didn't want to take on her problems.

‘I can't stay with my parents,' Gemma explained. ‘We don't exactly see eye to eye.'

She saw the bewilderment on Helen Chapman's face. Not surprising – Gemma was hardly painting a particularly appealing picture of herself. In barely a few minutes she'd cited a boyfriend who'd dumped her, a brother-in-law who didn't want her in his home, and parents she didn't get along with. She had to get her act together. She used to be in advertising; she could do better than this.

‘Ms Chapman,' said Gemma, assuming the voice she used when she was doing a pitch to a client. A kind of confident confidante. ‘May I call you Helen?'

She nodded faintly.

‘Helen, okay, so I'm not in a particularly enviable situation. I hardly planned things this way, but you can't plan for everything that comes along in life, can you?'

Helen shook her head thoughtfully. ‘No, you can't.'

‘My parents are good people,' Gemma continued. ‘I don't mean to suggest otherwise. But they tend to think there's only one way to do things, and that's their way. I need to sort this out myself. I can't do that if I live with them, and I can't afford to live on my own, at least not at the moment. So if you can possibly find it in your heart to allow us into your home, I'll make sure you never regret it.'

Helen's big dark eyes had grown bigger and darker as Gemma spoke. Good. Now bring it all the way home. If it worked for the MD, it'll work for Helen Chapman.

‘But I certainly don't want to be anywhere that I'm not wanted. If it's not working out, you won't have to ask me to leave – I'll go of my own volition.'

*