Free-Falling
About the book
The Fiancée
Belinda's life is in free-fall after the sudden death of her fiancé, Andy. But then ghostly signs begin to appear that suggest he might not really be gone. And Belinda tumbles even further â until she finds his final parting gift. But will it be enough to save her?
The Mother
Evelyn McGavin, Andy's mum, is also struggling in her bereavement. She copes by shoplifting (once), hating Belinda (constantly) and jumping out of a plane. In her skydiving instructor, Baz, she finds an unexpected friend. But why is he so agitated when he hears how Andy died?
Two women, united in their loss, separated by their sorrow. And yet still linked in a most unexpected way â¦
Free-Falling is a beguiling tragic-romantic comedy of heartbreak and heroism, grief and ghostly dreams â¦
For Steve
(of course)
Prologue
The sharp beeping of the text message rudely invaded his dreamless sleep. He rolled over and opened his eyes groggily. He blinked until everything was in focus and looked first at his bedside clock.
3 am
.
Who the hell was texting him at bloody 3 am?
And, more importantly, since when was his phone set to beep that fricken loudly?
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and reached out for his mobile. The text was from a number he didn't recognise, and simply said:
âI'm not late for a damn thing,' he mumbled irritably at his slick-looking Nokia. He was in the middle of switching the phone off so it didn't wake him again when he heard the noise.
He was suddenly much more awake.
Part One
The First Day
Chapter 1
Belinda
The day after her fiancé died, Belinda drove to the RSPCA and picked out a puppy. She left the radio off and the windows up so that there was a hollow kind of quiet, a quiet that seemed to suck the air out of her chest. She kept thinking she needed her puffer then realising she hadn't had an asthma attack since she was twelve years old. She didn't even
have
a puffer anymore.
Blossoming trees lined the quiet suburban streets, making the world just that bit too colourful. Garish even. âYou're too early,' she scolded them. âDon't you know spring's barely begun?' The trees swayed smugly in the breeze.
When she brought the puppy home to her apartment, she found herself wondering where to keep it. She had chosen a cattle cross collie. It would need a big backyard with room to run around. âWhat the hell am I doing?' she muttered irritably.
Never mind
,
figure things out later
. For now she just wanted to sit on the couch and hold the puppy on her lap.
The puppy was one of those scruffy-looking mixed breeds that you might see in a Disney film about an adorable stray that charms
its way off the streets and into the loving arms of some rich, lonely aristocrat. In reality, the rich guy would probably phone the council and demand that the flea-ridden mutt be removed from his grounds before it spread disease to his purebred Pekingese.
The dog looked up at her with trusting eyes. It made her feel sick, the pure responsibility of it all. She put the puppy on the floor and walked carefully, purposefully to the bathroom. She knelt in front of the toilet and waited to be sick. She waited and stared and nothing happened. She put her fingers down her throat, choked and took them back out again. She never could make herself throw up. She'd had one half-hearted go at bulimia in Year Ten but, upon the discovery that it was actually really hard to make yourself vomit, she gave up and decided, quite sensibly, to accept her body for what it was â not that bad really.
She got back up from the bathroom floor and walked out into the living room. The puppy ran to greet her. It nipped playfully at her ankles and drew blood. âOuch,' she murmured. She sat down on the floor and pulled her ankle up to rest on her knee so she could examine the bite. She watched the blood as it pooled just above the knobbly bit of her ankle bone. She pressed gently on the skin around it, pushing more out, waiting intently for the moment when it would spill over the smooth lump of her bone and drip to the floor. She pressed harder and harder, but the cut wasn't deep and the blood was seeping out agonisingly slowly. Finally, when enough had gathered, a single drop slid over the hump, down to her heel where it hung â a crimson tear. And then it fell, instantly staining the cream carpet. The spell was broken; the world came rushing back to her.
Andy is dead
.
Ssshh, don't think about that just now.
But I really should call someone. Mum, Stacey, someone . . .
Ssshh . . .
She looked up to see the puppy scratching desperately at the screen door that led out onto the balcony. She lifted it into her arms and walked out of her apartment and along the hall, into the lift. The recorded elevator voice kept them company on the way down: âEmergency phone line disconnected. Contact phone company immediately. Emergency phone line disconnected . . .' That warning had been playing since they'd moved into the apartment block over two years ago.
When she stepped outside, the sunlight was bright and everything felt stark and white and burnt. She walked across the road to one of the older houses that would surely have a nice, big backyard and knocked on the door. A boy answered, maybe about fifteen. She smiled warmly and handed him the puppy. This was how you pulled yourself together. This was behaving sensibly.
âHere you go,' she whispered, and walked away quickly, without waiting for his reaction, not wanting to allow him the opportunity to refuse the unexpected gift.
She wondered if that had been a bit too dramatic â just handing the dog over to a stranger like that. It would have worked if there had been a movie soundtrack playing in the background. Maybe a stirring Coldplay song, causing emotion to well up in the viewer. âOh!' they would sob, âshe's lost her fiancé and now she has to give away her new dog!' But this wasn't a movie. This was her life.
Andy is dead.
She walked past her apartment block and up the street. If she concentrated on her steps, one foot in front of the other, she could keep that annoying voice at bay.
She kept walking and walking, and smiled politely when she passed an older couple who were working in their front garden,
husband kneeling on one knee, wiping his forehead and frowning as he tugged at something tough and prickly; wife sitting back on the grass, giant sun hat on her head, squinting through the afternoon light to smile back. Their dedication to their tiny little garden soothed her.
Eventually she found herself at Hunters Hill High School, in the middle of the oval. By now the sun was setting and an orange haze had descended upon the grounds. She wasn't wearing her watch today, so she had no real comprehension of the exact time. When she had woken up this morning, she had taken it off to shower and made a conscious decision not to put it back on.
She knelt in the middle of the oval and placed her hands in the grass, pressing down hard into the dirt.
Harder
. Her hand touched a sharp stone.
Harder.
The rock pushed into her skin, but didn't cut her hand.
Harder.
But it wouldn't cut her skin.
Damn it
. She lifted her hand and slammed it onto the stone. Over and over again. It didn't cut her skin. Her hand hurt and she felt stupid and defeated. She allowed the voice to penetrate her mind.
Andy is dead.
She played with the words, sounded them out carefully. They almost lost their meaning, became just words â but a part of her knew that this wasn't the case. They weren't just words. They were an icy, cold truth that scraped at her skin.
You'll never get to touch him again. You'll never get to hold his hand. You won't get to kiss his warm, soft lips under that beautiful big oak tree in Elkington Park when the celebrant announces that it's time to kiss the bride. You won't get to have his children one day.
âSTOP IT!' she screamed out shrilly. She fell forward onto her hands and knees as a massive wave rose up in her chest and she began to sob. She took great gusty breaths as she cried and cried. She felt hungry for more. She wheezed as she sucked in the air
and then wailed her sobs back out. She dug her fingernails hard into the grass and the dirt and then sat back up and stamped her feet down. She thrashed her head about and allowed her throat to release a most unladylike, deep, primitive sort of bellow. She threw the biggest tantrum she had ever thrown in all of her life, right there in the middle of Andy's old high school grounds.
âHow many kids do you want to have?'
âWhere did that come from?'
âIt's just a question. I was just wondering, is all.'
âI don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. How many do you want?'
âI asked you first.'
âDon't be so immature. Anyway, what if I don't even want kids?'
âWhat? You don't want kids?'
âI didn't say that. I didn't say, “I definitely don't want kids.” IÂ just said, “What if I don't?”'
âBut I always thought you did. I guess I always thought I'd be a dad one day. Don't you want to be a mum?'
âMaybe. Maybe not. Why did you have to bring this up now? It doesn't matter yet, does it? I mean, we're, like, teenagers.'
âYou're twenty-two. I'm twenty-four.'
âThanks. It was just a figure of speech.'
â“We're, like, teenagers” is
not
a figure of speech.'
âCan we please just talk about this later?'
She got up from the ground and had to spit grass out of her mouth. She brushed at her hair and found some leaves stuck in her short, barely there excuse for a ponytail. In fact, today had been the first day that her hair had grown long enough to gather it back into an elastic. The first time since he had cut it for her. Although, admittedly, it
had
taken her about ten minutes and a good fifteen or so clips just to hold it in place. But now the elastic was sliding slowly backwards, releasing her hair, strand by strand â and then it fell to the grass, allowing her hair to finally spring free, sticking out at all sorts of odd angles.
I hate you.
Who?
I don't know who. I just hate you.
âHey, babe, we should really be leaving. We're going to be seriously late . . . Babe? Babe? Are you in there? . . . Fuck, look at your hair! What are you doing?'
âNothing, nothing; my hair wouldn't work. I just wanted to make it work.'
âBut your beautiful hair. Why did you do that?'
âI'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't â I just. I had to do something . . . But now look at it.'
âDon't worry, I'll fix it for you.'
âDo you really think you can?'
âYeah, of course I can. I can sort this out. Here, give me the scissors, I'll fix it for you. I love you, okay?'
She wasn't crying anymore. Her eyes were dry and stinging. Her legs felt sweaty under her jeans. There didn't seem to be anything else to do but head back home. She wasn't really sure why she had come here to begin with. His
old school. As she walked, she realised she wasn't wearing anything on her feet.
When did I take off my shoes? Maybe I didn't put any on when I left the apartment?
But the grass was cool against the soles of her feet and she headed towards home just concentrating on the feel of the soft grass between her toes.