Spinning Around (3 page)

I just gaped at her.

‘She was snuggling into his neck, and he was kissing her hair. This was on Oxford Street, by the way—the Indigo café, you know? I'd been at the courts.' Miriam sighed. ‘I saw them there once before, about three weeks ago, and he was holding her hand, but I thought—I mean, it could have been a secretary with AIDS, or something. I
was
a bit surprised, but I didn't like to overreact. Maybe I'm overreacting now. She had purple hair, and pale skin. One of those tattooed bracelets on her upper arm. A kind of orange chiffon singlet slung over a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Three studs in her left ear. I couldn't see what she was wearing on her bottom half—it was behind the table. I couldn't see her face very well, either.' Miriam cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘Sound familiar?' she asked.

I shook my head, speechless. During the brief silence that followed, I could hear Sleeping Beauty singing ‘Once Upon a Dream' in the next room.

‘You might end up hating me for this,' Miriam concluded, ‘but in the end I felt that I couldn't walk away from it. Not with my background. I've had too much to do with guys who've gambled away all their money, and lost their jobs, and started juggling credit cards and signing away their houses and their wives haven't had a clue, though they must have sensed that something was going on. You've got to nip deceit in the bud, or it'll end up just the tip of the iceberg. Believe me. I've seen it. All these fraudulent lending managers who start off with a mistress on the sly and end up draining church bank accounts. It happens.'

‘But—'

‘I know. I know.' She lifted a hand. ‘Matt isn't a thief. But if he turned out to be throwing away all your mortgage money on this . . . um . . . person, I'd never have forgiven myself if I hadn't told you. That's all.'

Tick, tick, tick. The kitchen clock ticked away. I checked the time automatically. Five to six.

‘What time did you see him?' I asked. ‘In the restaurant?' Normally, on a weekday, Matt leaves home around twelve, so that he can work for
Rural Spotlight
. (He does sound mixing for a lot of ABC programs, including
Rural Spotlight
, the news, and that arts one whose name always escapes me.) This means that he'll either grab a bite of lunch at home, before he leaves, or drop into a coffee shop on the way—when we can afford it. That day, he had left a little early. I remembered the excuse that he had given: namely, lunch with his friend Ray. Ray was one of Matt's colleagues who had also become his friend. He was like a younger version of Matt, because they both enjoyed the same kinds of music, bars and television shows. Unfortunately, Ray had recently moved from the on-air mixing desk to postproduction, which offered its staff more sensible hours—so Matt didn't see as much of him any more. Hence the need for lunch appointments. ‘Matt has to be at work at one,' I pointed out. ‘When did you see him? Exactly?'

‘About half past twelve.'

‘Oh.' So that fitted. I scratched my arm, avoiding Miriam's eye. ‘I'll ask Matt,' I said, in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘There must be an explanation.'

‘Probably.'

‘I mean—was he really cuddling her?'

‘Well, he had an arm around her shoulders, and he was pulling her against him. And her face was buried in his neck.'

‘And he was kissing her hair.'

‘A couple of times.'

I swallowed. ‘Are you sure it was Matt?'

‘Dead certain,' Miriam replied, with a level gaze. I turned away from her. I couldn't think.

‘Mu-um!' Emily called from the living room. ‘I'm finished!'

‘Okay.'

‘I'm finished, Mum!'

‘All right. Good girl.'

‘I'm still hungry!'

‘You can have an apple.'

‘Oo-oh.' Whine, whine. ‘I want something else.'

‘It's nearly dinner. Just wait.'

‘But I'm hungry . . .'

‘Just
wait
, Emily!' I found myself rubbing my forehead with one finger as I lowered my voice. ‘He has a cousin in Perth, but she's got multiple sclerosis. He has a bunch of sisters-in-law, but they're older than I am. He has a niece, but she's only twelve. This girl—are you sure she wasn't twelve?'

‘I doubt it. I very much doubt it. Unless his niece has been on the streets for a while? Doing drugs?'

‘No,' I said, and realised that, in any case, Christine would never have allowed Sophie to dye her hair purple. Not in a million years. ‘But there must be an explanation.'

‘There probably is.'

‘I'll ask Matt.'

‘That's the best thing.'

Suddenly my daughter appeared. She came and swung on my chair.

I was grateful for the interruption.

‘Jonah made a mess,' she informed me.

‘Really.'

‘What are you cooking, Mum?'

‘Nothing, right now.'

‘Can I have chips for dinner?'

‘No.'

‘Please?'

‘You're having rice.'

‘Can you put tomato sauce on it?'

‘I'd better go,' Miriam announced, rising abruptly. ‘Unless you want me to stay. Do you? I'll stay if you want.'

I looked at her. She wore a grave expression, to match her sober suit. I wondered if I wanted her around. Probably not, I decided. It would be hard enough, feeding the kids while I digested this unwelcome news, without Miriam watching me burn the sausages.

She had never, I recalled, been all that enamoured of Matt. Not disapproving, exactly—just unconvinced.

‘I'm really sorry, Helen,' she said, studying me intently. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Oh, yes. It's okay.'

‘I feel awful about this. I didn't want to do it. I just felt I had to. Before—' She stopped suddenly, and swallowed, glancing at Emily. Emily, of course, wasn't interested in the esoteric pronouncements of her elders. She was rearranging the fridge magnets. I could tell, however, that Miriam was trying to assemble cryptic phrases that wouldn't alarm my daughter. ‘Before things get out of hand,' she finished.

‘I know.' I didn't blame Miriam—I really didn't. She had always been a very loyal friend. ‘I'm glad you told me. Though I'm sure it's nothing.'

‘I hope I haven't screwed up here. Well—I hope I have, of course. Made a mistake.' She gave a dismal little laugh. ‘Thanks for not shooting the messenger. Are you sure you don't need anything?'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know . . . maybe Sara Lee chocolate ice-cream? I could go and buy some for you.'

‘Yes!' Emily exclaimed. Even I smiled at that. But I assured Miriam that I required nothing special, not even a cup of strong coffee. Then I said goodbye, and she told me she'd call me. She said she was sorry, and on the front doorstep she gave me a hug, holding me tight. I noticed at once that she was wearing perfume, but I didn't know what kind it was.

I've no idea what any of the new fragrances smell like, these days. I just haven't been keeping up.

So there I was, calmly putting the kids to bed while inside my head it was like that movie
Twister
, with thoughts and emotions careering around, tumbling, colliding and whirling away again. ‘Big Bear took Little Bear's hand,' I read, telling myself all the while that it must be a mistake. ‘Five little ducks went out one day,' I sang, as surges of panic made me break into a sweat. And Jonah was restless, of course, calling me back again and again, disturbing Emily, refusing to lie down. And you can't afford to lose your temper in these circumstances, or it's going to take the Problem Child even longer to settle.

As for Emily, she was so unbearably sweet that I nearly burst into tears. ‘I want to whisper in your ear,' she said, and when I leaned over she confided that she loved me, and daddy too— just like something out of a Disney movie. I needed a glass of wine, after that. (How do they always manage to hit you right where it hurts?)

I knew that it had to be a mistake. I knew that there had to be a reasonable explanation. But even so, deep down inside, a little kernel of doubt was starting to shoot. It had been sitting there in the dark, all these years, and it needed only the smallest gleam of light—the faintest trace of moisture—to encourage it to take root.
Right from the beginning
, you see, I had always had this . . . doubt. This tiny, unquenchable fear. Because the fact is, I had married a wild one.

Now I know it sounds phobic. I know that. But just consider the circumstances. Matt and I, we were a classic case of opposites attracting. Matthew was a tattooed, dope-smoking, shaggy-haired musician from Newcastle. I was a typical North Shore girl from Killara. God knows how many times I've tried to hide this fact—especially from myself—but whenever I used to visit my parents (before they moved), and went to buy brie at the local deli, I would look around at the sleek blonde Anglos, with their small ears and delicate gold jewellery and pastel sportswear, and I would know that I blended in there as I never will here, in Dulwich Hill. Dulwich Hill isn't an Anglo sort of place. You can always get decent baklava in Dulwich Hill, and the butchers stock interesting things like rabbits and sheep's heads. All of the doctors bulk-bill. If the churches aren't Greek Orthodox, they're holding services in Vietnamese. I'm not saying that I stick out like a shag on a rock, exactly—I'm just saying that this isn't my natural milieu. It's an inescapable fact of life. I'm North Shore from pedicure to perm: my father was a lawyer, until he retired; my mother is, and always has been, a housewife. I went to a private school. I have a law degree from Sydney University. I simply can't pull off a grungy, gothic, feral or flamboyant look. I'm the sort of person, in other words, who looks hugely out of place in a bar in King's Cross.

That's where I was when I first met Matthew—in a bar in King's Cross. I was there by invitation because a friend of mine from school, who also lived in Paddington, was throwing a sort of postmodern hen's night. The idea was that we would go on a traditional hen's-night pub crawl, taking the piss out of the vulgarity of it all while secretly enjoying it at the same time. (The equivalent of having your cake and eating it too.) I should point out, here, that Caroline, the bride-to-be, was never a great friend of mine. We simply knew each other from school, and associated because we lived in the same street. Having studied at the Darlinghurst College of Art, she had become a graphic designer, though she's now living a luxurious life in the most exclusive part of Vaucluse with her (wait for it)
second husband
. Miriam had got to know her too, through me, so we were both invited—probably because Caroline wanted a crowd. I think it was a boost to her ego, having a lot of people following her around; at any rate, there must have been a good twenty women who turned up that night, and traipsed from one end of King's Cross to the other—past staggering junkies and touts and alcoholics—like a pack of sailors on the prowl.

I can't say that I enjoyed the concept very much. I'm not a big drinker, you see; I start to throw up after I've had a couple. As for Miriam, she doesn't drink alcohol at all. Consequently, when the other girls started to get pissed, and joined up with a mob of young lawyers and stockbrokers who were enjoying a buck's night (though not a postmodern one), Miriam and I bowed out. We withdrew from the fray, and went up to the bar. Which is where I got talking to Matthew.

He was working there, at the time. It was one of his many jobs. When I asked him for an orange juice I noticed that he had tatts on his arms, and a missing tooth, and dismissed him from my thoughts immediately. Not because I was a snob, you understand. It was simply because he obviously
belonged
in a bar in King's Cross, whereas I didn't. North is north and west is west and ne'er the twain shall meet, in other words. I had never sat on a motorbike before, and knew that I wasn't the sort of person who would ever feel comfortable doing so. Therefore, Matthew didn't recommend himself to me at first. It didn't even cross my mind that he'd be remotely interested in someone who didn't do drugs.

But when he brought me my juice and my change, he stopped to talk. He said that he had seen me on the premises before, trying to give some guy the brush-off. That's when I started paying attention, because it was true; I
had
been in there some weeks previously, with a nasty piece of work named Colin. Matt asked me if I had ‘got rid of' Colin, and upon learning that I had, made approving noises. Colin, he said, had looked just like the bad guy from that movie
Big
. Did I remember him? The corporate wanker with the blond hair? I replied that Matt was exhibiting the most extraordinary grasp of Colin's character, and we then started discussing movies, with particular reference to Tom Hanks and Ron Howard. Of course we kept on getting interrupted—Matt had a job to do, after all—but even so, it soon became apparent to me that Matthew's rather aggressive appearance was totally misleading. Not that he looked like a gorilla, or anything. Don't get me wrong. He has a very nice face (what you can see of it, under the hair and stubble), and his eyes are lovely. But there were the tatts, and the missing tooth, and the easy familiarity with King's Cross slang . . . well, you know what I mean.

So we talked for a while, until I realised that Miriam was being increasingly left out of the conversation. Then, when she and I began to discuss whether we should walk home or get a cab (like we had a hope in hell of flagging down a cab in King's Cross on a Friday night), Matthew asked me for my number. Naturally, I didn't give it to him. I mean to say, a large, shaggy King's Cross bartender with tatts? You might as well walk naked down William Street and have done with it. But he insisted on giving me his number, and I took it without the slightest intention of ever using it. After which I went home with Miriam, to find that Briony was busily entertaining a total stranger who looked even larger and shaggier than Matthew.