Stella Makes Good (4 page)

‘What about rangers?’ Carly had managed half-heartedly as he’d tilted the front passenger seat back as far as it would go and angled himself above her.

‘Live dangerously.’ He was already pushing up her skirt.

She’d grinned, grabbing at his shorts, pulling them down. It had felt so naughty, fucking in broad daylight where anyone could walk by and catch them. But Carly didn’t care. Neither of them did. They were young, possibly falling in love, so what the hell did it matter? Brett was right.
Live dangerously.

Carly had wriggled down the seat till her bum was practically on the floor.

‘What are you . . . oh,’ said Brett, as she took his penis in her mouth.

God knows what it must have looked like from the outside: Brett gripping the headrest, rocking back and forwards, Carly thankfully hidden from view.

He’d been almost delirious as he reached down and pulled at her hair. ‘Come up, I want to fuck you now. I can’t wait any longer.’

They’d manoeuvred themselves into position and he’d thrust inside her, his grip slipping to her waist. Carly had pulled her mouth away from his and tilted her hips into him, allowing maximum penetration. They’d rocked together, Brett sucking her breasts, bringing her to orgasm before letting himself come. That was when Carly had known Brett was her soul mate. They’d be together forever.

She smiled at the memory and looked down at her erect nipples. They hadn’t had car sex, or any other kind of sex, in a long time.

In the early days, even though they had two boisterous toddlers and lived in a tiny terrace with a mortgage that made them gag, they were in love, horny and happy. When they went out with other parents from preschool, they’d listen to them complaining about the lack of sleep and sex. Brett and Carly couldn’t understand it. They couldn’t get enough of each other. She’d felt like the luckiest woman on the planet back then: two adorable boys, and a husband who loved her and loved being a dad as well. She’d hit the jackpot. And when he was away on business—phone sex.

Things had changed around six years ago, when Nicholas had started high school. Brett was increasingly busy with work—lots of travel, late-night conference calls. To alleviate the boredom and loneliness, Carly threw herself into volunteering on several school committees. All of a sudden, they’d stopped talking. Brett hadn’t seemed overly concerned by the situation. Whenever Carly mentioned that they had nothing in common except the boys, he’d look at her quizzically and say, ‘That’s a major common interest, don’t you think?’ Carly would agree and they’d limp along for another few months.

These days, they were lucky to make love once or twice a month . . . and she’d been dead unlucky since New Year’s Eve.

Sometimes Carly wondered if Brett was having an affair. That would certainly answer a lot of questions. She imagined confronting him and asking why he couldn’t put his energy into having sex with her rather than nailing some floozy who didn’t live with him.

Last week, during one of their discussions, she’d even asked him if he was seeing someone else. He hadn’t been shocked because it was a question she asked him every three or four months. He’d said no. When she’d suggested they might like to sleep in separate rooms, he’d just shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible. The next morning she’d apologised and he had too, even suggesting a night out together in the city. Brett had good intentions but they hardly ever came to fruition.

Carly walked into the bathroom, contemplated having a shower and thought better of it. She didn’t have the physical energy. Still, her mind wouldn’t rest.

She thought again about Toby, the fuck buddy business. She didn’t want to fall in love. She just wanted a playmate. A handsome playmate. Then again, she was married. She’d never been unfaithful to Brett in all their nineteen years of marriage and she doubted she’d ever have the courage to. It was all bluff—her fantasy. Yes, she’d fondled Toby’s hair last night, but that was as far as it had gone. It wasn’t as if she’d tried to take his clothes off and have sex with him in a public toilet. Still, she felt like a tool.

She wandered back into the kitchen. The house felt so empty. God, she missed Nicholas. She kept telling herself the gap year overseas was good for him: he needed to spread his wings; experience life; find out what it was like not having an automatic dishwasher, cleaner and maid at his beck and call. He’d left on 2 January. He hadn’t wanted his parents to drive him to the airport; he’d complained that Carly would cry and cause a scene. ‘That’s so not cool, Mum,’ he’d told her. Carly had had to promise him she wouldn’t weep.

On New Year’s Day, he’d let her help him pack his suitcase, mainly because he was hungover from the night before. Carly had washed and ironed and packed, and held it together. Nicky’s flight the next day was at four thirty in the afternoon, so they’d mooched about in the morning. She’d made him his favourite breakfast—pancakes, bacon, hot chocolate, the whole bit—but all too quickly it had been one o’clock and time to leave.

‘Don’t touch anything in my room,’ Nick had said on the drive to the airport. ‘I might come back in a year.’

‘What do you mean, “might”?’ Carly had asked.

Brett had looked at her. ‘What the boy’s saying is that after living away from home for a year, he may get a taste for it. There’s no guarantee he’s ever going to live with us again.’

‘If I thought that, Nicholas,’ she’d said, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘I wouldn’t let you leave in the first place.’

‘Mum, you promised,’ he’d warned.

Inside the terminal, swarms of teenagers from Nicholas’s school milled about, far too excited about their upcoming gap-year adventures to consider their heartbroken parents. Carly had recognised most of the parents kissing their sons and daughters goodbye; not all by name but by sight. But she didn’t want to socialise. Her entire focus was on her eldest son, who was deserting her, flying the coop . . . You couldn’t tell Carly there weren’t favourites in families. In Carly’s house, it was Nick and her, and Brett and Will. God knows how it worked when couples had more than two children. It didn’t mean she loved Will any less; it was just that she and Nicholas were simpatico. They got each other.

For a few years, back when Nicholas and William were at primary school, Carly did think about having another child. Seriously. But Brett was blasé.

‘What more could we want?’ he’d asked as his boys darted around the soccer field, freezing and covered in mud, but happy.

A baby girl, Carly’s mind had responded, but she’d pushed those feelings aside. She had her son, Nicky—the one who had inherited her blue eyes and her habit of rubbing her right shoulder when she felt stressed and the one who wanted to explore life outside his own neighbourhood and take risks. Brett had his son, Will. Will who, with his father’s build and temperament, was always ready to defend his dad.

Right from the very start, Nicky had been hers; he’d always gone to her first when he was upset, happy, hungry. She used to have to encourage him to talk to his father, so attached was he to her. But Will . . . well, with Will Carly had found out what it was like being the second wheel. William sought his father out in every situation. William was Brett’s and Carly hadn’t minded so much . . . until now. Until Nicholas had left her.

Thinking back, another child would surely have caused disequilibrium. She was glad there were just the two boys.

Carly went to the computer, switched it on and logged into Facebook. She checked Nick’s status update at least once a day, sometimes more. Apparently, it was bitterly cold and snowing in Wales, but Nicholas was having the time of his life coaching the senior rugby team, or assisting, at least.
Pub night, Friday! Schoolies sneaking out to join us
, he’d reported recently in one of his updates. He certainly sounded busy and happy, as if he’d found his purpose.

There was no update today.

Carly had been banned from writing on his wall—in the early days, she’d written
I love you, Nicky
and he’d heatedly told her never to do that again. How was she to know her post would be read by his 458 friends? Now she sent him an email message:
Missing you, Nicky. Hope the weather isn’t getting you down. Love Mum xx

And Carly did miss him. Norman, the cat, missed him too, and she was sure Brett did as well, although he hadn’t said much beyond the fact that it was Nicholas’s rite of passage and Carly should stop bombarding him with emails and Facebook messages.

Probably the only one who was happy with the situation was Will, who’d just started Year Eleven. There had always been healthy competition between the boys. They were very different from one another and had always bickered and fought. They couldn’t play tennis or eat a meal together without it ending in a brawl. Carly imagined William was quite chuffed about Nick’s departure. No more having to share the remote, the computer, or the car once Will got his licence.

Tonight, Will was staying over at a friend’s. He’d started going to gatherings nearly every Friday and Saturday night. She wasn’t so naive as to think he was all pure and innocent. He’d had a girlfriend for five months last year. That had ended in October and he’d been heartbroken. ‘Mum, I was in love,’ he’d said.

In love! All of fifteen and he was in love. She’d tried giving him the big sex talk but he hadn’t wanted a bar of it, just yelled, ‘Mum!’ whenever she broached the subject.

Nicholas had had a couple of short-term girlfriends but nothing serious. He’d always had more group friends. And when he’d found out he was going to Wales for twelve months, he’d told her: ‘No point finding a girlfriend now and having to break up with her when I leave the country.’

Carly glanced at the clock: 11 am. Long, tedious hours of loneliness stretched ahead. This evening, Brett was attending a business dinner—for a second she wondered if it was anything like the business dinner Steve had supposedly been at last night. Brett had invited Carly along, but she wasn’t up to it. She felt too insecure, too lost. In fact, the only time she felt good about herself these days was after a few drinks.

Maybe she needed a hobby. She used to be busy all the time: teaching Nick to drive, volunteering for committees, hosting school functions. This year, she hadn’t wanted to do any of that. She’d had enough of committees and morning teas. But she did have to think seriously about what she was going to do for the next forty years. Did she really want to be sitting at home for the rest of her days?

Carly had worked in retail, merchandising, after she’d left college. That was how she’d met Brett. She was setting up a display of the latest Dior fragrances in David Jones and he’d walked up to her seeking advice on what perfume to buy for his mum’s birthday. She’d found out later his mother’s birthday had been the previous week. Before she knew it, they were married with toddlers. She hadn’t given paid work a second thought. When Will started high school four years ago, she’d returned to work, taking a job merchandising for a clothing company. She’d jumped in headfirst: the hours were long but rewarding. It had been exhilarating. But a few months after she started, she’d come home one night when Brett was away to find Nick and a couple of mates drunk. She shuddered at the memory. He was fourteen years old. Carly had made the decision then and there to quit. She’d become complacent about her parenting and this was the result. Brett had fully supported her. In fact, he’d cut back on his travelling for a few months, too. Since then, Carly hadn’t worked. As for Nick, it had appeared to be a one-off incident. She hadn’t seen him drunk again for another three years.

Maybe I could do a course at university as a mature-age student, she thought. Wouldn’t that be great? Nick was starting a commerce degree next year, not that she wanted to study commerce. But surely she could find an interesting course to keep herself occupied.

Leaving the computer still switched on, Carly walked into Nick’s room and opened a cupboard. There were toys shoved at the back from when he was seven. She stared around the crowded room, at the clothes he didn’t wear, the paperbacks he had no intention of reading, all his past exam papers, assignments and school texts. She hadn’t thrown anything away for years because she’d thought Will might use the past exam papers and the books. But Will didn’t read. And for exams, he crammed the night before—when he wasn’t on his iPod, computer or mobile.

In the distance, the phone rang. As she reached it, the answering machine kicked in. Just as well. It was Brett and she was way too ashamed to talk to him right now.

fter the phone call from Carly, I drove to the library. All the way, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night. We all knew Steve was odd. Okay, odd’s probably not the right word. Smarmy. The Steve I knew was always in control and immaculately dressed: Armani suits, Ralph Lauren polos. He prided himself on his appearance, so clean and neat. For God’s sake, he was the Australian marketing director of a huge international pharmaceutical company. But this would totally change everything. How exhausting leading a double life.

Jesse called an hour later, when I was neck deep in cataloguing a swag of new titles.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Did you end up going to the party?’

‘Jesse, hi. Yeah—’

‘Sorry I ditched you. It’s just with Steve working late, I didn’t think it was fair of me to keep the babysitter waiting.’

I stifled a cough. ‘Sure. What time did he get home?’

‘Late. Two-ish maybe. He was up at the crack of dawn this morning, bleary-eyed but ready to face another day.’

I was sure he was.

I said I’d fill her in on the details later and tried to end the call. Not only was I uncomfortable talking to her, the cataloguing wasn’t progressing as smoothly as I’d hoped.

‘About the books I stacked the other day . . .’

‘It’s okay, Jess. I’ve fixed them. No need to worry.’

‘Maybe I’m becoming a bit preoccupied again.’

‘You’re fine,’ I said. This wasn’t a conversation I could have with her over the phone. ‘Let’s talk about it when you come in next Thursday? Okay?’

The truth was, Jesse was starting to become a problem at work. Although she was thorough and dedicated, once she became fixated on something, like tidying up the magazine racks, it would take her the best part of a morning. Then there were the few times recently when she hadn’t been able to stop clenching her hands. I’d taken her into the bathroom and helped calm her down, but it had taken a good half-hour. I knew the situation couldn’t continue indefinitely but I was hoping to find a solution to satisfy Liz, the manager, so Jesse’s job remained secure.

Then there was Steve. What a fuckwit! Maybe I needed a man’s perspective—I could ask Terry. I wondered what he’d have to say about it. Maybe he already knew. I thought about it some more. Nah, Terry couldn’t keep a scandal that big to himself.

I had no time to deliberate further. Business at the library was brisk. At eleven, I was running toddler hour and some parents didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t a babysitting service. You couldn’t dump your kids in front of the reader (twenty-one-year-old Skyla, studying English literature at Macquarie University) and dash off to the shops. Which meant I was on parent patrol.

‘Can’t you just watch them for a minute?’ one particularly hassled mother asked after she was caught trying to bolt out the automatic doors.

‘No,’ I replied, polite but firm. I really wanted to say, ‘Does this look like a day-care centre to you?’ The nerve of some people.

She slunk back over to toddler hour and her two-year-old twins, no doubt wishing I was dead.

The rest of the day flew by in a blur. It was two o’clock and I was heading out the door before I’d had time to blink. I had to pick up Terry’s mum and take her shopping, which I did most Friday afternoons. Just because Terry and I were divorcing didn’t mean I had to divorce June. She’d been good to me over the years, especially when Hannah and Ben were younger, picking them up from day care, babysitting. She’d been a saviour. And after Terry’s dad, Jim, died, looking after the children gave her increased purpose and meaning. Running around after little kids doesn’t allow much time to wallow in your own grief and misery. So, no: I didn’t see why the kids and I had to give up June.

Besides, she wasn’t any closer to accepting the separation. It had been a shock for most people. Perhaps it would have been easier for others to understand if we’d had a huge blow-up or showed some warning signs of discontent, and it probably didn’t help that I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone but family and our closest friends that Terry had hooked up with a colleague.

Aside from telling Hannah and Ben, telling June had definitely been the hardest part.

‘What about your father?’ she’d said to Terry. ‘He’s not well; his heart will give out when he hears.’

It had taken us all a few moments to process what June had said. Jim had been dead eight years.

‘Silly me,’ she’d stammered when she realised. ‘You’ve got me completely worked up. I still think of your father as being with us. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone all these years.’ She’d recovered enough to add, ‘You and Stella had such a beautiful wedding! The croquembouche was a culinary masterpiece. I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.’

That was true but, as we explained, a sublime wedding dessert was no reason to stay together indefinitely. It was a painful dinner, and Terry hadn’t even mentioned Amanda.

‘You’re going to have to tell her,’ I said to him afterwards. ‘Just introduce them—get it over and done with.’

Terry had been horrified. That conversation had happened in October, over three months ago, and he still hadn’t said a word to June. Now he and Amanda were living together.

Aside from the issue with June, things weren’t too awkward. Terry had come to both Hannah’s and Ben’s end-of-year speech nights, though because he’d been running late we didn’t sit together. (Hence why I’d first noticed Mike.) We’d chatted amicably after Hannah’s dance concert, and watched Ben play his end-of-year cricket match. We’d even ended up having Christmas lunch together—although not with Amanda. I wasn’t ready to play happy families with her and neither were the kids.

Terry’s new apartment (or, rather, Amanda’s apartment) wasn’t particularly close, but it was on the train line so if the kids wanted to go there after school or on weekends, they could. I knew Terry would have preferred to see and speak to Hannah and Ben more often, but right now they weren’t keen on their dad living with somebody who wasn’t their mother. I appreciated that. I keep telling Terry it wouldn’t matter who she was: the kids weren’t comfortable with their father having a girlfriend, period.

Ben had commented that he already had one mother and ‘Two would be torture. A stepmother, ugh!’

I thought that was jumping the gun: Terry hadn’t said anything about marrying Amanda. Then again, I was as surprised as they were when Terry had announced he was moving in with her.

‘It’s just wrong,’ Ben had said.

‘Totally gross,’ Hannah agreed. ‘See, Mum! You’re not in the loop. You don’t know what’s going on with Dad anymore.’

She was probably right—not about it being gross, but about me not being in the loop. But I didn’t feel bitter or angry. I was sad for the kids that they didn’t have two parents living together and raising them, but this was the way it had turned out. It could have been a lot worse. Imagine if Terry and I had hated each other and fought over custody, visitation rights and the house. Ugh, indeed!

The person who seemed to be finding it most difficult was Terry himself. When I’d seen him last weekend, he’d looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘You should be happy. New girlfriend, new life,’ I’d told him.

‘Yeah, but the kids hate me.’

‘They don’t hate you. They just don’t like seeing their dad slobbering over his younger girlfriend, especially in public.’

‘I don’t slobber and she’s not that young.’

‘You know teenagers. They can’t stand to think their parents might be having sex, especially with other people. They’ll come around. A few of their friends’ parents are divorced. A couple have even remarried. It’s a sign of the times.’

‘How about you, Stella? How are you doing?’

‘If that’s your subtle way of asking if I’m getting any, the answer is no. And I have no intention of meeting anyone either. I just got rid of you.’

Inside my head, a voice was saying, ‘Liar! What about Mike?’

‘Don’t you get lonely?’ Terry asked.

I shook my head. ‘Why the sudden interest? I’m doing just fine.’

Maybe Terry had wanted me to ask him about his new life, but I didn’t go there. It wasn’t my job any more to stroke his ego and tell him what a fabulous catch he was. He was doing okay . . . and if he wasn’t? Well, it wasn’t my problem.

Rather like Jesse and Steve weren’t my problem. Yes, I would prefer not to have seen Steve trussed up like a baby, but that was life. Maybe our chance encounter last night would persuade him to come clean to Jesse. That’d be one hell of a conversation.
Guess what, honey? I love dressing up as a baby, sucking on a dummy and being spanked
.

When I pulled into June’s carport, she was all dressed up and waiting for me on her veranda.

‘June, hello. What are you doing outside? It’s far too hot.’

‘Nonsense,’ she replied, kissing me briefly on my cheek.

On the road again, I asked about her shopping list.

‘The usual,’ she said, ‘but with Terry’s birthday coming up, I want to buy him something special. Golf balls maybe.’

‘He hasn’t played in a while,’ I ventured.

‘He played last weekend when David was visiting.’

I took a deep breath. David was Terry’s brother and, to the best of my knowledge, the last time he and Terry had played golf together was a good five years ago.

‘Are you sure, June? I think it might have been a bit longer.’

‘No, we went to the clubhouse afterwards for a barbeque, remember?’ She paused a moment, then added, ‘You might be right. Golf balls would be wasted on Terry. They all seem to end up in the pond.’

I wasn’t sure if she’d remembered how long ago that barbeque had been, or if she had just changed her mind. I didn’t want to push it so I simply nodded and drove on.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. We shopped at Coles, then went to Myer where June bought Terry a navy Country Road shirt. Maybe she was just absent-minded. She had always been eccentric, more so since Jim died. Example: she had plenty of hair but liked wearing headscarves and turbans. Today she was sporting a lime green and orange turban. When Jim was alive she’d only worn them on special occasions because he wasn’t overly fond of them, but as soon as he passed, she said, ‘Bugger it. I’ll be dead a long time. I’m going to wear my drapings every day.’

And that was it. June was famous in the neighbourhood for her fabulous turbans and scarves. I suspected she liked the attention. It was a flamboyant look without being completely over the top.

I dropped June home and helped unpack the groceries, then left her to her books and knitting. I felt guilty: I should spend more time with her. But there were only so many hours in the day and often I found myself running out of time and energy.

As I got back into the car, my mobile rang. The screen flashed ‘unknown number’ at me.

‘Hello,’ I said tentatively.

‘Stella?’ It was Mike. ‘I’m ringing to apologise.’

Lightning bolt! My hands were instantly clammy.

‘I’m mortified Pete took us to that . . . um . . . place,’ he went on. ‘Maybe we could meet up again?’

‘At another swingers’ party?’

‘Preferably not.’

‘Pity, I kind of enjoyed it.’

What was I saying? I wasn’t skilled at impromptu flirting. I felt giddy.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

‘Mike?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m joking. I have to admit though, some of those scenes keep popping into my head.’

‘Have you spoken to your friend, the one whose husband—’

‘No! How would I go about bringing up the subject?’

‘Yeah, not easy. You really don’t think she knows anything?’

‘Jesse? No way.’

‘What about the cocaine?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he was probably high. You did see the coke on those trays, didn’t you? We’re getting a lot more middle-aged men suffering cocaine overdoses in emergency these days. Your friend’s husband fits the profile.’

Far out! Steve was using drugs as well as going to these sex parties? It did my head in, just thinking about it. What a mess.

‘So should we try meeting up again for coffee?’ Mike said, pulling me back into the conversation. ‘Or, better still, dinner?’