Almost Perfect (35 page)

Georgie nodded. ‘Anyhow, he's absolutely right, don't you reckon?'

‘So does this mean you're going to tell Liam?'

‘I don't know,' she groaned, crossing her arms and leaning back against the bench. ‘It's all very well in theory, but then I think about the only other innocent party in all of this.'

‘Who, you?' said Nick, pulling the plug out of the sink to let the washing-up water drain away.

‘No, his wife!' Georgie exclaimed. ‘And then you know who that makes me think of?'

They both waited for her to illuminate them.

‘Mum, of course. Remember how she coped when Dad told her? And then look how things turned out.'

‘Georgie, not everybody has such an extreme reaction,' said Nick, wiping his hands on a tea-towel. ‘You don't know what else might be going on for Liam and his wife. Didn't he say they had problems?'

‘Yeah, but he would, wouldn't he?'

‘Fair point. So he never said anything specific?'

Georgie shook her head. ‘Oh, once he said it had something to do with having children.'

Nick thought about it. ‘Suppose he wanted them and she didn't?'

‘It's more likely to be the other way around,' said Louise.

‘What makes you say that?' Georgie asked, curious.

‘Did he ever tell you he was desperate to have kids?'

Georgie shook her head slowly.

‘He would have told you if he was – women love a man who loves children.'

‘That's why they find me so appealing,' Nick threw in.

‘So,' Louise persisted, ‘if he and his wife were having issues about kids, then it's more likely than not that she wanted them and he was putting her off.'

‘Great, then I come back into the picture, pregnant, and wreck their lives all over again.'

‘You didn't wreck their lives,' Louise reminded her. ‘He did that himself, you were an unwitting accomplice.'

Georgie sighed. ‘I was not so unwitting the night it happened. It was the only time, but I knew he was married.'

Molly skipped into the kitchen. ‘Mummy can I watch
The Simpsons
?'

‘Is it on now?'

‘Is it, Daddy?'

Nick checked his watch and nodded.

‘Is there a dedicated Simpsons channel I don't know about?' said Louise. ‘It seems to be on all the time.'

‘Can I, Mummy?'

‘I don't know . . .'

‘There's no harm,' said Nick.

‘Of course, watching garbage on television is not harmful,' said Louise. ‘What am I worried about?'

‘It's not garbage,' Nick refuted. ‘It's actually a very clever and at times scathing satire on modern family life voiced by some of the finest comedic talents of our time.'

Louise looked squarely at him. ‘It's a cartoon where the people have yellow skin, the daughter is smarter than the rest of the family, and the father is a boofhead.'

‘And I forgot to say it has real life parallels!' Nick added. ‘Except for the yellow skin.'

‘Can I watch it, Mummy?' Molly persisted.

‘Go ahead. Daddy's on primary caregiver duty tonight, so it's up to him anyway.'

‘Oh, where are you going?' Georgie asked Louise.

‘Pilates.'

‘I didn't know you did Pilates?'

‘It's my first class tonight.'

‘Really? I've always wanted to do Pilates,'
Georgie mused. ‘I don't know what it is but everyone raves about it. Maybe I should come and check it out?'

‘I don't think so,' said Louise.

Georgie blinked at her. ‘Why not?'

‘You probably have to get a doctor's clearance first, being pregnant.'

She sighed heavily. ‘This is my life from now on, isn't it? “You can't, you're pregnant.”'

‘It prepares you for later,' said Louise drily, ‘when you can't do anything 'cause you have a baby.'

‘Oh great. So basically I've lost my freedom, well, forever.'

‘No, just until it's old enough to leave with . . .' Louise stopped short.

‘Me,' finished Nick. ‘Till the baby's old enough to leave with me.'

They were both smiling but they couldn't hide the pained expressions in their eyes. Georgie wished they didn't think they had to walk on eggshells around her.

‘Okay, maybe I'll join you in a couple of years, Louise,' she said brightly, taking a few steps closer to Nick. He put his arm around her shoulders.

‘Absolutely.' Louise checked her watch. ‘I'd better get going.' She came over and kissed Nick. ‘I'll have my mobile phone, but I'll have to turn it off during class. I'll check for messages as soon as it's over.'

‘Don't worry, I'll cope,' he assured her as she walked around the bench and went to say goodbye to the girls. ‘Just like I do five days a week,' he added
under his breath to Georgie. ‘You're not rushing off, are you?' he asked her.

She shook her head.

‘Good, you can keep Lonely Single Dad company.' As soon as the words left his mouth he winced, closing his eyes and smacking his forehead.

‘Nick,' Georgie chided, ‘you're going to make me feel worse if you think you can't utter words like “single” or “parent” or “dad” or whatever else you think is out of bounds.'

‘I just don't want to upset you.'

‘Well, making me feel like I'm going to fall apart is not the best way to go about it.'

‘Sorry. I'll try to act normal.'

Georgie laughed. ‘Then I'll really know something's up.'

They came around to join the girls for the rest of
The Simpsons
and the girls in turn decided to join them on the lounge, climbing all over them as soon as they sat down.

‘Be careful of Georgie,' Nick warned Molly.

‘Why?'

‘Yeah, why?' Georgie looked at him.

He pulled a face at her. ‘Just sit here in the middle, Molly.'

‘Me too!' insisted Grace.

They shifted around till both girls were settled between them, glued to the television.

Georgie looked across at Nick till she got his attention. He lifted an eyebrow at her as if to say ‘What?'.

She mouthed ‘Why can't we tell them?' pointing down at the girls.

Nick frowned. He wasn't following her, so Georgie embarked on an elaborate mime accompanied by exaggerated facial expressions until he finally got that she was asking why they couldn't tell the girls about the baby. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘Too soon.'

Georgie looked questioningly at him.

Nick glanced down at the girls who were absorbed in the TV. ‘Six months may as well be six years to them,' he said in a hushed voice. ‘Leave it a while yet or they'll drive us all mad.'

‘They won't guess once I start showing?' Georgie whispered.

‘No, they'll just think you're fat.'

‘That's a comforting thought.'

Nick smiled, reaching his arm across the back of the lounge to squeeze her shoulder.

‘Daddy, can we watch
Raymond
now?' Molly pleaded.

Nick checked his watch and frowned. ‘Mm . . .'

‘Peez, Da,' Grace joined in.

‘Oh, what the heck, your mother thinks the place goes to hell in a hand basket when she's not here, why disappoint her?'

The girls were looking up at him with blank expressions.

‘Yes all right, you can watch
Raymond
.'

They cheered.

‘You're such a pushover,' said Georgie, grinning at him. ‘Oh, that reminds me, I was going to ask you a favour.'

‘Because I'm such a pushover?'

‘No . . .' she glanced at the girls and lowered her
voice again. ‘I was going to go ahead and book the ultrasound now and I was wondering if you'd come with me?'

‘Sure, I'll take you. It'll be at the hospital, I guess. That's where Louise always had hers.'

Georgie looked at him. ‘When I say come with me, you know I mean come with me, like, when I'm actually having the ultrasound?'

‘What, in the room?'

‘Is it too icky?'

‘No, it's not icky at all,' he assured her, smiling broadly. ‘It's fantastic.' He turned sideways towards her. ‘You know how you can never make out an ultrasound picture?'

She nodded.

‘Well, when you're there, with the technician explaining everything, and the–' he mouthed the word ‘baby', ‘– is actually moving, its heart beating . . . it's amazing.' He looked almost overcome. ‘Are you sure you want me there?'

‘If you wouldn't mind, I don't want to be alone.'

‘You don't have to be, I wouldn't miss it for the world.'

Anna walked gingerly up the stairs and along the corridor, clutching her map. She stopped short of an
open doorway and checked the number on the door. This was the room. And she was late. Well, not really late. She was on time, but only just. She had hoped to get here early so she could slip to the back of the room and check out everyone else as they arrived. It sounded like everyone had had the same idea. She stood still, listening for noises from inside the room. She couldn't hear any talking but she could hear evidence of life – coughing, chairs scraping . . .

‘Are you right? Can I help you?'

What she hadn't heard were footsteps coming up behind her. Anna turned around to face a tall, and it had to be said, not unattractive man looking down at her. He appeared intrigued, regarding her with a curious smile.

‘What room are you after?' he asked.

‘This one,' she said lamely.

‘Well, then you found it all right.' He had very intense green eyes, and his caramel-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. One of those barely-there goatee beards dusted his chin. He was carrying a kind of satchel on one shoulder. Anna wondered if he was doing this class as well. And he was probably wondering why she was staring at him.

‘You're here for Introduction to Prose Writing?' he asked.

She nodded.

‘Shall we go in then?'

Anna shrugged, hesitating.

‘Is something the matter?'

‘We're a little late, maybe they've started already?'

‘They haven't,' he assured her.

‘I mean I know it's quiet,' she went on, ‘but they might be in the middle of a writing exercise and we might distract them if we go barging in now.'

He was smiling at her, in a kindly way. Like she was an idiot, Anna imagined.

‘We won't distract them, they're not in the middle of a writing exercise and the class hasn't started yet.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because I'm the teacher,' he said, offering his hand. ‘Vincent Carruthers.'

Anna shook his hand, dumbfounded. She was an idiot.

‘And you are–'

‘Going home,' she said.

He smiled again. ‘No you're not.'

She sighed. ‘My name's Anna, Anna Mac . . . Gilchrist.'

‘Anna MacGilchrist?'

‘No, Gilchrist, just Gilchrist.'

‘Okay, Gilchrist–'

‘No,' she smiled despite herself. ‘You can call me Anna.'

‘Okay, Anna, let's go in and get this show on the road.' He considered the doubtful expression on her face. ‘Come on, you made it this far. Only a few more steps to go.'

‘Not metaphorically speaking,' she mumbled, but she allowed him to lead her through the door.

‘Apologies everyone,' Vincent said expansively, striding across the front of the room and dumping his bag on the desk, giving Anna the chance to slip
into a chair at the side, relatively unnoticed. ‘Anna and I got caught up discussing the use of metaphor as an effective exposition of emotion.'

Every head in the room turned to look at her.

‘But let's not jump ahead of ourselves,' he said, regaining their attention. ‘My name is Vincent Carruthers and this class is Introduction to Prose Writing. We have to do some housekeeping before we get to the fun stuff, so let's get that out of the way. I'm required to mark your names off, mostly to make sure you've paid, but also should the police come around asking questions, to have proof of where you were on this Wednesday night the twelfth of May, between the hours of seven and nine p.m. So if you are using this class as a front for illegal activities, think about adopting a pseudonym from the start. Oh, and see me later, I am open to bribes.'

During the rollcall and subsequent detailing of emergency exits and procedures, Anna had the opportunity to check out her classmates. Babies, all of them. Barely in their twenties, she guessed. She had thought there would be more of an age spread.

Just then there was a commotion outside the door and a woman burst through, red-faced and panting. She was quite diminutive and she was dressed in purple from head to toe. She looked like an avant-garde leprechaun.

‘Hello! Sorry I'm late, story of my life,' she chirped.

‘We haven't started yet,' Vincent assured her. ‘I'm Vincent Carruthers–'

‘I know,' she said breathlessly. ‘I've got one of your books in my bag for you to sign.'

Vincent was clearly amused. ‘I hope you heard that, class, there's a sure-fire way to get on my good side. Please take a seat, Miss . . .'

‘No such luck, Vincent,' she winked, wiggling her wedding ring finger at him. ‘I'm Deb, Deb Pellegrini.'

‘Nice to meet you, Deb,' he was smiling as he scanned the print-out to mark off her name.

Deb dropped herself onto a chair next to Anna. ‘Hi,' she breathed out heavily. ‘Made it.'

Anna smiled politely. She seemed a bit over the top, but at least she was closer to Anna's age.

Once Vincent got underway he was magnetic. He began by reading aloud passages from books they had never heard of, and others they had, but they'd never heard them read like this before. The class was enthralled.

‘He should be an actor, not a writer,' Deb murmured to Anna.

‘I wonder if he has done some acting,' Anna mused. ‘There's something familiar about him.'

Vincent went on to quote from a couple of well-known writers about their difficulties putting pen to paper, and then suddenly, without warning, he ordered them to write.

Everyone looked blankly at him.

‘Pick up your pens and start writing,' he repeated.

‘About what?' someone up the back was brave enough to ask.

‘Whatever you like,' he replied.

There followed some dithering and more questions and pleas for direction until Vincent finally said, ‘Just get on with it.' Then he sat down at his desk, opened a book and apparently began to read, ignoring them all.

Anna sat there, blank as the piece of paper in front of her. She had never felt so intimidated. Would he want to see what she'd written? Worse, would she have to read it out loud to the class while they laughed and mocked her as she fled from the room, never to show her face again? Why on earth had she decided to take this ridiculous class? She didn't need to put herself through this. What the hell had she been thinking?

She eventually noticed that everyone else was writing, or at least moving their pens across the page and leaving a trail of ink. That was all she needed to do. He couldn't make her read it out loud. He couldn't demand to see what she'd written. This wasn't school, and she was never going to come back again. So fine. She picked up her pen and wrote, ‘I hate this.'

Some time later, Anna had no idea how long, Vincent cleared his throat and told them to finish up. Anna stared at the page in front of her, covered in writing. Then she looked up. Vincent was standing in the middle of the U formed by the desks. He was holding a wastepaper bin.

‘Does anyone want to read what they've written to the class?' he asked. The terror in the room was palpable. ‘Anyone at all?' he paused, waiting, every
pair of eyes studiously avoiding his as he scanned the group. ‘I didn't think so,' he said finally, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Would anyone like to tear up what they've written and throw it in the bin?'

There was a sigh of relief throughout the room, a general murmur of assent, followed by the sound of paper being released from notepads.

‘Hold on a minute,' Vincent interrupted. ‘Let's not be quite so hasty. If you genuinely feel there is not one worthwhile sentence, one reasonable phrase, even one well-chosen word, then go ahead and tear it up. But look back over what you've written, carefully, and take your time.'

Vincent strolled around the room, still holding the waste-paper bin, as everyone became absorbed again in their pages. ‘And when you find that one word, or phrase, or sentence, mark it somehow, circle it, or underline it. Think about why you like it, why it stood out to you. I won't ask you to share it, it's for your eyes only.'

Anna looked at her first line. ‘I hate this.' If she picked up a book and it opened with that, she would have to read on. It was a teaser. It was direct. It was honest, stark, clean. She circled the line.

‘Does anyone want to throw their work out?' Vincent asked after a while. No one did. ‘Then I've been carrying this around for nothing.' He walked back to the front of the room and left the bin near the door.

‘If you managed even one word you're happy with after writing for twenty minutes, then you're
doing pretty well,' he continued, coming back to the centre of the room. ‘Many writers will tell you they're happy with one good afternoon in a whole week of writing. It's one of the hardest things to come to terms with. I can't teach you to write. But I can tell you what it's like to write, what to expect when you're writing, what's the range of normal experiences for a writer. And most importantly this class will give you the opportunity to write. I'll give you feedback, and you'll give each other feedback. And you will start to become appropriately critical of your work so that you can discern the one good line, the one good idea, and not throw the baby out with the bathwater . . . or resort to tired clichés when you can't think of a more original way to say something.'

He went on to encourage them to keep a journal, beginning with a reflection on what they had written that night. He said they should write every day, and if they thought they had nothing to write about, then write about how it really pissed them off when the toast burned. Or why it was so hard to set a toaster to get the toast exactly right. Or about the simple joys of toast. Or about how the beach looked that morning as they passed it on the way to work.

‘Virginia Woolf said something interesting happens every day. Go write about it.'

Anna was hooked.