Forbidden Fruit (25 page)

‘It’s just all this stuff is happening in your life, like two of your daughters having babies, and I have nothing to do with any of it. I’m surprised you let me in here tonight. You have your work and friends and family all over here …’ He stretched out one arm and splayed his fingers. ‘And then here’s me –’ he unfolded the other ‘– kept all the way over here.’

‘You look like you’re re-enacting the crucifixion.’

‘It’s not funny.’ He brought his arms back to his sides. ‘I want more of you.’

‘But I said at the outset that I wanted something that was less, I don’t know,
impactful
. Something that wasn’t just a humdrum, everyday part of my life.’ I looked across at him. ‘Haven’t you enjoyed those weekends away? Haven’t we had fun?’

‘Of course we have.’ He grinned lasciviously. ‘At times more fun in a day than I would have thought myself capable of. But I don’t want to be doing the same thing in ten years.’

‘Really? Are you planning on expanding your repertoire or giving up altogether?’

‘Ha-ha. Neither. Well, maybe the first if I find someone willing to help me experiment.’ He raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and then laughed. ‘Stop distracting me, woman. What I mean is that I don’t just want a weekend here and there. Don’t you want to move forward?’

I stared at him and then shook my head slowly. ‘No. Not really.’

‘Ah.’ The smile slid from his face and he picked up his wineglass, rotating it in his hand but not drinking. ‘Then we have a problem.’

‘Essentially, you’re giving me an ultimatum, is that it?’ I kept my eyes on him. ‘Either I agree to move forward in some way, shift in together or whatever, or you’ll find someone who will. Like this Holly.’

‘I don’t want Holly. I want you.’

‘But you’ll take her if you have to. If I want to keep things as they are.’

‘Well, I suppose …’ He took a drink, and then another. ‘Basically … yes.’

‘How incredibly romantic.’ I picked up my own glass and stared down into the clear liquid. I tried to push aside my resentment at being placed in this position, lest it cloud my judgement. Life without Ashley would be less than it was, and in many ways I would feel bereft. I had loved our time together. The anticipation before each meeting and the relaxed euphoria afterwards. The heady, intoxicating sense of feeling desired. His conversation, his humour, the half-smile that pulled up just the one side of his mouth and crinkled his eyes.

But I didn’t want to share the first home that had ever been mine, truly mine. My lovely little house. I didn’t want to compromise, or negotiate, or share anything. Not even wall space. Both sides of the bed were mine, as was the remote control and the most comfortable armchair. I didn’t want to worry that someone wanted company, or was waiting for me to finish my book, or might laugh at my choice of television program. I didn’t want someone to stand in my garage and quite rightly point out that there were still a lot of boxes that needed to be unpacked, or that those doll’s houses were taking up far too much room. I didn’t want them to complain about my children, my mother, my bad habits. In short, I didn’t want to share my life. I had done that for twenty-five years and I was only just now recovering from the hangover.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Ashley.

And I didn’t want someone to ask me that. I took a deep breath. ‘We met too soon.’

‘Ah.’ He leant forward, elbows on knees, to stare at the garden.

‘It hasn’t even been two years since my marriage fell apart. I’m just not ready for what you want. I want to be me for a while yet – just me.’

‘For how long?’

‘I can’t tell you that because I don’t know.’

‘A month? Six? Five years? Twenty?’

‘Now you’re just being an arse.’ I drained my glass and put it on the table. ‘The fact is, you want to enter into a long-term relationship and I’ve just come out of one. Those twenty-five years when you were having fun and playing the field, I was where you want to be now. And I don’t want to go there again. Not yet and maybe …’ I turned to look at him ‘… not ever.’

‘So we’re at an impasse.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. The words had already formed, lumpy and uncomfortable. ‘I rather think we’re at an end.’

He gazed at me for a few moments and then nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Timing.’ I smiled, hoping my eyes weren’t as shiny as they felt. ‘It’s everything.’

‘So true.’ He stared at his feet, as if waiting for me to add something, anything. Finally he rose, smoothing down his jeans. ‘I’ll get going then. I’m … well, I’ve had a great time. And I really wish you all the best. Have a happy birthday next week.’

‘Ditto. Except for the birthday.’

He bent to kiss the top of my head, on the fold of the turban. I wanted to grab him by the arm, say something to postpone the moment. Another drink, something to eat, some goodbye sex. But instead I remained still, not even turning until I heard the sliding door close, and then only enough to see him in my peripheral vision. The front door opened and closed. Gusto came running over to sniff at Ashley’s seat.

I wiped my eyes roughly and then blinked, sparkles blurring my vision. A corner of my being remained unsure, busily second-guessing and warning of future regret while recounting all of Ashley’s attributes. As well as my lack of them.
You’re nearly forty-eight. This might be your last chance. You’ll die alone.
I refilled my glass and silenced my regrets with chardonnay. An odd sense of relief bubbled in their place. It told me that I was doing the right thing, for me, for now. The breeze was like someone whispering in my ear, its breath warm and personal. I closed my eyes, tried to listen. But the words were imperceptible.

I turned forty-eight at twelve minutes past three the following Monday morning. As this was not a very convenient time for a party, unless you were in the single digits, we postponed our get-together until that evening. It was also a goodbye, with both my father and Petra departing the following morning, as well as a welcome home party, as it was the first time that the two new infant additions would be introduced en masse.

It was the second day of a projected four-day heat wave and even late in the day, the warmth was thick. We had set up the table and chairs once more, taking advantage of both the slightly cooler outside air and the fact that my garden was still looking pretty decent. Balloons hung from the eaves and from Charlotte in the corner, along with some leftover crime scene tape that Quinn had been collecting. Even the dalek cut-out had been brought outside to aid the celebrations, a triad of coloured balloons hanging from its turret.

I had forgotten how babies filled space. This was a phenomenon out of all proportion to their size. Not just their paraphernalia, which was substantial, but the attention that swirled around them like a vortex. It was already evident that the two babies would be raised quite differently. Willow spent the evening either breastfeeding or curled in a loose-weaved rainbow sling that looked like a huge, fat-bellied scarf. This sling was transferred from person to person, on demand, the sole requirement being that human contact was maintained. Jack, on the other hand, was fed twice, passed around a series of laps, and then laid to one side in a portable contraption that looked like a lunar walker.

Flowers had arrived that morning from Ashley. The note had been simple, just wishing me many happy returns. They looked beautiful on my table, the autumn-coloured blooms matching the colour scheme of the lounge room perfectly. I sent him an email to say thanks, keeping it as simple as his card. I wondered if he had already begun his Holly folly, but I didn’t dwell on the thought because it was of no benefit. None at all.

Quinn brought Griffin Russo, who kept his distance for the entire evening. Every now and again I would manage eye contact and send the most imperceptible of frowns. It was enormous fun. Jack and Jill Carstairs and their sulky young daughter were also there, along with Kate, who was apparently due back at university in two weeks. Which answered one of the questions that had begun to bubble, so at least that was a start. Deb Taylor had come, along with her husband Lew, his wheelchair taking pride of place at the head of the table. Jim Hurley, my Uncle Jim, arrived with my parents, none of them seeming to appreciate how odd their threesome was. The arrest of his wife was still the talk of the town and I knew that it would be for a long time, particularly as many of the details were to be suppressed as part of her plea bargain. Sometimes rumour could be more inventive than fact, although I wasn’t sure that could possibly be the case here. I also didn’t know what my mother’s long-term plans were and she certainly wasn’t talking. I couldn’t imagine her sharing a house with Uncle Jim but nor could I picture him living alone. Time would tell.

Petra arrived with Paul Patrick Junior, an event that caused nearly as much excitement as the babies. They made a handsome couple, both tall and casually elegant. Lucy took him on a tour of her townhouse, his childhood home, after which he wandered up to the corner of my backyard, beside Charlotte, where he stood silently for some time. Conversation eased to a low, awkward rumble until he returned. Whatever his feelings, he kept them to himself, and we did him the service of leaving it that way. I took the opportunity to give him his mother’s sketch, which I had grabbed from Lucy’s island bench after the police had released us. It would be a match to the one he and his sister were about to inherit. I also asked his permission to have my own copy framed.

There was some talk of him taking an overseas trip at Easter, a prospect that appeared to disproportionately delight my father. I realised that for him it would be like life had come full circle. Dallas Patrick’s son and his daughter. It would have all seemed terribly romantic if not for Petra’s shocking record with men. In this regard, she had the attention span of a goldfish. But perhaps that was fitting; it would mean this modern alliance would enjoy the same longevity as the old.

Towards the end of the evening I stood at the kitchen sink, gazing through the window at my company, taking a few minutes just to enjoy it. Willow was now on my mother’s lap, her colourful sling incongruous against a twin-set and pearls, and Jack was being fed discreetly towards the side. Lucy and Kate were sitting next to each other, their heads bent in conversation. Blonde against brunette. Kate’s hair was a porcupine of spikes. It was short. Very short. I chewed my lip pensively. The sliding door opened and my father came through. He smiled as he took up position beside me, following my gaze.

‘I’m very lucky,’ he said.

I glanced at him in surprise, having expected him to say that
I
was lucky or some-such.

‘You lot welcomed me back with open arms. I didn’t really deserve it.’

‘No,’ I said truthfully. He had a point.

‘They reckon kids always take things personally. That they think it’s their fault.’ He turned to me, holding eye contact without blinking. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

I fought against an impulse to step backwards. It was all a little too
Dr Phil
. ‘I know. But thank you anyway.’

‘Shit.’ He broke into a grin. ‘Edie told me I had to say that, but by god, I’ve been dreading it. Psychobabble, if you ask me.’

‘Ah, I don’t think you’re supposed to add that bit.’

His face fell. ‘Bugger it.’

‘Never mind.’ I smiled, mainly because he was just the type of person who required one. ‘Are your family missing you?’

‘Oh, yeah. But hey, they’re your family too. Anytime you want to do what your sister’s doing, come over to meet them, just say the word.’

‘Okay.’ I turned back to the window. ‘Do you realise, it’s just over two weeks since we last stood here?’

‘By god, you’re right.’

I waited for him to add something along the lines of ‘and look how much has happened since then’ or the like but instead he followed my gaze once more, smiling genially. It occurred to me that he wasn’t an overly imaginative man, a characteristic that had no doubted eased his decision all those years ago. I still had issues with that, would always have issues with it, but they felt less sharp. Like bevelled glass.

‘Best get back,’ he said. ‘Coming?’

‘Hang on! I have a goodbye present for you!’ I held up my hand and then ducked into the laundry to retrieve a towel-covered, rectangular object. I let the towel slide off as I handed it over. My street sign, slightly bent from the more stubborn bolts. Nell Forrest Close.

‘Goddamn!’ He stared at it, and then at me. ‘I can
have
this? Take it back with me?’

‘Yes, and yes. Just don’t show it to that woman out there.’ I pointed towards Deb Taylor. ‘She’ll make me pay for the new one that’s getting installed this week. It’s going to be just Forrest Lane. So it’s sort of named after you as well.’

He was still staring at me, his eyes a little shiny. He looked away and coughed. ‘Thank you. I’ll treasure it. I’m gonna take it out to the car now, so I don’t forget it. Wonderful.’ He backed away, and then walked slowly towards the front door, holding the sign out so that he could continue to stare at it. This was an accident waiting to happen.
Latest death in Majic sees elderly man decapitated by street sign. Worst goodbye gift ever.

I looked back outside. If I had said yes to Ashley, he would have been out there right now, perhaps catching my eye and raising a glass. I would have had someone with which to dissect the gathering afterwards, to share a last glass of wine, to climb up the stairs to bed. All reasons both for and against. I thought of Clare Fletcher and Dallas Patrick, who had been at opposite ends of the spectrum to me. They had risked everything for the chance to turn their affair into something more substantial, but even this had been denied them. I had been offered the same on a silver platter, and had handed it back. But then life wasn’t about serendipity or neat little truisms that could be taken from one set of circumstances and made to fit another. Life was messy, random, complex. It was ever-changing.

I sighed and moved out of the kitchen, pulling the sliding door across. Everyone was laughing and talking and drinking and eating, just as it should be. The sound of their company travelled languidly in the still, warm air, encircling not just my home but the entire town. There was no breeze to whisper in my ear this evening but I had done a lot of thinking and I was confident that I knew what it would have said. Nothing is insurmountable. To thine own self be true. Life goes on.