Hello from the Gillespies (21 page)

Angela was halfway to Adelaide. For the first hour, she’d been able to think of nothing but Nick. About that moment in the office. About what she wanted to say. What she should have said. Could have said. Hadn’t said. As every day passed, it was as if the gulf between them widened.

That morning, she’d tried to fix it. She’d woken early, Nick beside her, physically close. Once upon a time, she might have moved closer to him, put her arm around him, kissed him awake. Perhaps there might even have been more touching, caressing, leading to sleepy morning sex. But that was out of the question now. Their love-life had been another casualty of the distance between them over the past months.

But was it out of the question? Perhaps it was exactly what she should do. Sex had always helped them in the past, especially in the early years of their marriage, whenever they’d had rows. They’d always argued in different ways. She had a quicker temper than him, was inclined to speak her mind, let it all out, whereas he moved more carefully through any minefield in their relationship, was easily hurt by careless words, inclined to fall into silence. Many times in their marriage it had been Angela who’d made the first move towards a reconciliation. It had bothered her at first. She’d always thought it should be a two-way street. She’d talked about it with Joan.

Joan had given her usual straight advice. ‘Marriage is a one-way street, love. Imagine you are two cars in a narrow alley, bonnet to bonnet. One can’t move any further without the other moving too. If neither of you move, you’re both stuck there forever. But if one of you does move – and it doesn’t matter which one does –
voilà
, the road is cleared and you can get back to business. Just don’t keep count of who said sorry first. Don’t get into the habit of saying, “But he never does this” or “He never does that”. As long as one of you is making a move, that’s all you need to get started.’

It had been good advice. She’d decided to try it that morning in bed. She put her arm around his waist, inched closer against him. Again, the familiarity struck her. The feel of his skin. The shape of his body. The smell of him. The sound of his breathing. Even thirty-three years on, she found him so attractive: tanned, lean, and fit from all the outdoor work he’d done over the years. His hair was still dark, just greying on the temples. His face was lined now, but so was hers. Of course they could get through this. Of course their marriage wasn’t over. As she tightened her arm around him, he shifted in his sleep, a quick, sudden movement that felt like he was pushing her away.

She’d edged back immediately. Perhaps he was still deep in sleep. Perhaps he hadn’t even registered she was touching him, his reaction just a reflex. But it had been enough to stop her. She’d got up, left the bedroom. When she saw him next, in the kitchen, the kids around, the noise level high, there had been no opportunity to even try to talk, let alone anything else.

She passed through all the familiar towns. The highway stretched out in front of her. Her car was an automatic; it almost drove itself. There was very little traffic. She had the air-conditioning on full. The sun was bright outside, shining in on her right arm, which was more tanned than her left from so many years driving in light as harsh and strong as this. In her early years in Australia, there’d been no talk of sunblock or skin cancer. Everyone soaked up all the sunshine they could, especially the kids. She was paying for it now, with early wrinkles, older skin.

If she had gone back home and married Will, would she look different now too? Fewer wrinkles? More wrinkles? Grey hair? Dyed hair? She’d certainly have been paler. Unless, of course, they had a home in Spain where they spent most summers, and quite a lot of time over the winter months too.

Her mind began to drift.

Yes, she and Will did have a holiday home in Spain. They had always loved to travel. They thought they’d satisfied their travel bug when they were young, when he went backpacking in search of architectural wonders and she came to Australia for a few months, travelling around, doing some bartending, but never any in Sydney, even though her friend in the hostel begged her to do her shift one night. Angela nearly said yes, but she’d been offered tickets to a comedy gig the same evening. She’d chosen the comedy. Her friend ended up losing her job in the pub. Angela always felt a bit guilty about that.

Recently, though, Angela and Will had begun to talk a lot more about travelling again, even farther afield this time. He was the one who suggested Australia.

‘I’d love to go there again,’ she said. ‘But it’s such a long flight. We’d want to stay a month at least. Six weeks, ideally. And you’re so busy at work.’

‘I’m also the boss. And I could easily take that much time away, if it turned out I was doing some work while I was there.’

She laughed. She should have guessed he was up to something.

Will explained that he’d been asked to work on a new eco-tourism development. It was a company based in Italy, but with properties in Spain, Portugal and Croatia. Plenty of money behind them. Will had researched similar developments, and the best of them just happened to be in Australia. Some in Queensland. Others in outback South Australia. ‘It would still be mostly a holiday, of course, but we could stay in a few of these eco-places as well.’

‘And then claim the entire trip as a business expense?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said. ‘But you’re right, I probably could.’

He was teasing her, of course. Will was a very astute businessman.

There was nothing stopping them. Nothing except that Angela would miss Lexie so much. Once again, Will read her mind.

‘I rang Lexie last night. She can’t take a six-week holiday, but she can take a fortnight. She’s going to come out and join us for the last two weeks. Wherever we decide to be, somewhere tropical or somewhere outback, she doesn’t mind which.’

They spent the rest of the evening in front of the computer, researching business-class airfares with stopovers in Hong Kong and making notes about their Australian itinerary. Will was right, the Australians were world leaders in the kind of eco-tourism ventures his new client was planning. But there were also even more down-to-earth ways of seeing the real Australia.

‘Look at these places,’ Angela said, clicking on a website for outback station stays. ‘You can stay in actual homesteads, with outback families. That would be something special, wouldn’t it? Not just being in a luxurious eco-cabin, but living the real life.’

‘Sleeping in a bed that the youngest kid has just vacated? In a bedroom filled with sporting trophies? Seriously, Angela?’

‘No, listen to this.’ She clicked on a station at random, situated in northern South Australia, near the Flinders Ranges National Park. She read aloud. ‘“You’ll stay in the old governess’s quarters attached to a hundred-year-old stone homestead, and be the personal guest of the station owners. Guided tours of the station; expert information on local Aboriginal history and culture, and native Australian flora and fauna; overnight camping trips, including dinner around a campfire; four-wheel drive tours conducted by the wife of the station manager, a fourth-generation sheep farmer.” I’ve heard about these somewhere. Wouldn’t that be fun! We could stay in a few of the eco-places as well, but why don’t we have some time on a real station too?’

‘Great idea,’ Will said. ‘You choose the station. I’ll be happy to go wherever you want to.’

Angela scanned the list. They all sounded great. But she kept being drawn back to the first one she’d looked at. The one called Errigal, with the one-hundred-year-old homest—

The blast of a semitrailer’s horn made Angela leap. She swerved slightly before bringing her attention right back to the road. The truck driver had been signalling to a passing truckie, not her, but it brought her to her senses.

What on earth had she been thinking, bringing her fantasy life into her real life? The whole idea of her alternative life was to take her away from her real world, not imagine herself and Will sitting at the kitchen table on Errigal, being served dinner by —

By who?

Because it wouldn’t be her, would it? Because if she had gone back to London, married Will and had Lexie, she wouldn’t have married Nick, gone to live on Errigal or had four children with him.

She’d imagined her alternative life, but she hadn’t imagined Nick’s. What would
his
life have been like if he hadn’t walked into her pub that night? Who would he have ended up marrying? Diane, the woman he’d been going out with for a few years before he met her? How many children would he and Diane have had? Would they have lived happily ever after?

It was a sudden, unsettling thought.

For the rest of her journey, she concentrated on the road.

Once she reached Adelaide, it took her nearly an hour to find the specialist’s rooms. The city’s streets were laid out in an orderly way, grids and straight lines, but she didn’t know it well. Her visits over the years had been confined to seeing the girls and – briefly, Ig – at their boarding schools, and the occasional shopping trip.

She eventually found her way. The rooms were in a shady street on the edge of the central business district, a florist on one side, an upmarket cafe on the other. The reception area had a polished, designed look, with expensive carpet, leather seating and original paintings on the wall. It smelt good too, of lemon or mandarin. The woman behind the desk was middle-aged, well-groomed, smiling. Angela gave her name.

‘Welcome, Mrs Gillespie. Mr Liakos is unfortunately running a little behind schedule today. I hope you won’t mind waiting.’

That was fine, of course, she said. She declined tea or coffee, picked up a magazine and sat down. Four other people were waiting. Classical music played quietly. The receptionist was making calls, speaking in a low tone. If Angela didn’t have the start of a headache, this would feel so relaxing, like a day in a beauty spa. Peace, music, magazines, a quietly spoken lady being so nice to her. Perhaps she should cancel the actual appointment and just sit here for the day instead.

The young woman across from her was called in first. What was wrong with her? Angela wondered. Two more people came in. The young woman left. Another woman was called. Angela felt her headache start to pulse. She now wasn’t even looking at the magazine.

Finally her name was called.

She liked the specialist straightaway. Despite the waiting room full of people, he took his time with her, going through her GP’s letter, looking at the scans again, examining her, asking her questions about the headaches, their severity and duration. When they’d started. What triggered them.

He was calm and reassuring. No, he told her, he didn’t think there was a brain tumour. He was inclined to think the headaches were being caused by stress, or something amiss with her neck muscles or vertebrae. There could even be a connection with menopause. But for her sake as much as his, he wanted her to have more tests, another MRI, a different kind of scan. He would ask his receptionist to make the calls for her. It usually required several days’ notice, for a non-urgent case like hers – even that phrase was reassuring – but he hoped it would be possible for her to do them either later that afternoon or early the next morning, to save her having to make the long trip down again in the near future. He refused to talk about the ‘what ifs’. ‘Let’s get the facts and then go from there,’ he said.

Outside, his receptionist took over, confirming she would be making calls on Angela’s behalf to organise the new series of tests for her. She took down the phone number of Angela’s hotel. ‘I’ve got your mobile number too. I’ll try that first. We’ll arrange your tests and get you on the road home before you know it.’

In the car, Angela knew she should call home, let them know it had gone well, but she couldn’t decide who to ring. A year ago, it would have been Nick. Without question. But she was still hurt by his farewell that morning. She took the coward’s way out and rang Genevieve’s mobile number instead. Even if her daughter wasn’t in signal range, she could leave a message.

Genevieve answered after the third ring. ‘Mum! Your timing’s perfect. I’m in Hawker shopping, with a signal for once. Civilisation again! How did you go?’

‘The specialist thinks it’s nothing too serious, but he wants me to have some more tests. I might have to stay down two nights, not just one.’ Angela surprised herself with the sudden lie.

‘Oh, Mum. Are you sure you don’t want us there? Do you need me to book you into the hotel for another night?’

‘No, thanks. I can manage it,’ she said. ‘What’s been happening there?’

‘Shall I tell you about Lindy’s cushion tantrum? Ig’s near accident with a rope ladder on his cubby? Victoria’s sudden attack of work nerves? No, it can all wait till you get back. In fact, I might stay here in Hawker myself.’

‘And your dad?’

‘He was still locked in the office when I left. He’d been in there since you left.’

‘I tried the house phone but it just rang out.’ The lies were coming too easily. ‘My battery’s nearly run out too. Can you please fill him in for me when you get home?’

‘Of course. Good luck with the tests. Book into the hotel for another night even if you don’t need to. Enjoy the luxury. And steal all the soaps, would you? Ig wants them for his cubby.’

Her hotel was easy to find, near the Festival Centre and overlooking the River Torrens. It was more than twenty storeys high. Inside, the lobby was airy, cool. The staff were immaculately dressed, all smiling. Once again, she heard the sound of soft classical music. Again, she had that feeling of peace. She asked about a second night even as she was checking in.

‘Certainly, Mrs Gillespie. Let me take a look.’ There was the click of beautifully manicured fingers.

The receptionist had such a friendly face. She was so calm and efficient. Angela felt an urge to talk to her. ‘This is my first night away from my husband and children in ten years.’

‘Ten years?’ The young woman raised an eyebrow. ‘How many children do you have?’

‘Four. Two sets of twins.’ She couldn’t seem to stop lying now.