Lola's Secret (8 page)

Twice Helen went to the computer to send an email to the motel. She’d keep it brief. Explain that unfortunately they were now unable to take up the offer of the free Christmas stay. Thank you anyway. Happy Christmas.

The first time she was stopped by another sudden rush of tears. Guilt of her own, for not being understanding enough, then guilt for the anger she kept feeling toward Tony. One of her friends had gently suggested that she should perhaps go and talk to someone. A professional.

“It’s Tony who needs it, not me.” He’d tried one session with a counselor, in the early months after the accident, but the appointment had lasted less than fifteen minutes. Tony had walked out. The counselor hadn’t known what she was doing, he said. He’d refused to go back again, no matter how much Helen urged him.

“I think you both need it,” her friend said.

Helen had changed the subject.

But was that what she needed to do? Go and talk to someone, try to explain just how bad it had been? Or should she stop wishing she could turn back time, not just to before the accident, not just to back when Tony was interested, interesting, engaged with life, with her, with their children?

Because she wanted to go back even further than that, she realized. Back to when Katie and Liam were still living at home, when they were a family, when the very best moment of her week was Friday night, when the kids were home from school, Tony back from work. She’d have made something simple but good for dinner and they would settle back, the four of them, for a family night in. Those had been the happiest nights for her, safe and happy at home with a husband she loved, and the two happy, healthy children they loved and had raised together. The family they’d created.

The family that was now—what? Changed forever? Her husband was a different man, a stranger to her. Her two children were on the other side of the world. She thought of all the love she’d poured into them, the fun they’d had, even the difficulties they’d got through—exams, job searches, broken hearts. She remembered pretending she was so happy and so excited they were going to live overseas when in her heart she hated the idea of not seeing them every week … All of those thoughts and feelings and emotions, all she’d done for them, so willingly—she’d do it all again tomorrow—yet here she was, alone, unhappy, and so, so sad.

If Tony heard her crying again, he didn’t come in to see her. She stayed there, in front of the computer, until the sobs eased, until her breathing calmed, feeling so tired, as if the tears had used up all the energy she had. That was it, she realized. She’d run out of the energy she needed to keep Tony on an even keel, to try to cheer herself up. To do anything except a few hours teaching a month and the day-to-day drudgery of housework, meals, washing, cooking. Her life had shrunk to the inside of this house now, too. Was that all that was left for her? Was it time to think about finding a full-time teaching job? What was the alternative? Endless days here at home, tidying rooms that were already tidy, waiting for the sound of Tony’s key in the lock, feeling the mood in the house drop several degrees as he brought an almost visible cloud of unhappiness and misery in with him?

She was dreading Christmas Day especially. She must have been mad thinking a change of location would make any difference. They would just be miserable there instead of here. Any hopes of a merry country Christmas gathering, drinks with other guests, even a singalong, had faded. She’d been too optimistic. Even if she did get Tony to go there, he wouldn’t engage with anyone else. He barely spoke to her anymore. He was hardly going to strike up lively conversations with fellow guests, lead everyone in a carol-singing evening, offer to carve the turkey, barbecue the prawns.

They’d have to stay here. Perhaps she would make a Christmas lunch for the two of them. Perhaps not. At the moment, she didn’t have the energy to think about even preparing a tray of sandwiches. She’d get something ready-made, they’d watch a few TV movies, talk to their son in Spain and daughter in England and then call it a day. What was the point in doing anything else?

She turned back to the computer again to write an email to cancel the booking. She was stopped again. As she opened up the folder, an email from her daughter appeared in her inbox, as if on the other side of the world Katie had known she was thinking about her. It was a cheery, enthusiastic email, filled with news about her weekend, her social life, the week ahead at her work in a bank in London, the bands she’d seen, the market she’d gone to, the cold weather, the talk of snow. How much she loved the lights and the decorations, how Christmassy it felt, like being in a film. How much she was looking forward to going away with friends to a rented country house in Norfolk for Christmas:
It’s going to be like something from Pride and Prejudice or Upstairs Downstairs, by the sounds of things!
she’d written.
All we’re missing is the maids. Liam is really jealous. I think he has to work all over Christmas. What are your and Dad’s plans? A barbie on the beach? Picnic at the park?

Two days before, Helen might have written back about the Valley View Motel, how she’d booked it on the spur of the moment and then learnt she’d won a competition. Katie would have loved hearing all about that. It wasn’t the case now. She wrote back, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

Good morning, darling. A real-time email! Your Christmas sounds like it will be wonderful. No, no big plans here. A quiet day here at home, just your dad and me. You’ll have your mobile with you, won’t you, so we can at least ring you on the day?

She pressed send and waited, still marveling at the wonders of this technology, that she could be talking to her daughter thousands of kilometers away. Her answer came back within two minutes.

Of course! It’s surgically attached to my hand. Just to warn you, my friend said that the mobile coverage isn’t great there at the best of times, and there’s snow forecast, so don’t worry if you can’t get through to me, I’ll trudge through snow and across fields if I have to, to find a spot that works. There’s no way I’d miss talking to you at Christmas. Better go, Mum, late for work. Love you. xxxx

Love you too xxx
Helen wrote back.

After even that brief email exchange, Helen felt cheered up. Only slightly, but enough. She allowed herself a secret wish that both her children would surprise her with emails or phone calls to say they’d decided to change their plans for a working Christmas in Spain and a country mansion Christmas in England, that they were coming home for a proper Australian family Christmas and could Helen and Tony come and get them at the airport on Christmas Eve …

She stopped the fantasy there. Who was being the selfish one now? She was, wanting her children to put their adult lives on hold so she could have the pleasure of their company, their liveliness around her. This was empty-nest syndrome, magnified by what had happened to Tony. She had to pick herself up, keep going, try to be more patient, more understanding. It wasn’t going to help anyone if she and Tony kept arguing, if—

“Helen?”

She turned. Tony was at the door.

“I’m sorry.”

It was the first time he had apologized for anything, for a long time. She was so shocked she didn’t answer.

“You’re right,” he said. He stepped into the room. “I have to move on. It’s just … I just wish—”

He started to cry. For the first time that she could remember since their children were born, her husband of thirty-five years, a grown man, sobbed in front of her. She didn’t hesitate. She moved across to him, took him in her arms, soothing him with words, stroking his hair, holding him as tight as she could.

“I’m sorry, Helen,” he kept saying. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Tony. It’s fine. It’s fine.” Over and over again, the same words, until she sensed his tears start to slow, felt his breathing change, grow calmer.

“I wish …” Again, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Things could be different?” She spoke softly.

He nodded.

She held him tight again. Yes, she wished everything was different too. Not just for them, but for Ben’s family especially. If she and Tony were finding the thought of Christmas difficult, how on earth were they feeling? But she knew more than anything that this wasn’t the time to mention them.

He moved back slightly from her. She reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek. In that moment, she knew for sure she still loved him.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “If you really want to go away somewhere for Christmas, let’s go.”

“What do you want to do?”

She saw him begin to shrug, that simple gesture that had begun to hurt her so much, a physical representation of how little he cared about anything these days. Then he stopped it, straightened his shoulders, only slightly. “I’d like to give that place a go. That motel. It might do us good.”

It was only a small step, but it was a step. “Thanks, Tony.” She didn’t need to say anything else. Not yet.

“Can I get you a glass of wine, love?” he asked. “Cup of tea?”

“Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

She turned off the computer and followed her husband out to the kitchen.

Martha walked into the office, having to duck under loosely hanging Christmas decorations. If she had her way, she’d ban them from the workplace. It was hard enough to keep everyone motivated and productive in December as it was. Every time she walked past people’s desks she’d hear snatches of conversations about holiday plans, Secret Santa gifts, and Christmas parties. She was feeling uncomfortably like Scrooge, muttering “Bah humbug” under her breath, but the truth was, if she heard one more thing about Christmas, she’d scream.

Even her temporary secretary had got into the spirit that morning. Aged in her fifties, she was old-fashioned in appearance and manner. “And will you be joining your family for Christmas, Miss Kaminski?”

“No,” Martha had said. “And please, call me Martha.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m an old-school secretary. Are you from Melbourne?”

“No.”

“Young people like you move around so much these days, don’t you? I do admire you. So where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Actually, I do mind. Could we please finish these letters?”

Martha sighed inside as she saw two bright spots of color appear on the temp’s cheeks. What was the lady’s name? Gwenda or Brenda … Glenda, that was it. She turned the conversation back to business, loading the older woman with enough work to keep her busy for not just that afternoon but most of the next day too.

She wouldn’t apologize for her sharpness, even though she could see Glenda was put out. What on earth had she thought Martha would do? Lean back in her chair, put her feet up on the desk, and spill her soul? “Of course I don’t mind you asking, Glenda. I was brought up in Brisbane, where my father, who’s originally from Poland, ran his own furniture-importing business, and my mother, whose parents were from the Ukraine, managed a local fabric store. I’m the eldest of three children, one brother, one sister. And for the past three years, since an almighty fight with my father one Christmas Eve, I’ve had nothing to do with my family. So no, I don’t think we’ll be meeting up for Christmas this year or in fact for any year coming. I had one Christmas on my own at home, another in a horribly expensive and expensively horrible resort, and I wouldn’t recommend either option. So this year I’m going to some place in South Australia I’ve never heard of before, to some motel that could be either a boarding house or a country delight, and frankly, I don’t really care either way, as I plan to take my laptop with me and work as much as possible and be back here behind my desk the day after Boxing Day. What was the fight with my father about? I won’t go into details if you don’t mind, but I can tell you that it lasted for thirty minutes, involved a lot of shouting, and that I still believe he had absolutely no right to say what he did about the way I run my company
or
my life. And I didn’t appreciate the others sticking their noses in either. And yes, I am in my late thirties and still single, and no, I don’t have a house full of cats. Please feel free to tell the rest of my staff my personal business, too, won’t you?”

Martha almost felt like calling Glenda back and actually having that conversation with her. Instructing her to pass on the news to all the staff. At least that would stop them all speculating. She knew they were curious about her private life too. She’d overheard their conversations often enough. She also knew none of them liked her very much. The Dragon, one of them had called her. He hadn’t realized she was coming down the corridor behind him. His face when he saw her was a picture. She didn’t care. It was a workplace, not a knitting circle. If she wanted friends, well … If she worked better hours, she’d have more time for friends. She’d made the decision many years before that she wanted to succeed as a businesswoman. She’d always known that would take dedication and thick skin. Fortunately she had both qualities in abundance.

After finishing reviewing the week’s new recruitment contracts, she took a moment to check her personal email account. There was one from the proprietor of the Valley View Motel, asking for details of her favorite things. She was impressed. A country motel with this kind of customer service? Perhaps it wouldn’t be Three Days in Hicksville after all. Not that she planned on eating with any other guests, or singing her favorite carol, or telling jokes. But she always did like questionnaires. She filled out the first part in record time, ignored the last three questions, pressed send, then took out her spreadsheets, and started the following year’s profit projections.

She was deeply immersed in the mid-year figures when the phone beside her buzzed. “Yes, Glenda?”

“Your mother’s on line three, Miss Kaminski.”

“What?”

“Your mother’s on line three.”

For God’s sake. Hadn’t her usual secretary explained that Martha didn’t take calls from her family? Any of her family? “I’m not here.”

“But I told her you were.”

“Tell her you were wrong. Tell her I’m overseas.”