Please Don't Leave Me Here

1

It's another slow-news day by the look of
The Age
online:
Acting Prime Minister Julia Gillard condemns the binge drinking of a football player; Celebrity chef Nigella Lawson hires a personal trainer to help keep her famous figure in shape.
Brigitte sips her coffee, yawns, and scrolls down further.
Victorian cold-case detectives to reopen 1994 investigation of slain concert promoter, Eric Tucker
. Her heart stops. The missed beat catches up and hammers on top of the next one. She glances over her shoulder, shuts down the computer, and stares at the blank screen while Kitty figure-eights around her ankles. The blast of a train's horn down at Clifton Hill station makes her jump and spill her coffee.

Phoebe's up first — looking like a zombie-child, eyes half-closed, arms outstretched for a cuddle. Brigitte lifts her up, winces at the stab of pain in her back, and pushes the fine blonde hair off Phoebe's face. Underneath is a little turned-up nose, a pouty mouth, and the biggest, bluest eyes: a Manga cartoon face. Then Finn runs out demanding his good-morning cuddle and kiss. Brigitte smiles as if nothing is wrong, and makes cups of warm milk for the twins. The cartoons bubble away on TV.

Sam surfaces half an hour later to the sound of the smoke alarm going off for burnt toast.

‘Is Mummy trying to cook again?'

‘Morning, Sam.'

‘Morning, Ralph. Sleep OK?'

‘Coffee?' She pours him a mug — black, no sugar.

His mobile rings in his bathrobe pocket, and he takes it into the study.

Bad butterflies flutter up to her oesophagus.

‘Mum.' Finn pulls at her dressing gown.

‘Shh.' She's trying to listen through the wall to what Sam's saying.

‘Mum, Mum, Mum …'

‘What!'

‘Love you.' He runs off, and her shoulders slump.

‘OK. Send a car for me in ten.' Sam hangs up and comes back into the kitchen.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Tell me, Sam.'

‘Stop it, Brig.'

‘What then?'

‘Nothing! Just an incident in Preston.'

She's standing in his way and he pushes her aside, too roughly. Her hip knocks against the cupboard. ‘Sorry. Have to get ready for work.'

He makes calls while he gets his clothes — a charcoal suit and a white shirt.

He takes a three-minute shower and comes out of the bathroom smelling of sport deodorant, his cropped blond hair smooth with product.

‘I see they're reopening the Eric Tucker case,' she says as she taps her fingers on the sink and looks out the window. The strip of grass between the house and bungalow is knee-high.

‘And?'

She turns, opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it and wraps her arms around him.

‘Don't worry about it. It's busy work. Not enough new murders to go round.'

She doesn't believe him.

He untangles himself from her arms and kisses the twins on the way out. He leaves without breakfast — he'll pick up something on the way, as usual.

Finn runs to see his friends in the three-year-olds' room at kinder. Phoebe clings to Brigitte's leg, crocodile tears in her eyes.

‘Hello, Phoebe.' Yasmine smiles. She's wearing a paisley shirt and a silver stud in her nose. ‘We're going to have lots of fun today. Would you like to do a puzzle, or help me sort out the art smocks?'

Phoebe's not talking to the kinder assistant.

‘Is everything OK, Brigitte?' Yasmine places a tub of crayons on the table.

Brigitte nods and smiles as she peels Phoebe off her leg. She goes outside to find Finn for a kiss goodbye. He's kicking a ball around the play equipment.

‘Mum, watch this!' He kicks the ball and scatters the crispy brown and yellow leaves under the big elm tree. She claps, and he runs over to her.

‘Daddy shoots people.'

‘No sweetie, that's not true.' She crouches to do up the buttons on his jacket.

‘He's got a gun.'

‘All police people carry guns. It's part of their job.'

‘To catch the bad guys and keep the good people safe?'

‘Yes.' She pulls a tissue from her sleeve and wipes his runny nose.

‘Bye, Mum.'

‘Bye, sweetie.' She kisses him before he wriggles away.

Something in the sand pit has caught his eye, and he takes aim at it with his index finger. ‘Bang!' He pulls the trigger with his thumb.

2

The heating's on the blink, and Brigitte shivers as her towel drops to the floor. She looks in the bathroom mirror and traces a finger along the pink caesarean cut — the most recent but least prominent of her scars. If her mother could see, she'd focus more on the extra few kilos: told you you'd turn into a cow after having kids.

When Brigitte was a child, Joan spent hours in front of the mirror at the old pink house in Brunswick, cigarette balanced on the edge of the basin: applying make-up, doing her hair, looking at herself. Smoke mingled with the smells of green apple shampoo, blow-dryer burnt hair, and Chanel No. 5. When Brigitte stood on tippy-toes, she could see dozens of little make-up pots lined up in the cabinet. Joan gained so little weight, she liked to tell Brigitte, that nobody could even tell she was pregnant. And she regained her figure within weeks of giving birth, although it was a bit harder the second time. No stretch marks, thank God.
Unfortunately, you and your brother are built more like your father. You have child-bearing hips
, she told Brigitte, just as the straight lines of her lean little body were starting to soften into curves. There was nothing worse than child-bearing hips.

Brigitte sucks in her stomach and shuts out her mother's voice.

She should have realised how revealing the white Marilyn Monroe costume would be, should have tried it on at the fancy-dress place. Stupid. She never wears anything so low-cut. Too late now. She camouflages the scars under her collarbone with Dermacolor make-up.

She hears Sam complaining in the kitchen while the twins giggle and stuff pillows into his Elvis suit. ‘Put them back in the bedrooms. I'm not going out like this.' He loses the scowl, and whistles when Brigitte comes out in her Marilyn dress.

The doorbell rings: it's their neighbour Kerry reporting for babysitting duty. Brigitte takes the black wig from Phoebe, places it over Sam's hair, and goes to answer the door.

Manny's dead-celebrities party is at one of those hidden cocktail bars in the city, 15 storeys up — the kind you don't know about when your life revolves around children. Sam groans about the Pink song playing as they enter, and Brigitte elbows him in the ribs.

Manny has a lot of friends. Brigitte doesn't know any of them. Manny is Sam's mate, but Sam rarely sees him since he quit the force to become a filmmaker. Manny looks like a pirate with a red bandana around his head. He can't be Johnny Depp. Keith Richards? Sam holds out his hand to shake. Manny hugs him and kisses Brigitte.

‘Keith Richards isn't dead,' she says.

‘Close enough.' Manny laughs. They wish him a happy thirtieth, and he rushes off towards Bon Scott and Jim Morrison.

‘How about some champagne?' Brigitte says.

‘Thought you weren't drinking.'

‘It's a special occasion.'

‘Why?'

‘Long time since we've been out without the kids.'

He goes to the bar, and she takes a table in a corner. He comes back with a glass of champagne and a lemonade.

‘You on-call?'

He nods and places his mobile on the table.

She scans the plush art-deco bar. It looks like a 1920s Manhattan speakeasy: wood panelling, brown-leather couches, velvet curtains, and bell-shaped lampshades. ‘Wanna dance?'

He shakes his head.

‘Did you see the painting Phoebe did at kinder?'

‘How come whenever we go out, we always end up talking about the kids?'

‘Let's talk about you then. Thought any more about teaching?'

He looks into his drink. No, of course not. ‘I'm not sure I'd be happy doing that, Brig.'

Does he think she's happy worrying about him getting killed at work every day? She looks at her unkempt fingernails — not very glamorous for Marilyn. She should have got some fake red ones.

‘Maybe you should start thinking about getting a job,' Sam says.

‘I have a job.'

‘One article a month for a parenting magazine is not really a — '

‘I was talking about looking after the twins.' She looks away. Manny takes a seat at the piano and plays ‘Sympathy for the Devil'.

Sam reaches across the table and holds her hands.

She pulls a hand away and finishes her drink. ‘There's no new evidence?'

Sam frowns.

‘For that old case.'

‘Nope.' He shakes his head. ‘Waste of resources.'

His mobile rings, and he takes the call out on the balcony. She looks down into her empty glass.

Sam comes back inside, pulling off the wig. ‘Sorry, babe. A situation in a building on Collins Street.' He steps out of the costume, revealing slacks and a pale-grey shirt underneath — always prepared, just in case. She almost laughs at the super-hero nature of what he's doing. He dumps the costume and wig on the table. ‘Go hang out with Manny. I'll try to come back, but if it takes too long, catch a cab home.' He gives her a fifty-dollar note from his wallet and a hasty kiss on the cheek.