Sweet Damage (6 page)

Lilla flicks to the next photo. It shows a group of people standing around a table with a cake sitting on it. A girl stands directly behind the cake, looking as if she's just blown the candles out. She's grinning at the camera, her head is tipped to one side. There's a strand of hair caught in her mouth.

‘Look at her,' Lilla says. ‘What a stunner.'

Lilla's right, the girl is stunning. The strange thing is, she looks just like Anna, only there's none of the slouching, twitchy shyness of Anna. In fact, the provocative smile on her face reminds me more of Lilla than Anna. But it is Anna, it must be. I turn the photo over.

17th birthday
is written on the back.

‘So that's who you're living with?' Lilla says, nudging me. ‘You didn't mention she looked like that.'

Because she doesn't
, I think to myself.
At least, not anymore.

‘Let's get out of here,' I say. ‘We shouldn't be looking through her stuff.'

I put the photos away and drag Lilla out and across the hall, towards the ballroom.

‘Go on,' I say, gesturing towards the closed door. ‘Have a look in there.'

She opens the door and takes a startled step back. She looks at me and grins, then rushes inside, spins around, lets out a noisy yelp.

‘Shut
up
.'

She puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry. Sorry. But, Tim. This is so. Fucking. Awesome. This house. It's just unbelievable.' She frowns. ‘Why didn't you tell me?' She doesn't wait for an answer. ‘You know, of course, that you're going to have to organise a party here. There's no way you can get away with living here and not having one. It would be criminal.' And then she looks at her watch. ‘Shit. I've got to get going.'

She pulls on her shoes, rushes over and gives me another kiss. I follow her to the door and watch her go down the garden path, get into her crappy old Laser and drive away. Lilla's always like that, fast and chaotic and disruptive, like one of those strong, cool winds that can make you confused and disoriented, but can also wake you up and make you feel alive in a way that nothing else can. I wish I found it easier just to think of her as a friend. I wish her sisterly kisses didn't remind me of the way we used to kiss, didn't fill me with a miserable sense of having lost something precious. She knows the effect she has on me, and she enjoys it, enjoys the power. She wouldn't kiss me the way she does, stand so close, dress that way, if she didn't. I always knew she enjoyed creating a stir, being at the centre of things. Now I sometimes wonder if she enjoys hurting me.

It's already hot outside. I decide to make the most of it and head out for an early-morning swim.

Fairlight Pool is quiet when I get there. I sit on the edge, dangling my calves in the water, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my back. There's one old man swimming the length of the pool in a slow breaststroke, a woman doing a leisurely sidestroke and another doing a brisk freestyle. She's as fast and as slick and as smooth in the water as anyone I've ever seen. At each end of the pool she does a neat flip and heads back the other way without pausing. I always feel an urge to race against people who swim well, so when she comes close I slip into the water and swim parallel to her, trying to match her pace.

For the first three laps I stay ahead of her, but after that I have to slow down, and I swim the rest of my laps in her wake.

‘Nice swimming style,' I say to her later when I get out of the pool. She's drying off in the sun, her face turned up, soaking in the rays. She looks about fifty, and her body is long and lean, a swimmer's body. She smiles without opening her eyes, or turning my way. ‘You too.'

I think of Anna as I walk back to the house and feel a renewed sense of pity for her. I couldn't live without the buzz I get from being in the water, the rush I get from being outdoors. I couldn't handle missing out on all this. But she clearly wasn't always this way, and I wonder again how and why she changed from the vibrant girl in the photos, the happy girl Blake described, to the miserable person I'm living with now.

10

I
DON
'
T SEE MUCH OF
A
NNA OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS
. I
PASS HER IN
the hall once on my way to work – she says hello, but keeps on going – and another night I find her watching TV in the living room when I get home from work, but I go straight up to my room. She's stand-offish and cool, and if she talks to me at all, it's only about something prosaic: an oven element that doesn't work properly, or a window that's jammed shut. Once she gives me a list of things she wants from the shops and I recognise the distinctive left-sloping handwriting from the note I found in the pantry. There's nothing fresh or wholesome on the list. It's all processed or tinned stuff. The shopping list of an old lady.

‘Is that it?' I ask. ‘No fruit or veg? No meat?'

‘No,' she says coldly. ‘That's it. Exactly what I've written.'

Her unfriendliness doesn't bother me much. The house is big enough that we don't get in each other's way.

So I'm surprised when I go down to the kitchen on Sunday morning and find her slicing apples, humming softly. She's dressed in her usual clothes, but her hair is out of its ponytail, hanging loose around her shoulders and face. She looks more animated than she normally does.

‘Hey,' I say.

She starts, looks up.

‘You're cooking?'

‘I'm trying to. I'm not very good, though. I'm having Marcus and Fiona over for lunch.' She smiles hesitantly. ‘If you're free, you could join us.'

I'm surprised, a bit intrigued. ‘Okay,' I say. ‘If you're sure, then, yeah, I will. I'm not doing anything else. Thanks.'

I stand there for a minute, watching her slice apples, thinking about the lack of fresh food in the house.

‘Anna,' I say eventually. ‘Do you want me to go down to the shops and get something? There's not really anything here, is there? What are you making?'

She points her knife towards the apples. ‘I'm making apple pie for sweets. I don't know if it'll work out, but I hope so. And soup for lunch.' She puts her knife down and goes to the pantry, pulls out a tin of beef and vegetable soup.

My astonishment must be obvious because she frowns, holds the tin out towards me.

‘It's gourmet soup, not just any old thing,' she says. ‘Look, it even has herbs in it.'

I take the can from her and pretend to read the label. Gourmet or not, it's still tinned soup. I look up, smile, shake my head.

She snatches the tin from me and puts it down firmly on the benchtop. She folds her arms across her chest and stares at me. Her cheeks are flushed red, like a kid who's been running around outside. And then she laughs, and suddenly I can see that other girl standing before me. The girl from the photos. And Blake doesn't seem so crazy for calling her hot.

‘What, then?' she asks. ‘What am I going to do now? I don't have anything else.'

‘Isn't that why I moved in here?' I say. ‘To help you out in situations like this? I can go down to the shops. Get something.'

‘But I can't actually cook.' She looks abashed. ‘I have no idea what to make or even where to start.' She turns back to the sliced apple. ‘I found this recipe in one of Mum's old books, but it's probably going to be a disaster.'

‘So why don't you let me do it? I can cook. I'll go down to the shops and get some fish. I know this snapper recipe. It's a cinch. Takes five minutes but tastes awesome. Looks impressive, too. I'll show you how to make it and then you'll have something apart from tinned soup in your cooking repertoire.'

‘Really?'

‘I know how to make a good apple pie, too. I'll get some ginger, it'll give it a lift. And you'll need cream.'

I'm walking down the hall towards the front door when she calls out, ‘Wait!' She rushes towards me, a hundred-dollar note in her hand. ‘Here, take this. You can't pay for all that stuff. And you should get us something to drink. Some beer or something. Some wine too, maybe. Whatever you like.'

It's a hot walk down to the shops in the sun, and my backpack is heavy and overloaded on the way back. I sweat like a pig and wish I'd brought a bottle of water with me. When I finally arrive back at the house and step inside, I'm glad of the gloom. It might be dark, but at least it's cool.

I load the fridge with beer and supplies, then wash my hands and get to work. I make pastry for the apple pie, add ginger to the apples and put it in the oven. I put together a salad. Anna offers to help and I get her to mix the marinade and spread it over the skin of the fish.

When we've finished we both go to our rooms to get ready. I take a shower, put on a clean T-shirt, my best pair of shorts. I'm back in the kitchen checking on the pie when Anna comes in. She's changed into a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans. There's nothing particularly revealing about her clothes, but I notice her shape for the first time – a body that she's kept completely hidden until now. I must be staring because she hesitates, then positions herself on the other side of the benchtop and clutches her hands together nervously. I feel like a jerk.

‘Beer,' I say, and I busy myself getting glasses, opening a bottle, hoping that the heat in my face isn't showing on my skin.

We take our beers outside to the small courtyard off the kitchen. I watch Anna take a seat. She lifts her glass and swallows half her beer in one go.

‘Is this all right for you?' I say, sitting opposite her. ‘Out here?'

She hesitates, nods. ‘I'm usually okay if I'm close to the house. Sometimes I can't . . .' She breaks off, sighs. ‘I'm fine. I'd say so if I wasn't.'

She doesn't look fine. She looks unhappy and on edge. I try to start a conversation, but my attempts fall flat and I resign myself to sitting in uncomfortable silence. Anna finishes her beer while mine's still practically full. I go inside to get the bottle, glad of something to do.

She drinks the next one quickly too, downing the entire glass in a few hasty gulps, as if it's medicine, and I wonder if she's using the alcohol to calm her nerves. She finishes her second drink before I've even finished my first.

‘I think I'll have another.' She stands up. ‘Do you want one?'

‘Sure,' I say, draining mine. ‘Why not?'

She brings another bottle out and tops up our glasses, then takes the bottle inside. She seems slightly more relaxed when she returns. She leans back in her chair instead of perching on the edge, and her normally restless hands move less frantically. She sips on her third drink slowly. I try again to think of something to say, wishing she wasn't so impossible to talk to, but I'm saved by a flock of galahs that fly in and gather noisily in the trees above us. For a while we're both absorbed, watching them. We don't have to talk.

Eventually, the doorbell rings and Anna jumps up. She puts her hand to her hair, pulls at her T-shirt, straightening and adjusting. ‘They're here,' she says unnecessarily.

Just as they were the first time I met them, Marcus and Fiona are dressed in what I think of as office clothes. Marcus is wearing dark pants and a collared shirt; Fiona wears a skirt and jacket. Weirdly overdone, I think, for Sunday lunch at a friend's. We get fresh drinks and go back out to the courtyard. Pretty soon it becomes obvious that all the beer Anna has been drinking has kicked in. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright and glassy and – most amazingly of all – she talks.

She tells me all about Marcus and Fiona's work. They are both lawyers. She describes how Fiona studied law first, getting top marks at university, eventually being headhunted by a prestigious city law firm. Fiona stays quiet, smiling stiffly at Anna's praise. She tries to change the subject, but Anna ignores her, gushes on. She tells me how Marcus studied law too, how they eventually had enough combined experience to open a practice together.

‘Harrow and Harrow, it's called,' Anna beams. ‘And if you need any legal advice they're definitely the people to see. They come highly recommended.'

The change in Anna is so enormous I have to tell myself not to stare. For the second time that day I see a glimpse of the girl Blake described, the girl from the photo: someone pretty, warm, articulate.

‘And you already know Tim's a chef,' she says, turning towards Marcus and Fiona. ‘For which, I think, you two should be particularly grateful. He saved you from a lunch of tinned soup.'

‘A chef? That must be hard work,' Fiona says, looking at me with curiosity.

‘Can be a bit grubby,' I say. ‘But I'm only a lowly cook, not a chef.'

‘What's the difference?' Marcus says. I get the feeling he's trying to be polite, for Anna's sake probably, that he's not really interested.

‘A few years studying at TAFE. But mainly the pay packet,' I say. ‘There's not really a lot to say about it. It's chaotic and it's dirty and it's hot. I'm sure your jobs are a lot more interesting than mine.'

‘The law is interesting, yes,' Fiona says. ‘Challenging at times. But never boring.'

‘Well, not often,' Marcus adds.

‘So how is it being in business together? It's an unusual situation, isn't it?' I say. ‘I bet there aren't many siblings who could tolerate working together every day.'

‘It is unusual,' Marcus says. ‘But it works for us.'

‘Have you got a sister?' Fiona asks. ‘Or a brother?'

‘No,' I answer. ‘Only child.'

She glances over at Marcus and widens her eyes, as if to say, ‘Well, what would he know?'

I find her defensiveness a bit weird, but then all of them seem strange to me, and the three of them together like this have a pretty unique dynamic. They're certainly not like most people I know or would choose to hang out with. My father would call them characters – but not necessarily in a pejorative way. It's just the term he uses when people baffle him. I sip on my beer, smile. ‘And so how do you guys know Anna?' I ask.