Three Wishes (26 page)

She closed her eyes.

“Ah. Not that great,” she mumbled.

The sordid details of last night tumbled back into her head. She’d gone with him to the Confectionery Manufacturer’s Association Annual Meeting. They had endured astoundingly boring speeches, and afterward he’d suggested a drink. After the second
drink she told him she was separated. After the third she had the startling revelation that Graham was a rather distinguished, handsome man. After the fourth she was suggestively suggesting they share a cab back to her place and feeling pleasantly promiscuous, as if she were the slutty one from
Sex and the City.

You fool, Cat. You stupid, stupid fool.

She was giving up alcohol forever.

“Would you like me to get you a cup of tea?” asked Graham. Was that his hand on her leg? Or, surely not, something else?

“No, thank you.”

She fought back welling hysteria and opened her eyes to confirm her state of undress. Her shirt was still buttoned decorously but her skirt had vanished. Underwear appeared to be intact.

“It’s O.K. We only fooled around a little.” His tone was avuncular and cozy.

Oh, yuck, yuck, yuck! She remembered it all. She’d kissed him! Worse, she’d kissed him
enthusiastically.

She’d had a clumsy heavy-petting session with Graham Hollingdale, of all people! She’d have to get a new bed.

How utterly disgusting. How utterly humiliating.

She looked at her boss, lying on Dan’s side of the bed, his hands crossed comfortably behind his head, and felt ill.

How much lower could her life sink? Self-disgust filled her mouth. Dirty-gray, sordid misery wrapped itself around her.

“I thought you were married,” she said coldly.

He smiled. “Oh, that’s O.K. I’m poly.”

“You’re who?” Was he trying to say that he was really a woman trapped in a man’s body?

“Poly. Polyamorous. It means ‘many loves.’ If you’re poly, you believe in having committed relationships with more than one person. My wife and I are both poly.”

“So, you’re swingers.” Cat began to shift unobtrusively as far away as possible to the other side of the bed. Thank God no bodily fluids had been exchanged.

“Ha! Everybody thinks that!” Graham sat up with enthusiasm, a finger held in the air. She wished he could show this much enthusiasm for her marketing plans. “Not at all! Swinging is just about sex. Polyamory is about sharing your love with more than one person. It’s about romance!”

“This is romance?”

“Not yet, Catriona. Not yet. My wife will always be my primary partner, but I would be honored if you would consider a poly relationship with me as a secondary partner.”

Cat stared at him.

“I’ve always felt we’ve had real chemistry.”

She was flabbergasted. “Really?”

“Really.” Graham beamed. “I could commit to you fully, on Wednesdays. Wednesdays would be just for us.”

This was becoming surreal.

“Graham. Last night, was ah—great. But I don’t think I’m a
poly
sort of person. I have this thing about monogamy. Just ask my husband. My ex-husband.”

“Oh,
monogamy.”
Graham looked slightly disgusted by the word. “Polyamory is so much more enriching. I can give you a Web site address.”

“And Wednesdays aren’t good for me.” Laughing would be a big mistake.

“Oh well! I can look at my schedule!”

“Actually, Graham, can I ask you a big favor?”

“Of course.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Do you think you could leave now?”

Venus on the Dance Floor

Christ!
Get it off! I hate this song! “Venus”!

It reminds me of this time I went to a nightclub in the city. I was with a group of mates and we were watching these three girls dance.

They weren’t bad, so I think, I’ll have a go. Worth a go. So I boogie on up to ’em, feeling like a complete loser, like you do. One of ’em smiled at me and I’m thinking I’m in like Flynn. And then this bloody song starts and I became invisible! They went right off, laughing, screaming, and doing these really over-the-top sexy dances. No way could you break into that little circle. All they could see was one another. So I had to slink on back like a total dickhead. My mates never let me forget it. For years afterward, whenever I walked into the pub, they’d be singing lines from that song.

Never tried to pick up a girl on a dance floor ever again. Scarred me for life, mate. I’m not kidding ya.

I am doing
nothing wrong, thought Lyn. She sat at her desk listening to the distant, singsong sound of her computer dialing up its Internet connection.

She wasn’t hurting Michael. The only person who could conceivably think that was, well, Michael. She knew he’d be hurt. If the situation were reversed, she’d be hurt.

But it was nothing. The whole thing was nothing.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t told him straightaway about the “blast from the past” e-mail from her ex-boyfriend Hank. She’d even printed off a copy and coyly presented it to him. Michael had been obligingly macho in his response.

“Hmmm. ‘Fond memories of our time in Spain.’ This guy better watch himself!”

Hank’s erotic appearances in her dreams weren’t the problem. After all, more often than not, Michael also featured, looking on with benign approval. (In one he cheerfully mopped the kitchen floor and said “shift your feet” while Hank did interesting things to her up against the fridge.)

Everyone knew that sexual fantasies were perfectly acceptable. Healthy. Even necessary!

Michael probably had them about Sandra Sully on Channel
10. Lyn often caught him smiling fondly back at the television while he watched the late news.

So the fantasies weren’t a problem. (In fact, their sex life had picked up recently. What did it matter if the credit went to Hank and Sandra?)

And the problem wasn’t that she and Hank were now e-mailing quite regularly. Hank was happily married. He wrote in rather dull detail about his wife and his two little boys. There was even talk of him coming to Sydney for business.

The betrayal was simply this:

She had just written an e-mail to Hank about her “little problem.”

Her secret little problem with parking lots.

It had happened twice more since the first time with Maddie. Once she was in an underground parking lot in the city, running late for a meeting. The next time she was doing the grocery shopping. Both times had been equally horrific. Both times she had been convinced, no, this time, I’m
really going to die.

Now, hilariously, she was avoiding parking lots—pretending that it suited her to walk an extra two blocks with a stroller and a laptop. She even found herself looking the other way when she drove
past
one. Oh, what’s that interesting billboard over there? she would think, swiftly turning her head, as if she could put one over on her sensible, sane self.

Nana Leonard, Maxine’s fragile, wispy mother, had been a nervous woman, or as Frank so delicately put it, “off her bloody rocker.” She became breathless and dizzy in shopping centers, and the older she got, the less and less she ventured out of her home. Nobody ever used the word “agoraphobia,” but it was there in the room with them, a silent, hulking presence, whenever they had a conversation about Nana. “She said she wouldn’t come to afternoon tea after all,” Maxine would say tersely. “Tummy bug.”

By Lyn’s calculations, when Nana died, she hadn’t left her house in two years.

Mental illnesses were hereditary. What if Lyn had been the one marked at birth to end up “off her rocker”? The one the wicked fairy godmother had cursed,
This one shall be the nut case!

She had to nip it in the bud!

And so, there were numerous, logical, justifiable reasons why she had chosen to share her little problem with an ex-boyfriend—someone she barely knew—out of all the people in her life.

For starters, Hank was American. Americans were more open about this sort of thing. They
liked
chatting about deeply embarrassing emotions. They loved weird phobias! There was no such thing as an Aussie Oprah.

Then there was Hank’s profession: He published self-help and self-development books. He spoke a language that most of the people in Lyn’s life found cringe-worthy. He could provide articles and facts and stats and lists of instructions.

Finally, there was the fact that Hank didn’t really know her. He didn’t know, for example, that Lyn was meant to be the sensible one, the calm one.

“There’s this special tranquillity about you,” Michael had said once, and she’d treasured that remark, especially when he followed it up with, “which is most definitely missing in your mad sisters!”

Hank didn’t know that Lyn had no right to feel anxious when everyone knew her life was so wonderful, while Cat’s was falling to pieces and Gemma couldn’t seem to make one.

It made perfect sense to tell someone on the other side of the world, someone who wouldn’t tease or guffaw or say with disappointment, “But that’s not like
you,
Lyn!”

“You haven’t published a book on parkinglotaphobia by any chance, have you?” she had written to Hank, trying to sound wry and self-deprecating, not panicky and weird.

She put her elbows on her desk, rested her head in the palms of her hands, and watched the little blue stripe zip across her computer screen.

“Lyn! Have you seen my mobile?” called out Michael.

She picked up the phone on her desk and dialed Michael’s mobile number.

“Don’t worry, honey!” There was a banging of feet. “I think I hear it ringing!”

“I have to say, these
tubby
creatures set my teeth on edge,” commented Maxine, as she helped Lyn decorate a giant, Teletubby-shaped birthday cake the night before Maddie’s second birthday.

“Gemma said she had nightmares after she watched Maddie’s latest video.” Lyn formed a licorice stick into a smile and pressed it down on the bright yellow icing. “She was being attacked by feral Teletubbies.”

“That child says the strangest things.” Maxine frowned distractedly at the garishly colored photo in the recipe book.

“That child is thirty-three.”

“Humph.”

Lyn opened a packet of M&M’s and observed her mother. She was leaning forward and a lock of red hair had escaped from behind her ear.

“I think I know what they’ve been up to,” Michael had whispered when Frank and Maxine came breezing into the house that evening, both of them looking giggly and pink.

“Are you growing your hair, Mum?” asked Lyn suddenly, suspiciously.

Maxine pushed her hair back behind her ear. “Just a little.”

“For Dad?”

“Don’t be silly.”

Oh, sure. Dad wanted his long-haired sixties babe back.

She changed the subject. “You know Cat’s not coming tomorrow? She hasn’t seen Maddie now for weeks, months even. I understand, but—”

“But you don’t.”

“No, I don’t at all! Her own niece’s birthday party. I told her that Maddie has been asking for her!”

That was the part she found inconceivable. It broke her heart to see Maddie’s head pop up hopefully when the doorbell rang. “My Cat?”

“A miscarriage and a marriage breakup in the space of a few weeks is a lot to handle. She adores Maddie. You know that.”

“I know.” Lyn scratched irritably at her neck and wondered if she was coming down with the flu. Her whole body felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

“Cat seems to think she’s lost her chance of having children,” said Maxine. “I think it genuinely hurts her to see Maddie.”

“She’s being overdramatic,” said Lyn. “She’s young enough to meet someone new and still have children. What’s she going to do? Avoid Maddie for the rest of her life?”

Maxine raised her eyebrows. “Lyn. She deserves a little slack right now.”

Lyn dotted M&M’s around the Teletubby’s head and thought, Well, I’ve been giving Cat slack her whole life. Just because you’ve suddenly turned into Doris Day.

She wondered whether her mother would disapprove if she knew she was trying to get pregnant again. Michael had convinced her that three months after Cat’s miscarriage was a long enough waiting period.

She’d agreed but with conflicting emotions. Besides feeling guilty about Cat, she sometimes wondered if she really did want another baby. How could her already overcrammed life cope?

Then she remembered the wonder of a wrinkly, wise little face, miniature fingernails, that exquisite clean-baby smell. And
then
she remembered cracked nipples, bleary-eyed 3-
A.M
. feeds, and the earsplitting scream of a baby who has been fed, changed, and burped and should therefore have no
reason to cry.

Oh, it was all so simple for Michael!

Maxine said, “Apparently Gemma and Cat are thinking of moving in together.”

Lyn looked up sharply. “How incredibly stupid. They’ll kill each other.”

“That’s what I said. But Cat wants to buy Dan out of the flat and Gemma could help her pay the mortgage. At least it would be more permanent than this house-sitting nonsense.”

“She likes house-sitting,” said Lyn, even though she’d said exactly the same thing herself before. “Gemma doesn’t have any money. I don’t see why she has to help pay off Cat’s mortgage.”

“Maybe if she has to pay rent she’ll be forced into taking on a proper full-time job. A career, for heaven’s sake,” said Maxine.

Lyn found herself passionately in favor of Gemma’s bohemian lifestyle. “Gemma doesn’t want a career!”

“Gemma doesn’t need a career.” Frank strolled into the kitchen and scraped a finger around the icing bowl. He and Michael had been giving Maddie a bath, and his short-sleeved shirt was drenched. “She’s making a mozza from this online trading stuff.”

“Really?” Lyn didn’t believe it. Gemma was always trying to impress Frank with outlandish stories.

“She does it all by intuition. Says it’s like roulette.”

“Ridiculous!” said Lyn and Maxine simultaneously.

“Did you two get into the bath with her?” asked Lyn as Michael appeared looking even wetter than Frank. Even his hair was wet.

“She kept throwing things at us,” he explained. “It was worth it because it put her in a good mood. I only had to listen to her read me
Good Night, Little Beartwice.”

Maddie had recently decided to take on responsibility for reading bedtime stories. She flipped the pages, babbling in perfect imitation of the excited up-and-down rhythms of her parents’ reading voices, sneaking little glances at them to make sure they were enjoying the story.

“Are you talking about Gemma’s shares?” asked Michael. “Because from what she’s said to me, I think her intuition is based on some pretty astute reading of the financial pages.”

Lyn and her parents stared at him in disbelief. That seemed even less likely.

“Gemma only pretends to be a ditz,” Michael told them. He looked at the cake and with his arms held close to his side and his hands splayed began to totter around saying in a squeaky voice, “Oooh, yummy!”

“What on earth is he doing?” asked Maxine.

“He’s being a Teletubby,” said Lyn. Frank, who had never seen the Teletubbies but didn’t like to miss an opportunity to be stupid, began to totter around in a similar fashion, while Maxine giggled.

Watching them, Lyn scratched viciously at something invisible on her arm and wondered if her parents had only pretended to hate each other for all those years.

“I must be such a bitch,” Lyn said later that night, after her parents had left and she and Michael were packing the dishwasher. “I can’t bear the fact that my parents are happy, and I’m sick of feeling sorry for Cat.”

“You’re a very sweet bitch,” said Michael. He stuck his thumbs and fingers out like a rap singer and waved his arms around, “Yo mah bitch.”

Lyn smiled and had a sudden memory of Cat and Dan dancing together at Michael’s fortieth. They were laughing their heads off while they parodied rap moves, but they were actually pretty good, their bodies loose and rhythmic.

“Actually, I do feel sorry for Cat,” she said, removing the dishwasher powder from Michael’s hands before he overfilled it. “Sometimes, it makes me want to cry.”

“O.K., I think I’m having trouble following this conversation.”

The day of Cat’s court case was when Lyn’s sympathy had first begun to fray around the edges.

Frank, Maxine, Nana Kettle, Lyn, and Gemma all came to give their support. The atmosphere, Lyn felt, was inappropriately festive.

Cat could have killed herself that night. She could have killed someone else. Drunk drivers killed people, for heaven’s sake!

Frank was especially cheery, bouncing around, hugging Cat to him, and telling her he’d arrange the breakout when she got sent to jail.

“Managed to get away from work, did you, Dad?” asked Lyn. “That’s nice.”

Very nice. He’d missed Lyn’s university graduation and Maddie’s christening because he couldn’t take time off work but Cat’s drink-driving charge—oh well, that was a special event.

“Quite a crowd here,” said Cat’s solicitor as she shook hands with each of them outside the courthouse.

“It’s a nice day out for us all!” beamed Nana Kettle.

“They’re giving her a penalty, Gwen,” said Maxine. “Not an award.”