What Alice Forgot (7 page)

Alice thought it was ugly. It was a big emerald set in the middle of a cluster of diamonds to look like a flower. It reminded her of a hibiscus for some reason and she’d never been a fan of the hibiscus, but what did she know, because every other girl in the world seemed to think the ring was
divine
, and apparently it was worth a small fortune.

And that was the other problem. This was the most expensive piece of jewelry Alice had ever owned, and Alice lost things. Constantly. She was always retracing her steps, emptying out garbage bins and calling up train stations, restaurants, and grocery stores to see if they had her purse or her sunglasses or her umbrella.

“Oh
no
,” said Elisabeth when she heard that Alice’s ring was an irreplaceable family heirloom. “You’ll just have to—I don’t know—get it surgically attached to your finger?”

Most of the time, except for special events or if she was seeing the Flakes, Alice just didn’t wear the ring. She wore her plain gold wedding band, or nothing at all. She’d never really been a jewelry sort of person anyway.

However, she loved the gold Tiffany bracelet. Unlike the ring, it seemed to represent all the wonderful things that had happened over the last few years—Nick, the baby, the house.

Now she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, laid her head back against the white hospital pillow, and held the backpack close to her stomach. The thought crossed her mind that there were probably a million bracelets just like this one around and it could just as easily belong to somebody else. It wasn’t like she recognized anything else in the bag, but she knew it was hers.

She was starting to get angry with herself.
Come on, now! Remember!
Furious, she shoved her hand back in the rucksack and pulled out a black purse. It was a long, luxurious rectangle of black leather. Alice turned it back and forth in her hands. “Gucci,” it said, in tiny discreet letters. Goodness. She opened the purse and the first thing she saw was her own face staring back at her from a driver’s license.

Her own face. Her own name. Her own address.

Well, here was the proof that the bag belonged to her.

The photo was typically blurry, but she could see she was wearing a white shirt and what looked like long black beads. Long beads? Had she become the sort of person who wore long beads? Her hair was cut in a bob just above her shoulders and it seemed to have been colored very blond. She’d cut her hair! Nick had once made her promise to never cut her hair. Alice had thought that exquisitely romantic, although Elisabeth had made gagging sounds when she told her and said, “You can’t promise to still have a fourteen-year-old’s hairstyle when you’re forty.”

When you’re forty.

Oh.

Alice put a hand up to the back of her head. She’d been vaguely aware that her hair was pulled back in a ponytail before; she hadn’t realized that it was actually more of a pigtail. She pulled out the elastic band and ran her fingers through her hair. It was even shorter than in the driver’s-license photograph. She wondered if Nick liked it. In a minute, she would have to be brave and face herself in the mirror.

Of course, she was still pretty busy at the moment. No hurry.

She put the license back in the wallet and began to rifle through it. There were various credit and ATM cards with her name embossed on the front, including a gold American Express card. Wasn’t a gold Amex just a status symbol for the sort of person who drives a BMW? Library card. Health Fund card.

A plain white business card for a Michael Boyle, “Registered Physiotherapist.” The address was in Melbourne. She flipped it over and saw a handwritten message on the back.

Alice,

We’re all settled and doing OK. I think of you often and “happier times.” Call anytime.

M. xxx

She dropped the card in her lap. What did this Michael Boyle mean when he presumptuously referred to “happier times”? She didn’t want to have had happier times with a physiotherapist in Melbourne. He sounded awful. She imagined a balding, paunchy type with soft hands and moist lips.

Where the bloody hell was Nick?

Perhaps Jane had forgotten to call him. She’d been acting so strangely at the gym. Alice should just phone him herself and explain that this was pretty serious and she really needed him to leave work right now. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Suddenly she was desperate to get herself a phone and hear Nick’s lovely, familiar voice. She had a strange feeling as if it had been ages since she’d spoken to him.

She looked feverishly around the small room and of course—there was no phone. There was nothing in the room at all, except for the basin, the mirror, and a sign about how to wash your hands correctly.

A mobile phone! That’s what she needed. She’d only recently got her first one. It was an old one belonging to Nick’s father and it worked fine, except that it had to be held together with an elastic band. Something told her that she would probably have a more expensive phone by now, and when she opened the zippered pocket at the front of the bag, she saw she was right; there was a tiny, sleek, shiny, silver phone sitting right there as if she’d known it would be. (Had she? She couldn’t tell.)

There was also a leather-bound day planner, which Alice opened quickly, just to confirm that it was indeed 2008, noting with sick wonder that her own handwriting filled the pages. “2008,” it said in no-doubt-about-it black letters at the top of each page: 2008, 2008, 2008 . . .

She stopped flipping the pages and picked up the shiny phone, breathing shallowly, as if a huge metal bar had been plonked across her chest.

Could she even work this strange phone? She was hopeless at working out how to use new appliances, but her elegantly manicured fingers seemed to know what to do, pushing the silver buttons on either side of the phone so it snapped open. She punched in the number for Nick’s direct line and held the phone up to her ear. It rang.
Please answer, please answer.
She felt like she would burst into sobs of relief at the sound of his voice.

“Hello. Sales Department!”

It was a young girl’s voice, frothy with good humor. Someone in the background was roaring with laughter.

Alice said, “Is Nick there at the moment? Nick Love?”

There was a slight pause. When the girl spoke again, she sounded as though she had just been sternly reprimanded. The laughter in the background stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, you’ve come through to the wrong extension, but I could put you through to Mr. Love’s personal assistant if you like.”

Alice paused, diverted by the fact that Nick had a “personal assistant.” How posh.

The girl continued, as if Alice had argued with her: “Mr. Love is actually in Portugal this week, so his PA would be the best person to help you.”

Portugal! She said, “What’s he doing in Portugal?”

“Well, it’s some sort of international conference, I think,” said the girl uncertainly. “But if I could just put you through—”

Portugal, and a personal assistant. He must have got a promotion. They’d have to have champagne!

Alice said (cunningly!), “Um, could you remind me of Mr. Love’s position with the company?”

“He’s our general manager,” said the girl in an everyone-in-the-worldknows-that tone.

Good grief.

Nick had the Motherfucking Megatron’s job.

That was more than one promotion. That was a giant superhero leap up the corporate ladder. Alice was filled with giggly pride at the thought of
Nick
strutting about the office, telling people what to do. Wouldn’t people just laugh at him?

“I’m putting you through to his PA now,” said the girl firmly. The phone clicked and began to ring again.

Another female voice answered smoothly. “Mr. Love’s office, this is Annabelle, how can I help you?”

“Oh,” said Alice. “This is Nick’s wife, ah, Mr. Love’s wife. I was trying to get hold of him, but, ummm . . .”

The woman’s voice turned razor sharp. “Hello, Alice. How are you today?”

“Well, actually . . .”

“As you’re aware, Nick isn’t back in Sydney until Sunday morning. Obviously if there is something that absolutely can’t wait, I can try to get a message through to him but I’d really prefer not to disturb him. His schedule is frantic.”

“Oh.” Why was this woman being so mean? She obviously knew her. What could Alice have done to make her dislike her so much?

“So, can it wait or not, Alice?” She wasn’t imagining it; this was real live hatred she was hearing. The pain in Alice’s head got worse. She wanted to say, “Hey, lady, I’m in hospital. I came here in an
ambulance
!”

“I wish you wouldn’t let people stomp all over you,” Elisabeth was always telling her. Sometimes, long after Alice had forgotten the incident, Elisabeth would say, “I was up all last night thinking about what that woman in the chemist’s said to you. I can’t believe you just
took it
—you’ve got no backbone!” Alice would drop to the floor, all jelly-like, to demonstrate her lack of backbone, and Elisabeth would say, “Oh for God’s sake.”

The problem was, Alice needed more warning when it came to being assertive. These sorts of situations were so unexpected. She needed hours to really think things through. Were they really being nasty, or was she just being sensitive? What if they’d just found out they had a terminal disease that morning and were entitled to be in a bad mood? She was about to mumble something pleading and pathetic to Nick’s PA when, against her will, her body began an unfamiliar sequence of actions. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. Her stomach muscles clenched. She spoke and didn’t recognize her own voice. It was taut and tart and decidedly snooty. “No, it can’t wait,” she said. “It is urgent. There has been an
accident
. Please ask Nick to call me as soon as possible.”

Alice couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d found herself doing a triple backflip.

The woman answered, “Fine, Alice, I’ll see what I can do.” Her contempt was still palpable.

“I’d appreciate it.”

Alice hung up and said, with the phone still to her ear, “Cow. Bitch.
Slut
.” She spat the words out of the side of her mouth, like poisonous pellets.

She swallowed. Now that was even more surprising; she sounded like a tattooed girl who quite liked the occasional catfight.

The mobile rang in her hand, making her jump.

It must be Nick, she thought, awash with relief. Once again, her fingers knew what to do. She pressed the button with the green phone symbol and said, “Nick?”

A child’s voice she’d never heard before said crossly, “Mum?”

Chapter 5

Frannie’s Letter to Phil

Dearest Phil,

I’m a little riled up today.

You’ll remember I mentioned I’d taken on the role of running the Social Committee. Well, for the last few months I’ve been arranging a Family Talent Night. It’s next Wednesday. Children, grandchildren, and so forth will be performing a variety of acts. Should be a fun night! In all honesty it will probably be excruciating, but it will be a diversion from our arthritis if nothing else.

(I was thinking today about the musical we organized together.
Oklahoma!
1972? 1973? You kissed me backstage and that sly little Frank Neary caught us. The news spread like wildfire: “Mr. Peyton and Miss Jeffrey are a couple. The school principal and the maths coordinator! Ooh, scandal! It just made everything even more delicious, didn’t it?)

Anyway, today we had a new resident turn up at the Social Committee meeting. I can’t recall his name. (See? Shocking memory!) I’ll call him Mr. Mustache because that’s his most defining feature: a comically large white mustache. It gives him the look of a retired usedcar salesman. Or perhaps a seedy Santa Claus.

Anyway, Mr. Mustache was full of suggestions.

We’re serving tea, coffee, sandwiches, pikelets, and scones on the family Talent Night. Standard fare for a function at a retirement village. Mr. Mustache piped up and suggested we set up a
cocktail bar
. Said he once spent a year bartending on some Caribbean island and that he could make a cocktail “guaranteed to blow my socks off.” I’m not joking, Phil. This is the way he talks.

I tried to explain about liquor licenses, but he was already on to a new topic. He said he knew a young girl who wasn’t exactly a family member, but would she still be allowed to perform? Of course, I said. He said that was wonderful because she did a very entertaining “pole dancing” act. All the men slapped their knees, roaring with laughter. (You wouldn’t have laughed, would you?)