Forbidden Fruit (4 page)

‘It’s the best –’

‘No, it’s not. And you’ll change your mind anyway. Wait till you’re holding that little baby, wait till you look into his eyes, feel his little fingers curl around yours: you’ll change your mind.’ Amy picked up her penknife and sliced the two untouched halves of her muffin into quarters, and then eighths. The knife scraped against the plate. She looked back at Lucy, her eyes shining. ‘Even if you don’t change your mind, then Jasper certainly will. He just doesn’t realise, doesn’t fully understand … and this might be his only chance.’

She ducked her head with these last words, and I suddenly realised that she knew; she might be trying to convince herself that it wasn’t the case, but deep down she knew. The young council worker exited the pub, carrying takeaway coffee containers. He sent us a genial smile as he manoeuvred his way through the tables, but nobody smiled back.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucy. ‘I really am. But this is for the best.’

‘I don’t accept that.’ Amy pushed her plate away, the muffin now in crumbs.

I sympathised. I wasn’t particularly enamoured of the woman, but I could appreciate that the last twenty-four hours must have seemed something of a rollercoaster. First her son informed her that he was gay, before following with the somewhat contradictory news that she was about to become a grandmother. The enormity of the latter news, at least, was evidenced by the fact Amy had then driven a couple of hours for confirmation, only to discover that yes, there was indeed a child, but no, it would not be part of her life.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucy again.

‘I don’t understand.’ Amy shook her head. ‘I don’t accept this.’

‘I know it’s a lot to take in.’ I took her plate and placed it on the tray at the end of our table. ‘But perhaps you should be talking to your son. I believe he’s totally behind the decision. I’m sure he can explain the reasoning for you.’

She was staring at me. ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right.’ She stood abruptly, the chair skittering back across the concrete. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’

‘Oh, okay. That’s –’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She transferred her gaze to Lucy, and then Lucy’s stomach. ‘Look after yourself … please. I’ll be in touch.’

We both watched, a little stunned, as she departed briskly, making her way around the corner towards the main street. After she had disappeared from sight, I turned back to Lucy, but she was already texting. I took a muffin.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mum.’ Lucy’s thumbs were flying. ‘I’m just filling Jasper in.’

I nodded as I ate. Over by the kerb, the workmen were now positioning a ladder against the street sign. The older of the two, his balding head gleaming in the dappled sunshine, climbed solidly up the ladder and began using a high-pitched power tool to loosen the bolts holding the sign. It sounded like a dentist’s drill on steroids. This activity had been commonplace around Majic for months now, with many of the references to Sheridan being replaced by monikers that more accurately, and deservedly, reflected our history.

‘I thought they were supposed to poll the residents first,’ I said, annoyed.

‘Maybe they tried to.’ Lucy glanced up for a moment. ‘Before we moved in.’

‘It wouldn’t have been too hard to check the rates register. They’d better not be calling it something stupid.’

The older workman passed the unbolted sign to his colleague and then climbed down the ladder. He propped himself against the tray of the ute and lit a cigarette, staring into the distance as if lost in philosophical contemplation.

‘You working today?’ asked Lucy, placing her phone on the table and taking a muffin. ‘At Renaissance, I mean.’

I nodded, took a breath. ‘And you’re still sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay then.’ I went back to watching the workmen. ‘They don’t exactly set a cracking pace, do they? I’m in the wrong business.’ I sighed. ‘So what did Jasper say?’

‘Hasn’t answered. He’ll sort it out though.’ Lucy shrugged. ‘I did feel sorry for her, but.’

‘Save your sympathy. I have a feeling we haven’t heard the last of Mrs Stenhouse.’

The younger workman was examining a clipboard. He removed a new sign from the back of the ute and compared it to something written there, then tossed the clipboard into the cab. His companion ground out his cigarette and climbed back up the ladder.

‘You worry too much,’ said Lucy around a mouthful of muffin.

‘And you don’t worry enough.’

My mobile vibrated against the table, the sound quickly drowned by the workmen’s drill. I glanced at the phone and grimaced at the sight of my mother’s name. Although my main employment was as a columnist for a metropolitan newspaper, and the management of a connected online blog, I also spent Mondays working in my mother’s bookshop. It made a pleasant change from the more solitary nature of my writing, and forced me to get dressed at least once a week, however it also had some pitfalls. Numbers one, two and three being working with my mother. Although considering it was now almost nine-thirty, she probably had cause for complaint on this occasion. I switched the phone off.

‘Um … have you seen what the sign says, Mum?’

I looked up. The sign was at an angle, extending from the other side of the pole, so I leant forward and then froze. Nell Forrest Close. That couldn’t be right.

Lucy was laughing. ‘Did you know about this?’

‘Do I
look
like I knew about it?’ I jumped to my feet and strode over to where the workmen were now packing up. ‘Hey, you have to take that down!’

‘What?’ said the younger man, taking a step back.

‘That sign.’ I waved towards the offending item. ‘It needs to come down. I never gave my permission. It’s got my name on it!’

He blinked. ‘Your name is Nell Forrest Close? Are you shitting me? That’s amazing!’

‘Shut up, you idiot,’ said his older companion. He threw the superseded sign into the ute tray and turned to me. ‘So if it’s named after you, lady, what’s your problem? It’s a compliment, ain’t it?’

‘No, it’s not. It’s an imposition. And you have to take it down.’

‘I just thought it was about a
forest
.’ The younger man was still focused on the name issue. ‘Like trees and stuff, you know. With one of them spaces where you can sit down.’

I stared at him. ‘Are you talking about a
dell
?’

‘Who’s Adele?’

The older one was still packing up. ‘Sorry if you’re not happy, but that’s got nothing to do with us, I’m afraid. Just doin’ our job. You’ll have to take it up with the council.’

‘Can’t you just take it down? Swap them over again?’

‘No can do.’ He shook his head. ‘Not on the job description. Sets a precedent.’

‘I hardly think you’re going to have a wave of people demanding you swap signs.’

‘You never know,’ he said darkly. ‘Contact the council, that’s your best shot.’

I watched furiously as he secured the ladder and they both clambered into the ute. Moments later the music started up again, with a beat that seemed to reverberate against my temples. They drove off with a spray of gravel, leaving me to stare at the sign. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lucy taking photos. Nell Forrest Close. Even apart from the fact I had no desire for notoriety, there was something supremely egocentric about having one’s name on a street where you owned the only property. And besides, Nell Forrest
Close
? It sounded more like a personal warning.

By the time I settled myself in the back room of Renaissance, among the laybys and newly-arrived stock, I had decided that the council was not the best place to start. Too much bureaucracy. Instead, I used the mobile to ring my friend Deb Taylor, who had been a council officer until she had taken up the position of manager of Kata House the previous year. She was also on numerous committees and advisory boards as well as being a direct descendant of our founding family. Not that this latter was terribly unique; recent branches had propagated so furiously that nowadays you couldn’t move around Majic without tripping over a direct descendant or two. Rather more uniquely, she also happened to be the sister of my husband’s new partner. However, this was a subject we tended to avoid. She answered on the third ring.

‘Kata House. Deb Taylor.’

‘
Please
tell me you didn’t know.’

‘… isn’t in at the moment, but if you leave a
brief
message after the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’

I took a deep breath and then left a lengthy message because that’s the type of mood I was in. After I hung up, I tapped my fingernail against the metal casing of the mobile. I did have access to the direct line for the mayor, James Sheridan, except direct in his case meant it went through at least three of his administration staff before you even had a chance to leave a message. Sure enough, ten minutes later I was recording my grievance on his voicemail.

‘Any chance you could join us sometime?’ asked my mother from the doorway. ‘Not that I mind paying while you socialise but things are a little busy. And take off your hat inside.’

‘You’re not going to believe this but they’ve renamed my street.’

She regarded me for a few moments. ‘I’m not sure why you continue to make these sweeping statements. Why wouldn’t I believe that? Even apart from the fact that they have been renaming streets for the past few months, I would hope that if you were inclined to make something up, then you would bring more imagination to bear. Particularly when all I need to do to disprove the statement is to wander down to the end of the road.’

‘What?’ I was staring at her. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Suffice to say I’m not particularly interested in the renaming of your road, or the credibility of your story. Although perhaps you could bring the tale out into the shop and regale customers with it as you make chitchat. Do try to keep all the twists and turns to a minimum, though; we don’t want to overexcite them. What happened with that woman?’

‘What’s the matter with you? Did you forget to take your human pills this morning?’

‘Now there’s another statement that makes little –’

‘She’s gone home,’ I interrupted. The best way of coping with my mother when she was in this mood was to get it over and done with, like cough syrup. The only other option was illegal.
Nell Forrest Close to matricide. Totally understandable, say police.
‘She’s going to try to talk her son out of the adoption.’

‘I see. And what does Lucy say about all this?’

‘She seems to think it’ll be fine. That Jasper will calm her down and that’ll be that.’

Yen was shaking her head slowly. ‘She’s fooling herself.’

My mobile lit up and a split second later started to rumble against the table. Deb Taylor’s name scrolled across the screen. ‘Sorry, Yen, I just need to sort this. I’ll be out directly.’

‘Oh, please take your time. I’m only sorry we don’t have more staff so that someone could bring you a coffee.’

I waited until she shut the door before answering. ‘Hello?’

‘Just returning your call, Nell.’ Deb’s voice held an undercurrent of amusement. ‘Which I’ve rather been expecting.’

‘Then why didn’t you warn me? I mean, Nell Forrest Close? Are you
kidding
me?’

‘It was James’s idea. He thought it was a fitting accolade to the celebrity in our midst.’

‘That’s only because this town is short of
real
celebrities. Probably because they name streets after them without permission.’

‘He wanted to surprise you. Swore us all to secrecy.’

‘Well, that bit worked.’ I took off my hat to better position the mobile against my ear. ‘But if you knew, why didn’t you talk him out of it? You must have known I’d hate it!’

‘I did try, along with several others at the meeting. Rita Hurley even said she only used your column to line her cat-litter tray. Oh god! Please don’t let on I told you that! What the hell is wrong with me? Seriously, my mouth is like blah, blah, blah –’

‘But how do I get rid of it?’

‘Do you hate it
that
much? I thought you’d sort of get used to it.’

‘Not a chance. It’s egotistical and intrusive and just daft. Nell Forrest Close? It sounds like a community service alert.’

Deb laughed. ‘Danger, danger, Will Robinson.’

‘Precisely. So …?’

‘So … hmm. I suppose you’ll have to put all that in writing and then submit …’ She petered off. ‘Look, just leave it with me, Nell; I’ll speak to James and see if we can cut through the red tape. But are you sure?’

‘I have rarely been surer of anything in my life.’

‘Okay then, leave it with me.’

We ended the conversation with a promise to meet up soon. I resolved to buy her dinner if she could sort it out promptly. Barely had I hung up when a text message bleeped through from Quinn, asking if I had enough time to drop off her black three-quarter leggings without the hole in the crotch. I tucked the mobile inside my hat and then stored both with my handbag on the layby shelf.

In the shop, Sharon, my mother’s offsider, was leaning against the counter talking with Lucy. Yen was nowhere to be seen. Neither were any customers. They were probably all celebrating Australia Day, like normal people.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be on maternity leave?’ I asked Lucy. Her navel piercing was imprinted against the thin material of her cheesecloth top. It looked like her belly had a ring-top pull, right at the apex of the swelling, and all that was required was a good yank and it would all be over.

‘Stop staring at my stomach, Mum, it’s creepy. Anyway, I’m bored. So I thought I’d follow you down and see if anything needed doing.’

‘Dead as a doornail, I’m afraid.’ Sharon clapped her hand to her mouth and then pushed forward to grab my arm, her orange T-shirt straining against her pillowy chest. ‘God, sorry! I’m such a dick! How
are
you?’

It took me a moment to realise that Sharon was referring to the skeletal remains in my backyard. This came as a bit of a jolt. ‘Fine, thanks.’

‘It must have been such a shock! How awful! I can’t imagine what I would have done if that was me, finding body parts scattered over my property.’

‘Well, they weren’t exactly scattered –’

‘At least not before Mum found them, anyway,’ added Lucy.

Sharon frowned, but before she could inquire further, the shop phone rang. She moved away to answer it. I took Lucy by the elbow and steered her towards Historical Romance. ‘Have you rung Jasper?’

‘I told you, Mum, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘And I told you, I think you’re wrong.’

The shop bell rang and a young woman came in, pulling a stroller behind her. The plump, curly-haired occupant clung to the sides as if not entirely confident in the navigational skills on offer. I turned back to Lucy and instantly recognised the expression on her face. My eyes widened. ‘You’re
not
sure.’

She blinked. ‘Of course I am.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I
am
!’ She was starting to sound cross. ‘You always think you know everything, but you don’t!’

‘Actually, you’re completely wrong there. It’s more like the opposite.’

‘Whatever.’ She gave me a disdainful look and then flounced away, not an easy achievement when one is heavily pregnant.

I watched her go, still taken aback by that expression. I remembered it well. An almost palpable mix of wonder and anticipation, with the only difference being that, in Lucy’s case, it had been tinged with wistfulness. Or maybe the latter was just me, projecting.

*

All thoughts of Lucy were pushed to one side with the arrival of my book group after lunch. This eclectic mix of women paid a nominal fee to meet every Monday afternoon, spending about twenty minutes discussing the chosen text before moving on to an hour and a half of themed show and tell. If the genre of that week’s book had been supernatural, then the discussion would be about séances, and poltergeists, and the widely-held belief that the recently deceased Edward Given was now haunting the stairwell of Kata House. If the genre was historical, then the conversation would turn to genealogy and family trees and how wonderful it would have been to live in Jane Austen’s time, while if the genre was romance, then the sharing would be of romantic gestures, and proposals, and that fellow who had all the affairs and then ended up leaving his wife and five daughters. At which point it would be realised that the fellow was my ex-husband, and the wife was me. Then would come the obligatory awkward silence, broken only by shuffling feet and old Betty Rawlings plaintively asking, ‘What? What happened? Why has everyone gone quiet?’

The nominated book today was
The Best Man
by Di Blacklock. It must have struck a chord because, even though the public holiday meant we had a substantially smaller group than usual, a lively discussion had ensued before everybody was even seated. I peeled the cling wrap from a platter of pastries supplied by the cafe and then made myself a coffee from the urn. Lyn Russo came up to stand by me. A cloud of musky perfume came with her.

‘Oh, Nell, how
traumatic
for you! How absolutely dreadful!’

‘It’s only coffee,’ I replied wittily. ‘I’m sure I’ll survive.’

‘No, I mean the skeleton! In your backyard!’

‘If you’re going to dig up something,’ said Kat Caldwell, ‘you should make it buried treasure or something like that. Bones really aren’t terribly useful.’

‘I imagine the original owner would disagree there,’ commented Sally Roddom. ‘Speaking of whom, do they know who it is?’

‘It’ll be an old gold prospector,’ said Rita Hurley, already ensconced in a chair. I was a little surprised to see her there, as she was not a regular. Probably because of the wobbly relationship she had with my mother, and the somewhat less wobbly one between my mother and Rita’s husband. It was no secret that Jim Hurley, my Uncle Jim, adored my mother and had done for many years, and it was also no secret that the Hurley marriage was not overly happy. None of which added up to a situation where the two women, despite living next door to each other, would deliberately seek each other out.

I shook my head. ‘Could be, but I haven’t heard anything.’

Betty Rawlings was waving her book. ‘Are we going to talk about this? I read it this week!’

‘Let me guess, nicely nuanced characterisation,’ muttered Kat, following me over to the circle of chairs.

I sat down, nursing my coffee, and smiled at Betty. She was a plump mound of a woman, with breast, waist and thighs all seemingly symmetrical. She also appeared to have her dove-grey shirt on inside out. ‘So what did you think?’

‘Well, to sum up: nicely nuanced characterisation, realistic dialogue, multi-layered yet accessible plot. I give it a four out of five.’

This review would have been quite impressive if not for the fact Betty used the same words to describe every book that she actually finished, which was about one in three. After which she would sit nodding sagely for about thirty minutes until she fell asleep. She was the only person I knew who was literally able to nod off.

‘That’s wonderful. Glad you enjoyed it.’

‘So did I,’ put in Sally. ‘Thoroughly enjoyable read.’

Rita was nodding, although she was the only one without the book in her hands. ‘Ditto.’

Grace June Rae came bustling in, two plastic shopping bags bumping awkwardly against her walking stick. She lowered herself into a spare chair beside Betty Rawlings. ‘Hello, everyone! Sorry I’m late. Betty, you’ve got your shirt on backwards.’

‘I have? How?’

‘But I have a very good reason,’ continued Grace, beaming proudly. ‘I popped around to listen to the press conference about Nell’s bones. Well, not yours
personally
, Nell, just those ones you found.’

‘Thanks for clearing that up,’ I replied. ‘And first I heard about any press conference.’

‘My cousin told me. Her boy works for the local paper. It was at your house, you know. Well, next to it, on that vacant block. Are those éclairs over there?’

‘So what did they say?’ asked Lyn Russo, leaning forward. ‘Any news?’

‘Real whipped cream or that mock rubbish?’

Kat laughed. ‘Real. And tell you what, I’ll get you an éclair
and
a cup of tea if you fill us in.’

‘Deal. Betty, what
are
you doing?’

‘Fixing my shirt, of course,’ replied Betty crossly. She was undoing buttons, displaying pouchy folds of a surprisingly lacy brassiere. In one smooth movement, she slipped the shirt off altogether and then took her time turning it around the right way. Her skin was pale and plump. Muffled laughter greeted her efforts.

‘Good god, Betty,’ said Grace June Rae, examining her friend critically. ‘That’s a good sight more of you than I figured on seeing today.’

‘Or any day,’ said Rita. She winked at me.

Kat brought over a cup of milky tea and a serviette-enfolded éclair. ‘Okay, Grace, moving on from the floorshow, you need to fulfil your end of the deal. Any news on Nell’s bones?’

I took a sip of my coffee, pretending nonchalance. In reality, even greater than my considerable curiosity was a sense of annoyance that the press conference should have been held beside my house without notification. This, I was quite sure, wouldn’t have happened had Ashley been in charge.