Husband Sit (Husband #1) (19 page)

On
a normal day, I would have wallowed in that pain, but by that point I’d had
about as much bad feeling as I could take. My stomach was queasy from it. I
just wanted some bland food and a good night’s sleep.

I
also wanted Missy Lou to stop resenting my presence, but she was renowned for
carrying a snit interminably. As usual, if I wanted harmony, I’d have to create
it myself. Humble pie was probably my quickest option. I dropped my arms and
said, “I’m sorry, L. You’re a good friend and I’m a bitch.”

“True.”
She kept driving, and I waited for the rest. But it never came. I wasn’t sure
whether I wanted to be incensed or to laugh, until finally she added, “But that
won’t stop me doing what Fritha asks.
She’s
not a bitch.”

There
was no arguing with that. We all held Fritha up as our ideal, and whenever one
of us was fighting with the other, she brokered a peace. Most often, I was the
recalcitrant child being pulled into line. Maybe it was time to grow up.

“Anyway,”
I said, “despite your bad opinion of me, I appreciate you taking time out to
help me when I was...drunk.” I’d been about to say indisposed, but there was no
point in mincing words.

Missy
Lou said nothing for a while. Then reluctantly, she offered, “You’ve done the
same for me.”

“Not
in the last decade.”

She
nodded, her disapproving mouth softening for a second before she said, “Your
time will come.”

I
looked at her afresh. That had been decidedly cryptic. Was she saying I’d have
my turn at rescuing her from drunken oblivion? How likely was that? I ignored
the million dollar view of Sydney Harbor rushing by on my left to observe her.
“Do you drink now?”

“I’m
an alcoholic.”

She
kept driving, but the silence in the Bentley was suddenly impenetrable. Outside
the world rushed by, but I was cocooned by the ten star luxury of her ride and
my own shock.

She
lifted her chin. “A high-function alcoholic.”

“Of
course.” If there was a best sort of anything, Missy Lou would be that. “But
since when?”

“Since
I found out Marcus was gay.”

I
blinked, but it was all slow motion. In fact, I was sure I could see my
eyelashes lower and then rise again.

“Fuck.”

“Quite.”
She didn’t admonish me for swearing this time.

I
slumped back in the seat and stared blindly out the window, my brain too jangled
with flashes of memories and conversations and
What the fuck?
overlay to
make any sense. But I knew Missy Lou well enough to say, “I won’t tell a soul.”
I had no idea why she’d told me. We hadn’t been particularly close in the last
ten years. But I knew, sure as hell, that she wouldn’t be broadcasting this
news.

Crazily,
in the middle of all my jumbled thoughts, I heard Fritha’s imaginary voice
saying
Well, Missy Lou won’t be worried about your husband sitting job.

Nice
to have a positive. But shit, no wonder they hadn’t had children!

I
wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk about it, but Marcus was at home cooking and
I knew we were only minutes away, so I said, “Do you mean gay, or bi?”

“Gay.”

“But
you two—”

“The
sort of gay who pretends you’re a man so they can have sex with you.”

Fuck.

I
couldn’t even say it aloud. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t think past wanting
to go back in time ten years to slash the tires on his car so he’d never get to
the nightclub where they’d met. Life just wasn’t fair. Missy Lou was prickly as
hell—and the excuse for her increased prickliness over the last ten years was
obvious—but she’d always been a good friend and a decent human being. In her
own quiet way, behind the scenes, she’d organized the rescue of many a lame
duck and fallen sparrow. Myself included. She didn’t deserve this.

We
pulled into her street and I had to blurt, “You haven’t left him because...?”

“He
hasn’t been unfaithful.”

What?

I
turned in my seat to stare at her. I’d assumed...But how could she know...?

I
saw her swallow but she kept her eyes on the road. “I asked him why we had sex...in
a certain way.” She swallowed again, showing discomfort with the conversation
for the first time. “He told me.”

“How
long ago?”

“Six
years.”

“Fuck.”

We
pulled into her driveway and beyond her immaculate lawn and stately jacaranda
trees, I had a view of her ten million dollar historical mansion with its white
plaster walls, high pitched roof and gingerbread house shutters and trim. She
touched something on the dash and the automatic garage doors opened. We drove
inside and when the car had stopped beside a flashy silver Ferrari, she turned
to me and said, “Marcus is inside. He doesn’t know that I’ve told you. Please
try not to let on.”

“Of
course
.” I heard my own voice, sounding affronted that she even had to
say that, but I was so lost in the middle of this I actually felt like I needed
everything spelled out. “But who else knows?” That was important information,
because this was far too big a revelation for me to contain. If Frith knew, I
could phone her tonight and talk about it, get some perspective.

Missy
Lou took her sunglasses off and gazed at me for some time before she said, “You
and I and Marcus.”

Fuck.

I
couldn’t help blurting, “Why me?”

She
shook her head. “I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

That
slowed my pulse, and tiny pattering fingers of dread ran across my heart. This
wasn’t Louella. I was the impulsive one. She never took ill-considered action.
And telling a blabbermouth like me was definitely ill-considered.

“Jillian.”
Were her eyes glazed? God, was she drunk now? “I’m counting on you.”

“I
know.” I didn’t dare say
I won’t let you down
because my track record
didn’t back that up. “I’ll be as annoying as I usually am.”

She
nodded. “Good.” Then she reached past me to the glove box and opened it,
helping herself to the sunglasses case. When it was open, I realized it was a
tiny kit. She took out an eye whitener and put a drop in each eye. Then she
sprayed mouth freshener in her mouth and popped in two
Tic Tacs
before
retrieving a moist towelette and wiping her hands. I caught a sniff of mint on
that too before she balled it up and put it into a small plastic rubbish bag
inside the car’s console.

I
felt like a ghost, watching her silently as though she’d done this a thousand
times and had forgotten I was even there. But when the case was back in the
glove box and she’d straightened in her seat, she turned her head and smiled at
me—the fakest smile I think I’d ever seen—and said, “Show time.”

My
chest ached, and I couldn’t help blurting, “I love you, L.”

Her
smile softened. “I know.” Then she let herself out of the car and I had no
choice but to follow, not knowing what to expect. But exactly as had happened
in the dozen other times I’d come to stay with them, she led me out of the
garage into a hallway. Then we walked through their family room, the most
casual room in the house with comfy white Chesterfields you could actually sit
on for more than ten minutes, unlike the formal lounge with its ridiculously
stiff French-something carved chairs with floral chintz, and a chaise lounge
that was too hard to nap on.

Marcus
was in the black marble kitchen putting olives and cheese on a platter.

“Jillian!”
He looked delighted. “Short notice, but a happy surprise.” He didn’t sound the
slightest bit adverse, which was typical Marcus, always the gracious host.

Missy
Lou stepped into the kitchen and went to his side, and again I felt like a
ghost as he put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head.
The way he always did. Only this time, I noticed the vacant look in Missy Lou’s
eyes. I was staring at that, wondering how many times I’d missed it, when she
glanced across at me and raised an eyebrow.

I
suddenly realized I was standing there saying nothing, and now Marcus was
staring at me, all querulous eyebrows in his white shirtsleeves and expensive
herringbone trousers. He looked like he’d come straight from the bank, although
which branch would be anyone’s guess.

I
threw back my shoulders. “You know me, always turning up at the wrong time
looking for a handout.”

In
fact, I’d never asked them for money once, but Marcus liked to draw attention
to my lack of assets, albeit in a teasing manner which he probably imagined was
funny. I usually tried to get in first.

He
smiled the charming smile that looked so perfect on his always freshly-shaven
face. “I make it my life’s work to help the needy.”

“Out
of their life’s savings,” I shot back. The last thing I felt like doing was
bantering, but a quick glance at Missy Lou’s downturned mouth showed me I had
no choice. For the next ten minutes I traded insults, made him tell me how many
new businesses he’d acquired since I’d seen him last, and dug to see how
obscene their bank balance was, as if I cared. He never disclosed figures. He
was too well-bred for that. In his own way, Marcus had a lovely dignity about
him, an old world charm that I’d always imagined perfectly suited Louella. They
were like a power couple from
Mad Men
, his dark hair and chiseled jaw
contrasting nicely with her groomed, blond femininity.

At
last, Missy Lou pulled out of his embrace and picked up the cheese platter.
“Jillian’s leaving in the morning so I don’t have much girl-time, and I want to
hear gossip about the other two.” She placed a perfunctory kiss on his cheek.
“Dinner at eight, darling?”

He
frowned, looking momentarily disappointed, but I saw no signs of suspicion,
thank god, because I’m no actress. I shot him a final, “Don’t burn the dinner,”
jibe before I followed Missy Lou through the dining room with its Edwardian Oak
dining setting and stiffly buttoned red leather seats. French doors opened onto
her veranda and a view of Sydney Harbor that never failed to take my breath.

She
nodded at the antique sideboard and said, “Merlot.”

I
picked up a bottle and two glasses and followed her onto the veranda. When we
were installed on cane wingback chairs with the snacks on a low table between
us and our wine poured, she said, “So, how is Fritha?”

Something
about her stillness alerted me to the fact that Marcus might be eavesdropping,
so I said, “Fine. Great,” then realized how unrealistic that sounded, so I
quickly added, “For a grieving woman. Alec left her.”

For
a wookie
.

Missy
Lou merely arched a perfect brow. “Why?”

I
shrugged. “She wouldn’t say, but I’m guessing it was another woman. You know
what it’s like, they always go younger.”

“Indeed.”

I
felt as if we had to keep acting so I said, “We got drunk and I left the next
morning.”

Missy
Lou smiled politely, then started telling me about her latest visit to Ange who
lived less than an hour away in the respectable middle-class suburb of
Parramatta.

I
smiled and nodded at the antics of Ange’s cats—Pixie and Mixie—and was
appropriately impressed with Danny’s pay rise at the radio station where he
sold advertising. Ange had apparently stopped singing on Friday nights at the
local club –and that made me sad. It had been her only creative outlet. Growing
up, she’d been the Bollywood Queen of Dakaroo, and we’d all expected her to
make it big as a diva. Instead, she’d married a local boy from another Indian
family who’d taken her to Sydney to pursue his dream of owning a radio station.

As
well as being selfish, Danny was a terrible flirt, but I assumed he’d settled
down by now, and none of us had any evidence that he’d actually cheated on her.
He just liked to think he was sexy, when in reality he was an overgrown Indian
version of Donny Osmond. Half the time Fritha and I called him Donny instead of
Danny, but he was too wrapped up in his own world to notice.

I
devoured the cheese platter and Missy Lou drank the wine. I’d had one sip of
mine and it had felt sour all the way down, so I’d discretely slid it behind a
potted Cyclamen on the table. She didn’t seem to notice. At no point did she
lower her guard, so my further questions about her situation went unanswered.

Just
after eight, Marcus called us to dinner—he was a great cook and never seemed to
mind the task—and by nine, my belly was full of his fabulous cauliflower and
Brie risotto. After a leisurely shower, I tucked myself into the antique walnut
four-poster bed in what I thought of as ‘my’ guestroom, wearing a borrowed
nightgown from Missy Lou—an Oscar de la Renta number that had probably cost her
five hundred bucks.

As
I stared up at the Irish linen canopy above my head, I didn’t know what to
think. So much had happened. Too much had happened. This time last night, I’d
been on fuck number sixty-eight with Simon. Since then I’d bum-fucked a
twenty-two year old, overdosed on alcohol, kissed Finn and pushed him away
irrevocably, and found out that one of my three best friends was living a
terrible lie.