Other People’s Diaries (5 page)

R
ebecca closed Sam's bedroom door and trudged down the hallway. Every part of her was weary, from her gritty eyes to her aching soles.

She paused in the doorway to her and Jeremy's bedroom.

Once again the tidying fairy hadn't appeared.

All the children's stories proclaimed that you had to really believe in something to see it. Rebecca believed, with every fibre of her body, in a good spirit that would restore her house to order when she wasn't there. But the doona cover was still crumpled at the foot of the bed. The sheets which should have been changed a week ago were still dirty and lying in uneven hillocks across the mattress.

Rebecca had met Jeremy through a friend who worked with him at a stockbroking firm. She had been actively avoiding romance since her last boyfriend had disappeared after a run-in with her daughter Bianca. Rebecca had walked into the kitchen one Sunday morning to hear a then ten year old Bianca commenting that the best thing about having Charlie sleep over was wondering which revolting shade of pastel his polo shirt would be the next morning. Things had declined rapidly after that.

Jeremy had been living in Hong Kong before he and Rebecca met. Friends had muttered dire predictions. Apparently any
unattached man in Hong Kong was single for a very good reason, which might or might not be immediately obvious. Unable to commit, used to a smorgasbord of women, preferring the company of mates to a demanding partner.

If Jeremy's reason existed, Rebecca was yet to find it. He was unremarkable looking. As you might expect a spy to be. Average height, average build, brown eyes and hair … Nothing about him that would particularly stick in your mind. Except if you got him into bed that was …

Several days after they'd met, Jeremy had called Rebecca at work and they'd met for a drink. The next week, dinner, and the week after that, dinner and a movie … Rebecca had tried to prepare him for Bianca and the two had met briefly on a couple of occasions. She had put it off as long as possible, but after several months he spent the night at home with her.

Jeremy had showered and dressed before her on the Saturday morning. Watching him walk out toward the kitchen, Rebecca had felt rather like a Roman sending a Christian out to a pack of ravenous lions.

Rebecca had taken her time getting ready, preparing herself for the worst. But she'd found both Jeremy and Bianca sitting at the kitchen table, each calmly reading part of the Saturday paper. Neither of them had ever disclosed what had occurred that morning, but Jeremy's calm and easy relationship with Bianca had continued.

If the joking complaints of Rebecca's friends' husbands were halfway correct, regular marital sex was a pretty rare commodity. Admittedly she and Jeremy had only been together for five years, but their time behind the tight-fitting bedroom door was something special and fundamental to their marriage. That had continued through her pregnancy and Sam's baby days.

Rebecca's eye caught on the paperback angled across the bedside table. Reading had been one of her pleasures once. But her old favourites – writers like Vikram Seth and Ian McEwan – had been unable to withstand the exhausted ten-minute read Rebecca would throw at them each night before she could no longer keep her eyes open. Now it was back to airport thrillers – where it
didn't matter if you read something twice, or missed a couple of chapters.

Just for a moment, she pictured kicking off her shoes and lying down on the unmade bed. She would pick up the book, read for half an hour and then fall asleep with it sitting on her chest. But that would mean ignoring dinner for Jeremy and Bianca and the two hours of work she needed to have done before she sat down at her desk tomorrow.

Did everyone's idea of nirvana sink so low, she wondered.

She unbuttoned her blouse slowly, dropping it in the wash basket. The skirt went into the dry-cleaning pile and Rebecca pulled on a pair of threadbare jeans and a deep musk T-shirt.

With one last look at the novel, whose plot she couldn't even bring to mind, she left the room and headed back to the kitchen.

Despite the fact that Rebecca knew exactly what was, or more to the point, what wasn't, in the fridge, she opened it. Perhaps the tidying fairies had left a slowly stewed casserole instead of making the beds today.

No … the only thing that vaguely resembled the makings of a meal was a slab of mince which should have been eaten days ago.

Jeremy's parents couldn't come until the following day and so Sam had spent the day with one of Rebecca's friends. As kind as her friend had been about looking after Sam, Rebecca had felt guilty and had rushed to pick him up soon after five o'clock. Sam hadn't wanted to come home and had thrown a tantrum when Rebecca tried to strap him into his car seat. Unable to face stopping at the supermarket with a screaming child, Rebecca had driven straight home.

Rebecca's hand hovered over the mince for a moment. Who had ever heard of people getting food poisoning from bad mince? Prawns maybe, or chicken. But not good old hormone-crammed mince. It would probably last another month or so without any problems.

Botulism aside, nothing great was ever created out of mince. Maybe in Delia Smith or Jamie Oliver's worlds. But in her world
it meant spaghetti bolognese or tacos. Neither of which she had ever particularly liked.

But tacos would require some kind of salad accompaniment, which ruled that out. Spaghetti it was. Again … And for Bianca, who at sixteen had already been a vegetarian for two years, bolognese sauce without the mince. Wearily Rebecca pulled the necessary cans from the pantry and started dinner.

It's kind of sad to be writing two entries before I even receive my first email
.

‘Too much time on her hands … She needs a job; no children, you know …'

I actually found myself lying about what I did the other day. Someone asked me how I passed my time. For some bizarre reason I heard myself saying airily that I do charity work. Which is a lie. It sounded good though
.

I didn't set out to be a cliché. If ten years ago I'd had to describe what I'd be doing now, I would have said I'd be run off my feet with a house full of children. Flipping pikelets for afternoon tea and buying those huge packets of cereal which would take Peter and me a year to eat by ourselves. But here I am, still waiting for that houseful of children …

I've just re-read what I wrote and almost deleted it. But I didn't. At least everyone else will look incredibly balanced compared to me
.

C
laire spread the A3 plans out in front of her. The table, which had come from their last house, was all stainless steel and glass and looked ludicrous against the old hardwood deck. But that was all about to change. The architect's design was great.
The kitchen and the deck would disappear, to be replaced by a glass pavilion which would hover over the backyard.

The security door gave off a metallic clunk. Claire scraped her chair backwards, taking brief pleasure from not having to worry about damaging the floorboards. ‘Hi,' she called out.

Peter walked down the hallway and gave her a half-hearted smile. Reaching the deck, he slumped into a chair beside her. Claire had realised several months ago that Peter no longer kissed her hello or goodbye. She couldn't put her finger on exactly when he had stopped, but the lack of that perfunctory kiss cut her every morning and every afternoon.

‘Ah, the plans,' Peter said, looking at the pages on the table.

‘They're fantastic,' Claire enthused. She pushed the papers in front of him. ‘Have a look – this area out here will be amazing.'

Peter glanced at them briefly. ‘Uh huh. And has he given you any ideas on how much it will all cost?'

‘Not really, but I think it might be a bit more than we originally planned.'

‘Jesus, Claire!' Peter jerked his head to the side, not looking at her.

After a moment he turned back to her. ‘Money does not grow on trees, you know. If the renovation costs are higher, we have to push our mortgage out further. You don't seem to have noticed, but my income is only just covering the mortgage repayments as it is. And if interest rates go up again, we're going to be in serious trouble – even without a bloody renovation.'

The words were delivered with a cold, closely reined fury. There was no trace of familiarity on his face and Claire felt the sharp pang of isolation again. She'd been stupid to show Peter the plans now. He was still barely talking to her after last Friday night.

Claire had been taken aback when Alice had left the bar straight after telling them her idea. But gradually the awkward silence had loosened and conversation had flowed. Claire had quickly felt drunk, the sense of doing something for herself like a double shot of vodka. Rebecca had left early, but Claire had decided to have just half a glass more.

She remembered quite clearly thinking she really should get going – she couldn't miss her own dinner party. And then the guy – was it Kerry? – had picked up yet another champagne bottle and silently offered it to her, eyebrows raised in question. She'd hesitated, then nodded.

After that, she'd pretended not to hear her mobile ringing or see the screen flashing,
Home
.

By the time she left the bar, she knew she was in serious trouble. Unable to find a taxi she had driven home to save time.

The key had refused to fit into the front door and she had been on her third attempt when Peter had wrenched it open.

‘Where have you been? I've been worried sick.'

Claire's first thought had been that he didn't look worried – just furious. She'd felt like a fifteen year old who'd stayed out past curfew. She had barely managed to suppress a giggle. ‘Um, out.' Even she could hear the laughter in her voice and she bit the inside of her cheek, feeling even more like a delinquent teenager.

She'd pushed clumsily past Peter and strode into the entertaining area. ‘Where is everyone?'

From where she'd stood, she could see that the kitchen was a disaster. Judging by the trail of debris, Peter had attempted to make the risotto and it hadn't gone well. So not well, in fact, that it seemed he'd decided on a Plan B. Greasy cardboard pizza boxes were strewn all over the suede caramel couches. Any other time Claire would have been horrified, but she had calmly pushed one of the boxes onto the floor and sat down.

Peter had suddenly looked genuinely concerned. He'd sat down on the opposite sofa. ‘They went home half an hour ago. Are you all right?'

‘I'm great.'

‘Claire, where were you?'

‘I told you. I was having drinks with Alice Day.'

Peter hadn't even glanced at his watch. ‘It's almost ten-thirty. You said you'd be home two hours ago.'

Guilt had snuck past the alcohol and Claire had started to feel bad. She'd felt the bubble of happiness leaking out of her. ‘For
God's sake, Peter. This is not a national disaster. I was having a good time, I got carried away.'

‘Yeah well, while you were getting carried away, I was left looking like an idiot. I had to order pizza.'

It was pretty obvious she'd done the wrong thing. She'd known she'd feel desperately bad later, but right then she hadn't.

‘Okay, I'm sorry. I'll call them all tomorrow and say …' her imagination had failed her, ‘… something.'

Peter had sworn under his breath. ‘Right, “something” will really help.'

‘I really am sorry, Peter.'

‘Not as sorry as I am. How much did you spend?'

‘Spend? Nothing. I told you it was free.'

‘With you, nothing is free.'

And then they'd gone down the same old path.

Finally Peter had stormed off to sleep in the spare room. Claire had opened the most expensive bottle of wine she could find and sat down to fill in the questionnaire.

Claire looked at Peter now, cursing herself for not putting the plans away for a more opportune time. She'd been so excited about them she'd not thought of the possibility that Peter might not be enthusiastic.

‘But we talked about this and agreed it was what we wanted. Maybe it won't cost more anyway,' she managed weakly.

Peter leaned his elbows on the table, hands across his eyes. After a moment he looked up at her. ‘Yes I agreed, because house renovation is the only thing in this world besides having a baby that seems to interest you. But it's a goddamn expensive hobby.'

His last words dropped into silence.

The money complaint was a well-used one, Claire's spending habits having always been a source of irritation to Peter. But in all these years of her not working she'd believed the time she spent renovating and decorating their houses had been worthwhile.

Claire willed him silently to stop, but Peter had obviously been stewing over this for a while and now the words tumbled out, unstoppable.

‘It was bearable in Tasmania. Everything was cheap and the market was rocketing anyway. But it's different now. This place cost twice the one in Hobart and we still haven't started on your fancy architect's plans.'

He pushed the plans fiercely and they skidded off the table and onto the floor.

Claire felt the hurt swell inside her. She'd actually believed this was something she was contributing to their finances. She hadn't had a job, but she'd worked hard at their renovations. Managing the renovation work and then doing the interior decorating had been her responsibility. She truly believed that she had done it well and that it was her input that had made their properties in Hobart sell so quickly.

Claire looked down at the buckled plans and back at Peter. ‘So you want to stay here, like this?' She gestured vaguely at the house.

‘You know, I don't actually care,' Peter said. ‘It's perfectly fine. People have lived in it in this state for years – it doesn't have to be all modern and beautiful just to impress our friends. If we had any friends, that is.'

‘Perhaps we should have stayed in Hobart,' Claire said glibly.

Peter looked at her levelly. ‘You know, perhaps we should have.'

Claire looked back at him in surprise. The move to Brisbane had been Peter's idea.

Claire had adjusted to living away from Brisbane years ago. Her father had been dead for a long time and her mother had recently moved to country New South Wales with her new husband. Claire had no brothers and sisters and her friends had dropped off steadily during her years away. Coming back here was almost like starting in a totally new city.

But she'd done it because Peter had been so enthusiastic about a physiotherapy practice up here which had a partnership for sale. There was another reason too, one that neither of them had voiced. The hope that maybe a new start would give their marriage fresh life.

Peter sat back in the chair, his chino-covered legs spread wide. ‘It's really hard being the new boy at the practice. Roger started
it himself years ago and figures he's the boss even though it's a three-way partnership. I'm starting to figure out why there was a partnership for sale.'

He took a breath.

‘And the business I was supposed to take over from the old partner just isn't there. A lot of patients have followed him, but somehow Roger seems to feel that's my failing.'

For the first time Claire could remember, Peter looked vulnerable. She stretched out her hand and put it over his. ‘It'll get better. It's always hard in a new job at first.'

Peter left his hand under hers for only a second.

He stood up. ‘I've got to go. Cricket training tonight.'

Claire nodded. She knew that. Peter had started coaching a local cricket team two evenings a week. The team was made up of a group of fifteen year old boys from local schools and Peter loved it. Claire also knew that he didn't really need to leave for another half an hour.

She moved toward the bench and picked up the plastic container which held the sandwich she'd made earlier. She handed it to Peter and he took it with a nod of thanks. He looked as if he was going to say something more, but then shrugged and walked into the house.

Claire watched him leave. Slowly she bent down and picked up the plans, trying to smooth out the creases. Then she stopped. Slowly and carefully she picked up the top sheet and crumpled it tightly into her palms. She deposited the misshapen ball on the table beside her and started on the next sheet. When she had a pile of them, she gathered the balls into her arms and walked into the kitchen. One by one she dropped them into the stainless-steel tidy bin – an Alessi she'd kept from their last kitchen. After a moment she picked up the bin and traced Peter's steps down the hallway. She reached the big green rubbish bin which stood next to the front steps, opened it and threw the tidy bin in.

It clanged satisfactorily in the evening air and she stood there quietly listening. Then she turned around and walked back up the steps and into the house.