Our Kind of Love (5 page)

In true newsroom style, he and his mates had hit the nearest watering hole and drowned their sorrows, feeling a sudden and searing sympathy for all the workers whose job losses they’d covered in the previous couple of years. When it was other people losing their livelihoods, it was simply the ebb and flow of the market or a correction in the economy. When it was you, it just sucked.

Joe lowered the paper on to the table and crossed his arms over it, trying to read the next quiz question but it was all a blur. Harri’s probing wasn’t easy to deal with but she wasn’t asking him anything he hadn’t asked himself every day and night since that day. What was he going to do? There simply weren’t the same number of jobs for journalists anymore. People didn’t need to wait for their daily newspaper for reportage or an opinion on what was going on in the world. News was instant and online these days. Although Joe had understood this brave new world better than most, at the end of the day, that hadn’t mattered. Maybe they thought he was too old school, even though he was four years shy of forty. Without his work to define him, he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

‘Well?’ Harri demanded. ‘Cat got your tongue? Maybe you reporters don’t like it when the tables are turned and someone gets to ask you the questions, huh?’

Joe couldn’t hide his smile. She was right. It was always easier to ask than to answer, to deflect than to admit. Especially when you weren’t sure of the truth. ‘I dunno, Harri. Maybe I’ll become that toy boy the whole town’s talking about. Do you reckon I could make a living serving the needs of the Desperate Housewives of Middle Point?’

Harri hooted with laughter and slapped a hand on the kitchen table. ‘You’re a cheeky bugger.’

‘I could be the Fleurieu Peninsula’s man for hire.’ Joe threw her a wink, trying not to feel the hollow open up in his chest. ‘What do you think?’

Harri eyed him up and down over her reading glasses. ‘While you’ve got the charm and the looks, as you well know, you need to get back to what you do best.’

Joe sighed, reached for the teapot and filled their cups. ‘Harri, stop your nagging. Next question. Where was the 1994 soccer World Cup?’

‘The United States.’ Harri grinned. ‘Suck it up, smartypants.’

Later that night, the black dog hit Joe. It snuck into his bed and curled up next to him, heavy and unmoving, as the wind picked up outside and howled along the Middle Point coast. He lay with his hands under his head and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. The black dog chased sleep away, stiffened his back when he lay for hours in the one position, and withered his resolve to deal with what the cards had dealt him.

He’d spent the first few months back in Middle Point drowning his sorrows, finding an escape in solitude and a bottle, any bottle. It was a habit he’d picked up as a young journalist, surrounded by old timers, all equal parts raconteur and reporter, who would tell him about the heyday, when stories were phoned in between beers at the nearest front bar to copy-takers in the newsroom. Those days had long gone as were those old time reporters: carried off by emphysema and cancer and the bottle; by broken marriages and bad second choices. That strategy could only last so long and in the past month he’d cut way back on the booze.

But it seemed that no matter what he did, or whether he was drunk or sober, each morning brought refreshed memories and still more humiliating regrets about the fact that he was a washed up nobody back in Middle Point. To pass the time, he’d started surfing again, grabbing his board and jumping into the water off the Point and paddling out beyond where the waves swelled and heaved. It was a way better buzz than a drink.

But he wasn’t out in the water now, here in the darkness and the quiet. In the long, slow hours before morning, he had way too much sleepless time to think. He felt adrift, not quite home and not quite on holidays. He knew he had to remake himself somehow, someway, but he didn’t know where to start. He’d cut himself off from his old world when he’d jumped in his car and come home. He wasn’t the same person anymore, stripped of the two things that had made him who he was; his career and his marriage. The life he’d known was a long way behind him in the dust.

From somewhere in the house, a whistle of wind snaked its way to him, and Joe realised he must have left the bathroom window open. It chilled his chest, and he pulled the blanket up to his chin, turned on his side away from the window.

The only light he’d had in the past six months was meeting Anna. The one-time thing with her had helped him forget who he was and what had happened to him, to help him become, if just for one night, someone with no baggage or history. Somehow, and he couldn’t put a finger on exactly why, being with her that one night had felt like a fresh start. He’d been a different Joe Blake, that night and afterwards. He felt like he was back in the saddle and his beaten-up male ego sure needed to feel that way.

Maybe he’d have to drive up to Adelaide and hit a few bars, try and meet some women or check out one of those dating apps the young guys in the newsroom had used. All it took was a swipe of your finger to indicate your interest in someone’s photo and you were connected. Uncomplicated, no strings attached. Easy.

Being with Anna had proved he could still hold up his end of the bargain, if you got the drift. And she’d seemed more than satisfied. Way more than satisfied.

Yeah
, he thought, and a relaxed feeling settled over him. He could get back out there and do what any red-blooded, single Aussie bloke would do. Flirting and fucking some attractive women, that’s what he needed.

As he drifted off to sleep, his limbs slowly becoming heavy, the soothing sounds of the waves a steady rhythm in the distance, his mind began to wander to all the possibilities he might find in the city. He began to dream. And when the scattered images flickered behind his eyes, he didn’t see anonymous blondes with legs and red lips.

It was Anna dancing in his dreams.

CHAPTER
7

Grace Morelli elbowed her big sister in the ribs so hard that Anna almost tumbled from her high heels.

‘Ow. What was that for?’ Anna hissed, keeping her voice low.

Grace nodded her head to the left. ‘Check out that dress. I mean, really, would you wear that to your own engagement party?’

The sisters stood on tip-toes in an attempt to look over the crowd, which was useless given they’d inherited their mother’s height. They were smack bang in the midst of one hundred and fifty people who had filled the local Italian club on a Saturday night in late February in the heart of Adelaide’s Italian north-eastern suburbs. People were milling about in family groups, kissing and saying hello to each other and trying to find their tables.

‘It’s interesting,’ Anna replied with a wink to her sister. Of course she was being polite. The young woman of the moment was decked out in what could only be described as an elongated boob tube. The hot pink fabric gripped her breasts like cling wrap and ended so high on her thighs that Anna predicted any move would display her underwear. Not that she was probably wearing any. Anna didn’t like to make harsh judgments but she looked exactly like that kind of girl. And girl she was. Anna figured she didn’t look any older than about twenty. So young. So full of hopes and dreams. So ripe for disappointments and heartache.

‘Interesting?’ Grace repeated with disgust. ‘Nonna is here. Half the crowd are pensioners. That is so inappropriate.’

Anna glanced around the crowd. ‘And half of that half seem to be quite enjoying her legs.’

Grace sighed. ‘I interrupted a perfectly decent night at home on the couch for this. Tell me again why we’re here, Anna?’

‘Because the fiancé – Alberto – is your godmother’s second cousin’s son. On her father’s side. She’s Nicole. Not Italian. But we are and this is what we do, right? We spend our weekends at engagement parties, weddings, christenings. We put on our best dresses and our most stylish suits and we parade for each other.
La bella figura
, Gracie. We put on a show.’ Anna didn’t mean it to sound like a burden, because it usually wasn’t. Tonight, however, Grace was right. She would rather have been at home on the couch, too.

Grace grabbed Anna’s hand and elbowed her way through the crowd until they reached their table. ‘I don’t want to add up the number of engagement parties I’ve been too this year. Too many. It’s depressing. All I can say is that when I get engaged, the presents had better be spectacular to repay me for all the gifts we’ve given over the years.’

Weddings, engagement parties. Anna was struggling to believe in any of it anymore and words to that effect almost tumbled from her lips until she caught herself just in time. She was still holding on to her secret but knew it couldn’t be long. And her impending divorce made her think of her own wedding and all she could think about was why the hell she’d worn such a ridiculous meringue of a dress.

‘Graciella! Anna!’ Across the table, their mother called to them with a beaming smile and a waving hand. Anna was relieved to find their table was almost at the back of the venue in one of the rear corners. She was perfectly happy to be put in a corner. It was easier to hide back there in the dark. And if she was really lucky, fewer people would swing by and ask the kinds of questions she would have to lie to answer. Call it Catholic guilt, even of the most severely lapsed variety, but all the lying made her feel empty.

‘
Ciao
Mum. Hi Dad.’ Grace found her way to her parents for kisses on each cheek, then bestowed the same on Nonna and found her seat.

‘Anna,’ her mother called out across the glassware, crockery and the bomboniere.

‘Hi Ma.’ Anna waved and grabbed the back of her chair to pull it out from the table. She stopped. There was an empty seat next to hers. A chair for Alex. She gritted her teeth. She hadn’t called and let Alberto’s family know that she would be flying solo tonight, of course she hadn’t. How could she when she hadn’t even told her own family? She sat and busied herself rearranging the cutlery and the crockery set out in front of her.

‘Where’s your husband?’

Anna smoothed her fingers over the cool linen tablecloth. It took all her strength not to shout, ‘Who cares?’ This pretending stuff was becoming extremely stressful and exhausting and she felt, for the first time in forever, a long suppressed urge to bite her nails. She would have to tell them. She knew she did. Soon. But not tonight.

Instead she found a traitorous smile. ‘He’s got a big case next week and he’s still at work. I didn’t want to miss out on the engagement party so I came with Grace.’

Her mother straightened her back and looked at her oldest daughter as if she’d gone mad. ‘Work? What do you mean work? On a Saturday night when he’s been invited to a party with his wife?’

Anna shrugged as if to say,
oh well
, and turned her attention to her grandmother. ‘
Come stai, Nonna
?’ Anna saw the knowing look Nonna shot at the empty chair. She knew her grandmother was already putting two and two together and coming up with eighty-five.

‘Hey Dad. Nice tie.’

‘This old thing?’ He winked at her.

The tie was truly garish and disgusting. A mishmash of red and purple flowers, he took great delight in trotting it out for formal functions. It was his standing joke and as if in protest it appeared whenever he had to wear a suit. One tie. One suit. Such simply economy for a man who would rather be out in his garden tending his tomatoes. His wife, on the other hand, liked these gatherings. It was a chance to see her friends, many of whom had links back to her family since they’d arrived on boats together in the 1950s. Families with connections that now spanned generations, inextricably linked by shared experiences, common language, culture and history.

‘And don’t you look beautiful tonight,’ Paolo said with a wink. Anna glanced down at her simple shift. She liked its ordered yellow, black and white shapes and geometric design.

‘This old thing?’ She winked back at her father.

After the speeches were finished – honestly, how many times did it need to be mentioned that the bride-to-be wasn’t Italian? – Anna straightened her back to relieve the ache that had settled in between her shoulders. The whole evening had been more excruciating than having a Pap smear. Unlike a Pap smear, however, it wasn’t over in a couple of discreet minutes after a grimace and a scratchy plastic probe. This one seemed to have dragged on for an eternity. She’d had to endure the stark reminder of the empty chair all night, which felt so obvious she should have tied a pole to it with a flapping flag at the top. Like a pensioner’s gopher, people all around would be aware of its presence.

‘Where’s Alex?’ Her Aunt Rosa.

‘Where’s that husband of yours?’ Her parents’ next-door neighbour, Bianca.

‘So where is he?’ Her brother, Luca. He was staring at her with an odd expression.

‘What, do I have to put this on the news? He’s working on a big case.’ She went for deflection to turn the overbearing attention away from her own life. ‘And what about you? Where have you been all night? Too good to sit here with your family?’

Luca leaned down to kiss his sister on the cheek. ‘At the bar. There’s no way I’m sitting with you guys when there are single women over there.’ He flashed Anna a full-wattage smile and it took all the wind out of Anna’s sails. She slapped him on the arm with a smile.

‘All good with you?’ Luca asked.

‘Yeah,’ she lied. ‘You?’

‘Busy. I’ll see you Wednesday at Mum and Dad’s.’ Luca ruffled her hair with a strong hand and then swaggered over to the younger crowd who’d congregated by the bar. He fitted right in. They all looked like supermodels and players for AC Milan. Anna suddenly felt old. That had been her place once, a zillion years ago. Where was her place now as a thirty-five year old singleton? She could hardly lurk around the bar with the twenty-somethings.
God
, she sighed,
that would simply look creepy
. No, she felt firmly in the middle-aged and disapproving camp, even though she was a least a decade away from falling into that demographic.