The Near Miss (26 page)

Tom gradually became aware of a ringing sound. It went on and on, and then it stopped. Then it started again. He wondered if it was coming from his head. He opened one eye, and found himself in close visual proximity to a tussock of grass, that appeared to be growing through a crack in the dirt. Or was it not dirt, but bitumen? Whatever it was, he was lying on it and it was hard. He blinked slowly, and it hurt. Everything hurt. He spent some time watching a couple of ants going up and down the grass blades, moving erratically and fast. Maybe the ringing was coming from the
ants. Then it stopped.

He tried to move, and pain surged through his body and his head. If he was lying on bitumen, was he on a road? That was not good. Could a car come? Should he roll off? He forced himself to lift his head. Two adult shoes with feet and legs in them appeared to be not far from him, the soles at right angles to the bitumen. He craned his neck back more, and groaned with pain as he did. He could see a whole man now, in a suit, lying on the road. He looked familiar, although the sight of him provoked in Tom an antipathy, the cause of which he had yet to put his finger on. How had they got here? The ringing started again. Maybe it was not from the ants. It seemed to be coming from the man.

It was that lawyer guy, who worked with Eddy. The wanker. Tom collapsed back onto the road in pain. He rolled onto his back and started to feel his arms, his shoulders, his chest. Was he dead? Did he have any broken bones?

Alf Tankhouse opened his eyes, and reached inside his dusty suit jacket. He struggled to one elbow, and winced with pain, although he climbed to his feet more quickly than Tom could have contemplated for his own body, and held a phone to his ear.

‘Alf Tankhouse.' His voice was clear, and authoritative. He could have been in an office with city views and thick carpet, rather than on a road verge with blood and dirt on his face. He looked down and met Tom's eyes.

‘I see. No, my client is in a meeting at the moment . . .' Tom sagged back on his arm, and watched a baby magpie land on the road nearby, eyeing him as if he might be a giant and tasty worm. Alf continued. ‘It's a pity you can't come to the table on what we've asked . . .' Tom remembered all now. Jesus Christ. He wished he didn't.
You can't come to the table . . .
And that would be the sound of three million dollars swirling down the plughole. ‘But he may be prepared
to at least hear your new offer. Although I must say he is in discussions with another group at the moment, so you might be too late. Oh actually here he is, he's just coming out of that meeting. If he's got a spare minute he might even be able to talk to you himself. Stephanie, could you hold Mr Ellison's calls for the next ten minutes . . .' Alf turned to address the baby magpie, who skittered over the bitumen and eyed him back. ‘Mr Ellison, can you possibly spare a minute to talk to Simon Factor, UMI?'

Tom's mouth fell open. He struggled up to a sitting position, and looked down at himself. His suit pants were torn slightly at the crotch seam; and again in the lower right leg. His good shoes were scratched, the knuckles of his right hand had blood on them. The last thing he remembered was trying to hug one of the bikies, and then Alf and someone else was fighting, and then there were a lot of boots swinging at him . . . He struggled to his feet, staggered to the right and caught hold of a tree, before sinking gratefully into a bush.

Tank watched stonefaced, still holding the phone. ‘Actually he may have to rush off to a meeting . . .'

Tom staggered up and seized the phone from the lawyer. He glowered at him and cleared his throat. ‘Hello. Mr Factor. Tom Ellison here. I'm glad you rang, I've been wanting to talk to you about your offer of yesterday. It's—'

The voice on the phone cut through him. ‘I'm glad you can spare me the time, Mr Ellison. I just wanted to say that while we can't
quite
meet your price of twenty million with ten per cent royalties . . .'

‘Yes, that was what I . . .' Tom croaked, his voice breaking up again. The trees were spinning and Mr Factor talked on.

‘We've talked with our board and we can improve our original offer. We could offer
eight
million dollars, with ten per cent royalties, for a South Pacific market . . .'

‘Eight million dollars?' Tom blinked and shook his head. Did he have concussion? ‘With ten per cent royalties . . .'

Tank grinned. He gave Tom a thumbs-up sign and held out his hand, raising his eyebrows in a question.

Tom nodded. Dizziness and nausea were just about to overcome him, but with his eyes locked on Tank's, he made his voice as brisk as he could. ‘Well, Mr Factor, that sounds . . . acceptable. How about I pass you back to my lawyer and he can sort out the small print with you? I've got a meeting to attend.'

He handed Alf the phone and stumbled through the bush, trying to get a few metres away before he threw up. Afterwards, he leaned on a tree, stared out over a view of the far-off city skyline and the rolling hills, and he felt what it was to reach his own personal mountain top. Battered, hungover, weary and heartsick, he tried to make it matter. Eight million dollars! Eight million dollars! What would he do with it all? But really, he was faking. It didn't feel as good as he had imagined. There were only two people he wanted to be with right now, sharing this news. And only when he told them, and crowded them both into his arms, would it feel real.

Grace looked out the window of Eddy Plenty's lounge room and wiped her forehead. Eddy's bedroom, which she had just left, looked like a slaughterhouse. The sheets, carpet and mattress would all need to be thrown away. Romy was screaming for Eddy.

‘You couldn't just drop by for five minutes? It would really, really help her to see you,' Grace had pleaded with Eddy earlier.

‘Grace, she's in labour. There's only one thing that's going to help her.'

‘Drugs?'

‘Well yes, but I meant having the baby. Would help.'

‘She keeps calling for you.'

‘It's a verbal tic. She spent five years calling for me in every crisis of her life. “Eddy” is just another word for “Mummy”. She doesn't know who she's calling for.'

‘Oh yes she does. Please.'

‘No. I'm with Laura, we're having a day together.'

‘Are you scared? Do you think if you see her on this day, you might become ensnared?'

‘Maybe. No.'

‘I thought you were a stronger man than that.'

‘Well, you were wrong.'

In the lounge room, Skip circled the room with a digital camera, and clicked relentlessly at puzzling things. He took pictures of pictures, he lined up Lotte, who was sucking an icy pole in front of the television. He took pictures of her feet, knees and face.

‘Mmmmrrrrwwaaaaggghhh!' screamed Romy, from the bedroom. Skip took a photo of the
nearest door, as if testing to see whether he could capture a noise that did indeed almost seem tangible. Lotte turned an anxious face.

‘Mummy?'

Grace sat behind her, on the couch. ‘Don't worry. The lady's having a baby.'

‘When?'

‘Soon.'

‘Why is she so noisy?'

‘Because it hurts.'

‘It didn't hurt you.'

‘When you were born?' Grace said. ‘Oh yes it did.'

‘Why?'

‘It always does.'

‘Then why do people do it?'

Grace sighed. ‘I don't know. It's what we do.'

Skip brought a bowl and put it in Lotte's lap, to catch the drips from her icy pole. There was another scream from the rooms beyond, and Grace buried her face in her daughter's silken hair, and turned up the television. Skip snapped his way around the lounge room. Lotte's butterfly shoes; snap. He lined up three remote controls and leaned over them; snap.

‘Can I see your photos?'

He handed Grace the camera and showed her how to flick back through the five hundred or so shots he had taken. Some of herself and Melody. Every adult's face taken from below; with double chins from looking down at him, their smiles genuine and affectionate. About twenty of a bowl of chips.

‘Aaaarrrgghhh!' The cry was a higher-pitched one, and Grace hoped things were moving along. It might be time she went back and offered to relieve Melody.

‘Mummy, there's a man at the door.'

Grace sat on the corrugated iron of Eddy's garage roof, which was warm in the December sun. She watched as Tom, her ex-husband, stood at the back door and frowned. He was wearing a suit. She could smell jasmine and warm metal. The tiny white-petalled flowers were browning at the edges. She had fled on tiptoe out the back of Eddy's house, and up a trellis to this sun-drenched place. She had glimpsed Eddy and Tom and Laura as Lotte ran to let them in, and she had run away, like the most foolish of girls. Tom was with Lotte's kindergarten teacher; how
could
he? An easy, uncomplicated, child-loving woman. A tear rolled down her cheek and she leaned back a little, to ensure she was covered by the overhanging branch of the cherry tree from next door. The cherries were ripe and bursting off the branches; some had fallen on the iron roof and baked on. Melody would be collecting these if she lived here, gathering the fruit and dropping them all in a saucepan on the stove, until the flesh melted away and the pips could be scooped out with a slotted spoon. She would make jam. Grace found a dark one and took a tentative nibble, the juice dribbling onto her bare legs. The branch suddenly shook alarmingly, and she looked through the leaves to see Tom, climbing up to her.

She nervously moved along a little, to give him room to swing onto the roof. The branches arched over them in a protective shelter of green-filtered light, providing spyholes onto the back yard.

‘I think Skip kicked a ball up here,' she said. ‘I was just looking for it.'

‘Can I help?'

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.'

He lowered himself onto the roof, and placed his bottom, clad in what she knew to be his only suit pants, onto a patch of burst plums. Never had a man cared less about clothes, or had less value for possessions. Would the same things drive Laura crazy? Maybe she was more relaxed, more young and carefree than Grace. Oh, Grace had been young and carefree once, but then had come the mortgage and the baby, and the hunger, the hunger for more of everything that for so long had seemed insatiable. Had it eased? She couldn't exactly say, more that she had managed to put an arm's length between her and it. The hunger was like an irritating neighbour now, rather than a tenant.

Tom appeared to register the sensation of wet plum through his pants, looked and wrinkled up his nose, and moved aside a little. ‘I knew you were out here somewhere.' His only suit, now she could see it clearly, was dusty and smelled faintly of beer. The hem of his right trouser leg had come down, a thread trailing from the flapping material. There was a hole around the crotch. Close up, he looked like a street hobo. He settled and looked at her. ‘How's things?'

‘Oh, you know. Just waiting.'

‘For what?'

‘For Romy to have her baby.'

‘Ah.' He looked back toward the house. ‘I think she's at the business end.'

‘Can you hear her?' He had always had better hearing than she; they had joked that she would be the deaf old lady and he would be her ear trumpet.

He cocked his head and nodded. ‘You can't?'

She shook her head and he smiled.

‘So, how's Laura?' she asked.

He blinked. ‘She's good, I think. She's here, inside.'

Grace nodded, bravely. ‘Right.' Why was he suddenly so friendly? Then she realised. He was going to tell her about Laura. About their new love. He knew it would hurt her. This was why he was being kind. So unlike the last times.

He took a leaf in his hand and tore it into small pieces, his forearms resting on his knees as he did. ‘I've got some pretty unbelievable news.'

‘Oh?' she said stiffly. Her head spun. She was too high off the ground, to hear such news. ‘I might just climb down to the ground, actually.'

‘I've sold the invention. The roof.'

She stared at him. She hadn't expected that. ‘To who?'

‘United Materials Inc.' He leaned close. ‘Eight. Million. Dollars.'

‘Eight million dollars?'

‘Eight million dollars.'

She felt her stomach falling out of her body, down through the roof beneath her and into the earth. ‘You're . . . You can't . . .'

‘I signed the paperwork this afternoon. Eight. Million. Dollars.'

She tried to take it in. Her mouth had fallen open; she closed it. He stared at her face, as if drinking in every change of expression.

‘Oh, Tom.' She shook her head finally. ‘That's . . . Well, congratulations.'

‘Yeah.'

‘You earned it.' Grace felt a lump in her throat. She was so proud of him.

He nodded, his eyes full of tears, his whole being focused on her. ‘Grace . . .'

The screen door banged shut and Laura stood, hands in her jeans pockets, her face screwed
up against the sun. Looking for Tom, no doubt. Grace had a dull ache in her stomach, in the place where her love for Tom lived. Guilt. Disappointment in herself. Not a new feeling, not at all. But all she could really do was watch Laura as she wandered closer, until she was standing right below them. Any moment now Tom would call out to her. But he kept staring at her, Grace.

The door slammed again and Eddy strode out, urgent and pale, rubbing his face. Laura turned to him and, to Grace's amazement, Eddy loped across his backyard to Laura and wrapped his arms around her.

She turned to Tom. ‘Oh.'

‘What?'

‘Are Eddy and Laura . . .?'

‘Oh. Yeah. Apparently.' He shrugged, not interested.

‘Eddy's seeing Laura? Not you?'

‘Me? No!'

‘Oh.'

‘I haven't seen anyone since we split up. All I've done is work on the solar roof.'

‘But my mother saw you with someone! In the IGA.'

He frowned. ‘That's right. She was a woman I used to work with. We had just run into each other when we were shopping and then your mother walked past while we were talking.'

‘It wasn't Laura?'

He looked incredulous. ‘What's all this about Miss Laura?'

‘Nothing.
Eight million dollars?
Is that what you said?'

‘It is.'

‘I'm sorry. I can't . . .'

‘I know. I can't either. And Grace? I couldn't have done it without you.'

She shook her head. ‘But you
did
do it without me. I'm
so
sorry. I doubted you. You did it, and I doubted you. I'm ashamed of myself. Not just because you made it. I've been ashamed of myself for ages. I should have believed in you. Even if you failed a hundred times over, I should have believed in you.'

‘You did believe in me. I know you did.'

‘No, I didn't. I mean I did for a while, but then . . . I lost faith.'

‘You helped me,' he said, taking her hand. ‘Truly. You and Lotte. You are the reason I kept trying. You believed in me for so long, I wouldn't have got this far without you believing in me for so long, back before all this. Gracie, when I heard the news about the deal, after all this time, it meant nothing to me without you. It meant nothing until I could tell you, and share it with you. I don't care about it, even, actually!' He shook his head in disbelief. ‘All I want is to be back with you. And Lotte. Like we were. I would give up all the money.'

His face was ruddy with dirt; she could see dark specks in his pores. His eyes were wide and unblinking. She realised she had been waiting, through this whole conversation, for him to get up and leave her, head off to something or someone more interesting, more important. And yet here he was, totally focused on her, breathing quickly, staring into her eyes as if searching for something lost down a well.

He was back.

‘Really?'

‘I
miss
you, Grace.'

‘Oh, me, too. I miss you, too, so much.' She pressed her fingers into her eyes, a sob rising from her chest like a bubble, embarrassing her with its noise.

Laura and Eddy's anxious voices rose beneath them, and there was a crash inside the house. Eddy squinted up at them. ‘Romy's had a baby boy,' he said. ‘Healthy. And Van's here.'

‘Van,' said Tom, massaging Grace's fingers, and she raised wet eyes to his.

Van. The baby's father.